Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [419]
“There was a man
In Muir of Skene,
He had dirks
And I had none;
But I fell on him
With my thumbs,
And wot you how,
I dirkit him,
Dirkit him,
Dirkit him?”
With each repetition, he dug a thumb hard between her ribs.
“You fucking bastard!” she screamed. She braced her feet and yanked down on his arm as hard as she could, bringing it into biting range. She lunged at his wrist, but before she could sink her teeth in his flesh, she found herself jerked off her feet and whirled through the air.
She ended hard on her knees, one arm twisted up behind her back so tightly that her shoulder joint cracked. The strain on her elbow hurt; she writhed, trying to turn into the hold, but couldn’t budge. An arm like an iron bar clamped across her shoulders, forcing her head down. And farther down.
Her chin drove into her chest; she couldn’t breathe. And still he forced her head down. Her knees slid apart, her thighs forced wide by the downward pressure.
“Stop!” she grunted. It hurt to force sound through her constricted windpipe. “Gd’s sk, stp!”
The relentless pressure paused, but did not ease. She could feel him there behind her, an inexorable, inexplicable force. She reached back with her free hand, groping for something to claw, something to hit or bend, but there was nothing.
“I could break your neck,” he said, very quietly. The weight of his arm left her shoulders, though the twisted arm still held her bent forward, hair loose and tumbled, nearly touching the floor. A hand settled on her neck. She could feel thumb and index fingers on either side, pressing lightly on her arteries. He squeezed, and black spots danced before her eyes.
“I could kill you, so.”
The hand left her neck, and touched her, deliberately, knee and shoulder, cheek and chin, emphasizing her helplessness. She jerked her head away, not letting him touch the wetness, not wanting him to feel her tears of rage. Then the hand pressed sudden and brutal on the small of her back. She made a small, choked sound and arched her back to keep her arm from breaking, thrusting out her hips backward, legs spread to keep her balance.
“I could use ye as I would,” he said, and there was a coldness in his voice. “Could you stop me, Brianna?”
She felt as though she would suffocate with rage and shame.
“Answer me.” The hand took her by the neck again, and squeezed.
“No!”
She was free. So suddenly released, she pitched forward onto her face, barely getting one hand down in time to save herself.
She lay on the straw, panting and sobbing. There was a loud whuffle near her head—Magdalen, roused by the noise, leaning out of her stall to investigate. Slowly, painfully, she raised herself to a sitting position.
He was standing over her, arms folded.
“Damn you!” she gasped. She slammed a hand down in the hay. “God, I want to kill you!”
He stood quite still, looking down at her.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “But ye can’t, can you?”
She stared up at him, not understanding. His eyes were intent on hers, not angry, not mocking. Waiting.
“You can’t,” he repeated, with emphasis.
And then realization came, flooding down her aching arms to her bruised fists.
“Oh, God,” she said. “No. I can’t. I couldn’t. Even if I’d fought him … I couldn’t.”
Quite suddenly she began to cry, the knots inside her slipping loose, the weights shifting, lifting, as a blessed relief spread through her body. It hadn’t been her fault. If she had fought with all her strength—as she had fought just now—
“Couldn’t,” she said, and swallowed hard, gasping for air. “I couldn’t have stopped him. I kept thinking, if only I’d fought harder … but it wouldn’t have mattered. I couldn’t have stopped him.”
A hand touched her face, big and very gentle.
“You’re a fine, braw lassie,” he whispered. “But a lassie, nonetheless. Would ye fret your heart out and think yourself a coward because ye couldna fight off a lion wi’ your bare hands? It’s the same. Dinna be daft, now.”
She wiped the back of her hand under her nose, and sniffed deeply.
He put a hand under her elbow and helped her up, his strength