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ocean. The sun had nearly set now, and the cries of parrots and other birds were growing intermittent.
He peered underneath the bed, but didn’t see the snake. Perhaps it was far back in the shadows; perhaps it had gone off in search of more ham. He straightened, stretched luxuriously, then shook himself and stood blinking, feeling stupid from too much wine and food, and lack of sleep—he had slept barely three hours out of the preceding four-and-twenty, what with the arrival, disembarkation, and the journey to King’s House.
His mind appeared to have taken French leave for the moment; no matter, it would be back shortly. Meanwhile, though, its abdication had left his body in charge; not at all a responsible course of action.
He felt exhausted, but restless, and scratched idly at his chest. The wounds there were solidly healed, slightly raised pink weals under his fingers, crisscrossing through the blond hair. One had passed within an inch of his left nipple; he’d been lucky not to lose it.
An immense pile of gauze cloth lay upon his bed. This must be the mosquito netting described to him by Mr. Dawes at dinner—a draped contraption meant to enclose the entire bed, thus protecting its occupant from the depredations of bloodthirsty insects.
He’d spent some time with Fettes and Cherry after dinner, laying plans for the morrow. Cherry would call upon Mr. Judge Peters and obtain details of the maroons who had been captured. Fettes would send men into King’s Town in a search for the location of the retired Mr. Ludgate, erstwhile superintendent; if he could be found, Grey would like to know this gentleman’s opinion of his successor. As for that successor—if Dawes did not manage to unearth Captain Cresswell by the end of tomorrow . . . Grey yawned involuntarily, then shook his head, blinking. Enough.
The troops would all be billeted by now, some granted their first liberty in months. He spared a glance at the small sheaf of maps and reports he had extracted from Mr. Dawes earlier, but those could wait ’til morning, and better light. He’d think better after a good night’s sleep.
He leaned against the frame of the open door, after a quick glance down the terrace showed him that the rooms nearby seemed unoccupied. Clouds were beginning to drift in from the sea, and he remembered what Rodrigo had said about the rain at night. He thought perhaps he could feel a slight coolness in the air, whether from rain or oncoming night, and the hair on his body prickled and rose.
From here, he could see nothing but the deep green of a jungle-clad hill, glowing like a somber emerald in the twilight. From the other side of the house, though, as he left dinner, he’d seen the sprawl of Spanish Town below, a puzzle of narrow, aromatic streets. The taverns and the brothels would be doing a remarkable business tonight, he thought.
The thought brought with it a rare feeling of something that wasn’t quite resentment. Any one of the soldiers he’d brought, from lowliest private soldier to Fettes himself, could walk into any brothel in Spanish Town—and there were a good many, Cherry had told him—and relieve the stresses caused by a long voyage without the slightest comment, or even the slightest attention. Not him.
His hand had dropped lower as he watched the light fade, idly kneading his flesh. There were accommodations for men such as himself in London, but it had been many years since he’d had recourse to such a place.
He had lost one lover to death, another to betrayal. The third . . . his lips tightened. Could you call a man your lover, who would never touch you—would recoil from the very thought of touching you? No. But at the same time, what would you call a man whose mind touched yours, whose prickly friendship was a gift, whose character, whose very existence, helped to define your own?
Not for the first time—and surely not for the last—he wished briefly that Jamie Fraser were dead. It was an automatic wish, though, at once dismissed from mind. The color of the jungle had died to ash, and insects were beginning to whine past his ears.
He went in, and began to worry the folds of the gauze on his bed, until Tom came in to take it away from him, hang the mosquito netting, and ready him for the night.
HE COULDN’T SLEEP. WHETHER IT WAS THE HEAVY MEAL, THE UNACCUSTOMED place, or simply the worry of his new and so-far-unknown command, his mind refused to settle, and so did his body. He didn’t waste time in useless thrashing, though; he’d brought several books. Reading a bit of The Story of Tom Jones, A Foundling would distract his mind, and let sleep steal in upon him.
The French doors were covered with sheer muslin curtains, but the moon was nearly full, and there was enough light by which to find his tinderbox, striker, and candlestick. The candle was good beeswax, and the flame rose pure and bright—and instantly attracted a small cloud of inquisitive gnats, mosquitoes, and tiny moths. He picked it up, intending to take it to bed with him, but then thought better.
Was it preferable to be gnawed by mosquitoes, or incinerated? Grey debated the point for all of three seconds, then set the lit candlestick back on the desk. The gauze netting would go up in a flash if the candle fell over in bed.
Still, he needn’t face death by bloodletting or be covered in itching bumps, simply because his valet didn’t like the smell of bear grease. He wouldn’t get it on his clothes, in any case.
He flung off his nightshirt and knelt to rummage in his trunk, with a guilty look over his shoulder. Tom, though, was safely tucked up somewhere amid the attics or outbuildings of King’s House, and almost certainly sound asleep. Tom had suffered badly with seasickness, and the voyage had been hard on him.
The heat of the Indies hadn’t done the battered tin of bear grease any good, either; the rancid fat nearly overpowered the scent of the peppermint and other herbs mixed into it. Still, he reasoned, if it repelled him, how much more a mosquito? and rubbed it into as much of his flesh as he could reach. Despite the stink, he found it not unpleasant. There was enough of the original smell left as to remind him of his usage of the stuff in Canada. Enough to remind him of Manoke, who had given it to him. Anointed him with it, in a cool blue evening on a deserted sandy isle in the St. Lawrence River.
Finished, he put down the tin and touched his rising prick. He didn’t suppose he’d ever see Manoke again. But he did remember. Vividly.
A little later, he lay gasping on the bed under his netting, heart thumping slowly in counterpoint to the echoes of his flesh. He opened his eyes, feeling pleasantly relaxed, his head finally clear. The room was close; the servants had shut the windows, of course, to keep out the dangerous night air, and sweat misted his body. He felt too slack to get up and open the French doors onto the terrace, though; in a moment would do.
He closed his eyes again—then opened them abruptly and leapt out of bed, reaching for the dagger he’d laid on the table. The servant called Rodrigo stood pressed against the door, the whites of his eyes showing in his black face.
“What do you want?” Grey put the dagger down but kept his hand on it, his heart still racing.
“I have a message for you, sah,” the young man said. He swallowed audibly.
“Yes? Come into the light, where I can see you.” Grey reached for his banyan and slid into it, still keeping an eye on the man.
Rodrigo peeled himself off the door with evident reluctance, but he’d come to say something, and say it he would. He advanced into the dim circle of candlelight, hands at his sides, nervously clutching air.
“Do you know, sah, what an Obeah-man is?”
“No.”
That disconcerted Rodrigo visibly. He blinked, and twisted his lips, obviously at a loss as how to describe this entity. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders helplessly and gave up.
