Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [287]
She nodded, black curls bobbing.
“Aye, he is,” she said softly. “But that’s because he’s a whole man to me, and always will be.” She looked directly at her brother. “But if he thinks he’s of no use to you, he wilna be whole to himself. And that’s why I’ll have ye take him.”
Jamie laced his hands together, elbows braced on his knees, and rested his chin on his linked knuckles.
“This wilna be like France,” he said quietly. “Fighting there, ye risk no more than your life in battle. Here…” He hesitated, then went on. “Jenny, this is treason. If it goes wrong, those that follow the Stuarts are like to end on a scaffold.”
Her normally pale complexion went a shade whiter, but her motions didn’t slow.
“There’s nay choice for me,” he went on, eyes steady on her. “But will ye risk us both? Will ye have Ian look down from the gallows on the fire waiting for his entrails? You’ll chance raising your bairns wi’out their father—to save his pride?” His face was nearly as pale as hers, glimmering in the darkness of the brewhouse.
The strokes of the masher were slower now, without the fierce velocity of her earlier movements, but her voice held all the conviction of her slow, inexorable mashing.
“I’ll have a whole man,” she said steadily. “Or none.”
Jamie sat without moving for a long moment, watching his sister’s dark head bent over her work.
“All right,” he said at last, quietly. She didn’t look up or vary her movements, but the white kertch seemed to incline slightly toward him.
He sighed explosively, then rose and turned abruptly to me.
“Come on out of here, Sassenach,” he said. “Christ, I must be drunk.”
* * *
“What makes ye think you can order me about?” The vein in Ian’s temple throbbed fiercely. Jenny’s hand squeezed mine tighter.
Jamie’s assertion that Ian would accompany him to join the Stuart army had been met first with incredulity, then with suspicion, and—as Jamie persisted—anger.
“You’re a fool,” Ian declared flatly. “I’m a cripple, and ye ken it well enough.”
“I ken you’re a bonny fighter, and there’s none I’d rather have by my side in a battle,” Jamie said firmly. His face gave no sign of doubts or hesitation; he had agreed to Jenny’s request, and would carry it out, no matter what. “You’ve fought there often enough; will ye desert me now?”
Ian waved an impatient hand, dismissing this flattery. “That’s as may be. If my leg comes off or gives way, there’s precious little fighting I’ll do—I’ll be lyin’ on the ground like a worm, waiting for the first Redcoat who comes by to spit me. And beyond that”—he scowled at his brother-in-law—“who d’ye think will mind this place for ye until you come back, and I’m off to the wars with ye?”
“Jenny,” Jamie replied promptly. “I shall leave enough men behind that they can be seeing to the work; she can manage the accounts well enough.”
Ian’s brows shot up, and he said something very rude in Gaelic.
“Pog ma mahon! You’ll ha’ me leave her to run the place alone, wi’ three small bairns at her apron, and but half the men needed? Man, ye’ve taken leave o’ your senses!” Flinging up both hands, Ian swung around to the sideboard where the whisky was kept.
Jenny, seated next to me on the sofa with Katherine on her lap, made a small sound under her breath. Her hand sought mine under cover of our mingled skirts, and I squeezed her fingers.
“What makes ye think ye can order me about?”
Jamie eyed his brother-in-law’s tense back for a moment, scowling. Suddenly, a muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Because I’m bigger than you are,” he said belligerently, still scowling.
Ian rounded on him, incredulity stamped on his face. Indecision played in his eyes for less than a second. His shoulders squared up and his chin lifted.
“I’m older than you,” he answered, with an identical scowl.
“I’m stronger.”
“No, you’re not!”
“Aye, I am!”
“No, I am!”
A vein of dead seriousness underlay the laughter in their voices; while this little confrontation might be passed off as all in fun, they were as intent on each other as they had ever