Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [86]
“Had he been following us since Charleston?” I wondered aloud.
Jamie shook his head. His hair was still loose, heavy waves falling forward to hide his face.
“I dinna think so. If he’d kent we had the jewels, he would have set upon us on the road before we reached Wilmington. No, I expect he learned it from one of Lillington’s servants. I thought we’d be safe enough, for we’d be away to Cross Creek before anyone heard of the gems. Someone talked, though—a footman; perhaps the sempstress who sewed your gown.”
His face was outwardly calm, but it always was, when he was hiding strong emotions. A sudden gust of hot wind shot sideways across the deck; the rain was getting closer. It whipped the loose ends of his hair across his cheek, and he wiped them back, running his fingers through the thick mass.
“I’m sorry for your other ring,” he said, after a moment.
“Oh. It’s—” I started to say “It’s all right,” but the words stuck in my throat, choked by the sudden realization of loss.
I had worn that gold ring for nearly thirty years; token of vows taken, forsaken, renewed, and at last absolved. A token of marriage, of family; of a large part of my life. And the last trace of Frank—whom, in spite of everything, I had loved.
Jamie didn’t say anything, but he took my left hand in his own and held it, lightly stroking my knuckles with his thumb. I didn’t speak either. I sighed deeply and turned my face toward the stern; the trees along the shore were shivering in a rising wind of anticipation, leaves rustling loudly enough to drown the sound of the vessel’s passage.
A small drop struck my cheek, but I didn’t move. My hand lay limp and white in his, looking unaccustomedly frail; it was something of a shock to see it that way.
I was used to paying a great deal of attention to my hands, one way and another. They were my tools, my channel of touch, mingling the delicacy and strength by which I healed. They had a certain beauty, which I admired in a detached sort of way, but it was the beauty of strength and competence, the assurance of power that made its form admirable.
It was the same hand now, pale and long-fingered, the knuckles slightly bony—oddly bare without my ring, but recognizably my hand. Yet it lay in a hand so much larger and rougher that it seemed small, and fragile by comparison.
His other hand squeezed tighter, pressing the metal of the silver ring into my flesh, reminding me of what remained. I lifted his fist and pressed it hard against my heart in answer. The rain began to fall, in large, wet drops, but neither of us moved.
It came in a rush, dropping a veil over boat and shore, pattering noisily on leaves and deck and water, lending a temporary illusion of concealment. It washed cool and soft across my skin, momentary balm on the wounds of fear and loss.
I felt at once horribly vulnerable and yet completely safe. But then—I had always felt that way with Jamie Fraser.
PART FOUR
River Run
10
JOCASTA
Cross Creek, North Carolina, June 1767
River Run stood by the edge of the Cape Fear, just above the confluence that gave Cross Creek its name. Cross Creek itself was good-sized, with a busy public wharf and several large warehouses lining the water’s edge. As the Sally Ann made her way slowly through the shipping lane, a strong, resinous smell hung over town and river, trapped by the hot, sticky air.
“Jesus, it’s like breathin’ turpentine,” Ian wheezed as a fresh wave of the stultifying reek washed over us.
“You is breathin’ turpentine, man.” Eutroclus’s rare smile flashed white and disappeared. He nodded toward a barge tethered to a piling by one of the wharfs. It was stacked with barrels, some of which showed a thick black ooze through split seams. Other, larger barrels bore the brandmarks of their owners, with a large “T” burned into the pinewood below.
“ ‘At’s right,” Captain Freeman agreed. He squinted in the bright sunlight, waving one hand slowly in front of his nose, as though this might dispel the stink. “This time o’ year’s when the pitch-bilers come