"MacNab?" Jamie said softly. His expression was at once alert. "Ronnie MacNab?"
I had told Jamie of MacNab's betrayal, and his death, but I hadn't told him the means of it.
Ian nodded. "Aye. He died there, the night the English took ye, Jamie. The thatch must ha' caught from a spark, and him too far gone in drink to get out in time." He met Jamie's eyes straight on, all teasing gone.
"Ah? And his wife and child?" Jamie's look was the same as Ian's; cool and inscrutable.
"Safe. Mary MacNab's kitchen-maid at the house, and Rabbie works in the stables." Ian glanced involuntarily over his shoulder in the direction of the ruined cottage. "Mary comes up here now and again; she's the only one on the place will go there."
"Was she fond of him, then?" Jamie had turned to look in the direction of the cottage, so his face was hidden from me, but there was tension in the line of his back.
Ian shrugged. "I shouldna think so. A drunkard, and vicious with it, was Ronnie; not even his auld mother had much use for him. No, I think Mary feels it her duty to pray for his soul—much good it'll do him," he added.
"Ah." Jamie paused a moment as though in thought, then tossed his horse's reins over its neck and turned up the hill.
"Jamie," I said, but he was already walking back up the road, toward the small clearing beside the grove. I handed the reins I was holding to a surprised Fergus.
"Stay here with the horses," I said. "I have to go with him." Ian moved to come with me, but Murtagh stopped him with a shake of the head, and I went on alone, following Jamie up over the crest of the hill.
He had the long, tireless stride of a hill-walker, and had reached the small clearing before I caught him up. He stood at the edge of what had been the outer wall. The square shape of the cottage's earth floor was still barely visible, the new growth that covered it sparser than the nearby barley, greener and wild in the shade of the trees.
There was little trace of the fire left; a few chunks of charred wood poked through the grass near the stone hearth that lay open now, flat and exposed as a tombstone. Careful not to step within the outlines of the vanished walls, Jamie began to walk around the clearing. He circled the hearthstone three times, walking always widdershins, left, and left, and left again, to confound any evil that might follow.
I stood to one side and watched. This was a private confrontation, but I couldn't leave him to face it alone, and though he didn't glance at me, still I knew he was glad of my presence.
At last he stopped by the fallen pile of stones. Reaching out, he laid a hand gingerly on it and closed his eyes for a moment, as though in prayer. Then, stooping, he picked up a stone the size of his fist, and placed it carefully on the pile, as though it might weigh down the uneasy soul of the ghost. He crossed himself, turned and came toward me with a firm, unhurried step.
"Don't look back," he said quietly, taking me by the arm as we turned toward the road.
I didn't.
Jamie, Fergus, and Murtagh went with Ian and the dogs in search of the sheep, leaving me to take the string of horses down to the house alone. I was far from being an accomplished horse-handler, but thought I could manage half a mile, so long as nothing popped out at me unexpectedly.
This was very different from our first homecoming to Lallybroch; then, we had been in flight, both of us. Me from the future, Jamie from his past. Our residence then had been happy, but tenuous and insecure; always there was the chance of discovery, of Jamie's arrest. Now, thanks to the Duke of Sandringham's intervention, Jamie had come to take possession of his birthright, and I, my lawful place beside him as his wife.
Then, we had arrived disheveled, unexpected, a violent disruption in the household. This time, we had come announced, with due ceremony, bearing presents from France. While I was sure our reception would be cordial, I did wonder how Ian and Jamie's sister Jenny would take our permanent return. After all, they had lived as master and mistress of the estate for the last several years, ever since the death of Jamie's father, and the disastrous events that had precipitated him into a life of outlawry and exile.
I topped the last hill without incident, and the manor house and its outbuildings lay below me, slate roofs darkening as the first banks of rain clouds rolled in. Suddenly, my mare started, and so did I, struggling to keep a hold on the reins as she curvetted and plunged in alarm.
Not that I could blame her; from around the corner of the house had emerged two huge, puffy objects, rolling along the ground like overweight clouds.
"Stop that!" I shouted "Whoa!" All the horses were now swerving and pulling, and I was inches away from a stampede. Fine homecoming, I thought, if I let all Jamie's new breeding stock break their collective legs.
