WEAPONS WERE FORBIDDEN in Lodge, both in symbol of the members’ Masonic ideals and more pragmatically to increase the chances of those ideals being upheld, at least for the hourly meeting. Nonetheless, Jamie had come in midafternoon to place a loaded pistol under a stone near the door, and he had cartridges and balls in his sporran and Claire’s best knife sheathed and tucked into the small of his back, the hilt hidden by his coat and the tip of it tickling the crack of his arse.

He didn’t often wear his belted plaid to Lodge but was glad he’d taken the trouble tonight; it would keep him warm if he was taken prisoner and obliged to spend the night tied to a tree or locked up in someone’s root cellar. And he had a sgian dubh in his belt in front, concealed by his Masonic apron. Just in case.

“Ciamar a tha thu, a Mhaighister.” Hiram Crombie looked just as usual—dour as a plate of pickled cabbage—and Jamie found that a comfort. Dissimulation was not one of Hiram’s gifts, and if he’d known anything was afoot, he’d likely not have come tonight.

“Gu math agus a leithid dhut fhein,” Jamie said, nodding to him. Well, and the same to you.

“Will I have a word with you, after?” Hiram asked, still in the Gaelic.

“Aye, of course.” Jamie answered him in the same tongue, and saw a couple of the non-Gaelic-speaking tenants glance at them—with a touch of suspicion? he wondered.

“Will it be to do with your wee brother, then?” he asked, changing to English, and was pleased to see that hearing the Tall Tree referred to as his wee brother made the corner of Hiram’s mouth quiver.

“Aye.”

“Fine, then,” Jamie said pleasantly, trying to ignore the beating of his heart. “But ken, a charaid, I’ve said I willna let Frances be married before she’s sixteen—and not then, if she doesna choose to.”

Crombie shook his head briefly.

“It’s naught to do wi’ the lassie,” he said, and went into the Meeting House, followed by his kin and nearby friends.

And here the man himself came with his two young lieutenants, them in half-dress uniform and himself in pale linen breeches and a light-gray cloak, with a slouch hat against the rain. Plain, by his lights. Jamie caught the movement as Kenny Lindsay ducked his head to hide a smirk, but Jamie wasn’t so sure. Aye, it was possible that a sailor wouldn’t think what sort of target he’d make in the dark—but it was also possible either that Cunningham hadn’t thought that he might be a target, or that Cloudtree’s news was wrong, and the ambush—if there was meant to be one—wasn’t meant to be tonight.

Then Cunningham emerged into the fall of light from the open door, saw Jamie, and bowed to him.

“Worshipful Master,” he said.