A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [74]
“Of course, it would be just then that Roger chose to arrive with the new tenants,” I said, repressing an urge to laugh inappropriately at the memory. “Poor things. It was getting dark, and here they all were, standing in the woods with their bundles and children, watching this—this bally conflagration going on, and all of us dancing round barefoot with our shifts kirtled up, hooting like gibbons and covered with soot.”
Jamie covered his eyes with one hand, plainly visualizing the scene. His chest shook briefly, and a wide grin spread beneath the hand.
“Oh, God. They must ha’ thought Roger Mac had brought them to hell. Or to a coven meeting, at least.”
A bubble of guilty laughter was forcing itself up from under my ribs.
“They did. Oh, Jamie—the looks on their faces!” I lost my grip and buried my own face in his chest. We shook together for a moment, laughing almost soundlessly.
“I did try to make them welcome,” I said, snorting a little. “We gave them supper, and found them all places to sleep—as many as we could fit in the house, the rest spread between Brianna’s cabin, the stable, and the barn. I came down quite late at night, though—I couldn’t sleep, for all the excitement—and found a dozen of them praying in the kitchen.”
They had been standing in a circle near the hearth, hands linked and heads bowed reverently. All the heads had snapped up at my appearance, eyes showing white in thin, haggard faces. They’d stared at me in total silence, and one of the women had let go the hand of the man beside her to hide her own hand under her apron. In another time and place, I should have thought she was reaching for some weapon—and perhaps she was, at that; I was fairly sure she was making the sign of the horns beneath the shelter of the ragged cloth.
I’d already discovered that only a few of them spoke English. I asked in my halting Gaelic whether they needed anything? They stared at me as though I had two heads, then after a moment, one of the men, a wizened creature with a thin mouth, had shaken his head the barest inch.
“Then they went right back to their praying, leaving me to skulk off back to bed.”
“Ye went down in your shift?”
“Well . . . yes. I didn’t expect anyone to be awake at that hour.”
“Mmphm.” His knuckles grazed my breast, and I could tell exactly what he was thinking. My summer night rail was thin, worn linen, and yes, all right, dammit, I supposed one could see through it a bit in the light, but the kitchen had been lit only by the ruddy glow of a smoored hearth.
“I dinna suppose ye went down in a proper nightcap, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, running a thoughtful hand through my hair. I’d loosened it to go to bed with him, and it was writhing off merrily in all directions, à la Medusa.
“Of course not. I had it plaited, though,” I protested. “Quite respectable!”
“Oh, quite,” he agreed, grinning, and pushing his fingers up into the wild mass of my hair, cradled my head in his hands and kissed me. His lips were chapped from wind and sun, but agreeably soft. He hadn’t shaved since his departure and his beard was short and curly, springy to the touch.
“Well, so. They’re sorted now, I expect? The tenants?” His lips brushed my cheek, and nibbled gently at my ear. I inhaled deeply.
“Ah. Oh. Yes. Arch Bug took them off in the morning; he’s got them parceled out with families all over the Ridge, and already working on . . .” My train of thought temporarily derailed, and I closed my fingers by reflex in the muscle of his chest.
“And ye told Murdo I’d make it right with him, of course. About the barley?”
“Yes, of course.” My drifting attention snagged momentarily and I laughed. “He just stared at me, and then nodded in a dazed sort of way, and said, oh, just as Himself liked, to be sure. I don’t know if he realized even then why I’d burnt his field; perhaps he just thought