I turned in time to see Jamie’s expression change from mild annoyance to startled surprise.

“Oh!” he said. “Good evening, Monsieur.” He bowed to Monsieur Forez, who returned the salute with great solemnity.

“Your wife has allowed me the great pleasure of delivering her safely to your door, milord. As for her late arrival, I beg you will lay the blame for that on my own shoulders; she was most nobly assisting me in a small endeavor at L’Hopital des Anges.”

“I expect she was,” said Jamie in a resigned tone. “After all,” he added in English, raising an eyebrow at me, “ye couldna expect a mere husband to hold the same sort of appeal as an inflamed bowel or a case of bilious spots, could ye?” The corner of his mouth twitched, though, and I knew he wasn’t really annoyed, only concerned that I hadn’t come home; I felt a twinge of regret at having worried him.

Bowing once more to Monsieur Forez, he grasped me by the upper arm and hustled me through the gate.

“Where’s Fergus?” I asked, as soon as the gate was closed behind us. Jamie snorted.

“In the kitchen, awaiting retribution, I expect.”

“Retribution? What do you mean by that?” I demanded. Unexpectedly, he laughed.

“Well,” he said, “I was sittin’ in the study, wondering where in bloody hell you’d got to, and on the verge of going down to the Hopital myself, when the door flew open, and young Fergus shot in and threw himself on the floor at my feet, begging me to kill him on the spot.”

“Kill him? Whatever for?”

“Well, that’s what I asked him myself, Sassenach. I thought perhaps you and he had been waylaid by footpads along the way – there are dangerous gangs of ruffians about the streets, ye ken, and I thought losin’ you that way would be the only thing would make him behave so. But he said you were at the gate, so I came tearing along to see were ye all right, with Fergus at my heels, babbling about betraying my trust and being unworthy to call me master, and begging me to beat him to death. I found it a bit difficult to think, what wi’ all that going on, so I told him I’d attend to him later, and sent him to the kitchen.”

“Oh, bloody hell!” I said. “Does he really think he’s betrayed your trust, just because I’ve come home a bit late?”

Jamie glanced aside at me.

“Aye, he does. And so he did, for that matter, letting ye ride in company with a stranger. He swears that he would ha’ thrown himself in front of the horses before he would let ye enter the carriage, save that you,” he added pointedly, “seemed on good terms wi’ the man.”

“Well, of course I was on good terms with him,” I said indignantly. “I’d just been helping him set a leg.”

“Mphm.” This line of argument appeared to strike him as unconvincing.

“Oh, all right,” I agreed reluctantly. “Perhaps it was a bit unwise. But he really did seem entirely respectable, and I was in a hurry to get home – I knew you’d be worried.” Still, I was now wishing I had paid a little more attention to Fergus’s frantic mumblings and pluckings at my sleeve. At the time, I had been concerned only to reach home as soon as possible.

“You aren’t really going to beat him, are you?” I asked in some alarm. “It wasn’t his fault in the slightest – I insisted on going with Monsieur. Forez. I mean, if anyone deserves beating, it’s me.”

Turning in the direction of the kitchen, Jamie cocked a sardonic eyebrow at me.

“Aye, it is,” he agreed. “Having sworn to refrain from any such actions, though, I may have to settle for Fergus.”

“Jamie! You wouldn’t!” I stopped dead, yanking on his arm. “Jamie! Please!” Then I saw the smile hidden in the corner of his mouth, and sighed in relief.

“No,” he said, letting the smile become visible. “I dinna mean to kill him – or even beat him, for that matter. I may have to go clout him over the ear a time or two, though, if only to save his honor,” he added. “He thinks he’s committed a major crime by not following my orders to guard ye – I can hardly let it pass without some sign of official displeasure.”

He paused outside the baize door to the kitchens to fasten his cuffs and rewind the stock about his throat.

“Am I decent?” he inquired, smoothing back his thick, unruly hair. “Perhaps I should go and fetch my coat – I’m not sure what’s proper for administering rebukes.”

“You look fine,” I said, suppressing a smile. “Very severe.”

“Oh, that’s good,” he said, straightening his shoulders and compressing his lips. “I hope I don’t laugh, that wouldna do at all,” he muttered, pushing open the door to the kitchen stair.

The atmosphere in the kitchen was far from hilarious, though. At our entrance, the customary gabble ceased at once, and there was a hasty drawing up of the staff at one side of the room. Everyone stood stock-still for a moment, then there was a small stir between two kitchenmaids, and Fergus stepped out into the open space before us.

The boy’s face was white and tracked with tears, but he was not weeping now. With considerable dignity, he bowed, first to me and then Jamie, in turn.

“Madame, Monsieur, I am ashamed,” he said, low-voiced but distinct. “I am unworthy to be in your employment, but still I beg that you will not dismiss me.” His high-pitched voice quavered a little at the thought, and I bit my lip. Fergus glanced aside at the ranks of the servants, as though for moral support, and received a nod of encouragement from Fernand the coachman. Drawing a deep breath for courage, he straightened up and addressed Jamie directly.

“I am ready to suffer my punishment now, milord,” he said. As though this had been the signal, one of the footmen stepped out of the rigid crowd, led the boy to the scrubbed plank table, and passing on the other side, took hold of the lad’s hands, pulling him half across the surface of the table and holding him so extended.

“But…” Jamie began, taken aback by the speed of events. He got no further before Magnus, the elderly butler, stepped gravely up and presented him with the leather strop used for sharpening the kitchen knives, laid ceremonially atop the meat platter.

“Er,” Jamie said, looking helplessly at me.

“Um,” I said, and took one step back. Eyes narrowed, he grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly.

“No, ye don’t, Sassenach,” he muttered in English. “If I have to do it, you have to watch it!”

Glancing desperately back and forth between his would-be victim and the proffered instrument of execution, he hesitated for a moment longer, then gave up.

“Oh, bloody fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath in English, grabbing the strop from Magnus. He flexed the broad strap dubiously between his hands; three inches wide and a quarter-inch thick, it was a formidable weapon. Clearly wishing himself anywhere else, he advanced upon the prone body of Fergus.

“All right, then,” he said, glaring ferociously round the room. “Ten strokes, and I don’t wish to hear a fuss about it.” Several of the female servants blanched visibly at this, and clung to each other for support, but there was dead silence in the big room as he raised the strap.

The resultant crack at impact made me jump, and there were small squeaks of alarm from the kitchenmaids, but no sound from Fergus. The small body quivered, and Jamie closed his eyes briefly, then set his lips and proceeded to inflict the remainder of the sentence, strokes evenly spaced. I felt sick, and surreptitiously wiped my damp palms on my skirt. At the same time, I felt an unhinged urge to laugh at the terrible farce of the situation.

Fergus endured everything in total silence, and when Jamie had finished and stepped back, pale and sweating, the small body lay so still that I was afraid for a moment that he had died – of shock, if not from the actual effects of the beating. But then a deep shudder seemed to run over the small frame, and the boy slid backward and raised himself stiffly off the table.