Brianna put a hand on her stomach.

“I told him I was pregnant. That stopped him. I wouldn’t have thought—a man like that—but it did. Perhaps he’s better than you think?” she asked with a wisp of hope.

Eppie laughed at that, small eyes squeezing half-shut with hilarity at the thought.

“Stephen? God, no!” She sniffed with amusement, and smoothed down her skirts.

“No,” she went on, more matter-of-factly, “best story you could tell, though, if you don’t want him at you. He called me down to him once, then put me off when he saw I’d a cake in the oven—when I joked him about it, he said he’d once taken a whore with her belly the size of a cannonball, and right in the midst of it, she give a groan and the blood come spurting out of her fit to drench the room. Put him right off, he said, and no wonder. Left our Stephen with a horror of swiving girls what are up the spout. He’s takin’ no chances, see.”

“I see.” A trickle of sweat ran down Brianna’s cheek, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand. Her mouth felt dry, and she sucked the inside of her cheek for moisture. “The woman—what happened to her?”

Hepzibah looked blank for a moment.

“Oh, the whore? Why, she died, of course, poor cow. Stephen said as how he was struggling to get into his wet breeches, all soused with blood like they were, and he looked up and saw her layin’ still as stone on the floor, but with her belly still wriggling and twitching like a bag full o’ snakes. Said it come to him sudden that the babe meant to come out and take its revenge on him, and he fled the house right then in his shirt, leavin’ his breeches behind.”

She chortled at this amusing vision, then snorted and settled herself, brushing down her skirts. “But then, Stephen’s Irish,” she added tolerantly. “They take morbid fancies, the Irish, especially when they’re gone in drink.” The tip of her tongue came out and passed reminiscently over her lower lip, tasting the lingering traces of Bonnet’s liquor.

Brianna leaned closer, holding out her hand.

“Look.”

Hepzibah glanced into her hand, then looked again, riveted. The thick gold band with its big cabochon ruby winked and glowed in the lantern light.

“I’ll give it to you,” Brianna said, lowering her voice, “if you’ll do something for me.”

The whore licked her lips again, a sudden look of alertness coming into her heavy face.

“Aye? Do what?”

“Get word to my husband. He’s in Edenton, at the Reverend McMillan’s house—anyone will know where it is. Tell him where I am, and tell him—” She hesitated. What should she say? There was no telling how long the Anemone would stay here, or where Bonnet would choose to go next. The only clue she had was what she had overheard in his conversation with his mate, just before he came in.

“Tell them I think he has a hiding place on Ocracoke. He means to rendezvous with someone there at the dark of the moon. Tell him that.”

Hepzibah cast an uneasy glance at the cabin door, but it stayed shut. She looked back at the ring, longing for it warring in her face with an obvious fear of Bonnet.

“He won’t know,” Brianna urged. “He won’t find out. And my father will reward you.”

“He’s a rich man, then, your father?” Brianna saw the look of calculation in the whore’s eyes, and felt a moment’s misgiving—what if she should simply take the ring and betray her to Bonnet? Still, she hadn’t taken more money than her due; perhaps she was honest. And there was no choice, after all.

“Very rich,” she said firmly. “His name is Jamie Fraser. My aunt is rich, too. She has a plantation called River Run, just above Cross Creek in North Carolina. Ask for Mrs. Innes—Jocasta Cameron Innes. Yes, if you don’t find Ro—my husband, send word there.”

“River Run.” Hepzibah repeated it obediently, eyes still fixed on the ring.

Brianna twisted it off and dropped it into the whore’s palm before she could change her mind. The woman’s hand closed tight around it.

“My father’s name is Jamie Fraser; my husband is Roger MacKenzie,” she repeated. “At the Reverend McMillan’s house. Can you remember?”

“Fraser and MacKenzie,” Hepzibah repeated uncertainly. “Oh, aye, to be sure.” She was already moving toward the door.

“Please,” Brianna said urgently.

The whore nodded but without looking at her, then sidled through the door, shutting it behind her.

The ship creaked and swayed underfoot, and she heard the rattle of wind through the trees on the shore, over the shouts of drunken men. Her knees gave way then and she sat down on the bed, careless of the sheets.



THEY LEFT WITH the tide; she heard the anchor chain rumble and felt the ship quicken, taking life as her sails took wind. Glued to the window, she watched the dark green mass of Roanoke recede. A hundred years before, the first English colony had landed here—and disappeared without trace. The governor of the colony, returning from England with supplies, had found everyone gone, leaving no clue save the word “Croatan” carved into the trunk of a tree.

She wasn’t even leaving that much. Heartsick, she watched until the island sank into the sea.

No one came for some hours. Empty-bellied, she grew nauseated, and threw up in the chamber pot. She could not bear the thought of lying down on those revolting sheets, but instead pulled them off, remade the bed with only the quilts, and lay down.

The windows were open, and the fresh air of the sea stirred her hair and lifted the clamminess from her skin, making her feel a little better. She was unbearably conscious of her womb, a small, heavy, tender weight, and what was likely happening inside it: that orderly dance of dividing cells, a sort of peaceful violence, implacably wresting lives and wrenching hearts.

When had it happened? She tried to think back, remember. It might have been the night before Roger left for Edenton. He had been excited, almost exalted, and they had made love with lingering joy, spiced by longing, for they both knew the morrow would bring separation. She had fallen asleep in his arms, feeling loved.

But then she had waked alone, in the middle of the night, to find him sitting by the window, bathed in the light of a gibbous moon. She had been reluctant to disturb his private contemplation, but he had turned, feeling her eyes on him, and something in his look had made her get out of bed and go to him, taking his head against her bosom, holding him.

He had risen then, laid her on the floor, and had her again, wordless and urgent.

Catholic that she was, she had found it terribly erotic, the notion of seducing a priest on the eve of his ordination, stealing him—if only for a moment—from God.

She swallowed, hands clasped over her belly. Be careful what you pray for. The nuns at school had always told the children that.

The wind was growing cold, chilling her, and she pulled the edge of one quilt—the cleanest—over her. Then, concentrating fiercely, she began very carefully to pray.

103



PUT TO THE QUESTION

NEIL FORBES sat in the parlor of the King’s Inn, enjoying a glass of hard cider and the feeling that all was right with the world. He had had a most fruitful meeting with Samuel Iredell and his friend, two of the most prominent rebel leaders in Edenton—and an even more fruitful meeting with Gilbert Butler and William Lyons, local smugglers.

He had a great fondness for jewels, and in private celebration of his elegant disposal of the threat of Jamie Fraser, he had bought a new stickpin, topped with a beautiful ruby. He contemplated this with quiet satisfaction, noting the lovely shadows that the stone cast on the silk of his ruffle.

His mother was safely planted at her sister’s house, he had an appointment for luncheon with a local lady, and an hour to spare beforehand. Perhaps a stroll to stimulate appetite; it was a beautiful day.