“I see,” he said, taking a deep breath. “And just what do you suggest I do about it?”
She picked up her basket and put it over her arm.
“I don’t know,” she said, giving him another yellow look. “But I think you should be careful.”
* * *
He had just about recovered his equanimity after this unsettling consultation, when another visitor darkened his door. Jamie Fraser, bearing gifts.
“I’ve brought ye a razor,” Fraser said, looking critically at him. “And some hot water.”
Claire had clipped his beard short with her surgical scissors a few days earlier, but he had felt too shaky then to attempt shaving with what was called a “cutthroat” razor for good reason.
“Thanks.”
Fraser had brought a small looking glass and a pot of shaving soap as well. Very thoughtful. He could have wished that Fraser might have left him alone, rather than leaning against the doorframe, lending a critical eye to the proceedings, but under the circumstances Roger could scarcely ask him to leave.
Even with the unwelcome spectator, it was a sublime relief to get rid of the beard. It itched like a fiend, and he hadn’t seen his own face in months.
“Work going well?” He tried for a bit of polite conversation, rinsing the blade between strokes. “I heard you hammering in the back this morning.”
“Oh, aye.” Fraser’s eyes followed his every move with interest—sizing him up, he thought. “I’ve got the floor laid, and a bit of roof on. Claire and I will sleep up here tonight, I think.”
“Ah.” Roger stretched his neck, negotiating the turn of his jaw. “Claire’s told me I can walk again; let me know which chores I can take over.”
Jamie nodded, arms crossed.
“Are ye handy wi’ tools?”
“Haven’t done a lot of building,” Roger admitted. A birdhouse done in school didn’t count, he suspected.
“I dinna suppose you’ll be much hand wi’ a plow, or a farrowing hog?” There was a definite glimmer of amusement in Fraser’s eyes.
Roger lifted his chin, clearing the last of the stubble from his neck. He’d thought about it, the last few days. Not much call for the skills of either a historian or a folk singer, on an eighteenth-century hill farm.
“No,” he said evenly, putting down the razor. “Nor do I know how to milk a cow, build a chimney, split shingles, drive horses, shoot bears, gut deer, or spit someone with a sword.”
“No?” Overt amusement.
Roger splashed water on his face and toweled it dry, then turned to face Fraser.
“No. What I’ve got is a strong back. That do you?”
“Oh, aye. Couldna ask better, could I?” One side of Fraser’s mouth curled up. “Know one end of a shovel from the other, do ye?”
“That much I know.”
“Then ye’ll do fine.” Fraser shoved himself away from the doorframe. “Claire’s garden needs spading, there’s barley to be turned at the still, and there’s an almighty heap of manure waitin’ in the stable. After that, I’ll show ye how to milk a cow.”
“Thanks.” He wiped the razor, put it back in the bag, and handed the lot over.
“Claire and I are going to Fergus’s place the eve,” Fraser said casually, accepting it. “Takin’ the wee maid to help Marsali for a bit.”
“Ah? Well…enjoy yourselves.”
“Oh, I expect we will.” Fraser paused in the doorway. “Brianna thought she’d stay; the bairn’s settled a bit, and she doesna want to upset him wi’ the walk.”
Roger stared hard at the other man. You could read anything—or nothing—in those slanted blue eyes.
“Oh, aye?” he said. “So you’re telling me they’ll be alone? I’ll keep an eye on them, then.”
One ruddy brow lifted an inch.
“I’m sure ye will.” Fraser’s hand reached out and opened over the empty basin. There was a small metallic clink and a red spark glowed against the pewter. “Ye’ll mind I told ye, MacKenzie—my daughter doesna need a coward.”
Before he could reply, the brow dropped, and Fraser gave him a level blue look.
“Ye’ve cost me a lad I loved, and I’m no inclined to like ye for it.” He glanced down at Roger’s foot, then up. “But I’ve maybe cost ye more than that. I’ll call the score settled—or not—at your word.”
Astonished, Roger nodded, then found his voice.
“Done.”
Fraser nodded, and disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving Roger staring at the empty doorway.
* * *
He lifted the latch and pushed gently on the cabin’s door. It was bolted. So much for the notion of waking Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. He lifted a fist to knock, then stopped. Wrong heroine. Sleeping Beauty hadn’t had an irascible dwarf in bed with her, ready to yell the house down at any disturbance.
He circled the small cabin, checking the windows, names like Sneezy and Grumpy drifting through the back of his mind. What would they call this one? Noisy? Smelly?
The house was snug as a drum, oiled skins nailed over the windows. He could punch one loose, but the last thing he wanted was to scare her by breaking in on her.
Slowly, he circled the house once more. The sensible thing was to go back to the surgery and wait till morning. He could talk to her then. Better than waking her out of a sound sleep, waking the kid.
Yes, that was plainly the thing to do. Claire would take the little bas—the baby, if he asked her. They could talk calmly, without fear of interruption, walk in the wood, get things settled between them. Right. That was it, then.
Ten minutes later he had circled the house twice more, and was standing in the grass at the back, looking at the faint glow of the window.
“What the hell do you think you are?” he muttered to himself. “A bloody moth?”
The creak of boards prevented his answering himself. He shot around the end of the house in time to see a white-gowned figure float ghostlike down the path toward the privy.
“Brianna?”
The figure whirled, with a small yelp of fright.
“It’s me,” he said, and saw the dark blotch of her hand press against the white of her nightdress, over her heart.
“What’s the matter with you, sneaking up on me like that?” she demanded furiously.
“I want to talk to you.”
She didn’t answer, but whipped round and made off down the path.
“I said, I want to talk to you,” he repeated more loudly, following.
“I want to go to the bathroom,” she said. “Go away.” She shut the door of the privy with a decisive slam.
He retreated a short distance up the path and waited for her to emerge. Her step slowed when she saw him, but there was no way around him without stepping into the long, wet grass.
“You shouldn’t be up walking on that foot,” she said.
“The foot’s fine.”
“I think you should go back to bed.”
“All right,” he said, and moved solidly into the center of the path in front of her. “Where?”