Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
8th Mar 2013 from Twitlonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #amansgottadowhatamansgottado
_How long_? I thought, setting down the paper with a small shiver. _When_? I had the feeling that it had been—would be—much later in the war, when circumstance turned Benedict Arnold from patriot to traitor. But I didn’t know.
It didn’t matter, I told myself firmly. I couldn’t change it. And long before that happened, we would be safely back on the Ridge, rebuilding our house and our lives.
The bell over the shop door below rang, and there was an excited gabble as the children stampeded out of the kitchen. The soft rumble of Jamie’s voice floated up over the confusion of shrill greetings and I caught Marsali’s voice among them, stunned.
“Da! What have ye _done_?”
Alarmed, I scrambled out of my nest and went on hands and knees to the edge of the loft to look down. Jamie stood in the middle of the shop, surrounded by admiring children, his loose hair spangled with raindrops, cloak folded over his arm—dressed in the dark blue and buff of a Continental officer.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt _Christ_!” I exclaimed.
He looked up and his eyes met mine.
“I’m sorry, Sassenach,” he said, apologetically. “I had to.”