The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [102]
“Aye, sir, I have,” he answered, reaching into his bosom for the copy of the Wild Hunt poem he’d brought. “Sir Melchior said that you’d some expertise in matters of antiquity—as I see ye have.” He nodded at the silver bowl, which he knew from its hallmark to have been made no more than fifty years prior and could plainly see was the work of a mediocre silversmith. Siverly’s lip twitched, not quite curling, and he took the paper from Jamie, jerking his head at the settee in what was not quite an invitation to sit down.
Jamie sat, nonetheless. Siverly glanced briefly at the paper, clearly not expecting anything of interest—and then stiffened, looked at Jamie with a brief, piercing glare, then returned to the sheet. He read it through twice, turned the paper over to examine the back, then set it down carefully on the mantelpiece.
He walked over and stood in front of Jamie, looking down. Jamie gave him a bland look, keeping his feet under him in case the man went for his throat—from the look of him, it was in his mind.
“Who the bloody hell are you?” Siverly demanded. His voice was pitched low and was meant to sound dangerous.
Jamie smiled up at him. “Who do ye think I am?” he asked softly.
That gave Siverly pause. He stood looking at Jamie, his eyes narrowed, for quite a long time.
“Who gave you that paper?”
“A friend,” Jamie replied, with complete truth. “His name is not mine to share.” Can I go further? “Is deonach é.” He is a volunteer.
That stopped Siverly as surely as if he had received a bullet in the heart. Very slowly, he lowered himself to a chair opposite, not taking his eyes from Jamie’s face. Did a flicker of recognition stir in those eyes, or only at last suspicion?
Jamie’s heart was beating fast and he felt the prickle of excitement down his forearms.
“No,” Siverly said at last, and his voice had changed. It was casual now, dismissive. “I’ve no idea how your friend came by that paper, but it doesn’t matter. The subject of the poem is ancient, to be sure. But the verse itself is no more ancient than you yourself are, Mr. Fraser. Anyone who’s read Irish verse in a scholarly way could tell you that.” He smiled, an expression that didn’t reach his deep-set eyes, the color of rainwater on slate.
“What is your interest in such a thing, Mr. Fraser?” he asked, becoming overtly cordial. “If you are in the way to collect antiquities and curios, I should be pleased to give you an introduction to one or two dealers in Dublin.”
“I should be most obliged to ye, sir,” Jamie said pleasantly. “I did think of going to Dublin; I ken a man at the great university there to whom I thought of showing this. Perhaps your dealers might have an interest in it, too.”
A spark of alarm flickered in the deep-set eyes. At what? Jamie wondered, but the answer came immediately. He doesna want a great many people to see it—lest the wrong person hear about it. And who might that be, I wonder?
“Really,” Siverly said, pretending doubt. “What is the name of your university man? Perhaps I know him.”
Jamie’s mind went blank for an instant. He fumbled among the names of his Irish acquaintance for anyone he’d known who might conceivably be or have been at Trinity—but then caught sight of the tenseness of Siverly’s shoulders. The man was trying it on as much as he was.
“O’Hanlon,” he said carelessly, choosing a name at random. “Peter O’Hanlon. D’ye ken him?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Well, nay matter. I’ll thank ye for your time, sir.” Jamie leaned forward, preparatory to rising. He’d accomplished what he came for. He’d learned that the Irish poem was connected to Siverly and had some secret meaning—and he’d successfully fixed Siverly’s attention on him as a person of interest, that was certain. The man was looking at him like a wolf with a prey in view.
“Where are you staying, Mr. Fraser?” he asked. “Perhaps I might discover some further information that would be helpful to you. If, that is, you are still interested in learning more regarding your verse?”
“Oh,