The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [642]
Bonnet’s eyes were the pale green of a cat’s, and they brightened now with the intentness of a cat that spots a creeping mouse.
“And who will this sweet manneen be?” he asked, taking a step toward me.
“My son,” I said instantly, and pulled Jem tight against my shoulder, ignoring his struggles. With the natural perversity of small children, he seemed to be fascinated by Bonnet’s Irish lilt, and kept turning his head to stare at the stranger.
“Favors his father, I see.” Drops of sweat glistened in the heavy blond brows. He smoothed first one, then the other, with the tip of his finger, so the sweat ran in trickles down the sides of his face, but the pale green eyes never wavered in their regard. “As does his . . . sister. And is your lovely daughter anyplace nearby, dear one? I should enjoy to renew our acquaintaince—such a charmin’ girl, Brianna.” He smiled.
“No doubt you would,” I said, making no particular effort to disguise the edge in my voice. “No, she isn’t. She’s at home—with her husband.” I leaned heavily on the word husband, hoping that Brianna was near enough to hear me and take warning, but he paid it no mind.
“At home, now. And where do ye call home then, Mum?” He took off the hat and wiped his face with his sleeve.
“Oh . . . in the backcountry. A homestead.” I waved vaguely in the direction I thought roughly west. What was this—social conversation? And yet the choices seemed distinctly limited. I could turn and flee—at which point he would catch me handily, burdened as I was with Jemmy. Or I could stand here until he revealed what he wanted. I didn’t think he was out for a picnic among the myrtles.
“A homestead,” he repeated, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “What business brings ye so far from home, and I might ask?”
“You might not,” I said. “Or rather—you might ask my husband. He’ll be along shortly.”
I took another step backward as I said this, and he took a step toward me at the same time. A flicker of panic must have crossed my face, for he looked amused, and took another step.
“Oh, I doubt that, Mrs. Fraser dear. For see, the man’s dead by now.”
I squeezed Jemmy so hard that he let out a strangled squawk.
“What do you mean?” I demanded hoarsely. The blood was draining from my head, coagulating in an icy ball round my heart.
“Well, d’ye see, it was a bargain,” he said, the look of amusement growing. “A division of duties, ye might say. My friend Lillywhite and the good Sheriff were to attend to Mr. Fraser and Mr. MacKenzie, and Lieutenant Wolff was to manage Mrs. Cameron’s end of the business. That left me with the pleasant task of makin’ myself reacquainted with my son and his mother.” His eyes sharpened, focusing on Jemmy.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said, through stiff lips, taking a better grip on Jemmy, who was watching Bonnet, owl-eyed.
He gave a short laugh at that.
“Sure, and ye’re no hand at lyin’, ma’am; you’ll forgive the observation. Ye’d never make a card player. Ye know well enough what I mean—ye saw me there, at River Run. Though I confess as how I should be obliged to hear exactly what you and Mr. Fraser was engaged in, a-butchering that Negro woman that Wolff killed. I did hear as how the picture of a murderer shows in the victim’s eyes—but ye didn’t seem to be looking at her eyes, from what I could see. Was it magic of a sort ye were after doing?”
“Wolff—it was him, then?” Just at the moment, I didn’t really care whether Lieutenant Wolff had murdered scores of women, but I was willing to engage in any line of conversation that offered the possibility of distracting him.
“Aye. He’s a bungler, Wolff,” he said, dispassionately. “But ’twas him that found out about the gold to begin with, so he claimed a part in the doings.”
How far away were Marsali and Brianna? Had Germain found them? I could hear nothing over the whine of insects and the distant wash of surf. Surely they must hear us talking,