The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [318]
“Despicable?” He seemed quite taken aback to hear his advances described in this fashion. “But I—that is, you—I thought you were . . . I mean, might be not averse—”
“You can’t,” I said, positively. “You can’t possibly have thought anything of the sort. I’ve never given you the slightest reason to think such a thing!” Nor had I—intentionally. The uneasy thought came to me, though, that perhaps my perceptions of my own behavior were not quite the same as Phillip Wylie’s.
“Oh, haven’t you?” His face was changing, clouding with anger. “I beg to differ with you, madam!”
I had told him I was old enough to be his mother; it had never for a moment occurred to me that he didn’t believe it.
“Flirt,” he said again, though in quite a different tone than the first time. “No reason? You have given me every reason, since the first occasion of our meeting.”
“What?” My voice went up a tone, in incredulity. “I’ve never done anything but engage you in civil conversation. If that constitutes flirtation in your book, my lad, then—”
“Don’t call me that!”
Oh, so he had noticed that there was a difference of age. He simply hadn’t appreciated the magnitude, I thought. It came to me, with a certain feeling of apprehension, that at Phillip’s level of society, most flirtation was indeed conducted under the guise of banter. What in the name of God had I said to him?
I had some dim recollection of having discussed the Stamp Act with him and his friend Stanhope. Yes, taxes, and, I thought, horses—but surely that couldn’t have been sufficient to inflame his misapprehensions?
“Thine eyes are like the fishpools in Heshbon,” he said, low-voiced and bitter. “Do you not recall the evening when I said that to you? The Song of Solomon is merely ‘civil conversation’ to you, is it?”
“Good grief.” I was, despite myself, beginning to feel slightly guilty; we had had a brief exchange along those lines, at Jocasta’s party, two or three years ago. And he remembered it? The Song of Solomon was reasonably heady stuff; perhaps the simple reference . . . Then I shook myself mentally, and drew myself up straight.
“Nonsense,” I declared. “You were teasing me, and I simply answered you in kind. Now, I really must—”
“You came in here with me today. Alone.” He took another step toward me, eyes determined. He was talking himself back into it, the fatheaded popinjay!
“Mr. Wylie,” I said firmly, sliding sideways. “I am terribly sorry if you have somehow misunderstood the situation, but I am very happily married, and I have no romantic interest in you whatsoever. And now, if you will excuse me . . .” I ducked past him, and hurried out of the stable, as fast as my shoes would allow. He made no effort to follow me, though, and I reached the outdoors unmolested, my heart beating fast.
There were people near the paddock; I turned in the other direction, going round the end of the stable block before anyone should see me. Once out of sight, I made a swift inventory, checking to be sure that I didn’t look too disheveled. I didn’t know whether anyone had seen me going into the stable with Wylie; I could only hope no one had seen my hasty exit.
Only one lock of hair had come down in the recent contretemps; I pinned it carefully back, and dusted a few bits of straw from my skirts. Fortunately, he hadn’t torn my clothes; a retucked kerchief and I was quite decent again.
“Are ye all right, Sassenach?”
I leaped like a gaffed salmon, and so did my heart. I whirled, adrenaline jolting through my chest like an electic current, to find Jamie standing beside me, frowning slightly as he surveyed me.
“What have ye been doing, Sassenach?”
My heart was still stuck in my throat, choking me, but I forced out what I hoped were a few nonchalant words.
“Nothing. I mean, looking at the horses—horse. The mare. She has a new foal.”
“Aye, I know,” he said, looking at me oddly.
“Did you find Ninian? What did he have to say?” I groped behind my head, tidying