The Scottish Prisoner by Diana Gabaldon Page A

snuffbox—it’s on the mantelpiece.” The duke was holding him by the shoulders, he realized, bracing him to keep him from falling. The blood was slowly coming back into his head, but his vision was still dark and his face and fingers cold.
    The sound of quick light footsteps came to him—hearing was always the last sense to go, he thought dimly—clicking on the parquet, muffled on the rug, a pause, then coming swiftly back. An urgent murmur from the duke, another click, a small, soft
pop!
and the stinging rush of ammonia shot up his nose.
    He gasped and jerked, trying to turn away, but a firm hand held his head, obliging him to breathe, then finally let go and allowed him to sit up, coughing and spluttering, eyes watering so badly that he could barely make out the woman’s form hovering over him, the vial of smelling salts in her hand.
    “Poor man,” she said. “You must be half dead with travel, and hungry, to boot—it’s past teatime, and I’ll wager you’ve not had a bite in hours. Really, Hal—”
    “I sent for food. I was just about to send again when he turned white and keeled over,” the duke protested, indignant.
    “Well, go and tell Cook, then,” his wife ordered. “I’ll give Mr.…” She turned toward Jamie, expectant.
    “Fraser,” Jamie managed, wiping his streaming face on his sleeve. “James Fraser.” The name felt strange on his lips; he hadn’t spoken it in years.
    “Yes, of course. I’ll give Mr. Fraser some brandy. Tell Cook we want sandwiches and cake and a pot of strong hot tea, and we want it quickly.”
    The duke said something vulgar in French, but went. The woman had a cup of brandy ready and held it to his lips. He took it from her, though, and looked at her over the rim.
    The soft flush had gone from her cheeks. She was pale, and her gentle lips were pressed in a grim line.
    “For the sake of the cause we once shared,” she said very quietly, “I pray you, say nothing. Not yet.”

    HE WAS DEEPLY EMBARRASSED —and even more deeply unsettled. He’d fainted before, from pain or shock. But not often, and not in front of an enemy. Now here he sat, drinking tea from a porcelain cup with a gold rim, sharing sandwiches and cakes from a similarly adorned platter, with that very enemy. He was confused, annoyed, and at a considerable disadvantage. He didn’t like it.
    On the other hand, the food was excellent and he was, in fact, starved. His wame had been clenched in a ball since they came in sight of London, so he’d taken no breakfast.
    To his credit, Pardloe made no move to take advantage of his guest’s weakness. He said nothing beyond an occasional “More ham?” or “Pass the mustard, if you please,” and ate in the businesslike manner of a soldier, not seeking Jamie’s eye but not avoiding it, either.
    The woman had left without another word and hadn’t come back. That was one thing to be thankful for.
    He’d known her as Mina Rennie; God knew what her real name was. She’d been the seventeen-year-old daughter of a bookseller in Paris who dealt in information and more than once had carried messages between her father and Jamie, during his days of intrigue there before the Rising. Paris seemed as distant as the planet Jupiter. The distance between a young spy and a duchess seemed even greater.
    “For the sake of the cause we once shared.”
Had they? He’d beenunder no illusions about old Rennie; his only loyalty had been to gold. Had his daughter really considered herself a Jacobite? He ate a slice of cake, absently enjoying the crunch of walnuts and the richly exotic taste of cocoa. He hadn’t tasted chocolate since Paris.
    He supposed it was possible. The Cause had attracted people of romantic temperament; doomed causes usually did. That made him think abruptly of Quinn, and the thought raised the hairs on his forearms. Christ. He’d nearly forgotten the bloody Irishman and his harebrained schemes, in the alarms of the last few days. What would Quinn