The Outlandish Companion - Diana Gabaldon [238]
Leftenant Hayes, attracted by the noise, was peering out from the flap of his tent like a whelk from its shell. He looked up, and caught my eye; I waved briefly, then turned to follow my own family back to our campsite.
Jamie was saying something to Brianna in Gaelic, as he helped her over a rocky patch in the trail ahead of me.
“Yes, I’m ready,” she said, replying in English. “Where’s your coat, Da?”
“I lent it to your husband,” he said. “We dinna want him to look a beggar at your wedding, aye?”
Bree laughed, wiping a flying strand of red hair out of her mouth with her free hand.
“Better a beggar than an attempted suicide.”
“What?” I caught up with them as we emerged from the shelter of the rocks. The wind barreled across the open space, pelting us with sleet and bits of stinging gravel.
“Whoof!” Brianna hunched over the swaddled baby girl she carried, sheltering her from the blast. “Roger cut himself shaving; the front of his coat is covered with bloodstains.” She glanced at Jamie, eyes watering with the wind. “Where is he now?”
“In one piece,” he assured her. “He’s talking wi’ Father Donahue.” He gave her a sharp look. “Ye might have told me the lad was no a Catholic.”
“I might have,” she said, unperturbed. “But I didn’t. It’s no big deal to me.”
“If ye mean by that peculiar expression, that it’s of no consequence—” Jamie began with a distinct edge in his voice, but was interrupted by the appearance of Roger himself, resplendent in a kilt and plaid of green and white MacKenzie tartan, topped by Jamie’s good coat and waistcoat. The coat fit decently—both men were of a size, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, though Jamie was an inch or two the taller—and the gray wool was quite as becoming to Roger’s dark hair and olive skin as it was to Jamie’s burnished auburn coloring.
“You look very nice, Roger,” I said. “Where did you cut yourself?” His face was pink, with the raw look common to just-shaved skin, but otherwise unmarked; lucky, under the circumstances.
Roger was carrying Jamie’s plaid under his arm, a bundle of red and black tartan. He handed it over and tilted his head to one side, showing me the deep gash just under his jawbone.
“Just there. Not so bad, but it bled like the dickens. They don’t call them cutthroat razors for nothing, aye?”
The gash had crusted into a neat dark line, a cut some three inches long, angled down from the corner of his jaw across the side of his throat. I touched the skin near it briefly. All right; the blade of the razor had cut straight in, no flap of skin needing suture. No wonder it had bled, though; it did look as though he had tried to cut his throat.
“A bit nervous this morning?” I teased. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”
“A little late for that,” Brianna said dryly, coming up beside me. “Got a kid here who needs a name, after all.”
“He’ll have more names than he knows what to do with,” Roger assured her. “So will you—Mrs. MacKenzie.”
A small flush lit Brianna’s face at the name, and she smiled at him. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, taking the baby from her as he did so. A look of sudden shock crossed his face as he felt the weight of the bundle in his arms, and he gawked down at it.
“That’s not ours,” Bree said, grinning at his look of consternation. “It’s Marsali’s wee Joan. Mama has Jemmy.”
“Thank God,” he said, holding the bundle with a good deal more caution. “I thought he’d evaporated or something.” He lifted the blanket slightly, exposing tiny Joan’s sleeping face, and smiled—as people always did—at sight of her comical quiff of brown