Two days after the raid, we turned again to the north. We were drawing closer to the rendezvous with Horrocks, and Jamie seemed abstracted from time to time, perhaps considering what importance the English deserter’s news might have.
I had not seen Hugh Munro again, but I had wakened in darkness the night before to find Jamie gone from the blanket beside me. I tried to stay awake, waiting for him to return, but fell asleep as the moon began to sink. In the morning, he was sound asleep beside me, and on my blanket rested a small parcel, done up in a sheet of thin paper, fastened with the tail-feather of a woodpecker thrust through the sheet. Unfolding it carefully, I found a large chunk of rough amber. One face of the chunk had been smoothed off and polished, and in this window could be seen the delicate dark form of a tiny dragonfly, suspended in eternal flight.
I smoothed out the wrapping. A message was incised on the grimy white surface, written in small and surprisingly elegant lettering.
“What does it say?” I asked Jamie, squinting at the odd letters and marks. “I think it’s in Gaelic.”
He raised up on one elbow squinting at the paper.
“Not Gaelic. Latin. Munro was a schoolmaster once, before the Turks took him. It’s a bit from Catullus,” he said.
…da mi basia mille, diende centum,
dein mille altera, dein secunda centum…
A faint blush pinkened his earlobes as he translated:
Then let amorous kisses dwell On our lips, begin and tell
A Thousand and a Hundred score A Hundred, and a Thousand more.
“Well, that’s a bit more high-class than your usual fortune cookie,” I observed, amused.
“What?” Jamie looked startled.
“Never mind,” I said hastily. “Did Munro find Horrocks for you?”
“Oh, aye. It’s arranged. I’ll meet him in a small place I know in the hills, a mile or two above Lag Cruime. In four days’ time, if nothing goes wrong meanwhile.”
The mention of things going wrong made me a bit nervous. “Do you think it’s safe? I mean, do you trust Horrocks?”
He sat up, rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes and blinking.
“An English deserter? God, no. I imagine he’d sell me to Randall as soon as he’d spit, except that he canna very well go to the English himself. They hang deserters. No, I dinna trust him. That’s why I came wi’ Dougal on this journey, instead of seeking out Horrocks alone. If the man’s up to anything, at least I’ll have company.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure that Dougal’s presence was all that reassuring, given the apparent state of affairs between Jamie and his two scheming uncles.
“Well, if you think so,” I said doubtfully. “I don’t suppose Dougal would take the opportunity to shoot you, at least.”
“He did shoot me,” Jamie said cheerfully, buttoning his shirt. “You should know, ye dressed the wound.”
I dropped the comb I had been using. “Dougal! I thought the English shot you!”
“Well, the English shot at me,” he corrected. “And I shouldna say it was Dougal shot me; in fact, it was probably Rupert—he’s the best marksman among Dougal’s men. No, when we were running from the English, I realized we were near the edge of the Fraser lands, and I thought I’d take my chances there. So I spurred up and cut to the left, around Dougal and the rest. There was a good deal of shooting goin’ on, mind ye, but the ball that hit me came from behind. Dougal, Rupert, and Murtagh were back of me then. And the English were all in front—in fact, when I fell off the horse, I rolled down the hill and ended almost in their laps.” He bent over the bucket of water I had brought, splashing cold handfuls over his face. He shook his head to clear his eyes, then blinked at me, grinning, glistening drops clinging to his thick lashes and brows.
“Come to that, Dougal had a sore fight to get me back. I was lyin’ on the ground, not fit for much, and he was standing over me, pulling on my belt with one hand to get me up and his sword in the other, going hand-to-hand with a dragoon who thought he had a certain cure for my ills. Dougal killed the man and got me on his own horse.” He shook his head. “Everything was a bit dim to me then; all I could think of was how hard it must be on the horse, tryin’ to make it up a hill like that with four hundred pounds on his back.”
I sat back, a little stunned.
“But…if he’d wanted to, Dougal could have killed you then.”
