The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [646]
Then Germain and Jemmy were both crying, Joan was shrieking her head off in the wood, and I dropped the bucket and crawled madly for shelter behind a yaupon bush.
Bonnet was back on his feet, face flushed, the knife in his hand. He was clearly furious, but made an effort to smile at Brianna.
“Ah, now, darlin’,” he said, having to raise his voice to be heard above the racket. “It’s only yourself and my son I’m wanting. I’ll not be harming either of you.”
“He’s not your son,” Brianna said, low-voiced and vicious. “He’ll never be yours.”
He grunted contemptuously.
“Oh, aye? That’s not how I heard it, in that dungeon in Cross Creek, sweetheart. And now I see him . . .” He looked at Jemmy again, nodding slowly. “He’s mine, darlin’ girl. He’s the look of me—haven’t ye, boyo?”
Jemmy buried his face in Brianna’s skirts, howling.
Bonnet sighed, shrugged, and gave up any pretense of cajolement.
“Come on, then,” he said, and started forward, obviously intending to scoop Jemmy up.
Brianna’s hand rose out of her skirts, and aimed the pistol I had yanked out of his belt back at the place it had come from. Bonnet stopped in mid-step, mouth open.
“What about it?” she whispered, and her eyes were fixed, unblinking. “Do you keep your powder dry, Stephen?”
She braced the pistol with both hands, drew aim at his crotch, and fired.
He was fast, I’d give him that. He hadn’t time to turn and run, but was reaching to cover his threatened balls with both hands, even as she pulled the trigger. Blood exploded in a thick spray through his fingers, but I couldn’t tell what she’d hit.
He staggered back, clutching himself. He stared wildly round, as though unable to believe it, then sank to one knee. I could hear him breathing, hard and fast.
We all stood paralyzed, watching. One hand scrabbled at the sand, leaving bloody furrows. Then he rose, slowly, doubled over, the other hand pressed into his middle. His face was dead white, green eyes like dull water.
He stumbled round, gasping, and made off like a bug that’s been stepped on, leaking and hitching. There was a crashing noise as he blundered through the bushes, and then he was gone. Beyond a palmetto tree, I could see a line of pelicans flying, ungainly and impossibly graceful against the lowering sky.
I was still crouched on the ground, chilled with shock. I felt something warm slide down my cheek, and realized it was a raindrop.
“Is he right?” Brianna was crouching beside me, helping me sit up. “Do you think he’s right? Are they dead?” She was white to the lips, but not hysterical. She had Jemmy in the crook of her arm, clinging to her neck.
“No,” I said. Everything seemed remote, as though it were happening in slow motion. I stood up slowly, balancing precariously, as though not sure quite how to do it.
“No,” I said again, and felt no fear, no panic at the memory of what Bonnet had said; nothing but a certainty in my chest, like a small, comforting weight. “No, they’re not.” Jamie had told me; this was not the day when he and I would part.
Marsali had vanished into the wood to retrieve Joanie. Germain was bent over the splotches of blood on the sand, studying them with fascination. It occurred to me dimly to wonder what type they were, but then I dismissed the thought from my mind.
“He’ll never be yours,” she had said.
“Let’s go,” I said, patting Jemmy gently. “I think we’ll make do with unscented candles, for now.”
ROGER AND JAMIE appeared at dawn two days later, rousing everyone in the inn by pounding at the door, and causing people in the neighboring houses to throw open their shutters and put their nightcapped heads out in alarm, owing to the resultant whooping and yelling. I was reasonably sure that Roger had a minor concussion, but he refused to be put to bed—though he did allow Bree to hold his head in her lap and make noises of shocked sympathy about the impressive lump on it, while Jamie gave us a terse account of the battle of Wylie’s Landing, and we gave a somewhat confused explanation of our adventures