“You’re cold,” Jamie murmured at last, and pulled a fold of his cloak around me, bringing with it the warmth of his skin. I came slowly against him under its shelter, shivering more at the startling solidness, the sudden heat of him, than from the cold.
I laid my hand on his chest, tentative as though the touch of him might burn me in truth, and so we sat for a good while longer, letting the grape leaves talk for us.
“Jamie,” I said softly, at last. “Oh, Jamie. Where were you?”
His arm tightened about me, but it was some time before he answered.
“I thought ye were dead, mo duinne,” he said, so softly I could hardly hear him above the rustling of the arbor.
“I saw ye there—on the ground, at the last. God! Ye were so white, and your skirts all soaked wi’ blood…I tried to go to ye, Claire, so soon as I saw—I ran to ye, but it was then the Guard took me.”
He swallowed hard; I could feel the tremor pass down him, through the long curve of his backbone.
“I fought them…I fought, and aye I pleaded…but they wouldna stay, and they carried me awa’ wi’ them. And they put me in a cell, and left me there…thinking ye were dead, Claire; knowing that I’d killed you.”
The fine tremor went on, and I knew he was weeping, though I could not see his face above me. How long had he sat alone in the dark of the Bastille, alone but for the scent of blood and the empty husk of vengeance?
“It’s all right,” I said, and pressed my hand harder against his chest, as though to still the hasty beating of his heart. “Jamie, it’s all right. It…it wasn’t your fault.”
“I tried to bash my head against the wall—only to stop thinking,” he said, nearly in a whisper. “So they tied me, hand and foot. And next day, de Rohan found me, and told me that ye lived, though likely not for long.”
He was silent then, but I could feel the pain inside him, sharp as crystal spears of ice.
“Claire,” he murmured at last. “I am sorry.”
I am sorry. The words were those of the note he had left me, before the world shattered. But now I understood them.
“I know,” I said. “Jamie, I know. Fergus told me. I know why you went.”
He drew a deep, shuddering breath.
“Aye, well…” he said, and stopped.
I let my hand fall to his thigh; chilled and damp from the rain, his riding breeches were rough under my palm.
“Did they tell you—when they let you go—why you were released?” I tried to keep my own breathing steady, but failed.
His thigh tensed under my hand, but his voice was under better control now.
“No,” he said. “Only that it was…His Majesty’s pleasure.” The word “pleasure” was ever so faintly underlined, spoken with a delicate ferocity that made it abundantly clear that he did indeed know the means of his release, whether the warders had told him or not.
I bit my lower lip hard, trying to make up my mind what to tell him now.
“It was Mother Hildegarde,” he went on, voice steady. “I went at once to L’Hôpital des Anges, in search of you. And found Mother Hildegarde, and the wee note ye’d left for me. She…told me.”
“Yes,” I said, swallowing. “I went to see the King…”
“I know!” His hand tightened on mine, and from the sound of his breathing, I could tell that his teeth were clenched together.
“But Jamie…when I went…”
“Christ!” he said, and sat up suddenly, turning to face me. “Do ye not know what I…Claire.” He closed his eyes briefly, and took a deep breath. “I rode all the way to Orvieto, seeing it; seeing his hands on the white of your skin, his lips on your neck, his—his cock—I saw it at the lever—I saw the damn filthy, stubby thing sliding up…God, Claire! I sat in prison thinking ye dead, and then I rode to Spain, wishing to Christ ye were!”
The knuckles of the hand holding mine were white, and I could feel the small bones of my fingers crackle in his grip.
I jerked my hand free.
“Jamie, listen to me!”
“No!” he said. “No, I dinna want to hear…”
“Listen, damn you!”
There was enough force in my voice to shut him up for an instant, and while he was mute, I began rapidly to tell him the story of the King’s chamber; the hooded men, and the shadowed room, the sorcerers’ duel, and the death of the Comte St. Germain.
As I talked, the high color faded from his wind-brisked cheeks, and his expression softened from anguish and fury to bewilderment, and gradually, to astonished belief.
“Jesus,” he breathed at last. “Oh, holy God.”
“Didn’t know what you were starting with that silly story, did you?” I felt exhausted, but managed a smile. “So…so the Comte…it’s all right, Jamie. He’s…gone.”
He didn’t say anything in reply, but drew me gently to him, so my forehead rested on his shoulder, and my tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt. After a minute, though, I sat up, and stared at him, wiping my nose.
“I just thought, Jamie! The port—Charles Stuart’s investment! If the Comte is dead…”
He shook his head, smiling faintly.
“No, mo duinne. It’s safe.”
I felt a flood of relief.
“Oh, thank God. You managed, then? Did the medicines work on Murtagh?”
“Well, no,” he said, the smile broadening, “but they did on me.”
Relieved at once of fear and anger, I felt light-headed, and half-giddy. The smell of the rain-swept grapes was strong and sweet, and it was a blessed relief to lean against him, feeling his warmth as comfort, not as threat, as I listened to the story of the port-wine piracy.