Jamie shook his head, taking out the straight razor he had borrowed from Dougal. He moved the bucket slightly, so the surface formed a reflecting pool, and pulling his face into the tortuous grimace men use when they shave, began to scrape his cheeks.
“No, not in front of the men. Besides, Dougal and Colum didna necessarily want me dead—especially not Dougal.”
“But—” My head was beginning to whirl again, as it seemed to do whenever I encountered the complexities of Scottish family life.
Jamie’s words were a little muffled, as he stuck out his chin, tilting his head to reach the bit of stubble beneath his jaw.
“It’s Lallybroch,” he explained, feeling with his free hand for stray whiskers. “Besides being a rich bit of ground, the estate sits at the head of a mountain pass, d’ye see. The only good pass into the Highlands for ten miles in either direction. Come to another Rising, it would be a valuable bit of land to control. And if I were to die before wedding, chances are the land would go back to the Frasers.”
He grinned, stroking his neck. “No, I’m a pretty problem to the brothers MacKenzie. On the one hand, if I’m a threat to young Hamish’s chieftainship, they want me safely dead. On the other, if I’m not, they want me—and my property—securely on their side if it comes to war—not wi’ the Frasers. That’s why they’re willing to help me wi’ Horrocks, ye see. I canna do that much wi’ Lallybroch while I’m outlawed, even though the land’s still mine.”
I rolled up the blankets, shaking my head in bewilderment over the intricate—and dangerous—circumstances through which Jamie seemed to
move so nonchalantly. And it struck me suddenly that not only Jamie was involved now. I looked up.
“You said that if you died before wedding, the land would go back to the Frasers,” I said. “But you’re married now. So who—”
“That’s right,” he said, nodding at me with a lopsided grin. The morning sun lit his hair with flames of gold and copper. “If I’m killed now, Sassenach, Lallybroch is yours.”
It was a beautiful sunny morning, once the mist had risen. Birds were busy in the heather, and the road was wide here, for a change, and softly dusty under the horses’ hooves.
Jamie rode up close beside me as we crested a small hill. He nodded to the right.
“See that wee glade down below there?”
“Yes.” It was a small green patchwork of pines, oaks, and aspens, set back some distance from the road.
“There’s a spring with a pool there, under the trees, and smooth grass. A very bonny place.”
I looked over at him quizzically. “A little early for lunch, isn’t it?”
“That’s not precisely what I had in mind.” Jamie, I had found out by accident a few days previously, had never mastered the art of winking one eye. Instead, he blinked solemnly, like a large red owl.
“And just what did you have in mind?” I inquired. My suspicious look met an innocent, childlike gaze of blue.
“I was just wondering what you’d look like…on the grass…under the trees…by the water…with your skirts up around your ears.”
“Er—” I said.
“I’ll tell Dougal we’re going to fetch water.” He spurred up ahead, returning in a moment with the water bottles from the other horses. I heard Rupert shout something after us in Gaelic as we rode down the hill, but couldn’t make out the words.
I reached the glade first. Sliding down, I relaxed on the grass and shut my eyes against the glare of the sun. Jamie reined up beside me a moment later, and swung down from the saddle. He slapped the horse and sent it away,
reins dangling, to graze with mine, before dropping to his knees on the grass. I reached up and pulled him down to me.
It was a warm day, redolent with grass and flower scents. Jamie himself smelled like a fresh-plucked grass blade, sharp and sweet.
“We’ll have to be quick,” I said. “They’ll be wondering why it’s taking so long to get water.”
“They won’t wonder,” he said, undoing my laces with a practiced ease. “They know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did ye no hear what Rupert said as we left?”
“I heard him, but I couldn’t tell what he said.” My Gaelic was improving to the point that I could understand the more common words, but conversation was still far beyond me.
“Good. It wasna fit for your ears.” Having freed my breasts, he buried his face in them, sucking and biting gently until I could stand it no more and slid down beneath him, tucking my skirts up out of the way. Feeling absurdly self-conscious after that fierce and primitive encounter on the rock, I had been shy about letting him make love to me near the camp, and the woods were too thick to safely move very far from the campsite. Both of us were feeling the mild and pleasant strain of abstinence, and now, safely removed from curious eyes and ears, we came together with an impact that made my lips and fingers tingle with a rush of blood.
