He shook ink powder made of iron and oak gall into the stained half-gourd he used as a well, and poured a little water from the pitcher, using the shaft of a quill to stir the ink. He smiled at Brianna, and took a sheet of paper from the drawer.
“Now, then, lass, how is this man of yours to look at?”
The suggestion of action had brought a spark of life back to Brianna’s face. She sat up straighter, and a current of energy flowed up her spine, into my fingers.
“Tall,” she said. “Nearly as tall as you, Da. People would notice; they always look at you. He has black hair, and green eyes—bright green; it’s one of the first things you notice about him, isn’t it, Mama?”
Ian gave a small start, and looked up from his grooming.
“Yes,” I said, sitting down on the bench next to Brianna. “But you can maybe do better than just the written description. Bree’s a good hand with a likeness,” I explained to Jamie. “Can you draw Roger from memory, do you think, Bree?”
“Yes!” She reached for the quill, eager to try. “Yes, I’m sure I can—I’ve drawn him before.”
Jamie surrendered the quill and paper, the vertical lines between his brows showing in a slight frown.
“Can the printer work from an ink sketch?” I asked, seeing it.
“Oh—aye, I expect so. It’s no great matter to make a woodblock, if the lines are clear.” He spoke abstractedly, eyes fixed on the paper in front of Brianna.
Ian pushed Rollo’s head off his knee and came to stand by the table, looking over Bree’s shoulder in what seemed a rather exaggerated curiosity.
Lower lip fixed between her teeth, she drew clean and swiftly. High forehead, with a thick lock of black hair that rose from an invisible cowlick, then dipped almost to the strongly marked black brows. She drew him in profile; a bold nose, not quite beaky, a clean-lined, sensitive mouth and a wide, slanted jaw. Thick-lashed eyes, deepset, with lines of good humor marking a strong, appealing face. She added a neat, flat ear, then turned her attention to the elegant curve of the skull, drawing thick, wavy dark hair pulled back in a short tail.
Ian made a small, strangled noise in his throat.
“Are you all right, Ian?” I looked up at him, but he wasn’t looking at the drawing—he was looking across the table, at Jamie. He was wearing a glazed sort of expression, like a pig on a spit.
I turned, to find precisely the same expression on Jamie’s face.
“What on earth is the matter?” I asked.
“Oh…nothing.” The muscles of his throat moved in a convulsive swallow. The corner of his mouth twitched, and twitched again, as though he couldn’t control it.
“Like hell it is!” Alarmed, I leaned across the table, seizing his wrist and groping for his pulse. “Jamie, what is it? Are you having chest pains? Do you feel ill?”
“I do.” Ian was leaning over the table, looking as though he might be going to throw up any minute. “Coz—d’ye mean honestly to tell me that…this”—he gestured feebly at the sketch—“is Roger Wakefield?”
“Yes,” she said, looking up at him in puzzlement. “Ian, are you all right? Did you eat something funny?”
He didn’t answer, but dropped heavily onto the bench beside her, put his head in his hands, and groaned.
Jamie gently detached his hand from my grip. Even in the red of the firelight, I could see that he was white and strained. The hand on the table curled around the quill jar, as though seeking support.
“Mr. Wakefield,” he said carefully to Brianna. “Has he by any chance…another name?”
“Yes,” Brianna and I said in unison. I stopped and let her explain as I rose and went hurriedly to fetch a bottle of brandy from the pantry. I didn’t know what was going on, but had the horrible feeling that it was about to be called for.
“—adopted. MacKenzie was his own family name,” she was saying as I emerged with the bottle in hand. She glanced from father to cousin, frowning. “Why? You haven’t heard of a Roger MacKenzie, have you?”
Jamie and Ian exchanged an appalled glance. Ian cleared his throat. So did Jamie.
“What?” Brianna demanded, leaning forward, glancing anxiously from one to the other. “What is it? Have you seen him? Where?”
I saw Jamie’s jaw tighten as he summoned up words.
“Aye,” he said carefully. “We have. On the mountain.”
“What—here? On this mountain?” She stood up, pushing back the bench. Alarm and excitement played over her face like flames. “Where is he? What happened?”
“Well,” Ian said defensively, “he did say as he’d taken your maidenheid, after all.”
“He WHAT?” Brianna’s eyes sprang open so far that a rim of white showed all around the iris.
“Well, your Da asked him, just to be sure, and he admitted that he’d—”
“You what?” Brianna rounded on Jamie, clenched fists on the table.
“Aye, well. It—was a mistake,” Jamie said. He looked utterly wretched.
“You bet it was! What in the name of—what have you done?” Her own cheeks had blanched, and blue sparks glinted in her eyes, hot as the heart of a flame.
Jamie took a deep breath. He looked up, straight into her face, and set his jaw.
“The wee lassie,” he said. “Lizzie. She told me that ye were with child, and that the man who’d got it on ye was a wicked brute called MacKenzie.”
Brianna’s mouth opened and shut, but no words came out. Jamie looked at her steadily.
“Ye did say to me that ye’d been violated, did ye no?”
She nodded, jerky as a badly sprung puppet.
“So, then. Ian and the lassie were at the mill, when MacKenzie came askin’ for ye. They rode to fetch me, and Ian and I met him in the clearing just above the green spring.”
Brianna had got her voice working, though only barely.
“What did you do to him?” she asked hoarsely. “What?”
“It was a fair fight,” Ian said, still defensive. “I wanted to shoot him on sight, but Uncle Jamie said no, he meant to have his hands on the—the man.”
“You hit him?”
“Aye, I did!” Jamie said, stung at last. “For God’s sake, woman, what would ye have me do to the man who’d used ye that way? It was you wanting to do murder, aye?”
“Besides, he hit Uncle Jamie, too,” Ian put in helpfully. “It was a fair fight. I said.”
“Be quiet, Ian, there’s a good lad,” I said. I poured two fingers, neat, and pushed the cup in front of Jamie.
“But it was—he wasn’t—” Brianna was sputtering, like a firecracker with a short fuse lit. Then she caught fire, and slammed one fist on the table, going off like a rocket.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?” she screamed.
Jamie blinked and Ian flinched. They exchanged haunted glances.
I put a hand on Jamie’s arm, squeezing tight. I couldn’t keep the quaver out of my own voice as I asked the necessary question.
“Jamie—did you kill him?”
He glanced at me, and the tension in his face relaxed, if only marginally.
“Ah…no,” he said. “I gave him to the Iroquois.”