The Scottish Prisoner

“Serve you right if that Irish blackguard had cut my throat,” he muttered to his absent brother.

Still, this was beside the point. The important thing, he reminded himself, was that Jamie didn’t want him dead—a warming thought—and had stopped Qui

Would that continue to be the case, if he spoke directly to Fraser about the matter?

As he saw it, he had only two alternatives: say nothing, watch them, and do his best never to sleep … or talk to Jamie Fraser. He scratched his chest meditatively. He could go one night without sleep, possibly two. That would bring them within reach of Siverly. But he didn’t wish to face Gerald Siverly exhausted and fuzzy-minded.

While Fraser’s reasons for not allowing Qui

The air about him was still black-dark, but it had shifted, rising in some way, the night begi

If Qui

Qui

The horses were drowsing under the tower wall; one of them released a long, rumbling fart and another shook its head, mane flapping. Now the birds were at it, tentative chirps from the distant hedgerows.

He’d talk to Fraser.

AFTER SOME THOUGHT, Grey decided that directness was the simplest way of obtaining privacy.

“Mr. Qui

The Irishman looked startled and glanced quickly at Jamie, who gave no indication that this was an out-of-the-way request, then looked back to Grey and nodded awkwardly.

“Certainly.”

Grey thought that Qui

Breakfast was even more cursory than supper had been, though Jamie toasted two pieces of bread with cheese between, so that the cheese melted, something Grey hadn’t seen before but thought very tasty. Qui

Grey sat on a moss-covered rock, watching until the Irishman had got well away, then swiveled back to face Fraser, who was tidily rolling up a pair of stockings into a ball.

“I woke up last night,” he said without preamble.

Fraser stuffed the stockings into his portmanteau and reached for the heel of bread, which followed the stockings.

“Did you,” he said, not looking up.

“Yes. One question—does Mr. Qui

Fraser hesitated a moment before answering.

“Probably not.” He looked up, eyes a startlingly deep blue. “If he does, he didna hear it from me.”

“Where the devil else might he have heard it?” Grey demanded, and Fraser glared at him.

“From your brother’s servants, I imagine. That’s where he learned that ye had business in Ireland and that I was to go with ye.”

Grey blinked, but it was all too likely. He’d sent Tom Byrd often enough to extract information from other people’s servants.

“How did he come to be in London?”

Fraser’s eyes narrowed, but he answered.

“He followed me, when your brother had me taken from Helwater. And if ye want to know how he came to be at Helwater, ye’ll need to ask him, because I don’t know.”

Grey raised one brow; if Fraser didn’t know, he probably could make a damned good guess, but it wasn’t necessary to go into that. Not now, at least.

Fraser stood up suddenly and, picking up the portmanteau, went to saddle his horse. Grey followed.

They made their way back to the road; Qui

“Will you swear to me that Qui

Fraser gave him a sidelong glance. “No,” he said bluntly.

Grey wouldn’t have believed any other answer, but the bluntness—and its implications—gave him a mild shock. “Which is it?” he asked after a moment. “Or is it both?”

Fraser inhaled strongly through his nose, like a man much tried.

“Qui

Grey gave a short laugh. “That’s nicely phrased,” he said. “Do you imply that you are in ignorance of Qui

“Take your choice.” Fraser’s lips thi

They rode in silence for a bit. The lush green of the countryside was monotonous and soothing but was having little effect on Grey’s temper.

“I suppose it is frivolous to point out that assisting the king’s enemies—even by inaction—is treason,” he remarked eventually.

“It is not frivolous to point out that I am a convicted traitor,” Fraser replied evenly. “Are there judicial degrees of that crime? Is it additive? Because when they tried me, all they said was ‘treason’ before putting a rope around my neck.”

“A rope … but you were not sentenced to hanging, were you?” It was certainly possible; a good many Jacobites had been executed, but a good many more had had their sentences commuted to transportation or imprisonment.

“No.” Fraser’s color was already high, from sun and wind. It became noticeably deeper. For a moment, Grey thought that was all he meant to say on the matter, but after another moment the words burst out of him, as though he could not contain them.

“They marched me—us—from Inverness to Ardsmuir. With ropes about our necks, to show that our lives were forfeit, given back to us only by the generosity”—he choked, actually choked, on the word, and shook his head, clearing his throat with violence—“the generosity of the king.”

He kicked his horse suddenly; it snorted and jolted a little way ahead, then, lacking further stimulus from its rider, lapsed back into a trot, looking curiously over its shoulder at Grey and his mount, as though wondering how they’d got so far behind.