A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [65]
He was just drifting down through the first layers of sleep when he felt a hand on his privates. Jerked out of drowsiness like a salmon out of a sea-loch, he clapped a hand to the intruder’s, gripping tight. And elicited a faint giggle from his visitor.
Feminine fingers wiggled gently in his grasp, and the hand’s fellow promptly took up operations in its stead. His first coherent thought was that the lassie would be an excellent baker, so good as she was at kneading.
Other thoughts followed rapidly on the heels of this absurdity, and he tried to grab the second hand. It playfully eluded him in the dark, poking and tweaking.
He groped for a polite protest in Cherokee, but came up with nothing but a handful of random phrases in English and Gaelic, none of them faintly suitable to the occasion.
The first hand was purposefully wriggling out of his grasp, eel-like. Reluctant to crush her fingers, he let go for an instant, and made a successful grab for her wrist.
“Ian!” he hissed, in desperation. “Ian, are ye there?” He couldn’t see his nephew in the pool of darkness that filled the cabin, nor tell if he slept. There were no windows, and only the faintest light came from the dying coals.
“Ian!”
There was a stirring on the floor, bodies shifting, and he heard Rollo sneeze.
“What is it, Uncle?” He’d spoken in Gaelic, and Ian answered in the same language. The lad sounded calm, and not as though he’d just come awake.
“Ian, there is a woman in my bed,” he said in Gaelic, trying to match his nephew’s calm tone.
“There are two of them, Uncle Jamie.” Ian sounded amused, damn him! “The other will be down by your feet. Waiting her turn.”
That unnerved him, and he nearly lost his grip on the captive hand.
“Two of them! What do they think I am?”
The girl giggled again, leaned over, and bit him lightly on the chest.
“Christ!”
“Well, no, Uncle, they don’t think you’re Him,” Ian said, obviously suppressing his own mirth. “They think you’re the King. So to speak. You’re his agent, so they’re doing honor to His Majesty by sending you his women, aye?”
The second woman had uncovered his feet and was slowly stroking his soles with one finger. He was ticklish and would have found this bothersome, were he not so distracted by the first woman, with whom he was being compelled into a most undignified game of hide-the-sausage.
“Talk to them, Ian,” he said between clenched teeth, fumbling madly with his free hand, meanwhile forcing back the questing fingers of the captive hand—which were languidly stroking his ear—and wiggling his feet in a frantic effort to discourage the second lady’s attentions, which were growing bolder.
“Erm . . . what d’ye want me to say?” Ian inquired, switching back to English. His voice quivered slightly.
“Tell them I’m deeply sensible of the honor, but—gk!” Further diplomatic evasions were cut off by the sudden intrusion of someone’s tongue into his mouth, tasting strongly of onions and beer.
In the midst of his subsequent struggles, he was dimly aware that Ian had lost any sense of self-control and was lying on the floor giggling helplessly. It was filicide if you killed a son, he thought grimly; what was the word for assassinating a nephew?
“Madam!” he said, disengaging his mouth with difficulty. He seized the lady by the shoulders and rolled her off his body with enough force that she whooped with surprise, bare legs flying—Jesus, was she naked?
She was. Both of them were; his eyes adapted to the faint glow of the embers, he caught the shimmer of light from shoulders, breasts, and rounded thighs.
He sat up, gathering furs and blankets round him in a sort of hasty redoubt.
“Cease, the two of you!” he said severely in Cherokee. “You are beautiful, but I cannot lie with you.”
“No?” said one, sounding puzzled.
“Why not?” said the other.
“Ah . . . because there is an oath upon me,” he said, necessity producing inspiration. “I have sworn . . . sworn . . .” He groped for the