* * *
I woke just past dawn to the scratching of the rose brier against the window, and the muffled thump and clang of breakfast fixing in the kitchen below. Peering over Jamie’s sleeping form, I saw that the fire was dead out. I slid out of bed, quietly so as not to wake him. The floorboards were icy under my feet and I reached, shivering, for the first available garment.
Swathed in the folds of Jamie’s shirt, I knelt on the hearth and went about the laborious business of rekindling the fire, thinking rather wistfully that I might have included a box of safety matches in the short list of items I had thought worthwhile to bring. Striking sparks from a flint to catch kindling does work, but not usually on the first try. Or the second. Or…
Somewhere around the dozenth attempt, I was rewarded by a tiny black spot on the twist of tow I was using for kindling. It grew at once and blossomed into a tiny flame. I thrust it hastily but carefully beneath the little tent of twigs I had prepared, to shelter the blooming flame from the cold breeze.
I had left the window ajar the night before, to insure not being suffocated by the smoke—peat fires burned hot, but dully, with a lot of smoke, as the blackened beams overhead attested. Just now, though, I thought we could dispense with fresh air—at least until I got the fire thoroughly under way.
The pane was rimed at the bottom with a light frost; winter was not far off. The air was so crisp and fresh that I paused before shutting the window, breathing in great gulps of dead leaf, dried apples, cold earth, and damp, sweet grass. The scene outside was perfect in its still clarity, stone walls and dark pines drawn sharp as black quillstrokes against the gray overcast of the morning.
A movement drew my eye to the top of the hill, where the rough track led to the village of Broch Mordha, ten miles distant. One by one, three small Highland ponies came up over the rise, and started down the hill toward the farmhouse.
They were too far away for me to make out the faces, but I could see by the billowing skirts that all three riders were women. Perhaps it was the girls—Maggie, Kitty, and Janet—coming back from Young Jamie’s house. My own Jamie would be glad to see them.
I pulled the shirt, redolent of Jamie, around me against the chill, deciding to take advantage of what privacy might remain to us this morning by thawing out in bed. I shut the window, and paused to lift several of the light peat bricks from the basket by the hearth and feed them carefully to my fledgling fire, before shedding the shirt and crawling under the covers, numb toes tingling with delight at the luxurious warmth.
Jamie felt the chill of my return, and rolled instinctively toward me, gathering me neatly in and curling round me spoon-fashion. He sleepily rubbed his face against my shoulder.
“Sleep well, Sassenach?” he muttered.
“Never better,” I assured him, snuggling my cold bottom into the warm hollow of his thighs. “You?”
“Mmmmm.” He responded with a blissful groan, wrapping his arms about me. “Dreamed like a fiend.”
“What about?”
“Naked women, mostly,” he said, and set his teeth gently in the flesh of my shoulder. “That, and food.” His stomach rumbled softly. The scent of biscuits and fried bacon in the air was faint but unmistakable.
“So long as you don’t confuse the two,” I said, twitching my shoulder out of his reach.
“I can tell a hawk from a handsaw, when the wind sets north by nor’west,” he assured me, “and a sweet, plump lassie from a salt-cured ham, too, appearances notwithstanding.” He grabbed my buttocks with both hands and squeezed, making me yelp and kick him in the shins.
“Beast!”
“Oh, a beast, is it?” he said, laughing. “Well, then…” Growling deep in his throat, he dived under the quilt and proceeded to nip and nibble his way up the insides of my thighs, blithely ignoring my squeaks and the hail of kicks on his back and shoulders. Dislodged by our struggles, the quilt slid off onto the floor, revealing the tousled mass of his hair, flying wild over my thighs.