“There are men that are born to the sea, Sassenach,” he began, “but I’m afraid I’m no one of them.”
“I know,” I said. “Were you sick?”
“I have seldom been sicker,” he assured me wryly.
The seas off Orvieto had been rough, and within an hour it became clear that Jamie was not going to be able to carry out his original part in the plan.
“I couldna do anything but lie in my hammock and groan, in any case,” he said, shrugging, “so it seemed I might as well have pox, too.”
He and Murtagh had hastily changed roles, and twenty-four hours off the coast of Spain, the master of the Scalamandre had discovered to his horror that plague had broken out below.
Jamie scratched his neck reflectively, as though still feeling the effects of the nettle juice.
“They thought of throwing me overboard when they found out,” he said, “and I must say it seemed a verra fine idea to me.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “Have ye ever had seasickness while covered wi’ nettle rash, Sassenach?”
“No, thank God.” I shuddered at the thought. “Did Murtagh stop them?”
“Oh, aye. He’s verra fierce, is Murtagh. He slept across the threshold wi’ his hand on his dirk, until we came safe to port at Bilbao.”
True to forecast, the Scalamandre’s captain, faced with the unprofitable choice of proceeding to Le Havre and forfeiting his cargo, or returning to Spain and cooling his heels while word was sent to Paris, had leaped at the opportunity to dispose of his hold’s worth of port to the new purchaser chance had thrown in his way.
“Not that he didna drive a hard bargain,” Jamie observed, scratching his forearm. “He haggled for half a day—and me dying in my hammock, pissing blood and puking my guts out!”
But the bargain had been concluded, both port and smallpox patient unloaded with dispatch at Bilbao, and—aside from a lingering tendency to urinate vermilion—Jamie’s recovery had been rapid.
“We sold the port to a broker there in Bilbao,” he said. “I sent Murtagh at once to Paris, to repay Monsieur Duverney’s loan—and then…I came here.”
He looked down at his hands, lying quiet in his lap. “I couldna decide,” he said softly. “To come or no. I walked, ye ken, to give myself time to think. I walked all the way from Paris to Fontainebleau.
And nearly all the way back. I turned back half a dozen times, thinking myself a murderer and a fool, not knowing if I would rather kill myself or you…”
He sighed then, and looked up at me, eyes dark with reflections of the fluttering leaves.
“I had to come,” he said simply.
I didn’t say anything, but laid my hand over his and sat beside him. Fallen grapes littered the ground under the arbor, the pungent scent of their fermentation promising the forgetfulness of wine.
The cloud-streaked sun was setting, and a blur of gold silhouetted the respectful form of Hugo, looming black in the entrance to the arbor.
“Your pardon, Madame,” he said. “My mistress wishes to know—will le seigneur be staying for supper?”
I looked at Jamie. He sat still, waiting, the sun through the grape leaves streaking his hair with a tiger’s blaze, shadows falling across his face.
“I think you’d better,” I said. “You’re awfully thin.”
He looked me over with a half-smile. “So are you, Sassenach.”
He rose and offered me his arm. I took it and we went in together to supper, leaving the grape leaves to their muted conversation.
* * *
I lay next to Jamie, close against him, his hand resting on my thigh as he slept. I stared upward into the darkness of the bedroom, listening to the peaceful sigh of his sleeping breath, breathing myself the fresh-washed scent of the damp night air, tinged with the smell of wisteria.
The collapse of the Comte St. Germain had been the end of the evening, so far as all were concerned save Louis. As the company made to depart, murmuring excitedly among themselves, he took my arm, and led me out through the same small door by which I had entered. Good with words when required, he had no need of them here.
I was led to the green silk chaise, laid on my back and my skirts gently lifted before I could speak. He did not kiss me; he did not desire me. This was the ritual claiming of the payment agreed upon. Louis was a shrewd bargainer, and not one to forgive a debt he thought owed to him, whether the payment had value to him or not. And perhaps it did, after all; there was more than a hint of half-fearful excitement in his preparations—who but a king would dare to take La Dame Blanche in his embrace?
I was closed and dry, unready. Impatient, he seized a flagon of rose-scented oil from the table, and massaged it briefly between my legs. I lay unmoving, soundless, as the hastily probing finger withdrew, replaced at once by a member little larger, and—“suffered” is the wrong word, there was neither pain nor humiliation involved; it was a transaction—I waited, then, through the quick thrusting, and then he was on his feet, face flushed with excitement, hands fumbling to refasten his breeches over the small swelling within. He would not risk the possibility of a half-Royal, half-magic bastard; not with Madame de La Tourelle ready—a good deal readier than I, I hoped—and waiting in her own chambers down the hall.
I had given what was implicitly promised; now he could with honor accede to my request, feeling no virtu had gone forth from him. As for me, I met his courteous bow with my own, took my elbow from the grip with which he had gallantly escorted me to the door, and left the audience chamber only a few minutes after entering it, with the King’s assurance that the order for Jamie’s freedom would be given in the morning.
