Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
18th Apr 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #bedsidemanner
Denzell glanced round, and seized upon Jenny as the most likely source of information.
“What did friend Claire say regarding him, in terms of ailment and treatment?”
“Asthma, and joint-fir brewed in coffee,” Jenny replied promptly, turning to add to Pardloe, “Ye ken, I didna have to tell him that. I might ha’ let ye strangle, but I suppose that’s no a Christian way to carry on. Are Quakers Christians, by the by?” she asked Denny curiously.
“Yes,” he replied, advancing cautiously on Pardloe, whom Jamie had forced to sit down by pressing on his shoulder. “We believe the light of Christ is present in all men—though in some cases, perceiving it is somewhat difficult,” he added, under his breath, but loud enough for Jamie—and the duke--to hear.
Pardloe appeared to be trying to whistle, blowing with pursed lips, meanwhile glaring at Denzell. He gasped in air and managed a few more words.
“I will…not be doctored…by you, sir.” Another pause for blowing and gasping. Jamie noted Mrs. Figg stir uneasily and take a step toward the door. “I will not…leave my…daughter in your…clutches--“ Blow. Gasp. “If you kill me.” Blow. Gasp. “Nor risk…you sav…ing my life…and putting…me in…your…debt.” The effort involved in getting that one out turned him a ghastly gray, and Jamie was seriously alarmed.
“Has he medicine, Jenny?” he asked urgently. His sister compressed her lips, but nodded, and with a final glare at the duke, scurried out of the room.
With the ginger air of one embracing a crocodile, Denzell Hunter crouched, took hold of the duke’s wrist and peered closely into his eyes, these organs repaying his inspection by narrowing in the most threatening fashion manageable by a man dying of suffocation. Not for the first time, Jamie suffered a reluctant admiration for Pardloe’s strength of character—though he was likewise obliged to admit that Hunter’s nearly matched it.