“Perhaps there’s less difference than I thought,” he said, his head popping up between my legs as he paused for breath. He pressed my thighs flat against the mattress and grinned up at me, spikes of red hair standing on end like a porcupine’s quills. “Ye do taste a bit salty, come to try it. What do ye—”
He was interrupted by a sudden bang as the door flew open and rebounded from the wall. Startled, we turned to look. In the doorway stood a young girl I had never seen before. She was perhaps fifteen or sixteen, with long flaxen hair and big blue eyes. The eyes were somewhat bigger than normal, and filled with an expression of horrified shock as she stared at me. Her gaze moved slowly from my tangled hair to my bare breasts, and down the slopes of my naked body, until it encountered Jamie, lying prone between my thighs, white-faced with a shock equal to hers.
“Daddy!” she said, in tones of total outrage. “Who is that woman?”
34
DADDY
“Daddy?” I said blankly. “Daddy?”
Jamie had turned to stone when the door opened. Now he shot bolt upright, snatching at the fallen quilt. He shoved the disheveled hair out of his face, and glared at the girl.
“What in the name of bloody hell are you doing here?” he demanded. Red-bearded, naked, and hoarse with fury, he was a formidable sight, and the girl took a step backward, looking uncertain. Then her chin firmed and she glared back at him.
“I came with Mother!”
The effect on Jamie could not have been greater had she shot him through the heart. He jerked violently, and all the color went out of his face.
It came flooding back, as the sound of rapid footsteps sounded on the wooden staircase. He leapt out of bed, tossing the quilt hastily in my direction, and grabbed his breeks.
He had barely pulled them on when another female figure burst into the room, skidded to a halt, and stood staring, bug-eyed, at the bed.
“It’s true!” She whirled toward Jamie, fists clenched against the cloak she still wore. “It’s true! It’s the Sassenach witch! How could ye do such a thing to me, Jamie Fraser?”
“Be still, Laoghaire!” he snapped. “I’ve done nothing to ye!”
I sat up against the wall, clutching the quilt to my bosom and staring. It was only when he spoke her name that I recognized her. Twenty-odd years ago, Laoghaire MacKenzie had been a slender sixteen-year-old, with rose-petal skin, moonbeam hair, and a violent—and unrequited—passion for Jamie Fraser. Evidently, a few things had changed.
She was nearing forty and no longer slender, having thickened considerably. The skin was still fair, but weathered, and stretched plumply over cheeks flushed with anger. Strands of ashy hair straggled out from under her respectable white kertch. The pale blue eyes were the same, though—they turned on me again, with the same expression of hatred I had seen in them long ago.
“He’s mine!” she hissed. She stamped her foot. “Get ye back to the hell that ye came from, and leave him to me! Go, I say!”
As I made no move to obey, she glanced wildly about in search of a weapon. Catching sight of the blue-banded ewer, she seized it and drew back her arm to fling it at me. Jamie plucked it neatly from her hand, set it back on the bureau, and grasped her by the upper arm, hard enough to make her squeal.
He turned her and shoved her roughly toward the door. “Get ye downstairs,” he ordered. “I’ll speak wi’ ye presently, Laoghaire.”
“You’ll speak wi’ me? Speak wi’ me, is it!” she cried. Face contorted, she swung her free hand at him, raking his face from eye to chin with her nails.
He grunted, grabbed her other wrist, and dragging her to the door, pushed her out into the passage and slammed the door to and turned the key.
By the time he turned around again, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, fumbling with shaking hands as I tried to pull my stockings on.
“I can explain it to ye, Claire,” he said.
“I d-don’t think so,” I said. My lips were numb, along with the rest of me, and it was hard to form words. I kept my eyes fixed on my feet as I tried—and failed—to tie my garters.
“Listen to me!” he said violently, bringing his fist down on the table with a crash that made me jump. I jerked my head up, and caught a glimpse of him towering over me. With his red hair tumbled loose about his shoulders, his face unshaven, bare-chested, and the raw marks of Laoghaire’s nails down his cheek, he looked like a Viking raider, bent on mayhem. I turned away to look for my shift.
