The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  Thinking the house empty, he had been startled by noises in the bedchamber overhead.

  “What sort of noises?” I asked, fascinated.

  “Well … shrieks,” he said, shrugging. “And giggling. A bit of shoving and banging, with a stool or some such falling over. If it weren’t for the yaffling, I should have thought there were thieves in the house. But I kent it was Jenny’s voice, and Ian’s, and—” He broke off, his ears going pink at the memory.

  “So then … there was a bit more—raised voices, like—and then the crack of a belt on a bum, and the sort of skelloch ye could hear across six fields.”

  He took a deep breath, shrugging.

  “Well, I was taken back a bit, and couldna think what to do at once.”

  I nodded, understanding that, at least.

  “I expect it would be a bit of an awkward situation, yes. It … er … went on, though?”

  He nodded. His ears were a deep red by now, and his face flushed, though that might only be from heat.

  “Aye, it did.” He glanced at me. “Mind, Sassenach, if I’d thought he meant harm to her, I should have been up the stairs in an instant. But …” He brushed away an inquisitive bee, shaking his head. “There was—it felt—I canna even think how to say it. It wasna really that Jenny kept laughing, because she didna—but that I felt she wanted to. And Ian … well, Ian was laughing. Not out loud, I dinna mean; it was just … in his voice.”

  He blew out his breath, and swiped his knuckles along his jaw, wiping sweat.

  “I stayed quite frozen there, wi’ a bit of pie in my hand, listening. I came to myself only when the flies started lighting in my open mouth, and by that time, they’d … ah … they were … mmphm.” He hunched his shoulders, as though his shirt were too tight.

  “Making it up, were they?” I asked very dryly.

  “I expect so,” he replied, rather primly. “I left. Walked all the way to Foyne, and stayed the night with Grannie MacNab.” Foyne was a tiny hamlet, some fifteen miles from Lallybroch.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Well, I had to,” he said logically. “I couldna ignore it, after all. It was either walk about and think of things, or else give in and abuse myself, and I couldna verra well do that—it was my own sister, after all.”

  “You mean to say you can’t think and engage in sexual activity at the same time?” I asked, laughing.

  “Of course not,” he said—thus confirming a long-held private opinion of mine—and gave me a look as though I were crazy. “Can you?”

  “I can, yes.”

  He raised one eyebrow, plainly unconvinced.

  “Well, I’m not saying I do, always,” I admitted, “but it’s possible. Women are used to doing more than one thing at once—they have to, because of the children. Anyway, go back to Jenny and Ian. Why on earth—”

  “Well, I did walk about and think of it,” Jamie admitted. “I couldna seem to stop thinking of it, to be honest. Grannie MacNab could see I’d something on my mind, and pestered me over the supper until … ah … well, until I told her about it.”

  “Really. What did she say?” I asked, fascinated. I’d known Grannie MacNab, a sprightly old person with a highly forthright manner—and a lot of experience with human weakness.

  “She cackled like thorns under a pot,” he said, one side of his mouth turning up. “I thought she’d fall into the fire wi’ merriment.”

  Recovered to some extent, though, the old lady had wiped her eyes and explained matters to him, kindly, as though addressing a simpleton.

  “She said it was because of Ian’s leg,” Jamie said, glancing at me to see whether this made sense to me. “She said that such a thing would make no difference to Jenny, but it would to him. She said,” he added, his color heightening, “that men havena got any idea what women think about bed, but they always think they have, so it causes trouble.”

  “I knew I liked Grannie MacNab,” I murmured. “What else?”

  “Well, so. She said it was likely that Jenny was only makin’ it clear to Ian—and maybe to herself, as well—that she still thought he was a man, leg or no.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because, Sassenach,” he said, very dryly indeed, “when ye’re a man, a good bit of what ye have to do is to draw up lines and fight other folk who come over them. Your enemies, your tenants, your children—your wife. Ye canna always just strike them or take a strap to them, but when ye can, at least it’s clear to everyone who’s in charge.”

  “But that’s perfectly—” I began, and then broke off, frowning as I considered this.

