The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [568]
The room was silent, but I felt everyone’s breath held as I chose a new spot, let out in a sigh as the stab was made—and then the unconscious leaning toward the bed as I squeezed the stinging alcohol deep into the infected tissues. The muscles stood out in knots on Jamie’s forearms, and sweat ran down his face like rain, but neither he, nor Murdo, nor Roger made a sound or moved.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Joseph Wemyss stroke back the hair from Jamie’s forehead, and wipe away the sweat from his face and neck with a towel.
“Because ye need me,” he’d said. And I realized then that it wasn’t only me that he’d meant.
It didn’t take a long time. When it was done, I spread honey carefully over all the open wounds, and rubbed oil of wintergreen into the skin of foot and calf.
“That’s a nice job of basting, Sassenach. D’ye reckon it’s ready for the oven yet?” Jamie asked, and wiggled his toes, causing the tension in the room to relax into laughter.
Everyone did leave, then, patting Jamie’s shoulder or kissing his cheek in farewell, with gruff wishes of good luck. He smiled and nodded, lifting his hand in farewell, exchanging goodbyes, making small jokes.
When the door closed behind the last of them, he lay back on the pillow and closed his eyes, letting all his breath out in a long, deep sigh. I set about tidying my tray, setting the syringe to soak in alcohol, corking bottles, folding bandages. Then I sat down beside him, and he reached out a hand to me, not opening his eyes.
His skin was warm and dry, the hand reddened from Murdo’s fierce grip. I traced his knuckles gently with my thumb, listening to the rumble and clatter of the house below, subdued but lively.
“It will work,” I said softly, after a minute. “I know it will.”
“I know,” he said. He took a deep breath, and at last, began to weep.
94
NEW BLOOD
ROGER WOKE ABRUPTLY, out of a black and dreamless sleep. He felt like a landed fish, jerked gasping into an alien and unimagined element. He saw but did not grasp his surroundings; strange light and flattened surfaces. Then his mind made sense of Brianna’s touch on his arm, and he was once more inside his skin, and in a bed.
“Hwh?” He sat up suddenly, making a hoarse noise of inquiry.
“I’m sorry to wake you.” Brianna smiled, but a line of concern drew her brows together as her eyes searched his face. She smoothed the tangled hair back from his brow, and he reached for her by reflex, falling back against the pillow with her heavy in his arms.
“Hwm.” Holding her was an anchor to reality—solid flesh and warm skin, her hair soft as dreams against his face.
“Okay?” she asked softly. Long fingers touched his chest and his nipple puckered, curly hairs around it rising.
“Okay,” he said, and sighed deeply. He kissed her forehead briefly, and relaxed, blinking. His throat was dry as sand, and his mouth felt sticky, but he was beginning to think coherently again. “Whatime ist?” He was in his own bed, and it was dim enough in the room to be evening, but that was because the door was closed and the windows covered. Something felt wrong about the light, the air.
She pushed herself up off him, sweeping back the fall of red hair with one hand.
“It’s a little past noon. I wouldn’t have waked you up, but there’s a man, and I don’t know what to do about him.” She glanced in the direction of the big house, and lowered her voice, though surely no one was near enough to hear her.
“Da’s sound asleep, and Mama, too,” she said, confirming this impression. “I don’t want to wake them—even if I could.” She smiled briefly, one corner of her long mouth curling up with her father’s irony. “It would take gunpowder, I think. They’re dead to the world.”
She turned away and reached for the pitcher on the table. The sound of water pouring fell on Roger’s ears like rain on parched land, and he drained the offered cup in three gulps and held it out again.
“More. Please. Man?” That was an improvement; he was making complete words again, and his capacity to think coherently was coming back.
“He says