The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [534]
“Your turn next,” she assured Roger. “You want oatmeal porridge, or fried mush for breakfast?”
“Anything else on the menu?” Damn, he’d been nearly ready to stand up. Back to square one.
“Oh, sure. Toast with strawberry jam. Cheese. Eggs, but you’ll have to go get them from the coop; I don’t have any in the pantry.”
Roger found it hard to concentrate on the discussion, faced with the sight of Brianna in the dim smoky light of the cabin, long thighs spread under her shift, her heels tucked under the chair. She seemed to detect his lack of interest in matters dietary, for she looked up and smiled at him, her eyes taking in his own nakedness.
“You look nice, Roger,” she said softly. Her free hand drifted down, resting lightly on the inner curve of one thigh. The long, blunt-nailed fingers made slow circles, barely moving.
“So do you.” His voice was husky. “Better than nice.”
Her hand rose and patted Jemmy softly on the back.
“Want to go see Auntie Lizzie after breakfast, sweetie?” she asked, not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on Roger’s, and her wide mouth curved in a slow smile.
He didn’t think he could wait until after breakfast to touch her, at least. Her shawl was thrown across the foot of the bed; he grabbed it and wrapped it round his hips for the sake of decency as he got out of bed and crossed to kneel beside her chair.
Her hair stirred and lifted in a draft from the window, and he saw the stipple of gooseflesh break out suddenly on her arms. He put his arms around them both. The draft was cold on his bare back, but he didn’t care.
“I love you,” he whispered in her ear. His hand lay over hers, resting on her thigh.
She turned her head and kissed him, a glancing contact of soft lips.
“I love you, too,” she said.
She had rinsed her mouth with water and wine, and tasted of autumn grapes and cold streams. He was just settling down to more serious business when a loud hammering shivered the timbers of the door, accompanied by his father-in-law’s voice.
“Roger! Are ye in there, man? Up wi’ ye this minute!”
“What does he mean am I in here?” Roger hissed to Brianna. “Where the hell else would I be?”
“Shh.” She nipped his neck and reluctantly let go, her eyes traveling over him with deep appreciation.
“He’s already up, Da!” she called.
“Aye, it’s likely to be a permanent condition, too,” Roger muttered. “Coming!” he bellowed. “Where the hell are my clothes?”
“Under the bed where you left them last night.” Brianna set down Jemmy, who shrieked ecstatically at the sound of his grandfather’s voice and ran to pound on the bolted door. Having finally ventured to walk, he had lost no time with the next stage, moving on to rapid—and perpetual—locomotion within a matter of days.
“Hurry!” Sunlight flooded into the cabin as the hide over the window was thrust aside, revealing Jamie Fraser’s broad-boned face, flushed with excitement and morning sun. He lifted an eyebrow at the view of Roger thus revealed, crouched on the floor with a shirt clutched protectively to his midsection.
“Move yourself, man,” he said, mildly. “It’s no time to be hangin’ about bare-arsed; MacLeod says there are beasts just over the ridge.” He blew a kiss to Jemmy. “A ghille ruaidh, a charaid! Ciamar a tha thu?”
Roger forgot both sex and self-consciousness. He jerked the shirt over his head and stood up.
“What kind? Deer, elk?”
“I dinna ken, but they’re meat!” The hide dropped suddenly, leaving the room half in shadow.
The intrusion had let in a blast of cold air, breaking the warm, smoke-laden atmosphere and bringing with it the breath of hunting weather, of crisp wind and crimson leaves, of mud and fresh droppings, of wet wool and sleek hide, all spiced with the imaginary reek of gunpowder.
With a final, longing look at his wife’s body, Roger grabbed his stockings.
90
DANGER IN THE GRASS
GRUNTING AND PUFFING, the men pushed into the dark-green zone of the conifers by noon. High on the upper ridges, clusters of balsam fir and hemlock huddled with spruce and pine,