He didn’t ask; only muttered something under his breath in Gaelic and walked on, head bent.
The silence once broken, I found that I could not bear it any longer. Better to explode than suffocate. I took my hand from his arm.
“What are you thinking?”
“I am wondering—if it is as terrible to be—to be violated…if it is—is not…if there is not…damage.” He shifted his shoulders restlessly, half shrugging as though his coat were too tight.
I knew very well what was in his mind. Wentworth prison, and the faint scars that webbed his back, a net of dreadful memory.
“Bad enough, I suppose,” I said. “Though I expect you’re right, it would be easier to stand if there were no physical reminder of it. But then, there is a physical reminder of it,” I felt obliged to add. “And a bloody noticeable one, come to that!” His left hand curled at his side, clenching involuntarily.
“Aye, that’s so,” he muttered. He glanced uncertainly at me, the half-moon’s light gilding the planes of his face. “But still—he didna hurt her, that’s something. If he had…killing would be too good for him,” he finished abruptly.
“There is the very minor detail that you don’t precisely ‘recover’ from pregnancy,” I said with a marked edge to my voice. “If he’d broken her bones or shed her blood, she’d heal. As it is—she isn’t ever going to forget it, you know.”
“I know!”
I flinched slightly, and he saw it. He made a sketchy gesture of apology.
“I didna mean to shout.”
I gave him back a brief nod of acknowledgment, and we walked on, side by side, but not touching.
“It—” he began, and then broke off, glancing at me. He grimaced, impatient with himself.
“I do know,” he said, more quietly. “Ye’ll forgive me, Sassenach, but I ken the hell of a lot more about the matter than you do.”
“I wasn’t arguing with you. But you haven’t borne a child; you can’t know what that’s like. It’s—”
“You are arguing wi’ me, Sassenach. Don’t.” He squeezed my arm, hard, and let it go. There was a touch of humor in his voice, but he was dead serious overall.
“I am trying to tell ye what I know.” He stood still for a minute, gathering himself.
“I havena put myself in mind of Jack Randall for some good time,” he said at last. “I dinna want to do it now. But there it is.” He shrugged again, and rubbed a hand hard down one cheek.
“There is body, and there is soul, Sassenach,” he said, speaking slowly, ordering his ideas with his words. “You’re a physician; ye’ll ken the one well. But the other is more important.”
I opened my mouth to say that I knew that as well as he did, if not better—but then shut it without saying anything. He didn’t notice; he wasn’t seeing the dark cornfield, or the maple wood with its leaves gone silver with moonlight. His eyes were fixed on a small room with thick stone walls, furnished with a table and stools and a lamp. And a bed.
“Randall,” he said, and his voice was meditative. “The most of what he did to me—I could have stood it.” He spread out the fingers of his right hand; the dressing on the cracked finger shone white.
“I would have been afraid, been hurt; I would have meant to kill him for doing it. But I could have lived, after, and not felt his touch always on my skin, felt filthy in myself—were it not that he wasna satisfied with my body. He wanted my soul—and he had it.” The white bandage vanished as his fist folded.
“Aye, well—ye ken all that.” He turned away abruptly and began to walk. I had to scurry to catch him up.
“What I am saying, I suppose, is—was this man a stranger to her, who only took her for a moment’s pleasure? If it was only her body that he wanted…then I think she will heal.”
He took a deep breath and let it out again; I saw the faint white mist surround his head for a moment, the steam of his anger made visible.
“But if he knew her—was close enough to want her, and not just any woman—then perhaps it might be that he could touch her soul, and do real damage—”
“You don’t think he did real damage?” My voice rose, despite myself. “Whether he knew her or not—”
“It is different, I tell ye!”
“No, it’s not. I know what you mean—”
“You don’t!”
“I do! But why—”
“Because it is not your body that matters when I take you,” he said. “And ye ken that well enough, Sassenach!”
He turned and kissed me fiercely, taking me completely by surprise. He crushed my lips against my teeth, then took my whole mouth with his, half biting, demanding.
I knew what he wanted of me; the same thing I wanted so desperately of him—reassurance. But neither of us had it to give, tonight.
His fingers dug into my shoulders, slid upward and grasped my neck. The hairs rose up on my arms as he pressed me to him—and then he stopped.
“I can’t,” he said. He squeezed my neck hard, and then let go. His breath came raggedly. “I can’t.”
He stepped back and turned away from me, groping for the fence rail before him as though blind. He grasped the wood hard with both hands, and stood there, eyes closed.
I was shaking, my legs gone watery. I wrapped my arms around myself under my cloak and sat down at his feet. And waited, my heart beating painfully loud in my ears. The night wind moved through the trees on the ridge, murmuring through the pines. Somewhere, far away in the dark hills, a panther screamed, sounding like a woman.
“It’s not that I dinna want ye,” he said at last, and I caught the faint rustle of his coat as he turned toward me. He stood for a moment, head bowed, his bound hair gleaming in the moonlight, face hidden by the darkness, with the moon behind him. At last he leaned down and took my hand in his bruised one, lifting me to my feet.
“I want ye maybe more than I ever have,” he said quietly. “And Christ! I do need ye, Claire. But I canna bear even to think of myself as a man just now. I cannot touch you, and think of what he—I can’t.”
I touched his arm.
“I do understand,” I said, and did. I was glad that he hadn’t asked for the details; I wished I didn’t know them. How would it be, to make love with him, envisioning all the time an act identical in its motions, but utterly different in its essence?
“I understand, Jamie,” I said again.
He opened his eyes and looked at me.
“Aye, ye do, don’t you? And that’s what I mean.” He took my arm and drew me close to him.
“You could tear me limb from limb, Claire, without touching me,” he whispered, “for ye know me.” His fingers touched the side of my face. They were cold, and stiff. “And I could do the same to you.”
“You could,” I said, feeling a little faint. “But I really wish you wouldn’t.”
He smiled a little at that, bent and kissed me, very gently. We stood together, barely touching save our lips, breathing each other’s breath.
Yes, we said silently to each other. Yes, I am still here. It was not rescue, but at least a tiny lifeline, stretched across the gulf that lay between us. I did know what he meant, about the difference between damage to body or soul; what I couldn’t explain to him was the link between the two that centered in the womb. At last I stepped back, looking up at him.