23
RETURN TO LEOCH
Dougal was waiting for us at the sign of the Red Boar, impatiently pacing to and fro outside.
“Made it, did ye?” he asked, watching with approval as I dismounted without assistance, staggering only slightly. “Gallant lass—ten miles without a whimper. Get up to your bed then; ye’ve earned it. Jamie and I will stable the horses.” He patted me, very gently, on the rump in dismissal. I was only too glad to follow his suggestion, and was asleep almost before my head touched the pillow.
I didn’t stir when Jamie crawled in beside me, but woke suddenly in the late afternoon, convinced that there was something important I had forgotten.
“Horrocks!” I exclaimed suddenly, sitting bolt upright in bed.
“Hah?” Jamie, startled out of a sound sleep, shot sideways out of bed, ending on the floor in a crouch, hand on the dirk he had left on top of his piled clothes. “What?” he demanded, staring wildly around the room. “What is it?”
I stifled a giggle at the sight of him, crouched naked on the floor, red hair standing on end like quills.
“You look like a fretful porpentine,” I said.
He gave me a dirty look and rose to his feet, replacing the dirk on the stool that held his clothes.
“You couldna wait ’til I woke to tell me that?” he inquired. “You thought it would make more impression if ye woke me out of a sound sleep by shouting ‘Hedgehog!’ in my ear?”
“Not ‘hedgehog,’ ” I explained. “Horrocks. I remembered all at once that I’d forgotten to ask you about him. Did you find him?”
He sat down on the bed and sank his head in his hands. He rubbed his face vigorously, as though to restore circulation.
“Oh, aye,” he said through the muffling fingers. “Aye, I found him.”
I could tell from the tone of voice that the deserter’s information had not been good.
“Would he not tell you anything after all?” I asked sympathetically. That had always been a possibility, though Jamie had gone prepared to part with not only his own money, and some provided by Dougal and Colum, but even his father’s ring if necessary.
Jamie lay back on the bed beside me, staring up at the ceiling.
“No,” he said. “No, he told me all right. And at a reasonable price.”
I rolled up onto an elbow in order to look down at his face.
“Well, then?” I demanded. “Who did shoot the sergeant-major?”
He looked up at me and smiled, a trifle grimly.
“Randall,” he said, and shut his eyes.
“Randall?” I said blankly. “But why?”
“I don’t know,” he said, eyes still shut. “I could guess, perhaps, but it doesna much matter. Damn-all chance of proving it.”
I had to agree that this was true. I sank back on the bed beside him and stared up at the black oak beams of the low ceiling.
“What can you do then?” I asked. “Go to France? Or perhaps”—a bright thought occurred to me—“perhaps to America? You could likely do well in the New World.”
“Across the ocean?” A brief shudder ran through him. “No. No, I couldna do that.”
“Well, what then?” I demanded, turning my head to look at him. He opened one eye enough to give me a jaundiced look.
“I’d thought for a start that I might get another hour’s sleep,” he said, “but apparently not.” Resigned, he pulled himself up in bed, leaning against the wall. I had been too tired to pull the bedclothes off before retiring, and there was a suspicious black spot on the quilt near his knee. I kept a wary eye on it as he talked.
“You’re right,” he agreed, “we could go to France.” I started, having momentarily forgotten that whatever he decided to do, I was now included in the decision.
“But there isna that much for me there,” he said, idly scratching his thigh. “Only soldiering, and that’s no life for you. Or to Rome, to join King James’s court. That might be managed; I’ve some Fraser uncles and cousins with a foot in that camp, who would help me. I’ve no great taste for politics, and less for princes, but aye, it’s a possibility. I’d rather try first to clear myself in Scotland, though. If I did, at the worst I might end up as a small crofter in the Fraser lands; at best, I might be able to go back to Lallybroch.” His face clouded, and I knew he was thinking of his sister. “For myself,” he said softly, “I wouldna go, but it isn’t only me anymore.”
He looked down at me and smiled, his hand gently smoothing my hair. “I forget sometimes, that there’s you now, Sassenach,” he said.
I felt extraordinarily uncomfortable. I felt like a traitor, in fact. Here he was, making plans that would affect his entire life, taking my comfort and safety into account, when I had been doing my best to abandon him completely, dragging him into substantial danger in the process. I had meant none of it, but the fact remained. Even now, I was thinking that I should try to talk him out of going to France, as that would carry me farther away from my own goal: the stone circle.
“Is there any way to stay in Scotland, though?” I asked, looking away from him. I thought the black spot on the quilt had moved, but I wasn’t sure. I fixed my eyes on it, staring hard.
Jamie’s hand traveled under my hair and began idly to fondle my neck.
“Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “There may be. That’s why Dougal waited up for me; he’s had some news.”
“Really? What sort?” I turned my head to look up at him again; the movement brought my ear within reach of his fingers, and he began to stroke lightly around it, making me want to arch my neck and purr like a cat. I repressed the impulse, though, in favor of finding out what he meant to do.
“A messenger from Colum,” he said. “He didna think to find us here, but he passed Dougal on the road by accident. Dougal’s to return at once to Leoch, and leave Ned Gowan to manage the rest of the rents. Dougal’s suggested we should go with him.”
“Back to Leoch?” It wasn’t France, but it wasn’t a lot better. “Why?”
“There’s a visitor expected shortly, an English noble that’s had dealings wi’ Colum before. He’s a powerful man, and it might be he could be persuaded to do something for me. I’ve not been tried or condemned on the charge of murder. He might be able to have it dismissed, or arrange to have me pardoned.” He grinned wryly. “It goes a bit against the grain to be pardoned for something I’ve not done, but it’s better than being hanged.”
“Yes, that’s true.” The spot was moving. I squinted, trying to focus on it. “Which English noble is it?”
“The Duke of Sandringham.”
I jerked upright with an exclamation.
“What is it, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, alarmed.
I pointed a trembling finger at the black spot, which was now proceeding up his leg at a slow but determined pace.
“What’s that?!” I said.
He glanced at it, and casually flicked it off with a fingernail.
“Oh, that? It’s only a bedbug, Sassenach. Nothing to—”
He was interrupted by my abrupt exit. At the word “bedbug,” I had shot out from under the covers, and stood pressed against the wall, as far away as possible from the teeming nest of vermin I now envisioned as our bed.
Jamie eyed me appreciatively.
“Fretful porpentine, was it?” he asked. He tilted his head, examining me inquisitively. “Mmm,” he said, running a hand over his head to smooth down his own hair. “Fretful, at least. You’re a fuzzy wee thing when ye wake, to be sure.” He rolled over toward me, reaching out a hand.
“Come here, my wee milkweed. We’ll not leave before sunset. If we’re not going to sleep …”
In the end, we did sleep a bit more, peacefully entangled on the floor, atop a hard but bugless bed composed of my cloak and Jamie’s kilt.
It was a good thing that we had slept while we had the chance. Anxious to reach Castle Leoch before the Duke of Sandringham, Dougal kept to a fast pace and a grueling schedule. Traveling without the wagons, we made much better time, despite bad roads. Dougal pushed us, though, stopping only for the briefest of rests.
By the time we rode once more through the gates of Leoch, we were nearly as bedraggled as the first time we had arrived there, and certainly as tired.
I slid off my horse in the courtyard, then had to catch the stirrup to keep from falling. Jamie caught my elbow, then realizing that I couldn’t stand, swung me up into his arms. He carried me through the archway, leaving the horses to the grooms and stableboys.
“Are ye hungry, Sassenach?” he asked, pausing in the corridor. The kitchens lay in one direction, the stairs to the bedchambers in the other. I groaned, struggling to keep my eyes open. I was hungry, but knew I would end up facedown in the soup if I tried to eat before sleeping.
There was a stir to one side and I groggily opened my eyes to see the massive form of Mrs. FitzGibbons, looming disbelievingly alongside.
“Why, what’s the matter wi’ the poor child?” she demanded of Jamie. “Has she had an accident o’ some sort?”
“No, it’s only she’s married me,” he said, “though if ye care to call it an accident, ye may.” He moved to one side, to push through what proved to be an increasing throng of kitchen-maids, grooms, cooks, gardeners, men-at-arms, and assorted castle inhabitants, all inquisitively drawn to the scene by Mrs. Fitz’s loud questions.
Making up his mind, Jamie pressed to the right, toward the stairs, making disjointed explanations to the hail of questions from every side. Blinking owlishly against his chest, I could do no more than nod to the surrounding welcomers, though most of the faces seemed friendly as well as curious.
As we came around a corner of the hallway, I saw one face that seemed a good deal friendlier than the rest. It was the girl Laoghaire, face shining and radiant as she heard Jamie’s voice. Her eyes grew wide and the rosebud mouth dropped unbecomingly open, though, as she saw what he carried.
There was no time for her to ask questions, though, before the stir and bustle around us halted abruptly. Jamie stopped too. Raising my head, I saw Colum, whose startled face was now on a level with mine.
“What—” he began.
“They’re married,” said Mrs. Fitz, beaming. “How sweet! You can give them your blessing, sir, while I get a room ready.” She turned and made off for the stairs, leaving a substantial gap in the crowd, through which I could see the now pasty-white face of the girl Laoghaire.
