The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [630]
At this point, a pair of well-kept hands appeared on the edge of the dock, and a tall, elegantly lean man pulled himself up from the boat. Roger had no difficulty in recognizing Mr. Lillywhite, one of the Orange County magistrates, even without his wig and bottle-green coat.
Lillywhite had dressed for the occasion in plain black broadcloth, though his linen was as fine as ever and he had a gentleman’s sword at his side. He made his way across the dock, in no great hurry, observing the disposition of matters as he went. Roger saw his mouth tighten fastidiously at sight of the trail of blood.
Lillywhite gestured to the man holding Roger, and at last, the bruising pressure of the gun-muzzle eased, allowing him to draw a deep breath.
“Mr. MacKenzie, is it not?” Lillywhite asked pleasantly. “And where is Mr. Fraser?”
He’d been expecting that question, and had had time to contemplate the answer.
“In Wilmington,” he said, matching Lillywhite’s pleasant tone. “You’re rather far afield yourself, are ye not, sir?”
Lillywhite’s nostrils pinched momentarily, as though smelling something bad—which he certainly was, though Roger doubted the reek of pigs was causing his disedification.
“Do not trifle with me, sir,” the magistrate said curtly.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Roger assured him, keeping an eye on the fellow with the musket, who seemed disposed to resume jabbing. “Though if we’re asking that sort of question—where’s Stephen Bonnet?”
Lillywhite gave a brief laugh, a sort of wintry amusement coming into his pale gray eyes.
“In Wilmington.”
Anstruther appeared at the magistrate’s elbow, squat and sweaty. He gave Roger a nod and an ugly grin.
“MacKenzie. Nice to see you again. Where’s your father-in-law, and more important—where’s the whisky?”
Lillywhite frowned at the sheriff.
“You haven’t found it? Have you searched the sheds?”
“Aye, we looked. Nothing there but bits of rubbish.” He rocked up onto his toes, menacing. “So, MacKenzie, where’d you hide it?”
“I haven’t hidden anything,” Roger replied equably. “There isn’t any whisky.” He was beginning to relax a little. Wherever Stephen Bonnet was, he wasn’t here. He didn’t expect them to be pleased at discovering that the whisky was a ruse, but—
The Sheriff hit him in the pit of the stomach. He doubled up, his vision went dark, and he struggled vainly to breathe, fighting a flash of panic as he relived his hanging, the black, the lack of air . . .
Bright floating spots appeared at the edges of his vision, and he drew breath, gasping. He was sitting on the dock, legs splayed out before him, the Sheriff clutching a handful of his hair.
“Try again,” Anstruther advised him, shaking him roughly by the hair. The pain was irritating, rather than discomfiting, and he swiped a fist at the Sheriff, catching him a solid blow on the thigh. The man yelped and let go, hopping backward.
“Did you look on the other boat?” Lillywhite demanded, ignoring the Sheriff’s discomfort. Anstruther glowered at Roger, rubbing his thigh, but shook his head in answer.
“Nothing there but pigs and girls. And where in fuck’s name did they come from?” he demanded.
“Russia.” Roger coughed, clenched his teeth against the resulting burst of pain, and got slowly to his feet, holding an arm across his middle to keep his guts from spilling out. The Sheriff doubled a fist in anticipation, but Lillywhite made a quelling gesture toward him. He looked incredulously at Roger.
“Russia? What have they to do with this business?”
“Nothing, so far as I know. They arrived soon after I did.”
The magistrate grunted, looking displeased. He frowned for a moment, thinking, then decided to try another tack.
“Fraser had an arrangement with Milford Lyon. I have now assumed Mr. Lyon’s part of the agreement. It is altogether proper for you to