16
ONE FINE DAY
The hard-won intimacy of the night seemed to have evaporated with the dew, and there was considerable constraint between us in the morning. After a mostly silent breakfast taken in our room, we climbed the small hillock behind the inn, exchanging rather strained politenesses from time to time.
At the crest, I settled on a log to rest, while Jamie sat on the ground, back against a pine sapling, a few feet away. Some bird was active in the bush behind me, a siskin, I supposed, or possibly a thrush. I listened to its dilatory rustlings, watched the small fluffy clouds float by, and pondered the etiquette of the situation.
The silence was becoming really too heavy to bear, when Jamie suddenly said, “I hope—” then stopped and blushed. Though I rather felt it should be me blushing, I was glad that at least one of us was able to do it.
“What?” I said as encouragingly as possible.
He shook his head, still pink. “It doesna matter.”
“Go ahead.” I reached out a foot and nudged his leg with a tentative toe. “Honesty, remember?” It was unfair, but I really couldn’t stand any more nervous throat-clearing and eye-twitching.
His clasped hands tightened around his knees, and he rocked back a bit, but fixed his gaze directly on me.
“I was going to say,” he said softly, “that I hoped the man who had the honor to lie first wi’ you was as generous as you were with me.” He smiled, a little shyly. “But on second thought, that didna sound quite right. What I meant…well, all I wanted was to say thank you.”
“Generosity had nothing to do with it!” I snapped, looking down and brushing energetically at a nonexistent spot on my dress. A large boot pushed into my downcast field of vision and nudged my ankle.
“Honesty, is it?” he echoed, and I looked up to meet a derisively raised pair of eyebrows above a wide grin.
“Well,” I said defensively, “not after the first time, anyway.” He laughed, and I discovered to my horror that I was not beyond blushing after all.
A cool shadow fell over my heated face and a large pair of hands took firm hold of mine and pulled me to my feet. Jamie took my place on the log, and patted his knee invitingly.
“Sit,” he said.
I reluctantly obliged, keeping my face turned away. He settled me comfortably against his chest and wrapped his arms about my waist. I felt the steady thump of his heart against my back.
“Now then,” he said. “If we canna talk easy yet without touching, we’ll touch for a bit. Tell me when you’re accustomed to me again.” He leaned back so that we were in the shade of an oak, and held me close without speaking, just breathing slowly, so that I felt the rise and fall of his chest and the stir of his breath in my hair.
“All right,” I said after a moment.
“Good.” He loosened his grip and turned me to face him. At close range, I could see the bristle of auburn stubble on cheek and chin. I brushed my fingers across it; it was like the plush on an old-fashioned sofa, stiff and soft at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I couldna shave this morning. Dougal gave me a razor before the wedding yesterday, but he took it back—in case I cut my throat after the wedding night, I expect.” He grinned down at me and I smiled back.
The reference to Dougal reminded me of our conversation of the night before.
“I wondered…” I said. “Last night, you said Dougal and his men met you at the coast when you came back from France. Why did you come back with him, instead of going to your own home, or the Fraser lands? I mean, the way Dougal’s treated you…” I trailed off, hesitant.
“Oh,” he said, shifting his legs to bear my weight more evenly. I could almost hear him thinking to himself. He made up his mind quite quickly.
“Well, it’s something ye should know, I suppose.” He frowned to himself. “I told ye why I’m outlawed. Well, for a time after—after I left the Fort, I didna care much…about anything. My father died about that time, and my sister…” He paused again, and I sensed some kind of struggle going on inside him. I twisted around to look at him. The normally cheerful face was shadowed with some strong emotion.
“Dougal told me,” he said slowly, “Dougal told me that-that my sister was wi’ child. By Randall.”
“Oh, dear.”
He glanced sideways at me, then away. His eyes were bright as sapphires and he blinked hastily once or twice.
“I…I couldna bring myself to go back,” he said, low-voiced. “To see her again, after what happened. And too”—he sighed, then set his lips firmly—”Dougal told me that she…that after the child was born, she…well, of course, she couldna help it; she was alone—damn it, I left her alone! He said she had taken up wi’ another English soldier, someone from the garrison, he didna know which one.”
He swallowed heavily, then went on more firmly. “I sent back what money I could, of course, but I could not…well, I couldna bring myself to write to her. What could I say?” He shrugged helplessly.
“Anyway, after a time I grew tired of soldiering in France. And I heard through my Uncle Alex that he’d had word of an English deserter, named Horrocks. The man had left the army and taken service wi’ Francis MacLean o’ Dunweary. He was in his cups one day and let out that he’d been stationed wi’ the garrison at Fort William when I escaped. And he’d seen the man who shot the sergeant-major that day.”
“So he could prove that it wasn’t you!” This sounded good news, and I said so. Jamie nodded.
“Well, yes. Though the word of a deserter would likely not count for much. Still, it’s a start. At least I’d know myself who it was. And while I…well, I dinna see how I can go back to Lallybroch; still it would be as well if I could walk the soil of Scotland without the risk of being hanged.”
“Yes, that seems a good idea,” I said dryly. “But where do the MacKenzies come into it?”
