It was a hot day, with that heavy stillness in the air that portends thunder, and standing in cold water with cool air rising through my undergarments was pleasant. I decided that removing my sweaty stays would make it pleasanter still, and was in the act of pulling these off over my head when I heard a loud cough from the creek bank behind me.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I said, jerking the stays off and whirling round. “Who the bloody hell are you?”
There were two of them: gentlemen, by their rather inappropriate dress. Not that I was in any position to put on airs about appropriate attire, but they did have foxtails stuck in their silk stockings, mud clogged in the buckles of their shoes, and smears of pine pitch on their broadcloth—and one had a large rent in his coat that showed the yellow silk lining.
Both of them looked me over from （disheveled） head to （bare） foot, their mouths slightly open and their gazes lingering on my breasts, which were rather on display, the damp muslin of my shift having stuck to them and the cool air off the water having stiffened my nipples. Inappropriate, forsooth …
I delicately plucked the muslin loose from my skin and dropped it, giving them stare for stare.
The one with the rent in his coat recovered first, and nodded to me, a cautious interest in his eyes.
“My name is Mr. Adam Granger and this”—nodding at his younger companion—“is my nephew, Mr. Nicodemus Partland. Can you tell us the way to Captain Cunningham’s house, my good woman?”
“Certainly,” I said, resisting the impulse to try to tidy my hair. “It’s that way”—I pointed toward the northeast—“but it’s a good three miles. I’m afraid you’ll be caught by the storm.”
They would be, too. A rising breath of air fluttered the leaves of the willows along the creek, and a boil of dark-gray clouds was rising in the west. You could see a mountain storm coming from quite a distance, but they moved quickly.
Moved in part by the requirements of hospitality and in larger part by curiosity, I waded ashore, scooping up my wet clothes.
“You’d better come down to the house,” I said to Mr. Granger as I wrung out my clothes and folded them up in my stays. “It’s quite nearby and you can shelter there until the storm passes. One of the boys can guide you to Captain Cunningham’s place once the rain goes by; his cabin is rather remote.”
They glanced at each other, up at the darkening sky, and then nodded as one and prepared to follow me. I hadn’t liked the way Mr. Partland had eyed my breasts and didn’t want him ogling my bottom while I walked, so I gestured them firmly before me onto the trail, pushed my wet feet into my shoes, and set out for home, dripping.
I estimated Mr. Granger’s age at perhaps fifty, Partland younger, perhaps in his mid-thirties. Neither was fat, but Nicodemus Partland was tall and rangy, with the sort of eyes that looked past you even as they looked at you. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as though to be sure I was still there.
We reached the house within twenty minutes, but the air had already begun to smell of ozone and I could hear thunder rumbling in the distance.
“Welcome to New House, gentlemen,” I said, nodding toward the front door. Jamie appeared on the threshold, holding Adso the cat, who leapt out of his arms and hared past me, pursued by Bluebell, barking happily. She skidded to a halt, seeing the strangers, and started barking at them, with raised hackles and serious intent.
Jamie came down off the porch and took hold of the dog by the scruff of her neck.
“That’ll do, lass,” he said to her, and with a gentle shake let her go. “Your pardon, gentlemen.”
Mr. Partland had drawn back when Bluebell menaced them, and had a hand on his pocket in a way suggesting that he might have a small pistol therein. He didn’t take his eyes off the dog, even when Fanny came out, summoned by Jamie, and coaxed her back into the house.
Mr. Granger, though, had no eyes for dogs. He was staring at Jamie. Jamie noticed this, and offered his hand with a slight bow.
“James Fraser, your servant, sir.”
“I—that is—” Mr. Granger shook his head rapidly and took Jamie’s hand. “Mr. Adam Granger, sir. Are you—are you not General Fraser?”
“I was,” Jamie said briefly. “And you, sir?” He turned to Partland, who was now also examining him as he might a horse he meant to buy.
“Nicodemus Partland, your most obedient, sir,” Partland said, smiling, but with a tone that suggested obedience was the last thing he intended. Or respect, for that matter.