“William!” Rachel flew across the little clearing and clasped the tall captain’s hands, beaming up at him with such joy that he smiled back at her, all irritability vanished. Ian hung back a bit, to give her time. There hadn’t been any, really, what with Rollo roaring and tearing at Arch Bug’s miserable auld carcass, Rachel sprawled on the floor, frozen with horror, himself lying on the floor pouring blood, and half the street outside screaming bloody murder.
William had pulled Rachel to her feet and thrust her into the arms of the first woman available, who, as it happened, was Marsali.
“Get her out of here!” William had snapped. But Rachel, Ian’s nut-brown maiden—her brownness much splattered with blood—had pulled herself together in an instant and, gritting her teeth—Ian had seen her do it, bemused by shock as he lay on the floor, watching things happen as though in a dream—had stepped over auld Arch’s body, fallen to her knees in the mess of brains and blood, wrapped her apron tight about Ian’s wounded arm and tied it with her kerchief, and then, with Marsali, had dragged him bodily out of the printshop and into the street, where he’d promptly passed out, waking only when Auntie Claire began stitching his arm.
Ian hadn’t had time to thank William, even had he been able to speak, and he meant to convey his own thanks as soon as he might. But clearly Rachel wanted to talk to him first, and he waited, thinking how beautiful she looked, her eyes the clouded hazel of thicket and greenbrier, face clever and quick as flame.
“But thee is tired, William, and thin,” she was saying, drawing a finger disapprovingly down the side of his face. “Do they not feed thee? I’d thought it was only the Continentals who went short of rations.”
“Oh. I—I haven’t had time of late.” The happiness that had lit William’s face while he talked with Rachel faded noticeably. “We—well, you see.” He waved an arm toward the invisible road, where the hoarse chants of the sergeants rang like the calling of disgruntled crows above the shuffle of feet.
“I do see. Where is thee going?”
William rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and glanced at Ian.
“I suppose he oughtn’t to say,” Ian said, coming across and touching Rachel’s arm, smiling at William in apology. “We’re the enemy, mo nighean donn.”
William looked sharply at Ian, catching the tone of his voice, then back at Rachel, whose hand he was still holding.
“We are betrothed, William—Ian and I,” she said, gently pulling her hand out of his and putting it on Ian’s.
William’s face changed abruptly, losing its look of happiness altogether. He eyed Ian with something remarkably close to dislike.
“Are you,” he said flatly. “I suppose I must wish you every happiness, then. Good day.” He turned on his heel, and Ian, surprised, reached out to pull him back.
“Wait—” he said, and then William turned and hit him in the mouth.
He was lying on his back in the leaves, blinking in disbelief, as Rollo hurtled over him and sank his teeth into some soft part of William, judging by the yelp and the brief cry of startlement from Rachel.
“Rollo! Bad dog—and thee is a bad dog, too, William Ransom! What the devil does thee mean by this?”
Ian sat up, tenderly fingering his lip, which was bleeding. Rollo had retreated a little under Rachel’s scolding but kept a yellow eye fixed on William and a curled lip raised over bared teeth, the faintest rumble of a growl coming from his huge chest.
“Fuirich,” Ian said to him briefly, and got to his feet. William had sat down and was examining the calf of his leg, which was bleeding through his torn silk hose, though not badly. When he saw Ian, he scrambled to his feet. His face was bright red and he looked as though he meant to either do murder or burst into tears. Maybe both, Ian thought in surprise.
He was careful not to touch William again but stood back a bit—in front of Rachel, just in case the man meant to go off again. He was armed, after all; there was a pistol and knife at his belt.
“Are ye all right, man?” Ian asked, in the same tone of mild concern he’d heard his da use now and then on his mam or Uncle Jamie. Evidently it was in fact the right tone to take with a Fraser about to go berserk, for William breathed like a grampus for a moment or two, then got himself under control.
“I ask your pardon, sir,” he said, back stiff as a stick of rock maple. “That was unforgivable. I shall . . . leave you. I—Miss Hunter . . . I—” He turned, stumbling a little, and that gave Rachel time to dart round in front of Ian.
“William!” Her face was full of distress. “What is it? Have I—”
He looked down at her, his face contorted, but shook his head.
“You haven’t done anything,” he said, with an obvious effort. “You . . . you could never do anything that—” He swung round toward Ian, fist clenched on his sword. “But you, you f**king bas—you son of a bitch! Cousin!”
“Oh,” said Ian stupidly. “Ye know, then.”
“Yes, I bloody know! You could have f**king told me!”
“Know what?” Rachel looked from him to William and back again.
“Don’t you bloody tell her!” William snapped.
“Don’t be silly,” Rachel said reasonably. “Of course he’ll tell me, the minute we’re alone. Does thee not wish to tell me thyself? I think perhaps thee might not trust Ian to say it aright.” Her eye rested on Ian’s lip, and her own mouth twitched. Ian might have taken offense at this, save that William’s distress was so apparent.