Seven Stones to Stand or Fall (Outlander)(48)

Rather to his own shock, Michael laughed.

Jared wiped his mouth, still coughing, but then sat up straight and lifted his glass, which still held a few drops.

“To your da. Slàinte mhath!”

“Slàinte!” Michael echoed, and drained what remained in his own glass. He set it down with finality and rose. He’d drink nay more tonight.

“Oidhche mhath, mo bràthair-athar no mathar.”

“Good night, lad,” said Jared. The fire was burning low but still cast a warm ruddy glow on the old man’s face. “Fare ye well.”



Next night

MICHAEL DROPPED HIS key several times before finally managing to turn it in the old-fashioned lock. It wasn’t drink; he’d not had a drop since the wine at supper. Instead, he’d walked the length of the city and back, accompanied only by his thoughts; his whole body quivered and he felt mindless with exhaustion, but he was sure he would sleep. Jean-Baptiste had left the door unbarred, according to his orders, but one of the footmen was sprawled on a settle in the entryway, snoring. He smiled a little, though it was an effort to raise the corners of his mouth.

“Bolt the door and go to bed, Alphonse,” he whispered, bending and shaking the man gently by the shoulder. The footman stirred and snorted, but Michael didn’t wait to see whether he woke entirely. There was a tiny oil lamp burning on the landing of the stairs, a little round glass globe in the gaudy colors of Murano. It had been there since the first day he came from Scotland to stay with Jared, years before, and the sight of it soothed him and drew his aching body up the wide, dark stair.

The house creaked and talked to itself at night; all old houses did. Tonight, though, it was silent, the big copper-seamed roof gone cold and its massive timbers settled into somnolence.

He flung off his clothes and crawled naked into bed, head spinning. Tired as he was, his flesh quivered and twitched, his legs jerking like a spitted frog’s, before he finally relaxed enough to fall headfirst into the seething cauldron of dreams that awaited him.

She was there, of course. Laughing at him, playing with her ridiculous pug. Running a hand filled with desire across his face, down his neck, easing her body close, and closer. Then they were somehow in bed, with the wind blowing cool through gauzy curtains, too cool, he felt cold, but then her warmth came close, pressed against him. He felt a terrible desire but at the same time feared her. She felt utterly familiar, utterly strange—and the mixture thrilled him.

He reached for her and realized that he couldn’t raise his arms, couldn’t move. And yet she was against him, writhing in a slow squirm of need, greedy and tantalizing. In the way of dreams, he was at the same time in front of her, behind her, touching, and seeing from a distance. Candle glow on naked breasts, the shadowed weight of solid buttocks, falling drapes of parting white, one round, firm leg protruding, a pointed toe rooting gently between his legs. Urgency.

She was curled behind him then, kissing the back of his neck, and he reached back, groping, but his hands were heavy, drifting; they slid helpless over her. Hers on him were firm, more than firm—she had him by the cock, was working him. Working him hard, fast and hard. He bucked and heaved, suddenly released from the dream swamp of immobility. She loosed her grip, tried to pull away, but he folded his hand round hers and rubbed their folded hands hard up and down with joyous ferocity, spilling himself convulsively, hot wet spurts against his belly, running thick over their clenched knuckles.

She made a sound of horrified disgust, and his eyes flew open. Staring into them were a pair of huge, bugging eyes, over a gargoyle’s mouth full of tiny, sharp teeth. He shrieked.

Plonplon leaped off the bed and ran to and fro, barking hysterically. There was a body behind him. Michael flung himself off the bed, tangled in a winding sheet of damp, sticky bedclothes, then fell and rolled in panic.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!”

On his knees, he gaped, rubbed his hands hard over his face, shook his head. Could not make sense of it, couldn’t.

“Lillie,” he gasped. “Lillie!”

But the woman in his bed, tears running down her face, wasn’t Lillie; he realized it with a wrench that made him groan, doubling up in the desolation of fresh loss.

“Oh, Jesus!”

“Michel, Michel, please, please forgive me!”

“You…what…for God’s sake…!”

Léonie was weeping frantically, reaching out toward him.

“I couldn’t help it. I’m so lonely, I wanted you so much!”

Plonplon had ceased barking and now came up behind Michael, nosing his bare backside with a blast of hot, moist breath.

“Va-t’en!”

The pug backed up and started barking again, eyes bulging with offense.

Unable to find any words suitable to the situation, he grabbed the dog and muffled it with a handful of sheet. He got unsteadily to his feet, still holding the squirming pug.

“I—” he began. “You—I mean…oh, Jesus Christ!” He leaned over and put the dog carefully on the bed. Plonplon instantly wriggled free of the sheet and rushed to Léonie, licking her solicitously. Michael had thought of giving her the dog after Lillie’s death, but for some reason this had seemed a betrayal of the pug’s former mistress and brought Michael near to weeping.

“I can’t,” he said simply. “I just can’t. You go to sleep now, lass. We’ll talk about it later, aye?”