It was lost in the bedclothes; I scrabbled about among the sheets. A considerable pounding had started up on the other side of the door, accompanied by shouts and shrieks, as the commotion attracted the other inhabitants of the house.
“You’d best go and explain things to your daughter,” I said, pulling the crumpled cotton over my head.
“She’s not my daughter!”
“No?” My head popped out of the neck of the shift, and I lifted my chin to stare up at him. “And I suppose you aren’t married to Laoghaire, either?”
“I’m married to you, damn it!” he bellowed, striking his fist on the table again.
“I don’t think so.” I felt very cold. My stiff fingers couldn’t manage the lacing of the stays; I threw them aside, and stood up to look for my gown, which was somewhere on the other side of the room—behind Jamie.
“I need my dress.”
“You’re no going anywhere, Sassenach. Not until—”
“Don’t call me that!” I shrieked it, surprising both of us. He stared at me for a moment, then nodded.
“All right,” he said quietly. He glanced at the door, now reverberating under the force of the pounding. He drew a deep breath and straightened, squaring his shoulders.
“I’ll go and settle things. Then we’ll talk, the two of us. Stay here, Sass—Claire.” He picked up his shirt and yanked it over his head. Unlocking the door, he stepped out into the suddenly silent corridor and closed it behind him.
* * *
I managed to pick up the dress, then collapsed on the bed and sat shaking all over, the green wool crumpled across my knees.
I couldn’t think in a straight line. My mind spun in small circles around the central fact; he was married. Married to Laoghaire! And he had a family. And yet he had wept for Brianna.
“Oh, Bree!” I said aloud. “Oh, God, Bree!” and began to cry—partly from shock, partly at the thought of Brianna. It wasn’t logical, but this discovery seemed a betrayal of her, as much as of me—or of Laoghaire.
The thought of Laoghaire turned shock and sorrow to rage in a moment. I rubbed a fold of green wool savagely across my face, leaving the skin red and prickly.
Damn him! How dare he? If he had married again, thinking me dead, that was one thing. I had half-expected, half-feared it. But to marry that woman—that spiteful, sneaking little bitch who had tried to murder me at Castle Leoch…but he likely didn’t know that, a small voice of reason in my head pointed out.
“Well, he should have known!” I said. “Damn him to hell, how could he take her, anyway?” The tears were rolling heedlessly down my face, hot spurts of loss and fury, and my nose was running. I groped for a handkerchief, found none, and in desperation, blew my nose at last on a corner of the sheet.
It smelled of Jamie. Worse, it smelled of the two of us, and the faint, musky lingerings of our pleasure. There was a small tingling spot on the inside of my thigh, where Jamie had nipped me, a few minutes before. I brought the flat of my hand down hard on the spot in a vicious slap, to kill the feeling.
“Liar!” I screamed. I grabbed the pitcher Laoghaire had tried to throw at me, and hurled it myself. It crashed against the door in an explosion of splinters.
I stood in the middle of the room, listening. It was quiet. There was no sound from below; no one was coming to see what had made the crash. I imagined they were all much too concerned with soothing Laoghaire to worry about me.
Did they live here, at Lallybroch? I recalled Jamie, taking Fergus aside, sending him ahead, ostensibly to tell Ian and Jenny we were coming. And, presumably, to warn them about me, and get Laoghaire out of the way before I arrived.
What in the name of God did Jenny and Ian think about this? Clearly they must know about Laoghaire—and yet they had received me last night, with no sign of it on their faces. But if Laoghaire had been sent away—why did she come back? Even trying to think about it made my temples throb.
The act of violence had drained enough rage for me to be able once more to control my shaking fingers. I kicked the stays into a corner and pulled the green gown over my head.
I had to get out of there. That was the only half-coherent thought in my head, and I clung to it. I had to leave. I couldn’t stay, not with Laoghaire and her daughters in the house. They belonged there—I didn’t.
