A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [289]
“Own me?” I said. “And what, exactly, do you mean by that?”
“What I say.” There was still a gleam of humor in his eyes, but his voice was serious. “Ye’re mine, Sassenach. And I would do anything I thought I must to make that clear.”
“Oh, indeed. Including beating me on a regular basis?”
“No, I wouldna do that.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, and the pressure of his grip on my trapped wrist increased. His eyes were deep blue, an inch from mine. “I dinna need to—because I could, Sassenach—and ye ken that well.”
I pulled against his grip, by sheer reflex. I remembered vividly that night in Doonesbury: the feeling of fighting him with all my strength—to no avail whatever. The horrifying feeling of being pinned to the bed, defenseless and exposed, realizing that he could do anything whatever that he liked to me—and would.
I squirmed violently, trying to escape the grip of memory, as much as his grasp on my flesh. I didn’t succeed, but did turn my wrist so as to be able to sink my nails into his hand.
He didn’t flinch or look away. His other hand touched me lightly—no more than a brush of my earlobe, but that was quite enough. He could touch me anywhere—in any way.
Evidently, women are capable of experiencing rational thought and sexual arousal simultaneously, because I appeared to be doing precisely that.
My brain was engaged in indignant rebuttal of all kinds of things, including at least half of everything he’d said in the course of the last few minutes.
At the same time, the other end of my spinal cord was not merely shamefully aroused at the thought of physical possession; it was bloody deliriously weak-kneed with desire at the notion, and was causing my hips to sway outward, brushing his.
He was still ignoring the dig of my nails. His other hand came up and took my free hand before I could do anything violent with it; he folded his fingers around mine and held them captive, down at my side.
“If ye asked me, Sassenach, to free ye—” he whispered, “d’ye think I’d do so?”
I took a deep breath; deep enough that my breasts brushed his chest, he stood so close, and realization welled up in me. I stood still, breathing, watching his eyes, and felt my agitation fade slowly away, mutating into a sense of conviction, heavy and warm in the pit of my belly.
I had thought my body swayed in answer to his—and it did. But his moved unconsciously with mine; the rhythm of the pulse I saw in his throat was the pounding of the heartbeat that echoed in my wrist, and the sway of his body followed mine, barely touching, moving scarcely more than the leaves above, sighing on the breeze.
“I wouldn’t ask,” I whispered. “I’d tell you. And you’d do it. You’d do as I said.”
“Would I?” His grip on my wrist was still firm, and his face so close to mine that I felt his smile, rather than saw it.
“Yes,” I said. I had stopped pulling at my trapped wrist; instead, I pulled my other hand from his—he made no move to stop me—and brushed a thumb from the lobe of his ear down the side of his neck. He took a short, sharp breath, and a tiny shudder ran through him, stippling his skin with goosebumps in the wake of my touch.
“Yes, you would,” I said again very softly. “Because I own you, too . . . man. Don’t I?”
His hand released its grip abruptly and slid upward, long fingers intertwining with mine, his palm large and warm and hard against my own.
“Oh, aye,” he said, just as softly. “Ye do.” He lowered his head the last half-inch and his lips brushed mine, whispering, so that I felt the words as much as heard them.
“And I ken that verra well indeed, mo nighean donn.”
48
WOODEARS
DESPITE HIS DISMISSAL of her worries, Jamie had promised his wife to look into the matter, and found opportunity to speak with Malva Christie a few days later.
Coming back from Kenny Lindsay’s place, he met a snake curled up in the dust of the path before him. It was a largish creature, but gaily striped—not one of the venomous vipers. Still,