Extraits

http://www.dianagabaldon.com/books/outlander-series/book-nine-outlander-series/excerpt-13-moonlight-and-howling/

I was somewhere deeper than dreams, and came to the surface like a fish hauled out of water, thrashing and flapping.

"Whug—" I couldn’t remember where I was, who I was, or how to speak. Then the noise that had roused me came again, and every hair on my body stood on end.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" Words and sense came back in a rush and I flung out both hands, groping for some physical anchor.

Sheets. Mattress. Bed. I was in bed. But no Jamie, empty space beside me. I blinked like an owl, turning my head in search of him. He was standing naked at the window, bathed in moonlight. His fists were clenched and every muscle visible under his skin.

"Jamie!" He didn’t turn, or seem to hear—either my voice, or the thump and agitation of other people in the house, also roused by the howling outside. I could hear Mandy starting to wail in fear, and her parents’ voices running into each other in the rush to comfort her.

I got out of bed, and came up cautiously beside Jamie, though what I really wanted to do was dive under the covers and pull the pillow over my head. That noise… I peered past his shoulder, but bright as the moonlight was, it showed nothing in the clearing before the house that shouldn’t be there. Coming from the wood, maybe; trees and mountain were an impenetrable slab of black.

"Jamie," I said, more calmly, and wrapped a hand firmly round his forearm. "What is it, do you think? Wolves? A wolf, I mean?" I hoped there was only one of whatever was making that sound.

He started at the touch, swung round to see me and shook his head hard, trying to shake off…something.

"I—" he began, voice hoarse with sleep, and then he simply put his arms around me and drew me against him. "I thought it was a dream." I could feel him trembling a little, and held him as hard as I could. Sinister Celtic words like "ban-sidhe" and "tannasq" were fluttering round my head, whispering in my ear. Custom said that a ban-sidhe howled on the roof when someone in the house was about to die. Well…it wasn’t on the bloody roof, at least…

"Are your dreams usually that loud?" I asked, wincing at a fresh ululation. He hadn’t been out of bed long; his skin was cool, but not chilled.

"Aye. Sometimes." He gave a small, breathless laugh, and let go of me. A thunder of small feet came down the hallway, and I hastily flung myself back into his arms as the door burst open and Jem rushed in, Fanny right behind him.

"Grand-da! There’s a wolf outside! It’ll eat the piggies!"

Fanny gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth, eyes round with horror. Not at thought of the piglets’ imminent demise, but at the realization that Jamie was naked. I was shielding as much of him from view as I could with my nightgown, but there wasn’t a great deal of nightgown and there was a great deal of Jamie.

"Go back to bed, sweetheart," I said, as calmly as possible. "If it’s a wolf, Mr. Fraser will deal with it."

"Moran taing, Sassenach," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Thanks a lot. "Jem, throw me my plaid, aye?"

Jem, to whom a naked grandfather was a routine sight, fetched the plaid from its hook by the door.

"Can I come and help kill the wolf?" he asked hopefully. "I could shoot it. I’m better than Da, he says so!"

"It’s no a wolf," Jamie said briefly, swathing his loins in faded tartan. "The two of ye go and tell Mandy it’s all right, before she brings the roof down about our ears." The howling had grown louder, and so had Mandy’s, in hysterical response. From the look on her face, Fanny was all set to join them.

http://www.dianagabaldon.com/books/outlander-series/book-nine-outlander-series/excerpt-1-for-murtagh-and-ian/

"Oh, ye’ve got your beads after all," Jenny said, surprised. "Ye didna have your rosary in Scotland, so I thought ye’d lost it. Meant to make ye a new one, but there wasna time, what with Ian…" She lifted one shoulder, the gesture encompassing the whole of the terrible months of Ian’s long dying.

He touched the beads, self-conscious. "Aye, well… I had, in a way of speaking. I… gave it to William. When he was a wee lad, and I had to leave him at Helwater. I gave him the beads for something to keep—to… remember me by."

"Mmphm." She looked at him with sympathy. "Aye. And I expect he gave them back to ye in Philadelphia, did he?"

"He did," Jamie said, a bit terse, and a wry amusement touched Jenny’s face.

"Tell ye one thing, a brathair—he’s no going to forget you."

"Aye, maybe not," he said, feeling an unexpected comfort in the thought. "Well, then…" He let the beads run through his fingers, taking hold of the crucifix. "I believe in one God…"

They said the Creed together, and the three Hail Marys and the Glory Be.

"Joyful or Glorious?" he asked, fingers on the first bead of the decades. He didn’t want to do the Sorrowful Mysteries, the ones about suffering and crucifixion, and he didn’t think she did, either. A magpie called from the maples, and he wondered briefly if it was one they’d already seen, or a third. Three for a wedding, four for a death.

"Joyful," she said at once. "The Annunciation." Then she paused, and nodded at him to take the first turn. He didn’t have to think.