We were both nearing the end when Jamie froze abruptly. Opening my eyes, I saw his face dark against the sun, wearing a perfectly indescribable expression. There was something black pressed against his head. My eyes at last adjusting to the glare, I saw it was a musket barrel.
“Get up, you rutting bastard.” The barrel moved sharply, jarring against Jamie’s temple. Very slowly, he rose to his feet. A drop of blood began to well from the graze, dark against his white face.
There were two of them; Redcoat deserters from the look of their ragtag remnants of uniform. Both were armed with muskets and pistols, and looked very much amused by what chance had delivered into their hands. Jamie stood with his hands raised, the barrel of a musket pressed against his chest, face carefully expressionless.
“You might ha’ let ’im finish, ’Arry,” said one of the men. He grinned broadly, with a fine display of rotting teeth. “Stoppin’ in the middle like
that’s bad for a man’s ’ealth.”
His fellow prodded Jamie in the chest with the musket.
“ ’Is ’ealth’s no concern o’ mine. An’ it won’t be any concern to ’im for much longer. I’ve a mind to take a piece o’ that,” he nodded briefly in my direction, “an’ I don’t care to come second to any man, let alone a Scottish whoreson like this.”
Rotten-teeth laughed. “I bain’t so bloody particular. Kill ’im, then, and get on wi’ it.”
Harry, a short, stout man with a squint, considered a moment, eyeing me speculatively. I still sat on the ground, knees drawn up and skirts pressed firmly around my ankles. I had made some effort to close my bodice, but a good deal was still exposed. Finally the short man laughed and beckoned to his companion.
“No, let ’im watch. Come ower ’ere, Arnold, and ’old your musket on ’im.” Arnold obeyed, still grinning widely. Harry set his musket down on the ground and dropped his pistol belt beside it in preparation.
Pressing my skirts down, I became aware of a hard object in the right- hand pocket. The dagger Jamie had given me. Could I bring myself to use it? Yes, I decided, looking at Harry’s pimpled, leering face, I definitely could.
I would have to wait ’til the last possible second, though, and I had my doubts as to whether Jamie could control himself that long. I could see the urge to kill marked strong on his features; soon consideration of the consequences would no longer be enough to hold him back.
I didn’t dare let too much show on my face, but narrowed my eyes and glared at him as hard as I could, willing him not to move. The cords stood out in his neck, and his face was suffused with dark blood, but I saw an infinitesimal nod in acknowledgment of my message.
I struggled as Harry pressed me to the ground and tried to pull up my skirts, more in order to get my hand on the dagger hilt than in actual resistance. He slapped me hard across the face, ordering me to be still. My cheek burned and my eyes watered, but the dagger was now in my hand, concealed under the folds of my skirt.
I lay back, breathing heavily. I concentrated on my objective, trying to erase everything else from my mind. It would have to be in the back; the quarters were too close to try for the throat.
The filthy fingers were digging into my thighs now, wrenching them apart. In my mind, I could see Rupert’s blunt finger stabbing at Murtagh’s ribs, and hear his voice, “Here, lass, up under the lowest ribs, close to the backbone. Stab hard, upward into the kidney, and he’ll drop like a stone.”
It was almost time; Harry’s foul breath was disgustingly warm on my face, and he was fumbling between my bared legs, intent on his goal.
“Take a good look, laddie-buck, and see how it’s done,” he panted, “I’ll ’ave your slut moaning for more before—”
I whipped my left arm around his neck to hold him close; holding the knife hand high, I plunged it in as hard as I could. The shock of impact reverberated up my arm, and I nearly lost my hold on the dagger. Harry yelped and squirmed, twisting to get away. Unable to see, I had aimed too high, and the knife had skittered off a rib.
I couldn’t let go now. Luckily, my legs were free of the entangling skirts. I wrapped them tightly around Harry’s sweating hips, holding him down for the precious seconds I needed for another try. I stabbed again, with a desperate strength, and this time found the spot.
