Probably the last homework before the show starts again.

[broughps]

Starting tomorrow I want you to start a list of you five favorite scenes from each book (or at least scenes that you like). Each day you'll add one scene to your list. So tomorrow (Monday) you'll list one scene from Outlander, Tues you'll copy Monday's scene and add a second one, Wed copy Monday and Tues and add another one for Weds, etc. So by the end of each week you'll have you full list. If you want to put up the scene you like for that particular day go for it. If you see someone else has already put up the same scene just put it on you list and refer to whoever posted the scene. There's no need to copy each scene again, just put up the description/title on your list. 

Also give a reason why you like that particular scene.

[ljfav]

From just the books?? or from the show too? Some of my favorite show scenes aren't in the books. And sometimes I love a show scene that I hate in the books.

[broughps]

We'll go book scenes first and then do show scenes.

[broughps]

So to get us started. These, when they are all on there, are in no particular order as far as how much I like them.

1. I guess I have to go with the wedding night, not because of the sex though. I love Jamie and Claire getting to know each other and all the humor.

How in the name of God did this happen? I asked myself some time later.
Six weeks ago, I had been innocently collecting wildflowers on a Scottish
hill to take home to my husband. I was now shut in the room of a rural inn,
awaiting a completely different husband, whom I scarcely knew, with firm
orders to consummate a forced marriage, at risk of my life and liberty.

I sat on the bed, stiff and terrified in my borrowed finery. There was a
faint noise as the heavy door of the room swung open, then shut.

Jamie leaned against the door, watching me. The air of embarrassment
between us deepened. It was Jamie who broke the silence finally.

“You dinna need to be afraid of me,” he said softly. “I wasna going to
jump on ye.” I laughed in spite of myself.

“Well, I didn’t think you would.” In fact, I didn’t think he would touch
me, until and unless I invited him to; the fact remained that I was going to
have to invite him to do considerably more than that, and soon.
I eyed him dubiously. I supposed it would be harder if I found him
unattractive; in fact, the opposite was true. Still, I had not slept with any
man but Frank in over eight years. Not only that, this young man, by his
own acknowledgment, was completely inexperienced. I had never
deflowered anyone before. Even dismissing my objections to the whole
arrangement, and considering matters from a completely practical
standpoint, how on earth were we to start? At this rate, we would still be
standing here, staring at each other, three or four days hence.
I cleared my throat and patted the bed beside me.

“Ah, would you like to sit down?”

“Aye.” He came across the room, moving like a big cat. Instead of
sitting beside me, though, he pulled up a stool and sat down facing me.
Somewhat tentatively, he reached out and took my hands between his own.
They were large, blunt-fingered, and very warm, the backs lightly furred
with reddish hairs. I felt a slight shock at the touch, and thought of an Old
Testament passage—“For Jacob’s skin was smooth, while his brother Esau
was a hairy man.” Frank’s hands were long and slender, nearly hairless
and aristocratic-looking. I had always loved watching them as he lectured.

“Tell me about your husband,” said Jamie, as though he had been
reading my mind. I almost jerked my hands away in shock.

“What?”

“Look ye, lass. We have three or four days together here. While I dinna
pretend to know all there is to know, I’ve lived a good bit of my life on a
farm, and unless people are verra different from other animals, it isna
going to take that long to do what we have to. We have a bit of time to
talk, and get over being scairt of each other.” This blunt appraisal of our
situation relaxed me a little bit.

“Are you scared of me?” He didn’t look it. Perhaps he was nervous,
though. Even though he was no timid sixteen-year-old lad, this was the
first time. He looked into my eyes and smiled.

“Aye. More scairt than you, I expect. That’s why I’m holdin’ your
hands; to keep my own from shaking.” I didn’t believe this, but squeezed
his hands tightly in appreciation.

“It’s a good idea. It feels a little easier to talk while we’re touching.
Why did you ask about my husband, though?” I wondered a bit wildly if
he wanted me to tell him about my sex life with Frank, so as to know what
I expected of him.

“Well, I knew ye must be thinking of him. Ye could hardly not, under
the circumstances. I do not want ye ever to feel as though ye canna talk of
him to me. Even though I’m your husband now—that feels verra strange to
say—it isna right that ye should forget him, or even try to. If ye loved him,
he must ha’ been a good man.”

“Yes, he…was.” My voice trembled, and Jamie stroked the backs of my
hands with his thumbs.

“Then I shall do my best to honor his spirit by serving his wife.” He
raised my hands and kissed each one formally.

I cleared my throat. “That was a very gallant speech, Jamie.”

<snip>

“Oh, I forgot! I still have your ring.” I drew it out and gave it back to
him. It was a heavy gold circlet, set with a cabochon ruby. Instead of
replacing it on his finger, he opened his sporran to put it inside.

“It was my father’s wedding ring,” he explained. “I dinna wear it
customarily, but I…well, I wished to do ye honor today by looking as well
as I might.” He flushed slightly at this admission, and busied himself with
refastening the sporran.

“You did do me great honor,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. Adding
a ruby ring to the blazing splendor of his costume was coals to Newcastle,
but I was touched by the anxious thought behind it.

“I’ll get one that fits ye, so soon as I may,” he promised.

“It’s not important,” I said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. I meant, after
all, to be gone soon.

“Er, I have one main question,” I said, calling the meeting to order. “If
you don’t mind telling me. Why did you agree to marry me?”

“Ah.” He let go of my hands and sat back a bit. He paused for a moment
before answering, smoothing the woolen cloth over his thighs. I could see
the long line of muscle taut under the drape of the heavy fabric.

“Well, I would ha’ missed talking to ye, for one thing,” he said, smiling.

“No, I mean it,” I insisted. “Why?”

He sobered then. “Before I tell ye, Claire, there’s the one thing I’d ask
of you,” he said slowly.

“What’s that?”

“Honesty.”

I must have flinched uncomfortably, for he leaned forward earnestly,
hands on his knees.

“I know there are things ye’d not wish to tell me, Claire. Perhaps things
that ye can’t tell me.”

You don’t know just how right you are, I thought.

“I’ll not press you, ever, or insist on knowin’ things that are your own
concern,” he said seriously. He looked down at his hands, now pressed
together, palm to palm.

“There are things that I canna tell you, at least not yet. And I’ll ask
nothing of ye that ye canna give me. But what I would ask of ye—when
you do tell me something, let it be the truth. And I’ll promise ye the same.
We have nothing now between us, save—respect, perhaps. And I think that
respect has maybe room for secrets, but not for lies. Do ye agree?” He
spread his hands out, palms up, inviting me. I could see the dark line of the
blood vow across his wrist. I placed my own hands lightly on his palms.

“Yes, I agree. I’ll give you honesty.” His fingers closed lightly about
mine.

“And I shall give ye the same. Now,” he drew a deep breath, “you asked
why I wed ye.”

<snip>

(really like Jamie telling Claire about his family, but not going to put it all up)

Lying together afterward, it seemed natural for him to cradle my head on
his chest. We fitted well together, and most of our original constraint was
gone, lost in shared excitement and the novelty of exploring each other.

“Was it like you thought it would be?” I asked curiously. He chuckled,
making a deep rumble under my ear.

“Almost; I had thought—nay, never mind.”

“No, tell me. What did you think?”

“I’m no goin’ to tell ye; ye’ll laugh at me.”

“I promise not to laugh. Tell me.” He caressed my hair, smoothing the
curls back from my ear.

“Oh, all right. I didna realize that ye did it face to face. I thought ye
must do it the back way, like; like horses, ye know.”

It was a struggle to keep my promise, but I didn’t laugh.

“I know that sounds silly,” he said defensively. “It’s just…well, ye
know how you get ideas in your head when you’re young, and then
somehow they just stick there?”

“You’ve never seen people make love?” I was surprised at this, having
seen the crofters’ cottages, where the whole family shared a single room.
Granted that Jamie’s family were not crofters, still it must be the rare
Scottish child who had never waked to find his elders coupling nearby.

“Of course I have, but generally under the bedclothes, ye know. I
couldna tell anything except the man was on top. That much I knew.”

“Mm. I noticed.”

“Did I squash you?” he asked, a little anxiously.

“Not much. Really, though, is that what you thought?” I didn’t laugh,
but couldn’t help grinning broadly. He turned slightly pink around the
ears.

“Aye. I saw a man take a woman plain, once, out in the open. But that…
well, it was a rape, was what it was, and he took her from the back. It
made some impression on me, and as I say, it’s just the idea stuck.”

He continued to hold me, using his horse-gentling techniques again.
These gradually changed, though, to a more determined exploration.

“I want to ask ye something,” he said, running a hand down the length
of my back.

“What’s that?”

“Did ye like it?” he said, a little shyly.

“Yes, I did,” I said, quite honestly.

“Oh. I thought ye did, though Murtagh told me that women generally do
not care for it, so I should finish as soon as I could.”

“What would Murtagh know about it?” I said indignantly. “The slower
the better, as far as most women are concerned.” Jamie chuckled again.

“Well, you’d know better than Murtagh. I had considerable good advice
offered me on the subject last night, from Murtagh and Rupert and Ned. A
good bit of it sounded verra unlikely to me, though, so I thought I’d best
use my own judgment.”

“It hasn’t led you wrong yet,” I said, curling one of his chest hairs
around my finger. “What other sage bits of advice did they give you?” His
skin was a ruddy gold in the candlelight; to my amusement, it grew still
redder in embarrassment.

“I could no repeat most of it. As I said, I think it’s likely wrong,
anyway. I’ve seen a good many kinds of animals mate with each other, and
most seem to manage it without any advice at all. I would suppose people
could do the same.”

I was privately entertained by the notion of someone picking up pointers
on sexual technique from barnyard and forest, rather than locker rooms
and dirty magazines.

“What kinds of animals have you seen mating?”

“Oh, all kinds. Our farm was near the forest, ye see, and I spent a good
deal of time there, hunting, or seeking cows as had got out and suchlike.
I’ve seen horses and cows, of course, pigs, chickens, doves, dogs, cats, red
deer, squirrels, rabbits, wild boar, oh, and once even a pair of snakes.”

“Snakes!?”

“Aye. Did ye know that snakes have two cocks?—male snakes, I mean.”

“No, I didn’t. Are you sure about that?”

“Aye, and both of ’em forked, like this.” He spread his second and third
fingers apart in illustration.

“That sounds terribly uncomfortable for the female snake,” I said,
giggling.

“Well, she appeared to be enjoying herself,” said Jamie. “Near as I
could tell; snakes havena got much expression on their faces.”

I buried my face in his chest, snorting with mirth. His pleasant musky
smell mingled with the harsh scent of linen.

<snip>

I woke in the hours before dawn, shivering and rigid with terror. I could
not recall the dream that woke me, but the abrupt plunge into reality was
equally frightening. It had been possible to forget my situation for a time
the night before, lost in the pleasures of newfound intimacy. Now I was
alone, next to a sleeping stranger with whom my life was inextricably
linked, adrift in a place filled with unseen threat.

I must have made some sound of distress, for there was a sudden
upheaval of bedclothes as the stranger in my bed vaulted to the floor with
the heartstopping suddenness of a pheasant rising underfoot. He came to
rest in a crouch near the door of the chamber, barely visible in the predawn
light.

Pausing to listen carefully at the door, he made a rapid inspection of the
room, gliding soundlessly from door to window to bed. The angle of his
arm told me that he held a weapon of some sort, though I could not see
what it was in the darkness. Sitting down next to me, satisfied that all was
secure, he slid the knife or whatever it was back into its hiding place above
the headboard.

“Are you all right?” he whispered. His fingers brushed my wet cheek.

“Yes. I’m sorry to wake you. I had a nightmare. What on earth—” I
started to ask what it was that had made him spring so abruptly to the alert.

A large warm hand ran down my bare arm, interrupting my question.

“No wonder; you’re frozen.” The hand urged me under the pile of quilts
and into the warm space recently vacated. “My fault,” he murmured. “I’ve
taken all the quilts. I’m afraid I’m no accustomed yet to share a bed.” He
wrapped the quilts comfortably around us and lay back beside me. A
moment later, he reached again to touch my face.

“Is it me?” he asked quietly. “Can ye not bear me?”

I gave a short hiccupping laugh, not quite a sob. “No, it isn’t you.” I
reached out in the dark, groping for a hand to press reassuringly. My
fingers met a tangle of quilts and warm flesh, but at last I found the hand I
had been seeking. We lay side by side, looking up at the low beamed
ceiling.

“What if I said I couldn’t bear you?” I asked suddenly. “What on earth
could you do?” The bed creaked as he shrugged.

“Tell Dougal you wanted an annulment on grounds of
nonconsummation, I suppose.”

This time I laughed outright. “Nonconsummation! With all those
witnesses?”

The room was growing light enough to see the smile on the face turned
toward me. “Aye well, witnesses or no, it’s only you and me that can say
for sure, isn’t it? And I’d rather be embarrassed than wed to someone that
hated me.”

I turned toward him. “I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, either. And there’s many good marriages have started
wi’ less than that.” Gently, he turned me away from him and fitted himself
to my back so we lay nested together. His hand cupped my breast, not in
invitation or demand, but because it seemed to belong there.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered into my hair. “There’s the two of us
now.” I felt warm, soothed, and safe for the first time in many days. It was
only as I drifted into sleep under the first rays of daylight that I
remembered the knife above my head, and wondered again, what threat
would make a man sleep armed and watchful in his bridal chamber?

[broughps]

1. I guess I have to go with the wedding night, not because of the sex though. I love Jamie and Claire getting to know each other and all the humor.

2. The scene/section after Jamie's spanked Claire where they're walking down the road and Jamie is telling Claire about all the times his father "beat" him. We see Jamie's commiserating with Claire by telling about his own encounters with the belt.

Several hours of torture by saddle had not improved my temper. Let him
walk with me. I was damned if I’d speak to him, the sadistic, violent brute.
He didn’t look particularly brutish in the light of the half-moon rising,
but I hardened my heart and limped along, carefully not looking at him.
My abused muscles at first protested the unaccustomed exercise, but
after a half hour or so I began to move much more easily.

“You’ll feel much better by tomorrow,” Jamie observed casually.
“Though you won’t sit easy ’til the next day.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” I flared at him. “Do you beat
people all that frequently?”

“Well, no,” he said, undisturbed by my attitude. “This is the first time
I’ve tried it. I’ve considerable experience on the other end, though.”

“You?” I gaped at him. The thought of anyone taking a strap to this
towering mass of muscle and sinew was completely untenable.

He laughed at my expression. “When I was a bit smaller, Sassenach.
I’ve had my backside leathered more times than I could count, between the
ages of eight and thirteen. That’s when I got taller than my father, and it
got unhandy for him to bend me over a fence rail.”

“Your father beat you?”

“Aye, mostly. The schoolmaster, too, of course, and Dougal or one of
the other uncles now and then, depending on where I was and what I’d
been doing.”

I was growing interested, in spite of my determination to ignore him.
“What did you do?”

He laughed again, a quiet but infectious sound in the still night air.

“Well, I canna remember everything. I will say I generally deserved it. I
don’t think my Da ever beat me unfairly, at least.” He paced without
speaking for a minute, thinking.

“Mm. Let’s see, there was once for stoning the chickens, and once for
riding the cows and getting them too excited for milking, and then for
eating all of the jam out of the cakes and leaving the cakes behind. Ah, and
letting the horses out of the barn by leaving the gate unlatched, and setting
the thatch of the dovecote on fire—that was an accident, I didna do it on
purpose—and losing my schoolbooks—I did do that on purpose—and…”

He broke off, shrugging, as I laughed despite myself.

“The usual sorts of things. Most often, though, it was for opening my
mouth when I should ha’ kept it closed.”

He snorted at some memory. “Once my sister Jenny broke a pitcher; I
made her angry, teasing, and she lost her temper and threw it at me. When
my Da came in and demanded to know who’d done it, she was too scared
to speak up, and she just looked at me, with her eyes all wide and
frightened—she’s got blue eyes, like mine, but prettier, wi’ black lashes all
around.” Jamie shrugged again. “Anyway, I told my father I’d done it.”

“That was very noble of you,” I said, sarcastically. “Your sister must
have been grateful.”

“Aye, well, she might have been. Only my father’d been on, the other
side of the open door all along, and he’d seen what really happened. So she
got whipped for losing her temper and breaking the pitcher, and I got
whipped twice; once for teasing her and again for lying.”

“That’s not fair!” I said indignantly.

“My father wasna always gentle, but he was usually fair,” Jamie said
imperturbably. “He said the truth is the truth, and people should take
responsibility for their own actions, which is right.” He shot me a sidelong
glance.

“But he said it was good-hearted of me to take the blame, so while he’d
have to punish me, I could take my choice between being thrashed or
going to bed without my supper.” He laughed ruefully, shaking his head.

“Father knew me pretty well. I took the thrashing with no questions.”

“You’re nothing but a walking appetite, Jamie,” I said.

“Aye,” he agreed without rancor, “always have been. You too, glutton,”
he said to his mount. “Wait a bit, ’til we stop for a rest.” He twitched the
rein, pulling his horse’s questing nose from the tempting tufts of grass
along the roadside.

“Aye, Father was fair,” he went on, “and considerate about it, though I
certainly didna appreciate that at the time. He wouldn’t make me wait for a
beating; if I did something wrong, I got punished at once—or as soon as he
found out about it. He always made sure I knew what I was about to get
walloped for, and if I wanted to argue my side of it, I could.”

Oh, so that’s what you’re up to, I thought. You disarming schemer. I
doubted he could charm me out of my set intention of disemboweling him
at the first opportunity, but he was welcome to try.

“Did you ever win an argument?” I asked.

“No. It was generally a straightforward-enough case, with the accused
convicted out of his own mouth. But sometimes I got the sentence reduced
a bit.” He rubbed his nose.

“Once I told him I thought beating your son was a most uncivilized
method of getting your own way. He said I’d about as much sense as the
post I was standing next to, if as much. He said respect for your elders was
one of the cornerstones of civilized behavior, and until I learned that, I’d
better get used to looking at my toes while one of my barbaric elders
thrashed my arse off.”

This time I laughed along with him. It was peaceful on the road, with
that sort of absolute quiet that comes when you are miles from any other
person. The sort of quiet so hard to come by in my own more crowded
time, when machines spread the influence of man, so that a single person
could make as much noise as a crowd. The only sounds here were the
stirrings of plants, the occasional skreek of a nightbird, and the soft
thudding steps of the horses.

I was walking a little easier now, as my cramped muscles began to
stretch freely with the exercise. My prickly feelings began to relax a little,
too, listening to Jamie’s stories, all humorous and self-deprecating.

“I didna like being beaten at all, of course, but if I had a choice, I’d
rather my Da than the schoolmaster. We’d mostly get it across the palm of
the hand with a tawse, in the schoolhouse, instead of on the backside.
Father said if he whipped me on the hand, I’d not be able to do any work,
whereas if he whipped my arse, I’d at least not be tempted to sit down and
be idle.”

“We had a different schoolmaster each year, usually; they didna last
long—usually turned farmer or moved on to richer parts. Schoolmasters
are paid so little, they’re always skinny and starving. Had a fat one once,
and I could never believe he was a real schoolmaster; he looked like a
parson in disguise.” I thought of plump little Father Bain and smiled in
agreement.

“One I remember especially, because he’d make ye stand out in the
front of the schoolroom with your hand out, and then he’d lecture ye at
great length about your faults before he started, and again in between
strokes. I’d stand there wi’ my hand out, smarting, just praying he’d stop
yammering and get on with the job before I lost all my courage and started
crying.”

“I imagine that’s what he wanted you to do,” I said, feeling some
sympathy in spite of myself.

“Oh, aye,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It took some time for me to
realize that, though. And once I did, as usual I couldna keep my mouth
shut.” He sighed.

“What happened?” I had all but forgotten to be furious by this time.

“Well, he had me up one day—I got it a lot because I couldna write
properly with my right hand, kept doing it with my left. He’d smacked me
three times—takin’ nearly five minutes to do it, the bastard—and he was
goin’ on at me for being a stupid, idle, stubborn young lout before givin’
me the next. My hand burned something fierce, because it was the second
time that day, and I was scared because I knew I’d get an awful thrashing
when I got home—that was the rule; if I got a beating at school, I’d get
another directly I came home, for my father thought schooling important—
anyway, I lost my temper.” His left hand curled involuntarily around the
rein, as though protecting the sensitive palm.

He paused and glanced at me. “I seldom lose my temper, Sassenach, and
generally regret it when I do.” And that, I thought, was likely to be as close
to an apology as I’d get.

“Did you regret it that time?”

“Well, I doubled up my fists and glared up at him—he was a tall,
scrawny fellow, maybe twenty, I suppose, though he looked quite old to
me—and I said ‘I’m not afraid o’ you, and ye can’t make me cry, no
matter how hard you hit me!’ ” He drew a deep breath and blew it out
slowly. “I suppose it was a bit of a mistake in judgment to tell him that
while he was still holding the strap.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “He tried to prove you were wrong?”

“Oh, aye, he tried.” Jamie nodded, head dark against the cloud-lit sky.
His voice held a certain grim satisfaction on the word “tried.”

“He didn’t succeed, then?”

The shaggy head shook back and forth. “No. At least he couldna make
me cry. He surely made me regret not keeping quiet, though.”

He paused for a moment, turning his own face toward me. The cloud
cover had parted for a moment and the light touched the edges of jaw and
cheek, making him look gilded, like one of Donatello’s archangels.

“When Dougal was describing my character to ye, before we wed, did
he by chance mention that I’m sometimes a bit stubborn?” The slanted
eyes glinted, much more Lucifer than Michael.

I laughed. “That’s putting it mildly. As I recall, what he said is that all
the Frasers are stubborn as rocks, and you’re the worst of the lot.
Actually,” I said, a little dryly, “I’d noticed something of the kind myself.”

He smiled as he reined the horse around a deep puddle in the road,
leading mine by the checkrein after him.

“Mmph, well, I’ll no just say Dougal’s wrong,” he said, once the hazard
had been negotiated. “But if I’m stubborn, I come by it honest. My father
was just the same, and we’d get in wrangles from time to time that we
couldna get out of without the application of force, usually wi’ me bent
over the fence rail.”

<snip>

He kept the hand on my arm to support me as we made our way back
through the trees to the road. It was the first time I had willingly allowed
him to touch me since he had rescued me from Fort William. Still charmed
by the sight of the wolves, we did not speak much, but began to feel
comfortable with each other again.

As we walked, considering the stories he had told me, I couldn’t help
but admire the job he had done. Without one word of direct explanation or
apology, he had given me the message he intended. I gave you justice, it
said, as I was taught it. And I gave you mercy, too, so far as I could. While
I could not spare you pain and humiliation, I make you a gift of my own
pains and humiliations, that yours might be easier to bear.

“Did you mind a lot?” I said abruptly. “Being beaten, I mean. Did you
get over it easily?”

He squeezed my hand lightly before letting it go.

“Mostly I forgot it as soon as it was over. Except for the last time; that
took awhile.”

“Why?”

“Ah, well. I was sixteen, for one thing, and a man grown…I thought.
For another, it hurt like hell.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to,” I said, sensing
his hesitation. “Is it a painful story?”

“Not nearly as painful as the beating,” he said, laughing. “No, I don’t
mind tellin’ ye. It’s a long story, is all.”

“It’s a long way to Bargrennan yet.”

“So it is. Well, then. You recall I told ye I spent a year at Castle Leoch
when I was sixteen? It was an agreement between Colum and my father—
so I’d be familiar wi’ my mother’s clan. I fostered wi’ Dougal for two
years, and then went to the Castle for a year, to learn manners, and Latin
and such.”

“Oh. I wondered how you’d come to be there.”

“Aye, that was the way of it. I was big for my age, or tall at least; a good
swordsman even then, and a better horseman than most.”

“Modest, too,” I said.

“Not very. Cocky as hell, and even faster with my tongue than I am
now.”

“The mind boggles,” I said, amused.

“Well it might, Sassenach. I found I could make people laugh wi’ my
remarks, and I made them more frequent, without carin’ much what I said,
or to whom. I was cruel sometimes, to the other lads, not meanin’ it, just
not able to resist if I thought of something clever to say.”

He looked up at the sky, to gauge the time. Blacker still, now that the
moon had gone down. I recognized Orion floating near the horizon, and
was strangely comforted by the familiar sight.

“So, one day I went too far. I was with a couple of the other lads, going
down a corridor when I saw Mistress FitzGibbons at the other end. She
was carryin’ a big basket, near as big as she was, and bumping to and fro
as she walked. You know what she looks like now; she wasna much
smaller then.” He rubbed his nose, embarrassed.

“Well, I made a number of ungallant remarks concerning her
appearance. Funny, but most ungallant. They amused my companions
considerably. I didna realize she could hear me as well.”

I recalled the massive dame of Castle Leoch. While I had never seen her
other than good-humored, she did not appear to be the sort of person to be
insulted with impunity.

“What did she do?”

“Nothing—then. I didna know she’d heard, until she got up at the Hall
gathering next day and told Colum all about it.”

“Oh, dear.” I knew how highly Colum regarded Mrs. Fitz, and didn’t
think he would take any irreverence directed at her lightly. “What
happened?”

“The same thing that happened to Laoghaire—or almost.” He chuckled.
“I got verra bold though, and I stood up and said I chose to take my
beating wi’ fists. I was tryin’ to be verra calm and grown-up about it all,
though my heart was going like a blacksmith’s hammer, and I felt a bit
sick when I looked at Angus’s hands; they looked like stones, and big ones
at that. There were a few laughs from the folk gathered in the Hall; I wasna
so tall then as I am now, and I weighed less than half as much. Wee Angus
could ha’ torn my head off with one blow.

“Anyway, Colum and Dougal both frowned at me, though I thought
they were really a bit pleased I’d had the nerve to ask it. Then Colum said
no, if I was goin’ to behave like a child, I’d to be punished like one. He
gave a nod, and before I could move, Angus bent me across his knee,
turned up the edge of my kilt and blistered me with his strap, in front of
the entire Hall.”

“Oh, Jamie!”

“Mmmphm. You’ll have noticed Angus is verra professional about his
work? He gave me fifteen strokes, and to this day I could tell ye exactly
where each one landed.” He shuddered reminiscently. “I had the marks for
a week.”

He reached out and broke a clump of pine needles from the nearest tree,
spreading them like a fan between thumb and fingers. The scent of
turpentine was suddenly sharper.

“Well, I wasna allowed just to go quietly away and tend to my wounds,
either. When Angus finished wi’ me, Dougal took me by the scruff of the
neck and marched me to the far end of the Hall. Then I was made to come
all the way back on my knees, across the stones. I had to kneel before
Colum’s seat and beg Mrs. Fitz’s pardon, then Colum’s, then apologize to
everyone in the Hall for my rudeness, and finally, I’d to thank Angus for
the strapping. I nearly choked over that, but he was verra gracious about it;
he reached down and gave me a hand to get up. Then I was plunked down
on a stool next to Colum, and bid to sit there ’til Hall was ended.”

He hunched his shoulders protectively. “That was the worst hour I ever
had. My face was on fire, and so was my arse, my knees were skinned and
I couldna look anywhere but at my feet, but the worst of it was that I had
to piss something awful. I almost died; I’d ha’ burst before I wet myself in
front of everyone on top of it all, but it was a near thing. I sweated right
through my shirt.”

I suppressed my urge to laugh. “Couldn’t you have told Colum what
was the matter?” I asked.

“He knew perfectly well what was the matter; so did everyone else in
the Hall, the way I was squirming on that stool. People were making
wagers as to whether I’d last or not.” He shrugged.

“Colum would, have let me go, if I’d asked. But—well, I got stubborn
about it.” He grinned a bit sheepishly, teeth white in a dark face. “Thought
I’d rather die than ask, and nearly did. When at last Colum said I could go,
I made it out of the Hall, but only as far as the nearest door. Threw myself
behind the wall and spurted streams; I thought I’d never stop.

“So,” he spread his hands deprecatingly, dropping the clump of pine
needles, now you know the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

I couldn’t help it; I laughed until I had to sit down at the side of the
road. Jamie waited patiently for a minute, then sank down on his knees.

“What are you laughing for?” he demanded. “It wasna funny at all.” But
he was smiling himself.

I shook my head, still laughing. “No, it isn’t. It’s an awful story. It’s
just…I can see you sitting there, being stubborn about it, with your jaw
clenched and steam coming out of your ears.”

Jamie snorted, but laughed a little too. “Aye. It’s no verra easy to be
sixteen, is it?”

“So you did help that girl Laoghaire because you felt sorry for her,” I
said, when I had recovered my composure. “You knew what it was like.”

He was surprised. “Aye, I said so. It’s a lot easier to get punched in the
face at three-and-twenty than to have your bum strapped in public at
sixteen. Bruised pride hurts worse than anything, and it bruises easy then.”

“I wondered. I’d never seen anyone grin in anticipation of being
punched in the mouth.”

“Couldna very well do it afterward.”

“Mmh.” I nodded agreement. “I thought—” I said, then stopped in
embarrassment.

“Ye thought what? Oh, about me and Laoghaire, ye mean,” he said,
divining my thought. “You and Alec and everyone else, including
Laoghaire. I’d have done the same if she’d been plain.” He nudged me in
the ribs. “Though I dinna expect you’ll believe that.”

“Well, I did see you together that day in the alcove,” I defended myself,
“and somebody certainly taught you how to kiss.”

Jamie shuffled his feet in the dust, embarrassed. He ducked his head
shyly. “Well now, Sassenach, I’m no better than most men. Sometimes I
try, but I dinna always manage. Ye know that bit in St. Paul, where he says
’tis better to marry than burn? Well, I was burnin’ quite badly there.”

I laughed again, feeling light-hearted as a sixteen-year-old myself. “So
you married me,” I teased, “to avoid the occasion of sin?”

“Aye. That’s what marriage is good for; it makes a sacrament out of
things ye’d otherwise have to confess.”

I collapsed again.

“Oh, Jamie, I do love you!”

This time it was his turn to laugh. He doubled over, then sat down at the
roadside, fizzing with mirth. He slowly fell over backward and lay in the
long grass, wheezing and choking.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” I demanded, staring at him. At
long last, he sat up, wiping his streaming eyes. He shook his head, gasping.

“Murtagh was right about women. Sassenach, I risked my life for ye,
committing theft, arson, assault, and murder into the bargain. In return for
which ye call me names, insult my manhood, kick me in the ballocks and
claw my face. Then I beat you half to death and tell ye all the most
humiliating things have ever happened to me, and you say ye love me.” He
laid his head on his knees and laughed some more. Finally he rose and
held out a hand to me, wiping his eyes with the other.

“You’re no verra sensible, Sassenach, but I like ye fine. Let’s go.”

Remember you don't have to put passages up if you don't want to. So let's see some of those lists. I find it highly unlikely that your's all match mine.

[broughps]

1. I guess I have to go with the wedding night, not because of the sex though. I love Jamie and Claire getting to know each other and all the humor.

2. The scene/section after Jamie's spanked Claire where they're walking down the road and Jamie is telling Claire about all the times his father "beat" him. We see Jamie's commiserating with Claire by telling about his own encounters with the belt.

3. Hamish and Jamie in the stables while Claire looks on. The humor and Jamie is great with kids.

The stables of Castle Leoch were better built than many of the cottages I
had seen on our journey with Dougal. Stone floored and stone walled, the
only openings were the narrow windows at one end, the door at the other,
and the narrow slits under the thick thatched roof, intended for the
convenience of the owls who kept down the mice in the hay. They let in
plenty of air, though, and enough light that the stables were pleasantly dim
rather than gloomy.

Up in the hayloft, just under the roof, the light was even better, striping
the piled hay with yellow bars and lighting the drifting dust motes like
showers of gold dust. The air came in through the chinks in warm drafts,
scented with stock and sweet william and garlic from the gardens outside,
and the pleasant animal smell of the horses wafted up from below.

Jamie stirred under my hand and sat up, the movement bringing his head
from the shadow into a blaze of sunlight like the lighting of a candle.

“What is it?” I asked sleepily, turning my head in the direction he was
looking.

“Wee Hamish,” he said softly, peering over the edge of the loft into the
stable below. “Wants his pony, I expect.”

I rolled awkwardly onto my stomach beside him, dragging the folds of
my shift over me for modesty’s sake; a silly thought, as no one below
could see more than the top of my head.

Colum’s son Hamish was walking slowly down the aisle of the stable
between the stalls. He seemed to hesitate near some stalls, though he
ignored the curious heads of chestnut and sorrel poking out to inspect him.
Clearly he was looking for something, and it wasn’t his fat brown pony,
placidly munching straw in its stall near the stable door.

“Holy God, he’s going for Donas!” Jamie seized his kilt and wrapped it
hurriedly about himself before swinging down from the edge of the loft.
Not bothering with the ladder, he hung by his hands and then dropped to
the floor. He landed lightly on the straw-scattered stones, but with enough
of a thud to make Hamish whirl around with a startled gasp.

The small freckled face relaxed somewhat as he realized who it was, but
the blue eyes stayed wary.

“Needing a bit of help, coz?” Jamie inquired pleasantly. He moved
toward the stalls and leaned against one of the uprights, managing to insert
himself between Hamish and the stall the boy had been heading for.
Hamish hesitated, but then drew himself up, small chin thrust out.

“I’m going to ride Donas,” he said, in a tone that tried for determination,
but fell somewhat short.

Donas—his name meant “demon,” and was in no way meant as flattery
—was in a horse-box to himself at the far end of the stable, safely
separated by an empty stall from the nearest neighboring horses. A huge,
evil-tempered sorrel stallion, he was ridable by no one, and only Old Alec
and Jamie dared go near him. There was an irritable squeal from the
shadows of his stall, and an enormous copper head shot suddenly out, huge
yellow teeth clacking together as the horse made a vain attempt to bite the
bare shoulder so temptingly displayed.

Jamie stayed motionless, knowing that the stallion couldn’t reach him.
Hamish jumped back with a squeak, clearly scared speechless by the
sudden appearance of that monstrous shimmering head, with its rolling,
bloodshot eyes and flaring nostrils.

“I dinna think so,” observed Jamie mildly. He reached down and took
his small cousin by the shoulder, steering him away from the horse, who
kicked his stall in protest. Hamish shuddered in concert with the boards of
the stall as the lethal hooves crashed against the wood.

Jamie turned the boy around to face him and stood looking down at him,
hands on his kilted hips.

“Now then,” he said firmly. “What’s this all about? Why are ye wanting
aught to do wi’ Donas?”

Hamish’s jaw was set stubbornly, but Jamie’s face was both
encouraging and adamant. He punched the boy gently on the shoulder,
getting a tiny smile response.

“Come on, duine,” Jamie said, softly. “Ye know I wilna tell anyone.
Have ye done something foolish?”

A faint flush came up on the boy’s fair skin.

“No. At least…no. Well, maybe a bit foolish.”

After a bit more encouragement, the story came out, reluctantly at first,
then in a tumbling flood of confession.

He had been out on his pony, riding with some of the other boys the day
before. Several of the older lads had started competing, to see who could
jump his horse over a higher obstacle. Jealously admiring them, Hamish’s
better judgment was finally overcome by bravado, and he had tried to
force his fat little pony over a stone fence. Lacking both ability and
interest, the pony had come to a dead stop at the fence, tossing young
Hamish over his head, over the fence, and ignominiously into a nettle
patch on the other side. Stung both by nettles and by the hoots of his
comrades, Hamish was determined to come out today on “a proper horse,”

as he put it.

“They wouldna laugh if I came out on Donas,” he said, envisioning the
scene with grim relish.

“No, they wouldna laugh,” Jamie agreed. “They’d be too busy picking
up the pieces.”

He eyed his cousin, shaking his head slowly. “I’ll tell ye, lad. It takes
courage and sense to make a good rider. You’ve the courage, but the sense
is a wee bit lacking, yet.” He put a consoling arm round Hamish’s
shoulders, drawing him down toward the end of the stable.

“Come along, man. Help me fork the hay, and we’ll get ye acquainted
wi’ Cobhar. You’re right; ye should have a better horse if you’re ready,
but it isna necessary to kill yourself to prove it.”

Glancing up into the loft as he passed, he raised his eyebrows and
shrugged helplessly. I smiled and waved down at him, telling him to go
ahead, it was all right. I watched them as Jamie took an apple from the
basket of windfalls kept near the door. Fetching a pitchfork from the
corner, he led Hamish back to one of the center stalls.

“Here, coz,” he said, pausing. He whistled softly through his teeth and a
wide-browed bay horse put its head out, blowing through its nostrils. The
dark eyes were large and kind, and the ears had a slight forward cock that
gave the horse an expression of friendly alertness.

“Now then, Cobhar, ciamar a tha thu?” Jamie patted the sleek neck
firmly, and scratched the cocked ears.

“Come on up,” he said, motioning to his small cousin. “That’s it, next to
me. Near enough he can smell ye. Horses like to smell ye.”

“I know.” Hamish’s high voice was scornful. He barely reached the
horse’s nose, but reached up and patted. He stood his ground as the big
head came down and sniffed interestedly around his ear, whuffling in his
hair.

“Give me an apple,” he said to Jamie, who obliged. The soft velvet lips
plucked the fruit delicately out of Hamish’s palm, and flicked it back
between the huge molars, where it vanished with a juicy crunch. Jamie
watched approvingly.

“Aye. You’ll get on fine. Go on and make friends, then, while I finish
feeding the others, then ye can take him out to ride.”

“By myself?” Hamish asked eagerly. Cobhar, whose name meant
“Foam,” was good-tempered, but a sound, spirited 14-hand gelding,
nonetheless, and a far cry from the brown pony.

“Twice round the paddock wi’ me watchin’ ye, and if ye dinna fall off
or jerk his mouth, ye can take him by yourself. No jumping him ’til I say,
though.” The long back bent, gleaming in the warm dusk of the stable, as
Jamie caught up a forkful of hay from the pile in one corner and carried it
to one of the stalls.

He straightened and smiled at his cousin. “Gi’ me one of those, will
ye?” He leaned the fork against a stall and bit into the proffered fruit. The
two stood companionably eating, leaning side by side against the stable
wall. When he finished, Jamie handed the core to a nuzzling sorrel and
fetched his fork again. Hamish followed him down the aisle, chewing
slowly.

“I’ve heard my father was a good rider,” Hamish offered tentatively,
after a moment’s silence. “Before—before he couldn’t anymore.”

Jamie shot a swift glance at his cousin, but finished pitching hay into the
sorrel’s stall before speaking. When he did, he answered the thought,
rather than the words.

“I never saw him ride, but I’ll tell ye, lad, I hope never to need as much
courage as Colum has.”

I saw Hamish’s gaze rest curiously on Jamie’s scarred back, but he said
nothing. After a second apple, his thoughts appeared to have shifted to
another topic.

“Rupert said ye had to get married,” he remarked, through a mouthful of
apple.

“I wanted to get married,” Jamie said firmly, replacing the pitchfork
against the wall.

“Oh. Well…good,” Hamish said uncertainly, as though disconcerted by
this novel idea. “I only wondered…do ye mind?”

“Mind what?” Seeing that this conversation might take a while, Jamie
sat down on a bale of hay.

Hamish’s feet did not quite reach the floor, or he might have shuffled
them. Instead, he drummed his heels lightly against the firm-packed hay.

“Do ye mind being married,” he said, staring at his cousin. “Getting into
bed every night with a lady, I mean.”

“No,” said Jamie. “No, in fact, it’s verra pleasant.”

Hamish looked doubtful.

“I dinna think I should like it much. But then all the girls I know are
skinny as sticks, and they smell o’ barely water. The lady Claire—your
lady, I mean,” he added hastily, as though wishing to avoid confusion,
“she’s, er, she looks as though she’d be nicer to sleep with. Soft, I mean.”

Jamie nodded. “Aye, that’s true. Smells all right, too,” he offered. Even
in the dim light, I could see a small muscle twitching near the corner of his
mouth, and knew he didn’t dare look up in the direction of the loft.
There was a long pause.

“How d’ye know?” Hamish said.

“Know what?”

“Which is the right lady to get married to,” the boy said impatiently.

“Oh.” Jamie rocked back and settled himself against the stone wall,
hands behind his head.

“I asked my own Da that, once,” he said. “He said ye just ken. And if ye
dinna ken, then she’s no the right lassie.”

“Mmmphm.” This seemed a less than satisfactory explanation, to judge
from the expression on the small freckle-spattered face. Hamish sat back,
consciously aping Jamie’s posture. His stockinged feet stuck out over the
edge of the hay bale. Small as he was, his sturdy frame gave promise of
someday matching his cousin’s. The set of the square shoulders, and the
tilt of the solid, graceful skull were nearly identical.

“Where’s your shoon, then?” Jamie asked accusingly. “You’ll no ha’
left them in the pasture again? Your mother will box your ears for ye if
ye’ve lost them.”

Hamish shrugged this off as a threat of no consequence. Clearly there
was something of more importance on his mind.

“John—” he started, wrinkling his sandy brows in thought, “John says
—” “John the stable-lad, John the cook-boy, or John Cameron?” Jamie
asked.

“The stable-lad.” Hamish waved a hand, pushing away the distraction.

“He said, er, about getting married…”

“Mmm?” Jamie made an encouraging noise, keeping his face tactfully
turned away. Rolling his eyes upward, his glance met mine, as I peered
over the edge. I grinned down at him, causing him to bite his lip to keep
from grinning back.

Hamish drew a deep breath, and let it out in a rush, propelling his words
like a burst of birdshot. “He-said-ye-must-serve-a-lass-like-a-stallion-doesa-
mare-and-I-didna-believe-him-but-is-it-true?”

I bit my finger hard to keep from laughing out loud. Not so fortunately
placed, Jamie dug his fingers into the fleshy part of his leg, turning as red
in the face as Hamish. They looked like two tomatoes, set side by side on a
hay bale for judging at a county vegetable show.

“Er, aye…weel, in a way…” he said, sounding strangled. Then he got a
grip on himself.

“Yes,” he said firmly, “yes, ye do.”

Hamish cast a half-horrified glance into the nearby stall, where the bay
gelding was relaxing, a foot or so of reproductive equipment protruding
from its sheath. He glanced doubtfully down into his lap then, and I stuffed
a handful of fabric into my mouth as far as it would go.

