Outlander aka Cross Stitch - Gabaldon Diana - Страница 62
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“I see.” I spoke between my teeth. “Well, my gizzard is quite intact. So you can believe me when I say I’m not a spy, English or French. And you can believe something else, Dougal MacKenzie. I’m not marrying anyone!”
He wasn’t listening. In fact, he had already pushed his way through the bushes that screened the spring. Only a quivering oak branch marked his passage. Seething, I followed him.
I remonstrated at some length further on the ride back to the inn. Dougal advised me finally to save my breath to cool my parritch with, and after that we rode in silence.
Reaching the inn, I flung my reins to the ground and stamped upstairs to the refuge of my room.
The whole idea was not only outrageous, but unthinkable. I paced around and around the narrow room, feeling increasingly like a rat in a trap. Why in hell hadn’t I had the nerve to steal away from the Scots earlier, whatever the risk?
I sat down on the bed and tried to think calmly. Considered strictly from Dougal’s point of view, no doubt the idea had merit. If he refused point-blank to hand me over to Randall, with no excuse, the Captain might easily try to take me by force. And whether he believed me or not, Dougal might understandably not want to engage in a skirmish with a lot of English dragoons for my sake.
And, viewed in cold blood, the idea had some merit from my side as well. If I were married to a Scot, I would presumably no longer be watched and guarded. It would be that much easier to get away when the time came. And if it were Jamie – well, he liked me, clearly. And he knew the Highlands like the backs of his hands. He would perhaps take me to Craigh na Dun, or at least in the general direction. Yes, possibly marriage was the best way to gain my goal.
That was the cold-blooded way to look at it. My blood, however, was anything but cold. I was hot with fury and agitation, and could not keep still, pacing and fuming, looking for a way out. Any way. After an hour of this, my face was flushed and my head throbbing. I got up and threw open the shutters, sticking my head out into the cooling breeze.
There was a peremptory rap on the door behind me. Dougal entered as I pulled my head in. He bore a sheaf of stiff paper like a salver and was followed by Rupert and the immaculate Ned Gowan, bringing up the rear like royal equerries.
“Please do come in,” I said courteously.
Ignoring me as usual, Dougal removed a chamber pot from its resting place on the table and fanned the sheets of paper out ceremoniously on the rough oak surface.
“All done,” he said, with the pride of one who has shepherded a difficult project to a successful conclusion. “Ned’s drawn up the papers; nothing like a lawyer – so long as he’s on your side, eh, Ned?”
The men all laughed, evidently in good humor.
“Not really difficult, ye ken,” Ned said modestly. “It’s but a simple contract.” He riffled the pages with a proprietary forefinger, then paused, wrinkling his brow at a sudden thought.
“You’ve no property in France, have ye?” he asked, peering worriedly at me over the half-spectacles he wore for close work. I shook my head, and he relaxed, shuffling the papers back into a pile and tapping the edges neatly together.
“That’s that, then. You’ll only need to sign here at the foot, and Dougal and Rupert to witness.”
The lawyer set down the inkpot he had brought in, and whipping a clean quill from his pocket, presented it ceremoniously to me.
“And just what is this?” I asked. This was in the nature of a rhetorical question, for the top page of the bundle said CONTRACT OF MARRIAGE in a clear calligraphic hand, the letters two inches high and starkly black across the page.
Dougal suppressed a sigh of impatience at my recalcitrance.
“Ye ken quite weel what it is,” he said shortly. “And unless you’ve had another bright thought for keeping yourself out of Randall’s hands, you’ll sign it and have done with it. Time’s short.”
Bright thoughts were in particularly short supply at the moment, despite the hour I had spent hammering away at the problem. It really began to seem that this incredible alternative was the best I could do, struggle as I might.
“But I don’t want to marry!” I said stubbornly. It occurred to me as well that mine was not the only point of view involved. I remembered the girl with blond hair I had seen kissing Jamie in the alcove at the castle.
“And maybe Jamie doesn’t want to marry me!” I said. “What about that?” Dougal dismissed this as unimportant.
“Jamie’s a soldier; he’ll do as he’s told. So will you,” he said pointedly, “unless, of course, ye’d prefer an English prison.”
I glared at him, breathing heavily. I had been in a stir ever since our abrupt removal from Randall’s office, and my level of agitation had now increased substantially, confronted with the choice in black and white, as it were.
“I want to talk to him,” I said abruptly. Dougal’s eyebrows shot up.
“Jamie? Why?”
“Why? Because you’re forcing me to marry him, and so far as I can see, you haven’t even told him!”
Plainly this was an irrelevancy, as far as Dougal was concerned, but he eventually gave in and, accompanied by his minions, went to fetch Jamie from the taproom below.
Jamie appeared shortly, looking understandably bewildered.
“Did you know that Dougal wants us to marry?” I demanded bluntly.
His expression cleared. “Oh, aye. I knew that.”
“But surely,” I said, “a young man like yourself; I mean, isn’t there anyone else you’re, ah, interested in?” He looked blank for a moment, then understanding dawned.
“Oh, am I promised? Nay, I’m no much of a prospect for a girl.” He hurried on, as though feeling this might sound insulting. “I mean, I’ve no property to speak of, and nothing more than a soldier’s pay to live on.”
He rubbed his chin, eyeing me dubiously. “Then there’s the minor difficulty that I’ve a price on my head. No father much wants his daughter married to a man as may be arrested and hanged any time. Did ye think of that?”
I flapped my hand, dismissing the matter of outlawry as a minor consideration, compared to the whole monstrous idea. I had one last try.
“Does it bother you that I’m not a virgin?” He hesitated a moment before answering.
“Well, no,” he said slowly, “so long as it doesna bother you that I am.” He grinned at my drop-jawed expression, and backed toward the door.
“Reckon one of us should know what they’re doing,” he said. The door closed softly behind him; clearly the courtship was over.
The papers duly signed, I made my way cautiously down the inn’s steep stairs and over to the bar table in the taproom.
“Whisky,” I said to the rumpled old creature behind it. He glared rheumily, but a nod from Dougal made him oblige with a bottle and glass. The latter was thick and greenish, a bit smeared, with a chip out of the rim, but it had a hole in the top, and that was all that mattered at the moment.
Once the searing effect of swallowing the stuff had passed, it did induce a certain spurious calmness. I felt detached, noticing details of my surroundings with a peculiar intensity: the small stained-glass inset over the bar, casting colored shadows over the ruffianly proprietor and his wares, the curve of the handle on a copper-bottomed dipper that hung on the wall next to me, a greenbellied fly struggling on the edges of a sticky puddle on the table. With a certain amount of fellow-feeling, I nudged it out of danger with the edge of my glass.
I gradually became aware of raised voices behind the closed door on the far side of the room. Dougal had disappeared there after the conclusion of his business with me, presumably to firm up arrangements with the other contracting party. I was pleased to hear that, judging from the sound of it, my intended bridegroom was cutting up rough, despite his apparent lack of objection earlier. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to offend me.
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