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.”
I laughed again, somewhat reassured.
“I’ll go and get it for you,” I promised.
As I stepped out into the hall, though, I caught sight of a flutter through one of the windows, and stopped to look. It was Jenny, cloaked and hooded against the cold, headed up the slope to the barn. Seized by a sudden impulse, I snatched a cloak from the hall tree and darted out after her. I had things to say to Jenny Murray, and this might be the best chance of catching her alone.
* * *
I caught up with her just outside the barn; she heard my step behind her and turned, startled. She glanced about quickly, but saw we were alone. Realizing that there was no way of putting off a confrontation, she squared her shoulders under the woolen cloak and lifted her head, meeting my eyes straight on.
“I thought I’d best tell Young Ian to unsaddle the horse,” she said. “Then I’m going to the root cellar to fetch up some onions for a tart. Will ye come with me?”
“I will.” Pulling my cloak tight around me against the winter wind, I followed her into the barn.
It was warm inside, at least by contrast with the chill outdoors, dark, and filled with the pleasant scent of horses, hay, and manure. I paused a moment to let my eyes adapt to the dimness, but Jenny walked directly down the central aisle, footsteps light on the stone floor.
Young Ian was sprawled at length on a pile of fresh straw; he sat up, blinking at the sound.
Jenny glanced from her son to the stall, where a soft-eyed sorrel was peacefully munching hay from its manger, unburdened by saddle or bridle.
“Did I not tell ye to ready Donas?” she asked the boy, her voice sharp.
Young Ian scratched his head, looking a little sheepish, and stood up.
“Aye, mam, ye did,” he said. “But I didna think it worth the time to saddle him, only to have to unsaddle him again.”
Jenny stared up at him.
“Oh, aye?” she said. “And what made ye so certain he wouldna be needed?”
Young Ian shrugged, and smiled down at her.
“Mam, ye ken as well as I do that Uncle Jamie wouldna run away from anything, let alone Uncle Hobart. Don’t ye?” he added, gently.
Jenny looked up at her son and sighed. Then a reluctant smile lighted her face and she reached up, smoothing the thick, untidy hair away from his face.
“Aye, wee Ian. I do.” Her hand lingered along his ruddy cheek, then dropped away.
“Go along to the house, then, and have second breakfast wi’ your uncle,” she said. “Your auntie and I are goin’ to the root cellar. But ye come and fetch me smartly, if Mr. Hobart MacKenzie should come, aye?”
“Right away, Mam,” he promised, and shot for the house, impelled by the thought of food.
Jenny watched him go, moving with the clumsy grace of a young whooping crane, and shook her head, the smile still on her lips.
“Sweet laddie,” she murmured. Then, recalled to the present circumstances, she turned to me with decision.
“Come along, then,” she said. “I expect ye want to talk to me, aye?”
* * *
&nbs
p; Neither of us said anything until we reached the quiet sanctuary of the root cellar. It was a small room dug under the house, pungent with the scent of the long braided strings of onions and garlic that hung from the rafters, the sweet, spicy scent of dried apples, and the moist, earthy smell of potatoes, spread in lumpy brown blankets over the shelves that lined the cellar.
“D’ye remember telling me to plant potatoes?” Jenny asked, passing a hand lightly over the clustered tubers. “That was a lucky thing; ’twas the potato crop kept us alive, more than one winter after Culloden.”
I remembered, all right. I had told her as we stood together on a cold autumn night, about to part—she to return to a newborn baby, I to hunt for Jamie, an outlaw in the Highlands, under sentence of death. I had found him, and saved him—and Lallybroch, evidently. And she had tried to give them both to Laoghaire.
“Why?” I said softly, at last. I spoke to the top of her head, bent over her task. Her hand went out with the regularity of clockwork, pulling an onion from the long hanging braid, breaking the tough, withered stems from the plait and tossing it into the basket she carried.
“Why did you do it?” I said. I broke off an onion from another braid, but instead of putting it in the basket, held it in my hands, rolling it back and forth like a baseball, hearing the papery skin rustle between my palms.
