Lord John and the Private Matter by Diana Gabaldon Page B

mouth, slitted eyes above it reminding him of the cat just before it bit him.
    “No,” he said. “Not at all.”
    In fact, the sound of her speech had unleashed an extraordinary—and quite unexpected—tumult of sensation in his bosom. A mad mix of memory, arousal, and alarm, it was not an entirely pleasant feeling—but he wanted her to go on talking, at all costs.
    “Nessie,” he said, pouring out a glass of wine for her. “I’ve heard that name before—though it was not applied to a person.”
    Her eyes stayed narrow, but she took the drink.
    “I’m a person, no? It’s short for Agnes.”
    “Agnes?” He laughed, from the sheer exhilaration of her presence. Not just her speech—that slit-eyed look of dour suspicion was so ineffably Scots that he felt transported. “I thought it was the name the local inhabitants gave to a legendary monster, believed to live in Loch Ness.”
    The slitted eyes popped open in surprise.
    “Ye’ve heard of it? Ye’ve been in Scotland?”
    “Yes.” He took a large swallow of his own wine, warm and rough on his palate. “In the north. A place called Ardsmuir. You know it?”
    Evidently she did; she scrambled off the bed and backed away from him, wineglass clenched so hard in one hand, he thought she might break it.
    “Get out,” she said.
    “What?” He stared at her blankly.
    “Out!” A skinny arm shot out of the folds of her shawl, finger jabbing toward the door.
    “But—”
    “Soldiers are the one thing, and bad enough, forbye—but I’m no takin’ on one of Butcher Billy’s men, and that’s flat!”
    Her hand dipped back under the shawl, and reemerged with something small and shiny. Lord John froze.
    “My dear young woman,” he began, slowly reaching out to set down his wineglass, all the time keeping an eye on the knife. “I am afraid you mistake me. I—”
    “Oh, no, I dinna mistake ye a bit.” She shook her head, making frizzy dark curls fluff round her head like a halo. Her eyes had gone back to slits, and her face was white, with two hectic spots burning over her cheekbones.
    “My da and two brothers died at Culloden, duine na galladh ! Take that English prick out your breeks, and I’ll slice it off at the root, I swear I will!”
    “I have not the slightest intention of doing so,” he assured her, lifting both hands to indicate his lack of offensive intent. “How old are you?” Short and skinny, she looked about eleven, but must be somewhat older, if her father had perished at Culloden.
    The question seemed to give her pause. Her lips pursed uncertainly, though her knife hand held steady.
    “Fourteen. But ye needna think I dinna ken what to do with this!”
    “I should never suspect you of inability in any sphere, I assure you, madam.”
    There was a moment of silence that lengthened into awkwardness as they faced each other warily, both unsure how to proceed from this point. He wanted to laugh; she was at once so doubtful and yet so in earnest. At the same time, her passion forbade any sort of disrespect.
    Nessie licked her lips and made an uncertain jabbing motion toward him with the knife.
    “I said ye should get out!”
    Keeping a wary eye on the blade, he slowly lowered his hands and reached for his wineglass.
    “Believe me, madam, if you are disinclined, I should be the last to force you. It would be a shame to waste such excellent wine, though. Will you not finish your glass, at least?”
    She had forgotten the glass she was holding in her other hand. She glanced down at it, surprised, then up at him.
    “Ye dinna want to swive me?”
    “No, indeed,” he assured her, with complete sincerity. “I should be obliged, though, if you would honor me with a few moments’ conversation. That is—I suppose that you do not wish me to summon Mrs. Magda at once?”
    He gestured toward the door, raising one eyebrow, and she bit her lower lip. Inexperienced as he might be in brothels, he was reasonably sure that a madam would look askance at