“There’s some difference, ye ken,” Jamie went on. The rich color was
beginning to fade from his face, though there was still an ominous quiver
around his mouth. “For one thing, it’s…more gentle.”

“Ye dinna bite them on the neck, then?” Hamish had the serious, intent
expression of one taking careful notes. “To make them keep still?”

“Er…no. Not customarily, anyway.” Exercising his not inconsiderable
willpower, Jamie faced up manfully to the responsibilities of
enlightenment.

“There’s another difference, as well,” he said, carefully not looking
upward. “Ye may do it face to face, instead of from the back. As the lady
prefers.”

“The lady?” Hamish seemed dubious about this. “I think I’d rather do it
from the back. I dinna think I’d like to have anyone lookin’ at me while I
did something like that. Is it hard,” he inquired, “is it hard to keep from
laughing?”

[Bunny]

Oh how I wish they had filmed this...it would have been hysterical!!!

[broughps]

I think the little boy who played Hamish could have carried it off too.

[Bunny]

Oh absolutely!

[broughps]

1. I guess I have to go with the wedding night, not because of the sex though. I love Jamie and Claire getting to know each other and all the humor.

2. The scene/section after Jamie's spanked Claire where they're walking down the road and Jamie is telling Claire about all the times his father "beat" him. We see Jamie's commiserating with Claire by telling about his own encounters with the belt.

3. Hamish and Jamie in the stables while Claire looks on. The humor and Jamie is great with kids.

4. Jamie's reason's why he married Claire - but I've got to include Jamie teaching wee Jamie no to pee on his feet cause I love that scene too and it's all in the same chapter.

“Shall I fetch home some apples from the orchard, Jenny? ’Twould save
ye walking so far.”

“Good idea,” said Jamie, casting an appraising eye at his sister’s
expansive frontage. “We dinna want her to drop it in the road.”

“I’ll drop you where ye stand, Jamie Fraser,” she retorted, calmly
holding up the coat for Ian to shrug into. “Be useful for the once, and take
this wee fiend outside wi’ ye. Mrs. Crook’s in the washhouse; ye can leave
him there.” She moved her foot, dislodging small Jamie, who was clinging
to her skirts, chanting “up, up” monotonously.

His uncle obediently grabbed the wee fiend around the middle and
swept him out the door, upside down and shrieking with delight. “Ah,”
Jenny sighed contentedly, bending to inspect her appearance in the goldframed
mirror. She wet a finger and smoothed her brows, then finished
doing up the buttons at her throat. “Nice to finish dressing wi’out someone
clinging to your skirts or wrapped round your knees. Some days I can
scarce go to the privy alone, or speak a single sentence wi’out being
interrupted.”

<snip>

Before we could return to our conversation, we were interrupted by the
arrival of Mrs. Crook, the housekeeper, who poked a long nose into the
parlor and inquired worriedly whether we had seen wee Master Jamie.

Jenny laid aside her sewing with a sigh.

“Got away again, has he? Nay worry, Lizzie. He’s likely gone wi’ his
Da or his uncle. We’ll go and see, shall we, Claire? I could use a breath of
air before supper.”

She rose heavily to her feet and pressed her hands against the small of
her back. She groaned and gave me a wry smile.

“Three weeks, about. I canna wait.”

We walked slowly through the grounds outside, Jenny pointing out the
brewhouse and the chapel, explaining the history of the estate, and when
the different bits had been built.

As we approached the corner of the dovecote, we heard voices in the
arbor.

“There he is, the wee rascal!” Jenny exclaimed. “Wait ’til I lay hands on
him!”

“Wait a minute.” I laid a hand on her arm, recognizing the deeper voice
that underlaid the little boy’s.

“Dinna worrit yourself, man,” said Jamie’s voice. “You’ll learn. It’s a
bit difficult, isn’t it, when your cock doesna stick out any further than your
belly button?”

I stuck my head around the corner, to find him seated on a chopping
block, engaged in converse with his namesake, who was struggling
manfully with the folds of his smock.

“What are you doing with the child?” I inquired cautiously.

“I’m teachin’ young James here the fine art of not pissing on his feet,”
he explained. “Seems the least his uncle could do for him.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Talk is cheap. Seems the least his uncle could do
is show him.”

He grinned. “Well, we’ve had a few practical demonstrations. Had a
wee accident last time, though.” He exchanged accusatory looks with his
nephew. “Dinna look at me,” he said to the boy. “It was all your fault. I
told ye to keep still.”

“Ahem,” said Jenny dryly, with a look at her brother and a matching one
at her son. The smaller Jamie responded by pulling the front of his smock
up over his head, but the larger one, unabashed, grinned cheerfully and
rose from his seat, brushing dirt from his breeks. He set a hand on his
nephew’s swathed head, and turned the little boy toward the house.

“ ‘To everything there is a season,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘and a time for every
purpose under heaven.’ First we work, wee James, and then we wash. And
then—thank God—it’s time for supper.”

<snip>

Jamie had come to stand beside me at the window. Staring absently out
at the driving rain, he said, “There was another reason. The main one.”

“Reason?” I said stupidly.

“Why I married you.”

“Which was?” I don’t know what I expected him to say, perhaps some
further revelation of his family’s contorted affairs. What he did say was
more of a shock, in its way.

“Because I wanted you.” He turned from the window to face me. “More
than I ever wanted anything in my life,” he added softly.

I continued staring at him, dumbstruck. Whatever I had been expecting,
it wasn’t this. Seeing my openmouthed expression, he continued lightly.

“When I asked my Da how ye knew which was the right woman, he told
me when the time came, I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t. When I woke in
the dark under that tree on the road to Leoch, with you sitting on my chest,
cursing me for bleeding to death, I said to myself, ‘Jamie Fraser, for all ye
canna see what she looks like, and for all she weighs as much as a good
draft horse, this is the woman.’ ”

I started toward him, and he backed away, talking rapidly. “I said to
myself, ‘She’s mended ye twice in as many hours, me lad; life amongst the
MacKenzies being what it is, it might be as well to wed a woman as can
stanch a wound and set broken bones.’ And I said to myself, ‘Jamie, lad, if
her touch feels so bonny on your collarbone, imagine what it might feel
like lower down…’ ”

He dodged around a chair. “Of course, I thought it might ha’ just been
the effects of spending four months in a monastery, without benefit of
female companionship, but then that ride through the dark together”—he
paused to sigh theatrically, neatly evading my grab at his sleeve—“with
that lovely broad arse wedged between my thighs”—he ducked a blow
aimed at his left ear and sidestepped, getting a low table between us—“and
that rock-solid head thumping me in the chest”—a small metal ornament
bounced off his own head and went clanging to the floor—“I said to
myself…”

He was laughing so hard at this point that he had to gasp for breath
between phrases. “Jamie…I said…for all she’s a Sassenach bitch…with a
tongue like an adder’s…with a bum like that…what does it matter if she’s
a f-face like a sh-sh-sheep?”

I tripped him neatly and landed on his stomach with both knees as he hit
the floor with a crash that shook the house.

“You mean to tell me that you married me out of love?” I demanded. He
raised his eyebrows, struggling to draw in breath.

“Have I not…just been…saying so?”

Grabbing me round the shoulders with one arm, he wormed the other
hand under my skirt and proceeded to inflict a series of merciless pinches
on that part of my anatomy he had just been praising.

Returning to pick up her embroidery basket, Jenny sailed in at this point
and stood eyeing her brother with some amusement. “And what are you up
to, young Jamie me lad?” she inquired, one eyebrow up.

“I’m makin’ love to my wife,” he panted, breathless between giggling
and fighting.

“Well, ye could find a more suitable place for it,” she said, raising the
other eyebrow. “That floor’ll give ye splinters in your arse.”

I think this has to be my favorite in book one.

[Bunny]

Again...would have loved to see this filmed. What we got was pleasant enough, but this showed the love and humor that’s so much a part of their relationship. What a contrast it would have been to the spanking episode...

[broughps]

My biggest disappointment with the series is them taking all of Diana's humor out. Their substitutions fail in my book.

[Bunny]

👍🏻

[broughps]

1. I guess I have to go with the wedding night, not because of the sex though. I love Jamie and Claire getting to know each other and all the humor.

2. The scene/section after Jamie's spanked Claire where they're walking down the road and Jamie is telling Claire about all the times his father "beat" him. We see Jamie's commiserating with Claire by telling about his own encounters with the belt.

3. Hamish and Jamie in the stables while Claire looks on. The humor and Jamie is great with kids.

4. Jamie's reason's why he married Claire - but I've got to include Jamie teaching wee Jamie no to pee on his feet cause I love that scene too and it's all in the same chapter.

5. Claire at the abbey in the chapel - Claire's answer to Anselm is why I like it.

Feeling somewhat awkward, I took the seat Anselm indicated, near the
front of the chapel. The seats, ornately carved with angels, flowers, and
demons, folded up against the wooden panels of the backing to allow easy
passage in and out. I heard the faint creak of a lowered seat behind me, as
Anselm found his place.

“But what shall I do?” I had asked him, voice lowered in respect of
night and silence as we had approached the chapel.

“Nothing, ma chère,” he had replied, simply. “Only be.”

So I sat, listening to my own breathing, and the tiny sounds of a silent
place; the inaudible things normally hidden in other sounds. The settling of
stone, the creak of wood. The hissing of the tiny, unquenchable flames. A
faint skitter of some small creature, wandered from its place into the home
of majesty.

It was a peaceful place, I would grant Anselm that. In spite of my own
fatigue and my worry over Jamie, I gradually felt myself relaxing, the
tightness of my mind gently unwinding, like the relaxation of a clock
spring. Strangely, I didn’t feel at all sleepy, despite the lateness of the hour
and the strains of the last few days and weeks.

After all, I thought, what were days and weeks in the presence of
eternity? And that’s what this was, to Anselm and Bartolome, to Ambrose,
to all the monks, up to and including the formidable Abbot Alexander.
It was in a way a comforting idea; if there was all the time in the world,
then the happenings of a given moment became less important. I could see,
perhaps, how one could draw back a little, seek some respite in the
contemplation of an endless Being, whatever one conceived its nature to
be.

The red of the sanctuary lamp burned steadily, reflected in the smooth
gold. The flames of the white candles before the statues of St. Giles and
the Blessed Mother flickered and jumped occasionally, as the burning
wicks yielded an occasional imperfection, a momentary sputter of wax or
moisture. But the red lamp burned serene, with no unseemly waver to
betray its light.

And if there was eternity, or even the idea of it, then perhaps Anselm
was right; all things were possible. And all love? I wondered. I had loved
Frank; I still did. And I loved Jamie, more than my own life. But bound in
the limits of time and flesh, I could not keep them both. Beyond, perhaps?
Was there a place where time no longer existed, or where it stopped?
Anselm thought so. A place where all things were possible. And none were
necessary.

And was there love there? Beyond the limits of flesh and time, was all
love possible? Was it necessary?

The voice of my thoughts seemed to be Uncle Lamb’s. My family, and
all I knew of love as a child. A man who had never spoken love to me,
who had never needed to, for I knew he loved me, as surely as I knew I
lived. For where all love is, the speaking is unnecessary. It is all. It is
undying. And it is enough.

Time passed without my awareness of it, and I was startled by the
sudden appearance of Anselm before me, coming through the small door
near the altar. Surely he had been sitting behind me? I glanced behind, to
see one of the young monks whose name I didn’t know genuflecting near
the rear entrance. Anselm bowed low before the altar, then motioned to me
with a nod toward the door.

“You left?” I said, once outside the chapel. “But I thought you weren’t
supposed to leave the, er, the Sacrament, alone?”

He smiled tranquilly. “I didn’t, ma chère. You were there.”

I repressed the urge to argue that I didn’t count. After all, I supposed,
there was no such thing as a Qualified Official Adorer. You only had to be
human, and I imagined I was still that, though I barely felt it at times.
Jamie’s candle still burned as I passed his door, and I caught the rustle
of turning pages. I would have stopped, but Anselm went on, to leave me
at the door of my own chamber. I paused there to bid him good night, and
to thank him for taking me to the chapel.

“It was…restful,” I said, struggling to find the right word.

He nodded, watching me. “Oui, madame. It is.” As I turned to go, he
said, “I told you that the Blessed Sacrament was not alone, for you were
there. But what of you, ma chère? Were you alone?”

I stopped, and looked at him for a moment before answering.

“No,” I said. “I wasn’t.”

[broughps]

So I've given you 5 scenes that I really like. I'm still waiting to hear yours. Just give us a list if you don't want to put actual scenes down.

[broughps]

DIA

1. Jamie's encounter with Bouton.

Finally, I abandoned my work, afraid that I might accidentally damage
someone while wool-gathering. Neither Murtagh nor Fergus had yet
arrived to escort me home, so I changed out of my covering gown and sat
down in Mother Hildegarde’s vacant office to wait, just inside the
vestibule of the Hôpital.

I had been there for perhaps half an hour, idly pleating the stuff of my
gown between my fingers, when I heard the dog outside.

The porter was absent, as he often was. Gone to buy food, no doubt, or
run an errand for one of the nuns. As usual in his absence, the guardianship
of the Hôpital’s portals was given into the capable paws—and teeth—of
Bouton.

The first warning yip was followed by a low, burring growl that warned
the intruder to stay where he was, on pain of instant dismemberment. I
rose and stuck my head out of the office door, to see whether Father
Balmain might be braving the peril of the demon once more, in pursuit of
his sacramental duties. But the figure outlined against the huge stainedglass
window of the entry hall was not the spare form of the junior priest.

It was a tall figure, whose silhouetted kilts swayed gracefully around his
legs as he drew back from the small, toothed animal at his feet.

Jamie blinked, brought up short by the assault. Shading his eyes against
the dazzle from the window, he peered down into the shadows.

“Oh, hallo there, wee dog,” he said politely, and took a step forward,
knuckles stretched out. Bouton raised the growl a few decibels, and he
took a step back.

“Oh, like that, is it?” Jamie said. He eyed the dog narrowly.

“Think it over, laddie,” he advised, squinting down his long, straight
nose. “I’m a damn sight bigger than you. I wouldna undertake any rash
ventures, if I were you.”

Bouton shifted his ground slightly, still making a noise like a distant
Fokker.

“Faster, too,” said Jamie, making a feint to one side. Bouton’s teeth
snapped together a few inches from Jamie’s calf, and he stepped back
hastily. Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms and nodded
down at the dog.

“Well, you’ve a point there, I’ll admit. When it comes to teeth, ye’ve the
edge on me, and no mistake.” Bouton cocked an ear suspiciously at this
gracious speech, but went back to the low-pitched growl.

Jamie hooked one foot over the other, like one prepared to pass the time
of day indefinitely. The multicolored light from the window washed his
face with blue, making him look like one of the chilly marble statues in the
cathedral next door.

“Surely you’ve better things to do than harry innocent visitors?” he
asked, conversationally. “I’ve heard of you—you’re the famous fellow that
sniffs out sickness, no? Weel, then, why are they wastin’ ye on silly things
like door-guarding, when ye might be makin’ yourself useful smelling
gouty toes and pustulant arseholes? Answer me that, if ye will!”

A sharp bark in response to his uncrossing his feet was the only answer.

There was a stir of robes behind me as Mother Hildegarde entered from
the inner office.

“What is it?” she asked, seeing me peering round the corner. “Have we
visitors?”

“Bouton seems to be having a difference of opinion with my husband,” I
said.

“I don’t have to put up wi’ this, ye ken,” Jamie was threatening. One
hand was stealing toward the brooch that held his plaid at the shoulder.

“One quick spring wi’ my plaid, and I’ll have ye trussed like a—oh,
bonjour, Madame!” he said, changing swiftly to French at sight of Mother
Hildegarde.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Fraser.” She inclined her veil gracefully, more to
hide the broad smile on her face than in greeting, I thought. “I see you
have made the acquaintance of Bouton. Are you perhaps in search of your
wife?”
This seeming to be my cue, I sidled out of the office behind her. My
devoted spouse glanced from Bouton to the office door, plainly drawing
conclusions.

“And just how long have ye been standin’ there, Sassenach?” he asked
dryly.

“Long enough,” I said, with the smug self-assurance of one in Bouton’s
good books. “What would you have done with him, once you’d got him
wrapped up in your plaid?”

“Thrown him out the window and run like hell,” he answered, with a
brief glance of awe at Mother Hildegarde’s imposing form. “Does she by
chance speak English?”

“No, luckily for you,” I answered. I switched to French for the
introductions. “Ma mère, je vous présente mon mari, le seigneur de Broch
Tuarach.”

“Milord.” Mother Hildegarde had by now mastered her sense of humor,
and greeted him with her usual expression of formidable geniality. “We
shall miss your wife, but if you require her, of course—”

“I didn’t come for my wife,” Jamie interrupted. “I came to see you, ma
mère.”

[broughps]

Come on guys, I'm still waiting to hear your 5 scenes from book one.

[Krish728]

My 1 & 2 are same as yours. 

3. Claire choosing Jamie over 20th century comforts, at the stones.

4. This should be between 1 & 2.. Claire and Jamie after wedding night.. they go out on a stroll.

5. The final scene in the book.

[AJ01]

Same here,1&2 are my favourites as well.
3. The scene after Claire makes a fuss about Laoghaire when they return to Leoch, where Jamie gives Claire that beautiful silver ring
4. I also like the scene when Jamie is rescued from Wentworth, at Sir Marcus were Claire and Sir Marcus are mending his physical wounds and Claire apologizes all the time
5. The scene in the cave at the abbey

And some others that I cannot reproduce at the moment, so many great scenes, sigh....

[broughps]

There are a lot of great scenes. That's why I thought I'd set the challenge of narrowing it down to 5. Harder to do than you'd think.

[broughps]

3. Claire choosing Jamie over 20th century comforts, at the stones.

I had to chuckle at the hot baths nearly winning out. 

[Krish728]

I liked the fact that it wasn't Jamie vs Frank.. but Jamie vs Claire's own safety, comfort, life in 20th century. The contemplation. This is the scene that made me read the books. When I was watching the show, I wondered what was Claire thinking here.. what made her choose Jamie. And so I started reading the books to find out.

[broughps]

DIA

1. Jamie's encounter with Bouton.

2. Two against one - it's just a cute scene

I lay in bed, head and shoulders propped on pillows, hands clasped lightly
over my stomach, thinking. Since the first alarm, there had been very little
bleeding, and I felt well. Still, any sort of bleeding at this stage was cause
for alarm. I wondered privately what would happen if any emergency
arose while Jamie was gone to Spain, but there was little to be gained by
worrying. He had to go; there was too much riding on that particular
shipload of wine for any private concerns to intrude. And if everything
went all right, he should be back well before the baby was due.

As it was, all personal concerns would have to be put aside, danger or
no. Charles, unable to contain his own excitement, had confided to Jamie
that he would shortly require two ships—possibly more—and had asked
his advice on hull design and the mounting of deck cannon. His father’s
most recent letters from Rome had betrayed a slight tone of questioning—
with his acute Bourbon nose for politics, James Stuart smelled a rat, but
plainly hadn’t yet been informed of what his son was up to. Jamie, hipdeep
in decoded letters, thought it likely that Philip of Spain had not yet
mentioned Charles’s overtures or the Pope’s interest, but James Stuart had
his spies, as well.

After a little while, I became aware of some slight change in Jamie’s
attitude. Glancing toward him, I saw that while he was still holding a book
open on his knee, he had ceased to turn the pages—or to look at them, for
that matter. His eyes were fixed on me instead; or, to be specific, on the
spot where my nightrobe parted, several inches lower than strict modesty
might dictate, strict modesty hardly seeming necessary in bed with one’s
husband.

His gaze was abstracted, dark blue with longing, and I realized that if
not socially required, modesty in bed with one’s husband might be at least
considerate, under the circumstances. There were alternatives, of course.

Catching me looking at him, Jamie blushed slightly and hastily returned
to an exaggerated interest in his book. I rolled onto my side and rested a
hand on his thigh.

“Interesting book?” I asked, idly caressing him.

“Mphm. Oh, aye.” The blush deepened, but he didn’t take his eyes from
the page.

Grinning to myself, I slipped my hand under the bedclothes. He dropped
the book.

“Sassenach!” he said. “Ye know you canna…”

“No,” I said, “but you can. Or rather, I can for you.”

He firmly detached my hand and gave it back to me.

“No, Sassenach. It wouldna be right.”

“It wouldn’t?” I said, surprised. “Whyever not?”

He squirmed uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes.

“Well, I…I wouldna feel right, Sassenach. To take my pleasure from ye,
and not be able to give ye…well, I wouldna feel right about it, is all.”

I burst into laughter, laying my head on his thigh.

“Jamie, you are too sweet for words!”

“I am not sweet,” he said indignantly. “But I’m no such a selfish—
Claire, stop that!”

“You were planning to wait several more months?” I asked, not
stopping.

“I could,” he said, with what dignity was possible under the
circumstances. “I waited tw-twenty-two years, and I can…”

“No, you can’t,” I said, pulling back the bedclothes and admiring the
shape so clearly visible beneath his nightshirt. I touched it, and it moved
slightly, eager against my hand. “Whatever God meant you to be, Jamie
Fraser, it wasn’t a monk.”

With a sure hand, I pulled up his nightshirt.

“But…” he began.

“Two against one,” I said, leaning down. “You lose.”

[broughps]

DIA

1. Jamie's encounter with Bouton.

2. Two against one - it's just a cute scene

3. Harvesting potatoes

The field had been plowed in the usual “rigs,” high ridges of piled earth,
with deep furrows drawn between them. The rigs rose knee-high, so a man
walking down the furrows could sow his seed easily by hand along the top
of the rig beside him. Designed for the planting of barley or oats, no reason
had been seen to alter them for the planting of potatoes.

“It said ‘hills,’ ” Ian said, peering over the leafy expanse of the potato
field, “but I thought the rigs would do as well. The point of the hills
seemed to be to keep the things from rotting wi’ too much water, and an
old field wi’ high rigs seemed like to do that as well.”

“That seems sensible,” Jamie agreed. “The top parts seem to be
flourishing, anyway. Does the man say how ye ken when to dig the things
up, though?”

Charged with the planting of potatoes in a land where no potato had
ever been seen, Ian had proceeded with method and logic, sending to
Edinburgh both for seed potatoes, and for a book on the subject of
planting. In due course, A Scientific Treatise on Methods of Farming, by
Sir Walter O’Bannion Reilly had made its appearance, with a small section
on potato planting as presently practiced in Ireland.

Ian was carrying this substantial volume under one arm—Jenny had told
me that he wouldn’t go near the potato field without it, lest some knotty
question of philosophy or technique occur to him while there—and now
flipped it open, bracing it on one forearm as he groped in his sporran for
the spectacles he wore when reading. These had belonged to his late
father; small circles of glass, set in wire rims, and customarily worn on the
end of his nose, they made him look like a very earnest young stork.

“Harvesting of the crop should be undertaken simultaneously with the
appearance of the first winter goose,” he read, then looked up, squinting
accusingly over his spectacles at the potato field, as though expecting an
indicative goose to stick its head up among the furrowed rigs.

“Winter goose?” Jamie peered frowning at the book over Ian’s shoulder.

“What sort of goose does he mean? Greylags? But ye see those all year.
That canna be right.”

Ian shrugged. “Maybe ye only see them in the winter in Ireland. Or
maybe it’s some kind of Irish goose he means, and not greylags at all.”

Jamie snorted. “Well, the fat lot of good that does us. Does he say
anything useful?”

Ian ran a finger down the lines of type, moving his lips silently. We had
by now collected a small crowd of cottars, all fascinated by this novel
approach to agriculture.

“Ye dinna dig potatoes when it’s wet,” Ian informed us, eliciting a
louder snort from Jamie.

“Hmm,” Ian murmured to himself. “Potato rot, potato bugs—we didna
ha’ any potato bugs, I suppose that’s lucky—potato vines…umm, no,
that’s only what to do if the vines wilt. Potato blight—we canna tell if we
have that until we see the potatoes. Seed potatoes, potato storage—”

Impatient, Jamie turned away from Ian, hands on his hips.

“Scientific farming, eh?” he demanded. He glared at the field of
darkgreen, leafy vines. “I suppose it’s too damn scientific to explain how
ye tell when the bloody things are ready to eat!”

Fergus, who had been tagging along behind Jamie as usual, looked up
from a caterpillar, inching its slow and fuzzy way along his forefinger.
“Why don’t you just dig one up and see?” he asked.

Jamie stared at Fergus for a moment. His mouth opened, but no sound
emerged. He shut it, patted Fergus gently on the head, and went to fetch a
pitchfork from its place against the fence.

The cottars, all men who had helped to plant and tend the field under
Ian’s direction—assisted by Sir Walter—clustered round to see the results
of their labor.

Jamie chose a large and flourishing vine near the edge of the field and
poised the fork carefully near its roots. Visibly holding his breath, he put a
foot on the heel of the fork and pushed. The tines slid slowly into the damp
brown dirt.

I was holding my own breath. There was a good deal more depending
on this experiment than the reputation of Sir Walter O’Bannion Reilly. Or
my own, for that matter.

Jamie and Ian had confirmed that the barley crop this year was smaller
than normal, though still sufficient for the needs of the Lallybroch tenants.
Another bad year would exhaust the meager reserves of grain, though. For
a Highland estate, Lallybroch was prosperous; but that was saying
something only by comparison with other Highland farms. Successful
potato planting could well make the difference between hunger and plenty
for the folk of Lallybroch over the next two years.

Jamie’s heel pressed down and he leaned back on the handle of the fork.
The earth crumbled and cracked around the vine, and with a sudden,
rending pop the potato vine lifted up and the earth revealed its bounty.

A collective “Ah!” went up from the spectators, at sight of the myriad
brown globules clinging to the roots of the uprooted vine. Ian and I both
fell to our knees in the dirt, scrabbling in the loosened soil for potatoes
severed from the parent vine.

“It worked!” Ian kept saying as he pulled potato after potato out of the
ground. “Look at that! See the size of it?”

“Yes, look at this one!” I exclaimed in delight, brandishing one the size
of my two fists held together.

At length, we had the produce of our sample vine laid in a basket;
perhaps ten good-sized potatoes, twenty-five or so fist-size specimens, and
a number of small things the size of golf balls.

“What d’ye think?” Jamie scrutinized our collection quizzically. “Ought
we to leave the rest, so the little ones will grow more? Or take them now,
before the cold comes?”

Ian groped absently for his spectacles, then remembered that Sir Walter
was over by the fence, and abandoned the effort. He shook his head.

“No, I think this is right,” he said. “The book says ye keep the bittie
ones for the seed potatoes for next year. We’ll want a lot of those.” He
gave me a grin of relieved delight, his hank of thick, straight brown hair
dropping across his forehead. There was a smudge of dirt down the side of
his face.

One of the cottars’ wives was bending over the basket, peering at its
contents. She reached out a tentative finger and prodded one of the
potatoes.

“Ye eat them, ye say?” Her brow creased skeptically. “I dinna see how
ye’d ever grind them in a quern for bread or parritch.”

“Well, I dinna believe ye grind them, Mistress Murray,” Jamie
explained courteously.

“Och, aye?” The woman squinted censoriously at the basket. “Well,
what d’ye do wi’ them, then?”

“Well, you…” Jamie started, and then stopped. It occurred to me, as it
no doubt had to him, that while he had eaten potatoes in France, he had
never seen one prepared for eating. I hid a smile as he stared helplessly at
the dirt-crusted potato in his hand. Ian also stared at it; apparently Sir
Walter was mute on the subject of potato cooking.

“You roast them.” Fergus came to the rescue once more, bobbing up
under Jamie’s arm. He smacked his lips at the sight of the potatoes. “Put
them in the coals of the fire. You eat them with salt. Butter’s good, if you
have it.”

“We have it,” said Jamie, with an air of relief. He thrust the potato at
Mrs. Murray, as though anxious to be rid of it. “You roast them,” he
informed her firmly.

“You can boil them, too,” I contributed. “Or mash them with milk. Or
fry them. Or chop them up and put them in soup. A very versatile
vegetable, the potato.”

“That’s what the book says,” Ian murmured, with satisfaction.
Jamie looked at me, the corner of his mouth curling in a smile.

“Ye never told me you could cook, Sassenach.”

“I wouldn’t call it cooking, exactly,” I said, “but I probably can boil a
potato.”

“Good.” Jamie cast an eye at the group of tenants and their wives, who
were passing the potatoes from hand to hand, looking them over rather
dubiously. He clapped his hands loudly to attract attention.

“We’ll be having supper here by the field,” he told them. “Let’s be
fetching a bit of wood for a fire, Tom and Willie, and Mrs. Willie, if ye’d
be so kind as to bring your big kettle? Aye, that’s good, one of the men
will help ye to bring it down. You, Kincaid—” He turned to one of the
younger men, and waved off in the direction of the small cluster of
cottages under the trees. “Go and tell everyone—it’s potatoes for supper!”

And so, with the assistance of Jenny, ten pails of milk from the dairy
shed, three chickens caught from the coop, and four dozen large leeks from
the kailyard, I presided over the preparation of cock-a-leekie soup and
roasted potatoes for the laird and tenants of Lallybroch.

The sun was below the horizon by the time the food was ready, but the
sky was still alight, with streaks of red and gold that lanced through the
dark branches of the pine grove on the hill. There was a little hesitation
when the tenants came face-to-face with the proposed addition to their
diet, but the party-like atmosphere—helped along by a judicious keg of
home-brewed whisky—overcame any misgivings, and soon the ground
near the potato field was littered with the forms of impromptu diners,
hunched over bowls held on their knees.

“What d’ye think, Dorcas?” I overheard one woman say to her neighbor.

“It’s a wee bit queer-tasting, no?”

Dorcas, so addressed, nodded and swallowed before replying.

“Aye, it is. But the laird’s eaten six o’ the things so far, and they havena
kilt him yet.”

The response from the men and children was a good deal more
enthusiastic, likely owing to the generous quantities of butter supplied with
the potatoes.

“Men would eat horse droppings, if ye served them wi’ butter,” Jenny
said, in answer to an observation along these lines. “Men! A full belly, and
a place to lie down when they’re drunk, and that’s all they ask o’ life.”

“A wonder ye put up wi’ Jamie and me,” Ian teased, hearing her, “seein’
ye’ve such a low opinion of men.”

Jenny waved her soup ladle dismissively at husband and brother, seated
side by side on the ground near the kettle.

“Och, you two aren’t ‘men.’ ”

Ian’s feathery brows shot upward, and Jamie’s thicker red ones matched
them.

“Oh, we’re not? Well, what are we, then?” Ian demanded.

Jenny turned toward him with a smile, white teeth flashing in the
firelight. She patted Jamie on the head, and dropped a kiss on Ian’s
forehead.

“You’re mine,” she said.

After supper, one of the men began to sing. Another brought out a wooden
flute and accompanied him, the sound thin but piercing in the cold autumn
night. The air was chilly, but there was no wind, and it was cozy enough,
wrapped in shawls and blankets, huddled in small family clusters round the
fire. The blaze had been built up after the cooking, and now made a
substantial dent in the darkness.

It was warm, if a trifle active, in our own family huddle. Ian had gone to
fetch another armload of wood, and baby Maggie clung to her mother,
forcing her elder brother to seek refuge and body warmth elsewhere.

“I’m going to stick ye upside down in yonder kettle, an’ ye dinna leave
off pokin’ me in the balls,” Jamie informed his nephew, who was
squirming vigorously on his uncle’s lap. “What’s the matter, then—have
ye got ants in your drawers?”

This query was greeted with a gale of giggles and a marked effort to
burrow into his host’s midsection. Jamie groped in the dark, making
deliberately clumsy grabs at his namesake’s arms and legs, then wrapped
his arms around the boy and rolled suddenly over on top of him, forcing a
startled whoop of delight from small Jamie.

Jamie pinned his nephew forcibly to the ground and held him there with
one hand while he groped blindly on the ground in the dark. Seizing a
handful of wet grass with a grunt of satisfaction, he raised himself enough
to jam the grass down the neck of small Jamie’s shirt, changing the
giggling to a high-pitched squeal, no less delighted.

“There, then,” Jamie said, rolling off the small form. “Go plague your
auntie for a bit.”

Small Jamie obligingly scrambled over to me on hands and knees, still
giggling, and nestled on my lap among the folds of my cloak. He sat as
still as is possible for an almost four-year-old boy—which is not very still,
all things considered—and let me remove the bulk of the grass from his
shirt.

“You smell nice, Auntie,” he said, buffing my chin affectionately with
his mop of black curls. “Like food.”

“Well, thank you,” I said. “Ought I to take that to mean you’re hungry
again?”

“Aye. Is there milk?”

“There is.” I could just reach the stoneware jug by stretching out my
fingers. I shook the bottle, decided there was not enough left to make it
worthwhile to fetch a cup, and tilted the jug, holding it for the little boy to
drink from.

Temporarily absorbed in the taking of nourishment, he was still, the
small, sturdy body heavy on my thigh, back braced against my arm as he
wrapped his own pudgy hands around the jug.

The last drops of milk gurgled from the jug. Small Jamie relaxed all at
once, and emitted a soft burp of repletion. I could feel the heat glowing
from him, with that sudden rise of temperature which presages falling
asleep in very young children. I wrapped a fold of the cloak around him,
and rocked him slowly back and forth, humming softly to the tune of the
song beyond the fire. The small bumps of his vertebrae were round and
hard as marbles under my fingers.

“Gone to sleep, has he?” The larger Jamie’s bulk loomed near my
shoulder, the firelight picking out the hilt of his dirk, and the gleam of
copper in his hair.

“Yes,” I said. “At least he’s not squirming, so he must have. It’s rather
like holding a large ham.”

Jamie laughed, then was still himself. I could feel the hardness of his
arm just brushing mine, and the warmth of his body through the folds of
plaid and arisaid.

A night breeze brushed a strand of hair across my face. I brushed it
back, and discovered that small Jamie was right; my hands smelled of
leeks and butter, and the starchy smell of cut potatoes. Asleep, he was a
dead weight, and while holding him was comforting, he was cutting off the
circulation in my left leg. I twisted a bit, intending to lay him across my
lap.

“Don’t move, Sassenach,” Jamie’s voice came softly, next to me. “Just
for a moment, mo duinne—be still.”

I obligingly froze, until he touched me on the shoulder.

“That’s all right, Sassenach,” he said, with a smile in his voice. “It’s
only that ye looked so beautiful, wi’ the fire on your face, and your hair
waving in the wind. I wanted to remember it.”

I turned to face him, then, and smiled at him, across the body of the
child. The night was dark and cold, alive with people all around, but there
was nothing where we sat but light and warmth—and each other.

[broughps]

DIA

1. Jamie's encounter with Bouton.

2. Two against one - it's just a cute scene

3. Harvesting potatoes

4. Jamie getting stepped on by a horse.

The door swung open and Jamie walked in.

I felt my knees give slightly at sight of him, and put out a hand to steady
myself on the cottage’s wooden chimney. He had been looking for me; his
eyes darted around the room before they lighted on me, and a heartstopping
smile lit his face.

He was filthy, grimed with black-powder smoke, splattered with blood,
and barefoot, legs and feet caked with mud. But he was whole, and
standing. I wasn’t inclined to quibble with the details.

Cries of greeting from some of the wounded men on the floor dragged
his gaze away from me. He glanced down, smiled at George McClure,
grinning up at his commander despite an ear that hung from his head by a
sliver of flesh, then looked quickly back at me.

Thank God, his dark-blue eyes said, and Thank God, my own echoed
back.

There was no time for more; wounded men were still coming in, and
every able-bodied nonmilitary person in the village had been pressed into
service to care for them. Archie Cameron, Lochiel’s doctor brother,
bustled back and forth among the cottages, nominally in charge, and
actually doing some good here and there.

<snip>

I was standing by the open door, breathing in the freshening breeze of
the offshore wind, when Jamie came back into the cottage, carrying an
armload of firewood. Dumping it by the hearth, he came back to stand by
me, one hand resting briefly on my shoulder. Trickles of sweat ran down
the edge of his jaw, and I reached up to dab them with a corner of my
apron.

“Have you been to the other cottages?” I asked.

He nodded, breath beginning to slow. His face was so blotched with
smoke and blood that I couldn’t tell for sure, but thought he looked pale.

“Aye. There’s still looting going on in the field, and a good many men
still missing. All of our own wounded are here, though—none elsewhere.”

He nodded at the far end of the cottage where the three wounded men from
Lallybroch lay or sat companionably near the hearth, trading good-natured
insults with the other Scots. The few English wounded in this cottage lay
by themselves, near the door. They talked much less, content to
contemplate the bleak prospects of captivity.

“None bad?” he asked me, looking at the three.

I shook my head. “George McClure might lose the ear; I can’t tell. But
no; I think they’ll be all right.”

“Good.” He gave me a tired smile, and wiped his hot face on the end of
his plaid. I saw he had wrapped it carelessly around his body instead of
draping it over one shoulder. Probably to keep it out of the way, but it
must have been hot.

Turning to go, he reached for the water bottle hanging from the door
peg.

“Not that one!” I said.

“Why not?” he asked, puzzled. He shook the wide-mouthed flask, with a
faint sloshing sound. “It’s full.”

“I know it is,” I said. “That’s what I’ve been using as a urinal.”

“Oh.” Holding the bottle by two fingers, he reached to replace it, but I
stopped him.

“No, go ahead and take it,” I suggested. “You can empty it outside, and
fill this one at the well.” I handed him another gray stone bottle, identical
with the first.

“Try not to get them mixed up,” I said helpfully.

“Mmphm,” he replied, giving me a Scottish look to go along with the
noise, and turned toward the door.

“Hey!” I said, seeing him clearly from the back. “What’s that?”

“What?” he said, startled, trying to peer over one shoulder.

“That!” My fingers traced the muddy shape I had spotted above the
sagging plaid, printed on the grubby linen of his shirt with the clarity of a
stencil. “It looks like a horseshoe,” I said disbelievingly.

“Oh, that,” he said, shrugging.

“A horse stepped on you?”

“Well, not on purpose,” he said, defensive on the horse’s behalf.

“Horses dinna like to step on people; I suppose it feels a wee bit squashy
underfoot.”

“I would suppose it does,” I agreed, preventing his attempts to escape by
holding on to one sleeve. “Stand still. How the hell did this happen?”

“It’s no matter,” he protested. “The ribs don’t feel broken, only a trifle
bruised.”

“Oh, just a trifle,” I agreed sarcastically. I had worked the stained fabric
free in back, and could see the clear, sharp imprint of a curved horseshoe,
embedded in the fair flesh of his back, just above the waist. “Christ, you
can see the horseshoe nails.” He winced involuntarily as I ran my finger
over the marks.

It had happened during one brief sally by the mounted dragoons, he
explained. The Highlanders, mostly unaccustomed to horses other than the
small, shaggy Highland ponies, were convinced that the English cavalry
horses had been trained to attack them with hooves and teeth. Panicked at
the horses’ charge, they had dived under the horses’ hooves, slashing
ferociously at legs and bellies with swords and scythes and axes.

“And you think they aren’t?”

“Of course not, Sassenach,” he said impatiently. “He wasna trying to
attack me. The rider wanted to get away, but he was sealed in on either
side. There was noplace to go but over me.”

Seeing this realization dawn in the eyes of the horse’s rider, a split
second before the dragoon applied spurs to his mount’s sides, Jamie had
flung himself flat on his face, arms over his head.

“Then the next was the breath bursting from my lungs,” he explained. “I
felt the dunt of it, but it didna hurt. Not then.” He reached back and rubbed
a hand absently over the mark, grimacing slightly.

“Right,” I said, dropping the edge of the shirt. “Have you had a piss
since then?”

He stared at me as though I had gone suddenly barmy.

“You’ve had four-hundredweight of horse step smack on one of your
kidneys,” I explained, a trifle impatiently. There were wounded men
waiting. “I want to know if there’s blood in your urine.”

“Oh,” he said, his expression clearing. “I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s find out, shall we?” I had placed my big medicine box out
of the way in one corner; now I rummaged about in it and withdrew one of
the small glass urinoscopy cups I had acquired from L’Hôpital des Anges.

“Fill it up and give it back to me.” I handed it to him and turned back
toward the hearth, where a cauldron full of boiling linens awaited my
attention.

I glanced back to find him still regarding the cup with a slightly
quizzical expression.

“Need help, lad?” A big English soldier on the floor was peering up
from his pallet, grinning at Jamie.

A flash of white teeth showed in the filth of Jamie’s face. “Oh, aye,” he
said. He leaned down, offering the cup to the Englishman. “Here, hold this
for me while I aim.”

A ripple of mirth passed through the men nearby, distracting them
momentarily from their distress.

After a moment’s hesitation, the Englishman’s big fist closed around the
fragile cup. The man had taken a dose of shrapnel in one hip, and his grip
was none too steady, but he still smiled, despite the sweat dewing his
upper lip.

“Sixpence says you can’t make it,” he said. He moved the cup, so it
stood on the floor three or four feet from Jamie’s bare toes. “From where
you stand now.”

Jamie looked down thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with one hand as he
measured the distance. The man whose arm I was dressing had stopped
groaning, absorbed in the developing drama.

“Weel, I’ll no say it would be easy,” Jamie said, letting his Scots
broaden on purpose. “But for sixpence? Aye, weel, that’s a sum might
make it worth the effort, eh?” His eyes, always faintly slanted, turned
catlike with his grin.

“Easy money, lad,” said the Englishman, breathing heavily but still
grinning. “For me.”

“Two silver pennies on the lad,” called one of the MacDonald clansmen
in the chimney corner.

An English soldier, coat turned inside-out to denote his prisoner status,
fumbled inside the skirts, searching for the opening of his pocket.

“Ha! A pouch of weed against!” he called, triumphantly holding up a
small cloth bag of tobacco.

Shouted wagers and rude remarks began to fly through the air as Jamie
squatted down and made a great show of estimating the distance to the
cup.

“All right,” he said at last, standing up and throwing back his shoulders.
“Are ye set, then?”

The Englishman on the floor chuckled. “Oh, I’m set, lad.”

“Well, then.”

An expectant hush fell over the room. Men raised on their elbows to
watch, ignoring both discomfort and enmity in their interest.

Jamie glanced around the room, nodded at his Lallybroch men, then
slowly raised the hem of his kilt and reached beneath it. He frowned in
concentration, groping randomly, then let an expression of doubt flit across
his countenance.

