A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [88]
“Verra useful in case of the toothache,” Jamie observed. “Where’s the woman gone to? Mrs. Bug!”
“So it would be, but it will take some time to make. We’ll have to make do with whisky for the moment. Mrs. Bug is in the summer kitchen, I expect; it’s bread day. And speaking of alcohol—” He was already out the back door, and I scampered across the stoop after him. “I’ll need quite a bit of high-quality alcohol, for the ether. Can you bring me a barrel of the new stuff tomorrow?”
“A barrel? Christ, Sassenach, what d’ye mean to do, bathe in it?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, yes. Or rather not me—the oil of vitriol. You pour it gently into a bath of hot alcohol, and it—”
“Oh, Mr. Fraser! I did think as how I heard someone a-callin’.” Mrs. Bug appeared suddenly with a basket of eggs over one arm, beaming. “It’s pleased I am to see ye home again safe!”
“And glad to be so, Mrs. Bug,” he assured her. “Can we be feeding a half-dozen guests for supper?”
Her eyes went wide for a moment, then narrowed in calculation.
“Sausage,” she declared. “And neeps. Here, wee Bobby, come and make yourself useful.” Handing me the eggs, she seized Bobby, who had come out of the house after us, by the sleeve and towed him off toward the turnip patch.
I had the feeling of having been caught in some rapidly revolving apparatus like a merry-go-round, and took hold of Jamie’s arm in order to steady myself.
“Did you know that Bobby Higgins is in love with Lizzie?” I asked.
“No, but it’ll do him little good if he is,” Jamie replied callously. Taking my hand on his arm as invitation, he took the eggs from me and set them on the ground, then pulled me in and kissed me again, more slowly, but no less thoroughly.
He let go with a deep sigh of content, and glanced at the new summer kitchen we had erected in his absence: a small framed structure consisting of coarse-woven canvas walls and a pine-branch roof, erected round a stone hearth and chimney—but with a large table inside. Enticing scents of rising dough, fresh-baked bread, oatcakes, and cinnamon rolls wafted through the air from it.
“Now, about that quarter of an hour, Sassenach . . . I believe I could manage wi’ a bit less, if necessary. . . .”
“Well, I couldn’t,” I said firmly, though I did allow my hand to fondle him for a thoughtful instant. My face was burning from contact with his whiskers. “And when we do have time, you can tell me what on earth you’ve been doing to bring this on.”
“Dreaming,” he said.
“What?”
“I kept havin’ terrible lewd dreams about ye, all the night long,” he explained, twitching his breeks into better adjustment. “Every time I rolled over, I’d lie on my cock and wake up. It was awful.”
I burst out laughing, and he affected to look injured, though I could see reluctant amusement behind it.
“Well, you can laugh, Sassenach,” he said. “Ye havena got one to trouble ye.”
“Yes, and a great relief it is, too,” I assured him. “Er . . . what sort of lewd dreams?”
I could see a deep blue gleam of speculation at the back of his eyes as he looked at me. He extended one finger, and very delicately ran it down the side of my neck, the slope of my breast where it disappeared into my bodice, and over the thin cloth covering my nipple—which promptly popped up like a puffball mushroom in response to this attention.
“The sort that make me want to take ye straight into the forest, far enough that no one will hear when I lay ye on the ground, lift your skirts, and split ye like a ripe peach,” he said softly. “Aye?”
I swallowed, audibly.
At this delicate moment, whoops of greeting came from the trailhead on the other side of the house.
“Duty calls,” I said, a trifle breathless.
Jamie drew a deep breath of his own, squared his shoulders, and nodded.
“Well, I havena died of unrequited lust yet; I suppose I shallna do it now.”
“Don’t suppose you will,” I said. “Besides, didn’t you tell me once that abstinence makes . . . er . . . things . . . grow firmer?