Written in My Own Heart's Blood

was awake, though, it was becoming more disagreeable by the minute. His eyes didn’t want to focus yet, but he forced them to roll about in search of something familiar.

He found it at once.

Girl. Lass. Ifrinn, what was her—“Rachel,” he croaked, and she rose instantly from what she was doing and came to him, her face worried but alight.

“Rachel?” he said again, uncertain, and she took hold of his good hand, pressing it to her bosom.

“Thee is awake, I see,” she said softly, her eyes searching his face. “But still much fevered, from the heat of thy skin. How does thee feel?”

“Better for seein’ ye, lass.” He tried to lick his dry lips. “Is there maybe water?”

She made a small sound of distress that he’d had to ask, and hurried to bring a cup to his lips. It was perhaps the best thing he’d ever tasted, made better by her holding his head in her hand as he drank—he was very dizzy. He didn’t want to stop, but she took the cup away.

“More presently,” she promised. “Thee must not drink too much, too fast, or thee will vomit. And between the dirt and the blood, thee has made enough mess already,” she said, smiling.

“Mmphm,” he said, lying back. He was mostly clean, he discovered. Someone had washed away the last of the deer fat and paint, and a good deal of sweat and blood with it. His shoulder was bound up with a poultice of some kind; it smelled tangy and familiar, but his hazy mind was a long way yet from allowing him to think of the name of the herb.

“Did Auntie Claire bind my arm?” he asked. Rachel glanced at him, her brows furrowing.

“Thy aunt is ill,” she said carefully. “Thee remembers I told thee that she was wounded—shot—in the battle?”

“No,” he said, feeling blank and confused. He had no recollection of the last couple of days or of battle. “No. What—is she all right, then?”

“Denny removed the ball, and thy uncle Jamie is with her. Both of them say very firmly that she will be well.” Her mouth twitched a bit, halfway between a smile and worry. He did his best to smile back.

“Then she’ll be fine,” he said. “Uncle Jamie’s a verra stubborn man. Can I have more water?”

This time he drank more slowly and got more down before she took it away. There was a regular clanging noise somewhere; for a time he had taken it for some phantom of hearing left over from the dreams, but now it ceased for a moment, punctuated by a loud curse.

“What—where are we?” he asked, beginning to be able to look at things again. His wavering sight convinced him that he was indeed in a tiny cow byre; it was new hay he’d been smelling, and the warm scent of fresh cow dung. He was lying on a blanket spread over a mound of hay, but the cow was absent for the moment.

“A place called Freehold. The battle was fought nearby; Washington and the army have withdrawn to Englishtown, but a good many wounded soldiers have been given refuge by the inhabitants here. We currently enjoy the hospitality of the local smith, a gentleman named Heughan.”

“Oh.” The forge. That was the source of the clanging and cursing. He closed his eyes; that helped with the dizziness, but he could see shadows of his dreams on the inside of his eyelids and opened them again. Rachel was still there; that was good.

“Who won the battle?” he asked.

She shrugged, impatient. “So far as anyone has said anything sensible about it, no one. The Americans are cock-a-hoop at not having been defeated, to be sure—but the British army surely wasn’t, either. All I care about is thee. And thee will be fine,” she said, and laid her hand gently on his forehead. “I say so. And I am as stubborn as any Scot thee cares to name—including thyself.”

“I need to tell ye something, lass.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but the words felt familiar in his mouth, as though he’d said them before.

“Something different?” She had been turning away but paused now, looking wary.

“Different? Did I tell ye things while I was …” He tried to wave a hand in illustration, but even his good arm was heavy as lead.

Rachel caught her upper lip between her teeth, regarding him.

“Who is Geillis?” she asked abruptly. “And what in the name of—of goodness did she do to thee?”

He blinked, startled and yet relieved to hear the name. Yes, that was what he’d been dreaming—oh, Jesus. The relief departed at once.

“What did I say?” he asked warily.

“If thee doesn’t recall it, I don’t wish to bring it back to thee.” She knelt down by him, skirts rustling.

“I remember what happened—I just want to ken what I said about it.”

“What happened,” she repeated slowly, watching his face. “In thy dreams, thee means? Or—” She broke off, and he saw her throat move as she swallowed.

“Likely both, lass,” he said softly, and managed to reach for her hand. “I spoke of Geillis Abernathy, though?”

“Thee only said ‘Geillis,’ ” she said, and covered his hand with both of hers, holding fast. “Thee was afraid. And thee called out in pain—but of course thee was in pain, so … but then … it—whatever thee saw, it—”

Color rose slowly up her neck and washed her face, and with a slight relapse into the dream, he saw her for an instant as an orchid with a dusky throat into which he could plunge his— He cut that vision off and found that he was breathing fast.