"For Murtagh," he said quietly, and his fingers tightened on the bead. "And Mam and Da. Hail Mary, full o’ grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blest is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, Amen." Jenny finished the prayer and they said the rest of the decade in their usual way, back and forth, the rhythm of their voices soft as the rustle of grass.

They reached the second decade, the Visitation, and he nodded at Jenny—her turn.

"For Ian Òg," she said softly, eyes on her beads. "And Ian Mòr. Hail Mary…."

http://www.dianagabaldon.com/books/outlander-series/book-nine-outlander-series/a-stubborn-mind/

"But you told Frances—you promised her that no one would take advantage of her. And I could have sworn she believed you!"

"Aye," Jamie said quietly. He picked up the piece of rock maple and his knife, and began mechanically cutting slivers. "Aye, I thought so, too—hoped so, at least."

I sat still, watching him.

"I suppose it was foolish," I said at last. "To think that reassurances and promises would be enough. I imagine we don’t know the half of what she saw, being raised in a brothel like a—a prize calf."

"And one knowing it was bound for slaughter?" he put in quietly. "Aye."

We lapsed into a strained silence, both thinking of Fanny. After a few moments, Jamie’s hands resumed their work, slowly, and a few moments later, he glanced at me.

"How many times did ye tell me Jack Randall was dead, Sassenach? How many times did I tell myself that?" The wood shavings fell in small, fragrant curls around his feet. "Some ghosts dinna leave ye easily—and ye ken fine that it’s her sister who’s haunting wee Frances."

"I suppose you’re right," I said unhappily. It wasn’t quite a shiver that I felt at mention of Jane—but a cold sadness that seemed to sink through my skin. "But surely there’s something we can do to help?"

"I expect there is." He set the cleaned stick of wood aside, and bent to sweep the shavings onto a sheet of paper. "Were we in reach of a priest, I should have a Mass said for the repose of her sister’s soul, to start with. If I can find one in Wilmington, we’ll do that. But otherwise… I’ll speak to Roger Mac about it." His mouth twisted wryly.

"I daresay Presbyterians dinna believe in exorcism, or prayers for the dead, either. But he’s a canny man, and he kens the heart; he may call it something else, but he’ll know what I mean—and he can speak wi’ Frances, and pray for her, I’m sure."

He shook the wood shavings into the fire, where they caught at once, curling into brightness and sending up a clean, sweet smoke. I came to stand behind him, watching them burn, and put my hands on his shoulders, warm and solid under my fingers. He leaned his head back against me and sighed, closing his eyes as he relaxed in the warmth. I bent my head and kissed the whorl of the cowlick on his crown.

"Mmphm," he said, and reached up a hand to take mine. "Ken, it works the other way, too."

"What does?"

"The stubbornness of a mind that willna let go." He squeezed my hand and looked up at me. "While we were parted, how many times did ye tell yourself I was dead, Sassenach?" he asked softly. "How often did ye try to forget me?"

I stood motionless, hand curled round his, until I thought I could speak.

"Every day," I whispered. "And never."

http://www.dianagabaldon.com/books/outlander-series/book-nine-outlander-series/excerpt-7-you-came-back/

"Ye healed me of something a good deal worse, Sassenach," he said, and touched my hand gently. He’d touched me with his right hand, the maimed one.

"I didn’t," I protested. "You did that yourself—you had to. All I did was…er…"

"Drug me wi’ opium and fornicate me back to life? Aye, that."

"It wasn’t fornication," I said, rather primly—but I turned my hand and laced my fingers tightly with his. "We were married."

"Aye, it was," he said, and his mouth tightened, as well as his grip. "It wasna you I was swiving, and ye ken that as well as I do."

I swallowed, watching the fire-shadows move on the rough-hewn wall and recalling all too vividly the coldness of hard stone against my back and the fire-shot, fractured images that had splintered in my mind as his hands had closed around my neck. I cleared my throat by reflex.

"It was me at the end," I said softly, and touched his face with my free hand. "You came back— to me.

http://www.dianagabaldon.com/books/outlander-series/book-nine-outlander-series/excerpt-9-brindle/

Can we wash my dolly’s face, too?" Mandy asked. "Dose bad boys got her dirty!"

I listened with half an ear to her mingled endearments to Esmeralda and denunciations of her brother and Germain, but most of my attention was focused on what was going on in the yard.

I could hear Jem’s voice, high and argumentative, and Roger’s, firm and much lower, but couldn’t pick out any words. Roger was talking, though, and I didn’t hear any choking or coughing…that was good.

The memory of him bellowing at the children was even better. He’d done that before— it was a necessity, children and the great outdoors being what they respectively were— but I’d never heard him do it without his voice breaking, with a followup of coughing and throat-clearing. MacEwan had said that it was a small improvement, and that it took time for healing. Had I actually done anything to help?

I looked critically at the palm of my hand, but it looked much as usual; a half-healed paper cut on the middle finger, stains from picking blackberries, and a burst blister on my thumb, from snatching a spider full of bacon that had caught fire out of the hearth without a rag. Not a sign of any blue light, certainly.

"Wassat, Grannie?" Amanda leaned off the counter to look at my upturned hand.

