Virgins Diana Gabaldon Read on Line Free

  Virgins is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to bodily persons, living or expressionless, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

2022 Dell Ebook Edition

Copyright (c) 2013 by Diana Gabaldon All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Dell, an imprint of Random House, a segmentation of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

DELL and the House colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

This novella was originally published in Dangerous Women, edited by George R. R. Martin and Gardner Dozois, published past Tor Books, a partitioning of Macmillan, in 2013.

eBook ISBN 9781101882528

Cover design: Tatiana Sayig

Cover images: Shutterstock randomhousebooks.com

v4.one

ep

Contents

Cover

Title Folio

Copyright

Virgins

Acknowledgments

Past Diana Gabaldon

About the Author

October 1740

Well-nigh BORDEAUX, French republic

Ian Murray knew from the moment he saw his all-time friend's face that something terrible had happened. The fact that he was seeing Jamie Fraser's face at all was show plenty of that, never mind the look of the human being.

Jamie was continuing past the armorer's railroad vehicle, his arms full of the $.25 and pieces Armand had only given him, white as milk and swaying back and forth like a reed on Loch Awe. Ian reached him in 3 paces and took him by the arm earlier he could autumn over.

"Ian." Jamie looked so relieved at seeing him that Ian thought he might break into tears. "God, Ian."

Ian seized Jamie in an cover and felt him stiffen and draw in his jiff at the same instant that Ian felt the bandages beneath Jamie'southward shirt.

"Jesus!" he began, startled, but and then coughed and said, "Jesus, man, it's good to see ye." He patted Jamie's dorsum gently and allow go. "Ye'll need a flake to eat, aye? Come on, then."

Plainly they couldn't talk now, but he gave Jamie a quick private nod, took one-half the equipment from him, and and then led him to the fire, to be introduced to the others.

Jamie'd picked a good time of mean solar day to turn up, Ian idea. Everyone was tired but happy to sit down down, looking frontwards to their supper and the daily ration of whatever was going in the way of drink. Ready for the possibilities a new fish offered for entertainment, but without the free energy to include the more physical sorts of entertainment.

"That's Big Georges over there," Ian said, dropping Jamie's gear and gesturing toward the far side of the fire. "Next to him, the wee fellow wi' the warts is Juanito; doesna speak much French and nay English at all."

"Exercise any of them speak English?" Jamie likewise dropped his gear and saturday heavily on his bedroll, tucking his kilt absently downwardly between his knees. His optics flicked round the circle, and he nodded, half-grinning in a shy sort of style.

"I do." The captain leaned past the man side by side to him, extending a paw to Jamie. "I'm le capitaine--Richard D'Eglise. Yous'll call me Captain. Y'all look big plenty to be useful--your friend says your name is Fraser?"

"Jamie Fraser, aye."

Ian was pleased to see that Jamie knew to run across the captain'south eye square and had summoned the strength to return the handshake with due force.

"Know what to do with a sword?"

"I practice. And a bow, forbye." Jamie glanced at the unstrung bow by his feet and the short-handled ax beside it. "Havena had much to exercise wi' an ax before, save chopping wood."

"That's skilful," one of the other men put in, in French. "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.

"Did I join a troop of soldiers, so, or charcoal-burners?" Jamie asked, raising one forehead. He said that in French--very good French, with a faint Parisian accent--and a number of eyes widened. Ian aptitude his head to hide a grinning, in spite of his anxiety. The wean might be about to fall face-first into the burn, but nobody--relieve maybe Ian--was going to know it, if information technology killed him.

Ian did know it, though, and kept a covert eye on Jamie, pushing staff of life into his hand and so the others wouldn't see it shake, sitting close plenty to catch him if he should in fact pass out. The light was fading into greyness now, and the clouds hung low and soft, pink-bellied. Going to rain, likely, by the morning. He saw Jamie close his eyes, just for an instant, saw his throat move as he swallowed, and felt the trembling of Jamie'south thigh, near his own.

What the devil's happened? he thought in anguish. Why are ye here?

--

Information technology wasn't until anybody had settled for the night that Ian got an answer.

"I'll lay out your gear," he whispered to Jamie, rising. "You stay by the fire that wee bit longer--rest a bit, aye?" The firelight cast a ruddy glow on Jamie'due south face, but Ian thought his friend was likely yet white every bit a sheet; he hadn't eaten much.

