Dragonfly in Amber (43 page)

"You should be in bed, Madame!" Marguerite scolded. "It isn't good for the child, for you to let yourself be chilled like that. I will fetch a warming pan at once; where is your nightrobe? Get into it at once, yes, that's right…" I shrugged the heavy woolen nightrobe over the thin silk of my nightgown, but ignored Marguerite's clucking to go to the window and open the shutters.

The street outside was beginning to glow as the rising sun struck the upper facades of the stone houses along the Rue Tremoulins. There was a good deal of activity on the street, early as it was; maids and footmen engaged in scrubbing steps or polishing brass gate-fittings, barrowmen selling fruit, vegetables, and fresh seafood, crying their wares along the street, and the cooks of the great houses popping up from their basement doors like so many jinni, summoned by the cries of the barrowmen. A delivery cart loaded with coal clopped slowly along the street, pulled by an elderly horse who looked as though he would much rather be in his stable. But no sign of Jamie.

I at last allowed an anxious Marguerite to persuade me into bed, for the sake of warmth, but couldn't go back to sleep. Every sound from below brought me to the alert, hoping that each footstep on the pavement outside would be followed by Jamie's voice in the hall below. The face of the Comte St. Germain kept coming between me and sleep. Alone among the French nobility, he had some connection with Charles Stuart. He had, in all likelihood, been behind the earlier attempt on Jamie's life…and on mine. He was known to have unsavory associations. Was it possible that he had arranged to have both Charles and Jamie removed? Whether his purposes were political or personal made little difference, at this point.

When at last the sound of steps below did come, I was so occupied with visions of Jamie lying in a gutter with his throat cut, that I didn't realize he was home until the bedroom door opened.

"Jamie!" I sat up in bed with a cry of joy.

He smiled at me, then yawned immensely, making no effort to cover his mouth. I could see a goodly distance down his throat, and observed with relief that it wasn't cut. On the other hand, he looked distinctly the worse for wear. He lay down on the bed next to me and stretched, long and rackingly, then settled with a half-contented groan.

"What," I demanded, "happened to you?"

He opened one red-rimmed eye.

"I need a bath," he said, and closed it again.

I leaned toward him and sniffed delicately. The nose detected the usual smoky smell of closed rooms and damp wool, underlying a truly remarkable combination of alcoholic stenches—ale, wine, whisky, and brandy—which matched the variety of stains on his shirt. And forming a high note to the mixture, a horrible cheap cologne, of a particularly penetrating and noxious pungency.

"You do," I agreed. I scrambled out of bed and leaning out into the corridor, shouted for Marguerite, sending her on arrival for a hip bath and sufficient water to fill it. As a parting gift from Brother Ambrose, I had several cakes of a fine-milled hard soap, made with attar of roses, and told her to fetch those, as well.

As the maid set about the tedious business of bringing up the huge copper bath-cans, I turned my attention to the hulk on the bed.

I stripped off his shoes and stockings, then loosening the buckle of his kilt, I flipped it open. His hands went reflexively to his crotch, but my eyes were focused elsewhere.

"What," I said again, "happened to you?"

Several long scratches marked his thighs, angry red welts against the pale skin. And high on the inside of one leg was what could be nothing other than a bite; the toothmarks were plainly visible.

The maid, pouring hot water, cast an interested eye at the evidence and thought fit to put in her tuppence at this delicate moment.

"Un petit chien?" she asked. A little dog? Or something else. While I was far from fluent in the idiom of the times, I had learned that les petits chiens often walked the street on two legs with painted faces.

"Out," I said briefly in French, with a Head Matron intonation. The maid picked up the cans and left the room, pouting slightly. I turned back to Jamie, who opened one eye, and after a glance at my face, closed it again.

"Well?" I asked.

Instead of answering, he shuddered. After a moment, he sat up and rubbed his hands over his face, the stubble making a rasping noise. He cocked one ruddy eyebrow interrogatively. "I wouldna suppose a gently reared young lady such as yourself would be familiar wi' an alternate meaning for the term soixante-neuf?"

"I've heard the term," I said, folding my arms across my chest and regarding him with a certain amount of suspicion. "And may I ask just where you encountered that particular interesting number?"

