“I think it very unlikely. What on earth—”
But the door below had opened and closed again, spilling another brief spurt of talk and laughter into the stairwell. Jamie took the stairs two at a time and popped back into the room, smelling of hot bread and ale, and holding a small, battered snuffbox in his hand.
Ian seized on this with gratitude and, sprinkling a quick pinch of black, dusty grains on the back of his hand, hastily inhaled it.
For an instant, all three of us held breathless—and then it came, a sneeze of gargantuan proportions that rocked Ian’s body back on its stool, even as his head flew forward—and a small, hard object struck the table with a ping! and bounced off into the hearth.
Ian went on sneezing, in a fusillade of hapless snorts and explosions, but Jamie and I were both on our knees, scrabbling in the ashes, heedless of filth.
“I’ve got it! I think,” I added, sitting back on my heels and peering at the handful of ashes I held, in the midst of which was a small, round, dust-covered object.
“Aye, that’s it.” Jamie seized my neglected forceps from the table, plucked the object delicately from my hand, and dropped it into my glass of water. A delicate plume of ash and soot floated up through the water to form a dusty gray film on the surface. Below, the object glittered up at us, serene and glowing, its beauty at last revealed. A faceted clear stone, the color of golden sherry, half the size of my thumbnail.
“Chrysoberyl,” Jamie said softly, a hand on my back. He looked at Mandy’s basket, the silky black curls lifting gently in the breeze. “D’ye think it will serve?”
Ian, still wheezing and watery-eyed, and with a red-stained handkerchief pressed to his much-abused proboscis, came to look over my other shoulder.
“Half-wit, is it?” he said in tones of deep satisfaction. “Ha!”
“Wherever did you get that? Or rather,” I corrected myself, “who did you steal it from?”
“Neil Forbes.” Jamie picked the gem up, turning it gently over in his fingers. “There were a good deal more o’ the Chowder Society than there were of us, so we ran down the street and round the corner, down between the warehouses there.”
“I kent Forbes’s place, aye, because I’d been there before,” Ian put in. One of Mandy’s feet was sticking up out of the basket; he touched the sole of it with a fingertip, and smiled to see her toes extend in reflex. “There was a great hole in the back where someone had broken down the wall, just covered over with a sheet of canvas, nailed over it, like. So we pulled it loose and ducked inside.”
Where they had found themselves standing next to the small enclosed space Forbes used for an office—and for the moment, deserted.
“It was sitting in a bittie wee box on the desk,” Ian said, coming to look proprietorially at the chrysoberyl. “Just sitting there! I’d just picked it up to look at, when we hear the watchman coming. So—” He shrugged and smiled at me, happiness momentarily transforming his homely features.
“And you think the watchman won’t tell him you were there?” I asked skeptically. The two of them could scarcely be more conspicuous.
“Oh, I imagine he will.” Jamie bent over Mandy’s basket, holding the chrysoberyl between thumb and forefinger. “Look what Grandda and Uncle Ian have brought ye, a muirninn,” he said softly.
“We decided that it was a small enough ransom to pay for what he did to Brianna,” Ian said, sobering somewhat. “I expect Mr. Forbes may feel it reasonable, too. And if not—” He smiled again, though not with happiness, and put his hand to his knife. “He’s got another ear, after all.”
Very slowly, a tiny fist rose through the netting, fingers flexing as they grasped at the stone.
“Is she still asleep?” I whispered. Jamie nodded, and gently withdrew the stone.
On the far side of the table, the fish stared austerely at the ceiling, ignoring everything.
116
THE NINTH EARL
OF ELLESMERE
July 9, 1776
THE WATER WON’T BE COLD.”
She’d spoken automatically, without thinking.
“I shouldn’t think that will matter much.” A nerve jumped in Roger’s cheek, and he turned away abruptly. She reached out, touching him delicately, as though he were a bomb that might explode if jarred. He glanced at her, hesitated, then took the hand she offered him, with a small, crooked smile.
“Sorry,” he said.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said softly. They stood close together, fingers knotted, watching the tide recede across the narrow beach, a fraction of an inch uncovered with each lap of the tiny waves.
The flats were gray and bleak in the evening light, pebble-strewn and rust-stained from the peaty waters of the river. With the tide going out, the harbor water was brown and feculent, the stain reaching past the ships at anchor, nearly to the open sea. When it turned, the clear gray water of the ocean would flow in, sweeping up the Cape Fear, obliterating the mudflats and everything on them.
“Over there,” she said, still softly, though there was no one near enough to hear them. She tilted her head, indicating a group of weathered mooring posts driven deep into the mud. A skiff was tied to one; two of the pirettas, the four-oared “dragonflies” that plied the harbor, to another.
“You’re sure?” He shifted his weight, glancing up and down the shore.
The narrow beach fell away into cold pebbles, exposed and gleaming with the leaving of the tide. Small crabs skittered hastily among them, not to waste a moment’s gleaning.