I managed to tie up the garters this time, do up the laces of the dress, fasten the multiple hooks of the overskirt, and find my shoes. One was under the washstand, the other by the massive oak armoire, where I had kicked them the night before, dropping my clothes carelessly anywhere in my eagerness to crawl into the welcoming bed and nestle warmly in Jamie’s arms.
I shivered. The fire had gone out again, and there was an icy draft from the window. I felt chilled to the bone, despite my clothes.
I wasted some time in searching for my cloak before realizing that it was downstairs; I had left it in the parlor the day before. I pushed my fingers through my hair, but was too upset to look for a comb. The strands crackled with electricity from having the woolen dress pulled over my head, and I slapped irritably at the floating hairs that stuck to my face.
Ready. Ready as I’d be, at least. I paused for one last look around, then heard footsteps coming up the stair.
Not fast and light, like the last ones. These were heavier, and slow, deliberate. I knew without seeing him that it was Jamie coming—and that he wasn’t anxious to see me.
Fine. I didn’t want to see him, either. Better just to leave at once, without speaking. What was there to say?
I backed away as the door opened, unaware that I was moving, until my legs hit the edge of the bed. I lost my balance and sat down. Jamie paused in the doorway, looking down at me.
He had shaved. That was the first thing I noticed. In echo of Young Ian the day before, he had hastily shaved, brushed his hair back and tidied himself before facing trouble. He seemed to know what I was thinking; the ghost of a smile passed over his face, as he rubbed his freshly scraped chin.
“D’ye think it will help?” he asked.
I swallowed, and licked dry lips, but didn’t answer. He sighed, and answered himself.
“No, I suppose not.” He stepped into the room and closed the door. He stood awkwardly for a moment, then moved toward the bed, one hand extended toward me. “Claire—”
“Don’t touch me!” I leapt to my feet and backed away, circling toward the door. His hand fell to his side, but he stepped in front of me, blocking the way.
“Will ye no let me explain, Claire?”
“It seems to be a little late for that,” I said, in what I meant to be a cold, disdainful tone. Unfortunately, my voice shook.
He pushed the door shut behind him.
“Ye never used to be unreasonable,” he said quietly.
“And don’t tell me what I used to be!” The tears were much too near the surface, and I bit my lip to hold them back.
“All right.” His face was very pale; the scratches Laoghaire had given him showed as three red lines, livid down his cheek.
“I dinna live with her,” he said. “She and the girls live at Balriggan, over near Broch Mordha.” He watched me closely, but I said nothing. He shrugged a little, settling the shirt on his shoulders, and went on.
“It was a great mistake—the marriage between us.”
“With two children? Took you a while to realize, didn’t it?” I burst out. His lips pressed tight together.
“The lassies aren’t mine; Laoghaire was a widow wi’ the two bairns when I wed her.”
“Oh.” It didn’t make any real difference, but still, I felt a small wave of something like relief, on Brianna’s behalf. She was the sole child of Jamie’s heart, at least, even if I—
“I’ve not lived wi’ them for some time; I live in Edinburgh, and send money to them, but—”
“You don’t need to tell me,” I interrupted. “It doesn’t make any difference. Let me by, please—I’m going.”
The thick, ruddy brows drew sharply together.
“Going where?”
“Back. Away. I don’t know—let me by!”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” he said definitely.
“You can’t stop me!”
He reached out and grabbed me by both arms.
“Aye, I can,” he said. He could; I jerked furiously, but couldn’t budge the iron grip on my biceps.
“Let go of me this minute!”
“No, I won’t!” He glared at me, eyes narrowed, and I suddenly realized that calm as he might seem outwardly, he was very nearly as upset as I was. I saw the muscles of his throat move as he swallowed, controlling himself enough to speak again.
“I willna let ye go until I’ve explained to ye, why…”
“What is there to explain?” I demanded furiously. “You married again! What else is there?”
The color was rising in his face; the tips of his ears were already red, a sure sign of impending fury.
