“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he whispered back, not moving a muscle of face or body. “Do walk on, my dear.”
Such was my astonishment, I might actually have done it, had my attention not been drawn by a small figure skulking about behind the line, trying to avoid notice by crouching behind a wagon wheel.
“Germain!” I said, and Jamie whirled about, eyes wide.
Germain stiffened for an instant and then turned to flee, but too late; Lieutenant Schnell, living up to his name, sprang through the line and grabbed Germain by the arm.
“Is he yours, sir?” he asked, glancing curiously from Jamie to Germain and back.
“He is,” Jamie said, with a tone that had turned many a man’s blood to water. “What the devil—”
“I’m an orderly!” Germain said proudly, trying to detach himself from Lieutenant Schnell’s grip. “I’m supposed to be here!”
“No, you’re not,” his grandfather assured him. “And what do ye mean, an orderly? Whose orderly?”
Germain at once glanced in John’s direction, then, realizing his mistake, jerked his eyes back, but it was too late. Jamie reached John in a single stride and ripped the hat off his head.
The face was identifiable as that of Lord John Grey, but only by someone who knew him well. He wore a black felt patch over one eye, and the other was all but obscured by dirt and bruises. He’d cut his luxuriant blond hair to roughly an inch in length and appeared to have rubbed dirt into it.
With considerable aplomb, he scratched his head and handed Jamie his musket.
“I surrender to you, sir,” he said, in a clear voice. “To you, personally. So does my orderly,” he added, putting a hand on Germain’s shoulder. Lieutenant Schnell, quite flabbergasted, let go of Germain as though he were red-hot.
“I surrender, sir,” Germain said solemnly, and saluted.
I’d never seen Jamie at a complete loss for words, and didn’t now, but it was a near thing. He inhaled strongly through his nose, then turned to Lieutenant Schnell.
“Escort the prisoners to Captain McCorkle, Lieutenant.”
“Er . . .” I said apologetically. A hard blue eye swiveled in my direction, brow raised.
“He’s injured,” I said, as mildly as I could, with a brief gesture in John’s direction. Jamie’s lips compressed for an instant, but he nodded.
“Take the prisoners—and Mrs. Fraser”—I daresay it was merely sensitivity on my part that perceived a certain emphasis on “Mrs. Fraser”—“to my tent, Lieutenant.”
With scarcely a breath, he turned on John.
“I accept your surrender, Colonel,” he said, with icy politeness. “And your parole. I will attend you later.”
And, with that, he turned his back on the three of us, in what could only be described as a marked manner.
“WHAT ON EARTH happened to your eye?” I demanded, peering at it. I had John on the cot in my small medical tent, the flap open to admit as much light as possible. The eye was swollen half shut and surrounded by a sticky black ring where the felt patch had been peeled away, the underlying flesh a lurid palette of green, purple, and ghastly yellow. The eye itself was red as a flannel petticoat and, from the irritated state of the eyelids, had been watering more or less constantly for some time.
“Your husband punched me when I told him I’d bedded you,” he replied, with complete composure. “I do hope he didn’t take any similarly violent actions upon being reunited with you?”
Had I been capable of a convincing Scottish noise, I might have resorted to one. As it was, I merely glared at him.
“I decline absolutely to discuss my husband with you,” I said. “Lie down, blast you.”
He eased himself back on the cot, wincing.
“He said he hit you twice,” I remarked, watching this. “Where was the second one?”
“In the liver.” He gingerly touched his lower abdomen. I pulled up his shirt and inspected the damage, which amounted to further spectacular bruising around the lower ribs, with blue streaks draining down toward the ilial crest, but little more.
“That’s not where your liver is,” I informed him. “It’s on the other side.”
“Oh.” He looked blank. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am,” I assured him. “I’m a doctor. Let me look at your eye.”
I didn’t wait for permission, but he didn’t resist, lying back and staring up at the canvas roof while I spread the eyelids as far as possible. The sclera and conjunctiva were badly inflamed, and even the dim light made the eye water profusely. I held up two fingers.
“Two,” he said, before I could ask. “And before you start ordering me to look to and fro and up and down . . . I can’t. I can see out of it—though it’s a bit blurry, and I see everything doubled, which is very disagreeable—but I can’t move it at all. Dr. Hunter opined that some muscle or other was trapped by some sort of bone. He didn’t feel competent to deal with it.”
“I’m flattered that you think I might be.”
“I have the fullest confidence in your abilities, Dr. Fraser,” he said politely. “Besides, have I any choice?”
“No. Keep quite still, there . . . Germain!” I had caught sight of a telltale flutter of pink calico from the corner of my eye, and the runaway came sidling in, looking vaguely guilty.
“Don’t tell me what you have in your shirt,” I said, noting a suspicious bulge or two. “I don’t want to be an accessory to crime. No, wait—is it alive?”