Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [399]
“Oh! er … aye. Aye, I do.” The evidence at hand bore out this statement. He groaned faintly as I cupped my hand between his legs. “Oh, Lord. Don’t do that, Sassenach; I canna keep my hands from ye.”
He did hug me then, wrapping long arms about me and pulling my face into the snowy tucks of his shirt, smelling faintly of the laundry starch Brother Alfonse used at the Abbey.
“Why should you?” I said, muffled in his linen. “You’ve a bit of time to spare, surely? It’s only a short ride to the docks.”
“It isna that,” he said, smoothing my riotous hair.
“Oh, I’m too fat?” In fact, my stomach was still nearly flat, and I was thinner than usual because of the sickness. “Or is it …?”
“No,” he said, smiling. “Ye talk too much.” He bent and kissed me, then scooped me up and sat down on the bed, holding me on his lap. I lay down and pulled him determinedly down on top of me.
“Claire, no!” he protested as I started unbuckling his kilt.
I stared at him. “Whyever not?”
“Well,” he said awkwardly, blushing a bit. “The child … I mean, I dinna want to hurt it.” I laughed.
“Jamie, you can’t hurt it. It’s no bigger than the tip of my finger yet.” I held up a finger in illustration, then used it to trace the full, curving line of his lower lip. He seized my hand and bent to kiss me abruptly, as though to erase the tickle of my touch.
“You’re sure?” he asked. “I mean… I keep thinking he wouldna like being jounced about …”
“He’ll never notice,” I assured him, hands once more busy with the buckle of his kilt.
“Well … if you’re sure of it.” There was a peremptory rap at the door, and with impeccable Gallic timing, the chambermaid pushed her way in backward, carelessly gouging the door with a billet of wood as she turned. From the scarred surfaces of door and jamb, it appeared that this was her usual method of operations.
“Bonjour, Monsieur, Madame,” she muttered, with a curt nod toward the bed as she shuffled toward the hearth. All right for some people, said her attitude, louder than words. Used by this time to the matter-of-factness with which servants treated the sight of inn patrons in any form of dishabille, I merely murmured “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” in return and let it go at that. I also let go of Jamie’s kilt, and slid under the covers, pulling the quilt up to hide my scarlet cheeks.
Possessed of somewhat greater sang-froid, Jamie placed one of the bolsters strategically across his lap, parked his elbows on it, rested his chin on upturned palms, and made pleasant conversation with the maid, praising the cuisine of the house.
“And from where do you procure the wine, Mademoiselle?” he asked politely.
“From here, from there.” She shrugged, stuffing kindling rapidly under the sticks with a practiced hand. “Wherever it’s cheapest.” The woman’s plump face creased slightly as she gave Jamie a sidelong look from the hearth.
“I gathered as much,” he said, grinning at her, and she gave a brief snort of amusement.
“I’ll wager I can match the price you’re getting, and double the quality,” he offered. “Tell your mistress.”
One eyebrow rose skeptically. “And what’s your own price, Monsieur?”
He made an altogether Gallic gesture of selfabnegation. “Nothing, Mademoiselle. I go to call upon a kinsman who sells wine. Perhaps I can bring him some new business to ensure my welcome, no?”
She nodded, seeing the wisdom of this, and grunted as she rose from her knees.
“Well enough, Monsieur. I’ll speak to the patronne.”
The door thumped to behind the maid, aided by a skillful swing of her hip in passing. Putting the bolster aside, Jamie stood up and began to rebuckle his kilt.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I protested. He glanced down at me, and a reluctant smile curved the wide mouth.
“Oh. Well … you’re sure you’re up to it, Sassenach?”
“I am if you are,” I said, unable to resist. He eyed me austerely.
“Just for that, I should go at once,” he said. “Still, I’ve heard that ye ought to humor expectant mothers.” He let the kilt fall to the floor and sat down beside me in his shirt, the bed creaking beneath his weight.