‘Officers,’ ’’ she read aloud, ‘‘ ‘Simon, Master of Lovat’.
He thrust the thin sheaf of papers at Claire, but it was her daughter, Brianna, who took the sheets from him and began to turn the pages, a slight frown between her reddish brows. ‘‘This is the muster roll of the Master of Lovat’s regiment.’’ The archaic writing looked odd, rendered in the black crispness of a photocopy. ‘‘Here,’’ he said, plucking out several sheets clipped together. The gallant Scots who had rallied to the banner of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and cut through Scotland like a blazing sword-only to come to ruin and defeat against the Duke of Cumberland on the gray moor at Culloden. He opened the folder and thumbed slowly through the contents. He rubbed a hand over his face, then picked up the folder from the desk the one containing all the research he’d done since Claire and her daughter had first come to him, three weeks before, and asked his help. ‘‘I don’t think so.’’ Roger felt terribly tired. She stood against the cork-lined wall like a prisoner awaiting a firing squad, staring from her daughter to Roger Wakefield and back again. Of course he’s dead!’’ Claire’s voice was sharp with agitation it rang loudly in the half-empty study, echoing among the rifled bookshelves.
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