Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [209]
After a little while, I became aware of some slight change in Jamie’s attitude. Glancing toward him, I saw that while he was still holding a book open on his knee, he had ceased to turn the pages—or to look at them, for that matter. His eyes were fixed on me instead; or, to be specific, on the spot where my nightrobe parted, several inches lower than strict modesty might dictate, strict modesty hardly seeming necessary in bed with one’s husband.
His gaze was abstracted, dark blue with longing, and I realized that if not socially required, modesty in bed with one’s husband might be at least considerate, under the circumstances. There were alternatives, of course.
Catching me looking at him, Jamie blushed slightly and hastily returned to an exaggerated interest in his book. I rolled onto my side and rested a hand on his thigh.
“Interesting book?” I asked, idly caressing him.
“Mphm. Oh, aye.” The blush deepened, but he didn’t take his eyes from the page.
Grinning to myself, I slipped my hand under the bedclothes. He dropped the book.
“Sassenach!” he said. “Ye know you canna…”
“No,” I said, “but you can. Or rather, I can for you.”
He firmly detached my hand and gave it back to me.
“No, Sassenach. It wouldna be right.”
“It wouldn’t?” I said, surprised. “Whyever not?”
He squirmed uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes.
“Well, I…I wouldna feel right, Sassenach. To take my pleasure from ye, and not be able to give ye…well, I wouldna feel right about it, is all.”
I burst into laughter, laying my head on his thigh.
“Jamie, you are too sweet for words!”
“I am not sweet,” he said indignantly. “But I’m no such a selfish—Claire, stop that!”
“You were planning to wait several more months?” I asked, not stopping.
“I could,” he said, with what dignity was possible under the circumstances. “I waited tw-twenty-two years, and I can…”
“No, you can’t,” I said, pulling back the bedclothes and admiring the shape so clearly visible beneath his nightshirt. I touched it, and it moved slightly, eager against my hand. “Whatever God meant you to be, Jamie Fraser, it wasn’t a monk.”
With a sure hand, I pulled up his nightshirt.
“But…” he began.
“Two against one,” I said, leaning down. “You lose.”
* * *
Jamie worked hard for the next few days, readying the wine business to look after itself during his absence. Still, he found time to come up and sit with me for a short time after lunch most days, and so it was that he was with me when a visitor was announced. Visitors were not uncommon; Louise came every other day or so, to chatter about pregnancy or to moan over her lost love—though I privately thought she enjoyed Charles a great deal more as the object of noble renunciation than she did as a present lover. She had promised to bring me some Turkish sweetmeats, and I rather expected her plump pink face to peek through the door.
To my surprise, though, the visitor was Monsieur Forez. Magnus himself showed him into my sitting room, taking his hat and cloak with an almost superstitious reverence.
Jamie looked surprised at this visitation, but rose to his feet to greet the hangman politely and offer him refreshment.
“As a general rule, I take no spirits,” Monsieur Forez said with a smile. “But I would not insult the hospitality of my esteemed colleague.” He bowed ceremoniously in the direction of the chaise where I reclined. “You are well, I trust, Madame Fraser?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “Thank you.” I wondered to what we owed the honor of the visit. For while Monsieur Forez enjoyed considerable prestige and a fair amount of wealth in return for his official duties, I didn’t think his job got him many dinner invitations. I wondered suddenly whether hangmen had any social life to speak of.
He crossed the room and laid a small package on the chaise beside me, rather like a fatherly vulture bringing home dinner