Tis Better to Marry Than Burn 4 страница
“No!” he said, scandalized. “Christ, ye dinna think I’d let him marry my aunt, and him a sodomite? Christ.” He glanced around, to be sure no one had heard this calumny, and shepherded me into the shelter of the trees, just in case.
“Well, you wouldn’t necessarily know, would you?” I asked, amused.
“I’d know,” he said grimly. “Come along.” He lifted an overhanging bough and ushered me beneath it, a hand in the small of my back. The grove was a large one, and it was easy enough to get out of sight of the party.
“No,” he said again, reaching a small open space well in among the trunks. “The filthy mind of you, Sassenach! No, it’s nothing o’ the sort.” He glanced behind him, but we were a good distance from the lawn, and reasonably shielded from view. “It’s only that he’s . . . incapable.” He lifted one shoulder slightly, looking profoundly uncomfortable at the thought.
“What—impotent?” I felt my mouth hanging open, and closed it.
“Aye. He was betrothed, as a young man, but there was a dreadful accident; a cart horse knocked him into the street and kicked him in the scrotum.” He made a slight motion, as though to touch himself for reassurance, but checked it. “He healed, but it—well, he wasna fit for nuptial rites any longer, so he released the young woman and she marrit elsewhere.”
“The poor man!” I said, with a pang of sympathy. “Gracious, poor Duncan’s had nothing but bad luck.”
“Well, he’s alive,” Jamie observed. “A good many others aren’t. Besides”—he gestured over one shoulder, at the spread of River Run behind him—“I shouldna be inclined to call his present situation precisely unlucky. Bar the one small difficulty, that is,” he added.
I frowned, running through the medical possibilities. If the accident had resulted in severe vascular damage, there wasn’t much I could do; I was in no way equipped for fine reconstructive surgery. If it were only a hemocoel, though, then perhaps . . .
“When he was a young man, you said? Hmm. Well, it’s not promising, after so long, but I can certainly have a look and see whether—”
Jamie stared at me, incredulous.
“A look? Sassenach, the man goes puce when ye inquire after the health of his bowels, and he nearly died o’ shame, telling me. He’ll have an apoplexy, and ye go pokin’ his privates.”
A strand of hair had been pulled loose by an oak twig; I pushed it irritably behind my ear.
“Well, what did you expect me to do, then? I can’t heal him with spell-casting!”
“Of course not,” he said, a little impatiently. “I dinna want ye to do anything to Duncan—only to speak to my aunt.”
“What—you mean she doesn’t know? But they’ve been engaged to be married for months, and living together for most of it!”
“Aye, but . . .” Jamie made the odd half-shrugging gesture he used when feeling embarrassed or uncomfortable, as though his shirt were too tight. “D’ye see—when the question of marriage rose, it never occurred to Duncan that it was a matter of . . . mmphm.”
“Mmphm,” I said, raising one eyebrow. “Doesn’t marriage usually involve at least the possibility of mmphm?”
“Well, he didna think my aunt was wanting him for his manly beauty, aye?” Jamie said, raising his own brows back at me. “It seemed only a matter of business and convenience—there are things he could manage as owner of River Run that he couldna do as overseer. At that, he wouldna have agreed, save she persuaded him.”
“And he never thought to mention this . . . this impediment?”
“Oh, he thought. But there wasna any indication that my aunt regarded marriage in any but the sense of business. She didna mention the matter of bed; he was too shy to say. And the question didna really arise, ken.”
“I gather that it now has arisen? What happened? Did your aunt slip her hand under his kilt this morning and make a bawdy remark about the wedding night?”
“He didna happen to say,” he replied dryly. “But it wasna until this morning, when he began to hear the jests among the guests, that it occurred to Duncan that perhaps my aunt was expecting him to . . . well.”
He lifted one shoulder, and let it fall. “He couldna think what to do, and was in a panic, listening to everyone.”
“I see.” I rubbed a knuckle across my upper lip, thinking. “Poor Duncan; no wonder he’s been nervous.”
“Aye.” Jamie straightened up, with the air of one having settled something. “So, if ye’ll be so kind as to speak wi’ Jocasta, and see it’s all straight—”
“Me? You want me to tell her?”
“Well, I shouldna think she’ll mind greatly,” he said, looking quizzically down at me. “After all, at her age, I shouldna think—”
I made a rude noise.
“Her age? Your grandfather Simon was well into his seventies and still putting it about, when last seen.”
