A Plague of Zombies: An Outlander Novella Read Online Free Page B

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 till morning, and better light. He’d think more clearly 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 sombre 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 imagined.
    The thought brought with it a rare feeling of something that wasn’t quite resentment. Any one of the soldiers he’d brought, from the 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 who would never touch you—would recoil from the very thought of touching you—your lover? No. But at the same time, what would you call a man whose
mind
touchedyours, 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 colour 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 History 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 to be 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