The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [305]
“What—you mean she doesn’t know? But they’ve been engaged to be married for months, and living together for most of it!”
“Aye, but . . .” Jamie made the odd half-shrugging gesture he used when feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable, as though his shirt were too tight. “D’ye see—when the question of marriage rose, it never occurred to Duncan that it was a matter of . . . mmphm.”
“Mmphm,” I said, raising one eyebrow. “Doesn’t marriage usually involve at least the possibility of mmphm?”
“Well, he didna think my aunt was wanting him for his manly beauty, aye?” Jamie said, raising his own brows back at me. “It seemed only a matter of business and convenience—there are things he could manage as owner of River Run that he couldna do as overseer. At that, he wouldna have agreed, save she persuaded him.”
“And he never thought to mention this . . . this impediment?”
“Oh, he thought. But there wasna any indication that my aunt regarded marriage in any but the sense of business. She didna mention the matter of bed; he was too shy to say. And the question didna really arise, ken.”
“I gather that it now has arisen? What happened? Did your aunt slip her hand under his kilt this morning and make a bawdy remark about the wedding night?”
“He didna happen to say,” he replied dryly. “But it wasna until this morning, when he began to hear the jests among the guests, that it occurred to Duncan that perhaps my aunt was expecting him to . . . well.”
He lifted one shoulder, and let it fall. “He couldna think what to do, and was in a panic, listening to everyone.”
“I see.” I rubbed a knuckle across my upper lip, thinking. “Poor Duncan; no wonder he’s been nervous.”
“Aye.” Jamie straightened up, with the air of one having settled something. “So, if ye’ll be so kind as to speak wi’ Jocasta, and see it’s all straight—”
“Me? You want me to tell her?”
“Well, I shouldna think she’ll mind greatly,” he said, looking quizzically down at me. “After all, at her age, I shouldna think—”
I made a rude noise.
“Her age? Your grandfather Simon was well into his seventies and still putting it about, when last seen.”
“My aunt is a woman,” he said, rather austerely. “If ye hadna noticed it.”
“And you think that makes a difference?”
“You don’t?”
“Oh, it makes a difference, all right,” I said. I leaned back against a tree, arms crossed under my bosom, and gave him a look from under my lashes. “When I am a hundred and one, and you’re ninety-six, I’ll invite you to my bed—and we’ll see which one of us rises to the occasion, hmm?”
He looked at me thoughtfully, a glint in the dark blue of his eyes.
“I’ve a mind to take ye where ye stand, Sassenach,” he said. “Payment on account, hmm?”
“I’ve a mind to take you up on it,” I said. “However . . .” I glanced through the screen of branches toward the house, which was clearly visible. The trees were beginning to leaf out, but the tiny sprays of tender green were by no means sufficient camouflage. I turned back, just as Jamie’s hands descended on the swell of my hips.
Events after that were somewhat confused, with the predominant impressions being an urgent rustling of fabric, the sharp scent of trodden onion grass, and the crackling of last year’s oak leaves, dry underfoot.
My eyes popped open a few moments later.
“Don’t stop!” I said, disbelieving. “Not now, for God’s sake!”
He grinned down at me, stepping back and letting his kilt fall into place. His face was flushed a ruddy bronze with effort, and his chest heaved under his shirt ruffles.
He grinned maliciously, and wiped a sleeve across his forehead.
“I’ll gie ye the rest when I’m ninety-six, aye?”
“You won’t live that long! Come here!”
“Oh,” he said. “So ye’ll speak to my aunt.”
“Effing blackmailer,” I panted, fumbling at the folds of his kilt. “I’ll get you for this, I swear I will.”
“Oh, aye. You will.”
He put an arm round my waist and swung me off my feet, turning round so that his back was to the house, screening me with his body. His long fingers deftly ruffled up the skirt of my gown, then the two petticoats