Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
19th Aug 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WrittenINMyOWNHeartsBLOOD #Book8 #silverlinings #anevilcharm
The children obediently scampered off behind her, though still looking back at us in frustrated curiosity. Children hate secrets, unless they’re the ones keeping them. I glanced after them, then turned back to Jamie.
“I didn’t know if they knew about William. I suppose Marsali and Fergus do, since—“
“Since my sister told them, aye, they do.” He rolled his eyes in brief resignation, then fixed them on my face. “What is it, Sassenach?”
“He can’t fight,” I said, letting out a half-held breath. “It doesn’t matter what the British army is about to do. William was paroled after Saratoga—he’s a conventioner. You know about the Convention army?”
“I do.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “Ye mean he’s not allowed to take up arms unless he’s been exchanged—and he hasn’t been, is that it?”
“That’s it. Nobody _can_ be exchanged, until the King and the Congress come to some agreement about it.”
His face was suddenly vivid with relief, and I was relieved to see it.
“John’s been trying to have him exchanged for months, but there isn’t any way of doing it.” I dismissed Congress and the king with a wave of my free hand and smiled up at him. “You won’t have to face him on a battlefield.”
“Thank God,” he said, closing his eyes for an instant. “I’ve been thinking for days—when I wasna fretting about _you_, Sassenach—“ he added, opening his eyes and looking down his nose at me, “—the third time’s the charm. And that would be an evil charm indeed.”
“Third time?” I said. “What do you—would you let go my fingers? They’ve gone numb.”
“Oh,” he said, letting go. “Aye, sorry, Sassenach. I meant—I’ve shot at the lad twice in his life so far, and missed him by no more than an inch each time. If it should happen again—ye canna always tell, in battle, and accidents do happen. I was dreaming, during the night, and…och, nay matter.” He waved off the dreams and turned away, but I put a hand on his arm to stop him. I knew his dreams—and I’d heard him moan the night before, fighting them.
“Culloden?” I said softly. “Has it come back again?” I actually hoped it _was_ Culloden—and not Wentworth. He woke from the Wentworth dreams sweating and rigid, and couldn’t bear to be touched. Last night, he hadn’t waked, but had jerked and moaned until I’d got my arms around him and he quieted, trembling in his sleep, head butted hard into my chest.
He shrugged a little, and touched my face.
“It’s never left, Sassenach,” he said, just as softly. “It never will. But I sleep easier by your side.”