some whisky, Pilcock,” Pardloe said, still eyeing Jamie. “And biscuits—no, not biscuits, something more substantial.”
Pilcock made a questioning noise, causing the duke to glance over Jamie’s shoulder at him, features creasing in irritation.
“How should I know? Meat pies. Leftover joint. Roast peacock, for God’s sake. Go ask Cook; go ask your mistress!”
“Yes, Your Grace!”
Pardloe shook his head, then looked at Jamie again.
“Got your bearings now?” he inquired in a perfectly normaltone of voice, as though resuming an interrupted conversation. “I mean—you recall me?”
“I do.”
He did, and the recollection jarred him almost as much as finding Pardloe instead of the Duke of Cumberland. He clutched the seat of the chair, steadying himself against the memory.
Two days past the battle, and the smoke of burning bodies swirled thick over the moor, a greasy fog that seeped into the cottage where the wounded Jacobite officers had taken refuge. They’d crossed the carnage of the field together, bleeding, frozen, stumbling … helping one another, dragging one another to a temporary—and totally illusory—safety.
He’d felt the whole of it an illusion. Had waked on the field, convinced he was dead, relieved it was over, the pain, the heartbreak, the struggle. Then had truly waked, to find Jack Randall lying dead on top of him, the captain’s dead weight having cut off circulation to his wounded leg and saved him from bleeding to death—one final ill turn, one last indignity.
His friends had found him, forced him to his feet, brought him to the cottage. He hadn’t protested; he’d seen what was left of his leg and knew it wouldn’t be long.
Longer than he’d thought; it had been two days of pain and fever. Then Melton had come, and his friends had been taken out and shot, one by one. He’d been sent home, to Lallybroch.
He looked at Harold, Lord Melton—now Duke of Pardloe—with no great friendliness.
“I mind ye.”
PARDLOE ROSE FROM the desk and, with a twitch of the shoulder, summoned him to a pair of wing chairs near the hearth, motioning him into one. Jamie lowered himself gingerly onto the pink-stripedsatin damask, but the thing was sturdily built and bore his weight without creaking.
The duke turned toward the open door to the library and bellowed, “Pilcock! Where the devil are you?”
It wasn’t a footman or butler who appeared, though. The woman whose face he had glimpsed in the hall downstairs came in, skirts whispering. He had a much better look at her face now and thought his heart might stop.
“Pilcock’s busy,” she told the duke. “What do you want?” She was visibly older but still pretty, with a soft flush to her cheeks.
“Busy? Doing what?”
“I sent him up to the attics,” the woman replied composedly. “If you’re sending poor John to Ireland, he’ll need a portmanteau, at least.” She gave Jamie the briefest of glances before her gaze flicked back to the duke, and Jamie saw one neat eyebrow arch in question.
Jesus. They’re married, then
, he thought, seeing the instant communication in the gesture and the duke’s grimace of acknowledgment.
She’s his wife
. The green-printed wallpaper behind the duke suddenly began to flicker, and the sides of his jaws went cold. With a remote sense of shock, he realized that he was about to faint.
The duke uttered an exclamation and the woman swung round toward him. Spots flickered and grew thick before his eyes, but not thick enough that he failed to see the expression on her face. Alarm—and warning.
“Are you quite well, Mr. Fraser?” The duke’s cool voice penetrated through the buzzing in his ears, and he felt a hand on the back of his neck, forcing his head down. “Put your head between your knees. Minnie, my dear—”
“I’ve got it. Here.” The woman’s voice was breathless, and he heard the clink of glass, smelled the hot scent of brandy.
“Not that, not yet. My
Pilcock made a questioning noise, causing the duke to glance over Jamie’s shoulder at him, features creasing in irritation.
“How should I know? Meat pies. Leftover joint. Roast peacock, for God’s sake. Go ask Cook; go ask your mistress!”
“Yes, Your Grace!”
Pardloe shook his head, then looked at Jamie again.
“Got your bearings now?” he inquired in a perfectly normaltone of voice, as though resuming an interrupted conversation. “I mean—you recall me?”
“I do.”
He did, and the recollection jarred him almost as much as finding Pardloe instead of the Duke of Cumberland. He clutched the seat of the chair, steadying himself against the memory.
Two days past the battle, and the smoke of burning bodies swirled thick over the moor, a greasy fog that seeped into the cottage where the wounded Jacobite officers had taken refuge. They’d crossed the carnage of the field together, bleeding, frozen, stumbling … helping one another, dragging one another to a temporary—and totally illusory—safety.
He’d felt the whole of it an illusion. Had waked on the field, convinced he was dead, relieved it was over, the pain, the heartbreak, the struggle. Then had truly waked, to find Jack Randall lying dead on top of him, the captain’s dead weight having cut off circulation to his wounded leg and saved him from bleeding to death—one final ill turn, one last indignity.
His friends had found him, forced him to his feet, brought him to the cottage. He hadn’t protested; he’d seen what was left of his leg and knew it wouldn’t be long.
Longer than he’d thought; it had been two days of pain and fever. Then Melton had come, and his friends had been taken out and shot, one by one. He’d been sent home, to Lallybroch.
He looked at Harold, Lord Melton—now Duke of Pardloe—with no great friendliness.
“I mind ye.”
PARDLOE ROSE FROM the desk and, with a twitch of the shoulder, summoned him to a pair of wing chairs near the hearth, motioning him into one. Jamie lowered himself gingerly onto the pink-stripedsatin damask, but the thing was sturdily built and bore his weight without creaking.
The duke turned toward the open door to the library and bellowed, “Pilcock! Where the devil are you?”
It wasn’t a footman or butler who appeared, though. The woman whose face he had glimpsed in the hall downstairs came in, skirts whispering. He had a much better look at her face now and thought his heart might stop.
“Pilcock’s busy,” she told the duke. “What do you want?” She was visibly older but still pretty, with a soft flush to her cheeks.
“Busy? Doing what?”
“I sent him up to the attics,” the woman replied composedly. “If you’re sending poor John to Ireland, he’ll need a portmanteau, at least.” She gave Jamie the briefest of glances before her gaze flicked back to the duke, and Jamie saw one neat eyebrow arch in question.
Jesus. They’re married, then
, he thought, seeing the instant communication in the gesture and the duke’s grimace of acknowledgment.
She’s his wife
. The green-printed wallpaper behind the duke suddenly began to flicker, and the sides of his jaws went cold. With a remote sense of shock, he realized that he was about to faint.
The duke uttered an exclamation and the woman swung round toward him. Spots flickered and grew thick before his eyes, but not thick enough that he failed to see the expression on her face. Alarm—and warning.
“Are you quite well, Mr. Fraser?” The duke’s cool voice penetrated through the buzzing in his ears, and he felt a hand on the back of his neck, forcing his head down. “Put your head between your knees. Minnie, my dear—”
“I’ve got it. Here.” The woman’s voice was breathless, and he heard the clink of glass, smelled the hot scent of brandy.
“Not that, not yet. My
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