The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [126]
“What if they’re not here?” Quinn said very quietly.
“They’re here. I left them on the bank, just by the castle.”
“They’re not there now,” Quinn observed, an edge to his voice, low as it was.
“They saw me go upstream. They’ll have followed me. We’ll need to turn round. They’ll not have seen us, coming down so quiet.”
He spoke with a great deal more confidence than he felt, but Quinn said no more than a muttered “God and Mary and Padraic be with us” before putting the other oar in the water and settling himself to it. The boat turned, the current hissing past its sides, and with as little splashing as could be managed, they began slowly to retrace their progress, Jamie leaning out as far as he dared to scan the shore.
Nothing. He caught a flicker of movement, but it disappeared between two sheds. A dog, likely—too small to be a man, let alone two.
Where would they go, with the soldiers about to erupt into the night? Into the town was the logical answer. The castle was surrounded by a labyrinth of narrow, winding streets.
“How far d’ye want to go?” Quinn grunted. He was breathing hard with the effort of rowing against the current.
“This is far enough. Turn round again,” Jamie said abruptly. They were perhaps a furlong upstream of the castle; if Grey and the lad had been on the bank, they would have found them by now. They must have gone into the town, and the soldiers would doubtless be coming to that conclusion, too.
Jamie started praying again. How was he to find them in the town? He was as noticeable himself as either of the Englishmen. It would have to be Quinn searching the town, and he doubted that the Irishman would be enthused at the prospect.
Aye, well, he’d just have to—
A heavy clunk! struck the hull of the boat near his hand, and he jerked with such violence that the little vessel rocked wildly. Quinn cursed and backed his oars.
“What in the name of the Holy Ghost did we hit?”
Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! The sound was repeated, a frenzied demand, and Jamie leaned over the side and nearly let out a skelloch at the sight that greeted him: a wild-eyed head like Medusa protruding from the water a few inches from his hand, snaky hair in all directions and teeth bared in a ferocious grimace. This startling figure held what looked to be a large bundle in one arm, a sort of sword in the other hand, and as Jamie gaped at it, openmouthed, the figure gritted its teeth and swung the weapon once more against the side of the boat with a peremptory clunk!
“Get us in!” said the figure. “I can’t hold him much longer.”
26
Opium Dreams
GREY HUDDLED IN A SODDEN HEAP IN THE BOTTOM OF THE boat, dully aware of Fraser’s back in front of him. The Scot’s long arms stretched and pulled, shoulders bunching as he rowed steadily upstream, and the black bulk of the castle slowly, slowly diminished behind them. He heard peremptory shouts from the shore and Quinn, standing up in the boat, clinging to the mast and shouting back in Irish, but Grey was too dazed with cold and exhaustion to worry much about what he was saying.
“That’ll hold ’em,” Quinn muttered, sitting down on the tiny slatted seat behind Grey. He put a hand on Grey’s shoulder to steady himself and leaned forward. “How are ye, boy?” Tom was curled next to Grey, his head on Grey’s knee, shivering convulsively. They both were, in spite of the cloaks Quinn had hastily wrapped round them.
“F-f-f-fine,” Tom said. His body was tight with pain; Grey could feel the bulge of Tom’s cheek against his leg as Tom clenched his teeth, and he laid a hand on his valet’s head, hoping to comfort him a little. He fumbled with his other hand under the cloak covering Tom, but his fingers were clumsy with cold, unable to deal with the makeshift tourniquet.
“We n-need to loosen the t-t-tourniquet,” he managed, hating his awkward helplessness, the chattering of his own teeth.
Quinn bent swiftly to help, his curls brushing Grey’s face; the Irishman smelled of peat smoke, sweat, and sausage grease, a strangely comforting, warm aroma.