An echo in the bone - Gabaldon Diana. Страница 167

I helped him to dress and brushed and plaited his hair for him. He had no proper coat, but he had clean linen, at least, and his dirk, and even in shirtsleeves he looked impressive.

“I haven’t seen you in your kilt in weeks,” I said, admiring him. “I’m sure you’ll make an impression on the general, even without a pink sash.”

He smiled and kissed me.

“It’ll do no good,” he said, “but it wouldna be right not to try.”

I walked with him across the parade ground to St. Clair’s house. There were thunderheads rising out on the lake, charcoal black against the blazing sky, and I could smell ozone in the air. It seemed a suitable portent.

SOON. EVERYTHING said, Soon. The fragmentary reports and rumors that flew like pigeons through the fort, the closeness of the sultry air, the occasional boom of cannon in the distance, fired for practice—we hoped it was only practice—from the distant picket position called the Old French Lines.

Everyone was restless, unable to sleep in the heat unless drunk. I wasn’t drunk, and I was restless. Jamie had been gone for more than two hours, and I wanted him. Not because I cared what St. Clair had had to say to the militia. But between heat and exhaustion, we hadn’t made love in more than a week, and I was beginning to suspect that time was growing short. If we were obliged either to fight or to flee in the next few days, heaven only knew how long it might be before we had a private moment again.

I had been strolling round the parade ground, keeping an eye on St. Clair’s house, and when at last I saw him come out, I made my way toward him, walking slowly to allow him to take leave of the other officers who had come out with him. They stood for a moment close together, the slump of shoulders and angry tilt of heads telling me that the effect of their protests had been exactly what Jamie had predicted.

He walked slowly away, hands behind him, head bent in thought. I came quietly alongside and tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow, and he looked down at me, surprised but smiling.

“Ye’re out late, Sassenach. Is aught amiss?”

“Not at all,” I said. “It just seemed like a nice evening for a walk in a garden.”

“In a garden,” he repeated, giving me a sideways glance.

“The commandant’s garden, to be exact,” I said, and touched the pocket of my apron. “I, um, have the key.” There were a number of small gardens inside the fort, most of them practical plots meant for the production of vegetables. The formal garden behind the commandant’s quarters had been designed by the French many years before, though, and while it had since been neglected and overrun by the seeds of airborne weeds, it had one rather interesting aspect—a high wall surrounding it, with a gate that locked. I’d thoughtfully abstracted the key earlier in the day from General St. Clair’s cook, who had come to me for a throat wash. I would put it back when I called on him the next day to check his sore throat.

“Ah,” said Jamie thoughtfully, and turned obligingly back toward the commandant’s house.

The gate was round the back, out of view, and we slipped hastily down the alley that led past the garden wall, while the guard outside St. Clair’s house was talking to a passerby. I closed the gate quietly behind us, locked it, and pocketed the key, then went to Jamie’s arms.

He kissed me slowly, then raised his head, eyeing me.

“I might need a bit of help, mind.”

“That can be arranged,” I assured him. I laid a hand on his knee, where the kilt had folded up, exposing flesh. I moved a thumb lightly, liking the soft, wiry feel of the hairs on his leg. “Um … did you have any particular sort of help in mind?”

I could smell him in spite of his careful washing, the dried sweat of his labor on his skin spiced with dust and wood chips. He’d taste of it, too, sweet and salt and musk.

I slid my hand up his thigh beneath the kilt, feeling him shift and flex, the sudden groove of muscle smooth beneath my fingers. To my surprise, though, he stopped me, grasping my hand through the fabric.

“Thought you wanted help,” I said.

“Touch yourself, a nighean,” he said softly.

That was a trifle disconcerting, particularly given that we were standing in an overgrown garden no more than twenty feet from an alleyway much patronized by militiamen looking for a place to get quietly drunk. Still… I leaned back against the wall and obligingly pulled the shift above my knee. I held it there, gently stroking the skin of my inner thigh—which was, in fact, very soft. I drew the other hand up the line of my stays, to the top, where my breasts swelled out against the thin, damp cotton.

His eyes were heavy; he was still half drunk with fatigue but becoming more alert by the moment. He made a small interrogative sound.

“Ever hear the one about sauce for the gander?” I said, twiddling thoughtfully with the string that held the neckline of my shift.

“What?” That had brought him out of the haze; he was starkly awake, bloodshot eyes wide open.

“You heard me.”

“Ye want me to … to—”

“I do.”

“I couldna do that! In front of you?”

“If I can do it in front of you, you can certainly return the favor. Of course, if you’d rather I stopped…” I let my hand fall—slowly—from the string. Paused, thumb very lightly ticking to and fro, to and fro, over my breast like the hand of a metronome. I could feel my nipple, round and hard as a musket ball; it must be visible through the fabric, even in this light.

He swallowed; I heard it.

I smiled and let my hand fall farther, taking hold of the hem of my skirt. And paused, one eyebrow raised.

As though hypnotized, he reached down and took hold of the hem of his kilt.

“That’s a good lad,” I murmured, leaning back on one hand. I raised one knee and set my foot on the wall, letting the skirt fall away, baring my thigh. Reached down.

He said something under his breath in Gaelic. I couldn’t tell if it was an observation on the imminent prospect before him or whether he was commending his soul to God. In either case, he lifted his kilt.

“What do you mean, you need help?” I asked, eyeing him.

He made a small, urgent noise indicating that I should continue, so I did.

“What are you thinking?” I asked after a moment, fascinated.

“I’m not thinking.”

“Yes, you are; I can see it on your face.”

“Ye don’t want to know.” Sweat was beginning to gleam across his cheekbones, and his eyes had gone to slits.

“Oh, yes, I do—oh, wait. If you’re thinking about someone other than me, I don’t want to know.”

He opened his eyes at that, and fixed me with a look that ran straight up between my quivering legs. He didn’t stop.

“Oh,” I said, a little breathless myself. “Well… when you can talk again, I do want to know, then.”

He went on looking at me, with a gaze that now struck me as markedly akin to that of a wolf eyeing a fat sheep. I shifted a little against the wall and waved away a cloud of gnats. He was breathing fast, and I could smell his sweat, musky and acrid.

“You,” he said, and I saw his throat move as he swallowed. He crooked the index finger of his free hand at me.

“Come here.”

“I—”

“Now.”

Mesmerized, I slid away from the wall and took two steps toward him. Before I could say or do anything else, there was a flurry of kilt and a large, hot hand was gripping me by the scruff of the neck. Then I was lying on my back in long grass and wild tobacco, Jamie solidly inside me, and the hand was over my mouth—a good thing, I realized dimly, as there were voices coming toward us along the alley on the other side of the garden wall.

“Play wi’ fire and ye may get singed, Sassenach,” he whispered in my ear. He had me pinned like a butterfly and, with a solid grip on my wrists, kept me from moving, even though I was jerking and writhing under him, slippery and desperate. Very slowly, he lowered himself so his full weight rested on me.