The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [418]
There. He couldn’t say why he had spotted her at all—there was nothing even faintly distinctive about her. And yet she stood out among the other women as though she had been outlined, drawn with black ink to stand out against the backdrop of stream and budding foliage.
“Morag,” he whispered, and his heart thumped suddenly with a small shock of joy. She was alive.
He was halfway through the screen of willows before it occurred to him to wonder what he was doing, let alone why he was doing it. It was too late by then, though; he was already out on the bank, walking openly toward them.
Several of the women glanced at him; a few half-froze, watchful. But he was only one man, unarmed. There were more than twenty women by the river, their own men nearby. They watched him, curious, but not alarmed, as he splashed across the shallow creek.
She stood stock-still, knee-deep in the water, her skirts kirtled high, and watched him come. She knew him, he could see, but she gave him no sign of acknowledgment.
The other women fell back slightly, wary of him. She stood among the darting dragonflies, strands of brown hair poking out from her cap, a wet smock held forgotten in her hands. He stepped up out of the water and stood before her, wet to the knees.
“Mrs. MacKenzie,” he said softly. “Well met.”
A tiny smile touched the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were brown; he hadn’t noticed that before.
“Mr. MacKenzie,” she said, and gave him a small nod. His mind was working, thinking what to do. He must warn her, but how? Not before all the other women.
He stood helpless and awkward for a moment, not knowing what to do, then, inspired, he stooped and seized an armload of dripping laundry where it swirled in the water near her legs. He turned and clambered up the bank with it, Morag following in sudden haste.
“What are ye doing?” she demanded. “Here, come back wi’ my clothes!”
He carried the wad of wet clothes a short way into the trees, then dropped them casually into a bush, mindful enough of the effort of washing not to let them drag in the dirt. Morag was right behind him, face flushed with indignation.
“What d’ye think you’re about, ye thievin’ clotheid?” she demanded heatedly. “Give those back!”
“I’m not stealing them,” Roger assured her. “I only wanted to talk to you alone for a bit.”
“Oh, aye?” She gave him a suspicious glance. “What about, then?”
He smiled at her; she was still thin, he saw, but her arms were brown and her small face a healthy color—she was clean, and she had lost the pallid, bruised look she had had on board the Gloriana.
“I wished to ask if you are well,” he said softly. “And your child—Jemmy?” To speak the name gave him an odd frisson, and for a split second he saw the image of Brianna in the doorway, her son in her arms, laid over his memory of Morag, holding her baby in the dimness of the hold, ready to kill or die to keep him.
“Oh,” she said, and the suspicion faded slightly, replaced by a reluctant acknowledgment of his right to ask. “We’re well . . . the both of us. And my husband, too,” she added pointedly.
“I’m pleased to hear it,” he assured her. “Very pleased.” He groped for something else to say, feeling awkward. “I—had thought of you now and then . . . wondered whether—whether everything was all right. When I saw you just now . . . well, I thought I’d ask, that’s all.”
“Oh, aye. Aye, I see. Well, I do thank ye, Mr. MacKenzie.” She looked up and met his eyes directly as she said it, her own gaze brown and earnest. “I ken what ye did for us. I’ll not forget; ye’re in my prayers each night.”
“Oh.” Roger felt as though some soft weight had struck him in the breast. “Ahh . . . thank you.” He had wondered, now and then, if she ever thought of him. Did she remember the kiss he had given her, there in the hold, seeking the spark of her warmth as some shield against the chill of loneliness? He cleared his throat, flushing at the memory.
“You—live nearby?”
She shook her head, and some thought, some memory, tightened her mouth.
“We did, but now—well, that’s