The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [178]
“You’re thinking so loudly, I can hear you from over here,” I said, in conversational tones. “Or are you only counting sheep?”
His eyes opened at once, and he turned over to smile ruefully at me.
“I was counting pigs,” he informed me. “And doing nicely, too. Only I kept catchin’ sight of that white creature from the corner of my eye, skippin’ to and fro just out of reach, taunting me.”
I laughed with him, and scooted toward him. I laid my forehead against his shoulder and heaved a deep sigh.
“We really must sleep, Jamie. I’m so tired, my bones feel as though they’re melting, and you’ve been up even longer than I have.”
“Mmm.” He put an arm around me, pulling me into the curve of his shoulder.
“That cross—it isn’t going to catch the house afire, is it?” I asked after a moment, having thought of something else to worry about.
“No.” He sounded slightly drowsy. “It’s burnt out long since.”
The fire in the hearth had burned down to a bed of glowing embers. I rolled over again and lay watching them for a few minutes, trying to empty my mind of everything.
“When Frank and I were married,” I said, “we went to be counseled by a priest. He advised us to begin our married life by saying the rosary together in bed each night. Frank said he wasn’t sure whether this was meant to be devotion, an aid to sleep, or only a Church-sanctioned method of birth control.”
Jamie’s chest vibrated with silent laughter behind me.
“Well, we could try if ye like, Sassenach,” he said. “Though ye’ll have to keep count of the Hail Marys; you’re lyin’ on my left hand and my fingers have gone numb.”
I shifted slightly to allow him to pull his hand out from under my hip.
“Not that, I don’t think,” I said. “But perhaps a prayer. Do you know any good going-to-bed prayers?”
“Aye, lots,” he said, holding up his hand and flexing his fingers slowly as the blood returned to them. Dark in the dimness of the room, the slow movement reminded me of the way in which he lured trout from under rocks. “Let me think a bit.”
The house below was silent now, save for the usual creaks and groans of settling timbers. I thought I heard a voice outside, raised in distant argument, but it might have been no more than the rattle of tree branches in the wind.
“Here’s one,” Jamie said at last. “I’d nearly forgotten it. My father taught it to me, not so long before he died. He said he thought I might one day find it useful.”
He settled himself comfortably, head bent so his chin rested on my shoulder, and began to speak, low and warm-voiced, in my ear.
“Bless to me, O God, the moon that is above me,
Bless to me, O God, the earth that is beneath me,
Bless to me, O God, my wife and my children,
And bless, O God, myself who have care of them;
Bless to me my wife and my children,
And bless, O God, myself who have care of them.”
He had begun with a certain self-consciousness, hesitating now and then to find a word, but that had faded with the speaking. Now he spoke soft and sure, and no longer to me, though his hand lay warm on the curve of my waist.
“Bless, O God, the thing on which mine eye doth rest,
Bless, O God, the thing on which my hope doth rest,
Bless, O God, my reason and my purpose,
Bless, O bless Thou them, Thou God of life;
Bless, O God, my reason and my purpose,
Bless, O bless Thou them, Thou God of life.”
His hand smoothed the curve of my hip, lifted to stroke my hair.
“Bless to me the bed companion of my love,
Bless to me the handling of my hands,
Bless, O bless Thou to me, O God, the fencing of my defense,
And bless, O bless to me the angeling of my rest;
Bless, O bless Thou to me, O God, the fencing of my defense,
And bless, O bless to me the angeling of my rest.”
His hand lay still,