Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [150]
I glanced up to find Jamie blushing from navel to hairline.
“Er,” he said, taking an exaggerated interest in a mud stain on one knee, “it…doesna go on a man’s finger.”
“Then what…oh.” I looked at the circular object with renewed interest. “Goodness. I’ve heard of them before…”
“You have?” said Jamie, thoroughly scandalized.
“But I’ve never seen one. Does it fit you?” I reached out to try it. He clasped his hands reflexively over his private parts.
Marguerite, arriving with more water, assured him, “Ne vous en faîtes pas, Monsieur. J’en ai déjà vu un.” Don’t worry yourself, monsieur; I’ve already seen one.
Dividing a glare between me and the maid, he pulled a quilt across his lap.
“Bad enough to spend all night defending my virtue,” he remarked with some asperity, “without havin’ it subjected to comment in the morning.”
“Defending your virtue, hm?” I tossed the ring idly from hand to hand, catching it on opposing index fingers. “A gift, was it?” I asked, “or a loan?”
“A gift. Don’t do that, Sassenach,” he said, wincing. “It brings back memories.”
“Ah yes,” I said, eying him. “Now about those memories…”
“Not me!” he protested. “Surely ye dinna think I’d do such things? I’m a married man!”
“Monsieur Millefleurs isn’t married?”
“He’s not only married, he has two mistresses,” Jamie said. “But he’s French—that’s different.”
“The Duc di Castellotti isn’t French—he’s Italian.”
“But he’s a duke. That’s different, too.”
“Oh, it is, is it? I wonder if the Duchess thinks so.”
“Considering a few things the Duc claimed he learnt from the Duchess, I would imagine so. Isn’t that bath ready yet?”
Clutching the quilt about him, he lumbered from the bed to the steaming tub and stepped in. He dropped the quilt and lowered himself quickly, but not quite quickly enough.
“Enorme!” said the maid, crossing herself.
“C’est tout,” I said repressively. “Merci bien.” She dropped her eyes, blushed, and scuttled out.
As the door closed behind the maid, Jamie relaxed into the tub, high at the back to allow for lounging; the feeling of the times seemed to be that once having gone to the trouble of filling a bath, one might as well enjoy it. His stubbled face assumed an expression of bliss as he sank gradually lower into the steaming water, a flush of heat reddening his fair skin. His eyes were closed, and a faint mist of moisture gleamed across the high, broad cheekbones and shone in the hollows beneath his eyesockets.
“Soap?” he asked hopefully, opening his eyes.
“Yes, indeed.” I fetched a cake and handed it to him, then sat down on a stool alongside the bath. I watched for some time as he scrubbed industriously, fetching him a cloth and a pumice stone, with which he painstakingly rasped the soles of his feet and his elbows.
“Jamie,” I said at last.
“Aye?”
“I don’t mean to quarrel with your methods,” I said, “and we agreed that you might have to go to some lengths, but…did you really have to…”
“To what, Sassenach?” He had stopped washing and was watching me intently, head on one side.
“To…to…” To my annoyance, I was flushing as deeply as he was, but without the excuse of hot water.
A large hand rose dripping out of the water and rested on my arm. The wet heat burned through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
“Sassenach,” he said, “what do ye think I’ve been doing?”
“Er, well,” I said, trying and failing to keep my eyes away from the marks on his thigh. He laughed, though he didn’t sound truly amused.
“O ye of little faith!” he said sardonically.
I withdrew beyond his reach.
“Well,” I said, “when one’s husband comes home covered with bites and scratches and reeking with perfume, admits he’s spent the night in a bawdy house, and…”
“And tells ye flat-out he’s spent the night watching, not doing?”
“You didn’t get those marks on your leg from watching!” I snapped suddenly, then