Stephen Bonnet, or anything else of an upsetting riature-I went up to check on Roger. Jamie came with me) and quietly dismissed the slave woman who sat by the window, mending. Someone had to stay with Roger at all times, to make sure the tube in his throat didn't become clogged or dislodged, as it was still his only means of breathing. it would be several days yet before the swelling of the mangled tissues in his throat subsided enough for me to risk removing it.
Jamie waited until I had checked Roger's pulse and breathing, then at my nod, sat down by his bedside- unced ye>" he asked without "Do ye ken the names of the men who deno n together. preliminaries. Roger looked up at him, frowning, dark brows draw
Then he nodded slowly, and held up one finger. "One of them. How many were there?"
Three fingers. That agreed with Tryon's recollection, then-,They were Regulators?"
A nod.
Jamie glanced at me, then back at Roger.
"It wasna Stephen Bonnet?" mouth open. He, clutched at the tube in his Roger sat up bolt upright, d shaking his head violently.
throat, struggling vainly to speak, an and reaching for the tube; the violence of I grabbed for his shoulder, one h n, and a trickle of blood ran his movement had jerked it nearly out of the incisio, emed oblividown his neck where the wound had reopened. Roger himself se
urgently, asking ous; his eyes were fixed on Jamie's and his mouth was working
silent questions -
"No, no. If ye didna see him, then he wasna there." Jamie took him firmly by the other shoulder, helping me to ease him back on the pillow. "It was Only ayed ye as a tall, fair-haired fellow. that Tryon described the man who betr
Green-eyed, maybe. We thought perhaps . - ."
644 Diana Gabaldon
Roger's face relaxed at that. He shook his head again and sank back, mouth twisted a little. Jamie pressed on.
"Ye kent the man, though; ye'd met him before?" Roger glanced away, nodded, then shrugged, He looked both irritated and helpless; I could hear his
breathing quicken, whistling through the amber tube. I cleared my throat signficantly, frowning at Jamie. Roger was out of immediate danger; that didn't mean he was well, or anywhere near it.
Jamie ignored me. He'd picked up Bree's sketching- box on his way upstairs; laying a sheet of paper on it, he put it on Roger's lap, then extended one of the sticks of hardened charcoal to him.
"Will ye try again?" He had been trying to get Roger to communicate on paper ever since he had regained full consciousness, but Roger's hands had been too swollen even to close around a pen. They were still puffed and bruised, but repeated leeching and gentle massage had improved them to the point that they did at least look vaguely like hands again.
Roger's lips pressed together momentarily, but he wrapped his hand clumsily around the charcoal. The first two fingers on that hand were broken; the splints stuck out in a crude "V" sign-which I thought rather appropriate, under the circumstances.
Roger frowned in concentration, and began to scrawl something slowly. Jamie watched intently, holding the paper flat with both hands to keep it from sliding.
The stick of charcoal snapped in two, the fragments flying off across the floor. I went to pick them up, while Jamie leaned frowning over the smeared sheet of paper. There was a sprawling "W" and an "M", then a space, and an awkward "MAC."
"William?" He looked up at Roger for verification. Sweat shone on Roger's cheekbones, but he nodded, very briefly.
"William Mac," I said, peering over Jamie's shoulder. "A Scotsman, then-or a Scottish name, at least?" Not that that narrowed down the possibilities a great deal: MacUod,,MacPherson, MacDonald, MacDonnel, Mac ... Quiston?
Roger raised his hand and thumped it against his chest. He thumped it again, and mouthed a word. Recalling television shows based on charades, I was for once quicker than Jamie.
"MacKenzie?" I asked, and was rewarded with a quick flash of green eyes, and a nod.
"MacKenzie. William MacKenzie." Jamie was frowning, obviously running through his mental roster of names and faces, but not turning up a match.
I was watching Roger's face. Still heavily bruised, it too was beginning to look more normal, despite the livid weal under his jaw, and I thought there was something odd about his expression. I could see physical pain in his eyes, helplessness, and frustration at his immediate inability to tell Jamie what he wanted to know, but I thought there was something else there, too. Anger, certainly, but something like bafflement, as well.
"Do you know any William MacKenzies?" I asked Jamie, who was tapping his fingers lightly on the table as he thought.
"Aye, four or five," he replied, brows still knotted in concentration. "ln Scotland. But none here, and none that-"
The Fiery Cross 645
fLoger's hand lifted abruptly at the word "Scotland," and Jamie stopped, fixed on Roger's face like a pointing bird dog.
