"What's wrong with embroidery silk?"
"Nothing. It's what it's for." She took the package from him, and tucked it into the pocket she wore tied under her petticoat. She was looking down, rearranging her skirts, but he could see the tightness of her lips. "She said it's for our winding claes."
accent, Spoken in Brianna's odd version of a Bostonian Scots it took a moment for Roger to decipher this.
"Winding cl-oh, you mean shrouds?"
"Yes. Evidently, it's my wifely duty to sit down the morning after the wedding and start spinning cloth for my shroud." She bit the words off through clenched teeth. "That way, I'll have it woven and embroidered by the time I die in childbirth. And if I'm a fast worker, I'll have time to make one for you, toootherwise, your next wife will have to finish it!" at she was really upset.
He would have laughed, had it not been clear th
"Mrs. Buchanan is a great fool," he said, taking her hands. "You should not be letting her worry you with her nonsense." Brianna glanced at him under lowered brows.
"Mrs. Buchanan," she said precisely, "is ignorant, stupid, and tactless. The one thing she isn't is wrong."
"Of course she is," he said, with assumed certainty, feeling nonetheless a stab of apprehension.
"How many wives has Farquard Campbell burie&" she demanded. "Gideon Oliver? Andrew MacNeill?"
Nine, among the three of them. MacNeill would take a fourth wife this evening---an eighteen-year-old girl from Weaver's Gorge. The stab came again, deeper, but he ignored it.
"And jenny ban Campbell's borne eight children and deviled two husbands into the ground," he countered firmly. "For that matter., Mrs. Buchanan herself has five bairns, and she's certainly still kicking. I've seen them; turnip-headed to a man, but all healthy."
That got him a reluctant twitch of the mouth, and he pressed on, encouraged.
"You've no need to fear, hen. You [lad no trouble with Jemmy, ayeP"
"Yeah? Well, if you think it's no trouble, next time you can do it!" she snapped, but the corner of her mouth curled slightly up. She tugged at his hand, but he held on, and she didn't resist.
"So you're willing there should be a next time, are you? Mrs. Buchanan notwithstanding?" His tone was deliberately light, but he drew her close and held her, his face hidden in her hair, for fear she should see how much the question meant to him.
66 Diana Gabaldon
She wasn't fooled. She drew back a little, and her eyes, blue as water, searched his.
"You'd marry me, but live celibate?" she asked. "That's the only sure way. The tansy oil doesn't always work-look at Marsali!" The existence of baby Joan was eloquent testimony to the ineffectiveness of that particular method of birth control. Still ...
"There are other ways, I expect," he said. "But if you want celibacy-then yes, you'll have it."
She laughed, because his hand had tightened possessively on her arse, even as his lips renounced it. Then the laughter faded, and the blue of her eyes grew darker, clouded.
"You mean it, don't you?"
"Yes," he said, and did, though the thought of it lay heavy in his chest, like a swallowed stone.
She sighed, and drew her hand down the side of his face, tracing the line of his neck, the hollow of his throat. Her thumb pressed against his hammering pulse, so he felt the beat of it, magnified in his blood.
He meant it, but he bent his head to hers and took her mouth, so short of breath he must have hers, needing so urgently to join with her that he would do it in whatever way he might-hands, breath, mouth, arms; his thigh pressed between hers, opening her legs. Her hand lay flat against his chest, as though to push him off-then tightened convulsively, grasping shirt and flesh together. Her fingers dug deep in the muscle of his breast, and then they were glued together, openmouthed and gasping, front teeth scraping painfully in the flurry of their wanting.
"I don't ... we're not. He broke free for a moment, his mind grasping din-Ay for the fragments of words. Then her hand f
ound its way under his kilt, a cold, sure touch on his heated flesh, and he lost all power of speech.
"Once more before we quit," she said, and her breath wreathed him in heat and mist. "For old times' sake." She sank to her knees in the wet yellow leaves, pulling him down to her.
IT HAD STARTED raining again; her hair lay tumbled round her, streaked with damp. Her eyes were closed, her face upturned to the drizzling heavens, and raindrops struck her f
ace, rolling down like tears. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, in fact.
R o er lay with her, half on her, his weight a warm and solid comf
9 ort, his kilt spread over their tangled bare legs, protection from the rain. Her hand cupped the back of his head and stroked his hair, wet and sleek as a black seal's fur.
