The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [332]
In front of me, Jamie’s face went suddenly blank, his eyes fixed on me like a hawk’s on a rabbit. I lifted my glass, holding his eyes with mine, and drank, swallowing slowly as I drained it. The scent of black grapes perfumed the inside of my head and the heat of the wine warmed my face, my throat, my breasts, my skin. Jamie moved abruptly to take the empty glass from my hand, his fingers cold and hard on mine.
And then a voice spoke from the candlelit French doors behind him.
“Mr. Fraser.”
We both started, and the glass fell between us, exploding into shards on the flags of the terrace. Jamie whirled round, his left hand going by reflex to the hilt of his dirk. Then it relaxed, as he saw the silhouetted figure, and he stepped back, mouth twisting in a wry grimace.
Phillip Wylie stepped out into the torchlight. His color was high enough to show through the powder, burning in hectic spots across his cheekbones.
“My friend Stanhope has proposed a table or two of whist this evening,” he said. “Will you not join us, Mr. Fraser?”
Jamie gave him a long, cool look, and I saw the damaged fingers of his right hand twitch, very slightly. The pulse was throbbing at the side of his neck, but his voice was calm.
“At whist?”
“Yes.” Wylie gave a thin smile, sedulously avoiding looking at me. “I hear you are a good hand at the cards, sir.” He pursed his lips. “Though of course, we do play for rather high stakes. Perhaps you do not feel that you—”
“I shall be delighted,” Jamie said, in a tone of voice that made it perfectly clear that the only thing that would truly have delighted him was the prospect of cramming Phillip Wylie’s teeth down his throat.
The teeth in question gleamed briefly.
“Ah. Splendid. I shall . . . look forward to the occasion.”
“Your servant, sir.” Jamie bowed abruptly, then spun on his heel, seized my elbow, and marched off down the terrace, me decorously in tow.
I marched along, keeping step and keeping silence, until we were safely out of earshot. The quicksilver had shot up out of my lower regions, and was rolling nervously up and down my spine, making me feel dangerously unstable.
“Are you quite out of your mind?” I inquired politely. Receiving nothing but a brief snort in reply, I dug in my heels and pulled on his arm to make him stop.
“That was not a rhetorical question,” I said, rather more loudly. “High-stakes whist?”
Jamie was indeed an excellent card player. He also knew most of the possible ways of cheating at cards. However, whist was difficult if not impossible to cheat at, and Phillip Wylie also had the reputation of an excellent player—as did Stanhope. Beyond this, there remained the fact that Jamie didn’t happen to possess any stakes, let alone high ones.
“Ye expect me to allow yon popinjay to trample my honor, and then insult me to my face?” He swung round to face me, glaring.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean—” I began, but broke off. It was quite apparent that if Wylie had not intended outright insult, he had meant it as a challenge—and to a Scot, the two were likely indistinguishable.
“But you don’t have to do it!”
I would have had a much greater effect had I been arguing with the brick wall of the kitchen garden.
“I do,” he said stiffly. “I have my pride.”
I rubbed a hand over my face in exasperation.
“Yes, and Phillip Wylie plainly knows it! Heard the one about pride going before a fall, have you?”
“I havena the slightest intention of falling,” he assured me. “Will ye give me your gold ring?”
My mouth fell open in shock.
“Will I . . . my ring?” My fingers went involuntarily to my left hand, and the smooth gold of Frank’s wedding band.
He was watching me intently, eyes steady on mine. The torches along the terrace had been lit; the dancing light caught him from the side, throwing the stubborn set of his bones into sharp relief, lighting one eye with burning blue.
“I shall need a stake,” he said quietly.
“Bloody hell.” I swung away from him, and stood staring off the edge of the terrace. The torches on the lawn had been lit, too,