“I don’t have fleas” was all I could manage in the way of a witty riposte, but he laughed, settled his shoulders, and set to work.
“I like it when ye scream, Sassenach,” he murmured a little later, pausing for breath.
“There are children downstairs!” I hissed, fingers buried in his hair.
“Well, try to sound like a catamount, then …”
A LITTLE LATER, I asked, “How far is it from here to Philadelphia?”
He didn’t answer at once, but gently massaged my bottom with one hand. Finally, he said, “Ken what Roger Mac said to me once? That to an Englishman, a hundred miles is a long way; to an American, a hundred years is a long time.”
I turned my head a little, to look at him. His eyes were fixed on the sky and his face was tranquil, but I knew what he was saying.
“How long, then?” I asked quietly, and laid a hand over his heart, to feel the reassurance of its slow, strong beating. He smelled of my own musk and his, and a tremor from the last little while echoed up my spine. “How long do we have, do you think?”
“Not long, Sassenach,” he said softly. “Tonight, it’s as far away as the moon. Tomorrow it may be in the dooryard.” The hairs on his chest had risen, whether from chilly air or the conversation, and he grasped my hand, kissed it, and sat up.
“Have ye ever heard of a man called Francis Marion, Sassenach?”
I paused in the act of reaching for my shift. He’d spoken very casually, and I glanced briefly at him. He had his back turned, and the scars on it were a mesh of fine silver lines.
“I might have,” I replied, looking critically at the hem of my shift. Slightly grubby, but it would do for one more day. I pulled it over my head and reached for my stockings. “Francis Marion … Was he known as the Swamp Fox?” I had vague memories of watching a Disney show by that name, and I thought the character’s name had been something Marion …
“He isn’t yet,” Jamie said, turning to look over his shoulder at me. “What d’ye know of him?”
“Very little, and that only from a television show. Though Bree could probably still sing the theme song—er, that’s music that was played at the beginning of each … er, performance.”
“The same music each time, ye mean?” A brow cocked with interest.
“Yes. Francis Marion … I recall him being captured by a British redcoat and tied to a tree in one episode, so he probably was a …” I stopped dead.
“Now,” I said, with that odd qualm of dread and awe that always came when I ran into one of Them. First Benedict Arnold, and now … “Francis Marion is … now, you mean.”
“So Brianna says. But she didna remember much about him.”
“Why are you interested in him, particularly?”
“Ach.” He relaxed, back on firmer ground. “Have ye ever heard of a partisan band, Sassenach?”
“Not unless you mean a political party, and I’m quite sure you don’t.”
“Like Whigs and Tories? No, I don’t.” He picked up the jug of wine, poured a cup, and handed it to me. “A partisan band is much like a band o’ mercenaries, save that they mostly dinna work for money. Something like a private militia, but a good deal less orderly in its habits.”
I’d seen a good many militia companies during the Monmouth campaign, and this made me laugh.
“I see. What does a partisan band do, then?”
He poured a cup of his own and lifted it to me in brief toast.
“Apparently they roam about, troubling Loyalists, killing freed slaves, and in general bein’ a burr under the saddle of the British army.”
I blinked. Walt Disney had apparently decided to omit a few things from the 1950s version of the Swamp Fox, and no wonder.
“Killing freed slaves? Whatever for?”
“The British are in the habit o’ freeing slaves who undertake to join the army. So Roger Mac says. Apparently Mr. Marion took—will take?—exception to this.” He frowned. “I think he’s maybe no doing it yet. I’ve not heard of any such thing, at least.”
I took a mouthful of the wine. It was muscat wine, cool and sweet, and it went down well on a night full of shadows.
“And where is Mr. Swamp Fox doing this?”
“Somewhere in South Carolina; I didna take notice of the details—I was taken up by the notion, ken?”
“Of a partisan band, you mean?” I’d been uneasy since I pulled my stockings on and had the absurd thought that perhaps I should take them off again. No running away from this particular conversation, though.