The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [665]
“D’ye need to go potty?” he asked automatically, falling into Brianna’s peculiar idiom.
“No,” Jem said, just as automatically, but with a reflexive kneading of his crotch that made his father take him by the arm, firmly steering him off the path and behind a convenient bush.
“Come on. Let’s have a try, while we wait for Grand-da.”
IT SEEMED RATHER a long time before Jamie reappeared, though the indignant cries of the searchers had been quickly stilled. If Jamie had got his bum smacked, Roger thought cynically, he appeared to have enjoyed it. A slight flush showed on the high cheekbones, and he wore a faint but definite air of satisfaction.
This was explained at once, though, when Jamie produced a small bundle from inside his shirt and unwrapped a linen towel, revealing half a dozen fresh biscuits, still warm, and dripping with melted butter and honey.
“I think perhaps Mrs. Bug meant them for the quilting circle,” he said, distributing the booty. “But there was plenty of batter left in the bowl; I doubt they’ll be missed.”
“If they are, I’ll blame it on you,” Roger assured him, catching a dribble of warm honey that ran down his wrist. He wiped it off and sucked his finger, eyes closing momentarily in ecstasy.
“What now, ye’d give me up to the Inquisition?” Jamie’s eyes creased into blue triangles of amusement as he wiped crumbs from his mouth. “And after I shared my plunder with ye, too—there’s gratitude!”
“Your reputation will stand it,” Roger said wryly. “Jem and I are persona non grata after what happened to her spice cake last week, but Himself can do no wrong, as far as Grannie Bug is concerned. She wouldn’t mind if you ate the entire contents of the pantry single-handed.”
Jamie licked a smear of honey from the corner of his mouth, with the smug complacency of a man permanently in Mrs. Bug’s good books.
“Well, that’s as may be,” he admitted. “Still, if ye expect to blame it on me, we’d best wipe a bit of the evidence off the laddie before we go home.”
Jemmy had been addressing himself to his treat with single-minded concentration, with the result that his entire face gleamed with butter, daubs of honey ran in amber trails down his smock, and what appeared to be several small globs of half-chewed biscuit were stuck in his hair.
“How in hell did you do that so fast?” Roger demanded in amazement. “Look what ye’ve done to your shirt! Your mother will kill us both.” He took the towel and made an abortive attempt to wipe some of the mess off, but succeeded only in spreading it farther.
“Dinna fash,” Jamie said tolerantly. “He’ll be so covered wi’ filth by the end of the day, his mother will never notice a few crumbs extra. Watch out, lad!” A quick grab saved half a biscuit that had broken off as the boy made an attempt to cram the last pastry into his mouth in a single gulp.
“Still,” Jamie said, biting thoughtfully into the rescued biscuit-half as he looked at his grandson, “perhaps we’ll souse him in the creek a bit. We dinna want the pigs to smell the honey on him.”
A faint qualm of unease went over Roger, as he realized that Jamie was in fact not joking about the pigs. It was common to see or hear pigs in the wood nearby, rooting through the leaf-mold under oaks and poplars, or grunting blissfully over a trove of chestnut mast. Food was plentiful at this season, and the pigs were no threat to grown men. A small boy, though, smelling of sweetness . . . you thought of pigs as only eating roots and nuts, but Roger had a vivid memory of the big white sow, seen a few days before, with the naked, blood-smeared tail of a possum dangling from her maw as she champed placidly away.
A chunk of biscuit seemed to be stuck in his throat. He picked Jemmy up, despite the stickiness, and tucked him giggling under one arm, so the little boy’s arms and legs dangled in the air.
“Come on, then,” Roger said, resigned. “Mummy won’t like it a bit, if you get eaten by a pig.”
FENCE POLES LAY piled near the stone pillar. Roger dug about until he found a splintered piece short