“My son, he thought, and wasn’t sure what he felt at the thought. It would take time to get us

“My son, he thought, and wasn’t sure what he felt at the thought. It would take time to get used to. But he could be, came the next thought. Not just Brianna’s child, to be loved for her sake—but his own flesh and blood. That thought was even more foreign. He tried to push it from his mind, but it kept coming back. That coupling in the dark, that bittersweet mix of pain and joy—had he started this, in the midst of that? He hadn’t meant to—but he hoped like hell he had. The child was wearing some long thing made of white gauzy stuff; he lifted it, looking at the sagging diaper and the perfect oval of the tiny navel just above. Moved by a curiosity he didn’t think to question, he hooked a finger in the edge of the clout and pulled it down. “I told you he was all there.” Brianna was standing at his elbow. “Well, it’s there,” Roger said dubiously. “But isn’t it a bit…small?” She laughed. “It’ll grow,” she assured him. “It’s not like he needs it for much yet.” His own penis, gone flaccid between his thighs, gave a small twitch at that reminder. “Shall I take him?” She reached for the baby, but he shook his head and picked up the child again. “Not just yet.” It—he—smelled of milk and something sweetly putrid. Something else, his own indefinable smell, like nothing else Roger had ever encountered. “Eau de baby, Mama calls it.” She sat on the bed, a faint smile on her face. “She says it’s a natural protective device; one of the things babies use to keep their parents from killing them.” “Killing him? But he’s a sweet wee lad,” Roger protested. One eyebrow quirked up in derision. “You haven’t been living with the little fiend for the last month. This is the first night he hasn’t had colic in three weeks. I would have exposed him on a hillside if he wasn’t mine.” If he wasn’t mine. That certainty was a mother’s reward, he supposed. She’d always know—had always known. For a brief, surprising moment, he envied her. The baby stirred and made a small, faint yawp! noise against his neck. Before he could move, she was up and had the child back in her arms, patting the rounded little back. There was a soft belch, and he subsided into limpness once more. Brianna set him on his stomach in the cradle, carefully, as if he were wired to a stick of dynamite. He could see the faint outline of her body through the gauze, highlighted by the fire behind her. When she turned around, he was ready. “You could have gone back, once you knew. There would have been time.” He held her eyes, not letting her look away. “So it’s my turn to ask, then, isn’t it? What made you wait for me? Love—or obligation?” “Both,” she said, her eyes nearly black. “Neither. I—just couldn’t go without you.” He breathed deeply, feeling the last small doubt in the pit of his stomach melt away. “Then you do know.” “Yes.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall, and the loose gown fell too, leaving her as naked as he was. It was red, by God. More than red; she was gold and amber, ivory and cinnabar, and he wanted her with a longing that went beyond flesh. “You said that you loved me, by all you hold holy,” she whispered. “What is it that’s holy to you, Roger?” He stood and reached for her, gently, carefully. Held her against his heart, and remembered the stinking hold of the Gloriana and a thin, ragged woman who smelled of milk and ordure. Of fire and drums and blood, and an orphan baptized with the name of the father who had sacrificed himself for fear of the power of love. “You,” he said, against her hair. “Him. Us. There isn’t anything else, is there?” Drums of Autumn Diana Gabaldon Había una pequeña nota de orgullo que le llegó al corazón. Le cogió el puño y se lo abrió suavemente con el pulgar hasta poder meter su dedo índice. El puñito se cerró otra vez, con una fuerza asombrosa. Pudo oír un rítmico sonido y se dio cuenta de que ella se estaba cepillando el cabello. Le hubiera gustado mirarla, pero estaba demasiado fascinado con su hijo. «Mi hijo», pensó, y no supo bien qué sentía. Tendría que pasar un tiempo hasta acostumbrarse. "Pero puede serlo‖, fue el siguiente pensamiento. No sólo el hijo de Brianna, sino también el fruto de su propia carne. Ese pensamiento era incluso más remoto. Trató de apartarlo de su mente, pero volvía. ¿Aquella unión en la oscuridad, aquella mezcla de dolor y gozo, habría sido el comienzo de esto? No quería hacerlo, pero esperaba sobre todas las cosas que fuera así. Con curiosidad, le abrió el pañal para mirar. -Te dije que lo tiene todo. Brianna estaba a su lado. -Bueno, sí -dijo-. Pero ¿no es… un poco pequeño? -Crecerá -aseguró riendo-. Por ahora, parece no necesitar más. Su propio pene caía fláccido entre sus muslos. -¿Quieres dármelo? -Sacudió la cabeza. -Todavía no. Huele a leche y a algo dulcemente podrido, ¿no? -Mamá lo llama colonia de bebé. Díce que es un olor protector que los recién nacidos usan para impedir que sus padres los maten. -¿Matarlo? Pero sí es una criatura preciosa -protestó Roger. -No has estado viviendo con él este último mes. Es la primera noche en tres semanas que no tiene cólicos. Sí no fuera mío, lo habría dejado en la ladera de la montaña. «Si no fuera mío.» Esa seguridad, suponía, era el premio de las madres. Siempre lo había sabido, siempre lo sabría. Durante un instante la envidió. El niño se agitó y emitió un débil sonido. Antes de que pudiera moverse, Brianna se lo cogió y palmeó la espalda de la criatura. Un suave eructo y se quedó dormido de nuevo; lo colocó en la cuna con mucho cuidado. Tambores de Otoño Diana Gabaldon -- source link

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