The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [520]
“DadeeDadeeDadee . . .”
Brianna was still standing by the cradle, empty arms wrapped now around herself. Roger reached out with his free hand and stroked her hair, her hard-boned shoulder, and drew her close against him.
“Shhh,” he said to them both. “Shhh, shhh. It’s all right now, shhh.”
Her arms went around him, and he could feel the wetness on her face through the linen shirt. His other shoulder was already damp with Jemmy’s sleepy, sweaty warmth.
“Come to bed,” he said softly. “Come under the quilt, it’s . . . cold out here.” It wasn’t; the air in the cabin was warm. She came, nonetheless.
Brianna reached for the child, taking him to her breast even before she lay down. Never one to refuse nourishment at any hour, Jemmy accepted the offer with alacrity, curling up into an apostrophe of content against his mother’s stomach as she settled on one side.
Roger slid into bed behind her, and echoed his son’s posture, bringing up his knees behind Brianna’s, curling his body in a protective comma around her. Thus securely punctuated, Brianna began slowly to relax, though Roger could still feel the tension in her body.
“All right now?” he asked softly. Her skin was still clammy to the touch, but warming.
“Yeah.” She took in a deep breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh. “Had a bad dream. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s OK.” He stroked the swell of her hip, over and over, like one gentling a horse. “Want to tell me?” He hoped she did, though the sound of Jemmy’s suckling was rhythmic and soothing, and he felt sleep stealing over him as the three of them warmed, melting together like candle wax.
“I was cold,” she said softly. “I think the quilt must have fallen off. But in the dream, I was cold because the window was open.”
“Here? One of these windows?” Roger lifted a hand, indicating the faint oblong of the window in the far wall. Even in the middle of the darkest night, the oiled hide covering the window was very slightly lighter than the surrounding blackness.
“No.” She took a deep breath. “It was in the house in Boston; where I grew up. I was in bed, but I was cold, and the cold woke me—in the dream. I got up to see where the draft was coming from.”
There were French windows in her father’s study. The cold wind came from there, bellying the long white curtains into the room. The cradle stood by the antique desk, the end of a thin white blanket flickering in the draft.
“He was gone.” Her voice had steadied, but had a momentary catch in it at the memory of terror. “Jemmy was gone. The cradle was empty, and I knew something came through the window and took him.”
She pressed back against him, unconsciously seeking reassurance. “I was afraid of it—whatever it was—but it didn’t matter—I had to find Jemmy.”
One hand was curled up tight under her chin. He folded it in his, and squeezed lightly, embracing her.
“I threw open the curtains and ran out, and—and there was nothing there. Only water.” She was shaking at the memory.
“Water?” He stroked her clenched fist with a thumb, trying to calm her.
“Ocean. The sea. Just—water, lapping up against the edge of the terrace. It was dark, and I knew it went down forever, and that Jemmy was down there, he’d drowned, and I was too late—” She choked, but got her voice back and went on, more steadily. “But I dived in anyway, I had to. It was dark, and there were things in the water with me—I couldn’t see them, but they brushed by me; big things. I kept looking and looking but I couldn’t see anything, and then the water suddenly got lighter and I—I saw him.”
“Jemmy?”
“No. Bonnet—Stephen Bonnet.”
Roger forced himself not to move, not to stiffen. She dreamed often; he always imagined that the dreams she would not tell him were of Bonnet.
“He was holding Jemmy, and laughing. I went to take him, and Bonnet held him up away from me.