Rupert had been right. Harry bucked in a hideous parody of the act of love, then collapsed without a sound in a limp heap on top of me, blood jetting in diminishing spurts from the wound in his back.
Arnold’s attention had been distracted for an instant by the spectacle on the ground, and an instant was more than long enough for the maddened Scotsman he held at bay. By the time I had gathered my wits sufficiently to wriggle out from under the defunct Harry, Arnold had joined his companion in death, throat neatly cut from ear to ear by the sgian dhu that Jamie carried in his stocking.
Jamie knelt beside me, pulling me out from under the corpse. We were both shaking with nerves and shock, and we clung together without speaking for minutes. Still without speaking, he picked me up and carried me away from the two bodies, to a grassy space behind a screen of aspen.
He lowered me to the ground and sat down awkwardly beside me, collapsing as though his knees had suddenly given way. I felt a chilly isolation, as though the winter wind blew through my bones, and reached for him. He raised his head from his knees, face haggard, and stared at me as though he had never seen me before. When I put my hands on his
shoulders, he pulled me hard against his chest with a sound midway between a groan and a sob.
We took each other then, in a savage, urgent silence, thrusting fiercely and finishing within moments, driven by a compulsion I didn’t understand, but knew we must obey, or be lost to each other forever. It was not an act of love, but one of necessity, as though we knew that left alone, neither of us could stand. Our only strength lay in fusion, drowning the memories of death and near-rape in the flooding of the senses.
We clung together on the grass then, disheveled, blood-stained, and shivering in the sunshine. Jamie muttered something, his voice so low that I caught only the word “sorry.”
“Not your fault,” I muttered, stroking his hair. “It’s all right, we’re both all right.” I felt dreamlike, as though nothing whatever was real around me, and I dimly recognized the symptoms of delayed shock.
“Not that,” he said. “Not that. It was my fault.…So foolish to come here without taking proper heed. And to let you be…I didna mean that, though. I meant…I’m sorry for using ye as I did just now. To take you like that, so soon after…like some sort of animal. I’m sorry, Claire…I don’t know what…I couldna help it, but…Lord, you’re so cold, mo duinne, your hands are ice, Come then, let me warm ye.”
Shock, too, I thought fuzzily. Funny how it takes some people in talk. Others just shake quietly. Like me. I pressed his mouth against my shoulder to quiet him.
“It’s all right,” I said, over and over. “It’s all right.”
Suddenly a shadow fell across us, making us both jump. Dougal stood glowering down at us, arms folded. He courteously averted his eyes while I hastily did up my laces, frowning instead at Jamie.
“Now look ye, lad, takin’ your pleasure wi’ your wife is all verra weel, but when it comes to leavin’ us all waiting for more than an hour, and being so taen up wi’ each other that ye dinna even hear me comin’—that kind o’ behavior will get ye in trouble one day, laddie. Why, someone could come up behind ye and clap a pistol to your head before ye knew—”
He stopped in his tirade to stare incredulously at me, rolling on the grass in hysterics. Jamie, red as a beetroot, led Dougal to the other side of the aspen screen, explaining in a subdued voice. I continued to whoop and giggle uncontrollably, finally stuffing a handkerchief in my mouth to muffle
the noise. The sudden release of emotions, coupled with Dougal’s words, had evoked a picture of Jamie’s face, caught in the act as it were, that I found totally hilarious in my unhinged state. I laughed and moaned until my sides ached. Finally, I sat up, wiping my eyes on my kerchief, to see Dougal and Jamie standing over me, wearing identical expressions of disapproval. Jamie hoisted me to my feet and led me, still hiccuping and snorting occasionally, to where the rest of the men were waiting with the horses.
Except for a lingering tendency to laugh hysterically over nothing, I seemed to suffer no ill effects from our encounter with the deserters, though I became very cautious about leaving the campsite. Dougal assured me that bandits were not, in fact, that common on the Highland roads, only because there were not many travelers worth robbing, but I found myself starting nervously at sounds in the wood, and hastening back from routine chores like fetching wood and water, eager for the sight and sound of the MacKenzie men. I also found new reassurance in the sound of their snoring around me at night, and lost whatever self-consciousness I might have had about the discreet writhings that took place under our blankets.