He stirred then, with a groan like a wounded bear, and lifted himself. A draft of cold air struck her newly exposed body, damp and heated where they had touched.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "God, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that." She opened one eye to a slit; he rose to his knees above her, swaying, and bent to pull her crumpled skirt down into decency. He'd lost his stock,
and the cut under his jaw had reopened. She'd torn his shirt, and his waistcoat hung open,
The Fiery Cross 67
half its buttons gone. He was streaked with mud and blood and there were dead leaves and acorn fragments in the waves of his loose black hair.
"It's all right," she said, and sat up. She was in no better case; her breasts were heavy with milk, and huge wet spots had soaked through the fabric of shift and bodice, chilling her skin. Roger saw, and picked up her fallen cloak, draping it gently around her shoulders.
"Sorry," he said again, and reached to brush the tangled hair from her face; his hand was cold against her cheek.
"It's okay," she said, trying to gather all the stray fragments of herself that seemed to be rolling round the tiny clearing like beads of mercury. "It's only six months, and I'm still nursing Jemmy. It's-I mean, I think it's still safe." But for how much longer? she wondered. Little jolts of desire still shot through her, mingled with spurts of dread.
She had to touch him. She picked up one corner of her cloak and pressed it to the seeping wound beneath his jaw. Celibacy? When the feel of him, the smell of him, the memory of the last few minutes, made her want to knock him flat in the leaves and do it all again? When tenderness for him welled up in her like the milk that rushed unbidden to her breasts?
Her breasts ached with unsatisfied desire, and she felt dribbles of milk run tickling down her ribs beneath the cloth. She touched one breast, heavy and swollen, her guarantee of safety-for a while.
Roger put away her hand, reaching up to touch the cut.
"It's all right," he said. "It's stopped bleeding." He wore the oddest expression-or expressions. Normally his face was pleasantly reserved, even a little stern. Now his features seemed unable to settle themselves, shifting from moment to moment between a look of undeniable satisfaction and one of just as undeniable dismay.
"What's the matter, Roger?"
He shot her a quick glance, then looked away, a slight flush rising in his cheeks.
"Oh," he said. "Well. It's only that we ... er ... we aren't actually married at the moment."
"Well, of course not. The wedding's not 'til tonight. Speaking of which. . . She looked at Roger, and a bubble of laughter rose from the pit of her stomach. "Oh, dear," she said, fighting back a fit of giggles. "You look like somebody's had their will of you in the woods, Mr. MacKenzie."
"Very funny, Mrs. Mac," he said, eyeing her own bedraggled state. "Ye've been in a rare fight, too, by the looks of you. But what I meant was that we've been handfasted for the last year-and that's legally binding, in Scotland at least. But the year and a day have been up for a bit-and we're not formally married 'til this evening."
She squinted at him, Aiping rain out of her eyes with the back of one hand, and once more gave way to the urge to laugh.
> "My God,,you think it matterP" He grinned back, a little reluctantly.
"Well, no. It's only I'm a preacher's lad; I know it's fine-but somewhere inside is an old Scotch Calvinist, muttering that it's just a wee bit wicked, to be carrying on so with a woman not really my wife."
68 Diana Gabaldon
"Ha," she said, and settled her arms comfortably on her drawn-up knees. She leaned to one side and nudged him gently.
"Old Scotch Calvinist, my ass. What is it, really?"
He wouldn't look directly at her, but kept his eyes down, looking at the ground. Droplets glittered on his strongly marked dark brows and lashes, gilding the skin of his cheekbones with silver. He drew a deep breath, and let it out slowly.
"I can't say you're not right to be afraid," he said quietly. "I hadn't realized-not really thought about it before today-just how dangerous marriage is for a woman." He looked up and smiled at her, though the look of worry stayed in his moss-green eyes.
"I want you, Bree-more than I can say. It's only that I was thinking of what we just did and how fine it was-and realizing that I'll maybe-no, I will-be risking your life if I keep on doing it. But damned if I want to stopp,
The small strands of dread had coalesced into a cold snake that ran down her backbone and coiled deep in her belly, twisting around her womb. She knew what he wanted, and it wasn't only the thing they'd just shared-powerful as that was. Knowing what he wanted, though-and why-how could she hesitate to give it to him?
"Yeah." She took a breath to match his, and blew it out in a plume of white. "Well, it's too late to worry about that, I think." She looked at him and touched his arm. "I want you, Roger." She pulled down his head and kissed him, taking comfort from her fears in the strength of his arm around her, the warmth of his body beside her.
"Oh, God, Bree," he murmured into her hair. "I want to tell you that I'll keep you safe, save you and Jemmy from anything that might threaten youever. It's a terrible thing, to think it might be me that would be the threat, that I could kill you with my love-but it's true."
