Virgins: An Outlander Novella (Outlander #0.5)(2)

Ian uncorked the bottle of whisky—it wasn’t good, but it was whisky—and held it under his friend’s nose. When Jamie reached for it, though, Ian pulled it away.

“Not a sip do ye get until ye tell me,” he said. “And ye tell me now, a charaid.”

Jamie sat hunched, a pale blur on the ground, silent. When the words came at last, they were spoken so softly that Ian thought for an instant he hadn’t really heard them.

“My father’s dead.”

He tried to believe he hadn’t heard, but his heart had; it froze in his chest.

“Oh, Jesus,” he whispered. “Oh, God, Jamie.” He was on his knees then, holding Jamie’s head fierce against his shoulder, trying not to touch his hurt back. His thoughts were in confusion, but one thing was clear to him—Brian Fraser’s death hadn’t been a natural one. If it had, Jamie would be at Lallybroch. Not here, and not in this state.

“Who?” he said hoarsely, relaxing his grip a little. “Who killed him?”

More silence, then Jamie gulped air with a sound like fabric being ripped.

“I did,” he said, and began to cry, shaking with silent, tearing sobs.

—

It took some time to winkle the details out of Jamie—and no wonder, Ian thought. He wouldn’t want to talk about such things, either, or to remember them. The English dragoons who’d come to Lallybroch to loot and plunder, who’d taken Jamie away with them when he’d fought them. And what they’d done to him then, at Fort William.

“A hundred lashes?” he said in disbelief and horror. “For protecting your home?”

“Only sixty the first time.” Jamie wiped his nose on his sleeve. “For escaping.”

“The first ti— Jesus, God, man! What…how…”

“Would ye let go my arm, Ian? I’ve got enough bruises; I dinna need any more.” Jamie gave a small, shaky laugh, and Ian hastily let go but wasn’t about to let himself be distracted.

“Why?” he said, low and angry. Jamie wiped his nose again, sniffing, but his voice was steadier.

“It was my fault,” he said. “It—what I said before. About my…” He had to stop and swallow, but went on, hurrying to get the words out before they could bite him in a tender place. “I spoke chough to the commander. At the garrison, ken. He—well, it’s nay matter. It was what I said to him made him flog me again, and Da—he—he’d come. To Fort William, to try to get me released, but he couldn’t, and he—he was there, when they…did it.”

Ian could tell from the thicker sound of his voice that Jamie was weeping again but trying not to, and he put a hand on the wean’s knee and gripped it, not too hard, just so as Jamie would ken he was there, listening.

Jamie took a deep, deep breath and got the rest out.

“It was…hard. I didna call out, or let them see I was scairt, but I couldna keep my feet. Halfway through it, I fell into the post, just—just hangin’ from the ropes, ken, wi’ the blood…runnin’ down my legs. They thought for a bit that I’d died—and Da must ha’ thought so, too. They told me he put his hand to his head just then and made a wee noise, and then…he fell down. An apoplexy, they said.”

“Mary, Mother o’ God, have mercy on us,” Ian said. “He—died right there?”

“I dinna ken was he dead when they picked him up or if he lived a bit after that.” Jamie’s voice was desolate. “I didna ken a thing about it; no one told me until days later, when Uncle Dougal got me away.” He coughed and wiped the sleeve across his face again. “Ian…would ye let go my knee?”

“No,” Ian said softly, though he did indeed take his hand away. Only so he could gather Jamie gently into his arms, though. “No. I willna let go, Jamie. Bide. Just…bide.”

—

Jamie woke dry-mouthed, thickheaded, and with his eyes half swollen shut by midgie bites. It was also raining, a fine, wet mist coming down through the leaves above him. For all that, he felt better than he had in the last two weeks, though he didn’t at once recall why that was—or where he was.

“Here.” A piece of half-charred bread rubbed with garlic was shoved under his nose. He sat up and grabbed it.

Ian. The sight of his friend gave him an anchor, and the food in his belly another. He chewed slower now, looking about. Men were rising, stumbling off for a piss, making low rumbling noises, rubbing their heads and yawning.

“Where are we?” he asked. Ian gave him a look.

“How the devil did ye find us if ye dinna ken where ye are?”

“Murtagh brought me,” he muttered. The bread turned to glue in his mouth as memory came back; he couldn’t swallow and spat out the half-chewed bit. Now he remembered it all, and wished he didn’t. “He found the band but then left; said it would look better if I came in on my own.”

His godfather had said, in fact, “The Murray lad will take care of ye now. Stay wi’ him, mind—dinna come back to Scotland. Dinna come back, d’ye hear me?” He’d heard. Didn’t mean he meant to listen.

“Oh, aye. I wondered how ye’d managed to walk this far.” Ian cast a worried look at the far side of the camp, where a pair of sturdy horses was being brought to the traces of a canvas-covered wagon. “Can ye walk, d’ye think?”