Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [95]
“A Gentleman…”
He held up the miniature, and Jamie’s blue eyes blazed out under the fiery thatch of his hair, combed for once, braided and ribboned into an unaccustomed formal order. The knife-edged nose was bold above the lace of his stock, and the long mouth seemed about to speak, half-curled at one corner.
“But they were real people,” Frank’s voice insisted. “They did much the same things you do—give or take a few small details like going to the pictures or driving down the motorway”—there were appreciative titters amongst the class—“but they cared about their children, they loved their husbands or wives…well, sometimes they did…” More laughter.
“A Lady,” he said softly, cradling the last of the portraits in his palm, shielding it for the moment. “With brown hair curling luxuriantly to her shoulders, and a necklace of pearls. Undated. The artist unknown.”
It was a mirror, not a miniature. My cheeks were flushed, and my lips trembled as Frank’s finger gently traced the edge of my jaw, the graceful line of my neck. The tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks as I heard his voice, still lecturing, as he laid down the miniature, and I stared upward at the timbered ceiling.
“Undated. Unknown. But once…once, she was real.”
I was having trouble breathing, and thought at first that I was being smothered by the glass over the miniature. But the material pressing on my nose was soft and damp, and I twisted my head away and came awake, feeling the linen pillow wet with tears beneath my cheek. Jamie’s hand was large and warm on my shoulder, gently shaking me.
“Hush, lassie. Hush! You’re but dreaming—I’m here.”
I turned my face into the warmth of his naked shoulder, feeling the tears slick between cheek and skin. I clung tightly to his solidness, and the small night sounds of the Paris house came slowly to my ears, bringing me back to the life that was mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I was dreaming about…about…”
He patted my back, and reached under the pillow for a handkerchief.
“I know. Ye were calling his name.” He sounded resigned.
I laid my head back on his shoulder. He smelled warm and rumpled, his own sleepy scent blending with the smell of the down-filled quilt and the clean linen sheets.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
He snorted briefly, not quite a laugh.
“Well, I’ll no say I’m not wicked jealous of the man,” he said ruefully, “because I am. But I can hardly grudge him your dreams. Or your tears.” His finger gently traced the wet track down one cheek, then blotted it with the handkerchief.
“You don’t?”
His smile in the dimness was lopsided.
“No. Ye loved him. I canna hold it against either of you that ye mourn him. And it gives me some comfort to know…” He hesitated, and I reached up to smooth the rumpled hair off his face.
“To know what?”
“That should the need come, you might mourn for me that way,” he said softly.
I pressed my face fiercely into his chest, so my words were muffled.
“I won’t mourn you, because I won’t have to. I won’t lose you, I won’t!” A thought struck me, and I looked up at him, the faint roughness of his beard stubble a shadow on his face.
“You aren’t afraid I would go back, are you? You don’t think that because I…think of Frank.…”
“No.” His voice was quick and soft, a response fast as the possessive tightening of his arms around me.
“No,” he said again, more softly. “We are bound, you and I, and nothing on this earth shall part me from you.” One large hand rose to stroke my hair. “D’ye mind the blood vow that I swore ye when we wed?”
“Yes, I think so. ‘Blood of my blood, bone of my bone…’ ”
“I give ye my body, that we may be one,” he finished. “Aye,