Dragonfly in Amber (Outlander #2)

Dragonfly in Amber (Outlander #2) Page 43

"Regretting your choice, are you?"

"Not yet," I said, struggling to repossess my foot, "but I may any minute. Keep talking."

"Well then. I couldna see that the fact that you picked me entitled Frank Randall to particular consideration. Besides," he said frankly, "I'll admit to bein' just a wee bit jealous of the man."

I kicked with my other foot, aiming lower. He caught that one before it landed, twisting my ankle skillfully.

"As for owing him his life, on general principles," he continued, ignoring my attempts to escape, "that's an argument Brother Anselm at the Abbey could answer better than I. Certainly I wouldna kill an innocent man in cold blood. But there again, I've killed men in battle, and is this different?"

I remembered the soldier, and the boy in the snow that I had killed in our escape from Wentworth. I no longer tormented myself with memories of them, but I knew they would never leave me.

He shook his head. "No, there are a good many arguments ye might make about that, but in the end, such choices come down to one: You kill when ye must, and ye live with it after. I remember the face of every man I've killed, and always will. But the fact remains, I am alive and they are not, and that is my only justification, whether it be right or no."

"But that's not true in this case," I pointed out. "It isn't a case of kill or be killed."

He shook his head, dislodging a fly that had settled on his hair. "Now there you're wrong, Sassenach. What it is that lies between Jack Randall and me will be settled only when one of us is dead—and maybe not then. There are ways of killing other than with a knife or a gun, and there are things worse than physical death." His tone softened. "In Ste. Anne, you pulled me back from more than one kind of death, mo duinne, and never think I don't know it." He shook his head. "Perhaps I do owe you more than you owe me, after all."

He let go my feet and rearranged his long legs. "And that leads me to consider your conscience as well as mine. After all, you had no idea what would happen when ye made your choice, and it's one thing to abandon a man, and another to condemn him to death."

I did not at all like this manner of describing my actions, but I couldn't shirk the facts. I had in fact abandoned Frank, and while I could not regret the choice I had made, still I did and always would regret its necessity. Jamie's next words echoed my thoughts eerily.

He continued, "If ye had known it might mean Frank's—well, his death, shall we say—perhaps you would have chosen differently. Given that ye did choose me, have I the right to make your actions of more consequence than you intended?"

Absorbed in his argument, he had been oblivious of its effect on me. Catching sight of my face now, he stopped suddenly, watching me in silence as we jostled our way through the greens of the countryside.

"I dinna see how it can have been a sin for you to do as ye did, Claire," he said at last, reaching out to lay a hand on my stockinged foot. "I am your lawful husband, as much as he ever was—or will be. You do not even know that ye could have returned to him; mo duinne, ye might have gone still further back, or gone forward to a different time altogether. You acted as ye thought ye must, and no one can do better than that." He looked up, and the look in his eyes pierced my soul.

"I'm honest enough to say that I dinna care what the right and wrong of it may be, so long as you are here wi' me, Claire," he said softly. "If it was a sin for you to choose me…then I would go to the Devil himself and bless him for tempting ye to it." He lifted my foot and gently kissed the tip of my big toe.

I laid my hand on his head; the short hair felt bristly but soft, like a very young hedgehog.

"I don't think it was wrong," I said softly. "But if it was…then I'll go to the Devil with you, Jamie Fraser."

He closed his eyes and bowed his head over my foot. He held it so tightly that I could feel the long, slender metatarsals pressed together; still, I didn't pull back. I dug my fingers into his scalp and tugged his hair gently.

"Why then, Jamie? Why did you decide to let Jack Randall live?"

He still gripped my foot, but opened his eyes and smiled at me.

"Well, I thought a number of things, Sassenach, as I walked up and down that evening. For one thing, I thought that you would suffer, if I did kill the filthy scut. I would do, or not do, quite a few things to spare you distress, Sassenach, but—how heavily does your conscience weigh, against my honor?

"No." He shook his head again, disposing of another point. "Each one of us can be responsible only for his own actions and his own conscience. What I do canna be laid to your account, no matter what the effects." He blinked, eyes watering from the dusty wind, and passed a hand across his hair in a vain attempt to smooth the disheveled ends. Clipped short, the spikes of a cowlick stood up on the crest of his skull in a defiant spray.

