A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [46]
He sounded very definite about it, and I felt reassured. I did like John Grey. And still . . . the appearance of his letters, regular as clockwork, always gave me a faint sense of unease, like the hearing of distant thunder. There was nothing about the letters themselves to evoke such a response; they were like the man himself—erudite, humorous, and sincere. And he had reason to write, of course. More than one.
“He does still love you, you know,” I said quietly.
He nodded, but didn’t look at me, his gaze still fixed somewhere beyond the trees that edged the dooryard.
“Would you rather he didn’t?”
He paused, then nodded again. This time, though, he did turn to look at me.
“I would, aye. For myself. For him, certainly. But for William?” He shook his head, uncertain.
“Oh, he may have taken William on for your sake,” I said, leaning back against the counter. “But I’ve seen the two of them, remember. I’ve no doubt he loves Willie for his own sake now.”
“No, I dinna doubt that, either.” He got up, restless, and beat imaginary dust from the pleats of his kilt. His face was closed, looking inward at something he didn’t wish to share with me.
“Do you—” I began, but stopped when he glanced up at me. “No. It doesn’t matter.”
“What?” He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing.
“Nothing.”
He didn’t move, merely intensified the stare.
“I can see from your face that it’s not, Sassenach. What?”
I breathed deeply through my nose, fists wrapped in my apron.
“It’s only—and I’m sure it isn’t true, it’s only a passing thought—”
He made a low Scottish noise, indicating that I had better stop blethering and cough it up. Having enough experience to realize that he wouldn’t leave the matter ’til I did, I coughed.
“Did you ever wonder whether Lord John might have taken him because . . . well, William does look terribly like you, and evidently did from an early age. Since Lord John finds you physically . . . attractive . . .” The words died, and I could have cut my throat for speaking them, seeing the look on his face.
He closed his eyes for a moment, to stop me looking in. His fists were curled up so tightly that the veins stood out from knuckle to forearm. Very slowly, he relaxed his hands. He opened his eyes.
“No,” he said, complete conviction in his voice. He gave me a straight, hard look. “And it’s no that I canna bear the thought of it, either. I know.”
“Of course,” I said hastily, eager to leave the subject.
“I know,” he repeated more sharply. His two stiff fingers tapped, once, against his leg, and then stilled. “I thought of it, too. When he first told me he meant to wed Isobel Dunsany.”
He turned away, staring out through the window. Adso was in the dooryard, stalking something in the grass.
“I offered him my body,” Jamie said abruptly, not looking round. The words were steady enough, but I could see from the knotted shoulders how much it cost him to speak them. “In thanks, I said. But it was—” He made an odd convulsive movement, as though trying to free himself from some constraint. “I meant to see, ken, what sort of man he might be, for sure. This man who would take my son for his own.”
His voice shook, very slightly, when he said, “take my son,” and I moved to him by instinct, wanting somehow to patch the open wound beneath those words.
He was stiff when I touched him, not wanting to be embraced—but he took my hand and squeezed it.
“Could you . . . really tell, do you think?” I was not shocked; John Grey had told me of that offer, years before, in Jamaica. I didn’t think he had realized the true nature of it, though.
Jamie’s hand tightened on mine, and his thumb traced the outline of mine, rubbing lightly over the nail. He looked down at me, and I felt his eyes search my