“I had it when I went out,” he said, and the room erupted in laughter.

Grinning at the success of his joke, he raised his kilt further, grasped his
clearly visible weapon and took careful aim. He squinted his eyes, bent his
knees slightly, and his fingers tightened their grip.

Nothing happened.

“It’s a misfire!” crowed one of the English.

“His powder’s wet!” Another hooted.

“No balls to your pistol, lad?” jibed his accomplice on the floor.

Jamie squinted dubiously at his equipment, bringing on a fresh riot of
howls and catcalls. Then his face cleared.

“Ha! My chamber’s empty, that’s all!” He snaked an arm toward the
array of bottles on the wall, cocked an eyebrow at me, and when I nodded,
took one down and upended it over his open mouth. The water splashed
over his chin and onto his shirt, and his Adam’s apple bobbed theatrically
as he drank.

“Ahhh.” He lowered the bottle, swabbed some of the grime from his
face with a sleeve, and bowed to his audience.

“Now, then,” he began, reaching down. He caught sight of my face,
though, and stopped in mid-motion. He couldn’t see the open door at his
back, nor the man standing in it, but the sudden quiet that fell upon the
room must have told him that all bets were off.

His Highness Prince Charles Edward bent his head under the lintel to enter
the cottage. Come to visit the wounded, he was dressed for the occasion in
plum velvet breeches with stockings to match, immaculate linen, and—to
show solidarity with the troops, no doubt—a coat and waistcoat in
Cameron tartan, with a subsidiary plaid looped over one shoulder through
a cairngorm brooch. His hair was freshly powdered, and the Order of St.
Andrew glittered brilliantly upon his breast.

He stood in the doorway, nobly inspiring everyone in sight and
noticeably impeding the entrance of those behind him. He looked slowly
about him, taking in the twenty-five men crammed cheek by jowl on the
floor, the helpers crouching over them, the mess of bloodied dressings
tossed into the corner, the scatter of medicines and instruments across the
table, and me, standing behind it.

His Highness didn’t care overmuch for women with the army in general,
but he was thoroughly grounded in the rules of courtesy. I was a woman,
despite the smears of blood and vomit that streaked my skirt, and the fact
that my hair was shooting out from under my kertch in half a dozen
random sprays.

“Madame Fraser,” he said, bowing graciously to me.

“Your Highness.” I bobbed a curtsy back, hoping he didn’t intend to
stay long.

“Your labors in our behalf are very much appreciate, Madame,” he said,
his soft Italian accent stronger than usual.

“Er, thank you,” I said. “Mind the blood. It’s slippery just there.”

The delicate mouth tightened a bit as he skirted the puddle I had pointed
out. The doorway freed, Sheridan, O’Sullivan, and Lord Balmerino came
in, adding to the congestion in the cottage. Now that the demands of
courtesy had been attended to, Charles crouched carefully between two
pallets.

He laid a gentle hand on the shoulder of one man.

“What is your name, my brave fellow?”

“Gilbert Munro…erm, Your Highness,” added the man, hastily, awed at
the sight of the Prince.

The manicured fingers touched the bandage and splints that swathed
what was left of Gilbert Munro’s right arm.

“Your sacrifice was great, Gilbert Munro,” Charles said simply. “I
promise you it will not be forgotten.” The hand brushed across a
whiskered cheek, and Munro reddened with embarassed pleasure.

I had a man before me with a scalp wound that needed stitching, but was
able to watch from the corner of my eye as Charles made the rounds of the
cottage. Moving slowly, he went from bed to bed, missing no one,
stopping to inquire each man’s name and home, to offer thanks and
affection, congratulations, and condolence.

The men were stunned into silence, English and Highlander alike, barely
managing to answer His Highness in soft murmurs. At last he stood and
stretched, with an audible creaking of ligaments. An end of his plaid had
trailed in the mud, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I bring you the blessing and the thanks of my Father,” he said. “Your
deeds of today will always be remembered.” The men on the floor were
not in the proper mood to cheer, but there were smiles, and a general
murmur of appreciation.

Turning to go, Charles caught sight of Jamie, standing out of the way in
the corner, so as not to have his bare toes trampled by Sheridan’s boots.
His Highness’s face lighted with pleasure.

“Mon cher! I had not seen you today. I feared some malchance had
overtaken you.” A look of reproach crossed the handsome, ruddy face.
“Why did you not come to supper at the manse with the other officers?”

Jamie smiled and bowed respectfully.

“My men are here, Highness.”

The Prince’s brows shot up at this, and he opened his mouth as though
to say something, but Lord Balmerino stepped forward and whispered
something in his ear. Charles’s expression changed to one of concern.
“But what this is I hear?” he said to Jamie, losing control of his syntax
as he did in moments of emotion. “His Lordship tells me that you have
yourself suffered a wound.”

Jamie looked mildly discomfited. He shot a quick glance my way, to see
if I had heard, and seeing that I most certainly had, jerked his eyes back to
the Prince.

“It’s nothing, Highness. Only a scratch.”

“Show me.” It was simply spoken, but unmistakably an order, and the
stained plaid fell away without protest.

The folds of dark tartan were nearly black on the inner side. His shirt
beneath was reddened from armpit to hip, with stiff brown patches where
the blood had begun to dry.

Leaving my head injury to mind himself for a moment, I stepped
forward and opened the shirt, pulling it gently away from the injured side.
Despite the quantity of blood, I knew it must not be a serious wound; he
stood like a rock, and the blood no longer flowed.

It was a saber-slash, slanting across the ribs. A lucky angle; straight in
and it would have gone deep into the intercostal muscles between the ribs.
As it was, an eight-inch flap of skin gaped loose, red beginning to ooze
beneath it again with the release of pressure. It would take a goodly
number of stitches to repair, but aside from the constant danger of
infection, the wound was in no way serious.

Turning to report this to His Highness, I halted, stopped by the odd look
on his face. For a split second, I thought it was “rookie’s tremors,” the
shock of a person unaccustomed to the sight of wounds and blood. Many a
trainee nurse at the combat station had removed a field dressing, taken one
look and bolted, to vomit quietly outside before returning to tend the
patient. Battle wounds have a peculiarly nasty look to them.

But it couldn’t be that. By no means a natural warrior, still Charles had
been blooded, like Jamie, at the age of fourteen, in his first battle at Gaeta.
No, I decided, even as the momentary expression of shock faded from the
soft brown eyes. He would not be startled by blood or wounds.

This wasn’t a cottar or a herder that stood before him. Not a nameless
subject, whose duty was to fight for the Stuart cause. This was a friend.
And I thought that perhaps Jamie’s wound had suddenly brought it home
to him; that blood was shed on his order, men wounded for his cause—
little wonder if the realization struck him, deep as a sword-cut.

He looked at Jamie’s side for a long moment, then looked up to meet his
eyes. He grasped Jamie by the hand, and bowed his own head.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

And just for that one moment, I thought perhaps he might have made a
king, after all.

[broughps]

DIA

1. Jamie's encounter with Bouton.

2. Two against one - it's just a cute scene

3. Harvesting potatoes

4. Jamie getting stepped on by a horse.

5. Goose grease.

The sentry at the gate nodded me in, coughing. The sound was taken up
by the guards stationed down the hallways and on the landings. Resisting
the impulse to wave my basket of garlic at them like a censer as I passed, I
made my way upstairs to the afternoon drawing room, where I was
admitted without question.

I found His Highness with Jamie, Aeneas MacDonald, O’Sullivan, His
Highness’s secretary, and a saturnine man named Francis Townsend, who
was lately much in His Highness’s good graces. Most of them were rednosed
and sneezing, and splattered phlegm smeared the hearth before the
gracious mantel. I cast a sharp look at Jamie, who was slumped wearily in
his chair, whitefaced and drooping.

Accustomed to my forays into the city, and eager for any intelligence
regarding the English movements, the men heard me out with great
attention.

“We are indebted greatly to you for your news, Mistress Fraser,” said
His Highness, with a gracious bow and a smile. “You must tell me if there
some way in which I might repay your generous service.”

“There is,” I said, seizing the opportunity. “I want to take my husband
home to bed. Now.”

The Prince’s eyes bulged slightly, but he recovered himself quickly. Not
so restrained, Aeneas MacDonald broke out into a fit of suspiciously
strangled coughing. Jamie’s white face blazed suddenly crimson. He
sneezed, and buried his countenance in a handkerchief, blue eyes shooting
sparks at me over its folds.

“Ah…your husband,” said Charles, rallying gallantly to the challenge.
“Um…” A soft pink blush began to tint his cheeks.

“He’s ill,” I said, with some asperity. “Surely you can see that? I want
him to go to bed and rest.”

“Oh, rest,” murmured MacDonald, as though to himself.

I searched for some sufficiently courtly words.

“I should be sorry to deprive Your Highness temporarily of my
husband’s attendance, but if he isn’t allowed to take sufficient rest, he isn’t
likely to go on attending you much longer.”

Charles, recovered from his momentary discomposure, seemed now to
be finding Jamie’s patent discomfiture entertaining.

“To be sure,” he said, eyeing Jamie, whose complexion had faded now
into a sort of mottled pallor. “We should dislike exceedingly the
contemplation of such a prospect as you wish, Madam.” He inclined his
head in my direction. “It shall be as you wish, Madam. Cher James is
excused from attendance upon our person until he shall be recovering. By
all means, take your husband to your rooms at once, and, er…undertake
what cure seems…ah…fitting.” The corner of the Prince’s mouth twitched
suddenly, and pulling a large handkerchief from his pocket, he followed
Jamie’s example and buried the lower half of his face, coughing delicately.

“Best take care, Highness,” MacDonald advised somewhat caustically.
“You may catch Mr. Fraser’s ailment.”

“One could wish to have half Mr. Fraser’s complaint,” murmured
Francis Townsend, with no attempt at concealing the sardonic smile that
made him look like a fox in a hen coop.

Jamie, now bearing a strong resemblance to a frostbitten tomato, rose
abruptly, bowed to the Prince with a brief “I thank ye, Highness,” and
headed for the door, clutching me by the arm.

“Let go,” I snarled as we swept past the guards in the anteroom. “You’re
breaking my arm.”

“Good,” he muttered. “As soon as I’ve got ye in private, I’m going to
break your neck.” But I caught sight of the curl of his mouth, and knew the
gruffness was only a facade.

Once in our apartment, with the door safely shut, he pulled me to him,
leaned against the door and laughed, his cheek pressed to the top of my
head.

“Thank ye, Sassenach,” he said, wheezing slightly.

“You’re not angry?” I asked, voice somewhat muffled in his shirtfront.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Nay, I’m no minding it.” he said, releasing me. “God, I wouldna ha’
cared if ye’d said ye meant to set me on fire in the Great Gallery, so long
as I could leave His Highness and come to rest for a bit. I’m tired to death
of the man, and every muscle I’ve got is aching.” A sudden spasm of
coughing shook his frame, and he leaned against the door once more, this
time for support.

“Are you all right?” I stretched up on tiptoe to feel his forehead. I
wasn’t surprised, but was somewhat alarmed, to feel how hot his skin was
beneath my palm.

“You,” I said accusingly, “have a fever!”

“Aye well, everyone’s got a fever, Sassenach,” he said, a bit crossly.
“Only some are hotter than others, no?”

“Don’t quibble,” I said, relieved that he still felt well enough to chop
logic. “Take off your clothes. And don’t say it,” I added crisply, seeing the
grin forming as he opened his mouth to reply. “I have no designs whatever
on your disease-ridden carcass, beyond getting it into a nightshirt.”

"Oh, aye? Ye dinna think I’d benefit from the exercise?” He teased,
beginning to unfasten his shirt. “I thought ye said exercise was healthy.”
His laugh turned suddenly to an attack of hoarse coughing that left him
breathless and flushed. He dropped the shirt on the floor, and almost
immediately began to shiver with chill.

“Much too healthy for you, my lad.” I yanked the thick woolen
nightshirt over his head, leaving him to struggle into it as I got him out of
kilt, shoes, and stockings. “Christ, your feet are like ice!”

“You could…warm them…for me.” But the words were forced out
between chattering teeth, and he made no protest when I steered him
toward the bed.

He was shaking too hard to speak by the time I had snatched a hot brick
from the fire with tongs, wrapped it in flannel, and thrust it in at his feet.
The chill was hard but brief, and he lay still again by the time I had set a
pan of water to steep with a handful of peppermint and black currant.

“What’s that?” he asked, suspiciously, sniffing the air as I opened
another jar from my basket. “Ye dinna mean me to drink it, I hope? It
smells like a duck that’s been hung ower-long.”

“You’re close,” I said. “It’s goose grease mixed with camphor. I’m
going to rub your chest with it.”

“No!” He snatched the covers protectively up beneath his chin.

“Yes,” I said firmly, advancing with purpose.

In the midst of my labors, I became aware that we had an audience.
Fergus stood on the far side of the bed, watching the proceedings with
fascination, his nose running freely. I removed my knee from Jamie’s
abdomen and reached for a handkerchief.

“And what are you doing here?” Jamie demanded, trying to yank the
front of his nightshirt back into place.

Not noticeably disconcerted by the unfriendly tone of this greeting,
Fergus ignored the proffered handkerchief and wiped his nose on his
sleeve, meanwhile staring with round-eyed admiration at the broad
expanse of muscular, gleaming chest on display.

“The skinny milord sent me to fetch a packet he says you have for him.
Do all Scotsmen have such quantities of hair upon their chests, milord?”

“Christ! I forgot all about the dispatches. Wait, I’ll take them to
Cameron myself.” Jamie began to struggle up in bed, a process that
brought his nose close to the site of my recent endeavors.

“Phew!” He flapped the nightshirt in an effort to dispel the penetrating
aroma, and glared accusingly at me. “How am I to get this reek off me?
D’ye expect me to go out in company smellin’ like a dead goose,
Sassenach?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I expect you to lie quietly in bed and rest, or
you’ll be a dead goose.” I uncorked a fairly high-caliber glare of my own.

“I can carry the package, milord,” Fergus was assuring him.

“You will do nothing of the kind,” I said, noting the boy’s flushed
cheeks and overbright eyes. I put a hand to his forehead.

“Don’t tell me,” said Jamie sarcastically. “He’s got a fever?”

“Yes, he has.”

“Ha,” he said to Fergus with gloomy satisfaction. “Now you’re for it.
See how you like bein’ basted.”

A short period of intense effort saw Fergus tucked up in his pallet by the
fire, goose grease and medicinal hot tea administered lavishly all round,
and a clean handkerchief deposited beneath the chin of each sufferer.

“There,” I said, fastidiously rinsing my hands in the basin. “Now, I will
take this precious packet of dispatches across to Mr. Cameron. You will
both rest, drink hot tea, rest, blow your nose, and rest, in that order. Got it,
troops?”

The tip of a long, reddened nose was barely visible above the
bedclothes. It oscillated slowly back and forth as Jamie shook his head.

“Drunk wi’ power,” he remarked disapprovingly to the ceiling. “Verra
unwomanly attitude, that.”

I dropped a kiss on his hot forehead and swung my cloak down from its
hook.

“How little you know of women, my love,” I said.

[broughps]

Alright I've given my five scenes for DIA now it's your turn. What five scenes do you really like in book 2?

[Krish728]

My top 5 for DIA:

1) The very first scene with Claire and Jamie.

2) Claire and Jamie reunion scene after Faith. The dark cloud metaphor scene, to be exact.

3) Young LJG introduction scene.

4) The scene in which Jamie talk in Gaelic to Claire, who's sleeping. 

5) The heart-breaking scene of Claire and Jamie's separation. Only second time I ever cried in my life for something that is not related to real world problems. The first time was only a couple of months before this.. I was watching this Indian movie called My Name is Khan (I think everyone should watch this). I guess that movie burst opened my emotional barriers. I was crying like a little child watching that movie. The same happened when I was reading Claire and Jamie's heart-breaking scene. Crying like a little child. And then, cut to a couple of years now, I'm crying for scenes my younger would never even flinch a little bit for.

[broughps]

Is that no one really likes DIA or are you all trying to get out of putting up five scenes you really like? Just your list will do.

[Bunny]

I’ve an excuse...books packed away because work getting done on house. Dust must not touch their precious pages! It will be done soon, but then how will I choose???

[broughps]

Voyager

1. Jamie "dying" after Culloden - I like it because of Jamie's humor and I like Hal.

They did. It was just past noon on the second day when booted feet at last
approached the farmhouse, and the door swung open on silent leather
hinges.

“Christ.” It was a muttered exclamation at the sight within the
farmhouse. The draft from the door stirred the fetid air over grimed,
bedraggled, bloodstained bodies that lay or sat huddled on the packed-dirt
floor.

There had been no discussion of the possibility of armed resistance; they
had no heart and there was no point. The Jacobites simply sat, waiting the
pleasure of their visitor.

He was a major, all fresh and new in an uncreased uniform, with
polished boots. After a moment’s hesitation to survey the inhabitants, he
stepped inside, his lieutenant close behind.

“I am Lord Melton,” he said, glancing around as though seeking the
leader of these men, to whom his remarks might most properly be
addressed.

Duncan MacDonald, after a glance of his own, stood slowly, and
inclined his head. “Duncan MacDonald, of Glen Richie,” he said. “And
others”—he waved a hand—“late of the forces of His Majesty, King
James.”

“So I surmised,” the Englishman said dryly. He was young, in his early
thirties, but he carried himself with a seasoned soldier’s confidence. He
looked deliberately from man to man, then reached into his coat and
produced a folded sheet of paper.

“I have here an order from His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland,” he
said. “Authorizing the immediate execution of any man found to have
engaged in the treasonous rebellion just past.” He glanced around the
confines of the cottage once more. “Is there any man here who claims
innocence of treason?”

There was the faintest breath of laughter from the Scots. Innocence,
with the smoke of battle still black on their faces, here on the edge of the
slaughter-field?

“No, my lord,” said MacDonald, the faintest of smiles on his lips.
“Traitors all. Shall we be hanged, then?”

Melton’s face twitched in a small grimace of distaste, then settled back
into impassivity. He was a slight man, with small, fine bones, but carried
his authority well, nonetheless.

“You will be shot,” he said. “You have an hour, in which to prepare
yourselves.” He hesitated, shooting a glance at his lieutenant, as though
afraid to sound overgenerous before his subordinate, but continued. “If any
of you wish writing materials—to compose a letter, perhaps—the clerk of
my company will attend you.” He nodded briefly to MacDonald, turned on
his heel, and left.

It was a grim hour. A few men availed themselves of the offer of pen
and ink, and scribbled doggedly, paper held against the slanted wooden
chimney for lack of another firm writing surface. Others prayed quietly, or
simply sat, waiting.

MacDonald had begged mercy for Giles McMartin and Frederick
Murray, arguing that they were barely seventeen, and should not be held to
the same account as their elders. This request was denied, and the boys sat
together, white-faced against the wall, holding each other’s hands.

For them, Jamie felt a piercing sorrow—and for the others here, loyal
friends and gallant soldiers. For himself, he felt only relief. No more to
worry, nothing more to do. He had done all he could for his men, his wife,
his unborn child. Now let this bodily misery be ended, and he would go
grateful for the peace of it.

More for form’s sake than because he felt the need of it, he closed his
eyes and began the Act of Contrition, in French, as he always said it. Mon
Dieu, je regrette…And yet he didn’t; it was much too late for any sort of
regret.

Would he find Claire at once when he died, he wondered? Or perhaps,
as he expected, be condemned to separation for a time? In any case, he
would see her again; he clung to the conviction much more firmly than he
embraced the tenets of the Church. God had given her to him; He would
restore her.

Forgetting to pray, he instead began to conjure her face behind his
eyelids, the curve of cheek and temple, a broad fair brow that always
moved him to kiss it, just there, in that small smooth spot between her
eyebrows, just at the top of her nose, between clear amber eyes. He fixed
his attention on the shape of her mouth, carefully imagining the full, sweet
curve of it, and the taste and the feel and the joy of it. The sounds of
praying, the pen-scratching and the small, choked sobs of Giles McMartin
faded from his ears.

It was midafternoon when Melton returned, this time with six soldiers in
attendance, as well as the Lieutenant and the clerk. Again, he paused in the
doorway, but MacDonald rose before he could speak.

“I’ll go first,” he said, and walked steadily across the cottage. As he bent
his head to go through the door, though, Lord Melton laid a hand on his
sleeve.

“Will you give your full name, sir? My clerk will make note of it.”

MacDonald glanced at the clerk, a small bitter smile tugging at the
corner of his mouth.

“A trophy list, is it? Aye, well.” He shrugged and drew himself upright.
“Duncan William MacLeod MacDonald, of Glen Richie.” He bowed
politely to Lord Melton. “At your service—sir.” He passed through the
door, and shortly there came the sound of a single pistol-shot from near at
hand.

The boys were allowed to go together, hands still clutched tightly as
they passed through the door. The rest were taken one by one, each asked
for his name, that the clerk might make a record of it. The clerk sat on a
stool by the door, head bent to the papers in his lap, not looking up as the
men passed by.

When it came Ewan’s turn, Jamie struggled to prop himself on his
elbows, and grasped his friend’s hand, as hard as he could.

“I shall see ye soon again,” he whispered.

Ewan’s hand shook in his, but the Cameron only smiled. Then he leaned
across simply and kissed Jamie’s mouth, and rose to go.

They left the six who could not walk to the last.

“James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser,” he said, speaking
slowly to allow the clerk time to get it down right. “Laird of Broch
Tuarach.” Patiently, he spelled it, then glanced up at Melton.
“I must ask your courtesy, my lord, to give me help to stand.”

Melton didn’t answer him, but stared down at him, his expression of
remote distaste altering to one of mingled astonishment and something like
dawning horror.

“Fraser?” he said. “Of Broch Tuarach?”

“I am,” Jamie said patiently. Would the man not hurry a bit? Being
resigned to being shot was one thing, but listening to your friends being
killed in your hearing was another, and not just calculated to settle the
nerves. His arms were trembling with the strain of propping him, and his
bowels, not sharing the resignation of his higher faculties, were twitching
with a gurgling dread.

“Bloody hell,” the Englishman muttered. He bent and peered at Jamie
where he lay in the shadow of the wall, then turned and beckoned to his
lieutenant.

“Help me get him into the light,” he ordered. They weren’t gentle about
it, and Jamie grunted as the movement sent a bolt of pain from his leg right
up through the top of his head. It made him dizzy for a moment, and he
missed what Melton was saying to him.

“Are you the Jacobite they call ‘Red Jamie’?” he asked again,
impatiently.

A streak of fear went through Jamie at that; let them know he was the
notorious Red Jamie, and they wouldn’t shoot him. They’d take him in
chains to London to be tried—a prize of war. And after that, it would be
the hangman’s rope, and lying half strangled on the gallows platform while
they slit his belly and ripped out his bowels. His bowels gave another long,
rumbling gurgle; they didn’t think much of the notion either.

“No,” he said, with as much firmness as he could manage. “Just get on
wi’ it, eh?”

Ignoring this, Melton dropped to his knees, and ripped open the throat of
Jamie’s shirt. He gripped Jamie’s hair and jerked back his head.

“Damn!” Melton said. Melton’s finger prodded him in the throat, just
above the collarbone. There was a small triangular scar there, and this
appeared to be what was causing his interrogator’s concern.

“James Fraser of Broch Tuarach; red hair and a three-cornered scar on
his throat.” Melton let go of the hair and sat back on his heels, rubbing his
chin in a distracted sort of way. Then he pulled himself together and turned
to the lieutenant, gesturing at the five men remaining in the farm cottage.

“Take the rest,” he ordered. His fair brows were knitted together in a
deep frown. He stood over Jamie, scowling, while the other Scottish
prisoners were removed.

“I have to think,” he muttered. “Damme, I must think!”

“Do that,” said Jamie, “if you’re able. I must lie down, myself.” They
had propped him sitting against the far wall, his leg stretched out in front
of him, but sitting upright after two days of lying flat was more than he
could manage; the room was tilting drunkenly, and small flashing lights
kept coming before his eyes. He leaned to one side, and eased himself
down, hugging the dirt floor, eyes closed as he waited for the dizziness to
pass.

Melton was muttering under his breath, but Jamie couldn’t make out the
words; didn’t care greatly in any case. Sitting up in the sunlight, he had
seen his leg clearly for the first time, and he was fairly sure that he
wouldn’t live long enough to be hanged.

The deep angry red of inflammation spread from midthigh upward,
much brighter than the remaining smears of dried blood. The wound itself
was purulent; with the stench of the other men lessening, he could smell
the faint sweet-foul odor of the discharge. Still, a quick bullet through the
head seemed much preferable to the pain and delirium of death by
infection. Did you hear the bang? he wondered, and drifted off, the cool
pounded dirt smooth and comforting as a mother’s breast under his hot
cheek.

He wasn’t really asleep, only drifting in a feverish doze, but Melton’s
voice in his ear jerked him to alertness.

“Grey,” the voice was saying, “John William Grey! Do you know that
name?”

“No,” he said, mazy with sleep and fever. “Look, man, either shoot me
or go away, aye? I’m ill.”

“Near Carryarrick.” Melton’s voice was prodding, impatient. “A boy, a
fair-haired boy, about sixteen. You met him in the wood.”

Jamie squinted up at his tormentor. The fever distorted his vision, but
there seemed something vaguely familiar about the fine-boned face above
him, with those large, almost girlish eyes.

“Oh,” he said, catching a single face from the flood of images that
swirled erratically through his brain. “The wee laddie that tried to kill me.
Aye, I mind him.” He closed his eyes again. In the odd way of fever, one
sensation seemed to blend into another. He had broken John William
Grey’s arm; the memory of the boy’s fine bone beneath his hand became
the bone of Claire’s forearm as he tore her from the grip of the stones. The
cool misty breeze stroked his face with Claire’s fingers.

“Wake up, damn you!” His head snapped on his neck as Melton shook
him impatiently. “Listen to me!”

Jamie opened his eyes wearily. “Aye?”

“John William Grey is my brother,” Melton said. “He told me of his
meeting with you. You spared his life, and he made you a promise—is that
true?”

With great effort, he cast his mind back. He had met the boy two days
before the first battle of the rebellion; the Scottish victory at Prestonpans.
The six months between then and now seemed a vast chasm; so much had
happened in between.

“Aye, I recall. He promised to kill me. I dinna mind if you do it for him,
though.” His eyelids were drooping again. Did he have to be awake in
order to be shot?

“He said he owed you a debt of honor, and he does.” Melton stood up,
dusting the knees of his breeches, and turned to his lieutenant, who had
been watching the questioning with considerable bewilderment.

“It’s the deuce of a situation, Wallace. This…this Jacobite scut is
famous. You’ve heard of Red Jamie? The one on the broadsheets?” The
Lieutenant nodded, looking curiously down at the bedraggled form in the
dirt at his feet. Melton smiled bitterly.

“No, he doesn’t look so dangerous now, does he? But he’s still Red
Jamie Fraser, and His Grace would be more than pleased to hear of such
an illustrious prisoner. They haven’t yet found Charles Stuart, but a few
well-known Jacobites would please the crowds at Tower Hill nearly as
much.”

“Shall I send a message to His Grace?” The Lieutenant reached for his
message box.

“No!” Melton wheeled to glare down at his prisoner. “That’s the
difficulty! Besides being prime gallows bait, this filthy wretch is also the
man who captured my youngest brother near Preston, and rather than
shooting the brat, which is what he deserved, spared his life and returned
him to his companions. Thus,” he said through his teeth, “incurring a
bloody great debt of honor upon my family!”

“Dear me,” said the Lieutenant. “So you can’t give him to His Grace,
after all.”

“No, blast it! I can’t even shoot the bastard, without dishonoring my
brother’s sworn word!”

The prisoner opened one eye. “I willna tell anyone if you don’t,” he
suggested, and promptly closed it again.

“Shut up!” Losing his temper entirely, Melton kicked the prisoner, who
grunted at the impact, but said nothing more.

“Perhaps we could shoot him under an assumed name,” the Lieutenant
suggested helpfully.

Lord Melton gave his aide a look of withering scorn, then looked out the
window to judge the time.

“It will be dark in three hours. I’ll oversee the burial of the other
executed prisoners. Find a small wagon, and have it filled with hay. Find a
driver—pick someone discreet, Wallace, that means bribable, Wallace—
and have them here as soon as it’s dark.”

“Yes, sir. Er, sir? What about the prisoner?” The Lieutenant gestured
diffidently toward the body on the floor.

“What about him?” Melton said brusquely. “He’s too weak to crawl, let
alone walk. He isn’t going anywhere—at least not until the wagon gets
here.”

“Wagon?” The prisoner was showing signs of life. In fact, under the
stimulus of agitation, he had managed to raise himself onto one arm.
Bloodshot blue eyes gleamed wide with alarm, under the spikes of matted
red hair. “Where are ye sending me?” Turning from the door, Melton cast
him a glance of intense dislike.

“You’re the laird of Broch Tuarach, aren’t you? Well, that’s where I’m
sending you.”

“I dinna want to go home! I want to be shot!”

The Englishmen exchanged a look.

“Raving,” the Lieutenant said significantly, and Melton nodded.

“I doubt he’ll live through the journey—but his death won’t be on my
head, at least.”

The door shut firmly behind the Englishmen, leaving Jamie Fraser quite
alone—and still alive.

[broughps]

It's funny because I though the books that are on the bottom of my list wouldn't have many scenes to pick from, but every book I'd have five tabs (big yellow half sheets) by the first half of the book and would then have to go back and pick and choose moving tabs as I went.

[Krish728]

Picking top 5 for DIA was pretty easy for me.. it'll be very hard for Voyager. 

[broughps]

I know, so many good scenes.

[broughps]

Voyager

1. Jamie "dying" after Culloden - I like it because of Jamie's humor and I like Hal.

2. Jamie saying goodbye to Willie

By the middle of September, everything had been arranged. The pardon
had been procured; John Grey had brought it the day before. Jamie had a
small amount of money saved, enough for traveling expenses, and Lady
Dunsany had given him a decent horse. The only thing that remained was
to bid farewell to his acquaintances at Helwater—and Willie.

“I shall be leaving tomorrow.” Jamie spoke matter-of-factly, not taking
his eyes off the bay mare’s fetlock. The horny growth he was filing flaked
away, leaving a dust of coarse black shavings on the stable floor.

“Where are you going? To Derwentwater? Can I come with you?”

William, Viscount Dunsany, ninth Earl of Ellesmere, hopped down from
the edge of the box stall, landing with a thump that made the bay mare
start and snort.

“Don’t do that,” Jamie said automatically. “Have I not told ye to move
quiet near Milly? She’s skittish.”

“Why?”

“You’d be skittish, too, if I squeezed your knee.” One big hand darted
out and pinched the muscle just above the boy’s knee. Willie squeaked and
jerked back, giggling.

“Can I ride Millyflower when you’re done, Mac?”

“No,” Jamie answered patiently, for the dozenth time that day. “I’ve told
ye a thousand times, she’s too big for ye yet.”

“But I want to ride her!”

Jamie sighed but didn’t answer, instead moving around to the other side
of Milles Fleurs and picking up the left hoof.

“I said I want to ride Milly!”

“I heard ye.”

“Then saddle her for me! Right now!”

The ninth Earl of Ellesmere had his chin thrust out as far as it would go,
but the defiant look in his eye was tempered with a certain doubt as he
intercepted Jamie’s cold blue gaze. Jamie set the horse’s hoof down
slowly, just as slowly stood up, and drawing himself to his full height of
six feet four, put his hands on his hips, looked down at the Earl, three feet
six, and said, very softly, “No.”

“Yes!” Willie stamped his foot on the hay-strewn floor. “You have to do
what I tell you!”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do!”

“No, I…” Shaking his head hard enough to make the red hair fly about
his ears, Jamie pressed his lips tight together, then squatted down in front
of the boy.

“See here,” he said, “I havena got to do what ye say, for I’m no longer
going to be groom here. I told ye, I shall be leaving tomorrow.”

Willie’s face went quite blank with shock, and the freckles on his nose
stood out dark against the fair skin.

“You can’t!” he said. “You can’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“No!” The small Earl clenched his jaw, which gave him a truly startling
resemblance to his paternal great-grandfather. Jamie thanked his stars that
no one at Helwater had likely ever seen Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat. “I
won’t let you go!”

“For once, my lord, ye have nothing to say about it,” Jamie replied
firmly, his distress at leaving tempered somewhat by finally being allowed
to speak his mind to the boy.

“If you leave…” Willie looked around helplessly for a threat, and
spotted one easily to hand. “If you leave,” he repeated more confidently,
“I’ll scream and shout and scare all the horses, so there!”

“Make a peep, ye little fiend, and I’ll smack ye a good one!” Freed from
his usual reserve, and alarmed at the thought of this spoiled brat upsetting
the highly-strung and valuable horses, Jamie glared at the boy.

The Earl’s eyes bulged with rage, and his face went red. He took a deep
breath, then whirled and ran down the length of the stable, shrieking and
waving his arms.

Milles Fleurs, already on edge from having her hoofs fiddled with,
reared and plunged, neighing loudly. Her distress was echoed by kicks and
high-pitched whinnying from the box stalls nearby, where Willie was
roaring out all the bad words he knew—no small store—and kicking
frenziedly at the doors of the stalls.

Jamie succeeded in catching Milles Fleurs’s lead-rope and with
considerable effort, managed to get the mare outside without damage to
himself or the horse. He tied her to the paddock fence, and then strode
back into the stable to deal with Willie.

“Damn, damn, damn!” the Earl was shrieking. “Sluire! Quim! Shit!
Swive!”

Without a word, Jamie grabbed the boy by the collar, lifted him off his
feet and carried him, kicking and squirming, to the farrier’s stool he had
been using. Here he sat down, flipped the Earl over his knee, and smacked
his buttocks five or six times, hard. Then he jerked the boy up and set him
on his feet.

“I hate you!” The Viscount’s tear-smudged face was bright red and his
fists trembled with rage.

“Well, I’m no verra fond of you either, ye little bastard!” Jamie
snapped.

Willie drew himself up, fists clenched, purple in the face.

“I’m not a bastard!” he shrieked. “I’m not, I’m not! Take it back!
Nobody can say that to me! Take it back, I said!”

Jamie stared at the boy in shock. There had been talk, then, and Willie
had heard it. He had delayed his going too long.

He drew a deep breath, and then another, and hoped that his voice
would not tremble.

“I take it back,” he said softly. “I shouldna have used the word, my
lord.”

He wanted to kneel and embrace the boy, or pick him up and comfort
him against his shoulder—but that was not a gesture a groom might make
to an earl, even a young one. The palm of his left hand stung, and he
curled his fingers tight over the only fatherly caress he was ever likely to
give his son.

Willie knew how an earl should behave; he was making a masterful
effort to subdue his tears, sniffing ferociously and swiping at his face with
a sleeve.

“Allow me, my lord.” Jamie did kneel then, and wiped the little boy’s
face gently with his own coarse handkerchief. Willie’s eyes looked at him
over the cotton folds, red-rimmed and woeful.

“Have you really got to go, Mac?” he asked, in a very small voice.

“Aye, I have.” He looked into the dark blue eyes, so heartbreakingly
like his own, and suddenly didn’t give a damn what was right or who saw.
He pulled the boy roughly to him, hugging him tight against his heart,
holding the boy’s face close to his shoulder, that Willie might not see the
quick tears that fell into his thick, soft hair.

Willie’s arms went around his neck and clung tight. He could feel the
small, sturdy body shake against him with the force of suppressed sobbing.
He patted the flat little back, and smoothed Willie’s hair, and murmured
things in Gaelic that he hoped the boy would not understand.

At length, he took the boy’s arms from his neck and put him gently
away.

“Come wi’ me to my room, Willie; I shall give ye something to keep.”

He had long since moved from the hayloft, taking over Hughes’s
snuggery beside the tack room when the elderly head groom retired. It was
a small room, and very plainly furnished, but it had the twin virtues of
warmth and privacy.

Besides the bed, the stool, and a chamber pot, there was a small table,
on which stood the few books that he owned, a large candle in a pottery
candlestick, and a smaller candle, thick and squat, that stood to one side
before a small statue of the Virgin. It was a cheap wooden carving that
Jenny had sent him, but it had been made in France, and was not without
artistry.

“What’s that little candle for?” Willie asked. “Grannie says only
stinking Papists burn candles in front of heathen images.”

“Well, I am a stinking Papist,” Jamie said, with a wry twist of his
mouth. “It’s no a heathen image, though; it’s a statue of the Blessed
Mother.”

“You are?” Clearly this revelation only added to the boy’s fascination.
“Why do Papists burn candles before statues, then?”

Jamie rubbed a hand through his hair. “Aye, well. It’s…maybe a way of
praying—and remembering. Ye light the candle, and say a prayer and
think of people ye care for. And while it burns, the flame remembers them
for ye.”

“Who do you remember?” Willie glanced up at him. His hair was
standing on end, rumpled by his earlier distress, but his blue eyes were
clear with interest.

“Oh, a good many people. My family in the Highlands—my sister and
her family. Friends. My wife.” And sometimes the candle burned in
memory of a young and reckless girl named Geneva, but he did not say
that.

Willie frowned. “You haven’t got a wife.”

“No. Not anymore. But I remember her always.”

Willie put out a stubby forefinger and cautiously touched the little
statue. The woman’s hands were spread in welcome, a tender maternity
engraved on the lovely face.

“I want to be a stinking Papist, too,” Willie said firmly.

“Ye canna do that!” Jamie exclaimed, half-amused, half-touched at the
notion. “Your grandmama and your auntie would go mad.”

“Would they froth at the mouth, like that mad fox you killed?” Willie
brightened.

“I shouldna wonder,” Jamie said dryly.

“I want to do it!” The small, clear features were set in determination. “I
won’t tell Grannie or Auntie Isobel; I won’t tell anybody. Please, Mac!
Please let me! I want to be like you!”

Jamie hesitated, both touched by the boy’s earnestness, and suddenly
wanting to leave his son with something more than the carved wooden
horse he had made to leave as a farewell present. He tried to remember
what Father McMurtry had taught them in the schoolroom about baptism.
It was all right for a lay person to do it, he thought, provided that the
situation was an emergency, and no priest was to hand.

It might be stretching a point to call the present situation an emergency,
but…a sudden impulse made him reach down the jug of water that he kept
on the sill.

The eyes that were like his watched, wide and solemn, as he carefully
brushed the soft brown hair back from the high brow. He dipped three
fingers into the water and carefully traced a cross on the lad’s forehead.

“I baptize thee William James,” he said softly, “in the name o’ the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Willie blinked, crossing his eyes as a drop of water rolled down his
nose. He stuck out his tongue to catch it, and Jamie laughed, despite
himself.

“Why did you call me William James?” Willie asked curiously. “My
other names are Clarence Henry George.” He made a face; Clarence
wasn’t his idea of a good name.

Jamie hid a smile. “Ye get a new name when you’re baptized; James is
your special Papist name. It’s mine, too.”

“It is?” Willie was delighted. “I’m a stinking Papist now, like you?”

“Aye, as much as I can manage, at least.” He smiled down at Willie,
then, struck by another impulse, reached into the neck of his shirt.

“Here. Keep this, too, to remember me by.” He laid the beechwood
rosary gently over Willie’s head. “Ye canna let anyone see that, though,”
he warned. “And for God’s sake, dinna tell anyone you’re a Papist.”

“I won’t,” Willie promised. “Not a soul.” He tucked the rosary into his
shirt, patting carefully to be sure that it was hidden.

“Good.” Jamie reached out and ruffled Willie’s hair in dismissal. “It’s
almost time for your tea; ye’d best go on up to the house now.”

Willie started for the door, but stopped halfway, suddenly distressed
again, with a hand pressed flat to his chest.

“You said to keep this to remember you. But I haven’t got anything for
you to remember me by!”

Jamie smiled slightly. His heart was squeezed so tight, he thought he
could not draw breath to speak, but he forced the words out.
“Dinna fret yourself,” he said. “I’ll remember ye.”

[AJ01]

DIA:
1. Goose Grease, very funny
2. Meeting LJG
3. I like the scene where Claire tells Jamie about King Louis and he punished her with the nettles, and afterwards they find that couple trapped in a cave
4. The scene when Jamie returns from the brothel with scratches and marks and reeking badly and he has to take a bath
5. Also loved the harvesting potatoes scene

[broughps]

We're talking book only right now. We'll do the show later.

[broughps]

Voyager

1. Jamie "dying" after Culloden - I like it because of Jamie's humor and I like Hal.

2. Jamie saying goodbye to Willie

3. Jamie feverish and then explaining to Claire why he married Laoghaire

I nodded in response, and stepped through the door, closing it gently but
firmly behind me.

Too long to be laid on the sofa, Jamie lay on a camp bed set up before
the fire. Asleep or unconscious, his profile rose dark and sharp-edged
against the light of the glowing coals, unmoving.

Whatever he was, he wasn’t dead—at least not yet. My eyes growing
accustomed to the dim light of the fire, I could see the slow rise and fall of
his chest beneath nightshirt and quilt. A flask of water and a brandy bottle
sat on the small table by the bed. The padded chair by the fire had a shawl
thrown over its back; Jenny had been sitting there, watching over her
brother.

There seemed no need now for haste. I untied the strings at the neck of
my cloak, and spread the soggy garment over the chairback, taking the
shawl in substitute. My hands were cold; I put them under my arms,
hugging myself, to bring them to something like a normal temperature
before I touched him.

When I did venture to place a thawed hand on his forehead, I nearly
jerked it back. He was hot as a just-fired pistol, and he twitched and
moaned at my touch. Fever, indeed. I stood looking down at him for a
moment, then carefully moved to the side of the bed and sat down in
Jenny’s chair. I didn’t think he would sleep long, with a temperature like
that, and it seemed a shame to wake him needlessly soon, merely to
examine him.

The cloak behind me dripped water on the floor, a slow, arrhythmic
patting. It reminded me unpleasantly of an old Highland superstition—the
“death-drop.” Just before a death occurs, the story goes, the sound of water
dripping is heard in the house, by those sensitive to such things.

I wasn’t, thank heaven, subject to noticing supernatural phenomena of
that sort. No, I thought wryly, it takes something like a crack through time
to get your attention. The thought made me smile, if only briefly, and
dispelled the frisson I had felt at the thought of the death-drop.

