Sam was the one who was forever getting into fights with the local village boys, who would gang up and determine to ‘teach the dirty gypsies a lesson.’ Jamie never wanted to fight, but he was obligated to defend Sam and keep his brother from getting beaten to death—which he did, multiple times a year.
Now Jamie was recently injured, though. Even by moonlight, I could see that his homespun shirt and trousers still hung too loosely on his frame. And Mr. Merryman, though older and slower, outweighed him by nearly half.
Mr. Merryman bellowed again and made another lunge at Jamie, his huge hands going to circle Jamie’s throat. Jamie’s arms came up, breaking the big man’s hold, and in the same moment, he drove his knee hard into Mr. Merryman’s groin. The older man collapsed onto the ground—but he had enough fight still in him to regain his grip on Jamie and drag Jamie down with him. They rolled together, and—time seemed to come to a grinding halt all over again—I saw Jamie roll onto his back, the full weight of his own body and Mr. Merryman’s coming to rest on the still-unhealed musket ball wound in his back.
Jamie did not cry out—not that I heard—but his body went limp, and I saw Mr. Merryman’s hands close once more around his throat.
I screamed. That had been one of the possibilities that I had considered and discarded before: trying to draw Mr. Merryman’s attention away with a shout or a scream. In that moment, though, I was not even considering distraction; I was not thinking of anything, save the sickening fact that unless I could somehow stop it, I would in another moment’s time be forced to stand here and watch Jamie die.
“No!”
The scream tore from my throat, and before I fully realised that I had moved, I was running down the hill towards Mr. Merryman and Jamie. Mr. Merryman jerked upright, and then—
Actually, I do not seem to remember very clearly what happened after that. Jamie lay so motionless that I was filled with the irrational fear that he had already been killed. And it seemed the next thing I knew, Mr. Merryman had sprung up with a quickness surprising in such a big man and seized hold of me, pinning my arms effortlessly behind my back. “How the devil did ye come to be here, ye little—”
He broke off to peer at me more closely, his face inches from mine—and I nearly gagged at the stench of his breath. Another of those thin, cruel smiles spread across his mouth. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Brandon’s young sister. Maybe this is my lucky night after all. I’ve been itchin’ for a chance to settle a score with ye.”
Every part of me wanted to physically recoil from him—the unpleasant leering look in his eyes, the hotness of his hands on my skin. “What do you plan to do with me?”
That was another moment when I thoroughly wished that I could have managed to cure myself of asking so many questions. I knew absolutely that I should be much, much happier if I did not know the answer to that.
His face creased in a deeper smile. I tried to jerk away—and managed to kick him hard in the shin. He let out a muttered oath, but he held me with depressing ease—and reached into the pocket of his trousers to produce another knife. He set the blade at my throat.
“For starters, I’m goin’ to teach yer better manners—”
Before he could finish, I saw Jamie drag himself painfully to his feet behind him. And despite my own fear—despite my heart’s continuing to hammer so hard that my vision blurred—I still felt something clenched inside my chest loosen at the sight, knowing that he was after all still alive.
“Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help, man,” Jamie interrupted Mr. Merryman.
Shifting so that he held me pinned before him, my back to his front, Mr. Merryman swung round to face Jamie. I could not see Mr. Merryman’s face—but I could feel the harsh rhythm of his breathing at my back, and the hard hammering of his heart. He still had the knife against my throat; I swallowed involuntarily, and the movement made the blade prick a little deeper into my skin.
Jamie’s voice and his face were quite calm—contemptuous, even—as he faced us, though. “She’s Colonel Brandon’s sister-in-law. Do you think that the Colonel will not turn the countryside upside-down looking for her if she goes missing—or if harm comes to her? Harm her, and you might as well send up a flare, begging the king’s men to find us.”
I held myself absolutely rigid, not even daring to breathe as I felt Mr. Merryman grudgingly digest the truth of that, behind me. “What do we do with her, then?” he grunted at last. “Can’t just let her go—she’s seen too much.”
