Dragonfly In Amber - Gabaldon Diana (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений txt) 📗
“Jesus God, Sassenach! Never do that again, d’ye hear? Be quiet,” he said briefly to Mary, who had escaped from the pillow and was now sitting bolt upright in bed, bug-eyed and spluttering. “I didna mean ye harm; I thought ye were my wife.” He strode purposefully round the bed, took me by both shoulders and kissed me hard, as though to reassure himself that he’d got the right woman now. He had, and I kissed him back with considerable fervor, reveling in the scrape of his unshaven beard and the warm, pungent scent of him; damp linen and wool, with a strong hint of male sweat.
“Get dressed,” he said, letting go. “The damn house is crawling wi’ servants. It’s like an ant’s nest below.”
“How did you get in here?” I asked, looking around for my discarded gown.
“Through the door, of course,” he said impatiently. “Here.” He seized my gown from the back of a chair and tossed it at me. Sure enough, the massive door stood open, a great ring of keys protruding from the lock.
“But how…” I began.
“Later,” he said brusquely. He spotted Mary, out of bed and struggling into her nightrobe. “Best get back in bed, lassie,” he advised. “The floor’s cold.”
“I’m coming with you.” The words were muffled by the folds of cloth, but her determination was evident as her head popped through the neck of the robe and emerged, tousled-haired and defiant.
“The hell you are,” Jamie said. He glared at her, and I noticed the fresh, raw scratches down his cheek. Seeing the quiver of her lips, though, he mastered his temper with an effort, and spoke reassuringly. “Dinna mind, lassie. You’ll have no trouble over it. I’ll lock the door behind us, and ye can tell everyone in the morning what’s happened. No one shall hold ye to blame.”
Ignoring this, Mary thrust her feet hastily into her slippers and ran toward the door.
“Hey! Where d’ye think you’re going?” Startled, Jamie swung around after her, but not soon enough to stop her reaching the door. She stood in the hallway just outside, poised like a deer.
“I’m going with you!” she said fiercely. “If you don’t take me, I shall run down the corridor, screaming as loudly as I can. So there!”
Jamie stared at her, his hair gleaming copper in the candlelight and the blood rising in his face, obviously torn between the necessity for silence and the urge to kill her with his bare hands and damn the noise. Mary glared back, one hand holding up her skirts, ready to run. Now dressed and shod, I poked him in the ribs, breaking his concentration.
“Take her,” I said briefly. “Let’s go.”
He gave me a look that was twin to the one he’d been giving Mary, but hesitated no more than a moment. With a short nod, he took my arm and the three of us hurried out into the chill darkness of the corridor.
The house was at once deathly still and full of noises; boards squeaked loud beneath our feet and our garments rustled like leaves in a gale. The walls seemed to breathe with the settlings of wood, and small, half-heard sounds beyond the corridor suggested the secretive burrowings of animals underground. And over all was the deep and frightening silence of a great, dark house, sunk in a sleep that must not be broken.
Mary’s hand was tight on my arm, as we crept down the hall behind Jamie. He moved like a shadow, hugging the wall, but quickly, for all his silence.
As we passed one door, I heard the sound of soft footsteps on the other side. Jamie heard them, too, and flattened himself against the wall, motioning Mary and me ahead of him. The plaster of the wall was cold against the palms of my hands, as I tried to press backward into it.
The door opened cautiously, and a head in a puffy white mobcap poked out, peering down the hall in the direction away from us.
“Hullo?” it said in a whisper. “Is that you, Albert?” A tickle of cold sweat ran down my spine. A housemaid, apparently expecting a visitation from the Duke’s valet, who seemed to be keeping up the reputation of Frenchmen.
I didn’t think she was going to consider an armed Highlander an adequate substitute for her absent lover. I could feel Jamie tense beside me, trying to overcome his scruples against striking a woman. Another instant, and she would turn, see him, and scream the house down.
I stepped out from the wall.
“Er, no,” I said apologetically, “I’m afraid it’s only me.”
The maidservant started convulsively, and I took a swift step past, so that she was facing me, with Jamie still behind her.
“Sorry to alarm you,” I said, smiling cheerily. “I couldn’t sleep, you see. Thought I’d try a spot of hot milk. Tell me, am I headed right for the kitchens?”
“Eh?” The maid, a plump miss in her early twenties, gaped unbecomingly, exposing evidence of a distressing lack of concern for dental hygiene. Luckily, it wasn’t the same maid who had seen me to my room; she might not realize that I was a prisoner, not a guest.
“I’m a guest in the house,” I said, driving the point home. Continuing on the principle that the best defense is a good offense, I stared accusingly at her.
“Albert, eh? Does His Grace know that you are in the habit of entertaining men in your room at night?” I demanded. This seemed to hit a nerve, for the woman paled and dropped to her knees, clutching at my skirt. The prospect of exposure was so alarming that she didn’t pause to ask exactly why a guest should be wandering about the halls in the wee hours of the morning, wearing not only gown and shoes, but a traveling cloak as well.
“Oh, mum! Please, you won’t say nothing to His Grace, will you? I can see you’ve a kind face, mum, surely you’d not want to see me dismissed from my place? Have pity on me, my lady, I’ve six brothers and sisters still at home, and I…”
“Now, now,” I soothed, patting her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell the Duke. You just go back to your bed, and…” Talking in the sort of voice one uses with children and mental patients, I eased her, still volubly protesting her innocence, back into the small closet of a room.
I shut the door on her and leaned against it for support. Jamie’s face loomed up from the shadows before me, grinning. He said nothing, but patted me on the head in congratulation, before taking my arm and urging me down the hall once more.
Mary was waiting under the window on the landing, her nightrobe glowing white in the moonlight that beamed momentarily through scudding clouds outside. A storm was gathering, from the looks of it, and I wondered whether this would help or hinder our escape.
Mary clutched at Jamie’s plaid as he stepped onto the landing.
“Shh!” she whispered. “Someone’s coming!”
Someone was; I could hear the faint thud of footsteps coming from below, and the pale wash of a candle lit the stairwell. Mary and I looked wildly about, but there was absolutely no place to hide. This was a back stair, meant for the servants’ use, and the landings were simple squares of flooring, totally unrelieved by furniture or convenient hangings.
Jamie sighed in resignation. Then, motioning me and Mary back into the hallway from which we had come, he drew his dirk and waited, poised in the shadowed corner of the landing.
Mary’s fingers clutched and twined with mine, squeezing tight in an agony of apprehension. Jamie had a pistol hanging from his belt, but plainly couldn’t use it within the house – and a servant would realize that, making it useless for threat. It would have to be the knife, and my stomach quivered with pity for the hapless servant who was just about to come face-to-face with fifteen stone of keyed-up Scot and the threat of black steel.
I was taking stock of my apparel, and thinking that I could spare one of my petticoats to be used for bindings, when the bowed head of the candle-bearer came in sight. The dark hair was parted down the middle and slicked with a stinkingly sweet pomade that at once brought back the memory of a dark Paris street and the curve of thin, cruel lips beneath a mask.
