A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [567]
I watched the long, smooth reach of his arms and the pull of the oars, and felt a sudden deep, calm happiness. I had no notion what might happen—and all the horror and anger connected with Malva’s death still lurked at the back of my mind, a great dark shape under very thin ice. But he was there. Near enough now to see his face, as he looked back over his shoulder toward the ship.
I lifted a hand to wave; his eyes were already fixed on me. He didn’t stop rowing, but turned round and came on. I stood clinging to the rail, waiting.
The rowboat passed out of sight for a moment, under the lee of the Cruizer, and I heard the watch hail him, the deep half-audible answer, and felt something that had been knotted inside me for a long time let go at the sound of his voice.
I stood rooted, though, not able to move. Then there were footsteps on deck, and a murmur of voices—someone going to fetch the Governor—and I turned blindly, into Jamie’s arms.
“Knew you’d come,” I whispered into the linen of his shirt. He reeked of fire: smoke and pinesap and scorched cloth, and the bitter tang of turpentine. Reeked of stale sweat and horses, the weariness of a man who has not slept, who has labored all night, the faint yeasty smell of long hunger.
He held me close, ribs and breath and warmth and muscle, then put me away from him a little and looked down into my face. He had been smiling since I saw him. It lit his eyes, and without a word, he pulled the cap off my head and threw it over the rail. He ran his hands through my hair, fluffing it out into abandon, then cupped my head in his hands and kissed me, fingers digging into my scalp. He had a three-day beard, which rasped my skin like sandpaper, and his mouth was home and safety.
Somewhere behind him, one of the Marines coughed, and said loudly, “You wished to see the Governor, I believe, sir?”
He let go, slowly, and turned.
“I do indeed,” he said, and put out a hand to me. “Sassenach?”
I took it, and followed the Marine, heading for the companionway. I glanced back over the rail, to see my cap bobbing in the swell, puffed with air and tranquil as a jellyfish.
The momentary illusion of peace vanished directly, though, once we were below.
The Governor had been up most of the night, as well, and didn’t look much better than Jamie, though he was not, of course, besmeared with soot. He was, however, unshaven, bloodshot, and in no mood to be trifled with.
“Mr. Fraser,” he said with a short nod. “You are James Fraser, I collect? And you dwell in the mountain backcountry?”
“I am the Fraser, of Fraser’s Ridge,” Jamie said courteously. “And I have come for my wife.”
“Oh, have you.” The Governor gave him a sour look and sat down, gesturing indifferently at a stool. “I regret to inform you, sir, that your wife is a prisoner of the Crown. Though perhaps you were aware of this?”
Jamie ignored this bit of sarcasm and took the proffered seat.
“In fact, she is not,” he said. “It is true, is it not, that you have declared martial law upon the colony of North Carolina?”
“It is,” Martin said shortly. This was rather a sore point, since while he had declared martial law, he was in no position actually to enforce it, but was obliged to float impotently offshore, fuming, until and unless England chose to send him reinforcements.
“Then in fact, all customary legal usage is suspended,” Jamie pointed out. “You alone have control over the custody and disposition of any prisoners—and my wife has in fact been in your custody for some little time. Ye therefore have also the power to release her.”
“Hm,” said the Governor. Plainly he hadn’t thought of that, and wasn’t sure of its ramifications. At the same time, the notion that he was in control of anything at all at the moment was likely soothing to his inflamed spirits.
“She has not been committed for trial, and in fact, there has been no evidence whatever adduced against her,” Jamie said firmly.
I found myself uttering a silent prayer of thanks that I had told MacDonald