The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (995 page)

It takes me a good three years to write one of these books, during which time I constantly ask people questions, and during which time helpful people offer me fascinating bits of information that I didn’t think to ask for. I’ll never remember them all, but think of them all with enormous gratitude.

In addition, I wish to offer grateful thanks to …

… John Flicker and Bill Massey, my editors, both gentlemen of gall and kidney, who coped nobly with a book written in pieces (lots of pieces), and an author who lives dangerously.

… Danny Baror and Russell Galen, my literary agents, two gentlemen literally worth their weight in gold—which is saying something in these recessionary days.

… Kathy Lord, heroic copy editor, and Virginia Norey, book designer (aka “the book goddess”), who are jointly responsible for the beauty and read ability of this book.

… Vincent La Scala and the other cruelly used members of the production crew, who succeeded in getting this book into print on time against looooong odds.

… Steven Lopata for his vivid description of being chased overland by a cottonmouth—as well as the poetic description of what copperheads smell like (“A combination of that snakehouse smell from the zoo and rotten cucumbers”).

… Catherine MacGregor and Catherine-Ann MacPhee for
Gàidhlig
translations and help in the subtleties of Gaelic usage. Also Katie Beggs and various unsung but much appreciated members of the International Gaelic Mafia.

… Tess the nurse, Dr. Amarilis Iscold, Sarah Meir (Certified Nurse Midwife), and a number of other helpful medical professionals, for advice on matters medical, picturesque maladies, and horrifying surgical details.

… Janet McConnaughey for
OEDILF
(Omnificant English Dictionary in Limerick Form) entries, being the Muse of Bloody Axes, and drawing my attention to exploding cypress trees.

… Larry Tuohy (and others) for telling me what a Spitfire pilot’s flight jacket looked like.

… Ron Parker, Helen, Esmé and Lesley, for ’elp with the ’airy ape.

… Beth and Matthew Shope and Jo Bourne for useful information regarding the Religious Society of Friends. Any inaccuracies are definitely my fault.

… Jari Backman, for his detailed time lines and excerpt listings, and for help with the night sky and which stars are visible in Inverness and Fraser’s Ridge.

… Katrina Stibohar for her exquisitely detailed lists of who was born when and What Happened to Everybody then. Also to the hordes of kindly trivia freaks who are always on hand to tell me how old someone is, or whether Lord John met Fergus when he had the measles.

… Pamela Patchet Hamilton (and Buddy) for a nose-wrenchingly vivid description of a close-range skunking.

… Karen Henry, Czarina of Traffic, who keeps my folder in the Compuserve Books and Writers Community tidy and the inhabitants diplomatically herded. (
http://​community.​compuserve.​com/​n/​pfx/​forum.​aspx?​nav=​start​&webtag​ = ws​-books
)

… Nikki Rowe and her daughter Caitlin, for the wonderful YouTube channel they created for me (
http://​www.​youtube.​com/​user/​voyages​of​the​artemis
—for those who want to see whether I really do sound like Donald Duck when I talk).

… Rosana Madrid Gatti, my web-mistress, for prompt and faithful updates and imaginative design.

… Susan Butler, for constant logistic support, dog sleepovers, keeping me supplied with black-ink cartridges, and for her brilliant suggestion regarding Jem.

… Allene Edwards, Catherine MacGregor, and Susan Butler, for proof reading and Extremely Helpful (if eyeball-numbing) nitpicking.

… Shirley Williams for the Moravian cookies and vistas of New Bern.

… Becky Morgan for the historical cookbooks.

… my great-grandfather, Stanley Sykes, for Jamie’s line about marksmanship.

… Bev LaFrance, Carol Krenz, and many others for help with French. Also Florence the translator, Peter Berndt, and Gilbert Sureau for the nice distinctions between the French Lord’s Prayer of 1966
(accorde-lui)
versus the earlier, more formal version
(accordes-lui)
.

… John S. Kruszka, for the proper spelling and pronunciation of “Kościuszko” (it’s “kohs-CHOOSH-koh,” in case you wondered; nobody in the Revolution could pronounce it, either—they really did all call him “Kos”).

… the Ladies of Lallybroch, for continuous support and Really Interesting Gifts.

… my husband, because he knows fine what a man is for, too.

… Alex Krislov, Janet McConnaughey, and Margaret Campbell, sysops of the Compuserve Books and Writers Community, and the many, many, many helpful people who roam through the site daily, offering observations, information, and general entertainment.

… Alfred Publishing for permission to quote from the lyrics to “Tighten Up,” by Archie Bell and the Drells.

“The White Swan,” taken from
Carmina Gadelica
, is reproduced by kind permission of Floris Books.

Also by Diana Gabaldon
(in order of publication)

THE OUTLANDER SERIES

OUTLANDER

DRAGONFLY IN AMBER

VOYAGER

DRUMS OF AUTUMN

THE OUTLANDISH COMPANION
(nonfiction)
    

THE FIERY CROSS

A BREATH OF SNOW AND ASHES

THE LORD JOHN SERIES

LORD JOHN AND THE PRIVATE MATTER

LORD JOHN AND THE BROTHERHOOD OF THE BLADE

LORD JOHN AND THE HAND OF DEVILS

Read on for a
special early preview of

Written in My Own
Heart’s Blood
,

the next Outlander novel following
An Echo in the Bone
.

