"No." His belly rumbled loudly, evidently willing to consider cold sauerkraut, if that was all that was on offer. Presumably there would be food at the big house, though. Cheered by this thought, he pulled off his breeches and began the awkward business of pleating up the tartan cloth to make a belted plaid.

Jemmy had quieted a little, now making no more than intermittent yips of discomfort as his mother rocked him to and fro.

"What was that about mythical Dutchmen?" Brianna asked, still rocking, but now with a moment's attention to spare.

"Jamie sent me up to the northeast to look for a family of Dutchmen he'd heard had settled near Boiling Creek-to tell the men about the militia summons and have them come back with me, if they would." He frowned at the cloth laid out on the bed. He'd worn a plaid like this only twice before, and both times, had had help to put the thing on. "Is it important for me to wear this, do you think?"

Brianna snorted behind him with brief amusement.

"I think you'd better wear something something. You can't go up to the big house in nothing but your shirt. You couldn't find the Dutchmen, then?"

"Not so much as a wooden shoe." He had found what he thought thought was Boiling Creek, and had ridden up the bank for miles, dodging-or not-overhanging branches, bramble patches, and thickets of witch hazel, but hadn't found a sign of anything larger than a fox that had slipped across his path, disappearing into the brush like a flame suddenly extinguished. was Boiling Creek, and had ridden up the bank for miles, dodging-or not-overhanging branches, bramble patches, and thickets of witch hazel, but hadn't found a sign of anything larger than a fox that had slipped across his path, disappearing into the brush like a flame suddenly extinguished.

"Maybe they moved on. Went up to Virginia, or Pennsylvania." Brianna spoke with sympathy. It had been a long, exhausting day, with failure at the end of it. Not a terrible failure; Jamie had said only, "Find them if ye can"-and if he had had found them, they might not have understood his rudimentary Dutch, gained on brief holidays to the Amsterdam of the 1960s. Or might not have come, in any case. Still, the small failure nagged at him, like a stone in his shoe. found them, they might not have understood his rudimentary Dutch, gained on brief holidays to the Amsterdam of the 1960s. Or might not have come, in any case. Still, the small failure nagged at him, like a stone in his shoe.

He glanced at Brianna, who grinned widely at him in anticipation.

"All right," he said with resignation. "Laugh if ye must." Getting into a belted plaid wasn't the most dignified thing a man could do, given that the most efficient method was to lie down on the pleated fabric and roll like a sausage on a girdle. Jamie could do it standing up, but then, the man had had practice.

His struggles-rather deliberately exaggerated-were rewarded by Brianna's giggling, which in turn seemed to have a calming effect on the baby. By the time Roger made the final adjustments to his pleats and drapes, mother and child were both flushed, but happy.

Roger made a leg to them, flourishing, and Bree patted her own leg in one-handed applause.

"Terrific," she said, her eyes traveling appreciatively over him. "See Daddy? Pretty Daddy!" She turned Jemmy, who stared openmouthed at the vision of male glory before him and blossomed into a wide, slow smile, a trickle of drool hanging from the pouting curve of his lip.

Roger was still hungry, sore, and tired, but it didn't seem so important. He grinned, and held out his arms toward the baby.

"Do you need to change? If he's full and dry, I'll take him up to the house-give you a bit of time to fix up."

"You think I need fixing up, do you?" Brianna gave him an austere look down her long, straight nose. Her hair had come down in wisps and straggles, her dress looked as though she'd been sleeping in it for weeks, and there was a dark smear of jam on the upper curve of one breast.

"You look great," he said, bending and swinging Jemmy deftly up. "Hush, a bhalaich a bhalaich. You've had enough of Mummy, and she's definitely had enough of you for a bit. Come along with me."

"Don't forget your guitar!" Bree called after him as he headed for the door. He glanced back at her, surprised.

"What?"

"Da wants you to sing. Wait, he gave me a list."

"A list? Of what what?" To the best of Roger's knowledge, Jamie Fraser paid no attention whatever to music. It rankled him a bit, in fact, though he seldom admitted it-that his own greatest skill was one that Fraser didn't value.

