The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [334]
He didn’t know how to answer that, and laughed instead, taking her hand.
“D’ye want to dance?” He cocked his head toward the end of the terrace where the French doors to the drawing room stood open, letting out the cheerful strains of “Duke of Perth,” then back toward the tables. “Or to eat?”
“Neither. I want to get away from here for a minute; I can hardly breathe.” A drop of sweat ran down her neck, glinting red in the torchlight before she swiped it away.
“Great.” He took her hand and drew it through his arm, turning toward the herbaceous border that lay beyond the terrace. “I know just the place.”
“Great. Oh—wait. Maybe I do want something to eat.” She lifted a hand and stopped a slave boy, coming up to the terrace from the cookhouse with a small covered tray from which an appetizing steam wafted into the air. “What’s that, Tommy? Can I have some?”
“You have all you want, Miss Bree.” He smiled, whipping the napkin away to display a selection of savories. She inhaled beatifically.
“I want them all,” she said, taking the tray, to Tommy’s amusement. Roger, seizing the chance, murmured his own request to the slave, who nodded, disappeared, and returned within moments with an open bottle of wine and two goblets. Roger took these, and together they wandered down the path that led from the house to the dock, sharing tidbits of news along with the pigeon pies.
“Did you find any of the guests passed out in the shrubbery?” she asked, her words muffled by a mouthful of mushroom pasty. She swallowed, and became more distinct. “When Da asked you to go and look this afternoon, I mean.”
He snorted briefly, selecting a dumpling made of sausage and dried pumpkin.
“Ken the difference between a Scottish wedding and a Scottish funeral, do ye?”
“No, what?”
“The funeral has one less drunk.”
She laughed, scattering crumbs, and took a Scotch egg.
“No,” he said, steering her skillfully to the right of the dock, and toward the willows. “Ye’ll see a few feet sticking out of the bushes now, but this afternoon, they hadn’t had the time to get rat-legged yet.”
“You have such a way with words,” she said appreciatively. “I went and talked to the slaves; all present and accounted for, and mostly sober, too. A couple of the women admitted that Betty does tipple at parties, though.”
“To say the least, from what your Da said. Stinking, he described her as, and I gather he didn’t mean only drunk.” Something small and dark leaped out of his path. Frog; he could hear them piping away in the grove.
“Mmm. Mama said she seemed to be okay later on, in spite of Dr. Fentiman insisting on bleeding her.” She gave a small shudder, drawing her shawl round her shoulders one-handed. “He gives me the creeps, the Doctor. He looks like a little goblin or something, and he’s got the clammiest hands I ever felt. And he smells terrible, speaking of stinking.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Roger said, amused. “Come on.” He pushed aside the hanging veil of willow branches, alert lest he disturb some courting couple that had beaten them to the stone bench, but all was well. Everyone was up at the house, dancing, eating, drinking, and planning a later serenade of the wedding pair. Better Duncan and Jocasta than us, he thought, rolling his eyes inwardly at some of the things he’d heard suggested. Another time, he might have been interested to see a shivaree, and trace all the roots of it from French and Highland customs—but not bloody now.
It was suddenly quiet under the willows, most of the noise from the house drowned by the rushing of water and the monotonous chirping of frogs. It was also dark as midnight, and Brianna felt carefully for the bench, in order to set down her tray.
Roger shut his eyes hard and counted to thirty; when he opened them, he could at least make out her form, silhouetted against the dim light that filtered through the willows, and the horizontal line of the bench. He set down the glasses and poured out the wine, the neck of the bottle