“Where?” She froze, but made no pretense of not understanding.
“Up there?” He jerked a thumb at the ridge. “Or here?”
“I—ah—”
Be careful, her mother said, and my daughter doesna need a coward, said her father. He could flip a bloody coin, but for the moment he was taking Jamie Fraser’s advice, and damn the torpedoes.
“You said you’d seen a marriage of obligation and one of love. And do you think the one cuts out the other? Look—I spent three days in that godforsaken circle, thinking. And by God, I thought. I thought of staying, and I thought of going. And I stayed.”
“So far. You don’t know what you’d be giving up, if you stay for good.”
“I do! And even if I did not, I know bloody well what I’d be giving up by going.” He gripped her shoulder, the light gauze of her shift coarse under his hand. She was very warm.
“I could not go, and live with myself, thinking I’d left behind a child who might be mine—who is mine.” His voice dropped a little. “And I could not go, and live without you.”
She hesitated, drawing back, trying to escape his hand.
“My father—my fathers—”
“Look, I’m neither one of your bloody fathers! Give me credit for my own sins, at least!”
“You haven’t committed any sins,” she said, her voice sounding choked.
“No, and neither have you.”
She looked up at him, and he caught the gleam of a dark, slanted eye.
“If I hadn’t—” she began.
“And if I hadn’t,” he interrupted roughly. “Drop it, aye? It doesn’t matter what you’ve done—or I. I said I was neither of your fathers, and I meant it. But there they are, the two of them, and you know them well—far better than I.
“Did Frank Randall not love you as his own? Take you as the child of his heart, knowing you were the blood of another man, and one he’d good reason to hate?”
He took her other shoulder and gave her a little shake.
“Did that redheaded bastard not love your mother more than life? And love you enough to sacrifice even that love to save you?”
She made a small, choked noise, and a pang went through him at the sound, but he would not release her.
“If you believe it of them,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper, “then by God you must believe it of me. For I am a man like them, and by all I hold holy, I do love you.”
Slowly her head rose, and her breath was warm on his face.
“We have time,” he said softly, and knew suddenly why it had been so important to talk to her now, here in the dark. He reached for her hand, clasped it flat against his breast.
“Do you feel it? Do you feel my heart beat?”
“Yes,” she whispered, and slowly brought their linked hands to her own breast, pressing his palm against the thin white gauze.
“This is our time,” he said. “Until that shall stop—for one of us, for both—it is our time. Now. Will ye waste it, Brianna, because you are afraid?”
“No,” she said, and her voice was thick, but clear. “I won’t.”
There was a sudden thin wail from the house, and a surprising gush of moist heat against his palm.
“I have to go,” she said, pulling away. She took two steps, then turned. “Come in,” she said, and ran up the path in front of him, fleet and white as the ghost of a deer.
* * *
By the time he reached the door, she had already fetched the baby from his cradle. She had been in bed; the quilt was thrown back and the hollow of her body was printed on the feather bed. Looking self-conscious, she sidled past him and lay down.
“I usually feed him in bed at night. He stays asleep longer if he’s next to me.”
Roger made some murmur of assent, and drew up the low nursing chair before the fire. It was very warm in the room, and the air was thick with smells of cooking, used diapers—and Brianna. Her scent was slightly different these days; the tang of wild grass tempered with a light, sweet smell that he thought must be milk.
Her head was bent, loose red hair falling over her shoulders in a cascade of sparks and shadows. The front of her gown was open to her waist, and the full round curve of one breast showed plainly, only the nipple obscured by the roundness of the baby’s head. There was a faint sound of sucking.
As though feeling his eyes on her, she raised her head.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, not to disturb the baby. “I cannot pretend not to be looking.”
He couldn’t tell if she flushed; the fire cast a red glow over face and breasts alike. She glanced down, though, as if she was embarrassed.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Nothing much worth looking at.”
Without a word, he stood up and began to undress.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was low, but shocked.
“Not fair for me to sit here gawking at you, is it? It’s much less worth looking at, I expect, but…” He paused, frowning at a knot in the lacing of his breeches. “But at least you’ll not feel you’re on display.”
“Oh.” He didn’t look up to see, but he thought that had made her smile. He’d got his shirt off; the fire felt good on his bare back. Feeling unspeakably self-conscious, he stood up and eased his breeches halfway down before stopping.
“Is this a striptease?” Brianna’s mouth quivered as she tried to keep from laughing out loud, joggling the baby.
“I couldn’t decide whether to turn my back or not.” He paused. “Have you got a preference?”
“Turn your back,” she said softly. “For now.”
He did, and got the breeches off without falling into the fire.
“Stay that way for a minute,” she said. “Please. I like to look at you.”
He straightened up and stood still, looking into the fire. The heat played over him, uncomfortably warm, and he took a step back, a sudden memory of Father Alexandre vivid in his mind. Christ, and why would he think of that now?
“You have marks on your back, Roger,” Brianna said, her voice softer than ever. “Who hurt you?”
“The Indians. It doesn’t matter. Not now.” He hadn’t bound or cut his hair; it fell over his shoulders, tickling the bare skin of his back. He could imagine the tickle of her eyes, going lower, over back and arse and thighs and calves.
“I’m going to turn around now. All right?”
“I won’t be shocked,” she assured him. “I’ve seen pictures.”
She had her father’s trick of hiding her expressions when she wanted to. He couldn’t tell a thing from the soft, wide mouth or the slanted cat-eyes. Was she shocked, frightened, amused? Why ought she to be any of those things? She had touched everything she was now looking at; had caressed and handled him with such intimacy that he had lost himself in her hands, yielded himself to her without reservation—and she to him.
But that had been a lifetime ago, in the freedom and frenzy of hot darkness. Now he stood before her for the first time naked in the light, and she sat there watching him with a baby in her arms. Which of them had changed more, since their wedding night?