“My aunt is a woman,” he said, rather austerely. “If ye hadna noticed it.”
“And you think that makes a difference?”
“You don’t?”
“Oh, it makes a difference, all right,” I said. I leaned back against a tree, arms crossed under my bosom, and gave him a look from under my lashes. “When I am a hundred and one, and you’re ninety-six, I’ll invite you to my bed—and we’ll see which one of us rises to the occasion, hmm?”
He looked at me thoughtfully, a glint in the dark blue of his eyes.
“I’ve a mind to take ye where ye stand, Sassenach,” he said. “Payment on account, hmm?”
“I’ve a mind to take you up on it,” I said. “However . . .” I glanced through the screen of branches toward the house, which was clearly visible. The trees were beginning to leaf out, but the tiny sprays of tender green were by no means sufficient camouflage. I turned back, just as Jamie’s hands descended on the swell of my hips.
Events after that were somewhat confused, with the predominant impressions being an urgent rustling of fabric, the sharp scent of trodden onion grass, and the crackling of last year’s oak leaves, dry underfoot.
My eyes popped open a few moments later.
“Don’t stop!” I said, disbelieving. “Not now, for God’s sake!”
He grinned down at me, stepping back and letting his kilt fall into place. His face was flushed a ruddy bronze with effort, and his chest heaved under his shirt ruffles.
He grinned maliciously, and wiped a sleeve across his forehead.
“I’ll gie ye the rest when I’m ninety-six, aye?”
“You won’t live that long! Come here!”
“Oh,” he said. “So ye’ll speak to my aunt.”
“Effing blackmailer,” I panted, fumbling at the folds of his kilt. “I’ll get you for this, I swear I will.”
“Oh, aye. You will.”
He put an arm round my waist and swung me off my feet, turning round so that his back was to the house, screening me with his body. His long fingers deftly ruffled up the skirt of my gown, then the two petticoats beneath, and even more deftly, slid between my bare legs.
“Hush,” he murmured in my ear. “Ye dinna want folk to hear, do ye?” He set his teeth gently in the curve of my ear, and proceeded about his business in a workmanlike way, ignoring my intermittent—and admittedly rather feeble—struggles.
I was more than ready and he knew what he was doing. It didn’t take long. I dug my fingers into his arm, hard as an iron bar across my middle, arched backward for a moment of dizzying infinity, and then collapsed against him, twitching like a worm on the end of a hook. He made a deep chuckling sound, and let go of my ear.
A cold breeze had sprung up, and was wafting the folds of my skirts about my legs. The scent of smoke and food drifted through the cool spring air, along with the rumble of talk and laughter from the lawn. I could dimly hear it, under the slow, loud thumping of my heart.
“Come to think of it,” Jamie remarked, releasing me, “Duncan has still got the one good hand.” He set me gently on my feet, keeping hold of my elbow, lest my knees give way. “Ye might mention that to my aunt, if ye think it will help.”
MUSIC HATH CHARMS
ROGER MACKENZIE MADE HIS WAY through the crowd, nodding here and there to a familiar face, but pushing on purposefully, preventing any attempt at conversation. He was not in a talkative mood.
Brianna had gone off to feed the kid, and while he missed her, he was just as pleased that she was out of sight for the moment. He didn’t care at all for the sort of looks she’d been getting. Those directed at her face were admiring, but respectful enough; he’d caught that wee bastard Forbes staring at her rear view with an expression similar to the one the gentlemen were using on the undraped marble goddess on the lawn, though.
At the same time, he was more than proud of her. She was gorgeous in her new dress, and he felt a pleasant sense of possession when he looked at her. Still, his pleasure was slightly spoiled by the uneasy thought that she looked as though she belonged here, mistress of all this . . . this . . .
Yet another slave trotted past him, skirts hooped up over one arm as she made for the house, a basin of fresh rolls balanced on her head and another under her arm. How many slaves did Jocasta Cameron keep? he wondered.
Of course, that alone put the notion of Brianna’s inheriting River Run out of the question. She wouldn’t countenance the notion of slaves, not ever. Nor would he himself; still, it was comforting to think that it wasn’t merely his own pride keeping Bree from her rightful inheritance.
He caught the thin wail of a fiddle coming from the house, and felt his ears prick up at the sound. Of course there would be music for the party. And with luck, a few new songs that he didn’t know.
