“What is—oh, you mean what’s the date? It’s October the seventh. I’m sure, because I wrote down October sixth in my black book when I did my notes after supper. Why?”

“A few more days, then. It’ll be the eleventh.”

“What happens on the eleventh?”

“According to your damned first husband, that’s when the Americans will lift their siege on Savannah.” He made a low, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “I should never have let Brianna go!”

I paused for a minute before answering, not sure of the ground.

“The city won’t be invaded,” I said, though I was uneasy, too. If we believe Frank’s book, and I suppose we must … “And you couldn’t have stopped her, you know.”

“I could,” he said stubbornly. “Or,” he added more fairly, “I could have stopped Roger Mac. And she wouldna go without him. And now the whole family’s there, God damn it.” He moved his legs restlessly, rustling under the covers.

“Yes,” I said, taking a deep breath. “They are. Including William.”

He stopped fidgeting abruptly and breathed through his nose for a bit.

“Aye,” he said at last, reluctantly. “I shouldna have done it, though—sent Bree into danger. Not even for William’s sake.”

A throaty call from a sleepy dove in the trees outside announced that the dawn was coming. No point in trying to soothe Jamie back to sleep, even if it was possible, and it wasn’t. His uneasiness was catching. I knew he was only second-guessing himself; all this had been discussed beforehand. Roger and Bree knew when the battle would happen—and that the city would not be taken. Even so, they’d have had time enough to leave the city, if things seemed too dangerous. And … despite his current edginess, Jamie did, in fact, trust John Grey to see them safe—or as safe as anyone could be, in a time like this.

“Jamie,” I said softly, at last, and touched his hand lightly. “No place is safe now. Not Savannah. Not Salisbury or Salem. Not here.”

He grew still. Not here.

“No,” he said softly, and squeezed my hand. “Not here.”

82

Jf Special

JAMIE CAME INTO THE surgery with three bottles of whisky cradled in one arm and another gripped with his free hand.

“Oh—presents?” I asked, smiling.

“Well, this one’s yours—or for your patients, at least.” He set the bottle in his hand on my counter, amidst the scatter of dried herbs, mortar and pestle, bottles of oil, and stacks of gauze squares. I dusted crumbs of goldenseal off my hands, picked it up, pulled the cork, and sniffed.

“I take it this is not the Jamie Fraser Special,” I said, coughing a little, and put the cork back in. “It smells like paint remover.”

“I might be offended at that, Sassenach,” he said, smiling. “Save that I didna make it.”

“Who did?”

“Mr. Patton. Husband of Mary Patton, who makes gunpowder in Tennessee County.”