The Fiery Cross (Outlander, #5)

by Diana Gabaldon

“But I’ve no life but you, Claire.”

I should have liked nothing better than to disembowel Dr. Fentiman with a blunt spoon.

“You are the most pigheaded man I have ever met,” I said crossly. “Thank you,” he said, with a small bow. “That was not a compliment!” “Aye, it was.” And with another bow, he turned on his heel and strode off on his errand.

“I must have ye now, or die,” he said, breathless, and then his mouth was on mine again, his face cold from the air outside, and his breath steaming with mine.

“Hold up your hands,” he said. “What?” I said stupidly. “Your hands. Put them up.” In complete bewilderment, I held them up, and felt him take hold of the left one, fumbling. Pressure and warmth, and the faint light from the open door shone on my gold wedding ring. Then he seized my right hand, shoved my silver ring onto my finger, the metal warm from the heat of his body. He raised my hand to his mouth, and bit my knuckles, hard.

“Look.” His breath came hot in my ear. “Look down. Watch while I take ye. Watch, damn you!”

“I did think I should die, if I didna have ye,” he said softly. “Just then.” I reached up to stroke his face, his beard a soft bristle on my palm. “Wouldn’t want you to die,” I whispered, tucking back a lock of hair behind his ear.

Brianna locked in mortal combat with her son, who was arched backward like a bow over her arm, kicking, squirming, and making the sort of nerve-wracking fuss that makes even devoted parents momentarily contemplate infanticide. I

Then Brianna pushed her way through the excited throng, with Jemmy perched on one hip, regarding the proceedings with intense distrust. She took Roger’s hand with her free one, and smiled at him, the smile trembling only a little round the edges. “Can you say my name?” she asked. Roger’s smile matched hers. I could hear the air rasp in his throat as he took a breath. This time he spoke softly; very softly, but everyone held silence, leaning forward to listen. It was a ragged whisper, thick and painful, the first syllable punched hard to force it through his scarred vocal cords, the last of it barely audible. But, “BRREEah … nah,” he said, and she burst into tears.

Well, ye see—the fact is that I dinna actually ken a great deal about bears, as there havena been any in Scotland for quite some years now.” Peter’s eyebrows went up. “But they say ye killed a great bear wi’ naught but a dirk!” Jamie rubbed his nose with something approaching annoyance. “Aye, well … so I did, then. But I didna hunt the creature down. It came after me, so I hadna got a choice about it, after all. I’m none so sure that I shall be of any great help in discovering this ghost-bear. It must be a particularly clever bear, no? To have been walking in and out of their village for months, I mean, and no one with more than a single glimpse of it?” “Smarter than the average bear,” Brianna agreed, her mouth twitching slightly. Jamie gave her a narrow look, which he switched to me as I choked on a swallow of beer. “What?” he demanded testily. “Nothing,” I gasped. “Nothing at all.” Turning his back on us in disgust, Jamie suddenly caught sight of Josiah Beardsley, who, while not guffawing, was doing a little mouth-twitching of his own. “What?” Jamie barked at him. “They’re no but loons”—he jerked a thumb over his finger at Brianna and me—“but what’s to do wi’ you, eh?” Josiah immediately erased the grin from his face and tried to look grave, but the corner of his mouth kept on twitching, and a hot flush was rising in his narrow cheeks, visible even by firelight. Jamie narrowed his eyes and a stifled noise that might have been a giggle escaped Josiah. He clapped a hand ac...

“But not with you,” he said, and covered my hand where it lay on his arm. “D’ye ken that the only time I am without pain is in your bed, Sassenach? When I take ye, when I lie in your arms—my wounds are healed, then, my scars forgotten.”

Burn with me, as I burn for you.”

“Until we two be burned to ashes.”

“Sassenach … I love ye now, and I will love ye always. Whether I am dead—or you—whether we are together or apart. You know it is true,” he said quietly, and touched my face. “I know it of you, and ye know it of me as well.”

“Sometimes,” he whispered at last, “sometimes, I dream I am singing, and I wake from it with my throat aching.” He couldn’t see her face, or the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes. “What do you sing?” she whispered back. She heard the shush of the linen pillow as he shook his head. “No song I’ve ever heard, or know,” he said softly. “But I know I’m singing it for you.”

“When the day shall come, that we do part,” he said softly, and turned to look at me, “if my last words are not ‘I love you’—ye’ll ken it was because I didna have time.”