39

IN CUPID’S GROVE

“Do ye think they’ll share a bed?”

Jamie didn’t raise his voice, but he’d made no effort to lower it, either. Luckily, we were standing at the far end of the terrace, too far away for the bridal couple to hear. A number of heads turned in our direction, though.

Ninian Bell Hamilton was openly staring at us. I smiled brightly and fluttered my closed fan at the elderly Scotsman in greeting, meanwhile giving Jamie a swift nudge in the ribs.

“A nice, respectable sort of thing for a nephew to be wondering about his aunt,” I said under my breath.

Jamie shifted out of elbow range and lifted an eyebrow at me.

“What’s respectable to do with it? They’ll be married. And well above the age of consent, both o’ them,” he added, with a grin at Ninian, who went bright pink with smothered mirth. I didn’t know how old Duncan Innes was, but my best guess put him in his mid-fifties. Jamie’s aunt Jocasta had to be at least a decade older.

I could just see Jocasta over the heads of the intervening crowd, graciously accepting the greetings of friends and neighbors at the far end of the terrace. A tall woman gowned in russet wool, she was flanked by huge stone vases holding sprays of dried goldenrod, and her black butler Ulysses stood at her shoulder, dignified in wig and green livery. With an elegant white lace cap crowning her bold MacKenzie bones, she was undeniably the queen of River Run Plantation. I stood on tiptoe, searching for her consort.

Duncan was slightly shorter than Jocasta, but he should still have been visible. I’d seen him earlier in the morning, dressed in an absolute blaze of Highland finery, in which he looked dashing, if terribly self-conscious. I craned my neck, putting a hand on Jamie’s arm to keep my balance. He grabbed my elbow to steady me.

“What are ye looking for, Sassenach?”

“Duncan. Shouldn’t he be with your aunt?”

No one could tell by looking that Jocasta was blind—that she stood between the big vases to keep her bearings, or that Ulysses was there to whisper in her ear the names of approaching guests. I saw her left hand drift outward from her side, touch empty air, and drift back. Her face didn’t change, though; she smiled and nodded, saying something to Judge Henderson.

“Run away before the wedding night?” suggested Ninian, lifting his chin and both eyebrows in an effort to see over the crowd without standing on his toes. “I’d maybe feel a bit nervous at the prospect myself. Your aunt’s a handsome woman, Fraser, but she could freeze the ballocks off the King o’ Japan, and she wanted to.”

Jamie’s mouth twitched.

“Duncan’s maybe caught short,” he said. “Whatever the reason. He’s been to the necessary house four times this morning.”

My own brows went up at this. Duncan suffered from chronic constipation; in fact, I had brought a packet of senna leaves and coffee-plant roots for him, in spite of Jamie’s rude remarks about what constituted a suitable wedding present. Duncan must be more nervous than I’d thought.

“Well, it’s no going to be any great surprise to my aunt, and her wi’ three husbands before him,” Jamie said, in reply to a murmured remark of Hamilton’s. “It’ll be the first time Duncan’s been married, though. That’s a shock to any man. I remember my own wedding night, aye?” He grinned at me, and I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. I remembered it, too—vividly.

“Don’t you think it’s rather warm out here?” I flicked my fan into an arc of ivory lace, and fluttered it over my cheeks.

“Really?” he said, still grinning at me. “I hadna taken notice of it.”

“Duncan has,” Ninian put in. His wrinkled lips pursed closed, holding in the laughter. “Sweating like a steamed pudding when I saw him last.”

It was in fact a little chilly out, in spite of the cast-iron tubs full of hot embers that sent the sweet smell of applewood smoke wisping up from the corners of the stone terrace. Spring had sprung, and the lawns were fresh and green, as were the trees along the river, but the morning air still held a sharp nip of winter’s bite. It was still winter in the mountains, and we had encountered snow as far south as Greensboro on our journey toward River Run, though daffodils and crocuses poked bravely through it.

It was a clear, bright March day now, though, and house, terrace, lawn, and garden were thronged with wedding guests, glowing in their finery like an unseasonable flight of butterflies. Jocasta’s wedding was clearly going to be the social event of the year, so far as Cape Fear society was concerned; there must be nearly two hundred people here, from places as far distant as Halifax and Edenton.

Ninian said something to Jamie in low-voiced Gaelic, with a sidelong glance at me. Jamie replied with a remark elegant in phraseology and extremely crude in content, blandly meeting my eye as the older man choked with laughter.

I did in fact understand Gaelic fairly well by now, but there were moments when discretion was the better part of valor. I spread my fan wide, concealing my expression. True, it took some practice to achieve grace with a fan, but it was a useful social tool to someone cursed, as I was, with a glass face. Even fans had their limits, though.

I turned away from the conversation, which gave every promise of degenerating further, and surveyed the party for signs of the absent bridegroom. Perhaps Duncan was truly ill, and not with nerves. If so, I should have a look at him.

“Phaedre! Have you seen Mr. Innes this morning?” Jocasta’s body servant was flying past, her arms full of tablecloths, but came abruptly to a halt at my call.

“Ain’t seen Mister Duncan since breakfast, ma’am,” she said, with a shake of her neatly capped head.

“How did he seem then? Did he eat well?” Breakfast was an ongoing affair of several hours, the resident guests serving themselves from the sideboard and eating as they chose. It was more likely nerves than food poisoning that was troubling Duncan’s bowels, but some of the sausage I had seen on the sideboard struck me as highly suspect.

“No, ma’am, nary a bite.” Phaedre’s smooth brow puckered; she was fond of Duncan. “Cook tried to tempt him with a nice coddled egg, but he just shook his head and looked peaked. He did take a cup of rum punch, though,” she said, seeming somewhat cheered at the thought.

“Aye, that’ll settle him,” Ninian remarked, overhearing. “Dinna trouble yourself, Mrs. Claire; Duncan will be well enough.”

Phaedre curtsied and made off toward the tables being set up under the trees, starched apron flapping in the breeze. The succulent aroma of barbecuing pork wafted through the chill spring air, and fragrant clouds of hickory smoke rose from the fires near the smithy, where haunches of venison, sides of mutton, and broiled fowl in their dozens turned on spits. My stomach gurgled loudly in anticipation, despite the tight lacing of my stays.

Neither Jamie nor Ninian appeared to notice, but I took a discreet step away, turning to survey the lawn that stretched from the terrace to the river landing. I wasn’t so positive of the virtues of rum, particularly taken on an empty stomach. Granted, Duncan wouldn’t be the first groom to go to the altar in an advanced state of intoxication, but still …

Brianna, brilliant in blue wool the color of the spring sky, was standing near one of the marble statues that graced the lawn, Jemmy balanced on her hip, deep in conversation with Gerald Forbes, the lawyer. She also had a fan, but at the moment, it was being put to better use than usual—Jemmy had got hold of it and was munching on the ivory handle, a look of fierce concentration on his small pink face.

Of course, Brianna had less need of good fan technique than I did, she having inherited Jamie’s ability to hide all thoughts behind a mask of pleasant blandness. She had the mask in place now, which gave me a good idea of her opinion of Mr. Forbes. Where was Roger? I wondered. He’d been with her earlier.

I turned to ask Jamie what he thought of this epidemic of disappearing husbands, only to discover that he had joined it. Ninian Hamilton had turned away to talk to someone else, and the space at my side was now occupied by a pair of slaves, staggering under the weight of a fresh demijohn of brandywine as they headed for the refreshment tables. I stepped hastily out of their way, and turned to look for Jamie.

He had vanished into the crowd like a grouse into heather. I turned slowly, surveying the terrace and lawns, but there wasn’t a sign of him among the milling crowd. I frowned against the bright sunlight, shading my eyes with my hand.

It wasn’t as though he were inconspicuous, after all; a Highlander with the blood of Viking giants in his veins, he stood head and shoulders above most men, and his hair caught the sun like polished bronze. To add icing to the cake, he was dressed today in his best to celebrate Jocasta’s wedding—a belted plaid in crimson and black tartan, with his good gray coat and weskit, and the gaudiest pair of red-and-black Argyle stockings ever to grace a Scotsman’s shins. He should have stood out like a splotch of blood on fresh linen.

I didn’t find him, but did see a familiar face. I stepped off the terrace and eeled my way through the knots of partygoers.