His heart was beating under her ear, solid and steady. She felt the warmth return to her hands, clasped tight on the bones of his back, and the thaw reached deeper, uncoiling some of the frozen strands of fear inside her,
"It's all right," she said at last, wanting to offer him the comfort he could not quite give her. "I'm sure it'll be okay. I've got the hips for it, everybody says so. Jugbutt, that's me." She ran a hand ruefully down the lush swell of one hip, and he smiled, following her hand with his own.
"You know what Ronnie Sinclair said to me last night? He was watching you bend down to pick up a stick of wood for the fire, and he sighed and said, 'Ye ken how to pick a good lass, MacKenzie? Start at the bottom and work your way up!' Oof! " He recoiled, laughing, as she slugged him.
Then he bent and kissed her, very gently. The rain was still falling, pattering on the layer of dead leaves. Her fingers were sticky with the blood from his wound.
"You want a baby, don't you?" she asked softly. "One you know is yours?" He kept his head bent for a moment, but at last looked up at her, letting her see the answer in his face; a great yearning, mingled with anxious concern.
"I don't mean-" he began, but she put a hand across his mouth to stop him.
"I know," she said. "I understand." She did-almost. She was an only child,
The Fiery Cross 69
as he was; she knew the yearning for connection and closeness-but hers had been gratified. She had had not one loving father but two. A mother who had loved her beyond the bounds of space and time. The Murrays of Lallybroch, that unexpected gift of family. And most of all, her son, her flesh, her blood, a small and trusting weight that anchored her firmly to the universe.
But Roger was an orphan, alone in the world for such a long time. His parents gone before he knew them, his old uncle dead-he had no one to Claim him, no one to love him for the sake only of his flesh and bone-no one save her. Little wonder if he hungered for the certainty she held in her arms when she nursed her child.
He cleared his throat suddenly.
,11-ah-I was ye this tonight. But maybe ... well." He going to give
reached into the inner pocket of his coat and handed her a soft bundle, wrapped in cloth.
"Sort of a wedding present, aye?" He was smiling, but she could see the uncertainty in his eyes.
She opened the cloth, and a pair of black button eyes looked up at her. The doll wore a shapeless smock of green calico, and red-yarn hair exploded from its head. Her heart beat heavily in her chest, and her throat tightened.
"I thought the wean might like it-to chew on, perhaps."
She moved, and the pressure of the sodden fabric on her breasts made them tingle. She was afraid, all right; but there were things stronger than fear. "There'll be a next time," she said, and laid a hand on his arm. "I can't say when-but there will."
He laid his hand on hers and squeezed it tight, not looking at her. "Thanks, Jugbutt," he said at last, very softly.
THE RAIN WAS HEAVIER; it was pissing down now. Roger thumbed the wet hair out of his eyes and shook himself like a dog, scattering drops from the tight-woven wool of coat and plaid. There was a smear of mud down the front of the gray wool; he brushed at it, to no effect.
"Christ, I can't be getting married like this," he said, trying to lighten the mood between them. "I look like a beggar."
"It's not too late, you know," she said. She smiled, teasing a little tremulously. "You could still back out."
"It's been too late for me since the day I saw you," he said gruffly. "Besides," he added, liffing one brow, "your father would gut me like a hog if I said I'd had second thoughts on the matter."
"Ha," she said, but the hidden smile popped out, dimpling one cheek. "Bloody woman! You like the idea!"
"Yes. No, I mean." She was laughing again now; that's what he'd wanted. "I don't want him to gut you. It's just nice to know he would. A father ought to be protective."
She smiled at him, touched him lightly. "Like you, Mr. MacKenzie."
That gave him an odd, tight feeling in the chest, as though his waistcoat had shrunk. Then a tinge of cold, as he recalled what he had to tell her. Fathers and
70 Diana Gabaldon
their notions of protection varied, after all, and he wasn't sure how she would see this one.
He took her arm and drew her away, out of the rain and into the shelter of a clump of hemlocks, where the layers of needles lay dry and fragrant underfoot, protected by the wide-spreading branches overhead.
"Well, come and sit with me a moment, Mrs. Mac. It's not important, but there's a small thing I wanted to tell you about before the wedding." He drew her down to sit beside him on a rotting log, rusted with lichen. He cleared his throat, gathering the thread of his story.
