His heart was racing and his wame was hollow, but there was naught to do about it. He clenched his fist briefly to stop it, then bent his head, picked off three more of the wee buggers on his neck and ribs, then scratched his arse thoroughly, just in case, before pulling up his breeks. He reached to snap it off, and saw that his fingers were trembling. A tick was trundling over the curve of his breast, just above the cutlass scar. By reflex, he bent, arm stretched out for his shirt, but it was too late. “Oh, Jesus.” It wasn’t much more than a whisper, but the shock in it froze Jamie with realization. Ears now free, he heard the next thing William said. He yanked the sark off and flung it away, scratching and slapping himself. His skin was afire between the sweat and the crawling. “They’re alive wi’ ticks!” William said something, but Jamie didn’t catch it, his head enveloped in the heavy hunting shirt. “Dinna go through the bushes!” he shouted from inside the shirt. He snapped it away with a flick of a fingernail and jerked the collar of his sark up over his head. He ripped the flap of his breeks open and shoved them down over his legs, in time to catch the tick crawling toward his balls before it sank its fangs in him. The slap numbed his flesh for a moment, but the instant it passed, he felt the tickle again-and in several places at once, including his. Jamie felt the crawling and slapped a hand hard over his ribs.
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