There followed a certain amount of complicated analysis of family relationships and clan alliances, but when the smoke cleared away, it appeared that Francis MacLean was some connection with the MacKenzie side, and had sent word of Horrocks to Colum, who had sent Dougal to make contact with Jamie.
“Which is how he came to be nearby when I was wounded,” Jamie finished up. He paused, squinting into the sun. “I wondered, afterward, ye know, whether perhaps he’d done it.”
“Hit you with an ax? Your own uncle? Why on earth!?”
He frowned as though weighing how much to tell me, then shrugged.
“I dinna ken how much ye know about the clan MacKenzie,” he said, “though I imagine ye canna have ridden wi’ old Ned Gowan for days without hearin’ something of it. He canna keep off the subject for long.”
He nodded at my answering smile. “Well, you’ve seen Colum for yourself. Anyone can see that he’ll not make old bones. And wee Hamish is barely eight; he’ll no be able to lead a clan for ten years yet. So what happens if Colum dies before Hamish is ready?” He looked at me, prompting.
“Well, Dougal would be laird, I suppose,” I said slowly, “at least until Hamish is old enough.”
“Aye, that’s true.” Jamie nodded. “But Dougal’s not the man Colum is, and there are those in the clan that wouldna follow him so gladly—if there were an alternative.”
“I see,” I said slowly, “and you are the alternative.”
I looked him over carefully, and had to admit that there was a certain amount of possibility there. He was old Jacob’s grandson; a MacKenzie by blood, if only on his mother’s side. A big, comely, well-made lad, plainly intelligent, and with the family knack for managing people. He had fought in France and proved his ability to lead men in battle; an important consideration. Even the price on his head might not be an insurmountable obstacle—if he were laird.
The English had enough trouble in the Highlands, between the constant small rebellions, the border raids and the warring clans, not to risk a major uprising by accusing the chieftain of a major clan of murder—which would seem no murder at all to the clansmen.
To hang an unimportant Fraser clansman was one thing; to storm Castle Leoch and drag out the laird of the clan MacKenzie to face English justice was something else again.
“Do you mean to be laird, if Colum dies?” It was one way out of his difficulties, after all, though I suspected it was a way hedged with its own considerable obstacles.
He smiled briefly at the thought. “No. Even if I felt myself entitled to it—which I don’t—it would split the clan, Dougal’s men against those that might follow me. I havena the taste for power at the cost of other men’s blood. But Dougal and Colum couldna be sure of that, could they? So they might think it safer just to kill me than to take the risk.”
My brow was furrowed, thinking it all out. “But surely you could tell Dougal and Colum that you don’t intend…oh.” I looked up at him with considerable respect. “But you did. At the oath-taking.”
I had thought already how well he had handled a dangerous situation there; now I saw just how dangerous it had been. The clansmen had certainly wanted him to take his oath; just as certainly Colum had not. To swear such an oath was to declare himself a member of the clan MacKenzie, and as such, a potential candidate for chieftain of the clan. He risked open violence or death for refusal; he risked the same—more privately—for compliance.
Seeing the danger, he had taken the prudent course of staying away from the ceremony. And when I, by my botched escape attempt, had led him straight back to the edge of the abyss, he had set a sure and certain foot on a very narrow tightrope, and walked it to the other side. Je suis prest, indeed.
He nodded, seeing the thoughts cross my face.
“Aye. If I had sworn my oath that night, chances are I wouldna have seen the dawn.”
I felt a little shaky at the thought, as well as at the knowledge that I had unwittingly exposed him to such danger. The knife over his bed suddenly seemed nothing more than a sensible precaution. I wondered how many nights he had slept armed at Leoch, expecting death to come visiting.
“I always sleep armed, Sassenach,” he said, though I had not spoken. “Except for the monastery, last night is the first time in months I’ve not slept wi’ my dirk in my fist.” He grinned, plainly remembering what had been in his fist, instead.
“How the bloody hell did you know what I was thinking?” I demanded, ignoring the grin. He shook his head good-naturedly.
“You’d make a verra poor spy, Sassenach. Everything ye think shows on your face, plain as day. You looked at my dirk and then ye blushed.” He studied me appraisingly, bright head on one side. “I asked ye for honesty last night, but it wasna really necessary; it isna in you to lie.”
“Just as well, since I’m apparently so bad at it,” I observed with some asperity. “Am I to take it that at least you don’t think I’m a spy, then?”
He didn’t answer. He was looking over my shoulder toward the inn, body suddenly tense as a bowstring. I was startled for a moment, but then heard the sounds that had attracted his attention. The thud of hooves and jangle of harness; a large group of mounted men was coming down the road toward the inn.
Moving cautiously, Jamie crouched behind the screen of bushes, at a spot commanding a view of the road. I tucked my skirts up and crawled after him as silently as I could.
The road hooked sharply past a rocky outcrop, then curved more gently down to the hollow where the inn lay. The morning breeze carried the sounds of the approaching group in our direction, but it was a minute or two before the first horse poked its nose into sight.
