Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(124)

“Quite so, your honor.” D’Eglise flushed slightly but was too pleased to look abashed. “I am deeply honored by your trust, sir, and I assure you…” But Rebekah had rung her bell again, and the manservant came in with wine.

The job offered was simple; Rebekah was to be married to the son of the chief rabbi of the Paris synagogue. The ancient Torah was part of her dowry, as was a sum of money that made D’Eglise’s eyes glisten. The doctor wished to engage D’Eglise to deliver all three items—the girl, the scroll, and the money—safely to Paris; the doctor himself would travel there for the wedding but later in the month, as his business in Bordeaux detained him. The only things to be decided were the price for D’Eglise’s services, the time in which they were to be accomplished, and the guarantees D’Eglise was prepared to offer.

The doctor’s lips pursed over this last; his friend Ackerman, who had referred D’Eglise to him, had not been entirely pleased at having one of his valuable rugs stolen en route, and the doctor wished to be assured that none of his valuable property—Jamie saw Rebekah’s soft mouth twitch as she translated this—would go missing between Bordeaux and Paris. The captain gave Ian and Jamie a stern look, then altered this to earnest sincerity as he assured the doctor that there would be no difficulty; his best men would take on the job, and he would offer whatever assurances the doctor required. Small drops of sweat stood out on his upper lip.

Between the warmth of the fire and the hot tea, Jamie was sweating, too, and could have used a glass of wine. But the old gentleman stood up abruptly and, with a courteous bow to D’Eglise, came out from behind his desk and took Jamie by the arm, pulling him up and tugging him gently toward a doorway.

He ducked, just in time to avoid braining himself on a low archway, and found himself in a small, plain room, with bunches of drying herbs hung from its beams. What—

But before he could formulate any sort of question, the old man had got hold of his shirt and was pulling it free of his plaid. He tried to step back, but there was no room, and willy-nilly, he found himself set down on a stool, the old man’s horny fingers pulling loose the bandages. The doctor made a deep sound of disapproval, then shouted something in which the words “agua caliente” were clearly discernible, back through the archway.

He daren’t stand up and flee—and risk D’Eglise’s new arrangement. And so he sat, burning with embarrassment, while the physician probed, prodded, and—a bowl of hot water having appeared—scrubbed at his back with something painfully rough. None of this bothered Jamie nearly as much as the appearance of Rebekah in the doorway, her dark eyebrows raised.

“My grandfather says your back is a mess,” she told him, translating a remark from the old man.

“Thank ye. I didna ken that,” he muttered in English, but then repeated the remark more politely in French. His cheeks burned with mortification, but a small, cold echo sounded in his heart. “I see he’s made a mess of you, boy.”

The surgeon at Fort William had said it when the soldiers dragged Jamie to him after the flogging, legs too wobbly to stand by himself. The surgeon had been right, and so was Dr. Hasdi, but it didn’t mean Jamie wanted to hear it again.

Rebekah, evidently interested to see what her grandfather meant, came round behind Jamie. He stiffened, and the doctor poked him sharply in the back of the neck, making him bend forward again. The two Jews were discussing the spectacle in tones of detachment; he felt the girl’s small, soft fingers trace a line between his ribs and nearly shot off the stool, his skin erupting in goose flesh.

“Jamie?” Ian’s voice came from the hallway, sounding worried. “Are ye all right?”

“Aye!” he managed, half strangled. “Don’t—ye needn’t come in.”

“Your name is Jamie?” Rebekah was now in front of him, leaning down to look into his face. Her own was alive with interest and concern. “James?”

“Aye. James.” He clenched his teeth as the doctor dug a little harder, clicking his tongue.

“Diego,” she said, smiling at him. “That’s what it would be in Spanish—or Ladino. And your friend?”

“He’s called Ian. That’s”—he groped for a moment and found the English equivalent—“John. That would be…”

“Juan. Diego and Juan.” She touched him gently on the bare shoulder. “You’re friends? Brothers? I can see you come from the same place—where is that?”

“Friends. From…Scotland. The—the—Highlands. A place called Lallybroch.” He’d spoken unwarily, and a pang shot through him at the name, sharper than whatever the doctor was scraping his back with. He looked away; the girl’s face was too close—he didn’t want her to see.

She didn’t move away. Instead, she crouched gracefully beside him and took his hand. Hers was very warm, and the hairs on his wrist rose in response, in spite of what the doctor was doing to his back.

“It will be done soon,” she promised. “He’s cleaning the infected parts; he says they will scab over cleanly now and stop draining.” A gruff question from the doctor. “He asks, do you have fever at night? Bad dreams?”

Startled, he looked back at her, but her face showed only compassion. Her hand tightened on his in reassurance.

“I…yes. Sometimes.”