The Scot bent his head courteously, but did not answer that he had had no choice in the matter; his eyes said that.
“Doubtless you wonder why I have sent for you,” Grey said. He sounded insufferably pompous to his own ears, but was unable to remedy it. “I find that a situation has arisen in which I require your assistance.”
“What is that, Major?” The voice was the same—deep and precise, marked with a soft Highland burr.
He took a deep breath, bracing himself on the desk. He would rather have done anything but ask help of this particular man, but there was no bloody choice. Fraser was the only possibility.
“A man has been found wandering the moor near the coast,” he said carefully. “He appears to be seriously ill, and his speech is deranged. However, certain…matters to which he refers appear to be of…substantial interest to the Crown. I require to talk with him, and discover as much as I can of his identity, and the matters of which he speaks.”
He paused, but Fraser merely stood there, waiting.
“Unfortunately,” Grey said, taking another breath, “the man in question has been heard to speak in a mixture of Gaelic and French, with no more than a word or two of English.”
One of the Scot’s ruddy eyebrows stirred. His face didn’t change in any appreciable way, but it was evident that he had grasped the implications of the situation.
“I see, Major.” The Scot’s soft voice was full of irony. “And you would like my assistance to interpret for ye what this man might have to say.”
Grey couldn’t trust himself to speak, but merely jerked his head in a short nod.
“I fear I must decline, Major.” Fraser spoke respectfully, but with a glint in his eye that was anything but respectful. Grey’s hand curled tight around the brass letter-opener on his blotter.
“You decline?” he said. He tightened his grasp on the letter-opener in order to keep his voice steady. “Might I inquire why, Mr. Fraser?”
“I am a prisoner, Major,” the Scot said politely. “Not an interpreter.”
“Your assistance would be—appreciated,” Grey said, trying to infuse the word with significance without offering outright bribery. “Conversely,” his tone hardened, “a failure to render legitimate assistance—”
“It is not legitimate for ye either to extort my services or to threaten me, Major.” Fraser’s voice was a good deal harder than Grey’s.
“I did not threaten you!” The edge of the letter-opener was cutting into his hand; he was forced to loosen his grip.
“Did ye no? Well, and I’m pleased to hear it.” Fraser turned toward the door. “In that case, Major, I shall bid ye good night.”
Grey would have given a great deal simply to have let him go. Unfortunately, duty called.
“Mr. Fraser!” The Scot stopped, a few feet from the door, but didn’t turn.
Grey took a deep breath, steeling himself to it.
“If you do what I ask, I will have your irons struck off,” he said.
Fraser stood quite still. Young and inexperienced Grey might be, but he was not unobservant. Neither was he a poor judge of men. Grey watched the rise of his prisoner’s head, the increased tension of his shoulders, and felt a small relaxation of the anxiety that had gripped him since the news of the wanderer had come.
“Mr. Fraser?” he said.
Very slowly, the Scot turned around. His face was quite expressionless.
“You have a bargain, Major,” he said softly.
It was well past midnight when they arrived in the village of Ardsmuir. No lights showed in the cottages they passed, and Grey found himself wondering what the inhabitants thought, as the sound of hooves and the jingle of arms passed by their windows late at night, a faint echo of the English troops who had swept through the Highlands ten years before.
The wanderer had been taken to the Lime Tree, an inn so called because for many years, it had boasted a huge lime tree in the yard; the only tree of any size for thirty miles. There was nothing left now but a broad stump—the tree, like so many other things, had perished in the aftermath of Culloden, burned for firewood by Cumberland’s troops—but the name remained.
At the door, Grey paused and turned to Fraser.
“You will recall the terms of our agreement?”
“I will,” Fraser answered shortly, and brushed past him.
In return for having the irons removed, Grey had required three things: firstly, that Fraser would not attempt to escape during the journey to or from the village. Secondly, Fraser would undertake to give a full and true account of all that the vagrant should say. And thirdly, Fraser would give his word as a gentleman to speak to no one but Grey of what he learned.
There was a murmur of Gaelic voices inside; a sound of surprise as the innkeeper saw Fraser, and deference at the sight of the red coat behind him. The goodwife stood on the stair, an oil-dip in her hand making the shadows dance around her.
Grey laid a hand on the innkeeper’s arm, startled.
“Who is that?” There was another figure on the stairs, an apparition, clothed all in black.
“That is the priest,” Fraser said quietly, beside him. “The man will be dying, then.”