Colum and Jamie were both talking together, questions and explanations colliding in midair. I was beginning to wake up, though it would have been overstating matters to say I was entirely myself.
“Well,” Colum was saying, not altogether approvingly, “if you’re married, you’re married. I’ll have to talk to Dougal and Ned Gowan—there’ll be legal matters to attend to. There are a few things you’re entitled to when ye wed, by the terms of your mother’s dower contract.”
I felt Jamie straighten slightly.
“Since ye mention it,” he said casually, “I believe that’s true. And one of the things I’m entitled to is a share of the quarterly rents from the MacKenzie lands. Dougal’s brought back what he’d collected so far; perhaps you’ll tell him to leave aside my share when he does the reckoning? Now, if ye’ll excuse me, Uncle, my wife is tired.” And hoisting me into a more solid position, he turned to the stairs.
I staggered across the room, still wobbly-legged, and collapsed gratefully on the huge tester bed our newly married status apparently entitled us to. It was soft, inviting, and—thanks to the ever-vigilant Mrs. Fitz—clean. I wondered whether it was worth the effort to get up and wash my face before succumbing to the urge to sleep.
I had just about decided that I might get up for Gabriel’s Trump, but not much else, when I saw that Jamie, who had not only washed face and hands but combed his hair to boot, was headed toward the door.
“Aren’t you going to sleep?” I called. I thought he must be at least as tired as I, if less saddle sore.
“In a bit, Sassenach. I’ve a small errand to do, first.” He went out, leaving me staring at the oaken door with a very unpleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach. I was remembering the look of gay anticipation on Laoghaire’s face as she came around the corner, hearing Jamie’s voice, and the look of angry shock that replaced it when she saw me cradled in his arms. I remembered the momentary tightening of his joints as he saw her, and wished most fervently that I had been able to see his face at that moment. I thought it likely he had gone now, unrested but washed and combed, to find the girl and break the news of his marriage. Had I seen his face, I would at least have some idea what he meant to say to her.
Absorbed in the events of the last month, I had forgotten the girl entirely—and what she might mean to Jamie, or he to her. Granted, I had thought of her when the question of our abrupt marriage first occurred, and Jamie then had given no sign that she constituted an impediment so far as he was concerned.
But, of course, if her father would not allow her to marry an outlaw—and if Jamie needed a wife, in order to collect his share of the MacKenzie rents … well, one wife would do as well as another, in that case, and doubtless he would take what he could get. I thought I knew Jamie well enough now to see that practicality with him went deep—as it must, with a man who had spent the last few years of his life on the run. He would not, I thought, be swayed in his decisions by sentiment or the attraction of rose-leaf cheeks and hair like liquid gold. But that didn’t mean that neither sentiment nor attraction existed.
There was, after all, the little scene I had witnessed in the alcove, Jamie holding the girl on his knee and kissing her ardently (I’ve held women in my arms before, his voice came back to me, and they’ve made my heart pound and my breath come short…). I found that my hands were clenched, making bunched ridges in the green and yellow quilt. I released it and wiped my hands over my skirt, realizing in the process just how filthy they were, grimed with the dirt of two days of holding reins, with no respite in between for washing.
I rose and went to the basin, forgetting my tiredness. I found, a bit to my surprise, that I strongly disliked the memory of Jamie kissing Laoghaire. I remembered what he had said about that, too—’Tis better to marry than burn, and I was burning badly then. I burned a bit myself, flushing strongly as I remembered the effect of Jamie’s kisses on my own lips. Burning, indeed.
I splashed water on my face, spluttering, trying to dissipate the feeling. I had no claim on Jamie’s affections, I reminded myself firmly. I had married him from necessity. And he had married me for his own reasons, one of them being the frankly stated desire to alter his virginal state.
Another reason apparently being that he needed a wife in order to collect his income, and could not induce a girl of his own kind to marry him. A reason much less flattering than the first, if no more lofty.
Quite awake by now, I slowly changed from my stained traveling garments into a fresh shift, provided, as was the basin and ewer, by Mrs. Fitz’s minions. How she had managed to make accommodation for two newlyweds in the time between Jamie’s abrupt announcement to Colum and the time we had mounted the stairs was one of the mysteries of the ages. Mrs. Fitz, I reflected, would have done quite well in charge of the Waldorf-Astoria or the London Ritz.
Such reflections made me suddenly more lonely for my own world than I had been in many days. What am I doing here? I asked myself for the thousandth time. Here, in this strange place, unreachable distances from everything familiar, from home and husband and friends, adrift and alone among what amounted to savages? I had begun to feel safe and even intermittently happy during the last weeks with Jamie. But now I realized that the happiness was likely an illusion, even if the safety was not.