He turned across the terrace toward the house. He hadn’t a notebook with him, but doubtless Ulysses could provide him with something. He bowed to Mrs. Farquard Campbell, who looked like a particularly horrible but expensive lampshade in pink silk. He paused to let her precede him into the house, biting the inside of his cheek as the four-foot spread of her skirt stuck momentarily in the three-foot doorway. She twitched adroitly sideways, though, and sidled crabwise into the hall, Roger following at a respectful distance.
The fiddle had ceased, but he could hear the twang and throb of instruments being handled and tuned nearby. They were in the big drawing room, whose double doors could be thrown open to allow dancers to spill out across the foyer, when the time came. At the moment, there were only a few guests in the drawing room, engaged in casual conversation.
Roger made his way past Ulysses, who was standing at the hearth, immaculate in wig and green livery, a poker held at the ready as he supervised two maidservants in the making of a gigantic vat of fresh rum punch. His eyes flicked automatically to the door, registered Roger’s presence and identity, then returned to his business.
The musicians were huddled at the far end of the room, casting occasional thirsty glances at the hearth as they readied their instruments.
“What will you be giving us the day?” Roger inquired, pausing beside the fiddler. He smiled as the man turned round to him. “‘Ewie wi’ the Crooked Horn,’ perhaps, or ‘Shawn Bwee’?”
“Oh, God love ye, sir, nothin’ fancy.” The conductor of the small ensemble, a cricketlike Irishman whose bent back was belied by the brightness of his eyes, waved a hand in cordial scorn at his motley crew of musicians.
“They ain’t up to more than jigs and reels. No more are the folk as will be dancin’, though,” he added, practically. “’Tisn’t the Assembly Rooms in Dublin, after all, nor even Edenton; a good fiddler can keep ’em up to snuff.”
“And that would be you, I expect?” Roger said with a smile, nodding at the cracked fiddle case the conductor had set on a whatnot, carefully out of the way of being stepped or sat on.
“That would be me,” the gentleman agreed, with a graceful bow of acknowledgment. “Seamus Hanlon, sir—your servant.”
“I am obliged, sir. Roger MacKenzie, of Fraser’s Ridge.” He returned the bow, taking pleasure in the old-fashioned formality, and clasped Hanlon’s hand briefly, careful of the twisted fingers and knobby joints. Hanlon saw his care of the arthritic hand and gave a brief grimace of deprecation.
“Ah, they’ll be fine with a drop of lubrication, so they will.” Hanlon flexed one hand experimentally, then flipped the fingers in dismissal, fixing Roger with a bright glance.
“And yourself, sir; I felt the calluses on your fingertips. Not a fiddler, perhaps, but would ye be after playin’ some stringed instrument?”
“Only to pass the time of an evening; nothing like you gentlemen.” Roger nodded politely toward the ensemble, which, now unpacked, boasted a battered cello, two viols, a trumpet, a flute, and something which he thought might have started life as a hunting horn, though it appeared to have been amended since by the addition of several odd loops of tubing that stuck out in different directions.
Hanlon eyed him shrewdly, taking in his breadth of chest.
“And hark at the voice in him! Sure, and you’re a singer, Mr. MacKenzie?”
Roger’s reply was interrupted by a loud thump and a dolorous twang behind him. He whirled to see the cello player inflating himself over his instrument in the manner of a hen with a very large chick, to protect it from further injury by the gentleman who had evidently kicked it carelessly in passing.
“Watch yourself, then!” the cellist snapped. “Clumsy sot!”
“Oh?” The intruder, a stocky man in naval uniform, glowered menacingly at the cellist. “You dare . . . dare shpeak to me . . .” His face was flushed an unhealthy red, and he swayed slightly as he stood; Roger could smell the fumes of alcohol from a distance of six feet.
The officer raised a forefinger to the cellist, and appeared to be on the point of speech. A tongue tip showed pinkly between his teeth, but no words emerged. His empurpled jowls quivered for a moment, then he abandoned the attempt, turned on his heel, and made off, swerving narrowly to avoid an incoming footman with a tray of drinks, and caroming off the doorjamb as he passed into the corridor.
“’Ware, then, Mr. O’Reilly.” Seamus Hanlon spoke dryly to the cellist. “Were we near the sea, I should reckon there’d be a press-gang waitin’ for ye, the instant ye set foot outside. As it is, I’d put no odds on him layin’ for ye with a marlinspike or something of the kind.”
O’Reilly spat eloquently on the floor.
