Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(158)

Voices. Men’s voices. Disconcerted, she hurried into the hall, to find the maid stolidly confronting a pair of what were not quite gentlemen.

“Madam is—” the maid was saying firmly, but one of the men spotted Minnie and brushed past the maid.

“Miss Rennie?” he inquired politely, and at her jerky nod bowed with surprising style for one dressed so plainly.

“We have come to escort you to Mrs. Simpson,” he said. And, turning to the maid, “Be so kind as to fetch the lady’s things, if you please.”

The maid turned, wide-eyed, and Minnie nodded to her. Her arms prickled with gooseflesh and her face felt numb.

“Yes,” she said. “If you please.” And her fingers closed on the paper in her pocket, damp with handling.

Do you think this is wise?



THERE WAS A coach outside, waiting. Neither of the men spoke, but one opened the door for her; the other took her by the elbow and helped her politely up into the conveyance. Her heart was pounding and her head full of her father’s warnings about dealing with unvouched-for strangers—these warnings accompanied by a number of vividly detailed accounts of things that had happened to incautious persons of his own acquaintance as a result of unwariness.

What if these men had nothing to do with her mother but knew who her father was? There were people who—

With phrases like “And they only found her head…” echoing in her mind, it was several moments before she could take notice of the two gentlemen, both of whom had entered the coach behind her and were now sitting on the squabs opposite, watching her like a pair of owls. Hungry owls.

She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her middle, as though to ease her stays. Yes, the small dagger was still reassuringly tucked inside her placket; the way she was sweating, it would be quite rusted by the time she had to use it. If, she corrected herself. If she had to use it…

“Are you all right, madam?” one of the men asked, leaning forward. His voice cracked sharply on “madam,” and she actually looked at him properly for the first time. Sure enough, he was a beardless boy. Taller than his companion, and pretty well grown, but a lad nonetheless—and his guileless face showed nothing but concern.

“Yes,” she said, and, swallowing, pulled a small fan from her sleeve and snapped it open. “Just…a little warm.”

The older man—in his forties, slender and dark, with a cocked hat balanced on his knee—at once reached into his pocket and produced a flask: a lovely object made in chased silver, adorned with a sizable chrysoberyl, she saw with surprise.

“Try this,” he said in a pleasant voice. “It is orange-flower water, with sugar, herbs, the juice of blood oranges, and just a touch of gin, for refreshment.”

“Thank you.” She repressed the “drugged and raped” murmuring in her brain and accepted the flask. She passed it unobtrusively under her nose, but there was no telltale scent of laudanum. In fact, it smelled divine and tasted even better.

Both of the men saw the expression on her face and smiled. Not with the smile of satisfied entrapment, but with genuine pleasure that she enjoyed their offering. She took a deep breath, another sip, and began to relax. She smiled back at them. On the other hand…her mother’s address lay in Parson’s Green, and she had just noticed that they were heading steadily in the opposite direction. Or at least she thought so…

“Where are we going?” she asked politely. They looked surprised, looked at each other, eyebrows raised, then back at her.

“Why…to see Mrs. Simpson,” the older gentleman said. The boy nodded and bowed awkwardly to her.

“Mrs. Simpson,” he murmured, blushing.

And that was all anyone said for the remainder of the journey. She occupied herself with sipping the refreshing orange drink and with surreptitious observation of her…not captors, presumably. Escorts?

The gentleman who had given her the flask spoke excellent English, but with a touch of foreign sibilance: Italian, perhaps, or Spanish?

The younger man—he didn’t really seem a boy, in spite of smooth cheeks and cracking voice—had a strong face and, regardless of his blushing, an air of confidence about him. He was fair and yellow-eyed, yet that brief glimpse when the two had looked at her in question had shown her a faint, vanishing resemblance between the two of them. Father and son? Perhaps so.

She flipped quickly through the ledger she carried in her head, in search of any such pair among her father’s clients—or enemies—but found no one who met the description of her escorts. She took a deep breath, another sip, and resolved to think of nothing until they arrived at their destination.

Half an hour later, the flask was nearly empty and the coach lurched to a stop in what she thought was possibly Southwark.

Their destination was a small inn standing in a street of shops dominated by Kettrick’s Eel-Pye House, this being evidently a successful eating place, judging by the crowds of people and the strong scent of jellied eels. Her belly rumbled as she got down from the carriage, but the sound was lost in the noises of the street. The boy bowed and offered her his arm; she took it, and putting on her most blandly pleasant face, she went with him inside.



IT WAS SHADOWY inside, light coming through two narrow, curtained windows. She noticed the smell of the place—hyacinths, how odd—but nothing more. Everything was a blur; all she felt was the beating of her heart and the solidness of the boy’s arm.