Brown was hasty, impetuous, and half-baked. He was not entirely stupid, Jamie thought. And clearly he had realized that his strategy of spreading gossip and scandal concerning his prisoners in order to endanger them had severe defects, so long as he was himself obliged to continue in close proximity to said prisoners.

Their simple meal finished, Jamie lay down, carefully, and Claire curled herself into him spoonwise, wanting comfort.

Fighting was an exhausting business, and so was fear; she was asleep in moments. Jamie felt the pull of sleep, but would not yield to it yet. He occupied himself instead in reciting some of the poems Brianna had told him—he quite liked the one about the silversmith in Boston, riding to spread the alarm to Lexington, which he considered a handsome piece.

The company was beginning to settle for the night. Brown was still a-fidget, sitting staring darkly at the ground, then leaping to his feet to stride up and down. By contrast, Christie had barely stirred, though he made no move to go to bed. He sat on a rock, his supper barely touched.

A flicker of movement near Christie’s boot; a wee small mouse, making feints toward the neglected plate that sat on the ground, filled with bounty.

It had occurred to Jamie a couple of days before, in the vague way that one recognizes a fact unconsciously known for some time, that Tom Christie was in love with his wife.

Poor bugger, he thought. Surely Christie did not believe that Claire had had aught to do with the death of his daughter; if so, he would not be here. Did he think that Jamie, though … ?

He lay in the shelter of the darkness, watching the fire play across Christie’s haggard features, his eyes half-hooded, giving no hint of his thoughts. There were men who could be read like books; Tom Christie wasn’t one of them. But if ever he had seen a man being eaten alive before his eyes …

Was it the fate of his daughter, alone—or also the desperate need of a woman? He’d seen that need before, that gnawing at the soul, and knew it personally. Or did Christie think that Claire had killed wee Malva, or been in some way involved? There would be a quandary for an honorable man.

The need of a woman … the thought brought him back to the moment, and the awareness that the sounds he had been listening for in the wood behind him were now there. He had known for the past two days that they were followed, but last night they had camped in an open meadow, with no cover at all.

Moving slowly, but with no attempt at furtiveness, he rose, covered Claire with his cloak, and stepped into the wood, like one called by nature.

The moon was pale and hunchbacked and there was little light beneath the trees. He closed his eyes to damp the fire shadow and opened them again to the dark world, that place of shapes that lacked dimension and air that held spirits.

It was no spirit that stepped out from behind the blur of a pine tree, though.

“Blessed Michael defend us,” he said softly.

“The blessed host of angels and archangels be with ye, Uncle,” said Ian, in the same soft tone. “Though I am thinking that a few thrones and dominations wouldna come amiss, either.”

“Well, I wouldna argue, if Divine Intervention chose to take a hand,” Jamie said, heartened most amazingly by his nephew’s presence. “I’m sure I’ve no notion how else we shall escape this foolish coil.”

Ian grunted at that; Jamie saw his nephew’s head turn, checking the faint glow of the camp. Without discussion, they moved further into the wood.

“I canna be gone for long, without they come after me,” he said. “First, then—is all well wi’ the Ridge?”

Ian lifted a shoulder.

“There’s talk,” he said, the tone of his voice indicating that “talk” covered everything from auld wives’ gossip to the sort of insult that must be settled by violence. “No one killed yet, though. What shall I do, Uncle Jamie?”

“Richard Brown. He’s thinking, and God only kens what that will lead to.”

“He thinks too much; such men are dangerous,” Ian said, and laughed. Jamie, who had never known his nephew to read a book willingly, gave him a look of disbelief, but dismissed questions in favor of the pressing concerns of the moment.

“Aye, he is,” he said dryly. “He’s been spreading the story in pothouses and inns as we go—at a guess, in hopes of rousing public indignation to the point that some poor fool of a constable can be pushed into taking us off his hands, or better yet, that a mob might be stirred up to seize us and hang us out of hand, thus resolving his difficulty.”

“Oh, aye? Well, if that’s what he had in mind, Uncle, it’s working. Ye wouldna countenance some of the things I’ve heard, following in your tracks.”

“I know.” Jamie stretched gently, easing his painful ribs. It was only the mercy of God that it hadn’t been worse—that, and Claire’s rage, which had interrupted the attack, as everyone stopped to watch the engrossing spectacle of her hatcheling her assailant like a bundle of flax.

“It’s come home to him, though, that if ye mean to pin a target on someone, it’s wise to step away smartly thereafter. He’s thinking, as I say. Should he go off, then, or send someone …”

“I’ll follow, aye, and see what’s to do.”

He sensed rather than saw Ian’s nod; they stood in black shadow, the faint haze of moonlight like fog in the space between the trees. The lad moved, as though to go, then hesitated.

“Ye’re sure, Uncle, as it wouldna be better to wait a bit, then creep away? There’s nay bracken, but there’s decent cover in the hills nearby; we could be safe hidden by dawn.”

It was a great temptation. He felt the pull of the dark wild forest, above all, the lure of freedom. If he could but walk away into the greenwood, and stay there … But he shook his head.

“It wouldna do, Ian,” he said, though he let regret show in his voice. “We should be fugitives, then—and doubtless wi’ a price on our heads. With the countryside already roused against us—broadsides, posted bills? The public would do Brown’s work for him, promptly. And then, to run would seem an admission of guilt, forbye.”

Ian sighed, but nodded agreement.

“Well, then,” he said. He stepped forward and embraced Jamie, squeezing hard for an instant, and then was gone.

Jamie let out a long, tentative breath against the pain of his injured ribs.

“God go with ye, Ian,” he said to the dark, and turned back.

When he lay down again beside his wife, the camp was silent. The men lay like logs, wrapped in their blankets. Two figures, though, remained by the embers of the dying fire: Richard Brown and Thomas Christie, each alone on a rock with his thoughts.

Ought he to wake Claire, tell her? He considered for a moment, his cheek against the warm softness of her hair, and reluctantly decided no. It might hearten her a little to know of Ian’s presence—but he dare not risk rousing Brown’s suspicion; and if Brown were to perceive by any change in Claire’s mood or face that something had happened … no, best not. At least not yet.

He glanced along the ground at Christie’s feet, and saw the faint pale scurry of movement in the dark; the mouse had brought friends to share her feast.

90



FORTY-SIX BEANS

TO THE GOOD

AT DAWN, RICHARD BROWN WAS GONE. The rest of the men seemed grim, but resigned, and under the command of a squatty, morose sort of fellow named Oakes, we resumed our push south.

Something had changed in the night; Jamie had lost a little of the tension that had infused him since our departure from the Ridge. Stiff, sore, and disheartened as I was, I found this change some comfort, though wondering what had caused it. Was it the same thing that had caused Richard Brown to leave on his mysterious errand?

Jamie said nothing, though, beyond inquiring after my hand—which was tender, and so stiff that I couldn’t immediately flex my fingers. He continued to keep a watchful eye on our companions, but the lessening of tension had affected them, too; I began to lose my fear that they might suddenly lose patience and string us up, Tom Christie’s dour presence notwithstanding.