An echo in the bone - Gabaldon Diana (читать книги TXT) 📗

“Who is she?” he asked, interest bright in his face. “Tell me about her.”

And so he told about Rachel. He was surprised that there was so much to tell, in fact, considering that he’d known her only a few weeks and kissed her just the once.

His father sighed—he sighed all the time, it was the only way he got enough breath, but this one was a sigh of happiness.

“Ah, Ian,” he said fondly. “I’m happy for ye. I canna say how happy. It’s what your mother and I have prayed for, these many years, that ye’d have a good woman to love and a family by her.”

“Well, it’s soon to be speaking of my family,” Young Ian pointed out. “Considering she’s a Quaker and likely won’t wed me. And considering I’m in Scotland and she’s wi’ the Continental army in America, probably bein’ shot at or infected wi’ plague right this minute.”

He’d meant it seriously and was somewhat offended when his father laughed. But then the elder Ian leaned forward and said with utter seriousness, “Ye needna wait for me to die. Ye need to go and find your young woman.”

“I canna—”

“Aye, ye can. Young Jamie’s got Lallybroch, the girls are well wed, and Michael—” He grinned at the thought of Michael. “Michael will do well enough, I think. A man needs a wife, and a good one is the greatest gift God has for a man. I’d go much easier, a bhailach, if I kent ye were well fettled in that way.”

“Aye, well,” Young Ian murmured. “Maybe so. But I’ll not go just yet.”

OLD DEBTS

JAMIE SWALLOWED THE last bite of porridge and took a deep breath, laying down his spoon.

“Jenny?”

“O’ course there’s more,” she said, reaching for his bowl. Then she caught sight of his face and stopped, eyes narrowing. “Or is that not what ye had need of?”

“I wouldna say it’s a need, precisely. But…” He glanced up at the ceiling to avoid her gaze and commended his soul to God. “What d’ye ken of Laoghaire MacKenzie?”

He risked a quick glance at his sister and saw that her eyes had gone round, bright with interest.

“Laoghaire, is it?” She sat back down and began to tap her fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop. Her hands were good for her age, he thought: work-worn, but the fingers still slim and lively.

“She’s not wed,” Jenny said. “But ye’ll ken that, I imagine.”

He nodded shortly.

“What is it ye want to know about her?”

“Well… how she fares, I suppose. And …”

“And who’s sharing her bed?”

He gave his sister a look.

“Ye’re a lewd woman, Janet Murray.”

“Oh, aye? Well, awa’ wi’ ye, then, and ask the cat.” Blue eyes just like his own glittered at him for an instant, and the dimple showed in her cheek. He knew that look and yielded with what grace was possible.

“D’ye know?”

“No,” she said promptly.

He raised one brow in disbelief. “Oh, aye. Pull the other one.”

She shook her head and ran a finger round the edge of the honey jar, wiping off a golden bead. “I swear on St. Fouthad’s toenails.”

He hadn’t heard that one since he was ten and laughed out loud, despite the situation.

“Well, then, no more to be said, is there?” He leaned back in his chair, affecting indifference. She made a small huffing noise, got up, and began busily to clear the table. He watched her with narrowed eyes, not sure whether she was messing him about only for the sake of mischief—in which case, she’d yield in a moment—or whether there was something more to it.

“Why is it ye want to know?” she asked suddenly, eyes on the stack of sticky bowls. That brought him up short.

“I didna say I did want to know,” he pointed out. “But since ye mentioned it—anyone would be curious, no?”

“They would,” she agreed. She straightened up and looked at him, a long, searching sort of look that made him wonder whether he’d washed behind his ears.

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “And that’s the truth. I only heard from her that once that I wrote ye.”

Aye, and just why did ye write me about it? he wondered, but didn’t say so out loud.

“Mmphm,” he said. “And ye expect me to believe that ye left it there?”

HE REMEMBERED IT. Standing here in his old room at Lallybroch, the one he’d had as a boy, on the morning of his wedding to Laoghaire.

He’d had a new shirt for the occasion. There wasn’t money for much beyond the barest essentials, and sometimes not that—but Jenny had contrived him a shirt; he suspected she’d sacrificed the best of her two shifts for it. He remembered shaving in the reflection in his washbasin, seeing the gaunt, stern face of a stranger emerge beneath his razor, thinking that he must remember to smile when he met Laoghaire. He didn’t want to frighten her, and what he saw in the water was enough to frighten him.

He thought suddenly of sharing her bed. He resolutely put aside the thought of Claire’s body—he had a great deal of practice in that—which caused him instead to think suddenly that it had been years—aye, years! He’d lain with a woman only twice in the last fifteen years, and it was five, six, maybe seven years since the last time….

He’d suffered a moment’s panic at the thought that he might find himself unable and touched his member gingerly through his kilt, only to find that it had already begun to stiffen at the mere thought of bedding.

He drew a deep breath, somewhat relieved. One less thing to worry over, then.

A brief sound from the door jerked his head round to see Jenny standing there, wearing an unreadable expression. He coughed and took his hand off his cock.

“Ye haven’t got to do it, Jamie,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on his. “If ye’ve thought better of it, tell me.”

He’d nearly done it. But he could hear the house. There was a sense of bustle in it, a purpose and a happiness it had lacked for a very long time. It wasn’t only his own happiness at stake here—it never had been.

“No,” he’d said abruptly. “I’m fine.” And smiled reassuringly at her.

As he went downstairs to meet Ian at the foot, though, he heard the rain on the windows and felt a sudden sense of drowning—an unwelcome recollection of his first wedding day and how they’d held each other up, he and Claire, both bleeding, both terrified.

“All right, then?” Ian had said to him, leaning in, low-voiced.

“Aye, fine,” he replied, and was pleased at how calm his voice was.

Jenny’s face appeared briefly round the door to the parlor. She looked worried, but relaxed when she saw him.

“It’s all right, mo nighean,” Ian had assured her, grinning. “I’ve got a grip on him, in case he takes it into his head to bolt.” Ian was in fact gripping his arm, rather to Jamie’s surprise, but he didn’t protest.

“Well, drag him in, then,” his sister had said, very dry. “The priest’s come.”

He’d gone in with Ian, taken up his place beside Laoghaire in front of old Father McCarthy. She glanced up at him briefly, then away. Was she frightened? Her hand was cool in his but didn’t shake. He squeezed her fingers gently and she turned her head, looking up at him then, directly. No, not fright, and not candle glow or starshine. There was gratitude in her gaze—and trust.

That trust had entered his heart, a small, soft weight that steadied him, restored at least a few of the severed roots that had held him to his place. He’d been grateful, too.

He turned at the sound of footsteps now and saw Claire coming along the hall. He smiled—noting that he’d done so without the slightest thought—and she came to him, taking his hand as she peered into the room.

“Yours, wasn’t it? When you were young, I mean.”

“Aye, it was.”

“I thought Jenny told me so—when we came here the first time, I mean.” Her mouth twisted a little. She and Jenny did speak now, of course, but it was a stilted kind of speaking, both of them overcareful, shy of saying too much or the wrong thing. Aye, well, he was afraid of saying too much or the wrong thing himself, but damned if he’d be a woman about it.