One of the clouds rose slightly, then sank flat to the ground, and Jenny Fraser Murray, released from the burden of the feather mattress she had been carrying, raced for the road, dark curls flying.
Without a moment's hesitation, she leaped for the bridle of the nearest animal, and jerked down, hard.
"Whoa!" she said. The horse, obviously recognizing the voice of authority, did whoa. With a little effort, the other horses were calmed, and by the time I could slide down from my saddle, we had been joined by another woman and a boy of nine or ten, who lent an experienced hand with the remaining beasts.
I recognized young Rabbie MacNab, and deduced that the woman must be his mother, Mary. The bustle and shuffle of horses, bundles and mattresses precluded much conversation, but I had time for a quick hug of greeting with Jenny. She smelled of cinnamon and honey and the clean sweat of exertion, with an undertone of baby-scent, that paradoxical smell composed of spit-up milk, soft feces, and the ultimate cleanliness of fresh, smooth skin.
We clung together for a moment, hugging tight, remembering our last embrace, when we had parted on the edge of a night-dark wood—me to go in search of Jamie, she to return to a newborn daughter.
"How's little Maggie?" I asked, breaking away at last.
Jenny made a face, wryness mingled with pride. "She's just walking, and the terror o' the house." She glanced up the empty road. "Met Ian, did ye?"
"Yes, Jamie, Murtagh, and Fergus went with him to find the sheep."
"Better them than us," she said, with a quick gesture toward the sky. "It's coming on to rain any minute. Let Rabbie stable the horses and you come lend a hand wi' the mattresses, or we'll all sleep wet tonight."
A frenzy of activity ensued, but when the rain came, Jenny and I were snug in the parlor, undoing the parcels we had brought from France, and admiring the size and precocity of wee Maggie, a sprightly miss of some ten months, with round blue eyes and a head of strawberry fuzz, and her elder brother, Young Jamie, a sturdy almost-four-year-old. The impending arrival was no more than a tiny bulge beneath their mother's apron, but I saw her hand rest tenderly there from time to time, and felt a small pang to see it.
"You mentioned Fergus," Jenny said, as we talked. "Who's that?"
"Oh, Fergus? He's—well, he's—" I hesitated, not sure quite how to describe Fergus. A pickpocket's prospects for employment on a farm seemed limited. "He's Jamie's," I said at last.
"Oh, aye? Well, I suppose he can sleep in the stable," said Jenny, resigned. "Speaking of Jamie"—she glanced at the window, where the rain was streaming down—"I hope they find those sheep soon. I've a good dinner planned, and I dinna want it to spoil with keeping."
In fact, darkness had fallen, and Mary MacNab had laid the table before the men returned. I watched her at her work; a small, fine-boned woman with dark-brown hair and a faintly worried look that faded into a smile when Rabbie returned from the stables and went to the kitchen, hungrily asking when dinner would be.
"When the men are back, mo luaidh," she said, "Ye know that. Go and wash, so you'll be ready."
When the men finally did appear, they seemed a good deal more in need of a wash than did Rabbie. Rain-soaked, draggled, and muddy to the knees, they trailed slowly into the parlor. Ian unwound the wet plaid from his shoulders and hung it over the firescreen, where it dripped and steamed in the heat of the fire. Fergus, worn out by his abrupt introduction to farm life, simply sat down where he was and stared numbly at the floor between his legs.
Jenny looked up at the brother she had not seen for nearly a year. Glancing from his rain-drenched hair to his mud-crusted feet, she pointed to the door.
"Outside, and off wi' your boots," she said firmly. "And if ye've been in the high field, remember to piss on the doorposts on your way back in. That's how ye keep a ghost from comin' in the house," she explained to me in a lowered tone, with a quick look at the door through which Mary MacNab had disappeared to fetch the dinner.
Jamie, slumped into a chair, opened one eye and gave his sister a dark-blue look.
"I land in Scotland near dead wi' the crossing, ride for four days over the hills to get here, and when I arrive, I canna even come in the house for a drop to wet my parched throat; instead I'm off through the mud, huntin' lost sheep. And once I do get here, ye want to send me out in the dark again to piss on doorposts. Tcha!" He closed the eye again, crossed his hands across his stomach, and sank lower in his chair, a study in stubborn negation.
"Jamie, my dearie," his sister said sweetly. "D'ye want your dinner, or shall I feed it to the dogs?"