I was still somewhat fearful of being alone when, a few days later, the time for the meeting with Horrocks arrived.
“Stay here?” I said in disbelief. “No! I’m going with you.”
“You can’t,” said Jamie patiently, once more. “The bulk of the men will go on to Lag Cruime wi’ Ned, to collect the rents as expected. Dougal and a few of the others are coming wi’ me to the meeting, in case of any treachery by Horrocks. You can’t be seen in the open near Lag Cruime, though; Randall’s men may be about, and I wouldna put it past him to take ye by force. And as for the meeting wi’ Horrocks, I’ve no idea what may happen. No, there’s a small copse near the bend of the road—it’s thick and grassy, and there’s water nearby. You’ll be comfortable there, until I come back for ye.”
“No,” I said stubbornly. “I’m coming with you.” Some sense of pride made me unwilling to tell him that I was frightened of being away from him. But I was willing to tell him that I was frightened for him.
“You said yourself you don’t know what will happen with Horrocks,” I argued. “I don’t want to wait here, wondering all day what’s happening to
you. Let me come with you,” I coaxed. “I promise I’ll stay out of sight during the meeting. But I don’t want to stay here alone, worrying all day.”
He sighed impatiently, but didn’t argue further. When we reached the copse, though, he leaned over and seized my horse’s bridle, forcing me off the road into the grass. He slid off his horse, tying both sets of reins to a bush. Ignoring my vociferous objections, he disappeared into the trees. Stubbornly, I refused to dismount. He couldn’t make me stay, I thought.
He came down at last to the road. The others had gone on before, but Jamie, mindful of our last experience with deserted glades, wouldn’t leave until he had thoroughly searched the copse, quartering methodically through the trees and swishing the tall grass with a stick. Coming back, he untied the horses, and swung up into his saddle.
“It’s safe,” he said. “Ride up well into the thicket, Claire, and hide yourself and the horse. I’ll be back for ye, as soon as our business is done. I canna tell how long, but surely by sunset.”
“No! I’m coming with you.” I couldn’t stand the thought of stewing in a forest, not knowing what was happening. I would far rather be in active danger than be left for anxious hours, waiting and wondering. And alone.
Jamie curbed his impatience to be gone. He reached over and grasped my shoulder.
“Did ye no promise to obey me?” he asked, shaking me gently.
“Yes, but—” But only because I had to, I was going to say, but he was already urging my horse’s head around toward the thicket.
“It’s verra dangerous, and I’ll not have ye there, Claire. I shall be busy, and if it comes to it, I can’t fight and protect you at the same time.” Seeing my mutinous look, he dropped his hand to the saddlebag and began rummaging.
“What are you looking for?”
“Rope. If ye wilna do as I say, I shall tie ye to a tree until I come back.” “You wouldn’t!”
“Aye, I would!” Plainly he meant it. I gave in with bad grace, and reluctantly reined in my horse. Jamie leaned to kiss me glancingly on the cheek, already turning to go.
“Take care, Sassenach. You’ve your dirk? Good. I shall come back as soon as I can. Oh, one more thing.”
“What’s that?” I said sullenly.
“If you leave that copse before I come for ye, I’ll tan your bare arse wi’ my sword belt. Ye wouldna enjoy walking all the way to Bargrennan. Remember,” he said, pinching my cheek gently, “I dinna make idle threats.” He didn’t, either. I rode slowly toward the grove, looking back to watch him racing away, bent low over the saddle, one with the horse, the ends of his plaid flying behind.
It was cool under the trees; the horse and I both exhaled with relief as we entered the shade. It was one of those rare hot days in Scotland, when the sun blazes out of a bleached muslin sky and the early haze is burnt away by eight o’clock. The copse was loud with birds; a gang of titmice was foraging in the oak clump to the left, and I could hear what I thought was a thrasher in the near distance.
