"Well, at least he is not expending all his male essence in brothels—or elsewhere," said Madame Prudhomme, with an eloquently pitying glance at the Comtesse St. Germain.
"No," said Mathilde gloomily. "He hoards it as though it were gold. You'd think there was no more to be had, the way he…oh, Your Grace! Will you not have a cup of wine?" She smiled charmingly up at the Duke, who had approached quietly from behind. He stood smiling at the ladies, one fair brow slightly arched. If he had heard the subject of our conversation, he gave no sign of it.
Seating himself beside me on the cloth, His Grace made casual, witty conversation with the ladies, his oddly high-pitched voice forming no contrast to theirs. While he seemed to pay close attention to the conversation, I noticed that his eyes strayed periodically to the small cluster of men who stood by the paddock fence. Jamie's kilt was bright even amid the gorgeous cut velvets and stiffened silk.
I had had some hesitation in meeting the Duke again. After all, our last visit had ended in the arrest of Jonathan Randall, upon my accusation of attempted rape. But the Duke had been all charming urbanity on this outing, with no mention of either of the Randall brothers. Neither had there been any public mention of the arrest; whatever the Duke's diplomatic activities, they seemed to rank highly enough to merit a Royal seal of silence.
On the whole, I welcomed the Duke's appearance at the picnic cloth. For one thing, his presence kept the ladies from asking me—as some bold souls did every so often, at parties—whether it was true about what Scotsmen wore beneath their kilts. Given the mood of the present party, I didn't think my customary reply of "Oh, the usual" would suffice.
"Your husband has a fine eye for horses," the Duke observed to me, freed for a moment when the Duchesse de Neve, on his other side, leaned across the cloth to talk to Madame Prudhomme. "He tells me that both his father and his uncle kept small but quite fine stables in the Highlands."
"Yes, that's true." I sipped my wine. "But you've visited Colum MacKenzie at Castle Leoch; surely you've seen his stable for yourself." I had in fact first met the Duke at Leoch the year before, though the meeting had been brief; he had left on a hunting expedition shortly before I was arrested for witchcraft. I thought surely he must have known about that, but if so, he gave no sign of it.
"Of course." The Duke's small, shrewd blue eyes darted left, then right, to see whether he was observed, then shifted into English. "At the time, your husband informed me that he did not reside upon his own estates, owing to an unfortunate—and mistaken—charge of murder laid against him by the English Crown. I wondered, my lady, whether that charge of outlawry still holds?"
"There's still a price on his head," I said bluntly.
The Duke's expression of polite interest didn't change. He reached absently for one of the small sausages on the platter.
"That is not an irremediable matter," he said quietly. "After my encounter with your husband at Leoch, I made some inquiries—oh, suitably discreet, I assure you, my dear lady. And I think that the matter might be arranged without undue difficulty, given a word in the right ear—from the right sources."
This was interesting. Jamie had first told the Duke of Sandringham about his outlawry at Colum MacKenzie's suggestion, in the hopes that the Duke might be persuaded to intervene in the case. As Jamie had not in fact committed the crime in question, there could be little evidence against him; it was quite possible that the Duke, a powerful voice among the nobles of England, could indeed arrange to have the charges dismissed.
"Why?" I said. "What do you want in return?"
The sketchy blond brows shot upward, and he smiled, showing small white even teeth.
"My word, you are direct, are you not? Might it not be only that I appreciate your husband's expertise and assistance in the selection of horses, and would like to see him restored to a place where that skill might once again be profitably exercised?"
"It might be, but it isn't," I said. I caught Madame Prudhomme's sharp eyes on us, and smiled pleasantly at him. "Why?"
He popped the sausage whole into his mouth and chewed it slowly, his bland round face reflecting nothing more than enjoyment of the day and the meal. At last he swallowed and patted his mouth delicately with one of the linen napkins.
"Well," he said, "as a matter of supposition only, you understand—"
I nodded, and he went on. "As a matter of supposition, then, perhaps we may suppose that your husband's recent friendship with—a certain personage recently arrived from Rome? Ah, I see you understand me. Yes. Let us suppose that that friendship has become a matter of some concern to certain parties who would prefer this personage to return peaceably to Rome—or alternatively, to settle in France, though Rome would be better—safer, you know?"
