The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (161 page)

“No!” I said. “I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.” He hesitated for a moment, and I turned away from him and began to walk rapidly down the path toward the arbor. I heard his steps on the gravel of the path behind me, but kept my back turned, and walked faster, almost running.

As I paused to duck under the arbor, he made a sudden lunge forward and grasped my wrist. I tried to pull away from him, but he held on tight.

“Claire!” he said again. I struggled, but kept my face turned away; if I didn’t look at him, I could pretend he wasn’t there. I could stay safe.

He let go of my wrist, but grabbed me by both shoulders instead, so that I had to lift my head to keep my balance. His face was sunburned and thin, with harsh lines cut beside his mouth, and his eyes above were dark with pain. “Claire,” he said more softly, now that he could see me looking at him. “Claire—it was my child, too.”

“Yes, it was—and you killed it!” I ripped away from him, flinging myself through the narrow arch. I stopped inside, panting like a terrified dog. I hadn’t realized that the arch led into a tiny vine-covered folly. Latticed walls surrounded me on all sides—I was trapped. The light behind me failed as his body blocked the arch.

“Don’t touch me.” I backed away, staring at the ground.
Go away!
I thought frantically.
Please, for God’s sake, leave me in peace!
I could feel my gray wrappings being inexorably stripped away, and small, bright streaks of pain shot through me like lightning bolts piercing cloud.

He stopped, a few feet away. I stumbled blindly toward the latticed wall and half-sat, half-fell onto a wooden bench. I closed my eyes and sat shivering. While it was no longer raining, there was a cold, damp wind coming through the lattice to chill my neck.

He didn’t come closer. I could feel him, standing there, looking down at me. I could hear the raggedness of his breathing.

“Claire,” he said once more, with something like despair in his voice, “Claire, do ye not see … Claire, you must speak to me! For God’s sake, Claire, I don’t know even was it a girl or a boy!”

I sat frozen, hands gripping the rough wood of the bench. After a moment, there was a heavy, crunching noise on the ground in front of me. I cracked my eyes open, and saw that he had sat down, just as he was, on the wet gravel at my feet. He sat with bowed head, and the rain had left spangles in his damp-darkened hair.

“Will ye make me beg?” he said.

“It was a girl,” I said after a moment. My voice sounded funny; hoarse and husky. “Mother Hildegarde baptized her. Faith. Faith Fraser. Mother Hildegarde has a very odd sense of humor.”

The bowed head didn’t move. After a moment, he said quietly, “Did you see the child?”

My eyes were open all the way now. I stared at my knees, where blown drops of water from the vines behind me were making wet spots on the silk.

“Yes. The
mâitresse sage-femme
said I ought, so they made me.” I could hear in memory the low, matter-of-fact tones of Madame Bonheur, most senior and respected of the midwives who gave of their time at L’Hôpital des Anges.

“Give her the child; it’s always better if they see. Then they don’t imagine things.”

So I didn’t imagine. I remembered.

“She was perfect,” I said softly, as though to myself. “So small. I could cup her head in the palm of my hand. Her ears stuck out just a little—I could see the light shine through them.

The light had shone through her skin as well, glowing in the roundness of cheek and buttock with the light that pearls have; still and cool, with the strange touch of the water world still on them.

“Mother Hildegarde wrapped her in a length of white satin,” I said, looking down at my fists, clenched in my lap. “Her eyes were closed. She hadn’t any lashes yet, but her eyes were slanted. I said they were like yours, but they said all babies’ eyes are like that.”

Ten fingers, and ten toes. No nails, but the gleam of tiny joints, kneecaps and fingerbones like opals, like the jeweled bones of the earth itself. Remember man, that thou art dust.…

I remembered the far-off clatter of the Hôpital, where life still went on, and the subdued murmur of Mother Hildegarde and Madame Bonheur, closer by, talking of the priest who would say a special Mass at Mother Hildegarde’s request. I remembered the look of calm appraisal in Madame Bonheur’s eyes as she turned to look me over, seeing my weakness. Perhaps she saw also the telltale brightness of the approaching fever; she had turned again to Mother Hildegarde and her voice had dropped further—perhaps suggesting that they wait; two funerals might be needed.

And unto dust thou shalt return.