Claire, having just discovered that Jamie is alive, meets Jamie’s sister, the recently widowed Jenny Murray, in Philadelphia, in the wake of other traumatic discoveries …

MRS. FIGG WAS SMOOTHLY SPHERICAL, GLEAMINGLY BLACK
, and inclined to glide silently up behind one like a menacing ball-bearing.

“What’s
this?
” she barked, manifesting herself suddenly behind Jenny.

“Holy Mother of God!” Jenny whirled, eyes round and hand pressed to her chest. “Who in God’s name are you?”

“This is Mrs. Figg,” I said, feeling a surreal urge to laugh, despite—or maybe because of—recent events. “Lord John Grey’s cook. And Mrs. Figg, this is Mrs. Murray. My, um … my …”

“Your good-sister,” Jenny said firmly. She raised one black eyebrow. “If ye’ll have me, still?” Her look was straight and open, and the urge to laugh changed abruptly into an equally strong urge to burst into tears. Of all the unlikely sources of succor I could have imagined.… I took a deep breath and put out my hand.

“I’ll have you.”

Her small firm fingers wove through mine, and as simply as that, it was done. No need for apologies or spoken forgiveness. She’d never had to wear the mask that Jamie did. What she thought and felt was there in her eyes, those slanted blue cat-eyes she shared with her brother. She knew me, now, for what I was—and knew I loved—had always loved—her brother with all my heart and soul—despite the minor complications of being presently married to someone else. And that knowledge obliterated years of mistrust, suspicion, and injury.

She heaved a sigh, eyes closing for an instant, then opened them and smiled at me, mouth trembling only a little.

“Well, fine and dandy,” said Mrs. Figg, shortly. She narrowed her eyes and rotated smoothly on her axis, taking in the panorama of destruction. The railing at the top of the stair had been ripped off, and cracked banisters, dented walls, and bloody smudges marked the path of William’s descent. Shattered crystals from the chandelier littered the floor, glinting festively in the light that poured through the open front door, the door itself hanging drunkenly from one hinge.

“
Merde
on toast,” Mrs. Figg murmured. She turned abruptly to me, her small black-currant eyes still narrowed. “Where’s his lordship?”

“Ah,” I said. This was going to be rather sticky, I saw. While deeply disapproving of most people, Mrs. Figg was devoted to John. She wasn’t going to be at all pleased to hear that he’d been abducted by—

“For that matter, where’s my brother?” Jenny inquired, glancing round as though expecting Jamie to appear suddenly out from under the settee.

“Oh,” I said. “Hm. Well …” Possibly worse than sticky. Because …

“And where’s my Sweet William?” Mrs. Figg demanded, sniffing the air. “He’s been here; I smell that stinky cologne he puts on his linen.” She nudged a dislodged chunk of plaster disapprovingly with the toe of her shoe.

I took another long, deep breath, and a tight grip on what remained of my sanity.

“Mrs. Figg,” I said, “perhaps you would be so kind as to make us all a cup of tea?”

Having just discovered Jamie Fraser is his true father, William leaves Lord John’s house in a whirlwind of shock and rage …

WILLIAM RANSOM, NINTH EARL OF ELLESMERE, VISCOUNT
Ashness, shoved his way through the crowds on Broad Street, oblivious to the complaints of those rebounding from his impact.

He didn’t know where he was going, or what he might do when he got there. All he knew was that he’d burst if he stood still.

His head throbbed like an inflamed boil. Everything throbbed. His hand—he’d probably broken something, but he didn’t care. His heart, pounding and sore inside his chest. His foot, for God’s sake, what, had he kicked something? He lashed out viciously at a loose cobblestone and sent it rocketing through a crowd of geese, who set up a huge cackle and lunged at him, hissing and beating at his shins with their wings.

Feathers and goose shit flew wide, and the crowd scattered in all directions.

“Bastard!” shrieked the goose-girl, and struck at him with her crook, catching him a shrewd thump on the ear. “Devil take you,
Schmutziger Bastard
!”

This sentiment was echoed by a number of other angry voices, and he veered into an alley, pursued by shouts and honks of agitation.

He rubbed his throbbing ear, lurching into buildings as he passed, oblivious to everything but the one word throbbing ever louder in his head.
Bastard
.

“Bastard!” he said out loud, and shouted, “Bastard, bastard,
bastard
!!” at the top of his lungs, hammering at the brick wall next to him with a clenched fist.

“Who’s a bastard?” said a curious voice behind him. He swung round to see a young woman looking at him with some interest. Her eyes moved slowly down his frame, taking note of the heaving chest, the bloodstains on the facings of his uniform coat and green smears of goose shit on his breeches, reached his silver buckled shoes, and returned to his face with more interest.

“I am,” he said, hoarse and bitter.

