“Good luck or bad?” I asked Jared curiously. I would have assumed the answer to be “bad,” but the little merchant’s air of jovial exhilaration seemed much too pronounced to be due to the red wine, which strongly resembled battery acid. I set down my own cup, hoping the enamel on my molars was intact.
“Bad for St. Germain, good for me,” he said succinctly. He rose from his chair and peered out the window.
“Good,” he said, sitting down again with a satisfied air. “They’ll have the wine off and into the warehouse by sunset. Safe and sound.”
Jamie leaned back in his chair, surveying his cousin with one eyebrow raised, a smile on his lips.
“Do we take it that Monsieur le Comte St. Germain’s ship also carried spirits, Cousin?”
An ear-to-ear grin in reply displayed two gold teeth in the lower jaw, which made Jared look still more piratical.
“The best aged port from Pinhão,” he said happily. “Cost him a fortune. Half the vintage from the Noval vineyards, and no more available for a year.”
“And I suppose the other half of the Noval port is what’s being unloaded into your warehouse?” I began to understand his delight.
“Right, my lassie, right as rain!” Jared chortled, almost hugging himself at the thought. “D’ye know what that will sell for in Paris?” he demanded, rocking forward and banging his cup down on the table. “A limited supply, and me with the monopoly? God, my profit’s made for the year!”
I rose and looked out the window myself. The Arianna rode at anchor, already noticeably higher in the water, as the huge cargo nets swung down from the boom mounted on the rear deck, to be carefully unloaded, bottle by bottle, into handcarts for the trip to the warehouse.
“Not to impair the general rejoicing,” I said, a little diffidently, “but did you say that your port came from the same place as St. Germain’s shipment?”
“Aye, I did.” Jared came to stand next to me, squinting down at the procession of loaders below. “Noval makes the best port in the whole of Spain and Portugal; I’d have liked to take the whole bottling, but hadn’t the capital. What of it?”
“Only that if the ships are coming from the same port, there’s a chance that some of your seamen might have smallpox too,” I said.
The thought blanched the wine flush from Jared’s lean cheeks, and he reached for a restorative gulp.
“God, what a thought!” he said, gasping as he set the cup down. “But I think it’s all right,” he said, reassuring himself. “The port’s half unloaded already. But I’d best speak to the captain, anyway,” he added, frowning. “I’ll have him pay the men off as soon as the loading’s finished—and if anyone looks ill, they can have their wages and leave at once.” He turned decisively and shot out of the room, pausing at the door just long enough to call over his shoulder, “Order some supper!” before disappearing down the stair with a clatter like a small herd of elephants.
I turned to Jamie, who was staring bemusedly into his undrunk cup of wine.
“He shouldn’t do that!” I exclaimed. “If he has got smallpox on board, he could spread it all over the city by sending men off with it.”
Jamie nodded slowly.
“Then I suppose we’ll hope he hasna got it,” he observed mildly.
I turned uncertainly toward the door. “But…shouldn’t we do something? I could at least go have a look at his men. And tell them what to do with the bodies of the men from the other ship…”
“Sassenach.” The deep voice was still mild, but held an unmistakable note of warning.
“What?” I turned back to find him leaning forward, regarding me levelly over the rim of his cup. He looked at me thoughtfully for a minute before speaking.
“D’ye think what we’ve set ourselves to do is important, Sassenach?”
My hand dropped from the door handle.
“Stopping the Stuarts from starting a rising in Scotland? Yes, of course I do. Why do you ask?”
He nodded, patient as an instructor with a slow pupil.
“Aye, well. If ye do, then you’ll come here, sit yourself down, and drink wine wi’ me until Jared comes back. And if ye don’t…” He paused and blew out a long breath that stirred the ruddy wave of hair above his forehead.
“If ye don’t, then you’ll go down to a quay full of seamen and merchants who think women near ships are the height of ill luck, who are already spreading gossip that you’ve put a curse on St. Germain’s ship, and you’ll tell them what they must do. With luck, they’ll be too afraid of ye to rape you before they cut your throat and toss you in the harbor, and me after you. If St. Germain himself doesna strangle you first. Did ye no see the look on his face?”