I lay on him moments later, feeling his heart beat under me, slow and strong. I breathed in and smelled the deep, bitter tang of him.

“You smell wonderful,” I said. I felt drowsy and deeply happy.

“What?” He lifted his head and turned it, sniffing down the collar of his shirt. “Jesus, I stink like a dead boar.”

“You do,” I said. “Thank God.”

154

Never Fear to Negotiate; Never Negotiate from Fear

I WAS SMASHING LUMPS of asafetida resin with a hammer when Jamie stuck his head into my surgery.

“Jesus, Sassenach.” He pinched his nose between two fingers. “What the devil is that? And why are ye pounding it with a hammer?”

“Asafetida,” I said, letting out the breath I’d been holding and taking a step backward. “First you extract the resin from the roots of the Ferula plant, which is relatively simple—but the resin is very hard and you can’t grate it, so you have to smash the lumps with a hammer—or stones, if you haven’t a hammer. Um …” It occurred to me that the hammer I had was in fact his, and I reversed it in my hand, offering it to him hilt-first like a surrendered sword. “Do you want it back?”

He took the hammer, inspected it at arm’s length for damage, then shook his head and handed it back.

“It’s all right. Wash it before ye bring it back to me, aye? Is that the stuff they call devil’s dung?”

“Well, yes. But I’m told that the people where it grows use it as a spice. In food, I mean.”

He looked as though he wanted to spit, but refrained. “Who told ye that?”

“John Grey. It probably tastes better when cooked,” I said hurriedly. “Did you come in here for something, or were you just looking for your hammer?”

“Och. Aye, I was sent to ask will ye come be a witness.”

“To what?” I was already rubbing charcoal dust over my hands to kill the stink.

“I’m no altogether sure. Right now, it’s a wee stramash, but it might be a wedding, if they’ll quit cryin’ themselves down to each other.”

I didn’t waste time asking for details, but quickly rinsed away the charcoal and dried my hands on my apron as I followed him down the hall to the parlor.

Rachel, Ian, Jenny, and Silvia Hardman were there, along with Prudence, Patience, and Chastity, and so were Bobby Higgins and his sons, Aidan, Orrie, and Rob. The Hardmans and the Higginses were drawn up like opposing armies, Silvia and her daughters on the settee with Bobby facing them from the depths of Jamie’s big chair, Aidan standing by his side and Orrie and Rob sitting—insofar as one can use such a word when describing young males under the age of six—on the carpet at his feet.

Rachel, Jenny, and Ian stood at the end of the settee. Everyone turned to look when we came in, and I sensed at once a tumultuous atmosphere in the room. It wasn’t as though they were quarreling, but clearly there was some tension.