I had always been an enthusiastic amateur birder. If I were marooned here ’til it suited my overbearing, domineering, pig-headed jackass of a husband to finish risking his stupid neck, I’d use the time to see what I could spot.
I hobbled the gelding and turned him loose to graze in the lush grass at the edge of the copse, knowing he wouldn’t go far. The grass ceased abruptly a few feet from the trees, smothered by the encroaching heather.
It was a glade of mixed conifers and oak saplings, perfect for bird- watching. I wandered through it, still mentally fuming at Jamie, but growing gradually calmer as I listened for the distinctive tsee of a flycatcher and the harsh chatter of the mistle thrush.
The glade ended quite suddenly on the far side, on the edge of a small precipice. I thrust my way through the saplings and the sound of bird song was drowned in rushing water. I stood on the lip of a small burn, a steep rocky canyon with waterfalls bounding down the jagged walls to splash in the brown and silver pools below. I sat down on the edge of the bank and let my feet dangle over the water, enjoying the sun on my face.
A crow shot past overhead, closely pursued by a pair of redstarts. The bulky black body zigzagged through the air, trying to avoid the tiny dive- bombers. I smiled, watching the furious small parents chivying the crow to and fro, and wondered whether crows, left to their own devices, really did fly in a straight line. That one, if it kept to a straight path, would head straight for…
I stopped dead.
I had been so intent on arguing with Jamie that it had not until this minute dawned on me that the situation I had been vainly trying to bring about for two months had finally occurred. I was alone. And I knew where I was.
Looking across the burn, my eyes were dazzled by the morning sun blazing through the red ash trees on the far bank. So that was east. My heart began to beat faster. East was over there, Lag Cruime was directly behind me. Lag Cruime was four miles to the north of Fort William. And Fort William was no more than three miles due west of the hill of Craigh na Dun.
So, for the first time since my meeting with Murtagh, I knew approximately where I was—no more than seven miles from that bloody hill and its accursed stone circle. Seven miles—perhaps—from home. From Frank.
I started back into the copse, but changed my mind. I dared not take the road. This close to Fort William and the several small villages that surrounded it, there was too much risk of meeting someone. And I could not take a horse down the precipitous course of the burn. In fact, I had some doubt that it could be managed on foot; the rock walls were sheer in some spots, plunging directly into the foaming water of the stream, with no real footing save the tops of scattered rocks sticking out of the rushing water.
But it was by far the most direct path in the direction I wanted. And I did not dare to take too circuitous a route; I might easily lose my way in the wild growth or be overtaken by Jamie and Dougal, returning.
My stomach gave a sudden lurch as I thought of Jamie. God, how could I do it? Leave him without a word of explanation or apology? Disappear without a trace, after what he had done for me?
With that thought I finally decided to leave the horse. At least he would think I had not left him willingly; he might believe I had been killed by wild beasts—I touched the dagger in my pocket—or possibly kidnapped by outlaws. And finding no trace of me, eventually he would forget me, and wed again. Perhaps the lovely young Laoghaire, back at Leoch.
Absurdly enough, I found that the thought of Jamie sharing Laoghaire’s bed upset me as much as the thought of leaving him. I cursed myself for idiocy, but I couldn’t help imagining her sweet round face, flushed with
ardent longing, and his big hands burying themselves in that moonbeam hair…
I unclenched my teeth and resolutely wiped the tears off my cheeks. I hadn’t time nor energy for senseless reflections. I must go, and now, while I could. It might be the best chance I would get. I hoped that Jamie would forget me. I knew that I would never be able to forget him. But for now, I must put him out of my mind, or I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the job at hand, which was tricky enough.
Cautiously, I picked my way down the steep bank to the edge of the water. The noise of the rushing stream drowned out the birds in the copse above. The going was rough, but there was at least room to walk by the water’s edge here. The bank was muddy, and strewn with rocks, but passable. Further down, I saw that I would have to step out actually into the water, and make my way precariously from rock to rock, balancing above the flood, until the bank widened enough to go ashore again.
