Voyager by Diana Gabaldon
your whipping? You tell me that, Ian!”
The bones in Young Ian’s face stood out, but he kept his mouth shut, sealed in a stubborn line.
“Tell me!” Ian roared, slamming his hand on the table again.
Young Ian blinked in reflex, and his shoulder blades drew together, then apart, as though he were trying to alter his size, and unsure whether to grow larger or try to be smaller. He swallowed hard, and blinked once more.
“Ye said—ye said ye’d skin me. Next time.” His voice broke in a ridiculous squeak on the last word, and he clamped his mouth hard shut on it.
Ian shook his head in heavy disapproval. “Aye. And I thought ye’d have enough sense to see there was no next time, but I was wrong about that, hm?” He breathed in heavily and let it out with a snort.
“I’m fair disgusted wi’ ye, Ian, and that’s the truth.” He jerked his head toward the doorway. “Go outside. I’ll see ye by the gate, presently.”
There was a tense silence in the sitting room, as the sound of the miscreant’s dragging footsteps disappeared down the passage. I kept my own eyes carefully on my hands, folded in my lap. Beside me, Jamie drew a slow, deep breath and sat up straighter, steeling himself.
“Ian.” Jamie spoke mildly to his brother-in-law. “I wish ye wouldna do that.”
“What?” Ian’s brow was still furrowed with anger as he turned toward Jamie. “Thrash the lad? And what have you to say about it, aye?”
Jamie’s jaw tensed, but his voice stayed calm.
“I’ve nothing to say about it, Ian—he’s your son; you’ll do as ye like. But maybe you’ll let me speak for the way he’s acted?”
“How he’s acted?” Jenny cried, starting suddenly to life. She might leave dealing with her son to Ian, but when it came to her brother, no one was likely to speak for her. “Sneakin’ away in the night like a thief, ye mean? Or perhaps ye’ll mean consorting wi’ criminals, and risking his neck for a cask of brandy!”
Ian silenced her with a quick gesture. He hesitated, still frowning, but then nodded abruptly at Jamie, giving permission.
“Consorting wi’ criminals like me?” Jamie asked his sister, a definite edge to his voice. His eyes met hers straight on, matching slits of blue.
“D’ye ken where the money comes from, Jenny, that keeps you and your bairns and everyone here in food, and the roof from fallin’ in over your head? It’s not from me printing up copies o’ the Psalms in Edinburgh!”
“And did I think it was?” she flared at him. “Did I ask ye what ye did?”
“No, ye didn’t,” he flashed back. “I think ye’d rather not know—but ye do know, don’t you?”
“And will ye blame me for what ye do? It’s my fault that I’ve children, and that they must eat?” She didn’t flush red like Jamie did; when Jenny lost her temper, she went dead white with fury.
I could see him struggling to keep his own temper. “Blame ye? No, of course I dinna blame ye—but is it right for you to blame me, that Ian and I canna keep ye all just working the land?”
Jenny too was making an effort to subdue her rising temper. “No,” she said. “Ye do what ye must, Jamie. Ye ken verra well I didna mean you when I said ‘criminals,’ but—”
“So ye mean the men who work for me? I do the same things, Jenny. If they’re criminals, what am I, then?” He glared at her, eyes hot with resentment.
“You’re my brother,” she said shortly, “little pleased as I am to say so, sometimes. Damn your eyes, Jamie Fraser! Ye ken quite well I dinna mean to quarrel wi’ whatever ye see fit to do! If ye robbed folk on the highway, or kept a whorehouse in Edinburgh, ’twould be because there was no help for it. That doesna mean I want ye takin’ my son to be part of it!”
Jamie’s eyes tightened slightly at the corners at the mention of whorehouses in Edinburgh, and he darted a quick glance of accusation at Ian, who shook his head. He looked mildly stunned at his wife’s ferocity.
“I’ve said not a word,” he said briefly. “Ye ken how she is.”
Jamie took a deep breath and turned back to Jenny, obviously determined to be reasonable.
