The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [47]
He hadn’t troubled Jamie then and obviously didn’t mean to drag him back to the house now; he’d only been sent to watch. It occurred to Jamie to wonder what yon footman would do, should he stand up and run. He had a momentary urge to do just that, and did in fact stand up. He should have run, too, because no sooner had he got to his feet than Tobias Quinn came slithering out of a bush like a toad.
“Well, and there’s luck for ye,” Quinn remarked, looking pleased. “I thought I should have to lurk about for days, and here Himself walks straight up to me, and me not at the watching for more than half a day!”
“Dinna bloody call me Himself,” Jamie said irritably. “What the devil are ye doing here? And why are ye hiding in a bush wearing that?”
Quinn lifted a brow and dusted the yellow of spring catkins fastidiously from the sleeve of his checkered coat. It was pink and black silk, and everyone who passed within twenty yards stared at it.
“Not the greeting one might expect of a friend,” he said, reproving. “And I wasn’t hiding, not in the least. I was just comin’ across the park when I saw ye come out, and I sidled round the bush as being quickest, since I perceived ye were about to fly and I’d have no chance of catching ye if ye did, you with the legs of a veritable stallion, so ye have. As for me plumage”—here he spread his arms and revolved, the skirts of his coat flaring out—“is it not the fine thing of the world?”
“Go away,” Jamie said, repressing an urge to shove Quinn back into the bush. He turned and began to walk away. The Irishman came along.
Jamie glanced over his shoulder, but the footman was still turned away, absorbed in an entertainingly profane argument between the drivers of two carriages whose wheels had clashed and locked together as they passed each other too closely.
“The splendid thing about this coat,” Quinn said chattily, pulling it off, “is that ye can wear it both ways. Inside out, like, I mean. Should ye want to avoid notice for some reason.” He shook the garment, showing off the inner lining, which was a fine wool, seamed smooth and sober black. He reassumed the coat, pulled off his wig, and rubbed a hand through his poll of short curls, making them stand on end. He might have been a lawyer’s clerk now, or a Quaker of moderate means.
Jamie didn’t know whether it was only the man’s love of the dramatic or whether there was some need of such hasty disguise. He didn’t want to know.
“I’ve told ye,” he said, struggling for civility. “I’m no the man for your job.”
“Why, because of this small little complication?” Quinn waved a hand carelessly toward the bulk of Argus House, looming gray through the scrim of trees. “It’s nothing, sure. I’ll have ye in Ireland by the end of next week.”
“What?” Jamie stared at him, uncomprehending.
“Well, you’ll not want to linger in such company as that, will ye?” Quinn half-turned his head toward Argus House. He turned back, passing a critical eye over Jamie’s worn clothes.
“Aye, thus, very well thus. We’ve to move briskly for a bit, but once into the Rookery, no one would glance twice at you. Ah … perhaps twice,” he amended, squinting up at Jamie’s height. “But not three times, surely.”
It occurred belatedly to Jamie that Quinn was suggesting that they abscond. Right now.
“I canna do that!”
Quinn looked surprised.
“Why not?”
Jamie’s mouth opened but without the slightest notion what might come out.
“We wouldna make it to the edge of the park, for one thing. See yon fellow in the gray? He’s watching me.”
Quinn squinted in the direction indicated. “He’s not watchin’ ye just this minute,” he pointed out. He took Jamie by the hand, pulling. “Come on, then. Walk fast!”
“No!” He jerked loose and cast a wild glance at the footman, willing the man to turn round.