"Jamie," I panted. He pushed his kilt out of the way and pressed my hand against him.
"Bloody Christ," I said, impressed despite myself. My sense of propriety slipped another notch.
"Fighting gives ye a terrible cockstand, after. Ye want me, do ye no?" he said, pulling back a little to look at me. It seemed pointless to deny it, what with all the evidence to hand. He was hard as a brass rod against my bared thigh.
"Er… yes… but…"
He took a firm grip on my shoulders with both hands. "Be quiet, Sassenach," he said with authority. "It isna going to take verra long."
It didn't. I began to climax with the first powerful thrust, in long, racking spasms. I dug my fingers hard into his back and held on, biting the fabric of his shirt to muffle any sounds. In less than a dozen strokes, I felt his testicles contract, tight against his body, and the warm flood of his own release. He lowered himself slowly to the side and lay trembling.
The blood was still beating heavily in my ears, echoing the fading pulse between my legs. Jamie's hand lay on my breast, limp and heavy. Turning my head, I could see the dim figure of the sentry, leaning against a rock on the far side of the fire. He had his back tactfully turned. I was mildly shocked to realize that I was not even embarrassed. I wondered rather dimly whether I would be in the morning, and then wondered no more.
In the morning, everyone behaved as usual, if moving a little more stiffly from the effects of fighting and sleeping on rocks. Everyone was in a cheerful humor, even those with minor wounds.
The general humor was improved still further when Dougal announced that we would travel only as far as the clump of woods we could see from the edge of our rocky platform. There we could water and graze the horses, and rest a bit ourselves. I wondered whether this change of plan would affect Jamie's rendezvous with the mysterious Horrocks, but he seemed undisturbed at the announcement.
The day was overcast but not drizzling, and the air was warm. Once the new camp was made, the horses taken care of, and the wounded all rechecked, everyone was left to his own devices, to sleep in the grass, to hunt or fish, or merely to stretch legs after several days in the saddle.
I was sitting under a tree talking to Jamie and Ned Gowan, when one of the men-at-arms came up and flipped something into Jamie's lap. It was the dirk with the moonstone hilt.
"Yours, lad?" he asked. "Found it in the rocks this morning."
"I must have dropped it, in all the excitement," I said. "Just as well; I've no idea what to do with it. I'd likely have stabbed myself if I'd tried to use it."
Ned eyed Jamie censoriously over his half-spectacles.
"Ye gave her a knife and didn't teach her to use it?"
"There wasna time, under the circumstances," Jamie defended himself. "But Ned's right, Sassenach. Ye should learn how to handle arms. There's no tellin' what may happen on the road, as ye saw last night."
So I was marched out into the center of a clearing and the lessons began. Seeing the activity, several of the MacKenzie men came by to investigate, and stayed to offer advice. In no time, I had half a dozen instructors, all arguing the fine points of technique. After a good deal of amiable discussion, they agreed that Rupert was likely the best among them at dirks, and he took over the lesson.
He found a reasonably flat spot, free of rocks and pine cones, in which to demonstrate the art of dagger-wielding.
"Look, lass," he said. He held the dagger balanced on his middle finger, resting an inch or so below the haft. "The balance point, that's where ye want to hold it, so it fits comfortable in yer hand." I tried it with my dagger. When I had it comfortably fitted, he showed me the difference between an overhand strike and an underhanded stab.
"Generally, ye want to use the underhand; overhand is only good when ye're comin' down on someone wi' a considerable force from above." He eyed me speculatively, then shook his head.
"Nay, you're tall for a woman, but even if ye could reach as high as the neck, ye wouldna have the force to penetrate, unless he's sittin'. Best stick to underhand." He pulled up his shirt, revealing a substantial furry paunch, already glistening with sweat.
"Now, here," he said, pointing to the center, just under the breastbone, "is the spot to aim for, if ye're killin' face to face. Aim straight up and in, as hard as ye can. That'll go into the heart, and it kills wi'in a minute or two. The only problem is to avoid the breastbone; it goes down lower than ye think, and if ye get yer knife stuck in that soft bit on the tip, it will hardly harm yer victim at all, but ye'll be wi'out a knife, and he'll ha' you. Murtagh! Ye ha' a skinny back; come 'ere and we'll show the lass how to stick from the back." Spinning a reluctant Murtagh around, he yanked up the grubby shirt to show a knobbly spine and prominent ribs. He poked a blunt forefinger under the lower rib on the right, making Murtagh squeak in surprise.