Dragonfly In Amber

“Stand aside, laddie. I’ll free ye of the sassenach whore.”

Jamie stepped in front of me, momentarily blocking Dougal from my view.

“You’re tired, Dougal,” he said, speaking calmly, soothingly. “Tired, and hearin’ things, man. D’ye go down now. I shall-”

He had no chance to finish. Dougal wasn’t listening to him; the deep-set green eyes were fixed on my face, and the MacKenzie chief had drawn the dirk from its sheath at his waist.

“I shall cut your throat,” he said to me softly. “I should ha’ done it when first I saw ye. It would have saved us all a great grief.”

I wasn’t sure that he wasn’t right, but that didn’t mean I intended to let him remedy the matter. I took three quick steps back, and fetched up hard against the table.

“Get back, man!” Jamie thrust himself before me, holding up a shielding forearm as Dougal advanced on me.

The MacKenzie chieftain shook his head, bull-like, red-rimmed eyes fixed on me.

“She’s mine,” he said hoarsely. “Witch. Traitoress. Step aside, lad. I wouldna harm ye, but by God, if ye shield that woman, I shall kill you, too, foster son or no.”

He lunged past Jamie, grabbing my arm. Exhausted, starved, and aging as he was, he was still a formidable man, and his fingers bit deep into my flesh.

I yelped with pain, and kicked frantically at him as he jerked me toward him. He snatched at my hair and caught it, forcing my head hard back. His breath was hot and sour on my face. I shrieked and struck at him, digging my nails into his cheek in an effort to get free.

The air exploded from his lungs as Jamie’s fist struck him in the ribs, and his grip on my hair tore loose as Jamie’s other fist came down in a numbing blow on the point of his shoulder. Suddenly freed, I fell back against the table, whimpering with shock and pain.

Dougal whirled to face Jamie then, dropping into a fighter’s crouch, the dirk held blade upward.

“Let it be, then,” he said, breathing heavily. He swayed slightly from side to side, shifting his weight as he sought the advantage. “Blood will tell. Ye damned Fraser spawn. Treachery runs in your blood. Come here to me, fox cub. I’ll kill ye quick, for your mother’s sake.”

There was little room for maneuver in the small attic. No room to draw a sword; with his dirk stuck fast in the tabletop, Jamie was effectively unarmed. He matched Dougal’s stance, eyes watchful, fixed on the point of the menacing dirk.

“Put it down, Dougal,” he said. “If ye bear my mother in mind, then listen to me, for her sake!”

The MacKenzie made no answer, but jabbed suddenly, a ripping blow aimed upward.

Jamie dodged aside, dodged again the wide-armed sweep that came from the other side. Jamie had the agility of youth on his side – but Dougal held the knife.

Dougal closed with a rush, and the dirk slid up Jamie’s side, ripping his shirt, scoring a dark line in his flesh. With a hiss of pain, he jerked back, grabbing for Dougal’s wrist, catching it as the blade struck down.

The dull gleam of the blade flashed once, disappeared between the struggling bodies. They strove together, locked like lovers, the air filled with the smell of male sweat and fury. The blade rose again, two hands grappling on its rounded hilt. A shift, and a jerk, a sudden grunt of effort, one of pain. Dougal stepped back, staggering, face congested and pouring sweat, the hilt of the dagger socketed at the base of his throat.

Jamie half-fell, gasping, and leaned against the table. His eyes were dark with shock, and his hair sweat-soaked, the rent edges of his shirt tinged with blood from the scratch.

There was a terrible sound from Dougal, a sound of shock and stifled breath. Jamie caught him as he tottered and fell, Dougal’s weight bringing him to his knees. Dougal’s head lay on Jamie’s shoulder, Jamie’s arms locked around his foster father.

I dropped to my knees beside them, reaching to help, trying to get hold of Dougal. It was too late. The big body went limp, then spasmed, sliding out of Jamie’s grasp. Dougal lay crumpled on the floor, muscles jerking with involuntary contractions, struggling like a fish out of water.

His head was pillowed on Jamie’s thigh. One heave brought his face into view. It was contorted, and dark red, eyes gone to slits. His mouth moved continuously, saying something, talking with great force – but without sound, save the bubbling rasp from his ruined throat.

Jamie’s face was ashen; apparently he could tell what Dougal was saying. He struggled violently, trying to hold the thrashing body still. There was a final spasm, then a dreadful rattling sound, and Dougal MacKenzie lay still, Jamie’s hands clenched tight upon his shoulders, as though to prevent his rising again.

“Blessed Michael defend us!” The hoarse whisper came from the doorway. It was Willie Coulter MacKenzie, one of Dougal’s men. He stared in stupefied horror at the body of his chief. A small puddle of urine was forming under it, creeping out from under the sprawled plaid. The man crossed himself, still staring.

“Willie.” Jamie rose, passing a trembling hand across his face. “Willie.” The man seemed struck dumb. He looked at Jamie in complete bewilderment, mouth open.

“I need one hour, man.” Jamie had a hand on Willie Coulter’s shoulder, easing him into the room. “An hour to see my wife safe. Then I shall come back to answer for this. I give ye my word, on my honor. But I must have an hour free. One hour. Will ye give me one hour, man, before ye speak?”

Willie licked dry lips, looking back and forth between the body of his chief and his chieftain’s nephew, clearly frightened out of his wits. At last he nodded, plainly having no idea what to do, choosing to follow this request because no reasonable alternative presented itself.

“Good.” Jamie swallowed heavily, and wiped his face on his plaid. He patted Willie on the shoulder. “Stay here, man. Pray for his soul” – he nodded toward the still form on the floor, not looking at it – “and for mine.” He leaned past Willie to pry his dirk from the table, then pushed me before him, out the door and down the stairs.

Halfway down, he stopped, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. He drew deep, ragged breaths, as though he were about to faint, and I put my hands on his chest, alarmed. His heart was beating like a drum, and he was trembling, but after a moment, he drew himself upright, nodded at me, and took my arm.

“I need Murtagh,” he said.

We found the clansman just outside, cowled in his plaid against the sleety rain, sitting in a dry spot beneath the eaves of the house. Fergus was curled up next to him, dozing, tired from the long ride.

Murtagh took one look at Jamie’s face, and rose to his feet, dark and dour, ready for anything.

“I’ve killed Dougal MacKenzie,” Jamie said bluntly, without preliminary.

Murtagh’s face went quite blank for a moment, then his normal expression of wary grimness reasserted itself.

“Aye,” he said. “What’s to do, then?”

Jamie groped in his sporran and brought out a folded paper. His hands shook as he tried to unfold it, and I took it from him, spreading it out under the shelter of the eaves.

“Deed of Sasine” it said, at the top of the sheet. It was a short document, laid out in a few black lines, conveying title of the estate known as Broch Tuarach to one James Jacob Fraser Murray, said property to be held in trust and administered by the said James Murray’s parents, Janet Fraser Murray and Ian Gordon Murray, until the said James Murray’s majority. Jamie’s signature was at the bottom, and there were two blank spaces provided below, each with the word “Witness” written alongside. It was dated 1 July, 1745 – a month before Charles Stuart had launched his rebellion on the shores of Scotland, and made Jamie Fraser a traitor to the Crown.

“I need ye to sign this, you and Claire,” Jamie said, taking the note from me and handing it to Murtagh. “But it means forswearing yourself; I have nay right to ask it.”