“Aye, I see that. But ye canna think I would take Young Ian into danger—God, Jenny, I care for him as though he were my own son!”
“Aye?” Her skepticism was pronounced. “So that’s why ye encouraged him to run off from his home, and kept him with ye, wi’ no word to ease our minds about where he was?”
Jamie had the grace to look abashed at this.
“Aye, well, I’m sorry for that,” he muttered. “I meant to—” He broke off with an impatient gesture. “Well, it doesna matter what I meant; I should have sent word, and I didna. But as for encouraging him to run off—”
“No, I dinna suppose ye did,” Ian interrupted. “Not directly, anyway.” The anger had faded from his long face. He looked tired now, and a little sad. The bones in his face were more pronounced, leaving him hollow-cheeked in the waning afternoon light.
“It’s only that the lad loves ye, Jamie,” he said quietly. “I see him listen when ye visit, and talk of what ye do; I can see his face. He thinks it’s all excitement and adventure, how ye live, and a good long way from shoveling goat-shit for his mother’s garden.” He smiled briefly, despite himself.
Jamie gave his brother-in-law a quick smile in return, and a lifted shoulder. “Well, but it’s usual for a lad of that age to want a bit of adventure, no? You and I were the same.”
“Whether he wants it or no, he shouldna be having the sort of adventures he’ll get with you,” Jenny interrupted sharply. She shook her head, the line between her brows growing deeper as she looked disapprovingly at her brother. “The good Lord kens as there’s a charm on your life, Jamie, or ye’d ha’ been dead a dozen times.”
“Aye, well. I suppose He had something in mind to preserve me for.” Jamie glanced at me with a brief smile, and his hand sought mine. Jenny darted a glance at me, too, her face unreadable, then returned to the subject at hand.
“Well, that’s as may be,” she said. “But I canna say as the same’s true for Young Ian.” Her expression softened slightly as she looked at Jamie.
“I dinna ken everything about the way ye live, Jamie—but I ken you well enough to say it’s likely not the way a wee laddie should live.”
“Mmphm.” Jamie rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw, and tried again. “Aye, well, that’s what I mean about Young Ian. He’s carried himself like a man this last week. I dinna think it right for ye to thrash him like a wee laddie, Ian.”
Jenny’s eyebrows rose, graceful wings of scorn.
“A man, now, is he? Why, he’s but a baby, Jamie—he’s not but fourteen!”
Despite his annoyance, one side of Jamie’s mouth curled slightly.
“I was a man at fourteen, Jenny,” he said softly.
She snorted, but a film of moisture shone suddenly over her eyes.
“Ye thought ye were.” She stood and turned away abruptly, blinking. “Aye, I mind ye then,” she said, face turned to the bookshelf. She reached out a hand as though to support herself, grasping the edge.
“Ye were a bonny lad, Jamie, riding off wi’ Dougal to your first raid, and your dirk all bright on your thigh. I was sixteen, and I thought I’d never seen a sight so fair as you on your pony, so straight and tall. And I mind ye coming back, too, all covered in mud, and a scratch down the side of your face from falling in brambles, and Dougal boasting to Da how brawly ye’d done—driven off six kine by yourself, and had a dunt on the head from the flat of a broadsword, and not made a squeak about it.” Her face once more under control, she turned back from her contemplation of the books to face her brother. “That’s what a man is, aye?”
A hint of humor stole back into Jamie’s face as he met her gaze.
“Aye, well, there’s maybe a bit more to it than that,” he said.
“Is there,” she said, more dryly still. “And what will that be? To be able to bed a girl? Or to kill a man?”
She shook her head slowly, looking steadily at her brother. “Nay, Young Ian’s not a man yet—but you are, Jamie; and ye ken the difference verra well.”
Ian, who had been watching the fireworks between the two Frasers with the same fascination as I had, now coughed briefly.
“Be that as it may,” he said dryly. “Young Ian’s been waiting for his whipping for the last quarter-hour. Whether or not it’s suitable to beat him, to make him wait any longer for it is a bit cruel, aye?”
