The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [306]
“Hush,” he murmured in my ear. “Ye dinna want folk to hear, do ye?” He set his teeth gently in the curve of my ear, and proceeded about his business in a workmanlike way, ignoring my intermittent—and admittedly rather feeble—struggles.
I was more than ready and he knew what he was doing. It didn’t take long. I dug my fingers into his arm, hard as an iron bar across my middle, arched backward for a moment of dizzying infinity, and then collapsed against him, twitching like a worm on the end of a hook. He made a deep chuckling sound, and let go of my ear.
A cold breeze had sprung up, and was wafting the folds of my skirts about my legs. The scent of smoke and food drifted through the cool spring air, along with the rumble of talk and laughter from the lawn. I could dimly hear it, under the slow, loud thumping of my heart.
“Come to think of it,” Jamie remarked, releasing me, “Duncan has still got the one good hand.” He set me gently on my feet, keeping hold of my elbow, lest my knees give way. “Ye might mention that to my aunt, if ye think it will help.”
41
MUSIC HATH CHARMS
ROGER MACKENZIE MADE HIS WAY through the crowd, nodding here and there to a familiar face, but pushing on purposefully, preventing any attempt at conversation. He was not in a talkative mood.
Brianna had gone off to feed the kid, and while he missed her, he was just as pleased that she was out of sight for the moment. He didn’t care at all for the sort of looks she’d been getting. Those directed at her face were admiring, but respectful enough; he’d caught that wee bastard Forbes staring at her rear view with an expression similar to the one the gentlemen were using on the undraped marble goddess on the lawn, though.
At the same time, he was more than proud of her. She was gorgeous in her new dress, and he felt a pleasant sense of possession when he looked at her. Still, his pleasure was slightly spoiled by the uneasy thought that she looked as though she belonged here, mistress of all this . . . this . . .
Yet another slave trotted past him, skirts hooped up over one arm as she made for the house, a basin of fresh rolls balanced on her head and another under her arm. How many slaves did Jocasta Cameron keep? he wondered.
Of course, that alone put the notion of Brianna’s inheriting River Run out of the question. She wouldn’t countenance the notion of slaves, not ever. Nor would he himself; still, it was comforting to think that it wasn’t merely his own pride keeping Bree from her rightful inheritance.
He caught the thin wail of a fiddle coming from the house, and felt his ears prick up at the sound. Of course there would be music for the party. And with luck, a few new songs that he didn’t know.
He turned across the terrace toward the house. He hadn’t a notebook with him, but doubtless Ulysses could provide him with something. He bowed to Mrs. Farquard Campbell, who looked like a particularly horrible but expensive lampshade in pink silk. He paused to let her precede him into the house, biting the inside of his cheek as the four-foot spread of her skirt stuck momentarily in the three-foot doorway. She twitched adroitly sideways, though, and sidled crabwise into the hall, Roger following at a respectful distance.
The fiddle had ceased, but he could hear the twang and throb of instruments being handled and tuned nearby. They were in the big drawing room, whose double doors could be thrown open to allow dancers to spill out across the foyer, when the time came. At the moment, there were only a few guests in the drawing room, engaged in casual conversation.
Roger made his way past Ulysses, who was standing at the hearth, immaculate in wig and green livery, a poker held at the ready as he supervised two maidservants in the making of a gigantic vat of fresh rum punch. His eyes flicked automatically to the door, registered Roger’s presence and identity, then returned to his business.
The musicians were huddled at the far end of the room, casting occasional thirsty glances at the hearth