He pursed his lips and nodded as though satisfied, and sat down beside me on the bench.
"Better let them have a few minutes longer," he said, with a wave at the house, where the shouting had now turned to Gaelic. He seemed completely unconcerned as to the cause of the battle. "Frasers dinna listen to anything when they've their dander up. When they've shouted themselves out, sometimes ye can make them see reason, but not 'til then."
"Yes, I noticed," I said dryly, and he laughed.
"So you've been wed long enough to find that out, eh? We heard as how Dougal made Jamie wed ye," he said, ignoring the battle and concentrating his attention on me. "But Jenny said it would take more than Dougal MacKenzie to make Jamie do something he didna care to. Now that I see ye, of course I can see why he did it." He lifted his brows, inviting further explanation, but politely not forcing it.
"I imagine he had his reasons," I said, my attention divided between my companion and the house, where the sounds of combat continued. "I don't want… I mean, I hope…" Ian correctly interpreted my hesitations and my glance toward the drawing-room windows.
"Oh, I expect you've something to do with it. But she'd take it out of him whether you were here or not. She loves Jamie something fierce, ye know, and she worried a lot while he was gone, especially with her father goin' so sudden. Ye'll know about that?" The brown eyes were sharp and observant, as though to gauge the depth of confidence between me and Jamie.
"Yes, Jamie told me."
"Ah." He nodded toward the house. "Then, of course, she's wi' child."
"Yes, I noticed that too," I said.
"Hard to miss, is it no?" Ian answered with a grin, and we both laughed. "Makes her frachetty," he explained, "not that I'd blame her. But it would take a braver man than me to cross words wi' a woman in her ninth month." He leaned back, stretching his wooden leg out in front of him.
"Lost it at Daumier with Fergus nic Leodhas," he explained. "Grape shot. Aches a wee bit toward the end of the day." He rubbed the flesh just above the leather cuff that attached the peg to his stump.
"Have you tried rubbing it with balm of Gilead?" I asked. "Water-pepper or stewed rue might help too."
"I've not tried the water-pepper," he answered, interested. "I'll ask Jenny does she know how to make it."
"Oh, I'd be glad to make it for you," I said, liking him. I looked toward the house again. "If we stay long enough," I added doubtfully. We chatted inconsequentially for a little, both listening with one ear to the confrontation going on beyond the window, until Ian hitched forward, carefully settling his artificial limb under him before rising.
"I imagine we should go in now. If either of them stops shouting long enough to hear the other, they'll be hurting each other's feelings."
"I hope that's all they hurt."
Ian chuckled. "Oh, I dinna think Jamie would strike her. He's used to forbearance in the face of provocation. As for Jenny, she might slap his face, but that's all."
"She already did that."
"Weel, the guns are locked up, and all the knives are in the kitchen, except what Jamie's wearing. And I don't suppose he'll let her close enough to get his dirk away from him. Nay, they're safe enough." He paused at the door. "Now, as for you and me…" He winked solemnly. "That's a different matter."
Inside, the maids started and flitted nervously away at Ian's approach. The housekeeper, though, was still hovering by the drawing room door in fascination, drinking in the scene within, Jamie's namesake cradled against her capacious bosom. Such was her concentration that when Ian spoke to her, she jumped as though he had run a hatpin into her, and put a hand to her palpitating heart.
Ian nodded politely to her, took the little boy in his arms, and led the way into the drawing room. We paused just inside the door to survey the scene. Brother and sister had paused for breath, both still bristling and glaring like a pair of angry cats.
Small Jamie, spotting his mother, struggled and kicked to get down from Ian's arms, and once on the floor, made for her like a homing pigeon. "Mama!" he cried. "Up! Jamie up!" Turning, she scooped up the little boy and held him like a weapon against her shoulder.
"Can ye tell your uncle how old ye are, sweetheart?" she asked him, throttling her voice down to a coo—under which the sound of clashing steel was still all too apparent. The boy heard it; he turned and burrowed his face into his mother's neck. She patted his back mechanically, still glaring at her brother.