The Scottish Prisoner - Diana Gabaldon [71]
Grey had said on that occasion, his voice barely audible with his passion, “I tell you, sir—were I to take you to my bed—I could make you scream. And by God, I would do it.”
Jamie had swung with all his force, by simple reflex—not so much at Grey, but at the memory of Jack Randall that Grey’s words unleashed in him—and had, by a miracle, missed. He sat without moving now, every muscle in his body hard as rock and aching with the memory of violence, of Jack Randall, and of what had happened in the dungeon of Wentworth prison.
Neither one of them would—or could—look away. There were sounds in the garden, people moving to and fro, the door to the house slamming, a distant treble of children’s voices.
“Why did ye follow me?” Jamie asked at last. The words didn’t seemed to be shaped right; they felt strange in his mouth. “This afternoon.”
He saw the look of surprise bloom on Grey’s face, pale in the gloom of the grape arbor. And remembered the same look on the man’s face when he had opened his eyes half an hour earlier, to see Grey standing in front of him.
“I didn’t,” Grey said simply. “I was looking for a place to be alone for a bit. And you were there.”
Jamie breathed deep and, with an effort that felt like lifting a cannon, rose to his feet.
“I’ll take ye at your word,” he said, and went out.
IT HAD BEEN a long day. Grey dressed for the evening meal, feeling tired but at peace, as though he had climbed some arduous peak and found himself now safe upon its summit. There might be more mountains to climb tomorrow, but for the moment the sun had gone down, the campfire had been lit, and he could eat his supper with an easy mind.
Tom Byrd was packing; they would leave in the morning for Dublin, and the room was strewn with stockings, hairbrushes, powder, shirts, and whatever else Tom considered essential to the credit of his employer’s public appearance. Grey never would have believed that all of these items would fit into one trunk and a couple of portmanteaux, had he not seen Tom accomplish the feat repeatedly.
“Have you packed up Captain Fraser already?” he asked, pulling on his stockings.
“Oh, yes, me lord,” Tom assured him. “Everything save what he’s wearing—and his nightshirt, to be sure,” he added as an afterthought. “I did try to make him wear powder for supper,” he said, with an air of reproach. “He says it makes him sneeze.”
Grey laughed and went down, meeting Hal on the stairs. His brother brandished a small book at him.
“Look what I’ve got!”
“Let me see … No! Where did you get it?”
“It” was a copy of Harry Quarry’s book of poetry, entitled Certain Verses Upon the Subject of Eros. The original, which Grey had presented to Denis Diderot, had been bound in calfskin, whereas this copy was a much cheaper version, done with plain buckram covers, and selling—according to the cover—at half a shilling a copy.
“Mr. Beasley had it. He says he bought it at Stubbs’s print-shop, in Fleet Street. I recognized it instantly from the title and sent him off to get me a copy. Have you read it?”
“No, I hadn’t the chance—only heard a few choice bits that Diderot read out over the piss pot … Oh, Christ!” He’d flipped the book open at random and now read out, “Bent upon scratching his unseemly itch / This self-fellating son of a bitch …”
Hal gave a strangled whoop and laughed so hard that he had to lean momentarily against the wall for support. “Self-fellating? Is that even possible?”
“You’re asking me? I certainly can’t do it,” said Grey.
“I havena any personal experience in that regard myself,” said a dry Scottish voice behind him, “but dogs dinna seem to find it difficult.”
Both Greys swung round, startled; they hadn’t heard him approach. He looked well, John thought, with a slight sense of pride. Upon Fraser’s arrival, Minnie had sent hastily to the Pettigrews, who kept a pair of immense blackamoor servants to carry their sedan chair, and borrowed a fairly new suit of livery. The shirt had been washed, starched, and ironed and the plain coat and waistcoat