Free The Scottish Prisoner by Diana Gabaldon Page A

to glower.
    “If she wanted me arrested or whipped or gaoled, she’d ha’ complained to his lordship or the constable,” Jamie pointed out, his tone still civil. “If she wanted me beaten to a pudding, she’d have told Morgan and Billings, as well, because—meaning nay disrespect—I dinna think ye can manage that on your own.”
    The beginnings of doubt were flickering over Roberts’s heavy countenance.
    “But she—”
    “So either she thought she’d put a flea in your ear about me and there’d be a punch-up that would do neither of us any good—or she didna think ye’d come to me but that ye’d maybe be roused on her behalf.”
    “Roused?” Roberts sounded confused.
    Jamie drew breath, aware for the first time that his heart was pounding.
    “Aye,” he said. “The lass didna say I’d raped her, now, did she? No, of course not.”
    “Noo …” Roberts had gone from confusion to open doubt now. “She said you’d been a-cupping of her, toying with her breasts and the like.”
    “Well, there ye are,” Jamie said, with a small wave toward the house. “She was only meaning to make ye jealous, in hopes that ye’d be moved to do something o’ the kind yourself. That,” he added helpfully, “or she meant to get ye into trouble. I hope the lass hasna got anything against ye.”
    Roberts’s brow darkened, but with an inward thought. He glanced up at Jamie.
    “I hadn’t had it in mind to strike you,” he said, with a certain formality. “I only meant to tell you to keep away from her.”
    “Verra reasonable,” Jamie assured him. His shirt was damp with sweat, despite the cold day. “I dinna mean to have anything to do with the lass. Ye can tell her she’s safe from me,” he added, as solemnly as he could manage.
    Roberts inclined his head in a professional way and offered his hand. Jamie shook it, feeling very odd, and watched the man go off toward the house, straightening his shoulders as he went.

    JAMIE HEARD at breakfast next day that his lordship was ill again and had taken to his bed. He felt a stab of disappointment at the news; he had hoped the old man would bring William to the stable again.
    To his surprise, he did see William at the stable again, proud as Lucifer in his first pair of breeches and this time in the companyof the under-nursemaid, Peggy. The young, stout woman told him that Nanny Elspeth and Lord and Lady Dunsany were all suffering from
la grippe
(which she pronounced in the local way, as “lah gerp”) but that William had made such a nuisance of himself, wanting to see the horses again, that Lady Isobel told Peggy to bring him.
    “Are ye quite well yourself, ma’am?” He could see that she wasn’t. She was pale as green cheese, with much the same clammy look to her skin, and hunched a little, as though she wanted to clutch her belly.
    “I … yes. Of course,” she said, a little faintly. Then she took a grip on herself and straightened. “Willie, I think we must go back to the house.”
    “Mo!” Willie at once ran down the aisle, tiny boots clattering on the bricks.
    “William!”
    “MO!” Willie screamed, turning to face her, his face going red. “Mo, mo, mo!”
    Peggy breathed heavily, clearly torn between her own illness and the need to chase the wee reprobate. A drop of sweat ran down her plump throat and made a small dark spot on her kerchief.
    “Ma’am,” Jamie said respectfully. “Had ye not best go and sit down for a bit? Perhaps put cold water on your wrists? I can watch the lad; he’ll come to nay harm.”
    Without waiting for an answer, he turned and called to Willie.
    “Ye’ll come with me, lad. Ye can help me with the mash.”
    Willie’s small face went instantly from a stubborn clench to a radiant joy, and he clattered back, beaming. Jamie bent and scooped him up, setting him on his shoulders. Willie shrieked with pleasure and grabbed Jamie’s hair. Jamie smiled at Mrs. Peggy.
    “We’ll do.”
    “I … I