A Breath of Snow and Ashes (Outlander, #6)

by Diana Gabaldon

He saw me flinch, and looked down. Then, awkwardly, he reached out and took my hand. I felt the scars of the surgery I had done, the flexible strength of his gripping fingers. “I have waited all my life, in a search …” He waved his free hand vaguely, then closed his fingers, as though grasping the thought, and continued more surely, “No. In hope. In hope of a thing I could not name, but that I knew must exist.” His eyes searched my face, intent, as though he memorized my features. I raised a hand, uncomfortable under this scrutiny, intending, I suppose, to tidy my mad hair—but he caught my hand and held it, surprising me. “Leave it,” he said. Standing with both hands in his, I had no choice. “Thomas,” I said, uncertain. “Mr. Christie …” “I became convinced that it was God I sought. Perhaps it was. But God is not flesh and blood, and the love of God alone could not sustain me. “I have written down my confession.” He let go, and poked a hand into his pocket, fumbling a little, and pulled out a folded paper, which he clutched in his short, solid fingers. “I have sworn here that it was I who killed my daughter, for the shame she had brought upon me by her wantonness.” He spoke firmly enough, but I could see the working of his throat above the wilted stock. “You didn’t,” I said positively. “I know you didn’t.” He blinked, gazing at me. “No,” he said, quite matter-of-fact. “But perhaps I should have. “I have written a copy of this confession,” he said, tucking the document back ...

:'(