I had no doubt that he would abide by what he conceived to be his responsibilities, and continue to protect me from any harm that threatened. But here, returned from the dreamlike isolation of our days among the wild hills and dusty roads, the filthy inns and fragrant haystacks, he must surely feel the pull of his old associations, as I felt mine. We had grown very close in the month of our marriage, but I had felt that closeness crack under the strains of the last few days, and thought it might now shatter completely, back among the practical realities of life at Castle Leoch.
I leaned my head against the stone of the window casement, looking out across the courtyard. Alec McMahon and two of his stable lads were visible at the far side, rubbing down the horses we had ridden in. The beasts, fed and watered adequately for the first time in two days, exuded contentment as willing hands curried the glossy sides and cleansed the dirt from hock and fetlock with twists of straw. A stableboy led away my fat little Thistle, who followed him happily toward the well-earned rest of her stable.
And with her, I thought, went my hopes of any imminent escape and return to my own place. Oh, Frank. I closed my eyes, letting a tear slide down the side of my nose. I opened my eyes wide on the courtyard then, blinked and shut them tight, trying frantically to recall Frank’s features. Just for a moment, when I closed my eyes, I had seen not my beloved husband, but his ancestor, Jack Randall, full lips curved in a mocking smile. And shying mentally from that image, my mind had summoned at once a picture of Jamie, face set in fear and anger, as I had seen him in the window of Randall’s private office. Try as I might, I could not bring back Frank’s remembered image with any certainty.
I felt suddenly quite cold with panic, and clasped my hands about my elbows. And what if I had succeeded in escaping and finding my way back to the circle of stone? I thought. What then? Jamie would, I hoped, soon find solace—with Laoghaire, perhaps. I had worried before about his reaction to finding me gone. But aside from that hasty moment of regret on the edge of the burn, it had not before occurred to me to wonder how I would feel to part with him.
I fiddled idly with the ribbon drawstring that gathered the neck of my shift, tying and untying it. If I meant to leave, as I did, I was doing neither of us a favor by allowing the bond between us to strengthen any further. I should not allow him to fall in love with me.
If he meant to do any such thing, I thought, remembering once more Laoghaire and the conversation with Colum. If he had married me so coldbloodedly as it seemed, perhaps his emotions were safer than mine.
Between fatigue, hunger, disappointment, and uncertainty, I had by this time succeeded in reducing myself to such a state of confused misery that I could neither sleep or sit still. Instead, I roamed unhappily about the room, picking up objects and putting them down at random.
The draft from the opening door upset the delicate equilibrium of the comb I had been balancing on its end, heralding Jamie’s return. He looked faintly flushed and oddly excited.
“Oh, you’re awake,” he said, obviously surprised and disconcerted to find me so.
“Yes,” I said unkindly, “were you hoping I’d be asleep so you could go back to her?”
His brows drew together for a moment, then raised in inquiry. “Her? To Laoghaire, ye mean?”
Hearing her name spoken in that casual Highland lilt—“L’heer”—suddenly made me irrationally angry.
“Oh, so you have been with her!” I snapped.
Jamie looked puzzled and wary, and slightly annoyed. “Aye,” he said. “I met her by the stair as I went out. Are ye well, Sassenach? Ye look a bit fashed, all in all.” He eyed me appraisingly. I picked up the looking glass, and found that my hair was standing out in a bushy mane round my head and there were dark circles under my eyes. I put it down again with a thump.
“No, I’m perfectly all right,” I said, with an effort at controlling myself. “And how is Laoghaire?” I asked, assuming casualness.
“Oh, quite bonny,” he said. He leaned back against the door, arms crossed, watching me speculatively. “A bit surprised to hear we were married, I reckon.”
“Bonny,” I said, and took a deep breath. I looked up to find him grinning at me.
“You’d not worrit yourself over the lassie, would ye now, Sassenach?” he asked shrewdly. “She’s naught to you—or me,” he added.
“Oh, no? She wouldn’t—or couldn’t—marry you. You had to have someone, so you took me when the chance offered. I don’t blame you for that”—not much I didn’t—“but I—”
He crossed the room in two steps and took me by the hands, interrupting me. He put a finger under my chin and forced my gaze up.
“Claire,” he said evenly, “I shall tell ye in my own time why I’ve wed ye—or I won’t. I asked honesty of you, and I’ve given ye the same. And I give it to you now. The girl has no claim on me beyond that of courtesy.” He squeezed my chin lightly. “But that claim she has, and I’ll honor it.” He released my chin and chucked me softly under it. “D’ye hear me, Sassenach?”
“Oh, I hear!” I jerked free, rubbing my chin resentfully. “And I’m sure you’ll be very courteous to her. But next time draw the drapes of the alcove—I don’t want to see it.”
