“What, chérie?” Fergus lifted her with the ease of long practice, balancing her fat little bottom on his left arm, to leave his right hand free.

She put her arms round his neck and hissed something into his ear.

“Oh, did you?” he said, plainly abstracted. “Très bien. Where did you put it, chérie?”

“With the naughty-lady pictures.”

She pointed at the upper shelf, where several volumes lay, leather-bound but discreetly untitled. Glancing in the direction she indicated, Jamie saw a smudged paper sticking out from between two of the books.

Fergus clicked his tongue in displeasure, and smacked her lightly on the bottom with his good hand.

“You know you are not to climb up there!”

Jamie reached over and pulled the paper out. And felt all the blood leave his head, at sight of the familiar writing on it.

“What?” Fergus, alarmed at his appearance, set Joanie down. “Sit, milord! Run, chérie, get the smelling bottle.”

Jamie waved a hand, speechless, trying to indicate that he was all right, and succeeded at last in finding his tongue.

“She’s in the Governor’s Palace,” he said. “Christ be thanked, she’s safe.”

Seeing a stool pushed under the shelf, he pulled it out and sat on it, feeling exhaustion pulse through the quivering muscles of thigh and calf, ignoring the confusion of question and explanation, how Joanie had found the note pushed under the door—anonymous submissions to the newspaper often were delivered in this fashion, and the children knew they were to bring such things to their father’s attention… .

Fergus read the note, his dark eyes assuming the expression of interested intent that he always had when contemplating the abstraction of something difficult and valuable.

“Well, that is good,” he said. “We will go and fetch her. But I think first you must eat a little, milord.”

He wished to refuse, to say that there was not a moment to be lost, that he could eat nothing in any case; his wame was knotted, hurting him.

But Marsali was already hurrying the girls back to the kitchen, calling out things about hot coffee and bread, and Ian following her, Henri-Christian still wrapped lovingly about his ears, Germain yapping eagerly at his heels. And he knew that should it come to a fight, he had nothing left to fight with. Then the succulent sizzle and scent of eggs frying in butter reached him, and he was up and moving toward the back, like iron drawn by a magnet.

Over their hasty meal, various plans were offered and rejected. At length, he reluctantly accepted Fergus’s suggestion that either Fergus or Ian should go openly to the palace, asking to see Claire, saying that he was a kinsman, wishing to assure himself of her welfare.

“They have no reason to deny her presence, after all,” Fergus said, shrugging. “If we can see her, so much the better; but even if not, we will learn whether she is still there, and perhaps where she is likely to be within the palace.”

Fergus clearly wished to undertake the errand, but yielded when Ian pointed out that Fergus was widely known in New Bern, and it might be suspected that he was merely hunting scandal for the newspaper.

“For I am pained to say, milord,” Fergus said apologetically, “that the matter—the crime—is known here already. There are broadsheets … the usual nonsense. L’Oignon was obliged to print something regarding the matter, of course, to keep our countenance, but we did so in a most repressive fashion, mentioning only the bald facts of the matter.” His long, mobile mouth compressed briefly, in illustration of the repressive nature of his article, and Jamie smiled faintly.

“Aye, I see,” he said. He pushed back from the table, pleased to feel some strength returned to his limbs, and heartened anew by food, coffee, and the comforting knowledge of Claire’s whereabouts. “Well, then, Ian, comb your hair. Ye dinna want the Governor to think ye a savage.”



JAMIE INSISTED UPON going with Ian, despite the danger of being recognized. His nephew eyed him narrowly.

“Ye’re no going to do anything foolish, Uncle Jamie?”

“When was the last time ye kent me to do anything foolish?”

Ian gave him an old-fashioned look, held up one hand, and began to fold the fingers down, one by one.

“Oh, well, let me reckon, then … Simms the printer? Tarring Forbes? Roger Mac told me what ye did in Mecklenberg. And then there was—”

“Ye would have let them kill wee Fogarty?” Jamie inquired. “And if we’re mentioning fools, who was it got his arse pricked for wallowing in mortal sin with—”

“What I mean is,” Ian said severely, “ye’re no going to walk into the Governor’s Palace and try to take her by force, no matter what happens. Ye’ll wait quietly wi’ your hat on until I come back, and then we’ll see, aye?”

Jamie pulled down the brim of his hat, a floppy, weathered felt affair such as a pig farmer might wear, with his hair tucked up beneath it.

“What makes ye think I wouldn’t?” he asked, as much from curiosity as natural contention.

“The look on your face,” Ian replied briefly. “I want her back as much as you do, Uncle Jamie—well,” he amended, with a wry grin, “perhaps not quite sae much—but I mean to have her back, nonetheless. You”—he poked his uncle emphatically in the chest—“bide your time.”

And leaving Jamie standing under a heat-stricken elm, he strode purposefully toward the gates of the palace.

Jamie took several deep breaths, trying to maintain a sense of annoyance with Ian as an antidote to the anxiety that wrapped itself round his chest like a snake. As the annoyance had been purely manufactured, it evaporated like steam from a kettle, leaving the anxiety squirming and writhing.

Ian had reached the gate, and was in palaver with the guard who stood there, musket at the ready. Jamie could see the man shaking his head emphatically.

This was nonsense, he thought. The need of her was a physical thing, like the thirst of a sailor becalmed for weeks on the sea. He’d felt that need before, often, often, in their years apart. But why now? She was safe; he knew where she was—was it only the exhaustion of the past weeks and days, or perhaps the weakness of creeping age that made his bones ache, as though she had in fact been torn from his body, as God had made Eve from Adam’s rib?

Ian was arguing, making persuasive gestures toward the guard. The sound of wheels on gravel drew his attention from them; a carriage was coming down the drive, a small open conveyance with two people and a driver, drawn by a team of nice dark bays.

The guard had pushed Ian back with the barrel of his musket, gesturing him to keep away while the guard and his fellow opened the gates. The carriage rattled through without stopping, turned into the street, and came past him.

He had never seen Josiah Martin, but thought the plump, self-important-looking gentleman must surely be the— His eye caught the merest glimpse of the woman, and his heart clenched like a fist. Without an instant’s thought, he was pelting after the carriage, as hard as he could run.

In his prime, he could not have outrun a team of horses. Even so, he came within a few feet of the carriage, would have called, but had no breath, no sight, and then his foot struck a misplaced cobble and he fell headlong.

He lay stunned and breathless, vision dark and his lungs afire, hearing only the receding clatter of hooves and carriage wheels, until a strong hand seized his arm and jerked.

“We’ll avoid notice, he says,” Ian muttered, bending to get his shoulder under Jamie’s arm. “Your hat’s flown off, did ye notice that? Nay, of course not, nor the whole street staring, ye crack-brained gomerel. God, ye weigh as much as a three-year bullock!”

“Ian,” he said, and paused to gulp for breath.

“Aye?”

“Ye sound like your mother. Stop.” Another gulp of air. “And let go my arm; I can walk.”