Blessed in her beauty

The who­le Sce­ne:

He was gene­ral­ly awa­re that he had been bles­sed in her beau­ty; even in her usu­al home­s­pun, knee-deep in mud from her gar­den, or stai­ned and fier­ce with the blood of her cal­ling, the cur­ve of her bones spo­ke to his own mar­row, and tho­se whis­ky eyes could make him drunk with a glance. Bes­i­des, the mad col­lies­han­gie of her hair made him laugh.
Smi­ling to him­s­elf even at the thought, it occur­red to him that he was slight­ly drunk. Liquor flowed like water at the par­ty, and the­re were alre­ady men lea­ning on old Hector’s mau­so­le­um, gla­ze-eyed and slack-jawed; he caught a glim­pse of someo­ne behind the thing, too, having a piss in the shrub­be­ry. He shook his head. There’d be a body under every bush by night­fall.
Christ. One thought of bodies under bus­hes, and his mind had pre­sen­ted him with a blin­din­gly inde­cent visi­on of Clai­re, lying spraw­led and laug­hing under one, bre­asts fal­ling out of her gown and the dead lea­ves and dry grass the same colors as her rum­pled skirts and the cur­ly brown hair bet­ween her — He cho­ked the thought off abrupt­ly, bowing cor­di­al­ly to old Mrs. Alder­dy­ce, the Judge’s mother.
“Your ser­vant, ma’am.”
“Good day to ye, young man, good day.” The old lady nod­ded magis­te­ri­al­ly and pas­sed by, lea­ning on the arm of her com­pa­n­ion, a long-suf­fe­ring young woman who gave Jamie a faint smi­le in respon­se to his salu­te.
“Mas­ter Jamie?” One of the maids hove­r­ed besi­de him, hol­ding out a tray of cups. He took one, smi­ling his thanks, and drank half its con­tents in a gulp.
He couldn’t help it. He had to turn and look after Clai­re. He caught no more than a glim­pse of the top of her head among the crowd on the ter­race — she wouldn’t wear a pro­per cap, of cour­se, the stubborn wee besom, but had some foolish­ness pin­ned on ins­te­ad, a scrap of lace caught up with a clus­ter of rib­bons and rose hips. That made him want to laugh, too, and he tur­ned back toward the wil­lows, smi­ling to him​s​elf​.It was see­ing her in the new gown that did it. It had been mon­ths sin­ce he’d seen her dres­sed like a lady, nar­row-waisted in silk, and her white bre­asts round and sweet as win­ter pears in the low neck of her gown. It was as though she were sud­den­ly a dif­fe­rent woman; one inti­mate­ly fami­li­ar and yet still exci­ting­ly stran­ge.
His fin­gers twit­ched, remem­be­ring that one rebel lock, spi­ral­ing free down her neck, and the feel of her slen­der nape — and the feel of her plump warm arse through her skirts, pres­sed against his leg. He had not had her in more than a week, what with the press of peop­le round them, and was fee­ling the lack acu­te­ly.
Ever sin­ce she had shown him the sperms, he had been uncom­for­ta­b­ly awa­re of the crow­ded con­di­ti­ons that must now and then obtain in his balls, an impres­si­on made for­ci­b­ly stron­ger in situa­ti­ons such as this. He kent well enough that the­re was no dan­ger of rup­tu­re or explo­si­on — and yet he couldn’t help but think of all the sho­ving going on.
Being trap­ped in a see­thing mass of others, with no hope of escape, was one of his own per­so­nal visi­ons of Hell, and he pau­sed for a moment out­side the screen of wil­low trees, to admi­nis­ter a brief squee­ze of reas­suran­ce, which he hoped might calm the riot for a bit.


All rights for the Pic­tures go to the right­ful owner Starz/​Sony
Quote and Excerpt by Diana Gabal­don from “The Fiery Cross“
I own not­hing but the editing
Heike Ginger Ba Written by:

|Human|Woman|Mother|Wife|Friend| Photographer| Blogger| |TV-Junkie|Photoshop-Beginner|Art-Lover|Cologne-based|Outlander-addict |Sherlockian |TWD-devoted

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