He held me close, and sighed deeply.
“D’ye ken we’ve been wed this time nearly twice as long as the last?”
I drew back and frowned dubiously at him, accepting the distraction.
“Were we not married in between?”
That took him by surprise; he frowned, too, and ran a finger slowly down the sunburnt bridge of his nose in thought.
“Well, there’s a question for a priest, to be sure,” he said. “I should think we were—but if so, are we not both bigamists?”
“Were, not are,” I corrected, feeling slightly uneasy. “But we weren’t, really. Father Anselme said so.”
“Anselme?”
“Father Anselme—a Franciscan priest at the Abbey of St. Anne. But perhaps you wouldn’t recall him; you were very ill at the time.”
“Oh, I recall him,” he said. “He would come and sit wi’ me at night, when I couldna sleep.” He smiled, a little lopsided; that time wasn’t something he wished to remember. “He liked ye a great deal, Sassenach.”
“Oh? And what about you?” I asked, wanting to distract him from the memory of St. Anne. “Didn’t you like me?”
“Oh, I liked ye fine then,” he assured me. “I maybe like ye even more now, though.”
“Oh, do you, indeed.” I sat up a little straighter, preening. “What’s different?”
He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing a bit in appraisal.
“Well, ye fart less in your sleep,” he began judiciously, then ducked, laughing, as a pinecone whizzed past his left ear. I seized a chunk of wood, but before I could bat him over the head with it, he lunged and caught me by the arms. He shoved me flat in the grass and collapsed on top of me, pinning me effortlessly.
“Get off, you oaf! I do not fart in my sleep!”
“Now, how would ye ken that, Sassenach? Ye sleep so sound, ye wouldna wake, even to the sound of your own snoring.”
“Oh, you want to talk about snoring, do you? You—”
“Ye’re proud as Lucifer,” he said, interrupting. He was still smiling, but the words were more serious. “And ye’re brave. Ye were always bolder than was safe; now ye’re fierce as a wee badger.”
“So I’m arrogant and ferocious. This does not sound like much of a catalog of womanly virtues,” I said, puffing a bit as I strained to wriggle out from under him.
“Well, ye’re kind, too,” he said, considering. “Verra kind. Though ye are inclined to do it on your own terms. Not that that’s bad, mind,” he added, neatly recapturing the arm I had extricated. He pinned my wrist over my head.
“Womanly,” he murmured, brows knotted in concentration. “Womanly virtues . . .” His free hand crept between us and fastened on my breast.
“Besides that!”
“You’re verra clean,” he said approvingly. He let go my wrist and ruffled a hand through my hair—which was indeed clean, smelling of sunflower and marigolds.
“I’ve never seen any woman wash herself sae much as you do—save Brianna, perhaps.
“Ye’re no much of a cook,” he went on, squinting thoughtfully. “Though ye’ve never poisoned anyone, save on purpose. And I will say ye sew a neat seam—though ye like it much better if it’s through someone’s flesh.”
“Thanks so much!”
“Tell me some more virtues,” he suggested. “Perhaps I’ve missed one.”
“Hmph! Gentleness, patience . . .” I floundered.
“Gentle? Christ.” He shook his head. “Ye’re the most ruthless, bloodthirsty—”
I darted my head upward, and nearly succeeded in biting him in the throat. He jerked back, laughing.
“No, ye’re no verra patient, either.”
I gave up struggling for the moment and collapsed flat on my back, tousled hair spread out on the grass.
“So what is my most endearing trait?” I demanded.
“Ye think I’m funny,” he said, grinning.
“I . . . do . . . not . . .” I grunted, struggling madly. He merely lay on top of me, tranquilly oblivious to my pokings and thumpings, until I exhausted myself and lay gasping underneath him.
“And,” he said thoughtfully, “ye like it verra much when I take ye to bed. No?”
“Er . . .” I wanted to contradict him, but honesty forbade. Besides, he bloody well knew I did.
“You are squashing me,” I said with dignity. “Kindly get off.”
“No?” he repeated, not moving.
“Yes! All right! Yes! Will you bloody get off?!”
He didn’t get off, but bent his head and kissed me. I was close-lipped, determined not to give in, but he was determined, too, and if one came right down to it . . . the skin of his face was warm, the plush of his beard stubble softly scratchy, and his wide sweet mouth . . . My legs were open in abandon and he was solid between them, bare chest smelling of musk and sweat and sawdust caught in the wiry auburn hair. . . . I was still hot with struggling, but the grass was damp and cool around us. . . . Well, all right; another minute, and he could have me right there, if he cared to.
He felt me yield, and sighed, letting his own body slacken; he no longer held me prisoner, but simply held me. He lifted his head then, and cupped my face with one hand.
“D’ye want to know what it is, really?” he asked, and I could see from the dark blue of his eyes that he meant it. I nodded, mute.
“Above all creatures on this earth,” he whispered, “you are faithful.”
I thought of saying something about St. Bernard dogs, but there was such tenderness in his face that I said nothing, instead merely staring up at him, blinking against the green light that filtered through the needles overhead.