The coppery brows shot up, and his face reddened slightly.
“Are ye suggesting I’ve played ye false?” he said, unbelievingly. “We’ve been back to the Castle less than an hour, I’m covered wi’ the sweat and dust of two days in the saddle, and so tired my knees wabble, and yet ye think I’ve gone straight out to seduce a maid of sixteen?” He shook his head, looking stunned. “I canna tell whether ye mean to compliment my virility, Sassenach, or insult my morals, but I dinna care much for either suggestion. Murtagh told me women were unreasonable, but Jesus God!” He ran a large hand through his hair, making the short ends stick up wildly.
“Of course I don’t mean I think you’ve been seducing her,” I said, struggling to inject an air of calmness into my tone. “All I mean …” It occurred to me that Frank had handled this kind of thing much more gracefully than I was managing to do, and yet I had been angry then too. Likely there was no good way to suggest such a possibility to one’s mate.
“I simply mean that … that I realize that you married me for your own reasons—and those reasons are your own business,” I added hastily, “and that I have no claim at all on you. You’re at perfect liberty to behave as you wish. If you … if there’s an attraction elsewhere … I mean … I won’t stand in your way,” I finished lamely. The blood was hot in my cheeks and I could feel my ears burning.
Looking up, I found that Jamie’s ears were burning as well, visibly, and so was the rest of him from the neck up. Even his eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, seemed to be flaming slightly.
“No claim on me!” he exclaimed. “And what d’ye think a wedding vow is, lassie? Just words in a church?” He brought one big fist down on the chest with a crash that shook the porcelain ewer. “No claim,” he muttered, as though to himself. “At liberty to behave as I wish. And you’ll not stand in my way?!”
He bent to pull off his boots, then picked them up and threw them, one after the other, as hard as he could at the wall. I winced as each one thudded off the stones and bounced to the floor. He yanked off his plaid and tossed it heedlessly behind him. Then he started toward me, glaring.
“So you’ve no claim on me, Sassenach? You’ll free me to take my pleasure where I like, is that it? Well, is it?” he demanded.
“Er, well, yes,” I said, taking a step backward despite myself. “That’s what I meant.” He grabbed my arms, and I found the combustion had spread to his hands as well. His callused palms were so hot on my skin that I jerked involuntarily.
“Well, if you’ve no claim on me, Sassenach,” he said, “I’ve one on you! Come here.” He took my face in his hands and set his mouth on mine. There was nothing either gentle or undemanding about that kiss, and I fought against it, trying to pull back from him.
He bent and scooped me up with an arm under my knees, ignoring my attempts to get down. I hadn’t realized just how bloody strong he really was.
“Let go of me!” I said. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Well, I should ha’ thought that was reasonably clear, Sassenach,” he said through his teeth. He lowered his head, the clear gaze piercing me like a hot iron. “Though if ye want telling,” he said, “I mean to take ye to bed. Now. And keep ye there until you’ve learned just what claim I have on you.” And he kissed me again, deliberately hard, cutting off my protest.
“I don’t want to sleep with you!” I said, when at last he freed my mouth.
“I dinna intend to sleep, Sassenach,” he replied evenly. “Not just yet.” He reached the bed and set me carefully on the rose-patterned quilt.
“You know bloody well what I mean!” I rolled, meaning to escape from the other side, but was stopped by a solid grip on my shoulder that flipped me back to face him. “I don’t want to make love with you, either!”
Blue eyes blazed down at me from close range, and my breath came thick in my throat.
“I didna ask your preferences in the matter, Sassenach,” he answered, voice dangerously low. “You are my wife, as I’ve told ye often enough. If ye didna wish to wed me, still ye chose to. And if ye didna happen to notice at the time, your part of the proceedings included the word ‘obey.’ You’re my wife, and if I want ye, woman, then I’ll have you, and be damned to ye!” His voice rose throughout, until he was near shouting.
I rose to my knees, fists balled at my sides, and shouted back at him. The contained misery of the last hour had reached explosion point and I let him have it, point-blank.
“I will be damned if I’ll have you, you bullying swine! You think you can order me to your bed? Use me like a whore when you feel like it? Well, you can’t you fucking bastard! Do that, and you’re no better than your precious Captain Randall!”
He glared at me for a moment, then stood abruptly aside. “Leave, then,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “If that’s what ye think of me, go! I’ll not hinder ye.”
I hesitated for a moment, watching him. His jaw was clenched with anger and he was looming over me like the Colossus of Rhodes. His temper this time was under tight rein, though he was as angry now as he had been by the roadside near Doonesbury. But he meant it. If I chose to leave, he wouldn’t stop me.
