A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [483]
The general stampede in response to this enabled Brianna to hide her feelings, but they were still there—and painfully clear, if still tangled.
Yes, she did want another baby, thank you, she thought fiercely at Roger’s oblivious back. In the instant of holding the newborn child, she wanted it with a yearning of flesh that surpassed hunger or thirst. And she would have loved to blame him for the fact that it hadn’t happened yet.
It had taken a true leap of faith, across the vertiginous abyss of knowledge, for her to put aside her dauco seeds, those fragile pellets of protection. But she’d done it. And nothing. Lately, she’d been thinking uneasily of what Ian had told her about his wife and their struggles to conceive. True, she had suffered no miscarriage, and was profoundly grateful for that. But the part he had told her, where their lovemaking became more mechanical and desperate—that was beginning to loom like a specter in the distance. It hadn’t gotten that bad yet—but more often than not, she turned into Roger’s arms, thinking, Now? Will it be this time? But it never was.
The twins were becoming more comfortable with their offspring, their dark heads pressed close together, tracing the chubby outlines of his sleeping features and wondering aloud who he most resembled, of all idiotic things.
Lizzie was single-mindedly devouring her second plate of hoecakes, accompanied by grilled sausages. The smell was wonderful, but Brianna wasn’t hungry.
It was a good thing that they knew for sure, she told herself, watching Roger take his turn to hold the baby, his dark, lean face softening. If there had still been any doubt that Jemmy was Roger’s child, he would have blamed himself as Ian did, thought there was something wrong with him. As it was . . .
Had something happened to her? she wondered uneasily. Had Jemmy’s birth damaged something?
Jamie was holding the new baby now, one big hand cradling the round little head, smiling down with that look of soft affection so peculiar—and endearing—to men. She did long to see that look on Roger’s face, holding his own newborn child.
“Mr. Fraser.” Lizzie, filled at last with sausages, put aside her empty plate and leaned forward, looking earnestly up at Jamie. “My father. Does—does he know?” She couldn’t help glancing at the empty doorway behind him.
Jamie looked momentarily disconcerted.
“Ah,” he said, and handed the baby carefully to Roger, clearly taking advantage of the pause to try to think of some less-hurtful way to phrase the truth.
“Aye, he kens the babe was on the way,” he said carefully. “I told him.”
And he had not come. Lizzie’s lips pressed together, and a shadow of unhappiness crossed the new-moon glow of her face.
“Had we—had I—one of us—best go and tell him, sir?” one of the twins asked hesitantly. “That the child’s here, I mean, and . . . and that Lizzie’s all right.”
Jamie hesitated, clearly uncertain whether that would be a good idea or not. Mr. Wemyss, pale and ill-looking, had not referred to his daughter, his putative sons-in-law, or his theoretical grandchild since the imbroglio surrounding Lizzie’s multiple weddings. Now that the grandchild was a concrete fact, though . . .
“Whatever he thinks he ought to do,” Claire said, her face slightly troubled, “he’ll want to know that they’re all right, surely.”
“Oh, aye,” Jamie agreed. He glanced dubiously at the twins. “I’m just no entirely sure it should be Jo or Kezzie to tell him, though.”
The twins exchanged a long glance, in which some decision seemed to be reached.
“It should, sir,” one of them said firmly, turning to Jamie. “The baby’s ourn, but it’s his blood, too. That’s a link between us; he’ll know that.”
“We don’t want him to be crosswise with Lizzie, sir,” his brother said, more soft-spoken. “It hurts her. Might be the baby would . . . ease things, d’ye think?”
Jamie’s face betrayed nothing other than a studied attention to the matter at hand, but Brianna saw him dart a quick glance at Roger before returning his gaze to the bundle in Roger’s arm, and she