Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [435]
“D’ye think I don’t know?” he asked softly. “It’s me that has the easy part now. For if ye feel for me as I do for you—then I am asking you to tear out your heart and live without it.” His hand stroked my hair, the roughness of his knuckles catching in the blowing strands.
“But ye must do it, mo duinne. My brave lioness. Ye must.”
“Why?” I demanded, pulling back to look up at him. “When you took me from the witch trial at Cranesmuir—you said then that you would have died with me, you would have gone to the stake with me, had it come to that!”
He grasped my hands, fixing me with a steady blue gaze.
“Aye, I would,” he said. “But I wasna carrying your child.”
The wind had frozen me; it was the cold that made me shake, I told myself. The cold that took my breath away.
“You can’t tell,” I said, at last. “It’s much too soon to be sure.”
He snorted briefly, and a tiny flicker of amusement lit his eyes.
“And me a farmer, too! Sassenach, ye havena been a day late in your courses, in all the time since ye first took me to your bed. Ye havena bled now in forty-six days.”
“You bastard!” I said, outraged. “You counted! In the middle of a bloody war, you counted!”
“Didn’t you?”
“No!” I hadn’t; I had been much too afraid to acknowledge the possibility of the thing I had hoped and prayed for so long, come now so horribly too late.
“Besides,” I went on, trying still to deny the possibility, “that doesn’t mean anything. Starvation could cause that; it often does.”
He lifted one brow, and cupped a broad hand gently beneath my breast.
“Aye, you’re thin enough; but scrawny as ye are, your breasts are full—and the nipples of them gone the color of Champagne grapes. You forget,” he said, “I’ve seen ye so before. I have no doubt—and neither have you.”
I tried to fight down the waves of nausea—so easily attributable to fright and starvation—but I felt the small heaviness, suddenly burning in my womb. I bit my lip hard, but the sickness washed over me.
Jamie let go of my hands, and stood before me, hands at his sides, stark in silhouette against the fading sky.
“Claire,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow I will die. This child…is all that will be left of me—ever. I ask ye, Claire—I beg you—see it safe.”
I stood still, vision blurring, and in that moment, I heard my heart break. It was a small, clean sound, like the snapping of a flower’s stem.
At last I bent my head to him, the wind grieving in my ears.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes. I’ll go.”
It was nearly dark. He came behind me and held me, leaning back against him as he looked over my shoulder, out over the valley. The lights of watchfires had begun to spring up, small glowing dots in the far distance. We were silent for a long time, as the evening deepened. It was very quiet on the hill; I could hear nothing but Jamie’s even breathing, each breath a precious sound.
“I will find you,” he whispered in my ear. “I promise. If I must endure two hundred years of purgatory, two hundred years without you—then that is my punishment, which I have earned for my crimes. For I have lied, and killed, and stolen; betrayed and broken trust. But there is the one thing that shall lie in the balance. When I shall stand before God, I shall have one thing to say, to weigh against the rest.”
His voice dropped, nearly to a whisper, and his arms tightened around me.
“Lord, ye gave me a rare woman, and God! I loved her well.”
* * *
He was slow, and careful; so was I. Each touch, each moment must be savored, remembered—treasured as a talisman against a future empty of him.
I touched each soft hollow, the hidden places of his body. Felt the grace and the strength of each curving bone, the marvel of his firm-knit muscles, drawn lean and flexible across the span of his shoulders, smooth and solid down the length of his back, hard as seasoned oakwood in the columns of his thighs.
Tasted the salty sweat in the hollow of his throat, smelled the warm muskiness of the hair between his legs, the sweetness of the soft, wide