Dimly, from a long way away, I heard Jamie sit up.
"Well, that's a bit better," said a voice, gasping between words. "Takes a bit of effort to make you properly submissive, doesn't it?" The bed creaked with a shifting of weight and I felt my knees being nudged further apart.
"Not as dead as you look, I hope?" said the voice, coming nearer. I arched upward with an inarticulate sound as exquisitely sensitive tissues were firmly parted in a fresh assault.
"Jesus Christ," I said. There was a faint chuckle near my ear.
"I only said I felt like God, Sassenach," he murmured, "I never said I was."
And later, as the rising sun began to dim the glow of the lamp, I roused from a drifting sleep to hear Jamie murmur once more, "Does it ever stop, Claire? The wanting?"
My head fell back onto his shoulder. "I don't know, Jamie. I really don't."
* * *
18
Raiders in the Rocks
"What did Captain Randall say?" I asked.
With Dougal on one side and Jamie on the other, there was barely room for the three horses to ride abreast down the narrow road. Here and there, one or both of my companions would have to drop back or spur up, in order to avoid becoming entangled in the overgrowth that threatened to reclaim the crude track.
Dougal glanced at me, then back at the road, in order to guide his horse around a large rock. A wicked grin spread slowly across his features.
"He wasna best pleased about it," he said circumspectly. "Though I am not sure I should tell ye what he actually said; there's likely limits even to your tolerance for bad language, Mistress Fraser."
I overlooked his sardonic use of my new title, as well as the implied insult, though I saw Jamie stiffen in his saddle.
"I, er, don't suppose he means to take any steps about it?" I asked. Despite Jamie's assurances, I had visions of scarlet-coated dragoons bursting out of the bushes, slaughtering the Scots and dragging me away to Randall's lair for questioning. I had an uneasy feeling that Randall's ideas of interrogation might be creative, to say the least.
"Shouldn't think so," Dougal answered casually. "He's more to worry about than one stray Sassenach wench, no matter how pretty." He raised an eyebrow and half-bowed toward me, as though the compliment were meant in apology. "He's also better sense than to rile Colum by kidnapping his niece," he said, more matter-of-factly.
Niece. I felt a small shiver run down my spine, in spite of the warm weather. Niece to the MacKenzie chieftain. Not to mention to the war chieftain of clan MacKenzie, riding so nonchalantly by my side. And on the other side, I was now presumably linked with Lord Lovat, chief of clan Fraser, with the abbot of a powerful French abbey, and with who knew how many other assorted Frasers. No, perhaps Jonathan Randall wouldn't think it worthwhile to pursue me. And that, after all, had been the point of this ridiculous arrangement.
I stole a glance at Jamie, riding ahead now. His back was straight as an alder sapling and his hair shone under the sun like a helmet of burnished metal.
Dougal followed my glance.
"Could have been worse, no?" he said, with an ironic lift of his brow.
Two nights later, we were encamped on a stretch of moorland, near one of those strange outcroppings of glacier-pocked granite. It had been a long day's travel, with only a hasty meal eaten in the saddle, and everyone was pleased to stop for a cooked dinner. I had tried early on to assist with the cooking, but my help had been more or less politely rejected by the taciturn clansman whose job it apparently was.
One of the men had killed a deer that morning, and a portion of the fresh meat, cooked with turnips, onions, and whatever else he could find, had made a delicious dinner. Bursting with food and contentment, we all sprawled around the fire, listening to stories and songs. Surprisingly enough, little Murtagh, who seldom opened his mouth to speak, had a beautiful, clear tenor voice. While it was difficult to persuade him to sing, the results were worth it.
I nestled closer to Jamie, trying to find a comfortable spot to sit on the hard granite. We had camped at the edge of the rocky outcrop, where a broad shelf of reddish granite gave us a natural hearth, and the towering jumble of rocks behind made a place to hide the horses. When I asked why we did not sleep more comfortably on the springy grass of the moor, Ned Gowan had informed me that we were now near the southern border of the MacKenzie lands. And thus near the territory of both Grants and Chisholms.
"Dougal's scouts say there's no sign of anyone nearabouts," he had said, standing on a large boulder to peer into the sunset himself, "but ye can never tell. Better safe than sorry, ye ken."