The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [48]
Her breasts ached with unsatisfied desire, and she felt dribbles of milk run tickling down her ribs beneath the cloth. She touched one breast, heavy and swollen, her guarantee of safety—for a while.
Roger put away her hand, reaching up to touch the cut.
“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s stopped bleeding.” He wore the oddest expression—or expressions. Normally his face was pleasantly reserved, even a little stern. Now his features seemed unable to settle themselves, shifting from moment to moment between a look of undeniable satisfaction and one of just as undeniable dismay.
“What’s the matter, Roger?”
He shot her a quick glance, then looked away, a slight flush rising in his cheeks.
“Oh,” he said. “Well. It’s only that we . . . er . . . we aren’t actually married at the moment.”
“Well, of course not. The wedding’s not ’til tonight. Speaking of which . . .” She looked at Roger, and a bubble of laughter rose from the pit of her stomach. “Oh, dear,” she said, fighting back a fit of giggles. “You look like somebody’s had their will of you in the woods, Mr. MacKenzie.”
“Very funny, Mrs. Mac,” he said, eyeing her own bedraggled state. “Ye’ve been in a rare fight, too, by the looks of you. But what I meant was that we’ve been handfast for the last year—and that’s legally binding, in Scotland at least. But the year and a day have been up for a bit—and we’re not formally married ’til this evening.”
She squinted at him, wiping rain out of her eyes with the back of one hand, and once more gave way to the urge to laugh.
“My God, you think it matters?”
He grinned back, a little reluctantly.
“Well, no. It’s only I’m a preacher’s lad; I know it’s fine—but somewhere inside is an old Scotch Calvinist, muttering that it’s just a wee bit wicked, to be carrying on so with a woman not really my wife.”
“Ha,” she said, and settled her arms comfortably on her drawn-up knees. She leaned to one side and nudged him gently.
“Old Scotch Calvinist, my ass. What is it, really?”
He wouldn’t look directly at her, but kept his eyes down, looking at the ground. Droplets glittered on his strongly marked dark brows and lashes, gilding the skin of his cheekbones with silver. He drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
“I can’t say you’re not right to be afraid,” he said quietly. “I hadn’t realized—not really thought about it before today—just how dangerous marriage is for a woman.” He looked up and smiled at her, though the look of worry stayed in his moss-green eyes.
“I want you, Bree—more than I can say. It’s only that I was thinking of what we just did and how fine it was—and realizing that I’ll maybe—no, I will—be risking your life if I keep on doing it. But damned if I want to stop!”
The small strands of dread had coalesced into a cold snake that ran down her backbone and coiled deep in her belly, twisting around her womb. She knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t only the thing they’d just shared—powerful as that was. Knowing what he wanted, though—and why—how could she hesitate to give it to him?
“Yeah.” She took a breath to match his, and blew it out in a plume of white. “Well, it’s too late to worry about that, I think.” She looked at him and touched his arm. “I want you, Roger.” She pulled down his head and kissed him, taking comfort from her fears in the strength of his arm around her, the warmth of his body beside her.
“Oh, God, Bree,” he murmured into her hair. “I want to tell you that I’ll keep you safe, save you and Jemmy from anything that might threaten you—ever. It’s a terrible thing, to think it might be me that would be the threat, that I could kill you with my love—but it’s true.”
His heart was beating under her ear, solid and steady. She felt the warmth return to her hands, clasped tight on the bones of his back, and the thaw reached deeper, uncoiling some of the frozen strands of fear inside her.
“It’s all right,” she said at last, wanting to offer