A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [573]
“Leave it,” he said.
Standing with both hands in his, I had no choice.
“Thomas,” I said, uncertain. “Mr. Christie . . .”
“I became convinced that it was God I sought. Perhaps it was. But God is not flesh and blood, and the love of God alone could not sustain me.
“I have written down my confession.” He let go, and poked a hand into his pocket, fumbling a little, and pulled out a folded paper, which he clutched in his short, solid fingers.
“I have sworn here that it was I who killed my daughter, for the shame she had brought upon me by her wantonness.” He spoke firmly enough, but I could see the working of his throat above the wilted stock.
“You didn’t,” I said positively. “I know you didn’t.”
He blinked, gazing at me.
“No,” he said, quite matter-of-fact. “But perhaps I should have.
“I have written a copy of this confession,” he said, tucking the document back into his coat, “and have left it with the newspaper in New Bern. They will publish it. The Governor will accept it—how can he not?—and you will go free.”
Those last four words struck me dumb. He was still gripping my right hand; his thumb stroked gently over my knuckles. I wanted to pull away, but forced myself to keep still, compelled by the look in his eyes, clear gray and naked now, without disguise.
“I have yearned always,” he said softly, “for love given and returned; have spent my life in the attempt to give my love to those who were not worthy of it. Allow me this: to give my life for the sake of one who is.”
I felt as though someone had knocked the wind from me. I hadn’t any breath, but struggled to form words.
“Mr. Chr—Tom,” I said. “You mustn’t. Your life has—has value. You can’t throw it away like this!”
He nodded, patient.
“I know that. If it did not, this would not matter.”
Feet were coming up the companionway, and I heard the Governor’s voice below, in cheerful conversation with the Captain of Marines.
“Thomas! Don’t do this!”
He only looked at me, and smiled—had I ever seen him smile?—but did not speak. He raised my hand and bent over it; I felt the prickle of his beard and the warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips.
“I am your servant, madam,” he said very softly. He squeezed my hand and released it, then turned and glanced toward the shore. A small boat was coming, dark against the glitter of the silver sea. “Your husband is coming for you. Adieu, Mrs. Fraser.”
He turned and walked away, back steady in spite of the swell that rose and fell beneath us.
PART ELEVEN
In the Day of Vengeance
98
TO KEEP A GHOST AT BAY
JAMIE GROANED, STRETCHED, and sat down heavily on the bed.
“I feel as though someone’s stepped on my cock.”
“Oh?” I opened one eye to look at him. “Who?”
He gave me a bloodshot look.
“I dinna ken, but it feels as though it was someone heavy.”
“Lie down,” I said, yawning. “We haven’t got to leave right away; you can rest a bit more.”
He shook his head.
“Nay, I want to be home. We’ve been gone too long as it is.” Nonetheless, he didn’t get up and finish dressing, but continued to sit on the swaybacked inn bed in his shirt, big hands hanging idle between his thighs.
He looked tired to death, in spite of just having risen, and no wonder. I didn’t think he could have slept at all for several days, what with his search for me, the burning of Fort Johnston, and the events attending my release from the Cruizer. Remembering, I felt a pall settle over my own spirits, in spite of the joy in which I had wakened, realizing that I was free, on land, and with Jamie.
“Lie down,” I repeated. I rolled toward him, and put a hand on his back. “It’s barely dawn. At least wait for breakfast; you can’t travel without rest or food.”
He glanced at the window, still shuttered; the cracks had begun to pale with the growing light, but I was right; there was no sound below of fires being stoked or pots banged