“Mr. MacLennan!” He turned toward my call, looking surprised, but then a cordial smile spread across his blunt features.

“Mrs. Fraser!”

“How lovely to see you,” I said, giving him my hand. “How are you?” He looked much better than when last seen, clean and decent in a dark suit and plain laced hat. There were hollows in his cheeks, though, and a shadow behind his eyes that remained even as he smiled at me.

“Oh … I’m well enough, ma’am. Quite well.”

“Are you—where are you living, these days?” That seemed a more delicate question than “Why aren’t you in jail?” No fool, he answered both questions.

“Och, well, your husband was sae kind as to write to Mr. Ninian there”—he nodded across the lawn toward the lean figure of Ninian Bell Hamilton, who was in the middle of a heated discussion of some kind—“and to tell him of my trouble. Mr. Ninian’s a great friend to the Regulation, ken—and a great friend of Judge Henderson’s, forbye.” He shook his head, mouth pursed in puzzlement.

“I couldna say quite how it fell out, but Mr. Ninian came and fetched me out of the gaol, and took me into his own household. So I am there, for the present. ’Twas kind—verra kind.” He spoke with evident sincerity, and yet with a certain air of abstraction. He fell silent then. He was still looking at me, but his eyes were blank. I groped for something to say, hoping to bring him back to the present, but a shout from Ninian brought him out of his trance, saving me the trouble. Abel excused himself politely to me and went to assist in the argument.

I strolled down the lawn, nodding to acquaintances over my fan. I was glad to see Abel again, and know he was physically well, at least—but I couldn’t deny that the sight of him cast a chill over my heart. I had the feeling that in fact, it made little difference to Abel MacLennan where his body resided; his heart still lay in the grave with his wife.

Why had Ninian brought him today? I wondered. Surely a wedding could not but recall his own marriage to him; weddings did that to everyone.

The sun had risen high enough to warm the air, but I shivered. The sight of MacLennan’s grief reminded me too much of the days after Culloden, when I had gone back to my own time, knowing Jamie dead. I knew too well that deadness of heart; the sense of sleepwalking through days and lying open-eyed at night, finding no rest, knowing only emptiness that was not peace.

Jocasta’s voice floated down from the terrace, calling to Ulysses. She had lost three husbands, and now was fixed to take a fourth. Blind she might be, but there was no deadness in her eyes. Did that mean she had not cared deeply for any of her husbands? I wondered. Or only that she was a woman of great strength, capable of overcoming grief, not once, but over and again?

I had done it once, myself—for Brianna’s sake. But Jocasta had no children; not now, at least. Had she once had them, and put aside the pain of a sundered heart, to live for a child?

I shook myself, trying to dispel such melancholy thoughts. It was, after all, a festive occasion, and a day to match. The dogwoods in the grove were in bloom, and courting bluebirds and cardinals shot in and out of the greening trees like bits of confetti, crazed with lust.

“But of course they have,” a woman was saying, in an authoritative tone of voice. “My God, they’ve shared a house for months now!”

“Aye, that’s so,” one of her companions agreed, sounding doubtful. “But ye wouldna think it from the looks of them. Why, they scarcely glance at each other! Ah … I mean—well, of course, she canna be looking at him, blind as she is, but ye’d think …”

It wasn’t only the birds, I thought, amused. A certain sense of rising sap suffused the whole gathering. Glancing up at the terrace, I could see young women clustered, tittering and gossiping in small groups like hens, while the men strode oh-so-casually up and down in front of them, gaudy as peacocks in their party clothes. I wouldn’t be surprised if at least a few engagements resulted from this celebration—and a few pregnancies as well. Sex was in the air; I could smell it, under the heady fragrances of spring flowers and cooking food.

The sense of melancholy had quite left me, though I still had a strong urge to find Jamie.

I had gone down one side of the lawn and up the other, but saw no sign of him anywhere between the big plantation house and the dock, where slaves in livery were still greeting latecomers arriving by water. Among those still expected—and very late indeed—was the priest who was to perform the wedding.

Father LeClerc was a Jesuit, bound from New Orleans to a mission near Quebec, but seduced from the strict path of duty by a substantial donation made by Jocasta to the Society of Jesus. Money might not buy happiness, I reflected, but it was a useful commodity, nonetheless.

I glanced in the other direction and stopped dead. At one side, Ronnie Campbell caught my eye and bowed; I lifted my fan in acknowledgment, but was too distracted to speak to him. I hadn’t found Jamie, but I had just spotted the likely reason for his abrupt disappearance. Ronnie’s father, Farquard Campbell, was coming up the lawn from the landing, accompanied by a gentleman in the red and fawn of His Majesty’s army, and another in naval uniform—Lieutenant Wolff.

The sight gave me an unpleasant shock. Lieutenant Wolff was not my favorite person. He wasn’t all that popular with anyone else who knew him, either.

I supposed it was reasonable for him to have been invited, as His Majesty’s navy was the principal buyer of River Run’s production of timber, tar, and turpentine, and Lieutenant Wolff was the navy’s representative in such matters. And it was possible that Jocasta had invited him for more personal reasons as well—the Lieutenant had at one point asked her to marry him. Not, as she had dryly noted, from any desire for her person, but rather to get his hands on River Run.

Yes, I could see her enjoying the Lieutenant’s presence here today. Duncan, less naturally given to ulterior motives and manipulations, might not.

Farquard Campbell had spotted me, and was making for me through the crowd, the armed forces in tow. I got my fan up and made the necessary facial adjustments for polite conversation, but—much to my relief—the Lieutenant spotted a servant carrying a tray of glasses across the terrace and sheared off in pursuit, abandoning his escort in favor of refreshment.

The other military gentleman glanced after him, but dutifully followed Farquard. I squinted at him, but he was no one I’d met before, I was sure. Since the removal of the last Highland regiment in the autumn, the sight of a red coat was unusual anywhere in the colony. Who could this be?

My features fixed in what I hoped was a pleasant smile, I sank into a formal curtsy, spreading my embroidered skirts to best advantage.

“Mr. Campbell.” I glanced covertly behind him, but Lieutenant Wolff had fortunately vanished in the pursuit of alcoholic sustenance.

“Mrs. Fraser. Your servant, ma’am.” Farquard made me a graceful leg in reply. An elderly, desiccated-looking man, Mr. Campbell was sedate as usual in black broadcloth, a small burst of ruffles at the throat being his only concession to the festivities.

He looked over my shoulder, frowning slightly in puzzlement. “I had seen—I thought I had seen your husband with you?”

“Oh. Well, I think he’s … er … gone …” I twiddled my fan delicately toward the trees where the necessary facilities lurked, separated from the main house by an aesthetic distance and a screen of small white pines.

“Ah, I see. Just so.” Campbell cleared his throat, and gestured to the man who accompanied him. “Mrs. Fraser, may I present Major Donald MacDonald?”

Major MacDonald was a rather hawk-nosed but handsome gentleman in his late thirties, with the weathered face and erect bearing of a career soldier, and a pleasant smile belied by a pair of sharp blue eyes, the same pale, vivid shade as Brianna’s dress.

“Your servant, ma’am.” He bowed, very gracefully. “May I say, ma’am, how particularly that color becomes you?”

“You may,” I said, relaxing a little. “Thank you.”

“The Major is but recently arrived in Cross Creek. I assured him he would find no greater opportunity to pursue acquaintance with his countrymen and familiarize himself with his surroundings.” Farquard swept a hand around the terrace, encompassing the party—which did indeed comprise a Who’s Who of Scottish society along the Cape Fear.

“Indeed,” the Major said politely. “I have not heard so many Scottish names since last I was in Edinburgh. Mr. Campbell gives me to understand that your husband is the nephew of Mrs. Cameron—or Mrs. Innes, perhaps I should say?”

“Yes. Have you met Mrs.… er … Innes yet?” I glanced toward the far end of the terrace. Still no sign of Duncan, let alone Roger or Jamie. Blast it, where was everybody? Holding summit conferences in the necessary house?

“No, but I shall look forward to presenting my compliments. The late Mr. Cameron was by way of being an acquaintance of my father, Robert MacDonald of Stornoway.” He inclined his wigged head a respectful inch in the direction of the small white marble building at the side of the lawn—the mausoleum that presently sheltered the fleshly remnants of Hector Cameron. “Has your husband any connection with the Frasers of Lovat, by chance?”

