Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [180]
Her mouth worked silently for a moment, looking for words.
“I—I don’t blame her, not really, not after I thought about it. She couldn’t help it, and I—when she talked about him, I could see how much she loved him—but don’t you see, Roger? She loved my father, too—but then something happened. She didn’t expect it, and it wasn’t her fault—but it made her break her word. I won’t do that, not for anything.”
She wiped a hand under her nose, and he gave her back the handkerchief, silently. She blinked back the tears and looked at him, straight.
“It’s more than a year before we can be together. You can’t leave Oxford; I can’t leave Boston, not till I’ve got my degree.”
He wanted to say that he’d resign, that she should quit her schooling—but kept quiet. She was right; neither of them would be happy with such a solution.
“So what if I say yes now, and something happens? What if—if I met somebody else, or you did?” Tears welled again, and one ran down her cheek. “I won’t take the chance of hurting you. I won’t.”
“But you love me now?” He touched a finger gently to her cheek. “Bree, do ye love me?”
She took a step forward, and without speaking, reached to undo the fastenings of her coat.
“What the hell are you doing?” Blank astonishment was added to the mix of other emotions, succeeded by something else as her long pale fingers grasped the zip of his jacket and pulled it down.
The sudden whiff of cold was obliterated by the warmth of her body, pressed against his from throat to knees.
His arms went around her padded back by reflex; she was holding him tight, arms locked round him under his jacket. Her hair smelled cold and sweet, with the last traces of incense trapped in the heavy strands, blending with the fragrance of grass and jasmine flowers. He caught the gleam of a hairpin, bronze metal in the copper loops of her hair.
She didn’t say a thing, nor did he. He could feel her body through the thin layers of cloth between them, and a jolt of desire shot up the backs of his legs, as though he were standing on an electric grid. He tilted up her chin, and set his mouth on hers.
“… see that Jackie Martin, and her with a new fur collar to her coat?”
“Och, and where’s she found the money for such a thing, wi’ her husband oot o’ his work this six month past? I tell ye, Jessie, yon woman … ooh!”
The click of French-heeled shoes on the pavement halted, to be succeeded by the sound of a throat being cleared with sufficient resonance to wake the dead.
Roger tightened his grip on Brianna, and didn’t move. She tightened her arms around him in response, and he felt the curve of her mouth under his.
“MMPHM!”
“Ah, now, Chrissie,” came a hissed whisper from behind him. “Let them be, aye? Can ye not see they’re getting engaged?”
“Mmphm” came again, but in a lower tone. “Hmp. They’ll be getting something else, and they go on wi’ that much longer. Still …” A long sigh, tinged with nostalgia. “Ah, weel, it’s nice to be young, isn’t it?”
The twin tap of heels came on, much slower, passed them, and faded inaudibly into the fog.
He stood for a minute, willing himself to let go of her. But once a man has touched the mane of a water horse, it’s no simple matter to let go. An old kelpie-rhyme ran through his head,
And sit weel, Janetie
And ride weel, Davie.
And your first stop will be
The bottom of Loch Cavie.
“I’ll wait,” he said, and let her go. He held her hands and looked into her eyes, now soft and clear as rain pools.
“Hear me, though,” he said softly. “I will have you all—or not at all.”
Let me love her rightly, he had said in wordless prayer. And hadn’t he been told often enough by Mrs. Graham—“Be careful what ye ask for, laddie, for ye just might get it?”
He cupped her breast, soft through her jumper.
“It’s not only your body that I want—though God knows, I want it badly. But I’ll have you as my wife … or I will not have you. Your choice.”
She reached up and touched him, brushed the hair off his brow with fingers