The Gentleman of the Bedchamber was standing in the hall, waiting. He bowed to me, and I bowed back, then followed him down the Hall of Mirrors, feeling the slipperiness of my oily thighs as they brushed each other, and smelling the strong scent of roses between my legs.
Hearing the gate of the palace shut behind me, I had closed my eyes and thought that I would never see Jamie again. And if by chance I did, I would rub his nose in the scent of roses, until his soul sickened and died.
But now instead I held his hand on my thigh, listening to his breathing, deep and even in the dark beside me. And I let the door close forever on His Majesty’s audience.
29
TO GRASP THE NETTLE
Scotland.” I sighed, thinking of the cool brown streams and dark pines of Lallybroch, Jamie’s estate. “Can we really go home?”
“I expect we’ll have to,” he answered wryly. “The King’s pardon says I leave France by mid-September, or I’m back in the Bastille. Presumably, His Majesty has arranged a pardon as well from the English Crown, so I willna be hanged directly I get off the ship in Inverness.”
“I suppose we could go to Rome, or to Germany,” I suggested, tentatively. I wanted nothing more than to go home to Lallybroch, and heal in the quiet peace of the Scottish Highlands. My heart sank at the thought of royal courts and intrigue, the constant press of danger and insecurity. But if Jamie felt we must…
He shook his head, red hair falling over his face as he stooped to pull on his stockings.
“Nay, it’s Scotland or the Bastille,” he said. “Our passage is already booked, just to make sure.” He straightened and brushed the hair out of his eyes with a wry smile. “I imagine the Duke of Sandringham—and possibly King George—want me safe at home, where they can keep an eye on me. Not spying in Rome, or raising money in Germany. The three weeks’ grace, I gather, is a courtesy to Jared, giving him time to come home before I leave.”
I was sitting in the window seat of my bedroom, looking out over the tumbled green sea of the Fontainebleau woods. The hot, languid air of summer seemed to press down, sapping all energy.
“I can’t say I’m not glad.” I sighed, pressing my cheek against the glass in search of a moment’s coolness. The legacy of yesterday’s chill rain was a blanketing humidity that made hair and clothes cling to my skin, itching and damp. “Do you think it’s safe, though? I mean, will Charles give up, now that the Comte is dead, and the money from Manzetti lost?”
Jamie frowned, rubbing his hand along the edge of his jaw to judge the growth of the stubble.
“I wish I knew whether he’d had a letter from Rome in the last two weeks,” he said, “and if so, what was in it. But aye, I think we’ve managed. No banker in Europe will advance anyone of the name of Stuart a brass centime, that’s for sure. Philip of Spain has other fish to fry, and Louis—” He shrugged, his mouth twisting wryly. “Between Monsieur Duverney and the Duke of Sandringham, I’d say Charles’s expectations in that direction are somewhat less than poor. Shall I shave, d’ye think?”
“Not on my account,” I said. The casual intimacy of the question made me suddenly shy. We had shared a bed the night before, but we had both been exhausted, and the delicate web woven between us in the arbor had seemed too fragile to support the stress of attempting to make love. I had spent the night in a terrible consciousness of his warm proximity, but thought I must, under the circumstances, leave the first move to him.
Now I caught the play of light across his shoulders as he turned to find his shirt, and was seized with the desire to touch him; to feel him, smooth and hard and eager against me once more.
His head popped through the neck of his shirt, and his eyes met mine, suddenly and unguarded. He paused for a moment, looking at me, but not speaking. The morning sounds of the château were clearly audible, outside the bubble of silence that surrounded us; the bustling of servants, the high thin sound of Louise’s voice, raised in some sort of altercation.
Not here, Jamie’s eyes said. Not in the midst of so many people.
He looked down, carefully fastening his shirt buttons. “Does Louise keep horses for riding?” he asked, eyes on his task. “There are some cliffs a few miles away; I thought perhaps we might ride there—the air may be cooler.”
“I think she does,” I said. “I’ll ask.”
* * *
We reached the cliffs just before noon. Not cliffs so much as jutting pillars and ridges of limestone that sat among the yellowing grass of the surrounding hills like the ruins of an ancient city. The pale ridges were split and fissured from time and weather, spattered with thousands of strange, tiny plants that had found a foothold in the merest scrape of eroded soil.
“God, it’s hot!” Jamie said. He flipped loose the buckle of his kilt, so it fell around his feet, and started to wriggle out of his shirt.
“What are you doing, Jamie?” I said, half-laughing.
“Stripping,” he replied, matter-of-factly. “Why don’t ye do the same, Sassenach? You’re more soaked than I am, and there’s none here to see.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I did as he suggested. It was entirely isolated here; too craggy and rocky for sheep, the chance of even a stray shepherd coming upon us was remote. And alone, naked together, away from Louise and her throngs of intrusive servants…Jamie spread his plaid on the rough ground as I peeled out of my sweat-clinging garments.
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