Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [45]
“Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame,” she muttered, with a curt nod toward the bed as she shuffled toward the hearth. All right for some people, said her attitude, louder than words. Used by this time to the matter-of-factness with which servants treated the sight of inn patrons in any form of dishabille, I merely murmured “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” in return and let it go at that. I also let go of Jamie’s kilt, and slid under the covers, pulling the quilt up to hide my scarlet cheeks.
Possessed of somewhat greater sang-froid, Jamie placed one of the bolsters strategically across his lap, parked his elbows on it, rested his chin on upturned palms, and made pleasant conversation with the maid, praising the cuisine of the house.
“And from where do you procure the wine, Mademoiselle?” he asked politely.
“From here, from there.” She shrugged, stuffing kindling rapidly under the sticks with a practiced hand. “Wherever it’s cheapest.” The woman’s plump face creased slightly as she gave Jamie a sidelong look from the hearth.
“I gathered as much,” he said, grinning at her, and she gave a brief snort of amusement.
“I’ll wager I can match the price you’re getting, and double the quality,” he offered. “Tell your mistress.”
One eyebrow rose skeptically. “And what’s your own price, Monsieur?”
He made an altogether Gallic gesture of self-abnegation. “Nothing, Mademoiselle. I go to call upon a kinsman who sells wine. Perhaps I can bring him some new business to ensure my welcome, no?”
She nodded, seeing the wisdom of this, and grunted as she rose from her knees.
“Well enough, Monsieur. I’ll speak to the patronne.”
The door thumped to behind the maid, aided by a skillful swing of her hip in passing. Putting the bolster aside, Jamie stood up and began to rebuckle his kilt.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I protested.
He glanced down at me, and a reluctant smile curved the wide mouth.
“Oh. Well…you’re sure you’re up to it, Sassenach?”
“I am if you are,” I said, unable to resist.
He eyed me austerely.
“Just for that, I should go at once,” he said. “Still, I’ve heard that ye ought to humor expectant mothers.” He let the kilt fall to the floor and sat down beside me in his shirt, the bed creaking beneath his weight.
His breath rose in a faint cloud as he turned back the quilt and spread the front of the nightdress to expose my breasts. Bending his head, he kissed each one, touching the nipple delicately with his tongue, so it rose as though by magic, a swelling dark pink against the white skin of my breast.
“God, they’re so lovely,” he murmured, repeating the process on the other side. He cupped both breasts, admiring them.
“They’re heavier,” he said, “just a bit. And the nipples are darker, too.” One forefinger traced the springing curve of a single fine hair that rose near the dark areola, silver in the frosted light of the morning.
Lifting the quilt, he rolled next to me and I turned into his arms, clasping the solid curves of his back, letting my hands cup the firm rounds of his buttocks. His bare flesh was chilled by the morning air, but the goose bumps smoothed away under the warmth of my touch.
I tried to bring him to me at once, but he resisted me gently, forcing me down onto the pillow as he nibbled the edges of neck and ear. One hand slid up my thigh, the thin material of the nightgown gliding in waves before it.
His head dipped lower, and his hands gently spread my thighs apart. I shivered momentarily as the cold air hit the bare skin of my legs, then relaxed completely into the warm demand of his mouth.
His hair was loose, not yet laced back for the day, and the soft red tickle of it brushed my thighs. The solid weight of his body rested comfortably between my legs, broad hands cupped on the roundness of my hips.
“Mmmm?” came a interrogative sound from below.
I arched my hips slightly in response, and a brief chuckle grazed my skin with warmth.
The hands slid beneath my hips and raised