The Scottish Prisoner

He wiped sweating palms on his breeks and felt the slight roughness of a patch. Someone had taken away his clothes in the night, laundered and mended them.

He wasn’t afraid of Quarry; he never had been. But one keek at the man and he’d felt his wame clench and spots dance before his eyes and he’d known it was get out right then or measure his length on the hearth rug at Quarry’s feet.

There were trees dotted here and there; he found one and sat down on the grass, leaning back against its trunk. His hands still trembled, but he felt better with something solid at his back. He didn’t want to but couldn’t keep from rubbing his wrists, first one and then the other, as if to assure himself of what he knew fine—that the fetters were gone.

One of the footmen from Argus House had followed him; he recognized the dark-gray livery. The man hung back, just within the edge of the park, trying to pretend he was watching the carriages and riders that went past on the road that skirted the park. He’d done the same thing the evening before, when Jamie had come out to walk off his anger at the duke.

He hadn’t troubled Jamie then and obviously didn’t mean to drag him back to the house now; he’d only been sent to watch. It occurred to Jamie to wonder what yon footman would do, should he stand up and run. He had a momentary urge to do just that, and did in fact stand up. He should have run, too, because no sooner had he got to his feet than Tobias Qui

“Well, and there’s luck for ye,” Qui

“Di

Qui

“Not the greeting one might expect of a friend,” he said, reproving. “And I wasn’t hiding, not in the least. I was just comin’ across the park when I saw ye come out, and I sidled round the bush as being quickest, since I perceived ye were about to fly and I’d have no chance of catching ye if ye did, you with the legs of a veritable stallion, so ye have. As for me plumage”—here he spread his arms and revolved, the skirts of his coat flaring out—“is it not the fine thing of the world?”

“Go away,” Jamie said, repressing an urge to shove Qui

Jamie glanced over his shoulder, but the footman was still turned away, absorbed in an entertainingly profane argument between the drivers of two carriages whose wheels had clashed and locked together as they passed each other too closely.

“The splendid thing about this coat,” Qui

Jamie didn’t know whether it was only the man’s love of the dramatic or whether there was some need of such hasty disguise. He didn’t want to know.

“I’ve told ye,” he said, struggling for civility. “I’m no the man for your job.”

“Why, because of this small little complication?” Qui

“What?” Jamie stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Well, you’ll not want to linger in such company as that, will ye?” Qui

“Aye, thus, very well thus. We’ve to move briskly for a bit, but once into the Rookery, no one would glance twice at you. Ah … perhaps twice,” he amended, squinting up at Jamie’s height. “But not three times, surely.”

It occurred belatedly to Jamie that Qui

“I ca

Qui

“Why not?”

Jamie’s mouth opened but without the slightest notion what might come out.

“We wouldna make it to the edge of the park, for one thing. See yon fellow in the gray? He’s watching me.”

Qui

“No!” He jerked loose and cast a wild glance at the footman, willing the man to turn round. He didn’t, and Jamie turned back to Qui

“I’ve told ye once, and I’ll say it again. I’ll have nothing to do wi’ any such crack-brained notion. The Cause is dead, and I’ve no intent to follow it into the grave. Aye?”

Qui

“That’s the Duke of Pardloe’s house, they say,” he remarked, scratching his head. “Why did the sojers bring ye here, I wonder?”

“I di

“Hmm. Well, I’ll tell ye, sir, was it me in the hands of the English, I’d not wait to find out.”

Jamie had no wish to see Qui

“Ye should go, Qui

“Odd, is it not?” Qui

Why would the bloody footman not turn round?

“I’ve no idea,” he said, unwilling to stand about discussing Pardloe and that gentleman’s very individual convictions as to honor. For lack of anything to add to that, he walked away down the nearest path, pursued by the Irishman. At least if the footman ever did turn round, he’d see Jamie gone and start looking for him. At this point, any interruption whatever would be welcome, even if it meant being dragged back in chains.

That casual thought flickered through his mind like sheet lightning, illuminating dark corners. Chains. A dream of chains.

He was paying no attention, either to where he went or to what Qui

The dreams. He’d pushed the thought from his mind the instant he saw it. It pushed back, though, strong. That was it. The dreams that took him back to dreadful places, the ones he only half-remembered. He’d had one last night. That was why seeing Quarry suddenly, without warning, had made him like to faint.

Chains, he thought, and knew that if he lingered on that thought for more than an instant, he’d find himself in the dream again, sweating and ill, crouched against a stone wall, unable to lift his hand to wipe the vomit from his beard, the fetters too heavy, the metal hot from his fever, inescapable, eternal captivity …

“No,” he said fiercely, and turned abruptly off the path, coming to a halt in front of a puppet show, surrounded by people, all calling out and laughing. Noise. Color. Anything to fill his senses, to keep the clank of chains at bay.