The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [79]
“If he’s dead, ye could disappear, Mac Dubh. Nothing easier. Ye’re safe out of England now; I’ve more than one place in Ireland where ye could lie hidden for a bit, or ye could go across to France should ye feel the need—but who would hunt ye?”
“That man’s brother, for one,” Fraser said coldly. “Ye’ve not had the benefit of meeting His Grace the Duke of Pardloe, but I’d sooner be hunted by the fiend himself. Did it never occur to you to ask if I thought it a good idea to kill the Englishman?”
“Thought I’d save ye the trouble, Mac Dubh.” Quinn sounded amused, damn him!
“Dinna be calling me Mac Dubh.”
“I know ye’ve a tender conscience, so ye have. Another minute and I’d have had him taken care of and tucked away safe down the well. Ye’d have no call to worry yourself.”
“Oh, aye? And what then? Did ye mean to tell me, or just give it out that he’d changed his mind and gone off on foot?”
“Oh, I’d have told you, sure. What d’ye take me for, Mac Dubh?”
There was a moment of marked silence.
“What d’ye owe him?” Quinn demanded, breaking it. “Him or his brother? The swarthy-johns have imprisoned ye, enslaved ye! Taken your land, killed your kin and your comrades—”
“After saving my life, aye.” Fraser’s voice had grown dry; he was losing the edge of his anger, Grey thought, and wondered whether that was a good thing.
He wasn’t really concerned that Quinn would talk Fraser round; he knew Fraser’s innate stubbornness much too well. He was a trifle worried that Fraser might not talk the Irishman round, though—he didn’t fancy lying sleepless night after night, expecting a knife in the back or his throat cut at any moment. He felt in the pocket of his coat for the small brass powder horn he carried … just in case.
Fraser gave a deep, exasperated sigh.
“Look ye,” he said, in a low, firm voice. “I’ve given my word in this. If ye dare to dishonor me by killing the Englishman, I tell ye flat, Quinn—it’ll be you joining him at the bottom of a well.”
Well, that was some relief. Fraser might or might not want him dead—certainly he had, at various points of their acquaintance with each other—but he wasn’t willing to have him assassinated. Grey supposed he should be affronted by the implication that it was only Fraser’s fear of dishonor or Hal that was keeping Grey alive, but under the circumstances …
Quinn muttered something sulky that Grey didn’t catch, but his submission was clear. Grey didn’t let go of the powder horn but didn’t take it out of his pocket, either; his thumb rubbed back and forth, restless on the line of engraving round the rim.
Acta non verba, it said: action, not words. The breeze had changed direction, and he could no longer hear clearly. Mumbling, disconnected words, and he edged a little closer, pressing near the dank stones of the wall.
“… he’s in the way of our business.” Those words came clear, and Grey stopped abruptly. He was still clutching the powder horn in his pocket.
“You and I have nay business. I’ve told ye that a dozen times.”
“Ye think so, do ye?” Quinn’s voice was rising; he was striving for the effect of anger, Grey thought with interest, but was not truly angry. “It’s the business of every true Catholic, every true man!”
“Ye’ll gang your own way, Quinn, and I shallna hinder ye. But I’ve my own business to see to, and ye’ll not stand in my way, either. D’ye hear me?”
Quinn snorted, but had obviously heard.
“Oidhche mhath,” Fraser said quietly, and Grey heard footsteps come in his direction. He pressed flat against the tower, hoping that the Scot would not pass downwind of him; he harbored a sudden irrational conviction that Fraser could smell his sweat—for despite the cool of the night, drops ran tickling down his ribs and matted the hair to the back of his neck—and would hunt him like a Highland stag.
But Fraser sheered off and went into the tower, muttering under his breath in the Scottish sort of Gaelic, and a moment