He glanced down and rubbed the mark meditatively.
“Mm, no. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t. That lady seemed preoccupied wi’ rather lower numbers. I think she meant to settle for the six, and the nine could go hang.”
“Jamie,” I said, tapping my foot in a marked manner, “where have you been all night?”
He scooped up a handful of water from the basin and splashed it over his face, letting the rivulets run down among the dark red hairs on his chest.
“Mm,” he said, blinking drops from his thick lashes, “well, let me see. First there was supper at a tavern. We met Glengarry and Millefleurs there.” Monsieur Millefleurs was a Parisian banker, while Glengarry was one of the younger Jacobites, chief of one sept of the MacDonell clan. A visitor in Paris, rather than a resident, he had been much in Charles’s company lately, by Jamie’s report. “And after supper, we went to the Duc di Castellotti’s, for cards.”
“And then?” I asked.
A tavern, apparently. And then another tavern. And then an establishment which appeared to share some of the characteristics of a tavern, but was embellished by the addition of several ladies of interesting appearance and even more interesting talents.
“Talents, eh?” I said, with a glance at the marks on his leg.
“God, they did it in public,” he said, with a reminiscent shudder. “Two of them, on the table. Right between the saddle of mutton and the boiled potatoes. With the quince jelly.”
“Mon dieu,” said the newly returned maid, setting down the fresh bathcan long enough to cross herself.
“You be quiet,” I said, scowling at her. I turned my attention back to my husband. “And then what?”
Then, apparently, the action had become somewhat more general, though still accomplished in fairly public fashion. With due regard to Marguerite’s sensibilities, Jamie waited until she had left for another round of water before elaborating further.
“… and then Castellotti took the fat one with red hair and the small blond one off to a corner, and—”
“And what were you doing all this time?” I broke in on the fascinating recitative.
“Watching,” he said, as though surprised. “It didna seem decent, but there wasna much choice about it, under the circumstances.”
I had been groping in his sporran as he talked, and now fished out not only a small purse, but a wide metal ring, embellished with a coat of arms. I tried it curiously on a finger; it was much larger than any normal ring, and hung like a quoit on a stick.
“Whoever does this belong to?” I asked, holding it out. “It looks like the Duc di Castellotti’s coat of arms, but whoever it belongs to must have fingers like sausages.” Castellotti was an etiolated Italian stringbean, with the pinched face of a man with chronic dyspepsia—no wonder, judging from Jamie’s story. Quince jelly, forsooth!
I glanced up to find Jamie blushing from navel to hairline.
“Er,” he said, taking an exaggerated interest in a mud stain on one knee, “it … doesna go on a man’s finger.”
“Then what … oh.” I looked at the circular object with renewed interest. “Goodness. I’ve heard of them before …”
“You have?” said Jamie, thoroughly scandalized.
“But I’ve never seen one. Does it fit you?” I reached out to try it. He clasped his hands reflexively over his private parts.
Marguerite, arriving with more water, assured him, “Ne vous en faîtes pas, Monsieur. J’en ai déjà vu un.” Don’t worry yourself, monsieur; I’ve already seen one.
Dividing a glare between me and the maid, he pulled a quilt across his lap.
“Bad enough to spend all night defending my virtue,” he remarked with some asperity, “without havin’ it subjected to comment in the morning.”
“Defending your virtue, hm?” I tossed the ring idly from hand to hand, catching it on opposing index fingers. “A gift, was it?” I asked, “or a loan?”
“A gift. Don’t do that, Sassenach,” he said, wincing. “It brings back memories.”
“Ah yes,” I said, eying him. “Now about those memories …”
“Not me!” he protested. “Surely ye dinna think I’d do such things? I’m a married man!”
“Monsieur Millefleurs isn’t married?”
“He’s not only married, he has two mistresses,” Jamie said. “But he’s French—that’s different.”
“The Duc di Castellotti isn’t French—he’s Italian.”
“But he’s a duke. That’s different, too.”
“Oh, it is, is it? I wonder if the Duchess thinks so.”
