Outlander by Diana Gabaldon Page A

general company stirred in surprise. “A French name, it is, surely?” He had in fact pronounced the name in correct French, though I had given it the common English pronunciation of “Beecham.”
    “Yes, that’s right,” I answered, in some surprise.
    “Where did ye find this lass?” Dougal demanded, swinging round on Murtagh, who was refreshing himself from a leather flask.
    The swarthy little man shrugged. “At the foot o’ Craigh na Dun. She was havin’ words with a certain captain of dragoons wi’ whom I chanced to be acquent’,” he added, with a significant lift of his eyebrows. “There seemed to be some question as to whether the lady was or was not a whore.”
    Dougal looked me over carefully once more, taking in every detail of cotton print dress and walking shoes.
    “I see. And what was the lady’s position in this discussion?” he inquired, with a sarcastic emphasis on the word “lady” that I didn’t particularly care for. I noticed that while his Scots was less pronounced than that of the man called Murtagh, his accent was still broad enough that the word was almost, though not quite, “leddy.”
    Murtagh seemed grimly amused; at least one corner of the thin mouth turned up. “She said she wasna. The captain himself appeared to be of two minds on the matter, but inclined to put the question to the test.”
    “We could do the same, come to that.” The fat, black-bearded man stepped toward me grinning, hands tugging at his belt. I backed up hastily as far as I could, which was not nearly far enough, given the dimensions of the cottage.
    “That will do, Rupert.” Dougal was still scowling at me, but his voice held the ring of authority, and Rupert stopped his advances, making a comical face of disappointment.
    “I don’t hold wi’ rape, and we’ve not the time for it, anyway.” I was pleased to hear this statement of policy, dubious as its moral underpinning might be, but remained a bit nervous in the face of the openly lascivious looks on some of the other faces. I felt absurdly as though I had appeared in public in my undergarments. And while I had no idea who or what these Highland bandits were up to, they seemed bloody dangerous. I bit my tongue, repressing a number of more or less injudicious remarks that were bubbling toward the surface.
    “What d’ye say, Murtagh?” Dougal demanded of my captor. “She doesna appear to care for Rupert, at least.”
    “That’s no proof,” objected a short, balding man. “He didna offer her any siller. Ye canna expect any woman to take on something like Rupert without substantial payment—in advance,” he added, to the considerable hilarity of his companions. Dougal stilled the racket with an abrupt gesture, though, and jerked his head toward the door. The balding man, still grinning, obediently slid out into the darkness.
    Murtagh, who had not joined in the laughter, was frowning as he looked me over. He shook his head, making the lank fringe across his forehead sway.
    “Nay,” he said definitely. “I’ve no idea what she might be—or who—but I’ll stake my best shirt she’s no a whore.” I hoped in that case that his best was not the one he was wearing, which scarcely looked worth the wagering.
    “Weel, ye’d know, Murtagh, ye’ve seen enough o’ them,” gibed Rupert, but was gruffly hushed by Dougal.
    “We’ll puzzle it out later,” said Dougal brusquely. “We’ve a good distance to go tonight, and we mun’ do something for Jamie first; he canna ride like that.”
    I shrank back into the shadows near the fireplace, hoping to avoid notice. The man called Murtagh had untied my hands before leading me in here. Perhaps I could slip away while they were busy elsewhere. The men’s attention had shifted to a young man crouched on a stool in the corner. He had barely looked up through my appearance and interrogation, but kept his head bent, hand clutching the opposite shoulder, rocking slightly back and forth in