"Songs, of course." She furrowed her brow, conjuring up the memorized list. "He wants you to do 'Ho Ro!' and 'Birniebouzle,' and 'The Great Silkie'-you can do other stuff in between, he said, but he wants those-and then get into the warmongering stuff. That's not what he he called it, but you know what I mean-'Killiecrankie' and 'The Haughs of Cromdale,' and 'The Sherrifsmuir Fight.' Just the older stuff, though; he says don't do the songs from the '45, except for 'Johnnie Cope'-he wants that one for sure, but toward the end. And-" called it, but you know what I mean-'Killiecrankie' and 'The Haughs of Cromdale,' and 'The Sherrifsmuir Fight.' Just the older stuff, though; he says don't do the songs from the '45, except for 'Johnnie Cope'-he wants that one for sure, but toward the end. And-"

Roger stared at her, disentangling Jemmy's foot from the folds of his plaid.

"I wouldn't have thought your father so much as knew the names of songs, let alone had preferences."

Brianna had stood up and was reaching for the long wooden pin that held her hair in place. She pulled it out and let the thick red shimmer cascade over shoulders and face. She ran both hands through the ruddy mass and pushed it back, shaking her head.

"He doesn't. Have preferences, I mean. Da's completely tone-deaf. Mama says he has a good sense of rhythm, but he can't tell one note from another."

"That's what I thought. But why-"

"He may not listen to music, Roger, but he listens listens." She glanced at him, snigging the comb through the tangles of her hair. "And he watches. He knows how people act-and how they feel-when they hear you do those songs."

"Does he?" Roger murmured. He felt an odd spark of pleasure at the thought that Fraser had indeed noticed the effect of his music, even if he didn't appreciate it personally. "So-he means me to soften them up, is that it? Get them in the mood before he goes on for his own bit?"

"That's it." She nodded, busy untying the laces of her bodice. Escaped from confinement, her breasts bobbed suddenly free, round and loose under the thin muslin shift.

Roger shifted his weight, easing the fit of his plaid. She caught the slight movement and looked at him. Slowly, she drew her hands up, cupping her breasts and lifting them, her eyes on his and a slight smile on her lips. Just for a moment, he felt as though he had stopped breathing, though his chest continued to rise and fall.

She was the first to break the moment, dropping her hands and turning to delve into the chest where she kept her linen.

"Do you know exactly what he's up to?" she asked, her voice muffled in the depths of the chest. "Did he have that cross up when you left?"

"Aye, I know about it." Jemmy was making small huffing noises, like a toy engine struggling up a hill. Roger tucked him under one arm, his hand cradling the fat little belly. "It's a fiery cross. D'ye ken what that is?"

She emerged from the chest, a fresh shift in her hands, looking mildly disturbed.

"A fiery cross? You mean he's going to burn burn a cross in the yard?" a cross in the yard?"

"Well, not burn it all the way, no." Taking down his bodhran with his free hand and flicking a finger against the drum head to check the tautness, he explained briefly the tradition of the fiery cross. "It's a rare thing," he concluded, moving the drum out of Jemmy's grasping reach. "I don't think it was ever done in the Highlands again, after the Rising. Your father told me he'd seen it once, though-it's something really special, to see it done here."

Flushed with historical enthusiasm, he didn't notice at once that Brianna seemed slightly less eager.

"Maybe so," she said uneasily. "I don't know ... it sort of gives me the creeps."

"Eh?" Roger glanced at her in surprise. "Why?"

She shrugged, pulling the crumpled shift off over her head.

"I don't know. Maybe it's just that I have have seen burning crosses-on the evening news on TV. You know, the KKK-or do you know? Maybe they don't-didn't-report things like that on television in Britain?" seen burning crosses-on the evening news on TV. You know, the KKK-or do you know? Maybe they don't-didn't-report things like that on television in Britain?"

"The Ku Klux Klan?" Roger was less interested in fanatical bigots than in the sight of Brianna's bare breasts, but made an effort to focus on the conversation. "Oh, aye, heard of them. Where d'you think they got the notion?"

"What? You mean-"

"Sure," he said cheerfully. "They got it from the Highland immigrants-from whom they were descended, by the bye. That's why they called it 'Klan,' aye? Come to think," he added, interested, "it could be this-tonight-that's the link. The occasion that brings the custom from the Old World to the New, I mean. Wouldn't that be something?"

"Something," Brianna echoed faintly. She'd pulled on a fresh shift, and now shook out a clean dress of blue linen, looking uneasy.

