A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [416]
“D’ye want to ride, too?” Roger asked Germain, standing up carefully under the weight of his double burden. “Ian can carry ye, if ye like.”
Ian nodded and held out a hand, but Germain shook his head, blond hair flying.
“Non, Uncle Roger,” he said, almost too softly to hear. “I’ll walk.” And turning round, began to make his way gingerly down the precipitous slope.
69
A STAMPEDE OF BEAVERS
October 25, 1774
THEY HAD BEEN WALKING for an hour before Brianna began to realize that they weren’t after game. They’d cut the trail of a small herd of deer, with droppings so fresh that the pellets were still patchy with moisture, but Ian ignored the sign, pushing up the slope in single-minded determination.
Rollo had come with them, but after several fruitless attempts to draw his master’s attention to promising scents, abandoned them in disgust and bounded off through the flurrying leaves to do his own hunting.
The climb was too steep to permit conversation, even had Ian seemed inclined. With a mental shrug, she followed, but kept gun in hand and an eye on the brush, just in case.
They had left the Ridge at dawn; it was well past noon when they paused at last, on the bank of some small and nameless stream. A wild grapevine wrapped itself round the trunk of a persimmon that overhung the bank; animals had taken most of the grapes, but a few bunches still hung out over the water, out of reach for any but the most daring of squirrels—or a tall woman.
She shucked her moccasins and waded into the stream, gasping at the icy shock of the water on her calves. The grapes were ripe to bursting, so purple as to be nearly black, and sticky with juice. The squirrels hadn’t got to them, but the wasps had, and she kept a cautious eye on the dagger-bellied foragers as she twisted the tough stem of a particularly succulent bunch.
“So, do you want to tell me what we’re really looking for?” she asked, back turned to her cousin.
“No,” he said, a smile in his voice.
“Oh, a surprise, is it?” She popped the stem, and turned to toss the grapes to him.
He caught the bunch one-handed, and set them down on the bank beside the ragged knapsack in which he carried provisions.
“Something o’ the sort.”
“As long as we aren’t just out for a walk, then.” She twisted off another bunch, and sloshed ashore, to sit down beside him.
“No, not that.” He flipped two grapes into his mouth, crushed them, and spat the skins and pips with the ease of long custom. She nibbled hers more daintily, biting one in half and flicking the seeds out with a fingernail.
“You ought to eat the skins, Ian; they have vitamins.”
He raised one shoulder in skepticism, but said nothing. Both she and her mother had explained the concept of vitamins—numerous times—to little or no effect. Jamie and Ian had reluctantly been obliged to admit the existence of germs, because Claire could show them teeming seas of microorganisms in her microscope. Vitamins, however, were unfortunately invisible and thus could be safely ignored.
“Is it much farther, this surprise?” The grape skins were, in fact, very bitter. Her mouth puckered involuntarily as she bit into one. Ian, industriously eating and spitting, noticed and grinned at her.
“Aye, a bit farther.”
She cast an eye at the horizon; the sun was coming down the sky. If they were to turn back now, it would be dark before they reached home.
“How much farther?” She spit the mangled grape skin into her palm and flicked it away into the grass.
Ian glanced at the sun, too, and pursed his lips.
“Well . . . I should think we’ll reach it by midday tomorrow.”
“We’ll what? Ian!” He looked abashed, and ducked his head.
“I’m sorry, coz. I ken I should have told ye before—but I thought ye maybe wouldn’t come, if I said how far.”
A wasp lighted on the bunch of grapes in her hand, and she slapped it irritably away.
“You know I wouldn’t. Ian, what were you thinking? Roger will have a fit!”
Her cousin seemed to find the notion funny; his mouth turned up at the corner.
“A fit? Roger Mac? I shouldna think so.”
“Well, all right, he won’t throw