Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [351]
He took her hand in his, palm to palm.
“D’ye know what handfasting is?”
“Not exactly. Sort of a temporary marriage?”
“A bit. In the Isles and the remoter parts of the Highlands, where folk were a long way from the nearest minister, a man and a woman now would be handfast; vowed to each other for a year and a day. At the end of it, they find a minister and wed more permanently—or they go their own ways.”
Her hand tightened in his.
“I don’t want anything temporary.”
“Neither do I. But I don’t think we’ll find a minister easily. There are no churches here yet; the nearest minister is likely in New Bern.” He lifted their linked hands. “I did say I wanted it all, and if ye did not care enough to wed me …”
Her hand tightened, hard.
“I do.”
“All right.”
He took a deep breath and began.
“I, Roger Jeremiah, do take thee, Brianna Ellen, to be my lawful wedded wife. With my goods I thee endow, with my body I thee worship …” Her hand twitched in his, and his balls tightened. Whoever had worded this vow had understood, all right.
“… in sickness and in health, in richness and in poverty, so long as we both shall live.”
If I make a vow like that, I’ll keep it—no matter what it costs me. Was she thinking of that now?
She brought their linked hands down together, and spoke with great deliberation.
“I, Brianna Ellen, take thee, Roger Jeremiah …” Her voice was scarcely louder than the beating of his own heart, but he heard every word. A breeze came through the tree, rattling the leaves, lifting her hair.
“… as long as we both shall live.”
The phrase meant a good bit more to each of them now, he thought, than it would have even a few months before. The passage through the stones was enough to impress anyone with the fragility of life.
There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the rustle of leaves overhead and a distant murmur of voices from the tavern’s taproom. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it, on the knuckle of her fourth finger, where one day—God willing—her ring would be.
It was more of a large shed than a barn, though some beast—a horse or mule—stirred in its stall at one end. There was a strong, clean tang of hops in the air, enough to overpower the milder scents of hay and manure; the Blue Bull brewed its own ale. Roger felt drunk, but not from alcohol.
The shed was very dark, and undressing her was both frustration and delight.
“And I thought it took blind people years to develop a keen sense of touch,” he murmured.
The warm breath of her laugh brushed his neck, making the tiny hairs at his nape stir and prickle.
“You’re sure it’s not like the poem about the five blind men and the elephant?” she said. Her own hand groped, found the opening of his shirt, and slid inside.
“ ‘No, the beast is like a wall,’ ” she quoted. Her fingers curved and flattened, curiously exploring the sensitive flesh around his nipple. “A wall with hair. Goodness, a wall with goose bumps, too.”
She laughed again, and he bent his head, finding her mouth on the first try, sightless and unerring as a bat snatching a moth from the air.
“Amphora,” he murmured against the wide, sweet curve of her lips. His hands slid over the wide, sweet curve of her hips, cupping smoothness cool and solid, timeless and graceful as the swell of ancient pottery, promising abundance. “Like a Grecian vase. God, you’ve got the most beautiful arse!”
“Jug-butt, huh?”
She vibrated against him, the quiver of laughter passing from her lips to his and into his bloodstream like infection. Her hand slid down his own hip, and up, long fingers fumbling loose the flap of his breeches, groping hesitantly and then more surely, gradually rucking his shirt up to disentangle him from the layers of fabric.
“ ‘No, the beast is like a rope’ … oops …”
“Stop laughing, damn you.”
“… like a snake … no … well, maybe a cobra … gosh, what would you call that?”
“I had a friend once who called it ‘Mr. Happy,’ ” Roger said, feeling light-headed,