Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [37]
Roger shifted, turning in his seat to face her.
“The Minister’s cat is an enigmatic cat.”
“The Minister’s cat is an embarrassed cat—I shouldn’t have said anything, sorry.”
Roger was wise enough not to press her. Instead, he leaned forward and dug under the seat for the thermos of hot tea with lemon.
“Want some?” He offered her the cup, but she made a small face and shook her head.
“No thanks. I hate tea.”
“Definitely not an Englishwoman, then,” he said, and wished he hadn’t; her hands squeezed tight on the wheel. She didn’t say anything, though, and he drank the tea in silence, watching her.
She didn’t look English, her parentage and coloring notwithstanding. He couldn’t tell whether the difference was more than a matter of clothes, but he thought so. Americans seemed so much more … what? Vibrant? Intense? Bigger? Just more. Brianna Randall was definitely more.
The traffic grew thicker, slowing to a crawling line of cars as they reached the entrance to the resort where the festival was being held.
“Look,” Brianna said abruptly. She didn’t turn toward him, but stared out through the windshield at the New Jersey license plate of the car in front of them. “I have to explain.”
“Not to me.”
She flicked one red eyebrow in brief irritation.
“To who else?” She pressed her lips together and sighed. “Yeah, all right, me too. But I do.”
Roger could taste the acid from the tea, bitter in the back of his throat. Was this where she told him it had been a mistake for him to come? He’d thought so himself, all the way across the Atlantic, twitching and cramped in the tiny airline seat. Then he’d seen her across the airport lobby, and all doubt had vanished on the instant.
It hadn’t come back during the intervening week, either; he’d seen her at least briefly every day—even managed a baseball game with her at Fenway Park on Thursday afternoon. He’d found the game itself baffling, but Brianna’s enthusiasm for it enchanting. He found himself counting the hours left before he’d have to leave, and looking forward nonetheless to this—the only whole day they’d have together.
That didn’t mean she felt the same. He glanced quickly over the line of cars; the gate was visible, but still a quarter-mile off. He had maybe three minutes to convince her.
“In Scotland,” she was saying, “when all—that—happened with my mother. You were great, Roger—really wonderful.” She didn’t look at him, but he could see a shimmer of moisture just above the thick auburn lashes.
“It was no great thing to do,” he said. He curled his hands into fists to keep from touching her. “I was interested.”
She laughed shortly.
“Yeah, I bet you were.” She slowed, and turned her head to look at him, full-on. Even wide open, her eyes had a faint catlike slant to them.
“Have you been back to the stone circle? To Craigh na Dun?”
“No,” he said shortly. Then coughed and added, as if casually, “I don’t go up to Inverness all that often; it’s been term time at College.”
“It isn’t that the Minister’s cat is a fraidycat?” she asked, but she smiled slightly when she said it.
“The Minister’s cat is scared stiff of that place,” he said frankly. “He wouldn’t set foot up there if it were knee-deep in sardines.” She laughed outright, and the tension between them eased noticeably.
“Me too,” she said, and took a deep breath. “But I remember. All the trouble you went to, to help—and then, when it—when she—when Mama went through—” Her teeth clamped savagely on her lower lip, and she hit the brake, harder than necessary.
“Do you see?” she said, in a small voice. “I can’t be around you more than half an hour, and it all comes back. I haven’t talked about my parents in more than six months, and no sooner do we start playing that silly game than I’ve mentioned both of them in less than a minute. It’s been happening all week.”
She thumbed a loose strand of red hair off her shoulder. She went a lovely pink when she was excited or upset, and the color