The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [119]
Did Twelvetrees know about Siverly yet? He wondered.
He tilted his head to spill the rain from the brim of his hat and blew on the hot potatoes.
Tom gathered the remaining potatoes in a fold of his cloak, deposited two in front of Quinn without remark, and came to sit down beside Jamie to eat his own share. Jamie hadn’t yet told him about his plan—if his intentions could be dignified by such a word—let alone about Quinn’s desire to abandon Grey, but was interested to see that Tom plainly didn’t trust the Irishman.
Good lad, he thought.
Rain hissed and sputtered as it struck the fire. It wouldn’t last much longer.
“How far is it to Athlone?” he asked, licking his fingers.
Quinn grimaced in thought. “From here? Maybe two hours.”
Jamie felt, rather than saw, Tom perk up a bit at that, and turned his head to smile at the young valet.
“We’ll get him back,” he said, and was surprised at how gratified he was to see relief and trust flood Tom’s round face.
“A-course we will,” Tom said stoutly. “Sir,” he added hastily. He didn’t ask for details, which was just as well, Jamie thought.
“Sleep a bit,” he said to Tom, when the fire showed signs of being finally extinguished. “I’ll wake ye later, when it’s time to go.”
Quinn gave a small snort at this, but Jamie ignored it. Quinn knew fine that Jamie didn’t trust him, and plainly Tom knew, too. It didn’t need saying.
Jamie wrapped the borrowed cloak tighter round his body, wishing for a plaid and thick Highland stockings. The cloak was wool and would hold his heat, even if wet—but nothing shed water like the waulked wool of a Highland plaid. He sighed and found a place to sit where his arse wouldn’t be in a puddle and there was a stone at his back to lean on.
His mind kept nagging at him, wanting to think, to make plans. But plans were pointless, until they reached Athlone and saw how things lay. As for thinking … he needed to let matters rest and sort themselves. He was bone-tired, and knew it. He patted his breeches and found the pleasantly bumpy little bundle of his rosary. And there was the matter of his penance, after all.
The smooth wooden beads were a comfort to his fingers, as the repetition of the Aves was to his mind, and he felt his shoulders finally begin to relax, the counterpoint of the pattering rain on his hat and the distant gurgling of his wame a peaceful background to his prayers.
“It’s not a crackbrained scheme.”
“Eh?” Quinn had spoken so quietly that Jamie had only half-heard him, such was his state of mind.
“I said, it’s not a crackbrained scheme.” Quinn swiveled on his rock to look at Jamie directly, his eyes dark holes in his face. “The plan.”
“Aye?” Jamie’s brain was slow to focus on this. What plan? He thought dimly. “Perhaps I spoke too hasty, Quinn. I’ll ask your pardon.”
Quinn’s attitude changed at once from hostility to forgiveness; he straightened and, with a glance at Tom curled in a sodden lump some distance away, got up and came to crouch beside Jamie.
“Not a bit of it, mo chara,” he said, patting Jamie’s shoulder. “I hadn’t told ye the meat of it—doubtless it sounded fanciful.”
Jamie made a sound meant to indicate cordial dismissal of this notion, privately wondering what in the name of God himself … oh, Jesus.
“The cup?” he asked. “Because I told ye, when—”
“No,” Quinn replied. “I mean, that’s a part of it, sure, but what I hadn’t told ye yet was how the invasion is to work.”
“The invasion …” Jamie’s mind was coming hastily back from its peaceful bourne of prayer, and the knotting of his belly was not due to raw cabbage alone. “Ye’d mentioned raising an army. I recall that.” And he recalled fine that Quinn had wanted him to raise it.
“Aye,