“I know him,” he said contemptuously. “Wolff, he’s called. Dog, more like, and a poor dog at that. He’s tight as a tick—he’ll not remember me, an hour hence.”
Hanlon squinted thoughtfully at the doorway through which the Lieutenant had vanished.
“Well, that’s as may be,” he allowed. “But I know the gentleman, too, and I do believe his mind may be somewhat sharper than his behavior might suggest.” He stood for a moment, tapping the bow of his fiddle thoughtfully against the palm of his hand, then turned his head toward Roger.
“Fraser’s Ridge, ye said? Will ye be a kinsman of Mrs. Cameron’s—or Mrs. Innes, I should say?” he corrected himself.
“I’m married to Jamie Fraser’s daughter,” Roger said patiently, having discovered that this was the most efficient description, as most of the county appeared to know who Jamie Fraser was, and it prevented further questions regarding Roger’s own family connections.
“Ho-ho,” Seamus said, looking visibly impressed. “Well, then. Hum!”
“What’s that bladder doing here, anyway?” the cellist demanded, still glaring after the departed officer. He patted his instrument soothingly. “Everyone knows he meant to wed Mrs. Cameron and have River Run for himself. I wonder he’s the tripes to show his face today!”
“Perhaps he’s come to show there are no hard feelings,” Roger suggested. “A civil gesture—best man won and all that, aye?”
The musicians emitted a medley of sniggers and guffaws at this suggestion.
“Maybe,” said the flutist, shaking his head over his instrument. “But if you’re any friend to Duncan Innes, tell him to watch his back in the dancin’.”
“Aye, do that,” Seamus Hanlon concurred. “Be off with ye, young man, and speak to him—but see ye come back.”
He crooked a finger at the waiting footman, and scooped a cup neatly from the proffered tray. He lifted this in salute, grinning at Roger over its rim. “It may be you’ll know a tune or two that’s new to me.”
THE DEASIL CHARM
BRIANNA SAT BACK in the leather wing chair before the hearth, nursing Jemmy as she watched her great-aunt ready herself for the wedding.
“What you think, then?” Phaedre asked, dipping the silver comb into a small pot of pomade. “Dress it up high, with the curls over the top?” Her voice was hopeful, but wary. She disapproved overtly of her mistress’s refusal to wear a wig, and would do her level best to create a similarly fashionable effect with Jocasta’s own hair, if allowed.
“Tosh,” said Jocasta. “This isn’t Edinburgh, child, let alone London.” She leaned back, head lifted and eyes closed, basking. Bright spring sunshine poured through the panes, sparking off the silver comb, and making dark shadows of the slave’s hands against the nimbus of shining white hair.
“Maybe not, but ’taint the wild Caribee nor the backcountry, neither,” Phaedre countered. “You the mistress here; this your weddin’. Everybody be lookin’ at you—you wantin’ to shame me, wear your hair down your shoulders like a squaw, and everybody be thinkin’ I don’t know my business?”
“Oh, heaven forbid.” Jocasta’s wide mouth twisted with an irritable humor. “Dress it simply, if you please, swept back and put up with combs. Perhaps my niece will let you show off your skill on her locks.”
Phaedre cast a narrow glance over her shoulder at Brianna, who simply smiled and shook her head. She’d worn a lace-edged cap for the sake of public decency, and wasn’t disposed to fuss with her hair. The slave snorted, and resumed her attempt to cajole Jocasta. Brianna closed her eyes, letting the amicable bickering recede into the background. Warm sun fell through the casement over her feet, and the fire purred and crackled at her back, embracing her like the old woolen shawl she had wrapped about herself and little Jem.
Beyond the voices of Jocasta and Phaedre, she could hear the thrum of the house below. Every room in the house was bursting with guests. Some were staying at nearby plantations, and had ridden in for the festivities, but enough were staying at River Run overnight that all the bedchambers were full, with guests sleeping five and six to a bed, and more on pallets in the tents by the river landing.
Brianna eyed the expanse of Jocasta’s big tester bed enviously. Between the exigencies of travel, Jemmy, and the crowded conditions at River Run, she and Roger hadn’t slept together in more than a week, and weren’t likely to, until they returned to the Ridge.
Not that sleeping together was the major concern, nice as it was. The tug of the baby’s mouth on her breast aroused a number of nonmaternal urges elsewhere, which required both Roger and a little privacy for satisfaction. They had started something promising the night before, in the pantry, but had been interrupted by one of the kitchen slaves, coming in to fetch a cheese. Perhaps the stable? She stretched her legs out, toes curling, and wondered whether the grooms slept in the stable or not.
