The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [321]
I relaxed, very slightly. My hips were pressed solidly against him, and with only five layers of fabric between us there, the effect was reassuring.
“Perhaps not quite yet,” I said. I felt light-headed from the rush of adrenaline, and took a deep breath to steady myself. Then I drew back a little, recoiling from the pungent reek that wafted off his clothes. Had I not been so upset, I would have noticed immediately that he was the source of the vile aroma I had been smelling.
“What on earth have you been doing?” I sniffed at the breast of his coat, frowning. “You smell terrible! Like—”
“Manure,” he said, sounding resigned. “Aye, I know.” His arms relaxed.
“Yes, manure,” I said, sniffing further. “And rum punch”—he hadn’t been drinking rum punch himself, though; I had tasted nothing but brandy when he kissed me—“and something awful, like old sweat, and—”
“Boiled turnips,” he said, sounding more resigned. “Aye, the maid servant I was telling ye about, Sassenach. Betty, she’s called.” He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, and with a deep bow of acknowledgment toward the crowd—who all applauded, damn them—turned to steer me toward the house.
“It would be as well if ye can get anything sensible out of her,” he said, with a glance toward the sun, which hung in mid-sky above the tops of the willows along the river. “But it’s growing late; I think perhaps ye’d best go up and speak to my aunt first, if there’s to be a wedding at four o’clock.”
I took a deep breath, trying to settle myself. A good deal of unexpended emotion was still sloshing round inside me, but there was plainly work to do.
“Right, then,” I said. “I’ll see Jocasta, and then have a look at Betty. As for Phillip Wylie . . .”
“As for Phillip Wylie,” he interrupted, “dinna give him another thought, Sassenach.” A certain look of inward intentness grew in his eyes. “I’ll take care of him, later.”
44
PRIVATE PARTS
I LEFT JAMIE in the parlor, and made my way up the stairs and along the hall toward Jocasta’s room, nodding distractedly to friends and acquaintances encountered along the way. I was disconcerted, annoyed—and at the same time, reluctantly amused. I hadn’t spent so much time in bemused contemplation of a penis since I was sixteen or so, and here I was, preoccupied with three of the things.
Finding myself alone in the hall, I opened my fan, peering thoughtfully into the tiny round looking glass that served as a lake in the pastoral scene painted on it. Meant as an aid to intrigue rather than grooming, the glass showed me no more than a few square inches of my face at once—one eye and its arched brow regarded me quizzically.
It was quite a pretty eye, I admitted. There were lines around it, true, but it was nicely shaped, gracefully lidded, and equipped with long, curving lashes whose dark sable complemented the black pupil and contrasted very strikingly with the gold-flecked amber of the iris.
I moved the fan a bit, to get a view of my mouth. Full-lipped, and rather fuller than usual at present, to say nothing of a dark, moist pink. The lips looked as though someone had been kissing them rather roughly. They also looked as though they’d liked it.
“Hm!” I said, and snapped shut the fan.
With my blood no longer boiling, I could admit that Jamie might perhaps be right about Phillip Wylie’s intent in making objectionable advances to me. He might not be, too. But regardless of the young man’s underlying motives, I did have incontrovertible proof that he had found me physically appealing, grandmother or not. I rather thought I wouldn’t mention that to Jamie, though; Phillip Wylie was a very annoying young man, but upon cooler reflection, I had decided that I would prefer not to have him disemboweled on the front lawn, after all.
Still, maturity did alter one’s perspective somewhat. For all the personal implications of those male members in an excited state, it was the flaccid one that most interested me at the moment. My fingers itched to get hold of Duncan