It was a group of some twenty or thirty men, mostly wearing leather trews and tartan-clad, but in a variety of colors and patterns. All, without exception, were well armed. Each horse bore at least one musket strapped to the saddle, and there was an abundance of pistols, dirks, and swords on view, plus whatever further armament might be concealed in the capacious saddlebags of the four packhorses. Six of the men also led extra mounts, unburdened and saddleless.
Despite their warlike accoutrements, the men seemed relaxed; they were chatting and laughing in small groups as they rode, though here and there a head raised, watchful of the surroundings. I fought back the urge to duck as one man’s gaze passed over the spot where we lay hidden; it seemed as though that searching look must surely discover some random movement or the gleam of the sun off Jamie’s hair.
Glancing up at this thought, I discovered that it had occurred to him as well; he had pulled a fold of his plaid up over his head and shoulders, so that the dull hunting pattern made him effectively part of the shrubbery. As the last of the men wound down into the innyard, Jamie dropped the plaid and motioned back toward the path up the hill.
“Do you know who they are?” I panted, as I followed him up into the heather.
“Oh, aye.” Jamie took the steep path like a mountain goat, with no loss of breath or composure. Glancing back, he noticed my labored progress and stopped, reaching down a hand to help me.
“It’s the Watch,” he said, nodding back in the direction of the inn. “We’re safe enough, but I thought we’d as soon be a bit further away.”
I had heard of the famous Black Watch, that informal police force that kept order in the Highlands, and heard also that there were other Watches, each patrolling its own area, collecting “subscriptions” from clients for the safeguarding of cattle and property. Clients in arrears might well wake one morning to find their livestock vanished in the night, and none to tell where they had gone— certainly not the men of the Watch. I was seized by a sudden irrational terror.
“They’re not looking for you, are they?”
Startled, he looked back as though expecting to see men scrambling up the hill in pursuit, but there was no one, and he looked back at me with a relieved smile and put an arm about my waist to help me along.
“Nay, I doubt it. Ten pound sterling is not enough to make me worth the hunting by a pack like that. And if they kent I was at the inn, they wouldna have come as they did, traipsing up to the door all of a piece.” He shook his head decisively. “No, were they hunting anyone, they’d send men to guard the back and the windows before coming in the front door. They’ve but stopped there for refreshment, likely.”
We continued to climb, past the spot where the, rude path petered out in clumps of gorse and heather. We were among foothills here, and the granite rocks rose higher than Jamie’s head, reminding me uncomfortably of the standing stones of Craigh na Dun.
We emerged then, onto the top of a small dun, and the hills sloped away in a breathtaking fall of rocks and green on all sides. Most places in the Highlands gave me a feeling of being surrounded by trees or rocks or mountains, but here we were exposed to the fresh drafts of the wind and the rays of the sun, which had come out as though in celebration of our unorthodox marriage.
I experienced a heady sense of freedom at being out from under Dougal’s influence and the claustrophobic company of so many men. I was tempted to urge Jamie to run away, and to take me with him, but common sense prevailed. We had neither of us any money nor any food beyond the bit of lunch that he carried in his sporran. We would certainly be pursued if we did not return to the inn by sundown. And while Jamie could plainly climb rocks all day without breaking a sweat or getting out of breath, I was in no such training. Noticing my red face, he led me to a rock and sat beside me, contentedly gazing out over the hills while he waited for me to regain my breath. We were certainly safe here.
Thinking of the Watch, I laid a hand impulsively on Jamie’s arm.
“I’m awfully glad you’re not worth very much,” I said.
He regarded me for a moment, rubbing his nose, which was beginning to redden.
“Well, I might take that several ways, Sassenach, but under the circumstances,” he said, “thank you.”
“I should thank you,” I said, “for marrying me. I must say that I’d rather be here than in Fort William.”
“I thank ye for the compliment, lady,” he said, with a slight bow. “So would I. And while we’re busy thanking each other,” he added, “I should thank you for marrying me, as well.”
“Er, well…” I blushed once more.
“Not only for that, Sassenach,” he said, his grin widening. “Though certainly for that as well. But I imagine you’ve also saved my life for me, at least so far as the MacKenzies are concerned.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Being half MacKenzie is one thing,” he explained. “Being half MacKenzie wi’ an English wife is quite another. There isna much chance of a Sassenach wench ever becoming lady of Leoch, whatever the clansmen might think of me alone. That’s why Dougal picked me to wed ye to, ye ken.”
He lifted one brow, reddish-gold in the morning sun. “I hope ye wouldna have preferred Rupert, after all?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I said with emphasis.
He laughed and got up, brushing pine needles from his kilts.
“Well, my mother told me I’d be some lassie’s choice one fine day.” He reached down a hand and helped me up.
“I told her,” he continued, “that I thought it was the man’s part to choose.”
“And what did she say to that?” I asked.
“She rolled her eyes and said ‘You’ll find out, my fine wee cockerel, you’ll find out.’ ” He laughed. “And so I have.”
He looked upward, to where the sun was now seeping through the pine needles in lemon threads.
“And it is a fine day, at that. Come along, Sassenach. I’ll take ye fishin’.”