Jamie shrugged. I could see the still-muscled calm with which he, too, was holding himself motionless. But only because I knew him so well. His pose was relaxed as he said, “I’ll take her. Ride with her across the county and make sure we’re seen on the road. Then when the Colonel starts asking questions about her, the story he hears is that she ran off with a gypsy.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t be the first.”
Behind me, Mr. Merryman shifted his weight. “I could take her—,” he began.
My heart contracted. But Jamie only lifted his eyebrows as he looked Mr. Merryman up and down. “You’ll pardon me for saying it, friend, but the idea of a young girl losing her head and running away with you? It would take a stupider man than Colonel Brandon to believe it. Besides, I thought you said the Captain was expecting your report—and his money—tonight?” He shrugged. “Up to you, though. I just thought the Captain wasn’t a man to be kept waiting.”
There was a pause. I felt as though every single nerve in my body drew tight in anticipation of what Mr. Merryman would say. The moment seemed to drag on and on. But then he let the knife drop and pushed me roughly toward Jamie. “Fine. Take her. This neighbourhood’s getting too dangerous, anyway. Captain said yesterday, one more good run and it was time to move on.”
Relief made my knees feel weak, but I managed to stay standing as Mr. Merryman’s eyes swept the clearing. He gave me one last scornful glance, hawked and spat on the ground at my feet—and then turned and moved off into the trees, setting a rapid pace.
My breath went out in a rush as the crunch of his heavy footfalls died away into the night. Before I could find my voice to speak, Jamie seized hold of my arm. “Come on.”
He propelled me into the forest—choosing the opposite direction from the one in which Mr. Merryman had vanished.
I still felt shaky and breathless; we had gone some little distance before I managed to steady my voice enough to ask, “Where are we going?” I did not seriously think that Jamie was going to abduct me and ride with me into the next county—but from the grim line of his jaw as he walked along beside me, I was sure of very little else.
“Back to Delaford House.” Jamie’s voice emerged as though through clenched teeth. “Where you will stay if I have to lock you in your room myself.”
We had come farther than I had realised. Through the trees up ahead, I could actually see the shape of the high stone wall that surrounds the Delaford orchard.
Jamie dragged in a breath and let it out again, but his voice came out every bit as harsh-sounding as before. “Good God, Margaret, what possessed you to come out tonight? Running at Merryman that way. Have you completely lost your mind?”
I had been afraid for Jamie, before—but scarcely at all for myself. Everything had been over so quickly, there had been no time for fear. But somewhere along the walk through the darkened forest, reaction had begun to set in. I felt cold with a clammy sweat; relief and remembered fear and anger had combined to form a queasy wash in my stomach.
Jamie held himself stiffly, glaring at me in the pale moonlight. Save for his initial grip on my arm, he had not touched me at all. His voice and the accusatory words made something hot and smouldering come to life under my ribcage—which was in an odd way a relief, since it helped to drive back the fear.
“Fine,” I snapped, “the next time I see someone about to murder you before my eyes, I shall just stand back and let them get on with it, shall—”
But I got no further. All at once, Jamie caught hold o
f me and dragged me to him, holding me so tightly that my ribs ached. I could feel the fine tremors than ran through the muscles of his shoulders and arms, the hectic beat of his heart. “Do you know what could have happened? What he could have done—”
My cheek was against Jamie’s shoulder, so that I could not see his face, but I imagined his jaw clenching. He exhaled a hard burst of air and then held me off just enough that he could look down into my face. His expression was taut in the moonlight, and he was as close to losing his temper as I had ever seen.
“You said before … you said that you would trust me.”
It was hard to find my voice. My heart was pounding again—but with awareness of Jamie’s nearness, this time. The hard strength of his arms around me, the muscles rigid … the heat of his skin. I shivered, feeling the blood race in my veins. Slowly, hesitantly, I raised my hand to Jamie’s face, tracing the line of his jaw with the tips of my fingers. “I said that I trust you,” I whispered. “I did not say that I would leave you alone in whatever unholy trouble you have got yourself into.”
