Grey snorted briefly. “True. But those of you who remain healthy will not be healthy long, if you give up your rations for so long a time.” He shook his head. “No, Mr. Fraser, I think not. It is better to let the sick take their chances than to risk many more falling ill.”
Fraser was a stubborn man. He lowered his head for a moment, then looked up to try again.
“Then I would ask your leave to hunt for ourselves, Major, if the Crown cannot supply us with adequate food.”
“Hunt?” Grey’s fair brows rose in astonishment. “Give you weapons and allow you to wander the moors? God’s teeth, Mr. Fraser!”
“I think God doesna suffer much from the scurvy, Major,” Jamie said dryly. “
Emboldened by that telltale twitch, Jamie pressed on.
“Not weapons, Major. And not wandering. Will ye give us leave to set snares upon the moor when we cut peats, though? And to keep such meat as we take?” A prisoner would now and then contrive a snare as it was, but as often as not, the catch would be taken from him by the guards.
Grey drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly, considering.
“Snares? Would you not require materials for the construction of these snares, Mr. Fraser?”
“Only a bit of string, Major,” Jamie assured him. “A dozen balls, no more, of any sort of twine or string, and ye may leave the rest to us.”
Grey rubbed slowly at his cheek in contemplation, then nodded.
“Very well.” The Major turned to the small secretary, plucked the quill out of its inkwell and made a note. “I shall give orders to that effect tomorrow. Now, as to the rest of your requests…”
A quarter-hour later, it was settled. Jamie sat back at last, sighing, and finally took a sip of his sherry. He considered that he had earned it.
He had permission not only for the snares, but for the peat-cutters to work an extra half-hour per day, the extra peats to provide for an additional small fire in each cell. No medicines were to be had, but he had leave for Sutherland to send a message to a cousin in Ullapool, whose husband was an apothecary. If the cousin’s husband were willing to send medicines, the prisoners could have them.
A decent evening’s work, Jamie thought. He took another sip of sherry and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the fire against his cheek.
Grey watched his guest beneath lowered lids, seeing the broad shoulders slump a little, tension eased now that their business was finished. Or so Fraser thought. Very good, Grey thought to himself. Yes, drink your sherry and relax. I want you thoroughly off guard.
He leaned forward to pick up the decanter, and felt the crackle of Hal’s letter in his breast pocket. His heart began to beat faster.
“Will you not take a drop more, Mr. Fraser? And tell me—how does your sister fare these days?”
He saw Fraser’s eyes spring open, and his face whiten with shock.
“How are matters there at—Lallybroch, they call it, do they not?” Grey pushed aside the decanter, keeping his eyes fixed on his guest.
“I could not say, Major.” Fraser’s voice was even, but his eyes were narrowed to slits.
“No? But I daresay they do very well these days, what with the gold you have provided them.”
The broad shoulders tightened suddenly, bunched under the shabby coat. Grey carelessly picked up one of the chessmen from the nearby board, tossing it casually from one hand to the other.
“I suppose Ian—your brother-in-law is named Ian, I think?—will know how to make good use of it.”
Fraser had himself under control again. The dark blue eyes met Grey’s directly.
“Since you are so well informed as to my connections, Major,” he said evenly, “I must suppose that you also are aware that my home lies well over a hundred miles from Ardsmuir. Perhaps you will explain how I might have traveled that distance twice within the space of three days?”
Grey’s eyes stayed on the chess piece, rolling idly from hand to hand. It was a pawn, a cone-headed little warrior with a fierce face, carved from a cylinder of walrus ivory.
“You might have met someone upon the moor who would have borne word of the gold—or borne the gold itself—to your family.”
Fraser snorted briefly.
“On Ardsmuir? How likely is it, Major, that I should by happenstance encounter a person known to me on that moor? Much less that it should be a person whom I would trust to convey a message such as you suggest?” He set down his glass with finality. “I met no one on the moor, Major.”
“And should I trust
“No one has ever had cause to doubt my word, Major,” he said stiffly.
“Have they not, indeed?” Grey was not altogether feigning his anger. “I believe you gave
