“What’s that?” Jamie raised his head, listening. “What?”
“I thought I heard shouting.”
“I expect it’s the seals,” I said, but before the words were out of my mouth, he was up and striding toward the cliff’s edge.
The cove was still full of curling mist, but the wind had uncovered the seals’ island, and it was clearly visible, at least for the moment. There were no seals on it now, though. A small boat was drawn up on a sloping rock shelf at one side of the island. Not a fisherman’s boat; this one was longer and more pointed at the prow, with one set of oars. As I stared, a man appeared from the center of the island. He carried something under one arm, the size and shape of the box Jamie had described. I didn’t have long to speculate as to the nature of this object, though, for just then a second man came up the far slope of the island and into sight. This one was carrying Young Ian. He had the boy’s half-naked body slung carelessly over one shoulder. It swung head down, arms dangling with a limpness that made it clear the boy was unconscious or dead.
“Ian!” Jamie’s hand clamped over my mouth before I could shout again.
“Hush!” He dragged me to my knees to keep me out of sight. We watched, helpless, as the second man heaved Ian carelessly into the boat, then took hold of the gunwales to run it back into the water. There wasn’t a chance of making the descent down the chimney and the swim to the island before they succeeded in making their escape.
Diana Gabaldon, Voyager chapter 39 Lost, and by the Wind Grieved
“Take ye and be damned for it, I expect,” he said. He kissed my forehead gently. “Loving you has put me through hell more than once, Sassenach; I’ll risk it again, if need be.” “Bah,” I said. “And you think loving you’s been a bed of roses, do you?” This time he laughed out loud. “No,” he said, “but you’ll maybe keep doing it?” “Maybe I will, at that.”