Jamie tensed, his whole body going absolutely still at my touch—and for a moment, I had no idea whether he was going to explode with fury or simply leave me where I stood and stalk off into the night. But he simply stared at me—as though trying to decide whether he was awake or dreaming.
“I lied before,” he said at last. We were standing so close that I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, a stir of warmth against my hair.
I frowned in confusion. “Lied? What do you mean?”
“About what I said.” He repeated the Romany words that he had spoken when he had kissed me—more slowly, this time, so that I was able to catch the individual sounds. “I can hatch apré for panj divuses. It doesn’t really mean, I’m sorry. It means, I could stop here for a week. It’s an expression—what you say about something you wish could never end.”
My heart felt as though it were expanding inside my chest. But then Jamie took a step away from me—so quickly that I almost lost my balance. He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I should not have said that. We should—we should keep walking.” He indicated the walls of Delaford, through the trees. “You need to get back to the house.”
I curled my fingertips into fists, feeling a flush spread across my face. “Fine,” I said, when I could trust my voice to speak. “I will keep walking—so long as you agree to answer some questions.”
“Margaret Dashwood has questions—I do not believe it.” Jamie’s voice sounded almost back to normal.
I gritted my teeth. “Yes. I do. Will you tell me, now, why you came into the neighbourhood? Why you got involved with Mr. Merryman and … and the smuggling in the first place? I’m right, aren’t I—it is because of Sam?”
Beside me, Jamie stopped walking again. However angry—and mortified—I was, I felt a momentary pang at the pain I could see the mention of his brother’s name had caused.
I could sense, too, Jamie’s inner struggle. He had a lifetime’s worth of bearing his responsibilities alone. But finally he let out a breath and sat down. I hesitated—but then sat beside him.
“My brother—he should have been rom baro of the tribe, after my father died,” he began. “But Sam never wanted that responsibility—nor cared over-much for the welfare of the tribe. He never cared about much of anything, besides ensuring that he had an easy life.” Jamie ran his hands down his face. “After my time in the army, I came back—not thinking to join the tribe again, just wishing to see them again. Sam and Grandmother Analetta and the rest. But my grandmother was dead. And Sam—” Jamie stopped again, the edges of his mouth tightening. “Sam had run off and joined with a gang of smugglers who were operating on the southern coast. He met up with them when the tribe was travelling through these parts a year ago. And he just … left. Decided he’d a better chance of getting rich as a smuggler than a gypsy—not that he wasn’t likely right about that. But he walked away from the tribe and never looked back.”
“And you came after him?”
Jamie was silent so long I was not sure he was going to say any more. But at last he exhaled again, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “If Sam left the tribe, I did, too. I can’t judge him for that. And besides, he is—he was—my brother.”
“Was,” I repeated. “I’m sorry. Sam really is dead, then?”
Jamie nodded. The log on which we sat was in shadow, so that I could not see his expression as clearly—but I could imagine the quick twist of pain tightening his face. “I came to Weymouth—didn’t have too much trouble locating the smuggling gang; all that is more or less an open secret amongst the common folk along the coast. I pretended to be looking to join the gang myself—a former army-man, down on his luck and willing to take whatever work came my way, dishonest or no. It worked—I got into the gang all right. But there was no sign of Sam. I couldn’t ask too many questions—not without the other men getting suspicious. It took me weeks and weeks to learn what had happened to Sam.” Jamie’s voice hardened. “He was killed—executed—as a warning to the rest of the gang. After the murder of those excisemen, Sam wished to leave, to break free. Instead, the man who controls the smuggling ring had him shot. An example to the other men of what happened if they, too, should ever try to break free.”
At Jamie’s words, I felt a chill run through me. “Is that how you came to be shot, as well?”
