I had given what was implicitly promised; now he could with honor accede to my request, feeling no virtu had gone forth from him. As for me, I met his courteous bow with my own, took my elbow from the grip with which he had gallantly escorted me to the door, and left the audience chamber only a few minutes after entering it, with the King's assurance that the order for Jamie's freedom would be given in the morning.
The Gentleman of the Bedchamber was standing in the hall, waiting. He bowed to me, and I bowed back, then followed him down the Hall of Mirrors, feeling the slipperiness of my oily thighs as they brushed each other, and smelling the strong scent of roses between my legs.
Hearing the gate of the palace shut behind me, I had closed my eyes and thought that I would never see Jamie again. And if by chance I did, I would rub his nose in the scent of roses, until his soul sickened and died.
But now instead I held his hand on my thigh, listening to his breathing, deep and even in the dark beside me. And I let the door close forever on His Majesty's audience.
29
TO GRASP THE NETTLE
Scotland." I sighed, thinking of the cool brown streams and dark pines of Lallybroch, Jamie's estate. "Can we really go home?"
"I expect we'll have to," he answered wryly. "The King's pardon says I leave France by mid-September, or I'm back in the Bastille. Presumably, His Majesty has arranged a pardon as well from the English Crown, so I willna be hanged directly I get off the ship in Inverness."
"I suppose we could go to Rome, or to Germany," I suggested, tentatively. I wanted nothing more than to go home to Lallybroch, and heal in the quiet peace of the Scottish Highlands. My heart sank at the thought of royal courts and intrigue, the constant press of danger and insecurity. But if Jamie felt we must…
He shook his head, red hair falling over his face as he stooped to pull on his stockings.
"Nay, it's Scotland or the Bastille," he said. "Our passage is already booked, just to make sure." He straightened and brushed the hair out of his eyes with a wry smile. "I imagine the Duke of Sandringham—and possibly King George—want me safe at home, where they can keep an eye on me. Not spying in Rome, or raising money in Germany. The three weeks' grace, I gather, is a courtesy to Jared, giving him time to come home before I leave."
I was sitting in the window seat of my bedroom, looking out over the tumbled green sea of the Fontainebleau woods. The hot, languid air of summer seemed to press down, sapping all energy.
"I can't say I'm not glad." I sighed, pressing my cheek against the glass in search of a moment's coolness. The legacy of yesterday's chill rain was a blanketing humidity that made hair and clothes cling to my skin, itching and damp. "Do you think it's safe, though? I mean, will Charles give up, now that the Comte is dead, and the money from Manzetti lost?"
Jamie frowned, rubbing his hand along the edge of his jaw to judge the growth of the stubble.
"I wish I knew whether he'd had a letter from Rome in the last two weeks," he said, "and if so, what was in it. But aye, I think we've managed. No banker in Europe will advance anyone of the name of Stuart a brass centime, that's for sure. Philip of Spain has other fish to fry, and Louis—" He shrugged, his mouth twisting wryly. "Between Monsieur Duverney and the Duke of Sandringham, I'd say Charles's expectations in that direction are somewhat less than poor. Shall I shave, d'ye think?"
"Not on my account," I said. The casual intimacy of the question made me suddenly shy. We had shared a bed the night before, but we had both been exhausted, and the delicate web woven between us in the arbor had seemed too fragile to support the stress of attempting to make love. I had spent the night in a terrible consciousness of his warm proximity, but thought I must, under the circumstances, leave the first move to him.
Now I caught the play of light across his shoulders as he turned to find his shirt, and was seized with the desire to touch him; to feel him, smooth and hard and eager against me once more.
His head popped through the neck of his shirt, and his eyes met mine, suddenly and unguarded. He paused for a moment, looking at me, but not speaking. The morning sounds of the château were clearly audible, outside the bubble of silence that surrounded us; the bustling of servants, the high thin sound of Louise's voice, raised in some sort of altercation.
Not here, Jamie's eyes said. Not in the midst of so many people.
He looked down, carefully fastening his shirt buttons. "Does Louise keep horses for riding?" he asked, eyes on his task. "There are some cliffs a few miles away; I thought perhaps we might ride there—the air may be cooler."
"I think she does," I said. "I'll ask."
