A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [103]
That brought me up short.
Flogging wasn’t merely brutal; it was shameful—meant to permanently disfigure, as well as to hurt, advertising a criminal’s past as clearly as a branded cheek or cropped ear. And Jamie would, of course, prefer to have his tongue torn out by the roots, sooner than reveal to anyone the reasons for his scars, even if that meant leaving everyone with the assumption that he had been flogged for some disgraceful act.
I was so used to Jamie’s always keeping his shirt on in anyone else’s presence that it had never occurred to me that of course the Ardsmuir men would know about the scars on his back. And yet he hid them, and everyone pretended they did not exist—save Tom Christie.
“Hmph,” I said. “Well . . . God damn the man, anyway. Why would he say such a thing?”
Jamie uttered a short laugh.
“Because he didna like me watching him sweat. He wanted a bit of his own back, I expect.”
“Hmph,” I said again, and folded my arms beneath my bosom. “Since you mention it—why did you do that? If you knew he couldn’t stand blood and the like, I mean, why stay and watch him like that?”
“Because I kent he wouldna whimper or faint if I did,” he replied. “He’d let ye thrust red-hot needles through his eyeballs before he’d squeal in front of me.”
“Oh, so you noticed that?”
“Well, of course I did, Sassenach. What d’ye think I was there for? Not that I dinna appreciate your skill, but watching ye stitch up wounds isna really good for the digestion.” He cast a brief glance at the discarded cloth, splotched with blood, and grimaced. “D’ye think the coffee’s gone cold by now?”
“I’ll heat it up.” I slid the clean scissors back into their sheath, then sterilized the needle I’d used, ran a fresh silk suture through it, and coiled it up in its jar of alcohol—still trying to make sense of things.
I put everything back into the cupboard, then turned to Jamie.
“You aren’t afraid of Tom Christie, are you?” I demanded.
He blinked, astonished, then laughed.
“Christ, no. What makes ye think that, Sassenach?”
“Well . . . the way the two of you act sometimes. It’s like wild sheep, butting heads to see who’s stronger.”
“Oh, that.” He waved a hand, dismissive. “I’ve a harder head by far than Tom, and he kens it well enough. But he’s no going to give in and follow me round like a yearling lamb, either.”
“Oh? But what do you think you’re doing, then? You weren’t just torturing him to prove you could, were you?”
“No,” he said, and smiled faintly at me. “A man stubborn enough to speak English to Hieland men in prison for eight years is a man stubborn enough to fight beside me for the next eight years; that’s what I think. It would be good if he were sure of it, himself, though.”
I drew a deep breath and sighed, shaking my head.
“I do not understand men.”
That made him chuckle, deep in his chest.
“Yes, ye do, Sassenach. Ye only wish ye didn’t.”
The surgery lay neat again, ready for whatever emergencies the morrow might bring. Jamie reached for the lamp, but I laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“You promised me honesty,” I said. “But are you quite sure you’re being honest with yourself? You weren’t baiting Tom Christie just because he challenges you?”
He stopped, his eyes clear and unguarded, a few inches from mine. He lifted a hand and cupped the side of my face, his palm warm on my skin.
“There are only two people in this world to whom I would never lie, Sassenach,” he said softly. “Ye’re one of them. And I’m the other.”
He kissed me gently on the forehead, then leaned past me and blew out the lamp.
“Mind,” his voice came from the darkness, and I saw his tall form silhouetted against the faint oblong of light from the doorway as he straightened up, “I can be fooled. But I wouldna be doing it on purpose.”
ROGER MOVED a little, and groaned.
“I think ye broke my leg.”
“Did not,” said his wife, calmer now, but still disposed to argument. “But I’ll kiss