"It was suggested to me—with some force—as a desirable activity by a lady I happened to meet last night."

"Was that by any chance the lady who bit you in the thigh?"

He glanced down and rubbed the mark meditatively.

"Mm, no. As a matter of fact, it wasn't. That lady seemed preoccupied wi' rather lower numbers. I think she meant to settle for the six, and the nine could go hang."

"Jamie," I said, tapping my foot in a marked manner, "where have you been all night?"

He scooped up a handful of water from the basin and splashed it over his face, letting the rivulets run down among the dark red hairs on his chest.

"Mm," he said, blinking drops from his thick lashes, "well, let me see. First there was supper at a tavern. We met Glengarry and Millefleurs there." Monsieur Millefleurs was a Parisian banker, while Glengarry was one of the younger Jacobites, chief of one sept of the MacDonell clan. A visitor in Paris, rather than a resident, he had been much in Charles's company lately, by Jamie's report. "And after supper, we went to the Duc di Castellotti's, for cards."

"And then?" I asked.

A tavern, apparently. And then another tavern. And then an establishment which appeared to share some of the characteristics of a tavern, but was embellished by the addition of several ladies of interesting appearance and even more interesting talents.

"Talents, eh?" I said, with a glance at the marks on his leg.

"God, they did it in public," he said, with a reminiscent shudder. "Two of them, on the table. Right between the saddle of mutton and the boiled potatoes. With the quince jelly."

"Mon dieu," said the newly returned maid, setting down the fresh bathcan long enough to cross herself.

"You be quiet," I said, scowling at her. I turned my attention back to my husband. "And then what?"

Then, apparently, the action had become somewhat more general, though still accomplished in fairly public fashion. With due regard to Marguerite's sensibilities, Jamie waited until she had left for another round of water before elaborating further.

"…and then Castellotti took the fat one with red hair and the small blond one off to a corner, and—"

"And what were you doing all this time?" I broke in on the fascinating recitative.

"Watching," he said, as though surprised. "It didna seem decent, but there wasna much choice about it, under the circumstances."

I had been groping in his sporran as he talked, and now fished out not only a small purse, but a wide metal ring, embellished with a coat of arms. I tried it curiously on a finger; it was much larger than any normal ring, and hung like a quoit on a stick.

"Whoever does this belong to?" I asked, holding it out. "It looks like the Duc di Castellotti's coat of arms, but whoever it belongs to must have fingers like sausages." Castellotti was an etiolated Italian stringbean, with the pinched face of a man with chronic dyspepsia—no wonder, judging from Jamie's story. Quince jelly, forsooth!

I glanced up to find Jamie blushing from navel to hairline.

"Er," he said, taking an exaggerated interest in a mud stain on one knee, "it…doesna go on a man's finger."

"Then what…oh." I looked at the circular object with renewed interest. "Goodness. I've heard of them before…"

"You have?" said Jamie, thoroughly scandalized.

"But I've never seen one. Does it fit you?" I reached out to try it. He clasped his hands reflexively over his private parts.

Marguerite, arriving with more water, assured him, "Ne vous en faîtes pas, Monsieur. J'en ai déjà vu un." Don't worry yourself, monsieur; I've already seen one.

Dividing a glare between me and the maid, he pulled a quilt across his lap.

"Bad enough to spend all night defending my virtue," he remarked with some asperity, "without havin' it subjected to comment in the morning."

"Defending your virtue, hm?" I tossed the ring idly from hand to hand, catching it on opposing index fingers. "A gift, was it?" I asked, "or a loan?"

"A gift. Don't do that, Sassenach," he said, wincing. "It brings back memories."

"Ah yes," I said, eying him. "Now about those memories…"

"Not me!" he protested. "Surely ye dinna think I'd do such things? I'm a married man!"

"Monsieur Millefleurs isn't married?"

"He's not only married, he has two mistresses," Jamie said. "But he's French—that's different."

"The Duc di Castellotti isn't French—he's Italian."

"But he's a duke. That's different, too."

"Oh, it is, is it? I wonder if the Duchess thinks so."

"Considering a few things the Duc claimed he learnt from the Duchess, I would imagine so. Isn't that bath ready yet?"

