Voyager - Diana Gabaldon [98]
“I am sure your father acts always in your best interests, my lady,” he answered woodenly. Would the little fiend not go away?
She wouldn’t. Assuming a more winsome expression, she came and stood close to his side, interfering with his opening the loading hatch of the roller.
“But a match with such a dried-up old man?” she said. “Surely it is heartless of Father to give me to such a creature.” She stood on tiptoe, peering at Jamie. “How old are you, MacKenzie?”
His heart stopped beating for an instant.
“A verra great deal older than you, my lady,” he said firmly. “Your pardon, my lady.” He slid past her as well as he might without touching her, and leaped up onto the manure wagon, whence he was reasonably sure she wouldn’t follow him.
“But not ready for the boneyard yet, are you, MacKenzie?” Now she was in front of him, shading her eyes with her hand as she peered upward. A breeze had come up, and wisps of her chestnut hair floated about her face. “Have you ever been married, MacKenzie?”
He gritted his teeth, overcome with the urge to drop a shovelful of manure over her chestnut head, but mastered it and dug the shovel into the pile, merely saying “I have,” in a tone that brooked no further inquiries.
The Lady Geneva was not interested in other people’s sensitivities. “Good,” she said, satisfied. “You’ll know what to do, then.”
“To do?” He stopped short in the act of digging, one foot braced on the shovel.
“In bed,” she said calmly. “I want you to come to bed with me.”
In the shock of the moment, all he could think of was the ludicrous vision of the elegant Lady Geneva, skirts thrown up over her face, asprawl in the rich crumble of the manure wagon.
He dropped the shovel. “Here?” he croaked.
“No, silly,” she said impatiently. “In bed, in a proper bed. In my bedroom.”
“You have lost your mind,” Jamie said coldly, the shock receding slightly. “Or I should think you had, if ye had one to lose.”
Her face flamed and her eyes narrowed. “How dare you speak that way to me!”
“How dare ye speak so to me?” Jamie replied hotly. “A wee lassie of breeding to be makin’ indecent proposals to a man twice her age? And a groom in her father’s house?” he added, recollecting who he was. He choked back further remarks, recollecting also that this dreadful girl was the Lady Geneva, and he was her father’s groom.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, mastering his choler with some effort. “The sun is verra hot today, and no doubt it has addled your wits a bit. I expect ye should go back to the house at once and ask your maid to put cold cloths on your head.”
The Lady Geneva stamped her morocco-booted foot. “My wits are not addled in the slightest!”
She glared up at him, chin set. Her chin was little and pointed, so were her teeth, and with that particular expression of determination on her face, he thought she looked a great deal like the bloody-minded vixen she was.
“Listen to me,” she said. “I cannot prevent this abominable marriage. But I am”—she hesitated, then continued firmly—“I am damned if I will suffer my maidenhood to be given to a disgusting, depraved old monster like Ellesmere!”
Jamie rubbed a hand across his mouth. Despite himself, he felt some sympathy for her. But he would be damned if he allowed this skirted maniac to involve him in her troubles.
“I am fully sensible of the honor, my lady,” he said at last, with a heavy irony, “but I really cannot—”
“Yes, you can.” Her eyes rested frankly on the front of his filthy breeches. “Betty says so.”
He struggled for speech, emerging at first with little more than incoherent sputterings. Finally he drew a deep breath and said, with all the firmness he could muster, “Betty has not the slightest basis for drawing conclusions as to my capacity. I havena laid a hand on the lass!