P The man is a new immigmnt?" he said. "Something about Scotland.
"Scotland," grimacing in pain. Roger shook his head Violently, then stopped abruptly, d waved ur-
11e squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them, an
gently at the bits of charcoal I still held in my hand. exhausted on the pilit took several tries) and at the end of it Roger lay back
Ilow, the neck of his nightshirt damp with sweat and spotted with blood from as smeared and straggling, but I could read his throat. The result of his effort w
the word clearly. look of interest sharpened into something like wari,DouSal, it said. Jamie's
gess. d carefully. He knew several Dougals as well; a few Of "Dougal," he repeate "Dougal Chisholm Dougal O'Neill?"
them resident in North Carolina. in his throat wheezed with his exhalaRoger shook his head and the tube Jamie, the splinted fingers tion. He lifted his hand and pointed emphatically at rabled for the bit of chara blank look in response, he fa
jabbing. Getting only tered on the floorcoat again, but it rolled off the sketch-boy and shat
smeared with charcoal dust. Grimacing, he pressed the tip His fingers were and by dint of using all the fingers in turn, ainst the page,
of his ring finger ag
produced a faint and ghostly scrawl that sent a small electric shock shooting up from the base of my spine--
Geilie, it said.
Jamie stared at the name for a moment. Then I saw a small shiver move over him, and he crossed himself- at me. Awareness thickened between us; aA Dhia," he said softly, and looked ugh his breathingRoger saw it and fell back on his pillow, exhaling loudly thro
tube. "DougaPs son by Geillis Duncan)" Jamie said, turning to Roger with inhis face. ,He was named William, I think- Ye mean it? credulity writ large on
YeIre sure of it?" s eyes closed. Then they opened again; one splinted A brief nod, and Roger
nd pointed to his own eye-a deep, clear green) the color rose wavering, a lay on, and his charcoal-smeared fingers of mos'sHe was white as the linen he, anted badly to talk, to explainwere trembling- His mouth was twitching; he w
but further explanations were going to have to wait, for a little while, at least. i'! His hand dropped, and his eyes closed again.
THE pEVELATION of William Buccleigh MacKenzie's identity didn't aln of
ter Jamie's urgent desire to find the man, but it did change his intentio murdering him immediatelyl once found. on the whole, I was grateful for small favors. painting to consult, arrived in my room in her
Brianna, summoned from her d oil, with a smear of cobalt smock, smelling strongly of turpentine and linsee
blue on one earlobe.
646 Diana Gabaldo.
"Yes," she said, bewildered by Jamie's abrupt questions.
William Buccleigh MacKenzie. The changeling." "I've heard of him. "The what?" Jamie's brows shot up toward his hairline.
"That's what I called him," I said. -When I saw Roger's family tree, and reahzed who William Buccleigh MacKenzie must be. Dougal gave the child to William and Sarah MacKenz
ie, remember? And they gave him
the name of the child they'd lost two months before."
"Roger mentioned that he'd seen William MacKenzie and his wife, on board the Gloriana, when he sailed from Scotland to North Carolina," Bree put in, "But he said he didn't realize who the man was until later, and didn't have a chance to talk to him. So he is here-William, I mean-but why on earth would he try to Hl Roger-and why that way?" She shuddered briefly, though the room was very warm. It was early summer, and even with the windows open, the air was hot and liquid with humidity.
"He's the witch's get," Jamie said shortly, as though that was sufficient answer-as perhaps it was.
"They thought I was a witch, too," I reminded him, a little tardy. That got me a sideways blue glance, and a curve of the mouth.
"So they did,"' he said. He cleared his throat, and wiped a sleeve across his sweating brow. "Aye, well. I suppose we must just wait and find out. And having a name helps. I shall send to Duncan and Farquard; have them put out word." He drew a deep breath of exasperation, and blew it out again.
"What am I to do when I find him, though? Witch-son or no, he's my own blood; I canna kill him. Not after Dougal-" He caught himself in time, and coughed. "I mean, he's Dougal's son. He's my own cousin, for God's sake."
I knew what he really meant. Four people knew what had happened in that attic room at Culloden House, the day before that distant battle. One of those was dead, the other disappeared and almost certainly dead too, in the tumult of the Rising. Only I was left as thewitness to Dougal's blood and the hand that had spilled it. No matter what crime William Buccleigh MacKenzie had committed, Jamie would not kill him, for his father's sake.
