He hadn’t eaten yet; hadn’t wanted to waste any of their rare solitude. He uncovered the basket she’d brought and inhaled the warm, rich scent of squirrel stew and salt-rising bread with fresh butter. Apple tart, too.
His foot still throbbed, and it took considerable effort not to think of the helpful maggots, but in spite of that, his appetite had returned with a vengeance. He ate slowly, savoring both the food and the quiet dusk creeping over the mountainside below.
Fraser had known what he was about when he’d chosen the site of this house. It commanded the entire slope of the mountain, with a view that ran to the distant river and beyond, with mist-filled valleys in the distance and dark peaks that touched a star-strewn sky. It was one of the most solitary, magnificent, heart-wrenchingly romantic spots he had ever seen.
And Brianna was down below, nursing a small bald parasite, while he was here—alone with a few dozen of his own.
He put the empty basket on the floor, hopped to the slop jar in the corner, then back to his lonely bed on the new surgery table. Why in hell had he told her he didn’t know, when she’d asked why he’d come back?
Well, because just then, he hadn’t known. He’d been wandering in the bloody wilderness for months, half starved and off his head with solitude and pain. He hadn’t seen her in nearly a year—a year in which he’d gone through hell and back. He’d sat on the cliff above that bloody stone circle for three solid days without food or fire, thinking things over, trying to decide. And in the end he’d simply gotten up and begun walking, knowing that it was the only possible choice.
Obligation? Love? How in hell could you have love without obligation?
He turned restlessly onto his other side, turning his back on the glorious night of scent and sun-warmed winds. The trouble with being restored to health was that some parts of him were getting a damn sight too healthy for comfort, given that the chance of their having any proper exercise was something below nil.
He couldn’t even suggest such a thing to Brianna. One, she might think he’d come back solely for that, and two, the bloody Great Scot had not been joking about the pig.
He knew now. He’d come back because he couldn’t live on the other side. If it were guilt over abandoning them—or the simple knowledge that he would die without her … either or both, take your choice. He knew what he was giving up, and none of it bloody mattered; he had to be here, that was all.
He flopped onto his back, staring up at the dim paleness of the pine boards that roofed his shelter. Thumps and skitterings announced the nightly visitation of squirrels from the nearby hickory tree, who found it a convenient shortcut.
How to tell her that, so she would believe it? Christ, she was so jumpy that she’d barely let him touch her. A brush of lips, a touch of hands, and she was sidling away. Except for the day when she’d held him while Claire had tortured his foot. Then, she’d been truly there for him, hanging on with all her strength. He could still feel her arms around him, and the memory gave him a small thump of satisfaction in the pit of his stomach.
Thinking on that, he wondered a bit. True, the doctoring had hurt like buggery, but it was nothing he couldn’t have stood with a little tooth-gritting, and Claire, with her battlefield experience, would certainly have known that.
Done it on purpose, had she? Given Bree a chance to touch him without feeling pressured or pursued? Given him a chance to remember just how strong the pull between them was? He rolled again, onto his stomach this time, and lay with his chin on his folded arms, looking out into the soft dark outside.
She could have the other foot, if she’d do it again.
* * *
Claire looked in on him once or twice each day, but he waited until the end of the week, when she came to remove the bandages, the maggots having presumably done their dirty work and—he hoped to God—cleared out.
“Oh, lovely,” she said, poking his foot with a surgeon’s ghoulish delight. “Granulating beautifully; almost no inflammation left.”
“Great,” he said. “Are they gone?”
“The maggots? Oh, yes,” she assured him. “They pupate within a few days. Did a nice job, didn’t they?” She ran a delicate thumbnail along the side of his foot, which tickled.
“I’ll take your word for it. I’m clear to walk on it, then?” He flexed the foot experimentally. It hurt a bit, but nothing compared to what it had before.
“Yes. Don’t wear shoes for a few more days, though. And for God’s sake, don’t step on anything sharp.”
She began to put away her things, humming to herself. She looked happy but tired; there were shadows under her eyes.
“Kid still howling at night?” he asked.
“Yes, poor thing. Can you hear him up here?”
“No. You just look tired.”
“I’m not surprised. Nobody’s had a good night’s sleep all week, especially poor Bree, since she’s the only one who can feed him.” She yawned briefly and shook her head, blinking. “Jamie’s got the back bedroom here nearly floored; he wants to move up here as soon as it’s ready—give Bree and the baby more room, and, not incidentally, have a little peace and quiet ourselves.”
“Good idea. Ah—speaking of Bree …”
“Mm?”
No use dragging it out; better say it straight.
“Look—I’m trying all I can. I love her, and I want to show her that, but—she sheers off. She comes and we talk, and it’s great, but then I go to put an arm around her or kiss her, and suddenly she’s across the room, picking leaves off the floor. Is there something wrong, something I should do?”
She gave him one of those disconcerting yellow looks of hers; straightforward and ruthless as a hawk.
“You were her first, weren’t you? The first man she slept with, I mean.”
He felt the blood rising his cheeks.
“I—ah—yes.”
“Well, then. So far her entire experience of what one might call the delights of sex consists of being deflowered—and I don’t care how gentle you were about it, it tends to hurt—being raped two days later, then giving birth. You think this is calculated to make her fall swooning into your arms in anticipation of your reclaiming your marital rights?”
You asked for it, he thought, and you got it. Right between the eyes. His cheeks burned hotter than they ever had with fever.
“I never thought of that,” he muttered to the wall.
“Well, naturally not,” she said, sounding torn between exasperation and amusement. “You’re a bloody man. That’s why I’m telling you.”
He took a deep breath, and reluctantly turned back to face her.
“And just what are you telling me?”
“That she’s afraid,” she said. She cocked her head to one side, evaluating him. “Though it’s not you she’s afraid of, by the way.”
“It’s not?”
“No,” she said bluntly. “She may have convinced herself that she has to know why you came back, but that’s not it—a regiment of blind men could see that. It’s that she’s afraid she won’t be able to—mmphm.” She raised one brow at him, encompassing a wealth of indelicate suggestion.
“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 w
ell. 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?”
“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—fa
r 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.
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