“Have ye really got to do it, Ian?” Jamie made one last effort, turning to appeal to his brother-in-law.
“Well,” said Ian slowly, “as I’ve told the lad he’s going to be thrashed, and he kens verra well he’s earned it, I canna just go back on my word. But as for me doing it—no, I dinna think I will.” A faint gleam of humor showed in the soft brown eyes. He reached into a drawer of the sideboard, drew out a thick leather strap, and thrust it into Jamie’s hand. “You do it.”
“Me?” Jamie was horror-struck. He made a futile attempt to shove the strap back into Ian’s hand, but his brother-in-law ignored it. “I canna thrash the lad!”
“Oh, I think ye can,” Ian said calmly, folding his arms. “Ye’ve said often enough ye care for him as though he were your son.” He tilted his head to one side, and while his expression stayed mild, the brown eyes were implacable. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Jamie—it’s no that easy to be his Da; best ye go and find that out now, aye?”
Jamie stared at Ian for a long moment, then looked to his sister. She raised one eyebrow, staring him down.
“You deserve it as much as he does, Jamie. Get ye gone.”
Jamie’s lips pressed tight together and his nostrils flared white. Then he whirled on his heel and was gone without speaking. Rapid steps sounded on the boards, and a muffled slam came from the far end of the passage.
Jenny cast a quick glance at Ian, a quicker one at me, and then turned to the window. Ian and I, both a good deal taller, came to stand behind her. The light outside was failing rapidly, but there was still enough to see the wilting figure of Young Ian, leaning dispiritedly against a wooden gate, some twenty yards from the house.
Looking around in trepidation at the sound of footsteps, he saw his uncle approaching and straightened up in surprise.
“Uncle Jamie!” His eye fell on the strap then, and he straightened a bit more. “Are…are you goin’ to whip me?”
It was a still evening, and I could hear the sharp hiss of air through Jamie’s teeth.
“I suppose I’ll have to,” he said frankly. “But first I must apologize to ye, Ian.”
“To me?” Young Ian sounded mildly dazed. Clearly he wasn’t used to having his elders think they owed him an apology, especially before beating him. “Ye dinna need to do that, Uncle Jamie.”
The taller figure leaned against the gate, facing the smaller one, head bent.
“Aye, I do. It was wrong of me, Ian, to let ye stay in Edinburgh, and it was maybe wrong, too, to tell ye stories and make ye think of running away to start with. I took ye to places I shouldna, and might have put ye in danger, and I’ve caused more of a moil wi’ your parents than maybe ye should be in by yourself. I’m sorry for it, Ian, and I’ll ask ye to forgive me.”
“Oh.” The smaller figure rubbed a hand through his hair, plainly at a loss for words. “Well…aye. Of course I do, Uncle.”
“Thank ye, Ian.”
They stood in silence for a moment, then Young Ian heaved a sigh and straightened his drooping shoulders.
“I suppose we’d best do it, then?”
“I expect so.” Jamie sounded at least as reluctant as his nephew, and I heard Ian, next to me, snort slightly, whether with indignation or amusement, I couldn’t tell.
Resigned, Young Ian turned and faced the gate without hesitation. Jamie followed more slowly. The light was nearly gone and we could see no more than the outlines of figures at this distance, but we could hear clearly from our position at the window. Jamie was standing behind his nephew, shifting uncertainly, as though unsure what to do next.
“Mmphm. Ah, what does your father…”
“It’s usually ten, Uncle.” Young Ian had shed his coat, and tugged at his waist now, speaking over his shoulder. “Twelve if it’s pretty bad, and fifteen if it’s really awful.”
“Was this only bad, would ye say, or pretty bad?”
There was a brief, unwilling laugh from the boy.
“If Father’s makin’ you do it, Uncle Jamie, it’s really awful, but I’ll settle for pretty bad. Ye’d better give me twelve.”
