Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [515]
“I’m immortal,” she murmured, peering alternately into his eyes. “Didn’t you know?” The pressure of her thumbs lifted from his eyelids and he blinked, still feeling her touch.
“You have a slight enlargement of one pupil, but very small. Grip my fingers and squeeze as hard as you can.” She held out her index fingers and he obliged, annoyed to feel the weakness of his grip.
“Did you find MacKenzie?” He was further annoyed not to be able to control his curiosity.
She gave him a quick, wary glance from those sherry-colored eyes, and returned her gaze to his hands.
“Yes. He’ll be coming along. A little later.”
“Will he?” She caught the tone of his question and hesitated, then looked at him directly.
“How much do you know?”
“Everything,” he said, and had the momentary satisfaction of seeing her startled. Then one side of her mouth curved up.
“Everything?”
“Enough,” he amended sardonically. “Enough to ask whether your statement of Mr. MacKenzie’s return is knowledge on your part or wishful thinking.”
“Call it faith.” Without so much as a by-your-leave, she tugged loose the strings of his nightshirt and spread it open, exposing his chest. Rolling a sheet of parchment deftly into a tube, she applied one end of it to his breast, putting her ear to the other end.
“I beg your pardon, madame!”
“Hush, I can’t hear,” she said, making small shushing motions with one hand. She proceeded to move her tube to different parts of his chest, pausing now and then to thump experimentally or prod him in the liver.
“Have you moved your bowels yet today?” she inquired, poking him familiarly in the abdomen.
“I decline to say,” he said, pulling his nightshirt back together with dignity.
She looked more outrageous even than usual. The woman must be forty at least, yet she showed no more sign of age than a fine webbing of lines at the corners of her eyes, and threadings of silver in that ridiculous mass of hair.
She was thinner than he remembered, though it was hard to judge of her figure, dressed as she was in a barbaric leather shirt and trouserings. She’d plainly been in the sun and weather for some time; her face and hands had baked a delicate soft brown, that made the big golden eyes that much more startling when they turned full on one—which they now did.
“Brianna says that Dr. Fentiman trephined your skull.”
He shifted uncomfortably under the sheets.
“I am told that he did. I am afraid I was not aware of it at the time.”
Her mouth quirked slightly.
“Just as well. Would you mind if I look at it? It’s only curiosity,” she went on, with unaccustomed delicacy. “Not medical necessity. It’s only that I’ve never seen a trepanation.”
He closed his eyes, giving up.
“Beyond the state of my bowels, I have no secrets from you, madame.” He tilted his head, indicating the location of the hole in his head, and felt her cool fingers slide under the bandage, lifting the gauze and allowing a breath of air to soothe his hot head.
“Brianna is with her father?” he asked, eyes still closed.
“Yes.” Her voice was softer. “She told me—us—a little of what you’d done for her. Thank you.”
The fingers left his skin and he opened his eyes.
“It was my pleasure to be of service to her. Perforated skull and all.”
She smiled faintly.
“Jamie will be up to see you in a bit. He’s … talking to Brianna in the garden.”
He felt a small stab of anxiety.
“Are they—in accord?”
“See for yourself.” She put an arm behind him, and with amazing strength for a woman with such fine bones, levered him upright. Just beyond the balustrade he could see the two figures at the bottom of the garden, heads close together. As he watched, they embraced, then broke apart, laughing at the awkwardness caused by Brianna’s shape.
“I think we got here just in time,” Claire murmured, looking at her daughter with a practiced eye. “It isn’t going to be much longer.”
“I confess