Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(193)

The door stood open, with Harry Quarry holding it and a blast of cold winter air coming in. His solid, square face broke into an enormous grin as he met her eyes.

“Pleased to see you again, Miss Rennie. Hurry up, old man, somebody’s coming.”

“Minnie! Stop! You—” Her father’s shout was cut off by the slam of the shop door, and a moment later she was dumped unceremoniously into a coach that stood waiting. Hal shot in after her, and Harry hung precariously off the coach’s step, shouting at the driver, before swinging inside himself and slamming the door.

“Minnie!” Her father’s shout reached her, faint but audible.

She tried to turn, to look out of the rear window, but couldn’t manage it without actually standing up and rotating her entire body. Before she could even contemplate doing that, though, Hal had wriggled free of his blue military cloak and was tucking it round her. The warmth of his body surrounded her, and his face was no more than a few inches from hers, still white, the warmth of his breath on her cheek white, too, misting in the frigid air of the coach.

His hands were on her shoulders, steadying her against the jolting, and she thought he might kiss her, but a sudden lurch as the coach swung round a corner sent him staggering. He fell backward into the seat opposite, beside Harry Quarry, who was still grinning from ear to ear.

She took a deep breath and readjusted her skirts over her bulge.

“Where do you think you’re taking me?”

He’d been staring at her intensely but evidently without actually seeing her, for her words made him jerk.

“What?”

“Where are you taking me?” she repeated, louder.

“I don’t know,” he said, and looked at Harry, beside him. “Where are we going?”

“Place on the Keizersgracht,” Harry said with a shrug. “Called De Gevulde Gans.”

“The Stuffed Goose? You’re taking me to a pub?” Her voice rose involuntarily.

“I’m taking you to be married,” Hal said, frowning at her.

He was very pale, and a muscle near his mouth twitched—the only thing he couldn’t control, she thought. Well, that, and her.

“I married a lady and she became a whore. I cannot complain if it should be the other way about this time.”

“You think I’m a whore, do you?” She wasn’t sure whether to be amused or insulted. Perhaps both.

“Do you normally sleep with your victims, madam?”

She gave him a long, level stare and folded her arms atop the rounded curve of her belly.

“I wasn’t asleep, Your Grace, and if you had been, I think I would have noticed.”



THE STUFFED GOOSE was a rather down-at-heel establishment, with a drunkard bundled in rags picturesquely huddled against the steps.

“Why did you pick this place?” she asked Harry, picking up her skirts to avoid a small heap of vomit on the stones and glancing at the grimy doorknob.

“The landlady’s husband is a minister,” he said reasonably, leaning to open the door for her. “And reputed not to be too fussed about things.”

Things like a wedding license, she supposed. Though perhaps you didn’t need one when getting married in a different country?

“Go in,” said Hal impatiently, behind her. “It stinks out here.”

“And you think it will be better inside?” she asked, pinching her nose in preparation. He was right, though: the breeze had shifted, and she caught the full impact of the drunkard’s scent.

“Oh, God,” she said, turned neatly on her heel, and threw up on the opposite side of the step.

“Oh, God,” said Hal. “Never mind, I’ll get you some gin. Now go inside, for God’s sake.” He pulled a large white handkerchief out of his sleeve, wiped her mouth briskly with it, and hustled her through the door.

Harry had already gone in and opened negotiations, in bad but serviceable Dutch, this augmented by a substantial purse, which he plonked on the bar with a loud clinking noise.

Hal, who apparently had no Dutch, interrupted Harry’s conversation with the landlady behind the bar by removing a golden guinea from his pocket and tossing it onto the bar.

“Gin,” he said.

Minnie had subsided onto a stool as soon as she entered and was curled over, eyes shut and Hal’s handkerchief clutched in one hand, trying not to breathe. A moment later, though, the sharp, clean scent of juniper cut through the miasma of the pub and the hint of dead rat. She swallowed, made herself sit up, and took the cup of gin Hal handed her.

To her considerable surprise, it worked. The nausea subsided with the first sip, the desire to lie down on the floor faded, and within a few moments she felt relatively normal—or as normal as one might feel if six months’ pregnant and on the verge of marrying Hal, she thought.

The minister, apparently rousted from bed and evidently suffering from an extreme form of la grippe, turned bleary eyes from Hal to Minnie, then back.

“You want to marry her?” The tone of incredulity seeped through the nasal congestion, slow and glutinous.

“Yes,” said Hal. “Now, if you please.”

The minister closed one eye and looked at him, then turned his head slowly to his wife, who tutted impatiently and said something rapid in Dutch, accompanied by a peremptory gesture. He hunched his shoulders against the tirade in a way indicating that such assaults were common. When she stopped speaking, he nodded in a resigned fashion, drew a sodden handkerchief from the pocket of his sagging breeches, and blew his nose.