The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [302]
“Well, they’re rather vulgar,” I said dubiously, “and dreadful snobs, but I think he’s legitimately rich. He owns a brewery, I think. But ask Jocasta; she’ll know for sure.”
“Rah-tha vul-gah,” she drawled, mocking my own accent, and grinned. “Who’s a snob, then?”
“I am not a snob,” I said with dignity. “I am a keen observer of social nuance. Have you seen your father and Duncan anywhere?”
“Not Duncan, but Da’s down there by the trees with Mr. Campbell.” She pointed helpfully, and I spotted Jamie’s bright hair and crimson tartan, a fiery gleam at the bottom of the lawn. Not a sign of Duncan’s scarlet coat, though.
“Damn the man,” I said. “Where has he got to?”
“Went to the necessary, and fell in,” Bree suggested. “All right, hold your horses, we’re going!” Addressing this last to Jemmy, who was uttering plaintive cries suggestive of imminent starvation, she disappeared into the house.
I settled my shawl and strolled down the lawn to join Jamie. A picnic lunch was being served to accommodate the guests, and I snatched a biscuit and a slice of ham as I passed the refreshment tables, improvising a hasty snack in order to stave off my own hunger pangs.
The air was still cool, but the sun was high and hot on my shoulders; it was a relief to join the men in the shade of a small grove of oaks that stood near the bottom of the lawn. They were pin oaks, and had begun to leaf out already, the unfolding leaves peeping out like a baby’s fingers. What had Nayawenne told me about oaks? Oh, yes; one planted corn when the oak leaves were the size of a squirrel’s ear.
Judging by that, the slaves could be planting corn in the River Run kitchen garden any day now. It would be weeks before the oak leaves were out on the Ridge, though.
Jamie had evidently just said something humorous, for Campbell made the low, creaking noise that passed with him for laughter, nodding to me in greeting.
“I shall leave ye to the practice of your own affairs, then,” he said to Jamie, recovering his composure. “Call upon me, though, at need.” He shaded his eyes, looking up toward the terrace.
“Ah, the prodigal returns. In shillings, sir, or bottles of brandy?”
I turned to look as well, in time to see Duncan crossing the terrace, nodding and smiling shyly to well-wishers as he passed. I must have looked bewildered, for Mr. Campbell bowed to me, dry mouth crooked with amusement.
“I’d laid your husband a small wager, ma’am.”
“Five to one on Duncan, the night,” Jamie explained. “That he and my aunt will share a bed, I mean.”
“Goodness,” I said, rather crossly. “Is anyone here talking of anything else? Minds like sewers, the lot of you.”
Campbell laughed, then turned aside, distracted by the urgencies of a small grandson.
“Don’t tell me ye werena wondering the same thing.” Jamie nudged me gently.
“Indeed I was not,” I said primly. I wasn’t—but only because I already knew.
“Oh, indeed,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling up. “And you wi’ lechery as plain on your face as whiskers on a cat.”
“Whatever do you mean by that?” I demanded. Just in case he was right, I flicked the fan open and covered the lower half of my face. I peered over its ivory lacework, batting my eyelashes in mock innocence.
He made a derisive Scottish noise in his throat. Then, with a quick glance round, he bent low and whispered in my ear.
“It means ye look as ye do when ye want me to come to your bed.” A warm breath stirred the hair over my ear. “Do you?”
I smiled brilliantly at Mr. Campbell, who was viewing us with interest over his grandson’s head, snapped the fan open, and using it as a shield, stood on tiptoe to whisper in Jamie’s ear. I dropped back on my heels and smiled demurely at him, fanning away for all I was worth.
Jamie looked mildly shocked, but definitely pleased. He glanced at Mr. Campbell, who had fortunately turned away, drawn into conversation elsewhere. Jamie rubbed his nose and regarded me with intense speculation, his dark blue gaze lingering on the scalloped neckline of my new gown. I fluttered the