“And have you lived a nun for twenty years?” he demanded, shaking me slightly. “Have ye?”
“No!” I flung the word at his face, and he flinched slightly. “No, I bloody haven’t! And I don’t think you’ve been a monk, either—I never did!”
“Then—” he began, but I was much too furious to listen anymore.
“You lied to me, damn you!”
“I never did!” The skin was stretched tight over his cheekbones, as it was when he was very angry indeed.
“You did, you bastard! You know you did! Let go!” I kicked him sharply in the shin, hard enough to numb my toes. He exclaimed in pain, but didn’t let go. Instead, he squeezed harder, making me yelp.
“I never said a thing to ye—”
“No, you didn’t! But you lied, anyway! You let me think you weren’t married, that there wasn’t anyone, that you—that you—” I was half-sobbing with rage, gasping between words. “You should have told me, the minute I came! Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” His grip on my arms slackened, and I managed to wrench myself free. He took a step toward me, eyes glittering with fury. I wasn’t afraid of him; I drew back my fist and hit him in the chest.
“Why?” I shrieked, hitting him again and again and again, the sound of the blows thudding against his chest. “Why, why, why!”
“Because I was afraid!” He got hold of my wrists and threw me backward, so I fell across the bed. He stood over me, fists clenched, breathing hard.
“I am a coward, damn you! I couldna tell ye, for fear ye would leave me, and unmanly thing that I am, I thought I couldna bear that!”
“Unmanly? With two wives? Ha!”
I really thought he would slap me; he raised his arm, but then his open palm clenched into a fist.
“Am I a man? To want you so badly that nothing else matters? To see you, and know I would sacrifice honor or family or life itself to lie wi’ you, even though ye’d left me?”
“You have the filthy, unmitigated, bleeding gall to say such a thing to me?” My voice was so high, it came out as a thin and vicious whisper. “You’ll blame me?”
He stopped then, chest heaving as he caught his breath.
“No. No, I canna blame you.” He turned aside, blindly. “How could it have been your fault? Ye wanted to stay wi’ me, to die with me.”
“I did, the more fool I,” I said. “You sent me back, you made me go! And now you want to blame me for going?”
He turned back to me, eyes dark with desperation.
“I had to send ye away! I had to, for the bairn’s sake!” His eyes went involuntarily to the hook where his coat hung, the pictures of Brianna in its pocket. He took one deep, quivering breath, and calmed himself with a visible effort.
“No,” he said, much more quietly. “I canna regret that, whatever the cost. I would have given my life, for her and for you. If it took my heart and soul, too…”
He drew a long, quivering breath, mastering the passion that shook him.
“I canna blame ye for going.”
“You blame me for coming back, though.”
He shook his head as though to clear it.
“No, God no!”
He grabbed my hands tight between his own, the strength of his grip grinding the bones together.
“Do ye know what it is to live twenty years without a heart? To live half a man, and accustom yourself to living in the bit that’s left, filling in the cracks wi’ what mortar comes handy?”
“Do I know?” I echoed. I struggled to loose myself, to little effect. “Yes, you bloody bastard, I know that! What did you think, I’d gone straight back to Frank and lived happy ever after?” I kicked at him as hard as I could. He flinched, but didn’t let go.
“Sometimes I hoped ye did,” he said, speaking through clenched teeth. “And then sometimes I could see it—him with you, day and night, lyin’ with ye, taking your body, holding my child! And God, I could kill ye for it!”
Suddenly, he dropped my hands, whirled, and smashed his fist through the side of the oak armoire. It was an impressive blow; the armoire was a sturdy piece of furniture. It must have bruised his knuckles considerably, but without hesitation, he drove the other fist into the oak boards as well, as though the shining wood were Frank’s face—or mine.
“Feel like that about it, do you?” I said coldly, as he stepped back, panting. “I don’t even have to imagine you with Laoghaire—I’ve bloody seen her!”
