Written in My Own Heart's Blood (Outlander #8) - Diana Gabaldon Page 0,60

every thought, I dinna mean, but important things. Ahh . . . history, like ye said. Here, come sit for a wee while.” There was a big fallen log, half rotted and covered with moss and fuzzy gray lichens, and he led her to it, sitting down beside her in the fragrant shade of a big red cedar.

She didn’t say anything, but lifted a brow in question.

“Well.” He drew a deep breath, feeling that there wasn’t enough air in the whole forest for this. “Did ye ken . . . I’ve been marrit before?”

Her face flickered, surprise overcome by determination so fast that he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been watching so close.

“I did not,” she said, and began to pleat the folds of her skirt, one-handed, clear hazel eyes fixed intently on his face. “Thee did say been married. Thee isn’t now, I suppose?”

He shook his head, feeling a little easier—and very grateful to her. Not every young woman would have taken it so calmly.

“No. I wouldna have spoken to ye—asked ye to marry me, I mean—otherwise.”

She pursed her lips a little and her eyes narrowed.

“In point of fact,” she said thoughtfully, “thee never has asked me to marry thee.”

“I didn’t?” he said, staggered. “Are ye sure?”

“I would have noticed,” she assured him gravely. “No, thee didn’t. Though I recall a few very moving declarations, there was no suggestion of marriage among them.”

“But—well.” Heat had risen in his cheeks. “I—but you . . . ye said . . .” Maybe she was right. She had said . . . or had she? “Did ye not say ye loved me?”

Her mouth turned up just a little, but he could see her laughing at him at the back of her eyes.

“Not in so many words. But I did give thee to understand that, yes. Or at least I meant to.”

“Oh. Well, then,” he said, much happier. “Ye did.” And he pulled her into his one sound arm and kissed her with great fervor. She kissed him back, panting a little, her fists curled in the fabric of his shirt, then broke away, looking mildly dazed. Her lips were swollen, the skin around them pink, scraped by his beard.

“Perhaps,” she said, and swallowed, pushing him away with one hand flat on his chest, “perhaps thee should finish telling me about not being married, before we go further? Who was thy—thy wife—and what happened to her?”

He let go of her reluctantly but would not surrender her hand. It felt like a small live thing, warm in his.

“Her name is Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa,” he said, and felt the accustomed inner shift at the speaking of it, as though the line between his Mohawk self and his white self had momentarily disappeared, leaving him awkwardly suspended somewhere in between. “It means ‘Works With Her Hands.’” He cleared his throat. “I called her Emily. Most of the time.”

Rachel’s small, smooth hand jerked in his.

“Is?” she said, blinking. “Thee said is? Thy wife is alive?”

“She was a year ago,” he said, and, with an effort, didn’t cling to her hand but let her take it back. She folded her hands in her lap, fixed her eyes on him, and swallowed; he saw her throat move.

“All right,” she said, with no more than a faint tremor in her voice. “Tell me about her.”

He took another deep breath, trying to think how to do that, but then abandoned the effort and spoke simply.

“D’ye truly want to know that, Rachel? Or do ye only want to ken whether I loved her—or whether I love her now?”

“Start there,” she said, lifting one brow. “Does thee love her?”

“I—yes,” he said, helpless to speak other than the truth to her. Rollo, sensing some disturbance among his pack, got up from his resting place and padded over to Rachel. He sat down by her foot, making his allegiance in the matter clear, and gave Ian a yellow-eyed wolf look over Rachel’s knee that bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the look in her own eye. “But . . .”

The brow lifted a fraction of an inch higher.

“She . . . was my refuge,” he blurted. “When I left my own family and became a Mohawk, it was as much to be wi’ her as because I had to.”

“Had to . . . what?” She looked baffled, and he saw her eyes drop a little, tracing the tattooed lines across his cheekbones. “Thee had to become a Mohawk? Why?”

He nodded, feeling momentarily on firmer ground. He could