When it was over, he held himself over me, still as stone for a long moment. Then, very gently, he lowered himself, pressed his head against mine, and lay as if dead.
* * *
I stirred at last from a deep, contented stupor, lifting my hand to lay it over the spot where his pulse beat slow and strong, just at the base of his breastbone.
“It’s like bicycle riding, I expect,” I said. My head rested peacefully in the curve of his shoulder, my hand idly playing with the red-gold curls that sprang up in thickets across his chest. “Did you know you’ve got lots more hairs on your chest than you used to?”
“No,” he said drowsily, “I dinna usually count them. Have bye-sickles got lots of hair, then?”
It caught me by surprise, and I laughed.
“No,” I said. “I just meant that we seemed to recall what to do all right.”
Jamie opened one eye and looked down at me consideringly. “It would take a real daftie to forget that, Sassenach,” he said. “I may be lacking practice, but I havena lost all my faculties yet.”
We were still for a long time, aware of each other’s breathing, sensitive to each small twitch and shifting of position. We fitted well together, my head curled into the hollow of his shoulder, the territory of his body warm under my hand, both strange and familiar, awaiting rediscovery.
The building was a solid one, and the sound of the storm outside drowned most noises from within, but now and then the sounds of feet or voices were dimly audible below us; a low, masculine laugh, or the higher voice of a woman, raised in professional flirtation.
Hearing it, Jamie stirred a little uncomfortably.
“I should maybe have taken ye to a tavern,” he said. “It’s only—”
“It’s all right,” I assured him. “Though I must say, of all the places I’d imagined being with you again, I somehow never thought of a brothel.” I hesitated, not wanting to pry, but curiosity got the best of me. “You…er…don’t own this place, do you, Jamie?”
He pulled back a little, staring down at me.
“Me? God in heaven, Sassenach, what d’ye think I am?”
“Well, I don’t know, do I?” I pointed out, with some asperity. “The first thing you do when I find you is faint, and as soon as I’ve got you back on your feet, you get me assaulted in a pub and chased through Edinburgh in company with a deviant Chinese, ending up in a brothel—whose madam seems to be on awfully familiar terms with you, I might add.” The tips of his ears had gone pink, and he seemed to be struggling between laughter and indignation.
“You then take off your clothes, announce that you’re a terrible person with a depraved past, and take me to bed. What did you expect me to think?”
Laughter won out.
“Well, I’m no a saint, Sassenach,” he said. “But I’m no a pimp, either.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said. There was a momentary pause, and then I said, “Do you mean to tell me what you are, or shall I go on running down the disreputable possibilities until I come close?”
“Oh, aye?” he said, entertained by this suggestion. “What’s your best guess?”
I looked him over carefully. He lay at ease amid the tumbled sheets, one arm behind his head, grinning at me.
“Well, I’d bet my shift you’re not a printer,” I said.
The grin widened.
“Why not?”
I poked him rudely in the ribs. “You’re much too fit. Most men in their forties have begun to go soft round the middle, and you haven’t a spare ounce on you.”
“That’s mostly because I havena got anyone to cook for me,” he said ruefully. “If you ate in taverns all the time, ye wouldna be fat, either. Luckily, it looks as though ye eat regularly.” He patted my bottom familiarly, and then ducked, laughing, as I slapped at his hand.
“Don’t try to distract me,” I said, resuming my dignity. “At any rate, you didn’t get muscles like that slaving over a printing press.”
“Ever tried to work one, Sassenach?” He raised a derisive eyebrow.
“No.” I furrowed my brow in thought. “I don’t suppose you’ve taken up highway robbery?”
“No,” he said, the grin widening. “Guess again.”
“Embezzlement.”
“No.”
“Well, likely not kidnapping for ransom,” I said, and began to tick other possibilities off on my fingers. “Petty thievery? No. Piracy? No, you couldn’t possibly, unless you’ve got over being seasick. Usury? Hardly.” I dropped my hand and stared at him.
“You were a traitor when I last knew you, but that scarcely seems a good way of making a living.”
“Oh, I’m still a traitor,” he assured me. “I just havena been convicted lately.”
“Lately?”
“I spent several years in prison for treason, Sassenach,” he said, rather grimly. “For the Rising. But that was some time back.”
“Yes, I knew that.”
His eyes widened. “Ye knew that?”
“That and a bit more,” I said. “I’ll tell you later. But putting that all aside for the present and returning to the point at issue—what do you do for a living these days?”
“I’m a printer,” he said, grinning widely.
“And a traitor?”
“And a traitor,” he confirmed, nodding. “I’ve been arrested for sedition six times in the last two years, and had my premises seized twice, but the court wasna able to prove anything.”
“And what happens to you if they do prove it, one of these times?”
“Oh,” he said airily, waving his free hand in the air, “the pillory. Earnailing. Flogging. Imprisonment. Transportation. That sort of thing. Likely not hanging.”
“What a relief,” I said dryly. I felt a trifle hollow. I hadn’t even tried to imagine what his life might be like, if I found him. Now that I had, I was a little taken aback.
“I did warn ye,” he said. The teasing was gone now, and the dark blue eyes were serious and watchful.
“You did,” I said, and took a deep breath.
“Do ye want to leave now?” He spoke casually enough, but I saw his fingers clench and tighten on a fold of the quilt, so that the knuckles stood out white against the sunbronzed skin.
“No,” I said. I smiled at him, as best I could manage. “I didn’t come back just to make love with you once. I came to be with you—if you’ll have me,” I ended, a little hesitantly.
“If I’ll have you!” He let out the breath he had been holding, and sat up to face me, cross-legged on the bed. He reached out and took my hands, engulfing them between his own.
“I—canna even say what I felt when I touched you today, Sassenach, and knew ye to be real,” he said. His eyes traveled over me, and I felt the heat of him, yearning, and my own heat, melting toward him. “To find you again—and then to lose ye…” He stopped, throat working as he swallowed.
I touched his face, tracing the fine, clean line of cheekbone and jaw.
“You won’t lose me,” I said. “Not ever again.” I smiled, smoothing back the thick ruff of ruddy hair behind his ear. “Not even if I find out you’ve been committing bigamy and public drunkenness.”