Virgins: An Outlander Novella (8 page)

“Mmphm,” Jamie said, unconvinced, though fairness made him add, “Aye, well, and they did it to Christ, too.”

“Aye?” Ian sounded startled. “Aye, I suppose so—I hadna thought o’ that.”

“Well, ye dinna think of Him bein’ a Jew, do ye? But He was, to start.”

There was a momentary, meditative silence before Ian spoke again.

“D’ye think Jesus ever did it? Wi’ a lass, I mean, before he went to preachin’?”

“I think Père Renault’s goin’ to have ye for blasphemy, next thing.”

Ian twitched, as though worried that the priest might be lurking in the shadows.

“Père Renault’s nowhere near here, thank God.”

“Aye, but ye’ll need to confess yourself to him, won’t ye?”

Ian shot upright, clutching his plaid around him.

“What?”

“Ye’ll go to hell, else, if ye get killed,” Jamie pointed out, feeling rather smug. There was moonlight through the window and he could see Ian’s face drawn in anxious thought, his deep-set eyes darting right and left from Scylla to Charybdis. Suddenly Ian turned his head toward Jamie, having spotted the possibility of an open channel between the threats of hell and Père Renault.

“I’d only go to hell if it was a mortal sin,” he said. “If it’s no but venial, I’d only have to spend a thousand years or so in purgatory. That wouldna be so bad.”

“Of course it’s a mortal sin,” Jamie said, cross. “Anybody kens fornication’s a mortal sin, ye numpty.”

“Aye, but…” Ian made a “wait a bit” gesture with one hand, deep in thought. “To be a
mortal
sin, though, ye’ve got the three things. Requirements, like.” He put up an index finger. “It’s got to be seriously wrong.” Middle finger. “Ye’ve got to
know
it’s seriously wrong.” Ring finger. “And ye’ve got to give full consent to it. That’s the way of it, aye?” He put his hand down and looked at Jamie, brows raised.

“Aye, and which part of that did ye not do? The full consent? Did she rape ye?” He was chaffing, but Ian turned his face away in a manner that gave him a sudden doubt. “Ian?”

“Noo…” his friend said, but it sounded doubtful, too. “It wasna like that—exactly. I meant more the seriously wrong part. I dinna think it was…” His voice trailed off.

Jamie flung himself over, raised on one elbow.

“Ian,” he said, steel in his voice. “What did ye
do
to the lass? If ye took her maidenheid, it’s seriously wrong. Especially with her betrothed. Oh—” A thought occurred to him, and he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice. “Was she no a virgin? Maybe that’s different.” If the lass was an out-and-out wanton, perhaps…she probably
did
write poetry, come to think…

Ian had now folded his arms on his knees and was resting his forehead on them, his voice muffled in the folds of his plaid. “…dinna ken…” emerged in a strangled croak.

Jamie reached out and dug his fingers hard into Ian’s calf. His friend unfolded with a startled cry that made someone in a distant chamber shift and grunt in their sleep.

“What d’ye mean ye dinna ken? How could ye not notice?” he gibed.

“Ah…well…she…erm…she did me wi’ her hand,” Ian blurted. “Before I could…well.”

“Oh.” Jamie rolled onto his back, somewhat deflated in spirit, if not in flesh. His cock seemed still to want to hear the details.

“Is that seriously wrong?” Ian asked, turning his face toward Jamie again. “Or—well, I canna say I really gave full
consent
to it, because that wasna what I had in mind doing at all, but…”

“I think ye’re headed for the Bad Place,” Jamie assured him. “Ye meant to do it, whether ye managed or not. And how did it happen, come to that? Did she just…take hold?”

Ian let out a long, long sigh and sank his head in his hands. He looked as though it hurt.

“Well, we kissed for a bit, and there was more brandy—lots more. She…er…she’d take a mouthful and kiss me and, er…put it into my mouth, and—”

“Ifrinn!”

“Will ye not say, ‘Hell!’ like that, please? I dinna want to think about it.”

“Sorry. Go on. Did she let ye feel her breasts?”

“Just a bit. She wouldna take her stays off, but I could feel her nipples through her shift—did ye say something?”

“No,” Jamie said with an effort. “What then?”

“Well, she put her hand under my kilt and then pulled it out again like she’d touched a snake.”

“And had she?”

“She had, aye. She was shocked. Will ye no snort like that?” he said, annoyed. “Ye’ll wake the whole house. It was because it wasna circumcised.”

