The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [645]
“Shoot him, Maman!” Germain was behind her, small face alight with eagerness. “Shoot him like a porcupine!”
Joan was somewhere back in the bushes; she began to wail at the sound of her mother’s voice, but Marsali didn’t take her eyes off Bonnet. Christ, had she loaded and primed the gun? I thought she must have; I could smell a whiff of black powder.
“Well, now,” Bonnet said slowly. I could see his eyes trace the distance between him and Marsali—fifteen feet or more, too much to reach her with a dive. He put one foot on the ground, beginning to rise. He could reach her in three strides.
“Don’t let him stand up!” I scrabbled up onto my own feet, shoving at his shoulder. He fell to the side, catching himself on one hand, then heaved back, faster than I could have imagined, seizing me round the waist and pulling me back down, this time on top of him.
There were screams from behind me, but I had no attention to spare. I stabbed my fingers at his eye, narrowly missing as he jerked me sideways; my nails slid off his cheekbone, raking furrows in his skin. We rolled in a flurry of petticoats and Irish oaths, me grabbing for his privates, him trying at once to throttle me and protect himself.
Then he squirmed and flipped over like a fish, and we ended with his arm locked tight around my neck, holding me against his chest. There was a whisper of metal on leather, and something cold against my neck. I stopped struggling, and took a deep breath.
Marsali’s eyes were the size of saucers, her mouth clamped tight. Her gaze, thank heaven, was still trained on Bonnet, and so was the gun.
“Marsali,” I said, very calmly, “shoot him. Right now.”
“Be putting the gun down, colleen,” Bonnet said, with equal calmness, “or I’ll cut her throat on the count of three. One—”
“Shoot him!” I said, with all my force, and took my last deep gulp of air.
“Two.”
“Wait!”
The pressure of the blade across my throat lessened, and I felt the sting of blood as I took a breath I had not expected to be given. I hadn’t time to enjoy the sensation, though; Brianna stood amid the myrtles, Jemmy clinging to her skirts.
“Let her go,” she said.
Marsali had been holding her breath; she let it out with a gasp and sucked air deep.
“He isn’t about to let me go, and it doesn’t matter,” I said fiercely to them both. “Marsali, shoot him. Now!”
Her hand tightened on the gun, but she couldn’t quite do it. She glanced at Brianna, white-faced, then back, her hand trembling.
“Shoot him, Maman,” Germain whispered, but the eagerness had gone from his face. He was pale, too, and stood close to his mother.
“You’ll come along with me, darlin’, you and the lad.” I could feel the vibration through Bonnet’s chest as he spoke, and sensed the half-smile on his face, though I couldn’t see it. “The others can go.”
“Don’t,” I said, trying to make Bree look at me. “He won’t let us go, you know he won’t. He’ll kill me and Marsali, no matter what he says. The only thing to do is shoot him. If Marsali can’t do it, Bree, you’ll have to.”
That got her attention. Her eyes jerked to me, shocked, and Bonnet grunted, half in annoyance, half in amusement.
“Condemn her mother? She’s not the girl to be doing such a thing, Mrs. Fraser.”
“Marsali—he’ll kill you, and the babe with you,” I said, straining every muscle to make her understand, to force her to fire. “Germain and Joan will die out here, alone. What happens to me doesn’t matter, believe me—for God’s sake, shoot him now!”
She fired.
There was a spark and puff of white smoke, and Bonnet jerked. Then her hand sagged, the muzzle of the gun tilted down—and the wad and ball fell out on the sand with a tiny plop. Misfire.
Marsali moaned in horror, and Brianna moved like lightning, seizing the fallen bucket and hurling it at Bonnet’s head. He yelped and threw himself aside, letting go his grip on me. The bucket struck me in the chest and I caught it, stupidly staring down into it. It was damp inside, with