As the rain chill left me, though, I still felt uneasy, and for obvious
reasons. It wasn’t that long ago that I had stood by another makeshift bed,
deep in the night-watches, and contemplated death, and the waste of a
marriage. The thoughts I had begun in the wood hadn’t stopped on the
hasty journey back to Lallybroch, and they continued now, without my
conscious volition.

Honor had led Frank to his decision—to keep me as his wife, and raise
Brianna as his own. Honor, and an unwillingness to decline a
responsibility he felt was his. Well, here before me lay another honorable
man.

Laoghaire and her daughters, Jenny and her family, the Scots prisoners,
the smugglers, Mr. Willoughby and Geordie, Fergus and the tenants—how
many other responsibilities had Jamie shouldered, through our years apart?

Frank’s death had absolved me of one of my own obligations; Brianna
herself of another. The Hospital Board, in their eternal wisdom, had
severed the single great remaining tie that bound me to that life. I had had
time, with Joe Abernathy’s help, to relieve myself of the smaller
responsibilities, to depute and delegate, divest and resolve.

Jamie had had neither warning nor choice about my reappearance in his
life; no time to make decisions or resolve conflicts. And he was not one to
abandon his responsibilities, even for the sake of love.

Yes, he’d lied to me. Hadn’t trusted me to recognize his responsibilities,
to stand by him—or to leave him—as his circumstances demanded. He’d
been afraid. So had I; afraid that he wouldn’t choose me, confronted with
the struggle between a twenty-year-old love and a present-day family. So
I’d run away.

“Who you jiving, L.J.?” I heard Joe Abernathy’s voice say, derisive and
affectionate. I had fled toward Craigh na Dun with all the speed and
decision of a condemned felon approaching the steps of the gallows.
Nothing had slowed my journey but the hope that Jamie would come after
me.

True, the pangs of conscience and wounded pride had spurred me on,
but the one moment when Young Ian had said, “He’s dying,” had shown
those up for the flimsy things they were.

My marriage to Jamie had been for me like the turning of a great key,
each small turn setting in play the intricate fall of tumblers within me. Bree
had been able to turn that key as well, edging closer to the unlocking of the
door of myself. But the final turn of the lock was frozen—until I had
walked into the printshop in Edinburgh, and the mechanism had sprung
free with a final, decisive click. The door now was ajar, the light of an
unknown future shining through its crack. But it would take more strength
than I had alone to push it open.

I watched the rise and fall of his breath, and the play of light and
shadow on the strong, clean lines of his face, and knew that nothing truly
mattered between us but the fact that we both still lived. So here I was.
Again. And whatever the cost of it might be to him or me, here I stayed.
I didn’t realize that his eyes had opened until he spoke.

“Ye came back, then,” he said softly. “I knew ye would.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but he was still talking, eyes fixed on my
face, pupils dilated to pools of darkness.

“My love,” he said, almost whispering. “God, ye do look so lovely, wi’
your great eyes all gold, and your hair so soft round your face.” He
brushed his tongue across dry lips. “I knew ye must forgive me,
Sassenach, once ye knew.”

Once I knew? My brows shot up, but I didn’t speak; he had more to say.
“I was so afraid to lose ye again, mo chridhe,” he murmured. “So afraid.
I havena loved anyone but you, my Sassenach, never since the day I saw
ye—but I couldna…I couldna bear…” His voice drifted off in an
unintelligible mumble, and his eyes closed again, lashes lying dark against
the high curve of his cheek.

I sat still, wondering what I should do. As I watched, his eyes opened
suddenly once again. Heavy and drowsy with fever, they sought my face.
“It willna be long, Sassenach,” he said, as though reassuring me. One
corner of his mouth twitched in an attempt at a smile. “Not long. Then I
shall touch ye once more. I do long to touch you.”

“Oh, Jamie,” I said. Moved by tenderness, I reached out and laid my
hand along his burning cheek.

His eyes snapped wide with shock, and he jerked bolt upright in bed,
letting out a bloodcurdling yell of anguish as the movement jarred his
wounded arm.

“Oh God, oh Christ, oh Jesus Lord God Almighty!” he said, bent halfbreathless
and clutching at his left arm. “You’re real! Bloody stinking
filthy pig-swiving hell! Oh, Christ!”

“Are you all right?” I said, rather inanely. I could hear startled
exclamations from the floor above, muffled by the thick planks, and the
thump of feet as one after another of Lallybroch’s inhabitants leapt from
their beds to investigate the uproar.

Jenny’s head, eyes even wider than before, poked through the parlor
door. Jamie saw her, and somehow found sufficient breath to roar “Get
out!” before doubling up again with an agonized groan.

“Je-sus,” he said between clenched teeth. “What in God’s holy name are
ye doing here, Sassenach?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” I said. “You sent for me.
And what do you mean, I’m real?”

He unclenched his jaw and tentatively loosened his grip on his left arm.
The resultant sensation proving unsatisfactory, he promptly grabbed it
again and said several things in French involving the reproductive organs
of assorted saints and animals.

“For God’s sake, lie down!” I said. I took him by the shoulders and
eased him back onto the pillows, noting with some alarm how close his
bones were to the surface of his heated skin.

“I thought ye were a fever dream, ’til you touched me,” he said,
gasping. “What the hell d’ye mean, popping up by my bed and scarin’ me
to death?” He grimaced in pain. “Christ, it feels like my damn arm’s come
off at the shoulder. Och, bugger it!” he exclaimed, as I firmly detached the
fingers of his right hand from his left arm.

“Didn’t you send Young Ian to tell me you were dying?” I said, deftly
rolling back the sleeve of his nightshirt. The arm was wound in a huge
bandage above the elbow, and I groped for the end of the linen strip.

“Me? No! Ow, that hurts!”

“It’ll hurt worse before I’m through with you,” I said, carefully
unwrapping. “You mean the little bastard came after me on his own? You
didn’t want me to come back?”

“Want ye back? No! Want ye to come back to me for nothing but pity,
the same as ye might show for a dog in a ditch? Bloody hell! No! I forbade
the little bugger to go after ye!” He scowled furiously at me, ruddy brows
knitting together.

“I’m a doctor,” I said coldly, “not a veterinarian. And if you didn’t want
me back, what was all that you were saying before you realized I was real,
hm? Bite the blanket or something; the end’s stuck, and I’m going to pull
it loose.”

He bit his lip instead, and made no noise but a swift intake of air
through his nose. It was impossible to judge his color in the firelight, but
his eyes closed briefly, and small beads of sweat popped out on his
forehead.

I turned away for a moment, groping in the drawer of Jenny’s desk
where the extra candles were kept. I needed more light before I did
anything.

“I suppose Young Ian told me you were dying just to get me back here.
He must have thought I wouldn’t come otherwise.” The candles were
there; fine beeswax, from the Lallybroch hives.

“For what it’s worth, I am dying.” His voice came from behind me, dry
and blunt, despite his breathlessness.

I turned back to him in some surprise. His eyes rested on my face quite
calmly, now that the pain in his arm had lessened a bit, but his breath was
still coming unevenly, and his eyes were heavy and bright with fever. I
didn’t respond at once, but lit the candles I had found, placing them in the
big candelabra that usually decorated the sideboard, unused save for great
occasions. The flames of five additional candles brightened the room as
though in preparation for a party. I bent over the bed, noncommital.

“Let’s have a look at it.”

The wound itself was a ragged dark hole, scabbed at the edges and
faintly blue-tinged. I pressed the flesh on either side of the wound; it was
red and angry-looking, and there was a considerable seepage of pus. Jamie
stirred uneasily as I drew my fingertips gently but firmly down the length
of the muscle.

You have the makings of a very fine little infection there, my lad,” I
said. “Young Ian said it went into your side; a second shot, or did it go
through your arm?”

“It went through. Jenny dug the ball out of my side. That wasna so bad,
though. Just an inch or so in.” He spoke in brief spurts, lips tightening
involuntarily between sentences.

“Let me see where it went through.”

Moving very slowly, he turned his hand to the outside, letting the arm
fall away from his side. I could see that even that small movement was
intensely painful. The exit wound was just above the elbow joint, on the
inside of the upper arm. Not directly opposite the entrance wound, though;
the ball had been deflected in its passage.

“Hit the bone,” I said, trying not to imagine what that must have felt
like. “Do you know if the bone’s broken? I don’t want to poke you more
than I need to.”

“Thanks for small mercies,” he said, with an attempt at a smile. The
muscles of his face trembled, though, and went slack with exhaustion.

“No, I think it’s not broken,” he said. “I’ve broken my collarbone and
my hand before, and it’s not like that, though it hurts a bit.”

“I expect it does.” I felt my way carefully up the swell of his biceps,
testing for tenderness. “How far up does the pain go?”

He glanced at his wounded arm, almost casually. “Feels like I’ve a hot
poker in my arm, not a bone. But it’s no just the arm pains me now; my
whole side’s gone stiff and sore.” He swallowed, licking his lips again.

“Will ye give me a taste of the brandy?” he asked. “It hurts to feel my
heart beating,” he added apologetically.

Without comment, I poured a cup of water from the flask on the table,
and held it to his lips. He raised one brow, but drank thirstily, then let his
head fall back against the pillow. He breathed deeply for a moment, eyes
closed, then opened them and looked directly at me.

“I’ve had two fevers in my life that near killed me,” he said. “I think this
one likely will. I wouldna send for ye, but…I’m glad you’re here.” He
swallowed once, then went on. “I…wanted to say to ye that I’m sorry. And
to bid ye a proper farewell. I wouldna ask ye to stay ’til the end, but…
would ye…would ye stay wi’ me—just for a bit?”

His right hand was pressed flat against the mattress, steadying him. I
could see that he was fighting hard to keep any note of pleading from his
voice or eyes, to make it a simple request, one that could be refused.
I sat down on the bed beside him, careful not to jar him. The firelight
glowed on one side of his face, sparking the red-gold stubble of his beard,
picking up the small flickers of silver here and there, leaving the other side
masked in shadow. He met my eyes, not blinking. I hoped the yearning
that showed in his face was not quite so apparent on my own.

I reached out and ran a hand gently down the side of his face, feeling the
soft scratchiness of beard stubble.

“I’ll stay for a bit,” I said. “But you’re not going to die.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You brought me through one bad fever, using
what I still think was witchcraft. And Jenny got me through the next, wi’
naught but plain stubbornness. I suppose wi’ the both of ye here, ye might
just manage it, but I’m no at all sure I want to go through such an ordeal
again. I think I’d rather just die and ha’ done with it, if it’s all the same to
you.”

“Ingrate,” I said. “Coward.” Torn between exasperation and tenderness,
I patted his cheek and stood up, groping in the deep pocket of my skirt.
There was one item I had carried on my person at all times, not trusting it
to the vagaries of travel.

I laid the small, flat case on the table and flipped the latch. “I’m not
going to let you die this time either,” I informed him, “greatly as I may be
tempted.” I carefully extracted the roll of gray flannel and laid it on the
table with a soft clinking noise. I unrolled the flannel, displaying the
gleaming row of syringes, and rummaged in the box for the small bottle of
penicillin tablets.

“What in God’s name are those?” Jamie asked, eyeing the syringes with
interest. “They look wicked sharp.”

I didn’t answer, occupied in dissolving the penicillin tablets in the vial
of sterile water. I selected a glass barrel, fitted a needle, and pressed the tip
through the rubber covering the mouth of the bottle. Holding it up to the
light, I pulled back slowly on the plunger, watching the thick white liquid
fill the barrel, checking for bubbles. Then pulling the needle free, I
depressed the plunger slightly until a drop of liquid pearled from the point
and rolled slowly down the length of the spike.

“Roll onto your good side,” I said, turning to Jamie, “and pull up your
shirt.”

He eyed the needle in my hand with keen suspicion, but reluctantly
obeyed. I surveyed the terrain with approval.

“Your bottom hasn’t changed a bit in twenty years,” I remarked,
admiring the muscular curves.

“Neither has yours,” he replied courteously, “but I’m no insisting you
expose it. Are ye suffering a sudden attack of lustfulness?”

“Not just at present,” I said evenly, swabbing a patch of skin with a
cloth soaked in brandy.

“That’s a verra nice make of brandy,” he said, peering back over his
shoulder, “but I’m more accustomed to apply it at the other end.”

“It’s also the best source of alcohol available. Hold still now, and relax.”

I jabbed deftly and pressed the plunger slowly in.

“Ouch!” Jamie rubbed his posterior resentfully.

“It’ll stop stinging in a minute.” I poured an inch of brandy into the cup.
“Now you can have a bit to drink—a very little bit.”

He drained the cup without comment, watching me roll up the collection
of syringes. Finally he said, “I thought ye stuck pins in ill-wish dolls when
ye meant to witch someone; not in the people themselves.”

“It’s not a pin, it’s a hypodermic syringe.”

“I dinna care what ye call it; it felt like a bloody horseshoe nail. Would
ye care to tell me why jabbing pins in my arse is going to help my arm?”

I took a deep breath. “Well, do you remember my once telling you about
germs?”

He looked quite blank.

“Little beasts too small to see,” I elaborated. “They can get into your
body through bad food or water, or through open wounds, and if they do,
they can make you ill.”

He stared at his arm with interest. “I’ve germs in my arm, have I?”

“You very definitely have.” I tapped a finger on the small flat box. “The
medicine I just shot into your backside kills germs, though. You get
another shot every four hours ’til this time tomorrow, and then we’ll see
how you’re doing.”

I paused. Jamie was staring at me, shaking his head.

“Do you understand?” I asked. He nodded slowly.

“Aye, I do. I should ha’ let them burn ye, twenty years ago.”

After giving him a shot and settling him comfortably, I sat watching until
he fell asleep again, allowing him to hold my hand until his own grip
relaxed in sleep and the big hand dropped slack by his side.

I sat by his bed for the rest of the night, dozing sometimes, and rousing
myself by means of the internal clock all doctors have, geared to the
rhythms of a hospital’s shift changes. Two more shots, the last at
daybreak, and by then the fever had loosed its hold perceptibly. He was
still very warm to the touch, but his flesh no longer burned, and he rested
easier, falling asleep after the last shot with no more than a few grumbles
and a faint moan as his arm twinged.

“Bloody eighteenth-century germs are no match for penicillin,” I told
his sleeping form. “No resistance. Even if you had syphilis, I’d have it
cleaned up in no time.”

<snip>

People passed by the door during the morning, pausing now and then to
peep through, but always went on hurriedly when I looked up. At last,
Jamie showed signs of waking, just before noon; he stirred, sighed,
groaned as the movement jarred his arm, and subsided once more.

I gave him a few moments to realize that I was there, but his eyes stayed
shut. He wasn’t asleep, though; the lines of his body were slightly tensed,
not relaxed in slumber. I had watched him sleep all night; I knew the
difference.

“All right,” I said. I leaned back in the chair, settling myself
comfortably, well out of his reach. “Let’s hear it, then.”

A small slit of blue showed under the long auburn lashes, then
disappeared again.

“Mmmm?” he said, pretending to wake slowly. The lashes fluttered
against his cheeks.

“Don’t stall,” I said crisply. “I know perfectly well you’re awake. Open
your eyes and tell me about Laoghaire.”

The blue eyes opened and rested on me with an expression of some
disfavor.

“You’re no afraid of giving me a relapse?” he inquired. “I’ve always
heard sick folk shouldna be troubled owermuch. It sets them back.”

“You have a doctor right here,” I assured him. “If you pass out from the
strain, I’ll know what to do about it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” His narrowed gaze flicked to the little case
of drugs and hypodermics on the table, then back to me. “My arse feels
like I’ve sat in a gorse bush wi’ no breeks on.”

“Good,” I said pleasantly. “You’ll get another one in an hour. Right
now, you’re going to talk.”

His lips pressed tight together, but then relaxed as he sighed. He pushed
himself laboriously upright against the pillows, one-handed. I didn’t help
him.

“All right,” he said at last. He didn’t look at me, but down at the quilt,
where his finger traced the edge of the starred design.

“Well, it was when I’d come back from England.”

He had come up from the Lake District and over the Carter’s Bar, that
great ridge of high ground that divides England from Scotland, on whose
broad back the ancient courts and markets of the Borders had been held.

“There’s a stone there to mark the border, maybe you’ll know; it looks
the sort of stone to last a while.” He glanced at me, questioning, and I
nodded. I did know it; a huge menhir, some ten feet tall. In my time,
someone had carved on its one face ENGLAND, and on the other, SCOTLAND.

There he stopped to rest, as thousands of travelers had stopped over the
years, his exiled past behind him, the future—and home—below and
beyond, past the hazy green hollows of the Lowlands, up into the gray
crags of the Highlands, hidden by fog.

His good hand ran back and forth through his hair, as it always did when
he thought, leaving the cowlicks on top standing up in small, bright
whorls.

“You’ll not know how it is, to live among strangers for so long.”

“Won’t I?” I said, with some sharpness. He glanced up at me, startled,
then smiled faintly, looking down at the coverlet.

“Aye, maybe ye will,” he said. “Ye change, no? Much as ye want to
keep the memories of home, and who ye are—you’re changed. Not one of
the strangers; ye could never be that, even if ye wanted to. But different
from who ye were, too.”

I thought of myself, standing silent beside Frank, a bit of flotsam in the
eddies of university parties, pushing a pram through the chilly parks of
Boston, playing bridge and talking with other wives and mothers, speaking
the foreign language of middle-class domesticity. Strangers indeed.

“Yes,” I said. “I know. Get on.”

He sighed, rubbing his nose with a forefinger. “So I came back,” he
said. He looked up, a smile hidden in the corner of his mouth. “What is it
ye told wee Ian? ‘Home is the place where, when ye have to go there, they
have to take ye in’?”

“That’s it,” I said. “It’s a quotation from a poet called Frost. But what
do you mean? Surely your family was glad to see you!”

He frowned, fingering the quilt. “Aye, they were,” he said slowly. “It’s
not that—I dinna mean they made me feel unwelcome, not at all. But I had
been away so long—Michael and wee Janet and Ian didna even remember
me.” He smiled ruefully. “They’d heard about me, though. When I came
into the kitchen, they’d squash back against the walls and stare at me, wi’
their eyes gone round.”

He leaned forward a little, intent on making me understand.

“See, it was different, when I hid in the cave. I wasna in the house, and
they seldom saw me, but I was always here, I was always part of them. I
hunted for them; I kent when they were hungry, or cold, or when the goats
were ill or the kail crop poor, or a new draft under the kitchen door.

“Then I went to prison,” he said abruptly. “And to England. I wrote to
them—and they to me—but it canna be the same, to see a few black words
on the paper, telling things that happened months before.

“And when I came back—” He shrugged, wincing as the movement
jarred his arm. “It was different. Ian would ask me what I thought of
fencing in auld Kirby’s pasture, but I’d know he’d already set Young
Jamie to do it. I’d walk through the fields, and folk would squint at me,
suspicious, thinking me a stranger. Then their eyes would go big as they’d
seen a ghost, when they knew me.”

He stopped, looking out at the window, where the brambles of his
mother’s rose beat against the glass as the wind changed. “I was a ghost, I
think.” He glanced at me shyly. “If ye ken what I mean.”

“Maybe,” I said. Rain was streaking the glass, with drops the same gray
as the sky outside.

“You feel like your ties to the earth are broken,” I said softly. “Floating
through rooms without feeling your footsteps. Hearing people speak to
you, and not making sense of it. I remember that—before Bree was born.”

But I had had one tie then; I had her, to anchor me to life.

He nodded, not looking at me, and then was quiet for a minute. The peat
fire hissed on the hearth behind me, smelling of the Highlands, and the
rich scent of cock-a-leekie and baking bread spread through the house,
warm and comforting as a blanket.

“I was here,” he said softly, “but not home.”

I could feel the pull of it around me—the house, the family, the place
itself. I, who couldn’t remember a childhood home, felt the urge to sit
down here and stay forever, enmeshed in the thousand strands of daily life,
bound securely to this bit of earth. What would it have meant to him, who
had lived all his life in the strength of that bond, endured his exile in the
hope of coming back to it, and then arrived to find himself still rootless?

“And I suppose I was lonely,” he said quietly. He lay still on the pillow,
eyes closed.

“I suppose you were,” I said, careful to let no tone either of sympathy or
condemnation show. I knew something of loneliness, too.
He opened his eyes then, and met my gaze with a naked honesty. “Aye,
there was that too,” he said. “Not the main thing, no—but aye, that too.”

Jenny had tried, with varying degrees of gentleness and insistence, to
persuade him to marry again. She had tried intermittently since the days
after Culloden, presenting first one and then another personable young
widow, this and that sweet-tempered virgin, all to no avail. Now, bereft of
the feelings that had sustained him so far, desperately seeking some sense
of connection—he had listened.

“Laoghaire was married to Hugh MacKenzie, one of Colum’s
tacksmen,” he said, eyes closed once more. “Hugh was killed at Culloden,
though, and two years later, Laoghaire married Simon MacKimmie of clan
Fraser. The two lassies—Marsali and Joan—they’re his. The English
arrested him a few years later, and took him to prison in Edinburgh.” He
opened his eyes, looking up at the dark ceiling beams overhead. “He had a
good house, and property worth seizing. That was enough to make a
Highland man a traitor, then, whether he’d fought for the Stuarts openly or
not.” His voice was growing hoarse, and he stopped to clear his throat.

“Simon wasn’t as lucky as I was. He died in prison, before they could
bring him to trial. The Crown tried for some time to take the estate, but
Ned Gowan went to Edinburgh, and spoke for Laoghaire, and he managed
to save the main house and a little money, claiming it was her dower
right.”

“Ned Gowan?” I spoke with mingled surprise and pleasure. “He can’t
still be alive, surely?” It was Ned Gowan, a small and elderly solicitor who
advised the MacKenzie clan on legal matters, who had saved me from
being burned as a witch, twenty years before. I had thought him quite
ancient then.

Jamie smiled, seeing my pleasure. “Oh, aye. I expect they’ll have to
knock him on the head wi’ an ax to kill him. He looks just the same as he
always did, though he must be past seventy now.”

“Does he still live at Castle Leoch?”

He nodded, reaching to the table for the tumbler of water. He drank
awkwardly, right-handed, and set it back.

“What’s left of it. Aye, though he’s traveled a great deal these last years,
appealing treason cases and filing lawsuits to recover property.” Jamie’s
smile had a bitter edge. “There’s a saying, aye? ‘After a war, first come the
corbies to eat the flesh; and then the lawyers, to pick the bones.’”

His right hand went to his left shoulder, massaging it unconsciously.

“No, he’s a good man, is Ned, in spite of his profession. He goes back
and forth to Inverness, to Edinburgh—sometimes even to London or Paris.
And he stops here from time to time, to break his journey.”

It was Ned Gowan who had mentioned Laoghaire to Jenny, returning
from Balriggan to Edinburgh. Pricking up her ears, Jenny had inquired for
further details, and finding these satisfactory, had at once sent an invitation
to Balriggan, for Laoghaire and her two daughters to come to Lallybroch
for Hogmanay, which was near.

<snip>

“It was in here,” he said, waving his good hand at the room where we
sat. “Jenny had had the furniture cleared away, all but one table wi’ the
food and the whisky, and the fiddler stood by the window there, wi’ a new
moon over his shoulder.” He nodded at the window, where the rose vine
trembled. Something of the light of that Hogmanay feast lingered on his
face, and I felt a small pang, seeing it.

“We danced all that night, sometimes wi’ others, but mostly with each
other. And at the dawn, when those still awake went to the end o’ the
house to see what omens the New Year might bring, the two of us went,
too. The single women took it in turns to spin about, and walk through the
door wi’ their eyes closed, then spin again and open their eyes to see what
the first thing they might see would be—for that tells them about the man
they’ll marry, ye ken.”

There had been a lot of laughter, as the guests, heated by whisky and
dancing, pushed and shoved at the door. Laoghaire had held back, flushed
and laughing, saying it was a game for young girls, and not for a matron of
thirty-four, but the others had insisted, and try she had. Spun three times
clockwise and opened the door, stepped out into the cold dawnlight and
spun again. And when she opened her eyes, they had rested on Jamie’s
face, wide with expectation.

“So…there she was, a widow wi’ two bairns. She needed a man, that
was plain enough. I needed…something.” He gazed into the fire, where the
low flame glimmered through the red mass of the peat; heat without much
light. “I supposed that we might help each other.”

They had married quietly at Balriggan, and he had moved his few
possessions there. Less than a year later, he had moved out again, and gone
to Edinburgh.

“What on earth happened?” I asked, more than curious.

He looked up at me, helpless.

“I canna say. It wasna that anything was wrong, exactly—only that
nothing was right.” He rubbed a hand tiredly between his brows. “It was
me, I think; my fault. I always disappointed her somehow. We’d sit down
to supper and all of a sudden the tears would well up in her eyes, and she’d
leave the table sobbing, and me sitting there wi’ not a notion what I’d done
or said wrong.”

His fist clenched on the coverlet, then relaxed. “God, I never knew what
to do for her, or what to say! Anything I said just made it worse, and there
would be days—nay, weeks!—when she’d not speak to me, but only turn
away when I came near her, and stand staring out the window until I went
away again.”

His fingers went to the parallel scratches down the side of his neck.
They were nearly healed now, but the marks of my nails still showed on
his fair skin. He looked at me wryly.

“You never did that to me, Sassenach.”

“Not my style,” I agreed, smiling faintly. “If I’m mad at you, you’ll
bloody know why, at least.”

He snorted briefly and lay back on his pillows. Neither of us spoke for a
bit. Then he said, staring up at the ceiling, “I thought I didna want to hear
anything about what it was like—wi’ Frank, I mean. I was maybe wrong
about that.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” I said. “But not just now. It’s
still your turn.”

He sighed and closed his eyes.

“She was afraid of me,” he said softly, a minute later. “I tried to be
gentle wi’ her—God, I tried again and again, everything I knew to please a
woman. But it was no use.”

His head turned restlessly, making a hollow in the feather pillow.

“Maybe it was Hugh, or maybe Simon. I kent them both, and they were
good men, but there’s no telling what goes on in a marriage bed. Maybe it
was bearing the children; not all women can stand it. But something hurt
her, sometime, and I couldna heal it for all my trying. She shrank away
when I touched her, and I could see the sickness and the fear in her eyes.”

There were lines of sorrow around his own closed eyes, and I reached
impulsively for his hand.

He squeezed it gently and opened his eyes. “That’s why I left, finally,”
he said softly. “I couldna bear it anymore.”

I didn’t say anything, but went on holding his hand, putting a finger on
his pulse to check it. His heartbeat was reassuringly slow and steady.
He shifted slightly in the bed, moving his shoulders and making a
grimace of discomfort as he did so.

“Arm hurt a lot?” I asked.

“A bit.”

I bent over him, feeling his brow. He was very warm, but not feverish.
There was a line between the thick ruddy brows, and I smoothed it with a
knuckle.

“Head ache?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go and make you some willow-bark tea.” I made to rise, but his
hand on my arm stopped me.

“I dinna need tea,” he said. “It would ease me, though, if maybe I could
lay my head in your lap, and have ye rub my temples a bit?” Blue eyes
looked up at me, limpid as a spring sky.

“You don’t fool me a bit, Jamie Fraser,” I said. “I’m not going to forget
about your next shot.” Nonetheless, I was already moving the chair out of
the way, and sitting down beside him on the bed.

He made a small grunting sound of content as I moved his head into my
lap and began to stroke it, rubbing his temples, smoothing back the thick
wavy mass of his hair. The back of his neck was damp; I lifted the hair
away and blew softly on it, seeing the smooth fair skin prickle into
gooseflesh at the nape of his neck.

“Oh, that feels good,” he murmured. Despite my resolve not to touch
him beyond the demands of caretaking until everything between us was
resolved, I found my hands molding themselves to the clean, bold lines of
his neck and shoulders, seeking the hard knobs of his vertebrae and the
broad, flat planes of his shoulder blades.

He was firm and solid under my hands, his breath a warm caress on my
thigh, and it was with some reluctance that I at last eased him back onto
the pillow and reached for the ampule of penicillin.

“All right,” I said, turning back the sheet and reaching for the hem of his
shirt. “A quick stick, and you’ll—” My hand brushed over the front of his
nightshirt, and I broke off, startled.

“Jamie!” I said, amused. “You can’t possibly!”

“I dinna suppose I can,” he agreed comfortably. He curled up on his side
like a shrimp, his lashes dark against his cheek. “But a man can dream,
no?”

I didn’t go upstairs to bed that night, either. We didn’t talk much, just lay
close together in the narrow bed, scarcely moving, so as not to jar his
injured arm. The rest of the house was quiet, everyone safely in bed, and
there was no sound but the hissing of the fire, the sigh of the wind, and the
scratch of Ellen’s rosebush at the window, insistent as the demands of
love.

“Do ye know?” he said softly, somewhere in the black, small hours of
the night. “Do ye know what it’s like to be with someone that way? To try
all ye can, and seem never to have the secret of them?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking of Frank. “Yes, I do know.”

“I thought perhaps ye did.” He was quiet for a moment, and then his
hand touched my hair lightly, a shadowy blur in the firelight.

“And then…” he whispered, “then to have it back again, that knowing.
To be free in all ye say or do, and know that it is right.”

“To say ‘I love you,’ and mean it with all your heart,” I said softly to the
dark.

“Aye,” he answered, barely audible. “To say that.”

His hand rested on my hair, and without knowing quite how it
happened, I found myself curled against him, my head just fitting in the
hollow of his shoulder.

“For so many years,” he said, “for so long, I have been so many things,
so many different men.” I felt him swallow, and he shifted slightly, the
linen of his nightshirt rustling with starch.

“I was Uncle to Jenny’s children, and Brother to her and Ian. ‘Milord’ to
Fergus, and ‘Sir’ to my tenants. ‘Mac Dubh’ to the men of Ardsmuir and
‘MacKenzie’ to the other servants at Helwater. ‘Malcolm the printer,’
then, and ‘Jamie Roy’ at the docks.” The hand stroked my hair, slowly,
with a whispering sound like the wind outside. “But here,” he said, so
softly I could barely hear him, “here in the dark, with you…I have no
name.”

I lifted my face toward his, and took the warm breath of him between
my own lips.

“I love you,” I said, and did not need to tell him how I meant it.

[broughps]

Voyager

1. Jamie "dying" after Culloden - I like it because of Jamie's humor and I like Hal.

2. Jamie saying goodbye to Willie

3. Jamie feverish and then explaining to Claire why he married Laoghaire

4. Non sex sex scene and Fergus' wedding

The new captain of the Artemis was standing in the middle of his cabin,
eyes closed and completely naked, blissfully scratching his testicles.

“Er,” I said, confronted with this sight. His eyes popped open and his
face lit with joy. The next moment, I was enfolded in his embrace, face
pressed against the red-gold curls of his chest.

We didn’t say anything for quite some time. I could hear the thrum of
footsteps on the deck overhead, the shouts of the crew, ringing with joy at
the imminence of escape, and the creak and flap of sails being rigged. The
Artemis was coming back to life around us.

My face was warm, tingling from the rasp of his beard. I felt suddenly
strange and shy holding him, he naked as a jay and myself as bare under
the remnants of Father Fogden’s tattered robe.

The body that pressed against my own with mounting urgency was the
same from the neck down, but the face was a stranger’s, a Viking
marauder’s. Besides the beard that transformed his face, he smelled
unfamiliar, his own sweat overlaid with rancid cooking oil, spilled beer,
and the reek of harsh perfume and unfamiliar spices.

I let go, and took a step back.

“Shouldn’t you dress?” I asked. “Not that I don’t enjoy the scenery,” I
added, blushing despite myself. “I—er…I think I like the beard. Maybe,” I
added doubtfully, scrutinizing him.

“I don’t,” he said frankly, scratching his jaw. “I’m crawling wi’ lice, and
it itches like a fiend.”

“Eew!” While I was entirely familiar with Pediculus humanus, the
common body louse, acquaintance had not endeared me. I rubbed a hand
nervously through my own hair, already imagining the prickle of feet on
my scalp, as tiny sestets gamboled through the thickets of my curls.
He grinned at me, white teeth startling in the auburn beard.

“Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach,” he assured me. “I’ve already sent for
a razor and hot water.”

“Really? It seems rather a pity to shave it off right away.” Despite the
lice, I leaned forward to peer at his hirsute adornment. “It’s like your hair,
all different colors. Rather pretty, really.”

I touched it, warily. The hairs were odd; thick and wiry, very curly, in
contrast to the soft thick smoothness of the hair on his head. They sprang
exuberantly from his skin in a profusion of colors; copper, gold, amber,
cinnamon, a roan so deep as almost to be black. Most startling of all was a
thick streak of silver that ran from his lower lip to the line of his jaw.

“That’s funny,” I said, tracing it. “You haven’t any white hairs on your
head, but you have right here.”

“I have?” He put a hand to his jaw, looking startled, and I suddenly
realized that he likely had no idea what he looked like. Then he smiled
wryly, and bent to pick up the pile of discarded clothes from the floor.

“Aye, well, little wonder if I have; I wonder I’ve not gone white-haired
altogether from the things I’ve been through this month.” He paused,
eyeing me over the wadded white breeches.

“And speaking of that, Sassenach, as I was saying to ye in the trees—”

“Yes, speaking of that,” I interrupted. “What in the name of God did
you do?”

“Oh, the soldiers, ye mean?” He scratched his chin meditatively. “Well,
it was simple enough. I told the soldiers that as soon as the ship was
launched, we’d gather everyone on deck, and at my signal, they were to
fall on the crew and push them into the hold.” A broad grin blossomed
through the foliage. “Only Fergus had mentioned it to the crew, ye see; so
when each soldier came aboard, two of the crewmen snatched him by the
arms while a third gagged him, bound his arms, and took away his
weapons. Then we pushed all of them into the hold. That’s all.” He
shrugged, modestly nonchalant.

“Right,” I said, exhaling. “And as for just how you happened to be here
in the first place…”

<snip>

“Just what d’ye mean to do wi’ the vinegar Sassenach?” Jamie observed
me narrowly, as Maitland vanished into the corridor.

“Souse you in it to kill the lice,” I said. “I don’t intend to sleep with a
seething nest of vermin.”

“Oh,” he said. He scratched the side of his neck meditatively. “Ye mean
to sleep with me, do you?” He glanced at the berth, an uninviting hole in
the wall.

“I don’t know where, precisely, but yes, I do,” I said firmly. “And I
wish you wouldn’t shave your beard just yet,” I added, as he bent to set
down the tray he was holding.

“Why not?” He glanced curiously over his shoulder at me, and I felt the
heat rising in my cheeks.

“Er…well. It’s a bit…different.”

“Oh, aye?” He stood up and took a step toward me. In the cramped
confines of the cabin, he seemed even bigger—and a lot more naked—than
he ever had on deck.

The dark blue eyes had slanted into triangles of amusement.

“How, different?” he asked.

“Well, it…um…” I brushed my fingers vaguely past my burning cheeks.
“It feels different. When you kiss me. On my…skin.”

His eyes locked on mine. He hadn’t moved, but he seemed much closer.

“Ye have verra fine skin, Sassenach,” he said softly. “Like pearls and
opals.” He reached out a finger and very gently traced the line of my jaw.
And then my neck, and the wide flare of collarbone and back, and down,
in a slow-moving serpentine that brushed the tops of my breasts, hidden in
the deep cowl neck of the priest’s robe. “Ye have a lot of verra fine skin,
Sassenach,” he added. One eyebrow quirked up. “If that’s what ye were
thinking?”

I swallowed and licked my lips, but didn’t look away.

“That’s more or less what I was thinking, yes.”

He took his finger away and glanced at the bowl of steaming water.

“Aye, well. It seems a shame to waste the water. Shall I send it back to
Murphy to make soup, or shall I drink it?”

I laughed, both tension and strangeness dissolving at once.

“You shall sit down,” I said, “and wash with it. You smell like a
brothel.”

“I expect I do,” he said, scratching. “There’s one upstairs in the tavern
where the soldiers go to drink and gamble.” He took up the soap and
dropped it in the hot water.

“Upstairs, eh?” I said.

“Well, the girls come down, betweentimes,” he explained. “It wouldna
be mannerly to stop them sitting on your lap, after all.”

“And your mother brought you up to have nice manners, I expect,” I
said, very dryly.

“Upon second thoughts, I think perhaps we shall anchor here for the
night,” he said thoughtfully, looking at me.

“Shall we?”

“And sleep ashore, where there’s room.”

“Room for what?” I asked, regarding him with suspicion.

“Well, I have it planned, aye?” he said, sloshing water over his face with
both hands.

“You have what planned?” I asked. He snorted and shook the excess
water from his beard before replying.

“I have been thinking of this for months, now,” he said, with keen
anticipation. “Every night, folded up in that godforsaken nutshell of a
berth, listening to Fergus grunt and fart across the cabin. I thought it all
out, just what I would do, did I have ye naked and willing, no one in
hearing, and room enough to serve ye suitably.” He lathered the cake of
soap vigorously between his palms, and applied it to his face.

“Well, I’m willing enough,” I said, intrigued. “And there’s room,
certainly. As for naked…”

“I’ll see to that,” he assured me. “That’s part o’ the plan, aye? I shall
take ye to a private spot, spread out a quilt to lie on, and commence by
sitting down beside you.”

“Well, that’s a start, all right,” I said. “What then?” I sat down next to
him on the berth. He leaned close and bit my earlobe very delicately.

“As for what next, then I shall take ye on my knee and kiss ye.” He
paused to illustrate, holding my arms so I couldn’t move. He let go a
minute later, leaving my lips slightly swollen, tasting of ale, soap, and
Jamie.

“So much for step one,” I said, wiping soapsuds from my mouth. “What
then?”

“Then I shall lay ye down upon the quilt, twist your hair up in my hand
and taste your face and throat and ears and bosom wi’ my lips,” he said. “I
thought I would do that until ye start to make squeaking noises.”

“I don’t make squeaking noises!”

“Aye, ye do,” he said. “Here, hand me the towel, aye?”

“Then,” he went on cheerfully, “I thought I would begin at the other
end. I shall lift up your skirt and—” His face disappeared into the folds of
the linen towel.

“And what?” I asked, thoroughly intrigued.

“And kiss the insides of your thighs, where the skin’s so soft. The beard
might help there, aye?” He stroked his jaw, considering.

“It might,” I said, a little faintly. “What am I supposed to be doing while
you do this?”

“Well, ye might moan a bit, if ye like, to encourage me, but otherwise,
ye just lie still.”

He didn’t sound as though he needed any encouragement whatever. One
of his hands was resting on my thigh as he used the other to swab his chest
with the damp towel. As he finished, the hand slid behind me, and
squeezed.

“My beloved’s arm is under me,” I quoted. “And his hand behind my
head. Comfort me with apples, and stay me with flagons, For I am sick of
love.”

There was a flash of white teeth in his beard.

“More like grapefruit,” he said, one hand cupping my behind. “Or
possibly gourds. Grapefruit are too small.”

“Gourds?” I said indignantly.

“Well, wild gourds get that big sometimes,” he said. “But aye, that’s
next.” He squeezed once more, then removed the hand in order to wash the
armpit on that side. “I lie upon my back and have ye stretched at length
upon me, so that I can get hold of your buttocks and fondle them
properly.” He stopped washing to give me a quick example of what he
thought proper, and I let out an involuntary gasp.

“Now,” he went on, resuming his ablutions, “should ye wish to kick
your legs a bit, or make lewd motions wi’ your hips and pant in my ear at
that point in the proceedings, I should have no great objection.”

“I do not pant!”

“Aye, ye do. Now, about your breasts—”

“Oh, I thought you’d forgotten those.”

“Never in life,” he assured me. “No,” he went blithely on, “that’s when I
take off your gown, leaving ye in naught but your shift.”

“I’m not wearing a shift.”

“Oh? Well, no matter,” he said, dismissing this. “I meant to suckle ye
through the thin cotton, ’til your nipples stood up hard in my mouth, and
then take it off, but it’s no great concern; I’ll manage without. So, allowing
for the absence of your shift, I shall attend to your breasts until ye make
that wee bleating noise—”

“I don’t—”

“And then,” he said, interrupting, “since ye will, according to the plan,
be naked, and—provided I’ve done it right so far—possibly willing as well
—”

“Oh, just possibly,” I said. My lips were still tingling from step one.

“—then I shall spread open your thighs, take down my breeks, and—”

He paused, waiting.

“And?” I said, obligingly.

The grin widened substantially.

“And we’ll see what sort of noise it is ye don’t make then, Sassenach.”

<snip>

“Can a man not dress in peace?” Jamie demanded irritably. “Come,
then!”

The door swung open, revealing Marsali, who blinked at the sight of her
nude stepfather. Jamie hastily swathed his midsection in the shirt he was
holding, and nodded to her, sangfroid only slightly impaired.

“Marsali, lass. I’m glad to see ye unhurt. Did ye require something?”

The girl edged into the room, taking up a position between the table and
a sea chest.

“Aye, I do,” she said. She was sunburned, and her nose was peeling, but
I thought she seemed pale nonetheless. Her fists were clenched at her
sides, and her chin lifted as for battle.

“I require ye to keep your promise,” she said.

“Aye?” Jamie looked wary.

“Your promise to let me and Fergus be married, so soon as we came to
the Indies.” A small wrinkle appeared between her fair eyebrows.
“Hispaniola is in the Indies, no? The Jew said so.”

Jamie scratched at his beard, looking reluctant.

“It is,” he said. “And aye, I suppose if I…well, aye. I did promise. But
—you’re still sure of yourselves, the two of ye?” She lifted her chin
higher, jaw set firmly.

“We are.”

Jamie lifted one eyebrow.

“Where’s Fergus?”

“Helping stow the cargo. I kent we’d be under way soon, so I thought
I’d best come and ask now.”

“Aye. Well.” Jamie frowned, then sighed with resignation. “Aye, I said.
But I did say as ye must be blessed by a priest, did I no? There’s no priest
closer than Bayamo, and that’s three days’ ride. But perhaps in Jamaica…”

“Nay, you’re forgetting!” Marsali said triumphantly. “We’ve a priest
right here. Father Fogden can marry us.”

I felt my jaw drop, and hastily closed it. Jamie was scowling at her.

“We sail first thing in the morning!”

