The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [614]
“Well, then. If I’m honest about it.” His lips pressed tight together for a moment. “Why?” he burst out, looking up at me. “What is it about him?”
“What is what about who? The man she—”
“She hated it, the bedding!” he interrupted me, stamping a clod into powder. “Perhaps I flatter myself, or you flatter me . . .” He gave me a look that wanted to be a glare, but ended in bewilderment. “Am I . . . am I . . .?”
I wasn’t sure whether he wanted me to say, “Yes, you are!” or “No, you’re not!” but satisfied myself with a smile that said both.
“Aye. Well,” he said reluctantly. “I didna think it was me. And before we were wed, even Laoghaire liked me well enough.” I must have made a small snort at that, for he glanced at me, but I shook my head, dismissing it.
“I thought it must be a mislike for men in general, or only for the act. And if it was so . . . well, it wasna quite so bad, if it wasna my fault, though I did feel somehow I should be able to mend it. . . .” He trailed off into this thoughts, brow furrowed, then resumed with a sigh.
“But maybe I was wrong about that. Perhaps it was me. And that’s a thought that sticks in my craw.”
I had no real idea what to say to him, but clearly I had to say something.
“I think it was her,” I said, firmly. “Not you. Though of course I may be prejudiced. She did try to kill me, after all.”
“She what?” He swung round, looking blank.
“You didn’t know that? Oh.” I tried to think; had I not told him? No, I supposed not. What with one thing and another, it hadn’t seemed important at the time; I had never expected to see her again. And later . . . well, it really wasn’t important then. I explained briefly about Laoghaire’s having sent me to join Geillie Duncan that day in Cranesmuir, fully aware that Geillie was about to be arrested for witchcraft, and hoping that I would be taken with her—as indeed I was.
“The wicked wee bitch!” he said, sounding more astonished than anything else. “No, I didna ken that at all—Christ, Sassenach, ye canna think I would have marrit the woman, knowing she’d done such a thing to you!”
“Well, she was only sixteen at the time,” I said, able under the circumstances to be tolerantly forgiving. “And she might not have realized that we’d be tried or that the witch-court would try to burn us. She might only have meant mischief—thinking that if I were accused as a witch, it would make you lose interest in me.” The revelation of her chicanery seemed at least to have distracted Jamie’s mind, which was all to the good.
His only response to this was a snort. He paced restlessly to and fro for a bit, his feet rustling in the spilled straw. He hadn’t taken his shoes or stockings, and was barefoot, though the cold seemed not to trouble him.
At last he stopped, heaved a massive sigh, and bent forward, resting a hand on the bench, his head on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I put my arms round his shoulders and pulled him close, holding him hard until at last he sighed again, and the knotted strain in his shoulders relaxed. I let go, and he stood up, giving me a hand to rise.
We closed the barn door and walked back to the house in silence, hand in hand.
“Claire,” he said suddenly, sounding a little shy.
“Yes?”
“I dinna mean to excuse myself—not at all. It’s only I was wondering . . . do ye ever . . . think of Frank? When we . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Does the shadow of the Englishman perhaps cross my face—now and then?”
And what on earth could I say to that? I couldn’t lie, surely, but how could I say the truth, either, in a way he would understand, that wouldn’t hurt him?
I drew a deep breath and let it out, watching the mist of it purl softly away.
“I don’t want to make love to a ghost,” I said at last, firmly. “And I don’t think you do, either. But I suppose every now and then a ghost might have other ideas.”
He made a small sound that was mostly a laugh.
“Aye,” he said. “I suppose they might. I wonder if Laoghaire would like the Englishman’s bed better than mine?”
“Serve her right if she did,