Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [197]
“She started taking history classes at the university when she was still in high school—I told you how the school system works? And then when Frank died … I rather think she went ahead with history because she thought he would have wanted it.”
“That’s loyal.”
“Yes.” I ran my hand up through his hair, feeling the solid, rounded bones of his skull, and his scalp under my fingers. “Can’t think where she got that particular trait from.”
He snorted briefly and gathered me closer.
“Can’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “If she goes on wi’ the history—d’ye think she’ll find us? Written down somewhere, I mean.”
The thought had honestly not occurred to me, and for a moment I lay quite still. Then I stretched a bit, and laid my head on his shoulder with a small laugh, not altogether humorous.
“I shouldn’t think so. Not unless we were to do something newsworthy.” I gestured vaguely toward the cabin wall, and the endless wilderness outside. “Not much chance of that here, I don’t imagine. And she’d have to be deliberately looking, in any case.”
“Would she?”
I was silent for a moment, breathing the musky, deep scent of him.
“I hope not,” I said quietly, at last. “She should have her own life—not spend her time looking back.”
He didn’t respond directly to this, but took my hand and eased it between us, sighing as I took hold of him.
“Ye’re a verra intelligent woman, Sassenach, but shortsighted, forbye. Though perhaps it’s only modesty.”
“And what makes you say that?” I asked, mildly piqued.
“The lassie’s loyal, ye said. She’ll have loved her father enough to shape her life to do as he would have wanted, even after he’s dead. D’ye think she loved you less?”
I turned my head, and let the piled hair fall down over my face.
“No,” I said at last, voice muffled in the pillow.
“Well, then.” He took me by the hips and turned me, rolling slowly on top of me. We didn’t speak anymore, then, as the melting boundaries of our bodies disappeared.
It was slow, dreamy and peaceful, his body mine as much as mine was his, so that I curled my foot round his leg and felt both smooth sole and hairy shin, felt callused palm and tender flesh, was knife and sheath together, the rhythm of our movement that of one heart beating.
The fire crackled softly to itself, casting red and yellow highlights on the wooden walls of our snug refuge, and we lay in quiet peace, not bothering to sort out whose limbs were whose. On the very verge of sleep, I felt Jamie’s breath, warm on my neck.
“She’ll look,” he said, with certainty.
There was a brief thaw two days later, and Jamie—suffering slightly from cabin fever himself—decided to take advantage of it to go hunting. There was still snow on the ground, but it was thin and patchy; the going would be easy enough on the slopes, he thought.
I wasn’t so sure as I scooped snow into a basket for melting, later in the morning. The snow under the bushes still lay thick, though it had indeed melted on the exposed ground. I hoped he was right, though—our food supplies were low, and we had had no meat at all for more than a week; even the snares Jamie kept set had been buried under the snow.
I took my snow inside and tipped it into the large cauldron, feeling, as I always did, rather like a witch.
“ ‘Double, double, toil and trouble’ ” I muttered, watching the white clumps hiss and fade into the roiling liquid.
I had one large cauldron, filled with water, which bubbled constantly on the fire. This was not only the basic supply for washing but the means of cooking everything that could not be grilled, fried, or roasted. Stews and things to be boiled were put into hollow gourds or stoneware jars, sealed, and lowered on strings into the bubbling depths, to be hauled out at intervals for checking. By this means, I could cook an entire meal in the one pot, and have hot water for washing afterward.
I dumped a second basket of snow into a wooden bowl and left it to melt more slowly;