With an internal groan, I recognized a Scottish spiderweb in the making. The meeting of any two Scots invariably began with the casting out of skeins of inquiry until enough strands of relation and acquaintanceship had stuck to form a useful network. I tended to become entangled in the sticky strands of sept and clan, myself, ending up like a fat, juicy fly, thoroughly trapped and at the mercy of my questioner.

Jamie had survived the intrigues of French and Scottish politics for years by means of such knowledge, though—skating precariously along the secret strands of such webs, keeping away from the sticky snares of loyalty and betrayal that had doomed so many others. I settled myself to pay attention, struggling to place this MacDonald among the thousand others of his ilk.

MacDonald of Keppoch, MacDonald of the Isles, MacDonald of Clanranald, MacDonald of Sleat. How many kinds of MacDonald were there, anyway? I wondered, a little crossly. Surely one or two should be sufficient to most purposes.

MacDonald of the Isles, evidently; the Major’s family hailed from the Isle of Harris. I kept one eye out during the interrogation, but Jamie had safely gone to earth.

Farquard Campbell—no mean player himself—seemed to be enjoying the verbal game of battledore and shuttlecock, his dark eyes flicking back and forth between me and the Major with a look of amusement. The amusement faded into a look of surprise as I finished a rather confused analysis of Jamie’s paternal lineage, in response to the Major’s expert catechism.

“Your husband’s grandfather was Simon, Lord Lovat?” Campbell said. “The Old Fox?” His voice rose slightly with incredulity.

“Well … yes,” I said, a little uneasily. “I thought you knew that.”

“Indeed,” said Farquard. He looked as though he had swallowed a brandied plum, noticing too late that the stone was still in it. He’d known Jamie was a pardoned Jacobite, all right, but plainly Jocasta hadn’t mentioned his close connection with the Old Fox—executed as a traitor for his role in the Stuart Rising. Most of the Campbells had fought on the Government side of that particular brouhaha.

“Yes,” MacDonald said, ignoring Campbell’s reaction. He frowned slightly in concentration. “I have the honor to be slightly acquainted with the present Lord Lovat—the title has been restored, I collect?”

He went on, turning to Campbell in explanation. “That would be Young Simon, who raised a regiment to fight the French in … ’58? No, ’57. Yes, ’57. A gallant soldier, excellent fighting man. And he would be your husband’s … nephew? No, uncle.”

“Half-uncle,” I clarified. Old Simon had been married three times, and made no secret of his extramarital by-blows—of which Jamie’s father had been one. No need to point that out, though.

MacDonald nodded, lean face clearing in satisfaction at having got it all neatly sorted. Farquard’s face relaxed a little, hearing that the family reputation had gone so far toward rehabilitation.

“Papist, of course,” MacDonald added, “but an excellent soldier, nonetheless.”

“Speaking of soldiers,” Campbell interrupted, “do you know …”

I breathed a sigh of relief that made my corset strings creak, as Mr. Campbell smoothly led the Major into an analysis of some past military event. The Major, it seemed, was not on active duty, but like many, presently retired on half-pay. Unless and until the Crown found some further use for his services, he was thus left to mooch round the Colonies in search of occupation. Peace was hard on professional soldiers.

Just wait, I thought, with a small premonitory shiver. Four years, or less, and the Major would be busy enough.

I caught a flash of tartan from the corner of my eye and turned to look, but it was neither Jamie nor Duncan. One less mystery, though; it was Roger, dark-haired and handsome in his kilt. His face lit as he spotted Brianna, and his stride lengthened. She turned her head, as though feeling his presence, and her own face brightened in answer.

He reached her side, and without the least acknowledgment of the gentleman with her, embraced her and kissed her soundly on the mouth. As they drew apart, he held out his arms for Jemmy, and dropped another kiss on the silky red head.

I returned to the conversation at hand, belatedly realizing that Farquard Campbell had been talking for some time without my having any notion what he had said. Seeing my bemusement, he smiled, a little wryly.

“I must go and pay my respects elsewhere, Mrs. Fraser,” he said. “If you will pardon me? I shall leave you to the Major’s excellent company.” He touched his hat courteously, and eeled off toward the house, perhaps intending to track down Lieutenant Wolff and stop him pocketing the silver.

Thus marooned with me, the Major cast about for suitable conversation, and fell back upon the most commonly asked question between new acquaintances.

“Are you and your husband long arrived in the colony, ma’am?”

“Not long,” I said, rather wary. “Three years or so. We live in a small settlement in the backcountry—” I waved my closed fan toward the invisible mountains to the west. “A place called Fraser’s Ridge.”

“Ah, yes. I have heard of it.” A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth, and I wondered uneasily just what he had heard. Jamie’s still was an open secret in the backcountry, and among the Scottish settlers of the Cape Fear—in fact, several kegs of raw whisky from the still were sitting in plain sight by the stables, Jamie’s wedding present to his aunt and Duncan—but I hoped the secret wasn’t quite so open that an army officer newly arrived in the colony would already have heard about it.

“Tell me, Mrs. Fraser …” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “Do you encounter a great deal of … factionalism in your area of the colony?”

“Factionalism? Oh, er … no, not a great deal.” I cast a wary eye toward Hector Cameron’s mausoleum, where Hermon Husband’s dark Quaker gray showed up like a blot against the pure white marble. Factionalism was a code word for the activities of men like Husband and James Hunter—Regulators.

The Governor’s militia action in December had quashed the violent demonstrations, but the Regulation was still a simmering pot under a very tight lid. Husband had been arrested and imprisoned for a short time in February on the strength of his pamphlets, but the experience had in no way softened either his disposition or his language. A boilover could happen at any time.

“I am pleased to hear it, ma’am,” Major MacDonald said. “Do you hear much news, remotely situated as you are?”

“Not a great deal. Er … nice day, isn’t it? We’ve been so fortunate in the weather this year. Was it an easy journey from Charleston? So early in the year—the mud …”

“Indeed, ma’am. We had some small difficulties, but no more than …”

The Major was assessing me quite openly as he chatted, taking in the cut and quality of my gown, the pearls at my throat and ears—borrowed from Jocasta—and the rings on my fingers. I was familiar with such a look; there was no hint of lechery or flirtation in it. He was simply judging my social standing and my husband’s level of prosperity and influence.

I took no offense. I was busy doing the same thing to him, after all. Well-educated and of good family; that much was plain from his rank alone, though the heavy gold signet on his right hand clinched the matter. Not personally well-off, though; his uniform was worn at the seams, and his boots were deeply scarred, though well-polished.

A light Scots accent with a hint of French gutturality—experience in Continental campaigns. And very newly arrived in the colony, I thought; his face was drawn from recent illness, and the whites of his eyes bore the slight tinge of jaundice common to new arrivals, who tended to contract everything from malaria to dengue fever, when exposed to the seething germ pools of the coastal towns.

“Tell me, Mrs. Fraser—” the Major began.

“You insult not only me, sir, but every man of honor here present!”

Ninian Bell Hamilton’s rather high-pitched voice rang out through a lull in the general conversation, and heads turned all over the lawn.

He was face-to-face with Robert Barlow, a man I had been introduced to earlier in the morning. A merchant of some kind, I vaguely recalled—from Edenton? Or possibly New Bern. A heavyset man with the look of one unused to contradiction, he was sneering openly at Hamilton.

“Regulators, you call them? Gaolbirds and rioters! You suggest that such men possess a sense of honor, do you?”

“I do not suggest it—I state it as fact, and will defend it as such!” The old gentleman drew himself upright, hand groping for a sword-hilt. Fortunately for the occasion, he wasn’t wearing a sword; none of the gentlemen present were, given the congeniality of the gathering.

Whether this fact affected Barlow’s behavior, I couldn’t have said, but he laughed contemptuously, and turned his back on Hamilton, to walk away. The elderly Scot, inflamed, promptly kicked Barlow in the buttocks.

Taken unaware and off balance, Barlow pitched forward, landing on hands and knees, his coattails ludicrously up over his ears. Whatever their respective political opinions, all the onlookers burst into laughter. Thus encouraged, Ninian puffed up like a bantam rooster and strutted round his fallen opponent to address him from the front.

