A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [170]
Roger closed his eyes against starting tears, and pressed his mouth against the soft warmth of Jemmy’s hair.
The firelight made black and red shadows on the insides of his lids; by looking at them, he could keep the tears at bay. It didn’t matter what he saw there. He had a small collection of grisly moments, vivid from the dawn, but he could look at those unmoved—for now. It was the sleeping trust in his arms that moved him, and the echo of his own whispered words.
Was it even a memory? Perhaps it was no more than a wish—that he had once been roused from sleep, only to sleep again in strong arms, hearing, “Daddy’s here.”
He took deep breaths, slowing to the rhythm of Jem’s breathing, calming himself. It seemed important not to weep, even though there was no one to see or care.
Jamie had looked at him, as they moved from Brown’s pallet, the question clear in his eyes.
“Ye dinna think I mind only for myself, I hope?” he had said, low-voiced. His eyes had turned toward the gap in the brush where Claire had gone, half-squinting as though he could not bear to look, but couldn’t keep his eyes away.
“For her,” he said, so low that Roger scarcely heard. “Would she rather . . . have the doubt, d’ye think? If it came to that.”
Roger took a deep breath of his son’s hair, and hoped to God he’d said the right thing, there among the trees.
“I don’t know,” he’d said. “But for you—if there’s room for doubt—I say, take it.”
If Jamie were disposed to follow that advice, Bree should be home soon.
“I’M FINE,” I said firmly. “Perfectly fine.”
Bree narrowed her eyes at me.
“Sure you are,” she said. “You look like you’ve been run over by a locomotive. Two locomotives.”
“Yes,” I said, and touched my split lip gingerly. “Well. Yes. Other than that, though . . .”
“Are you hungry? Sit down, Mama, I’ll make you some tea, then maybe a little supper.”
I wasn’t hungry, didn’t want tea, and particularly didn’t want to sit down—not after a long day on horseback. Brianna was already taking down the teapot from its shelf above the sideboard, though, and I couldn’t find the proper words to stop her. All of a sudden, I seemed to have no words at all. I turned toward Jamie, helpless.
He somehow divined my feeling, though he couldn’t have read much of anything on my face, given its current state. He stepped forward, though, and took the teapot from her, murmuring something too low for me to catch. She frowned at him, glanced at me, then back, still frowning. Then her face changed a little, and she came toward me, looking searchingly into my face.
“A bath?” she asked quietly. “Shampoo?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, and my shoulders sagged in grateful relief. “Please.”
I did sit down then, after all, and let her sponge my hands and feet, and wash my hair in a basin of warm water drawn from the cauldron in the hearth. She did it quietly, humming under her breath, and I began to relax under the soothing scrub of her long, strong fingers.
I’d slept—from sheer exhaustion—part of the way, leaning on Jamie’s chest. There’s no way of achieving real rest on horseback, though, and I found myself now close to nodding off, noticing only in a dreamy, detached sort of way that the water in the basin had turned a grubby, cloudy red, full of grit and leaf fragments.
I’d changed to a clean shift; the feel of the worn linen on my skin was sheer luxury, cool and smooth.
Bree was humming softly, under her breath. What was it . . . “Mr. Tambourine Man,” I thought. One of those sweetly silly songs of the sixt—
1968.
I gasped, and Bree’s hands gripped my head, steadying me.
“Mama? Are you all right? Did I touch something—”
“No! No, I’m fine,” I said, looking down into the swirls of dirt and blood. I took a deep breath, heart pounding. “Perfectly fine. Just—began to doze off, that’s all.”
She snorted, but took