Roger shook his head.

“It’ll have to be from that side; the best view is from there.” He nodded across the inner arc of the harbor toward the three ships that rocked at the main quay. “From one of the ships? What do you think?”

Brianna fumbled in the pocket tied at her waist, and pulled out her small brass telescope. She frowned in concentration, lips pursed as she surveyed the ships—a fishing ketch, Mr. Chester’s brig, and a larger ship, part of the British fleet, that had come in in the early afternoon.

“Whoa, Nellie,” she murmured, arresting the sweep of her gaze as the pale blotch of a head filled the lens. “Is that who I think … hot dog, it is!” A tiny flame of delight flared in her bosom, warming her.

“Is who?” Roger squinted, straining to see unaided.

“It’s John! Lord John!”

“Lord John Grey? You’re sure?”

“Yes! On the brig—he must have come down from Virginia. Woops, he’s gone now—but he’s there, I saw him!” She turned to Roger, excited, folding her telescope as she gripped him by the arm.

“Come on! Let’s go and find him. He’ll help.”

Roger followed, though with considerably less enthusiasm.

“You’re going to tell him? Do you think that’s wise?”

“No, but it doesn’t matter. He knows me.”

Roger looked sharply at her, but the dark look on his face thawed into a reluctant smile.

“You mean he knows better than to try stopping you doing whatever you’ve made up your bloody-minded mind to do?”

She smiled back at him, thanking him with her eyes. He didn’t like it—in fact, he hated it, and she didn’t blame him—but he wouldn’t try to stop her, either. He knew her, too.

“Yes. Come on, before he disappears!”

It was a slow slog round the curve of the harbor, pushing through the knots of gathering sightseers. Outside The Breakers, the crowd grew abruptly thicker. A cluster of redcoated soldiers stood and sat in disarray on the pavement, seabags and chests scattered round them, their number too great to fit inside the tavern. Ale pots and pints of cider were being passed from hand to hand from the interior of the public house, slopping freely on the heads of those over whom they passed.

A sergeant, harrassed but competent, was leaning against the timbered wall of the inn, riffling through a sheaf of papers, issuing orders and eating a meat pie, simultaneously. Brianna wrinkled her nose as they stepped carefully through the obstacle course of scattered men and luggage; a reek of seasickness and unclean flesh rose from the serried ranks.

A few onlookers muttered under their breath at sight of the soldiers; several more cheered and waved as they passed, to receive genial shouts in return. Newly liberated from the bowels of the Scorpion, the soldiers were too thrilled with their freedom and the taste of fresh food and drink to care who did or said anything whatever.

Roger stepped in front of her, thrusting a way through the crowd with shoulders and elbows. Appreciative shouts and whistles rose from the soldiers as they saw her, but she kept her head down, eyes fixed on Roger’s feet as he shoved ahead.

She heaved a sigh of relief as they emerged from the press at the head of the quay. The soldiers’ equipment was being unloaded from the Scorpion at the far side of the dock, but there was little foot traffic near the brig. She paused, looking to and fro for a glimpse of Lord John’s distinctive fair head.

“There he is!” Roger tugged at her arm, and she swung in the direction he was pointing, only to collide heavily with him as he stepped abruptly back.

“What—” she began crossly, but then stopped, feeling as though she had been punched in the chest.

“Who in God’s holy name is that?” Roger spoke softly, echoing her thoughts.

Lord John Grey stood near the far end of the quay, in animated conversation with one of the redcoated soldiers. An officer; gold braid gleamed on his shoulder and he carried a laced tricorne beneath one arm. It wasn’t the man’s uniform that caught her attention, though.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she whispered, feeling numb around the lips.

He was tall—very tall—with a breadth of shoulder and a stretch of white-stockinged calf that were attracting admiring glances from a cluster of oyster girls. It was something more than height or build that made gooseflesh ripple down the length of her spine, though; it was the fact of his carriage, his outline, a cock of the head and an air of physical self-confidence that drew eyes like a magnet.

“It’s Da,” she said, knowing even as she spoke that this was ridiculous. Even had Jamie Fraser for some unimaginable reason chosen to disguise himself in a soldier’s uniform and come down to the docks, this man was different. As he turned to look at something across the harbor, she saw that he was different—lean, like her father, and muscular, but still with the slenderness of boyishness. Graceful—like Jamie—but with the slight hesitancy of teenaged awkwardness not long past.

He turned further, backlit by the glow of light off the water, and she felt her knees go weak. A long, straight nose, rising to a high forehead … the sudden curve of a broad Viking cheekbone … Roger gripped her tightly by the arm, but his attention was as riveted on the young man as hers was.

“I … will … be … damned,” he said.

She gulped air, trying to get enough breath.

“You and me both. And him.”

“Him?”

“Him, him, and him!” Lord John, the mysterious young soldier—and most of all, her father. “Come on.” She pulled free and strode down the quay, feeling oddly disembodied, as though she watched herself from a distance.

It was like watching herself come toward a fun-house mirror, seeing herself—her face, her height, her gestures—suddenly transposed inside a red coat and doeskin breeches. His hair was dark, chestnut-brown, not red, but it was thick like hers, with the same slight wave to it, the same cowlick that lifted it off his brow.

Lord John turned his head slightly, and caught sight of her. His eyes bulged and a look of absolute horror blanched his features. He made a feeble flapping motion with one hand, trying to stop her coming nearer, but he might as well have tried to stop the Cornish Express.

“Hello there!” she said brightly. “Fancy meeting you here, Lord John!”

Lord John made a faint quacking noise, like a stepped-on duck, but she wasn’t paying attention. The young man turned to face her, smiling cordially.

Holy God, he had her father’s eyes, too. Dark-lashed, and so young the skin near them was fresh and clear, completely unlined—but the same slanted blue Fraser cat eyes. Just like hers.

Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest she was sure they could hear it. The young man seemed to find nothing amiss, though; he bowed to her, smiling, but very correct.

“Your servant, ma’am,” he said. He glanced at Lord John, plainly expecting an introduction.

Lord John pulled himself together with an obvious effort, and made her a leg.

“My dear. How … delightful to encounter you again. I had no idea… .”

Yeah, I bet you didn’t, she thought, but went on smiling pleasantly. She could feel Roger beside her, nodding and saying something in response to his Lordship’s greeting, trying his best not to stare.

“My son,” Lord John was saying. “William, Lord Ellesmere.” He eyed her narrowly, as though daring her to say anything. “Might I present Mr. Roger MacKenzie, William? And his wife.”

“Sir. Mrs. MacKenzie.” The young man took her hand before she realized what he meant to do, and bowed low over it, planting a small formal kiss upon her knuckles.

She nearly gasped at the unexpected touch of his breath on her skin, but instead gripped his hand, much harder than she’d meant to. He looked momentarily disconcerted, but extricated himself with reasonable grace. He was much younger than she’d thought at first glance; it was the uniform and the air of self-possession that made him seem older. He was looking at her with a slight frown on his clear-cut features, as though trying to place her.