Excerpt from An Echo in the Bone

[in camp, during the days immediately following the second Battle of Saratoga. (The two armies camped near each other for a couple of weeks, while the terms of surrender were negotiated.)]

In favor as I was of the suggested programme, I could see that Jamie required nourishment before executing anything of a further strenuous nature; I could hear his stomach rumbling from a yard away.

"Playing cards takes it out of you, does it?" I observed, watching him demolish three apples in six bites.

"Aye, it does," he said briefly. "Have we any bread?"

"No, but there's beer."

As though the word had evoked him, Young Ian materialized out of the gloom.

"Beer?" he said hopefully.

"Bread?" Jamie and I said together, sniffing like dogs. A yeasty, half-burned fragrance was wafting from Ian's clothes, which proved to come from two small loaves in his pockets.

"Where did you get these, Ian?" I asked, handing him a canteen of beer.

He drank deep, then lowered the canteen and stared vacantly at me for a moment.

"Ah?" he said vaguely.

"Are you all right, Ian?" I peered at him in some concern, but he blinked, and intelligence returned momentarily to his face.

"Aye, Auntie, fine. I'll just...ah...oh, thank ye for the beer." He handed back the empty canteen, smiled at me as though I were a stranger, and wandered off into the darkness.

"Did you see that?" I turned to find Jamie absorbed in dabbing up breadcrumbs from his lap with a moistened finger.

"No, what? Here, Sassenach." He handed me the second loaf.

"Ian acting like a half-wit. Here, you have half; you need it more than I do."

He didn't argue.

"He wasna bleeding or staggering, was he? Well, then, I suppose he's fallen in love wi' some poor lass."

"Oh? Well, that would fit the symptoms. But..." I nibbled the bread slowly, to make it last; it was crusty and fresh, clearly just out of the ashes. I'd seen young men in love, certainly, and Ian's behavior did fit the symptomology. But I hadn't seen it in Ian, not since... "I wonder who?"

"God knows. I hope it's no one of the whores." Jamie sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "Though maybe better that, than someone else's wife."

"Oh, he wouldn't--" I began, but then saw the wry look on his face. "Oh, he didn't?"

"No, he didn't," Jamie said, "but a near thing--and no credit to the lady involved."

"Who?"

"Colonel Miller's lady."

"Dear me." Abigail Miller was a sprightly young blond of twenty or so--and twenty or so years younger than her rather stout--and distinctly humorless--husband. "Just...how near a thing?"

"Near enough," Jamie said grimly. "She had him up against a tree, rubbing up to him like a wee cat in heat. Though I imagine her husband will ha' put a stop to her antics by now."

"He saw them?"

"Aye. Miller and I were walking together, came round a bush, and there they were. It was clear enough to me that it wasna the lad's idea--but he wasna resisting all that much, either."

Colonel Miller had frozen for an instant, then strode forward, gripped his startled wife by the arm, and with a murmured, "Good day, sir," to Jamie, had dragged her off, squealing, in the direction of his camp.

"Jesus H....when did this happen?" I demanded.

Jamie glanced at the rising moon, estimating.

"Oh, maybe six hours ago."

[omitted conversation]

With some effort, I heaved the heavy buffalo robe over the stack of cut [tree] branches that formed the foundation of our bed, spread our two blankets over the robe, then folded the whole thing over like a dumpling, creating a large, weatherproof, cozy pocket into which I inserted myself, shivering in my shift.

The simple opportunity to remove my outer garments was unspeakable comfort. Like most people obliged to live outdoors in the autumn, I normally slept in everything I owned. Women moving with the army would occasionally remove their stays--if it wasn't raining, you saw them hung to air from tree-branches in the mornings sometimes, like huge, malodorous birds poised for flight--but most simply loosened the ties and lay down regardless. Stays are quite comfortable to wear while standing up, but leave a lot to be desired in terms of nightwear.

Tonight, with the prospect of warm, waterproof shelter at hand, I had actually gone so far as to take off not only my stays--rolled up under my head as a pillow--but also skirt, blouse, jacket and kerchief, crawling into bed in nothing save my shift and stockings. I felt absolutely depraved.

I stretched luxuriously, and ran my hands down the length of my body, then thoughtfully cupped my breasts, contemplating Jamie's proposed plan of action.

