The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [75]
“Yes, Mrs. Cameron. That’s—it’s most kind of ye.” He brought his feet under him, to stand and take his leave. He expected her to let go of his hand at once, but instead, she tightened her grip, restraining him.
“None so fast. I’ve a thing or two to say to ye, young man.”
He settled back on his chair, composing himself.
“Of course, Mrs. Cameron.”
“I wasna sure whether to speak now or wait until it was done—but as ye’re here alone now . . .” She bent toward him, intent.
“Did my niece tell ye, lad, that I meant to make her heiress to my property?”
“Aye, she did.”
He was at once on guard. Brianna had told him, all right—making it clear in no uncertain terms what she thought of that particular proposal. He steeled himself to repeat her objections now, hoping to do it more tactfully than she might have done herself. He cleared his throat.
“I’m sure my wife is most conscious of the honor, Mrs. Cameron,” he began cautiously, “but—”
“Is she?” Jocasta asked dryly. “I shouldna have thought so, to hear her talk. But doubtless ye ken her mind better than I do. Be that as it may, though, I mean to tell her that I’ve changed my own mind.”
“Oh? Well, I’m sure she’ll—”
“I’ve told Gerald Forbes to be drawing up a will, leaving River Run and all its contents to Jeremiah.”
“To—” It took a moment for his brain to make the connection. “What, to wee Jemmy?”
She was still leaning forward a little, as though peering at his face. Now she sat back, nodding, still holding firmly to his hand. It came to him, finally, that, unable to see his face, she thought to read him by means of this physical connection.
She was welcome to anything his fingers might tell her, he thought. He was too stunned at this news to have any notion how to respond to it. Christ, what would Bree say about it?
“Aye,” she said, and smiled pleasantly. “It came to me, ye see, as how a woman’s property becomes her husband’s when she weds. Not that there are no means of settling it upon her, but it’s difficult, and I wouldna involve lawyers more than I must—I think it always a mistake to go to the law, do ye not agree, Mr. MacKenzie?”
With a sense of complete astonishment, he realized that he was being deliberately insulted. Not only insulted, but warned. She thought—she did! She thought he was after Brianna’s presumed inheritance, and was warning him not to resort to any legal contortions to get it. Mingled shock and outrage sealed his tongue for a moment, but then he found words.
“Why, that is the most—so ye take thought for Joan Findlay’s pride, but ye think I have none? Mrs. Cameron, how dare ye suggest that—”
“Ye’re a handsome lad, Thrush,” she said, holding tight to his hand. “I’ve felt your face. And you’ve the name of MacKenzie, which is a good one, to be sure. But there are MacKenzies aplenty in the Highlands, aren’t there? Men of honor, and men without it. Jamie Roy calls ye kinsman—but perhaps that’s because ye’re handfast to his daughter. I dinna think I ken your family.”
Shock was giving way to a nervous impulse to laugh. Ken his family? Not likely; and how should he explain that he was the grandson—six times over—of her own brother, Dougal? That he was, in fact, not only Jamie’s nephew, but her own as well, if a bit further down the family tree than one might expect?
“Nor does anyone I’ve spoken to this week at the Gathering,” she added, head tilted to one side like a hawk watching prey.
So that was it. She’d been asking about him among her company—and had failed to turn up anyone who knew anything of his antecedents, for obvious reasons. A suspicious circumstance, to be sure.
He wondered whether she supposed he was a confidence trickster who had taken Jamie in, or whether perhaps he was meant to be involved in some scheme with Jamie? No, hardly that; Bree had told him that Jocasta had originally wanted to leave her property to Jamie—who had refused, wary of close involvement with the old leg-trap. His opinion of Jamie