Clutching the quilt about him, he lumbered from the bed to the steaming tub and stepped in. He dropped the quilt and lowered himself quickly, but not quite quickly enough.

"Enorme!" said the maid, crossing herself.

"C'est tout," I said repressively. "Merci bien." She dropped her eyes, blushed, and scuttled out.

As the door closed behind the maid, Jamie relaxed into the tub, high at the back to allow for lounging; the feeling of the times seemed to be that once having gone to the trouble of filling a bath, one might as well enjoy it. His stubbled face assumed an expression of bliss as he sank gradually lower into the steaming water, a flush of heat reddening his fair skin. His eyes were closed, and a faint mist of moisture gleamed across the high, broad cheekbones and shone in the hollows beneath his eyesockets.

"Soap?" he asked hopefully, opening his eyes.

"Yes, indeed." I fetched a cake and handed it to him, then sat down on a stool alongside the bath. I watched for some time as he scrubbed industriously, fetching him a cloth and a pumice stone, with which he painstakingly rasped the soles of his feet and his elbows.

"Jamie," I said at last.

"Aye?"

"I don't mean to quarrel with your methods," I said, "and we agreed that you might have to go to some lengths, but…did you really have to…"

"To what, Sassenach?" He had stopped washing and was watching me intently, head on one side.

"To…to…" To my annoyance, I was flushing as deeply as he was, but without the excuse of hot water.

A large hand rose dripping out of the water and rested on my arm. The wet heat burned through the thin fabric of my sleeve.

"Sassenach," he said, "what do ye think I've been doing?"

"Er, well," I said, trying and failing to keep my eyes away from the marks on his thigh. He laughed, though he didn't sound truly amused.

"O ye of little faith!" he said sardonically.

I withdrew beyond his reach.

"Well," I said, "when one's husband comes home covered with bites and scratches and reeking with perfume, admits he's spent the night in a bawdy house, and…"

"And tells ye flat-out he's spent the night watching, not doing?"

"You didn't get those marks on your leg from watching!" I snapped suddenly, then clamped my lips together. I felt like a jealous biddy, and I didn't care for it. I had vowed to take it all calmly, like a woman of the world, telling myself that I had complete faith in Jamie and—just in case—that you can't make omelets without breaking eggs. Even if something had happened…

I smoothed the wet spot on my sleeve, feeling the air chill through the cooling silk. I struggled to regain my former light tone.

"Or are those the scars of honorable combat, gained in defending your virtue?" Somehow the light tone didn't quite come off. Listening to myself, I had to admit that the overall tone was really quite nasty. I was rapidly ceasing to care.

No slouch at reading tones of voice, Jamie narrowed his eyes at me and seemed about to reply. He drew in his breath, then apparently thought better of whatever he had been going to say and let it out again.

"Yes," he said calmly. He fished about in the tub between his legs, coming up at length with the cake of soap, a roughly shaped ball of white slickness. He held it out on his palm.

"Will ye help me to wash my hair? His Highness vomited on me in the coach coming home, and I reek a bit, all things considered."

I hesitated a moment, but accepted the olive branch, temporarily at least.

I could feel the solid curve of his skull under the thick, soapy hair, and the welt of the healed scar across the back of his head. I dug my thumbs firmly into his neck muscles, and he relaxed slightly under my hands.

The soap bubbles ran down across the wet, gleaming curves of his shoulders, and my hands followed them, spreading the slickness so that my fingers seemed to float on the surface of his skin.

He was big, I thought. Near him so much, I tended to forget his size, until I saw him suddenly from a distance, towering among smaller men, and I would be struck anew by his grace and the beauty of his body. But he sat now with his knees nearly underneath his chin, and his shoulders filled the tub from one side to the other. He leaned forward slightly to assist my ministrations, exposing the hideous scars on his back. The thick red welts of Jack Randall's Christmas gift lay heavily over the thin white lines of the earlier floggings.

I touched the scars gently, my heart squeezed by the sight. I had seen those wounds when they were fresh, seen him driven to the edge of madness by torture and abuse. But I had healed him, and he had fought with all the power of a gallant heart to be whole once more, to come back to me. Moved by tenderness, I brushed the trailing ends of his hair aside, and bent to kiss the back of his neck.