  “And if ye’re a man, you’re in charge. It’s you that keeps order, whether ye like it or not. It’s true,” he said, then touched my elbow as he nodded toward an opening in the wood. “I’m thirsty. Shall we stop a bit?”

  I followed him up a narrow path through the wood to what we called the Green Spring—a bubbling flow of water over pale serpentine stone, set in a cool, shady bowl of surrounding moss. We knelt, splashed our faces, and drank, sighing with grateful relief. Jamie tipped a handful of water down inside his shirt, closing his eyes in bliss. I laughed at him, but unpinned my sweat-soaked kerchief and doused it in the spring, using it to wipe my neck and arms.

  The walk to the spring had caused a break in the conversation, and I wasn’t sure quite how—or whether—to resume it. Instead, I merely sat quietly in the shade, arms about my knees, idly wriggling my toes in the moss.

  Jamie, too, seemed to feel no need of speech for the moment. He leaned comfortably back against a rock, the wet fabric of his shirt plastered to his chest, and we sat still, listening to the wood.

  I wasn’t sure what to say, but that didn’t mean I had stopped thinking about the conversation. In an odd way, I thought I understood what Grannie MacNab had meant—though I wasn’t quite sure I agreed with it.

  I was thinking more about what Jamie had said, though, regarding a man’s responsibility. Was it true? Perhaps it was, though I had never thought of it in that light before. It was true that he was a bulwark—not only for me, and for the family, but for the tenants, as well. Was that really how he did it, though? “Draw up lines, and fight other folk who come over them”? I rather thought it was.

  There were lines between him and me, surely; I could have drawn them on the moss. Which was not to say we did not “come across” each other’s lines—we did, frequently, and with varying results. I had my own defenses—and means of enforcement. But he had only beaten me once for crossing his lines, and that was early on. So, had he seen that as a necessary fight? I supposed he had; that was what he was telling me.

  But he had been following his own train of thought, which was running on a different track.

  “It’s verra odd,” he said thoughtfully. “Laoghaire drove me mad wi’ great regularity, but it never once occurred to me to thrash her.”

  “Well, how very thoughtless of you,” I said, drawing myself up. I disliked hearing him refer to Laoghaire, no matter what the context.

  “Oh, it was,” he replied seriously, taking no notice of my sarcasm. “I think it was that I didna care enough for her to think of it, let alone do it.”

  “You didn’t care enough to beat her? Wasn’t she the lucky one, then?”

  He caught the tone of pique in my voice; his eyes sharpened and fixed on my face.

  “Not to hurt her,” he said. Some new thought came to him; I saw it cross his face.

  He smiled a little, got up, and came toward me. He reached down and pulled me to my feet, then took hold of my wrist, which he lifted gently over my head and pinned against the trunk of the pine I had been sitting under, so that I was obliged to lean back flat against it.

  “Not to hurt her,” he said again, speaking softly. “To own her. I didna want to possess her. You, mo nighean donn—you, I would own.”

  “Own me?” I said. “And what, exactly, do you mean by that?”

  “What I say.” There was still a gleam of humor in his eyes,
but his voice was serious. “Ye’re mine, Sassenach. And I would do anything I thought I must to make that clear.”

  “Oh, indeed. Including beating me on a regular basis?”

  “No, I wouldna do that.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, and the pressure of his grip on my trapped wrist increased. His eyes were deep blue, an inch from mine. “I dinna need to—because I could, Sassenach—and ye ken that well.”

  I pulled against his grip, by sheer reflex. I remembered vividly that night in Doonesbury: the feeling of fighting him with all my strength—to no avail whatever. The horrifying feeling of being pinned to the bed, defenseless and exposed, realizing that he could do anything whatever that he liked to me—and would.

  I squirmed violently, trying to escape the grip of memory, as much as his grasp on my flesh. I didn’t succeed, but did turn my wrist so as to be able to sink my nails into his hand.

  He didn’t flinch or look away. His other hand touched me lightly—no more than a brush of my earlobe, but that was quite enough. He could touch me anywhere—in any way.

