Mount Helicon The Royal Colony of North Carolina Late October, 1770 7 страница
“Dear me,” I murmured. “But he wasn’t killed, was he? I hadn’t heard of any deaths at Hillsborough. Relax your arm, please, and take a deep breath.”
Mr. Goodwin took a deep breath, but only in order to utter a loud snort. This was succeeded by a much deeper gasp, as I turned the arm, freeing the trapped tendon and bringing the joint into good alignment. He went quite pale, and a sheen of sweat broke out on his pendulous cheeks, but he blinked a few times, and recovered nobly.
“And if he wasn’t, it was by no mercy of the rioters,” he said. “’Twas only that they thought to have better sport with the Chief Justice, and so left Fanning insensible in the dust, as they rushed inside the courthouse. Another friend and I made shift to raise the poor man, and sought to make off with him to a place of shelter nearby, when comes the halloo in our rear, and we were beset all at once by the mob. That was how I came by this”—he raised his freshly splinted arm—“and these.” He touched the weal by his eye, and the shattered tooth.
He frowned at me, heavy brows drawn down.
“Believe me, ma’am, I hope some folk here are moved to give up the names of the rioters, that they may be justly punished for such barbarous work—but were I to see here the fellow who struck me, I shouldn’t be inclined to surrender him to the Governor’s justice. Indeed I should not!”
His fists closed slowly, and he glowered at me as though suspecting that I had the miscreant in question hidden under my table. Brianna shifted uneasily behind me. No doubt she was thinking, as I was, of Hobson and Fowles. Abel MacLennan I was inclined to consider an innocent bystander, no matter what he might have done in Hillsborough.
I murmured something sympathetically noncommittal, and brought out the bottle of raw whisky I used for disinfection and crude anesthesia. The sight of it seemed to hearten Mr. Goodwin considerably.
“Just a bit of this to . . . er . . . fortify your spirits,” I suggested, pouring him out a healthy cupful. And disinfect the nasty environs of his mouth, too. “Hold it in your mouth for a moment before you swallow—it will help to numb your tooth.”
I turned to Bree, as Mr. Goodwin obediently took a large gulp of the liquor and sat with his mouth full, cheeks puffed like a frog about to burst into song. She seemed a little pale, though I wasn’t sure whether it was Mr. Goodwin’s story or the view of his teeth that had affected her.
“I don’t think I’ll need you any longer this morning, darling,” I said, patting her arm in reassurance. “Why don’t you go and see whether Jocasta is ready for the weddings tonight?”
“You’re sure, Mama?” Even as she asked, she was untying her blood-spotted apron and rolling it into a ball. Seeing her glance toward the trailhead, I looked in that direction and saw Roger lurking behind a bush, his eyes fixed on her. I saw his face light when she turned toward him, and felt a small warm glow at sight of it. Yes, they would be all right.
“Now then, Mr. Goodwin. Just you take a drop more of that, and we’ll finish dealing with this little matter.” I turned back to my patient, smiling, and picked up the pliers.
FOR AULD LANG SYNE
ROGER WAITED AT THE EDGE of the clearing, watching Brianna as she stood by Claire’s side, pounding herbs, measuring off liquids into small bottles, and tearing bandages. She had rolled up her sleeves, in spite of the chill, and the effort of ripping the tough linen made the muscles of her bare arms flex and swell beneath the freckled skin.
Strong in the wrists, he thought, with a faintly disturbing memory of Estella in Dickens’s Great Expectations. Noticeably strong all over; the wind flattened her skirt against the solid slope of hips and a long thigh pressed briefly against the fabric as she turned, smooth and round as an alder trunk.
He wasn’t the only one noticing. Half the people waiting for the attention of the two physicians were watching Brianna; some—mostly women—with faint and puzzled frowns, some—all men—with a covert admiration tinged with earthy speculation that gave Roger an urge to step into the clearing and assert his rights to her on the spot.
Well, let them look, he thought, quelling the urge. It only matters if she’s looking back, aye?
He moved out of the trees, just a little, and her head turned at once as she caught sight of him. The slight frown on her face melted at once, her face lighting. He smiled back, then jerked his head in invitation, and turned away down the path, not waiting.
Was he sufficiently petty to want to demonstrate to that gang of gawpers that his woman would drop everything and come at his beck? Well . . . yes, he was. Embarrassment at that realization was tempered by a pleasantly fierce sense of possession at the sound of her step on the path above; yes, she would come to him.
