The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [69]
And if he were obliged to kill Siverly—or if it could be made to look as though he had—he shivered. He could be tried and hanged for it, if they cared to make the matter public; what would his word count for? Or John Grey could simply cut his throat and leave him sunk in an Irish bog, once he’d served his purpose, and tell the world what he liked.
He felt hot and cold together and found that he must make a conscious effort to keep breathing.
He’d thought that it would be a simple if annoying matter: do what Pardloe demanded, and be then returned to Helwater and William. But if it came to this …
Some sound made him open his eyes, to see John Grey standing in front of him, openmouthed.
“I … beg your pardon,” Grey said, recovering himself with some effort. “I did not mean to disturb—”
“What the bloody hell are ye doing here!?” Without intent, he found himself on his feet, his fist bunched in Grey’s shirtfront. Grey smartly jerked his forearm up, breaking Jamie’s hold, and stepped back, stuffing his rumpled shirt back into his waistcoat.
“You are without doubt the touchiest son of a bitch I have ever encountered,” Grey said, his face flushed. “And I include in that roster such men as my brother and the King of Prussia. Can you not behave like a civil being for more than ten minutes together?”
“Touchy, is it?” The blood was pounding in Jamie’s temples, and it took some effort to keep his fists curled at his sides.
“I grant you, your situation is invidious,” Grey said, making an obvious effort at conciliation. “I admit the provocation. However—”
“Invidious. Is that what ye call it? I am to be your cat’s-paw. To preserve what ye’re pleased to call your honor.” He felt so far beyond fury that he spoke with perfect calm. “And ye call it provoking?”
“What?” Grey seized Jamie’s sleeve as he made to turn away, and withstood the look of contempt directed at him. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
He jerked his sleeve out of Grey’s hand.
“I speak English as well as you do, ye bloody coward, and ye take my meaning fine!”
Grey drew breath, and Jamie could see the thoughts cross the Englishman’s face in rapid succession: the urge to lunge at him, the urge to make it more formal and call him out, a rush of unnameable calculation, and, finally—all within the space of a moment—a sudden clamping down, a forcible cooling of fury.
“Sit,” Grey said through his teeth, jerking his head at the bucket.
“I am not a dog!”
Grey rubbed a hand over his face. “A casual observer might argue the point,” he said. “But, no. I apologize for the implication. Come with me.” He turned away, adding over his shoulder, “If you please, Mr. Fraser.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Jamie followed the man. There was no point in remaining with the garden rubbish, after all.
Grey pushed open the door of the glasshouse and beckoned him inside. It was near twilight, but the place glowed like a king’s treasure, reds and pinks and whites and yellows glimmering in an emerald jungle in the dusk, and the air flooded in upon him, moist and caressing, filled with the scents of flowers and leaves, herbs and vegetables. For an instant, he smelled his wife’s hair among them and gulped air as though he’d been shot in the lung.
Pulsing with agitation, he followed Grey past a group of palms and gigantic things with leaves like the ragged ears of elephants. Round a corner, a group of wicker furniture stood beneath an enormous arbor covered with grapevines. Grey stopped short here and turned to him.
“I’ve had a bloody long day, and I want to sit down,” he said. “You can suit yourself.” He promptly collapsed into a basket chair and leaned back, thrust out his booted feet, and closed his eyes with a little sigh.
Jamie hesitated, not knowing whether to turn on his heel and leave, sit down in his turn, or pull John Grey out of the chair by his collar and punch him.
“We’ll have a half hour or so of privacy