The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [224]
“Sniffles,” I said accusingly to him. “Ha!”
I wriggled my shoulders and leaned back, finding some support against the sloping wall of our shelter. Despite Jamie’s warning, it seemed unnecessary to keep an eye on Mrs. Beardsley; she had obligingly built up the fire, then curled up among the goats and—being merely flesh and blood, and therefore exhausted by the day’s events—had gone immediately to sleep. I could hear her on the far side of the fire, snoring peacefully among the assorted wheezings and grunts of her companions.
“And what do you think you are, anyway?” I demanded of the heavy head resting on my thigh. “Vulcanized rubber?” My fingers touched his hair, quite without intent, and smoothed it gently. One corner of his mouth lifted suddenly, in a smile of startling sweetness.
It was gone as quickly as it had come, and I stared at him in astonishment. No, he was sound asleep; his breath came hoarse but even, and the long parti-colored lashes rested dark against his cheeks. Very softly, I stroked his head again.
Sure enough; the smile flickered like the touch of a flame, and disappeared. He sighed, very deeply, bent his neck to nuzzle closer, then relaxed completely, his body going limp.
“Oh, Christ, Jamie,” I said softly, and felt tears sting my eyes.
It had been years since I’d seen him smile in his sleep like that. Not since the early days of our marriage, in fact—at Lallybroch.
He’d always do it as a wee lad, his sister Jenny had told me then. I think it means he’s happy.
My fingers curled into the soft, thick hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the solid curve of his skull, the warm scalp and the hair-thin line of the ancient scar across it.
“Me, too,” I whispered to him.
30
SPAWN OF SATAN
MRS. MACLEOD and her two children had gone to stay with Evan Lindsay’s wife, and with the leaving of the MacLeod brothers with the militia, plus Geordie Chisholm and his two eldest sons, the congestion in the big house was eased substantially. Not nearly enough, though, Brianna reflected, considering that Mrs. Chisholm remained.
The problem was not Mrs. Chisholm as such; the problem was Mrs. Chisholm’s five younger children, all boys, and referred to collectively—by Mrs. Bug—as “the spawn of Satan.” Mrs. Chisholm, perhaps understandably, objected to this terminology. While the other inhabitants of the house were less forthright than Mrs. Bug in stating their opinions, there was a remarkable unanimity among them. Three-year-old twin boys would have that effect, Brianna thought, eyeing Jemmy with some trepidation as she envisioned the future.
He was at the moment giving no indication of a potential for future rampage, being half-asleep on the rag rug of Jamie’s study, where Brianna had retired in the faint hope of fifteen minutes’ semi-solitude in which to write. Residual awe of Jamie was sufficient to keep the little warts out of this room, for the most part.
Mrs. Bug had informed eight-year-old Thomas, six-year-old Anthony, and five-year-old Toby Chisholm that Mrs. Fraser was a notable witch; a White Lady, who would undoubtedly turn them into toads on the spot—and no great loss to society, she gave them to understand—should any harm come to the contents of her surgery. That didn’t keep them out—quite the opposite; they were fascinated—but it had so far prevented them breaking much.
Jamie’s inkstand stood to hand on the table; a hollow gourd, neatly corked with a large acorn, with a pottery jar of neatly sharpened turkey quills beside it. Motherhood had taught Brianna to seize random moments; she seized this one, and a quill, flipping open the cover of the small journal in which she kept what she thought of as her private accounts.
Last night I dreamed about making soap. I haven’t made soap yet, myself, but I’d been scrubbing the floor yesterday, and the smell of the soap was still on my hands when I went to bed. It’s a nasty smell, something between acid and ashes, with a horrible faint stink from the hog fat, like something that’s been dead