Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [361]
Her mistress was a fine big woman, but yon MacKenzie was a great tall brute of a man; he could have—she stopped herself abruptly, not wanting to imagine. She couldn’t help it, though; her mind had gone too far already.
With great reluctance, she brought the shirt to her nose and sniffed. Yes, there it was, the reek of a man, strong and sour as the smell of a rutting goat. The thought of the wicked creature with his body pressed to Brianna’s, rubbing against her, leaving his scent on her like a dog who marks his ground—she shuddered in revulsion.
Trembling, she snatched up the breeches and stockings, and bore all the clothes to the basin. She would wash them out, rinse away the reminder of MacKenzie with the dirt and the grass stains. And if the clothes were too wet for her mistress to wear in the morning … well, so much the better for that.
She still had the pot of soft yellow lye soap the landlady had given her for laundering; that would take care of it. She plunged the breeks into the water, added a finger’s dollop of the soap, and began to work it into a scummy lather, pressing it through and through the fabric.
The window’s square was lightening. She cast a stealthy glance over her shoulder at her mistress, but Brianna’s breath came slow and steady; good, she wouldn’t wake for a time yet.
She looked back to her work, and froze, feeling a chill colder than those that came with her fevers. The thin suds that covered her hands were dark, and small black eddies spread through the water like the ink stains of a cuttlefish.
She didn’t want to look, but it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen. She turned back the wet fabric carefully, and there it was; a large, dark blotch, discoloring the cloth just where the seams crossed in the crotch of the breeks.
The rising sun oozed a sullen red through the hazy sky, turning the water in the basin, the air in the room, the whole spinning world, the color of fresh blood.
41
JOURNEY’S END
Brianna thought she might scream. Instead, she patted Lizzie’s back and spoke softly.
“Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. Mr. Viorst says he’ll wait for us. As soon as you feel better, we’ll leave. But for now, don’t worry about anything, just rest.”
Lizzie nodded, but couldn’t answer; her teeth were chattering too hard, in spite of the three blankets over her and the hot brick at her feet.
“I’ll go and get your drink, honey. Just rest,” Brianna repeated, and with a final pat, rose and left the room.
It wasn’t Lizzie’s fault, of course, Brianna thought, but she could scarcely have picked a worse moment to have another attack of fever. Brianna had slept late and restlessly after the dreadful scene with Roger, waking to find her clothes washed and hung to dry, her shoes polished, her stockings folded, the room ruthlessly swept and tidied—and Lizzie collapsed in a shivering heap on the empty hearth.
For the thousandth time, she counted the days. Eight days until Monday. If Lizzie’s attack followed its usual pattern, she might be able to travel the day after tomorrow. Six days. And according to Junior Smoots and Hans Viorst, five to six days to make the trip upriver at this time of year.
She couldn’t miss Jamie Fraser, she couldn’t! She had to be in Cross Creek by Monday, come hell or high water. Who knew how long the trial might take, or whether he would leave as soon as it was over? She would have given anything to be able to go at once.
The burning ache to move, to go, was so intense it obliterated all the other aches and burnings of her body—even the deep heart-burning of Roger’s betrayal—but there was nothing to be done. She could go nowhere until Lizzie was better.
The taproom was full; two new ships had come into the harbor during the day, and