We laughed softly together, and then were quiet, listening to each other breathe.
“Jamie,” I said softly at last, smoothing the back of his head, “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.”
He rolled to one side, shifting his weight carefully so as not to squash me, and lifted himself to lie face-to-face with me.
“Nor me, my Sassenach,” he said, and kissed me, very lightly, but lingering, so that I had time just to close my lips in a tiny bite on the fullness of his lower lip.
“It’s no just the bedding, ye ken,” he said, drawing back a little at last. His eyes looked down at me, a soft deep blue like the warm tropic sea.
“No,” I said, touching his cheek. “It isn’t.”
“To have ye with me again—to talk wi’ you—to know I can say anything, not guard my words or hide my thoughts—God, Sassenach,” he said, “the Lord knows I am lust-crazed as a lad, and I canna keep my hands from you—or anything else—” he added, wryly, “but I would count that all well lost, had I no more than the pleasure of havin’ ye by me, and to tell ye all my heart.”
“It was lonely without you,” I whispered. “So lonely.”
“And me,” he said. He looked down, long lashes hiding his eyes, and hesitated for a moment.
“I willna say that I have lived a monk,” he said quietly. “When I had to—when I felt that I must or go mad —”
I laid my fingers against his lips, to stop him.
“Neither did I,” I said. “Frank—”
His own hand pressed gently against my mouth. Both dumb, we looked at each other, and I could feel the smile growing behind my hand, and my own under his, to match it. I took my hand away.
“It doesna signify,” he said. He took his hand off my mouth.
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.” I traced the line of his lips with my finger.
“So tell me all your heart,” I said. “If there’s time.”
He glanced at the window to gauge the light—we were to meet Ian at the print shop at five o’clock, to check the progress of the search for Young Ian—and then rolled carefully off me.
“There’s two hours, at least, before we must go. Sit up and put your clothes on, and I’ll have them bring some wine and biscuits.”
This sounded wonderful. I seemed to have been starving ever since I found him. I sat up and began to rummage through the pile of discarded clothes on the floor, looking for the set of stays the low-necked gown required.
“I’m no ways sad, but I do maybe feel a bit ashamed,” Jamie observed, wriggling long, slender toes into a silk stocking. “Or I should, at least.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, here I am, in paradise, so to speak, wi’ you and wine and biscuits, while Ian’s out tramping the pavements and worrying for his son.”
“Are you worried about Young Ian?” I asked, concentrating on my laces.
He frowned slightly, pulling on the other stocking.
“Not so much worried for him, as afraid he may not turn up before tomorrow.”
“What happens tomorrow?” I asked, and then belatedly recalled the encounter with Sir Percival Turner. “Oh, your trip to the north—that was supposed to be tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Aye, there’s a rendezvous set at Mullin’s Cove, tomorrow being the dark of the moon. A lugger from France, wi’ a load of wine and cambric.”
“And Sir Percival was warning you not to make that rendezvous?”
“So it seems. What’s happened, I canna say, though I expect I’ll find out. Could be as there’s a visiting Customs Officer in the district, or he’s had word of some activity on the coast there that has nothing to do wi’ us, but could interfere.” He shrugged and finished his last garter.
He spread out his hands upon his knees then, palm up, and slowly curled the fingers inward. The left curled at once into a fist, compact and neat, a blunt instrument ready for battle. The fingers of his right hand curled more slowly; the middle finger was crooked, and would not lie along the second. The fourth finger would not curl at all, but stuck out straight, holding the little finger at an awkward angle beside it.
He looked from his hands to me, smiling.
“D’ye remember the night when ye set my hand?”
“Sometimes, in my more horrible moments.” That night was one to remember—only because it couldn’t be forgotten. Against all odds, I had rescued him from Wentworth Prison and a death sentence—but not in time to prevent his being cruelly tortured and abused by Black Jack Randall.
I picked up his right hand and transferred it to my own knee. He let it lie there, warm, heavy and inert, and didn’t object as I felt each finger, pulling gently to stretch the tendons and twisting to see the range of motion in the joints.
“My first orthopedic surgery, that was,” I said wryly.
“Have ye done a great many things like that since?” he asked curiously, looking down at me.
“Yes, a few. I’m a surgeon—but it doesn’t mean then what it means now,” I added hastily. “Surgeons in my
