Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [147]
“Rather a dull color, brown, I’ve always thought,” I said practically, trying to delay things a bit. I kept having the feeling of being whirled along much faster than I intended.
Jamie shook his head, still smiling.
“No, I’d not say that, Sassenach. Not dull at all.” He lifted the mass of my hair with both hands and fanned it out. “It’s like the water in a burn, where it ruffles over the stones. Dark in the wavy spots, with bits of silver on the surface where the sun catches it.”
Nervous and a little breathless, I pulled away in order to pick up the comb I had dropped on the floor. I came up to find Jamie eyeing me steadily.
“I said I wouldna ask for anything you did not wish to tell me,” he said, “and I won’t, but I draw my own conclusions. Colum thought perhaps you were an English spy, though he couldna imagine in that case why you’d no Gaelic. Dougal thinks you’re likely a French spy, maybe looking for support for King James. But in that case, he canna imagine why you were alone.”
“And what about you?” I asked, pulling hard at a stubborn tangle. “What do you think I am?”
He tilted his head appraisingly, looking me over carefully.
“To look at, you could be French. You’ve that fine-boned look through the face that some of the Angevin ladies have. Frenchwomen are usually sallow-faced, though, and you have skin like an opal.” He traced a finger slowly across the curve of my collarbone, and I felt the skin glow beneath his touch.
The finger moved to my face, drawing from temple to cheek, smoothing the hair back behind my ear. I remained immobile under his scrutiny, trying not to move as his hand passed behind my neck, thumb gently stroking my earlobe.
“Golden eyes; I’ve seen a pair like that once before—on a leopard.” He shook his head. “Nay, lass. Ye could be French, but you’re not.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve talked with you a good deal; and listened to you besides. Dougal thinks you’re French because you speak French well—verra well.”
“Thank you,” I said sarcastically. “And the fact that I speak French well proves I’m not French?”
He smiled and tightened his grip on my neck. “Vous parlez très bien—but not quite as well as I do,” he added, dropping back into English. He released me suddenly. “I spent a year in France, after I left the castle, and two more later on with the army. I know a native speaker of French when I hear one. And French is not your mother tongue.” He shook his head slowly.
“Spanish? Perhaps, but why? Spain’s no interests in the Highlands. German? Surely not.” He shrugged. “Whoever you are, the English would want to find out. They canna afford to have unknown quantities at large, with the clans restless and Prince Charlie waiting to set sail from France. And their methods of finding out are not very gentle. I’ve reason to know.”
“And how do you know I’m not an English spy, then? Dougal thought I was, you said so.”
“It’s possible, though your spoken English is more than a little odd too. If you were, though, why would you choose to wed me, rather than go back to your own folk? That was another reason for Dougal’s makin’ ye wed me—to see would ye bolt last night, when it came to the point.”
“And I didn’t bolt. So what does that prove?”
He laughed and lay back down on the bed, an arm over his eyes to shield them from the lamp.
“Damned if I know, Sassenach. Damned if I know. There isna any reason able explanation I can think of for you. You might be one of the Wee Folk, for all I know”—he peeked sideways from under his arm—“no, I suppose not. You’re too big.”
“Aren’t you afraid. I might kill you in your sleep some night, if you don’t know who I am?”
He didn’t answer, but took his arm away from his eyes, and his smile widened. His eyes must be from the Fraser side, I thought. Not deepset like the MacKenzies’, they were set at an odd angle, so that the