think, hearing he’d been dragged off by English soldiers?
Well, he could do nothing about either Quinn or the Duchess of Pardloe just now. One thing at a time. He drained his cup, leaned forward, and set it on its saucer with a deliberate clink that indicated he was now ready to talk.
The duke likewise put down his cup, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said without preamble, “Do you consider yourself in my debt, Mr. Fraser?”
“No,” he said, without hesitation. “I didna ask ye to save my life.”
“No, you didn’t,” Pardloe said dryly. “In fact, you demanded that I shoot you, if my recollection is correct.”
“It is.”
“Do you hold it against me that I didn’t?” It was asked seriously, and Jamie answered it the same way.
“I did. But I don’t now, no.”
Pardloe nodded.
“Well, then.” He held up both hands and folded down one thumb. “You spared my brother’s life.” The other thumb folded. “I spared yours.” An index finger. “You objected to this action.”The other index finger. “But have upon consideration withdrawn your objection?” He raised both eyebrows, and Jamie quelled a reluctant impulse to smile. He inclined his head half an inch instead, and Pardloe nodded, lowering his hands.
“So you agree that there is no debt between us? No lingering sense of injury?”
“I wouldna go that far,” Jamie replied, very dry indeed. “Ye’ve got three fingers left. But there’s nay debt, no. Not between us.”
The man was sharp; he caught the faint emphasis on “us.”
“Whatever disagreements you may have with my brother do not concern me,” Pardloe said. “So long as they don’t interfere with the business I am about to lay before you.”
Jamie wondered just what John Grey had told his brother concerning the disagreements between them—but if it wasn’t Pardloe’s concern, it wasn’t his, either.
“Speak, then,” he said, and felt a sudden knotting in his belly. They were the same words he’d said to John Grey, which had unleashed that final disastrous conversation. He had a strong foreboding that this one wasn’t going to end well, either.
Pardloe took a deep breath, as though readying himself for something, then stood up.
“Come with me.”
THEY WENT TO A small study down the hall. Unlike the gracious library they had just left, the study was dark, cramped, and littered with books, papers, small random objects, and a scatter of ratty quills that looked as if they’d been chewed. Clearly, this was the duke’s personal lair, and no servant’s intrusion was often tolerated. Tidy himself by default rather than inclination, Jamie found the place oddly appealing.
Pardloe gestured briefly at a chair, then bent to unlock the lower drawer of the desk. What could be sufficiently delicate or important that it required such precautions?
The duke withdrew a bundle of papers bound with ribbon, untied it, and, pushing things impatiently aside to make a clear space, laid a single sheet of paper on the desk in front of Jamie.
He frowned a bit, picked up the sheet, and, tilting it toward the small window for a better light, read slowly through it.
“Can you read it?” The duke was looking at him, intent.
“More or less, aye.” He set it down, baffled, and looked at the duke. “Ye want to know what it says, is that it?”
“It is. Is it Erse? The speech of the Scottish Highlands?”
Jamie shook his head.
“Nay, though something close. It’s
Gaeilge
. Irish. Some call that Erse, too,” he added, with a tinge of contempt for ignorance.
“Irish! You’re sure?” The duke stood up, his lean face positively eager.
“Yes. I wouldna claim to be fluent, but it’s close enough to the
Gàidhlig
—that would be my own tongue,” he said pointedly, “that I can follow it. It’s a poem—or part o’ one.”
Pardloe’s face went blank for an instant but then resumed its expression of concentration.
“What poem? What does it say?”
Jamie rubbed a
Well, he could do nothing about either Quinn or the Duchess of Pardloe just now. One thing at a time. He drained his cup, leaned forward, and set it on its saucer with a deliberate clink that indicated he was now ready to talk.
The duke likewise put down his cup, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and said without preamble, “Do you consider yourself in my debt, Mr. Fraser?”
“No,” he said, without hesitation. “I didna ask ye to save my life.”
“No, you didn’t,” Pardloe said dryly. “In fact, you demanded that I shoot you, if my recollection is correct.”
“It is.”
“Do you hold it against me that I didn’t?” It was asked seriously, and Jamie answered it the same way.
“I did. But I don’t now, no.”
Pardloe nodded.
“Well, then.” He held up both hands and folded down one thumb. “You spared my brother’s life.” The other thumb folded. “I spared yours.” An index finger. “You objected to this action.”The other index finger. “But have upon consideration withdrawn your objection?” He raised both eyebrows, and Jamie quelled a reluctant impulse to smile. He inclined his head half an inch instead, and Pardloe nodded, lowering his hands.
“So you agree that there is no debt between us? No lingering sense of injury?”
“I wouldna go that far,” Jamie replied, very dry indeed. “Ye’ve got three fingers left. But there’s nay debt, no. Not between us.”
The man was sharp; he caught the faint emphasis on “us.”
“Whatever disagreements you may have with my brother do not concern me,” Pardloe said. “So long as they don’t interfere with the business I am about to lay before you.”
Jamie wondered just what John Grey had told his brother concerning the disagreements between them—but if it wasn’t Pardloe’s concern, it wasn’t his, either.
“Speak, then,” he said, and felt a sudden knotting in his belly. They were the same words he’d said to John Grey, which had unleashed that final disastrous conversation. He had a strong foreboding that this one wasn’t going to end well, either.
Pardloe took a deep breath, as though readying himself for something, then stood up.
“Come with me.”
THEY WENT TO A small study down the hall. Unlike the gracious library they had just left, the study was dark, cramped, and littered with books, papers, small random objects, and a scatter of ratty quills that looked as if they’d been chewed. Clearly, this was the duke’s personal lair, and no servant’s intrusion was often tolerated. Tidy himself by default rather than inclination, Jamie found the place oddly appealing.
Pardloe gestured briefly at a chair, then bent to unlock the lower drawer of the desk. What could be sufficiently delicate or important that it required such precautions?
The duke withdrew a bundle of papers bound with ribbon, untied it, and, pushing things impatiently aside to make a clear space, laid a single sheet of paper on the desk in front of Jamie.
He frowned a bit, picked up the sheet, and, tilting it toward the small window for a better light, read slowly through it.
“Can you read it?” The duke was looking at him, intent.
“More or less, aye.” He set it down, baffled, and looked at the duke. “Ye want to know what it says, is that it?”
“It is. Is it Erse? The speech of the Scottish Highlands?”
Jamie shook his head.
“Nay, though something close. It’s
Gaeilge
. Irish. Some call that Erse, too,” he added, with a tinge of contempt for ignorance.
“Irish! You’re sure?” The duke stood up, his lean face positively eager.
“Yes. I wouldna claim to be fluent, but it’s close enough to the
Gàidhlig
—that would be my own tongue,” he said pointedly, “that I can follow it. It’s a poem—or part o’ one.”
Pardloe’s face went blank for an instant but then resumed its expression of concentration.
“What poem? What does it say?”
Jamie rubbed a
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