“Considering a few things the Duc claimed he learnt from the Duchess, I would imagine so. Isn’t that bath ready yet?”
Clutching the quilt about him, he lumbered from the bed to the steaming tub and stepped in. He dropped the quilt and lowered himself quickly, but not quite quickly enough.
“Enorme!” said the maid, crossing herself.
“C’est tout,” I said repressively. “Merci bien.” She dropped her eyes, blushed, and scuttled out.
As the door closed behind the maid, Jamie relaxed into the tub, high at the back to allow for lounging; the feeling of the times seemed to be that once having gone to the trouble of filling a bath, one might as well enjoy it. His stubbled face assumed an expression of bliss as he sank gradually lower into the steaming water, a flush of heat reddening his fair skin. His eyes were closed, and a faint mist of moisture gleamed across the high, broad cheekbones and shone in the hollows beneath his eyesockets.
“Soap?” he asked hopefully, opening his eyes.
“Yes, indeed.” I fetched a cake and handed it to him, then sat down on a stool alongside the bath. I watched for some time as he scrubbed industriously, fetching him a cloth and a pumice stone, with which he painstakingly rasped the soles of his feet and his elbows.
“Jamie,” I said at last.
“Aye?”
“I don’t mean to quarrel with your methods,” I said, “and we agreed that you might have to go to some lengths, but … did you really have to …”
“To what, Sassenach?” He had stopped washing and was watching me intently, head on one side.
“To … to …” To my annoyance, I was flushing as deeply as he was, but without the excuse of hot water.
A large hand rose dripping out of the water and rested on my arm. The wet heat burned through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
“Sassenach,” he said, “what do ye think I’ve been doing?”
“Er, well,” I said, trying and failing to keep my eyes away from the marks on his thigh. He laughed, though he didn’t sound truly amused.
“O ye of little faith!” he said sardonically.
I withdrew beyond his reach.
“Well,” I said, “when one’s husband comes home covered with bites and scratches and reeking with perfume, admits he’s spent the night in a bawdy house, and …”
“And tells ye flat-out he’s spent the night watching, not doing?”
“You didn’t get those marks on your leg from watching!” I snapped suddenly, then clamped my lips together. I felt like a jealous biddy, and I didn’t care for it. I had vowed to take it all calmly, like a woman of the world, telling myself that I had complete faith in Jamie and—just in case—that you can’t make omelets without breaking eggs. Even if something had happened …
I smoothed the wet spot on my sleeve, feeling the air chill through the cooling silk. I struggled to regain my former light tone.
“Or are those the scars of honorable combat, gained in defending your virtue?” Somehow the light tone didn’t quite come off. Listening to myself, I had to admit that the overall tone was really quite nasty. I was rapidly ceasing to care.
No slouch at reading tones of voice, Jamie narrowed his eyes at me and seemed about to reply. He drew in his breath, then apparently thought better of whatever he had been going to say and let it out again.
“Yes,” he said calmly. He fished about in the tub b
etween his legs, coming up at length with the cake of soap, a roughly shaped ball of white slickness. He held it out on his palm.
“Will ye help me to wash my hair? His Highness vomited on me in the coach coming home, and I reek a bit, all things considered.”
I hesitated a moment, but accepted the olive branch, temporarily at least.
I could feel the solid curve of his skull under the thick, soapy hair, and the welt of the healed scar across the back of his head. I dug my thumbs firmly into his neck muscles, and he relaxed slightly under my hands.
The soap bubbles ran down across the wet, gleaming curves of his shoulders, and my hands followed them, spreading the slickness so that my fingers seemed to float on the surface of his skin.
He was big, I thought. Near him so much, I tended to forget his size, until I saw him suddenly from a distance, towering among smaller men, and I would be struck anew by his grace and the beauty of his body. But he sat now with his knees nearly underneath his chin, and his shoulders filled the tub from one side to the other. He leaned forward slightly to assist my ministrations, exposing the hideous scars on his back. The thick red welts of Jack Randall’s Christmas gift lay heavily over the thin white lines of the earlier floggings.
