It was the same hand now, pale and long-fingered, the knuckles slightly bony—oddly bare without my ring, but recognizably my hand. Yet it lay in a hand so much larger and rougher that it seemed small, and fragile by comparison.
His other hand squeezed tighter, pressing the metal of the silver ring into my flesh, reminding me of what remained. I lifted his fist and pressed it hard against my heart in answer. The rain began to fall, in large, wet drops, but neither of us moved.
It came in a rush, dropping a veil over boat and shore, pattering noisily on leaves and deck and water, lending a temporary illusion of concealment. It washed cool and soft across my skin, momentary balm on the wounds of fear and loss.
I felt at once horribly vulnerable and yet completely safe. But then—I had always felt that way with Jamie Fraser.
PART FOUR
River Run
10
JOCASTA
Cross Creek, North Carolina, June 1767
River Run stood by the edge of the Cape Fear, just above the confluence that gave Cross Creek its name. Cross Creek itself was good-sized, with a busy public wharf and several large warehouses lining the water’s edge. As the Sally Ann made her way slowly through the shipping lane, a strong, resinous smell hung over town and river, trapped by the hot, sticky air.
“Jesus, it’s like breathin’ turpentine,” Ian wheezed as a fresh wave of the stultifying reek washed over us.
“You is breathin’ turpentine, man.” Eutroclus’s rare smile flashed white and disappeared. He nodded toward a barge tethered to a piling by one of the wharfs. It was stacked with barrels, some of which showed a thick black ooze through split seams. Other, larger barrels bore the brandmarks of their owners, with a large “T” burned into the pinewood below.
“ ’At’s right,” Captain Freeman agreed. He squinted in the bright sunlight, waving one hand slowly in front of his nose, as though this might dispel the stink. “This time o’ year’s when the pitch-bilers come down from the backcountry. Pitch, turpentine, tar—bring it all down by barge t’ Wilmington, then send it on south to the shipyards at Charleston.”
“I shouldna think it’s all turpentine,” Jamie said. He mopped the back of his neck with a handkerchief and nodded toward the largest of the ware-houses, its door flanked by red-coated soldiers. “Smell it, Sassenach?”
I inhaled, cautiously. There was something else in the air here; a hot, familiar scent.
“Rum?” I said.
“And brandywine. And a bit of port, as well.” Jamie’s long nose twitched, sensitive as a mongoose’s. I looked at him in amusement.
“You haven’t lost it, have you?” Twenty years before, he had managed his cousin Jared’s wine business in Paris, and his nose and palate had been the awe of the winery tasting rooms.
He grinned.
“Oh, I expect I could still tell Moselle from horse piss, if ye held it right under my nose. But telling rum from turpentine is no great feat, is it?”
Ian drew a huge lungful of air and let it out, coughing.
“It all smells the same to me,” he said, shaking his head.
“Good,” said Jamie, “I’ll give ye turpentine next time I stand ye a drink. It’ll be a good deal cheaper.”
“Turpentine’s just about what I could afford now,” he added under cover of the laughter this remark caused. He straightened, brushing down the skirts of his coat. “We’ll be there soon. Do I look a terrible beggar, Sassenach?”
Seen with the sun glowing on his neatly ribboned hair, his darkened profile coin-stamped against the light, I privately thought he looked dazzling, but I had caught the faint tone of anxiety in his voice, and knew well enough what he meant. Penniless he might be, but he didn’t mean to look it.
I was well aware that the notion of appearing at his aunt’s door as a poor relation come a-begging stung his pride considerably. The fact that he had been forced into precisely that role didn’t make it any easier to bear.
I looked him over carefully. The coat and waistcoat were not spectacular, but quite acceptable, courtesy of Cousin Edwin; a quiet gray broadcloth with a good hand and an excellent fit, buttons not silver, but not of wood or bone either—a sober pewter, like a prosperous Quaker.
Not that the rest of him bore the slightest resemblance to a Quaker, I thought. The linen shirt was rather grubby, but as long as he kept his coat on, no one would notice, and the missing button on the waistcoat was hidden by the graceful fall of his lace jabot, the sole extravagance he had permitted himself in the way of wardrobe.
The stockings were all right; pale blue silk, no visible holes. The white linen breeches were tight, but not—not quite—indecent, and reasonably clean.
The shoes were the only real flaw in his ensemble; there had been no time to have any made. His were sound, and I had done my best to hide the scuff-marks with a mixture of soot and dripping, but they were clearly a farmer’s footwear, not a gentleman’s; thick-soled, made of rough leather, and with buckles of lowly horn. Still, I doubted that his aunt Jocasta would be looking at his feet first thing.
I stood on tiptoe to straighten his jabot, and brushed a floating down-feather off his shoulder.
“It will be all right,” I whispered back, smiling up at him. “You’re beautiful.”
He looked startled; then the expression of grim aloofness relaxed into a smile.
“You’re beautiful, Sassenach.” He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. “You’re flushed as a wee apple; verra bonny.” He straightened up, glanced at Ian, and sighed.
“As for Ian, perhaps I can pass him off as a bondsman I’ve taken on to be swineherd.”
Ian was one of those people whose clothes, no matter what their original quality, immediately look as though they had been salvaged from a rubbish tip. Half his hair had escaped from its green ribbon, and one bony elbow protruded from a rip in his new shirt, whose cuffs were already noticeably gray round the wrists.
“Captain Freeman says we’ll be there in no time!” he exclaimed, eyes shining with excitement as he leaned over the side, peering upriver in order to be first to sight our destination. “What d’ye think we’ll get for supper?”
Jamie surveyed his nephew with a marked lack of favor.
“I expect you’ll get table scraps, wi’ the dogs. Do ye not own a coat, Ian? Or a comb?”
“Oh, aye,” Ian said, glancing round vaguely, as though expecting one of these objects to materialize in front of him. “I’ve a coat here. Somewhere. I think.”
The coat was finally located under one of the benches, and extracted with some difficulty from the possession of Rollo, who had made a comfortable bed of it. After a quick brush to remove at least some of the dog hairs from the garment, Ian was forcibly inserted into it, and sat firmly down to have his hair combed and plaited while Jamie gave him a quick refresher course in manners, this consisting solely of the advice to keep his mouth shut as much as possible.
Ian nodded amiably.
“Will ye tell Great-auntie Jocasta about the pirates yourself, then?” he inquired.
Jamie glanced briefly at Captain Freeman’s scrawny back. It was futile to expect that such a story would not be told in every tavern in Cross Creek, as soon as they had left us. It would be a matter of days—hours perhaps—before it spread to River Run plantation.