#DailyLines #OUTLANDER #Book1 #killing101 “Golden eyes; I’ve seen a pair like that once before—on a leopard.” He shook his head. “Nay, lass. Ye could be French, but you’re not.” “How do you know?” “I’ve talked with you a good deal; and listened to you besides. Dougal thinks you’re French because you speak French well—verra well.” “Thank you,” I said sarcastically. “And the fact that I speak French well proves I’m not French?” He smiled and tightened his grip on my neck. “_Vous parlez tres bien_--but not quite as well as I do,” he added, dropping back into English. He released me suddenly. “I spent a year in France, after I left the castle, and two more later on with the army. I know a native speaker of French when I hear one. And French is not your mother tongue.” He shook his head slowly. “Spanish? Perhaps, but why? Spain’s no interests in the Highlands. German? Surely not.” He shrugged. “Whoever you are, the English would want to find out. They canna afford to have unknown quantitites at large, with the clans restless and Prince Charlie waiting to set sail from France. And their methods of finding out are not very gentle. I’ve reason to know.” “And how do you know I’m not an _English_ spy, then? Dougal thought I was, you said so.” “It’s possible, though your spoken English is more than a little odd too. If you were, though, why would you choose to wed me, rather than go back to your own folk? That was another reason for Dougal’s makin’ ye wed me—to see would ye bolt last night, when it came to the point.” “And I didn’t bolt. So what does that prove?” He laughed and lay back down on the bed, an arm over his eyes to shield them from the lamp. “Damned if I know, Sassenach. _Damned_ if I know. There isna any reasonable explanation I can think of for you. You might be one of the Wee Folk, for all I know”—he peeked sideways from under his arm—“no, I suppose not. You’re too big.” “Aren’t you afraid I might kill you in your sleep some night, if you don’t know who I am?” He didn’t answer, but took his arm away from his eyes, and his smile widened. His eyes must be from the Fraser side, I thought. Not deepset like the MacKenzies, they were set at an odd angle, so that the high cheekbones made them look almost slanted. Without troubling to lift his head, he opened the front of his shirt and spread the cloth aside, laying his chest bare to the waist. He drew the dirk from its sheath and tossed it toward me. It thunked on the boards at my feet. He put his arm back over his eyes and stretched his head back, showing the place where the dark stubble of his sprouting beard stopped abruptly, just below the jaw. “Straight up, just under the breastbone,” he advised. “Quick and neat, though it takes bit of strength. The throat-cutting’s easier, but it’s verra messy.” I bent to pick up the dirk. “Serve you right if I did,” I remarked. “Cocky bastard.” The grin visible beneath the crook of his arm widened still further. “Sassenach?” I stopped, dirk still in my hand. “What?” “I’ll die a happy man.”
Posted on: Tue, 23 Jul 2013 11:12:58 +0000