The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [482]
“I brought ye something,” he said. “From Salem.” The smile was still on his lips, but it seemed completely disconnected from the look in his eyes.
“I don’t want it,” she said. “I mean—thank you. But no. It isn’t right for you to—my husband wouldn’t like it.”
“No need for him to know.” He took a step toward her; she took one back, and the smile grew wider.
“I hear your husband’s not home much, these days,” he said softly. “That sounds lonesome.”
He put out a large hand, reaching toward her face. Then there was an odd, small sound, a sort of meaty tnk!, and his face went blank, his eyes shocked wide.
She stared at him for a moment, completely unable to grasp what had happened. Then he turned those staring eyes to his outstretched hand, and she saw the small knife stuck in the flesh of his forearm, and the growing stain of red on the shirt around it.
“Leave this place.” Jamie’s voice was low, but distinct. He stepped out of the trees, eyes fixed on Henderson in a most unfriendly manner. He reached them in three strides, put out his hand, and pulled the knife from Henderson’s arm. Obadiah made a small sound, deep in his throat, like a wounded animal might make, baffled and pitiable.
“Go,” Jamie said. “Never come here again.”
The blood was flowing down Obadiah’s arm, dripping from his fingers. A few drops fell into the buttermilk, floating crimson on the rich yellow surface. In a dazed sort of way, she recognized the horrid beauty of it—like rubies set in gold.
Then the boy was going, free hand clamped to his wounded arm, shambling, then running for the trail. He disappeared into the trees, and the dooryard was very still.
“Did you have to do that?” was the first thing she managed to say. She felt stunned, as though she herself had been struck with something. The blood drops were beginning to blur, their edges dissolving into the buttermilk, and she thought she might throw up.
“Should I have waited?” Her father caught her by the arm, pulled her down to sit on the porch.
“No. But you—couldn’t you just . . . have said something to him?” Her lips felt numb and there were small flashing lights in the periphery of her vision. Remotely, she realized that she was going to faint, and leaned forward, her head between her knees, face buried in the sanctuary of her apron.
“I did. I told him to go.” The porch creaked as Jamie sat down beside her.
“You know what I mean.” Her voice sounded odd to her own ears, muffled in the folds of cloth. She sat up slowly; the red spruce by the big house wavered slightly in her vision, but then steadied. “What were you doing? Showing off? How could you count on sticking somebody with a knife at that distance? And what was that, anyway—a penknife?”
“Aye. It was all I had in my pocket. And in fact, I didna mean to stick him,” Jamie admitted. “I meant to throw into the wall o’ the cabin, and when he looked to see what made the noise, hit him from behind. He moved, though.”
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose, willing her stomach to settle.
“Ye’re all right, a muirninn?” he asked quietly. He laid a hand gently on her back—somewhat higher than Obadiah had. It felt good; large, warm and comforting.
“I’m fine,” she said, opening her eyes. He looked worried, and she made an effort, smiling at him. “Fine.”
He relaxed a bit, then, and his eyes grew less troubled, though they stayed intent on hers.
“Well, then,” he said. “It’s no the first time, aye? How long has yon gomerel been tryin’ it on wi’ you?”
She took another breath, and forced her fists to uncurl. She wanted to minimize the situation, moved by a sense of guilt—for surely she should have found some way to stop it? Faced with that steady blue gaze, though, she couldn’t lie.
“Since the first week,” she said.
His eyes widened.
“So long? And why did ye not tell your man about it?” he demanded, incredulous.
She was startled, and fumbled for a reply.
“I—well—I didn’t think . .