Once past the prison, we paused to rest the horses for a moment, in the shelter of a small pine grove. Murtagh bent to peer under the slouch hat that masked Jamie's telltale hair.
"All right, lad? Ye're quiet."
Jamie lifted his head. His face was pale, and trickles of sweat ran down his neck, despite the icy wind, but he managed a half-hearted grin.
"I'll do."
"How do you feel?" I asked, anxious. He sat slumped in the saddle, without much sign of his usual erect grace. I got the other half of the grin.
"I've been trying to decide which hurts worst—my ribs, my hand, or my arse. Tryin' to choose among them keeps my mind off my back." He took a deep pull from the flask that Sir Marcus had thoughtfully provided, shuddered, and passed it to me. It was a good deal better than the raw spirit I had drunk on the road to Leoch, but every bit as potent. We rode on, a small cheerful fire burning in my stomach.
The horses were laboring up a modest slope, snow spurting from their hooves, when I saw Murtagh's head jerk up. Following the direction of his gaze, I saw the Redcoat soldiers, four of them, mounted, at the top of the slope.
There was no help for it. We had been seen, and a shouted challenge echoed down the hill. There was no place to run. We were going to have to try to bluff it out. Without a backward glance, Murtagh spurred forward to meet them.
The corporal with the group was a middle-aged career soldier, erect in his winter greatcoat. He bowed politely to me, then turned his attention to Jamie.
"Your pardon, sir, madam. We have orders to stop all parties traveling this road, to inquire for details of prisoners lately escaped from Wentworth Prison."
Prisoners. So I had managed to release more than Jamie yesterday. I was glad of it, on various grounds. For one, they would dilute the search somewhat. Four against three was better odds than we might have expected.
Jamie didn't reply, but slouched farther forward, letting his head loll. I could see the gleam of his eyes beneath the hat brim; he wasn't unconscious. These must be men he knew; his voice would be recognized. Murtagh was edging his horse forward, between me and the soldiers.
"Aye, the master's a bit the worse for illness, sir, as ye can see," he said, obsequiously tugging his forelock. "Perhaps ye could point out the road toward Ballagh to me? I'm no convinced that we're headed right."
I wondered what on earth he was up to, until I caught his eye. His glance flickered back and down, then back to the soldier, so fast that the soldier would assume him to have been listening with rapt attention all the time. Was Jamie in danger of falling from the saddle? Pretending to adjust my bonnet, I glanced casually over my shoulder in the direction he had indicated, and nearly froze with shock.
Jamie was sitting upright, head bent to shadow his face. But blood was dripping gently from the tip of the stirrup under his foot, pocking the snow with gently steaming red pits.
Murtagh, pretending vast stupidity, had succeeded in drawing the soldiers ahead to the crest of the hill, so that they could point out that the road to Dingwall was the only road in sight, which ran down the other side of the hill. It ran through Ballagh, and straight toward the coast, still three miles away.
I slid hastily to the ground, yanking feverishly at my horse's girth strap. Floundering through the drifts, I kicked enough snow under the belly of Jamie's horse to obliterate the telltale drops. A quick look showed the soldiers apparently still engaged in argument with Murtagh, though one of them glanced down the hill at us, as though to ensure that we had not wandered off. I gave a cheery wave, then as soon as the soldier turned his head, stooped and ripped off one of the three petticoats I was wearing. I whipped Jamie's cloak aside and stuffed the wadded petticoat under his thigh, ignoring his exclamation of pain. The cloak flipped back in place just in time for me to dash back to my own horse and be discovered fiddling with the girth when Murtagh and the Englishmen arrived.
"It seems to have worked its way loose," I explained guilelessly, batting my eyes at the nearest redcoat.
"Oh? And why are you not helping the lady?" he said to Jamie.
"My husband's not well," I said. "I can manage it myself, thank you."
The corporal seemed interested. "Sick, eh? What's the matter with you, then?" He urged his beast forward, staring closely under the slouch hat at Jamie's pale face. "Don't look well, I'll say that much. Take your hat off, fellow. What's the matter with your face?"
Jamie shot him through the folds of his cloak. The redcoat was no more than six feet away, and he toppled sideways out of the saddle before the stain on his chest grew bigger than my hand.