There was another snort from Ian at my elbow. This time, it was definitely amusement. “Honest lad,” he murmured.
“All right, then.” Jamie drew in his breath and pulled his arm back, but was interrupted by Young Ian.
“Wait, Uncle, I’m no quite ready.”
“Och, ye’ve got to do that?” Jamie’s voice sounded a bit strangled.
“Aye. Father says only girls are whipped wi’ their skirts down,” Young Ian explained. “Men must take it bare-arsed.”
“He’s damn well right about that one,” Jamie muttered, his quarrel with Jenny obviously still rankling. “Ready now?”
The necessary adjustments made, the larger figure stepped back and swung. There was a loud crack, and Jenny winced in sympathy with her son. Beyond a sudden intake of breath, though, the lad was silent, and stayed so through the rest of the ordeal, though I blanched a bit myself.
Finally Jamie dropped his arm, and wiped his brow. He held out a hand to Ian, slumped over the fence. “All right, lad?” Young Ian straightened up, with a little difficulty this time, and pulled up his breeks. “Aye, Uncle. Thank ye.” The boy’s voice was a little thick, but calm and steady. He took Jamie’s outstretched hand. To my surprise, though, instead of leading the boy back to the house, Jamie thrust the strap into Ian’s other hand.
“Your turn,” he announced, striding over to the gate and bending over. Young Ian was as shocked as those of us in the house.
“What!” he said, stunned.
“I said it’s your turn,” his uncle said in a firm voice. “I punished you; now you’ve got to punish me.”
“I canna do that, Uncle!” Young Ian was as scandalized as though his uncle had suggested he commit some public indecency.
“Aye, ye can,” said Jamie, straightening up to look his nephew in the eye. “Ye heard what I said when I apologized to ye, did ye no?” Ian nodded in a dazed fashion. “Weel, then. I’ve done wrong just as much as you, and I’ve to pay for it, too. I didna like whipping you, and ye’re no goin’ to like whipping me, but we’re both goin’ through wi’ it. Understand?”
“A-Aye, Uncle,” the boy stammered.
“All right, then.” Jamie tugged down his breeches, tucked up his shirttail, and bent over once more, clutching the top rail. He waited a second, then spoke again, as Ian stood paralyzed, strap dangling from his nerveless hand.
“Go on.” His voice was steel; the one he used with the whisky smugglers; not to obey was unthinkable. Ian moved timidly to do as he was ordered. Standing back, he took a halfhearted swing. There was a dull thwacking sound.
“That one didna count,” Jamie said firmly. “Look, man, it was just as hard for me to do it to you. Make a proper job of it, now.”
The thin figure squared its shoulders with sudden determination and the leather whistled through the air. It landed with a crack like lightning. There was a startled yelp from the figure on the fence, and a suppressed giggle, at least half shock, from Jenny.
Jamie cleared his throat. “Aye, that’ll do. Finish it, then.”
We could hear Young Ian counting carefully to himself under his breath between strokes of the leather, but aside from a smothered “C
With a general sigh of relief from inside the house, Jamie rose off the fence after the last stroke, and tucked his shirt into his breeks. He inclined his head formally to his nephew. “Thank ye, Ian.” Dropping the formality, he then rubbed his backside, saying in a tone of rueful admiration, “Christ, man, ye’ve an arm on ye!”
“So’ve you, Uncle,” said Ian, matching his uncle’s wry tones. The two figures, barely visible now, stood laughing and rubbing themselves for a moment. Jamie flung an arm about his nephew’s shoulders and turned him toward the house. “If it’s all the same to you, Ian, I dinna want to have to do that again, aye?” he said, confidentially.
“It’s a bargain, Uncle Jamie.”
A moment later, the door opened at the end of the passage, and with a look at each other, Jenny and Ian turned as one to greet the returning prodigals.
33
BURIED TREASURE
“You look rather like a baboon,” I observed.
“Oh, aye? And what’s one of those?” In spite of the freezing November air pouring in through the half-open window, Jamie showed no signs of discomfort as he dropped his shirt onto the small pile of clothing.
