A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [592]
She wasn’t even leaving that much. Heartsick, she watched until the island sank into the sea.
No one came for some hours. Empty-bellied, she grew nauseated, and threw up in the chamber pot. She could not bear the thought of lying down on those revolting sheets, but instead pulled them off, remade the bed with only the quilts, and lay down.
The windows were open, and the fresh air of the sea stirred her hair and lifted the clamminess from her skin, making her feel a little better. She was unbearably conscious of her womb, a small, heavy, tender weight, and what was likely happening inside it: that orderly dance of dividing cells, a sort of peaceful violence, implacably wresting lives and wrenching hearts.
When had it happened? She tried to think back, remember. It might have been the night before Roger left for Edenton. He had been excited, almost exalted, and they had made love with lingering joy, spiced by longing, for they both knew the morrow would bring separation. She had fallen asleep in his arms, feeling loved.
But then she had waked alone, in the middle of the night, to find him sitting by the window, bathed in the light of a gibbous moon. She had been reluctant to disturb his private contemplation, but he had turned, feeling her eyes on him, and something in his look had made her get out of bed and go to him, taking his head against her bosom, holding him.
He had risen then, laid her on the floor, and had her again, wordless and urgent.
Catholic that she was, she had found it terribly erotic, the notion of seducing a priest on the eve of his ordination, stealing him—if only for a moment—from God.
She swallowed, hands clasped over her belly. Be careful what you pray for. The nuns at school had always told the children that.
The wind was growing cold, chilling her, and she pulled the edge of one quilt—the cleanest—over her. Then, concentrating fiercely, she began very carefully to pray.
103
PUT TO THE QUESTION
NEIL FORBES sat in the parlor of the King’s Inn, enjoying a glass of hard cider and the feeling that all was right with the world. He had had a most fruitful meeting with Samuel Iredell and his friend, two of the most prominent rebel leaders in Edenton—and an even more fruitful meeting with Gilbert Butler and William Lyons, local smugglers.
He had a great fondness for jewels, and in private celebration of his elegant disposal of the threat of Jamie Fraser, he had bought a new stickpin, topped with a beautiful ruby. He contemplated this with quiet satisfaction, noting the lovely shadows that the stone cast on the silk of his ruffle.
His mother was safely planted at her sister’s house, he had an appointment for luncheon with a local lady, and an hour to spare beforehand. Perhaps a stroll to stimulate appetite; it was a beautiful day.
He had in fact pushed back his chair and begun to rise when a large hand planted itself in the center of his chest and shoved him back into it.
“What—?” He looked up in indignation—and took great care to keep that expression on his face, despite a sudden deep qualm. A tall, dark man was standing over him, wearing a most unfriendly expression. MacKenzie, the chit’s husband.
“How dare you, sir?” he said, belligerent. “I must demand apology!”
“You demand what ye like,” MacKenzie said. He was pale under his tan, and grim. “Where is my wife?”
“How should I know?” Forbes’s heart was beating fast, but with glee as much as trepidation. He lifted his chin and made to rise. “You will excuse me, sir.”
A hand on his arm stopped him, and he turned, looking into the face of Fraser’s nephew, Ian Murray. Murray smiled, and Forbes’s sense of self-satisfaction diminished