“All right, then.” Jamie stopped the retreat with a jerk of his head. “The cargo’s lost, so there’ll be no shares, aye? Will anyone need money for the present?” He reached for his pocket. “I can provide enough to live on for a bit—for I doubt we’ll be workin’ the coast for a time.”
One or two of the men reluctantly advanced within clear sight of the thing hanging from the tree to receive their money, but the rest of the smugglers melted quietly away into the night. Within a few minutes, only Fergus—still white, but standing on his own—Jamie, and I were left.
“Jesu!” Fergus whispered, looking up at the hanged man. “Who will have done it?”
“I did—or so I expect the tale will be told, aye?” Jamie gazed upward, his face harsh in the sputtering torchlight. “We’ll no tarry longer, shall we?”
“What about Ian?” I said, suddenly remembering the boy. “He went to the abbey, to warn you!”
“He did?” Jamie’s voice sharpened. “I came from that direction, and didna meet him. Which way did he go, Sassenach?”
“That way,” I said, pointing.
Fergus made a small sound that might have been laughter.
“The abbey’s the other way,” Jamie said, sounding amused. “Come on, then; we’ll catch him up when he realizes his mistake and comes back.”
“Wait,” said Fergus, holding up a hand. There was a cautious rustling in the shrubbery, and Young Ian’s voice said, “Uncle Jamie?”
“Aye, Ian,” his uncle said dryly. “It’s me.”
The boy emerged from the bushes, leaves stuck in his hair, eyes wide with excitement.
“I saw the light, and thought I must come back to see that Auntie Claire was all right,” he explained. “Uncle Jamie, ye mustna linger about wi’ a torch—there are excisemen about!”
Jamie put an arm about his nephew’s shoulders and turned him, before he should notice the thing hanging from the alder tree.
“Dinna trouble yourself, Ian,” he said evenly. “They’ve gone.”
Swinging the torch through the wet shrubbery, he extinguished it with a hiss.
“Let’s go,” he said, his voice calm in the dark. “Mr. Willoughby’s down the road wi’ the horses; we’ll be in the Highlands by dawn.”
PART SEVEN
Home Again
32
THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN
It was a four-day journey on horseback to Lallybroch from Arbroath, and there was little conversation for most of it. Both Young Ian and Jamie were preoccupied, presumably for different reasons. For myself, I was kept busy wondering, not only about the recent past, but about the immediate future.
Ian must have told Jamie’s sister, Jenny, about me. How would she take my reappearance?
Jenny Murray had been the nearest thing I had ever had to a sister, and by far the closest woman friend of my life. Owing to circumstance, most of my close friends in the last fifteen years had been men; there were no other female doctors, and the natural gulf between nursing staff and medical staff prevented more than casual acquaintance with other women working at the hospital. As for the women in Frank’s circle, the departmental secretaries and university wives…
More than any of that, though, was the knowledge that of all the people in the world, Jenny was the one who might love Jamie Fraser as much—if not more—than I did. I was eager to see Jenny again, but could not help wondering how she would take the story of my supposed escape to France, and my apparent desertion of her brother.
The horses had to follow each other in single file down the narrow track. My own bay slowed obligingly as Jamie’s chestnut paused, then turned aside at his urging into a clearing, half-hidden by an overhang of alder branches.
A gray stone cliff rose up at the edge of the clearing, its cracks and bumps and ridges so furred with moss and lichen that it looked like the face of an ancient man, all spotted with whiskers and freckled with warts. Young Ian slid down from his pony with a sigh of relief; we had been in the saddle since dawn.
“Oof!” he said, frankly rubbing his backside. “I’ve gone all numb.”
“So have I,” I said, doing the same. “I suppose it’s better than being saddlesore, though.” Unaccustomed to riding for long stretches, both Young Ian and I had suffered considerably during the first two days of the journey; in fact, too stiff to dismount by myself the first night, I had had to be ignominiously hoisted off my horse and carried into the inn by Jamie, much to his amusement.
“How does Uncle Jamie do it?” Ian asked me. “His arse must be made of leather.”
“Not to look at,” I replied absently. “Where’s he gone, though?” The chestnut, already hobbled, was nibbling at the grass under an oak to one side of the clearing, but of Jamie himself, there was no sign.
Young Ian and I looked blankly at each other; I shrugged, and went over to the cliff face, where a trickle of water ran down the rock. I cupped my hands beneath it and drank, grateful for the cold liquid sliding down my dry throat, in spite of the autumn air that reddened my cheeks and numbed my nose.
This tiny glen clearing, invisible from the road, was characteristic of most of the Highland scenery, I thought. Deceptively barren and severe, the crags and moors were full of secrets. If you didn’t know where you were going, you could walk within inches of a deer, a grouse, or a hiding man, and never know it. Small wonder that many of those who had taken to the heather after Culloden had managed to escape, their knowledge of the hidden places making them invisible to the blind eyes and clumsy feet of the pursuing English.
Thirst slaked, I turned from the cliff face and nearly ran into Jamie, who had appeared as though sprung out of the earth by magic. He was putting his tinderbox back into the pocket of his coat, and the faint smell of smoke clung to his coat. He dropped a small burnt stick to the grass and ground it to dust with his foot.
“Where did you come from?” I said, blinking at this apparition. “And where have you been?”
“There’s a wee cave just there,” he explained, jerking a thumb behind him. “I only wanted to see whether anyone’s been in it.”
“Have they?” Looking closely, I could see the edge of the outcrop that concealed the cave’s entrance. Blending as it did with the other deep cracks in the rock face, it wouldn’t be visible unless you were deliberately looking for it.
“Aye, they have,” he said. His brows were slightly furrowed, not in worry, but as though he were thinking about something. “There’s charcoal mixed wi’ the earth; someone’s had a fire there.”
“Who do you think it was?” I asked. I stuck my head around the outcrop, but saw nothing but a narrow bar of darkness, a small rift in the face of the mountain. It looked thoroughly uninviting.
I wondered whether any of his smuggling connections might have traced him all the way from the coast to Lallybroch. Was he worried about pursuit, or an ambush? Despite myself, I looked over my shoulder, but saw nothing but the alders, dry leaves rustling in the autumn breeze.
“I dinna ken,” he said absently. “A hunter, I suppose; there are grouse bones scattered about, too.”