Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(153)

Hal set down his glass carefully and told him, in a calm voice, exactly who they were. Competent men, so far as he knew—but almost all of them quite young, with no experience of foreign campaigns.

“Of course,” Harry put in helpfully, “that means that you would be quite senior in the regiment: have your pick of companies, postings, aides…”

“Just how many troops have you on your muster roll, Colonel?” Reginald didn’t bother trying to sound neutral, and Grierson glanced at him. Not with disapproval, Hal saw, and his heart sped up a little.

“I cannot tell you exactly, sir,” he said, with exquisite politeness. Sweat had begun to dampen his collar, though the room was cool. “We are conducting a major campaign of recruitment at the moment, and our numbers rise—substantially—each day.” On a good day, they might get three new men—one of whom would not abscond with the bounty for signing—and from the smirk on Twelvetrees’s face, Hal knew he was aware of this.

“Indeed,” said Twelvetrees. “Untrained recruits. The Royal Artillery is at full strength presently. My company commanders have been with me for at least a decade.”

Hal kept his temper, though he was beginning to feel slightly breathless from suppressed rage.

“In that case, Major Grierson may have less space in which to distinguish himself,” he riposted smartly. “Whereas with us, sir…” He bowed to Grierson and felt momentarily giddy when he raised his head. “With us,” he repeated more strongly, “you would have the satisfaction of helping to shape a fine regiment in…your own likeness, so to speak.”

Harry chuckled in support, and Grierson smiled but politely. He’d also have the not-inconsiderable risk of failure and knew it.

Hal felt Harry stir uncomfortably next to him and took a deep breath, preparing to say something forceful about…about…The word had gone. Simply gone. He’d breathed in, and a trace of scent from the cockspur in Harry’s buttonhole had touched his brain. He closed his eyes abruptly.

Major Grierson had luckily asked a question; Hal could hear Twelvetrees replying in a gruff, matter-of-fact way. Grierson said something else and Twelvetrees’s voice relaxed a little, and quite suddenly it was Nathaniel’s voice, and he opened his eyes and saw nothing of the cozy morning room, of the men there with him. He was cold, shaking with cold…

And his fingers were squeezing the cold pistol in his hand so hard the metal would leave marks on his palm. He’d fucked Esmé before he left to kill her lover. Waked her in the dark and taken her, and she’d wanted him—ferociously—or perhaps she had pretended it was Nathaniel in the dark. He knew it was the last time…

“Colonel?” A voice, a dim voice. “Lord Melton!”

“Hal?” Harry’s voice, full of alarm. Harry, with him on the lawn, rain running down his face in a sunless dawn. He swallowed, tried to swallow, tried to breathe, but there was no air.

His eyes were open, but he couldn’t see anything. The cold was spreading down the sides of his jaws, and he realized suddenly that…

He looked straight into Nathaniel’s eyes and felt the bang and then it was…



HARRY HAD INSISTED on calling a carriage to take them home. Hal refused brusquely and strode—knees shaking, but he could walk, he would walk, dammit—away from Winstead Terrace.

He made it to the far side of the private garden—well away from the cockspur tree—where he stopped and gripped the cold black iron of the fence and carefully lowered himself to the pavement. His mouth tasted of brandy; Grierson had forced it down him, when he could breathe again.

“I’ve never bloody fainted in my life,” he said. He was sitting, back against the fence, forehead on his knees. “Not even when they told me about Father.”

“I know.” Harry had sat down beside him. Hal thought briefly what flats they must look, two young soldiers got up in scarlet and gold lace, sitting on the pavement like a pair of beggars. He really didn’t care.

“Actually,” Hal said after a minute, “that’s not true, is it? I passed out in the ham at tea last week, didn’t I?”

“You just felt a bit queasy,” Harry said stoutly. “Not eating for days, then two dozen sardines—enough to fell anyone.”

“Two dozen?” Hal asked, and laughed despite everything. Not much of a laugh, but he turned his head and looked at Harry. Harry’s face was creased with anxiety but relaxed a little when he saw Hal looking at him.

“At least that many. With mustard, too.”

They sat a few moments, feeling easier. Neither of them wanted to say anything about what had just happened, and they didn’t, but each could tell the other was thinking of it—how could they not?

“If it falls apart…” Harry began at last, then bent and looked at him searchingly. “You going to faint again?”

“No.” Hal swallowed twice, then took a shallow breath—the only kind he could manage—and pushed himself to his feet, holding on to the iron fence. He had to let Harry know he could go, that he didn’t have to try to carry on with this doomed enterprise, this fool’s game. Though the thought of it made his throat close. He cleared it, hard, and repeated Harry’s words: “If it does fall apart—”

Harry’s hand on his arm stopped him. Harry’s face was six inches from his own, the brown eyes clear and steady.