I thought of the cabin Jamie and Roger had found, a burnt shell, with the owners hanged from a tree before the house—and a young girl alive in the ashes, so badly burnt that she couldn’t live. We never discovered who had done it.

Jamie could see the thoughts cross my face. I might as well have a neon sign on my forehead, I thought crossly, and evidently he saw that one, too, for he smiled.

“There’s no law now, Sassenach,” he said. “Not wi’ the government gone.” There was neither fear nor passion in that statement—it was merely the truth of the matter.

“There never has been, up here. None but you, I mean.” That made him laugh, but I was just as right as he was.

“I didna come to rescue you alone, aye? That night?”

“No,” I said slowly. “You didn’t.” All the able-bodied men on the Ridge had answered his call for help and come out to follow him. Very much as his clansmen would have followed him to war, had we been in Scotland.

“So,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Those are the men you mean to … er … gang oot with?”

He nodded, looking thoughtful.

“Some of them,” he said slowly, and then glanced at me. “It’s different now, a nighean. There are men who were with me that night who willna follow me now, because they’re King’s men—Tories and Loyalists. The men who’ve kent me longest dinna mind so much that I was a rebel general—but there are a good many new tenants who dinna ken me at all.”

“I’m not sure that ‘Rebel General’ is a title you can lose,” I said.

“No,” he said, and smiled, though not with much humor. “Not without turning my coat. Aye, well.” He got to his feet and reached down a hand to pull me up in a rustle of leaves. “I’ve been a traitor for a long time, Sassenach, but I’d rather not be a traitor to both sides at once. If I can help it.”

Shouts and barking rang out from the trail above; the children had reached Ian’s house. We hurried after them and said no more of gangs, treason, or fat men in the dark.

20

I Bet You Think This Song Is about You …

NO ONE WENT TO the Old Garden, as the family called it. The people on the Ridge called it the Witch-child’s Garden, though not often in my hearing. I wasn’t sure whether “witch-child” was meant to refer to Malva Christie herself or to her baby boy. Both of them had died in the garden, in the midst of blood—and in my company. She had been no more than nineteen.

I never said the name aloud, but to me, it was Malva’s Garden.