“It’s a promise, Jenny,” he said. “Nay bloodshed in the parlor.”
She snorted. “Clot,” she said, but without rancor. “I’ll send Janet wi’ your parritch.” And she was gone, in a swirl of skirts and petticoats.
“Did she say Donas?” I asked, looking after her in bemusement. “Surely it isn’t the same horse you took from Leoch!”
“Och, no.” Jamie tilted his head back, smiling up at me. “This is Donas’s grandson—or one of them. We give the name to the sorrel colts in his honor.”
I leaned over the back of the sofa, gently feeling down the length of the injured arm from the shoulder.
“Sore?” I asked, seeing him wince as I pressed a few inches above the wound. It was better; the day before, the area of soreness had started higher.
“Not bad,” he said. He removed the sling and tried gingerly extending the arm, grimacing. “I dinna think I’ll turn handsprings awhile yet, though.”
I laughed.
“No, I don’t suppose so.” I hesitated. “Jamie—this Hobart. You really don’t think—”
“I don’t,” he said firmly. “And if I did, I’d still want my breakfast first. I dinna mean to be killed on an empty stomach.”
I laughed again, somewhat reassured.
“I’ll go and get it for you,” I promised.
As I stepped out into the hall, though, I caught sight of a flutter through one of the windows, and stopped to look. It was Jenny, cloaked and hooded against the cold, headed up the slope to the barn. Seized by a sudden impulse, I snatched a cloak from the hall tree and darted out after her. I had things to say to Jenny Murray, and this might be the best chance of catching her alone.
I caught up with her just outside the barn; she heard my step behind her and turned, startled. She glanced about quickly, but saw we were alone. Realizing that there was no way of putting off a confrontation, she squared her shoulders under the woolen cloak and lifted her head, meeting my eyes straight on.
“I thought I’d best tell Young Ian to unsaddle the horse,” she said. “Then I’m going to the root cellar to fetch up some onions for a tart. Will ye come with me?”
“I will.” Pulling my cloak tight around me against the winter wind, I followed her into the barn.
It was warm inside, at least by contrast with the chill outdoors, dark, and filled with the pleasant scent of horses, hay, and manure. I paused a moment to let my eyes adapt to the dimness, but Jenny walked directly down the central aisle, footsteps light on the stone floor.
Young Ian was sprawled at length on a pile of fresh straw; he sat up, blinking at the sound.
Jenny glanced from her son to the stall, where a soft-eyed sorrel was peacefully munching hay from its manger, unburdened by saddle or bridle.
“Did I not tell ye to ready Donas?” she asked the boy, her voice sharp.
Young Ian scratched his head, looking a little sheepish, and stood up.
“Aye, mam, ye did,” he said. “But I didna think it worth the time to saddle him, only to have to unsaddle him again.”
Jenny stared up at him.
“Oh, aye?” she said. “And what made ye so certain he wouldna be needed?”
Young Ian shrugged, and smiled down at her.
“Mam, ye ken as well as I do that Uncle Jamie wouldna run away from anything, let alone Uncle Hobart. Don’t ye?” he added, gently.
Jenny looked up at her son and sighed. Then a reluctant smile lighted her face and she reached up, smoothing the thick, untidy hair away from his face.
“Aye, wee Ian. I do.” Her hand lingered along his ruddy cheek, then dropped away.
“Go along to the house, then, and have second breakfast wi’ your uncle,” she said. “Your auntie and I are goin’ to the root cellar. But ye come and fetch me smartly, if Mr. Hobart MacKenzie should come, aye?”
“Right away, Mam,” he promised, and shot for the house, impelled by the thought of food.
Jenny watched him go, moving with the clumsy grace of a young whooping crane, and shook her head, the smile still on her lips.
“Sweet laddie,” she murmured. Then, recalled to the present circumstances, she turned to me with decision.
“Come along, then,” she said. “I expect ye want to talk to me, aye?”
Neither of us said anything until we reached the quiet sanctuary of the root cellar. It was a small room dug under the house, pungent with the scent of the long braided strings of onions and garlic that hung from the rafters, the sweet, spicy scent of dried apples, and the moist, earthy smell of potatoes, spread in lumpy brown blankets over the shelves that lined the cellar.
“D’ye remember telling me to plant potatoes?” Jenny asked, passing a hand lightly over the clustered tubers. “That was a lucky thing; ’twas the potato crop kept us alive, more than one winter after Culloden.”
I remembered, all right. I had told her as we stood together on a cold autumn night, about to part—she to return to a newborn baby, I to hunt for Jamie, an outlaw in the Highlands, under sentence of death. I had found him, and saved him—and Lallybroch, evidently. And she had tried to give them both to Laoghaire.
