A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [688]
Beside which I could shelter.)
Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri
Òbhan ìri ò!
Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri
’S mòr mo mhulad ‘s mòr.
(Woe is me, woe is me
Woe is me, great indeed is my sorrow.)
I smiled to see them, though with a catch in my throat. I remembered Jamie carrying Jem back from swimming, the summer before, and Roger singing to Mandy in the night, his harsh, cracked voice little more than a whisper—but music, all the same.
I nodded to Bobby, who smiled and nodded back, though without interrupting his song. He raised his brows and jerked a thumb over his shoulder and uphill, presumably indicating where Jamie had gone. He betrayed no surprise at seeing me in shift and shawl—doubtless he thought I was bound for the stream to wash, as well, inspired by the singular warmth of the day.
Eudail mhòir a shluagh an domhain
Dhòirt iad d’ fhuil an dè
’S chuir iad do cheann air stob daraich
Tacan beag bhod chrè.
(Great sweetheart of all people of the world
They poured your blood yesterday
And they put your head on an oak stick
A short distance from your body.)
Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri
Òbhan ìri ò!
Òbhan, òbhan òbhan ìri
‘S mòr mo mhulad ‘s mòr.
(Woe is me, woe is me
Woe is me, great indeed is my sorrow.)
I waved briefly and turned up the side trail that led to the upper clearing. “New House,” everyone called it, though the only indications that there might someday be a house there were a stack of felled logs and a number of pegs driven into the ground, with strings tied between them. These were meant to mark the placement and dimensions of the house Jamie intended to build in replacement of the Big House—when we came back.
He’d been moving the pegs, I saw. The wide front room was now wider, and the back room intended for my surgery had developed a growth of some sort, perhaps a separate stillroom.
The architect was sitting on a log, surveying his kingdom, stark naked.
“Expecting me, were you?” I asked, taking off my shawl and hanging it on a convenient branch.
“I was.” He smiled, and scratched his chest. “I thought the sight of my naked backside would likely inflame ye. Or was it maybe Bobby’s?”
“Bobby hasn’t got one. Do you know, you haven’t got a single gray hair below the neck? Why is that, I wonder?”
He glanced down, inspecting himself, but it was true. There were only a few strands of silver among the fiery mass of his hair, though his beard—the winter growth tediously and painfully removed a few days before—was heavily frosted with white. But the hair on his chest was still a dark auburn, and that below a fluffy mass of vivid ginger.
He combed his fingers thoughtfully through the exuberant foliage, looking down.
“I think it’s hiding,” he remarked, and glanced up at me, one eyebrow raised. “Want to come and help me hunt for it?”
I came round in front of him and obligingly knelt down. The object in question was in fact quite visible, though admittedly looking rather shell-shocked by the recent immersion, and a most interesting shade of pale blue.
“Well,” I said, after a moment’s contemplation. “Great oaks from tiny acorns grow. Or so I’m told.”
A shiver ran through him at the warmth of my mouth and I lifted my hands involuntarily, cradling his balls.
“Holy God,” he said, and his hands rested lightly on my head in benediction.
“What did ye say?” he asked, a moment later.
“I said,” I said, coming up momentarily for air, “I find the gooseflesh rather erotic.”
“There’s more where that came from,” he assured me. “Take your shift off, Sassenach. I havena seen ye naked in nearly four months.”
“Well … no, you haven’t,” I agreed, hesitating. “And I’m not sure I want you to.”
One eyebrow went up.
“Whyever not?”
“Because I’ve been indoors for weeks on end without sun or exercise to speak of. I probably look like one of those grubs you find under rocks—fat, white, and squidgy.”
“Squidgy?” he repeated, breaking into a grin.
“Squidgy,” I said with dignity, wrapping my arms around myself.
He pursed his lips and exhaled slowly, eyeing me with his head on one side.