Outlander aka Cross Stitch - Gabaldon Diana - Страница 73
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“They’re not looking for you, are they?”
Startled, he looked back as though expecting to see men scrambling up the hill in pursuit, but there was no one, and he looked back at me with a relieved smile and put an arm about my waist to help me along.
“Nay, I doubt it. Ten pound sterling is not enough to make me worth the hunting by a pack like that. And if they kent I was at the inn, they wouldna have come as they did, traipsing up to the door all of a piece.” He shook his head decisively. “No, were they hunting anyone, they’d send men to guard the back and the windows before coming in the front door. They’ve but stopped there for refreshment, likely.”
We continued to climb, past the spot where the, rude path petered out in clumps of gorse and heather. We were among foothills here, and the granite rocks rose higher than Jamie’s head, reminding me uncomfortably of the standing stones of Craigh na Dun.
We emerged then, onto the top of a small dun, and the hills sloped away in a breathtaking fall of rocks and green on all sides. Most places in the Highlands gave me a feeling of being surrounded by trees or rocks or mountains, but here we were exposed to the fresh drafts of the wind and the rays of the sun, which had come out as though in celebration of our unorthodox marriage.
I experienced a heady sense of freedom at being out from under Dougal’s influence and the claustrophobic company of so many men. I was tempted to urge Jamie to run away, and to take me with him, but common sense prevailed. We had neither of us any money nor any food beyond the bit of lunch that he carried in his sporran. We would certainly be pursued if we did not return to the inn by sundown. And while Jamie could plainly climb rocks all day without breaking a sweat or getting out of breath, I was in no such training. Noticing my red face, he led me to a rock and sat beside me, contentedly gazing out over the hills while he waited for me to regain my breath. We were certainly safe here.
Thinking of the Watch, I laid a hand impulsively on Jamie’s arm.
“I’m awfully glad you’re not worth very much,” I said.
He regarded me for a moment, rubbing his nose, which was beginning to redden.
“Well, I might take that several ways, Sassenach, but under the circumstances,” he said, “thank you.”
“I should thank you,” I said, “for marrying me. I must say that I’d rather be here than in Fort William.”
“I thank ye for the compliment, lady,” he said, with a slight bow. “So would I. And while we’re busy thanking each other,” he added, “I should thank you for marrying me, as well.”
“Er, well…” I blushed once more.
“Not only for that, Sassenach,” he said, his grin widening. “Though certainly for that as well. But I imagine you’ve also saved my life for me, at least so far as the MacKenzies are concerned.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Being half MacKenzie is one thing,” he explained. “Being half MacKenzie wi’ an English wife is quite another. There isna much chance of a Sassenach wench ever becoming lady of Leoch, whatever the clansmen might think of me alone. That’s why Dougal picked me to wed ye to, ye ken.”
He lifted one brow, reddish-gold in the morning sun. “I hope ye wouldna have preferred Rupert, after all?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I said with emphasis.
He laughed and got up, brushing pine needles from his kilts.
“Well, my mother told me I’d be some lassie’s choice one fine day.” He reached down a hand and helped me up.
“I told her,” he continued, “that I thought it was the man’s part to choose.”
“And what did she say to that?” I asked.
“She rolled her eyes and said ‘You’ll find out, my fine wee cockerel, you’ll find out.’ ” He laughed. “And so I have.”
He looked upward, to where the sun was now seeping through the pine needles in lemon threads.
“And it is a fine day, at that. Come along, Sassenach. I’ll take ye fishin’.”
We went further up into the hills. This time Jamie turned to the north, and over a jumble of stone and through a crevice, into the head of a tiny glen, rock-walled and leafy, filled with the gurgling of water from the burn that spilled from a dozen wee falls among the rocks and plunged roistering down the length of the canyon into a series of rills and pools below.
We dangled our feet in the water, moving from shade to sun and back to shade as we grew too warm, talking of this and that and not much of anything, both aware of each other’s smallest movement, both content to wait until chance should bring us to that moment when a glance should linger, and a touch should signal more.
Above one dark speckled pool, Jamie showed me how to tickle trout. Crouched to avoid the low-growing branches overhead, he duck-walked along an overhanging ledge, arms outstretched for balance. Halfway along, he turned carefully on the rock and stretched out his hand, urging me to follow.
I had my skirts tucked up already, for walking through rough country, and managed well enough. We stretched full-length on the cool rock, head to head, peering down into the water, willow branches brushing our backs.
“All it is,” he said, “is to pick a good spot, and then wait.” He dipped one hand below the surface, smoothly, no splashing, and let it lie on the sandy bottom, just outside the line of shadow made by the rocky overhang. The long fingers curled delicately toward the palm, distorted by the water so that they seemed to wave gently to and fro in unison, like the leaves of a water plant, though I saw from the still muscling of his forearm that he was not moving his hand at all. The column of his arm bent abruptly at the surface, seeming as disjointed as it had been when I had met him, little more than a month – my God, only a month? – before.
Met one month, married one day. Bound by vows and by blood. And by friendship as well. When the time came to leave, I hoped that I would not hurt him too badly. I found myself glad that for the moment, I need not think about it; we were far from Craigh na Dun, and not a chance in the world of escape from Dougal for the present.
“There he is.” Jamie’s voice was low, hardly more than a breath; he had told me that trout have sensitive ears.
From my angle of view, the trout was little more than a stirring of the speckled sand. Deep in the rock shadow, there was no telltale gleam of scales. Speckles moved on speckles, shifted by the fanning of transparent fins, invisible but for their motion. The minnows that had gathered to pluck curiously at the hairs on Jamie’s wrist fled away into the brightness of the pool.
One finger bent slowly, so slowly it was hard to see the movement. I could tell it moved only by its changing position, relative to the other fingers. Another finger, slowly bent. And after a long, long moment, another.
I scarcely dared breathe, and my heart beat against the cold rock with a rhythm faster than the breathing of the fish. Sluggishly the fingers bent back, lying open, one by one, and the slow hypnotic wave began again, one finger, one finger, one finger more, the movement a smooth ripple like the edge of a fish’s fin.
As though drawn by the slow-motion beckoning, the trout’s nose pressed outward, a delicate gasping of mouth and gills, busy in the rhythm of breathing, pink lining showing, not showing, showing, not showing, as the opercula beat like a heart.
The chewing mouth groped and bit water. Most of the body was clear of the rock now, hanging weightless in the water, still in the shadow. I could see one eye, twitching to and fro in a blank, directionless stare.
An inch more would bring the flapping gill-covers right over the treacherous beckoning fingers. I found that I was gripping the rock with both hands, pressing my cheek hard against the granite, as though I could make myself still more inconspicuous.
There was a sudden explosion of motion. Everything happened so fast I couldn’t see what actually did take place. There was a heavy splatter of water that sluiced across the rock an inch from my face, and a flurry of plaid as Jamie rolled across the rock above me, and a heavy splat as the fish’s body sailed through the air and struck the leaf-strewn bank.
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