But I had come back from the dead. Only Jamie’s hold on my body had been strong enough to pull me back from that final barrier, and Master Raymond had known it. I knew that only Jamie himself could pull me back the rest of the way, into the land of the living. That was why I had run from him, done all I could to keep him away, to make sure he would never come near me again. I had no wish to come back, no desire to feel again. I didn’t want to know love, only to have it ripped away once more.

But it was too late. I knew that, even as I fought to hold the gray shroud around me. Fighting only hastened its dissolution; it was like grasping shreds of cloud, that vanished in cold mist between my fingers. I could feel the light coming, blinding and searing.

He had risen, was standing over me. His shadow fell across my knees; surely that meant the cloud had broken; a shadow doesn’t fall without light.

“Claire,” he whispered. “Please. Let me give ye comfort.”

“Comfort?” I said. “And how will you do that? Can you give me back my child?”

He sank to his knees before me, but I kept my head down, staring into my upturned hands, laid empty on my lap. I felt his movement as he reached to touch me, hesitated, drew back, reached again.

“No,” he said, his voice scarcely audible. “No, I canna do that. But … with the grace of God … I might give ye another?”

His hand hovered over mine, close enough that I felt the warmth of his skin. I felt other things as well: the grief that he held tight under rein, the anger and the fear that choked him, and the courage that made him speak in spite of it. I gathered my own courage around me, a flimsy substitute for the thick gray shroud. Then I took his hand and lifted my head, and looked full into the face of the sun.

We sat, hands clasped and pressed together on the bench, unmoving, unspeaking, for what seemed like hours, with the cool rain-breeze whispering our thoughts in the grape leaves above. Water drops scattered over us with the passing of the wind, weeping for loss and separation.

“You’re cold,” Jamie murmured at last, and pulled a fold of his cloak around me, bringing with it the warmth of his skin. I came slowly against him under its shelter, shivering more at the startling solidness, the sudden heat of him, than from the cold.

I laid my hand on his chest, tentative as though the touch of him might burn me in truth, and so we sat for a good while longer, letting the grape leaves talk for us.

“Jamie,” I said softly, at last. “Oh, Jamie. Where were you?”

His arm tightened about me, but it was some time before he answered.

“I thought ye were dead,
mo duinne
,” he said, so softly I could hardly hear him above the rustling of the arbor.

“I saw ye there—on the ground, at the last. God! Ye were so white, and your skirts all soaked wi’ blood … I tried to go to ye, Claire, so soon as I saw—I ran to ye, but it was then the Guard took me.”

He swallowed hard; I could feel the tremor pass down him, through the long curve of his backbone.

“I fought them … I fought, and aye I pleaded … but they wouldna stay, and they carried me awa’ wi’ them. And they put me in a cell, and left me there … thinking ye were dead, Claire; knowing that I’d killed you.”

The fine tremor went on, and I knew he was weeping, though I could not see his face above me. How long had he sat alone in the dark of the Bastille, alone but for the scent of blood and the empty husk of vengeance?

“It’s all right,” I said, and pressed my hand harder against his chest, as though to still the hasty beating of his heart. “Jamie, it’s all right. It … it wasn’t your fault.”

“I tried to bash my head against the wall—only to stop thinking,” he said, nearly in a whisper. “So they tied me, hand and foot. And next day, de Rohan found me, and told me that ye lived, though likely not for long.”

He was silent then, but I could feel the pain inside him, sharp as crystal spears of ice.

“Claire,” he murmured at last. “I am sorry.”

I am sorry
. The words were those of the note he had left me, before the world shattered. But now I understood them.

“I know,” I said. “Jamie, I
know
. Fergus told me. I know why you went.”

He drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“Aye, well …” he said, and stopped.

I let my hand fall to his thigh; chilled and damp from the rain, his riding breeches were rough under my palm.

“Did they tell you—when they let you go—why you were released?” I tried to keep my own breathing steady, but failed.

His thigh tensed under my hand, but his voice was under better control now.

“No,” he said. “Only that it was … His Majesty’s pleasure.” The word “pleasure” was ever so faintly underlined, spoken with a delicate ferocity that made it abundantly clear that he did indeed know the means of his release, whether the warders had told him or not.

I bit my lower lip hard, trying to make up my mind what to tell him now.

