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 himself.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:

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