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People disappear all the time.
‘Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone. I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One. I give ye my Spirit, ’til our Life shall be Done.’ ”
“Madam, you have me at a disadvantage.”
“I will protect you. From him, or anyone else. To the last drop of my blood, mo duinne.”
“It starts out the same, but then, after a moment,” he said, speaking softly, “suddenly it’s as though I’ve a living flame in my arms.”
“And I want only to throw myself into it and be consumed.”
“Does it ever stop? The wanting you?” His hand came around to caress my breast. “Even when I’ve just left ye, I want you so much my chest feels tight
Once again, I regretted making him laugh. A sadist with a sense of humor was particularly dangerous.
“I don’t run either, Sassenach,” he said gruffly. “Now, then. What does ‘fucking’ mean?”
“I want ye, Claire,” he said, sounding choked. He paused a moment, as though unsure what to say next. “I want ye so much—I can scarcely breathe. Will—” He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Will ye have me?”
“I am your master … and you’re mine. Seems I canna possess your soul without losing my own.”
Yes, look. I was married to a Scottish outlaw, the both of us hunted by a sadistic captain of dragoons, and living with a lot of barbarians, who would as soon kill Jamie as look at him, if they thought him a threat to their precious clan succession. And the worst of it all was that I was happy.
The dusk momentarily heightened all the colors of the countryside, lighting the land with jewels; a glowing emerald in the hollows, a lovely shadowed amethyst among the clumps of heather, and burning rubies on the red-berried rowan trees that crowned the hills. Rowan berries, a specific against witchcraft.
“It wasn’t your fight, it was mine. But you won it anyway.” I reached out a hand, and he squeezed it.
“Aye, but that’s not what I meant. If I’d fought him man to man and won, ye’d not need to feel any regret over it.” He hesitated. “If ever—” “There aren’t any more ifs,” I said firmly. “I thought of every one of them yesterday, and here I still am.”
“Hardest thing I ever did, Sassenach.”
“Where are we going?” We were headed away from the house, toward the cluster of sheds in the shadow of the elm grove. “To find a haystack.”
“It’s a damn thin line between justice and brutality, Sassenach. I only hope I’ve come down on the right side of it.”
“And you, my Sassenach? What were you born for? To be lady of a manor, or to sleep in the fields like a gypsy? To be a healer, or a don’s wife, or an outlaw’s lady?”
“I wanted ye from the first I saw ye—but I loved ye when you wept in my arms and let me comfort you, that first time at Leoch.”
“I love you.”
The numbers were one, nine, six, and seven.”
“Sassenach,” he said against my shoulder, a moment later. “Mm?” “Who in God’s name is John Wayne?” “You are,” I said. “Go to sleep.”
For where all love is, the speaking is unnecessary. It is all. It is undying. And it is enough.
Despair was in its own way an anesthetic.