"You were going to kill him? Before you found out who he was?" Bree didn't look shocked at the thought. She had a stained paint-rag in her hands, and was twisting it slowly.
Jamie turned to look at her.
"Roger Mac is your man, the son of my house," he said, very seriously. "Of course I would avenge him."
Brianna flicked a glance at me, then looked away. She looked thoughtful, with a certain intentness that gave me a slight chill to see.
"Good," she said, very softly. "When you find William Buccleigh MacKenzie, I want to know about it. " She folded up the rag, thrust it into the pocket of her smock, and went back to her work.
BRIANNA SCRAPED a tiny blob of viridian onto the edge of her palette, and feathered a touch of it into the big smear of pale gray she had created. She
The Fiery Cross 647
hesitated a moment, tilting the palette back and forth in the light from the win,Oow to judge the color, then added the faintest dab of cobalt to the other side
- f the smear, producing a range of subtle tones that ran from blue-gray to
4rcen-gray, all so faint as scarcely to be distinguishable from white by the unedated eye.
She took one of the short, thick brushes, and worked the gray tones along ith tiny overlapping strokes. Yes, that was he curve of the jaw on her canvas w
ost about right; pate as fired porcelain, but with a vivid shadow under itmething both delicate and earthy. t out her surroundings, enShe painted with a deep absorption tha shut
crossed in an artist's double vision, comparing the evolving image on the canIwith the one so immutably etched in her memory. it wasn't that she had vas efore. Her father-Frank-had had an open-casket never seen a dead person b the obsequies of older family friends in her own
1=eral, and she had been to
lime, as well. But the colors of the embalmer's art were crude, almost coarse- by comparison with those of a fresh corpse - She had been staggered by the contrast. thought, taking a fine two-haired brush to add a dot of It was the blood, she
pure viridian in the deep curve of the eye socket. Blood and bone-but death didn't alter the curves of the bones, nor the shadows they cast. Blood, though, colored those shadows. In life, you got the blues and reds and pinks and lavenders of moving blood beneath the skin; in death, the blood stilled and pooled and darkened ... clay-blue, violet, indigo, purple-brown ... and something new: that delicate, transient green, barely there, that her artist's mind classified with brutal clarity as "early rot."
Unfamiliar voices came from the. halt, and she looked up, wary. Phoebe Sherston was fond of bringing in visitors to admire the painting in progress. Normally, Brianna didn't mind being watched, or talking about what she was doing, but this was a tricky job, and one with limited time; she couldn't work
or a short period just before sunset, when the light with such subtle colors save f
was clear but diffuse.
The voices passed on to the parlor, though, and she relaxed, taking up the thicker brush again.
She resummoned the vision in her mind; the dead man they had laid under a tree at Alamance, near her mother7s makeshift field hospital. She had expected to be shocked by battle-wounds and death-and was instead shocked by her own fascination. She had seen terrible things, but it wasn't like attending at her mother's normal surgeries) where there was time to empathize with the patients, to take note of all the small indignities and nastinesses of weak flesh. Things happened too fast on a battlefield; there was too much to be done for squeamishness to take hold.
haste and urgency, each time she had passed near that And in spite of the
an instant. Bent to turn back the blanket over the tree, she had paused -for
's face; appalled at her own fascination but making RIcorpse and look at the man emory the amazing, inexorable change no effort to resist it--committing to In
and shadow, the stiffening of muscle and shifting of shape, as skin setof color and the processes of death and decay be-San to work tied and clung to bone-,
their awful magic.
648 Diana Gabaldon
She hadn't thought to ask the dead man's name. Was that unfeeling? she eelings had been otherwise enwondered. Probably; the fact was that all her f
gaged at the time-and still were. Still, she closed her eyes for a moment and said a quick prayer for the repose of the soul of her unknown sitter.
She opened her eyes to see that the. fight was fading. She scraped the palette and began to clean her brushes and hands, returning slowly and reluctantly to the world outside her work.
Jern would have been fed his supper and bathed already, but he refused to go to bed without being nursed and rocked to sleep. Her breasts tingled slightly at the thought; they were pleasantly full, though they seldom became excruciatingty engorged since he had taken to eating solid food and thus decreased his voracious demands on her flesh,
She'd nurse Jern and put him down, and then go have her own belated supper in the kitchen. She had not eaten with the others, wanting to take advantage of the evening light, and her stomach was growling soffly, as the lingering smells of food in the air replaced the astringent scents of turps and linseed oil.