“Oh. Is that why she wouldna…er…the regular way?”

“She didna say so, but maybe. After a bit, though, she wanted to look at it, and that’s when…well.”

“Mmphm.” Naked demons versus the chance of damnation or not, Jamie thought Ian had had well the best of it this evening. A thought occurred to him. “Why did ye ask if being circumcised hurts? Ye werena thinking of doing it, were ye? For her, I mean?”

“I wouldna say the thought hadna occurred to me,” Ian admitted. “I mean…I thought I should maybe marry her, under the circumstances. But I suppose I couldna become a Jew, even if I got up the nerve to be circumcised—my mam would tear my heid off if I did.”

“No, ye’re right,” Jamie agreed. “She would.
And
ye’d go to hell.” The thought of the rare and delicate Rebekah churning butter in the yard of a Highland croft or waulking urine-soaked wool with her bare feet was slightly more ludicrous than the vision of Ian in a skullcap and whiskers—but not by much. “Besides, ye havena got any money, have ye?”

“A bit,” Ian said thoughtfully. “Not enough to go and live in Timbuktu, though, and I’d have to go at least that far.”

Jamie sighed and stretched, easing himself. A meditative silence fell—Ian no doubt contemplating perdition, Jamie reliving the better bits of his opium dreams but with Rebekah’s face on the snake lady. Finally he broke the silence, turning to his friend.

“So…was it worth the chance of goin’ to hell?”

Ian sighed long and deep once more, but it was the sigh of a man at peace with himself.

“Oh, aye.”

Jamie woke at dawn, feeling altogether well and in a much better frame of mind. Some kindly soul had brought a jug of sour ale and some bread and cheese. He refreshed himself with these as he dressed, pondering the day’s work.

He’d have to collect a few men to go back and deal with the coach.

He thought the coach wasn’t badly damaged; they might get it back up on the road again by noon….How far might it be to Bonnes? That was the next town with an inn. If it was too far, or the coach too badly hurt, or he couldn’t find a Jew to dispose decently of M. Peretz, they’d need to stay the night here again. He fingered his purse but thought he had enough for another night and the hire of men; the doctor had been generous.

He was beginning to wonder what was keeping Ian and the women. Though he kent women took more time to do anything than a man would, let alone getting dressed—well, they had stays and the like to fret with, after all…He sipped ale, contemplating a vision of Rebekah’s stays and the very vivid images his mind had been conjuring ever since Ian’s description of his encounter with the lass. He could all but see her nipples through the thin fabric of her shift, smooth and round as pebbles…

Ian burst through the door, wild-eyed, his hair standing on end.

“They’re gone!”

Jamie choked on his ale.

“What? How?”

Ian understood what he meant and was already heading for the bed.

“No one took them. There’s nay sign of a struggle, and their things are gone. The window’s open, and the shutters aren’t broken.”

Jamie was on his knees alongside Ian, thrusting first his hands and then his head and shoulders under the bed. There was a canvas-wrapped bundle there, and he was flooded with a momentary relief—which disappeared the instant Ian dragged it into the light. It made a noise, but not the gentle chime of golden bells. It rattled, and when Jamie seized the corner of the canvas and unrolled it, the contents were shown to be naught but sticks and stones, these hastily wrapped in a woman’s petticoat to give the bundle the appropriate bulk.

“Cramouille!”
he said, this being the worst word he could think of on short notice. And very appropriate, too, if what he thought had happened really had. He turned on Ian.

“She drugged me and seduced you, and her bloody maid stole in here and took the thing whilst ye had your fat heid buried in her…er…”

“Charms,” Ian said succinctly, and flashed him a brief, evil grin. “Ye’re only jealous. Where d’ye think they’ve gone?”

It was the truth, and Jamie abandoned any further recriminations, rising and strapping on his belt, hastily arranging dirk, sword, and ax in the process.

“Not to Paris, would be my guess. Come on, we’ll ask the ostler.”

The ostler confessed himself at a loss; he’d been the worse for drink in the hay shed, he said, and if someone had taken two horses from the shelter, he hadn’t waked to see it.

“Aye, right,” said Jamie, impatient, and, grabbing the man’s shirtfront, lifted him off his feet and slammed him into the inn’s stone wall. The man’s head bounced once off the stones and he sagged in Jamie’s grip, still conscious but dazed. Jamie drew his dirk left-handed and pressed the edge of it against the man’s weathered throat.