I lifted my chin, my own jaw clenched as tightly as his. “No,” I said. “No. I don’t run away from things. And I’m not afraid of you.”
His gaze fastened on my throat, where my pulse was going at a frantic rate.
“Aye, I see,” he said. He stared down at me, and his face gradually relaxed into a look of grudging acquiescence. He sat down gingerly on the bed, keeping a good distance between us, and I sat back warily. He breathed deeply several times before speaking, his face fading a bit toward its natural ruddy bronze.
“I don’t run either, Sassenach,” he said gruffly. “Now, then. What does ‘fucking’ mean?”
My surprise must have shown plainly, for he said irritably, “If ye must call me names, that’s one thing. But I dinna care to be called things I can’t answer. I know it’s a damn filthy word, from the way ye said it, but what does it mean?”
Taken off guard, I laughed, a little shakily. “It … it means … what you were about to do to me.”
One brow lifted, and he looked sourly amused. “Oh, swiving? Then I was right; it is a damn filthy word. And what’s a sadist? Ye called me that the other day.”
I suppressed the urge to laugh. “It’s, er, it’s a person who … who, er, gets sexual pleasure from hurting someone.” My face was crimsoning, but I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from turning up slightly.
Jamie snorted briefly. “Well, ye dinna flatter me overmuch,” he said, “but I canna fault your observations.” He took a deep breath and leaned back, unclenching his hands. He stretched his fingers deliberately, then laid his hands flat on his knees and looked directly at me.
“What is it, then? Why are ye doing this? The girl? I’ve told ye the plain truth there. But it’s not a matter for proof. It’s a question of whether ye believe me or no. Do ye believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you,” I admitted grudgingly. “But that’s not it. Or not all of it,” I added, in an attempt at honesty. “It’s … I think it’s finding that you married me for the money you’d get.” I looked down, tracing the pattern of the quilt with my finger. “I know I’ve no right to complain—I married you for selfish reasons, too, but”—I bit my lip and swallowed to steady my voice—“but I have a small bit of pride, too, you know.”
I stole a glance at him, and found him staring at me with an expression of complete dumbfoundedness.
“Money?” he said blankly.
“Yes, money!” I blazed, angered at his pretense of ignorance. “When we came back, you couldn’t wait to tell Colum you were married and collect your share of the MacKenzie rents!”
He stared at me for a moment longer, mouth opening gradually as though to say something. Instead, he began to shake his head slowly back and forth, and then began to laugh. He threw his head back and roared, in fact, then sank his head between his hands, still laughing hysterically. I flung myself back on the pillows in indignation. Funny, was it?
Still shaking his head and wheezing intermittently, he stood up and set hands to the buckle of his belt. I flinched involuntarily as he did so, and he saw it.
Face still flushed with a mixture of anger and laughter, he looked down at me in total exasperation. “No,” he said dryly, “I dinna mean to beat you. I gave ye my word I’d not do so again—though I didna think I’d regret it quite so soon.” He laid the belt aside, groping in the sporran attached to it.
“My share of the MacKenzie rents comes to about twenty pounds a quarter, Sassenach,” he said, digging through the oddments inside the badgerskin. “And that’s Scots, not sterling. About the price of half a cow.”
“That’s … that’s all?” I said stupidly. “But—”
“That’s all,” he confirmed. “And all I ever will have from the MacKenzies. Ye’ll have noticed Dougal’s a thrifty man, and Colum’s twice as tight-fisted wi’ his coin. But even the princely sum of twenty pound a quarter is hardly worth marrying to get, I should think,” he added sarcastically, eyeing me.
“I wouldna have asked for it straight away, at that,” he added, bringing out a small paper-wrapped parcel, “but there was something I wanted to buy with it. That’s where my errand took me; meeting Laoghaire was an accident.”
“And what did you want to buy so much?” I asked suspiciously.
He sighed and hesitated for a moment, then tossed the small package lightly into my lap.
“A wedding ring, Sassenach,” he said. “I got it from Ewen the armorer; he makes such things in his own time.”
“Oh,” I said in a small voice.
“Go ahead,” he said, a moment later. “Open it. It’s yours.”
The outlines of the little package blurred under my fingers. I blinked and sniffed, but made no move to open it. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Well, so ye should be, Sassenach,” he said, but his voice was no longer angry. Reaching, he took the package from my lap and tore away the wrapping, revealing a wide silver band, decorated in the Highland interlace style, a small and delicate Jacobean thistle bloom carved in the center of each link.
So much I saw, and then my eyes blurred again.
I found a handkerchief thrust into my hand, and did my best to stanch the flow with it. “It’s … beautiful,” I said, clearing my throat and dabbling at my eyes.
