The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [187]
“Bastard,” Grey said. It was the same word in English and German, and Isobel shuddered convulsively. “You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmured to her. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.” The wet blanket had slipped off her shoulders and puddled round her, and he saw with a pang that she was wearing a nightdress of sheer lawn, with broderie Anglaise inserts and pale pink ribbon at the neck. She’d gone prepared for her wedding night—only she hadn’t been prepared at all, poor little creature.
“What did you do to the lawyer?” he asked Jamie in German. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” It was pouring outside; he hoped he wouldn’t have to go and hide Wilberforce’s body.
“Nein.” Fraser didn’t elaborate, but squatted in front of Isobel.
“No one knows,” he said to her softly, eyes intent on her face. “No one needs to know. Ever.”
She didn’t want to look at him; Grey could feel her resistance. But after a moment she lifted her head and nodded, her mouth compressed to stop it trembling.
“I—thank you,” she blurted. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she wasn’t sobbing or shivering anymore, and her body had begun to relax.
“It’s all right, lass,” Fraser said to her, still softly. He rose then and went to the door, hesitating there. Grey patted Isobel’s hand and, leaving her, came across to see Fraser out.
“If you can get her back to her room without being seen, Betty will take care of her,” Jamie said to Grey in a low voice. And then in German, “When she’s calm, tell her to forget it. She won’t, but I don’t want her to feel that she is in my debt. It would be awkward for us both.”
“She is, nonetheless. And she is an honorable woman. She’ll want to repay you in some way. Let me think how best to handle it.”
“I am obliged.” Fraser spoke abstractedly, though, and his eyes were still on Isobel. “There is … if she …” His gaze switched suddenly to Grey’s face.
Jamie’s own face was rough with red stubble and lined with tiredness, his eyes dark and bloodshot. Grey could see that the knuckles of his left hand were swollen and the skin was broken; he’d likely punched Wilberforce in the mouth.
“There is a thing I want,” Fraser said, very low-voiced, still in German. “But it cannot be blackmail or look like it in any way. If there were some means to suggest it very tactfully …”
“I see your opinion of my diplomacy has improved. What is it that you want?”
A brief smile touched Fraser’s face, though it vanished almost at once.
“The wee lad,” he said. “They make him wear a corset. I would like to see him free of it.”
Grey was extremely surprised, but merely nodded.
“All right. I’ll see about it.”
“Not tonight,” Fraser said hastily. Isobel had collapsed with a little sigh, her head on Grey’s pillow, feet trailing on the floor.
“No,” he agreed. “Not tonight.”
He closed the door quietly behind Fraser and went to deal with the girl in his bed.
42
Point of Departure
TOM HAD THE LUGGAGE LOADED ONTO THE MULE, AND THE horses were waiting. Lord John embraced Lady Dunsany and—very gently—Isobel and shook hands with Lord Dunsany in farewell. The old man’s hands were cold, and the bones as fragile in his grasp as dried twigs. He felt a pang, wondering if he would see Dunsany alive the next time he came—and a deeper pang of concern, realizing what the old man’s death might mean to him, beyond the loss of a dear old friend.
Well … he’d cross that bridge when he came to it, and God send he wasn’t coming to it just yet.
Outside, the weather was lowering, the first drops of rain already making wet spots on the flags. The horses’ ears twitched and turned to and fro; they didn’t mind rain and were fresh and eager to be off.
Jamie was holding Grey’s gelding. He inclined his head respectfully and stood back to allow Grey to mount by himself. As Grey put his hand on the pommel, he heard a low Scots voice murmur in his ear:
“Queen’s rook to king eight. Check.”
Grey laughed out loud, a burst of exhilaration pushing aside his disquiet.