"What’s what? That black splotch? I think it’s ink; I was writing up my case-book last night. Kirsty Wilson’s rash." I’d thought at first it was just poison sumac, but it was hanging on in a rather worrying fashion… no fever, though… perhaps it was hives? Or some kind of atypical psoriasis?

"No, dat." Mandy poked a wet, chubby finger at the heel of my hand. "Issa letter!" She twisted her head half-round to look closer, black curls tickling across my arm. "Letter J!" she announced triumphantly. "J is for Jemmy! I hate Jemmy," she added, frowning.

"Er…" I said, completely nonplused. It was the letter "J." The scar had faded to a thin white line, but was still clear if the light struck right. The scar Jamie had given me, when I’d left him at Culloden. Left him to die, hurling myself through the stones to save his unborn, unknown child. Our child. And if I hadn’t?

I looked at Mandy, blue-eyed and black-curled and perfect as a tiny spring apple. Heard Jem outside, now giggling with his father. It had cost us twenty years apart— years of hearbreak, pain and danger. And it had been worth it.

"It’s for Grand-da’s name. J for Jamie," I said to Amanda, who nodded as though that made perfect sense, clutching a soggy Esmeralda to her chest. I touched her glowing cheek, and imagined for an instant that my fingers might be tinged with blue.

"Mandy," I said, on impulse. "What color is my hair?"

"When your hair is white, you’ll come into your full power." An old Tuscarora wisewoman named Nayawenne had said that to me, years ago—along with a lot of other disturbing things.

Mandy stared intently at me for a moment, then said definitely, "Brindle."

"What? Where did you learn that word, for heaven’s sake?"

"Grand-da. He sayss it’s what color Charlie is." Charlie was a rather stylishly multi-colored pig belonging to the Beardsley household.

"Hmm," I said. "Not yet, then. All right, sweetheart, let’s go and hang Esmeralda out to dry."

Ian ne le déçut pas. Il portait son fusil à canon long, avec une cartouchière et son sac de poudre, un grand couteau à l'allure sinistre directement glissé sous sa ceinture, ainsi qu'un arc et un carquois en écorce de bouleau glissé en bandoulière. Il était torse nu, avec des jambières et un pagne en daim. Avant de venir, il avait pris le temps de réciter ses prières et d'appliquer ses peintures de guerre : au-dessus de ses sourcils, son front était rouge ; un épais trait blanc courait le long de son nez et deux autres barraient ses joues des pommettes à la mâchoire. Le blanc, avait-il expliqué à Jamie, était la couleur de la vengeance ou de la commémoration des morts.

- Vois ce que Fergus aura prévu. Il est malin et plein d'audace. Toutefois, il est aujourd'hui père de cinq enfants et ne sera plus aussi tête brulée qu'autrefois. Quand vous arriverez à Savannah...

Il s'interrompit de nouveau en plissant le front.

- Il y a un soldat appelé Francis Marion, reprit-il brusquement. C'est un officier de l'armée continentale. Claire me dit qu'il est célèbre à votre époque. Vous le surnommez le Renard des marais, mais il n'a pas encore mérité ce surnom. Tu le connais ?

- Oui. Enfin... de nom. Il se trouve à Savannah ?

Jamie acquiesça, l'air plus confiant.

- J'ai reçu une lettre la semaine dernière. D'après une connaissance à qui j'avais demandé des informations sur la garnison britannique de Savannah en sachant vous y iriez, ce Marion lui aurait dit que Benjamin Lincoln envisageait de quitter Charles Town pour tenter de prendre Savannah. Et... euh...

Jamie regardait fixement une flaque de jus de choucroute à ses pieds. Il abordait la partie délicate...

- Dans son livre, Randall dit que les Américains attaqueront Savannah en octobre de cette année. Ils échoueront mais Marion y sera.

- Dix-sept cent quatre-vingt-un, dit-il en croisant les doigts. La bataille de Yorktown aurait lieu en octobre 1781 (1). Dans deux ans. Seulement dans deux ans.

1) La bataille de Yorktown sonne la défaite définitive de la Grande-Bretagne au profit des insurgés américains et de leurs alliés français.

Percy Wainwright (son véritable prénom était Perseverance, mais John était prêt à parier qu'il était l'unique être au monde à le savoir) avait l'air en forme. Très élégant dans un costume en soie taupe et un gilet à rayures blanches et beau pâle, il avait conservé ses beaux traits délicats et ses yeux doux. Cependant, ses activités de ces dernières années, quelles qu'elles soient, lui avaient donné une certaine fermeté dans l'expression et de nouveaux sillons encadraient sa bouche.

En serrant la main de Prévost, William l'observa furtivement, à la recherche de sa cicatrice. Papa lui avait dit que le major-général était surnommé la Vieille Tête cabossée depuis qu'il avait eu le crâne fracturé par une balle lors de la bataille de Québec. En effet, il distinguait juste au-dessus de sa trempe une dépression dans l'os qui formait une ombre creuse sous le bord de sa perruque.