“Well,” I said at last, with a deep sigh of my own, “so are you. Quite a good thing, really. Isn’t it?”
21
WE HAVE IGNITION
MRS. BUG HAD MADE chicken fricassee for supper, but that wasn’t sufficient to account for the air of suppressed excitement that Bree and Roger brought with them when they came in. They were both smiling, her cheeks were flushed, and his eyes as bright as hers.
So when Roger announced that they had great news, it was perhaps only reasonable that Mrs. Bug should leap directly to the obvious conclusion.
“You’re wi’ child again!” she cried, dropping a spoon in her excitement. She clapped her hands together, inflating like a birthday balloon. “Oh, the joy of it! And about time, too,” she added, letting go her hands to wag a finger at Roger. “And here was me thinkin’ as I should add a bit o’ ginger and brimstone to your parritch, young man, so as to bring ye up to scratch! But ye kent your business weel enough in the end, I see. And you, a bhailach, what d’ye think? A bonny wee brother for ye!”
Jemmy, thus addressed, stared up at her, mouth open.
“Er . . .” said Roger, flushing up.
“Or, of course, it might be a wee sister, I suppose,” Mrs. Bug admitted. “But good news, good news, either way. Here, a luaidh, have a sweetie on the strength of it, and the rest of us will drink to it!”
Obviously bewildered, but strongly in favor of sweeties, Jem took the proffered molasses drop and stuck it promptly in his mouth.
“But he isn’t—” Bree began.
“Nank you, Missus Bug,” Jem said hastily, putting a hand over his mouth lest his mother try to repossess this distinctly forbidden predinner treat on grounds of impoliteness.
“Oh, a wee sweetie will do him nay harm,” Mrs. Bug assured her, picking up the fallen spoon and wiping it on her apron. “Call Arch in, a muirninn, and we’ll tell him your news. Blessed Bride save ye, lass, I thought ye’d never get round to it! Here was all the ladies saying’ as they didna ken whether ye’d turned cold to your husband, or was it him maybe, lackin’ the vital spark, but as it is—”
“Well, as it is,” said Roger, raising his voice in order to be heard.
“I’m not pregnant!” said Bree, very loudly.
The succeeding silence echoed like a thunderclap.
“Oh,” said Jamie mildly. He picked up a serviette and sat down, tucking it into the neck of his shirt. “Well, then. Shall we eat?” He held out a hand to Jem, who scrambled up onto the bench beside him, still sucking fiercely on his molasses drop.
Mrs. Bug, momentarily turned to stone, revived with a marked “Hmpf!” Massively affronted, she turned to the sideboard and slapped down a stack of pewter plates with a clatter.
Roger, still rather flushed, appeared to find the situation funny, judging from the twitching of his mouth. Brianna was incandescent, and breathing like a grampus.
“Sit down, darling,” I said, in the tentative manner of one addressing a large explosive device. “You . . . um . . . had some news, you said?”
“Never mind!” She stood still, glaring. “Nobody cares, since I’m not pregnant. After all, what else could I possibly do that anybody would think was worthwhile?” She shoved a violent hand through her hair, and encountering the ribbon tying it back, yanked this loose and flung it on the ground.
“Now, sweetheart . . .” Roger began. I could have told him this was a mistake; Frasers in a fury tended to pay no attention to honeyed words, being instead inclined to go for the throat of the nearest party unwary enough to speak to them.
“Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me!” she snapped, turning on him. “You think so, too! You think everything I do is a waste of time if it isn’t washing clothes or cooking dinner or mending your effing socks! And you blame me for not getting pregnant, too, you think it’s my fault! Well, it’s NOT, and you know it!”
“No! I don’t think that, I don’t at all. Brianna, please. . . .” He stretched out a hand to her, then thought better of the gesture and withdrew it, clearly feeling that she might take his hand off at the wrist.
“Less EAT, Mummy!” Jemmy piped up helpfully. A long string of molasses-tinged saliva flowed from the corner of his mouth and dripped down the front of his shirt. Seeing this, his mother turned on Mrs. Bug like a tiger.
“Now see what you’ve done, you interfering old busybody! That was his last clean shirt! And how dare you talk about our private lives with everybody in sight, what possible earthly business of yours is it, you beastly old gossiping—”
Seeing the futility of protest, Roger put his arms round her from behind, picked her up bodily off the floor, and carried her out the back door, this departure accented by incoherent protests from Bree and grunts of pain from Roger, as she kicked him repeatedly in the shins, with considerable force and accuracy.
I went to the door and closed it delicately, shutting off the sounds of further altercation in the yard.
“She gets that from you, you know,” I said reproachfully, sitting down opposite Jamie. “Mrs. Bug, that smells wonderful. Do let’s eat!”
Mrs. Bug dished the fricassee in huffy silence, but declined to join us at table, instead putting on her cloak and stamping out the front door, leaving us to deal with the clearing-up. An excellent bargain, if you asked me.