We went further up into the hills. This time Jamie turned to the north, and over a jumble of stone and through a crevice, into the head of a tiny glen, rockwalled and leafy, filled with the gurgling of water from the burn that spilled from a dozen wee falls among the rocks and plunged roistering down the length of the canyon into a series of rills and pools below.
We dangled our feet in the water, moving from shade to sun and back to shade as we grew too warm, talking of this and that and not much of anything, both aware of each other’s smallest movement, both content to wait until chance should bring us to that moment when a glance should linger, and a touch should signal more.
Above one dark speckled pool, Jamie showed me how to tickle trout. Crouched to avoid the low-growing branches overhead, he duck-walked along an overhanging ledge, arms outstretched for balance. Halfway along, he turned carefully on the rock and stretched out his hand, urging me to follow.
I had my skirts tucked up already, for walking through rough country, and managed well enough. We stretched full-length on the cool rock, head to head, peering down into the water, willow branches brushing our backs.
“All it is,” he said, “is to pick a good spot, and then wait.” He dipped one hand below the surface, smoothly, no splashing, and let it lie on the sandy bottom, just outside the line of shadow made by the rocky overhang. The long fingers curled delicately toward the palm, distorted by the water so that they seemed to wave gently to and fro in unison, like the leaves of a water plant, though I saw from the still muscling of his forearm that he was not moving his hand at all. The column of his arm bent abruptly at the surface, seeming as disjointed as it had been when I had met him, little more than a month—my God, only a month?—before.
Met one month, married one day. Bound by vows and by blood. And by friendship as well. When the time came to leave, I hoped that I would not hurt him too badly. I found myself glad that for the moment, I need not think about it; we were far from Craigh na Dun, and not a chance in the world of escape from Dougal for the present.
“There he is.” Jamie’s voice was low, hardly more than a breath; he had told me that trout have sensitive ears.
From my angle of view, the trout was little more than a stirring of the speckled sand. Deep in the rock shadow, there was no telltale gleam of scales. Speckles moved on speckles, shifted by the fanning of transparent fins, invisible but for their motion. The minnows that had gathered to pluck curiously at the hairs on Jamie’s wrist fled away into the brightness of the pool.
One finger bent slowly, so slowly it was hard to see the movement. I could tell it moved only by its changing position, relative to the other fingers. Another finger, slowly bent. And after a long, long moment, another.
I scarcely dared breathe, and my heart beat against the cold rock with a rhythm faster than the breathing of the fish. Sluggishly the fingers bent back, lying open, one by one, and the slow hypnotic wave began again, one finger, one finger, one finger more, the movement a smooth ripple like the edge of a fish’s fin.
As though drawn by the slow-motion beckoning, the trout’s nose pressed outward, a delicate gasping of mouth and gills, busy in the rhythm of breathing, pink lining showing, not showing, showing, not showing, as the opercula beat like a heart.
The chewing mouth groped and bit water. Most of the body was clear of the rock now, hanging weightless in the water, still in the shadow. I could see one eye, twitching to and fro in a blank, directionless stare.
An inch more would bring the flapping gill-covers right over the treacherous beckoning fingers. I found that I was gripping the rock with both hands, pressing my cheek hard against the granite, as though I could make myself still more inconspicuous.
There was a sudden explosion of motion. Everything happened so fast I couldn’t see what actually did take place. There was a heavy splatter of water that sluiced across the rock an inch from my face, and a flurry of plaid as Jamie rolled across the rock above me, and a heavy splat as the fish’s body sailed through the air and struck the leaf-strewn bank.
Jamie surged off the ledge and into the shallows of the side pool, splashing across to retrieve his prize before the stunned fish could succeed in flapping its way back to the sanctuary of the water. Seizing it by the tail, he slapped it expertly against a rock, killing it at once, then waded back to show it to me.
“A good size,” he said proudly, holding out a solid fourteen-incher. “Do nicely for breakfast.” He grinned up at me, wet to the thighs, hair hanging in his face, shirt splotched with water and dead leaves. “I told you I’d not let ye go hungry.”
He wrapped the trout in layers of burdock leaves and cool mud. Then he rinsed his fingers in the cold water of the burn, and clambering up onto the rock, handed me the neatly wrapped parcel.
“An odd wedding present, may be,” he nodded at the trout, “but not without precedent, as Ned Gowan might say.”
“There are precedents for giving a new wife a fish?” I asked, entertained.
He stripped off his stockings to dry and laid them on the rock to lie in the sun. His long bare toes wiggled in enjoyment of the warmth.
“It’s an old love song, from the Isles. D’ye want to hear it?”
“Yes, of course. Er, in English, if you can,” I added.
“Oh, aye. I’ve no voice for music, but I’ll give you the words.” And fingering the hair back out of his eyes, he recited,
“Thou daughter of the King of bright-lit mansions
On the night that our wedding is on us,
If living man I be in Duntulm,
I will go bounding to thee with gifts.
Thou wilt get a hundred badgers, dwellers in banks,
A hundred brown otters, natives of streams,
A hundred silver trout, rising from their pools…”
And on through a remarkable list of the flora and fauna of the Isles. I had time, watching him declaim, to reflect on the oddity of sitting on a rock in a Scottish pool, listening to Gaelic love songs, with a large dead fish in my lap. And the greater oddity that I was enjoying myself very much indeed.