“Why did I do what?” Her voice was perfectly controlled again; only someone who knew her well could have heard the note of strain in it. I knew her well—or had, at one time.
“Why did I make the match between my brother and Laoghaire, d’ye mean?” She glanced up quickly, smooth black brows raised in question, but then bent back to the braid of onions. “You’re right; he wouldna have done it, without I made him.”
“So you did make him do it,” I said. The wind rattled the door of the root cellar, sending a small sifting of dirt down upon the cut-stone steps.
“He was lonely,” she said, softly. “So lonely. I couldna bear to see him so. He was wretched for so long, ye ken, mourning for you.”
“I thought he was dead,” I said quietly, answering the unspoken accusation.
“He might as well have been,” she said, sharply, then raised her head and sighed, pushing back a lock of dark hair.
“Aye, maybe ye truly didna ken he’d lived; there were a great many who didn’t, after Culloden—and it’s sure he thought you were dead and gone then. But he was sair wounded, and not only his leg. And when he came home from England—” She shook her head, and reached for another onion. “He was whole enough to look at, but not—” She gave me a look, straight on, with those slanted blue eyes, so disturbingly like her brother’s. “He’s no the sort of man should sleep alone, aye?”
“Granted,” I said shortly. “But we did live, the both of us. Why did you send for Laoghaire when we came back with Young Ian?”
Jenny didn’t answer at first, but only went on reaching for onions, breaking, reaching, breaking, reaching.
“I liked you,” she said at last, so low I could barely hear her. “Loved ye, maybe, when ye lived here with Jamie, before.”
“I liked you, too,” I said, just as softly. “Then why?”
Her hands stilled at last and she looked up at me, fists balled at her sides.
“When Ian told me ye’d come back,” she said slowly, eyes fastened on the onions, “ye could have knocked me flat wi’ a down-feather. At first, I was excited, wanting to see ye—wanting to know where ye’d been—” she added, arching her brows slightly in inquiry. I didn’t answer, and she went on.
“But then I was afraid,” she said softly. Her eyes slid away, shadowed by their thick fringe of black lashes.
“I saw ye, ye ken,” she said, still looking off into some unseeable distance. “When he wed Laoghaire, and them standing by the altar—ye were there wi’ them, standing at his left hand, betwixt him and Laoghaire. And I kent that meant ye would take him back.”
The hair prickled slightly on the nape of my neck. She shook her head slowly, and I saw she had gone pale with the memory. She sat down on a barrel, the cloak spreading out around her like a flower.
“I’m not one of those born wi’ the Sight, nor one who has it regular. I’ve never had it before, and hope never to have it again. But I saw ye there, as clear as I see ye now, and it scairt me so that I had to leave the room, right in the midst o’ the vows.” She swallowed, looking at me directly.
“I dinna ken who ye are,” she said softly. “Or … or … what. We didna ken your people, or your place. I never asked ye, did I? Jamie chose ye, that was enough. But then ye were gone, and after so long—I thought he might have forgot ye enough to wed again, and be happy.”
“He wasn’t, though,” I said, hoping for confirmation from Jenny.
She gave it, shaking her head.
“No,” she said quietly. “But Jamie’s a faithful man, aye? No matter how it was between the two of them, him and Laoghaire, if he’d sworn to be her man, he wouldna leave her altogether. It didna matter that he spent most of his time in Edinburgh; I kent he’d always come back here—he’d be bound here, to the Highlands. But then you came back.”
Her hands lay still in her lap, a rare sight. They were still finely shaped, long-fingered and deft, but the knuckles were red and rough with years of work, and the veins stood out blue beneath the thin white skin.
“D’ye ken,” she said, looking into her lap, “I have never been further than ten miles from Lallybroch, in all my life?”
“No,” I said, slightly startled. She shook her head slowly, then looked up at me.
