Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [408]
I filled a bucket of hot water from the big cauldron, and took the pewter plates outside to rinse clean.
I came back to find Jamie standing by the small shelf where he kept his inkhorn, quills and paper. He had not undressed for bed, but he made no move to take them down and begin the usual evening’s work. But of course—he couldn’t write, with his damaged hand.
“Do you want me to write something for you?” I asked, seeing him pick up a quill and put it down again.
He turned away with a restless gesture.
“No. I must write to Jenny, of course—and there are other things that must be done—but I canna bear to sit down and think just now.”
“I know how you feel,” I said sympathetically. He looked at me, a trifle startled.
“I canna tell quite how I feel myself, Sassenach,” he said, with a queer laugh. “If ye think ye know, tell me.”
“Tired,” I said, and laid a hand on his arm. “Angry. Worried.” I glanced at Brianna asleep in the trundle. “Heartbroken, maybe,” I added softly.
“All of that,” he said. “And a good bit more.” He wore no stock, but plucked at the collar of his shirt, as though it choked him.
“I canna stay in here,” he said. He glanced at me; I was still dressed in my day clothes; skirt, shift, and bodice. “Will ye come out and walk wi’ me a bit?”
I went at once to fetch my cloak. It was dark outside; he wouldn’t be able to watch my face.
We paced slowly together, across the dooryard and past the sheds, down to the penfold and the field beyond. I held his arm, feeling it tense and stiff under my fingers.
I had no notion how to begin, what to say. Perhaps I should simply keep quiet, I thought. Both of us were still upset, though we had done our best to be calm for Brianna.
I could feel the rage boiling just under his skin. Very understandable, but anger is as volatile as kerosene—bottled under pressure, with no target on which to unleash it. An unwary word of mine might be enough to trigger an explosion. And if he exploded at me, I might either cry or go for his throat—my own mood was far from certain.
We walked for quite a long time, through the trees to the dead cornfield, all round the edge and back, moving all the time soft-footed through a minefield of silence.
“Jamie,” I said at last, as we reached the edge of the field, “what have you been doing with your hands?”
“What?” He swung toward me, startled.
“Your hands.” I caught one of them, held it between my own. “You didn’t do that kind of damage stacking chimney stones.”
“Ah.” He stood still, letting me touch the swollen knuckles of his hand.
“Brianna,” he said. “She—she didna tell ye anything about the man? Did she tell ye his name?”
I hesitated—and was lost. He knew me very well.
“She did tell ye, no?” His voice was thick with danger.
“She made me promise not to tell you,” I blurted. “I told her you’d know I was keeping something from you; but Jamie, I did promise—don’t make me tell you, please!”
He snorted again, in half-amused disgust.
“Aye, I ken ye well, Sassenach; ye couldna keep a secret from anyone who knows ye in the slightest. Even wee Ian can read ye like a book.”
He flapped a hand in dismissal.
“Dinna trouble your conscience. Let her tell me herself, when she will. I can wait.” His bruised hand curled slowly against his kilt, and a small shiver ran up my back.
“Your hands,” I said again.
He took a deep breath and held them out before him, backs up. He flexed them, slowly.
“D’ye recall, Sassenach, once when we were first acquent? Dougal deviled me to where I thought I must pound him, and yet I couldna do it, then. You told me, ‘Hit something, you’ll feel better.’ ” He gave me a wry, lopsided smile. “And I hit a tree. It hurt, but you were right, no? I did feel better, at least for a bit.”
“Oh.” I let out my breath, relieved that he didn’t mean to press the matter. Let him wait, then; I doubted that he quite realized yet that his daughter could be as