The wean might be about to fall face-first into the fire, but nobody-save maybe Ian-was going to know it, if it killed him. Ian bent his head to hide a smile, in spite of his anxiety. He said that in French-very good French, with a faint Parisian accent-and a number of eyes widened.

“Did I join a troop of soldiers, then, or charcoal-burners?” Jamie asked, raising one brow. “That’s what you’ll use it for.” Several of the others laughed, indicating that they at least understood English, whether they chose to speak it or not. “That’s good,” one of the other men put in, in French. “Havena had much to do wi’ an ax before, save chopping wood.” And a bow, forbye.” Jamie glanced at the unstrung bow by his feet, and the short-handled ax beside it. “Jamie Fraser, aye.” Ian was pleased to see that Jamie knew to meet the captain’s eye square, and had summoned the strength to return the handshake with due force. You look big enough to be useful-your friend says your name is Fraser?” “I do.” The captain leaned past the man next to him, extending a hand to Jamie. His eyes flicked round the circle, and he nodded, half-smiling in a shy sort of way. “Do any of them speak English?” Jamie likewise dropped his gear, and sat heavily on his bedroll, tucking his kilt absently down between his knees. “Next to him, the wee fellow wi’ the warts is Juanito doesna speak much French and nay English at all.” “That’s Big Georges over there,” Ian said, dropping Jamie’s gear and gesturing toward the far side of the fire. Ready for the possibilities a new fish offered for entertainment, but without the energy to include the more physical sorts of entertainment. Everyone was tired, but happy to sit down, looking forward to their supper and the daily ration of whatever was going in the way of drink. Jamie’d picked a good time of day to turn up, Ian thought. Plainly they couldn’t talk now, but he gave Jamie a quick private nod, took half the equipment from him, and then led him to the fire, to be introduced to the others. “Ye’ll need a bit to eat, aye? Come on, then.” “Jesus!” he began, startled, but then coughed and said, “Jesus, man, it’s good to see ye.” He patted Jamie’s back gently and let go. Ian seized Jamie in embrace, and felt him stiffen and draw in his breath at the same instant he felt the bandages beneath Jamie’s shirt. “Ian.” Jamie looked so relieved at seeing him that Ian thought he might break into tears. Ian reached him in three paces and took him by the arm before he could fall over. Jamie was standing by the armorer’s wagon, his arms full of the bits and pieces Armand had just given him, white as milk and swaying back and forth like a reed on Loch Awe. The fact that he was seeing Jamie Fraser’s face at all was evidence enough of that, never mind the look of the man. Ian Murray knew from the moment he saw his best friend’s face that something terrible had happened.

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