"Why, then?" I demanded, leaning forward. "You've told me all the reasons why not; what's left?"

He hesitated for a moment, but then met my eyes squarely.

"Because of Charles Stuart, Sassenach. So far we have stopped all the earths, but with this investment of his—well, he might yet succeed in leading an army in Scotland. And if so…well, ye ken better than I do what may come, Sassenach."

I did, and the thought turned me cold. I could not help remembering one historian's description of the Highlanders' fate at Culloden—"the dead lay four deep, soaking in rain and their own blood."

The Highlanders, mismanaged and starving, but ferocious to the end, would be wasted in one decisive half-hour. They would be left to lie in heaps, bleeding in a cold April rain, the cause they had cherished for a hundred years dead along with them.

Jamie reached forward suddenly and took my hands.

"I think it will not happen, Claire; I think we will stop him. And if not, then still I dinna expect anything to happen to me. But if it should…" He was in deadly earnest now, speaking soft and urgently. "If it does, then I want there to be a place for you; I want someone for you to go to if I am…not there to care for you. If it canna be me, then I would have it be a man who loves you." His grasp on my fingers grew tighter; I could feel both rings digging into my flesh, and felt the urgency in his hands.

"Claire, ye know what it cost me to do this for you—to spare Randall's life. Promise me that if the time should come, you'll go back to Frank." His eyes searched my face, deep blue as the sky in the window behind him. "I tried to send ye back twice before. And I thank God ye wouldna go. But if it comes to a third time—then promise me you will go back to him—back to Frank. For that is why I spare Jack Randall for a year—for your sake. Promise me, Claire?"

"Allez! Allez! Montez!" the coachman shouted from above, encouraging the team up a slope. We were nearly there.

"All right," I said at last. "I promise."

The stables at Argentan were clean and airy, redolent of summer and the smell of horses. In an open box stall, Jamie circled a Percheron mare, enamored as a horsefly.

"Ooh, what a bonnie wee lass ye are! Come here, sweetheart, let me see that beautiful fat rump. Mm, aye, that's grand!"

"I wish my husband would talk that way to me," remarked the Duchesse de Neve, provoking giggles from the other ladies of the party, who stood in the straw of the central aisle, watching.

"Perhaps he would, Madame, if your own back view provided such stimulation. But then, perhaps your husband does not share my lord Broch Tuarach's appreciation for a finely shaped rump." The Comte St. Germain allowed his eyes to drift over me with a hint of contemptuous amusement. I tried to imagine those black eyes gleaming through the slits of a mask, and succeeded only too well. Unfortunately, the lace of his wrist frills fell well past his knuckles; I couldn't see the fork of his thumb.

Catching the byplay, Jamie leaned comfortably on the mare's broad back, only his head, shoulders and forearms showing above the bulk of the Percheron.

"My lord Broch Tuarach appreciates beauty wherever it may be encountered, Monsieur le Comte; in animal or woman. Unlike some I might name, though, I am capable of telling the difference between the two." He grinned maliciously at St. Germain, then patted the mare's neck in farewell as the party broke out laughing.

Jamie took my arm to lead me toward the next stable, followed more slowly by the rest of the party.

"Ah," he said, inhaling the mixture of horse, harness, manure, and hay as though it were incense. "I do miss the smell of a stable. And the country makes me sick for Scotland."

"Doesn't look a lot like Scotland," I said, squinting in the bright sun as we emerged from the dimness of the stable.

"No, but it's country," he said, "it's clean, and it's green, and there's nay smoke in the air, or sewage underfoot—unless ye count horse dung, which I don't."

The sun of early summer shone on the roofs of Argentan, nestled among gently rolling green hills. The Royal stud was just outside the town, much more solidly constructed than the houses of the King's subjects nearby. The barns and stables were of quarried stone, stone-floored, slate-roofed, and maintained in a condition of cleanliness that surpassed that of L'Hôpital des Anges by a fair degree.