She had left her work behind, but carried something in her hand; a small packet, wrapped in paper and tied with thread. He put out a hand and led her off the path, down toward a small copse where a scrim of tattered red and yellow maple leaves offered a decent semblance of privacy.
“Sorry to take you from your work,” he said, though he wasn’t.
“It’s okay. I was glad to get away. I’m afraid I’m not all that good at blood and guts.” She made a rueful face at the admission.
“That’s all right,” he assured her. “It’s not one of the things I was looking for in a wife.”
“Maybe you should have been,” she said, shooting him a brooding sort of glance. “Here in this place, you might need a wife who can pull your teeth when they go bad, and sew your fingers back on when you cut them off chopping wood.”
The grayness of the day seemed to have affected her spirits—or perhaps it was the job she had been doing. A brief glance at the run of Claire’s patients was enough to depress anyone—anyone but Claire—with their parade of deformities, mutilations, wounds, and ghastly illnesses.
At least what he meant to tell Brianna might take her mind off the more gruesome details of eighteenth-century life for a bit. He cupped her cheek, and smoothed one thick red brow with a chilly thumb. Her face was cold, too, but the flesh behind her ear, beneath her hair, was warm—like her other hidden places.
“I’ve got what I wanted,” he said firmly. “What about you, though? You’re sure ye don’t want a man who can scalp Indians and put dinner on the table with his gun? Blood’s not my main thing, either, aye?”
A spark of humor reappeared in her eyes, and her air of preoccupation lightened.
“No, I don’t think I want a bloody man,” she said. “That’s what Mama calls Da—but only when she’s mad at him.”
He laughed.
“And what will you call me, when you’re mad at me?” he teased. She looked at him speculatively, and the spark grew brighter.
“Oh, don’t worry; Da won’t teach me any bad words in Gaelic, but Marsali taught me a lot of really evil things to say in French. Do you know what un soulard is? Un grande gueule?”
“Oui, ma petite chou—not that I’ve ever seen a cabbage with quite such a red nose.” He flicked a finger at her nose, and she ducked, laughing.
“Maudit chien!”
“Save something for after the wedding,” he advised. “Ye might need it.” He took her hand, to draw her toward a convenient boulder, then noticed again the small package she held.
“What’s that?”
“A wedding present,” she said, and held it out to him with two fingers, distasteful as though it had been a dead mouse.
He took it gingerly, but felt no sinister shapes through the paper. He bounced it on his palm; it was light, almost weightless.
“Embroidery silk,” she said, in answer to his questioning look. “From Mrs. Buchanan.” The frown was back between her brows, and that look of . . . worry? No, something else, but damned if he could put a name to it.
“What’s wrong with embroidery silk?”
“Nothing. It’s what it’s for.” She took the package from him, and tucked it into the pocket she wore tied under her petticoat. She was looking down, rearranging her skirts, but he could see the tightness of her lips. “She said it’s for our winding claes.”
Spoken in Brianna’s odd version of a Bostonian Scots accent, it took a moment for Roger to decipher this.
“Winding cl—oh, you mean shrouds?”
“Yes. Evidently, it’s my wifely duty to sit down the morning after the wedding and start spinning cloth for my shroud.” She bit the words off through clenched teeth. “That way, I’ll have it woven and embroidered by the time I die in childbirth. And if I’m a fast worker, I’ll have time to make one for you, too—otherwise, your next wife will have to finish it!”
He would have laughed, had it not been clear that she was really upset.
“Mrs. Buchanan is a great fool,” he said, taking her hands. “You should not be letting her worry you with her nonsense.” Brianna glanced at him under lowered brows.
“Mrs. Buchanan,” she said precisely, “is ignorant, stupid, and tactless. The one thing she isn’t is wrong.”
“Of course she is,” he said, with assumed certainty, feeling nonetheless a stab of apprehension.
“How many wives has Farquard Campbell buried?” she demanded. “Gideon Oliver? Andrew MacNeill?”
Nine, among the three of them. MacNeill would take a fourth wife this evening—an eighteen-year-old girl from Weaver’s Gorge. The stab came again, deeper, but he ignored it.
