Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [532]
“This is our time,” he said. “Until that shall stop—for one of us, for both—it is our time. Now. Will ye waste it, Brianna, because you are afraid?”
“No,” she said, and her voice was thick, but clear. “I won’t.”
There was a sudden thin wail from the house, and a surprising gush of moist heat against his palm.
“I have to go,” she said, pulling away. She took two steps, then turned. “Come in,” she said, and ran up the path in front of him, fleet and white as the ghost of a deer.
By the time he reached the door, she had already fetched the baby from his cradle. She had been in bed; the quilt was thrown back and the hollow of her body was printed on the feather bed. Looking self-conscious, she sidled past him and lay down.
“I usually feed him in bed at night. He stays asleep longer if he’s next to me.”
Roger made some murmur of assent, and drew up the low nursing chair before the fire. It was very warm in the room, and the air was thick with smells of cooking, used diapers—and Brianna. Her scent was slightly different these days; the tang of wild grass tempered with a light, sweet smell that he thought must be milk.
Her head was bent, loose red hair falling over her shoulders in a cascade of sparks and shadows. The front of her gown was open to her waist, and the full round curve of one breast showed plainly, only the nipple obscured by the roundness of the baby’s head. There was a faint sound of sucking.
As though feeling his eyes on her, she raised her head.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, not to disturb the baby. “I cannot pretend not to be looking.”
He couldn’t tell if she flushed; the fire cast a red glow over face and breasts alike. She glanced down, though, as if she was embarrassed.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Nothing much worth looking at.”
Without a word, he stood up and began to undress.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was low, but shocked.
“Not fair for me to sit here gawking at you, is it? It’s much less worth looking at, I expect, but …” He paused, frowning at a knot in the lacing of his breeches. “But at least you’ll not feel you’re on display.”
“Oh.” He didn’t look up to see, but he thought that had made her smile. He’d got his shirt off; the fire felt good on his bare back. Feeling unspeakably self-conscious, he stood up and eased his breeches halfway down before stopping.
“Is this a striptease?” Brianna’s mouth quivered as she tried to keep from laughing out loud, joggling the baby.
“I couldn’t decide whether to turn my back or not.” He paused. “Have you got a preference?”
“Turn your back,” she said softly. “For now.”
He did, and got the breeches off without falling into the fire.
“Stay that way for a minute,” she said. “Please. I like to look at you.”
He straightened up and stood still, looking into the fire. The heat played over him, uncomfortably warm, and he took a step back, a sudden memory of Father Alexandre vivid in his mind. Christ, and why would he think of that now?
“You have marks on your back, Roger,” Brianna said, her voice softer than ever. “Who hurt you?”
“The Indians. It doesn’t matter. Not now.” He hadn’t bound or cut his hair; it fell over his shoulders, tickling the bare skin of his back. He could imagine the tickle of her eyes, going lower, over back and arse and thighs and calves.
“I’m going to turn around now. All right?”
“I won’t be shocked,” she assured him. “I’ve seen pictures.”
She had her father’s trick of hiding her expressions when she wanted to. He couldn’t tell a thing from the soft, wide mouth or the slanted cat-eyes. Was she shocked, frightened, amused? Why ought she to be any of those things? She had touched everything she was now looking at; had caressed and handled him with such intimacy that he had lost himself in her hands, yielded himself to her without reservation—and she to him.
But that had been a lifetime ago, in the freedom and frenzy of hot darkness. Now he stood before her for the first time naked in the light, and she sat there watching him