“I dinna care a fig for Laoghaire, and never have!”
“Bastard!” I said again. “You’d marry a woman without wanting her, and then throw her aside the minute—”
“Shut up!” he roared. “Hold your tongue, ye wicked wee bitch!” He slammed a fist down on the washstand, glaring at me. “I’m damned the one way or the other, no? If I felt anything for her, I’m a faithless womanizer, and if I didn’t, I’m a heartless beast.”
“You should have told me!”
“And if I had?” He grabbed my hand and jerked me to my feet, holding me eye to eye with him. “You’d have turned on your heel and gone without a word. And having seen ye again—I tell ye, I would ha’ done far worse than lie to keep you!”
He pressed me tight against his body and kissed me, long and hard. My knees turned to water, and I fought to keep my feet, buttressed by the vision of Laoghaire’s angry eyes, and her voice, echoing shrill in my ears. He’s mine!
“This is senseless,” I said, pulling away. Fury had its own intoxication, but the hangover was setting in fast, a black dizzy vortex. My head swam so that I could hardly keep my balance. “I can’t think straight. I’m leaving.”
I lurched toward the door, but he caught me by the waist, yanking me back.
He whirled me toward himself and kissed me again, hard enough to leave a quicksilver taste of blood in my mouth. It was neither affection nor desire, but a blind passion, a determination to possess me. He was through talking.
So was I. I pulled my mouth away and slapped him hard across the face, fingers curved to rake his flesh.
He jerked back, cheek scraped raw, then twisted his fingers tight in my hair, bent and took my mouth again, deliberate and savage, ignoring the kicks and blows I rained on him.
He bit my lower lip, hard, and when I opened my lips, gasping, thrust his tongue into my mouth, stealing breath and words together.
He threw me bodily onto the bed where we had lain laughing an hour before, and pinned me there at once with the weight of his body.
He was most mightily roused.
So was I.
Mine, he said, without uttering a word. Mine!
I fought him with boundless fury and no little skill, and Yours, my body echoed back. Yours, and may you be damned for it!
I didn’t feel him rip my gown, but I felt the heat of his body on my bare breasts, through the thin linen of his shirt, the long, hard muscle of his thigh straining against my own. He took his hand off my arm to tear at his breeches, and I clawed him from ear to breast, striping his skin with pale red.
We were doing our level best to kill each other, fueled by the rage of years apart—mine for his sending me away, his for my going, mine for Laoghaire, his for Frank.
“Bitch!” he panted. “Whore!”
“Damn you!” I got a hand in his own long hair, and yanked, pulling his face down to me again. We rolled off the bed and landed on the floor in a tangled heap, rolling to and fro in a welter of half-uttered curses and broken words.
I didn’t hear the door open. I didn’t hear anything, though she must have called out, more than once. Blind and deaf, I knew nothing but Jamie until the shower of cold water struck us, sudden as an electric shock. Jamie froze. All the color left his face, leaving the bones jutting stark beneath the skin.
I lay dazed, drops of water dripping from the ends of his hair onto my breasts. Just behind him, I could see Jenny, her face as white as his, holding an empty pan in her hands.
“Stop it!” she said. Her eyes were slanted with a horrified anger. “How could ye, Jamie? Rutting like a wild beast, and not carin’ if all the house hears ye!”
He moved off me, slowly, clumsy as a bear. Jenny snatched a quilt from the bed and flung it over my body.
On all fours, he shook his head like a dog, sending droplets of water flying. Then, very slowly, he got to his feet, and pulled his ripped breeches back into place.
“Are ye no ashamed?” she cried, scandalized.
Jamie stood looking down at her as though he had never seen any creature quite like her, and was making up his mind what she might be. The wet ends of his hair dripped over his bare chest.
“Yes,” he said at last, quite mildly. “I am.”
He seemed dazed. He closed his eyes and a brief, deep shudder went over him. Without a word, he turned and went out.