“It seemed that thee experienced something other than pain,” she said, frowning.

“Aye, I did,” he said, and swallowed. “Can I have a bit more water?”

She gave it to him, but with a fixed look indicating that she didn’t mean to be distracted from his story by his physical needs.

He sighed and lay back again. “It was a long time agone, a nighean, and nothing to fash about now. I was taken—kidnapped—for a brief time, when I was maybe fourteen or so. I stayed wi’ a woman named Geillis Abernathy, on Jamaica, until my uncle found me. It wasna very pleasant, but I wasna damaged, either.”

Rachel raised an elegant brow. He loved to watch her do that, but sometimes more than others.

“There were other lads there,” he said, “and they were not so lucky.” For a long time afterward, he’d been afraid to close his eyes at night, because he saw their faces. But they’d faded away, little by little—and now he felt a spasm of guilt because he’d let them go into darkness.

“Ian,” Rachel said softly, and her hand stroked his cheek. He felt the rasp of his beard stubble as she touched him, and a pleasant gooseflesh ran down his jaw and shoulder. “Thee needn’t speak of it. I would not bring it back to thee.”

“It’s all right,” he said, and swallowed a little easier. “I’ll tell ye—but later. It’s an old story, and one ye dinna need to hear just now. But—” He stopped short and she raised the other brow.

“But what I do have to tell ye, lass …” And he told her. Much of the previous two days’ events was still a blur, but he recalled vividly the two Abenaki who had hunted him. And what he’d finally done, in the British camp.

She was silent for so long that he began to wonder whether he’d really waked and had this conversation or was still dreaming.

“Rachel?” he said, shifting uneasily on his bed of prickly hay. The door of the byre was open and there was light enough, but he couldn’t read her face at all. Her gaze rested on his own face, though, hazel-eyed and distant, as though she were looking through him. He was afraid she was.

He could hear Heughan the smith outside, walking to and fro and making clanking sounds, pausing to apostrophize some uncooperative implement in coarse terms. He could hear his own heart beating, too, an uncomfortable, jerky thump.

Finally a shiver went over Rachel, as though she shook herself awake, and she put a hand on his forehead, smoothing back his hair as she looked into his eyes, her own now soft and fathomless. Her thumb came down and traced the tattooed line across his cheekbones, very slowly.

“I think we can’t wait any longer to be married, Ian,” she said softly. “I will not have thee face such things alone. These are bad times, and we must be together.”

He closed his eyes and all the air went out of him. When he drew breath again, it tasted of peace.

“When?” he whispered.

“As soon as thee can walk without help,” she said, and kissed him, lightly as a falling leaf.





THE HOUSE ON CHESTNUT STREET



THE HOUSE WAS occupied; there was smoke drifting from the west chimney. The door was locked, though, and bolted to boot.

“I wonder what happened to the old door?” John said to Hal, trying the knob again, just in case. “It used to be green.”

“If you knock on this one, you might conceivably get someone to come out and tell you,” Hal suggested. They weren’t in uniform, but Hal was noticeably on edge, and had been since their call on General Arnold.

The general had been understandably reserved, but civil, and after reading Fraser’s letter over three or four times, had agreed to give them passes to remain in the city and to make such inquiries as they saw fit.

“With the understanding,” Arnold had said, a flash of his reputed arrogance showing through the façade of governorship, “that if I hear of anything untoward, I’ll have you both arrested and ridden out of the city on a rail.”

“On a what?” Hal had said incredulously, he having not encountered this peculiarly American method of making guests feel unwelcome.

“A rail,” Arnold had repeated, smiling genially. “Long piece of wood? Used for fences, I believe?”

Hal had turned to John, one eyebrow raised, as though inviting him to translate the speech of some Hottentot randomly encountered. John sighed internally, but did so.

“An undesirable person is mounted on the object in question,” he said, “straddling it. Whereupon a party of men lift either end and set off through the streets with it, decanting the rider outside the city. I believe tar and feathers are sometimes applied as a preliminary gesture, though the physical effects of the rail are generally presumed to be sufficient.”

“Flatten your ball sac like a horse stepped on it,” Arnold said, still smiling. “Won’t do your arse any good, either.”

“I should imagine not,” Hal said politely. His color was somewhat higher than usual, but he gave no other indication of offense, which Grey thought a reasonable indication—not that he needed one—of the importance of their mission to Hal.

The sound of the bolt grating free interrupted his recollection. The door swung open, revealing his housekeeper and cook, Mrs. Figg, fowling piece in hand.

“Lord John!” she exclaimed, dropping the gun with a clatter.