“Oh, really?” She left the shelter of the doorway in which she’d been standing, and came across the alley to stand right in front of him. She was tall and slim, and had a very fine pair of high young breasts—which were clearly visible under the thin muslin of her shift, because while she had a silk petticoat, she wore neither stays nor bodice. No cap, either—her hair fell loose over her shoulders. A whore.

“I’m partial to bastards, myself,” she said, and touched him lightly on the arm. “What kind of bastard are you? A wicked one? An evil one?”

“A sorry one,” he said, and scowled when she laughed. She saw the scowl, but didn’t pull back.

“Come in,” she said, and took his hand. “You look as though you could do with a drink.” He saw her glance at his knuckles, burst and bleeding, and she caught her lower lip behind small white teeth. She didn’t seem afraid, though, and he found himself drawn unprotesting into the shadowed doorway after her.

What did it matter?
he thought, with a sudden savage weariness.
What did anything matter?

IT WASN’T YET MIDDAY, and the only voices in the house were the distant chitter of women. No one was visible in the parlor as they passed, and no one appeared as she led him up a foot-marked staircase to her room. It gave him an odd feeling, as though he might be invisible. He found the notion a comfort; he couldn’t bear himself.

She went in before him and threw open the shutters. He wanted to tell her to close them; he felt wretchedly exposed in the flood of sunlight. But it was summer; the room was hot and airless, and he was already sweating heavily. Air swirled in, heavy with the odor of tree sap, and the sun glowed briefly on the smooth top of her head, like the gloss on a fresh conker. She turned and smiled at him.

“First things first,” she announced briskly. “Throw off your coat and waistcoat before you suffocate.” Not waiting to see whether he would take this suggestion, she turned to reach for the basin and ewer. She filled the basin and stepped back, motioning him toward the wash-stand, where a towel and a much-used sliver of soap stood on worn wood.

“I’ll fetch us a drink, shall I?” And with that, she was gone, bare feet pattering busily down the stairs.

Mechanically, he began to undress. He blinked stupidly at the basin, but then recalled that in the better sort of house, sometimes a man was required to wash his parts first. He’d encountered the custom once before, but on that occasion, the whore had performed the ablution for him—plying the soap to such effect that the first encounter had ended right there in the washbasin.

The memory made the blood flame up in his face again, and he ripped at his flies, popping off a button. He was still throbbing all over, but the sensation was becoming more centralized.

His hands were unsteady, and he cursed under his breath, reminded by the broken skin on his knuckles of his unceremonious exit from his father’s—no,
not
his bloody father’s house. Lord John’s.

“You bloody
bastard
!” he said under his breath. “You knew, you knew all along!” That infuriated him almost more than the horrifying revelation of his own paternity—that his stepfather, whom he’d loved, whom he’d trusted more than anyone on earth—that Lord John bloody Grey had lied to him his whole life!

Everyone had lied to him.

Everyone.

He felt suddenly as though he’d broken through a crust of frozen snow and plunged straight down into an unsuspected river beneath. Swept away into black breathlessness beneath the ice, helpless, voiceless, a feral chill clawing at his heart.

There was a small sound behind him and he whirled by instinct, aware only when he saw the young whore’s appalled face that he was weeping savagely, tears running down his own face, and his wet, half-hard cock flopping out of his breeches.

“Go away,” he croaked, making a frantic effort to tuck himself away.

She didn’t go away, but came toward him, decanter in one hand and a pair of pewter cups in the other.

“Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing him sideways. “Here, let me pour you a drink. You can tell me all about it.”

“No!”

She came on toward him, but more slowly. Through his swimming eyes he saw the twitch of her mouth as she saw his cock.

“I meant the water for your poor hands,” she said, clearly trying not to laugh. “I will say as you’re a real gentleman, though.”

“I’m not!”

She blinked.

“Is it an insult to call you a gentleman?”

Overcome with fury at the word, he lashed out blindly, knocking the decanter from her hand. It burst in a spray of glass and cheap wine, and she cried out as the red soaked through her petticoat.

“You
bastard
!” she shrieked, and drawing back her arm, threw the cups at his head. She didn’t hit him, and they clanged and rolled away across the floor. She was turning toward the door, crying out, “Ned! Ned!” when he lunged and caught her.

He only wanted to stop her shrieking, stop her bringing up whatever male enforcement the house employed. He got a hand on her mouth, yanking her back from the door, grappling one-handed to try to control her flailing arms.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he kept saying. “I didn’t mean—I don’t mean—oh, bloody
hell
!” She caught him abruptly in the nose with her elbow and he dropped her, backing away with a hand to his face, blood dripping through his fingers.

Her face was marked with red where he’d held her, and her eyes were wild. She backed away, scrubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Get … 
out
!” she gasped.

He didn’t need telling twice. He rushed past her, shouldered his way past a burly man charging up the stairs, and ran down the alley, realizing only when he reached the street that he was in his shirtsleeves, having left coat and waistcoat behind, and his breeches were undone.

“Ellesmere!” said an appalled voice nearby. He looked up in horror, to find himself the cynosure of several English officers, including Alexander Lindsay, Earl Balcarres.