“Why?” he asked softly. “Why lie to me? When I had come to you thinking I knew, anyway?”

I stared down at my hands, linked beneath my chin, and swallowed.

“If…” I began, and swallowed again. “If I told you that I had let Louis… you would have asked about it. I thought you couldn’t forget… maybe you could forgive me, but you’d never forget, and it would always be there between us.” I swallowed once more, hard. My hands were cold despite the heat, and I felt a ball of ice in my stomach. But if I was telling him the truth now, I must tell him all of it.

“If you’d asked – and you did, Jamie, you did! I would have had to talk about it, live it over, and I was afraid…” I trailed off, unable to speak, but he wasn’t going to let me off.

“Afraid of what?” he prodded.

I turned my head slightly, not meeting his eye, but enough to see his outline dark against the sun, looming through the sun-sparked curtain of my hair.

“Afraid I’d tell you why I did it,” I said softly. “Jamie… I had to, to get you freed from the Bastille – I would have done worse, if I’d had to. But then… and afterward… I half-hoped someone would tell you, that you’d find out. I was so angry, Jamie – for the duel, and the baby. And because you’d forced me to do it… to go to Louis. I wanted to do something to drive you away, to make sure I never saw you again. I did it… partly… because I wanted to hurt you,” I whispered.

A muscle contracted near the corner of his mouth, but he went on staring downward at his clasped hands. The chasm between us, so perilously bridged, gaped yawning and impassable once more.

“Aye. Well, you did.”

His mouth clamped shut in a tight line, and he didn’t speak for some time. Finally he turned his head and looked directly at me. I would have liked to avoid his eyes, but couldn’t.

“Claire,” he said softly. “What did ye feel – when I gave my body to Jack Randall? When I let him take me, at Wentworth?”

A tiny shock ran through me, from scalp to toenails. It was the last question I had expected to hear. I opened and closed my mouth several times before finding an answer.

“I… don’t know,” I said weakly. “I hadn’t thought. Angry, of course. I was furious – outraged. And sick. And frightened for you. And… sorry for you.”

“Were ye jealous? When I told you about it later – that he’d roused me, though I didna want it?”

I drew a deep breath, feeling the grass tickle my breasts.

“No. At least I don’t think so; I didn’t think so then. After all, it wasn’t as though you’d… wanted to do it.” I bit my lip, looking down. His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact at my shoulder.

“I dinna think you wanted to bed Louis – did you?”

“No!”

“Aye, well,” he said. He put his thumbs together on either side of a blade of grass, and concentrated on pulling it up slowly by the roots. “I was angry, too. And sick and sorry.” The grass blade came free of its sheath with a tiny squeaking sound.

“When it was me,” he went on, almost whispering, “I thought you could not bear the thought of it, and I would not have blamed you. I knew ye must turn from me, and I tried to send you away, so I wouldna have to see the disgust and the hurt in your face.” He closed his eyes and raised the grass blade between his thumbs, barely brushing his lips.

“But you wouldna go. You took me to your breast and cherished me. You healed me, instead. You loved me, in spite of it.” He took a deep, unsteady breath and turned his head to me again. His eyes were bright with tears, but no wetness escaped to slide down his cheeks.

“I thought, maybe, that I could bring myself to do that for you, as you did it for me. And that is why I came to Fontainebleau, at last.”

He blinked once, hard, and his eyes cleared.

“Then when ye told me that nothing had happened – for a bit, I believed you, because I wanted to so much. But then… I could tell, Claire. I couldna hide it from myself, and I knew you had lied to me. I thought you wouldna trust me to love you, or… that you had wanted him, and were afraid to let me see it.”

He dropped the grass, and his head sank forward to rest on his knuckles.

“Ye said you wanted to hurt me. Well, the thought of you lying with the King hurt worse than the brand on my breast, or the cut of the lash on my naked back. But the knowledge that ye thought ye couldna trust me to love you is like waking from the hangman’s noose to feel the gutting knife sunk in my belly. Claire-” His mouth opened soundlessly, then closed tight for a moment, until he found the strength to go on.

“I do not know if the wound is mortal, but Claire – I do feel my heart’s blood leave me, when I look at you.”

The silence between us grew and deepened. The small buzz of an insect calling in the rocks vibrated in the air.

Jamie was still as a rock, his face blank as he stared down at the ground below him. I couldn’t bear that blank face, and the thought of what must lie concealed behind it. I had seen a hint of his despairing fury in the arbor, and my heart felt hollow at the thought of that rage, mastered at such fearful cost, now held under an iron control that kept in not only rage, but trust and joy.

I wished desperately for some way to break the silence that parted us; some act that could restore the lost truth between us. Jamie sat up then, arms folded tight about his thighs, and turned away as he gazed out over the peaceful valley.

Better violence, I thought, than silence. I reached across the chasm between us and laid a hand on his arm. It was warm from the sun, live to my touch.

“Jamie,” I whispered. “Please.”

His head turned slowly toward me. His face seemed still calm, though the cat-eyes narrowed further as he looked at me in silence. He reached out, finally, and one hand gripped me by the wrist.

“Do ye wish me to beat you, then?” he said softly. His grasp tightened hard, so that I jerked unconsciously, trying to pull away from him. He pulled back, yanking me across the rough grass, bringing my body against him.

I felt myself trembling, and gooseflesh lifted the hairs on my forearms, but I managed to speak.

“Yes,” I said.

His expression was unfathomable. Still holding my eyes with his own, he reached out his free hand, fumbling over the rocks until he touched a bunch of nettles. He drew in his breath as his fingers touched the prickly stems, but his jaw clenched; he closed his fist and ripped the plants up by the roots.

“The peasants of Gascony beat a faithless wife wi’ nettles,” he said. He lowered the spiky bunch of leaves and brushed the flower heads lightly across one breast. I gasped from the sudden sting, and a faint red blotch appeared as though by magic on my skin.

“Will ye have me do so?” he asked. “Shall I punish you that way?”

“If you… if you like.” My lips were trembling so hard I could barely get out the words. A few crumbs of earth from the nettles’ roots had fallen between my breasts; one rolled down the slope of my ribs, dislodged by my pounding heart, I imagined. The welt on my breast burned like fire. I closed my eyes, imagining in vivid detail exactly what being thrashed with a bunch of nettles would feel like.

Suddenly the viselike grip on my wrist relaxed. I opened my eyes to find Jamie sitting cross-legged by me, the plants thrown aside and scattered on the ground. He had a faint, rueful smile on his lips.

“I beat you once in justice, Sassenach, and ye threatened to disembowel me with my own dirk. Now you’ll ask me to whip ye wi’ nettles?” He shook his head slowly, wondering, and his hand reached as though by its own volition to cup my cheek. “Is my pride worth so much to you, then?”

“Yes! Yes, it bloody is!” I sat up myself, and grasped him by the shoulders, taking both of us by surprise as I kissed him hard and awkwardly.

I felt his first involuntary start, and then he pulled me to him, arm tight around my back, mouth answering mine. Then he had me pressed flat to the earth, his weight holding me immobile beneath him. His shoulders darkened the bright sky above, and his hands held my arms against my sides, keeping me prisoner.