“Well, yes,” he said, stepping in and picking it up. He smiled, feeling affection well up in his bosom at sight of her—substantial, tidy, and beribboned as always. “It’s very good to see you again, Mrs. Figg. Allow me to make you acquainted with my brother, the—”

“We’ve met,” Hal said, a wry edge to his voice. “How do you do, madam?”

“Better than Your Grace, by the looks of you,” Mrs. Figg replied, narrowing her eyes at him. “Still breathing, though, I see.” She sounded as though this was not entirely a desirable state of affairs, but Hal smiled broadly at her.

“Did you manage to bury the silver in time?” he asked.

“Certainly,” she replied with dignity, and, turning to John, asked, “You come to get it, my lord? I can have it dug up right smart.”

“Perhaps not just yet,” John said. He looked round, noting the missing banister railing on the upper landing, the smudged and pockmarked wall by the staircase, and— “What’s happened to the chandelier?”

Mrs. Figg sighed and shook her head darkly.

“That’d be Master William,” she said. “How is he, my lord?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Mrs. Figg. I was in some hopes that he might have been here—but I gather not?”

She looked disturbed at this.

“No, sir. We’ve not seen him since—well, since the day you went away yourself.” She looked hard at him, taking in everything from the cropped hair to the fading bruises and the undistinguished suit, shook her head and sighed, but then straightened her broad shoulders, determined to be cheerful. “And glad we are to see you, sir! And Your Grace,” she added as a definite afterthought. “Go sit yourselves down and I’ll have you up a nice cup of tea in two minutes.”

“You have tea?” Hal said, brightening.

“We buried the tea chest first thing,” she informed him. “But I just brought in a brick for Miss Dottie, so—”

“Dottie’s here?”

“To be sure,” said Mrs. Figg, pleased to be the bearer of good news. “I’ll just step out to the kitchen and fetch her.”

This proved to be unnecessary, as the sound of the back door opening betokened Dottie’s entrance, carrying an apronful of lumpy objects. These proved to be vegetable marrows from the kitchen garden, which cascaded over the floor in a bouncing flood of green and yellow as she let go the apron in order to leap at her father and embrace him.

“Papa!”

For an instant, Hal’s face changed entirely, soft with love, and Grey was surprised and disconcerted to feel tears come to his own eyes. He turned away, blinking, and wandered over to the sideboard, meaning to give them a private moment.

The silver tea service was gone, of course, but his Meissen porcelain plates were in their accustomed spots on the plate rail. He touched the cool giltribboned border of one, feeling oddly disembodied. And his place shall know him no more.

But Dottie was talking now to both of them; Grey turned round to her, smiling.

“I’m so glad you’re both safe and both here!” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling—and Grey’s heart misgave him at the knowledge that this state of happiness would be quenched within the next minute, as soon as Hal told her the reason for their presence. Before any such doom could fall, though, Dottie had seized the reins of the conversation and driven it off in another direction entirely.

“Since you are here—Uncle John, could we possibly use your house? For the wedding, I mean. Please, please?”

“The wedding?” Hal disengaged himself gently and cleared his throat. “Your wedding?”

“Of course I mean my wedding, Papa. Don’t be silly.” She beamed at her uncle, placing a coquettish hand on his sleeve. “May we, Uncle John? We cannot be married in a meetinghouse, but we must have witnesses for a proper marriage of Friends, and, really, I’m sure Papa wouldn’t want to see me married in the public room of a tavern. Would you?” she appealed, turning to Hal, whose expression had reverted to its earlier guardedness.

“Well, certainly you may, my dear,” John said, glancing round his parlor. “Assuming that I retain possession of this place long enough for the marriage to take place. When is the ceremony to be, and how many witnesses will we need to accommodate?”

She hesitated, tapping a fingernail against her teeth.

“I’m not really sure. There will be some of the conscientious Friends who, like Denny, have been put out of meeting for joining the Continental army. And some friends—friends in the lowercase, meaning no disrespect—if any are left in Philadelphia. And … family?” She hesitated again, looking at her father sideways, from under her lashes. John suppressed a smile.

Hal closed his eyes and sighed deeply.

“Yes, I’ll come to your wedding,” he said, opening them with resignation. “And so will Henry, if I have to drag him by the scruff of the neck. I suppose Mrs. Woodcock must be invited, too,” he added, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “But of course Adam … and—and Ben—”

John thought for a moment that he must tell her now, but his brother’s lips closed, firmed with determination. He didn’t look at John, but John caught the “Not now, for God’s sake. Let her be happy for a bit longer,” as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud.

“No, that’s too bad,” Dottie said with regret, and met her father’s eyes directly. “I’m sorry about Mama. I did write to her, though.”

“Did you, sweetheart?” Hal said, sounding almost normal. “That was thoughtful.” He tilted his head at her, though, eyes narrowing a bit. “What else?”