“And Jenny ban Campbell’s borne eight children and deviled two husbands into the ground,” he countered firmly. “For that matter, Mrs. Buchanan herself has five bairns, and she’s certainly still kicking. I’ve seen them; turnip-headed to a man, but all healthy.”
That got him a reluctant twitch of the mouth, and he pressed on, encouraged.
“You’ve no need to fear, hen. You had no trouble with Jemmy, aye?”
“Yeah? Well, if you think it’s no trouble, next time you can do it!” she snapped, but the corner of her mouth curled slightly up. She tugged at his hand, but he held on, and she didn’t resist.
“So you’re willing there should be a next time, are you? Mrs. Buchanan notwithstanding?” His tone was deliberately light, but he drew her close and held her, his face hidden in her hair, for fear she should see how much the question meant to him.
She wasn’t fooled. She drew back a little, and her eyes, blue as water, searched his.
“You’d marry me, but live celibate?” she asked. “That’s the only sure way. The tansy oil doesn’t always work—look at Marsali!” The existence of baby Joan was eloquent testimony to the ineffectiveness of that particular method of birth control. Still . . .
“There are other ways, I expect,” he said. “But if you want celibacy—then yes, you’ll have it.”
She laughed, because his hand had tightened possessively on her arse, even as his lips renounced it. Then the laughter faded, and the blue of her eyes grew darker, clouded.
“You mean it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said, and did, though the thought of it lay heavy in his chest, like a swallowed stone.
She sighed, and drew her hand down the side of his face, tracing the line of his neck, the hollow of his throat. Her thumb pressed against his hammering pulse, so he felt the beat of it, magnified in his blood.
He meant it, but he bent his head to hers and took her mouth, so short of breath he must have hers, needing so urgently to join with her that he would do it in whatever way he might—hands, breath, mouth, arms; his thigh pressed between hers, opening her legs. Her hand lay flat against his chest, as though to push him off—then tightened convulsively, grasping shirt and flesh together. Her fingers dug deep in the muscle of his breast, and then they were glued together, openmouthed and gasping, front teeth scraping painfully in the flurry of their wanting.
“I don’t . . . we’re not . . .” He broke free for a moment, his mind grasping dimly for the fragments of words. Then her hand found its way under his kilt, a cold, sure touch on his heated flesh, and he lost all power of speech.
“Once more before we quit,” she said, and her breath wreathed him in heat and mist. “For old times’ sake.” She sank to her knees in the wet yellow leaves, pulling him down to her.
IT HAD STARTED raining again; her hair lay tumbled round her, streaked with damp. Her eyes were closed, her face upturned to the drizzling heavens, and raindrops struck her face, rolling down like tears. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, in fact.
Roger lay with her, half on her, his weight a warm and solid comfort, his kilt spread over their tangled bare legs, protection from the rain. Her hand cupped the back of his head and stroked his hair, wet and sleek as a black seal’s fur.
He stirred then, with a groan like a wounded bear, and lifted himself. A draft of cold air struck her newly exposed body, damp and heated where they had touched.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” She opened one eye to a slit; he rose to his knees above her, swaying, and bent to pull her crumpled skirt down into decency. He’d lost his stock, and the cut under his jaw had reopened. She’d torn his shirt, and his waistcoat hung open, half its buttons gone. He was streaked with mud and blood and there were dead leaves and acorn fragments in the waves of his loose black hair.
“It’s all right,” she said, and sat up. She was in no better case; her breasts were heavy with milk, and huge wet spots had soaked through the fabric of shift and bodice, chilling her skin. Roger saw, and picked up her fallen cloak, draping it gently around her shoulders.
“Sorry,” he said again, and reached to brush the tangled hair from her face; his hand was cold against her cheek.
“It’s okay,” she said, trying to gather all the stray fragments of herself that seemed to be rolling round the tiny clearing like beads of mercury. “It’s only six months, and I’m still nursing Jemmy. It’s—I mean, I think it’s still safe.” But for how much longer? she wondered. Little jolts of desire still shot through her, mingled with spurts of dread.
She had to touch him. She picked up one corner of her cloak and pressed it to the seeping wound beneath his jaw. Celibacy? When the feel of him, the smell of him, the memory of the last few minutes, made her want to knock him flat in the leaves and do it all again? When tenderness for him welled up in her like the milk that rushed unbidden to her breasts?
