Drums of Autumn (108 page)

“Dinna be worrit, Auntie,” Ian said comfortingly. “They’ll get hungry, sooner or later.”

In the event, it was unnecessary to starve them out; Jamie stamped down the hill a few minutes later and without a word, fetched his horse from the paddock, bridled him, mounted, and rode bareback at a gallop down the track toward Fergus’s cabin. As I watched his departing form, Brianna stalked out of the stable, puffing like a steam engine, and made for the house.

“What does
nighean na galladh
mean?” she demanded, seeing me at the door.

“I don’t know,” I said. I did, but thought it much more prudent not to say. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” I added. “Er…whatever it means.”

“Ha,” she said, and with an angry snort, stomped into the house, reappearing moments later with the egg basket over her arm. Without a word, she disappeared into the bushes, making a rustling noise like a hurricane.

I took several deep breaths and went in to start supper, cursing Roger Wakefield.

Physical exertion seemed to have dissipated at least some of the negative energy in the household. Brianna spent an hour in the bushes, and returned with sixteen eggs and a calmer face. There were leaves and stickers in her hair, and from the look of her shoes, she had been kicking trees.

I didn’t know what Jamie had been doing, but he returned at suppertime, sweaty and windblown but outwardly calm. They pointedly ignored each other, a reasonably difficult feat for two large persons confined in a twenty-foot-square log cabin. I glanced at Ian, who rolled his eyes skyward and came to help carry the big serving bowl to the table.

Conversation over supper was limited to requests to pass the salt, and afterward, Brianna cleared the dishes, then went to sit at the spinning wheel, working the foot treadle with unnecessary emphasis.

Jamie gave her back a glare, then jerked his head at me and went out. He was waiting on the path to the privy when I followed him a moment later.

“What am I to do?” he demanded, without preamble.

“Apologize,” I said.

“Apologize?” His hair seemed to be standing on end, though it was likely only the effects of the wind. “But I havena done anything wrong!”

“Well, what difference does that make?” I said, exasperated. “You asked me what you should do, and I told you.”

He exhaled strongly through his nose, hesitated a moment, then turned and stalked back into the house, shoulders set for martyrdom or battle.

“I apologize,” he said, looming up in front of her.

Surprised, she nearly dropped the yarn, but caught it adeptly.

“Oh,” she said, and flushed. She took her foot off the treadle, and the great wheel creaked and slowed.

“I was wrong,” he said, with a quick look at me. I nodded encouragingly, and he cleared his throat. “I shouldna have—”

“It’s all right.” She spoke quickly, eager to meet him. “You didn’t—I mean, you were only trying to help.” She looked down at the thread, slowing as it ran through her fingers. “I’m sorry too—I shouldn’t have been mad at you.”

He closed his eyes briefly and sighed, then opened them and lifted one eyebrow at me. I smiled faintly and turned back to my work, pounding fennel seeds in the mortar.

He pulled up a stool and sat down beside her, and she turned toward him, putting one hand on the wheel to stop it.

“I know you meant well,” she said. “You and Ian both. But don’t you see, Da? I have to wait for Roger.”

“But if something has happened to the man—if he’s met with an accident of some kind…”

“He isn’t dead. I
know
he isn’t.” She spoke with the fervency of someone who means to bend reality to her will. “He’ll come back. And how would it be if he did, and found me married to Ian?”

Ian looked up, hearing his name. He sat on the floor by the fire, Rollo’s great head resting on his knee, his yellow wolf-eyes mere slits of pleasure as Ian methodically combed through the thick pelt, pulling out ticks and burs as he found them.

Jamie ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration.

“I have had word out since ye told me of him,
a nighean
. I sent Ian to Cross Creek to leave word at River Run, and with Captain Freeman to pass to the other rivermen. I’ve sent Duncan wi’ word, all through the Cape Fear valley and as far north as Edenton and New Bern, and wi’ the packet boats that run from Virginia to Charleston.”

He looked at me, pleading for understanding. “What more can I do? The man is nowhere to be found. If I thought there were the slightest chance—” He stopped, teeth set in his lip.

Brianna dropped her gaze to the yarn in her hand, and with a quick, sharp gesture, snapped it. Leaving the loose end to flap from the spindle, she got up and crossed the room, sitting down at the table with her back to us.

