Диана Гэблдон - A Breath of Snow and Ashes 6

God knew how long he’d been in here, she thought. Long enough to lick all the butter out of its mold, pull down a cluster of smoked fish from the rafters—and how something so fat had managed the acrobatic feat required for that . . . Luckily, the honeycomb had been stored in three separate jars, and only one had been despoiled. But the root vegetables had been dumped on the floor, a fresh cheese mostly devoured, and the precious jug of maple syrup had been overturned, draining into a sticky puddle in the dirt. The sight of this loss enraged her afresh, and she squeezed the potato she had just picked up so hard that her nails sank through its skin.

“Bloody, bloody, beastly, horrible, bloody beast !”

“Who?” said a voice behind her. Startled, she whirled and fired the potato at the intruder, who proved to be Roger. It struck him squarely in the forehead and he staggered, clutching the door frame.

“Ow! Christ! Ow! What the hell’s going on in here?”

“Raccoon,” she said shortly, and stepped back, letting the waning light from the door illuminate the damage.

“He got the maple syrup? Bugger! Did you get the bastard?” Hand pressed to his forehead, Roger ducked inside the lean-to pantry, glancing about for furry bodies.

Seeing that her husband shared both her priorities and her sense of outrage soothed her somewhat.

“No,” she said. “He ran. Are you bleeding? And where’s Jem?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, taking the hand gingerly from his forehead and glancing at it. “Ow. You’ve a wicked arm, girl. Jem’s at the McGillivrays’. Lizzie and Mr. Wemyss took him along to celebrate Senga’s engagement.”

“Really? Who did she pick?” Both outrage and remorse were immediately subsumed in interest. Ute McGillivray, with German thoroughness, had carefully selected partners for her son and three daughters according to her own criteria—land, money, and respectability ranking highest, with age, personal appearance, and charm coming well down the list. Not surprisingly, her children had other ideas—though such was the force of Frau Ute’s personality that both Inga and Hilda had married men that she approved of.

Senga, though, was her mother’s daughter—meaning that she possessed similarly strong opinions and a similar lack of inhibition in expressing them. For months, she had been hovering between two suitors: Heinrich Strasse, a dashing but poor young man—and a Lutheran!—from Bethania, and Ronnie Sinclair, the cooper. A well-off man, by the standards of the Ridge, and to Ute, the fact that Ronnie was thirty years Senga’s senior was no bar.

The business of Senga McGillivray’s marriage had been a topic of intense speculation on the Ridge for the last several months, and Brianna was aware of several substantial wagers riding on the outcome.

“So who’s the lucky man?” she repeated.

“Mrs. Bug doesn’t know, and it’s driving her mad,” Roger replied, breaking into a grin. “Manfred McGillivray came to fetch them yesterday morning, but Mrs. Bug hadn’t come down to the Big House yet, so Lizzie left a note pinned to the back door to say where they’d gone—but she didn’t think to say who the fortunate bridegroom is.”

Brianna glanced at the setting sun; the orb itself had sunk out of sight, though the blazing light through the chestnut trees still lit the dooryard, making the spring grass look deep and soft as emerald velvet.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait ’til tomorrow to find out,” she said, with some regret. The McGillivrays’ place was a good five miles; it would be full dark long before they reached it, and even past the thaw, one didn’t wander the mountains at night without a good reason—or at least a better reason than mere curiosity.

“Aye. D’ye want to go up to the Big House for supper? Major MacDonald’s come.”

“Oh, him.” She considered for a moment. She would like to hear any news the Major had brought—and there was something to be said for having Mrs. Bug make supper. On the other hand, she was really in no mood to be sociable, after a grim three days, a long ride, and the desecration of her pantry.

She became aware that Roger was carefully not contributing an opinion. One arm leaning on the shelf where the dwindling stock of winter apples was spread, he idly caressed one of the fruits, a forefinger slowly stroking the round yellow cheek of it. Faint, familiar vibrations were coming off him, suggesting silently that there might be advantages to an evening at home, sans parents, acquaintances—or baby.

She smiled at Roger.

“How’s your poor head?”

He glanced at her briefly, the waning rays of the sun gilding the bridge of his nose and striking a flash of green from one eye. He cleared his throat.

“I suppose ye might kiss it,” he suggested diffidently. “If ye liked.”

She obligingly rose on her tiptoes and did so, gently, brushing back the thick black hair from his brow. There was a noticeable lump, though it hadn’t begun to bruise yet.

“Is that better?”

“Not yet. Better try again. Maybe a bit lower?”

His hands settled on the swell of her hips, drawing her in. She was nearly as tall as he was; she’d noticed before what an advantage of fit this was, but the impression struck her forcibly anew. She wriggled slightly, enjoying it, and Roger drew a deep, rasping breath.

“Not quite that low,” he said. “Not yet, anyway.”

“Picky, picky,” she said tolerantly, and kissed him on the mouth. His lips were warm, but the scent of bitter ash and damp earth clung to him—as it did to her—and she shivered a little, drawing back.

He kept a hand lightly on her back, but leaned past her, running a finger along the edge of the shelf where the jug of maple syrup had been overturned. He ran the finger lightly along her lower lip, then his own, and bent again to kiss her, sweetness rising up between them.

“I CAN’T REMEMBER how long it’s been since I’ve seen ye naked.”

She closed one eye and looked at him skeptically.

“About three days. I guess it wasn’t all that memorable.” It had been a great relief to shed the clothes she’d been wearing for the last three days and nights. Even naked and hastily washed, though, she still smelled dust in her hair and felt the grime of the journey between her toes.

“Oh, well, aye. That’s not what I mean, though—I mean, it’s been a long while since we’ve made love in the daylight.” He lay on his side, facing her, and smiled as he passed a light hand over the deep curve of her waist and the swell of buttock. “Ye’ve no idea how lovely ye look, stark naked, wi’ the sun behind you. All gold, like ye were dipped in it.”

He closed one eye, as though the sight dazzled him. She moved, and the sun shone in his face, making the open eye glow like an emerald in the split second before he blinked.

“Mmm.” She put out a lazy hand and drew his head in close to kiss him.

She did know what he meant. It felt strange—almost wicked, in a pleasant sort of way. Most often, they made love at night, after Jem was asleep, whispering to each other in the hearth-lit shadows, finding each other among the rustling, secret layers of quilts and nightclothes. And while Jem normally slept as though he’d been poleaxed, they were always half-conscious of the small, heavy-breathing mound beneath the quilt of his trundle bed nearby.

She was oddly just as conscious of Jem now, in his absence. It felt strange to be apart from him; not constantly aware of where he was, not feeling his body as a small, very mobile extension of her own. The freedom was exhilarating, but left her feeling uneasy, as though she had misplaced something valuable.