Her breasts ached with unsatisfied desire, and she felt dribbles of milk run tickling down her ribs beneath the cloth. She touched one breast, heavy and swollen, her guarantee of safety—for a while.
Roger put away her hand, reaching up to touch the cut.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s stopped bleeding.” He wore the oddest expression—or expressions. Normally his face was pleasantly reserved, even a little stern. Now his features seemed unable to settle themselves, shifting from moment to moment between a look of undeniable satisfaction and one of just as undeniable dismay.
“What’s the matter, Roger?”
He shot her a quick glance, then looked away, a slight flush rising in his cheeks.
“Oh,” he said. “Well. It’s only that we . . . er . . . we aren’t actually married at the moment.”
“Well, of course not. The wedding’s not ’til tonight. Speaking of which . . .” She looked at Roger, and a bubble of laughter rose from the pit of her stomach. “Oh, dear,” she said, fighting back a fit of giggles. “You look like somebody’s had their will of you in the woods, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“Very funny, Mrs. Mac,” he said, eyeing her own bedraggled state. “Ye’ve been in a rare fight, too, by the looks of you. But what I meant was that we’ve been handfast for the last year—and that’s legally binding, in Scotland at least. But the year and a day have been up for a bit—and we’re not formally married ’til this evening.”
She squinted at him, wiping rain out of her eyes with the back of one hand, and once more gave way to the urge to laugh.
“My God, you think it matters?”
He grinned back, a little reluctantly.
“Well, no. It’s only I’m a preacher’s lad; I know it’s fine—but somewhere inside is an old Scotch Calvinist, muttering that it’s just a wee bit wicked, to be carrying on so with a woman not really my wife.”
“Ha,” she said, and settled her arms comfortably on her drawn-up knees. She leaned to one side and nudged him gently.
“Old Scotch Calvinist, my ass. What is it, really?”
He wouldn’t look directly at her, but kept his eyes down, looking at the ground. Droplets glittered on his strongly marked dark brows and lashes, gilding the skin of his cheekbones with silver. He drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
“I can’t say you’re not right to be afraid,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t realized—not really thought about it before today—just how dangerous marriage is for a woman.” He looked up and smiled at her, though the look of worry stayed in his moss-green eyes.
“I want you, Bree—more than I can say. It’s only that I was thinking of what we just did and how fine it was—and realizing that I’ll maybe—no, I will—be risking your life if I keep on doing it. But damned if I want to stop!”
The small strands of dread had coalesced into a cold snake that ran down her backbone and coiled deep in her belly, twisting around her womb. She knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t only the thing they’d just shared—powerful as that was. Knowing what he wanted, though—and why—how could she hesitate to give it to him?
“Yeah.” She took a breath to match his, and blew it out in a plume of white. “Well, it’s too late to worry about that, I think.” She looked at him and touched his arm. “I want you, Roger.” She pulled down his head and kissed him, taking comfort from her fears in the strength of his arm around her, the warmth of his body beside her.
“Oh, God, Bree,” he murmured into her hair. “I want to tell you that I’ll keep you safe, save you and Jemmy from anything that might threaten you—ever. It’s a terrible thing, to think it might be me that would be the threat, that I could kill you with my love—but it’s true.”
His heart was beating under her ear, solid and steady. She felt the warmth return to her hands, clasped tight on the bones of his back, and the thaw reached deeper, uncoiling some of the frozen strands of fear inside her.
“It’s all right,” she said at last, wanting to offer him the comfort he could not quite give her. “I’m sure it’ll be okay. I’ve got the hips for it, everybody says so. Jugbutt, that’s me.” She ran a hand ruefully down the lush swell of one hip, and he smiled, following her hand with his own.
“You know what Ronnie Sinclair said to me last night? He was watching you bend down to pick up a stick of wood for the fire, and he sighed and said, ‘Ye ken how to pick a good lass, MacKenzie? Start at the bottom and work your way up!’ Oof!” He recoiled, laughing, as she slugged him.
Then he bent and kissed her, very gently. The rain was still falling, pattering on the layer of dead leaves. Her fingers were sticky with the blood from his wound.
“You want a baby, don’t you?” she asked softly. “One you know is yours?”
He kept his head bent for a moment, but at last looked up at her, letting her see the answer in his face; a great yearning, mingled with anxious concern.
“I don’t mean—” he began, but she put a hand across his mouth to stop him.
