Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [362]
She gave one man who reached for her buttocks a glare fit to sear his eyebrows. He stopped in mid-grab, startled, and she slid by him, through the door to the kitchen breezeway.
On the way back, with the jug of steaming catmint tea wrapped in a cloth to keep from burning her, she made a detour around the edge of the room to avoid her would-be assailant. If he touched her, she would pour boiling water in his lap. And while that would be no more than he deserved, and some palliative to her own volcanic feelings, it would waste the tea, which Lizzie badly needed.
She stepped carefully sideways, squeezing between the raucous card-players and the wall. The table was scattered with coins and other small valuables: silver and gilt and pewter buttons, a snuffbox, a silver penknife, and scribbled scraps of paper—IOUs, she supposed, or the eighteenth-century equivalent. Then one of the men moved, and beyond his shoulder she caught the gleam of gold.
She glanced down, looked away, then looked back, startled. It was a ring, a plain gold band, but wider than most. It wasn’t the gold alone that had caught her eye, though. The ring was no more than a foot away, and while the light in the taproom was more than dim, a candlestick sat on the cardplayers’ table, shedding its light in the inner curve of the golden band.
She couldn’t quite read the letters engraved there, but she knew the pattern so well that the legend sprang into her mind, unbidden.
She laid a hand on the shoulder of the man who had the ring, interrupting him in mid-jest. He turned, half frowning, the frown clearing as he saw who had touched him.
“Aye, sweetheart, and have ye come to change my luck, then?” He was a big man, with a heavy-boned, handsome face, a broad mouth and a broken nose, and a pair of light green eyes that moved over her with quick appraisal.
She forced her lips to smile at him.
“I hope so,” she said. “Shall I give your ring a rub for luck?” Without waiting for permission, she snatched the ring from the table and gave it a brisk rub on her sleeve. Then holding it up to admire the shine, she could see plainly the words written inside.
From F. to C. with love. Always.
Her hand was trembling as she gave it back.
“It’s very pretty,” she said. “Where did you get it?”
He looked startled, then wary, and she hastened to add, “It’s too small for you—won’t your wife be angry if you lose her ring?” How? she thought wildly. How did he get it? And what’s happened to my mother?
The full lips curved in a charming smile.
“And if I had a wife, sweetheart, sure I’d leave her for you.” He looked her over more closely, long lashes dropping to hide his gaze. He touched her waist in a casual gesture of invitation.
“I’m busy just now, sweetheart, but later … eh?”
The jug was burning through the cloth, but her fingers felt cold. Her heart had congealed into a small lump of terror.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “In the daylight.”
He looked at her, startled, then threw his head back and laughed.
“Well, I’ve heard men say I’m not a one to be met in the dark, poppet, but the women seem to prefer it.” He ran a thick finger down her forearm in play; the red-gold hairs rose at his touch.
“In the daylight, then, if ye like. Come to my ship—Gloriana, near the naval yard.”
“Gracious, you vill not how long haf eaten?” Miss Viorst peered at Brianna’s empty bowl with good-willed incredulity. About the same age as Brianna herself, she was a broad-built, placid-tempered Dutchwoman whose motherly manner made her seem a good deal older.
“Day before yesterday, I think.” Brianna gratefully accepted a second helping of dumplings and broth, and yet another thick slab of salt-rising bread slathered with curls