“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ! Oliver! I think he’s alive—help me get him out!”
“He—wh-wh-what … he can’t be!”
I’d dropped my pack and was digging like a badger with my bare hands. Something warm touched my skin—a wisp of breath.
“Gilbert—Gilbert! Hang on, just hang on, we’re getting you out of there …”
“No,” said Oliver’s voice behind me. It was hoarse and high-pitched and I glanced over my shoulder, to see him pulling a torn-off branch out of the muck.
“No,” he said again, more strongly. “I don’t think so.”
JAMIE WOKE FROM a feverish doze to see Frances standing beside his bed, looking grave.
“What’s happened?” he asked. His throat was dry as sand, and the words came out in a faint rasp. “Where’s my wife?”
“She hasn’t come back yet,” Frances said. “She and Lieutenant Esterhazy only left an hour ago, you know.” “You know” came out with a faint tone of question and he made an attempt at a smile. Not a good one; his face was as tired as the rest of him. Frances looked at him assessingly, then lifted the cup she was holding.
“You’re to drink this,” she said firmly. “One full cup each hour. She said so.” The “She” was spoken with the respect due to the local deity, and his smile got better.
He managed to raise his head enough to drink, though she had to hold the cup while he did so. It was only moderately horrible and Frances, the dear child, had evidently taken Claire’s direction “with a little whisky” not only literally but liberally. He laid his head back on the pillow, feeling slightly dizzy, though that might just be the lack of blood.
“I’m to check and see if you’re oozing pus,” Frances told him, in the same firm tone.
“I’m in no condition to stop ye, lass.”
He lay still, breathing deep and slow, as she untied the bandage and lifted the wet compress from his chest. He was interested to see that she handled his body without the slightest hesitation or compunction, pressing here and there beside the line of stitching, a small frown between her soft dark brows. He wanted to laugh, but didn’t; even such breathing as he was doing hurt quite a bit.
“What d’ye think, a nighean?” he asked. “Will I live?”
She made a small grimace meant to acknowledge that she understood he was jesting, but the frown remained.
“Yes,” she said, but stood for a moment, frowning at his patchworked chest. Then she seemed to make up her mind about something and replaced the compress and retied the bandage in a business-like way.
“I want to tell you something,” she said. “I would have waited for Mrs. Fraser to come back, but Lieutenant Esterhazy will be with her.”
“Speak, then,” he said, matching her formality. “Sit, if ye like.” He waved a hand toward the nearby stool and drew in his breath sharply at the resultant sensation. Frances looked at him in concern, but after a moment decided that he wouldn’t die, and sat down.
“It’s Agnes,” she said, without preamble. “She thinks she’s with child.”
“Oh, Jesus Christ!”
“Just so,” she said, nodding. “She thinks it’s Gilbert’s—Lieutenant Bembridge, I mean.”
“She thinks it’s him? Who else might it be?”
“Well, Oliver,” she said. “But she only did it once with him.”
“Sasannaich clann na galladh!”
“What does that mean?”
“English sons of the devil,” he told her briefly. He was struggling to get his elbows bent enough to sit up; this wasn’t news he could deal with lying flat. “Did either of the gobshites … er … try to … with you?”
Surprise wiped the frown off her face.
“I’m never going to lie with a man,” she said with complete certainty, then looked at him, with a little less. “You said I didn’t have to.”
“Ye don’t and ye never will,” he assured her. “If anyone tries, I’ll kill him. How long have ye kent this—about Agnes?”
“She told me just before I came up here,” Frances said, with a slightly guilty look over her shoulder. “I wath—wasn’t sure I should tell you but … she’th—she is afraid that Oliver killed Gilbert last night because he found out she was …”
“Does she ken for sure he found out?”
Frances nodded soberly.
“She told him. Yesterday. He asked her to marry him and she said she couldn’t, because …”
He wanted very badly to go downstairs and shake Agnes until her silly head rattled, but something much worse was dawning on him, and he pushed himself upright, disregarding pain and dizziness.
“Go down and get Kenny Lindsay for me,” he said urgently. “Now, Frances.”
“YOU DON’T THINK so?” I said, staring at Oliver Esterhazy.
“I mean—he’s dead, Mrs. Fraser! Come away, don’t touch him!” Oliver grabbed my arm, but I shook him off.
“He’s not dead,” I said, “but he may well be in the next few minutes, if we don’t get him out. Get down here and help me!”
He looked at me, mouth half open, then looked wildly at Gilbert—who did indeed look dead, but …
“Help me!” I said, and began scrabbling at the wet, heavy earth. I dug madly, trying to free enough of Gilbert’s chest for him to draw breath. He was lying mostly on his side, and luckily there wasn’t a lot of earth over his upper body, though his legs seemed to be buried more deeply. If only I could get him free enough to do chest compression and his bones weren’t shattered …
Oliver squatted beside me. He was cursing steadily under his breath, and now nudged me, trying to push me aside.
“Let me do it,” he said curtly. “I’m stronger.”
“I’m—”
“Move!” he said violently, and pushed me to the side. I lost my balance, fell sprawling, and the loose earth moved under me. I rolled in a shower of wet dirt, arms and legs flung out, and skidded to a stop against the exposed root tangle of an uprooted tree, partway down the slope. I was dazed and frightened, my heart pounding. I’d been so concerned with rescuing Gilbert Bembridge that it hadn’t occurred to me that the slipped earth was by no means settled in its new bed and might easily slide further. I rolled onto my hands and knees and began crawling back up the slope, as fast as I could manage without losing my precarious balance.
Oliver Esterhazy was digging, but not around his friend. He pawed a broken pine branch half free of the clinging mud, then stood up and yanked it free. He turned toward Gilbert’s protruding head, and with a determined expression staggered through the mud and swung the branch down on it.
“You … swine …” came a sepulchral voice from under the muddy pine needles. It was labored and hoarse, but plainly propelled by breath. Before I could rise to my feet, Gilbert’s free arm swung into the air and grappled the end of the branch.
Completely panicked, Oliver let go and leapt back. I saw one booted foot sink calf-deep in the loose dirt and then he, too, lost his balance and with a muffled shriek toppled over backward and hurtled down the slope like an ungainly toboggan.