“I’m sorry, lass,” Jamie said, more quietly. He reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, gingerly, as though she might bite him.

She stiffened slightly, but didn’t pull away. After a moment, she reached up and took his hand, squeezing it lightly, then putting it aside.

“I see,” she said. “Thank you, Da.” She sat, eyes fixed on the flames, her face and figure utterly still, but managing to radiate complete desolation. I put my hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently, but she felt like a wax manikin under my fingers—not resisting but not acknowledging the touch.

Jamie studied her for a moment, frowning, and glanced at me. Then, with an air of decision, he got up, reached to the shelf, brought down his inkhorn and quill jar, and set them on the table with a clank.

“Here’s a thought,” he said firmly. “Let us draw up a broadsheet, here, and I will take it to Gillette in Wilmington. He can print it up, and Ian and the Lindsey lads will take the copies up and down the coast, from Charleston to Jamestown. It may be that someone’s not kent Wakefield, not hearing his name, but they’ll maybe know him by his looks.”

He shook ink powder made of iron and oak gall into the stained half-gourd he used as a well, and poured a little water from the pitcher, using the shaft of a quill to stir the ink. He smiled at Brianna, and took a sheet of paper from the drawer.

“Now, then, lass, how is this man of yours to look at?”

The suggestion of action had brought a spark of life back to Brianna’s face. She sat up straighter, and a current of energy flowed up her spine, into my fingers.

“Tall,” she said. “Nearly as tall as you, Da. People
would
notice; they always look at you. He has black hair, and green eyes—bright green; it’s one of the first things you notice about him, isn’t it, Mama?”

Ian gave a small start, and looked up from his grooming.

“Yes,” I said, sitting down on the bench next to Brianna. “But you can maybe do better than just the written description. Bree’s a good hand with a likeness,” I explained to Jamie. “Can you draw Roger from memory, do you think, Bree?”

“Yes!” She reached for the quill, eager to try. “Yes, I’m sure I can—I’ve drawn him before.”

Jamie surrendered the quill and paper, the vertical lines between his brows showing in a slight frown.

“Can the printer work from an ink sketch?” I asked, seeing it.

“Oh—aye, I expect so. It’s no great matter to make a woodblock, if the lines are clear.” He spoke abstractedly, eyes fixed on the paper in front of Brianna.

Ian pushed Rollo’s head off his knee and came to stand by the table, looking over Bree’s shoulder in what seemed a rather exaggerated curiosity.

Lower lip fixed between her teeth, she drew clean and swiftly. High forehead, with a thick lock of black hair that rose from an invisible cowlick, then dipped almost to the strongly marked black brows. She drew him in profile; a bold nose, not quite beaky, a clean-lined, sensitive mouth and a wide, slanted jaw. Thick-lashed eyes, deepset, with lines of good humor marking a strong, appealing face. She added a neat, flat ear, then turned her attention to the elegant curve of the skull, drawing thick, wavy dark hair pulled back in a short tail.

Ian made a small, strangled noise in his throat.

“Are you all right, Ian?” I looked up at him, but he wasn’t looking at the drawing—he was looking across the table, at Jamie. He was wearing a glazed sort of expression, like a pig on a spit.

I turned, to find precisely the same expression on Jamie’s face.

“What on earth is the matter?” I asked.

“Oh…nothing.” The muscles of his throat moved in a convulsive swallow. The corner of his mouth twitched, and twitched again, as though he couldn’t control it.

“Like hell it is!” Alarmed, I leaned across the table, seizing his wrist and groping for his pulse. “Jamie, what is it? Are you having chest pains? Do you feel ill?”

“
I
do.” Ian was leaning over the table, looking as though he might be going to throw up any minute. “Coz—d’ye mean honestly to tell me that…
this
”—he gestured feebly at the sketch—“is Roger Wakefield?”

“Yes,” she said, looking up at him in puzzlement. “Ian, are you all right? Did you eat something funny?”

He didn’t answer, but dropped heavily onto the bench beside her, put his head in his hands, and groaned.

Jamie gently detached his hand from my grip. Even in the red of the firelight, I could see that he was white and strained. The hand on the table curled around the quill jar, as though seeking support.

“Mr. Wakefield,” he said carefully to Brianna. “Has he by any chance…another name?”

