The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [348]
Well, that explained my dreams of wild stallions, I thought. The place where he had bitten my neck throbbed slightly. And where had he brought me? A stable. King of Ireland, forsooth.
He squeezed my hands lightly.
“I thought the force of my wanting must wake ye, surely. And then ye did come. . . .” He stopped, looking at me with eyes gone soft and dark. “Christ, Claire, ye were so beautiful, there on the stair, wi’ your hair down and the shadow of your body with the light behind ye. . . .” He shook his head slowly.
“I did think I should die, if I didna have ye,” he said softly. “Just then.”
I reached up to stroke his face, his beard a soft bristle on my palm.
“Wouldn’t want you to die,” I whispered, tucking back a lock of hair behind his ear.
We smiled at each other then, but whatever else we might have said was interrupted by a loud whinny from one of the horses, followed by stamping noises. We were interfering with their breakfast.
I dropped my hand and Jamie bent to pick up his coat, which lay half-buried in the straw. He didn’t lose his balance as he bent, but I saw him wince as the blood went suddenly to his head.
“Did you have a terrible lot to drink last night?” I asked, recognizing the symptoms.
He straightened up with a small grunt of amusement.
“Aye, quarts,” he said, ruefully. “Ye can tell?”
A person with much less experience than I had could have told at a distance of roughly half a mile; putting aside the more obvious indications of recent intoxication, he smelled like a distillery.
“It didn’t impair your card playing, evidently,” I said, being tactful. “Or was Phillip Wylie similarly affected?”
He looked surprised, and slightly affronted.
“Ye dinna think I’d get besotted whilst I was playing, do ye? And with your rings at stake? No, that was after—MacDonald fetched a bottle of champagne and another of whisky, and insisted that we must celebrate our winnings in proper style.”
“MacDonald? Donald MacDonald? He was playing with you?”
“Aye, he and I were partnered against Wylie and Stanhope.” He shook the coat, sending bits of straw flying. “I couldna say what sort of soldier he was, but the man’s a fine hand at the whist, to be sure.”
Mention of the words “fine hand” reminded me. He’d come to the door of my room, he said; he hadn’t mentioned coming in. Had he, and been too far gone between liquor and longing to recall doing it? Had I, dazed with dreams of equine lust, imagined the whole thing? Surely not, I thought, but shook off the sense of vague disquiet engendered by the memory, in favor of another word from his remark.
“You said winnings?” In the stress of the moment, it had only seemed important that he had kept my rings, but it occurred to me belatedly that those were only his stake. “What did you take off Phillip Wylie?” I asked, laughing. “His embroidered coat buttons? Or his silver shoe buckles?”
His face had an odd expression as he glanced at me.
“Well, no,” he said. “I took his horse.”
HE SWUNG HIS COAT round my shoulders, put an arm round my waist, and led me down the main aisle of the stable block, past the loose-boxes and stalls.
Joshua had come in quietly, through the other door, and was working at the far end of the stable, silhouetted against the light from the open double-doors as he pitchforked hay into the end stall. As we reached him, he glanced at us and nodded in greeting, his face carefully neutral at the sight of us, bedraggled, barefoot, and prickled with straw. Even in a household with a blind mistress, a slave knew what not to see.
No business of his, his downcast countenance said clearly. He looked nearly as tired as I felt, eyes heavy and bloodshot.
“How is he?” Jamie asked, lifting his chin toward the stall. Josh perked up a bit at the inquiry, putting down his pitchfork.
“Oh, he’s bonnie,” he said, with an air of satisfaction. “A bonnie lad, Mr. Wylie’s Lucas.”
“Indeed he is,” Jamie agreed. “Only he’s mine now.”
“He’s what?” Josh goggled at him, openmouthed.
“He’s mine.” Jamie went to the railing and reached out a hand