Voyager (Outlander, #3)

by Diana Gabaldon

but there was no room in me for anything but grief and terror.

There aren’t many people like that—who will tell you the truth about themselves and anything else right out.

“I did love you,” I said softly, at last. “Once.” “Once,” he echoed. “Should I be grateful for that?”

she’s gone, there won’t be a soul left in the world who cares what I’m like, or thinks I’m special not because of anything, but just because I’m me! She’s the only person in the world who really, really cares I was born,

“You’ll come wi’ me?” he asked anxiously. I licked my fingers and rose, pulling my cloak around me. “Wild horses couldn’t stop me,” I assured him.

“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.

“We are together for always. She is safe; and we will live forever now, you and I.”

“It’s not that he canna look out for himself,” Jamie explained, amusement winning in the struggle of expressions on his face. “He’s a nice capable lad. It’s just—well, ye ken how things just happen around some folk, without them seeming to have anything much to do wi’ it?”

“I havena been afraid for a verra long time, Sassenach,” he whispered. “But now I think I am. For there is something to be lost, now.”

“To have ye with me again—to talk wi’ you—to know I can say anything, not guard my words or hide my thoughts—God, Sassenach,” he said, “the Lord knows I am lust-crazed as a lad, and I canna keep my hands from you—or anything else—” he added, wryly, “but I would count that all well lost, had I no more than the pleasure of havin’ ye by me, and to tell ye all my heart.” “It was lonely without you,” I whispered. “So lonely.” “And me,” he said.

And I have wondered often, was I master in my soul, or did I become the slave of my own blade?

“You have that—the strength. Ye have it, and your soul as well. So perhaps my own may be saved.”

“Am I a man? To want you so badly that nothing else matters? To see you, and know I would sacrifice honor or family or life itself to lie wi’ you, even though ye’d left me?”

“Do ye know what it is to live twenty years without a heart? To live half a man, and accustom yourself to living in the bit that’s left, filling in the cracks

And having seen ye again—I tell ye, I would ha’ done far worse than lie to keep you!”

Always, always, I had had to balance compassion with wisdom, love with judgment, humanity with ruthlessness. Only with Jamie had I given everything I had, risked it all. I had thrown away caution and judgment and wisdom, along with the comforts and constraints of a hard-won career. I had brought him nothing but myself, been nothing but myself with him, given him soul as well as body, let him see me naked, trusted him to see me whole and cherish my frailties—because he once had. I had feared he couldn’t, again. Or wouldn’t. And then had known those few days of perfect joy, thinking that what had once been true was true once more; I was free to love him, with everything I had and was, and be loved with an honesty that matched my own. The tears slid hot and wet between my fingers. I mourned for Jamie, and for what I had been, with him. Do you know, his voice said, whispering, what it means, to say again “I love you,” and to mean it? I knew. And with my head in my hands beneath the pine trees, I knew I would never mean it again.

“Floating through rooms without feeling your footsteps. Hearing people speak to you, and not making sense of it.

“Do ye know?” he said softly, somewhere in the black, small hours of the night. “Do ye know what it’s like to be with someone that way? To try all ye can, and seem never to have the secret of them?” “Yes,” I said, thinking of Frank. “Yes, I do know.” “I thought perhaps ye did.” He was quiet for a moment, and then his hand touched my hair lightly, a shadowy blur in the firelight. “And then …” he whispered, “then to have it back again, that knowing. To be free in all ye say or do, and know that it is right.” “To say ‘I love you,’ and mean it with all your heart,” I said softly to the dark.

“But here,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him, “here in the dark, with you … I have no name.” I lifted my face toward his, and took the warm breath of him between my own lips. “I love you,” I said, and did not need to tell him how I meant it.

“Well, then. Ye’ll ken that the greylag mate for life? If ye kill a grown goose, hunting, ye must always wait, for the mate will come to mourn. Then ye must try to kill the second, too, for otherwise it will grieve itself to death, calling through the skies for the lost one.”

“I keep thinking—is it my fault? Have I sinned so greatly, wanting you so much, needing ye more than life itself?”

There are things ye maybe canna tell me, he had said. I willna ask ye, or force ye. But when ye do tell me something, let it be the truth. There is nothing between us now but respect, and respect has room for secrets, I think—but not for lies.

Once you’ve chosen a man, don’t try to change him, I wrote, with more confidence. It can’t be done. More important—don’t let him try to change you. He can’t do it either, but men always try.

Kiss me, Sassenach, for believe me—I wouldna change ye for the world.”

“I want him.” I wanted him still, and nothing whatever could stand between us.

“But how shall I tell ye all these things,” he said, the line of his mouth twisting. “And then say to you—it is only you I have ever loved? How should you believe me?” The question hung in the air between us, shimmering like the reflection from the water below. “If you say it,” I said, “I’ll believe you.”

“I give ye my spirit,” he said, head bent over our hands. “ ’Til our life shall be done,” I said softly. “But it isn’t done yet, Jamie, is it?”