The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [647]
“So Bonnet’s not dead?” Roger asked, opening one eye.
“Well, we don’t know,” I explained. “He got away, but I don’t know how badly he was hurt. There wasn’t a dreadful lot of blood, but if he was hit in the lower abdomen, that would be a terrible wound, and almost certainly fatal. Peritonitis is a very slow and nasty way to die.”
“Good,” Marsali said, vindictively.
“Good!” Germain echoed, looking proudly up at her. “Maman shot the bad man, Grandpere,” he told Jamie. “So did Auntie. He was full of holes—there was blood everywhere!”
“Holes,” Jemmy said happily. “Holes, holes, lotsa holes!”
“Well, maybe one hole,” Brianna murmured. She didn’t look up from the damp cloth with which she was gently sponging dried blood from Roger’s scalp and hair.
“Oh, aye? Well, if ye only took off a finger or one of his balls, lass, he might survive,” Jamie observed, grinning at her. “Wouldna improve his temper, though, I dinna suppose.”
Fergus arrived on the noon packet boat, triumphantly bearing the registered, stamped, and officially sealed deeds for the two land grants, thus putting the cocked hat on the day’s rejoicing. The celebrations were limited, though, owing to the sobering knowledge that one rather major loose end remained.
After a vigorous discussion, it was decided—meaning that Jamie made up his mind and pigheadedly refused to entertain dissenting views—that he and I would ride west at once to River Run. The young families would remain in Wilmington for a few days, to complete business, and to keep an ear out for any report of a wounded or dying man. They would then proceed back to Fraser’s Ridge, keeping strictly clear of Cross Creek and River Run.
“Lieutenant Wolff canna be using threats to you or the lad to influence my aunt, if ye’re nowhere near him,” Jamie pointed out to Brianna.
“And as for you, mo charadean,” he said to Roger and Fergus, “ye canna be leaving the women and weans to look out for themselves—God kens who they might shoot next!”
It was only as he closed the door on the resulting laughter that he turned to me, ran a fingertip over the scratch on my throat, and then pulled me so hard against himself that I thought my ribs would break. I clung tight to him on the landing, not caring that I couldn’t breathe, nor whether anyone might see; happy only to be touching him—and to have him there to touch.
“Ye did right, Claire,” he muttered at last, mouth against my hair. “But for God’s sake, never do it again!”
So it was that he and I left at dawn next day, alone.
104
SLY AS FOXES
WE ARRIVED AT RIVER RUN near sundown three days later, horses lathered and filthy, and ourselves in no better case. The place seemed peaceful enough, the last of the spring light glowing on green lawns and spotlighting the white marble statues and the stone of Hector’s mausoleum among its dark yews.
“What do you think?” I asked Jamie. We had reined up at the foot of the lawn, looking the situation over cautiously before approaching the house.
“Well, no one’s burned the place down,” he replied, standing in his stirrups to survey the prospect. “And I dinna see rivers of blood cascading down the front stair. Still . . .” He sat down, reached into his saddlebag, and withdrew a pistol, which he loaded and primed as a precaution. With this tucked into the waistband of his breeks and concealed by the skirts of his coat, we rode slowly up the drive to the front door.
By the time we had reached it, I knew something was wrong. There was a sinister air of stillness about the house; no sound of scurrying servants, no music from the parlor, no scents of supper being fetched in from the cookhouse. Most peculiar of all, Ulysses was not there to greet us; our knocking went unanswered for several minutes, and when the door was at last opened, it was Phaedre, Jocasta’s body-servant, who appeared.
She had looked dreadful when I had last seen her, nearly a year before, after her mother’s death. She didn’t look much better now; there were circles under her eyes, and her skin looked bruised and drawn, like a fruit