We reached the cliffs just before noon. Not cliffs so much as jutting pillars and ridges of limestone that sat among the yellowing grass of the surrounding hills like the ruins of an ancient city. The pale ridges were split and fissured from time and weather, spattered with thousands of strange, tiny plants that had found a foothold in the merest scrape of eroded soil.
We left the horses hobbled in the grass, and climbed on foot to a wide, flat shelf of limestone covered with tufts of rough grass, just below the highest tumble of stone. There was little shade from the scruffy bushes, but up this high, there was a small breeze.
"God, it's hot!" Jamie said. He flipped loose the buckle of his kilt, so it fell around his feet, and started to wriggle out of his shirt.
"What are you doing, Jamie?" I said, half-laughing.
"Stripping," he replied, matter-of-factly. "Why don't ye do the same, Sassenach? You're more soaked than I am, and there's none here to see."
After a moment's hesitation, I did as he suggested. It was entirely isolated here; too craggy and rocky for sheep, the chance of even a stray shepherd coming upon us was remote. And alone, naked together, away from Louise and her throngs of intrusive servants…Jamie spread his plaid on the rough ground as I peeled out of my sweat-clinging garments.
He stretched lazily and settled back, arms behind his head, completely oblivious to curious ants, stray bits of gravel and the stubs of prickly vegetation.
"You must have the hide of a goat," I remarked. "How can you lie on the bare ground like that?" As bare as he, I reposed more comfortably on a thick fold of the plaid he had thoughtfully spread out for me.
He shrugged, eyes closed against the warm afternoon sun. The light gilded him in the hollow where he lay, making him glow red-gold against the dark of the rough grass beneath him.
"I'll do," he said comfortably, and lapsed into silence, the sound of his breathing near enough to reach me over the faint whine of the wind that crossed the ridges above us.
I rolled onto my belly and laid my chin on my crossed forearms, watching him. He was wide at the shoulder and narrow at the hip, with long, powerful haunches slightly dented by muscles held taut even as he relaxed. The small, warm breeze stirred the drying tufts of soft cinnamon hair beneath his arms, and ruffled the copper and gold that waved gently over his wrists, where they braced his head. The slight breeze was welcome, for the early autumn sun was still hot on my shoulders and calves.
"I love you," I said softly, not meaning him to hear me, but only for the pleasure of saying it.
He did hear, though, for the hint of a smile curved the wide mouth. After a moment, he rolled over onto his belly on the plaid beside me. A few blades of grass clung to his back and bu**ocks. I brushed one lightly away, and his skin shivered briefly at my touch.
I leaned to kiss his shoulder, enjoying the warm scent of his skin and the faint salty taste of him.
Instead of kissing me back, though, he pulled away a bit, and lay propped on one elbow, looking at me. There was something in his expression that I didn't understand, and it made me faintly uneasy.
"Penny for your thoughts," I said, running a finger down the deep groove of his backbone. He moved just far enough to avoid my touch, and took a deep breath.
"Well, I was wondering—" he began, and then stopped. He was looking down, fiddling with a tiny flower that sprang out of the grass.
"You were wondering what?"
"What it was like…with Louis."
I thought my heart had stopped for a moment. I knew all the blood had left my face, because I could feel the numbness of my lips as I forced the words out.
"What…it…was like?"
He looked up then, making only a passing-fair attempt at a lopsided smile.
"Well," he said. "He is a king. You'd think it would be…different, somehow. You know…special, maybe?"
The smile was slipping, and his face had gone as white as my own. He looked down again, avoiding my stricken gaze.
"I suppose all I was wondering," he murmured, "was…was he…was he different from me?" I saw him bite his lip as though wishing the words unsaid, but it was far too late for that.
"How in hell did you know?" I said. I felt dizzy and exposed, and rolled onto my stomach, pressing myself hard to the short turf.
He shook his head, teeth still clenched in his lower lip. When he finally released it, a deep red mark showed where he had bitten it.
"Claire," he said softly. "Oh, Claire. You gave me all yourself from the first time, and held nothing back from me. You never did. When I asked ye for honesty, I told ye then that it isna in you to lie. When I touched ye so—" His hand moved, cupping my buttock, and I flinched, not expecting it.