Coming dorsum, he saw the dark spots on the back of Jamie'due south shirt, blotches where fresh blood had seeped through the bandages. The sight filled him with fury, likewise as fear. He'd seen such things; the wean had been flogged. Desperately, and recently. Who? How?

"Come on, and then," he said roughly, and, bending, slipped an arm under Jamie'south and got him to his feet and away from the burn down and the other men. He was alarmed to feel the clamminess of Jamie'south manus and hear his shallow breath.

"What?" he demanded, the moment they were out of earshot. "What happened?"

Jamie sat downward abruptly.

"I thought one joined a band of mercenaries because they didna ask ye questions."

Ian gave him the snort this argument deserved and was relieved to hear a breath of laughter in return.

"Eejit," he said. "D'ye need a dram? I've got a canteen in my sack."

"Wouldna come awry," Jamie murmured. They were camped at the edge of a wee village, and D'Eglise had arranged for the use of a byre or ii, but it wasn't common cold out, and most of the men had chosen to slumber by the fire or in the field. Ian had put their gear downwardly a little distance away and, with the possibility of rain in mind, under the shelter of a aeroplane tree that stood at the side of a field.

Ian uncorked the canteen of whisky--it wasn't practiced, just it was whisky--and held it under his friend's nose. When Jamie reached for information technology, though, Ian pulled it away.

"Not a sip do ye get until ye tell me," he said. "And ye tell me now, a charaid."

Jamie sat hunched, a pale mistiness on the ground, silent. When the words came at last, they were spoken so softly that Ian thought for an instant he hadn't really heard them.

"My father'southward dead."

He tried to believe he hadn't heard, simply his eye had; it froze in his chest.

"Oh, Jesus," he whispered. "Oh, God, Jamie." He was on his knees so, holding Jamie'southward head fierce against his shoulder, trying not to bear on his injure back. His thoughts were in confusion, but one thing was clear to him--Brian Fraser'southward expiry hadn't been a natural one. If information technology had, Jamie would be at Lallybroch. Not here, and not in this land.

"Who?" he said hoarsely, relaxing his grip a picayune. "Who killed him?"

More silence, then Jamie gulped air with a sound like cloth being ripped.

"I did," he said, and began to cry, shaking with silent, trigger-happy sobs.

--

Information technology took some time to winkle the details out of Jamie--and no wonder, Ian thought. He wouldn't want to talk about such things, either, or to think them. The English dragoons who'd come to Lallybroch to loot and plunder, who'd taken Jamie away with them when he'd fought them. And what they'd washed to him then, at Fort William.

"A hundred lashes?" he said in disbelief and horror. "For protecting your abode?"

"Only sixty the first fourth dimension." Jamie wiped his nose on his s

leeve. "For escaping."

"The showtime ti-- Jesus, God, human! What...how..."

"Would ye permit go my arm, Ian? I've got plenty bruises; I dinna need any more." Jamie gave a small, shaky laugh, and Ian hastily allow go simply wasn't about to let himself exist distracted.

"Why?" he said, low and aroused. Jamie wiped his nose again, sniffing, but his vocalism was steadier.

"It was my fault," he said. "It--what I said before. Nigh my..." He had to terminate and swallow, just went on, hurrying to get the words out before they could seize with teeth him in a tender place. "I spoke chough to the commander. At the garrison, ken. He--well, it's nay affair. Information technology was what I said to him made him flog me again, and Da--he--he'd come. To Fort William, to endeavor to go me released, simply he couldn't, and he--he was there, when they...did information technology."

Ian could tell from the thicker sound of his voice that Jamie was weeping again but trying not to, and he put a hand on the wean's knee and gripped it, non besides hard, just so as Jamie would ken he was there, listening.

Jamie took a deep, deep breath and got the rest out.

"It was...hard. I didna phone call out, or let them see I was scairt, but I couldna keep my feet. Halfway through it, I vicious into the post, just--simply hangin' from the ropes, ken, wi' the blood...runnin' downward my legs. They thought for a fleck that I'd died--and Da must ha' thought so, too. They told me he put his paw to his head just and then and made a wee noise, and so...he fell down. An apoplexy, they said."

"Mary, Mother o' God, accept mercy on us," Ian said. "He--died correct there?"

