The Scottish Prisoner

It occurred to him vaguely that Siverly outweighed him by at least three stone and might be armed, but he dismissed the thought. He had the advantage of surprise here, and meant to use it. He took up a position to the side of the sliding door and stepped into a narrow alcove used for storing tack.

The horses had calmed down, still snorting and bobbing their heads but now begi

The groom’s eyes flicked from side to side, though, instantly sensing something amiss among the horses. He dropped the shovel with a clang and advanced toward Grey’s end of the stable, fork held menacingly before him.

“Come on! Let’s be havin’ ye out of there!”

Not much help for it. Grey tucked his dagger out of sight and stepped out into the aisle.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “Is your master about?”

The groom halted, blinking at this crimson-clad apparition.

“And who the divil are you? Sir,” he added uncertainly.

“An acquaintance of Major Siverly’s. Grey is my name,” he added helpfully.

The man, middle-aged and possessed of a head like a ca

“How does your honor come to be in the stable, eh?” The pitchfork stayed steady. Surely the idiot didn’t take him for a horse thief?

“The butler told me Major Siverly was here, of course.” Grey allowed a certain impatience to creep into his tone, all too aware that Siverly himself might come in at any moment. So much for his ambush! He’d just have to put the best face on it he could and inveigle Siverly into walking back to the house with him. Once out of pitchfork reach …

“Himself’s not here.”

“Yes, I noticed that. I’ll … um … look for him outside.” Before he could be forcibly escorted out with a pitchfork aimed at the seat of his breeches, he whirled on his heel and strode briskly toward the door. The groom came after him, but slowly.

He was mentally cursing his luck and trying to think how best to deal with Siverly—but was saved the effort, as Siverly was not in fact advancing on the stable. A paddock and a field lay between the stable and the little wood where the folly stood, and both were empty.

Grey said a bad word.

“Your honor?” said the groom, startled.

“Are all the horses in the stable?” he demanded, turning on the groom. The man eyed him narrowly, but the pitchfork was now resting tines on the ground, thank God. The groom scratched his head slowly.

“What would they be doing there, for all love? There’s Bessie and Clover out with the big wagon, and the gray mare and her colt with the others in the upper field, and—”

“Saddle horses, for God’s sake!”

“Oh, saddle horses, is it?” The groom was at last begi

“Will you just for God’s sake tell me if any are missing?” Grey’s urgency was taking on a sense of nightmare, the sort of dream where one strove to make progress through some sucking bog, only to encounter the walls of an endless maze.

“No, your honor.” Before the words were fully out of the groom’s mouth, Grey was striding back toward the folly, the sense of nightmare growing.

It wasn’t Siverly’s alarm at his presence that he’d sensed on the steps of the folly. It was acute, impending danger, a sense of harm. He was ru

He took the steps of the folly in two great strides, smelling it before he saw it, what he must have smelled faintly before, but so much stronger now, and his foot came down in the blood and slid out from under him. He waved his arms, staggering to keep his balance, and fetched up hard against the railing of the folly, breathless and choked with the smell of it, the whiff of death now full-blown and reeking at his feet.

24

Clishmaclaver

JAMIE HAD BORROWED A BOOK FROM PARDLOE’S LIBRARY, A pocket edition of Homer’s Iliad, in Greek. He’d not read Greek in some years, and thought perhaps to renew his acquaintance with the language, but distraction of mind was interfering with his concentration.

Not thus the lion glories in his might,

Nor panther braves his spotted foe in fight,

Nor thus the boar (those terrors of the plain;)

Man only vaunts his force, and vaunts in vain.

He’d last spoken Greek in Ardsmuir prison, trading bits of Aristophanes with Lord John over a makeshift supper of porridge and sliced ham, the rations being short even in the governor’s quarters, owing to a storm that had kept regular supplies from being delivered. There had been claret to wash it down with, though, and it had been a cordial evening. He’d taken care of the bits of business that needed to be done on behalf of the prisoners, and then they’d played chess, a long, drawn-out duel that had lasted nearly ’til dawn. Grey had won, at last, and had hesitated, glancing at the battered sofa in his office, clearly wondering whether he might offer Jamie the use of it, rather than send him back to the cells for an hour’s sleep before the prisoners rose.

Jamie had appreciated the thought, but it wouldn’t do, and he’d set his face impassively, bowed correctly, and bade Lord John good night, himself rapping on the doorframe to summon the dozing guard.

“Merde,”he said under his breath. He’d been sitting on the bench outside the i

He wiped the page hastily with his sleeve and went inside, putting the book in his pocket. Tom Byrd was sitting by the hearth, helping young Moira Beckett wind her fresh-dyed yarn. He’d been making sheep’s eyes at Moira, but at the sound of Jamie’s entrance, his head swiveled round like a compass needle.

Jamie shook his head slightly, and Tom grimaced, but then turned back to Moira.

“D’you know what time it is, Miss Beckett?” Tom asked politely.

“About half-three, so it is,” she replied, looking a little startled. Jamie suppressed a smile. She’d turned her head to look out the window at the light, just as Jamie had when Tom asked the question. The notion that anyone would not be able to know what time it was by the light was clearly foreign to her, but Tom was a Londoner bred and born, and thus never out of hearing of the bells of one church or another.

“I s’pose his lordship must be having a good visit with his friend,” Tom offered, looking to Jamie for confirmation.

“Aye, well, I hope he had a more cordial reception than I did.” Grey had left for Glastuig just after ten; it was no more than a half hour’s ride. Five hours was surely a portent of something, but whether it might be good news or bad …

He shook his head and went upstairs. He sat by the window and opened his book again, but could not bend either eye or mind to the tragedy of Hector’s ignominious death.