A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [96]
“I’ve never seen any woman wash herself sae much as you do—save Brianna, perhaps.
“Ye’re no much of a cook,” he went on, squinting thoughtfully. “Though ye’ve never poisoned anyone, save on purpose. And I will say ye sew a neat seam—though ye like it much better if it’s through someone’s flesh.”
“Thanks so much!”
“Tell me some more virtues,” he suggested. “Perhaps I’ve missed one.”
“Hmph! Gentleness, patience . . .” I floundered.
“Gentle? Christ.” He shook his head. “Ye’re the most ruthless, bloodthirsty—”
I darted my head upward, and nearly succeeded in biting him in the throat. He jerked back, laughing.
“No, ye’re no verra patient, either.”
I gave up struggling for the moment and collapsed flat on my back, tousled hair spread out on the grass.
“So what is my most endearing trait?” I demanded.
“Ye think I’m funny,” he said, grinning.
“I . . . do . . . not . . .” I grunted, struggling madly. He merely lay on top of me, tranquilly oblivious to my pokings and thumpings, until I exhausted myself and lay gasping underneath him.
“And,” he said thoughtfully, “ye like it verra much when I take ye to bed. No?”
“Er . . .” I wanted to contradict him, but honesty forbade. Besides, he bloody well knew I did.
“You are squashing me,” I said with dignity. “Kindly get off.”
“No?” he repeated, not moving.
“Yes! All right! Yes! Will you bloody get off?!”
He didn’t get off, but bent his head and kissed me. I was close-lipped, determined not to give in, but he was determined, too, and if one came right down to it . . . the skin of his face was warm, the plush of his beard stubble softly scratchy, and his wide sweet mouth . . . My legs were open in abandon and he was solid between them, bare chest smelling of musk and sweat and sawdust caught in the wiry auburn hair. . . . I was still hot with struggling, but the grass was damp and cool around us. . . . Well, all right; another minute, and he could have me right there, if he cared to.
He felt me yield, and sighed, letting his own body slacken; he no longer held me prisoner, but simply held me. He lifted his head then, and cupped my face with one hand.
“D’ye want to know what it is, really?” he asked, and I could see from the dark blue of his eyes that he meant it. I nodded, mute.
“Above all creatures on this earth,” he whispered, “you are faithful.”
I thought of saying something about St. Bernard dogs, but there was such tenderness in his face that I said nothing, instead merely staring up at him, blinking against the green light that filtered through the needles overhead.
“Well,” I said at last, with a deep sigh of my own, “so are you. Quite a good thing, really. Isn’t it?”
21
WE HAVE IGNITION
MRS. BUG HAD MADE chicken fricassee for supper, but that wasn’t sufficient to account for the air of suppressed excitement that Bree and Roger brought with them when they came in. They were both smiling, her cheeks were flushed, and his eyes as bright as hers.
So when Roger announced that they had great news, it was perhaps only reasonable that Mrs. Bug should leap directly to the obvious conclusion.
“You’re wi’ child again!” she cried, dropping a spoon in her excitement. She clapped her hands together, inflating like a birthday balloon. “Oh, the joy of it! And about time, too,” she added, letting go her hands to wag a finger at Roger. “And here was me thinkin’ as I should add a bit o’ ginger and brimstone to your parritch, young man, so as to bring ye up to scratch! But ye kent your business weel enough in the end, I see. And you, a bhailach, what d’ye think? A bonny wee brother for ye!”
Jemmy, thus addressed, stared up at her, mouth open.
“Er . . .” said Roger, flushing up.
“Or, of course, it might be a wee sister, I suppose,” Mrs. Bug admitted. “But good news, good news, either way. Here, a luaidh, have a sweetie on the strength of it, and the rest of us will drink to it!”
Obviously bewildered, but strongly in favor of sweeties, Jem took the proffered molasses drop and stuck it promptly in his mouth.
“But he isn’t—” Bree began.