Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [432]
“What does nighean na galladh mean?” she demanded, seeing me at the door.
“I don’t know,” I said. I did, but thought it much more prudent not to say. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” I added. “Er … whatever it means.”
“Ha,” she said, and with an angry snort, stomped into the house, reappearing moments later with the egg basket over her arm. Without a word, she disappeared into the bushes, making a rustling noise like a hurricane.
I took several deep breaths and went in to start supper, cursing Roger Wakefield.
Physical exertion seemed to have dissipated at least some of the negative energy in the household. Brianna spent an hour in the bushes, and returned with sixteen eggs and a calmer face. There were leaves and stickers in her hair, and from the look of her shoes, she had been kicking trees.
I didn’t know what Jamie had been doing, but he returned at suppertime, sweaty and windblown but outwardly calm. They pointedly ignored each other, a reasonably difficult feat for two large persons confined in a twenty-foot-square log cabin. I glanced at Ian, who rolled his eyes skyward and came to help carry the big serving bowl to the table.
Conversation over supper was limited to requests to pass the salt, and afterward, Brianna cleared the dishes, then went to sit at the spinning wheel, working the foot treadle with unnecessary emphasis.
Jamie gave her back a glare, then jerked his head at me and went out. He was waiting on the path to the privy when I followed him a moment later.
“What am I to do?” he demanded, without preamble.
“Apologize,” I said.
“Apologize?” His hair seemed to be standing on end, though it was likely only the effects of the wind. “But I havena done anything wrong!”
“Well, what difference does that make?” I said, exasperated. “You asked me what you should do, and I told you.”
He exhaled strongly through his nose, hesitated a moment, then turned and stalked back into the house, shoulders set for martyrdom or battle.
“I apologize,” he said, looming up in front of her.
Surprised, she nearly dropped the yarn, but caught it adeptly.
“Oh,” she said, and flushed. She took her foot off the treadle, and the great wheel creaked and slowed.
“I was wrong,” he said, with a quick look at me. I nodded encouragingly, and he cleared his throat. “I shouldna have—”
“It’s all right.” She spoke quickly, eager to meet him. “You didn’t—I mean, you were only trying to help.” She looked down at the thread, slowing as it ran through her fingers. “I’m sorry too—I shouldn’t have been mad at you.”
He closed his eyes briefly and sighed, then opened them and lifted one eyebrow at me. I smiled faintly and turned back to my work, pounding fennel seeds in the mortar.
He pulled up a stool and sat down beside her, and she turned toward him, putting one hand on the wheel to stop it.
“I know you meant well,” she said. “You and Ian both. But don’t you see, Da? I have to wait for Roger.”
“But if something has happened to the man—if he’s met with an accident of some kind …”
“He isn’t dead. I know he isn’t.” She spoke with the fervency of someone who means to bend reality to her will. “He’ll come back. And how would it be if he did, and found me married to Ian?”
Ian looked up, hearing his name. He sat on the floor by the fire, Rollo’s great head resting on his knee, his yellow wolf-eyes mere slits of pleasure as Ian methodically combed through the thick pelt, pulling out ticks and burs as he found them.
Jamie ran his fingers through his hair in a gesture of frustration.
“I have had word out since ye told me of him, a nighean. I sent Ian to Cross Creek to leave word at River Run, and with Captain Freeman to pass to the other rivermen. I’ve sent Duncan wi’ word, all through the Cape Fear valley and as far north as Edenton and New Bern, and wi’ the packet boats that run from Virginia to Charleston.”
He looked at me, pleading for