"Everything starts somewhere, Bree," he said, more gently. "Most often, we don't know where or how; does it matter if this time we do? And the Ku Klux Klan won't get started for a hundred years from now, at least." He hoisted Jemmy slightly, bouncing him on one hip. "It won't be us who sees it, or even wee Jeremiah here-maybe not even his son."

"Great," she said dryly, pulling on her stays and reaching for the laces. "So our great great-grandson can end up being the Grand Dragon."

Roger laughed.

"Aye, maybe so. But for tonight, it's your father."

24

PLAYING WITH FIRE

HE WASN'T SURE what he had expected. Something like the spectacle of the great fire at the Gathering, perhaps. The preparation was the same, involving large quantities of food and drink. A huge keg of beer and a smaller one of whisky stood on planks at the edge of the dooryard, and a huge roast pig on a spit of green hickory turned slowly over a bed of coals, sending whiffs of smoke and mouthwatering aromas through the cold evening air.

He grinned at the fire-washed faces in front of him, slicked with grease and flushed with booze, and struck his bodhran. His stomach rumbled loudly, but the noise was drowned beneath the raucous chorus of "Killiecrankie."

"O, I met the De-ev-il and Dundeeee ...

On the brae-aes o' Killiecrankie-O!"

He would have earned his own supper by the time he got it. He had been playing and singing for more than an hour, and the moon was rising over Black Mountain now. He paused under cover of the refrain, just long enough to grab the cup of ale set under his stool and wet his throat, then hit the new verse fresh and solid.

"I fought on land, I fought on sea, At hame I fought my auntie, Oh!

I met the Devil and Dundee ...

On the braes o' Killiecrankie-O!"

He smiled professionally as he sang, meeting an eye here, focusing on a face there, and calculated progress in the back of his mind. He'd got them going now-with a bit of help from the drink on offer, admittedly-and well stuck into what Bree had called "the warmongering stuff."

He could feel the cross standing at his back, almost hidden by the darkness. Everyone had had a chance to see it, though; he'd heard the murmurs of interest and speculation.

Jamie Fraser was away to one side, out of the ring of firelight. Roger could just make out his tall form, dark in the shadow of the big red spruce that stood near the house. Fraser had been working his way methodically through the group all evening, stopping here and there to exchange cordialities, tell a joke, pause to listen to a problem or a story. Now he stood alone, waiting. Nearly time, then-for whatever he meant to do.

Roger gave them a moment for applause and his own refreshment, then launched into "Johnnie Cope," fast, fierce, and funny.

He'd done that one at the Gathering, several times, and knew pretty much how they'd take it. A moment's pause, uncertainty, then the voices beginning to join in-by the end of the second verse, they'd be whooping and shouting ribald remarks in the background.

Some of the men here had fought at Prestonpans; if they'd been defeated at Culloden, they'd still routed Johnnie Cope's troops first, and loved the chance to relive that famous victory. And those Highlanders who hadn't fought had heard about it. The Muellers, who had likely never heard of Charles Stuart and probably understood one word in a dozen, seemed to be improvising their own sort of yodeling chorus round the back, waving their cups in sloshing salute to each verse. Aye, well, so long as they were having a good time.

The crowd was half-shouting the final chorus, nearly drowning him out.

"Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye walking yet?

And are your drums a-beatin' yet?

If ye were walkin', I wad wait, Tae gang tae the coals in the mornin'!"

He hit a final thump, and bowed to huge applause. That was the warm-up done; time for the main act to come onstage. Bowing and smiling, he rose from his stool and faded off, fetching up in the shadows near the hacked remains of the huge pork carcass.

Bree was there waiting for him, Jemmy wide-awake and owl-eyed in her arms. She leaned across and kissed him, handing him the kid as she did so, and taking his bodhran in exchange.

"You were great!" she said. "Hold him; I'll get you some food and beer."

Jem usually wanted to stay with his mother, but was too stupefied by the noise and the leaping flames to protest the handover. He snuggled against Roger's chest, gravely sucking his thumb.

Roger was sweating from the exertion, his heart beating fast from the adrenaline of performance, and the air away from the fire and the crowd was cold on his flushed face. The baby's swaddled weight felt good against him, warm and solid in the crook of his arm. He'd done well, and knew it. Let's hope it was what Fraser wanted.