I touched the scars gently, my heart squeezed by the sight. I had seen those wounds when they were fresh, seen him driven to the edge of madness by torture and abuse. But I had healed him, and he had fought with all the power of a gallant heart to be whole once more, to come back to me. Moved by tenderness, I brushed the trailing ends of his hair aside, and bent to kiss the back of his neck.
I straightened abruptly. He felt my movement and turned his head slightly.
“What is it, Sassenach?” he asked, voice slow with drowsy contentment.
“Not a thing,” I said, staring at the dark-red blotches on the side of his neck. The nurses in the quarters at Pembroke used to conceal them with jaunty scarves tied about their necks the morning after their dates with soldiers from the nearby base. I always thought the scarves were really meant as a means of advertisement, rather than concealment.
“No, not a thing,” I said again, reaching for the ewer on the stand. Placed near the window, it was ice-cold to the touch. I stepped behind Jamie and upended it on his head.
I lifted the silk skirts of my nightdress to avoid the sudden wave that spilled over the side of the bath. He was sputtering from the cold, but too shocked yet to form any of the words I could see gathering force on his lips. I beat him to it.
“Just watched, did you?” I asked coldly. “I wouldn’t suppose you enjoyed it a bit, did you, poor thing?”
He thrust himself back in the tub with a violence that made the water slosh over the sides, splattering on the stone floor, and twisted around to look up at me.
“What d’ye want me to say?” he demanded. “Did I want to rut with them? Aye, I did! Enough to make my balls ache with not doing it. And enough to make me feel sick wi’ the thought of touching one of the sluts.”
He shoved the sopping mass of his hair out of his eyes, glaring at me.
“Is that what ye wanted to know? Are ye satisfied now?”
“Not really,” I said. My face was hot, and I pressed my cheek against the icy pane of the window, hands clenched on the sill.
“Who looks on a woman with lust in his heart hath committed adultery with her already. Is that how ye see it?”
“Is it how you see it?”
“No,” he said shortly. “I don’t. And what would ye do if I had lain wi’ a whore, Sassenach? Slap my face? Order me out of your chamber? Keep yourself from my bed?”
I turned and looked at him.
“I’d kill you,” I said through my teeth.
Both eyebrows shot up, and his mouth dropped slightly with incredulity.
“Kill me? God, if I found you wi’ another man, I’d kill him.” He paused, and one corner of his mouth quirked wryly.
“Mind ye,” he said, “I’d no be verra pleased wi’ you, either, but still, it’s him I’d kill.”
“Typical man,” I said. “Always missing the point.”
He snorted with a bitter humor.
“Am I, then? So you dinna believe me. Want me to prove it to ye, Sassenach, that I’ve lain wi’ no one in the last few hours?” He stood up, water cascading down the stretches of his long legs. The light from the window highlighted the reddish-gold hairs of his body and the steam rose off his flesh in wisps. He looked like a figure of freshly molten gold. I glanced briefly down.
“Ha,” I said, with the maximum of scorn it was possible to infuse into one syllable.
“Hot water,” he said briefly, stepping out of the tub. “Dinna worry yourself, it won’t take long.”
“That,” I said, with delicate precision, “is what you think.”
His face flushed still more deeply, and his hands curled involuntarily into fists.
“No reasoning wi’ you, is there?” he demanded. “God, I spend the night torn between disgust and agony, bein’ tormented by my companions for being unmanly, then come home to be tormented for being unchaste! Mallaichte bàs!”
Looking wildly about, he spotted his discarded clothing on the floor near the bed and lunged for it.
“Here, then!” he said, scrabbling for his belt. “Here! If lusting is adultery and you’ll kill me for adultery, then ye’d best do it, hadn’t ye!” He came up with his dirk, a ten-inch piece of dark steel, and thrust it at me, haft first. He squared his shoulders, presenting the broad expanse of his chest to me, and glared belligerently.
“Go ahead,” he insisted. “Ye dinna mean to be forsworn, I hope? Being so sensitive to your honor as a wife and all?”
