Diana Gabaldon · @Writer_DG
2nd Sep 2013 from TwitLonger
#DailyLines #MOBY #WRITTENInMYOwnHEARTSBlood #Book8 #OutMARCH2014
Ian found Rachel standing in line with a number of other women at the well in the yard of the Goose and Grapes, two buckets resting at her feet.
“I could take those down to the river for ye,” he offered. She was flushed with the heat of the day, but looked beautiful, her bare arms brown and the curving muscle of them so neat and delicate that it lifted his heart to look at them.
“I thank thee, Ian, but no.” She smiled up at him, and reached to tweak one of the eagle feathers he’d knotted into his hair. “Thy auntie says the boats throw their waste into the river, and half the army is pissing in it as well, and she’s right. I should need to walk a mile upstream to find a clean place from which to draw water. Is thee about thy business, then?”
She spoke with interest, but with no sense of disapproval, and he appreciated that.
“I willna kill anyone unless I have to, Rachel,” he said softly, and touched her cheek. “I’m signed on as a scout. I shouldna have to.”
“But things happen,” she said, and looked away, to keep him seeing the sudden shadow in her eyes. “I know.”
With an unexpected spurt of impatience, he wanted to ask her, would she rather he kill, or _be_ killed for the sake of his soul’s grace, but smothered the impulse, and the tinge of anger with it. She loved him, he didn’t doubt that. It was maybe a fair question to put to a Quaker, but not to his betrothed.
Her eyes were on his face, interested and thoughtful, and he felt a slight flush rise in his cheeks, wondering just how much of his own thoughts showed?
“Thy life’s journey lies along its own path, Ian,” she said softly, “and I cannot share thy journey…but I can walk beside thee. And I will.”
The woman standing behind them in the line heaved a deep, contented sigh.
“Now that’s a very right and pretty thing to say, sweetheart,” she said to Rachel, in approving tones. And switching her gaze to Ian, looked him skeptically up and down. He was dressed in buckskins, clout and calico shirt, and bar the feathers in his hair and the tattoos, didn’t look too outlandish, he thought.
“You probably don’t deserve her,” the woman said, shaking her head doubtfully. “But try, there’s a good lad.”