“Yes,” Brianna and I said in unison. I stopped and let her explain as I rose and went hurriedly to fetch a bottle of brandy from the pantry. I didn’t know what was going on, but had the horrible feeling that it was about to be called for.

“—adopted. MacKenzie was his own family name,” she was saying as I emerged with the bottle in hand. She glanced from father to cousin, frowning. “Why? You haven’t heard of a Roger MacKenzie, have you?”

Jamie and Ian exchanged an appalled glance. Ian cleared his throat. So did Jamie.

“What?” Brianna demanded, leaning forward, glancing anxiously from one to the other. “What is it? Have you seen him? Where?”

I saw Jamie’s jaw tighten as he summoned up words.

“Aye,” he said carefully. “We have. On the mountain.”

“What—here? On
this
mountain?” She stood up, pushing back the bench. Alarm and excitement played over her face like flames. “Where is he? What happened?”

“Well,” Ian said defensively, “he
did
say as he’d taken your maidenheid, after all.”

“He WHAT?” Brianna’s eyes sprang open so far that a rim of white showed all around the iris.

“Well, your Da asked him, just to be sure, and he admitted that he’d—”

“You
what?
” Brianna rounded on Jamie, clenched fists on the table.

“Aye, well. It—was a mistake,” Jamie said. He looked utterly wretched.

“You bet it was! What in the name of—what have you done?” Her own cheeks had blanched, and blue sparks glinted in her eyes, hot as the heart of a flame.

Jamie took a deep breath. He looked up, straight into her face, and set his jaw.

“The wee lassie,” he said. “Lizzie. She told me that ye were with child, and that the man who’d got it on ye was a wicked brute called MacKenzie.”

Brianna’s mouth opened and shut, but no words came out. Jamie looked at her steadily.

“Ye did say to me that ye’d been violated, did ye no?”

She nodded, jerky as a badly sprung puppet.

“So, then. Ian and the lassie were at the mill, when MacKenzie came askin’ for ye. They rode to fetch me, and Ian and I met him in the clearing just above the green spring.”

Brianna had got her voice working, though only barely.

“What did you do to him?” she asked hoarsely. “What?”

“It was a fair fight,” Ian said, still defensive. “I wanted to shoot him on sight, but Uncle Jamie said no, he meant to have his hands on the—the man.”

“You
hit
him?”

“Aye, I did!” Jamie said, stung at last. “For God’s sake, woman, what would ye have me do to the man who’d used ye that way? It was you wanting to do murder, aye?”

“Besides, he hit Uncle Jamie, too,” Ian put in helpfully. “It was a fair fight. I said.”

“Be quiet, Ian, there’s a good lad,” I said. I poured two fingers, neat, and pushed the cup in front of Jamie.

“But it was—he
wasn’t
—” Brianna was sputtering, like a firecracker with a short fuse lit. Then she caught fire, and slammed one fist on the table, going off like a rocket.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH HIM?” she screamed.

Jamie blinked and Ian flinched. They exchanged haunted glances.

I put a hand on Jamie’s arm, squeezing tight. I couldn’t keep the quaver out of my own voice as I asked the necessary question.

“Jamie—did you kill him?”

He glanced at me, and the tension in his face relaxed, if only marginally.

“Ah…no,” he said. “I gave him to the Iroquois.”

“Och, now, Coz, it could have been worse.” Ian patted Brianna tentatively on the back. “We didna kill him, after all.”

Brianna made a small choking sound, and pulled her head up off her knees. Her face was white and damp as the inside of an oyster shell, her hair in a tangle round it. She hadn’t vomited or fainted, but looked as though she still might do either.

“We did mean to,” Ian went on, looking at her a little nervously. “I’d my pistol pressed behind his ear, but then I thought it was really Uncle Jamie’s right to blow his brains out, but then he—”

Brianna choked again, and I hastily placed an ashet on the table in front of her, just in case.

“Ian, I really think she doesn’t need to hear this just now,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Yes, I do.” Brianna pushed herself upright, hands gripping the edge of the table. “I have to hear it all, I have to.” She turned her head slowly, as though her neck was stiff, toward Jamie.

“Why?” she said. “WHY?”

He was as white and ill-looking as she was. He had pushed away from the table and gone to the chimney corner, as though trying to get as far away as possible from the drawing, with its damning likeness of Roger MacKenzie Wakefield.