"Of course they hurt. You're black and blue—again. Why do you do such things? What in God's name do you think you're made of? Iron?" I demanded irritably.
He grinned ruefully and touched his swollen nose. "No. I wish I were."
I sighed again and prodded him gently around the middle.
"I don't think they're cracked; it's only bruises. I'll strap them, though, in case. Stand up straight, roll up your shirt, and hold your arms out from your sides." I began to tear strips from an old shawl I'd got from the innkeeper's wife. Muttering under my breath about sticking plaster and other amenities of civilized life, I improvised a strap dressing, pulling it tight and fastening it with the ring-brooch off his plaid.
"I can't breathe," he complained.
"If you breathe, it will hurt. Don't move. Where did you learn to fight like that? Dougal, again?"
"No." he winced away from the vinegar I was applying to the cut eyebrow. "My father taught me."
"Really? What was your father, the local boxing champion?"
"What's boxing? No, he was a farmer. Bred horses too." Jamie sucked in his breath as I continued the vinegar application on his barked shin.
"When I was nine or ten, he said he thought I was going to be big as my mother's folk, so I'd have to learn to fight." He was breathing more easily now, and held out a hand to let me rub marigold ointment into the knuckles.
"He said, 'If you're sizable, half the men ye meet will fear ye, and the other half will want to try ye. Knock one down,' he said, 'and the rest will let ye be. But learn to do it fast and clean, or you'll be fightin' all your life.' So he'd take me to the barn and knock me into the straw until I learned to hit back. Ow! That stings."
"Fingernail gouges are nasty wounds," I said, swabbing busily at his neck. "Especially if the gouger doesn't wash regularly. And I doubt that greasy-haired lad bathes once a year. 'Fast and clean' isn't quite how I'd describe what you did tonight, but it was impressive. Your father would be proud of you."
I spoke with some sarcasm, and was surprised to see a shadow pass across his face.
"My father's dead," he said flatly.
"I'm sorry." I finished the swabbing, then said softly, "But I meant it. He would be proud of you."
He didn't answer, but gave me a half-smile in reply. He suddenly seemed very young, and I wondered just how old he was. I was about to ask when a raspy cough from behind announced a visitor to the shed.
It was the stringy little man named Murtagh. He eyed Jamie's strapped-up ribs with some amusement, and lobbed a small wash leather bag through the air. Jamie put up a large hand and caught it easily, with a small clinking sound.
"And what's this?" he asked.
Murtagh raised one sketchy brow. "Your share o' the wagers, what else?"
Jamie shook his head and made to toss the bag back.
"I didna wager anything."
Murtagh raised a hand to stop him. "You did the work. You're a verra popular fellow at the moment, at least wi' those that backed ye."
"But not with Dougal, I don't suppose," I interjected.
Murtagh was one of those men who always looked a bit startled to find that women had voices, but he nodded politely enough.
"Aye, that's true. Still, I dinna see as that should trouble ye," he said to Jamie.
"No?" A glance passed between the two men, with a message I didn't understand. Jamie blew his breath out softly through his teeth, nodding slowly to himself.
"When?" he asked.
"A week. Ten days, perhaps. Near a place called Lag Cruime. You'll know it?"
Jamie nodded again, looking more content than I had seen him in some time. "I know it."
I looked from one face to the other, both closed and secretive. So Murtagh had found out something. Something to do with the mysterious "Horrocks" perhaps? I shrugged. Whatever the cause, it appeared that Jamie's days as an exhibition were over.
"I suppose Dougal can always tap-dance instead," I said.
"Eh?" The secretive looks changed to looks of startlement.
"Never mind. Sleep well." I picked up my box of medical supplies and went to find my own rest.
* * *
12
The Garrison Commander
We were drawing nearer to Fort William, and I began to ponder seriously what my plan of action should be, once we had arrived there.
It depended, I thought, upon what the garrison commander was likely to do. If he believed that I was a gentlewoman in distress, he might provide me with temporary escort toward the coast and my putative embarkation for France.