"Ah? Oh, it means honeylips, all right. More or less."
"But—"
"It's no your mouth he was referring to, Sassenach," Jamie said dryly.
"Why, that—" I made as if to turn back to the study, but Jamie tightened his grip on my arm.
"Cluck, cluck, cluck," he murmured in my ear. "Dinna worry, Sassenach. They're only tryin' me. It will be all right."
I was left in the care of Lady Frances, Young Simon's sister, while Jamie returned to the library, shoulders squared for battle. I hoped he wouldn't hit any more of his relatives; while the Frasers were, on the whole, not as sizable as the MacKenzies, they had a sort of tough watchfulness that boded ill for anyone trying something on in their immediate vicinity.
Lady Frances was young, perhaps twenty-two, and inclined to view me with a sort of terrorized fascination, as though I might spring upon her if not incessantly placated with tea and sweetmeats. I exerted myself to be as pleasant and unthreatening as possible, and after a time, she relaxed sufficiently to confess that she had never met an Englishwoman before. "Englishwoman," I gathered, was an exotic and dangerous species.
I was careful to make no sudden moves, and after a bit, she grew comfortable enough to introduce me shyly to her son, a sturdy little chap of three or so, maintained in a state of unnatural cleanliness by the constant watchfulness of a stern-faced maidservant.
I was telling Frances and her younger sister Aline about Jenny and her family, whom they had never met, when there was a sudden crash and a cry in the hallway outside. I sprang to my feet, and reached the sitting-room door in time to see a huddled bundle of cloth struggling to rise to its feet in the stone corridor. The heavy door to the library stood open, and the squat figure of Simon Fraser the elder stood framed in it, malevolent as a toad.
"Ye'll get worse than that, my lass, and ye make no better job of it," he said. His tone was not particularly menacing; only a statement of fact. The bundled figure raised its head, and I saw an odd, angularly pretty face, dark eyes wide over the red blotch deepening on her cheekbone. She saw me, but made no acknowledgment of my presence, only getting to her feet and hurrying away without a word. She was very tall and extremely thin, and moved with the strange, half-clumsy grace of a crane, her shadow following her down the stones.
I stood staring at Old Simon, silhouetted against the firelight from the library behind him. He felt my eyes upon him, and turned his head to look at me. The old blue eyes rested on me, cold as sapphires.
"Good evening, my dear," he said, and closed the door.
I stood looking blankly at the dark wooden door.
"What was that all about?" I asked Frances, who had come up behind me.
"Nothing," she said, licking her lips nervously. "Come away, Cousin." I let her pull me away, but resolved to ask Jamie later what had happened in the library.
We had reached the chamber allotted us for the night, and Jamie graciously dismissed our small guide with a pat on the head.
I sank down on the bed, gazing around helplessly.
"Now what do we do?" I asked. Dinner had passed with little to remark, but I had felt the weight of Lovat's eyes on me from time to time.
Jamie shrugged, pulling his shirt over his head.
"Damned if I know, Sassenach," he said. "They asked me the state of the Highland army, the condition of the troops, what I knew of His Highness's plans. I told them. And then they asked it all again. My grandfather's no inclined to think anyone could be giving him a straight answer," he added dryly. "He thinks everyone must be as twisted as himself, wi' a dozen different motives; one for every occasion."
He shook his head and tossed the shirt onto the bed next to me.
"He canna tell whether I might be lying about the state of the Highland army or no. For if I wanted him to join the Stuarts, then I might say as how things were better than they are, where if I didna care personally, one way or the other, then I might tell the truth. And he doesna mean to commit himself one way or the other until he thinks he knows where I stand."
"And just how does he mean to tell whether you are telling the truth?" I asked skeptically.
"He has a seer," he replied casually, as though this were one of the normal furnishings of a Highland castle. For all I knew, it was.
"Really?" I sat up on the bed, intrigued. "Is that the odd-looking woman he threw out into the hall?"
"Aye. Her name's Maisri, and she's had the Sight since she was born. But she couldna tell him anything—or wouldn't," he added. "It was clear enough she knows something, but she'd do naught but shake her head and say she couldn't see. That's when my grandsire lost patience and struck her."
"Bloody old crumb!" I said, indignant.