When he finished, I applauded, keeping hold of the trout by gripping it between my knees.
“Oh, I like that one! Especially the ‘I will go bounding to thee with gifts.’ He sounds a most enthusiastic lover.”
Eyes closed against the sun, Jamie laughed. “I suppose I could add a line for myself—’I will leap into pools for thy sake.’ “
We both laughed, and then were quiet for a time, basking in the warm sun of the early summer. It was very peaceful there, with no sound but the rushing of water beyond our still pool. Jamie’s breathing had calmed. I was very conscious of the slow rise and fall of his breast, and the slow beat of the pulse in his neck. He had a small triangular scar, just there at the base of his throat.
I could feel the shyness and constraint beginning to creep back. I reached out a hand and grasped his tightly, hoping that the touch would reestablish the ease between us as it had before. He slid an arm about my shoulders, but it only made me aware of the hard lines of his body beneath the thin shirt. I pulled away, under the pretext of plucking a bunch of pink-flowered storksbill that grew from a crack in the rock.
“Good for headache,” I explained, tucking them into my belt.
“It troubles you,” he said, tilting his head to look at me intently. “Not headache, I don’t mean. Frank. You’re thinking of him, and so it troubles you when I touch you, because ye canna hold us both in your mind. Is that it?”
“You’re very perceptive,” I said, surprised. He smiled, but made no move to touch me again.
“No great task to puzzle that out, lass. I knew when we married that you couldna help but have him often in your mind, did ye want to or no.”
I didn’t, at the moment, but he was right; I couldn’t help it.
“Am I much like him?” he asked suddenly.
“No.”
In fact, it would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast. Frank was slender, lithe and dark, where Jamie was large, powerful and fair as a ruddy sunbeam. While both men had the compact grace of athletes, Frank’s was the build of a tennis player, Jamie’s the body of a warrior, shaped—and battered—by the abrasion of sheer physical adversity. Frank stood a scant four inches above my own five foot six. Face-to-face with Jamie, my nose fitted comfortably into the small hollow in the center of his chest, and his chin could rest easily on top of my head.
Nor was the physical the only dimension where the two men varied. There was nearly fifteen years’ difference in their ages, for one thing, which likely accounted for some of the difference between Frank’s urbane reserve and Jamie’s frank openness. As a lover, Frank was polished, sophisticated, considerate, and skilled. Lacking experience or the pretense of it, Jamie simply gave me all of himself, without reservation. And the depth of my response to that unsettled me completely.
Jamie was watching my struggle, not without sympathy.
“Well, then, it would seem I have two choices in the matter,” he said. “I can let you brood about it, or…”
He leaned down and gently fitted his mouth over mine. I had kissed my share of men, particularly during the war years, when flirtation and instant romance were the light-minded companions of death and uncertainty. Jamie, though, was something different. His extreme gentleness was in no way tentative; rather it was a promise of power known and held in leash; a challenge and a provocation the more remarkable for its lack of demand. I am yours, it said. And if you will have me, then…
I would, and my mouth opened beneath his, wholeheartedly accepting both promise and challenge without consulting me. After a long moment, he lifted his head and smiled down at me.
“Or, I can try to distract ye from your thoughts,” he finished.
He pressed my head against his shoulder, stroking my hair and smoothing the leaping curls around my ears.
“I do not know if it will help,” he said, quietly, “but I will tell you this: it is a gift and a wonder to me, to know that I can please you—that your body can rouse to mine. I hadna thought of such a thing—beforehand.”
I drew a long breath before replying. “Yes,” I said. “It helps. I think.”
We were silent again for what seemed a long time. At last Jamie drew away and looked down at me, smiling.
“I told ye I’ve neither money nor property, Sassenach?”
I nodded, wondering what he intended.
“I should have warned ye before that we’d likely end up sleeping in haystacks, wi’ naught but heather ale and drammach for food.”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
He nodded toward an opening in the trees, not taking his eyes off me.
“I havena got a haystack about me, but there’s a fair patch of fresh bracken yonder. If ye’d care to practice, just to get the way of it…?”
A little later, I stroked his back, damp with exertion and the juice of crushed ferns.
“If you say ‘thank you’ once more, I will slap you,” I said.
Instead, I was answered with a gentle snore. An overhanging fern brushed his cheek, and an inquisitive ant crawled across his hand, making the long fingers twitch in his sleep.
I brushed it away and leaned back on one elbow, watching him. His lashes were long, seen thus with his eyes closed, and thick. Oddly colored, though; dark auburn at the tips, they were very light, almost blond at the roots.
The firm line of his mouth had relaxed in sleep. While it kept a faintly humorous curl at the corner, his lower lip now eased into a fuller curve that seemed both sensual and innocent.
“Damn,” I said softly to myself.
I had been fighting it for some time. Even before this ridiculous marriage, I had been more than conscious of his attraction. It had happened before, as it doubtless happens to almost everyone. A sudden sensitivity to the presence, the appearance, of a particular man—or woman, I suppose. The urge to follow him with my eyes, to arrange for small “inadvertent” meetings, to watch him unawares as he went about his work, an exquisite sensitivity to the small details of his body—the shoulderblades beneath the cloth of his shirt, the lumpy bones of his wrists, the soft place underneath his jaw, where the first prickles of his beard begin to show.
