A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [179]
His free hand had curled up as he spoke, grasping the hilt of a remembered dirk.
I flinched, knowing now exactly what that had felt like. Just hearing about it made my own nose throb. I sniffed, dabbed cautiously at it with the back of my hand, and poured more wine.
“How did you get away?”
“I took the musket from him and clubbed them both to death with it.”
He spoke quietly, almost colorlessly, but there was an odd resonance to his voice that made my stomach shift uneasily. It was too fresh, that sight of the blood drops gleaming by dawn light in the hairs of his arm. Too fresh, that undertone of—what was it? satisfaction?—in his voice.
I was suddenly too restless to sit still. A moment before I had been so exhausted that my bones were melting; now I had to move. I stood up, leaning out over the sill. The storm was coming; the wind was freshening, blowing back my new-washed hair, and lightning flickered in the distance.
“I’m sorry, Sassenach,” Jamie said, sounding worried. “I shouldna have told ye. Are ye bothered by it?”
“Bothered? No, not by that.”
I spoke a little tersely. Why had I asked him about his nose, of all things? Why now, when I had been content to live in ignorance for the last several years?
“What bothers ye, then?” he asked quietly.
What was bothering me was that the wine had been doing its job of anesthetizing me nicely; now I had ruined it. All the images of the night before were back inside my head, thrown into vivid Technicolor by that simple statement, that oh-so-matter-of-fact, “I took the musket from him and clubbed them both to death with it.” And its unspoken echo, It is myself who kills for her.
I wanted to throw up. Instead, I gulped more wine, not even tasting it, swallowing it down as fast as I could. I dimly heard Jamie ask again what bothered me, and swung round to glare at him.
“What bothers me—bothers! What a stupid word! What drives me absolutely mad is that I might have been anyone, anything—a convenient warm spot with spongy bits to squeeze—God, I was no more than a hole to them!”
I struck the sill with my fist, then, angered by the impotent little thump of it, picked up my cup, turned round, and hurled it against the wall.
“It wasn’t that way with Black Jack Randall, was it?” I demanded. “He knew you, didn’t he? He saw you when he used you; it wouldn’t have been the same if you were anyone—he wanted you.”
“My God, ye think that was better?” he blurted, and stared at me, eyes wide.
I stopped, panting for breath and feeling dizzy.
“No.” I dropped onto the stool and closed my eyes, feeling the room go round and round me, colored lights like a carousel behind my eyes. “No. I don’t. I think Jack Randall was a bloody sociopathic, grade-A pervert, and these—these”—I flipped a hand, unable to think of a suitable word—“they were just . . . men.”
I spoke the last word with a sense of loathing evident even to me.
“Men,” Jamie said, his voice sounding odd.
“Men,” I said. I opened my eyes and looked at him. My eyes felt hot, and I thought they must glow red, like a possum’s in torchlight.
“I have lived through a fucking world war,” I said, my voice low and venomous. “I have lost a child. I have lost two husbands. I have starved with an army, been beaten and wounded, been patronized, betrayed, imprisoned, and attacked. And I have fucking survived!” My voice was rising, but I was helpless to stop it. “And now should I be shattered because some wretched, pathetic excuses for men stuck their nasty little appendages between my legs and wiggled them?!” I stood up, seized the edge of the washstand and heaved it over, sending everything flying with a crash—basin, ewer, and lighted candlestick, which promptly went out.
“Well, I won’t,” I said quite calmly.
“Nasty little appendages?” he said, looking rather stunned.
“Not yours,” I said. “I didn’t mean yours. I’m rather fond of yours.” Then I sat down and burst into tears.
His arms came round me, slowly and gently. I didn’t startle or jerk away, and he pressed my head against him, smoothing