“Mmm.” I put a hand to his forehead; he was warm, but warm from bed, not feverish. I fetched a cup of beef tea and put it into his hand. He breathed in the steam, then took a sip, but set it aside and stretched himself slowly, groaning.
I eyed him for a moment, then knelt down on the floor in front of him and took hold of the hem of his shirt. “Let me see about that,” I said.
His eyes opened all the way and fixed on me. “Ye do ken what a metaphor is, Sassenach …” he began, making an abortive effort to catch my hands, but my touch, very warm from the teacups, made him exhale and lean back a little.
“Hmm …” I rubbed a little with both hands, slowly. “I think your circulation is in order …. Any bruising?”
“Well, not yet,” he said, sounding mildly apprehensive. “Sassenach. Would ye—”
I pushed the shirt back and bent down, and he stopped speaking abruptly. I reached farther under, making him spread his thighs by reflex, and saw the small curly hairs rise.
“Would ye let go my balls, Sassenach?” he said, stirring restively. “It’s not that I dinna trust ye, but—”
“I’m checking for any sign of an incipient hernia,” I told him, and ran two fingers well up, probing gently into the deep heat of the flesh between his legs. His thighs were lean and chilly, but …
“Oh, I’ve got an incipience,” he said, squirming a little. “But I’m sure it’s no a hernia. Now what the devil are ye doing?”
I’d let go. Turning, I reached over to the small bedside table where I’d left a scatter of things—things turned out of my apron pockets at night and not always retrieved in the mornings. The bluestone Corporal Jackson had sent me was there, and I picked it out of the litter, rubbing it between my hands to warm it. There was a little bottle of sweet oil on the table, too, and I dribbled a bit onto the stone. Jamie was watching this process, still apprehensive.
“If ye mean to stick that up my arse, Sassenach,” he said, “I’d be very much obliged if ye didn’t.”
“You might enjoy it,” I suggested, and took hold of him with one hand, applying the warm, oiled stone in a therapeutic manner with the other.
“Aye, that’s what I’m afraid of.” But he’d relaxed a little, leaning back on his hands. And then relaxed a little more, sighing, his eyes closing again. I went on with the slow massage but reached out with my other hand and picked up one of the cups, taking a mouthful of the still-hot beef tea. It tasted wonderful, soothing and delicious. I swallowed, set down the cup, and put my mouth on him.
His eyes flew open and his hands clenched on the bedclothes.
“Hmmm?” I said.
He said something in Gaelic under his breath, but it wasn’t a word I knew. I laughed, but silently, and knew he felt the vibration; his hand was resting on my back, large and warm.
Something had happened between us, on the battlefield, and while most of it had gone, I could still feel the echoes of his body in a deeper way than I had before. I felt the blood rise in him, pulsing, warming his skin, and the air he breathed, deep and pure in my own lungs.
Suddenly his hands were under my arms, and he lifted me, urgent.
“Inside ye,” he said, his voice husky. “I want to be inside ye.”
I scrambled up in a flurry of skirts, and he lay back on the bed. A brief scuffle and then that sudden, solid, gliding joining that was never a shock and always a shock. Both of us sighed and settled into each other.
I lay on him moments later, feeling his heart beat under me, slow and strong. I breathed in and smelled the deep, bitter tang of him.
“You smell wonderful,” I said. I felt drowsy and deeply happy.
“What?” He lifted his head and turned it, sniffing down the collar of his shirt. “Jesus, I stink like a dead boar.”
“You do,” I said. “Thank God.”
154
Never Fear to Negotiate; Never Negotiate from Fear
I WAS SMASHING LUMPS of asafetida resin with a hammer when Jamie stuck his head into my surgery.
“Jesus, Sassenach.” He pinched his nose between two fingers. “What the devil is that? And why are ye pounding it with a hammer?”
“Asafetida,” I said, letting out the breath I’d been holding and taking a step backward. “First you extract the resin from the roots of the Ferula plant, which is relatively simple—but the resin is very hard and you can’t grate it, so you have to smash the lumps with a hammer—or stones, if you haven’t a hammer. Um …” It occurred to me that the hammer I had was in fact his, and I reversed it in my hand, offering it to him hilt-first like a surrendered sword. “Do you want it back?”
He took the hammer, inspected it at arm’s length for damage, then shook his head and handed it back.
“It’s all right. Wash it before ye bring it back to me, aye? Is that the stuff they call devil’s dung?”
“Well, yes. But I’m told that the people where it grows use it as a spice. In food, I mean.”
He looked as though he wanted to spit, but refrained. “Who told ye that?”
“John Grey. It probably tastes better when cooked,” I said hurriedly. “Did you come in here for something, or were you just looking for your hammer?”
“Och. Aye, I was sent to ask will ye come be a witness.”
“To what?” I was already rubbing charcoal dust over my hands to kill the stink.
“I’m no altogether sure. Right now, it’s a wee stramash, but it might be a wedding, if they’ll quit cryin’ themselves down to each other.”
I didn’t waste time asking for details, but quickly rinsed away the charcoal and dried my hands on my apron as I followed him down the hall to the parlor.
Rachel, Ian, Jenny, and Silvia Hardman were there, along with Prudence, Patience, and Chastity, and so were Bobby Higgins and his sons, Aidan, Orrie, and Rob. The Hardmans and the Higginses were drawn up like opposing armies, Silvia and her daughters on the settee with Bobby facing them from the depths of Jamie’s big chair, Aidan standing by his side and Orrie and Rob sitting—insofar as one can use such a word when describing young males under the age of six—on the carpet at his feet.
Rachel, Jenny, and Ian stood at the end of the settee. Everyone turned to look when we came in, and I sensed at once a tumultuous atmosphere in the room. It wasn’t as though they were quarreling, but clearly there was some tension.
Jamie touched the small of my back and guided me to Bobby’s side of the room, where he himself took up a station behind the big chair.
“We’re fettled,” he announced. “What was it ye were sayin’ as I left, Friend Silvia?”
She gave him a narrow look and drew herself up with dignity.
“I said to Friend Higgins,” she said evenly, “that he should know that I have the name of a whore.”
“So I was told,” Bobby said, diplomatically not saying who told him. He looked at her and touched the faded—but still stark—white brand on his cheek. “I’m a convicted murderer. I think maybe you should be more bothered than me.”
A pink tinge crept into Silvia’s cheeks, but she didn’t look away.