“Still,” he said, brightening, “I can do a bit of business on the way; I shall call in at the inns and public houses between here and Calais.”

“If ye call in at all the taverns ’twixt here and the coast, you’ll no reach Calais ’til next month,” observed Jamie. He fished his own purse from his sporran and scooped the small column of silver into it.

“Too true, milord,” Mr. Hawkins said, frowning ruefully. “I suppose I must give one or two the miss, and catch them up on my way back.”

“Surely you could send someone to Calais in your place, if your time is so valuable?” I suggested.

He rolled his eyes expressively, pursing his jolly little mouth into something as close to mournfulness as could be managed within the limitations of its shape.

“Would that I could, milady. But the shipment the Arabella carries is, alas, nothing I can consign to the good offices of a functionary. My niece Mary is aboard,” he confided, “bound even as we speak for the French coast. She is but fifteen, and has never been away from her home before. I am afraid I could scarce leave her to find her way to Paris alone.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” I agreed politely. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t think why. Mary Hawkins. Undistinguished enough; I couldn’t connect it with anything in particular. I was still musing over it when Jamie rose to see Mr. Hawkins to the door.

“I trust your niece’s journey will be pleasant,” he said politely. “Does she come for schooling, then? Or to visit relatives?”

“For marriage,” said her uncle with satisfaction. “My brother has been fortunate in securing a most advantageous match for her, with a member of the French nobility.” He seemed to expand with pride at this, the plain gold buttons straining the fabric of his waistcoat. “My elder brother is a baronet, you know.”

“She’s fifteen?” I said, uneasily. I knew that early marriages were not uncommon, but fifteen? Still, I had been married at nineteen – and again at twenty-seven. I knew the hell of a lot more at twenty-seven.

“Er, has your niece been acquainted with her fiancé for very long?” I asked cautiously.

“Never met him. In fact” – Mr. Hawkins leaned close, laying a finger next to his lips and lowering his voice – “she doesn’t yet know about the marriage. The negotiations are not quite complete, you see.”

I was appalled at this, and opened my mouth to say something, but Jamie clutched my elbow tightly in warning.

“Well, if the gentleman is of the nobility, perhaps we shall see your niece at Court, then,” he suggested, shoving me firmly toward the door like the blade of a bulldozer. Mr. Hawkins, moving perforce to avoid my stepping on him, backed away, still talking.

“Indeed you may, milord Broch Tuarach. Indeed, I should deem it a great honor for yourself and your lady to meet my niece. I am sure she would derive great comfort from the society of a countrywoman,” he added with a smarmy smile at me. “Not that I would presume upon what is merely a business acquaintance, to be sure.”

The hell you wouldn’t presume, I thought indignantly. You’d do anything you could to squeeze your family into the French nobility, including marrying your niece to… to…

“Er, who is your niece’s fiancé?” I asked bluntly.

Mr. Hawkins’s face grew cunning, and he leaned close enough to whisper hoarsely into my ear.

“I really should not say until the contracts have been signed, but seeing as it is your ladyship… I can tell you that it is a member of the House of Gascogne. And a very high-ranking member indeed!”

“Indeed,” I said.

Mr. Hawkins went off rubbing his hands together in a perfect frenzy of anticipation, and I turned at once to Jamie.

“Gascogne! He must mean… but he can’t, can he? That revolting old beast with the snuff stains on his chin who came to dinner last week?”

“The Vicomte Marigny?” Jamie said, smiling at my description. “I suppose so; he’s a widower, and the only single male of that house, so far as I know. I dinna think it’s snuff, though; it’s only the way his beard grows. A bit moth-eaten,” he admitted, “but it’s bound to be a hellish shave, wi’ all those warts.”

“He can’t marry a fifteen-year-old girl to… to… that! And without even asking her!”

“Oh, I expect he can,” Jamie said, with infuriating calmness. “In any case, Sassenach, it isna your affair.” He took me firmly by both arms and gave me a little shake.

“D’ye hear me? I know it’s strange to ye, but that’s how matters are. After all” – the long mouth curled up at one corner – “you, were made to wed against your will. Reconciled yourself to it yet, have ye?”

“Sometimes I wonder!” I yanked, trying to pull my arms free, but he merely gathered me in, laughing, and kissed me. After a moment, I gave up fighting. I relaxed into his embrace, admitting surrender, if only temporarily. I would meet with Mary Hawkins, I thought, and we’d see just what she thought about this proposed marriage. If she didn’t want to see her name on a marriage contract, linked with the Vicomte Marigny, then… Suddenly I stiffened, pushing away from Jamie’s embrace.

“What is it?” he looked alarmed. “Are ye ill, lass? You’ve gone all white!”

And little wonder if I had. For I had suddenly remembered where I had seen the name of Mary Hawkins. Jamie was wrong. This was my affair. For I had seen the name, written in a copperplate hand at the top of a genealogy chart, the ink old and faded by time to a sepia brown. Mary Hawkins was not meant to be the wife of the decrepit Vicomte Marigny. She was to marry Jonathan Randall, in the year of our Lord 1745.

“Well, she can’t, can she?” Jamie said. “Jack Randall is dead.” He finished pouring the glass of brandy, and held it out to me. His hand was steady on the crystal stem, but the line of his mouth was set and his voice clipped the word “dead,” giving it a vicious finality.

“Put your feet up, Sassenach,” he said. “You’re still pale.” At his motion, I obediently pulled up my feet and stretched out on the sofa. Jamie sat down near my head, and absently rested a hand on my shoulder. His fingers felt warm and strong, gently massaging the small hollow of the joint.

“Marcus MacRannoch told me he’d seen Randall trampled to death by cattle in the dungeons of Wentworth Prison,” he said again, as though seeking to reassure himself by repetition. “A ‘rag doll, rolled in blood.’ That’s what Sir Marcus said. He was verra sure about it.”

“Yes.” I sipped my brandy, feeling the warmth come back into my cheeks. “He told me that, too. No, you’re right, Captain Randall is dead. It just gave me a turn, suddenly remembering about Mary Hawkins. Because of Frank.” I glanced down at my left hand, resting on my stomach. There was a small fire burning on the hearth, and the light of it caught the smooth gold band of my first wedding ring. Jamie’s ring, of Scottish silver, circled the fourth finger of my other hand.

“Ah.” Jamie’s touch on my shoulder stilled. His head was bent, but he glanced up to meet my gaze. We had not spoken of Frank since I had rescued Jamie from Wentworth, nor had Jonathan Randall’s death been mentioned between us. At the time it had seemed of little importance, except insofar as it meant that no more danger menaced us from that direction. And since then, I had been reluctant to bring back any memory of Wentworth to Jamie.

“You know he is dead, do ye not, mo duinne?” Jamie spoke softly, his fingers resting on my wrist, and I knew he spoke of Frank, not Jonathan.

“Maybe not,” I said, my eyes still fixed on the ring. I raised my hand, so the metal gleamed in the fading afternoon light. “If he’s dead, Jamie – if he won’t exist, because Jonathan is dead – then why do I still have the ring he gave me?”

He stared at the ring, and I saw a small muscle twitch near his mouth. His face was pale, too, I saw. I didn’t know whether it would do him harm to think of Jonathan Randall now, but there seemed little choice.