“It won’t take long,” she said. “It’s only a few words, after all. We’re
already married, by law; it’s only to be blessed by the Church, aye?” Her
hand flattened on her abdomen where her marriage contract presumably
resided beneath her stays.

“But your mother…” Jamie glanced helplessly at me for reinforcement.

I shrugged, equally helpless. The task of trying either to explain Father
Fogden to Jamie or to dissuade Marsali was well beyond me.

“He likely won’t do it, though.” Jamie came up with this objection with
a palpable air of relief. “The crew have been trifling with one of his
parishioners named Arabella. He willna want anything to do wi’ us, I’m
afraid.”

“Yes, he will! He’ll do it for me—he likes me!” Marsali was almost
dancing on her toes with eagerness.

Jamie looked at her for a long moment, eyes fixed on hers, reading her
face. She was very young.

“You’re sure, then, lassie?” he said at last, very gently. “Ye want this?”

She took a deep breath, a glow spreading over her face.

“I am, Da. I truly am. I want Fergus! I love him!”

Jamie hesitated a moment, then rubbed a hand through his hair and
nodded.

“Aye, then. Go and send Mr. Stern to me, then fetch Fergus and tell him
to make ready.”

“Oh, Da! Thank you, thank you!” Marsali flung herself at him and
kissed him. He held her with one arm, clutching the shirt about his middle
with the other. Then he kissed her on the forehead and pushed her gently
away.

“Take care,” he said, smiling. “Ye dinna want to go to your bridal
covered wi’ lice.”

“Oh!” This seemed to remind her of something. She glanced at me and
blushed, putting up a hand to her own pale locks, which were matted with
sweat and straggling down her neck from a careless knot.

“Mother Claire,” she said shyly, “I wonder—would ye—could ye lend
me a bit of the special soap ye make wi’ the chamomile? I—if there’s time
—” she added, with a hasty glance at Jamie, “I should like to wash my
hair.”

“Of course,” I said, and smiled at her. “Come along and we’ll make you
pretty for your wedding.” I looked her over appraisingly, from glowing
round face to dirty bare feet. The crumpled muslin of her sea-shrunk gown
stretched tight over her bosom, slight as it was, and the grubby hem
hovered several inches above her sandy ankles.

A thought struck me, and I turned to Jamie. “She should have a nice
dress to be married in,” I said.

“Sassenach,” he said, with obviously waning patience, “we havena—”

“No, but the priest does,” I interrupted. “Tell Lawrence to ask Father
Fogden whether we might borrow one of his gowns; Ermenegilda’s, I
mean. I think they’re almost the right size.”

Jamie’s face went blank with surprise above his beard.

“Ermenegilda?” he said. “Arabella? Gowns?” He narrowed his eyes at
me. “What sort of priest is this man, Sassenach?”

I paused in the doorway, Marsali hovering impatiently in the passage
beyond.

“Well,” I said, “he drinks a bit. And he’s rather fond of sheep. But he
might remember the words to the wedding ceremony.”

It was one of the more unusual weddings I had attended. The sun had long
since sunk into the sea by the time all arrangements were made. To the
disgruntlement of Mr. Warren, the ship’s master, Jamie had declared that
we would not leave until the next day, so as to allow the newlyweds one
night of privacy ashore.

“Damned if I’d care to consummate a marriage in one of those
godforsaken pesthole berths,” he told me privately. “If they got coupled in
there to start wi’, we’d never pry them out. And the thought of takin’ a
maidenhead in a hammock—”

“Quite,” I said. I poured more vinegar on his head, smiling to myself.
“Very thoughtful of you.”

Now Jamie stood by me on the beach, smelling rather strongly of
vinegar, but handsome and dignified in blue coat, clean stock and linen,
and gray serge breeks, with his hair clubbed back and ribboned. The wild
red beard was a bit incongruous above his otherwise sober garb, but it had
been neatly trimmed and fine-combed with vinegar, and stockinged feet
notwithstanding, he made a fine picture as father of the bride.

Murphy, as one chief witness, and Maitland, as the other, were
somewhat less prepossessing, though Murphy had washed his hands and
Maitland his face. Fergus would have preferred Lawrence Stern as a
witness, and Marsali had asked for me, but both were dissuaded; first on
grounds that Stern was not a Christian, let alone a Catholic, and then, by
consideration that while I was religiously qualified, that fact was unlikely
to weigh heavily with Laoghaire, once she found out about it.

“I’ve told Marsali she must write to her mother to say she’s wed,” Jamie
murmured to me as we watched the preparations on the beach go forward.
“But perhaps I shall suggest she doesna say much more about it than that.”

I saw his point; Laoghaire was not going to be pleased at hearing that
her eldest daughter had eloped with a one-handed ex-pickpocket twice her
age. Her maternal feelings were unlikely to be assuaged by hearing that the
marriage had been performed in the middle of the night on a West Indian
beach by a disgraced—if not actually defrocked—priest, witnessed by
twenty-five seamen, ten French horses, a small flock of sheep—all gaily
beribboned in honor of the occasion—and a King Charles spaniel, who
added to the generally festive feeling by attempting to copulate with
Murphy’s wooden leg at every opportunity. The only thing that could
make things worse, in Laoghaire’s view, would be to hear that I had
participated in the ceremony.

Several torches were lit, bound to stakes pounded into the sand, and the
flames streamed seaward in tails of red and orange, bright against the
black velvet night. The brilliant stars of the Caribbean shone overhead like
the lights of heaven. While it was not a church, few brides had had a more
beautiful setting for their nuptials.

I didn’t know what prodigies of persuasion had been required on
Lawrence’s part, but Father Fogden was there, frail and insubstantial as a
ghost, the blue sparks of his eyes the only real signs of life. His skin was
gray as his robe, and his hands trembled on the worn leather of his prayer
book.

Jamie glanced sharply at him, and appeared to be about to say
something, but then merely muttered under his breath in Gaelic and
pressed his lips tightly together. The spicy scent of sangria wafted from
Father Fogden’s vicinity, but at least he had reached the beach under his
own power. He stood swaying between two torches, laboriously trying to
turn the pages of his book as the light offshore wind jerked them fluttering
from his fingers.

At last he gave up, and dropped the book on the sand with a little plop!

“Um,” he said, and belched. He looked about and gave us a small, saintlike
smile. “Dearly beloved of God.”

It was several moments before the throng of shuffling, murmuring
spectators realized that the ceremony had started, and began to poke each
other and straighten to attention.

“Wilt thou take this woman?” Father Fogden demanded, suddenly
rounding ferociously on Murphy.

“No!” said the cook, startled. “I don’t hold wi’ women. Messy things.”

“You don’t?” Father Fogden closed one eye, the remaining orb bright
and accusing. He looked at Maitland.

“Do you take this woman?”

“Not me, sir, no. Not that anyone wouldn’t be pleased,” he added
hastily. “Him, please.” Maitland pointed at Fergus, who stood next to the
cabin boy, glowering at the priest.

“Him? You’re sure? He hasn’t a hand,” Father Fogden said doubtfully.
“Won’t she mind?”

“I will not!” Marsali, imperious in one of Ermenegilda’s gowns, blue
silk encrusted with gold embroidery along the low, square neckline and
puffed sleeves, stood beside Fergus. She looked lovely, with her hair clean
and bright as fresh straw, brushed to a gloss and floating loose round her
shoulders, as became a maiden. She also looked angry.

“Go on!” She stamped her foot, which made no noise on the sand, but
seemed to startle the priest.

“Oh, yes,” he said nervously, taking one step back. “Well, I don’t
suppose it’s an impt—impeddy—impediment, after all. Not as though he’d
lost his cock, I mean. He hasn’t, has he?” the priest inquired anxiously, as
the possibility occurred to him. “I can’t marry you if he has. It’s not
allowed.”

Marsali’s face was already bathed in red by torchlight. The expression
on it at this point reminded me strongly of how her mother had looked
upon finding me at Lallybroch. A visible tremor ran through Fergus’s
shoulders, whether of rage or laughter, I couldn’t tell.

Jamie quelled the incipient riot by striding firmly into the middle of the
wedding and placing a hand on the shoulders of Fergus and Marsali.

“This man,” he said, with a nod toward Fergus, “and this woman,” with
another toward Marsali. “Marry them, Father. Now. Please,” he added, as
an obvious afterthought, and stood back a pace, restoring order among the
audience by dint of dark glances from side to side.

“Oh, quite. Quite,” Father Fogden repeated, swaying gently. “Quite,
quite.” A long pause followed, during which the priest squinted at Marsali.

“Name,” he said abruptly. “I have to have a name. Can’t get married
without a name. Just like a cock. Can’t get married without a name; can’t
get married without a c—”

“Marsali Jane MacKimmie Joyce!” Marsali spoke up loudly, drowning
him out.

“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly. “Of course it is. Marsali. Mar-sa-lee. Just
so. Well, then, do you Mar-sa-lee take this man—even though he’s
missing a hand and possibly other parts not visible—to be your lawful
husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, forsaking…” At this
point he trailed off, his attention fixed on one of the sheep that had
wandered into the light and was chewing industriously on a discarded
stocking of striped wool.

“I do!”

Father Fogden blinked, brought back to attention. He made an
unsuccessful attempt to stifle another belch, and transferred his bright blue
gaze to Fergus.

“You have a name, too? And a cock?”

“Yes,” said Fergus, wisely choosing not to be more specific. “Fergus.”
The priest frowned slightly at this. “Fergus?” he said. “Fergus. Fergus.
Yes, Fergus, got that. That’s all? No more name? Need more names,
surely.”

“Fergus,” Fergus repeated, with a note of strain in his voice. Fergus was
the only name he had ever had—bar his original French name of Claudel.
Jamie had given him the name Fergus in Paris, when they had met, twenty
years before. But naturally a brothel-born bastard would have no last name
to give a wife.

“Fraser,” said a deep, sure voice beside me. Fergus and Marsali both
glanced back in surprise, and Jamie nodded. His eyes met Fergus’s, and he
smiled faintly.

“Fergus Claudel Fraser,” he said, slowly and clearly. One eyebrow lifted
as he looked at Fergus.

Fergus himself looked transfixed. His mouth hung open, eyes wide
black pools in the dim light. Then he nodded slightly, and a glow rose in
his face, as though he contained a candle that had just been lit.

“Fraser,” he said to the priest. His voice was husky, and he cleared his
throat. “Fergus Claudel Fraser.”

Father Fogden had his head tilted back, watching the sky, where a
crescent of light floated over the trees, holding the black orb of the moon
in its cup. He lowered his head to face Fergus, looking dreamy.

“Well, that’s good,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

A small poke in the ribs from Maitland brought him back to an
awareness of his responsibilities.

“Oh! Um. Well. Man and wife. Yes, I pronounce you man—no, that’s
not right, you haven’t said whether you’d take her. She has both hands,” he
added helpfully.

“I will,” Fergus said. He had been holding Marsali’s hand; now he let go
and dug hastily in his pocket, coming out with a small gold ring. He must
have bought it in Scotland, I realized, and kept it ever since, not wanting to
make the marriage official until it had been blessed. Not by a priest—by
Jamie.

The beach was silent as he slid the ring on her finger, all eyes fixed on
the small gold circle and the two heads bent close together over it, one
bright, one dark.

So she had done it. One fifteen-year-old girl, with nothing but
stubbornness as a weapon. “I want him,” she had said. And kept saying it,
through her mother’s objections and Jamie’s arguments, through Fergus’s
scruples and her own fears, through three thousand miles of homesickness,
hardship, ocean storm, and shipwreck.

She raised her face, shining, and found her mirror in Fergus’s eyes. I
saw them look at each other, and felt the tears prickle behind my lids.

“I want him.” I had not said that to Jamie at our marriage; I had not
wanted him, then. But I had said it since, three times; in two moments of
choice at Craigh na Dun, and once again at Lallybroch.

“I want him.” I wanted him still, and nothing whatever could stand
between us.

He was looking down at me; I could feel the weight of his gaze, dark
blue and tender as the sea at dawn.

“What are ye thinking, mo chridhe?” he asked softly.

I blinked back the tears and smiled at him. His hands were large and
warm on mine.

“What I tell you three times is true,” I said. And standing on tiptoe, I
kissed him as the sailor’s cheer went up.

[broughps]

Voyager

1. Jamie "dying" after Culloden - I like it because of Jamie's humor and I like Hal.

2. Jamie saying goodbye to Willie

3. Jamie feverish and then explaining to Claire why he married Laoghaire

4. Non sex sex scene and Fergus' wedding

5. Claire finding out about Willie

It was another hour before the door opened again, this time to admit the
Governor. He was still handsome and neat as a white camellia, but
definitely beginning to turn brown round the edges. I set the untouched
glass of brandy down and got to my feet to face him.

“Where is Jamie?”

“Still being questioned by Captain Jacobs, the militia commander.” He
sank into his chair, looking bemused. “I had no notion he spoke French so
remarkably well.”

“I don’t suppose you know him all that well,” I said, deliberately
baiting. What I wanted badly to know was just how well he did know
Jamie. He didn’t rise to it, though; merely took off his formal wig and laid
it aside, running a hand through his damp blond hair with relief.

“Can he keep up such an impersonation, do you think?” he asked,
frowning, and I realized that he was so occupied with thoughts of the
murder and of Jamie that he was paying little, if any, attention to me.

“Yes,” I said shortly. “Where do they have him?” I got up, heading for
the door.

“In the formal parlor,” he said. “But I don’t think you should—”

Not pausing to listen, I yanked open the door and poked my head into
the hall, then hastily drew it back and slammed the door.

Coming down the hall was the Admiral I had met in the receiving line,
face set in lines of gravity suitable to the situation. Admirals I could deal
with. However, he was accompanied by a flotilla of junior officers, and
among the entourage I had spotted a face I knew, though he was now
wearing the uniform of a first lieutenant, instead of an oversized captain’s
coat.

He was shaved and rested, but his face was puffy and discolored;
someone had beaten him up in the not too distant past. Despite the
differences in his appearance, I had not the slightest difficulty in
recognizing Thomas Leonard. I had the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t
have any trouble recognizing me, either, violet silk notwithstanding.

I looked frantically about the office for someplace to hide, but short of
crawling into the kneehole of the desk, there was no place at all. The
Governor was watching me, fair brows raised in astonishment.

“What—” he began, but I rounded on him, finger to my lips.

“Don’t give me away, if you value Jamie’s life!” I hissed
melodramatically, and so saying, flung myself onto the velvet love seat,
snatched up the damp towel and dropped it on my face, and—with a
superhuman effort of will—forced all my limbs to go limp.

I heard the door open, and the Admiral’s high, querulous voice.

“Lord John—” he began, and then evidently noticed my supine form,
for he broke off and resumed in a slightly lower voice, “Oh! I collect you
are engaged?”

“Not precisely engaged, Admiral, no.” Grey had fast reflexes, I would
say that for him; he sounded perfectly self-possessed, as though he were
quite used to being found in custody of unconscious females. “The lady
was overcome by the shock of discovering the body.”

“Oh!” said the Admiral again, this time dripping with sympathy. “I quite
see that. Beastly shock for a lady, to be sure.” He hesitated, then dropping
his voice to a sort of hoarse whisper, said, “D’you think she’s asleep?”

“I should think so,” the Governor assured him. “She’s had enough
brandy to fell a horse.” My fingers twitched, but I managed to lie still.

“Oh, quite. Best thing for shock, brandy.” The Admiral went on
whispering, sounding like a rusted hinge. “Meant to tell you I have sent to
Antigua for additional troops—quite at your disposal—guards, search the
town—if the militia don’t find the fellow first,” he added.

“I hope they may not,” said a viciously determined voice among the
officers. “I’d like to catch the yellow bugger myself. There wouldn’t be
enough of him left to hang, believe me!”

A deep murmur of approval at this sentiment went through the men, to
be sternly quelled by the Admiral.

“Your sentiments do you credit, gentlemen,” he said, “but the law will
be observed in all respects. You will make that clear to the troops in your
command; when the miscreant is taken, he is to be brought to the
Governor, and justice will be properly executed, I assure you.” I didn’t like
the way he emphasized the word “executed,” but he got a grudging chorus
of assent from his officers.

The Admiral, having delivered this order in his ordinary voice, dropped
back into a whisper to take his leave.

“I shall be staying in the town, at MacAdams’ Hotel,” he croaked. “Do
not hesitate to send to me for any assistance, Your Excellency.”

There was a general shuffle and murmur as the naval officers took their
leave, observing discretion for the sake of my slumbers. Then came the
sound of a single pair of footsteps, and then the whoosh and creak of
someone settling heavily into a chair. There was silence for a moment.

Then Lord John said “You can get up now, if you wish. I am supposing
that you are not in fact prostrate with shock,” he added, ironically.
“Somehow I suspect that a mere murder would not be sufficient to
discompose a woman who could deal single-handedly with a typhoid
epidemic.”

I removed the towel from my face and swung my feet off the chaise,
sitting up to face him. He was leaning on his desk, chin in his hands,
staring at me.

“There are shocks,” I said precisely, smoothing back my damp curls and
giving him an eyeball, “and then there are shocks. If you know what I
mean.”

He looked surprised; then a flicker of understanding came into his
expression. He reached into the drawer of his desk, and pulled out my fan,
white silk embroidered with violets.

“This is yours, I suppose? I found it in the corridor.” His mouth twisted
wryly as he looked at me. “I see. I suppose, then, you will have some
notion of how your appearance earlier this evening affected me.”

“I doubt it very much,” I said. My fingers were still icy, and I felt as
though I had swallowed some large, cold object that pressed
uncomfortably under my breastbone. I breathed deeply, trying to force it
down, to no avail. “You didn’t know that Jamie was married?”

He blinked, but not in time to keep me from seeing a small grimace of
pain, as though someone had struck him suddenly across the face.

“I knew he had been married,” he corrected. He dropped his hands,
fiddling aimlessly with the small objects that littered his desk. “He told me
—or gave me to understand, at least—that you were dead.”

Grey picked up a small silver paperweight, and turned it over and over
in his hands, eyes fixed on the gleaming surface. A large sapphire was set
in it, winking blue in the candlelight.

“Has he never mentioned me?” he asked softly. I wasn’t sure whether
the undertone in his voice was pain or anger. Despite myself, I felt some
small sense of pity for him.

“Yes, he did,” I said. “He said you were his friend.” He glanced up, the
fine-cut face lightening a bit.

“Did he?”

“You have to understand,” I said. “He—I—we were separated by the
war, the Rising. Each of us thought the other was dead. I found him again
only—my God, was it only four months ago?” I felt staggered, and not
only by the events of the evening. I felt as though I had lived several
lifetimes since the day I had opened the door of the printshop in
Edinburgh, to find A. Malcolm bending over his press.

The lines of stress in Grey’s face eased a little.

“I see,” he said slowly. “So—you have not seen him since—my God,
that’s twenty years!” He stared at me, dumbfounded. “And four months?
Why—how—” He shook his head, brushing away the questions.

“Well, that’s of no consequence just now. But he did not tell you—that
is—has he not told you about Willie?”

I stared at him blankly.

“Who’s Willie?”

Instead of explaining, he bent and opened the drawer of his desk. He
pulled out a small object and laid it on the desk, motioning me to come
closer.

It was a portrait, an oval miniature, set in a carved frame of some finegrained
dark wood. I looked at the face, and sat down abruptly, my knees
gone to water. I was only dimly aware of Grey’s face, floating above the
desk like a cloud on the horizon, as I picked up the miniature to look at it
more closely.

He might have been Bree’s brother, was my first thought. The second,
coming with the force of a blow to the solar plexus, was “My God in
heaven, he is Bree’s brother!”

There couldn’t be much doubt about it. The boy in the portrait was
perhaps nine or ten, with a childish tenderness still lingering about his
face, and his hair was a soft chestnut brown, not red. But the slanted blue
eyes looked out boldly over a straight nose a fraction of an inch too long,
and the high Viking cheekbones pressed tight against smooth skin. The tilt
of the head held the same confident carriage as that of the man who had
given him that face.

My hands trembled so violently that I nearly dropped it. I set it back on
the desk, but kept my hand over it, as though it might leap up and bite me.
Grey was watching me, not without sympathy.

“You didn’t know?” he said.

“Who—” My voice was hoarse with shock, and I had to stop and clear
my throat. “Who is his mother?”

Grey hesitated, eyeing me closely, then shrugged slightly.
“Was. She’s dead.”

“Who was she?” The ripples of shock were still spreading from an
epicenter in my stomach, making the crown of my head tingle and my toes
go numb, but at least my vocal cords were coming back under my control.
I could hear Jenny saying, He’s no the sort of man should sleep alone,
aye? Evidently he wasn’t.

“Her name was Geneva Dunsany,” Grey said. “My wife’s sister.”

My mind was reeling, in an effort to make sense of all this, and I
suppose I was less than tactful.

“Your wife?” I said, goggling at him. He flushed deeply and looked
away. If I had been in any doubt about the nature of the look I had seen
him give Jamie, I wasn’t any longer.

“I think you had better bloody well explain to me just what you have to
do with Jamie, and this Geneva, and this boy,” I said, picking up the
portrait once more.

He raised one brow, cool and reserved; he had been shocked, too, but
the shock was wearing off.

“I cannot see that I am under any particular obligation to do so,” he said.
I fought back the urge to rake my nails down his face, but the impulse
must have shown on my face, for he pushed back his chair and got his feet
under him, ready to move quickly. He eyed me warily across the expanse
of dark wood.

I took several deep breaths, unclenched my fists, and spoke as calmly as
I could.

“Right. You’re not. But I would appreciate it very much if you did. And
why did you show me the picture if you didn’t mean me to know?” I
added. “Since I know that much, I’ll certainly find out the rest from Jamie.
You might as well tell me your side of it now.” I glanced at the window;
the slice of sky that showed between the half-open shutters was still a
velvet black, with no sign of dawn. “There’s time.”

He breathed deeply, and laid down the paperweight. “I suppose there
is.” He jerked his head abruptly at the decanter. “Will you have brandy?”

“I will,” I said promptly, “and I strongly suggest you have some, too. I
expect you need it as much as I do.”

A slight smile showed briefly at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that a medical opinion, Mrs. Malcolm?” he asked dryly.

“Absolutely,” I said.

This small truce established, he sat back, rolling his beaker of brandy
slowly between his hands.

“You said Jamie mentioned me to you,” he said. I must have flinched
slightly at his use of Jamie’s name, for he frowned at me. “Would you
prefer that I referred to him by his surname?” he said, coldly. “I should
scarcely know which to use, under the circumstances.”

“No.” I waved it away, and took a sip of brandy. “Yes, he mentioned
you. He said you had been the Governor of the prison at Ardsmuir, and
that you were a friend—and that he could trust you,” I added reluctantly.
Possibly Jamie felt he could trust Lord John Grey, but I was not so
sanguine.

The smile this time was not quite so brief.

“I am glad to hear that,” Grey said softly. He looked down into the
amber liquid in his cup, swirling it gently to release its heady bouquet. He
took a sip, then set the cup down with decision.

“I met him at Ardsmuir, as he said,” he began. “And when the prison
was shut down and the other prisoners sold to indenture in America, I
arranged that Jamie should be paroled instead to a place in England, called
Helwater, owned by friends of my family.” He looked at me, hesitating,
then added simply, “I could not bear the thought of never seeing him
again, you see.”

In a few brief words, he acquainted me with the bare facts of Geneva’s
death and Willie’s birth.

“Was he in love with her?” I asked. The brandy was doing its bit to
warm my hands and feet, but it didn’t touch the large cold object in my
stomach.

“He has never spoken to me of Geneva,” Grey said. He gulped the last
of his brandy, coughed, and reached to pour another cup. It was only when
he finished this operation that he looked at me again, and added, “But I
doubt it, having known her.” His mouth twisted wryly.

“He never told me about Willie, either, but there was a certain amount
of gossip about Geneva and old Lord Ellesmere, and by the time the boy
was four or five, the resemblance made it quite clear who his father was—
to anyone who cared to look.” He took another deep swallow of brandy. “I
suspect that my mother-in-law knows, but of course she would never
breathe a word.”

“She wouldn’t?”

He stared at me over the rim of his cup.

“No, would you? If it were a choice of your only grandchild being either
the ninth Earl of Ellesmere, and heir to one of the wealthiest estates in
England, or the penniless bastard of a Scottish criminal?”

“I see.” I drank some more of my own brandy, trying to imagine Jamie
with a young English girl named Geneva—and succeeding all too well.

“Quite,” Grey said dryly. “Jamie saw, too. And very wisely arranged to
leave Helwater before it became obvious to everyone.”

“And that’s where you come back into the story, is it?” I asked.

He nodded, eyes closed. The Residence was quiet, though there was a
certain distant stir that made me aware that people were still about.
“That’s right,” he said. “Jamie gave the boy to me.”

The stable at Ellesmere was well-built; cozy in the winter, it was a
cool haven in summer. The big bay stallion flicked its ears lazily at a
passing fly, but stood stolidly content, enjoying the attentions of his
groom.

“Isobel is most displeased with you,” Grey said.

“Is she?” Jamie’s voice was indifferent. There was no need any
longer to worry about displeasing any of the Dunsanys.

“She said you had told Willie you were leaving, which upset him
dreadfully. He’s been howling all day.”

Jamie’s face was turned away, but Grey saw the faint tightening at
the side of his throat. He rocked backward, leaning against the stable
wall as he watched the curry comb come down and down and down in
hard, even strokes that left dark trails across the shimmering coat.

“Surely it would have been easier to say nothing to the boy?” Grey
said quietly.

“I suppose it would—for Lady Isobel.” Fraser turned to put up the
curry comb, and slapped a hand on the stallion’s rump in dismissal.
Grey thought there was an air of finality in the gesture; tomorrow
Jamie would be gone. He felt a slight thickening in his own throat,
but swallowed it. He rose and followed Fraser toward the door of the
stall.

“Jamie—” he said, putting his hand on Fraser’s shoulder. The
Scot swung round, his features hastily readjusting themselves, but not
fast enough to hide the misery in his eyes. He stood still, looking
down at the Englishman.

“You’re right to go,” Grey said. Alarm flared in Fraser’s eyes,
quickly supplanted by wariness.

“Am I?” he said.

“Anyone with half an eye could see it,” Grey said dryly. “If anyone
ever actually looked at a groom, someone would have noticed long
before now.” He glanced back at the bay stallion, and cocked one
brow. “Some sires stamp their get. I have the distinct impression that
any offspring of yours would be unmistakable.”

Jamie said nothing, but Grey fancied that he had grown a shade
paler than usual.

“Surely you can see—well, no, perhaps not,” he corrected himself,
“I don’t suppose you have a looking glass, have you?”

Jamie shook his head mechanically. “No,” he said absently. “I
shave in the reflection from the trough.” He drew in a deep breath,
and let it out slowly.

“Aye, well,” he said. He glanced toward the house, where the
French doors were standing open onto the lawn. Willie was
accustomed to play there after lunch on fine days.

Fraser turned to him with sudden decision. “Will ye walk with
me?” he said.

Not pausing for an answer, he set off past the stable, turning down
the lane that led from the paddock to the lower pasture. It was nearly
a quarter-mile before he came to a halt, in a sunny clearing by a
clump of willows, near the edge of the mere.

Grey found himself puffing slightly from the quick pace—too much
soft living in London, he chided himself. Fraser, of course, was not
even sweating, despite the warmth of the day.

Without preamble, turning to face Grey, he said, “I wish to ask a
favor of ye.” The slanted blue eyes were direct as the man himself.

“If you think I would tell anyone…” Grey began, then shook his
head. “Surely you don’t think I could do such a thing. After all, I have
known—or at least suspected—for some time.”

“No.” A faint smile lifted Jamie’s mouth. “No, I dinna think ye
would. But I would ask ye…”

“Yes,” Grey said promptly. The corner of Jamie’s mouth twitched.

“Ye dinna wish to know what it is first?”

“I should imagine that I know; you wish me to look out for Willie;
perhaps to send you word of his welfare.”

Jamie nodded.

“Aye, that’s it.” He glanced up the slope, to where the house lay
half-hidden in its nest of fiery maples. “It’s an imposition, maybe, to
ask ye to come all the way from London to see him now and then.”

“Not at all,” Grey interrupted. “I came this afternoon to give you
some news of my own; I am to be married.”

“Married?” The shock was plain on Fraser’s face. “To a
woman?”

“I think there are not many alternatives,” Grey replied dryly. “But
yes, since you ask, to a woman. To the Lady Isobel.”

“Christ, man! Ye canna do that!”

“I can,” Grey assured him. He grimaced. “I made trial of my
capacity in London; be assured that I shall make her an adequate
husband. You needn’t necessarily enjoy the act in order to perform it
—or perhaps you were aware of that?”

There was a small reflexive twitch at the corner of Jamie’s eye; not
quite a flinch, but enough for Grey to notice. Jamie opened his mouth,
then closed it again and shook his head, obviously thinking better of
what he had been about to say.

“Dunsany is growing too old to take a hand in the running of the
estate,” Grey pointed out. “Gordon is dead, and Isobel and her
mother cannot manage the place alone. Our families have known
each other for decades. It is an entirely suitable match.”

“Is it, then?” The sardonic skepticism in Jamie’s voice was clear.

Grey turned to him, fair skin flushing as he answered sharply.

“It is. There is more to a marriage than carnal love. A great deal
more.”

Fraser swung sharply away. He strode to the edge of the mere, and
stood, boots sunk in the reedy mud, looking over the ruffled waves for
some time. Grey waited patiently, taking the time to unribbon his hair
and reorder the thick blond mass.

At long last, Fraser came back, walking slowly, head down as
though still thinking. Face-to-face with Grey he looked up again.

“You are right,” he said quietly. “I have no right to think ill of you,
if ye mean no dishonor to the lady.”

“Certainly not,” Grey said. “Besides,” he added more cheerfully,
“it means I will be here permanently, to see to Willie.”

“You mean to resign your commission, then?” One copper
eyebrow flicked upward.

“Yes,” Grey said. He smiled, a little ruefully. “It will be a relief, in
a way. I was not meant for army life, I think.”

Fraser seemed to be thinking. “I should be…grateful, then,” he
said, “if you would stand as stepfather to—to my son.” He had likely
never spoken the word aloud before, and the sound of it seemed to
shock him. “I…would be obliged to you.” Jamie sounded as though
his collar were too tight, though in fact his shirt was open at the
throat. Grey looked curiously at him, and saw that his countenance
was slowly turning a dark and painful red.

“In return…If you want…I mean, I would be willing to…that is…”
Grey suppressed the sudden desire to laugh. He laid a light hand
on the big Scot’s arm, and saw Jamie brace himself not to flinch at
the touch.

“My dear Jamie,” he said, torn between laughter and
exasperation. “Are you actually offering me your body in payment for
my promise to look after Willie?”

Fraser’s face was red to the roots of his hair.

“Aye, I am,” he snapped, tight-lipped. “D’ye want it, or no?”

At this, Grey did laugh, in long gasping whoops, finally having to
sit down on the grassy bank in order to recover himself.

“Oh, dear God,” he said at last, wiping his eyes. “That I should
live to hear an offer like that!”

Fraser stood above him, looking down, the morning light
silhouetting him, lighting his hair in flames against the pale blue sky.
Grey thought he could see a slight twitch of the wide mouth in the
darkened face—humor, tempered with a profound relief.

“Ye dinna want me, then?”

Grey got to his feet, dusting the seat of his breeches. “I shall
probably want you to the day I die,” he said matter-of-factly. “But
tempted as I am—” He shook his head, brushing wet grass from his
hands.

“Do you really think that I would demand—or accept—any
payment for such a service?” he asked. “Really, I should feel my
honor most grossly insulted by that offer, save that I know the depth
of feeling which prompted it.”

“Aye, well,” Jamie muttered. “I didna mean to insult ye.”

Grey was not sure at this point whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he
reached a hand up and gently touched Jamie’s cheek, fading now to
its normal pale bronze. More quietly, he said, “Besides, you cannot
give me what you do not have.”

Grey felt, rather than saw, the slight relaxation of tension in the
tall body facing him.

“You shall have my friendship,” Jamie said softly, “if that has any
value to ye.”

“A very great value indeed.” The two men stood silent together for
a moment, then Grey sighed and turned to look up at the sun. “It’s
getting late. I suppose you will have a great many things to do
today?”

Jamie cleared his throat. “Aye, I have. I suppose I should be about
my business.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Grey tugged down the points of his waistcoat, ready to go. But
Jamie lingered awkwardly a moment, and then, as though suddenly
making up his mind to it, stepped forward and bending down, cupped
Grey’s face between his hands.

Grey felt the big hands warm on the skin of his face, light and
strong as the brush of an eagle’s feather, and then Jamie Fraser’s
soft wide mouth touched his own. There was a fleeting impression of
tenderness and strength held in check, the faint taste of ale and freshbaked
bread. Then it was gone, and John Grey stood blinking in the
brilliant sun.

“Oh,” he said.

Jamie gave him a shy, crooked smile.

“Aye, well,” he said. “I suppose I’m maybe not poisoned.” He
turned then, and disappeared into the screen of willows, leaving Lord
John Grey alone by the mere.

The Governor was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up with a bleak
smile.

“That was the first time that he ever touched me willingly,” he said
quietly. “And the last—until this evening, when I gave him the other copy
of that miniature.”

I sat completely motionless, the brandy glass unregarded in my hands. I
wasn’t sure what I felt; shock, fury, horror, jealousy, and pity all washed
through me in successive waves, mingling in eddies of confused emotion.

A woman had been violently done to death nearby, within the last few
hours. And yet the scene in the retiring room seemed unreal by comparison
with that miniature; a small and unimportant picture, painted in tones of
red. For the moment, neither Lord John nor I was concerned with crime or
justice—or with anything beyond what lay between us.

The Governor was examining my face, with considerable absorption.

“I suppose I should have recognized you on the ship,” he said. “But of
course, at the time, I had thought you long dead.”

“Well, it was dark,” I said, rather stupidly. I shoved a hand through my
curls, feeling dizzy from brandy and sleeplessness. Then I realized what he
had said.

“Recognized me? But you’d never met me!”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Do you recall a dark wood, near Carryarrick in the Scottish Highlands,
twenty years ago? And a young boy with a broken arm? You set it for me.”
He lifted one arm in demonstration.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” I picked up the brandy and took a swallow
that made me cough and gasp. I blinked at him, eyes watering. Knowing
now who he was, I could make out the fine, light bones and see the
slighter, softer outline of the boy he had been.

“Yours were the first woman’s breasts I had ever seen,” he said wryly.
“It was a considerable shock.”

“From which you appear to have recovered,” I said, rather coldly. “You
seem to have forgiven Jamie for breaking your arm and threatening to
shoot you, at least.”

He flushed slightly, and set down his beaker.

“I—well—yes,” he said, abruptly.

We sat there for quite some time, neither of us having any idea what to
say. He took a breath once or twice, as though about to say something, but
then abandoned it. At last, he closed his eyes as though commending his
soul to God, opened them and looked at me.

“Do you know—” he began, then stopped. He looked down at his
clenched hands, then, not at me. A blue stone winked on one knuckle,
bright as a teardrop.

“Do you know,” he said again, softly, addressing his hands, “what it is
to love someone, and never—never!—be able to give them peace, or joy,
or happiness?”

He looked up then, eyes filled with pain. “To know that you cannot give
them happiness, not through any fault of yours or theirs, but only because
you were not born the right person for them?”

I sat quiet, seeing not his, but another handsome face; dark, not fair. Not
feeling the warm breath of the tropical night, but the icy hand of a Boston
winter. Seeing the pulse of light like heart’s blood, spilling across the cold
snow of hospital linens.

…only because you were not born the right person for them.

“I know,” I whispered, hands clenched in my lap. I had told Frank—
Leave me. But he could not, no more than I could love him rightly, having
found my match elsewhere.

Oh, Frank, I said, silently. Forgive me.

“I suppose I am asking whether you believe in fate,” Lord John went on.
The ghost of a smile wavered on his face. “You, of all people, would seem
best suited to say.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I said bleakly. “But I don’t know, any
more than you.”

He shook his head, then reached out and picked up the miniature.

“I have been more fortunate than most, I suppose,” he said quietly.

“There was the one thing he would take from me.” His expression softened
as he looked down into the face of the boy in the palm of his hand. “And
he has given me something most precious in return.”

Without thinking, my hand spread out across my belly. Jamie had given
me that same precious gift—and at the same great cost to himself.

The sound of footsteps came down the hall, muffled by the carpet. There
was a sharp rap at the door, and a militiaman stuck his head into the office.

“Is the lady recovered yet?” he asked. “Captain Jacobs has finished his
questions, and Monsieur Alexandre’s carriage has returned.”

I got hastily to my feet.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I turned to the Governor, not knowing what to say to
him. “I—thank you for—that is—”

He bowed formally to me, coming around the desk to see me out.
“I regret extremely that you should have been subjected to such a
shocking experience, ma’am,” he said, with no trace of anything but
diplomatic regret in his voice. He had resumed his official manner, smooth
and polished as his parquet floors.

I followed the militiaman, but at the door I turned impulsively.

“When we met, that night aboard the Porpoise—I’m glad you didn’t
know who I was. I…liked you. Then.”

He stood for a second, polite, remote. Then the mask dropped away.

“I liked you, too,” he said quietly. “Then.”

He was silent for several minutes, and I was as well, not knowing how
to take the conversation back to what I had seen and heard at Government
House.

I felt rather than saw him swallow, and he turned from the window to
face me. There were lines of tiredness in his face, but his expression was
filled with a sort of determination—the sort of look he wore facing battle.

“Claire,” he said, and at once I stiffened. He called me by my name only
when he was most serious. “Claire, I must tell ye something.”

“What?” I had been trying to think how to ask, but suddenly I didn’t
want to hear. I took half a step back, away from him, but he grabbed my
arm.

He had something hidden in his fist. He took my unresisting hand and
put the object into it. Without looking, I knew what it was; I could feel the
carving of the delicate oval frame and the slight roughness of the painted
surface.

“Claire.” I could see the slight tremor at the side of his throat as he
swallowed. “Claire—I must tell ye. I have a son.”

I didn’t say anything, but opened my hand. There it was; the same face I
had seen in Grey’s office, a childish, cocky version of the man before me.

“I should ha’ told ye before.” He was searching my face for some clue
to my feelings, but for once, my giveaway countenance must have been
perfectly blank. “I would have—only—” He took a deep breath for
strength to go on.

“I havena ever told anyone about him,” he said. “Not even Jenny.”

That startled me enough to speak.

“Jenny doesn’t know?”

He shook his head, and turned away to watch the manatees. Alarmed by
our voices, they had retreated a short distance, but then had settled down
again, feeding on the water weed at the edge of the lagoon.

“It was in England. It’s—he’s—I couldna say he was mine. He’s a
bastard, aye?” It might have been the rising sun that flushed his cheeks. He
bit his lip and went on.

“I havena seen him since he was a wee lad. I never will see him again—
except it might be in a wee painting like this.” He took the small picture
from me, cradling it in the palm of his hand like a baby’s head. He blinked,
head bent over it.

“I was afraid to tell ye,” he said, low-voiced. “For fear ye would think
that perhaps I’d gone about spawning a dozen bastards…for fear ye’d
think that I wouldna care for Brianna so much, if ye kent I had another
child. But I do care, Claire—a great deal more than I can tell ye.” He lifted
his head and looked directly at me.

“Will ye forgive me?”

“Did you—” The words almost choked me, but I had to say them. “Did
you love her?”

An extraordinary expression of sadness crossed his face, but he didn’t
look away.

“No,” he said softly. “She…wanted me. I should have found a way—
should have stopped her, but I could not. She wished me to lie wi’ her.
And I did, and…she died of it.” He did look down then, long lashes hiding
his eyes. “I am guilty of her death, before God; perhaps the more guilty—
because I did not love her.”

I didn’t say anything, but put up a hand to touch his cheek. He pressed
his own hand over it, hard, and closed his eyes. There was a gecko on the
wall beside us, nearly the same color as the yellow plaster behind it,
beginning to glow in the gathering daylight.

“What is he like?” I asked softly. “Your son?”

He smiled slightly, without opening his eyes.

“He’s spoilt and stubborn,” he said softly. “Ill-mannered. Loud. Wi’ a
wicked temper.” He swallowed. “And braw and bonny and canty and
strong,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him.

“And yours,” I said. His hand tightened on mine, holding it against the
soft stubble of his cheek.

“And mine,” he said. He took a deep breath, and I could see the glitter
of tears under his closed lids.

“You should have trusted me,” I said at last. He nodded, slowly, then
opened his eyes, still holding my hand.

“Perhaps I should,” he said quietly. “And yet I kept thinking—how
should I tell ye everything, about Geneva, and Willie, and John—will ye
know about John?” He frowned slightly, then relaxed as I nodded.

“He told me. About everything.” His brows rose, but he went on.

“Especially after ye found out about Laoghaire. How could I tell ye, and
expect ye to know the difference?”

“What difference?”

“Geneva—Willie’s mother—she wanted my body,” he said softly,
watching the gecko’s pulsing sides. “Laoghaire needed my name, and the
work of my hands to keep her and her bairns.” He turned his head then,
dark blue eyes fixed on mine. “John—well.” He lifted his shoulders and let
them drop. “I couldna give him what he wanted—and he is friend enough
not to ask it.

“But how shall I tell ye all these things,” he said, the line of his mouth
twisting. “And then say to you—it is only you I have ever loved? How
should you believe me?”

The question hung in the air between us, shimmering like the reflection
from the water below.

“If you say it,” I said, “I’ll believe you.”

“You will?” He sounded faintly astonished. “Why?”

“Because you’re an honest man, Jamie Fraser,” I said, smiling so that I
wouldn’t cry. “And may the Lord have mercy on you for it.”

“Only you,” he said, so softly I could barely hear him. “To worship ye
with my body, give ye all the service of my hands. To give ye my name,
and all my heart and soul with it. Only you. Because ye will not let me lie
—and yet ye love me.”

I did touch him then.

“Jamie,” I said softly, and laid my hand on his arm. “You aren’t alone
anymore.”

He turned then and took me by the arms, searching my face.
“I swore to you,” I said. “When we married. I didn’t mean it then, but I
swore—and now I mean it.” I turned his hand over in both mine, feeling
the thin, smooth skin at the base of his wrist, where the pulse beat under
my fingers, where the blade of his dirk had cut his flesh once, and spilled
his blood to mingle with mine forever.