“Well, I shall wear the brilliants, then, but only to please you, a nighean.” Jocasta’s humorous voice pulled her out of the alluring vision of a dark, hay-lined stall, and Roger’s body, naked limbs half-seen in the gloom.
She glanced up from Jemmy’s blissful suckling, to where Jocasta sat upon the window seat, the spring light through the casement falling across her face. She looked abstracted, Bree thought, as though she were listening to something faint and far-off, that only she could hear. Maybe the hum of the wedding guests below.
The murmur in the house below reminded her of her mother’s summer hives; a thrum that you could hear if you put your ear against one of the bee gums, a distant sound of busy content. The product of this particular swarm was talk, rather than honey, though the intent was similar—the laying up of reserves to see them through bleak and nectarless days of deprivation.
“That will do, that will do.” Jocasta waved Phaedre away, getting to her feet. She shooed the maid out of the room, then stood tapping her fingers restlessly on the dressing table, clearly thinking of further details that should be attended to. Jocasta’s brows drew together, and she pressed two fingers against the skin above her eyes.
“Have you got a headache, Auntie?” Brianna kept her voice low, so as not to disturb Jemmy, who was nearly asleep. Jocasta dropped her hand and turned toward her niece with a small, wry smile.
“Och, it’s nothing. Whenever the weather turns, my poor head turns with it!”
In spite of the smile, Brianna could see small lines of pain tugging at the corners of Jocasta’s eyes.
“Jem’s nearly finished. I’ll go and fetch Mama, shall I? She could make you a tisane.”
Jocasta flapped a hand in dismissal, pushing away the pain with an obvious effort.
“No need, a muirninn. It’s none so bad as that.” She rubbed at her temple, careful of the hairdressing, the gesture belying her words.
Jemmy’s mouth released its hold with a small, milky pop! and his head lolled back. The crook of Brianna’s elbow was hot and sweaty, where his head had rested; his tiny ear was crumpled and crimson. She lifted his inert body and sighed with relief as the cool air struck her skin. A soft belch bubbled out of him with a dribble of excess milk, and he subsided against her shoulder like a half-filled water balloon.
“Full, is he?” Jocasta smiled, blind eyes turned toward them at the faint sound.
“As a drum,” Brianna assured her. She patted his small back, to be sure, but heard no more than the soft sigh of sleep-filled breathing. She rose, wiped the milk from his chin, and laid the baby on his stomach in his makeshift cradle, a drawer from Jocasta’s mahogany chiffonier, laid on the floor and thickly padded with pillows and quilts.
Brianna hung the shawl over the back of the chair, shivering slightly in a draft that leaked around the window frame. Not wanting to risk her new dress being stained with spit-up milk, she’d been nursing Jemmy in shift and stockings, and her bare forearms were pebbled with gooseflesh.
Jocasta turned her head in answer to the creak of wood and rustle of fabric, as Brianna opened the big armoire and took out two linen petticoats and her dress, smoothing the panels of soft, pale blue wool with satisfaction. She had woven the cloth and engineered the design of the gown herself—though Mrs. Bug had spun the thread, Claire had dyed it with indigo and saxifrage, and Marsali had helped with the sewing.
“Shall I call Phaedre back to dress ye, lass?”
“No, that’s all right, I can manage—if you’ll help me with the laces?” She didn’t like to call on the services of the slaves, any more than could be helped. The petticoats were no problem; she simply stepped into them, one at a time, and fastened the drawstrings round her waist. The stays needed to be laced up the back, though, and so did the gown itself.
Jocasta’s brows were still dark, bronze against the pale apricot hue of her skin. They rose a little at the suggestion that she help to dress her niece, but she nodded, with no more than a brief hesitation. She turned her blind eyes toward the hearth, frowning a little.
“I suppose I can. The laddie’s not too near the fire, is he? Sparks can jump, aye?”
Brianna wriggled into the stays, scooping her breasts up into the scalloped hollows that supported them, then pulled the gown on over them.
“No, he’s not too near the fire,” she said patiently. She’d made the bodice with light boning in the front and sides. Brianna turned slightly to and fro, admiring the effect in Jocasta’s looking glass. Catching sight in the mirror of her aunt’s slight frown behind her, she rolled her eyes at herself, then bent and pulled the drawer a little farther from the hearth, just in case.
“Thanks to ye for humoring an auld woman,” Jocasta said dryly, hearing the scrape of wood.