I could have told him that this was a tactical error, but then, I had the benefit of seeing Barlow’s face, which was crimson with mortified rage. Eyes bulging, he scrambled awkwardly to his feet and launched himself with a roar, knocking the smaller man flat.

The two of them rolled in the grass, fists and coattails flying, to whoops of encouragement from the spectators. Wedding guests came rushing from lawn and terrace to see what was going on. Abel MacLennan pushed his way through the mob, obviously intent on offering support to his patron. Richard Caswell seized his arm to prevent him, and he swung round, pushing Caswell off balance.

James Hunter, lean face alight with glee, tripped Caswell, who sat down hard on the grass, looking surprised. Caswell’s son George let out a howl of outrage and punched Hunter in the kidney. Hunter whirled round and slapped George on the nose.

A number of ladies were shrieking—not all with shock. One or two appeared to be cheering on Ninian Hamilton, who had got temporarily atop his victim’s chest and was endeavoring to throttle him, though with little success, owing to Barlow’s thick neck and heavy stock.

I looked frantically round for Jamie—or Roger, or Duncan. Goddamn it, where were they all?

George Caswell had fallen back in surprise, hands to his nose, which was dribbling blood down his shirtfront. DeWayne Buchanan, one of Hamilton’s sons-in-law, was shoving his way purposefully through the gathering crowd. I didn’t know whether he meant to get his father-in-law off Barlow, or assist him in his attempt to murder the man.

“Oh, bloody hell,” I muttered to myself. “Here, hold this.” I thrust my fan at Major MacDonald, and hitched up my skirts, preparing to wade into the melee, and deciding whom to kick first—and where—for best effect.

“Do you want me to stop it?”

The Major, who had been enjoying the spectacle, looked disappointed at the thought, but resigned to duty. At my rather startled nod, he reached for his pistol, pointed it skyward, and discharged it into the air.

The bang was loud enough to temporarily silence everyone. The combatants froze, and in the momentary lull, Hermon Husband shoved his way into the scene.

“Friend Ninian,” he said, nodding cordially round. “Friend Buchanan. Allow me.” He grabbed the elderly Scot by both arms and lifted him bodily off Barlow. He gave James Hunter a warning look; Hunter gave an audible “Humph!” but retired a few steps.

The younger Mrs. Caswell, a woman of sense, had got her husband off the field of battle already, and was applying a handkerchief to his nose. DeWayne Buchanan and Abel MacLennan had each got hold of one of Ninian Hamilton’s arms, and were making a great show of restraining him as they marched him off toward the house—though it was reasonably apparent that either one of them could simply have picked him up and carried him.

Richard Caswell had got up by himself, and while looking rather affronted, was evidently not disposed to hit anyone. He stood brushing dried grass from the back of his coat, lips pressed together in disapproval.

“Your fan, Mrs. Fraser?” Jerked from my appraisal of the conflict, I found Major MacDonald politely offering me back my fan. He looked quite pleased with himself.

“Thank you,” I said, taking it and eyeing him with some respect. “Tell me, Major, do you always go about with a loaded pistol?”

“An oversight, ma’am,” he replied blandly. “Though perhaps a fortunate one, aye? I had been in the town of Cross Creek yesterday, and as I was returning alone to Mr. Farquard Campbell’s plantation after dark, I thought it would be as well to go canny on the road.”

He nodded over my shoulder.

“Tell me, Mrs. Fraser, who is the ill-shaven individual? He seems a man of guts, despite his lack of address. Will he take up the cudgels in his own behalf now, do ye think?”

I swung round, to see Hermon Husband nose-to-nose with the risen Barlow, his round black hat thrust down on his head and his beard bristling with pugnacity. Barlow stood his ground, red-faced and thunder-browed, but had his arms folded tightly across his chest as he listened to Husband.

“Hermon Husband is a Quaker,” I said, with a slight tone of reproof. “No, he won’t resort to violence. Just words.”

Quite a lot of words. Barlow kept trying to interject his own opinions, but Husband ignored these, pressing his argument with such enthusiasm that drops of spittle flew from the corners of his mouth.

“… an heinous miscarriage of justice! Sheriffs, or so they call themselves, who have not been appointed by any legal writ, but rather appoint themselves for the purposes of corruptly enriching themselves and scorn all legitimate …”

Barlow dropped his arms, and began to edge backward, in an effort to escape the barrage. When Husband paused momentarily to draw breath, though, Barlow seized the opportunity to lean forward and jab a threatening finger into Husband’s chest.

“You speak of justice, sir? What have riot and destruction to do with justice? If you advocate the ruin of property as means to redress your grievances—”

“I do not! But is the poor man to fall a spoil to the unscrupulous, and his plight pass unregarded? I say to you, sir, God will unmercifully requite those who oppress the poor, and—”

“What are they arguing about?” MacDonald asked, viewing the exchange with interest. “Religion?”

Seeing Husband involved, and realizing that no further punch-ups were to be expected, most of the crowd had lost interest, wandering away toward the buffet tables and the braziers on the terrace. Hunter and a few other Regulators hung about to give Husband moral support, but most of the guests were planters and merchants. While they might side with Barlow in theory, in practice most were disinclined to waste a rare festive occasion in controversy with Hermon Husband over the rights of the tax-paying poor.

I wasn’t all that eager to examine the rhetoric of the Regulation in detail, either, but did my best to give Major MacDonald a crude overview of the situation.

“… and so Governor Tryon felt obliged to raise the militia to deal with it, but the Regulators backed down,” I concluded. “But they haven’t abandoned their demands, by any means.”

Husband hadn’t abandoned his argument, either—he never did—but Barlow had at last succeeded in extricating himself, and was restoring his tissues at the refreshment tables under the elm trees in company with some sympathetic friends, who all cast periodic glances of disapproval in Husband’s direction.

“I see,” MacDonald said, interested. “Farquard Campbell did tell me something of this disruptive movement. And the Governor has raised a militia on occasion to deal with it, you say, and may again. Who commands his troops, do you know?”

“Um … I believe General Waddell—that’s Hugh Waddell—has command of several companies. But the Governor himself was in command of the main body; he’s been a soldier himself.”

“Has he indeed?” MacDonald seemed to find this very interesting; he hadn’t put away his pistol, but was fondling it in an absentminded sort of way. “Campbell tells me that your husband is the holder of a large grant of land in the backcountry. He is by way of being an intimate of the Governor?”

“I wouldn’t put it that strongly,” I said dryly. “But he does know the Governor, yes.”

I felt a trifle uneasy at this line of conversation. It was—strictly speaking—illegal for Catholics to hold Royal land grants in the Colonies. I didn’t know whether Major MacDonald was aware of that fact, but he did plainly realize that Jamie was likely a Catholic, given his family background.

“Do you suppose your husband might be prevailed upon for an introduction, dear lady?” The pale blue eyes were bright with speculation, and I realized suddenly what he was after.

A career soldier with no war was at a distinct disadvantage in terms of occupation and income. The Regulation might be a tempest in a teapot, but on the other hand, if there was any prospect of military action … After all, Tryon had no regular troops; he might well be inclined to welcome—and to pay—an experienced officer, if the militia were called out again.

I cast a wary eye toward the lawn. Husband and his friends had withdrawn a bit, and were in close conversation in a little knot near one of Jocasta’s new statues. If the recent near-brawl was any indication, the Regulation was still dangerously on the boil.

“That might be done,” I said cautiously. I couldn’t see any reason why Jamie would object to providing a letter of introduction to Tryon—and I did owe the Major something, after all, for having averted a full-scale riot. “You’d have to ask my husband, of course, but I’d be happy to put in a word for you.”

“You shall have my utmost gratitude, ma’am.” He put away his pistol, and bowed low over my hand. Straightening up, he glanced over my shoulder. “I think I must take my leave now, Mrs. Fraser, but I shall hope to make your husband’s acquaintance soon.”

The Major marched off toward the terrace, and I turned, to see Hermon Husband stumping toward me, Hunter and a few other men in his wake.

“Mrs. Fraser, I must ask thee to give my good wishes and my regrets to Mrs. Innes, if thee will,” he said without preamble. “I must go.”

“Oh, must you leave so soon?” I hesitated. On the one hand, I wanted to urge him to stay; on the other, I could foresee further trouble if he did. Barlow’s friends had not taken their eyes off him since the near-brawl.