"I dinna ken was he dead when they picked him up or if he lived a fleck afterward that." Jamie's voice was desolate. "I didna ken a thing about it; no i told me until days afterwards, when Uncle Dougal got me away." He coughed and wiped the sleeve across his face again. "Ian...would ye let go my knee?"

"No," Ian said softly, though he did indeed take his hand away. Just so he could gather Jamie gently into his artillery, though. "No. I willna allow go, Jamie. Abide. Just...abide."

--

Jamie woke dry-mouthed, thickheaded, and with his optics half swollen close by midgie bites. It was as well raining, a fine, moisture mist coming down through the leaves above him. For all that, he felt ameliorate than he had in the last two weeks, though he didn't at once recall why that was--or where he was.

"Here." A piece of half-charred bread rubbed with garlic was shoved nether his nose. He sat up and grabbed information technology.

Ian. The sight of his friend gave him an anchor, and the food in his belly some other. He chewed slower at present, looking well-nigh. Men were rising, stumbling off for a piss, making depression rumbling noises, rubbing their heads and yawning.

"Where are we?" he asked. Ian gave him a expect.

"How the devil did ye discover us if ye dinna ken where ye are?"

"Murtagh brought me," he muttered. The breadstuff turned to glue in his oral cavity equally retentiveness came back; he couldn't swallow and spat out the half-chewed scrap. Now he remembered it all, and wished he didn't. "He found the band but and so left; said it would look better if I came in on my own."

His godfather had said, in fact, "The Murray lad will accept care of ye now. Stay wi' him, listen--dinna come back to Scotland. Dinna come up back, d'ye hear me?" He'd heard. Didn't hateful he meant to listen.

"Oh, aye. I wondered how ye'd managed to walk this far." Ian cast a worried wait at the far side of the campsite, where a pair of sturdy horses was existence brought to the traces of a canvas-covered wagon. "Can ye walk, d'ye think?"

"Of course. I'm fine." Jamie spoke crossly, and Ian gave him the look once again, even more than slit-eyed than the last.

"Aye, right," he said, in tones of rank disbelief. "Well. We're near Beguey, maybe twenty miles from Bordeaux; that'southward where we're going. Nosotros're takin' the carriage yon to a Jewish moneylender there."

"Is it full of money, then?" Jamie glanced at the heavy wagon, interested.

"No," Ian said. "In that location's a wee chest, verra heavy, so it's maybe gold, and there are a few bags that clink and might exist silver, merely most of it's rugs."

"Rugs?" He looked at Ian in anaesthesia. "What sort of rugs?"

Ian shrugged. "Couldna say. Juanito says they're Turkey rugs and verra valuable, simply I dinna ken that he knows. He's Jewish, too," Ian added, equally an afterthought. "Jews are--" He made an equivocal gesture, palm flattened. "Simply they dinna really chase them in France, or exile them anymore, and the captain says they dinna even arrest them, and so long equally they proceed quiet."

"And continue lending coin to men in the government," Jamie said cynically. Ian looked at him, surprised, and Jamie gave him the I went to the Universite in Paris and ken more than y'all do smart-arse expect, fairly certain that Ian wouldn't thump him, seeing he was injure.

Ian looked tempted simply had learned enough merely to give Jamie dorsum the I'm older than you and ye ken well ye havena sense enough to come in out of the rain, then dinna be trying information technology on expect instead. Jamie laughed, feeling better.

"Yep, right," he said, angle forward. "Is my shirt verra bloody?"

Ian nodded, buckling his sword belt. Jamie sighed and picked up the leather jerkin the armorer had given him. It would rub, but he wasn't wanting to attract attending.

--

He managed. The troop kept up a decent pace, merely it wasn't anything to trouble a Highlander accustomed to hill-walking and running downward the odd deer. True, he grew a bit silly now and then, and sometimes his heart raced and waves of rut ran over him--but he didn't stagger any more than a few of the men who'd drunk besides much for breakfast.

He barely noticed the countryside but was conscious of Ian striding along abreast him, and Jamie took pains at present and then to glance at his friend and nod, in social club to salvage Ian'due south worried expression. The two of them were close to the wagon, mostly because he didn't desire to draw attention by lagging at the back of the troop but also because he and Ian were taller than the rest past a head or more, with a stride that eclipsed the others, and he felt a small scrap of pride in that. It didn't occur to him that mayhap the others didn't desire to be near the wagon.