“I know,” she said. “I understand.” She did—almost. She was an only child, as he was; she knew the yearning for connection and closeness—but hers had been gratified. She had had not one loving father but two. A mother who had loved her beyond the bounds of space and time. The Murrays of Lallybroch, that unexpected gift of family. And most of all, her son, her flesh, her blood, a small and trusting weight that anchored her firmly to the universe.
But Roger was an orphan, alone in the world for such a long time. His parents gone before he knew them, his old uncle dead—he had no one to claim him, no one to love him for the sake only of his flesh and bone—no one save her. Little wonder if he hungered for the certainty she held in her arms when she nursed her child.
He cleared his throat suddenly.
“I—ah—I was going to give ye this tonight. But maybe . . . well.” He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and handed her a soft bundle, wrapped in cloth.
“Sort of a wedding present, aye?” He was smiling, but she could see the uncertainty in his eyes.
She opened the cloth, and a pair of black button eyes looked up at her. The doll wore a shapeless smock of green calico, and red-yarn hair exploded from its head. Her heart beat heavily in her chest, and her throat tightened.
“I thought the wean might like it—to chew on, perhaps.”
She moved, and the pressure of the sodden fabric on her breasts made them tingle. She was afraid, all right; but there were things stronger than fear.
“There’ll be a next time,” she said, and laid a hand on his arm. “I can’t say when—but there will.”
He laid his hand on hers and squeezed it tight, not looking at her.
“Thanks, Jugbutt,” he said at last, very softly.
THE RAIN WAS HEAVIER; it was pissing down now. Roger thumbed the wet hair out of his eyes and shook himself like a dog, scattering drops from the tight-woven wool of coat and plaid. There was a smear of mud down the front of the gray wool; he brushed at it, to no effect.
“Christ, I can’t be getting married like this,” he said, trying to lighten the mood between them. “I look like a beggar.”
“It’s not too late, you know,” she said. She smiled, teasing a little tremulously. “You could still back out.”
“It’s been too late for me since the day I saw you,” he said gruffly. “Besides,” he added, lifting one brow, “your father would gut me like a hog if I said I’d had second thoughts on the matter.”
“Ha,” she said, but the hidden smile popped out, dimpling one cheek.
“Bloody woman! You like the idea!”
“Yes. No, I mean.” She was laughing again now; that’s what he’d wanted. “I don’t want him to gut you. It’s just nice to know he would. A father ought to be protective.”
She smiled at him, touched him lightly. “Like you, Mr. MacKenzie.”
That gave him an odd, tight feeling in the chest, as though his waistcoat had shrunk. Then a tinge of cold, as he recalled what he had to tell her. Fathers and their notions of protection varied, after all, and he wasn’t sure how she would see this one.
He took her arm and drew her away, out of the rain and into the shelter of a clump of hemlocks, where the layers of needles lay dry and fragrant underfoot, protected by the wide-spreading branches overhead.
“Well, come and sit with me a moment, Mrs. Mac. It’s not important, but there’s a small thing I wanted to tell you about before the wedding.” He drew her down to sit beside him on a rotting log, rusted with lichen. He cleared his throat, gathering the thread of his story.
“When I was in Inverness, before I followed you through the stones, I spent some time trolling through the Reverend’s bumf, and I came across a letter to him, written by your father. By Frank Randall, I mean. It’s no great matter—not now—but I thought . . . well, I thought perhaps there should be no secrets between us, before we marry. I told your father about it last night. So let me tell you now.”
Her hand lay warm in his, but the fingers tightened as he talked, and a deep line grew between her brows as she listened.
“Again,” she said, when he’d finished. “Tell me that again.”
Obligingly, he repeated the letter—as he’d memorized it, word for word. As he’d told it the night before, to Jamie Fraser.
“That gravestone in Scotland with Da’s name on it is a fake?” Her voice rose slightly with astonishment. “Dad—Frank—had the Reverend make it, and put it there, in the kirkyard at St. Kilda, but Da isn’t—won’t be, I mean—won’t be under it?”
“Yes, he did, and no, he won’t,” Roger said, keeping careful track of the “he’s” involved. “He—Frank Randall, that is—meant the stone as a sort of acknowledgment, I think; a debt owed to your father—your other father, I mean; Jamie.”
Brianna’s face was blotched with chill, the ends of nose and ears nipped red as the heat of their lovemaking faded.
