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uncle Alexander to pry this thing out of FitzGibbons’s hands.”
    “Oh, no, that’s not what I had in mind, at all.”
    “Good, because—”
    “I want ye to go to Inchcleraun yourself. Oh, now, there’s that look on your face again!” Quinn laughed in amusement, rocking back, then planted his hands on his knees and leaned forward.
    Jamie leaned forward, too, to forestall him.
    “Quinn, I’m a prisoner of war. I’ve given my parole. Surely to goodness Betty told ye as much?”
    “Sure and I didn’t think ye were here for your health,” Quinn said, with a glance round at the bleak fells and the desolate ruins of the shepherd’s hut. “But that’s of no moment.”
    “It’s not?”
    Quinn waved this aside as a mere quibble.
    “No. It’s got to be someone Father Michael trusts and at the same time someone known to be at the right hand o’ the Stuarts, who can swear that the
Cupán
won’t be misused but put to its right and sacred purpose in restoring a Catholic monarch to the throne of Ireland.
And
a man who can raise and lead an army. People trust you, ye know,” he said earnestly, tilting his head up and examining Jamie’s face. “They listen when ye speak, and men will follow ye without question. It’s known of ye.”
    “No longer,” Jamie said, and found he was clenching his fists; his throat was dried by the wind, so the words came hoarse. “No. No longer.”
    Quinn’s fizzy manner had calmed somewhat. He clasped Jamie’s hand in both his own.
    “Man, dear,” he said, almost gently. “Kings have their destiny about them—but so do those who serve them. This is yours. God’s chosen ye for the task.”
    Jamie closed his eyes briefly, drew a deep breath, and pulled his hand free.
    “I think God had best look elsewhere, Quinn,” he said. “The blessing of Bride and Michael be on you. Goodbye.”
    He turned and walked away, finding Augustus where he’d been left, peacefully cropping the tufts of wiry grass that grew between the rocks. He removed the hobbles, swung up into the saddle, and turned the horse’s head toward the trail. He hadn’t meant to look back but at the last minute glanced down toward the shepherd’s hut.
    Quinn stood there in dark silhouette against the late-afternoon sun, a stick-jointed marionette with a nimbus of curls. He lifted a long-fingered hand and waved in farewell.
    “See ye in Dublin town!” he called. “Stuart
go bragh
!” and his merry laugh followed Jamie down the steep track toward Helwater.

    HE RODE DOWN from the fells, prey to an unsettling mix of emotions. Incredulity and impatience at Quinn’s fat-heided scheme, a weary dismay at the realization that the Jacobite Cause was still alive, if only faintly squirming, and irritation at Quinn’s attempt to inveigle him back into it. More than a bit of fear, if he was honest. And notwithstanding all that … joy at seeingQuinn again. It had been a long time since he’d seen the face of a friend.
    “Bloody Irishman,” he muttered, but smiled nonetheless.
    Would Quinn go away now? he wondered. The Irishman was as bullet-headed as most of his race and not likely to give up his scheme only because Jamie refused to help him with it. But he might well go and have a try at some other feckless candidate. Half of Jamie hoped to God that was the case. The other half wouldn’t mind talking to the man again, hearing what news he had about the others who’d left Culloden alive.
    The muscle of his leg contracted suddenly, and a chill shivered over his skin as though a ghost paced by his stirrup. Augustus snorted, sensing his tension.
    He clicked his tongue in reassurance, letting the horse pick his own way through the tricky footing of the trail. His heart was racing, and he tried to breathe deep and slow to calm it. Damn Quinn for bringing it back. He’d dream tonight, and a mixed feeling of dread and hope rose in him at the knowledge. Whose face would he see?

    MUCH TO HIS ANNOYANCE , he dreamed of