“A what?”
“Well, the size wasna the miraculous bit,” he said, waving me to silence. “Or not quite. The townsfolk say that for a thousand years, folk have whittled away bits of it as holy relics, and yet the cock is still as big as ever.” He grinned at me. “They do say that a man wi’ a bit of St. Guignole in his pocket can last a night and a day without tiring.”
“Not with the same woman, I don’t imagine,” I said dryly. “It does rather make you wonder what he did to merit sainthood, though, doesn’t it?”
He laughed.
“Any man who’s had his prayer answered could tell ye that, Sassenach.” He swiveled on his stool, looking out the open door. Brianna and Lizzie sat on the grass, skirts blooming around them, watching the baby, who lay naked on an old shawl on his stomach, red-arsed as a baboon.
Brianna Ellen, I wrote neatly, then paused.
“Brianna Ellen Randall, do you think?” I asked. “Or Fraser? Or both?”
He didn’t turn around, but his shoulder moved in the faintest of shrugs.
“Does it matter?”
“It might.” I blew across the page, watching the shiny black letters go dull as the ink dried. “If Roger comes back—whether he stays or not—if he chooses to acknowledge little Anonymous, I suppose his name will be MacKenzie. If he doesn’t or won’t, then I imagine the baby takes his mother’s name.”
He was silent for a moment, watching the two girls. They had washed their hair in the creek that morning; Lizzie was combing out Brianna’s mane, the long strands shimmering like red silk in the summer sun.
“She calls herself Fraser,” he said softly. “Or she did.”
I put down my quill and reached across the table to lay a hand on his arm.
“She’s forgiven you,” I said. “You know she has.”
His shoulders moved; not quite a shrug, but the unconscious attempt to ease some inner tightness.
“For now,” he said. “But if the man doesna come?”
I hesitated. He was quite right; Brianna had forgiven him for his original mistake. Still, if Roger did not appear soon, she would be bound to blame Jamie for it—not without reason, I was forced to admit.
“Use both,” he said abruptly. “Let her choose.” I didn’t think he meant last names.
“He’ll come,” I said firmly, “and it will be all right.”
I picked up the quill, and added, not quite under my breath. “I hope.”
* * *
He stooped to drink, the water splashing over dark green rock. It was a warm day; spring now, not autumn, but the moss was still emerald-green underfoot.
The memory of a razor was far behind him; his beard was thick and his hair hung past his shoulders. He’d bathed in a creek the night before, and done his best to wash himself and his clothes, but he had no illusions about his appearance. Neither did he care, he told himself. What he looked like didn’t matter.
He turned toward the path where he had left his horse, limping. His foot ached, but that didn’t matter either.
He rode slowly through the clearing where he had first met Jamie Fraser. The leaves were new and green, and in the distance he could hear the raucous calling of the ravens. Nothing stirred among the trees but the wild grasses. He breathed deep and felt a stab of memory, a broken remnant from a past life, a shard sharp as glass.
He turned his horse’s head toward the top of the Ridge and urged it on, kicking gently with his good foot. Soon now. He had no idea what his reception might be, but that didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered now save the fact that he was here.
66
CHILD OF MY BLOOD
Some enterprising rabbit had dug its way under the stakes of my garden again. One voracious rabbit could eat a cabbage down to the roots, and from the looks of things, he’d brought friends. I sighed and squatted to repair the damage, packing rocks and earth back into the hole. The loss of Ian was a constant ache; at such moments as this, I missed his horrible dog as well.
I had brought a large collection of cuttings and seeds from River Run, most of which had survived the journey. It was mid-June, still time—barely—to put in a fresh crop of carrots. The small patch of potato vines was all right, so were the peanut bushes; rabbits wouldn’t touch those, and didn’t care for the aromatic herbs either, except the fennel, which they gobbled like licorice.
I wanted cabbages, though, to preserve as sauerkraut; come midwinter, we would want food with some taste to it, as well as some vitamin C. I had enough seed left, and could raise a couple of decent crops before the weather turned cold, if I could keep the bloody rabbits off. I drummed my fingers on the handle of my basket, thinking. The Indians scattered clippings of their hair around the edges of the fields, but that was more protection against deer than rabbits.
Jamie was the best repellent, I decided. Nayawenne had told me that the scent of carnivore urine would keep rabbits away—and a man who ate meat was nearly as good as a mountain lion, to say nothing of being more biddable. Yes, that would do; he’d shot a deer only two days ago; it was still hanging. I should brew a fresh bucket of spruce beer to go with the roast venison, though…
As I wandered toward the herb shed to see if I had any maypop fruits for flavoring, my eye caught a movement at the far edge of the clearing. Thinking it was Jamie, I turned to go and inform him of his new duty, only to be stopped dead in my tracks when I saw who it was.
He looked worse than he had the last time I’d seen him, which was saying quite a bit. He was hatless, hair and beard a glossy black tangle, and his clothes hung on him in tatters. He was barefoot, one foot wrapped in a bundle of filthy rags, and he limped badly.
He saw me at once, and stopped while I came up to him.
“I’m glad it’s you,” he said. “I wondered who I’d meet first.” His voice sounded soft and rusty, and I wondered whether he had spoken to a living soul since we had left him in the mountains.
“Your foot, Roger—”
“It doesn’t matter.” He gripped my arm. “Are they all right? The baby? And Brianna?”
“They’re fine. Everybody’s in the house.” His head turned toward the cabin, and I added, “You have a son.”
He jerked sharply back toward me, green eyes wide with startlement.
“He’s mine? I have a son?”
“I suppose you do,” I said. “You’re here, aren’t you?” The look of startlement—and hope, I realized—faded slowly. He looked into my eyes and seemed to see how I felt, for he smiled—not easily, no more than a painful lifting of the corner of his mouth—but he smiled.
“I’m here,” he said, and turned toward the cabin and its open doorway.
Jamie sat in his rolled-up shirt sleeves at the table, shoulder to shoulder with Brianna, frowning at a set of house drawings as she pointed with her quill. Both of them were liberally covered with ink, being inclined to enthusiasm when discussing architecture. The baby snored peacefully in his cradle nearby; Brianna was rocking it absently with one foot. Lizzie was spinning by the window, humming softly under her breath as the great wheel went round.