“I ken that fine. And so does Denzell Hunter; it’s why he’s here, though it’s cost him his home and his meeting. But, mind, they’re worth protecting—beyond you bein’ in love wi’ Rachel, I mean.”
“Mmphm.” Ian wasn’t in the mood to discuss philosophy, and he doubted his uncle was, either. The light was in that long hour before darkfall, when the things of the forest pause and draw breath, slowing for the night. It was a good time to hunt, because the trees slowed first, so you saw the animals still moving among them.
Uncle Jamie kent that. He sat, relaxed, nothing moving save his eyes. Ian saw his gaze flick up and turned his own head to see. Sure enough, a squirrel clung to the trunk of a sycamore, ten feet away. He’d not have seen it, had he not caught the last flick of its tail as it stilled there. He met Jamie’s eyes, and they both smiled and sat silent for a while, listening to the racket of the camp, even this beginning to mute itself.
Denzell and Dottie hadn’t come back; perhaps the birth was more complicated than Denny had thought. Rachel would be going to Jamie’s tent soon, for the meeting.
He wondered about that. You needed a meeting, to counsel the two of you, then to approve and witness the marriage. Might Denny have it in his mind to establish a new Friends meeting, within which he could marry Dottie—and Rachel might wed Ian?
Jamie sighed and stirred, getting ready to rise.
“Ahh . . . Uncle,” Ian said, in a casual tone that made his uncle instantly focus attention on him.
“What?” said his uncle warily. “Ye havena got your lass wi’ child, have ye?”
“I have not,” Ian said, offended—and wondering vaguely how his uncle had known he was thinking of Rachel. “And why would ye think a thing like that, ye evil-minded auld mumper?”
“Because I ken well enough what ‘Ahh . . . Uncle’ usually means,” Jamie informed him cynically. “It means ye’ve got yourself into some confusion involving a lass and want advice. And I canna think what ye could be confused about wi’ regard to wee Rachel. A more straightforward lass I’ve never met—bar your auntie Claire, that is,” he added, with a brief grin.
“Mmphm,” Ian said, not best pleased by his uncle’s acuity, but obliged to admit the truth of it. “Well, then. It’s only . . .” Despite the completely benign intent—the innocence, even—of the question that had come into his mind, he felt his face go hot.
Jamie raised his brows.
“Well, if ye must know, then—I’ve never lain wi’ a virgin.” Once he’d got it out, he relaxed a little, though his uncle’s brows nearly met his hairline. “And, aye, I’m sure Rachel is one,” he added defensively.
“I’m sure, too,” his uncle assured him. “Most men wouldna consider it a problem.”
Ian gave him a look. “Ye ken what I mean. I want her to like it.”
“Verra commendable. Have ye had complaints from women before?”
“Ye’re in a rare mood, Uncle,” Ian said coldly. “Ye ken verra well what I mean.”
“Aye, ye mean if ye’re paying a woman to bed ye, ye’re no likely to hear anything ye dinna like regarding your own performance.” Jamie rocked back a little, eyeing him. “Did ye tell Rachel ye’re in the habit of consorting wi’ whores?”
Ian felt the blood rush to his ears and was obliged to breathe evenly for a moment before replying.
“I told her everything,” he said between clenched teeth. “And I wouldna call it a ‘habit.’” He did know better than to go on with, “It’s no more than other men do,” because he kent fine what sort of answer he’d get to that.
Fortunately, Jamie seemed to have reined in his jocularity for the moment and was considering the question.
“Your Mohawk wife,” he said delicately. “She, er . . .”
“No,” Ian said. “The Indians see bedding a bit differently.” And, seizing the opportunity to get a bit of his own back, added, “D’ye not recall the time we went to visit the Snowbird Cherokee and Bird sent a couple of maidens to warm your bed?”
Jamie gave him an old-fashioned sort of look that made him laugh.
“Tell me, Ian,” he said, after a pause, “would ye be having this conversation with your da?”
“God, no.”
“I’m flattered,” Jamie said dryly.
“Well, see . . .” Ian had answered by reflex and found himself fumbling for an explanation. “It—I mean . . . it’s no that I wouldna talk to Da about things, but if he’d told me anything about . . . it would ha’ been to do with him and Mam, wouldn’t it? And I couldna . . . well, I couldn’t, that’s all.”
“Mmphm.”
Ian narrowed his eyes at his uncle.
“Ye’re no going to try and tell me that my mother—”
“Who’s my sister, aye? No, I wouldna tell ye anything like that. I see your point. I’m only thinkin’ . . .” He trailed off and Ian gave him a pointed look. The light was fading, but there was still plenty. Jamie shrugged.
“Aye, well. It’s only—your auntie Claire was widowed when I wed her, aye?”
“Aye. So?”
“So it was me that was virgin on our wedding night.”
Ian hadn’t thought he’d moved, but Rollo jerked his head up and looked at him, startled. Ian cleared his throat.
“Oh. Aye?”
“Aye,” said his uncle, wry as a lemon. “And I was given any amount of advice beforehand, too, by my uncle Dougal and his men.”