"I see." I took a sausage myself. They were richly spiced, and little bursts of garlic wafted up my nose at each bite. "And these parties take a sufficiently serious view of this friendship to offer a dismissal of the charges against my husband in return for its severance? Again, why? My husband is no one of great importance."
"Not now," the Duke agreed. "But he may be in future. He has linkages to several powerful interests among the French banking families, and more among the merchants. He is also received at Court, and has some access to Louis's ear. In short, if he does not at present hold the power to command substantial sums of money and influence, he is likely to do so soon. He is also a member of not one but two of the more powerful Highland clans. And the parties who wish the personage in question to return to Rome harbor a not unreasonable fear that this influence might be exerted in undesirable directions. So much better if your husband were to return—his good name restored—to his lands in Scotland, do you not think?"
"It's a thought," I said. It was also a bribe, and an attractive one. Sever all connection with Charles Stuart, and be free to return to Scotland and Lallybroch, without the risk of being hanged. The removal of a possibly troublesome supporter of the Stuarts, at no expense to the Crown, was an attractive proposition from the English side, too.
I eyed the Duke, trying to figure out just where he fitted into the scheme of things. Ostensibly an envoy from George II, Elector of Hanover and King—so long as James Stuart remained in Rome—of England, he could well have a dual purpose in his visit to France. To engage with Louis in the delicate exchange of civility and threat that constituted diplomacy, and simultaneously to quash the specter of a fresh Jacobite rising? Several of Charles's usual coterie had disappeared of late, pleading the press of urgent business abroad. Bought off or scared away? I wondered.
The bland countenance gave no clue to his thoughts. He pushed back the wig from a balding brow and scratched his head unselfconsciously.
"Do think about it, my dear," he urged. "And when you have thought—speak to your husband."
"Why don't you speak to him yourself?"
He shrugged and took more sausages, three this time. "I find that so often men are more amenable to a word spoken from the home quarter, from one they trust, rather than to what they may perceive as pressure from an outside source." He smiled. "There is the matter of pride to be considered; that must be handled delicately. And for delicate handling—well, they do talk of ‘the woman's touch,' do they not?"
I hadn't time to respond to this, when a shout from the main stable jerked all heads in that direction.
A horse was coming toward us, up the narrow alley between the main stable and the long, open shed that held the forge. A Percheron colt, and a young one, no more than two or three, judging from the dappling of his hide. Even young Percherons are big, and the colt seemed huge, as he blundered to and fro at a slow trot, tail lashing from side to side. Plainly the colt was not yet broken to a saddle; the massive shoulders twitched in an effort to dislodge the small form that straddled his neck, both hands buried deep in the thick black mane.
"Bloody hell, it's Fergus!" The ladies, disturbed by the shouting, had all gotten to their feet by now, and were peering interestedly at the sight.
I didn't realize that the men had joined us until one woman said, "But how dangerous it seems! Surely the boy will be injured if he falls!"
"Well, if he doesna hurt himself falling off, I'll attend to it directly, once I've got my hands on the wee bugger," said a grim voice behind me. I turned to see Jamie peering over my head at the rapidly approaching horse.
"Should you get him off?" I asked.
He shook his head. "No, let the horse take care of it."
In fact, the horse seemed more bewildered than frightened by the strange weight on his back. The dappled gray skin twitched and shivered as though beset by hordes of flies, and the colt shook its head confusedly, as though wondering what was going on.
As for Fergus, his legs were stretched nearly at right angles across the Percheron's broad back; clearly the only hold he had on the horse was his death-grip on the mane. At that, he might have managed to slide down or at least tumble off unscathed, had the victims of the manure fight not completed their plan to exact a measure of revenge.
Two or three grooms were following the horse at a cautious distance, blocking the alleyway behind it. Another had succeeded in running ahead, and opening the gate to an empty paddock that stood near us. The gate was between the group of visiting picnickers and the end of the alleyway between the buildings; clearly the intention was to nudge the horse quietly into the paddock, where it could trample Fergus or not as it chose, but at least would itself be safe from escape or injury.