The warmth of the buffalo robe was making me deliciously drowsy. I thought I needn't struggle to stay awake; I could tell that Jamie wasn't in any mood to forbear waking me out of chivalrous regard for my rest.

Had the fortuitous acquisition of the buffalo robe inspired him? I wondered, thumb dreamily circling one nipple. Or had sexual desperation inspired him to bet on the thing? What with his injured hand and the loss of my tent, it had been...how many days? I was absently totting up the total in my mind, when I heard the low murmur of voices by the fire, and sighed.

Ian. Not that I wasn't pleased to see him, but...oh, well. At least he hadn't turned up just as we were...

I had been burrowing toward the surface, and at this point, got my head free. He was sitting on one of the stones near the fire, head bent. He took something from his sporran and rubbed it thoughtfully between his fingers as he talked. His long, homely face was worried--but bore an odd sort of glow.

How peculiar, I thought. I'd seen it before, that look. A sort of intent concentration on something wonderful, a marvelous secret held to himself.

A girl. That was it, I thought, both amused and touched. He'd looked just that way at Mary, the young prostitute who had been his first. And Emily?

Well, yes...I thought so; though in that instance his joy in her had been terribly shadowed by the knowledge of his impending separation from everyone and everything else he loved.

Cruimnich, Jamie had said to him, laying his own plaid over Ian's shoulders in farewell. "Remember." I had thought my heart would break, to leave him--I knew Jamie's had.

He was still wearing the same ragged plaid, pinned to the shoulder of his buckskins.

[omitted conversation, during which Claire drifts off]

"Mr. Fraser?"

The voice roused me instantly, hairs prickling up the back of my neck, despite the coziness of my surroundings. Bloody hell, not him again? I lifted the edge of the buffalo robe and peered out. Sure enough, it was the continental soldier, the despoiler of my soup. I hoped he would trip in the dark and fall facefirst into the fire.

He came slowly into the circle of firelight, though, deepset eyes fixed on Jamie.

"I am James Fraser, aye," Jamie said, setting down his cup, and gesturing politely toward a vacant rock. "Will ye take a cup of coffee, sir? Or what passes for it?"

The man shook his head, not speaking. He was looking Jamie over appraisingly, like one about to buy a horse, and not sure of its temper.

"Perhaps ye'd prefer a warm cup o' spittle?" Ian said, in an unfriendly tone. Jamie glanced at him, startled.

"This is the misbegotten son of a pig who came earlier in search of you," Ian added, speaking now in Gaelic. He didn't take his eyes off the stranger. "He means you no good, uncle."

"I thank you, Ian. I should never have guessed," Jamie answered in the same language, keeping his voice pleasantly relaxed. "Have ye business with me, sir?" he asked, changing to English.

"I would speak with you, yes. In privacy," the man added, with a dismissive glance at Ian.

"This is my nephew," Jamie said, still courteous, but wary. "Ye may speak in front of him."

"I fear ye may think differently, Mr. Fraser, when you hear what I've to say. And once said, such things cannot be unsaid. Leave, young man," he said, not bothering to look at Ian. "Or you will both regret it."

Both Jamie and Ian stiffened visibly. Then they moved, at nearly the same instant, bodies shifting subtly, their feet coming under them, shoulders squaring. Jamie gazed thoughtfully at the man for a moment, then inclined his head an inch toward Ian. Ian rose without a word and disappeared into the darkness.

The man stood waiting, until the sound of Ian's footsteps had faded and the night settled into silence around the tiny fire. Then he moved round the fire and sat down slowly, opposite Jamie, still maintaining that unnerving air of scrutiny. Well, it unnerved me; Jamie merely picked up his cup and drained it, calm as though he were sitting at his own kitchen table.

"If ye've aught to say to me, sir, say it. It's late, and I'm for my bed."

"A bed with your lovely wife in it, I daresay. Lucky man." I was beginning to dislike this gentleman intensely. Jamie ignored both the comment and the mocking tone in which it was spoken, leaning forward to pour the last of the coffee into his cup. I could smell the bitter tang of it, even over the enveloping scent of the buffalo robe.

"Does the name of William Coulter recall itself to you?" the man asked abruptly.

"I've kent several men of that name and that ilk," Jamie replied. "Mostly in Scotland."

"Aye, it was in Scotland. On the day before the great slaughter at Culloden. But you had your own wee slaughter on that day, no?"