“I’m sure. People in the Blue Boar were talking about it. A traveler asked where, and Mrs. Smoots said it was the old mooring posts, near the warehouses.” A torn flounder lay dead among the rocks, white flesh washed clean and bloodless. The small busy claws picked and shredded, tiny maws gaped and gulped, pinching at morsels. She felt her gorge rise at the sight, and swallowed hard. It wouldn’t matter what came after; she knew that. But still . . .
Roger nodded absently. His eyes narrowed against the harbor wind, calculating distances.
“There’ll be quite a crowd, I expect.”
There already was one; the turn of the tide wouldn’t be for an hour or more, but people were drifting down to the harbor in twos and threes and fours, standing in the lee of the chandlery to smoke their pipes, sitting on the barrels of salt fish to talk and gesture. Mrs. Smoots had been right; several were pointing out the mooring posts to their less knowledgeable companions.
Roger shook his head.
“It’ll have to be from that side; the best view is from there.” He nodded across the inner arc of the harbor toward the three ships that rocked at the main quay. “From one of the ships? What do you think?”
Brianna fumbled in the pocket tied at her waist, and pulled out her small brass telescope. She frowned in concentration, lips pursed as she surveyed the ships—a fishing ketch, Mr. Chester’s brig, and a larger ship, part of the British fleet, that had come in in the early afternoon.
“Whoa, Nellie,” she murmured, arresting the sweep of her gaze as the pale blotch of a head filled the lens. “Is that who I think . . . hot dog, it is!” A tiny flame of delight flared in her bosom, warming her.
“Is who?” Roger squinted, straining to see unaided.
“It’s John! Lord John!”
“Lord John Grey? You’re sure?”
“Yes! On the brig—he must have come down from Virginia. Woops, he’s gone now—but he’s there, I saw him!” She turned to Roger, excited, folding her telescope as she gripped him by the arm.
“Come on! Let’s go and find him. He’ll help.”
Roger followed, though with considerably less enthusiasm.
“You’re going to tell him? Do you think that’s wise?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. He knows me.”
Roger looked sharply at her, but the dark look on his face thawed into a reluctant smile.
“You mean he knows better than to try stopping you doing whatever you’ve made up your bloody-minded mind to do?”
She smiled back at him, thanking him with her eyes. He didn’t like it—in fact, he hated it, and she didn’t blame him—but he wouldn’t try to stop her, either. He knew her, too.
“Yes. Come on, before he disappears!”
It was a slow slog round the curve of the harbor, pushing through the knots of gathering sightseers. Outside The Breakers, the crowd grew abruptly thicker. A cluster of red-coated soldiers stood and sat in disarray on the pavement, seabags and chests scattered round them, their number too great to fit inside the tavern. Ale pots and pints of cider were being passed from hand to hand from the interior of the public house, slopping freely on the heads of those over whom they passed.
A sergeant, harrassed but competent, was leaning against the timbered wall of the inn, riffling through a sheaf of papers, issuing orders and eating a meat pie, simultaneously. Brianna wrinkled her nose as they stepped carefully through the obstacle course of scattered men and luggage; a reek of seasickness and unclean flesh rose from the serried ranks.
A few onlookers muttered under their breath at sight of the soldiers; several more cheered and waved as they passed, to receive genial shouts in return. Newly liberated from the bowels of the Scorpion, the soldiers were too thrilled with their freedom and the taste of fresh food and drink to care who did or said anything whatever.
Roger stepped in front of her, thrusting a way through the crowd with shoulders and elbows. Appreciative shouts and whistles rose from the soldiers as they saw her, but she kept her head down, eyes fixed on Roger’s feet as he shoved ahead.
She heaved a sigh of relief as they emerged from the press at the head of the quay. The soldiers’ equipment was being unloaded from the Scorpion at the far side of the dock, but there was little foot traffic near the brig. She paused, looking to and fro for a glimpse of Lord John’s distinctive fair head.
“There he is!” Roger tugged at her arm, and she swung in the direction he was pointing, only to collide heavily with him as he stepped abruptly back.
“What—” she began crossly, but then stopped, feeling as though she had been punched in the chest.
“Who in God’s holy name is that?” Roger spoke softly, echoing her thoughts.
Lord John Grey stood near the far end of the quay, in animated conversation with one of the red-coated soldiers. An officer; gold braid gleamed on his shoulder and he carried a laced tricorne beneath one arm. It wasn’t the man’s uniform that caught her attention, though.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she whispered, feeling numb around the lips.
He was tall—very tall—with a breadth of shoulder and a stretch of white-stockinged calf that were attracting admiring glances from a cluster of oyster girls. It was something more than height or build that made gooseflesh ripple down the length of her spine, though; it was the fact of his carriage, his outline, a c**k of the head and an air of physical self-confidence that drew eyes like a magnet.
“It’s Da,” she said, knowing even as she spoke that this was ridiculous. Even had Jamie Fraser for some unimaginable reason chosen to disguise himself in a soldier’s uniform and come down to the docks, this man was different. As he turned to look at something across the harbor, she saw that he was different—lean, like her father, and muscular, but still with the slenderness of boyishness. Graceful—like Jamie—but with the slight hesitancy of teenaged awkwardness not long past.