He stretched luxuriously, completely naked. His joints made little popping noises as he arched his back and stretched upward, fists resting easily on the smoke-dark beams overhead.
“Oh, God, it feels good not to be on a horse!”
“Mm. To say nothing of having a real bed to sleep in, instead of wet heather.” I rolled over, luxuriating in the warmth of the heavy quilts, and the relaxation of sore muscles into the ineffable softness of the goose-down mattress.
“D’ye mean to tell me what’s a baboon, then?” Jamie inquired, “Or are ye just makin’ observations for the pleasure of it?” He turned to pick up a frayed willow twig from the washstand, and began to clean his teeth. I smiled at the sight; if I had had no other impact during my earlier sojourn in the past, I had at least been instrumental in seeing that virtually all of the Frasers and Murrays of Lallybroch retained their teeth, unlike most Highlanders—unlike most Englishmen, for that matter.
“A baboon,” I said, enjoying the sight of his muscular back flexing as he scrubbed, “is a sort of very large monkey with a red behind.”
He snorted with laughter and choked on the willow twig. “Well,” he said, removing it from his mouth, “I canna fault your observations, Sassenach.” He grinned at me, showing brilliant white teeth, and tossed the twig aside. “It’s been thirty years since anyone took a tawse to me,” he added, passing his hands tenderly over the still-glowing surfaces of his rear. “I’d forgot how much it stings.”
“And here Young Ian was speculating that your arse was tough as saddle leather,” I said, amused. “Was it worth it, do you think?”
“Oh, aye,” he said, matter-of-factly, sliding into bed beside me. His body was hard and cold as marble, and I squeaked but didn’t protest as he gathered me firmly against his chest. “Christ, you’re warm,” he murmured. “Come closer, hm?” His legs insinuated themselves between mine, and he cupped my bottom, drawing me in.
He gave a sigh of pure content, and I relaxed against him, feeling our temperatures start to equalize through the thin cotton of the nightdress Jenny had lent me. The peat fire in the hearth had been lit, but hadn’t been able to do much yet toward dispelling the chill. Body heat was much more effective.
“Oh, aye, it was worth it,” he said. “I could have beaten Young Ian half-senseless—his father has, once or twice—and it would ha’ done nothing but make him more determined to run off, once he got the chance. But he’ll walk through hot coals before he risks havin’ to do something like that again.”
He spoke with certainty, and I thought he was undoubtedly right. Young Ian, looking bemused, had received absolution from his parents, in the form of a kiss from his mother and a swift hug from his father, and then retired to his bed with a handful of cakes, there no doubt to ponder the curious consequences of disobedience.
Jamie too had been absolved with kisses, and I suspected that this was more important to him than the effects of his performance on Young Ian.
“At least Jenny and Ian aren’t angry with you any longer,” I said.
“No. It’s no really that they were angry so much, I think; it’s only that they dinna ken what to do wi’ the lad,” he explained. “They’ve raised two sons already, and Young Jamie and Michael are fine lads both; but both of them are more like Ian—soft-spoke, and easy in their manner. Young Ian’s quiet enough, but he’s a great deal more like his mother—and me.”
“Frasers are stubborn, eh?” I said, smiling. This bit of clan doctrine was one of the first things I had learned when I met Jamie, and nothing in my subsequent experience had suggested that it might be in error.
He chuckled, soft and deep in his chest.
“Aye, that’s so. Young Ian may look like a Murray, but he’s a Fraser born, all right. And it’s no use to shout at a stubborn man, or beat him, either; it only makes him more set on having his way.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I said dryly. One hand was stroking my thigh, gradually inching the cotton nightdress upward. Jamie’s internal furnace had resumed its operations, and his bare legs were warm and hard against mine. One knee nudged gently, seeking an entrance between my thighs. I cupped his buttocks and squeezed gently.
“Dorcas told me that a number of gentlemen pay very well for the privilege of being smacked at the brothel. She says they find it…arousing.”