The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [78]
He appeared not to notice, distracted by Germain, who was now dancing in little circles while singing theme and variations on my initial French expression, to the tune of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Father Donahue was going bright pink with the effort of pretending that he didn’t understand any French.
“Tais toi, crétin,” Jamie said, reaching into his sporran. He said it amiably enough, but with the tone of one whose expectation of being obeyed is so absolute as not to admit question. Germain stopped abruptly, mouth open, and Jamie promptly thumbed a sweetie into it. Germain shut his mouth and began concentrating on the matter at hand, songs forgotten.
I reached for the kettle, using a handful of my hem again as pot holder. Jamie bent, picked up a sturdy twig, and hooked the handle of the kettle neatly from my hand with it.
“Voilà!” he said, presenting it.
“Merci,” I said, with a distinct lack of gratitude. Nonetheless, I accepted the stick and set off toward the nearest rivulet, smoking kettle borne before me like a lance.
Reaching a rock-studded pool, I dropped the kettle with a clang, ripped off the mobcap, flung it into a clump of sedge, and stamped on it, leaving a large, muddy footprint on the linen.
“I didna mean to say it wasna flattering, Sassenach,” said an amused voice behind me.
I raised a cold brow in his direction.
“You didn’t mean to say it was flattering, did you?”
“No. It makes ye look like a poisonous toadstool. Much better without,” he assured me.
He pulled me toward him and bent to kiss me.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought,” I said, and the tone of my voice stopped him, a fraction of an inch from my mouth. “But one inch farther and I think I might just bite a small piece out of your lip.”
Moving like a man who has just realized that the stone he has casually picked up is in actuality a wasp’s nest, he straightened up and very, very slowly took his hands off my waist.
“Oh,” he said, and tilted his head to one side, lips pursed as he surveyed me.
“Ye do look a bit frazzled, at that, Sassenach.”
No doubt this was true, but it made me feel like bursting into tears to hear it. Evidently the urge showed, because he took me—very gently—by the hand, and led me to a large rock.
“Sit,” he said. “Close your eyes, a nighean donn. Rest yourself a moment.”
I sat, eyes closed and shoulders slumped. Sloshing noises and a muted clang announced that he was cleaning and filling the kettle.
He set the filled kettle at my feet with a soft clunk, then eased himself down on the leaves beside it, where he sat quietly. I could hear the faint sigh of his breath, and the occasional sniff and rustle as he wiped a dripping nose on his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” I said at last, opening my eyes.
He turned, half-smiling, to look up at me.
“For what, Sassenach? It’s not as though ye’ve refused my bed—or at least I hope it’s not come to that yet.”
The thought of making love just at the moment was absolutely at the bottom of my list, but I returned the half-smile.
“No,” I said ruefully. “After two weeks of sleeping on the ground, I wouldn’t refuse anyone’s bed.” His eyebrows went up at that, and I laughed, taken off-guard.
“No,” I said again. “I’m just . . . frazzled.” Something griped low in my belly, and proceeded to twist. I grimaced, and pressed my hands over the pain.
“Oh!” he said again, in sudden understanding. “That kind of frazzled.”
“That kind of frazzled,” I agreed. I poked at the kettle with one toe. “I’d better take that back; I need to boil water so I can steep some willow bark. It takes a long time.” It did; it would take an hour or more, by which time the cramps would be considerably worse.
“The hell with willow bark,” he said, producing a silver flask from the recesses of his shirt. “Try this. At least ye dinna need to boil it first.”
I unscrewed the stopper and inhaled. Whisky, and very good whisky, too.
“I love you,” I said sincerely,