Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [271]
“I—we—have a daughter,” I said.
His eyes widened.
“We?” he said sharply. “The girl is Jamie’s?”
“Don’t call her ‘the girl,’ ” I said, unreasonably irritated. “Her name is Brianna, and yes, she’s Jamie’s.”
“My apologies,” he said, rather stiffly.
“I meant no offense,” he added a moment later, in a softer tone. “I was surprised.”
I looked at him directly. I was too tired to be tactful.
“And a bit jealous, perhaps?”
He had a diplomat’s face; almost anything could have been going on behind that facade of handsome amiability. I went on staring at him, though, and he let the mask drop—a flash of knowledge lit the light blue eyes, tinged with grudging humor.
“So. One more thing that we have in common.” I was startled by his acuity, though I shouldn’t have been. It’s always discomfiting to find that feelings you thought safely hidden are in fact sitting out in the open for anyone to look at.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t think of that when you decided to come here.” The tea was finished; I set the cup aside and took up my skein of wool again.
He studied me for a moment, eyes narrowed.
“I thought of it, yes,” he said finally. He let his head fall back on the pillow, eyes fixed on the low beamed ceiling. “Still, if I was human enough—or petty enough—to consider that I might offend you by bringing William here, I would ask you to believe that such offense was not my motive in coming.”
I laid the finished ball of yarn in the basket and took up another skein, stretching it across the back of a split-willow chair.
“I believe you,” I said, my eyes fixed on the skein. “If only because it seems rather a lot of trouble to go to. What was your motive, though?”
I sensed the movement as he shrugged, rustling the sheets.
“The obvious—to allow Jamie to see the boy.”
“And the other obvious—to allow you to see Jamie.”
There was a marked silence from the bed. I kept my eyes on the yarn, turning the ball as I wrapped the strand, over and under, back and forth, an intricate crisscross that would in the end yield a perfect sphere.
“You are a rather remarkable woman,” he said at last, in a level tone.
“Indeed,” I said, not looking up. “In what way?”
He leaned back; I heard the rustle of his bedding.
“You are neither circumspect nor circuitous. In fact, I don’t believe I have ever met anyone more devastatingly straightforward—male or female.”
“Well, it’s not by choice,” I said. I came to the end of the thread and tucked it neatly into the ball. “I was born that way.”
“So was I,” he said, very softly.
I didn’t answer; I didn’t think he had spoken to be heard.
I rose and went to the cupboard. I took down three jars: catmint, valerian, and wild ginger. I took down the marble mortar and tipped the dried leaves and root chunks into it. A drop of water fell from the kettle, hissing into steam.
“What are you doing?” Lord John asked.
“Making an infusion for Ian,” I said, with a nod toward the trundle. “The same I gave you four days ago.”
“Ah. We heard of you as we traveled from Wilmington,” Grey said. His voice was casual now, making conversation. “You are well known in the countryside for your skills, it would appear.”
“Mm.” I pounded and ground, and the deep, musky smell of wild ginger filled the room.
“They say you are a conjure-woman. What is that, do you know?”
“Anything from a midwife to a physician to a caster of spells or a fortune-teller,” I said. “Depending on who’s talking.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh, and then was silent for a bit.
“You think they will be safe.” It was a statement, but he was asking.
“Yes. Jamie wouldn’t have taken the boy if he thought there’d be any danger. Surely you know that, if you know him at all?” I added, glancing at him.
“I know him,” he said.
“Do you indeed,” I said.
He was quiet for a moment, bar the sound of scratching.
“I know him well enough—or think I do—to risk sending William away with him, alone. And to be sure he will not tell William the truth.”
I poured the green and yellow powder into a small square of cotton