The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [613]
No, jealousy had nothing at all to do with logic.
I began to be cold, but went on standing there. He knew I was there; I could see it in the way he kept his head turned toward his work. He was sweating, in spite of the cold; the thin cloth of his shirt stuck to him, making a dark spot on his back. At last, he stabbed the pitchfork into the stack, left it, and sat down on a bench made from half a log. He put his head in his hands, fingers rubbing violently through his hair.
Finally, he looked up at me, with an expression halfway between dismay and reluctant amusement.
“I dinna understand it.”
“What?” I moved toward him, and sat down near him, curling my feet under me. I could smell the sweat on his skin, along with almond cream and the ghost of his earlier lust.
He gave me a sidelong glance, and answered dryly, “Anything, Sassenach.”
“Can’t be that bad, can it?” I reached tentatively for him, and ran a hand lightly down the curve of his back.
He heaved a deep sigh, blowing air through pursed lips.
“When I was three-and-twenty, I didna understand how it was that to look at a woman could turn my bones to water, yet make me feel I could bend steel in my hands. When I was five-and-twenty, I didna understand how I could want both to cherish a woman and ravish her, all at once.”
“A woman?” I asked, and got what I wanted—the curl of his mouth and a glance that went through my heart.
“One woman,” he said. He took the hand I laid on his knee, and held it tightly, as though afraid I might snatch it back. “Just one,” he repeated, his voice husky.
It was quiet in the barn, but the boards creaked and settled in the cold. I moved a little on the bench, scooting toward him. Just a little. Moonlight streamed through the wide-open door, glowing dimly off the piled hay.
“And that,” he said, squeezing my fingers tighter, “is what I dinna ken now. I love you, a nighean donn. I have loved ye from the moment I saw ye, I will love ye ’til time itself is done, and so long as you are by my side, I am well pleased wi’ the world.”
A flush of warmth went through me, but before I could do more than squeeze his hand in reply, he went on, turning to look at me with an expression of bewilderment so desperate as to be almost comical.
“And that bein’ so, Claire—why, in the name of Christ and all his saints—why do I want to take ship to Scotland, hunt down a man whose name and face I dinna ken at all, and kill him, for swiving a woman to whom I have nay claim, and who I couldna stand to be in the same room with for more than three minutes at the most?”
He brought his free hand down in a fist, striking the log with a thump that vibrated through the wood under my buttocks.
“I do not understand!”
I suppressed the urge to say, “And you think I do?” Instead, I merely sat quietly, and after a moment, stroked his knuckles very lightly with my thumb. It was less a caress than a simple reassurance, and he took it so.
After a moment, he sighed deeply, squeezed my hand, and stood up.
“I am a fool,” he said.
I sat still for a moment, but he seemed to expect some sort of confirmation, so I nodded obligingly.
“Well, perhaps,” I said. “But you aren’t going to Scotland, are you?”
Instead of replying, he got to his feet and walked moodily to and fro, kicking clumps of dried mud, which burst like small bombs. Surely he wasn’t contemplating . . . he couldn’t be. With some difficulty, I kept my mouth shut, and waited patiently, until he came back to stand in front of me.
“All right,” he said, in the tone of one stating a declaration of principle. “I dinna ken why it galls me that Laoghaire should seek another man’s company—no, that’s no the truth, is it? I ken well enough. And it isna jealousy. Or . . . well, it is, then, but that’s no the main thing.” He shot me a look, as though daring me to contradict this assertion, but I kept my mouth shut. He exhaled strongly through his nose, and