“But he couldn’t know we’d ever find it, Mama and me!”
“I don’t know that he wanted you to find it,” Roger said. “Perhaps he didn’t know, either. But he felt he had to make the gesture. Besides,” he added, struck by a memory, “didn’t Claire say that he’d meant to bring you to England, just before he was killed? Perhaps he meant to take you there, make sure you found it—then leave it to you and Claire what to do.”
She sat still, chewing that one over.
“He knew, then,” she said slowly. “That he—that Jamie Fraser survived Culloden. He knew . . . but he didn’t say?”
“I don’t think you can blame him for not saying,” Roger said gently. “It wasn’t only selfish, you know.”
“Wasn’t it?” She was still shocked, but not yet angry. He could see her turning it over, trying to see it all before making up her mind what to think, how to feel.
“No. Think of it, hen,” he urged. The spruce was cold at his back, the bark of the fallen log damp under his hand. “He loved your mother, aye, and didn’t want to risk losing her again. That’s maybe selfish, but she was his wife first, after all; no one could blame him for not wanting to give her up to another man. But that’s not all of it.”
“What’s the rest, then?” Her voice was calm, blue eyes straight and level.
“Well—what if he had told her? There she was, with you, a young child—and remember, neither of them would have thought that you might cross through the stones as well.”
The eyes were still straight, but clouded once more with trouble.
“She would have had to choose,” she said softly, her gaze fixed on him. “To stay with us—or go to him. To Jamie.”
“To leave you behind,” Roger said, nodding, “or to stay, and live her life, knowing her Jamie was alive, maybe reachable—but out of reach. Break her vows—on purpose, this time—and abandon her child . . . or live with yearning. I can’t think that would have done your family life much good.”
“I see.” She sighed, the steam of her exhaled breath disappearing like a ghost in cold air.
“Perhaps Frank was afraid to give her the choice,” Roger said, “but he did save her—and you—from the pain of having to make it. At least then.”
Her lips drew in, pushed out, relaxed.
“I wonder what her choice would have been, if he had told her,” she said, a little bleakly. He laid his hand on hers, squeezed lightly.
“She would have stayed,” he said, with certainty. “She made the choice once, did she not? Jamie sent her back, to keep you safe, and she went. She would have known he wanted that, and she would have stayed—so long as you needed her. She wouldn’t have gone back, even when she did, save that you insisted. Ye ken that well enough, surely?”
Her face eased a bit, accepting this.
“I guess you’re right. But still . . . to know he was alive, and not try to reach him . . .”
He bit the inside of his cheek, to keep from asking. If it were your choice, Brianna? If it was the bairn or me? For how could any man force a choice like that on a woman whom he loved, even hypothetically? Whether for her sake or his own . . . he would not ask.
“But he did put that gravestone there. Why did he do that?” The line between her brows was still deep, but no longer straight; it twisted with a growing perturbation.
He hadn’t known Frank Randall, but he felt a certain empathy for the man—and not only a disinterested sympathy, either. He hadn’t fully realized why he’d felt he must tell her about the letter now, before the wedding, but his own motives were becoming clearer—and more disturbing to him—by the moment.
“I think it was obligation, as I said. Not just to Jamie or your mother—to you. If it—” he started, then stopped and squeezed her hand, hard. “Look. Take wee Jemmy. He’s mine, as much as you are—he always will be.” He took a deep breath. “But if I were the other man . . .”
“If you were Stephen Bonnet,” she said, and her lips were tight, gone white with chill.
“If I were Bonnet,” he agreed, with a qualm of distaste at the notion, “if I knew the child was mine, and yet he was being raised by a stranger—would I not want the child to know the truth, sometime?”
Her fingers convulsed in his, and her eyes went dark.
“You mustn’t tell him! Roger, for God’s sake, promise me you won’t tell him, ever!”
He stared at her in astonishment. Her nails were digging painfully into his hand, but he made no move to free himself.
“Bonnet? Christ, no! If I ever see the man again, I’ll not waste time talking!”
“Not Bonnet.” She shuddered, whether from cold or emotion, he couldn’t tell. “God, keep away from that man! No, it’s Jemmy I mean.” She swallowed hard, and gripped both his hands. “Promise me, Roger. If you love me, promise that you’ll never tell Jemmy about Bonnet, never. Even if something happens to me—”