I pressed my own wrist against his, pulse to pulse, heartbeat to
heartbeat.

“Blood of my blood…” I whispered.

“Bone of my bone.” His whisper was deep and husky. He knelt quite
suddenly before me, and put his folded hands in mine; the gesture a
Highlander makes when swearing loyalty to his chieftain.

“I give ye my spirit,” he said, head bent over our hands.

“’Til our life shall be done,” I said softly. “But it isn’t done yet, Jamie,
is it?”

Then he rose and took the shift from me, and I lay back on the narrow
bed naked, pulled him down to me through the soft yellow light, and took
him home, and home, and home again, and we were neither one of us
alone.

[broughps]

Ok let's hear your five scenes. Remember just from the book not the show.

[Krish728]

My top 5 picks for Voyager:

1) The opening scene with Jamie on Culloden field. 

2) Claire and Frank's final confrontation. 

3) The reunion, of course.

4) Laoghaire reveal.

5) Turtle Soup.

I want to add 'sounds Claire doesn't make' scene in it. But that's my top 5. 

[broughps]

DOA

1. Jamie and Claire first get to the Ridge

In early afternoon we stopped to rest and drink from a small spring at
the edge of a natural clearing. The ground beneath the maple trees was
covered with a thick carpet of dark green leaves, among which I caught a
sudden telltale flash of red.

“Wild strawberries!” I said with delight.

The berries were dark red and tiny, about the size of my thumb joint. By
the standards of modern horticulture, they would have been too tart, nearly
bitter, but eaten with a meal consisting of half-cooked cold bear meat and
rock-hard corn dodgers, they were delicious—fresh explosions of flavor in
my mouth; pinpricks of sweetness on my tongue.

I gathered handfuls in my cloak, not caring for stains—what was a little
strawberry juice among the stains of pine pitch, soot, leaf smudges and
simple dirt? By the time I had finished, my fingers were sticky and
pungent with juice, my stomach was comfortably full, and the inside of my
mouth felt as though it had been sandpapered, from the tartly acid taste of
the berries. Still, I couldn’t resist reaching for just one more.

Jamie leaned his back against a sycamore, eyelids half lowered against
the dazzle of afternoon sun. The little clearing held light like a cup, still
and limpid.

“What d’ye think of this place, Sassenach?” he asked.

“I think it’s beautiful. Don’t you?”

He nodded, looking down between the trees, where a gentle slope full of
wild hay and timothy fell away and rose again in a line of willows that
fringed the distant river.

“I am thinking,” Jamie said, a little awkwardly. “There is the spring here
in the wood. That meadow below—” He waved a hand toward the scrim of
alders that screened the ridge from the grassy slope. “It would do for a few
beasts at first, and then the land nearer the river might be cleared and put
in crops. The rise of the land here is good for drainage. And here, see…”

Caught by visions, he rose to his feet, pointing.

I looked carefully; to me, the place seemed little different from any of
the steep wooded slopes and grassy coves through which we had wandered
for the last couple of days. But to Jamie, with his farmer’s eye, houses and
stock pens and fields sprang up like fairy mushrooms in the shadows of the
trees.

Happiness was sticking out all over him, like porcupine quills. My heart
felt like lead in my chest.

“You’re thinking we might settle here, then? Take the Governor’s
offer?”

He looked at me, stopping abruptly in his speculations.

“We might,” he said. “If—”

He broke off and looked sideways at me. Sun-reddened as he was, I
couldn’t tell whether he was flushed with sun or shyness.

“D’ye believe in signs at all, Sassenach?”

“What sorts of signs?” I asked guardedly.

In answer, he bent, plucked a sprig from the ground, and dropped it into
my hand—the dark green leaves like small round Chinese fans, a pure
white flower on a slender stem, and on another a half-ripe berry, its
shoulders pale with shade, blushing crimson at the tip.

“This. It’s ours, d’ye see?” he said.

“Ours?”

“The Frasers’, I mean,” he explained. One large, blunt finger gently
prodded the berry. “Strawberries ha’ always been the emblem of the clan
—it’s what the name meant, to start with, when a Monsieur Fréselière
came across from France wi’ King William that was—and took hold of
land in the Scottish mountains for his trouble.”

King William that was. William the Conqueror, that was. Perhaps not
the oldest of the Highland clans, the Frasers had still a distinguished
heritage.

“Warriors from the start, were you?”

“And farmers, too.” The doubt in his eyes was fading into a smile.

I didn’t say what I was thinking, but I knew well enough that the
thought must lie in his mind as well. There was no more of clan Fraser
save scattered fragments, those who had survived by flight, by stratagem
or luck. The clans had been smashed at Culloden, their chieftains
slaughtered in battle or murdered by law.

Yet here he stood, tall and straight in his plaid, the dark steel of a
Highland dirk by his side. Warrior and farmer both. And if the soil beneath
his feet was not that of Scotland, it was free air that he breathed—and a
mountain wind that stirred his hair, lifting copper strands to the summer
sun.

I smiled up at him, fighting back my growing dismay.

“Fréselière, eh? Mr. Strawberry? He grew them, did he, or was he only
fond of eating them?”

“Either or both,” he said dryly, “or it was maybe only that he was
redheided, aye?”

I laughed, and he hunkered down beside me, unpinning his plaid.

“It’s a rare plant,” he said, touching the sprig in my open hand.
“Flowers, fruit and leaves all together at the one time. The white flowers
are for honor, and red fruit for courage—and the green leaves are for
constancy.”

My throat felt tight as I looked at him.

“They got that one right,” I said.

He caught my hand in his own, squeezing my fingers around the tiny
stem.

“And the fruit is the shape of a heart,” he said softly, and bent to kiss
me.

The tears were near the surface; at least I had a good excuse for the one
that oozed free. He dabbed it away, then stood up and pulled his belt loose,
letting the plaid fall in folds around his feet. Then he stripped off shirt and
breeks and smiled down at me, naked.

“There’s no one here,” he said. “No one but us.”

I would have said this seemed no reason, but I felt what it was he meant.
We had been for days surrounded by vastness and threat, the wilderness no
farther away than the pale circle of our fire. Yet here, we were alone
together, part and parcel of the place, with no need in broad daylight to
hold the wilderness at bay.

“In the old days, men would do this, to give fertility to the fields,” he
said, giving me a hand to rise.

“I don’t see any fields.” And wasn’t sure whether to hope I never would.
Nonetheless, I skimmed off my buckskin shirt, and pulled loose the knot of
my makeshift brassiere. He eyed me with appreciation.

“Well, no doubt I shall have to cut down a few trees first, but that can
wait, aye?”

We made a bed of plaid and cloaks, and lay down upon it naked, skin to
skin among the yellow grasses and the scent of balsam and wild
strawberries.

We touched each other for what might have been a very long time or no
time at all, together in the garden of earthly delight. I forced away the
thoughts that had plagued me up the mountain, determined only to share
his joy for as long as it lasted. I grasped him tight and he breathed in deep
and pressed himself hard into my hand.

“And what would Eden be without a serpent?” I murmured, fingers
stroking.

His eyes creased into blue triangles, so close I could see the black of his
pupils.

“And will ye eat wi’ me, then, mo chridhe? Of the fruit of the tree of the
knowledge of Good and Evil?”

I put out the tip of my tongue and drew it along his lower lip in answer.
He shivered under my fingers, though the air was warm and sweet.

“Je suis prest,” I said. “Monsieur Fréselière.”

His head bent and his mouth fastened on my nipple, swollen as one of
the tiny ripe berries.

“Madame Fréselière,” he whispered back. “Je suis à votre service.”

And then we shared the fruit and flowers, and the green leaves covering
all.

We lay tangled in drowsiness, stirring only to bat away inquisitive insects,
until the first shadows touched our feet. Jamie rose quietly, and covered
me with a cloak, thinking me asleep. I heard the stealthy rustle as he
dressed himself, and then the soft swish of his passage through the grass.
I rolled over, and saw him a little distance away, standing at the edge of
the wood, looking out over the fall of land toward the river.

He wore nothing but his plaid, crumpled and blood-stained, belted round
his waist. With his hair unbound and tangled round his shoulders, he
looked the wild Highlander he was. What I had thought a trap for him—his
family, his clan—was his strength. And what I had thought my strength—
my solitude, my lack of ties—was my weakness.

Having known closeness, both its good and its bad, he had the strength
to leave it, to step away from all notions of safety and venture out alone.
And I—so proud of self-sufficiency at one time—could not bear the
thought of loneliness again.

I had resolved to say nothing, to live in the moment, to accept whatever
came. But the moment was here, and I could not accept it. I saw his head
lift in decision, and at the same moment, saw his name carved in cold
stone. Terror and despair washed over me.

As though he had heard the echo of my unspoken cry, he turned his
head toward me. Whatever he saw in my face brought him swiftly to my
side.

“What is it, Sassenach?”

There was no point in lying; not when he could see me.

“I’m afraid,” I blurted out.

He glanced quickly round for danger, one hand reaching for his knife,
but I stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Not that. Jamie—hold me. Please.”

He gathered me close against him, wrapping the cloak around me. I was
shivering, though the air was still warm.

“It’s all right, a nighean donn,” he murmured. “I’m here. What’s
frightened ye, then?”

“You,” I said, and clung tight. His heart thumped just under my ear,
strong and steady. “Here. It makes me afraid to think of you here, of us
coming here—”

“Afraid?” he asked. “Of what, Sassenach?” His arms tightened around
me. “I did say when we were wed that I would always see ye fed, no?” He
pulled me closer, tucking my head into the curve of his shoulder.

“I gave ye three things that day,” he said softly. “My name, my family,
and the protection of my body. You’ll have those things always, Sassenach
— so long as we both shall live. No matter where we may be. I willna let
ye go hungry or cold; I’ll let nothing harm ye, ever.”

“I’m not afraid of any of that,” I blurted. “I’m afraid you’ll die, and I
can’t stand it if you do, Jamie, I really can’t!”

He jerked back a little, surprised, and looked down into my face.

“Well, I’ll do my best to oblige ye, Sassenach,” he said, “but ye ken I
may not have all the say in the matter.” His face was serious, but one
corner of his mouth curled up irrepressibly.

The sight did me in utterly.

“Don’t you laugh!” I said furiously. “Don’t you dare laugh!”

“Oh, I’m not,” he assured me, trying to straighten his face.

“You are!” I punched him in the chest. Now he was laughing. I punched
him again, harder, and before I knew it, was hammering him in earnest,
my fists making small dull thumps against his plaid. He grabbed for my
hand, but I ducked my head and bit him on the thumb. He let out a cry and
jerked his hand away.

He examined the toothmarks for a moment, then looked at me, one
eyebrow raised. The humor lingered in his eyes, but at least he’d stopped
laughing, the bastard.

“Sassenach, ye’ve seen me damn near dead a dozen times, and not
turned a hair. Whyever are ye takin’ on so now, and me not even ill?”

“Never turned a hair?” I gawked at him in furious amazement. “You
think I wasn’t upset?”

He rubbed a knuckle across his upper lip, eyeing me in some
amusement.

“Oh. Well, I did think ye cared, of course. But I never thought of it in
just that way, I admit.”

“Of course you didn’t! And if you had, it wouldn’t make any difference.
You—you—Scot!” It was the worst thing I could think of to call him.
Finding no more words, I turned and stomped away.

Unfortunately, stomping has relatively little effect when executed in
bare feet on a grassy meadow. I stepped on something sharp, uttered a
small cry, and limped a few more steps before having to stop.

I had stepped on some sort of cocklebur; half a dozen vicious caltrops
were stuck in my bare sole, blood drops welling from the tiny punctures.
Precariously balanced on one foot, I tried to pick them out, cursing under
my breath.

I wobbled and nearly fell. A strong hand caught me under the elbow and
steadied me. I set my teeth and finished jerking out the spiny burs. I pulled
my elbow out of his grasp and turning on my heel, walked—with a good
deal more care—back to where I had left my clothing.

Dropping the cloak on the ground, I proceeded to dress, with what
dignity was possible. Jamie stood, arms folded, watching me without
comment.

“When God threw Adam out of Paradise, at least Eve went with him,” I
said, talking to my fingers as I fastened the drawstring of my trousers.

“Aye, that’s true,” he agreed, after a cautious pause. He gave me a
sidelong glance, to see whether I was about to hit him again.

“Ah—ye havena been eating any o’ the plants ye picked this morning,
have ye, Sassenach? No, I didna think so,” he added hastily, seeing my
expression. “I only wondered. Myers says some things here give ye the
nightmare something fierce.”

“I am not having nightmares,” I said, with more force than strictly
necessary had I been telling the truth. I was having waking nightmares,
though ingestion of hallucinogenic plant substances had nothing to do with
it.

He sighed.

“D’ye mean to tell me straight out what ye’re talkin’ about, Sassenach,
or do ye mean me to suffer a bit first?”

I glared at him, caught as usual between the urge to laugh and the urge
to hit him with a blunt object. Then a wave of despair overcame both
laughter and anger. My shoulders slumped in surrender.

“I’m talking about you,” I said.

“Me? Why?”

“Because you’re a bloody Highlander, and you’re all about honor and
courage and constancy, and I know you can’t help it, and I wouldn’t want
you to, only—only damn it, it’s going to take you to Scotland and get you
killed, and there’s nothing I can do about it!”

He gave me a look of incredulity.

“Scotland?” he said, as though I’d said something completely mad.
“Scotland! Where your bloody grave is!”

He rubbed a hand slowly through his hair, looking down the bridge of
his nose at me.

“Oh,” he said at last. “I see, then. Ye think if I go to Scotland, I must die
there, since that’s where I’ll be buried. Is that it?”

I nodded, too upset to speak.

“Mmphm. And just why is it ye think I’m going to Scotland?” he asked
carefully.

I glared at him in exasperation, and waved an arm at the expanse of
wilderness around us.

“Where the hell else are you going to get settlers for this land? Of
course you’re going to Scotland!”

He looked at me, exasperated in turn.

“How in the name of God d’ye think I should do that, Sassenach? I
might have, when I had the gems, but now? I’ve maybe ten pound to my
name, and that’s borrowed. Shall I fly to Scotland like a bird, then? And
lead folk back behind me, walkin’ on the water?”

“You’ll think of something,” I said miserably. “You always do.”

He gave me a queer look, then looked away and paused for several
moments before answering.

“I hadna realized ye thought I was God Almighty, Sassenach,” he said at
last.

“I don’t,” I said. “Moses, maybe.” The words were facetious, but neither
one of us was joking.

He walked away a bit, hands clasped behind his back.

“Watch out for the burs,” I called after him, seeing him heading for the
location of my recent mishap. He altered his path in response, but said
nothing. He walked to and fro across the clearing, head bent in thought. At
last he came back, to stand in front of me.

“I canna do it alone,” he said quietly. “You’re right about that. But I
dinna think I need go to Scotland for my settlers.”

“What else?”

“My men—the men who were wi’ me in Ardsmuir,” he said. “They’re
here already.”

“But you haven’t any idea where they are,” I protested. “And besides,
they were transported years ago! They’ll be settled; they won’t want to
pull up stakes and come to the ends of the bloody earth with you!”

He smiled, a little wryly.

“You did, Sassenach.”

I took a deep breath. The nagging weight of fear that had burdened my
heart for the last weeks had eased. With that concern lifted, though, there
was now room in my mind to contemplate the staggering difficulty of the
task he was setting himself. Track down men scattered over three colonies,
persuade them to come with him, and simultaneously find sufficient
capital to finance the clearing of land and planting of crops. To say nothing
of the sheer enormity of labor involved in carving some small foothold out
of this virgin wilderness.

“I’ll think of something,” he said, smiling slightly as he watched doubts
and uncertainties flit across my face. “I always do, aye?”

All of my breath went out in a long sigh.

“You do,” I said. “Jamie—are you sure? Your aunt Jocasta—”

He dismissed that possibility with a flick of his hand.

“No,” he said. “Never.”

I still hesitated, feeling guilty.

“You wouldn’t—it’s not just because of me? What I said about keeping
slaves?”

“No,” he said. He paused, and I saw the two twisted fingers of his right
hand twitch. He saw it, too, and stopped the movement abruptly.

“I have lived as a slave, Claire,” he said quietly, head bent. “And I
couldna live, knowing there was a man on earth who felt toward me as I
have felt toward those who thought they owned me.”

I reached out and covered his crippled hand with my own. Tears ran
down my cheeks, warm and soothing as summer rain.

“You won’t leave me?” I asked at last. “You won’t die?”

He shook his head, and squeezed my hand tight.

“You are my courage, as I am your conscience,” he whispered. “You are
my heart—and I your compassion. We are neither of us whole, alone. Do
ye not know that, Sassenach?”

“I do know that,” I said, and my voice shook. “That’s why I’m so afraid.
I don’t want to be half a person again, I can’t bear it.”

He thumbed a lock of hair off my wet cheek, and pulled me into his
arms, so close that I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
He was so solid, so alive, ruddy hair curling gold against bare skin. And
yet I had held him so before—and lost him.

His hand touched my cheek, warm despite the dampness of my skin.

“But do ye not see how verra small a thing is the notion of death,
between us two, Claire?” he whispered.

My hands curled into fists against his chest. No, I didn’t think it a small
thing at all.

“All the time after ye left me, after Culloden—I was dead then, was I
not?”

“I thought you were. That’s why I—oh.” I took a deep, tremulous
breath, and he nodded.

“Two hundred years from now, I shall most certainly be dead,
Sassenach,” he said. He smiled crookedly. “Be it Indians, wild beasts, a
plague, the hangman’s rope, or only the blessing of auld age—I will be
dead.”

“Yes.”

“And while ye were there—in your own time—I was dead, no?”

I nodded, wordless. Even now, I could look back and see the abyss of
despair into which that parting had dropped me, and from which I had
climbed, one painful inch at a time.

Now I stood with him again upon the summit of life, and could not
contemplate descent. He reached down and plucked a stalk of grass,
spreading the soft green beards between his fingers.

“ ‘Man is like the grass of the field,’ ” he quoted softly, brushing the
slender stem over my knuckles, where they rested against his chest. “

‘Today it blooms; tomorrow it withers and is cast into the oven.’ ”

He lifted the silky green tuft to his lips and kissed it, then touched it
gently to my mouth.

“I was dead, my Sassenach—and yet all that time, I loved you.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the tickle of the grass on my lips, light as the
touch of sun and air.

“I loved you, too,” I whispered. “I always will.”

The grass fell away. Eyes still closed, I felt him lean toward me, and his
mouth on mine, warm as sun, light as air.

“So long as my body lives, and yours—we are one flesh,” he whispered.
His fingers touched me, hair and chin and neck and breast, and I breathed
his breath and felt him solid under my hand. Then I lay with my head on
his shoulder, the strength of him supporting me, the words deep and soft in
his chest.

“And when my body shall cease, my soul will still be yours. Claire—I
swear by my hope of heaven, I will not be parted from you.”

The wind stirred the leaves of the chestnut trees nearby, and the scents
of late summer rose up rich around us; pine and grass and strawberries,
sunwarmed stone and cool water, and the sharp, musky smell of his body
next to mine.

“Nothing is lost, Sassenach; only changed.”

“That’s the first law of thermodynamics,” I said, wiping my nose.

“No,” he said. “That’s faith.”

[broughps]

Now come on, surely more of you can come up with three scenes from Voyager that you like.

[Bunny]

This scene is one of the best...from start to finish.

[AJ01]

Very hard to pick just five. But I think These are my favorites from Voyager:

1. Jamie "dying" after Culloden and his meeting Hal.
2. The reunion at the printshop
3. Claire finding out about Laoghaire and all the stramash that follows
4. Claire meeting LJG on the Porpoise
5. Claire finding out about Willie at the Governors ball

It was a close call for turtle soup and Fergus’ wedding, but I will reread those scenes anyway, lol.

[broughps]

DOA

1. Jamie and Claire first get to the Ridge

2. Jamie finding Claire and then when they get back home

Big hands pulled me up and out of my hiding place, held me tight and
patted me anxiously, checking for damage. The wool of his plaid was soft
against my face; it smelt of wet and lye soap and his own male scent and I
breathed it in like oxygen.

“Are ye all right? For God’s sake, Sassenach, are ye all right?”

“No,” I said. “Yes,” I said, and started to cry.

It didn’t last long; it was no more than the shock of relief. I tried to say
as much, but Jamie wasn’t listening. He scooped me up in his arms, filthy
as I was, and began to carry me toward the small stream.

“Hush, then,” he said, squeezing me tightly against him. “Hush, mo
chridhe. It’s all right now; you’re safe.”

I was still fuddled with cold and dreams. Alone so long with no voice
but my own, his sounded odd, unreal and hard to understand. The warm
solidness of his grasp was real, though.

“Wait,” I said, tugging feebly at his shirt. “Wait, I forgot. I have to—”

“Jesus, Uncle Jamie, look at this!”

Jamie turned, holding me. Young Ian was standing in the mouth of my
refuge, framed in dangling roots, holding up the skull.

I felt Jamie’s muscles tighten as he saw it.

“Holy God, Sassenach, what’s that?”

“Who, you mean,” I said. “I don’t know. Nice chap, though. Don’t let
Rollo at him; he wouldn’t like it.” Rollo was sniffing the skull with intense
concentration, wet black nostrils flaring with interest.

Jamie peered down into my face, frowning slightly.

“Are ye sure you’re quite all right, Sassenach?”

“No,” I said, though in fact my wits were coming back as I woke up all
the way. “I’m cold and I’m starving. You didn’t happen to bring any
breakfast, did you?” I asked longingly. “I could murder a plateful of eggs.”

“No,” he said, setting me down while he groped in his sporran. “I hadna
time to trouble for food, but I’ve got some brandywine. Here, Sassenach;
it’ll do you good. And then,” he added, raising one eyebrow, “you can tell
me how the devil ye came to be out in the middle of nowhere, aye?”

I collapsed on a rock and sipped the brandywine gratefully. The flask
trembled in my hands, but the shivering began to ease as the dark amber
stuff made its way directly through the walls of my empty stomach and
into my bloodstream.

Jamie stood behind me, his hand on my shoulder.

“How long have ye been here, Sassenach?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“All night,” I said, shivering again. “Since just before noon yesterday,
when the bloody horse—I think his name’s Judas—dropped me off that
ledge up there.”

I nodded at the ledge. The middle of nowhere was a good description of
the place, I thought. It could have been any of a thousand anonymous
hollows in these hills. A thought struck me—one that should have
occurred to me long before, had I not been so chilled and groggy.

“How the hell did you find me?” I asked. “Did one of the Muellers
follow me, or—don’t tell me the bloody horse led you to me, like Lassie?”

“It’s a gelding, Auntie,” Ian put in reprovingly. “No a lassie. But we
havena seen your horse at all. No, Rollo led us to ye.” He beamed proudly
at the dog, who contrived to look blandly dignified, as though he did this
sort of thing all the time.

“But if you haven’t seen the horse,” I began, bewildered, “how did you
even know I’d left Muellers’? And how could Rollo—” I broke off, seeing
the two men eyeing each other.

Ian shrugged slightly and nodded, yielding to Jamie. Jamie hunkered
down on the ground beside me, and lifting the hem of my dress, took my
bare feet into his big, warm hands.

“Your feet are frozen, Sassenach,” he said quietly. “Where did ye lose
your shoes?”

“Back there,” I said, with a nod toward the uprooted tree. “They must
still be there. I took them off to cross a stream, then put them down and
couldn’t find them in the dark.”

“They’re not there, Auntie,” said Ian. He sounded so queer that I looked
up at him in surprise. He was still holding the skull, turning it gingerly
over in his hands.

“No, they’re not.” Jamie’s head was bent as he chafed my feet, and I
could see the early light glint copper off his hair, which lay tumbled loose
over his shoulders, disheveled as though he had just risen from his bed.

“I was in bed, asleep,” he said, echoing my thought. “When yon beast
suddenly went mad.” He jerked his chin at Rollo, without looking up.

“Barking and howling and flingin’ his carcass at the door as though the
Devil was outside.”

“I shouted at him, and tried to get hold of his scruff and shake him
quiet,” Ian put in, “but he wouldna stop, no matter what I did.”

“Aye, he carried on so that the spittle flew from his jaws and I was sure
he’d gone truly mad. I thought he’d do us an injury, so I bade Ian unbolt
the door and let him be gone.” Jamie sat back on his heels and frowned at
my foot, then picked a dead leaf off my instep.

“Well, and was the Devil outside?” I asked flippantly.

Jamie shook his head.

“We searched the clearing, from the penfold to the spring, and didna
find a thing—except these.” He reached into his sporran and drew out my
shoes. He looked up into my face, his own quite expressionless.

“They were sitting on the doorstep, side by side.”

Every hair on my body rose. I lifted the flask and drained the last of the
brandywine.

“Rollo tore off, bayin’ like a hound,” Ian said, eagerly taking up the
story. “But then he came back a moment later, and began to sniff at your
shoes and whinge and cry.”

“I felt rather like doing that myself, aye?” Jamie’s mouth lifted slightly
at one corner, but I could see the fear still dark in his eyes.

I swallowed, but my mouth was too dry to talk, despite the brandywine.
Jamie slipped one shoe onto my foot, and then the other. They were
damp, but faintly warm from his body.

“I did think ye were maybe dead, Cinderella,” he said softly, head bent
to hide his face.

Ian didn’t notice, caught up in the enthusiasm of the story.

“My clever wee dog was for dashing off, the same as when he’s smelt a
rabbit, so we caught up our plaids and came away after him, only stopping
to snatch a brand from the hearth and smoor the fire. He led us a good
chase, too, did ye no, laddie?” He rubbed Rollo’s ears with affectionate
pride. “And here ye were!”

The brandywine was buzzing in my ears, swaddling my wits in a warm,
sweet blanket, but I had enough sense left to tell me that for Rollo to have
followed a trail back to me…someone had walked all that way in my
shoes.

I had recovered some remnants of my voice by this time, and managed
to talk with only a little hoarseness.

“Did you—see anything—along the way?” I asked.

“No, Auntie,” Ian said, suddenly sober. “Did you?”

Jamie lifted his head, and I could see how worry and exhaustion had
hollowed his face, leaving the broad cheekbones sharp beneath his skin. I
wasn’t the only one who had had a long, hard night.

“Yes,” I said, “but I’ll tell you later. Right now, I believe I’ve turned
into a pumpkin. Let’s go home.”

<snip>

Our arrival had been heard; the door of the cabin opened, and Duncan
Innes looked out.

“Ah, you’re there, Mac Dubh,” he said. “What’s amiss, then? Your goat
was carryin’ on fit to wake the dead, wi’ her bag like to burst, when I came
up the trail this morning.” Then he saw me, and his long, mournful face
went blank with surprise.

“Mrs. Claire!” he said, taking in my mud-stained and battered
appearance. “Ye’ll have had an accident, then? I was a bit worrit when I
found the horse loose on the mountainside as I came up, and your wee box
on the saddle. I looked about and called for ye, but I couldna find any sign
of ye, so I brought the beast along to the house.”

“Yes, I had an accident,” I said, trying to stand upright by myself and
not succeeding very well. “I’m all right, though.” I wasn’t altogether sure
about that. My head felt three times its normal size.

“Bed,” Jamie said firmly, grabbing me by the arms before I could fall
over. “Now.”

“Bath,” I said. “First.”

He glanced in the direction of the creek.

“You’ll freeze or drown. Or both. For God’s sake, Sassenach, eat and go
to bed; ye can wash tomorrow.”

“Now. Hot water. Kettle.” I hadn’t the energy to waste on prolonged
argument, but I was determined. I wasn’t going to bed dirty, and I wasn’t
going to wash filthy sheets later.

Jamie looked at me in exasperation, then rolled his eyes in surrender.

“Hot water, kettle, now, then,” he said. “Ian, fetch some wood, and then
take Duncan and see to the pigs. I’m going to scrub your auntie.”

“I can scrub myself!”

“The hell ye can.”

He was right; my fingers were so stiff, they couldn’t undo the hooks of
my bodice. He undressed me as though I were a small child, tossing the
ripped skirt and mud-caked petticoats carelessly into the corner, and
stripping off the chemise and stays, worn so long that the cloth folds had
made deep red ridges in my flesh. I groaned with a voluptuous
combination of pain and pleasure, rubbing the red marks as blood coursed
back through my constricted torso.

“Sit,” he said, pushing a stool under me as I collapsed. He wrapped a
quilt around my shoulders, put a plate containing one and a half stale
bannocks in front of me, and went to rootle in the cupboard after soap,
washcloth, and linen towels.

“Find the green bottle, please,” I said, nibbling at the dry oatcake. “I’ll
need to wash my hair.”

“Mmphm.” More clinking, and he emerged at last with his hands full of
things, including a towel and the bottle full of the shampoo I had made—
not wishing to wash my hair with lye soap—from soaproot, lupin oil,
walnut leaves and calendula flowers. He set these on the table, along with
my largest mixing bowl, and carefully filled it with hot water from the
cauldron.

Leaving this to cool a bit, Jamie dipped a rag into the water, and knelt
down to wash my feet.

The feeling of warmth on my sore, half-frozen feet was as close to
ecstasy as I expected to get this side of heaven. Tired and half-drunk as I
was, I felt as though I were dissolving from the feet up, as he gently but
thoroughly washed me from toe to head.

“Where did ye get this, Sassenach?” Recalled from a state as close to
sleep as to waking, I glanced down muzzily at my left knee. It was
swollen, and the inner side had gone the deep purplish-blue of a gentian.

“Oh…that happened when I fell off the horse.”

“That was verra careless,” he said sharply. “Have I not told ye time and
again to be careful, especially with a new horse? Ye canna trust them at all
until ye’ve known them a good while. And you’re not strong enough to
deal with one that’s headstrong or skittish.”

“It wasn’t a matter of trusting him,” I said. I rather dimly admired the
broad spread of his bent shoulders, flexing smoothly under his linen shirt
as he sponged my bruised knee. “The lightning scared him, and I fell off a
thirty-foot ledge.”

“Ye could have broken your neck!”

“Thought I had, for a bit.” I closed my eyes, swaying slightly.

“Ye should have taken better thought, Sassenach; ye should never have
been on that side of the ridge to begin with, let alone—”

“I couldn’t help it,” I said, opening my eyes. “The trail was washed out;
I had to go around.”

He was glaring at me, slanted eyes narrowed into dark blue slits.

“Ye ought not to have left the Muellers’ in the first place, and it raining
like that! Did ye not have sense enough to know what the ground would be
like?”

I straightened up with some effort, holding the quilt against my breasts.
It occurred to me, with a faint sense of surprise, that he was more than
slightly annoyed.

“Well…no,” I said, trying to marshal what wits I had. “How could I
know something like that? Besides—”

He interrupted me by slapping the washrag into the bowl, spattering
water all over the table.

“Be quiet!” he said. “I dinna mean to argue with you!”

I stared up at him.

“What the hell do you mean to do? And where do you get off shouting
at me? I haven’t done anything wrong!”

He inhaled strongly through his nose. Then he stood up, picked the rag
from the bowl, and carefully wrung it out. He let out his breath, knelt
down in front of me, and deftly swabbed my face clean.

“No. Ye haven’t,” he agreed. One corner of his long mouth quirked
wryly. “But ye scairt hell out of me, Sassenach, and it makes me want to
give ye a terrible scolding, whether ye deserve it or no.”

“Oh,” I said. I wanted at first to laugh, but felt a stab of remorse as I saw
how drawn his face was. His shirt sleeve was daubed with mud, and there
were burrs and foxtails in his stockings, left from a night of searching for
me through the dark mountains, not knowing where I was; if I were alive
or dead. I had scared hell out of him, whether I meant to or not.

I groped for some means of apology, finding my tongue nearly as thick
as my wits. Finally I reached out and picked a fuzzy yellow catkin from
his hair.

“Why don’t you scold me in Gaelic?” I said. “It will ease your feelings
just as much, and I’ll only understand half of what you say.”

He made a Scottish noise of derision, and shoved my head into the bowl
with a firm hand on my neck. When I reemerged, dripping, though, he
dropped a towel on my head and started in, rubbing my hair with large,
firm hands and speaking in the formally menacing tones of a minister
denouncing sin from the pulpit.

“Silly woman,” he said in Gaelic. “You have not the brain of a fly!” I
caught the words for “foolish,” and “clumsy,” in the subsequent remarks,
but quickly stopped listening. I closed my eyes and lost myself instead in
the dreamy pleasure of having my hair rubbed dry and then combed out.

He had a sure and gentle touch, probably gained from handling horses’
tails. I had seen him talk to horses while he groomed them, much as he
was talking to me now, the Gaelic a soothing descant to the whisk of curry
comb or brush. I imagined he was more complimentary to the horses,
though.

His hands touched my neck, my bare back, and shoulders as he worked;
fleeting touches that brought my newly thawed flesh to life. I shivered, but
let the quilt fall to my lap. The fire was still burning high, flames dancing
on the side of the kettle, and the room had grown quite warm.

He was now describing, in a pleasantly conversational tone, various
things he would have liked to do to me, beginning with beating me black
and blue with a stick, and going on from there. Gaelic is a rich language,
and Jamie was far from unimaginative in matters of either violence or sex.
Whether he meant it or not, I thought it was probably a good thing that I
didn’t understand everything he said.

I could feel the heat of the fire on my breasts; Jamie’s warmth against
my back. The loose fabric of his shirt brushed my skin as he leaned across
to reach a bottle on the shelf, and I shivered again. He noticed this, and
interrupted his tirade for a moment.

“Cold?”

“No.”

“Good.” The sharp smell of camphor stung my nose, and before I could
move, one large hand had seized my shoulder, holding me in place, while
the other rubbed slippery oil firmly into my chest.

“Stop! That tickles! Stop, I say!”

He didn’t stop. I squirmed madly, trying to escape, but he was a lot
bigger than I was.

“Be still,” he said, inexorable fingers rubbing deep between my ticklish
ribs, under my collarbone, around and under my tender breasts, greasing
me as thoroughly as a suckling pig bound for the spit.

“You bastard!” I said when he let me go, breathless from struggling and
giggling. I reeked of peppermint and camphor, and my skin glowed with
heat from chin to belly.

He grinned at me, revenged and thoroughly unrepentant.

“You do it to me when I’ve got an ague,” he pointed out, wiping his
hands on the towel. “Grease for the gander is grease for the goose, aye?”

“I have not got an ague! Not even a sniffle!”

“I expect ye will have, out all night and sleepin’ in wet clothes.” He
clicked his tongue disapprovingly, like a Scottish housewife.

“And you’ve never done that, have you? How many times have you
caught cold from sleeping rough?” I demanded. “Good heavens, you lived
in a cave for seven years!”

“And spent three of them sneezing. Besides, I’m a man,” he added, with
total illogic. “Had ye not better put on your night rail, Sassenach? Ye
havena got a stitch on.”

“I noticed. Wet clothes and being cold do not cause sickness,” I
informed him, hunting about under the table for the fallen quilt.

He raised both eyebrows.

“Oh, they don’t?”

“No, they don’t.” I backed out from under the table, clutching the quilt.
“I’ve told you before, it’s germs that cause sickness. If I haven’t been
exposed to any germs, I won’t get sick.”

“Ah, gerrrrms,” he said, rolling it like a marble in his mouth. “God,
ye’ve got a fine, fat arse! Why do folk have more illness in the winter than
the springtime, then? The germs breed in the cold, I expect?”

“Not exactly.” Feeling absurdly self-conscious, I spread the quilt,
meaning to fold it around my shoulders again. Before I could wrap myself
in it, though, he had grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward him.

“Come here,” he said, unnecessarily. Before I could say anything, he
had smacked my bare backside smartly, turned me around and kissed me,
hard.

He let go, and I almost fell down. I flung my arms around him, and he
grabbed my waist, steadying me.

“I dinna care whether it’s the germs or the night air or Billy-bedamned,”
he said, looking sternly down his nose. “I willna have ye fallin’
ill, and that’s all about it. Now, hop yourself directly into your gown, and
to bed with ye!”

He felt awfully good in my arms. The smooth linen of his shirtfront was
cool against the heated glow of my greased breasts, and while the wool of
his kilt was much scratchier against my naked thighs and belly, the
sensation was by no means unpleasant. I rubbed myself slowly against
him, like a cat against a post.

“Bed,” he said again, sounding a trifle less stern.

“Mmmm,” I said, making it reasonably obvious that I didn’t mean to go
there alone.

“No,” he said, squirming slightly. I supposed that he meant to get away,
but since I didn’t let go, the movement merely exacerbated the situation
between us.

“Mm-hmm,” I said, holding on tight. Intoxicated as I was, it hadn’t
escaped me that Duncan would undoubtedly be spending the night on the
hearth rug, Ian on the trundle. And while I was feeling somewhat
uninhibited at the moment, the feeling didn’t extend quite that far.

“My father told me never to take advantage of a woman who was the
worse for drink,” he said. He had stopped squirming, but now started
again, slower, as though he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m not worse, I’m better,” I assured him. “Besides—” I executed a
slow, sinuous squirm of my own. “I thought he said you weren’t drunk if
you could find your arse with both hands.”

He eyed me appraisingly.

“I hate to tell ye, Sassenach, but it’s not your arse ye’ve got hold of—
it’s mine.”

“That’s all right,” I assured him. “We’re married. Share and share alike.
One flesh; the priest said so.”

“Perhaps it was a mistake to put that grease on ye,” he muttered, half to
himself. “It never does this to me!”

“Well, you’re a man.”

He had one last gallant try.

“Should ye not eat a bit more, lass? You must be starving.”

“Mm-hm,” I said. I buried my face in his shirt and bit him, lightly.
“Ravenous.”

[broughps]

DOA

1. Jamie and Claire first get to the Ridge

2. Jamie finding Claire and then when they get back home

3. Jamie getting to spend time with Willie

The journey began inauspiciously. It was raining, for one thing. For
another, he disliked leaving Claire, especially in such difficult
circumstances. For a third, he was badly worried for John; he hadn’t liked
the look of the man at all when he took leave of him, barely half conscious
and wheezing like a grampus, his features so blotched with rash as to be
unrecognizable.

And for a fourth, the ninth Earl of Ellesmere had just punched him in
the jaw. He took a firm hold on the youngster’s scruff and shook him, hard
enough to make his teeth clack painfully together.

“Now, then,” he said, letting go. The boy staggered, and sat down
suddenly as he lost his balance. He glared down at the lad, sitting in the
mud by the penfold. They had been having this argument, on and off, for
the last twenty-four hours, and he had had enough of it.

“I ken well enough what ye said. But what I said is that ye’re coming
with me. I’ve told ye why, and that’s all about it.”

The boy’s face drew down in a ferocious scowl. He wasn’t easily
cowed, but then Jamie supposed that earls weren’t used to folk trying,
either.

“I am not leaving!” the boy repeated. “You can’t make me!” He got to
his feet, jaw clenched, and turned back toward the cabin.

Jamie snaked out an arm, grabbed the lad’s collar, and hauled him back.
Seeing the boy draw back his foot for a kick, he closed his fist and
punched the boy neatly in the pit of the stomach. William’s eyes bulged
and he doubled over, holding his middle.

“Don’t kick,” Jamie said mildly. “It’s ill-mannered. And as for makin’
you, of course I can.”

The Earl’s face was bright red and his mouth was opening and closing
like a startled goldfish’s. His hat had fallen off, and the rain was pasting
strands of dark hair to his head.

“It’s verra loyal of ye to want to stay by your stepfather,” Jamie went
on, wiping the water out of his own face, “but ye canna help him, and you
may do yourself damage by staying. So ye’re not.” From the corner of his
eye, he caught a glimpse of movement as the oiled hide over the cabin’s
window moved aside, then fell. Claire, no doubt wondering why they were
not already long gone.

Jamie took the Earl by an unresisting arm, and led him to one of the
saddled horses.

“Up,” he said, and had the satisfaction of seeing the boy stick a reluctant
foot in the stirrup and swing aboard. Jamie tossed the boy’s hat up to him,
donned his own, and mounted himself. As a precaution, though, he kept
hold of both sets of reins as they set off.

“You, sir,” said a breathless, enraged voice behind him, “are a lout!”

He was torn between irritation and an urge to laugh, but gave way to
neither. He cast a look back over his shoulder, to see William also turned,
and leaning perilously to the side, half off his saddle.

“Don’t try it,” he advised the boy, who straightened up abruptly and
glared at him. “I wouldna like to tie your feet in your stirrups, but I’ll do it,
make no mistake.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed into bright blue triangles, but he evidently
took Jamie at his word. His jaw stayed clenched, but his shoulders
slumped a little in temporary defeat.

They rode in silence for most of the morning, rain drizzling down their
necks and weighting the shoulders of their cloaks. Willie might have
accepted defeat, but not graciously. He was still sullen when they
dismounted to eat, but did at least fetch water without protest, and pack up
the remains of their meal while Jamie watered the horses.

Jamie eyed him covertly, but there was no sign of measles. The Earl’s
face was frowning but rashless, and while the tip of his nose was dripping,
this appeared to be due solely to the effects of the weather.

“How far is it?” It was midafternoon before William’s curiosity
overcame his stubbornness. Jamie had long since relinquished the boy’s
reins to him—there was no danger of the lad’s trying to make his way back
alone now.

“Two days, perhaps.” In such mountainous terrain as lay between the
Ridge and Anna Ooka, they would make little better speed on horseback
than on foot. Having horses, though, allowed them to bring a few small
conveniences, such as a kettle, extra food, and a pair of carved fishing
rods. And a number of small gifts for the Indians, including a keg of homebrewed
whisky to help cushion the bad news they bore.

There was no reason to hurry, and some to delay—Claire had told him
firmly not to bring Willie back for at least six days. By then, John would
no longer be infectious. He would be well on the way to recovery—or
dead.

Claire had been outwardly confident, assuring Willie that his stepfather
would be quite all right, but he’d seen the mist of worry in her eyes. It
gave him a feeling of hollowness just below the ribs. It was perhaps as
well that he was leaving; he could be of no help, and sickness always left
him with a helpless feeling that made him at once afraid and angry.

“These Indians—they are friendly?” He could hear the tone of doubt in
Willie’s voice.