Before this could be accomplished, though, a lithe form popped its head through a small loft window, high above the alleyway. The spectators intent on the horse, no one noticed but me. The boy in the loft observed, withdrew, and reappeared almost at once, holding a large flake of hay in both hands. Judging the moment to a nicety, he dropped it as Fergus and his mount passed directly beneath.
The effect was much like a bomb going off. There was an explosion of hay where Fergus had been, and the colt gave a panicked whinny, got its hindquarters under it, and took off like a Derby winner, heading straight for the little knot of courtiers, who scattered to the four winds, screeching like geese.
Jamie had flung himself on me, pushing me out of the way and knocking me to the ground in the process. Now he rose off my supine form, cursing fluently in Gaelic. Without pausing to inquire after my welfare, he raced off in the direction taken by Fergus.
The horse was rearing and twisting, altogether spooked, churning forelegs keeping at bay a small gang of grooms and stable-lads, all of whom were rapidly losing their professional calm at the thought of one of the King's valuable horses damaging itself before their eyes.
By some miracle of stubbornness or fear, Fergus was still in place, skinny legs flailing as he slithered and bounced on the heaving back. The grooms were all shouting at him to let go, but he ignored this advice, eyes squeezed tight shut as he clung to the two handfuls of horsehair like a lifeline. One of the grooms was carrying a pitchfork; he waved this menacingly in the air, causing a shriek of dismay from Madame Montresor, who plainly thought he meant to skewer the child.
The shriek didn't ease the colt's nerves to any marked extent. It danced and skittered, backing away from the people who were beginning to surround it. While I didn't think the groom actually intended to stab Fergus off the horse's back, there was a real danger that the child would be trampled if he fell off—and I didn't see how he was going to avoid that fate for much longer. The horse made a sudden dash for a small clump of trees that grew near the paddock, either seeking shelter from the mob, or possibly having concluded that the incubus on its back might be scraped off on a branch.
As it passed beneath the first branches, I caught a glimpse of red tartan among the greenery, and then there was a flash of red as Jamie launched himself from the shelter of a tree. His body struck the colt a glancing blow and he tumbled to the ground in a flurry of plaid and bare legs that would have revealed to a discerning observer that this particular Scotsman wasn't wearing anything under his kilt at the moment.
The party of courtiers rushed up as one, concentrating on the fallen Lord Broch Tuarach, as the grooms pursued the disappearing horse on the other side of the trees.
Jamie lay flat on his back under the beech trees, his face a dead greenish-white, both eyes and mouth wide open. Both arms were locked tight around Fergus, who clung to his chest like a leech. Jamie blinked at me as I dashed up to him, and made a faint effort at a smile. The faint wheezings from his open mouth deepened into a shallow panting, and I relaxed in relief; he'd only had his wind knocked out.
Finally realizing that he was no longer moving, Fergus raised a cautious head. Then he sat bolt upright on his employer's stomach and said enthusiastically, "That was fun, milord! Can we do it again?"
Jamie had pulled a muscle in his thigh during the rescue at Argentan, and was limping badly by the time we returned to Paris. He sent Fergus—none the worse either for the escapade or the scolding that followed it—down to the kitchen to seek his supper, and sank into a chair by the hearth, rubbing the swollen leg.
"Hurt much?" I asked sympathetically.
"A bit. All it needs is rest, though." He stood up and stretched luxuriously, long arms nearly reaching the blackened oak beams above the mantel. "Cramped in that coach; I'd've sooner ridden."
"Mmm. So would I." I rubbed the small of my back, aching with the strain of the trip. The ache seemed to press downward through my pelvis to my legs—joints loosening from pregnancy, I supposed.
I ran an exploratory hand over Jamie's leg, then gestured to the chaise.
"Come and lie on your side. I've some nice ointment I can rub your leg with; it might ease the ache a bit."
"Well, if ye dinna mind." He rose stiffly and lay down on his left side, kilt pulled above his knee.