Infatuation. It was common, among the nurses and the doctors, the nurses and the patients, among any gathering of people thrown for long periods into one another’s company.
Some acted on it, and brief, intense affairs were frequent. If they were lucky, the affair flamed out within a few months and nothing resulted from it. If they were not…well. Pregnancy, divorce, here and there the odd case of venereal disease. Dangerous thing, infatuation.
I had felt it, several times, but had had the good sense not to act on it. And as it always does, after a time the attraction had lessened, and the man lost his golden aura and resumed his usual place in my life, with no harm done to him, to me, or to Frank.
And now. Now I had been forced to act on it. And God only knew what harm might be done by that action. But there was no turning back from this point.
He lay at ease, sprawled on his stomach. The sun glinted off his red mane and lit the tiny soft hairs that crested his spine, running down to the reddish-gold fuzz that dusted his buttocks and thighs, and deepened into the thicket of soft auburn curls that showed briefly between his spread legs.
I sat up, admiring the long legs, with the smooth line of muscling that indented the thigh from hip to knee, and another that ran from knee to long, elegant foot. The bottoms of his feet were smooth and pink, slightly callused from going barefoot.
My fingers ached, wantingto trace the line of his small, neat ear and the blunt angle of his jaw. Well, I thought, the action had been taken, and it was far past the time for restraint. Nothing I did now could make matters worse, for either of us. I reached out and gently touched him.
He slept very lightly. With a suddenness that made me jump, he flipped over, bracing himself on his elbows as though to leap to his feet. Seeing me, he relaxed, smiling.
“Madam, you have me at a disadvantage.”
He made a very creditable courtly bow, for a man stretched at full length in a patch of ferns, wearing nothing but a few dappled splotches of sunlight, and I laughed. The smile stayed on his face, but it altered as he looked at me, naked in the ferns. His voice was suddenly husky.
“In fact, Madam, you have me at your mercy.”
“Have I, then?” I said softly.
He didn’t move, as I reached out once more and drew my hand slowly down his cheek and neck, over the gleaming slope of his shoulder, and down. He didn’t move, but he closed his eyes.
“Dear Holy Lord,” he said.
He drew his breath in sharply.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It doesn’t have to be rough.”
“Thank God for small mercies.”
“Keep still.”
His fingers dug deeply into the crumbling earth, but he obeyed.
“Please,” he said after a time. Glancing up, I could see that his eyes were open now.
“No,” I said, enjoying myself. He closed his eyes again.
“You’ll pay for this,” he said a short time later. A fine dew of sweat shone on the straight bridge of his nose.
“Really?” I said. “What are you going to do?”
The tendons stood out in his forearms as he pressed his palms against the earth, and he spoke with an effort, as though his teeth were clenched.
“I don’t know, but…by Christ and St. Agnes…I will…th-think of s-something! God! Please!”
“All right,” I said, releasing him.
And I uttered a small shriek as he rolled onto me, pinning me against the ferns.
“Your turn,” he said, with considerable satisfaction.
We returned to the inn at sunset, pausing at the top of the hill to be sure that the horses of the Watch were no longer hobbled outside.
The inn looked welcoming, light already shining through the small windows, and through the chinks in the walls. The last of the sun glowed behind us as well, so that everything on the hillside threw a double shadow. The breeze rose with the cooling of the day, and the fluttering leaves of the trees made the multiple shadows dance on the grass. I could easily imagine that there were fairies on the hill, dancing with those shadows, threading their way through the slender trunks to blend into the depths of the wood.
“Dougal’s not back yet, either,” I observed as we came down the hill. The large black gelding he customarily rode was not in the inn’s small paddock. Several other beasts were missing as well; Ned Gowan’s for one.
“No, he shouldna come back for another day at least—maybe two.” Jamie offered me his arm and we descended the hill slowly, careful of the many rocks that poked through the short grass.
“Where on earth has he gone?” Caught in the rush of recent events, I had not thought to question his absence—or even to notice it.
Jamie handed me over the stile at the back of the inn.
“To do his business wi’ the cottars nearby. He’s got but a day or two before he’s supposed to produce you at the Fort, ye ken.” He squeezed my arm reassuringly. “Captain Randall willna be best pleased when Dougal tells him he’s not to have ye, and Dougal would as soon not linger in the area afterward.”
“Sensible of him,” I observed. “Also kind of him to leave us here to, er…get acquainted with each other.”
Jamie snorted. “Not kindness. That was one of the conditions I set for takin’ ye. I said I’d wed if I must, but damned if I’d consummate my marriage under a bush, wi’ twenty clansmen lookin’ on and offering advice.”
I stopped, staring at him. So that was what the shouting had been about.
”One of the conditions?” I said, slowly. “And what were the others?”
It was growing too dark to see his face clearly, but I thought he seemed embarrassed.
“Only two others,” he said finally.
“Which were?”
