Because of my earlier difficulties in conceiving, I had not considered the possibility of pregnancy when I agreed to marry Jamie, and I waited in some apprehension until my monthly occurred on time. My feelings this time were entirely of relief, with none of the sadness that usually accompanied it. My life was more than complicated enough at the moment, without introducing a baby into it. I thought that Jamie perhaps felt a small twinge of regret, though he also professed himself relieved. Fatherhood was a luxury that a man in his position could ill afford.
The door opened and he came in, still rubbing his head with a linen towel, water droplets from his wet hair darkening his shirt.
"Where have you been?" I asked in astonishment. Luxurious as Leoch might be in contrast to the residences of village and croft, it didn't boast any bathing facilities beyond a copper tub that Colum used to soak his aching legs, and a slightly larger one used by such ladies as thought the labor involved in filling it worth the privacy. All other washing was done either in bits, using basin and ewer, or outside, either in the loch or in a small, stone-floored chamber off the garden, where the young women were accustomed to stand naked and let their friends throw buckets of water over them.
"In the loch," he answered, hanging the damp towel neatly over the windowsill. "Someone," he said grimly, "left the stall door ajar, and the stable door as well, and Cobhar had a wee swim in the twilight."
"Oh, so that's why you weren't at supper. But horses don't like to swim, do they?" I asked.
He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair to dry it.
"No, they don't. But they're just like folk, ye ken; all different. And Cobhar is fond of the young water plants. He was down nibbling by the water's edge when a pack of dogs from the village came along and chased him into the loch. I had to run them off and then go in after him. Wait 'til I get my hands on wee Hamish," he said, with grim intent. "I'll teach him to leave gates ajar."
"Are you going to tell Colum about it?" I asked, feeling a qualm of sympathy for the culprit.
Jamie shook his head, groping in his sporran. He drew out a roll and a chunk of cheese, apparently filched from the kitchens on his way up to the chamber.
"No," he said. "Colum's fair strict wi' the lad. If he heard he'd been so careless, he'd not let him ride for a month—not that he could, after the thrashing he'd get. Lord, I'm starving." He bit ferociously into the roll, scattering crumbs.
"Don't get into bed with that," I said, sliding under the quilts myself. "What are you planning to do to Hamish, then?"
He swallowed the remainder of the roll and smiled at me. "Dinna worry. I'm going to row him out on the loch just before supper tomorrow and toss him in. By the time he makes it to shore and dries off, supper will be over." He finished the cheese in three bites and unashamedly licked his fingers. "Let him go to bed wet and hungry and see how he likes it," he concluded darkly.
He peered hopefully in the drawer of the desk where I sometimes kept apples or other small bits of food. There was nothing there tonight, though, and he shut the drawer with a sigh.
"I suppose I'll live 'til breakfast," he said philosophically. He stripped rapidly and crawled in next to me, shivering. Though his extremities were chilled from his swim in the icy loch, his body was still blissfully warm.
"Mm, you're nice to croodle wi'," he murmured, doing what I assumed was croodling. "You smell different; been digging plants today?"
"No," I said, surprised. "I thought it was you—the smell, I mean." It was a tangy, herbal smell, not unpleasant, but unfamiliar.
"I smell like fish," he observed, sniffing the back of his hand. "And wet horse. No," he leaned closer, inhaling. "No, it isna you, either. But it's close by."
He slid out of bed and turned back the quilts, searching. We found it under my pillow.
"What on earth…？" I picked it up, and promptly dropped it. "Ouch! It has thorns!"
It was a small bundle of plants, plucked up roughly by the roots, and bound together with a bit of black thread. The plants were wilted, but a pungent smell still rose from the drooping leaves. There was one flower in the bouquet, a crushed primrose, whose thorny stem had pricked my thumb.
I sucked the offended digit, turning the bundle over more cautiously with my other hand. Jamie stood still, staring down at it for a moment. Then he suddenly picked it up, and crossing to the open window, flung it out into the night. Returning to the bed, he energetically brushed the crumbs of earth from the plants' roots into the palm of his hand and threw them out after the bundle. He closed the window with a slam and came back, dusting his palms.