The light was poor in the cave, but I was watching carefully, and I could see indecision flicker momentarily across his face as he chose his next move. He stepped toward me, hand out, but stopped when he saw me flinch away.
"Claire. My sweet Claire." The voice was soft now, and he ran an insinuating hand lightly down my arm. So he had decided to try seduction rather than compulsion.
"I know why ye talk so cold to me, and why ye think ill of me. You know that I burn for ye, Claire. And it's true—I've wanted ye since the night of the Gathering, when I kissed your sweet lips." He had two fingers resting lightly on my shoulder, inching toward my neck. "If I'd been a free man when Randall threatened ye, I'd ha' wed ye myself on the spot, and sent the man to the devil for ye." He was moving his body gradually closer, crowding me against the stone wall of the cavern. His fingertips moved to my throat, tracing the line of my cloak fastening.
He must have seen my face then, for he stopped his advance, though he left his hand where it was, resting lightly above the rapid pulse that beat in my threat. "Even so," he said, "even feeling as I do—for I'll hide it from ye no longer—even so, ye couldna imagine I'd abandon Jamie if there were any hope of saving him? Jamie Fraser is the closest thing I've got to a son!"
"Not quite," I said. "There's your real son. Or perhaps two, by now?" The fingers on my throat increased their pressure, just for a second, then dropped away.
"What d'ye mean?" And this time all pretense, all games, were dispensed with. The hazel eyes were intent and the full lips a grim line in the russet beard. He was very large, and very close to me. But I had gone too far already for caution.
"It means I know who Hamish's father really is," I said. He had been half-expecting it, and had his face well under control, but the last month spent telling fortunes had not been in vain. I saw the tiny flicker of shock that widened his eyes and the sudden panic, swiftly quelled, that tightened the corners of his mouth.
Bull's-eye. In spite of the danger, I knew a moment's fierce exultation. I had been right, then, and the knowledge might just possibly be the weapon I needed.
"Do ye, then?" he said softly.
"Yes," I said, "and I imagine Colum knows as well."
That stopped him for a moment. The hazel eyes narrowed, and I wondered for an instant whether he was armed.
"He thought it was Jamie for a time, I think," I said, staring directly into his eyes. "Because of the rumors. You must have started those, feeding them to Geillis Duncan. Why? Because Colum got suspicious of Jamie and started to question Letitia? She couldn't hold out for long against him. Or was it that Geilie thought you were Letitia's lover, and you told her it was Jamie to quiet her suspicions? She's a jealous woman, but she can't have any reason to protect you now."
Dougal smiled cruelly. The ice never left his eyes. "No, she can't," he agreed, still speaking softly. "The witch is dead."
"Dead!" The shock must have shown as plainly on my face as in my voice. His smile broadened.
"Oh, aye," he said. "Burnt. Stuck feet first in a barrel of pitch and heaped about with dry peats. Bound to a stake and lit like a torch. Sent to the devil in a pillar of flame, under the branches of a rowan tree."
I thought at first this merciless recitation of detail was meant to impress me, but I was wrong. I shifted to one side, and as the light shone fresh on his face, I could see the lines of grief etched around his eyes. It wasn't a catalog of horror, then, but a lashing of himself. I felt no pity for him, under the circumstances.
"So you were fond of her," I said coldly. "Much good it did her. Or the child. What did you do with that?"
He shrugged. "Saw it placed in a good home. A son, and a healthy babe, for all its mother was a witch and an adulteress."
"And its father an adulterer and a betrayer," I snapped. "Your wife, your mistress, your nephew, your brother—is there anyone you haven't betrayed and deceived? You… you…"I choked on the words, quite sick with loathing. "I don't know why I'm surprised," I said, trying to speak calmly. "If you've no loyalty to your king, I suppose there's no reason to think you'd feel it for your nephew or your brother, either."
His head snapped round and he glared at me. He raised his thick dark brows, the same shape as Colum's, as Jamie's, as Hamish's. The deep-set eyes, the broad cheekbones, the beautifully shaped skull. Old Jacob MacKenzie's legacy was a strong one.