"When I was in Inverness, before I followed you through the stones, I spent some time trolling through the Reverend's bumf, and I came across a letter to him, written by your father. By Frank Randall, I mean. It's no great matternot now-but I thought ... well, I thought perhaps there should be no secrets between us, before we marry. I told your father about it last night. So let me tell you now."
Her hand lay warm in his, but the fingers tightened as he talked, and a deep line grew between her brows as she listened.
"Again," she said, when he'd finished. "Tell me that again."
Obligingly, he repeated the letter-as he'd memorized it, word for word. As he'd told it the night before, to Jamie Fraser.
"That gravestone in Scotland with Da's name on it is a fake?" Her voice rose slightly with astonishment. "Dad-Frank-had the Reverend make it, and put it there, in the kirkyard at St. Yjlda, but Da isn't-won't be, I mean-wonlt be under it?"
"Yes, he did, and no, he won't," Roger said, keeping careffil track of the "he's" involved. "He-Frank Randall, that is-meant the stone as a sort of acknowledgment, I think; a debt owed to your father-your other father, I mean; Jamie."
Brianna's face wa
s blotched with chill, the ends of nose and ears nipped red as the heat of their lovemaking faded.
"But he couldn't know we'd ever find it, Mama and me!"
"I don't know that he wanted you to find it," Roger said. "Perhaps he didn't know, either. But he felt he had to make the gesture. Besides," he added, struck by a memory, "didn't Claire say that he'd meant to bring you to England, just before he was killed? Perhaps he meant to take you there, make sure you found it-then leave it to you and Claire what to do."
She sat still, chewing that one over.
"He knew, then," she said slowly. "That he-that Jamie Fraser survived Culloden. He knew ... but he didn't say?"
"I don't think you can blame him for not saying," Roger said gently. -it wasn't only selfish, you know.,,
"Wasn't it?" She was still shocked, but not yet angry. He could see her turning it over, trying to see it all before making up her mind what to think, how to feel.
"No. Think of it, hen," he urged. The spruce was cold at his back, the bark of the fallen log damp under his hand. "He loved your mother, aye, and didn't want to risk losing her again. That's maybe selfish, but she was his wife first,
The Fiery Cross 71
after all; no one could blame him for not wanting to give her up to another man. But that's not all of it."
"What's the rest, then?" Her voice was calm, blue eyes straight and level. "Well-what if he had told her? There she was, with you, a young childand remember, neither of them would have thought that you might cross through the stones as well."
The eyes were still straight, but clouded once more with trouble.
"She would have had to choose," she said softly, her gaze fixed on him. "To stay with us-or go to him. To Jamie. "
"To leave you behind," Roger said, nodding, "or to stay, and live her life, knowing her Jamie was alive, maybe reachable-but out of reach. Break her vows--on purpose, this time-and abandon her child ... or live with yearning. I can't think that would have done your family life much good."
"I see." She sighed, the steam of her exhaled breath disappearing like a ghost in cold air.
"Perhaps Frank was afraid to give her the choice," Roger said, "but he did save her-and you-from the pain of having to make it. At least then."
Her lips drew in, pushed out, relaxed.
"I wonder what her choice would have been, if he bad told her," she said, a little bleakly. He laid his hand on hers, squeezed lightly.
"She would have stayed," he said, with certainty. "She made the choice once, did she not? Jamie sent her back, to keep you safe, and she went. She would have known he wanted that, and she would have stayed-so long as you needed her. She wouldn't have gone back, even when she did, save that you insisted. Ye ken that well enough, surely?"
Her face eased a bit, accepting this.
"I guess you're right. But still ... to know he was alive, and not try to reach him ...
He bit the inside of his cheek, to keep from asking. If it were your choice, Brianna? If it was the bairn or me? For how could any man force a choice like that on a woman whom he loved, even hypothetically? Whether for her sake or his own ... he would not ask.
"But he did put that gravestone there. Why did he do that?" The line between her brows was still deep, but no longer straight; it twisted with a growing perturbation,
He hadn't known Frank Randall, but he felt a certain empathy for the man-and not only a disinterested sympathy, either. He hadn't fully realized why he'd felt he must tell her about the letter now, before the wedding, but his own motives were becoming clearer-and more disturbing to him-by the moment.
"I think it was obligation, as I said. Not just to Jamie or your mother-to you. If it-" he started, then stopped and squeezed her hand, hard. "Look. Take wee Jemmy. He's mine, as much as you are-he always will be." He took a deep breath.,"But if I were the other man . .
"If you were Stephen Bonnet," she said, and her lips were tight, gone white