He saw the thought cross my face, and nodded soberly. The flush of debate had faded from his face, leaving it set in grim lines.

“It will be better so. Jocasta Cameron has been a good friend to me and mine; it would ill repay her kindness for me to bring discord to her wedding celebrations. I would not choose that—and yet, I cannot in conscience remain silent, hearing such pernicious opinions as I have received here.” He gave Barlow’s group a look of cold contempt, which was met in kind.

“Besides,” he added, turning his back on the Barlowites in dismissal, “we have business that compels our attention elsewhere.” He hesitated, clearly wondering whether to tell me more, but then decided against it. “Thee will tell her?”

“Yes, of course. Mr. Husband—I’m sorry.”

He gave me a faint smile, tinged with melancholy, and shook his head, but said no more. As he left, though, trailed by his companions, James Hunter paused to speak to me, low-voiced.

“The Regulators are a-gathering. There’s a big camp, up near Salisbury,” he said. “You might see fit to tell your husband that.”

He nodded, put his hand to his hat-brim, and without waiting for acknowledgment, strode off, his dark coat disappearing in the crowd like a sparrow swallowed by a flock of peacocks.

 

From my vantage point at the edge of the terrace, I could see the whole sweep of the party, which flowed in a stream of festivity from house to river, its eddy-pools obvious to the knowledgeable eye.

Jocasta formed the eye of the largest social swirl—but smaller pools swirled ominously around Ninian Bell Hamilton and Richard Caswell, and a restless current meandered through the party, leaving deposits of conversation along its edges, rich in the fertile silt of speculation. From the things I overheard, the question of our hosts’ putative sex life was the predominant subject of conversation—but politics ran a close second.

I still saw no sign either of Jamie or of Duncan. There was the Major again, though. He stopped, a glass of cider in each hand; he had caught sight of Brianna. I smiled, watching.

Brianna often stopped men in their tracks, though not always entirely from admiration. She had inherited a number of things from Jamie; slanted blue eyes and flaming hair, a long straight nose and a wide, firm mouth; the bold facial bones that came from some ancient Norseman. In addition to these striking attributes, though, she had also inherited his height. In a time when the average woman stood a hair less than five feet tall, Brianna reached six. People were inclined to stare.

Major MacDonald was doing so, cider forgotten in his hands. Roger noticed; he smiled and nodded, but took that one step closer to Brianna that said unmistakably, She’s mine, mate.

Watching the Major in conversation, I noticed how pale and spindly he looked by comparison with Roger, who stood nearly as tall as Jamie. He was broad-shouldered and olive-skinned, and his hair shone black as a crow’s wing in the spring sun, perhaps the legacy of some ancient Spanish invader. I had to admit that there was no noticeable resemblance between him and little Jem, ruddy as a fresh-forged brass candlestick. I could see the flash of white as Roger smiled; the Major kept his lips pulled down when smiling, as most people over the age of thirty did, to hide the gaps and decay that were endemic. Perhaps it was the stress of the Major’s occupation, I thought; perhaps merely the effects of poor nourishment. Being of good family didn’t mean a child in this time ate very well.

I ran my tongue lightly over my own teeth, testing the biting edge of my incisors. Straight and sound, and I took considerable pains to see they would stay that way, given the current state of the art of dentistry.

“Why, Mrs. Fraser.” A light voice broke in on my thoughts, and I looked round to find Phillip Wylie at my elbow. “Whatever can you be thinking, my dear? You look positively … feral.” He took my hand and lowered his voice, baring his own fairly decent teeth in a suggestive smile.

“I am not your dear,” I said with some acerbity, jerking my hand out of his. “And as for feral, I’m surprised no one has bitten you in the backside yet.”

“Oh, I have hopes,” he assured me, eyes twinkling. He bowed, managing in the process to get hold of my hand again. “Might I have the honor to claim a dance later, Mrs. Fraser?”

“Indeed you may not,” I said, tugging. “Let go.”

“Your wish is my command.” He let go, but not before planting a light kiss on the back of my hand. I suppressed the urge to wipe the moist spot on my skirt.

“Go away, child,” I said. I flicked my fan at him. “Shoo.”

Phillip Wylie was a dandy. I had met him twice before, and on both occasions, he had been got up regardless: satin breeches, silk stockings, and all the trappings that went with them, including powdered wig, powdered face, and a small black crescent beauty mark, stuck dashingly beside one eye.

Now, however, the rot had spread. The powdered wig was mauve, the satin waistcoat was embroidered with—I blinked. Yes, with lions and unicorns, done in gold and silver thread. The satin breeches were fitted to him like a bifurcated glove, and the crescent had given way to a star at the corner of his mouth. Mr. Wylie had become a macaroni—with cheese.

“Oh, I have no intention of deserting you, Mrs. Fraser,” he assured me. “I have been searching everywhere for you.”

“Oh. Well, you’ve found me,” I said, eyeing his coat, which was velvet, rose in color, and had six-inch cuffs of palest pink silk and button-covers embroidered with scarlet peonies. “Though it’s no wonder you had trouble. I expect you were blinded by the glare from your waistcoat.”

Lloyd Stanhope was with him, as usual, quite as prosperous, but much more plainly dressed than his friend. Stanhope guffawed, but Wylie ignored him, and bowed low, making me a graceful leg.

“Ah, well, Fortuna has smiled upon me this year. The trade with England has quite recovered, may the gods be thanked—and I have had my share of it, and more besides. You must come with me to see—”

I was saved at this point by the sudden appearance of Adlai Osborn, a well-to-do merchant from somewhere up the coast, who tapped Wylie on the shoulder. Seizing the opportunity afforded by the distraction, I put up my fan and sidled away through a gap in the crowd.

Left momentarily to my own devices, I strolled nonchalantly off the terrace and down the lawn. I still had an eye out for Jamie or Duncan, but this was my first opportunity to examine Jocasta’s latest acquisitions, which were causing considerable comment among the wedding guests. These were two statues, carved from white marble, one standing squarely in the center of each lawn.

The one closest to me was a life-size replica of a Greek warrior—Spartan, I assumed, from the fact that the more frivolous items of attire had been omitted, leaving the gentleman clad in a sturdy-looking plumed helmet, with a sword in one hand. A large shield was planted at his feet, strategically placed so as to cover the more glaring deficiencies of his wardrobe.

There was a matching statue on the right lawn, this one of Diana the Huntress. While the lady was rather skimpily draped, and her shapely white marble breasts and buttocks were attracting a certain amount of sidelong appreciation from the gentlemen present, she was no match for her companion, in terms of public fascination. I smiled behind my fan, seeing Mr. and Mrs. Sherston swan past the statue without so much as a glance. After all, their raised noses and bored looks at each other said, such artworks were commonplace in Europe. Only rude Colonials, lacking both experience and breeding, would consider it a spectacle, my dear.

Examining the statue myself, I discovered that it was not an anonymous Greek after all, but rather Perseus. From this new angle, I could see that what I had assumed to be a rock resting beside the shield was in fact the severed head of a Gorgon, half its snakes standing on end in shocked dismay.

The evident artistry of these reptiles was affording an excuse for close examination of the statue by a number of ladies, who were brazening it out, pursing their lips knowingly and making sounds of admiration about the sculptor’s skillfulness in rendering every scale, just so. Every so often one would allow her eyes to dart upward for a split second, before jerking her gaze back to the Gorgon, cheeks reddened—by the morning air and the mulled wine being served, no doubt.

My attention was distracted from Perseus by a steaming mug of this beverage, thrust beneath my nose in invitation.

“Do have some, Mrs. Fraser.” It was Lloyd Stanhope, roundly amiable. “You wouldn’t want to take a chill, dear lady.”

There was no danger of that, given the increasing warmth of the day, but I accepted the cup, enjoying the scent of cinnamon and honey that wafted from it.

I leaned to one side, looking for Jamie, but he was still nowhere to be seen. A group of gentlemen arguing the merits of Virginia tobacco versus indigo as a crop were clustered round one side of Perseus, while the statue’s rear aspect now sheltered three young girls, who were glancing at it from behind their fans, red-faced and giggling.