A loud whooping came from behind the corner of the stable, and Jamie stopped short, just in time to avoid Fergus, who shot out in front of us as though fired from a slingshot, hotly pursued by two stable-lads, both a good deal bigger. A dirty green streak of fresh manure down the side of the first boy's face gave some clue as to the cause of the altercation.

With considerable presence of mind, Fergus doubled on his tracks, shot past his pursuers, and whizzed into the middle of the party, whence he took refuge behind the bulwark of Jamie's kilted hips. Seeing their prey thus safely gone to earth, his pursuers glanced fearfully at the oncoming phalanx of courtiers and gowns, exchanged a look of decision, and, as one, turned and loped off.

Seeing them go, Fergus stuck his head out from behind my skirt and yelled something in gutter French that earned him a sharp cuff on the ear from Jamie.

"Off wi' ye," he said brusquely. "And for God's sake, dinna be throwin' horse apples at people bigger than you are. Now, go and keep out of trouble." He followed up this advice with a healthy smack on the seat of the breeches that sent Fergus staggering off in the opposite direction to that taken by his erstwhile assailants.

I had been of two minds as to the wisdom of taking Fergus with us on this expedition, but most of the ladies were bringing pageboys with them, to run errands and carry the baskets of food and other paraphernalia deemed essential to a day's outing. And Jamie had wanted to show the lad a bit of country, feeling that he'd earned a holiday. All well and good, except that Fergus, who had never been outside Paris in his life, had got the exhilaration of air, light, and beautiful huge animals right up his nose, and, demented with excitement, had been in constant trouble since our arrival.

"God knows what he'll do next," I said darkly, looking after Fergus's retreating form. "Set one of the hayricks on fire, I expect."

Jamie was unperturbed at the suggestion.

"He'll be all right. All lads get into manure fights."

"They do?" I turned around, scrutinizing St. Germain, immaculate in white linen, white serge, and white silk, bending courteously to listen to the Duchesse, as she minced slowly across the straw-strewn yard.

"Maybe you did," I said. "Not him. Not the Bishop, either, I don't think." I was wondering whether this excursion had been a good idea, at least on my part. Jamie was in his element with the giant Percherons, and the Duke was clearly impressed with him, which was all to the good. On the other hand, my back ached miserably from the carriage ride, and my feet felt hot and swollen, pressing painfully against the tight leather of my shoes.

Jamie looked down at me and smiled, pressing my hand where it lay on his arm.

"None so long now, Sassenach. The guide wants to show us the breeding sheds, and then you and the other ladies can go and sit down wi' the food, while the men stand about makin' crude jests about the size of each other's cock."

"Is that the general effect of watching horses bred?" I asked, fascinated.

"Well, on men it is; I dinna ken what it does to ladies. Keep an ear out, and ye can tell me later."

There was in fact an air of suppressed excitement among the members of the party as we all pressed into the rather cramped quarters of a breeding shed. Stone, like the other buildings, this one was equipped not with partitioned stalls down both sides, but with a small fenced pen, with holding stalls at either side, and a sort of chute or runway along the back, with several gates that could be opened or closed to control a horse's movement.

The building itself was light and airy, owing to huge, unglazed windows that opened at either end, giving a view of a grassy paddock outside. I could see several of the enormous Percheron mares grazing near the edge of this; one or two seemed restless, breaking into a rocking gallop for a few paces, then dropping back to a trot or a walk, shaking heads and manes with a high, whinnying noise. Once, when this happened, there was a loud, nasal scream from one of the holding stalls at the end of the shed, and the paneling shook with the thud of a mighty kick from its inhabitant.

"He's ready," a voice murmured appreciatively behind me. "I wonder which is the lucky mademoiselle?"

"The one nearest the gate," the Duchesse suggested, always ready to wager. "Five livres on that one."

"Ah, no! You're wrong, Madame, she's too calm. It will be the little one, under the apple tree, rolling her eyes like a coquette. See how she tosses her head? That one's my choice."

The mares had all stopped at the sound of the stallion's cry, lifting inquiring noses and flicking their ears nervously. The restless ones tossed their heads and whickered; one stretched her neck and let out a long, high call.

"That one," Jamie said quietly, nodding at her. "Hear her call him?"

"And what is she saying, my lord?" the Bishop asked, a glint in his eye.

