Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [286]
Jamie took an empty bucket from the shelf, and upturning it, sat down on it. A faint glow from the oiled-paper window above him lit his hair with a deep copper gleam.
“What about Ian?” he asked.
Now it was Jenny’s turn to take a deep breath. The wide bran tub before her gave off a damp warmth of fermentation, filled with the yeasty aroma of grain, hops, and alcohol.
“I want ye to take Ian with you, when ye go.”
Jamie’s eyebrows flew up, but he didn’t say anything immediately. Jenny’s eyes were fixed on the motions of the masher, watching the smooth roil of the mixture. He looked at her thoughtfully, big hands hanging loose between his thighs.
“Tired of marriage, are ye?” he asked conversationally. “Likely it would be easier just for me to take him out in the wood and shoot him for ye.” There was a quick flash of blue eyes over the mash tub.
“If I want anyone shot, Jamie Fraser, I’ll do it myself. And Ian wouldna be my first choice as target, either.”
He snorted briefly, and one corner of his mouth quirked up.
“Oh, aye? Why, then?”
Her shoulders moved in a seamless rhythm, one motion fading into the next.
“Because I’m asking ye.”
Jamie spread his right hand out on his knee, absently stroking the jagged scar that zigzagged its way down his middle finger.
“It’s dangerous, Jenny,” he said quietly.
“I know that.”
He shook his head slowly, still gazing down at his hand. It had healed well, and he had good use of it, but the stiff fourth finger and the roughened patch of scar tissue on the back gave it an odd, crooked appearance.
“You think ye know.”
“I know, Jamie.”
His head came up, then. He looked impatient, but was striving to stay reasonable.
“Aye, I know Ian will ha’ told ye stories, about fighting in France, and all. But you’ve no notion how it really is, Jenny. Mo cridh, it isna a matter of a cattle raid. It’s a war, and likely to be a damn bloody shambles of one, too. It’s—”
The masher struck the side of the tub with a clack and fell back into the mash.
“Don’t tell me I dinna ken what it’s like!” Jenny blazed at him. “Stories, is it? Who d’ye think nursed Ian when he came home from France wi’ half a leg and a fever that nearly killed him?”
She slapped her hand flat on the bench. The stretched nerves had snapped.
“Don’t know? I don’t know? I picked the maggots out of the raw flesh of his stump, because his own mother couldna bring herself to do it! I held the hot knife against his leg to seal the wound! I smelled his flesh searing like a roasted pig and listened to him scream while I did it! D’ye dare to stand there and tell me I…don’t…KNOW how it is!”
Angry tears ran down her cheeks. She brushed at them, groping in her pocket for a handkerchief.
Lips pressed tight together, Jamie rose, pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve, and handed it to her. He knew better than to touch or try to comfort her. He stood staring at her for a moment as she wiped furiously at her eyes and dripping nose.
“Aye, well, ye know, then,” he said. “And yet you want me to take him?”
“I do.” She blew her nose and wiped it briskly, then tucked the handkerchief in her pocket.
“He kens well enough that he’s crippled, Jamie. Kens it a good bit too well. But he could manage with ye. There’s a horse for him; he wouldna have to walk.”
He made an impatient gesture with one hand.
“Could he manage is no the question, is it? A man can do what he thinks he must—why do you think he must?”
Composed once more, she fished the tool out of the mash and shook it. Brown droplets spattered into the tub.
“He hasna asked ye, has he? Whether ye’ll need him or no?”
“No.”
She stabbed the masher back into the tub and resumed her work.
“He thinks ye wilna want him because he’s lame, and that he’d be no use to ye.” She looked up then, troubled dark-blue eyes the twins of her brother’s. “Ye knew Ian before, Jamie. He’s different now.”
He nodded reluctantly, resuming his seat on the bucket.
“Aye. Well, but ye’d expect it, no? And he seems well enough.” He looked up at his sister and smiled.
“He’s