The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [200]
She went in before him and threw open the shutters. He wanted to tell her to close them; he felt wretchedly exposed in the flood of sunlight. But it was summer; the room was hot and airless, and he was already sweating heavily. Air swirled in, heavy with the odor of tree sap, and the sun glowed briefly on the smooth top of her head, like the gloss on a fresh conker. She turned and smiled at him.
“First things first,” she announced briskly. “Throw off your coat and waistcoat before you suffocate.” Not waiting to see whether he would take this suggestion, she turned to reach for the basin and ewer. She filled the basin and stepped back, motioning him toward the wash-stand, where a towel and a much-used sliver of soap stood on worn wood.
“I’ll fetch us a drink, shall I?” And with that, she was gone, bare feet pattering busily down the stairs.
Mechanically, he began to undress. He blinked stupidly at the basin, but then recalled that in the better sort of house, sometimes a man was required to wash his parts first. He’d encountered the custom once before, but on that occasion, the whore had performed the ablution for him—plying the soap to such effect that the first encounter had ended right there in the washbasin.
The memory made the blood flame up in his face again, and he ripped at his flies, popping off a button. He was still throbbing all over, but the sensation was becoming more centralized.
His hands were unsteady, and he cursed under his breath, reminded by the broken skin on his knuckles of his unceremonious exit from his father’s—no, not his bloody father’s house. Lord John’s.
“You bloody bastard!” he said under his breath. “You knew, you knew all along!” That infuriated him almost more than the horrifying revelation of his own paternity—that his stepfather, whom he’d loved, whom he’d trusted more than anyone on earth—that Lord John bloody Grey had lied to him his whole life!
Everyone had lied to him.
Everyone.
He felt suddenly as though he’d broken through a crust of frozen snow and plunged straight down into an unsuspected river beneath. Swept away into black breathlessness beneath the ice, helpless, voiceless, a feral chill clawing at his heart.
There was a small sound behind him and he whirled by instinct, aware only when he saw the young whore’s appalled face that he was weeping savagely, tears running down his own face, and his wet, half-hard cock flopping out of his breeches.
“Go away,” he croaked, making a frantic effort to tuck himself away.
She didn’t go away, but came toward him, decanter in one hand and a pair of pewter cups in the other.
“Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing him sideways. “Here, let me pour you a drink. You can tell me all about it.”
“No!”
She came on toward him, but more slowly. Through his swimming eyes he saw the twitch of her mouth as she saw his cock.
“I meant the water for your poor hands,” she said, clearly trying not to laugh. “I will say as you’re a real gentleman, though.”
“I’m not!”
She blinked.
“Is it an insult to call you a gentleman?”
Overcome with fury at the word, he lashed out blindly, knocking the decanter from her hand. It burst in a spray of glass and cheap wine, and she cried out as the red soaked through her petticoat.
“You bastard!” she shrieked, and drawing back her arm, threw the cups at his head. She didn’t hit him, and they clanged and rolled away across the floor. She was turning toward the door, crying out, “Ned! Ned!” when he lunged and caught her.
He only wanted to stop her shrieking, stop her bringing up whatever male enforcement the house employed. He got a hand on her mouth, yanking her back from the door, grappling one-handed to try to control her flailing arms.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he kept saying. “I didn’t mean