Virgins: An Outlander Novella by Diana Gabaldon Page A

disappear. The grin faded as his hand touched the doorknob, though, and the face he presented to her as he entered was as grim as he could make it.
    Her eyes widened in shock and indignation at sight of him.
    “What are you doing here? No one is supposed to come in here but my husband and me!”
    “He’s on his way,” Jamie assured her. “The question is—will he get here?”
    Her little fist curled up in a way that would have been comical if he didn’t know as much about her as he did.
    “Is that a threat?” she said, in a tone as incredulous as it was menacing. “Here? You dare threaten me
here
?”
    “Aye, I do. I want that scroll.”
    “Well, you’re not getting it,” she snapped. He saw her glance flicker over the table, probably in search of either a bell to summon help or something to bash him on the head with, but the table held nothing but a platter of stuffed rolls and exotic sweeties. There
was
a bottle of wine, and he saw her eye light on that with calculation, but he stretched out a long arm and got hold of it before she could.
    “I dinna want it for myself,” he said. “I mean to take it back to your grandfather.”
    “Him?” Her face hardened. “No. It’s worth more to him than
I
am,” she added bitterly, “but at least that means I can use it for protection. As long as I have it, he won’t try to hurt Pierre or drag me back, for fear I might damage it. I’m keeping it.”
    “I think he’d be a great deal better off without ye, and doubtless he kens that fine,” Jamie informed her, and had to harden himself against the sudden look of hurt in her eyes. He supposed even spiders might have feelings, but that was neither here nor there.
    “Where’s Pierre?” she demanded. “If you’ve harmed a hair on his head, I’ll—”
    “I wouldna touch the poor gomerel, and neither would Ian—Juan, I mean. When I said the question was whether he got to ye or not, I meant whether he thinks better of his bargain.”
    “What?” He thought she paled a little, but it was hard to tell.
    “You give me the scroll to take back to your grandfather—a wee letter of apology to go with it wouldna come amiss, but I willna insist on that—or Ian and I take Pierre out back and have a frank word regarding his new wife.”
    “Tell him what you like!” she snapped. “He wouldn’t believe any of your made-up tales!”
    “Oh, aye? And if I tell him exactly what happened to Ephraim bar-Sefer? And why?”
    “Who?” she said, but now she really had gone pale to the lips and put out a hand to the table to steady herself.
    “Do ye ken yourself what happened to him? No? Well, I’ll tell ye, lass.” And he did so, with a terse brutality that made her sit down suddenly, tiny pearls of sweat appearing round the gold medallions that hung across her forehead.
    “Pierre already kens at least a bit about your wee gang, I think—but maybe not what a ruthless, grasping wee besom ye really are.”
    “It wasn’t me! I didn’t kill Ephraim!”
    “If not for you, he’d no be dead, and I reckon Pierre would see that. I can tell him where the body is,” he added, more delicately. “I buried the man myself.”
    Her lips were pressed so hard together that nothing showed but a straight white line.
    “Ye havena got long,” he said, quietly now, but keeping his eyes on hers. “Ian canna hold him off much longer, and if he comes in—then I tell him everything, in front of you, and ye do what ye can then to persuade him I’m a liar.”
    She stood up abruptly, her chains and bracelets all a-jangle, and stamped to the door of the inner room. She flung it open, and Marie jerked back, shocked.
    Rebekah said something to her in Ladino, sharp, and with a small gasp the maid scurried off.
    “All
right,
” Rebekah said through gritted teeth, turning back to him. “Take it and be damned, you
dog
.”
    “Indeed I will, ye bloody wee bitch,” he replied with great politeness.
    Her hand closed round a stuffed roll,