Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [230]
“I dinna care whether it’s the germs or the night air or Billy-be-damned,” he said, looking sternly down his nose. “I willna have ye fallin’ ill, and that’s all about it. Now, hop yourself directly into your gown, and to bed with ye!”
He felt awfully good in my arms. The smooth linen of his shirtfront was cool against the heated glow of my greased breasts, and while the wool of his kilt was much scratchier against my naked thighs and belly, the sensation was by no means unpleasant. I rubbed myself slowly against him, like a cat against a post.
“Bed,” he said again, sounding a trifle less stern.
“Mmmm,” I said, making it reasonably obvious that I didn’t mean to go there alone.
“No,” he said, squirming slightly. I supposed that he meant to get away, but since I didn’t let go, the movement merely exacerbated the situation between us.
“Mm-hmm,” I said, holding on tight. Intoxicated as I was, it hadn’t escaped me that Duncan would undoubtedly be spending the night on the hearth rug, Ian on the trundle. And while I was feeling somewhat uninhibited at the moment, the feeling didn’t extend quite that far.
“My father told me never to take advantage of a woman who was the worse for drink,” he said. He had stopped squirming, but now started again, slower, as though he couldn’t help himself.
“I’m not worse, I’m better,” I assured him. “Besides—” I executed a slow, sinuous squirm of my own. “I thought he said you weren’t drunk if you could find your arse with both hands.”
He eyed me appraisingly.
“I hate to tell ye, Sassenach, but it’s not your arse ye’ve got hold of—it’s mine.”
“That’s all right,” I assured him. “We’re married. Share and share alike. One flesh; the priest said so.”
“Perhaps it was a mistake to put that grease on ye,” he muttered, half to himself. “It never does this to me!”
“Well, you’re a man.”
He had one last gallant try.
“Should ye not eat a bit more, lass? You must be starving.”
“Mm-hm,” I said. I buried my face in his shirt and bit him, lightly. “Ravenous.”
There is a story told of the Earl of Montrose—that after one battle, he was found lying on the field, half dead of cold and starvation, by a young woman. The young woman whipped off her shoe, mixed barley with cold water in it, and fed the resulting mess to the prostrate earl, thus saving his life.
The cup now thrust under my nose appeared to contain a portion of this same life-giving substance, with the minor difference that mine was warm.
“What is this?” I asked, eyeing the pale grains floating belly-up on the surface of a watery liquid. It looked like a cup full of drowned maggots.
“Barley crowdie,” Ian said, gazing proudly at the cup as though it were his firstborn child. “I made it myself, from the bag ye brought from Muellers’.”
“Thank you,” I said, and took a cautious sip. I didn’t think he had mixed it in his shoe, despite the musty aroma. “Very good,” I said. “How kind of you, Ian.”
He went pink with gratification.
“Och, it was nothing,” he said. “There’s plenty more, Auntie. Or shall I fetch ye a bit of cheese? I could cut the green bits off for ye.”
“No, no—this will be fine,” I said hastily. “Ah … why don’t you take your gun out, Ian, and see if you can bag a squirrel or a rabbit? I’m sure I’ll be well enough to cook supper.”
He beamed, the smile transforming his long, bony face.
“I’m glad to hear it, Auntie,” he said. “Ye should see what Uncle Jamie and I have been eatin’ while ye’ve been gone!”
He left me lying on my pillows, wondering what to do with the cup of crowdie. I didn’t want to drink it, but I felt like a puddle of warm butter—soft and creamy, nearly liquid—and the idea of getting up seemed unthinkably energetic.
Jamie, making no further protests, had taken me to bed, where he had completed the business of thawing me out with thoroughness and dispatch. I thought it was a good thing he wasn’t going hunting with Ian. He reeked of camphor as much as I did; the animals would scent him a mile away.
Tucking me tenderly under the quilts, he