I opened my medicine box and rummaged through the boxes and jars. Agrimony, slippery elm, pellitory-of-the-wall…ah, there it was. I pulled out the small blue glass jar Monsieur Forez had given me and unscrewed the lid. I sniffed cautiously; salves went rancid easily, but this one appeared to have a good proportion of salt mixed in for preservation. It had a nice mellow scent, and was a beautiful color—the rich yellow-white of fresh cream.
I scooped out a good bit of the salve and spread it down the long muscle of the thigh, pushing Jamie's kilt above his hip to keep out of the way. The flesh of his leg was warm; not the heat of infection, only the normal heat of a young male body, flushed with exercise and the glowing pulse of health. I massaged the cream gently into the skin, feeling the swell of the hard muscle, probing the divisions of quadriceps and hamstring. Jamie made a small grunting sound as I rubbed harder.
"Hurt?" I asked.
"Aye, a bit, but don't stop," he answered. "Feels as though it's doing me good." He chuckled. "I wouldna admit it to any but you, Sassenach, but it was fun. I havena moved like that in months."
"Glad you enjoyed yourself," I said dryly, taking another dab of cream. "I had an interesting time myself." Not pausing in the massage, I told him of Sandringham's offer.
He grunted in response, wincing slightly as I hit a tender spot. "So Colum was right, when he thought the man might be able to help with the charges against me."
"So it would seem. I suppose the question is—do you want to take him up on it?" I tried not to hold my breath, as I waited for his answer. For one thing, I knew what it would be; the Frasers as a family were renowned for stubbornness, and despite his mother's having been a MacKenzie, Jamie was a Fraser through and through. Having made up his mind to stopping Charles Stuart, he was hardly likely to abandon the effort. Still, it was tempting bait—to me, as well as to him. To be able to go back to Scotland, to his home; to live in peace.
But there was another rub, of course. If we did go back, leaving Charles's plans to run their course into the future I knew, then any peace in Scotland would be short-lived indeed.
Jamie gave a small snort, apparently having followed my own thought processes. "Well, I'll tell ye, Sassenach. If I thought that Charles Stuart might succeed—might free Scotland from English rule—then I would give my lands, my liberty, and life itself to help him. Fool he might be, but a royal fool, and not an ungallant one, I think." He sighed.
"But I know the man, and I've talked with him—and with all the Jacobites that fought with his father. And given what you tell me will happen if it comes to a Rising again…I dinna see that I've any choice but to stay, Sassenach.
Once he is stopped, then there may be a chance to go back—or there may not. But for now, I must decline His Grace's offer wi' thanks."
I patted his thigh gently. "That's what I thought you'd say."
He smiled at me, then glanced down at the yellowish cream that coated my fingers. "What's that stuff?"
"Something Monsieur Forez gave me. He didn't say what it's called. I don't think it's got any active ingredients, but it's a nice, greasy sort of cream."
The body under my hands stiffened and Jamie glanced over his shoulder at the blue jar.
"Monsieur Forez gave it ye?" he said uneasily.
"Yes," I answered, surprised. "What's the matter?" For he had put aside my cream-smeared hands and, swinging his legs over the side of the chaise longue, was reaching for a towel.
"Has that jar a fleur-de-lys on the lid, Sassenach?" he asked, wiping the ointment from his leg.
"Yes, it has," I said. "Jamie, what's wrong with that salve?" The look on his face was peculiar in the extreme; it kept vacillating between dismay and amusement.
"Oh, I wouldna say there's anything wrong about it, Sassenach," he answered finally. Having rubbed his leg hard enough to leave the curly red-gold hair bristling above reddened skin, he tossed the towel aside and looked thoughtfully at the jar.
"Monsieur Forez must think rather highly of ye, Sassenach," he said. "It's expensive stuff, that."
"But—"
"It's not that I dinna appreciate it," he assured me hastily. "It's only that havin' come within a day's length of being one of the ingredients myself, it makes me feel a bit queer."
"Jamie!" I felt my voice rising. "What is that stuff?" I grabbed the towel, hastily swabbing my salve-coated hands.
"Hanged-men's grease," he answered reluctantly.