Jamie shook his head. “No. That was the excisemen. Tom Harmon and I were taking a wagonload of brandy up from Weymouth, when a group of soldiers came on us and demanded to search the wagon. I could hardly explain that I was only smuggling the brandy in order to find the man who’d killed my brother. We got away—barely—but they fired on us. We were both hit. Tom worse than me. I managed—barely—to get him back to his parents’ house in the village. Is he—”
“He died,” I said quietly. “Days ago.” I felt the tensing of Jamie’s muscles in the darkness, and added, “Jamie, it … it was not your fault.”
“No?” His voice was still hard.
I drew in a breath. “The Captain,” I said. “Do you know who it is?”
Jamie shook his head. “No. He sends orders through Merryman. No one else has ever seen his face or knows his name.” And then he stiffened, as though realising abruptly that I should not have been familiar with the alias.
“Margaret! How do you—”
“I questioned Maggie—Tom Harmon’s sister,” I said. “She told me about the Captain. And more, besides. According to her, he is a gentleman—someone among the neighbourhood gentry. Which means that perhaps I may—”
“No!” Jamie cut me off, his whole body tensing as he swung round to face me. “No, Margaret. Promise me, you’re not going to go poking around or asking any more questions that will put you in danger. Even more than you will be when tonight’s episode gets back to the Captain’s ears—which it will.”
“What will you tell Mr. Merryman? You’ll have to come up with a story to account for the fact that you did not abduct me after all.”
Jamie shrugged. “I’ll say you escaped—that we ran into traffic on the road, and you attracted the notice of some gentlemen who came to your rescue. He won’t like it. But there won’t be much he can do about it—so long as you stay safe inside Delaford House. You heard what he said. The Captain’s about ready to move on from this neighbourhood anyway. Stay at home, don’t leave your sister’s side for a few days, and you ought to be safe.”
“Safe,” I repeated. “And what about you?” I shook my head. “I told you before, I’m not leaving you to face all of this alone.”
I half expected Jamie to be angry. But instead he said, “Margaret—” He turned to face me, one hand coming up to smooth a stray curl of hair back from my face. “I could not save Sam. My brother was killed because I walked away from him, years ago, and left him on his own. I knew he wasn’t strong enough to keep out of trouble. But I left anyway. And now he’s dead. If something happened to you, too, because of me—becau
se I’d dragged you into this mess …” Jamie pressed his eyes briefly closed, his knuckles brushing my cheek. His voice was ragged, but firm. “Please, Margaret, don’t ask me to live with that on my conscience, as well.”
My throat ached all over again; I was not sure that I would be able to speak. I ran my fingers across the line of Jamie’s brow. “You cannot blame yourself. Sam made his own choices,” I whispered. “Just as you do. You are a good man, Jamie. Your father”—I felt him tense as I spoke the words, but I kept going—“your father was wrong about you, in everything he said. You are honourable and good. But you cannot help those who do not wish it. Do you remember telling me, years ago, that you could only tame horses if they loved you—and that that was their choice, not yours? Sam was not bad—not when I knew him. But I think perhaps he had not enough love in his heart for anyone but himself—not enough to allow anyone to reach him and set him on a straight path.”
I trailed my fingers down along his neck. Jamie’s long lashes fluttered down, echoing the movement, and I leaned forward to kiss him—just lightly—on the mouth. “I know you grieve for him—but do not say that his death was your fault.”
I felt Jamie tense, his muscles shaking—as though he were trying not to respond to the touch. For a moment, I was certain that he would pull me to him, kiss me again. But then he stood up in a burst of movement, turning away. His shoulders moved as he drew a ragged breath and then let it out again. “Margaret. I need you to go—go now. Back to Delaford House.”
“Why?”
“Just go.” His voice was tight. “Please.”
I swallowed. “All right,” I said. I managed to keep my voice steady. “I will go. So long as you will promise that this is not the last time I will see you. Promise that we will meet again.”
Margaret Dashwood's Diary Page 20