"Well, he's no the flower o' gallantry," Jamie agreed.
He poured out a basin of water and began to splash handfuls over his face. He looked up, startled and streaming, at my gasp.
"Hah?"
"Your stomach…" I said, pointing. The skin between breastbone and kilt was mottled with a large fresh bruise, spreading like a large, unsightly blossom on his fair skin.
Jamie glanced down, said "Oh, that," dismissively, and returned to his washing.
"Yes, that," I said, coming to take a closer look. "What happened?"
"It's no matter," he said, speech coming thickly through a towel. "I spoke a bit hasty this afternoon, and my grandsire had Young Simon give me a small lesson in respect."
"So he had a couple of minor Frasers hold you while he punched you in the belly?" I said, feeling slightly ill.
Tossing the towel aside, Jamie reached for his nightshirt.
"Verra flattering of you to suppose it took two to hold me," he said, grinning as his head popped through the opening. "Actually, there were three; one was behind, chokin' me."
"Jamie!"
He laughed, shaking his head ruefully as he pulled back the quilt on the bed.
"I don't know what it is about ye, Sassenach, that always makes me want to show off for ye. Get myself killed one of these days, tryin' to impress ye, I expect." He sighed, gingerly smoothing the woolen shirt over his stomach. "It's only play-acting, Sassenach; ye shouldna worry."
"Play-acting! Good God, Jamie!"
"Have ye no seen a strange dog join a pack, Sassenach? The others sniff at him, and nip at his legs, and growl, to see will he cower or growl back at them. And sometimes it comes to biting, and sometimes not, but at the end of it, every dog in the pack knows his place, and who's leader. Old Simon wants to be sure I ken who leads this pack; that's all."
"Oh? And do you?" I lay down, waiting for him to come to bed. He picked up the candle and grinned down at me, the flickering light picking up a blue gleam in his eyes.
"Woof," he said, and blew out the candle.
I saw very little of Jamie for the next two weeks, save at night. During the day, he was always with his grandfather, hunting or riding—for Lovat was a vigorous man, despite his age—or drinking in the study, as the Old Fox slowly drew his conclusions and laid his plans.
I spent most of my time with Frances and the other women. Out of the shadow of her redoubtable old father, Frances gained enough courage to speak her own mind, and proved an intelligent and interesting companion. She had the responsibility for the smooth running of the castle and its staff, but when her father appeared on the scene, she dwindled into insignificance, seldom raising her eyes or speaking above a whisper. I wasn't sure I blamed her.
Two weeks after our arrival, Jamie came to fetch me from the drawing room where I sat with Frances and Aline, saying that Lord Lovat wished to see me.
Old Simon waved a casual hand at the decanters set on the table by the wall, then sat down in a wide-seated chair of carved walnut, with crushed padding in well-worn blue velvet. The chair fitted his short, stocky form as though it had been built around him; I wondered whether it had in fact been built to order, or whether, from long use, he had grown into the shape of the chair.
I sat down quietly in a corner with my glass of port, and kept quiet while Simon questioned Jamie once again about Charles Stuart's situation and prospects.
For the twentieth time in a week, Jamie patiently rehearsed the number of troops available, the structure of command—insofar as one existed—the armament on hand and its condition—mostly poor—the prospects of Charles being joined by Lord Lewis Gordon or the Farquharsons, what Glengarry had said following Prestonpans, what Cameron knew or deduced of the movement of English troops, why Charles had decided to march south, and so on and so forth. I found myself nodding over the cup in my hand, and jerked myself into wakefulness, just in time to keep the ruby liquid from tipping onto my skirt.
"…and Lord George Murray and Kilmarnock both think His Highness would be best advised to pull back into the Highlands for the winter," Jamie concluded, yawning widely. Cramped on the narrow-backed chair he had been given, he rose and stretched, his shadow flickering on the pale hangings that covered the stone walls.
"And what d'ye think, yourself?" Old Simon's eyes glittered under half-fallen lids as he leaned back in his chair. The fire burned high and bright on the hearth; Frances had smoored the fire in the main hall, covering it with peats, but this one had been rekindled at Lovat's order, and with wood, not peat. The smell of pine resin from the burning wood was sharp, mingled with the thicker smell of smoke.