Geordie spat on the ground. “Poor bugger,” he said, without specifying whom he meant, and swung into his own saddle.

Near the southeast corner of the park we halted, the horses stamping and twitching, while two of the men disappeared back into the trees. It cannot have been more than twenty minutes, but it seemed twice as long before they came back.

The men rode double now, and the second horse bore a long, hunched shape bound across its saddle, wrapped in a Fraser plaid. The horses didn’t like it; mine jerked its head, nostrils flaring, as the horse bearing Hugh’s corpse came alongside. Jamie yanked the rein and said something angrily in Gaelic, though, and the beast desisted.

I could feel Jamie rise in the stirrups behind me, looking backward as though counting the remaining members of his band. Then his arm came around my waist, and we set off, on our way north.

We rode all night, with only brief stops for rest. During one of these, sheltering under a horse-chestnut tree, Jamie reached to embrace me, then suddenly stopped.

“What is it?” I said, smiling. “Afraid to kiss your wife in front of your men?”

“No,” he said, proving it, then stepped back, smiling. “No, I was afraid for a moment ye were going to scream and claw my face.” He dabbed gingerly at the marks Mary had left on his cheek.

“Poor thing,” I said, laughing. “Not the welcome you expected, was it?”

“Well, by that time, actually it was,” he said, grinning. He had taken two sausages from one of Murtagh’s strings, and now handed me one. I couldn’t remember when I had last eaten, but it must have been quite some time, for not even my fears of botulism kept the fatty, spiced meat from being delicious.

“What do you mean by that? You thought I wouldn’t recognize you after only a week?”

He shook his head, still smiling, and swallowed the bite of sausage.

“Nay. It’s only, when I got in the house to start, I kent where ye were, more or less, because of the bars on your windows.” He arched one brow. “From the looks of them, ye must have made one hell of an impression on His Grace.”

“I did,” I said shortly, not wanting to think about the Duke. “Go on.”

“Well,” he said, taking another bite and shifting it expertly to his cheek while he talked, “I kent the room, but I needed the key, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “You were going to tell me about that.”

He chewed briefly and swallowed.

“I got it from the housekeeper, but not without trouble.” He rubbed himself tenderly, a few inches below the belt. “From appearances, I’d say the woman’s been waked in her bed a few times before – and didna care for the experience.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, entertained by the mental picture this provoked. “Well, I daresay you came as rare and refreshing fruit to her.”

“I doubt it extremely, Sassenach. She screeched like a banshee and kneed me in the stones, then came altogether too near to braining me wi’ a candle-stick whilst I was doubled up groaning.”

“What did you do?”

“Thumped her a good one – I wasna feeling verra chivalrous just at the moment – and tied her up wi’ the strings to her nightcap. Then I put a towel in her mouth to put a stop to the things she was callin’ me, and searched her room ’til I found the keys.”

“Good work,” I said, something occurring to me, “but how did you know where the housekeeper slept?”

“I didn’t,” he said calmly. “The laundress told me – after I told her who I was, and threatened to gut her and roast her on a spit if she didna tell me what I wanted to know.” He gave me a wry smile. “Like I told ye, Sassenach, sometimes it’s an advantage to be thought a barbarian. I reckon they’ve all heard of Red Jamie Fraser by now.”

“Well, if they hadn’t, they will,” I said. I looked him over, as well as I could in the dim light. “What, didn’t the laundress get a lick in?”

“She pulled my hair,” he said reflectively. “Took a clump of it out by the roots. I’ll tell ye, Sassenach; if ever I feel the need to change my manner of employment, I dinna think I’ll take up attacking women – it’s a bloody hard way to make a living.”

It was beginning to sleet heavily near dawn, but we rode for some time before Ewan Gibson dragged his pony uncertainly to a stop, rose up clumsily in the stirrups to look around, then motioned up the hillside that rose to the left.

Dark as it was, it was impossible to ride the horses uphill. We had to descend to the ground and lead them, foot by muddy, slogging foot, along the nearly invisible track that zigzagged through heather and granite. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky as we paused for breath at the crest of the hill. The horizon was hidden, thick with clouds, but a dull gray of no apparent source began to replace the darker gray of the night. Now I could at least see the cold streamlets that I sank in, ankle-deep, and avoid the worst of the foot-twisting snags of rock and bramble that we encountered on the way down the hill.

At the bottom was a small corrie, with six houses – though “house” was an overdignified word for the rude structures crouched beneath the larch trees there. The thatched roofs came down within a few feet of the ground, leaving only a bit of the stone walls showing.

Outside one bothy, we came to a halt. Ewan looked at Jamie, hesitating as though lost for direction, then at his nod, ducked and disappeared beneath the low rooftree of the hut. I drew closer to Jamie, putting my hand on his arm.

“This is Hugh Munro’s house,” he said to me, low-voiced. “I’ve brought him home to his wife. The lad’s gone in to tell her.”

I glanced from the dark, low doorway of the hut to the limp, plaid-draped bundle that two of the men were now unstrapping from the horse. I felt a small tremor run through Jamie’s arm. He closed his eyes for a moment, and I saw his lips move; then he stepped forward and held out his arms for the burden. I drew a deep breath, brushed my hair back from my face, and followed him, stooping below the lintel of the door.

It wasn’t as bad as I had feared it might be, though bad enough. The woman, Hugh’s widow, was quiet, accepting Jamie’s soft Gaelic speech of condolence with bowed head, the tears slipping down her face like rain. She reached tentatively for the covering plaid, as though meaning to draw it down, but then her nerve failed, and she stood, one hand resting awkwardly on the curve of the shroud, while the other drew a small child close against her thigh.

There were several children huddled near the fire – Hugh’s stepchildren – and a swaddled mass in the rough cradle nearest the hearth. I felt some small comfort, looking at the baby; at least this much of Hugh was left. Then the comfort was overwhelmed with a cold fear as I looked at the children, grimy faces blending with the shadows. Hugh had been their main support. Ewan was brave and willing, but he was no more than fourteen, and the next eldest child was a girl of twelve or so. How would they manage?

The woman’s face was worn and lined, nearly toothless. I realized with a shock that she could be only a few years older than I was. She nodded toward the single bed, and Jamie laid the body gently on it. He spoke to her again in Gaelic; she shook her head hopelessly, still staring down at the long shape upon her bed.

Jamie knelt down by the bed; bowed his head, and placed one hand on the corpse. His words were soft, but clearly spoken, and even my limited Gaelic could follow them.

“I swear to thee, friend, and may God Almighty bear me witness. For the sake of your love to me, never shall those that are yours go wanting, while I have aught to give.” He knelt unmoving for a long moment, and there was no sound in the cottage but the crackle of the peat on the hearth and the soft patter of rain on the thatch. The wet had darkened Jamie’s bowed head; droplets of moisture shone jewel-like in the folds of his plaid. Then his hand tightened once in final farewell, and he rose.