“Well,” he said, kicking a pebble diffidently out of the way, “I said ye must wed me proper, in kirk, before a priest. Not just by contract. As for the other—he must find ye a suitable gown to be wed in.” He looked away, avoiding my gaze, and his voice was so soft I could scarcely hear him.
“I—I knew ye didna wish to wed. I wanted to make it…as pleasant as might be for you. I thought ye might feel a bit less…well, I wanted ye to have a decent dress, is all.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but he turned away, toward the inn.
“Come along, Sassenach,” he said gruffly. “I’m hungry.”
The price of food was company, as was obvious from the moment of our appearance at the door of the inn’s main room. We were greeted by raucous cheers, and hurriedly pushed into seats at the table, where a hearty supper was already in progress.
Having been somewhat prepared this time, I didn’t mind the rough jests and crude remarks at our expense. For once, I was pleased to be modestly self-effacing, scrunching back into the corner and leaving Jamie to deal with the rough teasing and bawdy speculations about what we had been doing all day.
“Sleeping,” said Jamie, in answer to one question of this sort. “Didna catch a wink last night.” The roars of laughter that greeted this were topped by louder ones as he added in confidential tones, “She snores, ye ken.”
I obligingly cuffed his ear, and he gathered me to him and kissed me soundly, to general applause.
After supper there was dancing, to the accompaniment of the landlord’s fiddle. I had never been much of a dancer, being rather prone to trip over my own feet in times of stress. I scarcely expected that I would do better, attired in long skirts and clumsy footgear. Once I had shed the clogs, though, I was surprised to find that I danced with no difficulty and great enjoyment.
Women being in short supply, the innkeeper’s wife and I tucked up our skirts and danced jigs and reels and strathspeys without ceasing, until I had to stop and lean against the settle, red-faced and gasping for breath.
The men were absolutely indefatigable, whirling about like plaid tops, by themselves or with each other. Finally, they stood back against the wall, watching, cheering and clapping, as Jamie took both my hands and led me through something fast and frantic called “The Cock o’ the North.”
Ending up by forethought near the stair, we swirled to a close with his arm about my waist. Here we paused, and he made a short speech, mixed in Gaelic and English, which was received with further applause, particularly when he reached into his sporran and tossed a small wash-leather bag to the landlord, instructing that worthy to serve whisky so long as it lasted. I recognized it as his share of the wagers from his fight at Tunnaig. Likely all the money he had in the world; I thought it could not have been better spent.
We had made it up to the balcony, followed by a hail of indelicate good wishes, when a voice louder than the others called Jamie’s name.
Turning, I saw Rupert’s broad face, redder than usual above its bush of black beard, grinning up from below.
“No good, Rupert,” called Jamie. “She’s mine.”
“Wasted on ye, lad,” said Rupert, mopping his face with his sleeve. “She’ll ha’ye on the floor in an hour. No stayin’ power, these young lads,” he called to me. “Ye want a man who doesna waste his time sleepin’, lass, let me know. In the meantime…” He flung something upward.
A fat little bag clanked on the floor at my feet.
“A wedding present,” he called. “Courtesy of the men of the Shimi Bogil Watch.”
“Eh?” Jamie stooped to pick it up.
”Some of us dinna spend our day idlin’ about the grassy banks, lad,” he said reprovingly, rolling his eyes lewdly at me. “That money was hard earned.”
“Oh, aye,” said Jamie, grinning. “Dice or cards?”
“Both.” A raffish grin split the black beard. “Skint ‘em to the bone, lad. To the bone!”
Jamie opened his mouth, but Rupert held up a broad, callused palm.
“Nay, lad, nay need o’ thanks. Just give her a good one for me, eh?”
I pressed my fingers to my lips and blew him a kiss. Slapping a hand to his face as though struck, he staggered back with an exclamation and reeled off into the taproom, weaving as though drunk, which he wasn’t.
After all the hilarity below, the room seemed a haven of peace and quiet. Jamie, still laughing quietly to himself, sprawled out on the bed to recover his breath.
I loosened my bodice, which was uncomfortably tight, and sat down to comb the tangles out of my dance-disordered hair.
“You’ve the loveliest hair,” said Jamie, watching me.
“What? This?” I raised a hand self-consciously to my locks, which as usual, could be politely described as higgledy-piggledy.
He laughed. “Well, I like the other too,” he said, deliberately straightfaced, “but yes, I meant that.”
“But it’s so…curly,” I said, blushing a little.
“Aye, of course.” He looked surprised. “I heard one of Dougal’s girls say to a friend at the Castle that it would take three hours with the hot tongs to make hers look like that. She said she’d like to scratch your eyes out for looking like that and not lifting a hand to do so.” He sat up and tugged gently on one curl, stretching it down so that, uncurled, it reached nearly to my breast. “My sister Jenny’s hair is curly, too, but not so much as yours.”
“Is your sister’s hair red, like yours?” I asked, trying to envision what the mysterious Jenny might look like. She seemed to be often in Jamie’s mind.
He shook his head, still twisting curls in and out between his fingers. “No. Jenny’s hair is black. Black as night. I’m red like my mother, and Jenny takes after Father. Brian Dhu, they called him, ‘Black Brian,’ for his hair and his beard.”
