“You!” William blurted, wrenching loose. “What the devil are you doing here? And where is my—what have you—” He made a convulsive gesture of dismissal. “What are you doing here?”
“Talking to you, if ye’ll close your mouth for a moment,” Jamie said coldly. “Listen to me, lad, because I’m telling ye what you’re going to do.”
“You’re not telling me anything,” William began furiously, and cocked a fist. Jamie grabbed him by the upper arm again, and this time dug his fingers hard into the spot Claire had shown him, on the underside of the bone. William let out a strangled “Agh!” and started to pant, his eyes bulging.
“You’re going to catch up the men ye sent Ian with and tell them to set him free,” Jamie said evenly. “If ye don’t, I go down under a flag of truce to the camp where they’re taking him, introduce myself, tell the commander who you are, and explain the reason for the fight. Ye’ll be right there beside me. Do I make myself clear?” he asked, increasing the pressure of his fingers.
“Yes!” The word came out in a hiss, and Jamie let go suddenly, folding his fingers into a fist to hide the fact that they were trembling and twitching from the effort.
“God damn you, sir,” William whispered, and his eyes were black with violence. “God damn you to hell.” His arm hung limp and must have hurt, but he wouldn’t rub it, not with Jamie watching.
Jamie nodded. “Nay doubt,” he said quietly, and went into the forest. Once out of sight of the road, he leaned against a tree, feeling sweat stream down his face. His back felt cast in cement. His whole body was trembling, but he hoped that William had been too distrait to notice.
God, should it have come to blows, I couldna take him.
He closed his eyes and listened to his heart, which was thumping like a bodhran. After a little, he heard the sound of hooves on the road, a horse galloping, and, turning to peer through the trees, caught a glimpse of William thundering past, heading in the direction Ian had been taken.
THE GATHERING STORM
BY BREAKFAST ON Thursday, I’d come to the firm conclusion that it was the Duke of Pardloe or me. If I stayed in the house, only one of us would remain alive by sundown. Denzell Hunter must have come into the city by now, I reasoned; he’d call in daily at Mrs. Woodcock’s house, where Henry Grey was convalescing. A very kind and capable doctor, he could easily manage Hal’s recovery—and perhaps his future father-in-law would be grateful for his professional attention.
The thought made me laugh out loud, despite my increasing anxiety.
To Dr. Denzell Hunter
From Dr. C. B. R. Fraser
I am called away to Kingsessing for the day. I surrender His Grace the Duke of Pardloe to your most competent care, in the happy confidence that your religious scruples will prevent your striking him in the head with an ax.
Yours most sincerely,
C.
Postscriptum: I’ll bring you back some asafoetida and ginseng root as recompense.
Post-postscriptum: Strongly suggest you don’t bring Dottie, unless you possess a pair of manacles. Preferably two.
I sanded this missive, gave it to Colenso for delivery to Mrs. Woodcock’s house, and executed a quiet sneak out the front door before Jenny or Mrs. Figg should pop up and demand to know where I was going.
It was barely seven o’clock, but the air was already warming, gradually heating up the city. By noon, the pungent mix of animals, humans, sewage, rotting vegetable matter, resinous trees, river mud, and hot brick would be stifling, but for the moment, the faint scent lent a piquant touch to the gentle air. I was tempted to walk, but even my most utilitarian shoes weren’t up to an hour’s walk on country roads—and if I waited for sundown and the cooling evening to make my way back, I’d be remarkably late.
Neither was it a good idea for a woman to be alone on the roads, on foot. Day or night.
I thought I could manage the three blocks to the livery stable without incident, but at the corner of Walnut I was hailed by a familiar voice from a carriage window.
“Mrs. Fraser? I say, Mrs. Fraser!”
I looked up, startled, to see the hawk-nosed face of Benedict Arnold smiling down at me. His normally fleshy features were gaunt and lined, and his usually ruddy complexion had faded to an indoor pallor, but there was no mistaking him.
“Oh!” I said, and made a quick bob. “How nice to see you, General!”
My heart had sped up. I’d heard from Denny Hunter that Arnold had been appointed military governor of Philadelphia but hadn’t expected to see him so soon—if at all.
I should have left it there but couldn’t help asking, “How’s the leg?” I knew he’d been badly injured at Saratoga—shot in the same leg that had been wounded a short time before, and then crushed by his horse falling with him in the storming of Breymann Redoubt—but I hadn’t seen him then. The regular army surgeons had attended him, and from what I knew of their work, I was rather surprised that he was not only alive but still had two legs.
His face clouded a bit at that, but he continued to smile.
“Still present, Mrs. Fraser. If two inches shorter than the other. Where are you going this morning?” He glanced automatically behind me, registering my lack of a maid or companion, but didn’t seem disturbed by it. He’d met me on the battlefield and knew me—and appreciated me—for what I was.
I knew what he was, too—and what he would become.
The hell of it was that I liked the man.
“Ah . . . I’m on my way out to Kingsessing.”