The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [176]
The same proud army with which she had once fought; the proud army with which his father had died. He felt a catch at his throat, and forced air from down deep, singing through it fiercely. I will be a warrior, that my son may be a merchant—and his son may be a poet. Neither Adams nor Jefferson had fought; Jefferson had no son. He had been the poet, whose words had echoed through the years, raised armies, burned in the hearts of those who would die for them, and for the country founded on them.
Perhaps it’s the hair, Roger thought ironically, seeing the gleam of ruddy light as Jamie moved, watching silently over the thing he had started. Some Viking tinge in the blood, that gave those tall fiery men the gift of rousing men to war.
“That fought and died for
Your wee bit hill and glen . . .”
So they had; so they would again. For that was what men always fought for, wasn’t it? Home and family. Another glint of red hair, loose in firelight, by the bones of the pig. Bree, holding Jemmy. And if Roger found himself now bard to a displaced Highland chieftain, still he must try also to be a warrior when the time came, for the sake of his son, and those who would come after.
“And sent him homeward
Tae think again.
Tae think . . . again.”
25
THE ANGELING OF MY REST
LATE AS IT WAS, we made love by unspoken consent, each wanting the refuge and reassurance of the other’s flesh. Alone in our bedroom, with the shutters closed tight against the sounds of the voices in the dooryard—poor Roger was still singing, by popular demand—we could shed the urgencies and fatigues of the day—at least for a little while.
He held me tightly afterward, his face buried in my hair, clinging to me like a talisman.
“It will be all right,” I said softly, and stroked his damp hair, dug my fingers deep into the place where neck and shoulder met, the muscle there hard as wood beneath the skin.
“Aye, I know.” He lay still for a moment, letting me work, and the tension of his neck and shoulders gradually relaxed, his body growing heavier on mine. He felt me draw breath under him, and moved, rolling onto his side.
His stomach rumbled loudly, and we both laughed.
“No time for dinner?” I asked.
“I canna eat, just before,” he answered. “It gives me cramp. And there wasna time, after. I dinna suppose there’s anything edible up here?”
“No,” I said regretfully. “I had a few apples, but the Chisholms got them. I’m sorry, I should have thought to bring something up for you.” I did know that he seldom ate “before”—before any fight, confrontation, or other socially stressful situation, that is—but hadn’t thought that he might not have a chance to eat afterward, what with everyone and his brother wanting to “have just a wee word, sir.”
“It’s not as though ye didna have other things to think of, Sassenach,” he answered dryly. “Dinna fash yourself; I’ll do ’til breakfast.”
“Are you sure?” I put a foot out of bed, making to rise. “There’s plenty left; or if you don’t want to go down, I could go and—”
He stopped me with a hand on my arm, then dragged me firmly back under the covers, tucking me spoon-fashion into the curve of his body and wrapping an arm over me to insure that I stayed there.
“No,” he said definitely. “This may be the last night I spend in a bed for some time. I mean to stay in it—with you.”
“All right.” I snuggled obediently under his chin, and relaxed against him, just as pleased to stay. I understood; while no one would come to fetch us unless there was some emergency, the mere sight of either of us downstairs would cause an immediate rush of people needing this or that, wanting to ask a question, offer advice, require something . . . much better to stay here, snug and peaceful with each other.
I had put out the candle, and the fire was burning low. I wondered briefly whether