The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [46]
At least what he meant to tell Brianna might take her mind off the more gruesome details of eighteenth-century life for a bit. He cupped her cheek, and smoothed one thick red brow with a chilly thumb. Her face was cold, too, but the flesh behind her ear, beneath her hair, was warm—like her other hidden places.
“I’ve got what I wanted,” he said firmly. “What about you, though? You’re sure ye don’t want a man who can scalp Indians and put dinner on the table with his gun? Blood’s not my main thing, either, aye?”
A spark of humor reappeared in her eyes, and her air of preoccupation lightened.
“No, I don’t think I want a bloody man,” she said. “That’s what Mama calls Da—but only when she’s mad at him.”
He laughed.
“And what will you call me, when you’re mad at me?” he teased. She looked at him speculatively, and the spark grew brighter.
“Oh, don’t worry; Da won’t teach me any bad words in Gaelic, but Marsali taught me a lot of really evil things to say in French. Do you know what un soulard is? Un grande gueule?”
“Oui, ma petite chou—not that I’ve ever seen a cabbage with quite such a red nose.” He flicked a finger at her nose, and she ducked, laughing.
“Maudit chien!”
“Save something for after the wedding,” he advised. “Ye might need it.” He took her hand, to draw her toward a convenient boulder, then noticed again the small package she held.
“What’s that?”
“A wedding present,” she said, and held it out to him with two fingers, distasteful as though it had been a dead mouse.
He took it gingerly, but felt no sinister shapes through the paper. He bounced it on his palm; it was light, almost weightless.
“Embroidery silk,” she said, in answer to his questioning look. “From Mrs. Buchanan.” The frown was back between her brows, and that look of . . . worry? No, something else, but damned if he could put a name to it.
“What’s wrong with embroidery silk?”
“Nothing. It’s what it’s for.” She took the package from him, and tucked it into the pocket she wore tied under her petticoat. She was looking down, rearranging her skirts, but he could see the tightness of her lips. “She said it’s for our winding claes.”
Spoken in Brianna’s odd version of a Bostonian Scots accent, it took a moment for Roger to decipher this.
“Winding cl—oh, you mean shrouds?”
“Yes. Evidently, it’s my wifely duty to sit down the morning after the wedding and start spinning cloth for my shroud.” She bit the words off through clenched teeth. “That way, I’ll have it woven and embroidered by the time I die in childbirth. And if I’m a fast worker, I’ll have time to make one for you, too—otherwise, your next wife will have to finish it!”
He would have laughed, had it not been clear that she was really upset.
“Mrs. Buchanan is a great fool,” he said, taking her hands. “You should not be letting her worry you with her nonsense.” Brianna glanced at him under lowered brows.
“Mrs. Buchanan,” she said precisely, “is ignorant, stupid, and tactless. The one thing she isn’t is wrong.”
“Of course she is,” he said, with assumed certainty, feeling nonetheless a stab of apprehension.
“How many wives has Farquard Campbell buried?” she demanded. “Gideon Oliver? Andrew MacNeill?”
Nine, among the three of them. MacNeill would take a fourth wife this evening—an eighteen-year-old girl from Weaver’s Gorge. The stab came again, deeper, but he ignored it.
“And Jenny ban Campbell’s borne eight children and deviled two husbands into the ground,” he countered firmly. “For that matter, Mrs. Buchanan herself has five bairns, and she’s certainly still kicking. I’ve seen them; turnip-headed to a man, but all healthy.”
That got him a reluctant twitch of the mouth, and he pressed on, encouraged.
“You’ve no need to fear, hen. You had no trouble with Jemmy, aye?”
“Yeah? Well, if you think it’s no trouble, next time you can do it!” she snapped, but the corner of her mouth curled slightly up. She tugged at his hand, but he held on, and she didn’t resist.
“So you’re willing there should be a next time, are you? Mrs. Buchanan notwithstanding?” His tone was deliberately light,