“… unique,” Phillip Wylie was saying to someone. The eddies of conversation had brought him back to my side. “Absolutely unique! Black pearls, they’re called. Never seen anything like them, I’ll wager.” He glanced round and, seeing me, reached out to touch my elbow lightly. “I collect you have spent some time in France, Mrs. Fraser. Have you seen them there, perhaps?”

“Black pearls?” I said, scrambling to catch hold of the threads of the conversation. “Well, yes, a few. I recall the Archbishop of Rouen had a small Moorish page boy who wore a very large one in his nose.”

Stanhope’s jaw sagged ludicrously. Wylie stared at me for a split second, then uttered a whoop of laughter so loud that both the tobacco lobby and the giggling girls stopped dead and stared at us.

“You will be the death of me, my dear lady,” Wylie wheezed, as Stanhope declined into choked snorts of mirth. Wylie drew out a lacy kerchief and dabbed delicately at the corners of his eyes, lest tears of merriment blotch his powder.

“Really, Mrs. Fraser, have you not seen my treasures?” He grasped my elbow and propelled me out of the crowd with surprising skill. “Come, let me show you.”

He guided me smoothly through the gathering throng and past the side of the house, where a flagged path led toward the stables. Another crowd—mostly men—was clustered round the paddock, where Jocasta’s groom was throwing down hay for several horses.

There were five of them—two mares, a couple of two-year-olds, and a stallion. All five black as coal, with coats that gleamed in the pale spring sun, even shaggy as they were with winter hair. I was no expert in horse conformation, but knew enough by now to notice the deep chests, barreled vaults, and sculpted quarters, which gave them a peculiar but deeply appealing look of elegant sturdiness. Beyond the beauties of conformation and coat, though, what was most striking about these horses was their hair.

These black horses had great floating masses of silky hair—almost like women’s hair—that rose and fluttered with their movements, matching the graceful fall of their long, full tails. In addition, each horse had delicate black feathers decorating hoof and fetlock, that lifted like floating milkweed seed with each step. By contrast to the usual rawboned riding horses and rough draft animals used for haulage, these horses seemed almost magical—and from the awed comment they were occasioning among the spectators, might as well have come from Fairyland as from Phillip Wylie’s plantation in Edenton.

“They’re yours?” I spoke to Wylie without looking at him, unwilling to take my eyes away from the enchanting sight. “Wherever did you get them?”

“Yes,” he said, his usual affectations erased by simple pride. “They are mine. They are Friesians. The oldest breed of warm-bloods—their lineage can be traced back for centuries.

“As to where I got them”—he leaned over the fence, extending a hand palm-up and wiggling his fingers toward the horses in invitation—“I have been breeding them for several years. I brought these at Mrs. Cameron’s invitation; she has it in mind perhaps to purchase one of my mares, and suggested that one or two of her neighbors might also be interested. As for Lucas, here, though”—the stallion had come over, recognizing his owner, and was submitting gracefully to having his forehead rubbed—“he is not for sale.”

Both mares were heavily in foal; Lucas was the sire, and so had been brought, Wylie said, as proof of the bloodlines. That, I thought, privately amused, and for purposes of showing him off. Wylie’s “black pearls” were exciting keen interest, and a number of the horse-breeding gentlemen from the neighborhood had gone visibly green with envy at sight of Lucas. Phillip Wylie preened like a cock grouse.

“Oh, there ye are, Sassenach.” Jamie’s voice came suddenly in my ear. “I was looking for you.”

“Were you, indeed?” I said, turning away from the paddock. I felt a sudden warmth under my breastbone at sight of him “And where have you been?”

“Oh, here and there,” Jamie said, undisturbed by my tone of accusation. “A verra fine horse indeed, Mr. Wylie.” A polite nod, and he had me by the arm and headed back toward the lawn before Wylie’s murmured “Your servant, sir” had been quite voiced.

“What are ye doing out here wi’ wee Phillip Wylie?” Jamie asked, picking his way through a flock of house slaves, who streamed past from the cookhouse with platters of food steaming alluringly under white napkins.

“Looking at his horses,” I said, putting a hand over my stomach in hopes of suppressing the resounding borborygmi occasioned by the sight of food. “And what have you been doing?”

“Looking for Duncan,” he said, guiding me round a puddle. “He wasna in the necessary, nor yet the smithy, the stables, the kitchen, the cookhouse. I took a horse and rode out to the tobacco-barns, but not a smell of the man.”

“Perhaps Lieutenant Wolff has assassinated him,” I suggested. “Disappointed rival, and all that.”

“Wolff?” He stopped, frowning at me in consternation. “Is yon gobshite here?”

“In the flesh,” I replied, waving my fan toward the lawn. Wolff had taken up a station next the refreshment tables, his short, stout figure unmistakable in its blue and white naval uniform. “Do you suppose your aunt invited him?”

“Aye, I do,” he said, sounding grim but resigned. “She couldna resist rubbing his nose in it, I expect.”

“That’s what I thought. He’s only been here for half an hour or so, though—and if he goes on mopping it up at that rate,” I added, looking disapprovingly at the bottle clutched in the Lieutenant’s hand, “he’ll be out cold before the wedding takes place.”

Jamie dismissed the Lieutenant with a contemptuous gesture.

“Well, then, let him pickle himself and welcome, so long as he only opens his mouth to pour drink in. Where’s Duncan hidden himself, though?”

“Perhaps he’s thrown himself in the river?” It was meant as a joke, but I glanced toward the river nonetheless, and saw a boat headed for the landing, the oarsman standing in the prow to throw his mooring rope to a waiting slave. “Look—is that the priest at last?”

It was; a short, tubby figure, black soutane hiked up over hairy knees as he scrambled ignominiously onto the dock, with the help of a push from the boatmen below. Ulysses was already hurrying down to the landing, to greet him.

“Good,” Jamie said, in tones of satisfaction. “We’ve a priest, then, and a bride. Two of three—that’s progress. Here, Sassenach, wait a bit—your hair’s coming down.” He traced the line of a fallen curl slowly down my back, and I obligingly let the shawl fall back from my shoulders.

Jamie put up the curl again, with a skill born of long practice, then kissed me gently on the nape of the neck, making me shiver. He wasn’t immune to the prevailing airs of spring, either.

“I suppose I must go on looking for Duncan,” he said, with a tinge of regret. His fingers lingered on my back, thumb delicately tracing the groove of my spine. “Once I’ve found him, though … there must be some place here with a bit of privacy to it.”

The word “privacy” made me lean back against Jamie, and glance toward the riverbank, where a clump of weeping willows sheltered a stone bench—quite a private and romantic spot, especially at night. The willows were thick with green, but I caught a flash of scarlet through the drooping branches.

“Got him!” I exclaimed, straightening up so abruptly that I trod on Jamie’s toe. “Oh—sorry!”

“Nay matter,” he assured me. He had followed the direction of my glance, and now drew himself up purposefully. “I’ll go and fetch him out. Do ye go up to the house, Sassenach, and keep an eye on my aunt and the priest. Dinna let them escape until this marriage is made.”

 

Jamie made his way down the lawn toward the willows, absently acknowledging the greetings of friends and acquaintances as he went. In truth, his mind was less on Duncan’s approaching nuptials than on thoughts of his own wife.

He was generally aware that he had been blessed in her beauty; even in her usual homespun, knee-deep in mud from her garden, or stained and fierce with the blood of her calling, the curve of her bones spoke to his own marrow, and those whisky eyes could make him drunk with a glance. Besides, the mad collieshangie of her hair made him laugh.

Smiling to himself even at the thought, it occurred to him that he was slightly drunk. Liquor flowed like water at the party, and there were already men leaning on old Hector’s mausoleum, glaze-eyed and slack-jawed; he caught a glimpse of someone behind the thing, too, having a piss in the shrubbery. He shook his head. There’d be a body under every bush by nightfall.

Christ. One thought of bodies under bushes, and his mind had presented him with a blindingly indecent vision of Claire, lying sprawled and laughing under one, breasts falling out of her gown and the dead leaves and dry grass the same colors as her rumpled skirts and the curly brown hair between her—He choked the thought off abruptly, bowing cordially to old Mrs. Alderdyce, the Judge’s mother.

“Your servant, ma’am.”

“Good day to ye, young man, good day.” The old lady nodded magisterially and passed by, leaning on the arm of her companion, a long-suffering young woman who gave Jamie a faint smile in response to his salute.