“Oh.” Her color, which had returned to normal, rose again, and she began absently pleating her apron with one hand. “Well. Did you know that Rachel—Denzell’s sister—is affianced to Ian Murray? That’s Mr. James—no, no, we don’t use ‘Mister,’ sorry—he’s the nephew of James Fraser. You know—”

“I do know,” Hal said, in a tone cutting off further amendation. “Who he is, I mean. What are you saying, Dottie? Without embroidery, if you please.”

She sniffed at him but didn’t appear to be discomposed in the least.

“Well, then. Rachel and Ian wish to be married as soon as they can, and so do Denny and I. As all the witnesses will be present, why not have both marriages at the same time?”

This time, Hal did look at John. Who returned the look, somewhat taken aback.

“Ah … well. I suppose that would mean additional guests? Including the aforementioned Mr. Fraser? I’m sure you will excuse my using his title, my dear; I’m accustomed to such social excesses.”

“Well, yes. Rachel says that Mrs. Fraser is enough recovered that they will return to Philadelphia tomorrow or next day. And then of course there’s Fergus and his wife, Marsali, and perhaps the children, and I don’t know if there are other friends who—I don’t think Ian has any Mohawk relations nearby, but—”

“One, two, three, four, five …” John turned and began counting the small gilt chairs that stood rigidly to attention beneath the wainscoting. “I think we shall be somewhat cramped, Dottie, but if—”

Mrs. Figg cleared her throat. The sound was sufficiently impressive that everyone else stopped talking and looked at her.

“Beg pardon, gentlemen,” she said, and a faint flush was visible on her round face. “I don’t mean to be forward or presuming … but so happens that I mentioned to the Reverend Figg about Miss Dottie and Friend Denzell needing a place to be married in.”

She cleared her throat, the blush growing deeper beneath her dark skin, so that she bore a surprising resemblance to a just-fired cannonball, Grey thought, charmed by the notion.

“And … well, the long and the short of it, ma’am and gentlemen, is that the reverend and his congregation would be pleased was you to consider being married in the new church building, you having been so kind as to contribute to it. ’Tain’t anyways fancy, mind, but—”

“Mrs. Figg, you are a marvel.” Grey clasped her hands in his, an attention that flustered her to the point of speechlessness. Seeing this, he let go, though this allowed Dottie to swoop in and kiss the housekeeper, exclaiming in gratitude. That was all right, but when Hal took Mrs. Figg by the hand and kissed it, the poor lady was reduced nearly to the point of suffocation and, snatching back her hand, retreated in haste, muttering disjointedly about tea and narrowly avoiding tripping on a marrow.

“Is it all right to be married in a church?” Hal asked Dottie, once Mrs. Figg had retired to a safe distance. “It’s not like Jews, is it? We needn’t be circumcised in order to attend? Because if so, I think your guest list may be substantially reduced.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not …” Dottie began rather vaguely, but her attention was distracted by something seen through the front window. “Goodness, is that …?”

Not bothering to complete her thought, she flew to the unbolted door and yanked it open, revealing a startled William on the stoop.

“Dottie!” he said. “What—” And then caught sight of John and Hal. William’s face underwent a lightning shift that made a frisson run straight down John’s back to his tailbone. He’d seen that exact expression on Jamie Fraser’s face a hundred times, at least—but had never before seen it on William’s.

It was the look of a man who doesn’t like his immediate prospects one bit—but who feels himself entirely capable of dealing with them. William stepped inside, repelling by force of will Dottie’s abortive attempt to embrace him. He removed his hat and bowed to Dottie, then, punctiliously, to John and Hal.

“Your servant, ma’am. Sirs.”

Hal snorted, looking his nephew over from head to toe. William was dressed much as John and Hal were, in ordinary clothes—though clothes of good cut and quality, John observed; clearly his own.

“And where the devil have you been for the last three days, may I ask?”

“No, you mayn’t,” William replied briefly. “Why are you here?”

“Looking for you, for one thing,” John replied equably, before Hal could stick his oar in again. He’d put the fowling piece on the mantel, easily within Hal’s reach, but was reasonably sure it wasn’t loaded. “And for Captain Richardson, for another. Have you seen him recently?”

William’s expression of surprise made John heave an internal sigh of relief. “No, I haven’t.” William glanced shrewdly from one man to the other. “Is that what you were doing at Arnold’s headquarters? Looking for Richardson?”

“Yes,” John answered, surprised. “How did you—oh. You were watching the place.” He smiled. “I did wonder how you happened to appear here so fortuitously. You followed us from General Arnold’s.”

William nodded and, stretching out a long arm, drew out one of the chairs from the wall. “I did. Sit down. Things need to be said.”

“That sounds rather ominous,” Dottie murmured. “Perhaps I’d best fetch the