The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [320]
“I was not ‘canoodling’ in the slightest degree, and you know it! The beastly little twerp made a pass at me, that’s all.”
“A pass? Made love to ye, ye mean? Aye, I can see that!”
“He did not!”
“Oh, aye? Ye asked him to let ye try his bawbee on for luck, then?” He waggled the finger with the black patch under my nose, and I slapped it away, recalling a moment too late that “make love to” merely meant to engage in amorous flirtation, rather than fornication.
“I mean,” I said, through clenched teeth, “that he kissed me. Probably for a joke. I’m old enough to be his mother, for God’s sake!”
“More like his grandmother,” Jamie said brutally. “Kissed ye, forbye—why in hell did ye encourage him, Sassenach?”
My mouth dropped open in outrage—insulted as much at being called Phillip Wylie’s grandmother as at the accusation of having encouraged him.
“Encourage him? Why, you bloody idiot! You know perfectly well I didn’t encourage him!”
“Your own daughter saw ye go in there with him! Have ye no shame? With all else there is to deal with here, am I to be forced to call the man out, as well?”
I felt a slight qualm at the thought of Brianna, and a larger one at the thought of Jamie challenging Wylie to a duel. He wasn’t wearing his sword, but he’d brought it with him. I stoutly dismissed both thoughts.
“My daughter is neither a fool nor an evil-minded gossip,” I said, with immense dignity. “She wouldn’t think a thing of my going to look at a horse, and why ought she? Why ought anyone, for that matter?”
He blew out a long breath through pursed lips, and glared at me.
“Why, indeed? Perhaps because everyone saw ye flirt with him on the lawn? Because they saw him follow ye about like a dog after a bitch in heat?” He must have seen my expression alter dangerously at that, for he coughed briefly and hurried on.
“More than one person’s seen fit to mention it to me. D’ye think I like bein’ made a public laughingstock, Sassenach?”
“You—you—” Fury choked me. I wanted to hit him, but I could see interested heads turning toward us. “‘Bitch in heat’? How dare you say such a thing to me, you bloody bastard?”
He had the decency to look slightly abashed at that, though he was still glowering.
“Aye, well. I shouldna have said it quite that way. I didna mean—but ye did go off with him, Sassenach. As though I hadna enough to contend with, my own wife . . . and if ye’d gone to see my aunt, as I asked ye, then it wouldna have happened in the first place. Now see what ye’ve done!”
I had changed my mind about the desirability of a duel. I wanted Jamie and Phillip Wylie to kill each other, promptly, publicly, and with the maximum amount of blood. I also didn’t care who was looking. I made a very serious effort to castrate him with my bare hands, and he grabbed my wrists, pulling them up sharply.
“Christ! Folk are watching, Sassenach!”
“I . . . don’t . . . bloody . . . care!” I hissed, struggling to get free. “Let go of me, and I’ll fucking give them something to watch!”
I didn’t take my eyes off his face, but I was aware of a good many other faces turning toward us in the crowd on the lawn. So was he. His brows drew together for a moment, then his face set in sudden decision.
“All right, then,” he said. “Let them watch.”
He wrapped his arms around me, pressed me tight against himself, and kissed me. Unable to get loose, I quit fighting, and went stiff and furious instead. In the distance, I could hear laughter and raucous whoops of encouragement. Ninian Hamilton shouted something in Gaelic that I was pleased not to understand.
He finally moved his lips off mine, still holding me tightly against him, and very slowly bent his head, his cheek lying cool and firm next to mine. His body was firm, too, and not at all cool. The heat of him was leaching through at least six layers of cloth to reach my own skin: shirt, waistcoat, coat, gown, shift, and stays. Whether it was anger, arousal, or both, he was fully stoked and blazing like a furnace.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his breath hot and tickling