A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [310]
“Oh.” Roger scratched the side of his jaw. “Aye, I take your meaning. No, I can’t fight with an army, I don’t think.” Saying it, he felt a sharp pang of regret. “But take up arms in defense of—of those who need it . . . I can square that with my conscience, aye.”
“That’s all right, then.”
Jamie reeled in the rest of the line, shook water from the fly, and stuck the hook back into his hat. Laying the line aside, he rummaged in the creel and pulled out a stoneware bottle. He sat down with a sigh, pulled the cork with his teeth, spat it into his hand, and offered Roger the bottle.
“It’s a thing Claire says to me, now and again,” he explained, and quoted: “Malt does more than Milton can, to justify God’s ways to man.”
Roger lifted an eyebrow.
“Ever read Milton?”
“A bit. She’s right about it.”
“Ye ken the next lines?” Roger lifted the bottle to his lips. “Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink, For fellows whom it hurts to think.”
A subterranean laugh moved through Fraser’s eyes.
“This must be whisky, then,” he said. “It only smells like beer.”
It was cool and dark and pleasantly bitter, and they passed the bottle to and fro, not saying much of anything, until the ale was gone. Jamie put the cork thriftily back in, and tucked the empty bottle away in the creel.
“Your wife,” he said thoughtfully, rising and hitching the strap of the creel onto his shoulder.
“Aye?” Roger picked up the battered hat, bestrewn with flies, and gave it to him. Jamie nodded thanks, and set it on his head.
“She has eyes, too.”
52
M-I-C-
FIREFLIES LIT THE GRASS, the trees, and floated through the heavy air in a profusion of cool green sparks. One lighted on Brianna’s knee; she watched it pulse, on-off, on-off, and listened to her husband telling her he meant to be a minister.
They were sitting on the stoop of their cabin as the dusk thickened into night. Across the big clearing, the whoops of small children at play sounded in the bushes, high and cheerful as hunting bats.
“You . . . uh . . . could say something,” Roger suggested. His head was turned, looking at her. There was enough light yet to see his face, expectant, slightly anxious.
“Well . . . give me a minute. I sort of wasn’t expecting this, you know?”
That was true, and it wasn’t. Certainly, she hadn’t consciously thought of such a thing, yet now that he’d stated his intentions—and he had, she thought; he wasn’t asking her permission—she wasn’t at all surprised. It was less a change than a recognition of something that had been there for some time—and in a way, it was a relief to see it and know it for what it was.
“Well,” she said, after a long moment of consideration, “I think that’s good.”
“Ye do.” The relief in his voice was palpable.
“Yes. If you’re helping all these women because God told you to, that’s better than doing it because you’d rather be with them than with me.”
“Bree! Ye can’t think that, that I—” He leaned closer, looking anxiously into her face. “Ye don’t, do you?”
“Well, only sometimes,” she admitted. “In my worse moments. Not most of the time.” He looked so anxious that she reached up and cupped her hand to the long curve of his cheek; the stubble of his beard was invisible in this light, but she could feel it, soft and tickling against her palm.
“You’re sure?” she said softly. He nodded, and she saw his throat move as he swallowed.
“I’m sure.”
“Are you afraid?”
He smiled a little at that.
“Yeah.”
“I’ll help,” she said firmly. “You tell me how, and I’ll help.”
He took a deep breath, his face lightening, though his smile was rueful.
“I don’t know how,” he said. “How to do it, I mean. Let alone what you might do. That’s what scares me.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “But you’ve been doing it, anyway, haven’t you? Do you need to do anything formal about this, though? Or can you just announce you’re a minister, like those TV preachers, and start taking up the collection right away?”
He smiled at the joke, but answered seriously.
“Bloody