By the time Bree reappeared with a drink and a pewter plate heaped with sliced pork, apple fritters, and roast potatoes, Jamie had come into the circle of firelight, taking Roger's place before the standing cross.

He stood tall and broad-shouldered in his best gray gentleman's coat, kilted below in soft blue tartan, his hair loose and blazing on his shoulders, with a small warrior's plait down one side, adorned with a single feather. Firelight glinted from the knurled gold hilt of his dirk and the brooch that held his looped plaid. He looked pleasant enough, but his manner overall was serious, intent. He made a good show-and knew it.

The crowd quieted within seconds, men elbowing their more garrulous neighbors to silence.

"Ye ken well enough what we're about here, aye?" he asked without preamble. He raised his hand, in which he held the Governor's crumpled summons, the red smear of its official seal visible in the leaping firelight. There was a rumble of agreement; the crowd was still cheerful, blood and whisky coursing freely through their veins.

"We are called in duty, and we come in honor to serve the cause of law-and the Governor."

Roger saw old Gerhard Mueller, leaning to one side to hear the translation that one of his sons-in-law was murmuring in his ear. He nodded his approval, and shouted, "Ja! Lang lebe "Ja! Lang lebe Governor Governor!" There was a ripple of laughter, and echoing shouts in English and Gaelic. There was a ripple of laughter, and echoing shouts in English and Gaelic.

Jamie smiled, waiting for the noise to die down. As it did, he turned slowly, nodding as he looked from one face to the next, acknowledging each man. Then he turned to the side and lifted a hand to the cross that stood stark and black behind him.

"In the Highlands of Scotland, when a chieftain would set himself for war," he said, his tone casually conversational, but pitched to be heard throughout the dooryard, "he would burn the fiery cross, and send it for a sign through the lands of his clan. It was a signal to the men of his name, to gather their weapons and come to the gathering place, prepared for battle."

There was a stir in the midst of the crowd, a brief nudging and more cries of approval, though these were more subdued. A few men had seen this, or at least knew what he was talking about. The rest raised their chins and craned their necks, mouths half-open in interest.

"But this is a new land, and while we are friends"-he smiled at Gerhard Mueller-"Ja, Freunde, neighbors, and countrymen"-a look at the Lindsay brothers-"and we will be companions in arms, we are not clan. While I am given command, I am not your chief."

The hell you aren't, Roger thought. Or well on your way to it, anyroad Or well on your way to it, anyroad. He took a last deep swallow of cold beer and put down cup and plate. The food could wait a bit longer. Bree had taken back the baby and had his bodhran tucked under her arm; he reached for it, and she gave him a glancing smile, but most of her attention was fixed on her father.

Jamie bent and pulled a torch from the fire, stood with it in his hand, lighting the broad planes and sharp angles of his face.

"Let God witness here our willingness, and may God strengthen our arms-" He paused, to let the Germans catch up. "But let this fiery cross stand as testament to our honor, to invoke God's protection for our families-until we come safe home again."

He turned and touched the torch to the upright of the cross, holding it until the dry bark caught and a small flame grew and glimmered from the dark wood.

Everyone stood silent, watching. There was no sound but the shift and sigh of the crowd, echoing the sough of the wind in the wilderness around them. It was no more than a tiny tongue of fire, flickering in the breeze, on the verge of going out altogether. No petrol-soaked roar, no devouring conflagration. Roger felt Brianna sigh beside him, some of the tension leaving her.

The flame steadied and caught. The edges of the jigsaw-pieces of pine bark glowed crimson, then white, and vanished into ash as the flame began to spread upward. It was big and solid, and would burn slowly, this cross, halfway through the night, lighting the dooryard as the men gathered beneath it, talking, eating, drinking, beginning the process of becoming what Jamie Fraser meant them to be: friends, neighbors, companions in arms. Under his command.

Fraser stood for a moment, watching, to be sure the flame had caught. Then he turned back to the crowd of men and dropped his torch back into the fire.

"We cannot say what may befall us. God grant us courage," he said, very simply. "God grant us wisdom. If it be His will, may He grant us peace. We ride in the morning."

He turned then and left the fire, glancing to find Roger as he did so. Roger nodded back, swallowed to clear his throat, and began to sing softly from the darkness, the opening to the song Jamie had wanted to finish the proceedings-"The Flower of Scotland."

"Oh, flower of Scotland, When will we see your like again?