The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [303]
“Ah . . . we could . . .” His eyes flicked up, assessing our surroundings for possible prospects of seclusion, then down again, ineluctably drawn to the fan as though it were a magnet.
“No we couldn’t,” I informed him, smiling and bowing to the elderly Misses MacNeil, who were strolling past behind him. “Every nook and cranny in the house is filled with people. So are the barns and stables and outbuildings. And if you had in mind a rendezvous under a bush on the riverbank, think again. This dress cost a bloody fortune.” A fortune in illegal whisky, but a fortune nonetheless.
“Oh, I ken that well enough.”
His eyes traveled slowly over me, from the coils of upswept hair to the tips of my new calf-leather shoes. The dress was pale amber silk, bodice and hem embroidered with silk leaves in shades of brown and gold, and if I did say so myself, it fit me like a glove.
“Worth it,” he said softly, and leaned down to kiss me. A chilly breeze stirred the oak branches overhead, and I moved closer to him, seeking his warmth.
What with the long journey from the Ridge and the crush of guests caused by the impending celebration, we hadn’t shared a bed ourselves in more than a week.
It wasn’t so much an amorous encounter I wanted—though I would certainly not say no, if the opportunity offered. What I missed was simply the feel of his body next to mine; being able to reach out a hand in the dark and rest it on the long swell of his thigh; to roll toward him in the morning and cup his round, neat buttocks in the curve of thigh and belly; to press my cheek against his back and breathe the scent of his skin as I slipped into sleep.
“Damn,” I said, resting my forehead briefly in the folds of his shirt ruffle, and inhaling the mingled scents of starch and man with longing. “You know, if your aunt and Duncan don’t need the bed, perhaps . . .”
“Oh, so ye were wondering.”
“No, I wasn’t,” I said. “Besides, what business is it of yours?”
“Oh, none at all,” he said, unperturbed. “Only I’ve been asked by four men this morning if I think they will—or have done already. Which is rather a compliment to my aunt, no?”
It was true; Jocasta MacKenzie must be well into her sixties, and yet the thought of her sharing a man’s bed was by no means unthinkable. I had met any number of women who had gratefully abandoned all notion of sex, directly the cessation of childbearing made it possible—but Jocasta wasn’t one of them. At the same time—
“They haven’t,” I said. “Phaedre told me yesterday.”
“I know. Duncan told me, just now.” He was frowning slightly, but not at me. Toward the terrace, where the bright splotch of Duncan’s tartan showed between the huge stone vases.
“Did he?” I was more than a little surprised at that. A sudden suspicion struck me. “You didn’t ask him, did you?”
He gave me a slightly reproachful look.
“I did not,” he said. “What d’ye take me for, Sassenach?”
“A Scot,” I said. “Sex fiends, the lot of you. Or so one would think, listening to all the talk around here.” I gave Farquard Campbell a hard look, but he had turned his back, engrossed in conversation.
Jamie regarded me thoughtfully, scratching the corner of his jaw.
“Sex fiends?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Oh, aye, I do. I’m only wondering—is that an insult, would ye say, or a compliment?”
I opened my mouth, then paused. I gave him back the thoughtful look.
“If the shoe fits,” I said, “wear it.”
He burst out laughing, which made a number of those nearby turn and look at us. Taking my arm, he steered me across the lawn and into the patchy shade of the elms.
“I did mean to ask ye something, Sassenach,” he said, checking over his shoulder to be sure we were out of earshot. “Can ye find occasion to speak wi’ my aunt, alone?”
“In this madhouse?” I glanced toward the terrace; a swarm of well-wishers surrounded Duncan like bees round a flower patch. “Yes, I suppose I could catch her in her room, before she comes down for the wedding. She’s gone up to rest.” I wouldn’t mind a lie-down, either; my legs ached with hours of standing, and