“Oho,” I said, everything becoming clear. “You want to get married? To a respectable young lady?”
He nodded, a little shyly.
“Yes, Madame. But her mother does not favor me.”
I couldn’t say I blamed the young lady’s mother, all things considered. While Fergus was possessed of dark good looks and a dashing manner that might well win a young girl’s heart, he lacked a few of the things that might appeal somewhat more to conservative Scottish parents, such as property, income, a left hand, and a last name.
Likewise, while smuggling, cattle-lifting, and other forms of practical communism had a long and illustrious history in the Highlands, the French did not. And no matter how long Fergus himself had lived at Lallybroch, he remained as French as Notre Dame. He would, like me, always be an outlander.
“If I were a partner in a profitable printing firm, you see, perhaps the good lady might be induced to consider my suit,” he explained. “But as it is…” He shook his head disconsolately.
I patted his arm sympathetically. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’ll think of something. Does Jamie know about this girl? I’m sure he’d be willing to speak to her mother for you.”
To my surprise, he looked quite alarmed.
“Oh, no, milady! Please, say nothing to him—he has a great many things of more importance to think of just now.”
On the whole, I thought this was probably true, but I was surprised at his vehemence. Still, I agreed to say nothing to Jamie. My feet were growing chilly from standing in the frozen mud, and I suggested that we go inside.
“Perhaps a little later, milady,” he said. “For now, I believe I am not suitable company even for sheep.” With a heavy sigh, he turned and trudged off toward the dovecote, shoulders slumped.
* * *
To my surprise, Jenny was in the parlor with Jamie. She had been outside; her cheeks and the end of her long, straight nose were pink with the cold, and the scent of winter mist lingered in her clothes.
“I’ve sent Young Ian to saddle Donas,” she said. She frowned at her brother. “Can ye stand to walk to the barn, Jamie, or had he best bring the beast round for ye?”
Jamie stared up at her, one eyebrow raised.
“I can walk wherever it’s needful to go, but I’m no going anywhere just now.”
“Did I not tell ye he’d be coming?” Jenny said impatiently. “Amyas Kettrick stopped by here late last night, and said he’d just come from Kinwallis. Hobart’s meaning to come today, he said.” She glanced at the pretty enameled clock on the mantel. “If he left after breakfast, he’ll be here within the hour.”
Jamie frowned at his sister, tilting his head back against the sofa.
“I told ye, Jenny, I’m no afraid of Hobart MacKenzie,” he said shortly. “Damned if I’ll run from him!”
Jenny’s brows rose as she looked coldly at her brother.
“Oh, aye?” she said. “Ye weren’t afraid of Laoghaire, either, and look where that got ye!” She jerked her head at the sling on his arm.
Despite himself, Jamie’s mouth curled up on one side.
“Aye, well, it’s a point,” he said. “On the other hand, Jenny, ye ken guns are scarcer than hen’s teeth in the Highlands. I dinna think Hobart’s going to come and ask to borrow my own pistol to shoot me with.”
“I shouldna think he’d bother; he’ll just walk in and spit ye through the gizzard like the silly gander ye are!” she snapped.
Jamie laughed, and she glared at him. I seized the moment to interrupt.
“Who,” I inquired, “is Hobart MacKenzie, and why exactly does he want to spit you like a gander?”
Jamie turned his head to me, the light of amusement still in his eyes.
“Hobart is Laoghaire’s brother, Sassenach,” he explained. “As for spitting me or otherwise—”
“Laoghaire’s sent for him from Kinwallis, where he lives,” Jenny interrupted, “and told him about…all this.” A slight, impatient gesture encompassed me, Jamie, and the awkward situation in general.
“The notion being that Hobart’s meant to come round and expunge the slight upon his sister’s honor by expunging me,” Jamie explained. He seemed to find the idea entertaining. I wasn’t so sure about it, and neither was Jenny.
“You’re not worried about this Hobart?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he said, a little irritably. He turned to his sister. “For God’s sake, Jenny, ye ken Hobart MacKenzie! The man couldna stick a pig without cutting off his own foot!”
She looked him up and down, evidently gauging his ability to defend himself against an incompetent pigsticker, and reluctantly concluding that he might manage, even one-handed.
“Mmphm,” she said. “Well, and what if he comes for ye and ye kill him, aye? What then?”
“Then he’ll be dead, I expect,” Jamie said dryly.
“And ye’ll be hangit for murder,” she shot back, “or on the run, wi’ all the rest of Laoghaire’s kin after ye. Want to start a blood feud, do ye?”
Jamie narrowed his eyes at his sister, emphasizing the already marked resemblance between them.
“What I want,” he said, with exaggerated patience, “is my breakfast. D’ye mean to feed me, or d’ye mean to wait until I faint from hunger, and then hide me in the priest hole ’til Hobart leaves?”
Annoyance struggled with humor on Jenny’s fine-boned face as she glared at her brother. As usual with both Frasers, humor won out.
“It’s a thought,” she said, teeth flashing in a brief, reluctant smile. “If I could drag your stubborn carcass that far, I’d club ye myself.” She shook her head and sighed.
“All right, Jamie, ye’ll have it your way. But ye’ll try not to make a mess on my good Turkey carpet, aye?”
He looked up at her, long mouth curling up on one side.
“It’s a promise, Jenny,” he said. “Nay bloodshed in the parlor.”
She snorted. “Clot,” she said, but without rancor. “I’ll send Janet wi’ your parritch.” And she was gone, in a swirl of skirts and petticoats.
“Did she say Donas?” I asked, looking after her in bemusement. “Surely it isn’t the same horse you took from Leoch!”
“Och, no.” Jamie tilted his head back, smiling up at me. “This is Donas’s grandson—or one of them. We give the name to the sorrel colts in his honor.”
I leaned over the back of the sofa, gently feeling down the length of the injured arm from the shoulder.
“Sore?” I asked, seeing him wince as I pressed a few inches above the wound. It was better; the day before, the area of soreness had started higher.
“Not bad,” he said. He removed the sling and tried gingerly extending the arm, grimacing. “I dinna think I’ll turn handsprings awhile yet, though.”
I laughed.
“No, I don’t suppose so.” I hesitated. “Jamie—this Hobart. You really don’t think—”
“I don’t,” he said firmly. “And if I did, I’d still want my breakfast first. I dinna mean to be killed on an empty stomach.”