* * *
I lay in bed, head and shoulders propped on pillows, hands clasped lightly over my stomach, thinking. Since the first alarm, there had been very little bleeding, and I felt well. Still, any sort of bleeding at this stage was cause for alarm. I wondered privately what would happen if any emergency arose while Jamie was gone to Spain, but there was little to be gained by worrying. He had to go; there was too much riding on that particular shipload of wine for any private concerns to intrude. And if everything went all right, he should be back well before the baby was due.
As it was, all personal concerns would have to be put aside, danger or no. Charles, unable to contain his own excitement, had confided to Jamie that he would shortly require two ships—possibly more—and had asked his advice on hull design and the mounting of deck cannon. His father’s most recent letters from Rome had betrayed a slight tone of questioning—with his acute Bourbon nose for politics, James Stuart smelled a rat, but plainly hadn’t yet been informed of what his son was up to. Jamie, hip-deep in decoded letters, thought it likely that Philip of Spain had not yet mentioned Charles’s overtures or the Pope’s interest, but James Stuart had his spies, as well.
After a little while, I became aware of some slight change in Jamie’s attitude. Glancing toward him, I saw that while he was still holding a book open on his knee, he had ceased to turn the pages—or to look at them, for that matter. His eyes were fixed on me instead; or, to be specific, on the spot where my nightrobe parted, several inches lower than strict modesty might dictate, strict modesty hardly seeming necessary in bed with one’s husband.
His gaze was abstracted, dark blue with longing, and I realized that if not socially required, modesty in bed with one’s husband might be at least considerate, under the circumstances. There were alternatives, of course.
Catching me looking at him, Jamie blushed slightly and hastily returned to an exaggerated interest in his book. I rolled onto my side and rested a hand on his thigh.
“Interesting book?” I asked, idly caressing him.
“Mphm. Oh, aye.” The blush deepened, but he didn’t take his eyes from the page.
Grinning to myself, I slipped my hand under the bedclothes. He dropped the book.
“Sassenach!” he said. “Ye know you canna…”
“No,” I said, “but you can. Or rather, I can for you.”
He firmly detached my hand and gave it back to me.
“No, Sassenach. It wouldna be right.”
“It wouldn’t?” I said, surprised. “Whyever not?”
He squirmed uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes.
“Well, I…I wouldna feel right, Sassenach. To take my pleasure from ye, and not be able to give ye…well, I wouldna feel right about it, is all.”
I burst into laughter, laying my head on his thigh.
“Jamie, you are too sweet for words!”
“I am not sweet,” he said indignantly. “But I’m no such a selfish—Claire, stop that!”
“You were planning to wait several more months?” I asked, not stopping.
“I could,” he said, with what dignity was possible under the circumstances. “I waited tw-twenty-two years, and I can…”
“No, you can’t,” I said, pulling back the bedclothes and admiring the shape so clearly visible beneath his nightshirt. I touched it, and it moved slightly, eager against my hand. “Whatever God meant you to be, Jamie Fraser, it wasn’t a monk.”
With a sure hand, I pulled up his nightshirt.
“But…” he began.
“Two against one,” I said, leaning down. “You lose.”