“You’re welcome, Aunt,” Brianna replied, letting both warmth and apology show in her voice. She laid a hand on her great-aunt’s shoulder, and Jocasta put her own long hand over it, squeezing gently.
“It’s no that I think ye’re a neglectful mother, aye?” Jocasta said. “But when ye’ve lived so long as I have, ye may be cautious, too, lass. I have seen dreadful things happen to bairns, ye ken?” she said, more softly. “And I should rather be set afire myself, than see harm come to our bonnie lad.”
She moved behind Brianna and ran her hands lightly down her niece’s back, finding the lacings without trouble.
“Ye’ve regained your figure, I see,” the old woman said with approval, her hands skimming the sides of Brianna’s waist. “What is this—crewelwork? What color is it?”
“Dark indigo blue. Flowering vines done in heavy cotton, to contrast with the pale blue wool.” She took one of Jocasta’s hands and guided the fingertips lightly over the vines that covered each bone in the bodice, running from the scalloped neck to the V of the waist, dropped sharply in front to show off the trim figure Jocasta had remarked upon.
Brianna drew in her breath as the laces tightened, glancing from her reflection to her son’s small head, round as a cantaloupe and heartbreakingly perfect. Not for the first time, she wondered about her great-aunt’s life. Jocasta had had children, or at least Jamie thought so—but she never spoke of them, and Brianna hesitated to ask. Perhaps lost in infancy; so many were. Her chest tightened at the thought.
“Dinna fash yourself,” her aunt said. Jocasta’s face readjusted itself into determined cheerfulness in the mirror. “Yon laddie’s born for great things; nay harm will come to him, I’m sure.”
She turned, the green silk of her dressing gown rustling over her petticoats, leaving Bree freshly startled at her aunt’s ability to divine people’s feelings, even without seeing their faces.
“Phaedre!” Jocasta called. “Phaedre! Bring my case—the black one.”
Phaedre was nearby, as always, and a brief rustling in the drawers of the armoire produced the black case. Jocasta sat down with it at her secretary.
The black leather case was old and worn, a narrow box covered in weathered hide, unadorned save for its silver hasp. Jocasta kept her best jewels in a much grander case of velvet-lined cedarwood, Brianna knew. What could be in this one?
She moved to stand beside her aunt as Jocasta put back the lid. Inside the case was a short length of turned wood, the thickness of a finger, and on it were ranged three rings: a plain band of gold set with a beryl, another with a large cabochon emerald, and the last with three diamonds, surrounded by smaller stones that caught the light and threw it back in rainbows that danced across the walls and beams.
“What a lovely ring!” Bree exclaimed involuntarily.
“Oh, the diamond one? Well, Hector Cameron was aye a rich man,” said Jocasta, absently touching the biggest ring. Her long fingers—unadorned—sorted deftly through a small heap of trinkets that lay in the box beside the rings, and came out with something small and dull.
She handed the tiny object to Brianna, who discovered it to be a small pierced-work tin brooch, rather tarnished, made in the shape of a heart.
“That’s a deasil charm, a muirninn,” Jocasta said, with a satisfied nod. “Put it on the wean’s skirts, behind.”
“A charm?” Brianna glanced at Jemmy’s huddled form. “What kind of charm?”
“Against the fairies,” Jocasta said. “Keep it pinned to the lad’s smock—always to the back, mind—and naught born of the Auld Folk will trouble him.”
The hair on Brianna’s forearms prickled slightly at the matter-of-factness in the old woman’s voice.
“Your mother should ha’ told ye,” Jocasta went on, with a hint of reproval in her voice. “But I ken as she’s a Sassenach, and your father likely wouldna think of it. Men don’t,” she added, with a hint of bitterness. “It’s a woman’s job to see to the weans, to keep them from harm.”
Jocasta stooped to the kindling basket and groped among the bits of debris, coming up with a long pine twig in her hand, the bark still on it.
“Take that,” she commanded, holding it out toward Brianna. “Light the end of it from the hearth, and walk ye round the bairn three times. Sunwise, mind!”
Mystified, Brianna took the stick and thrust it into the fire, then did as she was bid, holding the flaming twig well away from both the makeshift cradle and her blue wool skirts. Jocasta tapped her foot rhythmically on the floor, and chanted, half under her breath.
She spoke in Gaelic, but slowly enough that Brianna could make out most of the words.
“Wisdom of serpent be thine,