“I’ve heard that Captain Randall is called ‘Black Jack,’ ” I ventured. Jamie laughed humorlessly.
“Oh, aye. But that’s with reference to the color of his soul, not his hair.” His gaze sharpened as he looked down at me.
“You’re not worrying about him, are ye, lass? Ye shouldna do so.” His hands left my hair and tightened possessively on my shoulders.
“I meant it, ye know,” he said softly. “I will protect you. From him, or anyone else. To the last drop of my blood, mo duinne.”
“Mo duinne?” I asked, a little disturbed by the intensity of this speech. I didn’t want to be responsible for any of his blood being spilt, last drop or first.
“It means ‘my brown one.’ ” He raised a lock of hair to his lips and smiled, with a look in his eyes that started all the drops of my own blood chasing each other through my veins. “Mo duinne,” he repeated, softly. “I have been longing to say that to you.”
“Rather a dull color, brown, I’ve always thought,” I said practically, trying to delay things a bit. I kept having the feeling of being whirled along much faster than I intended.
Jamie shook his head, still smiling.
“No, I’d not say that, Sassenach. Not dull at all.” He lifted the mass of my hair with both hands and fanned it out. “It’s like the water in a burn, where it ruffles over the stones. Dark in the wavy spots, with bits of silver on the surface where the sun catches it.”
Nervous and a little breathless, I pulled away in order to pick up the comb I had dropped on the floor. I came up to find Jamie eyeing me steadily.
“I said I wouldna ask for anything you did not wish to tell me,” he said, “and I won’t, but I draw my own conclusions. Colum thought perhaps you were an English spy, though he couldna imagine in that case why you’d no Gaelic. Dougal thinks you’re likely a French spy, maybe looking for support for King James. But in that case, he canna imagine why you were alone.”
“And what about you?” I asked, pulling hard at a stubborn tangle. “What do you think I am?”
He tilted his head appraisingly, looking me over carefully.
“To look at, you could be French. You’ve that fine-boned look through the face that some of the Angevin ladies have. Frenchwomen are usually sallow-faced, though, and you have skin like an opal.” He traced a finger slowly across the curve of my collarbone, and I felt the skin glow beneath his touch.
The finger moved to my face, drawing from temple to cheek, smoothing the hair back behind my ear. I remained immobile under his scrutiny, trying not to move as his hand passed behind my neck, thumb gently stroking my earlobe.
“Golden eyes; I’ve seen a pair like that once before—on a leopard.” He shook his head. “Nay, lass. Ye could be French, but you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve talked with you a good deal; and listened to you besides. Dougal thinks you’re French because you speak French well—verra well.”
“Thank you,” I said sarcastically. “And the fact that I speak French well proves I’m not French?”
He smiled and tightened his grip on my neck. “Vous parlez tres bien—but not quite as well as I do,” he added, dropping back into English. He released me suddenly. “I spent a year in France, after I left the castle, and two more later on with the army. I know a native speaker of French when I hear one. And French is not your mother tongue.” He shook his head slowly.
“Spanish? Perhaps, but why? Spain’s no interests in the Highlands. German? Surely not.” He shrugged. “Whoever you are, the English would want to find out. They canna afford to have unknown quantities at large, with the clans restless and Prince Charlie waiting to set sail from France. And their methods of finding out are not very gentle. I’ve reason to know.”
“And how do you know I’m not an English spy, then? Dougal thought I was, you said so.”
“It’s possible, though your spoken English is more than a little odd too. If you were, though, why would you choose to wed me, rather than go back to your own folk? That was another reason for Dougal’s makin’ ye wed me—to see would ye bolt last night, when it came to the point.”
“And I didn’t bolt. So what does that prove?”
He laughed and lay back down on the bed, an arm over his eyes to shield them from the lamp.
“Damned if I know, Sassenach. Damned if I know. There isna any reason able explanation I can think of for you. You might be one of the Wee Folk, for all I know”—he peeked sideways from under his arm—”no, I suppose not. You’re too big.”
“Aren’t you afraid. I might kill you in your sleep some night, if you don’t know who I am?”
He didn’t answer, but took his arm away from his eyes, and his smile widened. His eyes must be from the Fraser side, I thought. Not deepset like the MacKenzies’, they were set at an odd angle, so that the high cheekbones made them look almost slanted.
Without troubling to lift his head, he opened the front of his shirt and spread the cloth aside, laying his chest bare to the waist. He drew the dirk from its sheath and tossed it toward me. It thunked on the boards at my feet.
He put his arm back over his eyes and stretched his head back, showing the place where the dark stubble of his sprouting beard stopped abruptly, just below the jaw.
“Straight up, just under the breastbone,” he advised. “Quick and neat, though it takes a bit of strength. The throat-cutting’s easier, but it’s verra messy.”
I bent to pick up the dirk.
“Serve you right if I did,” I remarked. “Cocky bastard.”
The grin visible beneath the crook of his arm widened still further.
“Sassenach?”
I stopped, dirk still in my hand.
“What?”
“I’ll die a happy man.”