And then ... then she would go upstairs to Roger. Her lips tightened at the thought; she realized it, and forced her mouth to relax, blowing air out so that her lips vibrated with a flatulent noise like a motorboat.
At this unfortunate moment, Phoebe Sherston's capped head popped through the door. She blinked slightly, but had sufficiently good manners to pretend that she hadn't seen anything.
"Oh, my dear, there you are! Do come into the parlor for a moment, won't you? Mr. and Mrs. Wilbur are so eager to make your acquaintance." "Oh-well, yes, of course," Brianna said, with what graciousness she could
summon. She gestured at her paint-stained smock. "Let me just go and change-"
Mrs. Sherston waved away the smock, obviously wanting to show off her tame artist in costume.
"No, no, don't trouble about that. We are quite simple this evening. No one will mind."
Brianna moved reluctantly toward the drawing room.
"AD right. Only for a minute, though; I need to put Jem to bed."
Mrs, Sherston's rosebud mouth primmed slightly at that; she saw no reason why her slaves could not take care of t
he child altogether-but she had heard Brianna's opinions on the subject before, and was wise enough not to press the issue.
Brianna's parents were in the parlor with the Wilburs, who turned out to be a nice, elderly couple-what her mother would call a Darby and Joan. They fussed appropriately over her appearance, insisted politely on seeing the portrait, expressed profound admiration for both subject and painter-though blinking slightly at the former-and generally behaved With such kindness that she felt herself relaxing.
She was just on the verge of making her excuses, when Mr. Wilbur took advantage of a lull in the conversation to turn to her, smiling benevolently,
"I understand that congratulations upon your good fortune are in order, Mrs. MacKenzie."
"Oh? Ali ... thank you," she said, uncertain what she was being congratu-
The Fiery Cross
649
I lated. for. She glanced at her mother for some clue; Claire grimaced slightly, and glanced at Jamie, who coug
"Gove hed. hu. rnor Tryon has granted your
-country he said. His voice was sband fiveotthoolsoarldessacrcs of land, in lithe back even, alin
he felt momentarily bewildered. -What-whY?_
lie has?" S rty with small throatamong the pa
There was a brief stir of embarrassment s and the Wilburs.
rJearings and marital glances between the Sherston of her "Compensation7 7 her mother said tersely, darting a marital glance
own at Jamie - then; no one would be so uncouth . as to mention Brianna. understood h too sensational a story not og ing openly, but it was mu'
,er,s accidental hang orough society. She realized suddenly that p
to have made the rounds of Hillsb oger had perhaps not been moMrs. Sherston's invitation to her parents and R, g the hanged man as tivated purely by kindness, either. The notoriety of havin
gh on the Sherstons in a house-guest would focus the attention of Hillsborou.
even, than having -an unconventional portrait most grratifying way-better,
painted. -1 do hope that your husband is much improved, my dear?" Mrs. Wilbur onal gap. "We- were so sorry to hear of his intactfully bridged the conversati
It jury." situation as could we.. Injury. That was as circumspect a description Of the
be imagined.
"Yes, he's much better, thank you," she said, smiling as briefly as politeness allowed before turning back to her father.
"Does POger know about this) The land grant?"
lie glanced -at her, then away, clearing his throat t vourself."
"No. I thought perhaps ye might wish to tell him Of i , say to Roger. something to
Her first response was gratitude; she would have ho COIA&)t talk back. She It was an awkward business, talking to someone w r events that she stored up conversational fodder during the day; tiny thoughts ' f stories ran 's to tell him when she saw him- Her stock 0
could turn into storie , and left her sitting by his bed, groping for inanities. out all too soon, though, Why had her father not Her second response was a feeling of annoyance. s to total strangers?
r privately, rather than exposing her family's bus;i"'
Itold he subtle interplay of glances between her parents, and realThen she caught the t -asked him that, silently-and tie had replied, with ized that her mother had jus d Mr. Wilbur, then toward Mrs. Sherston, bethe briefest ffick of the eyes towar down to hide- his gaze.
fore the long auburn lashes swept reputable witness, his expression said, than to Better to speak the truth before a
The Fiery Cross Page 89
