Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [228]
“Find the green bottle, please,” I said, nibbling at the dry oatcake. “I’ll need to wash my hair.”
“Mmphm.” More clinking, and he emerged at last with his hands full of things, including a towel and the bottle full of the shampoo I had made—not wishing to wash my hair with lye soap—from soaproot, lupin oil, walnut leaves and calendula flowers. He set these on the table, along with my largest mixing bowl, and carefully filled it with hot water from the cauldron.
Leaving this to cool a bit, Jamie dipped a rag into the water, and knelt down to wash my feet.
The feeling of warmth on my sore, half-frozen feet was as close to ecstasy as I expected to get this side of heaven. Tired and half-drunk as I was, I felt as though I were dissolving from the feet up, as he gently but thoroughly washed me from toe to head.
“Where did ye get this, Sassenach?” Recalled from a state as close to sleep as to waking, I glanced down muzzily at my left knee. It was swollen, and the inner side had gone the deep purplish-blue of a gentian.
“Oh … that happened when I fell off the horse.”
“That was verra careless,” he said sharply. “Have I not told ye time and again to be careful, especially with a new horse? Ye canna trust them at all until ye’ve known them a good while. And you’re not strong enough to deal with one that’s headstrong or skittish.”
“It wasn’t a matter of trusting him,” I said. I rather dimly admired the broad spread of his bent shoulders, flexing smoothly under his linen shirt as he sponged my bruised knee. “The lightning scared him, and I fell off a thirty-foot ledge.”
“Ye could have broken your neck!”
“Thought I had, for a bit.” I closed my eyes, swaying slightly.
“Ye should have taken better thought, Sassenach; ye should never have been on that side of the ridge to begin with, let alone—”
“I couldn’t help it,” I said, opening my eyes. “The trail was washed out; I had to go around.”
He was glaring at me, slanted eyes narrowed into dark blue slits.
“Ye ought not to have left the Muellers’ in the first place, and it raining like that! Did ye not have sense enough to know what the ground would be like?”
I straightened up with some effort, holding the quilt against my breasts. It occurred to me, with a faint sense of surprise, that he was more than slightly annoyed.
“Well … no,” I said, trying to marshal what wits I had. “How could I know something like that? Besides—”
He interrupted me by slapping the washrag into the bowl, spattering water all over the table.
“Be quiet!” he said. “I dinna mean to argue with you!”
I stared up at him.
“What the hell do you mean to do? And where do you get off shouting at me? I haven’t done anything wrong!”
He inhaled strongly through his nose. Then he stood up, picked the rag from the bowl, and carefully wrung it out. He let out his breath, knelt down in front of me, and deftly swabbed my face clean.
“No. Ye haven’t,” he agreed. One corner of his long mouth quirked wryly. “But ye scairt hell out of me, Sassenach, and it makes me want to give ye a terrible scolding, whether ye deserve it or no.”
“Oh,” I said. I wanted at first to laugh, but felt a stab of remorse as I saw how drawn his face was. His shirt sleeve was daubed with mud, and there were burrs and foxtails in his stockings, left from a night of searching for me through the dark mountains, not knowing where I was; if I were alive or dead. I had scared hell out of him, whether I meant to or not.
I groped for some means of apology, finding my tongue nearly as thick as my wits. Finally I reached out and picked a fuzzy yellow catkin from his hair.
“Why don’t you scold me in Gaelic?” I said. “It will ease your feelings just as much, and I’ll only understand half of what you say.”
He made a Scottish noise of derision, and shoved my head into the bowl with a firm hand on my neck. When I reemerged, dripping,