"Me get stubborn!" I said indignantly. "Look who's talking!"
There was a pause, which grew slightly awkward. There were things I should ask, necessary from the medical point of view, but rather touchy from the personal aspect. Finally, I settled for "How do you feel?"
His eyes were closed, shadowed and sunken in the candlelight, but the lines of the broad back were tense under the bandages. The wide, bruised mouth twitched, somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
"I don't know, Sassenach. I've never felt like this. I seem to want to do a number of things, all at once, but my mind's at war wi' me, and my body's turned traitor. I want to get out of here at once, and run as fast and as far as I can. I want to hit someone. God, 1 want to hit someone! I want to burn Wentworth Prison to the ground. I want to sleep."
"Stone doesn't burn," I said practically. "Maybe you'd better sleep, instead."
His good hand groped for mine and found it, and the mouth relaxed somewhat, though his eyes stayed closed.
"I want to hold you hard to me and kiss you, and never let you go. I want to take you to my bed and use you like a whore, 'til I forget that I exist. And I want to put my head in your lap and weep like a child."
The mouth turned up at one corner, and a blue eye opened slitwise.
"Unfortunately," he said, "I can't do any but the last of those without fainting or being sick again."
"Well, then, I suppose you'll just have to settle for that, and put the rest under the heading of future business," I said, laughing a little.
It took a bit of shifting, and he nearly was sick again, but at last I was seated on his cot, my back against the wall, and his head resting on my thigh.
"What was it Sir Marcus cut from your breast?" I asked. "A brand?" I said softly, as he gave me no reply. The bright head moved slightly in affirmation.
"A signet, with his initials." Jamie laughed shortly. "It's enough I'll carry his marks for the rest of my life, without letting him sign me, like a bloody painting."
His head lay heavy on my thigh and his breathing eased at last in drowsy exhalations. The white bandages on his hand were ghostly against the dark blanket. I gently traced a burn mark on his shoulder, gleaming faintly with sweet oil.
"Jamie?"
"Mmm?"
"Are you badly hurt?" Awake, he glanced from his bandaged hand to my face. His eyes closed and he began to shake. Alarmed, I thought I had triggered some unbearable memory, until I realized that he was laughing, hard enough to force tears from the corners of his eyes.
"Sassenach," he said at length, gasping, "I've maybe six square inches of skin left that are not bruised, burned, or cut. Am I hurt?" And he shook again, making the felted mattress rustle and squeak.
Somewhat crossly, I said, "I meant—" but he stopped me by putting his good hand over mine and bringing it to his lips.
"I know what ye meant, Sassenach," he said, turning his head to look up at me. "Never worry, the six inches that are left are all between my legs."
I appreciated the effort it took to make the joke, feeble as it was. I slapped his mouth lightly. "You're drunk, James Fraser," I said. I paused a moment. "Six, eh?"
"Aye, well. Maybe seven, then. Oh, God, Sassenach, dinna make me laugh again, my ribs won't, stand it." I wiped his eyes with a fold of my skirt and fed him a sip of water, holding his head up with my knee.
"That isn't what I meant, anyway," I said.
Serious then, he reached for my hand again and squeezed it.
"I know," he said. "Ye needna be delicate about it." He drew a cautious breath, and winced at the results. "I was right, it did hurt less than flogging." He closed his eyes. "But it was much less enjoyable." A quick flash of bitter humor stirred one corner of his mouth. "At least I'll not be costive for a bit." I flinched, and he gritted his teeth, breathing in short, reedy gasps.
"I'm sorry, Sassenach. I… didna think I'd mind it so much. What you mean—that—it's all right. I'm not damaged."
I made an effort to keep my own voice steady and matter-of-fact. "You don't have to tell me about it, if you don't want to. If it might ease you, though…" My voice trailed off in embarrassed silence.
"I don't want to." His voice was suddenly bitter and emphatic. "I don't want ever to think about it again, but short of cutting my throat, I think I have not got a choice about it. Nay, lass, I dinna want to tell ye about it, any more than ye want to hear it… but I think I am going to have to drag it all out before it chokes me." The words came out now in a burst of bitterness.