The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [81]
Quinn did know him, though. He’d called him “Mac Dubh.” That’s what the prisoners at Ardsmuir had called Fraser; Grey had heard it often enough that he’d asked one of the Gaelic-speaking orderlies what it meant. “Son of the Black One,” he’d been told, in a matter-of-fact way. He’d wondered at the time whether this was a satanic reference of some sort, but it didn’t seem so, from his informant’s attitude. Perhaps it was a literal reference to some aspect of Fraser’s father’s character or appearance, and he spared an instant to wonder what Fraser’s father had been like.
The horses were drowsing under the tower wall; one of them released a long, rumbling fart and another shook its head, mane flapping. Now the birds were at it, tentative chirps from the distant hedgerows.
He’d talk to Fraser.
AFTER SOME THOUGHT, Grey decided that directness was the simplest way of obtaining privacy.
“Mr. Quinn,” he said pleasantly, when the Irishman came back from his morning ablutions, water droplets shining in his curls. “I need to discuss various aspects of our business with Mr. Fraser before we arrive at Athlone. Would you do me the favor of riding on? We shall follow shortly and catch you up before noon.”
The Irishman looked startled and glanced quickly at Jamie, who gave no indication that this was an out-of-the-way request, then looked back to Grey and nodded awkwardly.
“Certainly.”
Grey thought that Quinn was not a particularly experienced intrigant and hoped he had even less experience as an assassin. On the other hand, it wasn’t necessarily a job requiring skill. More, of course, if your victim was forewarned. He smiled at Quinn, who looked taken aback.
Breakfast was even more cursory than supper had been, though Jamie toasted two pieces of bread with cheese between, so that the cheese melted, something Grey hadn’t seen before but thought very tasty. Quinn mounted up without comment afterward and headed back to the road.
Grey sat on a moss-covered rock, watching until the Irishman had got well away, then swiveled back to face Fraser, who was tidily rolling up a pair of stockings into a ball.
“I woke up last night,” he said without preamble.
Fraser stuffed the stockings into his portmanteau and reached for the heel of bread, which followed the stockings.
“Did you,” he said, not looking up.
“Yes. One question—does Mr. Quinn know the nature of our business with Siverly?”
Fraser hesitated a moment before answering.
“Probably not.” He looked up, eyes a startlingly deep blue. “If he does, he didna hear it from me.”
“Where the devil else might he have heard it?” Grey demanded, and Fraser glared at him.
“From your brother’s servants, I imagine. That’s where he learned that ye had business in Ireland and that I was to go with ye.”
Grey blinked, but it was all too likely. He’d sent Tom Byrd often enough to extract information from other people’s servants.
“How did he come to be in London?”
Fraser’s eyes narrowed, but he answered.
“He followed me, when your brother had me taken from Helwater. And if ye want to know how he came to be at Helwater, ye’ll need to ask him, because I don’t know.”
Grey raised one brow; if Fraser didn’t know, he probably could make a damned good guess, but it wasn’t necessary to go into that. Not now, at least.
Fraser stood up suddenly and, picking up the portmanteau, went to saddle his horse. Grey followed.
They made their way back to the road; Quinn was well out of sight. It was a beautiful morning, with the birds whose tentative chirpings had greeted the dawn now gone mad, swooping to and fro overhead and whooping out of the meadows in riotous flocks, flushed by their passage. The road was wide enough to ride side by side, and they continued in that fashion for a quarter of an hour or so before Grey spoke again.
“Will you swear to me that Quinn’s matter does not threaten either our intent with regard to Major