“Try again,” he suggested pleasantly. “I dinna care about the money they gave you—keep it. I want to know which way they went and when they left.”

The man tried to swallow but abandoned the attempt when his Adam’s apple hit the edge of the dirk.

“About three hours past moonrise,” he croaked. “They went toward Bonnes. There’s a crossroads no more than three miles from here,” he added, now trying urgently to be helpful.

Jamie dropped him with a grunt. “Aye, fine,” he said in disgust. “Ian—oh, ye’ve got them.” For Ian had gone straight for their own horses while Jamie dealt with the ostler and was already leading one out, bridled, the saddle over his arm. “I’ll settle the bill, then.”

The women hadn’t made off with his purse; that was something. Either Rebekah bat-Leah Hauberger had some vestige of conscience—which he doubted very much—or she just hadn’t thought of it.

It was still early; the women had perhaps six hours’ lead.

“Do we believe the ostler?” Ian asked, settling himself in the saddle.

Jamie dug in his purse, pulled out a copper penny, and flipped it, catching it on the back of his hand.

“Tails we do, heads we don’t?” He took his hand away and peered at the coin. “Heads.”

“Aye, but the road back is straight all the way through Yvrac,” Ian pointed out. “And it’s nay more than three miles to the crossroads, he said. Whatever ye want to say about the lass, she’s no a fool.”

Jamie considered that one for a moment, then nodded. Rebekah couldn’t have been sure how much lead she’d have—and unless she’d been lying about her ability to ride (which he wouldn’t put past her, but such things weren’t easy to fake and she was gey clumsy in the saddle), she’d want to reach a place where the trail could be lost before her pursuers could catch up with her. Besides, the ground was still damp with dew; there might be a chance…

“Aye, come on, then.”

Luck was with them. No one had passed the inn during the late-night watches, and while the roadbed was trampled with hoof marks, the recent prints of the women’s horses showed clear, edges still crumbling in the damp earth. Once sure they’d got upon the track, the men galloped for the crossroads, hoping to reach it before other travelers obscured the marks.

No such luck. Farm wagons were already on the move, loaded with produce headed for Parcoul or La Roche-Chalais, and the crossroads was a maze of ruts and hoofprints. But Jamie had the bright thought of sending Ian down the road that lay toward Parcoul, while he took the one toward La Roche-Chalais, catching up the incoming wagons and questioning the drivers. Within an hour, Ian came pelting back with the news that the women had been seen, riding slowly and cursing volubly at each other, toward Parcoul.

“And
that,
” he said, panting for breath, “is not all.”

“Aye? Well, tell me while we ride.”

Ian did. He’d been hurrying back to find Jamie when he’d met Josef-from-Alsace, just short of the crossroads, come in search of them.

“D’Eglise was held up near La Teste-de-Buch,” Ian reported in a shout. “The same band of men that attacked us at Bèguey—Alexandre and Raoul both recognized some of them. Jewish bandits.”

Jamie was shocked and slowed for a moment to let Ian catch him up. “Did they get the dowry money?”

“No, but they had a hard fight. Three men wounded badly enough to need a surgeon, and Paul Martan lost two fingers of his left hand. D’Eglise pulled them into La Teste-de-Buch and sent Josef to see if all was well wi’ us.”

Jamie’s heart bounced into his throat. “Jesus. Did ye tell him what happened?”

“I did not,” Ian said tersely. “I told him we’d had an accident wi’ the coach, and ye’d gone ahead with the women; I was comin’ back to fetch something left behind.”

“Aye, good.” Jamie’s heart dropped back into his chest. The last thing he wanted was to have to tell the captain that they’d lost the girl and the Torah scroll. And he’d be damned if he would.

They traveled fast, stopping only to ask questions now and then, and by the time they pounded into the village of Aubeterre-sur-Dronne, they were sure that their quarry lay no more than an hour ahead of them—if the women had passed on through the village.

“Oh, those two?” said a woman, pausing in the act of scrubbing her steps. She stood up slowly, stretching her back. “I saw them, yes. They rode right by me and went down the lane there.” She pointed.

“I thank you, madame,” Jamie said, in his best Parisian French. “What lies down that lane, please?”

She looked surprised that they didn’t know and frowned a little at such ignorance.

“Why, the chateau of the Vicomte Beaumont, to be sure!”

“To be sure,” Jamie repeated, smiling at her, and Ian saw a dimple appear in her cheek in reply.
“Merci beaucoup, madame!”