The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [664]
“Thank you,” Roger said gravely. He held out his hand. “Shall I take it, then?”
Jemmy shook his head violently, heavy fringe flying.
“Me do!”
“It’s a long walk, a ghille ruaidh,” Jamie said. “And your mother will miss ye, no?”
“No!”
“Grand-da’s right, a bhalaich, Mummy needs you,” Roger said, reaching for the rock. “Here, let me take . . .”
“No!” Jemmy clutched the rock protectively against his smock, mouth set in a stubborn line.
“But ye can’t . . .” Jamie began.
“Come!”
“No, I said ye must . . .” Roger began.
“COME!”
“Now, look, lad—” both men began together, then stopped, looked at each other, and laughed.
“Where’s Mummy, then?” Roger said, trying another tack. “Mummy will be worried about you, aye?”
The small red head shook in vehement negation.
“Claire said the women meant to be quilting today,” Jamie said to Roger. “Marsali’s brought a pattern; they’ll maybe have started the stitching of it.” He squatted down beside Roger, eye to eye with his grandson.
“Have ye got away from your mother, then?”
The soft pink mouth, hitherto clamped tight, twitched, allowing a small giggle to escape.
“Thought so,” Roger said in resignation. “Come on, then. Back to the house.” He stood up and swung the little boy up into his arms, rock and all.
“No, no! NO!” Jemmy stiffened in resistance, his feet digging painfully into Roger’s belly as his body arched backward like a bow. “Me help! Me HELP!”
Trying to make his own arguments heard through Jemmy’s roars without shouting, while at the same time keeping the boy from falling backward onto his head, Roger didn’t at first hear the cries from the direction of the house. When he finally resorted to clapping a hand over his offspring’s wide-open mouth, though, feminine calls of “Jeeeeemmmeeeeeeee!” were clearly audible through the trees.
“See, Mrs. Lizzie’s looking for ye,” Jamie said to his grandson, jerking a thumb toward the sound.
“Not only Lizzie,” Roger said. More women’s voices were echoing the chorus, with increasing notes of annoyance. “Mum and Grannie Claire, and Grannie Bug and Auntie Marsali, too, from the sounds of it. They don’t sound very pleased with you, lad.”
“We’d best take him, back, then,” Jamie said. He looked at his grandson, not without sympathy. “Mind, you’re like to get your bum smacked, laddie. Women dinna like it when ye run off on them.”
This threatening prospect caused Jemmy to drop his rock and wrap his arms and legs tightly round Roger.
“Go with YOU, Daddy,” he said coaxingly.
“But Mummy—”
“NO MUMMY! Want Daddy!”
Roger patted Jemmy’s back, small but solid under his grubby smock. He was torn; this was the first time Jem had so definitely wanted him in preference to Bree, and he had to admit to a sneaking feeling of flattery. Even if his son’s present partiality sprang as much from an urge to avoid punishment as from a desire for his company, Jem had wanted to come with him.
“I suppose we could take him,” he said to Jamie, over Jem’s head, now nestled trustingly against his collarbone. “Just for the morning; I could fetch him back at noon.”
“Oh, aye,” Jamie said. He smiled at his grandson, picked up the fallen stone, and handed it back to him. “Building hogpens is proper man’s work, aye? None of this prinking and yaffling the ladies are so fond of.”
“Speaking of yaffling . . .” Roger lifted his chin in the direction of the house, where the cries of “JEEMEEEEE!” were now taking on a distinctly irritated tone, tinged with panic. “We’d best tell them we have him.”
“I’ll go.” Jamie dropped the rucksack off his shoulder with a sigh, and raised one eyebrow at his grandson. “Mind, lad, ye owe me. When women are in a fret, they’ll take it out on the first man they see, whether he’s to blame or not. Like enough I’ll get my bum smacked.” He rolled his eyes, but grinned at Jemmy, then turned and set off for the house at a trot.
Jemmy giggled.
“Smack, Grand-da!” he called.
“Hush, wee rascal.” Roger gave him a soft slap on the bottom, and realized that Jem was wearing short breeks under his smock, but no clout under