The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [107]
He wiped his eyes, sneezed, and wiped his nose.
“Jesus, I may never eat onions again.”
“Does it help? With the pain, I mean.”
Fraser looked surprised, as though it had never occurred to him to wonder.
“Aye, it does; it warms the sore parts.” His mouth twitched. “That, or maybe it’s the brandy.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. I saw hundreds of things like that, in Paris. For a time, it was my business to look for such things. That’s where I made the acquaintance of your sister-in-law.”
Jamie spoke casually, but Grey saw the Scot’s sidelong look and manfully concealed his own surprise.
“Yes, Hal said her father was a … dealer in documents.”
“That’s a verra tactful way to put it.” He sniffed and looked up, one eyebrow raised. “I’m surprised that she didna tell ye about the white rose herself,” he said. “She must ha’ seen it.” And then his gaze sharpened. “Oh,” he said, with a half smile. “Of course, she did. I should have kent that.”
“You should,” Grey agreed dryly. “But you said, ‘Now it’s real.’ Why? Only because Siverly is involved in some way?”
Jamie nodded and shifted himself, looking for a more comfortable way to lie. He settled for resting his forehead on his crossed forearms.
“Because Siverly’s rich,” he said, his voice a little muffled. “Whether he stole his money or made it, we ken he’s got it, do we not?”
“We do,” Grey said, a little grimly. “Or at least he had it at one point. For all I know, he’s spent it on all on whores and horses. Or that monstrous great house.”
Fraser made a motion of the head that might have been agreement.
“Either way, he has something to lose,” he said. “And there’s the minor consideration that he tried, verra seriously, to kill me.” He raised his head from the pillow, squinting at Grey. “He’ll try again, aye?” he observed, though without much concern. “Ye havena got much more than tomorrow morning before he turns up here.”
“I mean to call upon Major Siverly in the morning,” Grey assured him. “But you have not completely answered my question, Mr. Fraser. You said, ‘Now it’s real,’ and I understand that. But should not the possibility of a substantial conspiracy, well funded and decently managed, increase your loyalty to the Stuart cause?”
Fraser laid his head on his arms, but turned his face toward Grey and studied him for some time, eyes narrowed.
“I shall never fight in that cause again,” he said at last, softly, and Grey thought he spoke with a sense of true regret. “Not from cowardice, but from the sure knowledge of its futility. Major Siverly’s nay friend to me. And should there be men I know involved in this … I will do them nay service to let it go further.”
He turned his face away again and lay quiet.
Grey picked up the flask and shook it. There was very little left in it, but he drank this, slowly, watching the play of fire through the tangled strands of the peat bricks in the hearth.
Was Fraser telling the truth? He thought so. If so—was his assessment of that one phrase in the poem sufficient as to conjure up a complete Jacobite conspiracy? But that wasn’t the only evidence, he reminded himself. Minnie had said the same—and, above all, Siverly’s attempt on Fraser’s life argued that the poem itself was dangerous in some way. How else if not, as Fraser said, a signal of recognition? But a signal to whom?
He fell to thinking of how his meeting with Siverly might go, knowing what he now did. Ought he, too, present a copy of the same poem, to see what response it drew? He had made a point of seeking out Siverly after the Battle of Quebec, to thank him for his service in saving Grey from being brained by a tomahawk. Siverly had modestly dismissed the matter—but it would plainly be foremost in his mind at sight of Grey.
Grey grimaced. Yes, he owed Siverly a debt of honor. But if Siverly had done half what Carruthers claimed, he had forfeited his right to such consideration.
The room was warm. He loosened his neckcloth, which made him think of his dress uniform, its