  Evidently, women are capable of experiencing rational thought and sexual arousal simultaneously, because I appeared to be doing precisely that.

  My brain was engaged in indignant rebuttal of all kinds of things, including at least half of everything he’d said in the course of the last few minutes.

  At the same time, the other end of my spinal cord was not merely shamefully aroused at the thought of physical possession; it was bloody deliriously weak-kneed with desire at the notion, and was causing my hips to sway outward, brushing his.

  He was still ignoring the dig of my nails. His other hand came up and took my free hand before I could do anything violent with it; he folded his fingers around mine and held them captive, down at my side.

  “If ye asked me, Sassenach, to free ye—” he whispered, “d’ye think I’d do so?”

  I took a deep breath; deep enough that my breasts brushed his chest, he stood so close, and realization welled up in me. I stood still, breathing, watching his eyes, and felt my agitation fade slowly away, mutating into a sense of conviction, heavy and warm in the pit of my belly.

  I had thought my body swayed in answer to his—and it did. But his moved unconsciously with mine; the rhythm of the pulse I saw in his throat was the pounding of the heartbeat that echoed in my wrist, and the sway of his body followed mine, barely touching, moving scarcely more than the leaves above, sighing on the breeze.

  “I wouldn’t ask,” I whispered. “I’d tell you. And you’d do it. You’d do as I said.”

  “Would I?” His grip on my wrist was still firm, and his face so close to mine that I felt his smile, rather than saw it.

  “Yes,” I said. I had stopped pulling at my trapped wrist; instead, I pulled my other hand from his—he made no move to stop me—and brushed a thumb from the lobe of his ear down the side of his neck. He took a short, sharp breath, and a tiny shudder ran through him, stippling his skin with goosebumps in the wake of my touch.

  “Yes, you would,” I said again very softly. “Because I own you, too … man. Don’t I?”

  His hand released its grip abruptly and slid upward, long fingers intertwining with mine, his palm large and warm and hard against my own.

  “Oh, aye,” he said, just as softly. “Ye do.” He lowered his head the last half-inch and his lips brushed mine, whispering, so that I felt the words as much as heard them.

  “And I ken that verra well indeed, mo nighean donn.”

  48

  WOODEARS

  Despite his dismissal of her worries, Jamie had promised his wife to look into the matter, and found opportunity to speak with Malva Christie a few days later.

  Coming back from Kenny Lindsay’s place, he met a snake curled up in the dust of the path before him. It was a largish creature, but gaily striped—not one of the venomous vipers. Still, he couldn’t help it; snakes gave him the grue, and he did not wish to pick it up with his hands, nor yet to step over it. It might not be disposed to lunge up his kilt—but then again, it might. For its part, the snake remained stubbornly curled among the leaves, not budging in response to his “Shoo!” or the stamping of his foot.

  He took a step to the side, found an alder, and cut a good stick from it, with which he firmly escorted the wee beastie off the path and into the wood. Affronted, the snake writhed off at a good rate of speed into a hobble-bush, and next thing, a loud shriek came from the other side of the bush.

  He darted round it to find Malva Christie, making an urgent, though unsuccessful, effort to squash the agitated snake with a large basket.

  “It’s all right, lass, let him go.” He seized her arm, causing a number of mushrooms to cascade out of her basket, and the snake decamped indignantly in search of quieter surroundings.

  He crouched and scooped up the mushrooms for her, while she gasped and fanned herself with the end of her apron.

  “Oh, thank ye, sir,” she said, bosom heaving. “I’m that terrified o’ snakes.”

  “Och, well, that’s no but a wee king snake,” he said, affecting nonchalance. “Great ratters—or so I’m told.”

  “Maybe so, but they’ve a wicked bite.” She shuddered briefly.

  “Ye’ve no been bitten, have ye?” He stood up and dumped a final handful of fungus into her basket, and she curtsied in thanks.

