The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  I thought I heard nostalgia in his voice, but not sorrow. He’d asked, though; so would I.

  “And do you ever wish to be … back?”

  “Oh, aye,” he said, surprising me—and then laughed at the look on my face. “But not enough not to wish more to be here, Sassenach.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the tiny graveyard, with its small collection of cairns and crosses, with here and there a larger boulder marking a particular grave.

  “Did ye ken, Sassenach, that some folk believe the last person to lie in a graveyard becomes its guardian? He must stand on guard until the next person dies and comes to take his place—only then can he rest.”

  “I suppose our mysterious Ephraim might be rather surprised to find himself in such a position, when here he’d lain down under a tree all alone,” I said, smiling a little. “But I do wonder: what is the guardian of a graveyard guarding—and from whom?”

  He laughed at that.

  “Oh … vandals, maybe; desecraters. Or charmers.”

  “Charmers?” I was surprised at that; I’d thought the word “charmer” synonymous with “healer.”

  “There are charms that call for bones, Sassenach,” he said. “Or the ashes of a burnt body. Or soil from a grave.” He spoke lightly enough, but with no sense of jesting. “Aye, even the dead may need defending.”

  “And who better to do it than a resident ghost?” I said. “Quite.”

  We climbed up through a stand of quivering aspen, whose light dappled us with green and silver, and I paused to scrape a blob of the crimson sap from a paper-white trunk. How odd, I thought, wondering why the sight of it gave me pause—and then remembered, and turned sharply to look again at the graveyard.

  Not a memory, but a dream—or a vision. A man, battered and broken, rising to his feet amid a stand of aspen, rising for what he knew was the last time, his last fight, baring shattered teeth stained with blood that was the color of the aspens’ sap. His face was painted black for death—and I knew that there were silver fillings in his teeth.

  But the granite boulder stood silent and peaceful, drifted all about with yellow pine needles, marking the rest of the man who had once called himself Otter-Tooth.

  The moment passed, and vanished. We walked out of the aspens, and into another clearing, this one higher than the rise the graveyard stood on.

  I was surprised to see that someone had been cutting timber here, and clearing the ground. A sizable stack of felled logs lay to one side, and nearby lay a tangle of uprooted stumps, though several more, still rooted in the ground, poked through the heavy growth of wood sorrel and bluet.

  “Look, Sassenach.” Jamie turned me with a hand on my elbow.

  “Oh. Oh, my.”

  The ground rose high enough here that we could look out over a stunning vista. The trees fell away below us, and we could see beyond our mountain, and beyond the next, and the next, into a blue distance, hazed with the breath of the mountains, clouds rising from their hollows.

  “D’ye like it?” The note of proprietorial pride in his voice was palpable.

  “Of course I like it. What—?” I turned, gesturing at the logs, the stumps.

  “The next house will stand here, Sassenach,” he said simply.

  “The next house? What, are we building another?”

  “Well, I dinna ken will it be us, or maybe our children—or grandchildren,” he added, mouth curling a little. “But I thought, should anything happen—and I dinna think anything will, mind, but if it should—well, I should be happier to have made a start. Just in case.”

  I stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of this. “Should anything happen,” I said slowly, and turned to look to the east, where the shape of our house was just visible among the trees, its chimney smoke a white plume among the soft green of the chestnuts and firs. “Should it really … burn down, you mean.” Just putting the idea into words made my stomach curl up into a ball.

  Then I looked at him again, and saw that the notion scared him, too. But Jamie-like, he had simply set about to take what action he could, against the day of disaster.

  “D’ye like it?” he repeated, blue eyes intent. “The site, I mean. If not, I can choose another.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, feeling tears prickle at the backs of my eyes. “Just beautiful, Jamie.”

  Hot after the climb, we sat down in the shade of a giant hemlock, to admire our future view. And, with the silence broken concerning the dire possibility of the future, found we could discuss it.

  “It’s not so much the idea of us dying,” I said. “Or not entirely. It’s that ‘no surviving children’ that gives me the whim-whams.”