“Master Jamie?” One of the maids hovered beside him, holding out a tray of cups. He took one, smiling his thanks, and drank half its contents in a gulp.

He couldn’t help it. He had to turn and look after Claire. He caught no more than a glimpse of the top of her head among the crowd on the terrace—she wouldn’t wear a proper cap, of course, the stubborn wee besom, but had some foolishness pinned on instead, a scrap of lace caught up with a cluster of ribbons and rose hips. That made him want to laugh, too, and he turned back toward the willows, smiling to himself.

It was seeing her in the new gown that did it. It had been months since he’d seen her dressed like a lady, narrow-waisted in silk, and her white breasts round and sweet as winter pears in the low neck of her gown. It was as though she were suddenly a different woman; one intimately familiar and yet still excitingly strange.

His fingers twitched, remembering that one rebel lock, spiraling free down her neck, and the feel of her slender nape—and the feel of her plump warm arse through her skirts, pressed against his leg. He had not had her in more than a week, what with the press of people round them, and was feeling the lack acutely.

Ever since she had shown him the sperms, he had been uncomfortably aware of the crowded conditions that must now and then obtain in his balls, an impression made forcibly stronger in situations such as this. He kent well enough that there was no danger of rupture or explosion—and yet he couldn’t help but think of all the shoving going on.

Being trapped in a seething mass of others, with no hope of escape, was one of his own personal visions of Hell, and he paused for a moment outside the screen of willow trees, to administer a brief squeeze of reassurance, which he hoped might calm the riot for a bit.

He’d see Duncan safely married, he decided, and then the man must see to his own affairs. Come nightfall, and if he could do no better than a bush, then a bush it would have to be. He pushed aside a swath of willow branches, ducking to go through.

“Duncan,” he began, and then stopped, the swirl of carnal thoughts disappearing like water down a sewer. The scarlet coat belonged not to Duncan Innes but to a stranger who turned toward him, with surprise equal to his own. A man in the uniform of His Majesty’s army.

 

The look of momentary startlement faded from the man’s face, almost as quickly as Jamie’s own surprise. This must be MacDonald, the half-pay soldier Farquard Campbell had mentioned to him. Evidently Farquard had described him to MacDonald, as well; he could see the man had put a name to him.

MacDonald held a cup of punch, as well; the slaves had been busy. He drained the cup deliberately, then set it down on the stone bench, wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

“Colonel Fraser, I presume?”

“Major MacDonald,” he replied, with a nod that mingled courtesy with wariness. “Your servant, sir.”

MacDonald bowed, punctilious.

“Colonel. If I might command a moment of your time?” He glanced over Jamie’s shoulder; there were giggles on the riverbank behind them, and the excited small screams of very young women pursued by very young men. “In private?”

Jamie noted the usage of his militia title with a sour amusement, but nodded briefly, and discarded his own cup, still half-full, alongside the Major’s.

He tilted his head toward the house in inquiry; MacDonald nodded and followed him out of the willows, as loud rustlings and squealings announced that the bench and its sheltering trees had now become the province of the younger element. He wished them good luck with it, privately noting the location for his own possible use, after dark.

The day was cold but still and bright, and a number of guests, mostly men who found the civilized atmosphere within too suffocating for their tastes, were clustered in argumentative groups in the corners of the terrace, or strolling round the paths of the newly-sprouting garden, where their tobacco pipes might fume in peace. Assessing the latter venue as the best means of avoiding interruption, Jamie led the Major toward the brick-lined path that curved toward the stables.

“Have you seen Wylie’s Friesians?” the Major asked as they rounded the house, making casual conversation ’til they should be safely out of earshot.

“Aye, I have. The stallion’s a fine animal, is he not?” By reflex, Jamie’s eyes turned toward the paddock by the barn. The stallion was browsing, nibbling at the weeds by the trough, while the two mares head-and-tailed it companionably near the stable, broad backs shining in the pale sun.

“Aye? Well, perhaps.” The Major squinted toward the paddock, one eye half-shut in dubious agreement. “Sound enough, I daresay. Good chest. All that hair, though—wouldn’t do in a cavalry horse, though I suppose if it were proper shaved and dressed …”

Jamie suppressed the urge to ask whether MacDonald liked his women shaved as well. The image of the loosened curl spiraling down that bare white neck was still in his mind. Perhaps the stables might afford a better opportunity.… He pushed that thought aside, for later reference.

“You had some matter with which ye were concerned, Major?” he asked, more abruptly than he’d meant to.

“Not so much my own concern,” MacDonald replied equably. “I had been told that you have some interest in the whereabouts of a gentleman named Stephen Bonnet. Am I reliably informed, sir?”

He felt the name like a blow to the chest; it took his wind for a moment. Without conscious thought, his left hand curled over the hilt of his dirk.

“I—yes. You know his whereabouts?”

“Unfortunately, no.” MacDonald’s brow lifted, seeing his response. “I ken where he has been, though. A wicked lad, our Stephen, or so I gather?” he inquired, with a hint of jocularity.

“Ye might say so. He has killed men, robbed me—and raped my daughter,” Jamie said bluntly.

The Major drew breath, face darkening in sudden understanding.

“Ah, I see,” he said softly. He lifted his hand briefly, as though to touch Jamie’s arm, but let it fall to his side. He walked a few steps further, brows puckered in concentration.

“I see,” he said again, all hint of amusement gone from his voice. “I hadn’t realized … yes. I see.” He lapsed into silence once again, his steps slowing as they neared the paddock.

“I trust you do intend to tell me what ye know of the man?” Jamie said politely. MacDonald glanced up at him, and appeared to recognize that regardless of his intentions, Jamie’s own intent was to gain what knowledge he had, whether by conversation or more direct methods.

“I have not met the man myself,” MacDonald said mildly. “What I know, I learnt in the course of a social evening in New Bern last month.”

It was an evening of whist tables hosted by Davis Howell, a wealthy shipowner and a member of the Governor’s Royal Council. The party, small but select, had begun with an excellent supper, then moved on to cards and conversation, well marinated with rum punch and brandy.

As the hour grew late and the smoke of cigarillos heavy in the air, the conversation grew unguarded, and there were jocular references to the recent improvement in one Mr. Butler’s fortunes, with much half-veiled speculation as to the source of his new riches. One gentleman, expressing envy, was heard to say, “If one could but have a Stephen Bonnet in one’s pocket …” before being elbowed into silence by a friend whose discretion was not quite so much dissolved in rum.

“Was Mr. Butler among those present at this soiree?” Jamie asked sharply. The name was unfamiliar, but if Butler was known to members of the Royal Council … well, the circles of power in the colony were small; someone in them would be known to his aunt, or to Farquard Campbell.

“No, he wasn’t.” They had reached the paddock; MacDonald rested his folded arms atop the rail, eyes fixed on the stallion. “He resides, I believe, in Edenton.”

As did Phillip Wylie. The stallion—Lucas, that was his name—sidled toward them, soft black nostrils flaring in curiosity. Jamie stretched out his knuckles mechanically and, the horse proving amiable, rubbed the sleek jawline. Beautiful as the Friesian was, he scarcely noticed it, his thoughts spinning like a whirligig.

Edenton lay on the Albemarle Sound, easily accessible by boat. Likely, then, that Bonnet had returned to his sailor’s trade—and with it, piracy and smuggling.

“Ye called Bonnet ‘a wicked lad,’ ” he said, turning to MacDonald. “Why?”

“Much of a hand at whist, Colonel Fraser?” MacDonald glanced at him inquiringly. “I recommend it particularly. It shares some advantage with chess, in terms of discovering the mind of one’s opponent, and the greater advantage, in that it can be played against a greater number.” The hard-bitten lines of his face relaxed momentarily in a faint smile. “And the still greater advantage that it is possible to earn a living by it, which is seldom the case with chess.”

“I am familiar with the game, sir,” Jamie returned, with extreme dryness.

MacDonald was a half-pay officer, with neither official duties nor an active regiment. It was by no means unusual for such men to eke out their meager salary by the acquisition of small bits of intelligence, which might be sold or traded. No price was being asked—now—but that didn’t mean that the debt would not be called in later. Jamie gave a brief nod in acknowledgment of the situation, and MacDonald nodded in turn, satisfied. He would say what he wanted, in good time.