It was a real temptation. My clenched hands quivered at my sides with the longing to take the dagger and plant it firmly between his ribs. Only the knowledge that, all his dramatizing aside, he certainly wouldn’t allow me to stab him, stopped me from trying. I felt sufficiently ridiculous, without humiliating myself further. I whirled away from him in a flurry of silk.
After a moment, I heard the clank of the dirk on the floorboards. I stood without moving, staring out of the window at the back courtyard below. I heard faint rustling sounds behind me, and glanced into the faint reflections of the window. My face showed in the windowpane as a smudged oval in a nimbus of sleep-snarled brown hair. Jamie’s naked figure moved dimly in the glass like someone seen underwater, searching for a towel.
“The towel is on the bottom shelf of the ewer-stand,” I said, turning around.
“Thank you.” He dropped the dirty shirt with which he had begun gingerly dabbing himself and reached for the towel, not looking at me.
He wiped his face, then seemed to make some decision. He lowered the towel and looked directly at me. I could see the emotions struggling for mastery on his face, and felt as though I were still looking into the mirror of the window. Sense triumphed in both of us at once.
“I’m sorry,” we said, in unison. And laughed.
The damp of his skin soaked through the thin silk, but I didn’t care.
Minutes later, he mumbled something into my hair.
“What?”
“Too close,” he repeated, moving back a bit. “It was too damn close, Sassenach, and it scared me.”
I glanced down at the dirk, lying forgotten on the floor.
“Scared? I’ve never seen anyone less scared in my life. You knew damned well I wouldn’t do it.”
“Oh, that.” He grinned. “No, I didna think you’d kill me, much as ye might like to.” He sobered quickly. “No, it was … well, those women. What I felt like with them. I didna want them, truly not …”
“Yes, I know,” I said, reaching for him, but he wasn’t stopping there. He held back from me, looking troubled.
“But the … the lusting, I suppose ye’d call it … that was … too close to what I feel sometimes for you, and it … well, it doesna seem right to me.”
He turned away, rubbing at his hair with the linen
towel, so his voice came half-muffled.
“I always thought it would be a simple matter to lie wi’ a woman,” he said softly. “And yet … I want to fall on my face at your feet and worship you”—he dropped the towel and reached out, taking me by the shoulders—“and still I want to force ye to your knees before me, and hold ye there wi’ my hands tangled in your hair, and your mouth at my service … and I want both things at the same time, Sassenach.” He ran his hands up under my hair and gripped my face between them, hard.
“I dinna understand myself at all, Sassenach! Or maybe I do.” He released me and turned away. His face had long since dried, but he picked up the fallen towel and wiped the skin of his jaw with it, over and over. The stubble made a faint rasping sound against the fine linen. His voice was still quiet, barely audible from a few feet away.
“Such things—the knowledge of them, I mean—it came to me soon after … after Wentworth.” Wentworth. Where he had given his soul to save my life, and suffered the tortures of the damned in retrieving it.
“I thought at the first that Jack Randall had stolen a bit of my soul, and then I knew it was worse than that. All of it was my own, and had been all along; it was only he’d shown it to me, and made me know it for myself. That’s what he did that I canna forgive, and may his own soul rot for it!”
He lowered the towel and looked at me, face worn with the strains of the night, but eyes bright with urgency.
“Claire. To feel the small bones of your neck beneath my hands, and that fine, thin skin on your breasts and your arms … Lord, you are my wife, whom I cherish and I love wi’ all my life, and still I want to kiss ye hard enough to bruise your tender lips, and see the marks of my fingers on your skin.”
He dropped the towel. He raised his hands and held them trembling in the air before his face, then very slowly brought them down to rest on my head as though in benediction.
“I want to hold you like a kitten in my shirt, mo duinne, and still I want to spread your thighs and plow ye like a rutting bull.” His fingers tightened in my hair. “I dinna understand myself!”
I pulled my head back, freeing myself, and took a half-step backward. The blood seemed all to be on the surface of my skin, and a chill ran down my body at the brief separation.
The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle Page 127