  “Well, I take your point, Sassenach. Though I’m no in favor of us dying, either, and I mean to see we don’t,” he assured me. “Think, though. It might not mean they’re dead. They might only … go.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to accept that supposition without panic.

  “Go. Go back, you mean. Roger and Bree—and Jemmy, I suppose. We’re assuming he can—can travel through the stones.”

  He nodded soberly, arms clasped about his knees.

  “After what he did to that opal? Aye, I think we must assume he can.” I nodded, recalling what he’d done to the opal: held it, complaining of it growing hot in his hand—until it exploded, shattering into hundreds of needle-sharp fragments. Yes, I thought we must assume he could time-travel, too. But what if Brianna had another child? It was plain to me that she and Roger wanted another—or at least that Roger did, and she was willing.

  The thought of losing them was acutely painful, but I supposed the possibility had to be faced.

  “Which leaves a choice, I suppose,” I said, trying to be brave and objective. “If we’re dead, they’d go, because without us, they’ve no real reason to be here. But if we’re not dead—will they go anyway? Will we send them away, I mean? Because of the war. It won’t be safe.”

  “No,” he said softly. His head was bent, stray auburn hairs lifting from his crown, from the cowlicks he had bequeathed both to Bree and to Jemmy.

  “I dinna ken,” he said at last, and lifted his head, looking out into the distance of land and sky. “No one does, Sassenach. We must just meet what comes as we can.”

  He turned and laid his hand over mine, with a smile that had as much of pain in it as joy.

  “We’ve ghosts enough between us, Sassenach. If the evils of the past canna hinder us—neither then shall any fears of the future. We must just put things behind us and get on. Aye?”

  I laid a light hand on his chest, not in invitation, but only because I wanted the feel of him. His skin was cool from sweating, but he had helped dig the grave; the heat of his labor glowed in the muscle beneath.

  “You were one of my ghosts,” I said. “For a long time. And for a long time, I tried to put you behind me.”

  “Did ye, then?” His own hand came to rest lightly on my back, moving unconsciously. I knew that touch—the need of touching only to reassure oneself that the other was actually there, present in flesh.

  “I thought I couldn’t live, looking back—couldn’t bear it.” My throat was thick with the memory of it.

  “I know,” he said softly, his hand rising to touch my hair. “But ye had the bairn—ye had a husband. It wasna right to turn your back on them.”

  “It wasn’t right to turn my back on you.” I blinked, but tears were leaking from the corners of my eyes. He drew my head close, put out his tongue, and delicately licked my face, which surprised me so much that I laughed in the midst of a sob, and nearly choked.

  “I do love thee, as meat loves salt,” he quoted, and laughed, too, very softly. “Dinna weep, Sassenach. Ye’re here; so am I. There’s naught that matters, aside from that.”

  I leaned my forehead against his cheek, and put my arms around him. My hands rested flat on the planes of his back, and I stroked him from the blade of his shoulder to the tapering small of his back, lightly, alwa
ys lightly, tracing the whole of him, the shape of him, and not the scars that reamed his skin.

  He held me close, and sighed deeply.

  “D’ye ken we’ve been wed this time nearly twice as long as the last?”

  I drew back and frowned dubiously at him, accepting the distraction.

  “Were we not married in between?”

  That took him by surprise; he frowned, too, and ran a finger slowly down the sunburnt bridge of his nose in thought.

  “Well, there’s a question for a priest, to be sure,” he said. “I should think we were—but if so, are we not both bigamists?”

  “Were, not are,” I corrected, feeling slightly uneasy. “But we weren’t, really. Father Anselme said so.”

  “Anselme?”

  “Father Anselme—a Franciscan priest at the Abbey of St. Anne. But perhaps you wouldn’t recall him; you were very ill at the time.”

  “Oh, I recall him,” he said. “He would come and sit wi’ me at night, when I couldna sleep.” He smiled, a little lopsided; that time wasn’t something he wished to remember. “He liked ye a great deal, Sassenach.”

  “Oh? And what about you?” I asked, wanting to distract him from the memory of St. Anne. “Didn’t you like me?”