The starting time inkling of trouble was a shout from the driver. Jamie had been trudging forth, eyes half closed, concentrating on putting i pes ahead of the other, only a bellow of alarm and a sudden loud bang! jerked him to attention. A horseman charged out of the copse near the road, slewed to a halt, and fired his second pistol at the driver.

"What--" Jamie reached for the sword at his belt, one-half fuddled merely starting frontwards; the horses were neighing and flinging themselves against the traces, the driver blasphemous and on his feet, hauling on the reins. Several of the mercenaries ran toward the horseman, who drew his ain sword and rode through them, slashing recklessly from side to side. Ian seized Jamie's arm, though, and jerked him round. "Non at that place! The back!"

He followed Ian at the run, and, certain enough, there was the captain on his horse at the back of the troop, in the middle of a melee, a dozen strangers laying about with clubs and blades, all shouting.

"Caisteal DHOON!" Ian bellowed, and swung his sword over his head and apartment down on the caput of an attacker. It striking the man a glancing blow, but he staggered and vicious to his knees, where Big Georges seized him by the hair and kneed him viciously in the face.

"Caisteal DHOON!" Jamie shouted as loud as he could, and Ian turned his head for an instant, a large grin flashing.

It was a scrap like a cattle raid but lasting longer. Not a matter of hit hard and get away; he'd never been a defender earlier and constitute it heavy going. Nonetheless, the attackers were outnumbered and began to give way, some glancing over their shoulders, manifestly thinking of running back into the wood.

They began to do merely that, and Jamie stood panting, dripping sweat, his sword a hundredweight in his hand. He straightened, though, and caught the flash of movement from the corner of his eye.

"Dhoon!" he shouted, and broke into a lumbering, gasping run. Another group of men had appeared near the wagon and were pulling the driver'south body quietly down from his seat, while one of their number grabbed at the lunging horses' bridles, pulling their heads down. 2 more had got the sheet loose and were dragging out a long rolled cylind

er--ane of the rugs, he supposed.

He reached them in time to grab another human trying to mount the carriage, yanking him clumsily dorsum onto the road. The man twisted, falling, and came to his anxiety similar a cat, knife in hand. The blade flashed, bounced off the leather of Jamie's jerkin, and cut upward, an inch from his face. Jamie squirmed back, off-residual, narrowly keeping his feet, and two more of the bastards charged him.

"On your right, human being!" Ian's vocalization came of a sudden at his shoulder, and without a moment'due south hesitation Jamie turned to take care of the man to his left, hearing Ian's grunt of try every bit he laid virtually with a broadsword.

Then something changed; he couldn't tell what, but the fight was over. The attackers melted away, leaving one or two of their number lying in the route.

The driver wasn't dead; Jamie saw him curlicue half over, an arm across his face. Then he himself was sitting in the grit, black spots dancing before his eyes. Ian aptitude over him, panting, easily braced on his knees. Sweat dripped from his chin, making dark spots in the dust that mingled with the buzzing spots that darkened Jamie's vision.

"All...right?" Ian asked.

He opened his mouth to say yes, merely the roaring in his ears drowned it out, and the spots merged all of a sudden into a solid canvass of black.

--

He woke to detect a priest kneeling over him, intoning the Lord's Prayer in Latin. Not stopping, the priest took upwardly a little bottle and poured oil into the palm of ane hand, then dipped his thumb into the puddle and fabricated a swift sign of the cross on Jamie'southward forehead.

"I'thousand no expressionless, aye?" Jamie said, then repeated this data in French. The priest leaned closer, squinting nearsightedly.

"Dying?" he asked.

"Not that, either."

The priest made a pocket-sized, disgusted audio but went ahead and made crosses on the palms of Jamie's easily, his eyelids, and his lips. "Ego te absolvo," he said, making a final quick sign of the cross over Jamie'due south supine form. "Simply in case y'all've killed anyone." Then he rose swiftly to his feet and disappeared behind the railroad vehicle in a flurry of night robes.

"All right, are ye?" Ian reached down a hand and hauled him into a sitting position.

"Aye, more or less. Who was that?" He nodded in the direction of the recent priest.

"Pere Renault. This is a verra well-equipped outfit," Ian said, boosting him to his feet. "Nosotros've got our own priest, to shrive us before battle and give united states of america Extreme Unction after."

smithburem1948.blogspot.com

Source: https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/diana-gabaldon/32084-virgins.html