The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [648]
When she saw us, though, her eyes lighted and her mouth relaxed in visible relief.
“Oh, Mr. Jamie!” she cried. “I been prayin’ for somebody to come help, ever since yesterday, but I thought for sure it would be Mr. Farquard, and then we maybe be in worse trouble, he such a man for the law and all, even if he is your auntie’s friend.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow at this rather confused declaration, but nodded reassuringly and squeezed her hand.
“Aye, lass. I dinna believe I’ve been an answer to prayer before, but I’ve no objection. Is my aunt . . . well?”
“Oh, yes, sir—she’s well enough.”
Withdrawing before we could ask further questions, she beckoned us toward the stair.
Jocasta was in her boudoir, knitting. She raised her head at the sound of feet, alert, and before anyone could say anything, asked “Jamie?” in a quavering voice, and stood up. Even at a distance, I could see that there were mistakes in the knitting, missed stitches and open runs; most unlike her usual fastidious needlework.
“Aye, it’s me, Aunt. And Claire. What’s amiss, then?” Crossing the room in two strides, he reached her side and took her arm, patting her hand in reassurance.
Her face underwent the same transformation of relief that we had seen in Phaedre, and I thought she might give way at the knees. She stiffened her spine, though, and turned toward me.
“Claire? Thank Blessed Bride ye’ve come, though how—well, never mind it for now. Will ye come? Duncan’s hurt.”
Duncan lay in bed in the next room, inert under a stack of comforters. At first, I was afraid he might be dead, but he stirred at once at the sound of Jocasta’s voice.
“Mac Dubh?” he said, puzzled. He poked his head up from the mound of covers, squinting to see in the dimness of the room. “What in God’s name brings you here?”
“Lieutenant Wolff,” Jamie said, a little caustically. “Is the name perhaps familiar to ye?”
“Aye, ye might say so.” There was a slightly odd tone to Duncan’s voice, but I paid it no mind, engaged in lighting candles and in excavating him sufficiently from the bedclothes to find out what the matter was.
I was expecting to find a knife or gunshot wound. At first examination, there was nothing whatever of the sort visible, and it took a few moments’ mental regrouping to discover that what he was suffering from was a broken leg. It was a simple fracture of the lower tibia, fortunately, and while undoubtedly painful, it seemed to be no great threat to his health.
I sent Phaedre to find some splinting materials, while Jamie, informed that Duncan stood in no great danger, sat down to get to the bottom of things.
“He has been here? Lieutenant Wolff?” he asked.
“Aye, he has.” Again the slight hesitation.
“Has he gone, then?”
“Oh, aye.” Duncan shuddered a little, involuntarily.
“Am I hurting you?” I asked.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Claire,” he assured me. “I was only—well . . .”
“Ye may as well tell me straight out, Duncan,” Jamie said, in a tone of mild exasperation. “I think it’ll no be a tale that improves wi’ keeping, aye? And if it’s the sort of tale I think, then I have a bittie story to tell to you, as well.”
Duncan eyed him narrowly, but then sighed, capitulating, and lay back on the pillow.
The Lieutenant had arrived at River Run two days before, but unlike his usual habit, had not come to the front door to be announced. Instead, he had left his horse hobbled in a field a mile from the house, and approached stealthily on foot.
“We only realized as much, because of finding the horse later, ye see,” Duncan explained to me, as I bound his leg. “I didna ken he was here at all, until I went out to the necessary after supper, and he leaped at me, out o’ the dark. I near died o’ fright, and then I near died of being shot, for he fired at me, and if I had had an arm on that side, I daresay he would have struck it. Only I hadna got one, so he didn’t.”
In spite of his disability, Duncan had fought back ferociously, butting the Lieutenant in the face, charging him, and knocking him backward.
“He staggered and tripped himself on the brick walk, and