“Yes.” He felt Willie waiting for him to add “my lord,” and took a
small, perverse satisfaction in not doing it. He guided his horse’s head to
the side and slowed his pace, an invitation for Willie to ride up next to
him. He smiled at the boy as he did so.

“We have known them more than a year, and been guests in their longhouses—
aye, the people of Anna Ooka are more courteous and hospitable
than most folk I’ve met in England.”

“You have lived in England?” The boy shot him a surprised look, and he
cursed his carelessness, but luckily the lad was a great deal more interested
in Red Indians than in the personal history of James Fraser, and the
question passed with no more than a vague reply.

He was glad to see the boy abandon his sullen preoccupation and begin
to take some interest in their surroundings. He did his best to encourage it,
telling stories of the Indians and pointing out animal sign as they went, and
he was glad to see the boy thaw into civility, if nothing more, as they rode.
He welcomed the distraction of conversation himself; his mind was a
good deal too busy to make silence comfortable. If the worst should
happen—if John should die—what then became of Willie? He would
doubtless return to England and his grandmother—and Jamie would hear
no more of him.

John was the only other person, besides Claire, who knew the truth of
Willie’s paternity without doubt. It was possible that Willie’s grandmother
at least suspected the truth, but she would never, under any circumstances,
admit that her grandson might be the bastard of a Jacobite traitor rather
than the legitimate issue of the late Earl.

He said a small prayer to Saint Bride for the welfare of John Grey, and
tried to dismiss the nagging worry from his mind. In spite of his
apprehensions, he was beginning to enjoy the trip. The rain had lessened to
no more than a light spattering, and the forest was fragrant with the scents
of wet, fresh leaves and fecund dark leaf mold.

“D’ye see those scratches down the trunk of that tree?” He pointed with
his chin at a large hickory whose bark hung in shreds, showing a number
of long, parallel white slashes, some six feet from the ground.

“Yes.” Willie took off his hat and slapped it against his thigh to knock
the water off, then leaned forward to look more closely. “An animal did
that?”

“A bear,” Jamie said. “Fresh, too—see the sap’s not dried yet in the
cuts.”

“Is it nearby?” Willie glanced around, seeming more curious than
alarmed.

“Not close,” Jamie said, “or the horses would be carryin’ on. But near
enough, aye. Keep an eye out; we’ll likely see its dung or its prints.”

No, if John died, his tenuous link with William would be broken. He
had long since resigned himself to the situation, and accepted the necessity
without complaint—but he would feel bereft indeed if the measles robbed
him not only of his closest friend but of all connection with his son.

It had stopped raining. As they rounded the flank of a mountain and
came out above a valley, Willie gave a small exclamation of surprised
delight, and sat up straight in his saddle. Against a backdrop of rain-dark
clouds, a rainbow arced from the slope of a distant mountain, falling in a
perfect shimmer of light to the floor of the valley far below.

“Oh, it’s glorious!” Willie said. He turned a wide smile on Jamie, their
differences forgotten. “Have you ever seen such a thing before, sir?”

“Never,” said Jamie, smiling back. It occurred to him, with a small
shock, that these few days in the wilderness might conceivably be the last
he would see or hear of William. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to hit the
boy again.

He always slept lightly in the wood, and the sound woke him at once. He
lay quite still for a moment, unsure what it was. Then he heard the small,
choked noise, and recognized the sound of stifled weeping.

He checked his instant urge to turn and lay a hand on the boy in
comfort. The lad was making every effort not to be heard; he deserved to
keep his pride. He lay still, looking up into the sweep of the vast night sky
above, and listening.

Not fright; William had shown no fear of sleeping in dark woods, and
had there been a large animal nearby, the boy would not be keeping quiet
about it. Was the lad unwell? The sounds were little more than thickened
breathing, caught in the throat—perhaps the boy was in pain and too proud
to say. It was that fear that decided him to speak; if the measles had caught
them up, there was no time to waste; he must carry the boy back to Claire
at once.

“My lord?” he said softly.

The sobbing ceased abruptly. He heard the audible sound of a swallow
and the rasp of cloth on skin as the lad wiped a sleeve across his face.

“Yes?” the Earl said, with a creditable attempt at coolness, marred only
by the thickness in his voice.

“Are ye unwell, my lord?” He could tell already that it wasn’t that, but it
would do for a pretext. “Have ye maybe taken a touch of the cramp?
Sometimes dried apples take a man amiss.”

A deep breath came from the far side of the fire, and a snuffle as an
attempt was made to clear a running nose unobtrusively. The fire had
burned down to nothing more than embers; still, he could see the dark
shape that squirmed into a sitting position, crouched on the far side of the
fire.

“I—ah—yes, I think perhaps I have got…something of the sort.”

Jamie sat up himself, the plaid falling away from his shoulders.

“It’s no great matter,” he said, soothingly. “I’ve a potion that will cure
all manner of ills of the stomach. Do ye rest easy for a moment, my lord;
I’ll fetch water.”

He got to his feet and went away, careful not to look at the boy. By the
time he came back from the stream with the kettle filled, Willie had got his
nose blown and his face wiped, and was sitting with his knees drawn up,
his head resting on them.

He couldn’t keep himself from touching the boy’s head as he passed.
Familiarity be damned. The dark hair was soft to his touch, warm and
slightly damp with sweat.

“A griping in your guts, is it?” he said pleasantly, kneeling and putting
the kettle to boil.

“Mm-hm.” Willie’s voice was muffled in the blanket over his knees.

“That passes soon enough,” he said. He reached for his sporran, and
sorted through the proliferation of small items in it, coming up eventually
with the small cloth bag that held the dried mixture of leaves and flowers
Claire had given him. He didn’t know how she’d known it would be
needed, but he was long past the point of questioning anything she did in
the way of healing—whether of heart or of body.

He felt a moment’s passionate gratitude to her. He’d seen her look at the
boy, and knew how she must feel. She’d known about the lad, of course,
but seeing the flesh-and-blood proof that her husband had shared another
woman’s bed wasn’t something a wife should be asked to put up with.
Little wonder if she was inclined to stick pins in John, him pushing the lad
under her nose as he had.

“It willna take more than a moment to brew up,” he assured the boy,
rubbing the fragrant mixture between his hands into a wooden cup, as he’d
seen Claire do.

She’d not reproached him. Not with that at least, he thought, suddenly
remembering how she’d acted when she’d found out about Laoghaire.
She’d gone for him like a fiend, then, and yet when later she’d learned
about Geneva Dunsany…perhaps it was only that the boy’s mother was
dead?

The realization went through him like a sword thrust. The boy’s mother
was dead. Not just his real mother, who’d died the same day he was born
—but the woman he’d called mother all his life since. And now his father
—or the man he called father, Jamie thought with an unconscious twist of
his mouth—was lying sick of an illness that had killed another man before
the lad’s eyes no more than days before.

No, it wasn’t fright that made the lad greet by himself in the dark. It was
grief, and Jamie Fraser, who’d lost a mother in childhood himself, ought to
have known that from the beginning.

It wasn’t stubbornness, nor even loyalty, that had made Willie insist on
staying at the Ridge. It was love of John Grey, and fear of his loss. And it
was the same love that made the boy weep in the night, desperate with
worry for his father.

An unaccustomed weed of jealousy sprang up in Jamie’s heart, stinging
like nettles. He stamped firmly on it; he was fortunate indeed to know that
his son enjoyed a loving relationship with his stepfather. There, that was
the weed stamped out. The stamping, though, seemed to have left a small
bruised spot on his heart; he could feel it when he breathed.

The water was beginning to rumble in the kettle. He poured it carefully
over the herb mixture, and a sweet fragrance rose up in the steam.
Valerian, she’d said, and catmint. The root of a passionflower, soaked in
honey and finely ground. And the sweet, half-musky smell of lavender,
coming as an afterscent.

“Don’t drink it yourself,” she’d said, casual in giving it to him. “There’s
lavender in it.”

In fact, it didn’t trouble him, if he was warned of it. It was only that now
and then a whiff of lavender took him unawares, and sent a sudden surge
of sickness through his wame. Claire had seen the effects on him once too
often to be unwary of it.

“Here.” He leaned forward and handed the cup to the boy, wondering
whether forever after, the lad too would feel troubled by the scent of
lavender, or if he would find in it a memory of comfort. That, he supposed,
might well depend on whether John Grey lived or died.

The respite had given Willie back his outward composure, but his face
was still marked with grief. Jamie smiled at the boy, hiding his own
concern. Knowing both John and Claire as he did, he was less fearful than
the boy—but the dread was still there, persistent as a thorn in the sole of
his foot.

“That will ease ye,” he said, nodding at the cup. “My wife made it; she’s
a verra fine healer.”

“Is she?” The boy took a deep, trembling breath of the steam, and
touched a cautious tongue to the hot liquid. “I saw her—do things. With
the Indian who died.” The accusation there was clear; she’d done things,
and the man had died anyway.

Neither Claire nor Ian had spoken much of that, nor had he been able to
ask her what had happened—she had given him a lifted brow and a brief
gold look, to say that he should not speak of it before Willie, who had
come back with her from the corncrib, white-faced and clammy.

“Aye?” he said curiously. “What sort of—things?”

What the hell had she done? he wondered. Nothing to cause the man’s
death, surely; he would have seen that in her at once. Nor did she feel
herself at fault, or helpless—he had held her in his arms more than once,
comforting her as she wept for those she could not save. This time she had
been quiet, subdued—as had Ian—but not deeply upset. She had seemed
vaguely puzzled.

“She had mud on her face. And she sang to him. I think she was singing
a Papist song; it was in Latin, and it had something to do with sacraments.”

“Indeed?” Jamie suppressed his own astonishment at this description.
“Aye, well. Perhaps she meant only to give the man a bit of comfort, if she
saw she couldna save him. The Indians are much more sensible of the
effects of measles, ye ken; an infection that will kill one of them wouldna
cause a white man to blink twice. I’ve had the measle myself, as a wee lad,
and took no harm from it at all.” He smiled and stretched, demonstrating
his evident health.

The tense lines of the boy’s face relaxed a little, and he took a cautious
sip of the hot tea.

“That’s what Mrs. Fraser said. She said Papa would be all right. She—
she gave me her word upon it.”

“Then ye may depend upon it that he will,” Jamie said firmly. “Mrs.
Fraser is an honorable woman.” He coughed, and hitched the plaid up
around his shoulders; it wasn’t a cold night, but there was a breeze coming
down the hill. “Is the drink helping a bit?”

Willie looked blank, then looked down at the cup in his hand.

“Oh! Yes. Yes, thank you; it’s very good. I feel very much improved.
Perhaps it was not the dried apples, after all.”

“Perhaps not,” Jamie agreed, bending his head to hide a smile. “Still, I
think we’ll manage better for our supper tomorrow; if luck is with us, we’ll
have trout.”

This attempt at distraction was successful; Willie’s head popped up
from his cup, an expression of deep interest on his face.

“Trout? We can fish?”

“Have ye done much fishing in England? I canna think that the trout
streams would compare with these, but I know there is good fishing to be
had in the Lake District—or so your father tells me.”

He held his breath. What in God’s name had made him ask that? He had
himself taken a five-year-old William fishing for char on the lake near
Ellesmere, when he had served his indenture there. Did he want the boy to
remember?

“Oh…yes. It’s pleasant on the lakes, surely—but nothing like this.”

Willie waved in the vague direction of the creek. The lines in the boy’s
face had smoothed themselves, and a small flicker of life had come back
into his eyes. “I have never seen such a place. It’s not at all like England!”

“That it is not,” Jamie agreed, amused. “Will ye not miss England,
though?”

Willie thought about it for a moment, as he slurped the rest of his tea.

“I don’t think so,” he said, with a decided shake of his head. “I miss
Grandmamma sometimes, and my horses, but nothing else. It was all tutors
and dancing lessons and Latin and Greek—ugh!” He wrinkled his nose,
and Jamie laughed.

“Ye dinna care for the dancing, then?”

“No. You have to do it with girls.” He shot Jamie a look under his fine,
dark brows. “Do you care for music, Mr. Fraser?”

“No,” Jamie said, smiling. “I like the girls fine, though.” The girls were
going to like this wee laddie just fine, too, he thought, covertly noting the
youngster’s breadth of shoulder and long shanks, and the long, dark lashes
that hid his bonny blue eyes.

“Yes. Well, Mrs. Fraser is very pretty,” the Earl said politely. His mouth
curled suddenly up on one side. “Though she did look funny, with the mud
on her face.”

“I daresay. Will ye have another cup, my lord?”

Claire had said the mixture was for calming; it seemed to be working.
As they talked desultorily of the Indians and their strange beliefs,
William’s eyelids began to droop, and he yawned more than once. At last,
Jamie reached over and took the empty cup from his unresisting hand.

“The night is cold, my lord,” he said. “Will ye choose to lie next to me,
that we may share our coverings?”

The night was chilly, but a long way from cold. He had guessed right,
though; Willie seized the excuse with alacrity. He could not take a lord in
his arms to comfort him, nor could a young earl admit to wanting such
comfort. Two men could lie close together without shame, though, for the
sake of warmth.

Willie fell asleep at once, nestled close against his side. Jamie lay awake
for a long time, one arm laid lightly across the sleeping body of his son.

“Now the wee speckled one. Just on top, and hold it with your finger,
aye?” He wrapped the thread tightly around the tiny roll of white wool,
just missing Willie’s finger but catching the end of the woodpecker’s
down feather, so the fluffy barbs rose up pertly, quivering in the light air.

“You see? It looks like a wee bug taking flight.”

Willie nodded, intent on the fly. Two tiny yellow tail feathers lay
smooth under the down feather, simulating the spread wing casings of a
beetle.

“I see. Is it the color that matters, or the shape?”

“Both, but more the shape, I think.” Jamie smiled at the boy. “What
matters most is how hungry the fish are. Choose your time right, and
they’ll strike anything—even a bare hook. Choose it wrong, and ye might
as well be fishing wi’ lint from your navel. Dinna tell that to a fly
fisherman, though; they’ll be taking all the credit, and none left to the
fish.”

Willie didn’t laugh—the boy didn’t laugh much—but he smiled and
took the willow pole with its newly tied fly.

“Is it the right time, now, do you think, Mr. Fraser?” He shaded his eyes
and looked out over the water. They stood in the cool shadow of a grove of
black willow, but the sun was still above the horizon, and the water of the
stream glittered like metal.

“Aye, trout feed at sunset. D’ye see the prickles on the water? This
pool’s waking.”

The surface of the pool was restless; the water itself lay calm, but
dozens of tiny ripples spread and overlapped, rings of light and shadow
spreading and breaking in endless profusion.

“The rings? Yes. Is that fish?”

“Not yet. It’s the hatching; midges and gnats hatch from their cases and
burst through the surface to the air—the trout will see them and come to
feed.”

Without warning, a silver streak shot into the air and fell back with a
splash. Willie gasped.

“That’s a fish,” Jamie said, unnecessarily. He quickly threaded his line
through the carved guides, tied a fly to his line, and stepped forward.

“Watch now.”

He drew back his arm and rocked his wrist, back and forth, feeding
more line with each circle of his forearm, until with a snap of the wrist, he
sent the line sailing out in a great lazy loop, the fly floating down like a
circling gnat. He felt the boy’s eyes on him, and was glad the cast had
been good.

He let the fly float for a moment, watching—it was hard to see, in the
sparkling brightness—then began slowly to pull the line in. Quick as
thought, the fly went under. The ring of its disappearance had not even
begun to spread before he had jerked the line hard and felt the answering
savage tug in reply.

“You’ve got one! You’ve got one!” He could hear Willie, dancing on
the bank behind him with excitement, but had no attention to spare for
anything save the fish.

He had no reel; only the twig that held his spare line. He pulled the tip
of the rod far back, let it fall forward and gathered in the loose line with a
snatch of the hand. Once more, line in, and then a desperate rush that took
out all the line gained, and more.

He could see nothing amid the flashing sparks of light, but the tug and
pull through his arms was as good as sight; a quiver as live as the trout
itself, as though he held the thing in his hands, squirming and wriggling,
fighting…

Free. The line went limp, and he stood for a moment, the vibrations of
struggle dying away along the muscles of his arms, breathing in the air he
had forgotten to take in the heat of battle.

“He got away! Oh, bad luck, sir!” Willie scampered down the bank,
pole in hand, face open in sympathy.

“Good luck for the fish.” Still exhilarated from the fight, Jamie grinned
and wiped a wet hand over his face. “Will ye try, lad?” Too late, he
remembered that he must call the boy “lord,” but Willie was too eager to
have noticed the omission.

Face fixed in a scowl of determination, Willie drew back his arm,
squinted at the water, and snapped his wrist with a mighty jerk. The rod
sailed from his fingers and flew gracefully into the pond.

The boy gaped after it, then turned an expression of utter dismay on
Jamie, who made no effort at all to keep back his laughter. The young lord
looked thoroughly taken aback, and not very pleased, but after a moment,
one corner of his wide mouth curved up in wry acknowledgment. He
gestured at the rod, floating some ten feet from the bank.

“Will it not frighten all the fish, if I go in after it?”

“It will. Take mine; I’ll fetch that one back later.”

Willie licked his lips and set his jaw in concentration, taking a firm grip
on the new rod, testing it with little whips and jerks. Turning to the pool,
he rocked his arm back and forth, then snapped his wrist hard. He froze,
the tip of the rod extended in a perfect line with his arm. The loose line
wrapped itself around the rod and draped over Willie’s head.

“A verra pretty cast, my lord,” Jamie said, rubbing a knuckle hard over
his mouth. “But I think we must put on a new fly first, aye?”

“Oh.” Slowly, Willie relaxed his rigid posture, and looked sheepishly at
Jamie. “I didn’t think of that.”

Slightly chastened by these misadventures, the Earl allowed Jamie to
fasten a fresh fly in place, and then to take him by the wrist to demonstrate
the proper way of casting.

Standing behind the boy, he took Willie’s right wrist in his own,
marveling both at the slenderness of the arm and at the knobby wristbones
that gave promise of both size and strength to come. The boy’s skin was
cool with perspiration, and the feel of his arm much like the tingle of the
trout on the line, live and muscular, vivid to his touch. Then Willie twisted
free, and he felt a moment’s confusion, and a peculiar sense of loss at the
breaking of their brief contact.

“That’s not right,” Willie was saying, turning to look up at him. “You
cast with the left hand. I saw you.”

“Aye, but I’m cack-handed, my lord. Most men would cast with the
right.”

“Cack-handed?” Willie’s mouth curved up again.

“I find my left hand more convenient to most purposes than is the right,
my lord.”

“That’s what I thought it meant. I’m the same.” Willie looked at once
rather pleased and mildly shamefaced at this statement. “My—my mother
said it wasn’t proper, and that I must learn to use the other, as a gentleman
ought. But Papa said no, and made them let me write with my left hand.
He said it didn’t matter so much if I should look awkward with a quill;
when it came to fighting with a sword, I should be at an advantage.”

“Your father is a wise man.” His heart twisted, with something between
jealousy and gratitude—but gratitude was far the uppermost.

“Papa was a soldier.” Willie drew himself up a little, straightening his
shoulders with unconscious pride. “He fought in Scotland, in the Ris—
oh.” He coughed, and his face went a dull red as he caught sight of Jamie’s
kilt and realized that he was quite possibly talking to a defeated warrior of
that particular fight. He fiddled with the rod, not knowing where to look.

“Aye, I know. That’s where I met him, first.” Jamie was careful to keep
any hint of amusement from his voice. He was tempted to tell the boy the
circumstances of that first meeting, but that would be poor repayment to
John for his priceless gift, these precious few days with his son.

“He was a verra gallant soldier, indeed,” Jamie agreed, straight-faced.
“And right about the hands, as well. Have ye begun your schooling with
the sword, then?”

“Just a little.” Willie was forgetting his embarrassment in enthusiasm
for the new topic. “I’ve had a little whinger since I was eight, and learnt
feint and parry. Papa says I shall have a proper sword when we reach
Virginia, now I am tall enough for the reach of tierce and longé.”

“Ah. Well, then, if ye’ve been handling a sword in your left hand, I
think ye’ll have nay great trouble in mastering a rod that way. Here, let us
try again, or we’ll have no supper.”

On the third try, the fly settled sweetly, to float for no more than a
second before a small but hungry trout roared to the surface and engulfed
it. Willie let out a shriek of excitement, and yanked the rod so hard that the
astounded trout flew through the air and past his head, to land with a splat
on the bank beyond.

“I did it! I did it! I caught a fish!” Willie waved his rod and ran around
in little circles whooping, forgetting the dignity of both age and title.

“Indeed ye did.” Jamie picked up the trout, which measured perhaps six
inches from nose to tail, and clapped the capering Earl on the back in
congratulations. “Well done, lad! It looks as though they’re biting well the
e’en; let’s have another cast or two, aye?”

The trout were indeed biting well. By the time the sun had sunk below
the rim of the distant black mountains, and the silver water faded to dull
pewter, they had each a respectable string of fish. They were also both wet
to the eyebrows, exhausted, half blind from the glare, and thoroughly
happy.

“I have never tasted anything half so delicious,” Willie said dreamily.

“Never.” He was naked, wrapped in a blanket, his shirt, breeches and
stockings draped on a tree limb to dry. He lay back with a contented sigh,
and belched slightly.

Jamie rearranged his damp plaid on a bush and laid another chunk of
wood on the fire. The weather was fine, God be thanked, but it was chilly
with the sun down, the night wind rising, and a wet sark on his back. He
stood close to the edge of the fire and let the heated air rise up under his
shirt. The warmth of it ran up his thighs and touched his chest and belly,
comforting as Claire’s hands on the chilly flesh between his legs.

He stood quietly for a time, watching the boy without seeming to look at
him. Putting vanity aside and judging fairly, he thought William a
handsome child. Thinner than he should be; every rib showed—but with a
wiry muscularity of limb and well formed in all his parts.

The boy had turned his head, gazing into the fire, and he could look
more openly. Sap in the pinewood cracked and popped, flooding Willie’s
face for a moment with golden light.

Jamie stood quite still, feeling his heart beat, watching. It was one of
those strange moments that came to him rarely, but never left. A moment
that stamped itself on heart and brain, instantly recallable in every detail,
for all of his life.

There was no telling what made these moments different from any
other, though he knew them when they came. He had seen sights more
gruesome and more beautiful by far, and been left with no more than a
fleeting muddle of their memory. But these—the still moments, as he
called them to himself—they came with no warning, to print a random
image of the most common things inside his brain, indelible. They were
like the photographs that Claire had brought him, save that the moments
carried with them more than vision.

He had one of his father, smeared and muddy, sitting on the wall of a
cow byre, a cold Scottish wind lifting his dark hair. He could call that one
up and smell the dry hay and the scent of manure, feel his own fingers
chilled by the wind, and his heart warmed by the light in his father’s eyes.
He had such glimpses of Claire, of his sister, of Ian…small moments
clipped out of time and perfectly preserved by some odd alchemy of
memory, fixed in his mind like an insect in amber. And now he had
another.

For so long as he lived, he could recall this moment. He could feel the
cold wind on his face, and the crackling feel of the hair on his thighs, half
singed by the fire. He could smell the rich odor of trout fried in cornmeal,
and feel the tiny prick of a swallowed bone, hair-thin in his throat.

He could hear the dark quiet of the forest behind, and the soft rush of the
stream nearby. And forever now he would remember the firelight golden
on the sweet bold face of his son.

“Deo gratias,” he murmured, and realized that he had spoken aloud
only when the boy turned toward him, startled.

“What?”

“Nothing.” To cover the moment, he turned away and took down his
half-dry plaid from the bush. Even soaking wet, Highland wool would
keep in a man’s heat, and shelter him from cold.

“Ye should sleep, my lord,” he said, sitting down and arranging the
damp folds of plaid around himself. “It will be a long day tomorrow.”

“I’m not sleepy.” As though to prove it, Willie sat up and scrubbed his
hands vigorously through his hair, making the thick russet mass stand out
like a mane round his head.

Jamie felt a stab of alarm; he recognized the gesture only too well as one
of his. In fact, he had been just about to do precisely the same thing, and it
was with an effort that he kept his hands still.

He swallowed the heart that had risen into his throat, and reached for his
sporran. No. Surely the lad would never think—a boy of that age paid little
heed to anything his elders said or did, let alone thought to look at them
closely. Still, it had been the hell of a risk for all of them to take; the look
on Claire’s face had been enough to tell him just how striking the
resemblance was.

He took a deep breath, and began to take out the small cloth bundles that
contained his fly-tying materials. They had used all his made flies, and if
he meant to fish for their breakfast, a few more should be got ready.

“Can I help?” Willie didn’t wait for permission, but scooted around the
fire, to sit beside him. Without comment, he pushed the small wooden box
of birds’ feathers toward the boy, and picked a fishhook from the piece of
cork that held them.

They worked in silence for a time, stopping only to admire a completed
Silver Doctor or Broom-eye, or for Jamie to lend a word of advice or help
in tying. Willie soon tired of the exacting work, though, and laid down his
half-done Green Whisker, asking numerous questions about fishing,
hunting, the forest, the Red Indians they were going to see.

“No,” Jamie said in answer to one such. “I’ve never seen a scalp in the
village. They’re verra kindly folk, for the most part. Do one some injury,
mind, and they’ll not be slow to take revenge for it.” He smiled wryly.
“They do remind me a bit of Highlanders in that regard.”

“Grandmamma says the Scots breed I—” The casually begun statement
choked off abruptly. Jamie looked up to see Willie concentrating fiercely
on the half-made fly between his fingers, his face redder than the firelight
accounted for.

“Like rabbits?” Jamie let both irony and smile show in his voice. Willie
flicked a cautious sideways glance in his direction.

“Scottish families are sometimes large, aye.” Jamie plucked a wren’s
down feather from the small box and laid it delicately against the shank of
his hook. “We think children a blessing.”

The bright color was fading from Willie’s cheeks. He sat up a little
straighter.

“I see. Have you got a lot of children yourself, Mr. Fraser?”

Jamie dropped the down feather.

“No, not a great many,” he said, eyes fixed on the mottled leaves.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t think—that is…” Jamie glanced up to see Willie
gone red again, one hand crushing the half-tied fly.

“Think what?” he said, puzzled.

Willie took a deep breath.

“Well—the…the…sickness; the measles. I didn’t see any children, but I
didn’t think when I said that…I mean…that maybe you had some, but
they…”

“Och, no.” Jamie smiled at him reassuringly. “My daughter’s grown;
she’ll be living far away in Boston this long while.”

“Oh.” Willie let out his breath, tremendously relieved. “That’s all?”

The fallen down-feather moved in a breath of wind, betraying its
presence in the shadows. Jamie pinched it between thumb and forefinger
and lifted it gently from the ground.

“No, I’ve a son, too,” he said, eyes on the hook that had somehow
embedded its barb in his thumb. A tiny drop of blood welled up around the
shining metal. “A bonny lad, and I love him weel, though he’s away from
home just now.”

[broughps]

DOA

1. Jamie and Claire first get to the Ridge

2. Jamie finding Claire and then when they get back home

3. Jamie getting to spend time with Willie

4. Bree and Jamie meet

She felt hollow again, in spite of the food she’d eaten. Lips pressed tight
together, she tethered the mule and ducked into the dark refuge of the
tavern.

The room was empty save for the landlord, perched in somnolence on
his stool. He roused himself at her step, and after the usual goggle of
surprise at her appearance, served her beer and gave her courteous
directions to the courthouse.

“Thank you.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead with a coat sleeve
—even inside, the heat was stifling.

“You’ll have come for the trial, then?” the landlord ventured, still
looking at her curiously.

“Yes—well, not really. Whose trial is it?” she asked, belatedly realizing
that she had no idea.

“Oh, it’ll be Fergus Fraser,” the man said, as though assuming that
naturally everyone knew who Fergus Fraser was. “Assault on an officer of
the Crown is the charge. He’ll be acquitted, though,” the landlord went on
matter-of-factly. “Jamie Fraser’s come down from the mountain for him.”
Brianna choked on her beer.

“You know Jamie Fraser?” she asked breathlessly, swabbing at the
spilled foam on her sleeve.

The landlord’s brows went up.

“Wait but a moment and you’ll know him, too.” He nodded at a pewter
tankard full of beer, sitting on the nearby table. She hadn’t noticed it when
she came in. “He went out the back, just as you came in. He—hey!” He
fell back with a cry of surprise as she dropped her own tankard on the
floor, and shot out the back door like a bat out of hell.

The light outside was dazzling after the taproom’s gloom. Brianna
blinked, eyes tearing at the shafts of sun that stabbed through the shifting
greens of a screen of maples. Then a movement caught her eye, below the
flickering leaves.

He stood in the shade of the maples, half turned away from her, head
bent in absorption. A tall man, long-legged, lean and graceful, with his
shoulders broad under a white shirt. He wore a faded kilt in pale greens
and browns, casually rucked up in front as he urinated against a tree.

He finished and, letting the kilt fall, turned toward the post house. He
saw her then, standing there staring at him, and tensed slightly, hands half
curling. Then he saw past her men’s clothes, and the look of wary
suspicion changed at once to surprise as he realized that she was a woman.

There was no doubt in her mind, from the first glimpse. She was at once
surprised and not surprised at all; he was not quite what she had imagined
—he seemed smaller, only man-sized—but his face had the lines of her
own; the long, straight nose and stubborn jaw, and the slanted cat-eyes, set
in a frame of solid bone.

He moved toward her out of the maples’ shadow, and the sun struck his
hair with a spray of copper sparks. Half consciously she raised a hand and
pushed a strand of hair back from her face, seeing from the corner of her
eye the matching gleam of thick red-gold.

“What d’ye want here, lassie?” he asked. Sharp, but not unkind. His
voice was deeper than she had imagined; the Highland burr slight but
distinct.

“You,” she blurted. Her heart seemed to have wedged itself in her
throat; she had trouble forcing any words past it.

He was close enough that she caught the faint whiff of his sweat and the
fresh smell of sawn wood; there was a golden scatter of sawdust caught in
the rolled sleeves of his linen shirt. His eyes narrowed with amusement as
he looked her up and down, taking in her costume. One reddish eyebrow
rose, and he shook his head.

“Sorry, lass,” he said, with a half-smile. “I’m a marrit man.”

He made to pass by, and she made a small incoherent sound, putting out
a hand to stop him, but not quite daring to touch his sleeve. He stopped
and looked at her more closely.

“No, I meant it; I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far,” he said,
evidently wishing to be courteous. “But—” He stopped, close enough now
to take in the grubbiness of her clothes, the hole in the sleeve of her coat
and the tattered ends of her stock.

“Och,” he said in a different tone, and reached for the small leather
purse he wore tied at his waist. “Will ye be starved, then, lass? I’ve money,
if you must eat.”

She could scarcely breathe. His eyes were dark blue, soft with kindness.
Her eyes fixed on the open collar of his shirt, where the curly hairs
showed, bleached gold against his sunburnt skin.

“Are you—you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?”

He glanced sharply at her face.

“I am,” he said. The wariness had returned to his face; his eyes
narrowed against the sun. He glanced quickly behind him, toward the
tavern, but nothing stirred in the open doorway. He took a step closer to
her.

“Who asks?” he said softly. “Have you a message for me, lass?”

She felt an absurd desire to laugh welling up in her throat. Did she have
a message?

“My name is Brianna,” she said. He frowned, uncertain, and something
flickered in his eyes. He knew it! He’d heard the name and it meant
something to him. She swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks blaze as though
they’d been seared by a candle flame.

“I’m your daughter,” she said, her voice sounding choked to her own
ears. “Brianna.”

He stood stock-still, not changing expression in the slightest. He had
heard her, though; he went pale, and then a deep, painful red washed up
his throat and into his face, sudden as a brushfire, matching her own vivid
color.

She felt a deep flash of joy at the sight, a rush through her midsection
that echoed that blaze of blood, recognition of their fair-skinned kinship.
Did it trouble him to blush so strongly? she wondered suddenly. Had he
schooled his face to immobility, as she had learned to do, to mask that
telltale surge?

Her own face felt stiff, but she gave him a tentative smile.

He blinked, and his eyes moved at last from her face, slowly taking in
her appearance, and—with what seemed to her a new and horrified
awareness—her height.

“My God,” he croaked. “You’re huge.”

Her own blush had subsided, but now came back with a vengeance.

“And whose fault is that, do you think?” she snapped. She drew herself
up straight and squared her shoulders, glaring. So close, at her full height,
she could look him right in the eye, and did.

He jerked back, and his face did change then, mask shattering in
surprise. Without it, he looked younger; underneath were shock, surprise,
and a dawning expression of half-painful eagerness.

“Och, no, lassie!” he exclaimed. “I didna mean it that way, at all! It’s
only—” He broke off, staring at her in fascination. His hand lifted, as
though despite himself, and traced the air, outlining her cheek, her jaw and
neck and shoulder, afraid to touch her directly.

“It’s true?” he whispered. “It is you, Brianna?” He spoke her name with
a queer accent—Breeanah—and she shivered at the sound.

“It’s me,” she said, a little huskily. She made another attempt at a smile.
“Can’t you tell?”

His mouth was wide and full-lipped, but not like hers; wider, a bolder
shape, that seemed to hide a smile in the corners of it, even in repose. It
was twitching now, not certain what to do.

“Aye,” he said. “Aye, I can.”

He did touch her then, his fingers drawing lightly down her face,
brushing back the waves of ruddy hair from temple and ear, tracing the
delicate line of her jaw. She shivered again, though his touch was
noticeably warm; she could feel the heat of his palm against her cheek.

“I hadna thought of you as grown,” he said, letting his hand fall
reluctantly away. “I saw the pictures, but still—I had ye in my mind
somehow as a wee bairn always—as my babe. I never expected…” His
voice trailed off as he stared at her, the eyes like her own, deep blue and
thick-lashed, wide in fascination.

“Pictures,” she said, feeling breathless with happiness. “You’ve seen
pictures of me? Mama found you, didn’t she? When you said you had a
wife at home—”

“Claire,” he interrupted. The wide mouth had made its decision; it split
into a smile that lit his eyes like the sun in the dancing tree leaves. He
grabbed her arms, tight enough to startle her.

“You’ll not have seen her, then? Christ, she’ll be mad wi’ joy!”

The thought of her mother was overwhelming. Her face cracked, and the
tears she had been holding back for days spilled down her cheeks in a
flood of relief, half choking her as she laughed and cried together.

“Here, lassie, dinna weep!” he exclaimed in alarm. He let go of her arm
and snatched a large, crumpled handkerchief from his sleeve. He patted
tentatively at her cheeks, looking worried.

“Dinna weep, a leannan, dinna be troubled,” he murmured. “It’s all
right, m’ annsachd; it’s all right.”

“I’m all right; everything’s all right. I’m just—happy,” she said. She
took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “What does that
mean—a leannan? And the other thing you said?”

“You’ll not have the Gaelic, then?” he asked, and shook his head. “No,
of course she wouldna have been taught,” he murmured, as though to
himself.

“I’ll learn,” she said firmly, giving her nose a last wipe. “A leannan?”

A slight smile reappeared on his face as he looked at her.

“It means ‘darling,’ ” he said softly. “M’ annsachd—my blessing.”

The words hung in the air between them, shimmering like the leaves.
They stood still, both stricken suddenly with shyness by the endearment,
unable to look away from each other, unable to find more words.

“Fa—” Brianna started to speak, then stopped, suddenly seized with
doubt. What should she call him? Not Daddy. Frank Randall had been
Daddy to her all her life; it would be a betrayal to use that name to another
man—any other man. Jamie? No, she couldn’t possibly; rattled as he was
by her appearance, he had still a formidable dignity that forbade such
casual use. “Father” seemed remote and stern—and whatever Jamie Fraser
might be, he wasn’t that; not to her.

He saw her hesitate and flush, and recognized her trouble.

“You can…call me Da,” he said. His voice was husky; he stopped and
cleared his throat. “If—if ye want to, I mean,” he added diffidently.

“Da,” she said, and felt the smile bloom easily this time, unmarred by
tears. “Da. Is that Gaelic?”

He smiled back, the corners of his mouth trembling slightly.

“No. It’s only…simple.”

And suddenly it was all simple. He held out his arms to her. She stepped
into them and found that she had been wrong; he was as big as she’d
imagined—and his arms were as strong about her as she had ever dared to
hope.

[broughps]

DOA

1. Jamie and Claire first get to the Ridge

2. Jamie finding Claire and then when they get back home

3. Jamie getting to spend time with Willie

4. Bree and Jamie meet

5. Jamie forgives BJR

Jamie paused by the upper fence of the cowpen, on the rise above the
house. It was late, and he was more than tired, but his mind kept him
wakeful. The calving completed, he had carried Brianna down to the cabin
—she sleeping sound as a babe in his arms—and then gone out again, to
seek relief in the solitude of the night.

His shins ached where she had kicked him, and there were deep bruises
on his thighs; she was amazingly powerful for a woman. None of that
troubled him in the least; in fact, he felt an odd and unexpected pride in
this evidence of her strength. She will be all right, he thought. Surely she
will.

There was more hope than confidence behind this thought. Yet it was on
his own account that he was wakeful, and he felt at once troubled and
foolish at the knowledge. He had thought himself thoroughly healed, old
hurts so far behind him that they could safely be dismissed from mind. He
had been wrong about that, and it unsettled him to find just how close to
the surface the buried memories lay.

If he were to find rest tonight, they would have to be exhumed; the
ghosts raised in order to lay them. Well, he had told the lass it took
strength. He stopped, gripping the fence.

The rustle of night sounds faded slowly from his mind as he waited,
listening for the voice. He had not heard it for years, had thought never to
hear it again—but he had already heard its echo once tonight; seen the
blaze of anger’s phantom in his daughter’s eyes, and felt its flames singe
his own heart.

Better to call it forth and face it boldly than let it lie in ambush. If he
could not face his own demons, he could not conquer hers. He touched a
bruise on his thigh, finding an odd comfort in the soreness.

No one dies of it, he’d said. Not you; not me.

The voice did not come at first; for a moment he hoped it would not—
perhaps it had been long enough…but then it was there again, whispering
in his ear as though it had never left, its insinuations a caress that burned
his memory as once they had burned his skin.

“Gently at first,” it breathed. “Softly. Tender as though you were my
infant son. Gently, but for so long you will forget there was a time I did
not own your body.”

The night stood still around him, paused as time had paused so long
before, poised on the edge of a gulf of dread, waiting. Waiting for the next
words, known beforehand and expected, but nonetheless…

“And then,” the voice said, loving, “then I’ll hurt you very badly. And
you will thank me, and ask for more.”

He stood quite still, face turned upward to the stars. Fought back the
surge of fury as it murmured in his ear, the pulse of memory in his blood.
Then made himself surrender, let it come. He trembled with remembered
helplessness, and clenched his teeth in rage—but stared unblinking at the
brightness of heaven overhead, invoking the names of the stars as the
words of a prayer, abandoning himself to the vastness overhead as he
sought to lose himself below.

Betelgeuse. Sirius. Orion. Antares. The sky is very large, and you are
very small. Let the words wash through him, the voice and its memories
pass over him, shivering his skin like the touch of a ghost, vanishing into
darkness.

The Pleiades. Cassiopeia. Taurus. Heaven is wide, and you are very
small. Dead, but none the less powerful for being dead. He spread his
hands wide, gripping the fence—those were powerful, too. Enough to beat
a man to death, enough to choke out a life. But even death was not enough
to loose the bands of rage.

With great effort, he let go. Turned his hands palm upward, in gesture of
surrender. He reached beyond the stars, searching. The words formed
themselves quietly in his mind, by habit, so quietly he was not aware of
them until he found them echoed in a whisper on his lips.

“ ‘…Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against
us.’ ”

He breathed slowly, deeply. Seeking, struggling; struggling to let go. “
‘Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.’ ”

Waited, in emptiness, in faith. And then grace came; the necessary
vision; the memory of Jack Randall’s face in Edinburgh, stricken to bare
bone by the knowledge of his brother’s death. And he felt once more the
gift of pity, calm in its descent as the landing of a dove.

He closed his eyes, feeling the wounds bleed clean again as the
succubus drew its claws from his heart.

He sighed, and turned his hands over, the rough wood of the fence
comforting and solid under his palms. The demon was gone. He had been
a man, Jack Randall; nothing more. And in the recognition of that common
frail humanity, all power of past fear and pain vanished like smoke.
His shoulders slumped, relieved of their burden.

“Go in peace,” he whispered, to the dead man and himself. “You are
forgiven.”

The night sounds had returned; the cry of a hunting cat rose sharp on the
air, and rotting leaves crunched soft underfoot as he made his way back
toward the house. The oiled hide that covered the window glowed golden
in the dark, with the flame of the candle he had left burning in the hope of
Claire’s return. His sanctuary.

He thought that he should perhaps have told Brianna all this, too—but
no. She couldn’t understand what he had told her; he had had to show her,
instead. How to tell her in words, then, what he had learned himself by
pain and grace? That only by forgiveness could she forget—and that
forgiveness was not a single act, but a matter of constant practice.

Perhaps she would find such grace herself; perhaps this unknown Roger
Wakefield could be her sanctuary, as Claire had been his. He found his
natural jealousy of the man dissolved in a passionate wish that Wakefield
could indeed give her what he himself could not. Pray God he would come
soon; pray God he would prove a decent man.

In the meantime, there were other matters to be dealt with. He walked
slowly down the hill, oblivious to the wind that blew the kilt about his
knees and billowed through his shirt and plaid. Things must be done here;
winter was coming, and he could not leave his women here alone with
only Ian to hunt for them and defend them. He couldn’t leave to search for
Wakefield.

But if Wakefield did not come? Well, there were other ways; he would
see Brianna and the child protected, one way or another. And at least his
daughter was safe from the man who had harmed her. Permanently safe.
He rubbed a hand across his face, smelling blood still on his skin from the
calving.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.
Yes, but what of those who trespass against the ones we love? He could
not forgive on another’s behalf—and would not, if he could. But if not…
how should he expect forgiveness in return?

Educated in the universities of Paris, confidant of kings and friend to
philosophers, still he was a Highlander, born to blood and honor. The body
of a warrior and the mind of a gentleman—and the soul of a barbarian, he
thought wryly, to whom neither God’s nor mortal law stood more sacred
than the ties of blood.

