Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [409]
“Did she—did she tell ye what happened?” I couldn’t see his face, but the hesitation in his speech was noticeable. “I mean—” He drew in his breath with a deep hiss. “Did the man hurt her?”
“No, not physically.”
I hesitated myself, imagining that I could feel the weight of the ring in my pocket, though of course I couldn’t. Brianna had not asked me to keep anything to myself, other than Bonnet’s name, but I would not tell Jamie any of the details she had told me, unless he asked. And I did not think he would ask; it was the last thing he would want to know.
He didn’t ask; only muttered something under his breath in Gaelic and walked on, head bent.
The silence once broken, I found that I could not bear it any longer. Better to explode than suffocate. I took my hand from his arm.
“What are you thinking?”
“I am wondering—if it is as terrible to be—to be violated … if it is—is not … if there is not … damage.” He shifted his shoulders restlessly, half shrugging as though his coat were too tight.
I knew very well what was in his mind. Wentworth prison, and the faint scars that webbed his back, a net of dreadful memory.
“Bad enough, I suppose,” I said. “Though I expect you’re right, it would be easier to stand if there were no physical reminder of it. But then, there is a physical reminder of it,” I felt obliged to add. “And a bloody noticeable one, come to that!” His left hand curled at his side, clenching involuntarily.
“Aye, that’s so,” he muttered. He glanced uncertainly at me, the half-moon’s light gilding the planes of his face. “But still—he didna hurt her, that’s something. If he had … killing would be too good for him,” he finished abruptly.
“There is the very minor detail that you don’t precisely ‘recover’ from pregnancy,” I said with a marked edge to my voice. “If he’d broken her bones or shed her blood, she’d heal. As it is—she isn’t ever going to forget it, you know.”
“I know!”
I flinched slightly, and he saw it. He made a sketchy gesture of apology.
“I didna mean to shout.”
I gave him back a brief nod of acknowledgment, and we walked on, side by side, but not touching.
“It—” he began, and then broke off, glancing at me. He grimaced, impatient with himself.
“I do know,” he said, more quietly. “Ye’ll forgive me, Sassenach, but I ken the hell of a lot more about the matter than you do.”
“I wasn’t arguing with you. But you haven’t borne a child; you can’t know what that’s like. It’s—”
“You are arguing wi’ me, Sassenach. Don’t.” He squeezed my arm, hard, and let it go. There was a touch of humor in his voice, but he was dead serious overall.
“I am trying to tell ye what I know.” He stood still for a minute, gathering himself.
“I havena put myself in mind of Jack Randall for some good time,” he said at last. “I dinna want to do it now. But there it is.” He shrugged again, and rubbed a hand hard down one cheek.
“There is body, and there is soul, Sassenach,” he said, speaking slowly, ordering his ideas with his words. “You’re a physician; ye’ll ken the one well. But the other is more important.”
I opened my mouth to say that I knew that as well as he did, if not better—but then shut it without saying anything. He didn’t notice; he wasn’t seeing the dark cornfield, or the maple wood with its leaves gone silver with moonlight. His eyes were fixed on a small room with thick stone walls, furnished with a table and stools and a lamp. And a bed.
“Randall,” he said, and his voice was meditative. “The most of what he did to me—I could have stood it.” He spread out the fingers of his right hand; the dressing on the cracked finger shone white.
“I would have been afraid, been hurt; I would have meant to kill him for doing it. But I could have lived, after, and not felt his touch always on my skin, felt filthy in myself—were it not that he wasna satisfied with my body. He wanted my soul—and he had it.” The white bandage vanished as his fist folded.
“Aye, well—ye ken all that.” He turned away abruptly and began to walk. I had to scurry to catch him up.
“What I am saying, I suppose,