“It was Mother Hildegarde,” he went on, voice steady. “I went at once to L’Hôpital des Anges, in search of you. And found Mother Hildegarde, and the wee note ye’d left for me. She … told me.”

“Yes,” I said, swallowing. “I went to see the King …”

“I know!” His hand tightened on mine, and from the sound of his breathing, I could tell that his teeth were clenched together.

“But Jamie … when I went …”

“Christ!” he said, and sat up suddenly, turning to face me. “Do ye not know what I … Claire.” He closed his eyes briefly, and took a deep breath. “I rode all the way to Orvieto, seeing it; seeing his hands on the white of your skin, his lips on your neck, his—his cock—I saw it at the
lever
—I saw the damn filthy, stubby thing sliding up … God, Claire! I sat in prison thinking ye dead, and then I rode to Spain, wishing to Christ ye were!”

The knuckles of the hand holding mine were white, and I could feel the small bones of my fingers crackle in his grip.

I jerked my hand free.

“Jamie, listen to me!”

“No!” he said. “No, I dinna want to hear …”

“Listen, damn you!”

There was enough force in my voice to shut him up for an instant, and while he was mute, I began rapidly to tell him the story of the King’s chamber; the hooded men, and the shadowed room, the sorcerers’ duel, and the death of the Comte St. Germain.

As I talked, the high color faded from his wind-brisked cheeks, and his expression softened from anguish and fury to bewilderment, and gradually, to astonished belief.

“Jesus,” he breathed at last. “Oh, holy God.”

“Didn’t know what you were starting with that silly story, did you?” I felt exhausted, but managed a smile. “So … so the Comte … it’s all right, Jamie. He’s … gone.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, but drew me gently to him, so my forehead rested on his shoulder, and my tears soaked into the fabric of his shirt. After a minute, though, I sat up, and stared at him, wiping my nose.

“I just thought, Jamie! The port—Charles Stuart’s investment! If the Comte is dead …”

He shook his head, smiling faintly.

“No,
mo duinne
. It’s safe.”

I felt a flood of relief.

“Oh, thank God. You managed, then? Did the medicines work on Murtagh?”

“Well, no,” he said, the smile broadening, “but they did on me.”

Relieved at once of fear and anger, I felt light-headed, and half-giddy. The smell of the rain-swept grapes was strong and sweet, and it was a blessed relief to lean against him, feeling his warmth as comfort, not as threat, as I listened to the story of the port-wine piracy.

“There are men that are born to the sea, Sassenach,” he began, “but I’m afraid I’m no one of them.”

“I know,” I said. “Were you sick?”

“I have seldom been sicker,” he assured me wryly.

The seas off Orvieto had been rough, and within an hour it became clear that Jamie was not going to be able to carry out his original part in the plan.

“I couldna do anything but lie in my hammock and groan, in any case,” he said, shrugging, “so it seemed I might as well have pox, too.”

He and Murtagh had hastily changed roles, and twenty-four hours off the coast of Spain, the master of the
Scalamandre
had discovered to his horror that plague had broken out below.

Jamie scratched his neck reflectively, as though still feeling the effects of the nettle juice.

“They thought of throwing me overboard when they found out,” he said, “and I must say it seemed a verra fine idea to me.” He gave me a lopsided grin. “Have ye ever had seasickness while covered wi’ nettle rash, Sassenach?”

“No, thank God.” I shuddered at the thought. “Did Murtagh stop them?”

“Oh, aye. He’s verra fierce, is Murtagh. He slept across the threshold wi’ his hand on his dirk, until we came safe to port at Bilbao.”

True to forecast, the
Scalamandre
’s captain, faced with the unprofitable choice of proceeding to Le Havre and forfeiting his cargo, or returning to Spain and cooling his heels while word was sent to Paris, had leaped at the opportunity to dispose of his hold’s worth of port to the new purchaser chance had thrown in his way.

“Not that he didna drive a hard bargain,” Jamie observed, scratching his forearm. “He haggled for half a day—and me dying in my hammock, pissing blood and puking my guts out!”

But the bargain had been concluded, both port and smallpox patient unloaded with dispatch at Bilbao, and—aside from a lingering tendency to urinate vermilion—Jamie’s recovery had been rapid.