"What did you say?"
He turned his head so his mouth was just below my ear. I felt warm breath on my neck. "I said," he answered softly, "my hand doesna hurt at all just now."
The good hand gently explored my face, smoothing away the wetness on my cheeks.
"Were ye afraid for me?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I thought it was too soon."
He laughed softly in the dark. "It was; I almost killed myself. Aye, I was afraid too. But I woke with my hand painin' me and couldna go back to sleep. I was tossing about, feeling lonely for ye. The more I thought about ye, the more I wanted ye, and I was halfway down the corridor before I thought to worry about what I was going to do when I got here. And once I thought…" He paused, stroking my cheek. "Well, I'm no verra good, Sassenach, but I'm maybe not a coward, after all."
I turned my head to meet his kiss. His stomach rumbled loudly.
"Don't laugh, you," he grumbled. "It's your fault, starving me. It's a wonder I could manage at all, on nothing but beef broth and ale."
"All right," I said, still laughing. "You win. You can have an egg for your breakfast tomorrow."
"Ha," he said, in tones of deep satisfaction. "I knew ye'd feed me, if I offered ye a suitable inducement."
We fell asleep face to face, locked in each other's arms.
* * *
41
From the Womb of the Earth
Over the next two weeks, Jamie continued to heal, and I continued to wonder. Some days I would feel that we must go to Rome, where the Pretender's court held sway, and do… what? Other times, I wanted with all my heart only to find a safe and isolated spot, to live our lives in peace.
It was a warm, bright day, and the icicles hanging from the gargoyles' noses dripped incessantly, leaving deep, ragged pits in the snow beneath the eaves. The door of Jamie's room had been left ajar and the window uncovered, to clear out some of the lingering vapors of smoke and illness.
I poked my head cautiously around the jamb, not wishing to wake him if he was asleep, but the narrow cot was empty. He was seated by the open window, turned half away from the door so that his face was mostly hidden.
He was desperately thin still, but the shoulders were broad and straight beneath the rough fabric of the novice's habit, and the grace of his strength was returning; he sat solidly without a tremor, back straight and legs curled back beneath the stool, the lines of his body firm and harmonious. He was holding his right wrist with his sound left hand, slowly turning the right hand in the sunlight.
There was a small pile of cloth strips on the table. He had removed the bandages from the injured hand and was examining it closely. I stood in the doorway, not moving. From here, I could see the hand clearly as he turned it back and forth, probing gingerly.
The stigma of the nail wound in the palm of the hand was quite small, and well healed, I was glad to see; no more than a small pink knot of scar tissue that would gradually fade. On the back of the hand, the situation was not so favorable. Eroded by infection, the wound there covered an area the size of sixpence, still patched with scabs and the rawness of a new scar.
The middle finger, too, showed a jagged ridge of pink scar tissue, running from just below the first joint almost to the knuckle. Released from their splints, the thumb and index finger were straight, but the little finger was badly twisted; that one had had three separate fractures, I remembered, and apparently I had not been able to set them all properly. The ring finger was set oddly, so that it protruded slightly upward when he laid the hand flat on the table, as he did now.
Turning the hand palm upward, he began to manipulate the fingers gently. None would bend more than an inch or two; the ring finger not at all. As I had feared, the second joint was likely permanently frozen.
He turned the hand to and fro, holding it before his face, watching the stiff, twisted fingers and the ugly scars, mercilessly vivid in the sunlight. Then he suddenly bent his head, clutching the injured hand to his chest, covering it protectively with the sound one. He made no sound, but the wide shoulders trembled briefly.
"Jamie." I crossed the room swiftly and knelt beside him, putting my hand softly on his knee.
"Jamie, I'm sorry," I said. "I did the best I could."
He looked down at me in astonishment. The thick auburn lashes sparkled with tears in the sunlight, and he dashed them hastily away with the back of his hand.
"What?" he said, gulping, clearly taken aback by my sudden appearance. "Sorry? For what, Sassenach?"
"Your hand." I reached out and took it, lightly tracing the crooked lines of the fingers, touching the sunken scar on the back.