  “Oh, I liked ye fine then,” he assured me. “I maybe like ye even more now, though.”

  “Oh, do you, indeed.” I sat up a little straighter, preening. “What’s different?”

  He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing a bit in appraisal.

  “Well, ye fart less in your sleep,” he began judiciously, then ducked, laughing, as a pinecone whizzed past his left ear. I seized a chunk of wood, but before I could bat him over the head with it, he lunged and caught me by the arms. He shoved me flat in the grass and collapsed on top of me, pinning me effortlessly.

  “Get off, you oaf! I do not fart in my sleep!”

  “Now, how would ye ken that, Sassenach? Ye sleep so sound, ye wouldna wake, even to the sound of your own snoring.”

  “Oh, you want to talk about snoring, do you? You—”

  “Ye’re proud as Lucifer,” he said, interrupting. He was still smiling, but the words were more serious. “And ye’re brave. Ye were always bolder than was safe; now ye’re fierce as a wee badger.”

  “So I’m arrogant and ferocious. This does not sound like much of a catalog of womanly virtues,” I said, puffing a bit as I strained to wriggle out from under him.

  “Well, ye’re kind, too,” he said, considering. “Verra kind. Though ye are inclined to do it on your own terms. Not that that’s bad, mind,” he added, neatly recapturing the arm I had extricated. He pinned my wrist over my head.

  “Womanly,” he murmured, brows knotted in concentration. “Womanly virtues …” His free hand crept between us and fastened on my breast.

  “Besides that!”

  “You’re verra clean,” he said approvingly. He let go my wrist and ruffled a hand through my hair—which was indeed clean, smelling of sunflower and marigolds.

  “I’ve never seen any woman wash herself sae much as you do—save Brianna, perhaps.

  “Ye’re no much of a cook,” he went on, squinting thoughtfully. “Though ye’ve never poisoned anyone, save on purpose. And I will say ye sew a neat seam—though ye like it much better if it’s through someone’s flesh.”

  “Thanks so much!”

  “Tell me some more virtues,” he suggested. “Perhaps I’ve missed one.”

  “Hmph! Gentleness, patience …” I floundered.

  “Gentle? Christ.” He shook his head. “Ye’re the most ruthless, bloodthirsty—”

  I darted my head upward, and nearly succeeded in biting him in the throat. He jerked back, laughing.

  “No, ye’re no verra patient, either.”

  I gave up struggling for the moment and collapsed flat on my back, tousled hair spread out on the grass.

  “So what is my most endearing trait?” I demanded.

  “Ye think I’m funny,” he said, grinning.

  “I … do … not …” I grunted, struggling madly. He merely lay on top of me, tranquilly oblivious to my pokings and thumpings, until I exhausted myself and lay gasping underneath him.

  “And,” he said thoughtfully, “ye like it verra much when I take ye to bed. No?”

  “Er …” I wanted to contradict him, but honesty forbade. Besides, he bloody well knew I did.

  “You are squashing me,” I said with dignity. “Kindly get off.”

  “No?” he repeated, not moving.

  “Yes! All right! Yes! Will you bloody get off?!”

  He didn’t get off, but bent his head and kissed me. I was close-lipped, determined not to give in, but he was determined, too, and if one came right down to it … the skin of his face was warm, the plush of his beard stubble softly scratchy, and his wide sweet mouth … My legs were open in abandon and he was solid between them, bare chest smelling of musk and sweat and sawdust caught in the wiry auburn hair.… I was still hot with struggling, but the grass was damp and cool around us.… Well, all right; another minute, and he could have me right there, if he cared to.

  He felt me yield, and sighed, letting his own body slacken; he no longer held me prisoner, but simply held me. He lifted his head then, and cupped my face with one hand.

  “D’ye want to know what it is, really?” he asked, and I could see from the dark blue of his eyes that he meant it. I nodded, mute.

  “Above all creatures on this earth,” he whispered, “you are faithful.”

  I thought of saying something about St. Bernard dogs, but there was such tenderness in his face that I said nothing, instead merely staring up at him, blinking against the green light that filtered through the needles overhead.