Jamie shook his head solemnly.

"It is a song, my lord, but one that a man of the cloth is deaf to—or should be," he added, to gales of laughter.

Sure enough, it was the mare who had called who was chosen. Once inside, she stopped dead, head up, and stood testing the air with flaring nostrils. The stallion could smell her; his cries echoed eerily off the timbered roof, so loud that conversation was impossible.

No one wanted to talk now, anyway. Uncomfortable as I was, I could feel the quick tingle of arousal through my br**sts, and a tightening of my swollen belly as the mare once more answered the stallion's call.

Percherons are very large horses. A big one stands over five feet at the shoulder, and the rump of a well-fed mare is almost a yard across, a pale, dappled gray or shining black, adorned with a waterfall of black hair, thick as my arm at the root of it.

The stallion burst from his stall toward the tethered mare with a suddenness that made everyone fall back from the fence. Puffs of dust flew up in clouds as the huge hooves struck the packed dirt of the pen, and drops of saliva flew from his open mouth. The groom who had opened his stall door jumped aside, tiny and insignificant next to the magnicent fury let loose in the pen.

The mare curvetted and squealed in alarm, but then he was on her, and his teeth closed on the sturdy arch of her neck, forcing her head down into submission. The great swathe of her tail swept high, leaving her nak*d, exposed to his lust.

"Jésus," whispered Monsieur Prudhomme.

It took very little time, but it seemed a lot longer, watching the heaving of sweat-darkened flanks, and the play of light on swirling hair and the sheen of great muscles, tense and straining in the flexible agony of mating.

Everyone was very quiet as we left the shed. Finally the Duke laughed, nudged Jamie, and said, "You are accustomed to such sights, my lord Broch Tuarach?"

"Aye," Jamie answered. "I've seen it a good many times."

"Ah?" the Duke said. "And tell me, my lord, how does the sight make you feel, after so many times?"

One corner of Jamie's mouth twitched as he replied, but he remained otherwise straight-faced.

"Verra modest, Your Grace," he said.

"What a sight!" the Duchesse de Neve said. She broke a biscuit, dreamy-eyed, and munched it slowly. "So arousing, was it not?"

"What a prick, you mean," said Madame Prudhomme, rather coarsely. "I wish Philibert had one like that. As it is…" She cocked an eyebrow toward a plate of tiny sausages, each perhaps two inches long, and the ladies seated on the picnic cloth broke into giggles.

"A bit of chicken, please, Paul," said the Comtesse St. Germain to her pageboy. She was young, and the bawdy conversation of the older ladies was making her blush. I wondered just what sort of marriage she had with St. Germain; he never took her out in public, save on occasions like this, where the presence of the Bishop prevented his appearing with one of his mistresses.

"Bah," said Madame Montresor, one of the ladies-in-waiting, whose husband was a friend of the Bishop's. "Size isn't everything. What difference if it's the size of a stallion's, if he lasts no longer than one? Less than two minutes? I ask you, what good is that?" She held up a cornichon between two fingers and delicately licked the tiny pale-green pickle, the pink tip of her tongue pointed and dainty. "It isn't what they have in their breeches, I say; it's what they do with it."

Madame Prudhomme snorted. "Well, if you find one who knows how to do anything with it but poke it into the nearest hole, tell me. I would be interested to see what else can be done with a thing like that."

"At least you have one who's interested," broke in the Duchesse de Neve. She cast a glance of disgust at her husband, huddled with the other men near one of the paddocks, watching a harnessed mare being put through her paces.

"Not tonight, my dearest," she imitated the sonorous, nasal tones of her husband to perfection. "I am fatigued." She put a hand to her brow and rolled her eyes up. "The press of business is so wearing." Encouraged by the giggles, she went on with her imitation, now widening her eyes in horror and crossing her hands protectively over her lap. "What, again? Do you not know that to expend the male essence gratuitously is to court ill-health? Is it not enough that your demands have worn me to a nubbin, Mathilde? Do you wish me to have an attack?"

The ladies cackled and screeched with laughter, loud enough to attract the attention of the Bishop, who waved at us and smiled indulgently, provoking further gales of hilarity.