I picked my way painfully along, estimating how much time I might have. Jamie had said only that they would return before sundown. Three or four miles to Lag Cruime, but I had no way of knowing what the roads were like, nor how long the business with Horrocks might take. If he was there. But he would be, I argued with myself. Hugh Munro had said so, and outlandish as that grotesque figure had been, Jamie plainly considered him a reliable source of information.
My foot slipped off the first rock in the stream, plunging me into icy water to the knee and soaking my skirt. I withdrew to the bank, tucked my skirts as high as I could and removed both shoes and stockings. I slipped these into the pocket made by my tucked-up skirt and set my foot again on the rock.
I found that by gripping with my toes, I could manage to step from rock to rock without slipping. The bunches of my skirt made it difficult to see where I was going to step next, though, and more than once I found myself sliding into the water. My legs were chilled, and as my feet grew numb, it got harder to maintain my grip.
Luckily the bank widened again, and I stepped gratefully ashore into warm, sticky mud. Short periods of more or less comfortable squelching alternated with much longer periods of precarious rock-hopping through the
freezing rapids, and I found to my relief that I was much too busy to think very much about Jamie.
After a time, I had the routine worked out. Step, grip, pause, look around, locate next step. Step, grip, pause, and so on. I must have become over- confident, or perhaps only tired, because I got careless, and undershot my goal. My foot skidded helplessly down the near side of the slime-coated rock. I waved my arms wildly, trying to move back to the rock I had been on, but my balance had shifted too far. Skirts, petticoats, dagger and all, I plunged into the water.
And kept on plunging. While the stream overall was only a foot or two deep, there were intermittent deep pools, where the scouring water had scooped out deep depressions in the rock. The one on which I’d lost my footing was perched on the edge of one such pool, and when I hit the water, I sank like a rock myself.
I was so stunned by the shock of the icy water rushing into my nose and mouth that I didn’t cry out. Silvery bubbles shot out of the bodice of my dress and rushed past my face toward the surface above. The cotton fabric soaked through almost at once, and the freezing grip of the water paralyzed my breathing.
I began almost at once to fight my way up to the surface, but the weight of my garments pulled me down. I yanked frantically at the laces of my bodice, but there was no hope of getting everything off before I drowned. I made a number of savage and uncharitable silent observations about dressmakers, women’s fashions, and the stupidity of long skirts, while kicking frenziedly to keep the entangling folds away from my legs.
The water was crystal clear. My fingers brushed the rock wall, sliding through the dark slick streamers of duckweed and algae. Slippery as waterweed, that’s what Jamie said about my…
The thought jarred me out of my panic. Suddenly I realized that I shouldn’t be exhausting myself trying to kick to the surface. The pool couldn’t be more than eight or nine feet deep; what I needed to do was relax, float down to the bottom, brace my feet and spring upward. With luck, that would get my head clear for a breath, and even if I went down again, I could continue bouncing off the bottom until I worked my way close enough to the edge to get a decent grip on a rock.
The descent was agonizingly slow. As I was no longer fighting upward, my skirts rose round me in billows, floating in front of my face. I batted them away; I must keep my face clear. My lungs were bursting and there were dark spots behind my eyes by the time my feet touched the smooth bottom of the pool. I let my knees bend slightly, pressing my skirts down around me, then shoved upward with all my might.
It worked, just barely. My face broke the surface at the top of my leap, and I had just time for the briefest of life-saving gulps before the water closed over me again. But it was enough. I knew I could do it again. I pressed my arms down to my sides to streamline myself and make the descent more rapid. Once more, Beauchamp, I thought. Bend your knees, brace yourself, jump!
I shot upward, arms extended overhead. I had seen a flash of red overhead when I broke water last; there must be a rowan tree overhanging the water. Perhaps I could get hold of a branch.
As my face broke water, something seized my outstretched hand.
Something hard, warm, and reassuringly solid. Another hand.
Coughing and spluttering, I groped blindly with my free hand, too glad of rescue to regret the interruption of my escape attempt. Glad, at least until, wiping the hair out of my eyes, I looked up into the beefy, anxious Lancashire face of young Corporal Hawkins.
