“No.” He’d moved off me but was still imminent. His hair was loose, soft and tumbled, sparking red and silver in the firelight, and I brushed it behind his ear. “I thought they were, the first time I saw it, but I’ve seen it several times since, and they’re just sleeping in the flowers. They wake up when the sun warms them and fly off.

“I don’t know whether it’s something like camping out for them, or whether they just get too tired to make their way back to the hive or are caught out by the dark and lie down where they can,” I added. “You mostly see single bees doing it, though. Seeing two of them together like that … it was very sweet.”

“Sweet,” he echoed, and threading his fingers through mine kissed me gently, tasting of smoke and beer and bread with honey.

“Do you know why they’re called hollyhocks?”

“No, but I suppose ye’re going to tell me.” One big hand ran down the side of my neck and delicately grasped my nipple. I returned the favor, enjoying the rough feel of the hairs around his.

“The Crusaders brought it back to England, because you can make a salve of its root that’s particularly good for an injury to a horse’s hocks. Apparently crusading is hard on the hocks.”

“Mmm … I wouldna doubt it.”

“So,” I whispered, flicking my thumbnail lightly, “‘Holly’ is an old spelling of ‘Holy’—for the ‘Holy Land’?”

“Mmphm …”

“And ‘hock’—well, for ‘hocks.’ What do you think of that?”

A subterranean quiver rippled through his body, and he lay down on top of me and eased both hands under my hips. His breath tickled warmly in my ear.

“I think I should like to sleep in a flower wi’ you, Sassenach, holding your feet.”

I reached to put out the candle and my mind settled where it belonged, in the warm heart of the firelit darkness.

I SLEPT THE sleep of the gardener, physical exhaustion leavened by tranquility, and dreamed—little wonder—of weeds. I was yanking them out of the ground at the foot of a vast bank of blooming pea vines, tossing the weeds over my shoulder and hearing them plink on the ground like coins, then realizing that it was raining …

I rose slowly out of my dream of slugs and rain-wet vegetables to realize that Jamie had got up and was using the tin chamber pot, having withdrawn to a polite distance by the window to do so. Knowing that his grandfather, the Old Fox, had suffered from an enlarged prostate, I was inclined to listen—as tactfully as possible—in case of any adverse indications, but the sound was reassuringly strong and well defined, and I closed my eyes and pretended to have just wakened when he crawled back into bed.

“Mm?” I said, and patted his arm. He lay down, sighing, and took my hand.

“What’s today?” he said. “Or what will it be, when the sun comes up?”