“Will ye wear it, Claire?” His voice was gentle now, and his use of my name, mostly reserved for occasions of formality or tenderness, nearly made me break down again.
“You needna do so,” he said, looking at me seriously over his cupped palm. “The marriage contract between us is satisfied—it’s legal. You’re protected, safe from anything much save a warrant, and even from that, so long as you’re at Leoch. If ye wish, we may live apart—if that’s what ye were trying to say wi’ all yon rubbish about Laoghaire. You need have little more to do wi’ me, if that’s your honest choice.” He sat motionless, waiting, holding the tiny circlet near his heart.
So he was giving me the choice I had started out to give him. Forced on me by circumstance, he would force himself on me no longer, if I chose to reject him. And there was the alternative, of course: to accept the ring, and all that went with it.
The sun was setting. The last rays of light shone through a blue glass flagon that stood on the table, streaking the wall with a shaft of brilliant lapis. I felt as fragile and as brilliant as the glass, as though I would shatter with a touch, and fall in glittering fragments to the floor. If I had meant to spare either Jamie’s emotions or my own, it seemed I was very much too late.
I couldn’t speak, but held out my right hand to him, fingers trembling. The ring slipped cool and bright over my knuckle and rested snug at the base of my finger—a good fit. Jamie held my hand a moment, looking at it, then suddenly pressed my knuckles hard against his mouth. He raised his head, and I saw his face for an instant, fierce and urgent, before he pulled me roughly onto his lap.
He held me hard against him then, without speaking, and I could feel the pulsebeat in his throat, hammering like my own. His hands went to my bare shoulders, and he held me slightly away, so that I was looking upward into his face. His hands were large and very warm, and I felt slightly dizzy.
“I want ye, Claire,” he said, sounding choked. He paused a moment, as though unsure what to say next. “I want ye so much—I can scarcely breathe. Will—” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Will ye have me?”
By now I had found my voice. It squeaked and wobbled, but it worked.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’ll have you.”
“I think …” he began, then stopped. He fumbled loose the buckle of his kilt, but then looked up at me, bunching his hands at his sides. He spoke with difficulty, controlling something so powerful that his hands shook with the effort. “I’ll not … I can’t … Claire, I canna be gentle about it.”
I had time only to nod once, in acknowledgment or permission, before he bore me back before him, his weight pinning me to the bed.
He did not pause to undress further. I could smell the road dust in his shirt, and taste the sun and sweat of travel on his skin. He held me, arms outstretched, wrists pinioned. One hand brushed the wall, and I felt the tiny scrape of one wedding ring chiming against the stone. One ring for each hand, one silver, one gold. And the thin metal suddenly heavy as the bonds of matrimony, as though the rings were tiny shackles, fastening me spread-eagled to the bed, stretched forever between two poles, held in bondage like Prometheus on his lonely rock, divided love the vulture that tore at my heart.
He spread my thighs with his knee and sheathed himself to the root in a single thrust that made me gasp. He made a sound that was almost a groan, and gripped me tighter.
“You’re mine, mo duinne,” he said softly, pressing himself into my depths. “Mine alone, now and forever. Mine, whether ye will it or no.” I pulled against his grip, and sucked in my breath with a faint “ah” as he pressed even deeper.
“Aye, I mean to use ye hard, my Sassenach,” he whispered. “I want to own you, to possess you, body and soul.” I struggled slightly and he pressed me down, hammering me, a solid, inexorable pounding that reached my womb with each stroke. “I mean to make ye call me ‘Master,’ Sassenach.” His soft voice was a threat of revenge for the agonies of the last minutes. “I mean to make you mine.”
I quivered and moaned then, my flesh clutching in spasms at the invading, battering presence. The movement went on, disregarding, on and on for minutes, striking me over and over with an impact on the edge between pleasure and pain. I felt dissolved, as though I existed only at the point of the assault, being forced to the edge of some total surrender.
“No!” I gasped. “Stop, please, you’re hurting me!” Beads of sweat ran down his face and dropped on the pillow and on my breasts. Our flesh met now with the smack of a blow that was fast crossing the edge into pain. My thighs were bruising with the repeated impact, and my wrists felt as though they would break, but his grip was inexorable.
“Aye, beg me for mercy, Sassenach. Ye shallna have it, though; not yet.” His breath came hot and fast, but he showed no signs of tiring. My entire body convulsed, legs rising to wrap around him, seeking to contain the sensation.
I could feel the jolt of each stroke deep in my belly, and cringed from it, even as my hips rose traitorously to welcome it. He felt my response, and redoubled his assault, pressing now on my shoulders to keep me pinned under him.