  “No, sir.” She straightened her cap “But Mr. Crombie was. Gully Dornan brought one of those things in a box, to Sunday meeting last, just for mischief, for he kent the text was For they shall take up poisonous serpents and suffer no harm. I think he meant to let it out in the midst of the prayin’.” She grinned at the telling, clearly reliving the event.

  “But Mr. Crombie saw him with the box, and took it from him, not knowing what was in it. Well, so—Gully was shaking of the box, to keep the snake awake, and when Mr. Crombie opened it, the snake came out like a jack-i’-the-box and bit Mr. Crombie on the lip.”

  Jamie couldn’t help smiling in turn.

  “Did it, then? I dinna recall hearing about that.”

  “Well, Mr. Crombie was that furious,” she said, trying for tact. “I imagine no one wanted to spread the story, sir, for fear he’d maybe pop with rage.”

  “Aye, I see,” he said dryly. “And that’s why he wouldna come to have my wife see to the wound, I suppose.”

  “Oh, he wouldna do that, sir,” she assured him, shaking her head. “Not if he was to have cut off his nose by mistake.”

  “No?”

  She picked up the basket, glancing shyly up at him.

  “Well … no. Some say may be as your wife’s a witch, did ye ken that?”

  He felt an unpleasant tightness in his wame, though he was not surprised to hear it.

  “She is a Sassenach,” he answered, calm. “Folk will always say such things of a stranger, especially a woman.” He glanced sideways at her, but her eyes were modestly cast down to the contents of her basket. “Think so yourself, do ye?”

  She looked up at that, gray eyes wide.

  “Oh, no, sir! Never!”

  She spoke with such earnestness that he smiled, despite the seriousness of his errand.

  “Well, I suppose ye’d have noticed, so much time as ye spend in her surgery.”

  “Oh, I should wish nothing but to be just like her, sir!” she assured him, clutching the handle of her basket in worshipful enthusiasm. “She is so kind and lovely, and she kens so much! I want to know all she can teach me, sir.”

  “Aye, well. She’s said often how good it is to have such a pupil as yourself, lass. Ye’re a great help to her.” He cleared his throat, wondering how best to work round from these cordialities to a rude inquiry as to whether her father was interfering with her. “Ah … your Da doesna mind that ye spend so much time with my wife?”

  A cloud fell upon her countenance at that, and her long black lashes swept down, hiding the dove-gray eyes.

  “Oh. Well. He … he doesna say I mustna go.”

&nbs
p; Jamie made a noncommittal sound in his throat, and gestured her ahead of him back to the path, where he strode along for a bit without further question, allowing her to regain her composure.

  “What d’ye think your father will do,” he inquired, swishing his stick casually through a patch of toadflax, “once ye’ve wed and left his house? Is there a woman he might consider? He’d need someone to do for him, I expect.”

  Her lips tightened at that, to his interest, and a faint flush rose in her cheeks.

  “I dinna mean to be wed anytime soon, sir. We’ll manage well enough.”

  Her answer was short enough to cause him to probe a bit.

  “No? Surely ye’ve suitors, lass—the lads swoon after ye in droves; I’ve seen them.”

  The flush on her skin bloomed brighter.

  “Please, sir, ye’ll say no such thing to my faither!”

  That rang a small alarm bell in him—but then, she might mean only that Tom Christie was a strict parent, vigilant of his daughter’s virtue. And he would have been astonished to the marrow to learn that Christie was soft, indulgent, or in any way delinquent in such responsibilities.

  “I shall not,” he said mildly. “I was only teasin’, lass. Is your father sae fierce, then?”

  She did look at him then, very direct.

  “Thought ye kent him, sir.”

  He burst out laughing at that, and after a moment’s hesitation, she joined him, with a small titter like the sound of the wee birds in the trees above.

  “I do,” he said, recovering. “He’s a good man, Tom—if a bit dour.”

  He looked to see the effect of this. Her face was still flushed, but there was a tiny residual smile on her lips. That was good.

  “Well, so,” he resumed casually, “have ye enough of the woodears there?” He nodded at her basket. “I saw a good many yesterday, up near the Green Spring.”