The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [654]
“No.” His hand was on her hair, stroking. “I didn’t ever tell you not to read it.”
His fingers touched her shoulder, lightly, and her toes curled with pleasure at the feeling. Did she mind? No. She supposed she ought to feel exposed in some way, the privacy of her thoughts and dreams laid bare to him—but she trusted him with them. He would never use those things against her.
Besides, once set down on paper, the dreams became a separate thing from her, herself. Much like the drawings that she made; a reflection of one facet of her mind, a brief glimpse of something once seen, once thought, once felt—but not the same thing as the mind or heart that made them. Not quite.
“Fair’s fair, though.” Her chin rested in the hollow of his shoulder. He smelled good, bitter and musky with the scent of satisfied desire. “Tell me one of your dreams, then.”
A laugh vibrated through his chest, nearly soundless, but she felt it.
“Only one?”
“Yes, but it has to be an important one. Not the flying ones, or the ones where you’re being chased by a monster, or the ones where you go to school without your clothes on. Not the ones that everybody has—one that only you have.”
One of her hands was on his chest, scratching gently to make the dark curly hairs twitch and rise. The other was under the pillow; if she moved her fingers slightly, she could feel the smooth little shape of the ancient wifie, as he called it. She could imagine her own womb swelling, round and hard. She could feel the clutch and soft spasm in her lower belly; aftershocks of their lovemaking. Would it be this time?
He turned his head on the pillow, thinking. Long lashes lay against his cheek, black as the lines of the trees outside. He turned back then, lifting them, and his eyes were the color of moss, soft and vivid in the shadowed light.
“I could be romantic,” he whispered, and his fingers drifted down her back, so that she felt gooseflesh rise in their wake. “I could say this is my dream—you and me, here alone . . . us and our children.” He turned his head a little, checking the trundle in the corner, but Jemmy was sound asleep, invisible.
“You could,” she echoed, and ducked her head so her forehead pressed against his shoulder. “But that’s a waking dream—not a real dream. You know what I mean.”
“Aye, I do.”
He was quiet for a minute, his hand lying still, broad and warm across the base of her spine.
“Sometimes,” he whispered at last, “sometimes, I dream I am singing, and I wake from it with my throat aching.”
He couldn’t see her face, or the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes.
“What do you sing?” she whispered back. She heard the shush of the linen pillow as he shook his head.
“No song I’ve ever heard, or know,” he said softly. “But I know I’m singing it for you.”
106
THE SURGEON’S BOOK II
July 27, 1772
“Was called from churning to attend Rosamund Lindsay, who arrived in late afternoon with a severe laceration to the left hand, sustained with an axe while girdling trees. Wound was extensive, having nearly severed the left thumb; laceration extended from base of index finger to two inches above the styloid process of the radius, which was superficially damaged. Injury had been sustained approximately three days prior, treated with rough binding and bacon grease. Extensive sepsis apparent, with suppuration, gross swelling of hand and forearm. Thumb blackened; gangrene apparent; characteristic pungent odor. Subcutaneous red streaks, indicative of blood poisoning, extended from site of injury nearly to antecubital
fossa.
Patient presented with high fever (est. 104 degrees F., by hand), symptoms of dehydration, mild disorientation. Tachycardia evident.
In view of the seriousness of patient’s condition, recommended immediate amputation of limb at elbow. Patient refused to consider this, insisting instead upon application of pigeon poultice, consisting of the split body of a freshly-killed pigeon, applied to wound (patient’s