I watched Jamie's hand. With his face turned away, it was the best indicator of his feelings. It clenched convulsively on the edge of the cot as he went on.
"He—he told me that… I was delicious. The cut had almost stopped bleeding, but he took the towel and scrubbed it hard over my chest to open the wound again." The knuckles of the clenched hand were knobs of bloodless bone. "He unbuttoned his breeches then, and smeared the fresh blood on himself, and said it was my turn now."
Afterward, Randall held his head and helped him to be sick, wiped his face gently with a wet cloth, and gave him brandy to cleanse his mouth of foulness. And so, by turns vicious and tender, bit by bit, using pain as his weapon, he had destroyed all barriers of mind and body.
I wanted to stop Jamie, to tell him that he didn't need to go on, must not go on, but I bit my lip hard to keep from speaking and clasped my own hands tight together to keep from touching him.
He told me the rest of it, then; the slow and deliberate whipstrokes, interspersed with kisses. The shocking pain of burns, administered to drag him from the brink of a desperately sought unconsciousness to face further degradations. He told me everything, with hesitations, sometimes with tears, much more than I could bear to hear, but I heard him out, silent as a confessor. He glanced quickly up at me, then away.
"I could have stood being hurt, no matter how bad it was. I expected to be… used, and I thought I could stand that too. But I couldn't… I… he…" I dug my nails fiercely into my palms in the struggle to keep quiet. He shook soundlessly for a time, then his voice came again, thick, but desperately steady.
"He did not just hurt me, or use me. He made love to me, Claire. He hurt me—hurt me badly—while he did it, but it was an act of love to him. And he made me answer him—damn his soul! He made me rouse to him!" The hand bunched into a fist and struck the bedframe with an impotent rage that made the whole bed tremble.
"The… first time, he was verra careful with me. He used oil, and took a long time, rubbing it all over me… touchin' me gentle in all my parts. I could no more stop myself rising to his touch than I could stop myself bleeding when he cut me." Jamie's voice was weary and wretched with despair. He paused, and looked directly at me for the first time since I had come in.
"Claire, I did not want to think of you. I couldna bear to be there, naked, and… like that… and to remember loving you. It was blasphemy. I meant to wipe you from my mind, and only to… exist, so long as I must. But he would not allow it." Wetness shone on his cheeks, but he was not crying now.
"He talked. All during it, he talked to me. Partly it was threats, and partly it was love talk, but often it was you."
"Me?" My voice, unused for so long, came out of my strained throat as little more than a croak. He nodded, looking down at the pillow again.
"Aye. He was most terribly jealous of you, you know."
"No. No, I didn't know."
He nodded again. "Oh, yes. He would ask me—while he touched me—he would ask, 'Does she do this for you? Can your woman r-rouse you like this?' " His voice trembled. "I wouldna answer him—I couldn't. And then, he'd ask how I thought you would feel to see me… to see me…" He bit his lip hard, unable to go on for a moment.
"He'd hurt me a bit, then stop and love me 'til I began to rouse… and then he'd hurt me fierce and take me in the midst of the hurting. And all the time, he would talk of you, and keep you before my eyes. I fought, in my mind… I tried to keep myself from him, to keep my mind apart from my body, but the pain broke through, again and again, past every barrier I could put up. I tried, Claire—God, I tried so hard, but …"
He sank his head in his hands, fingers digging hard into his temples. He spoke abruptly. "I know why young Alex MacGregor hanged himself. I'd do the same, did I not know it to be mortal sin. If he's damned me in life, he'll not do so in heaven." There was a moment's silence while he struggled to control himself. I noticed automatically that the pillow on his knees was blotched with dampness, and wanted to get up and change it for him. He shook his head slowly, still gazing down at his feet.
"The… it's all linked for me now. I canna think of you, Claire, even of kissing you or touching your hand, without feeling the fear and the pain and the sickness come back. I lie here feeling that I will die without your touch, but when you touch me, I feel as though I will vomit with shame and loathing of myself. I canna even see you now without …" His forehead rested on knotted fists, knuckles dug hard into his eye-sockets. The tendons of his neck were sharply etched with strain, and his voice came half-muffled.