“You have, though,” she said. “You’ve traveled a great deal, I expect.” Her gaze searched my face, looking for clues.
“I have.”
She nodded, as though thinking to herself.
“You’ll go again,” she said, nearly whispering. “I kent ye would go again. You’re not bound here, not like Laoghaire—not like me. And he would go with ye. And I should never see him again.” She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them, looking at me under her fine dark brows.
“That’s why,” she said. “I thought if ye kent about Laoghaire, ye’d go again at once—you did—” she added, with a faint grimace, “and Jamie would stay. But ye came back.” Her shoulders rose in a faint, helpless shrug. “And I see it’s no good; he’s bound to ye, for good or ill. It’s you that’s his wife. And if ye leave again, he will go with ye.”
I searched helplessly for words to reassure her. “But I won’t. I won’t go again. I only want to stay here with him—always.”
I laid a hand on her arm and she stiffened slightly. After a moment, she laid her own hand over mine. It was chilled, and the tip of her long, straight nose was red with cold.
“Folk say different things of the Sight, aye?” she said after a moment.
“Some say it’s doomed; whatever ye see that way must come to pass. But others say nay, it’s no but a warning; take heed and ye can change things. What d’ye think, yourself?” She looked sideways at me, curiously.
I took a deep breath, the smell of onions stinging the back of my nose. This was hitting home in no uncertain terms.
“I don’t know,” I said, and my voice shook slightly. “I’d always thought that of course you could change things if you knew about them. But now … I don’t know,” I ended softly, thinking of Culloden.
Jenny watched me, her eyes so deep a blue as almost to be black in the dim light. I wondered again just how much Jamie had told her—and how much she knew without the telling.
“But ye must try, even so,” she said, with certainty. “Ye couldna just leave it, could ye?”
I didn’t know whether she meant this personally, but I shook my head.
“No,” I said. “You couldn’t. You’re right; you have to try.”
We smiled at each other, a little shyly.
“You’ll take good care of him?” Jenny said suddenly. “Even if ye go? Ye will, aye?”
I squeezed her cold
fingers, feeling the bones of her hand light and fragile-seeming in my grasp.
“I will,” I said.
“Then that’s all right,” she said softly, and squeezed back.
We sat for a moment, holding each other’s hands, until the door of the root cellar swung open, admitting a blast of rain and wind down the stairs.
“Mam?” Young Ian’s head poked in, eyes bright with excitement. “Hobart MacKenzie’s come! Da says to come quick!”
Jenny sprang to her feet, barely remembering to snatch up the basket of onions.
“Has he come armed, then?” she asked anxiously. “Has he brought a pistol or a sword?”
Ian shook his head, his dark hair lifting wildly in the wind.
“Oh, no, Mam!” he said. “It’s worse. He’s brought a lawyer!”
* * *
Anything less resembling vengeance incarnate than Hobart MacKenzie could scarcely be imagined. A small, light-boned man of about thirty, he had pale blue, pale-lashed eyes with a tendency to water, and indeterminate features that began with a receding hairline and dwindled down into a similarly receding chin that seemed to be trying to escape into the folds of his stock.
He was smoothing his hair at the mirror in the hall when we came in the front door, a neatly curled bob wig sitting on the table beside him. He blinked at us in alarm, then snatched up the wig and crammed it on his head, bowing in the same motion.
“Mrs. Jenny,” he said. His small, rabbity eyes flicked in my direction, away, then back again, as though he hoped I really wasn’t there, but was very much afraid I was.
Jenny glanced from him to me, sighed deeply, and took the bull by the horns.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” she said, dropping him a formal curtsy. “Might I present my good-sister, Claire? Claire, Mr. Hobart MacKenzie of Kinwallis.”
His mouth dropped open and he simply gawked at me. I started to extend a hand to him, but thought better of it. I would have liked to know what Emily Post had to recommend in a situation like this, but as Miss Post wasn’t present, I was forced to improvise.
“How nice to meet you,” I said, smiling as cordially as possible.
The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 261