There was no beginning and no end to my response, only a continuous shudder that rose to a peak with each thrust. The hammering was a question, repeated over and over in my flesh, demanding my answer. He pushed my legs flat again, and bore me down past pain and into pure sensation, over the edge of surrender.
“Yes!” I cried. “Oh God, Jamie, yes!” He gripped my hair and forced my head back to meet his eyes, glowing with furious triumph.
“Aye, Sassenach,” he muttered, answering my movements rather than my words. “Ride ye I will!” His hands dropped to my breasts, squeezing and stroking, then slid down my sides. His whole weight rested on me now as he cupped and raised me for still greater penetration. I screamed then and he stopped my mouth with his, not a kiss, but another attack, forcing my mouth open, bruising my lips and rasping my face with bearded stubble. He thrust harder and faster, as though he would force my soul as he forced my body. In body or soul, somewhere he struck a spark, and an answering fury of passion and need sprang from the ashes of surrender. I arched upward to meet him, blow for blow. I bit his lip and tasted blood.
I felt his teeth then on my neck and dug my nails into his back. I raked him from nape to buttocks, spurring him to rear and scream in his turn. We savaged each other in desperate need, biting and clawing, trying to draw blood, trying each to pull the other into ourselves, tearing each other’s flesh in the consuming desire to be one. My cry mingled with his, and we lost ourselves finally in each other in that last moment of dissolution and completion.
I returned only slowly to myself, lying half on Jamie’s breast, sweated bodies still glued together, thigh to thigh. He breathed heavily, eyes closed. I could hear his heart under my ear, beating with the preternaturally slow and powerful rhythm that follows climax.
He felt me wake, and drew me close, as though to preserve a moment longer the union we had reached in those last seconds of our perilous joining. I curled beside him, putting my arms around him.
He opened his eyes then and sighed, the long mouth curling in a faint smile as his glance met mine. I raised my brows in silent question.
“Oh, aye, Sassenach,” he answered a bit ruefully. “I am your master … and you’re mine. Seems I canna possess your soul without losing my own.” He turned me on my side and curled his body around me. The room was cooling in the evening breeze from the window, and he reached to draw a quilt over us. You’re too quick by half, lad, I thought drowsily to myself. Frank never did find that out. I fell asleep with his arms locked hard around me and his breathing warm in my ear.
I was lame and sore in every muscle when I woke next morning. I shuffled to the privy closet, then to the wash basin. My innards felt like churned butter. It felt as though I had been beaten with a blunt object, I reflected, then thought that that was very near the truth. The blunt object in question was visible as I came back to bed, looking now relatively harmless. Its possessor woke as I sat down next to him, and examined me with something that looked very much like male smugness.
“Looks as though it was a hard ride, Sassenach,” he said, lightly touching a blue bruise on my inner thigh. “A bit saddle-sore, are ye?”
I narrowed my eyes and traced a deep bite-mark on his shoulder with my finger.
“You look a bit ragged around the edges yourself, my lad.”
“Ah, weel,” he said in broad Scots, “if ye bed wi’ a vixen, ye must expect to get bit.” He reached up and grasped me behind the neck, pulling me down to him. “Come here to me, vixen. Bite me some more.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I said, pulling back. “I can’t possibly; I’m too sore.”
James Fraser was not a man to take no for an answer.
“I’ll be verra gentle,” he wheedled, dragging me inexorably under the quilt. And he was gentle, as only big men can be, cradling me like a quail’s egg, paying me court with a humble patience that I recognized as reparation—and a gentle insistence that I knew was a continuation of the lesson so brutally begun the night before. Gentle he would be, denied he would not.
He shook in my arms at his own finish, shuddering with the effort not to move, not to hurt me by thrusting, letting the moment shatter him as it would.
Afterward, still joined, he traced the fading bruises his fingers had left on my shoulders by the roadside two days before.
“I’m sorry for those, mo duinne,” he said, gently kissing each one. “I was in a rare temper when I did it, but it’s no excuse. It’s shameful to hurt a woman, in a rage or no. I’ll not do it again.”
I laughed a bit ironically. “You’re apologizing for those? What about the rest? I’m a mass of bruises, from head to toe!”
“Och?” He drew back to look me over judiciously. “Well now, these I’ve apologized for,” touching my shoulder, “those,” slapping my rear lightly, “ye deserved, and I’ll not say I’m sorry for it, because I’m not.”
“As for these,” he said, stroking my thigh, “I’ll not apologize for that, either. Ye paid me full measure already.” He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. “Ye drew blood in at least two places, Sassenach, and my back stings like holy hell.”
“Well, bed with a vixen …” I said, grinning. “You won’t get an apology for that.” He laughed in response and pulled me on top of him.
“I didna say I wanted an apology, did I? If I recall aright, what I said was ‘Bite me again.’ ”