An echo in the bone - Gabaldon Diana (читать книги TXT) 📗

“Who? Oh, Colenso? No, not a word,” he said absently, and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle at whatever he was reading.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A note from Colonel Graves,” he said, carefully refolding it. I wonder if—”

There was another knock at the door, and John frowned at it.

“Not now,” he said. “Come back later.”

“Well, I would,” said a polite voice in a Scottish accent. “But there’s some urgency, ken?”

The door opened, and Jamie stepped in, closing it behind him. He saw me, stood stock-still for an instant, and then I was in his arms, the overwhelming warmth and size of him blotting out in an instant everything around me.

I didn’t know where my blood had gone. Every drop had left my head, and flickering lights danced before my eyes—but none of it was supplying my legs, which had abruptly dissolved under me.

Jamie was holding me up and kissing me, tasting of beer and his beard stubble rasping my face, his fingers buried in my hair, and my breasts warmed and swelled against his chest.

“Oh, there it is,” I murmured.

“What?” he asked, breaking off for a moment.

“My blood.” I touched my tingling lips. “Do that again.”

“Oh, I will,” he assured me. “But there are a number of English soldiers in the neighborhood, and I think—”

The sound of pounding came from below, and reality snapped back into place like a rubber band. I stared at him and sat down very suddenly, my heart pounding like a drum.

“Why the bloody hell aren’t you dead?”

He lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug, the corner of his mouth turning up. He was very thin, brown-faced, and dirty; I could smell his sweat and the grime of long-worn clothes. And the faint whiff of vomit—he’d not been long off a boat.

“Delay for a few seconds longer, Mr. Fraser, and you may well go back to being dead.” John had gone to the window, peering down into the street. He turned, and I saw that his face was pale but glowing like a candle.

“Aye? They were a bit faster than I thought, then,” Jamie said ruefully, going to look out. He turned from the window and smiled. “It’s good to see ye, John—if only for the moment.”

John’s answering smile lit his eyes. He reached out a hand and touched Jamie’s arm, very briefly, as though wishing to assure himself that he was in fact solid.

“Yes,” he said, reaching then for the door. “But come. Down the back stair. Or there’s a hatchway to the attic—if you can get onto the roof—”

Jamie looked at me, his heart in his eyes.

“I’ll come back,” he said. “When I can.” He lifted a hand toward me but stopped with a grimace, turned abruptly to follow John, and they were gone, the sound of their footsteps nearly drowned by the noises from downstairs. I heard the door open below and a rough male voice demanding entrance. Mrs. Figg, bless her intransigent little heart, was having none of it.

I’d been sitting like Lot’s wife, shocked into immobility, but at the sound of Mrs. Figg’s rich expletives was galvanized into action.

My mind was so stunned by the events of the last five minutes that it was, paradoxically, quite clear. There was simply no room in it for thoughts, speculations, relief, joy, or even worry—the only mental faculty I still possessed, apparently, was the ability to respond to an emergency. I snatched my cap, crammed it on my head, and started for the door, stuffing my hair up into it as I went. Mrs. Figg and I together could surely delay the soldiers long enough…

This scheme would probably have worked, save that, as I rushed out onto the landing, I ran into Willie—literally, as he came bounding up the stair and collided heavily with me.

“Mother Claire! Where’s Papa? There are—” He had seized me by the arms as I reeled backward, but his concern for me was superseded by a sound from the hall beyond the landing. He glanced toward the sound—then let go of me, his eyes bulging.

Jamie stood at the end of the hall, some ten feet away; John stood beside him, white as a sheet, and his eyes bulging as much as Willie’s were. This resemblance to Willie, striking as it was, was completely overwhelmed by Jamie’s own resemblance to the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere. William’s face had hardened and matured, losing all trace of childish softness, and from both ends of the short hall, deep blue Fraser cat-eyes stared out of the bold, solid bones of the MacKenzies. And Willie was old enough to shave on a daily basis; he knew what he looked like.

Willie’s mouth worked, soundless with shock. He looked wildly at me, back at Jamie, back at me—and saw the truth in my face.

“Who are you?” he said hoarsely, wheeling on Jamie.

I saw Jamie draw himself slowly upright, ignoring the noise below.

“James Fraser,” he said. His eyes were fixed on William with a burning intensity, as though to absorb every vestige of a sight he would not see again. “Ye kent me once as Alex MacKenzie. At Helwater.”

William blinked, blinked again, and his gaze shifted momentarily to John.

“And who—who the bloody hell am I?” he demanded, the end of the question rising in a squeak.

John opened his mouth, but it was Jamie who answered.

“You are a stinking Papist,” he said, very precisely, “and your baptismal name is James.” The ghost of regret crossed his face and then was gone. “It was the only name I had a right to give ye,” he said quietly, eyes on his son. “I’m sorry.”

Willie’s left hand slapped at his hip, reflexively looking for a sword. Finding nothing, he slapped at his chest. His hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t manage buttons; he simply seized the fabric and ripped open his shirt, reached in and fumbled for something. He pulled it over his head and, in the same motion, hurled the object at Jamie.

Jamie’s reflexes brought his hand up automatically, and the wooden rosary smacked into it, the beads swinging, tangled in his fingers.

“God damn you, sir,” Willie said, voice trembling. “God damn you to hell!” He half-turned blindly, then spun on his heel to face John. “And you! You knew, didn’t you? God damn you, too!”

“William—” John reached out a hand to him, helpless, but before he could say anything more, there was a sound of voices in the hall below and heavy feet on the stair.

“Sassenach—keep him back!” Jamie’s voice reached me through the hubbub, sharp and clear. By sheer reflex, I obeyed and seized Willie by the arm. He glanced at me, mouth open, completely nonplused.

“What—” His voice was drowned by the thunder of feet on the stairs and a triumphant whoop from the redcoat in front.

“There he is!”

Suddenly the landing was thronged with bodies pushing and shoving, trying to get past Willie and me into the hallway. I clung like grim death, despite the jostling and despite Willie’s own belated efforts to free himself.

All at once the shouting stopped, and the press of bodies relaxed just a bit. My cap had been knocked over my eyes in the struggle, and I let go of Willie’s arm with one hand in order to pull it off. I dropped it on the floor. I had a feeling that my status as a respectable woman wasn’t going to be important for much longer.

Brushing disheveled hair out of my eyes with a forearm, I resumed my grip on Willie, though this was largely unnecessary, as he seemed turned to stone. The redcoats were shifting on their feet, clearly ready to charge but inhibited by something. I turned a little and saw Jamie, one arm wrapped around John Grey’s throat, holding a pistol to John’s temple.

“One step more,” he said, calmly but loud enough to be easily heard, “and I put a ball through his brain. D’ye think I’ve anything to lose?”

Actually, given that Willie and myself were standing right in front of him, I rather thought he did—but the soldiers didn’t know that, and judging from the expression on Willie’s face, he would have torn his tongue out by the roots rather than blurt out the truth. I also thought he didn’t particularly care at the moment if Jamie did kill John and then die in a fusillade of bullets. His arm was like iron under my grip; he’d have killed them both himself, if he could.