“Well, sir. I was, as ye might suppose, intrigued to learn who this Bonnet might be—and if he were indeed a golden egg, which goose’s arse he’d dropped out of.”

MacDonald’s companions had regained their caution, though, and he could learn nothing further of the mysterious Bonnet—save the effect he had on those who had met him.

“You’ll ken that often enough, ye learn as much from what men don’t say, as what they do? Or from how they say it?” Without waiting for Jamie’s nod, he went on.

“There were eight of us at play. Three were making free with their speculations, but I could see they kent nay more of Mr. Bonnet than I did myself. Two more seemed neither to know nor to care, but the last two—” He shook his head. “They became very quiet, sir. Like those who will not speak of the devil, for fear of summoning him.”

MacDonald’s eyes were bright with speculation.

“You are familiar with the fellow Bonnet yourself?”

“I am. The two gentlemen who knew him?”

“Walter Priestly and Hosea Wright,” MacDonald responded promptly. “Both particular friends of the Governor.”

“Merchants?”

“Among other things. Both have warehouses; Wright in Edenton and Plymouth, Priestly in Charleston, Savannah, Wilmington, and Edenton. Priestly has business concerns in Boston, as well,” MacDonald added as an afterthought. “Though I know little of their nature. Oh—and Wright’s a banker.”

Jamie nodded. His hands were folded together beneath the tails of his coat as he walked; no one could see how tightly his fingers clenched.

“I believe I have heard of Mr. Wright,” he said. “Phillip Wylie mentioned that a gentleman of that name owns a plantation near his own.”

MacDonald nodded in affirmation. The end of his nose had gone quite red, and small broken blood vessels stood out in his cheeks, mementoes of years spent campaigning.

“Aye, that would be Four Chimneys.” He glanced sidewise at Jamie, tongue probing a back tooth as he thought.

“Ye mean to kill him, then?”

“Of course not,” Jamie replied evenly. “A man so well-connected wi’ those in high places?”

MacDonald looked at him sharply, then away with a brief snort.

“Aye. Just so.”

They paced side by side for several moments without speech, each occupied with his private calculations—and each aware of the other’s.

The news of Bonnet’s associations cut both ways; on the one hand, it would likely make the man easier to find. On the other, those associations would complicate matters quite a bit, when it came to the killing. It wouldn’t stop Jamie—and MacDonald clearly perceived that—but it was a matter for thought, to be sure.

MacDonald himself was a considerable complication. Bonnet’s business associates would be interested to hear that someone meant to cut off their source of profit—and would be more than likely to take action to prevent it. They would also pay well for the news that their golden goose was threatened; a prospect MacDonald would naturally appreciate.

There was no immediate way of corking up MacDonald, though; Jamie lacked the means for bribery, and that was a poor recourse in any case, as a man who could be bought once was always for sale.

He glanced at MacDonald, who met his eye, smiled slightly, then turned his head away. No, intimidation wouldn’t serve, even had he a mind to threaten one who’d done him a service. What, then? He could scarcely knock MacDonald on the head, only to prevent his spilling to Wright, Priestly, or Butler.

Well, and if it could not be bribery or force, the only thing left to stop the man’s mouth was blackmail. Which presented its own complications, insofar as he knew nothing—for the moment—to MacDonald’s discredit. A man who lived as the Major did almost certainly had weak spots, but finding them … how much time might he have?

That thought triggered another.

“How did ye hear that I sought news of Stephen Bonnet?” he demanded abruptly, breaking in on MacDonald’s own contemplations.

MacDonald shrugged, and settled his hat and wig more firmly.

“I heard it from a half dozen different sources, sir, in places from taverns to magistrates’ courts. Your interest is well known, I fear. But not,” he added delicately, with a sideways glance, “its reason.”

Jamie grunted, deep in his throat. It seemed he had no knife with but a single edge. Casting a wide net had brought him his fish—but without doubt, it had also caused ripples that might warn away the whale. If the whole coast knew he sought Bonnet—then so did Bonnet.

Perhaps this was a bad thing; or perhaps it was not. If Brianna were to hear of it—she had been outspoken in her desire that he leave Bonnet to his own fate. That was nonsense, of course, but he hadn’t argued with her; only listened with every appearance of consideration. She need know nothing until the man was safely dead, after all. If an unwary word were to reach her before that, though … He had only begun to turn the possibilities over in his mind when MacDonald spoke again.

“Your daughter … that would be Mrs. MacKenzie, would it?”

“Does it matter?” He spoke coldly, and MacDonald’s lips tightened briefly.

“No. To be sure. ’Twas only—I had some conversation of Mrs. MacKenzie, and found her most … charming. The thought of—” He broke off, clearing his throat. “I have a daughter, myself,” he said abruptly, stopping and turning to face Jamie.

“Aye?” Jamie had not heard that MacDonald was married. Quite possibly he wasn’t. “That would be in Scotland?”

“In England. Her mother’s English.” The chill had painted streaks of color on the soldier’s weathered skin. They deepened, but MacDonald’s pale blue eyes stayed steady on Jamie’s, the same color as the hazy sky behind him.

Jamie felt the tightness down his backbone ease. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and let them fall. MacDonald nodded infinitesimally. The two men turned, without discussion, and started back toward the house, conversing casually of the price of indigo, the latest news from Massachusetts, and the surprising clemency of the weather for the season.

“I had spoken with your wife, a little earlier,” MacDonald remarked. “A charming woman, and most amiable—you are a fortunate man, sir.”

“I am inclined to think so,” Jamie replied, darting a glance at MacDonald.

The soldier coughed, delicately.

“Mrs. Fraser was so kind as to suggest that you might consider providing me with a letter of introduction to his Excellency, the Governor. In light of the recent threat of conflict, she thought that perhaps a man of my experience might be able to provide something in the way of … you see?”

Jamie saw fine. And while he doubted that Claire had suggested any such thing, he was relieved to find the price asked so cheap.

“It shall be done at once,” he assured MacDonald. “See me after the wedding this afternoon, and I shall have it in hand for ye.”

MacDonald inclined his head, looking gratified.

As they reached the path that led to the necessary houses, MacDonald nodded farewell and took his leave with a raised hand, passing by Duncan Innes, who was coming from that direction, looking drawn and haggard as a man will whose bowels are tied in sheepshank knots.

“Are ye well, Duncan?” Jamie asked, eyeing his friend with some concern. Despite the coolness of the day, a faint sheen of sweat shone on Innes’s brow, and his cheeks were pale. Jamie hoped that if it were an ague, it wasn’t catching.

“No,” Innes said, in answer to his question. “No, I am … Mac Dubh, I must speak to ye.”

“Of course, a charaid.” Alarmed by the man’s appearance, he took hold of Duncan’s arm, to support him. “Shall I fetch my wife to ye? D’ye need a wee dram?” From the smell of him, he’d had several already, but nothing out of the ordinary for a bridegroom. He didn’t appear to be the worse for drink, but was plainly the worse for something. Perhaps a bad mussel at last night’s supper.…

Innes shook his head. He swallowed, and grimaced, as though something hard was stuck in his throat. He drew air through his nose then, and set his shoulders, steeling himself to something.

“No, Mac Dubh, it’s yourself I am needing. A bit of counsel, if ye might be so kind …”

“Aye, Duncan, surely.” More curious than alarmed now, he let go of Duncan’s arm. “What is it, man?”

“About—about the wedding night,” Duncan blurted. “I—that is, I have—” He broke off abruptly, seeing someone turning into the path before them, heading for the necessary.

“This way.” Jamie turned toward the kitchen gardens, which were safely enclosed in sheltering brick walls. Wedding night? he thought, both reassured and curious. Duncan had not been married before, he knew, and when they were in Ardsmuir together, Duncan had never spoken of women as some men did. He had thought it only a modest constraint at the time, but perhaps … but no, Duncan was well past fifty; surely the opportunity had occurred.

That left buggery or the clap, he thought, and he’d swear Duncan had no taste for boys. A bit awkward, to be sure, but he had full faith that Claire could deal with it. He did hope it was only drip, and not the French disease, though; that was a cruel plague.

“Here, a charaid,” he said, drawing Duncan after him into the shelter of the onion beds. “We’ll be quite private here. Now, then, what’s your trouble?”