  “Well,” I said at last, with a deep sigh of my own, “so are you. Quite a good thing, really. Isn’t it?”

  21

  WE HAVE IGNITION

  Mrs. Bug had made chicken fricassee for supper, but that wasn’t sufficient to account for the air of suppressed excitement that Bree and Roger brought with them when they came in. They were both smiling, her cheeks were flushed, and his eyes as bright as hers.

  So when Roger announced that they had great news, it was perhaps only reasonable that Mrs. Bug should leap directly to the obvious conclusion.

  “You’re wi’ child again!” she cried, dropping a spoon in her excitement. She clapped her hands together, inflating like a birthday balloon. “Oh, the joy of it! And about time, too,” she added, letting go her hands to wag a finger at Roger. “And here was me thinkin’ as I should add a bit o’ ginger and brimstone to your parritch, young man, so as to bring ye up to scratch! But ye kent your business weel enough in the end, I see. And you, a bhailach, what d’ye think? A bonny wee brother for ye!”

  Jemmy, thus addressed, stared up at her, mouth open.

  “Er …” said Roger, flushing up.

  “Or, of course, it might be a wee sister, I suppose,” Mrs. Bug admitted. “But good news, good news, either way. Here, a luaidh, have a sweetie on the strength of it, and the rest of us will drink to it!”

  Obviously bewildered, but strongly in favor of sweeties, Jem took the proffered molasses drop and stuck it promptly in his mouth.

  “But he isn’t—” Bree began.

  “Nank you, Missus Bug,” Jem said hastily, putting a hand over his mouth lest his mother try to repossess this distinctly forbidden predinner treat on grounds of impoliteness.

  “Oh, a wee sweetie will do him nay harm,” Mrs. Bug assured her, picking up the fallen spoon and wiping it on her apron. “Call Arch in, a muirninn, and we’ll tell him your news. Blessed Bride save ye, lass, I thought ye’d never get round to it! Here was all the ladies saying’ as they didna ken whether ye’d turned cold to your husband, or was it him maybe, lackin’ the vital spark, but as it is—”

  “Well, as it is,” said Roger, raising his voice in order to be heard.

  “I’m not pregnant!” said Bree, very loudly.

>   The succeeding silence echoed like a thunderclap.

  “Oh,” said Jamie mildly. He picked up a serviette and sat down, tucking it into the neck of his shirt. “Well, then. Shall we eat?” He held out a hand to Jem, who scrambled up onto the bench beside him, still sucking fiercely on his molasses drop.

  Mrs. Bug, momentarily turned to stone, revived with a marked “Hmpf!” Massively affronted, she turned to the sideboard and slapped down a stack of pewter plates with a clatter.

  Roger, still rather flushed, appeared to find the situation funny, judging from the twitching of his mouth. Brianna was incandescent, and breathing like a grampus.

  “Sit down, darling,” I said, in the tentative manner of one addressing a large explosive device. “You … um … had some news, you said?”

  “Never mind!” She stood still, glaring. “Nobody cares, since I’m not pregnant. After all, what else could I possibly do that anybody would think was worthwhile?” She shoved a violent hand through her hair, and encountering the ribbon tying it back, yanked this loose and flung it on the ground.

  “Now, sweetheart …” Roger began. I could have told him this was a mistake; Frasers in a fury tended to pay no attention to honeyed words, being instead inclined to go for the throat of the nearest party unwary enough to speak to them.

  “Don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me!” she snapped, turning on him. “You think so, too! You think everything I do is a waste of time if it isn’t washing clothes or cooking dinner or mending your effing socks! And you blame me for not getting pregnant, too, you think it’s my fault! Well, it’s NOT, and you know it!”

  “No! I don’t think that, I don’t at all. Brianna, please.…” He stretched out a hand to her, then thought better of the gesture and withdrew it, clearly feeling that she might take his hand off at the wrist.

  “Less EAT, Mummy!” Jemmy piped up helpfully. A long string of molasses-tinged saliva flowed from the corner of his mouth and dripped down the front of his shirt. Seeing this, his mother turned on Mrs. Bug like a tiger.