Yes, there was forgiveness; she must find a way to forgive the man, for
her own sake. But he was a different matter.

“ ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ ” He whispered it to himself.
Then he looked up, away from the safe small glow of hearth and home, to
the flaming glory of the stars above.

“The hell it is,” he said, aloud, shamed but defiant. It was ungrateful, he
knew. And wrong, forbye. But there it was, and no use to lie either to God
or to himself about it.

“The hell it is,” he repeated, louder. “And if I am damned for what I’ve
done—then let it be! She is my daughter.”

He stood still for a moment, looking up, but there was no answer from
the stars. He nodded once, as though in reply, and went on down the hill,
the wind cold behind him.

[broughps]

So what are your DOA five?

[Krish728]

1) Strawberries/Frasers scene.

2) Jamie snaps his back.. and with Claire in the snow. 

3) Jamie finding Claire and then when they get back home.

4) Jamie and Bree meet for the first time.

5) Jamie helps Bree realise that rape isn't her fault. 

Honorable mention: Final scene in DoA.

[AJ01]

My 5 favorites, in random order:

1 Strawberry fields forever
2 Claire’s conversations with LJ in the cabin when he has the measles/Jamie spending time with Willie at the same time
3 Jamie and Bree first meeting
4 Jamie helping Bree realise that the rape isn't her fault. 
5 Bree trying to blackmail LJ at River Run

[broughps]

TFC

1. Roger and Bree's wedding.

WE WERE LUCKY. The rain held off, and shredding clouds revealed a
silver moon, rising lopsided but luminous over the slope of Black
Mountain; suitable illumination for an intimate family wedding.

I had met David Caldwell, though I hadn’t recalled it until I saw him; a
small but immensely personable gentleman, very tidy in his dress, despite
camping in the open for a week. Jamie knew him, too, and respected him.

That didn’t prevent a certain tightness of expression as the minister came
into the firelight, his worn prayer book clasped in his hands, but I nudged
Jamie warningly, and he at once altered his expression to one of
inscrutability.

I saw Roger glance once in our direction, then turn back to Bree. There
might have been a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, or it could have
been only the effect of the shadows. Jamie exhaled strongly through his
nose, and I nudged him again.

“You had your way over the baptism,” I whispered. He lifted his chin
slightly. Brianna glanced in our direction, looking slightly anxious.

“I havena said a word, have I?”

“It’s a perfectly respectable Christian marriage.”

“Did I say it was not?”

“Then look happy, damn you!” I hissed. He exhaled once more, and
assumed an expression of benevolence one degree short of outright
imbecility.

“Better?” he asked, teeth clenched in a genial smile. I saw Duncan Innes
turn casually toward us, start, and turn hastily away, murmuring something
to Jocasta, who stood near the fire, white hair shining, and a blindfold over
her damaged eyes to shield them from the light. Ulysses, standing behind
her, had in fact put on his wig in honor of the ceremony; it was all I could
see of him in the darkness, hanging apparently disembodied in the air
above her shoulder. As I watched, it turned sideways, toward us, and I
caught the faint shine of eyes beneath it.

“Who that, Grand-mère?”

Germain, escaped as usual from parental custody, popped up near my
feet, pointing curiously at the Reverend Caldwell.

“That’s a minister, darling. Auntie Bree and Uncle Roger are getting
married.”

“Ou qu’on va minster?”

I drew a deep breath, but Jamie beat me to it.

“It’s a sort of priest, but not a proper priest.”

“Bad priest?” Germain viewed the Reverend Caldwell with substantially
more interest.

“No, no,” I said. “He’s not a bad priest at all. It’s only that . . . well, you
see, we’re Catholics, and Catholics have priests, but Uncle Roger is a
Presbyterian—”

“That’s a heretic,” Jamie put in helpfully.

“It is not a heretic, darling, Grand-père is being funny—or thinks he is.
Presbyterians are . . .”

Germain was paying no attention to my explanation, but instead had
tilted his head back, viewing Jamie with fascination.

“Why Grand-père is making faces?”

“We’re verra happy,” Jamie explained, expression still fixed in a rictus
of amiability.

“Oh.” Germain at once stretched his own extraordinarily mobile face
into a crude facsimile of the same expression—a jack-o’-lantern grin, teeth
clenched and eyes popping. “Like this?”

“Yes, darling,” I said, in a marked tone. “Just like that.”

Marsali looked at us, blinked, and tugged at Fergus’s sleeve. He turned,
squinting at us.

“Look happy, Papa!” Germain pointed to his gigantic smile. “See?”

Fergus’s mouth twitched, as he glanced from his offspring to Jamie. His
face went blank for a moment, then adjusted itself into an enormous smile
of white-toothed insincerity. Marsali kicked him in the ankle. He winced,
but the smile didn’t waver.

Brianna and Roger were having a last-minute conference with Reverend
Caldwell, on the other side of the fire. Brianna turned from this, brushing
back her loose hair, saw the phalanx of grinning faces, and stared, her
mouth slightly open. Her eyes went to me; I shrugged helplessly.

Her lips pressed tight together, but curved upward irrepressibly. Her
shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. I felt Jamie quiver next to me.

Reverend Caldwell stepped forward, a finger in his book at the proper
place, put his spectacles on his nose, and smiled genially at the
assemblage, blinking only slightly when he encountered the row of leering
countenances.

He coughed, and opened his Book of Common Worship.

“Dearly beloved, we are assembled here in the presence of God . . .”

I felt Jamie relax slightly, as the words went on, evidencing
unfamiliarity, perhaps, but no great peculiarities. I supposed that he had in
fact never taken part in a Protestant ceremony before—unless one counted
the impromptu baptism Roger himself had conducted among the Mohawk.

I closed my eyes and sent a brief prayer upward for Young Ian, as I did
whenever I thought of him.

“Let us therefore reverently remember that God has established and
sanctified marriage, for the welfare and happiness of mankind . . .”

Opening them, I saw that all eyes now were focused on Roger and
Brianna, who stood facing each other, hands entwined. They were a
handsome pair, nearly of a height, she bright and he dark, like a
photograph and its negative. Their faces were nothing alike, and yet both
had the bold bones and clean curves that were their joint legacy from the
clan MacKenzie.

I glanced across the fire to see the same echo of bone and flesh in
Jocasta, tall and handsome, her blind face turned in absorption toward the
sound of the minister’s voice. As I watched, I saw her hand reach out and
rest on Duncan’s arm, the long white fingers gently squeeze. The
Reverend Caldwell had kindly offered to perform their marriage as well,
but Jocasta had refused, wishing to wait instead for a Catholic ceremony.

“We are in no great hurry, after all, are we, my dear?” she had asked
Duncan, turning toward him with an outward exhibition of deference that
fooled no one. Still, I thought that Duncan had seemed relieved, rather
than disappointed, by the postponement of his own wedding.

“By His apostles, He has instructed those who enter into this relation to
cherish a mutual esteem and love . . .”

Duncan had put a hand over Jocasta’s, with a surprising air of
tenderness. That marriage would not be one of love, I thought, but mutual
esteem—yes, I thought there was that.

“I charge you both, before the great God, the Searcher of all hearts, that
if either of you know any reason why ye may not lawfully be joined
together in marriage, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured that if
any persons are joined together otherwise than as God’s Word allows, their
union is not blessed by Him.”

Reverend Caldwell paused, glancing warningly back and forth between
Roger and Brianna. Roger shook his head slightly, his eyes fixed on Bree’s
face. She smiled faintly in response, and the Reverend cleared his throat
and continued.

The air of muted hilarity around the fire had subsided; there was no
sound but the Reverend’s quiet voice and the crackle of the flames.

“Roger Jeremiah, wilt thou have this Woman to be thy wife, and wilt
thou pledge thy troth to her, in all love and honor, in all duty and service,
in all faith and tenderness, to live with her, and cherish her, according to
the ordinance of God, in the holy bond of marriage?”

“I will,” Roger said, his voice deep and husky.

I heard a deep sigh to my right, and saw Marsali lean her head on
Fergus’s shoulder, a dreamy look on her face. He turned his head and
kissed her brow, then leaned his own dark head against the whiteness of
her kerch.

“I will,” Brianna said clearly, lifting her chin and looking up into
Roger’s face, in response to the minister’s question.

Mr. Caldwell looked benevolently round the circle, firelight glinting on
his spectacles.

“Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?”

There was the briefest of pauses, and I felt Jamie jerk slightly, taken by
surprise. I squeezed his arm, and saw the firelight gleam on the gold ring
on my hand.

“Oh. I do, to be sure!” he said. Brianna turned her head and smiled at
him, her eyes dark with love. He gave her back the smile, then blinked,
clearing his throat, and squeezed my hand hard.

I felt a slight tightening of the throat myself, as they spoke their vows,
remembering both of my own weddings. And Jocasta? I wondered. She
had been married three times; what echoes of the past did she hear in these
words?

“I, Roger Jeremiah, take thee, Brianna Ellen, to be my wedded wife . . .”

The light of memory shone on most of the faces around the fire. The
Bugs stood close together, looking at each other with identical gazes of
soft devotion. Mr. Wemyss, standing by his daughter, bowed his head and
closed his eyes, a look of mingled joy and sadness on his face, no doubt
thinking of his own wife, dead these many years.

“In plenty and in want . . .”

“In joy and in sorrow . . .”

“In sickness and in health . . .”

Lizzie’s face was rapt, eyes wide at the mystery being carried out before
her. How soon might it be her turn, to stand before witnesses and make
such awesome promises?

Jamie reached across and took my right hand in his, his fingers linking
with mine, and the silver of my ring shone red in the glow of the flames. I
looked up into his face and saw the promise spoken in his eyes, as it was in
mine.

“As long as we both shall live.”

[broughps]

I really want this in season 5.

[broughps]

TFC

1. Roger and Bree's wedding.

2. Jamie giving Claire flowers

Still he hesitated for a moment, loath to break the spell of the Place.
Some tiny movement caught the corner of his eye, and he bent down,
squinting as he peered into the deepening shadows beneath a holly bush.

It sat frozen, blending perfectly with its dusky background. He would
never have seen it had his hunter’s eye not caught its movement. A tiny
kitten, its gray fur puffed out like a ripe milkweed head, enormous eyes
wide open and unblinking, almost colorless in the gloom beneath the bush.

“A Chait,” he whispered, putting out a slow finger toward it. “Whatever
are ye doing here?”

A feral cat, no doubt; born of a wild mother, fled from some settlers’
cabin, and long free of the trap of domesticity. He brushed the wispy fur of
its breast, and it sank its tiny teeth suddenly into his thumb.

“Ow!” He jerked away, and examined the drop of blood welling from a
small puncture wound. He glowered at the cat for a moment, but it merely
stared back at him, and made no move to run. He paused, then made up his
mind. He shook the blood drop from his finger onto the leaves, an offering
to join the dram he had spilled, a gift to the spirits of this Place—who had
evidently made up their minds to offer him a gift, themselves.

“All right, then,” he said under his breath. He knelt, and stretched out
his hand, palm up. Very slowly, he moved one finger, then the next, and
the next and the next, then again, in the undulant motion of seaweed in the
water. The big pale eyes fixed on the movement, watching as though
hypnotized. He could see the tip of the miniature tail twitch, very slightly,
and smiled at the sight.

If he could guddle a trout—and he could—why not a cat?

He made a small noise through his teeth, a whistling hiss, like the
distant chittering of birds. The kitten stared, mesmerized, as the gently
swaying fingers moved invisibly closer. When at last he touched its fur
again, it made no move to escape. One finger edged beneath the fur,
another slid under the cold wee pads of one paw, and it let him scoop it
gently into his hand and lift it from the ground.

He held it for a moment against his chest, stroking it with one finger,
tracing the silken jawline, the delicate ears. The tiny cat closed its eyes and
began to purr in ecstasy, rumbling in his palm like distant thunder.

“Oh, so ye’ll come away wi’ me, will you?” Receiving no demur from
the cat, he opened the neck of his shirt and tucked the tiny thing inside,
where it poked and prodded at his ribs for a bit before curling up against
his skin, purr reduced to a silent but pleasant vibration.

Gideon seemed pleased by the rest; he set off willingly enough, and
within a quarter hour, they had caught up with the others. The stallion’s
momentary docility evaporated, though, under the strain of the final
upward climb.

Not that the horse could not master the steep trail; what he couldn’t
abide was following another horse. It didn’t matter whether Jamie wished
to lead them home or not—if Gideon had anything to do with the matter,
they would be not only in the lead, but several furlongs ahead.

The column of travelers was strung out over half a mile, each family
party traveling at its own speed: Frasers, MacKenzies, Chisholms,
MacLeods, and Aberfeldys. At every space and widening of the trail,
Gideon shouldered his way rudely ahead, shoving past pack mules, sheep,
foot-travelers, and mares; he even scattered the three pigs trudging slowly
behind Grannie Chisholm. The pigs bolted into the brush in a chorus of
panicked oinks as Gideon bore down upon them.

Jamie found himself more in sympathy with the horse than not; eager to
be home and working hard to get there, irritated by anything that
threatened to hold him back. At the moment, the main impediment to
progress was Claire, who had—blast the woman—halted her mare in front
of him and slid off in order to gather yet another bit of herbage from the
trailside. As though the entire house was not filled from doorstep to
rooftree with plants already, and her saddlebags a-bulge with more!

Gideon, picking up his rider’s mood with alacrity, stretched out his neck
and nipped the mare’s rump. The mare bucked, squealed, and shot off up
the trail, loose reins dangling. Gideon made a deep rumbling noise of
satisfaction and started off after her, only to be jerked unceremoniously to
a halt.

Claire had whirled round at the noise, eyes wide. She looked up at
Jamie, up the trail after her vanished horse, then back at him. She shrugged
apologetically, hands full of tattered leaves and mangy roots.

“Sorry,” she said, but he saw the corner of her mouth tuck in and the
flush rise in her skin, the smile glimmering in her eyes like morning light
on trout water. Quite against his will, he felt the tension in his shoulders
ease. He had had it in mind to rebuke her; in fact, he still did, but the
words wouldn’t quite come to his tongue.

“Get up, then, woman,” he said instead, gruffly, with a nod behind him.
“I want my supper.”

She laughed at him and scrambled up, kilting her skirts out of the way.
Gideon, irascible at this additional burden, whipped round to take a nip of
anything he could reach. Jamie was ready for that; he snapped the end of
the rein sharply off the stallion’s nose, making him jerk back and snort in
surprise.

“That’ll teach ye, ye wee bastard.” He pulled his hat over his brow and
settled his errant wife securely, fluttering skirts tucked in beneath her
thighs, arms round his waist. She rode without shoes or stockings, and her
long calves were white and bare against the dark bay hide. He gathered up
the reins and kicked the horse, a trifle harder than strictly necessary.

Gideon promptly reared, backed, twisted, and tried to scrape them both
off under a hanging poplar bough. The kitten, rudely roused from its nap,
sank all its claws into Jamie’s midsection and yowled in alarm, though its
noise was quite lost in Jamie’s much louder screech. He yanked the
horse’s head halfway round, swearing, and shoved at the hindquarters with
his left leg.

No easy conquest, Gideon executed a hop like a corkscrew. There was a
small “eek!” and a sudden feeling of emptiness behind him, as Claire was
slung off into the brush like a bag of flour. The horse suddenly yielded to
the pull on his mouth, and shot down the path in the wrong direction,
hurtling through a screen of brambles and skidding to a halt that nearly
threw him onto his hindquarters in a shower of mud and dead leaves. Then
he straightened out like a snake, shook his head, and trotted nonchalantly
over to exchange nuzzles with Roger’s horse, which was standing at the
edge of the spring clearing, watching them with the same bemusement
exhibited by its dismounted rider.

“All right there?” asked Roger, raising one eyebrow.

“Certainly,” Jamie replied, trying to gasp for breath while keeping his
dignity. “And you?”
“Fine.”
“Good.” He was already swinging down from the saddle as he spoke.
He flung the reins toward MacKenzie, not waiting to see whether he
caught them, and ran back toward the trail, shouting, “Claire! Where are
ye?”
“Just here!” she called cheerfully. She emerged from the shadow of the
poplars, with leaves in her hair and limping slightly, but looking otherwise
undamaged. “Are you all right?” she asked, cocking one eyebrow at him.

“Aye, fine. I’m going to shoot that horse.” He gathered her in briefly,
wanting to assure himself that she was in fact whole. She was breathing
heavily, but felt reassuringly solid, and kissed him on the nose.

“Well, don’t shoot him until we get home. I don’t want to walk the last
mile or so in my bare feet.”

“Hey! Let that alone, ye bugger!”

He let go of Claire and turned to find Roger snatching a fistful of
ragged-looking plants away from Gideon’s questing Roman nose. More
plants—what was this mania for gathering? Claire was still panting from
the accident, but leaned forward to see them, looking interested.

“What’s that you’ve got, Roger?”

“For Bree,” he said, holding them up for her inspection. “Are they the
right kind?” To Jamie’s jaundiced eye, they looked like the yellowed tops
of carrots gone to seed and left too long in the ground, but Claire fingered
the mangy foliage, and nodded approval.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Very romantic!”

Jamie made a small tactful noise, indicating that they ought perhaps to
be making their way, since Bree and the slower-moving tribe of Chisholms
would be catching them up soon.

“Yes, all right,” Claire said, patting his shoulder in what he assumed she
meant to be a soothing gesture. “Don’t snort; we’re going.”

“Mmphm,” he said, and bent to put a hand under her foot. Tossing her
up into the saddle, he gave Gideon a “Don’t try it on, you bastard” look
and swung up behind her.

“You’ll wait for the others, then, and bring them up?” Without waiting
for Roger’s nod, Jamie reined around and set Gideon upon the trail again.
Mollified at being far in the lead, Gideon settled down to the job at
hand, climbing steadily through the thickets of hornbeam and poplar,
chestnut and spruce. Even so late in the year, some leaves still clung to the
trees, and small bits of brown and yellow floated down upon them like a
gentle rain, catching in the horse’s mane, resting in the loose, thick waves
of Claire’s hair. It had come down in her precipitous descent, and she
hadn’t bothered to put it up again.

Jamie’s own equanimity returned with the sense of progress, and was
quite restored by the fortuitous finding of the hat he had lost, hanging from
a white oak by the trail, as though placed there by some kindly hand. Still,
he remained uneasy in his mind, and could not quite grasp tranquillity,
though the mountain lay at peace all round him, the air hazed with blue
and smelling of wood-damp and evergreens.

Then he realized, with a sudden jolt in the pit of his stomach, that the
kitten was gone. There were itching furrows in the skin of his chest and
abdomen, where it had climbed him in a frantic effort to escape, but it
must have popped out the neck of his shirt and been flung off his shoulder
in the mad career down the slope. He glanced from side to side, searching
in the shadows under bushes and trees, but it was a vain hope. The
shadows were lengthening, and they were on the main trail now, where he
and Gideon had torn through the wood.

“Go with God,” he murmured, and crossed himself briefly.

“What’s that?” Claire asked, half-turning in the saddle.

“Nothing,” he said. After all, it was a wild cat, though a small one.
Doubtless it would manage.

Gideon worked the bit, pecking and bobbing. Jamie realized that the
tension in his hands was running through the reins once more, and
consciously slackened his grip. He loosened his grip on Claire, too, and
she took a sudden deep breath.

His heart was beating fast.

It was impossible for him ever to come home after an absence without a
certain sense of apprehension. For years after the Rising, he had lived in a
cave, approaching his own house only rarely, after dark and with great
caution, never knowing what he might find there. More than one Highland
man had come home to his place to find it burned and black, his family
gone. Or worse, still there.

Well enough to tell himself not to imagine horrors; the difficulty was
that he had no need of imagination—memory sufficed.

The horse dug with his haunches, pushing hard. No use to tell himself
this was a new place; it was, with its own dangers. If there were no English
soldiers in these mountains, there were still marauders. Those too shiftless
to take root and fend for themselves, but who wandered the backcountry,
robbing and plundering. Raiding Indians. Wild animals. And fire. Always
fire. He had sent the Bugs on ahead, with Fergus to guide them, to save
Claire dealing with the simultaneous chores of arrival and hospitality. The
Chisholms, the MacLeods, and Billy Aberfeldy, with his wife and wee
daughter, would all bide with them at the big house for a time; he had told
Mrs. Bug to begin cooking at once. Decently mounted and not hindered by
children or livestock, the Bugs should have reached the Ridge two days
before. No one had come back to say aught was amiss, so perhaps all was
well. But still . . .

He hadn’t realized that Claire was tensed, too, until she suddenly
relaxed against him, a hand on his leg.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I smell chimney smoke.”

He lifted his head to catch the air. She was right; the tang of burning
hickory floated on the breeze. Not the stink of remembered conflagration,
but a homely whiff redolent with the promise of warmth and food. Mrs.
Bug had presumably taken him at his word.

They rounded the last turn of the trail and saw it, then, the high
fieldstone chimney rising above the trees on the ridge, its fat plume of
smoke curling over the rooftree.

The house stood.

He breathed deep in relief, noticing now the other smells of home; the
faint rich scent of manure from the stable, of meat smoked and hanging in
the shed, and the breath of the forest nearby—damp wood and leaf-rot,
rock and rushing water, the touch of it cold and loving on his cheek.
They came out of the chestnut grove and into the large clearing where
the house stood, solid and neat, its windows glazed gold with the last of
the sun.

It was a modest frame house, whitewashed and shingle-roofed, clean in
its lines and soundly built, but impressive only by comparison with the
crude cabins of most settlers. His own first cabin still stood, dark and
sturdy, a little way down the hill. Smoke was curling from that chimney,
too.

“Someone’s made a fire for Bree and Roger,” Claire said, nodding at it.

“That’s good,” he said. He tightened his arm about her waist, and she
made a small, contented noise in her throat, wriggling her bottom into his
lap. Gideon was happy, too; he stretched out his neck and whinnied to the
two horses in the penfold, who trotted to and fro in the enclosure, calling
greetings. Claire’s mare was standing by the fence, reins dangling; she
curled her lip in what looked like derision, the wee besom. From
somewhere far down the trail behind them came a deep, joyous bray;
Clarence the mule, hearing the racket and delighted to be coming home.

The door flew open, and Mrs. Bug popped out, round and flustered as a
tumble-turd. Jamie smiled at sight of her, and gave Claire an arm to slide
down before dismounting himself.

“All’s well, all’s well, and how’s yourself, sir?” Mrs. Bug was
reassuring him before his boots struck ground. She had a pewter cup in one
hand, a polishing cloth in the other, and didn’t cease her polishing for an
instant, even as she turned up her face to accept his kiss on her withered
round cheek.

She didn’t wait for an answer, but turned at once and stood a-tiptoe to
kiss Claire, beaming.

“Oh, it’s grand that you’re home, ma’am, you and Himself, and I’ve the
supper all made, so you’ll not be worrit a bit with it, ma’am, but come
inside, come inside, and be takin’ off those dusty cloots, and I’ll send old
Arch along to the mash-hoose for a bit of the lively, and we’ll . . .” She
had Claire by one hand, towing her into the house, talking and talking, the
other hand still polishing briskly away, her stubby fingers dexterously
rubbing the cloth inside the cup. Claire gave him a helpless glance over
one shoulder, and he grinned at her as she disappeared inside the house.
Gideon shoved an impatient nose under his arm and bumped his elbow.

“Oh, aye,” he said, recalled to his chores. “Come along, then, ye prickly
wee bastard.”

By the time he had the big horse and Claire’s mare unsaddled, wiped
down, and turned out to their feed, Claire had escaped from Mrs. Bug;
coming back from the paddock, he saw the door of the house swing open
and Claire slip out, looking guiltily over her shoulder as though fearing
pursuit.

Where was she bound? She didn’t see him; she turned and hurried
toward the far corner of the house, disappearing in a swish of homespun.
He followed, curious.

Ah. She had seen to her surgery; now she was going to her garden
before it got completely dark; he caught a glimpse of her against the sky
on the upward path behind the house, the last of the daylight caught like
cobwebs in her hair. There would be little growing now, only a few sturdy
herbs and the overwintering things like carrots and onions and turnips, but
it made no difference; she always went to see how things were, no matter
how short a time she had been gone.

He understood the urge; he would not feel entirely home himself until
he had checked all the stock and buildings, and made sure of matters up at
the still.

The evening breeze brought him an acrid hint from the distant privy,
suggesting that matters there were shortly going to require his attention,
speaking of buildings. Then he bethought him of the new tenants coming,
and relaxed; digging a new privy would be just the thing for Chisholm’s
eldest two boys.

He and Ian had dug this one, when they first came to the Ridge. God, he
missed the lad.

“A Mhicheal bheanaichte,” he murmured. Blessed Michael, protect
him. He liked MacKenzie well enough, but had it been his choice, he
would not have exchanged Ian for the man. It had been Ian’s choice,
though, not his, and no more to be said about it.

Pushing away the ache of Ian’s loss, he stepped behind a tree, loosened
his breeks, and relieved himself. If she saw him, Claire would doubtless
make what she considered witty remarks about dogs and wolves marking
their home ground as they returned to it. Nothing of the sort, he replied to
her mentally; why walk up the hill, only to make matters worse in the
privy? Still, if you came down to it, it was his place, and if he chose to piss
on it . . . He tidied his clothes, feeling more settled.

He raised his head and saw her coming down the path from the garden,
her apron bulging with carrots and turnips. A gust of wind sent the last of
the leaves from the chestnut grove swirling round her in a yellow dance,
sparked with light.

Moved by sudden impulse, he stepped deeper into the trees and began to
look about.

Normally, he paid attention only to such vegetation as was immediately
comestible by horse or man, sufficiently straight-grained to serve for
planks and timbers, or so obstructive as to pose difficulty in passage. Once
he began looking with an eye to aesthetics, though, he found himself
surprised at the variety to hand.

Stalks of half-ripe barley, the seeds laid in rows like a woman’s plait. A
dry, fragile weed that looked like the lace edging on a fine handkerchief. A
branch of spruce, unearthly green and cool among the dry bits, leaving its
fragrant sap on his hand as he tore it from the tree. A twig of glossy dried
oak leaves that reminded him of her hair, in shades of gold and brown and
gray. And a bit of scarlet creeper, snatched for color.

Just in time; she was coming round the corner of the house. Lost in
thought, she passed within a foot or two of him, not seeing him.

“Sorcha,” he called softly, and she turned, eyes narrowed against the
rays of the sinking sun, then wide and gold with surprise at the sight of
him.

“Welcome home,” he said, and held out the small bouquet of leaves and
twigs.

“Oh,” she said. She looked at the bits of leaf and stick again, and then at
him, and the corners of her mouth trembled, as though she might laugh or
cry, but wasn’t sure which. She reached then, and took the plants from
him, her fingers small and cold as they brushed his hand.

“Oh, Jamie—they’re wonderful.” She came up on her toes and kissed
him, warm and salty, and he wanted more, but she was hurrying away into
the house, the silly wee things clasped to her breast as though they were
gold.

He felt pleasantly foolish, and foolishly pleased with himself. The taste
of her was still on his mouth.

“Sorcha,” he whispered, and realized that he had called her so a
moment before. Now, that was odd; no wonder she had been surprised. It
was her name in the Gaelic, but he never called her by it. He liked the
strangeness of her, the Englishness. She was his Claire, his Sassenach.
And yet in the moment when she passed him, she was Sorcha. Not only
“Claire,” it meant—but light.

He breathed deep, contented.

He was suddenly ravenous, both for food and for her, but he made no
move to hasten inside. Some kinds of hunger were sweet in themselves,
the anticipation of satisfaction as keen a pleasure as the slaking.
Hoofsteps and voices; the others were finally here. He had a sudden
urge to keep his peaceful solitude a moment longer, but too late—in
seconds, he was surrounded by confusion, the shrill cries of excited
children and calls of distracted mothers, the welcoming of the newcomers,
the bustle and rush of unloading, turning out the horses and mules,
fetching feed and water . . . and yet in the midst of this Babel, he moved as
though he were still alone, peaceful and quiet in the setting sun. He had
come home.

IT WAS FULL DARK before everything was sorted, the smallest of the
wild Chisholm bairns rounded up and sent inside for his supper, all the
stock cared for and settled for the night. He followed Geoff Chisholm
toward the house, but then held back, lingering for a moment in the dark
dooryard.

He stood for a moment, idly chafing his hands against the chill as he
admired the look of the place. Snug barn and sound sheds, a penfold and
paddock in good repair, a tidy fence of palisades around Claire’s scraggly
garden, to keep out the deer. The house loomed white in the early dark, a
benevolent spirit guarding the ridge. Light spilled from every door and
window, and the sound of laughter came from inside.

He sensed a movement in the darkness, and turned to see his daughter
coming from the spring house, a pail of fresh milk in her hand. She
stopped by him, looking at the house.

“Nice to be home, isn’t it?” she said softly.

“Aye,” he said. “It is.” They looked at each other, smiling. Then she
leaned forward, peering closely at him. She turned him, so the light from
the window fell on him, and a small frown puckered the skin between her
brows.

“What’s that?” she said, and flicked at his coat. A glossy scarlet leaf fell
free and floated to the ground. Her brows went up at sight of it. “You’d
better go and wash, Da,” she said. “You’ve been in the poison ivy.”

“YE MIGHT HAVE TOLD ME, Sassenach.” Jamie glowered at the table
near the bedroom window, where I’d set his bouquet in a cup of water. The
bright, blotchy red of the poison ivy glowed, even in the dimness of the
firelight. “And ye might get rid of it, too. D’ye mean to mock me?”

“No, I don’t,” I said, smiling as I hung my apron from the peg and
reached for the laces of my gown. “But if I’d told you when you gave it to
me, you’d have snatched it back. That’s the only posy you’ve ever given
me, and I don’t imagine I’ll get another; I mean to keep it.”

He snorted, and sat down on the bed to take off his stockings. He’d
already stripped off coat, stock, and shirt, and the firelight gleamed on the
slope of his shoulders. He scratched at the underside of one wrist, though
I’d told him it was psychosomatic; he hadn’t any signs of rash.

“You’ve never come home with poison ivy rash,” I remarked. “And
you’re bound to have run into it now and again, so much time as you spend
in the woods and the fields. I think you must be immune to it. Some people
are, you know.”

<snip>

“The posy’s lovely, Jamie,” I said, nodding at the little bouquet in its
cup. “Whatever made you do it, though?” While in his own way quite
romantic, Jamie was thoroughly practical as well; I didn’t think he had
ever given me a completely frivolous present, and he was not a man to see
value in any vegetation that could not be eaten, taken medicinally, or
brewed into beer.

He shifted a bit, clearly uncomfortable.

“Aye, well,” he said, looking away. “I just—I mean—well, I had a wee
thing I meant to give ye, only I lost it, but then you seemed to think it a
sweet thing that wee Roger had plucked a few gowans for Brianna, and I
—” He broke off, muttering something that sounded like “Ifrinn!” under
his breath.

I wanted very much to laugh. Instead, I lifted his hand and kissed his
knuckles, lightly. He looked embarrassed, but pleased. His thumb traced
the edge of a half-healed blister on my palm, left by a hot kettle.

“Here, Sassenach, ye need a bit of this, too. Let me,” he said, and leaned
to take a dab of the green ointment. He engulfed my hand in his, warm and
still slippery with the oil and beeswax mixture.

I resisted for a moment, but then let him take my hand, making deep
slow circles on my palm that made me want to close my eyes and melt
quietly. I gave a small sigh of pleasure, and must have closed my eyes
after all, because I didn’t see him move in close to kiss me; just felt the
brief soft touch of his mouth.

I raised my other hand, lazily, and he took it, too, his fingers smoothing
mine. I let my fingers twine with his, thumbs jousting gently, the heels of
our hands lightly rubbing. He stood close enough that I felt the warmth of
him, and the delicate brush of the sun-bleached hairs on his arm as he
reached past my hip for more of the ointment.

He paused, kissing me lightly once more in passing. Flames hissed on
the hearth like shifting tides, and the firelight flickered dimly on the
whitewashed walls, like light dancing on the surface of water far above.
We might have been alone together at the bottom of the sea.

<snip>

DRUGGED WITH FATIGUE, languid with love, and lulled by the
comforts of a soft, clean bed, I slept like the dead.

Somewhere toward dawn, I began to dream—pleasant dreams of touch
and color, without form. Small hands touched my hair, patted my face; I
turned on my side, half-conscious, dreaming of nursing a child in my
sleep. Tiny soft fingers kneaded my breast, and my hand came up to cup
the child’s head. It bit me.

I shrieked, shot bolt upright in bed, and saw a gray form race across the
quilt and disappear over the end of the bed. I shrieked again, louder.
Jamie shot sideways out of bed, rolled on the floor, and came up
standing, shoulders braced and fists half-clenched.

“What?” he demanded, glaring wildly round in search of marauders.
“Who? What?”

“A rat!” I said, pointing a trembling finger at the spot where the gray
shape had vanished into the crevice between bed-foot and wall.

“Oh.” His shoulders relaxed. He scrubbed his hands over his face and
through his hair, blinking. “A rat, aye?”

“A rat in our bed,” I said, not disposed to view the event with any
degree of calm. “It bit me!” I peered closely at my injured breast. No blood
to speak of; only a couple of tiny puncture marks that stung slightly. I
thought of rabies, though, and my blood ran cold.

“Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach. I’ll deal with it.” Squaring his
shoulders once more, Jamie picked up the poker from the hearth and
advanced purposefully on the bed-foot. The footboard was solid; there was
a space of only a few inches between it and the wall. The rat must be
trapped, unless it had managed to escape in the scant seconds between my
scream and Jamie’s eruption from the quilts.

I got up onto my knees, ready to leap off the bed if necessary. Scowling
in concentration, Jamie raised the poker, reached out with his free hand,
and flipped the hanging coverlid out of the way.

He whipped the poker down with great force—and jerked it aside,
smashing into the wall.

“What?” I said.

“What?” he echoed, in a disbelieving tone. He bent closer, squinting in
the dim light, then started to laugh. He dropped the poker, squatted on the
floor, and reached slowly into the space between the bed-foot and wall,
making a small chirping noise through his teeth. It sounded like birds
feeding in a distant bush.

“Are you talking to the rat?” I began to crawl toward the foot of the bed,
but he motioned me back, shaking his head, while still making the chirping
sound.

I waited, with some impatience. Within a minute, he made a grab,
evidently catching whatever it was, for he gave a small exclamation of
satisfaction. He stood up, smiling, a gray, furry shape clutched by the
nape, dangling like a tiny purse from his fingers.

“Here’s your wee ratten, Sassenach,” he said, and gently deposited a
ball of gray fur on the coverlet. Huge eyes of a pale celadon green stared
up at me, unblinking.

“Well, goodness,” I said. “Wherever did you come from?” I extended a
finger, very slowly. The kitten didn’t move. I touched the edge of a tiny
gray-silk jaw, and the big green eyes disappeared, going to slits as it
rubbed against my finger. A surprisingly deep purr rumbled through its
miniature frame.

“That,” Jamie said, with immense satisfaction, “is the present I meant to
give ye, Sassenach. He’ll keep the vermin from your surgery.”

“Well, possibly very small vermin,” I said, examining my new present
dubiously. “I think a large cockroach could carry him—is it a him?—off to
its lair, let alone a mouse.”

“He’ll grow,” Jamie assured me. “Look at his feet.”

He—yes, it was a he—had rolled onto his back and was doing an
imitation of a dead bug, paws in the air. Each paw was roughly the size of
a broad copper penny, small enough by themselves, but enormous by
contrast with the tiny body. I touched the minuscule pads, an immaculate
pink in their thicket of soft gray fur, and the kitten writhed in ecstasy.

A discreet knock came at the door, and I snatched the sheet up over my
bosom as the door opened and Mr. Wemyss’s head poked in, his hair
sticking up like a pile of wheat straw.

“Er . . . I hope all is well, sir?” he asked, blinking shortsightedly. “My
lass woke me, sayin’ as she thought there was a skelloch, like, and then we
heard a bit of a bang, like—” His eyes, hastily averted from me, went to
the scar of raw wood in the whitewashed wall, left by Jamie’s poker.

“Aye, it’s fine, Joseph,” Jamie assured him. “Only a wee cat.”

“Oh, aye?” Mr. Wemyss squinted toward the bed, his thin face breaking
into a smile as he made out the blot of gray fur. “A cheetie, is it? Well, and
he’ll be a fine help i’ the kitchen, I’ve nae doubt.”

“Aye. Speakin’ of kitchens, Joseph—d’ye think your lassie might bring
up a dish of cream for the baudrons here?”

Mr. Wemyss nodded and disappeared, with a final avuncular smile at
the kitten.

Jamie stretched, yawned, and scrubbed both hands vigorously through
his hair, which was behaving with even more reckless abandon than usual.
I eyed him, with a certain amount of purely aesthetic appreciation.

“You look like a woolly mammoth,” I said.

“Oh? And what is a mammoth, besides big?”

“A sort of prehistoric elephant—you know, the animals with the long
trunks?”

He squinted down the length of his body, then looked at me quizzically.

“Well, I thank ye for the compliment, Sassenach,” he said. “Mammoth,
is it?” He thrust his arms upward and stretched again, casually arching his
back, which—quite inadvertently, I didn’t think—enhanced any incidental
resemblances that one might note between the half-engorged morning
anatomy of a man, and the facial adornments of a pachyderm.

I laughed.

“That’s not precisely what I meant,” I said. “Stop waggling; Lizzie’s
coming in any minute. You’d better put your shirt on or get back in bed.”

The sound of footsteps on the landing sent him diving under the quilts,
and sent the little cat scampering up the sheet in fright. In the event, it was
Mr. Wemyss himself who had brought the dish of cream, sparing his
daughter a possible sight of Himself in the altogether.

The weather being fine, we had left the shutters open the night before.
The sky outside was the color of fresh oysters, moist and pearly gray. Mr.
Wemyss glanced at it, blinked and nodded at Jamie’s thanks, and toddled
back to his bed, thankful for a last half hour’s sleep before the dawn.

I disentangled the kitten, who had taken refuge in my hair, and set him
down by the bowl of cream. I didn’t suppose he could ever have seen a
bowl of cream in his life, but the smell was enough—in moments, he was
whisker-deep, lapping for all he was worth.

“He’s a fine thrum to him,” Jamie remarked approvingly. “I can hear
him from here.”

“He’s lovely; wherever did you get him?” I nestled into the curve of
Jamie’s body, enjoying his warmth; the fire had burned far down during
the night, and the air in the room was chilly, sour with ash.

“Found him in the wood.” Jamie yawned widely, and relaxed, propping
his head on my shoulder to watch the tiny cat, who had abandoned himself
to an ecstasy of gluttony. “I thought I’d lost him when Gideon bolted—I
suppose he’d crept into one of the saddlebags, and came up wi’ the other
things.”

We lapsed into a peaceful stupor, drowsily cuddled in the warm nest of
our bed, as the sky lightened, moment by moment, and the air came alive
with the voices of waking birds. The house was waking, too—a baby’s
wail came from below, followed by the stir and shuffle of rising, the
murmur of voices. We should rise, too—there was so much to be done—
and yet neither of us moved, each reluctant to surrender the sense of quiet
sanctuary. Jamie sighed, his breath warm on my bare shoulder.

<snip>

The kitten had completely emptied the dish of cream. He sat down with
an audible thump on his tiny backside, rubbed the last of the delicious
white stuff from his whiskers, then ambled slowly toward the bed, sides
bulging visibly. He sprang up onto the coverlet, burrowed close to me, and
fell promptly asleep.

Perhaps not quite asleep; I could feel the small vibration of his purring
through the quilt.

“What do you think I should call him?” I mused aloud, touching the tip
of the soft, wispy tail. “Spot? Puff? Cloudy?”

“Foolish names,” Jamie said, with a lazy tolerance. “Is that what ye
were wont to call your pussie-baudrons in Boston, then? Or England?”

“No. I’ve never had a cat before,” I admitted. “Frank was allergic to
them—they made him sneeze. And what’s a good Scottish cat name, then
—Diarmuid? McGillivray?”

He snorted, then laughed.

“Adso,” he said, positively. “Call him Adso.”

“What sort of name is that?” I demanded, twisting to look back at him in
amazement. “I’ve heard a good many peculiar Scottish names, but that’s a
new one.”

He rested his chin comfortably on my shoulder, watching the kitten
sleep.

“My mother had a wee cat named Adso,” he said, surprisingly. “A gray
cheetie, verra much like this one.”

“Did she?” I laid a hand on his leg. He rarely spoke of his mother, who
had died when he was eight.

“Aye, she did. A rare mouser, and that fond of my mother; he didna
have much use for us bairns.” He smiled in memory. “Possibly because
Jenny dressed him in baby-gowns and fed him rusks, and I dropped him
into the millpond, to see could he swim. He could, by the way,” he
informed me, “but he didna like to.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” I said, amused. “Why was he called Adso,
though? Is it a saint’s name?” I was used to the peculiar names of Celtic
saints, from Aodh—pronounced OOH—to Dervorgilla, but hadn’t heard of
Saint Adso before. Probably the patron saint of mice.

“Not a saint,” he corrected. “A monk. My mother was verra learned—
she was educated at Leoch, ye ken, along with Colum and Dougal, and
could read Greek and Latin, and a bit of the Hebrew as well as French and
German. She didna have so much opportunity for reading at Lallybroch, of
course, but my father would take pains to have books fetched for her, from
Edinburgh and Paris.”

He reached across my body to touch a silky, translucent ear, and the
kitten twitched its whiskers, screwing up its face as though about to
sneeze, but didn’t open its eyes. The purr continued unabated.

“One of the books she liked was written by an Austrian, from the city of
Melk, and so she thought it a verra suitable name for the kit.”

“Suitable . . . ?”

“Aye,” he said, nodding toward the empty dish, without the slightest
twitch of lip or eyelid. “Adso of Milk.”

A slit of green showed as one eye opened, as though in response to the
name. Then it closed again, and the purring resumed.

“Well, if he doesn’t mind, I suppose I don’t,” I said, resigned. “Adso it
is.”

[Bunny]

Oh please please let them film this. I know it doesn’t advance the story, but It’s such a sweet, funny, romantic section. I neeeeed to hear “Sorcha”.

[broughps]

I really want this one too. We need to see Jamie be romantic.

[Krish728]

I love this scene. I think they'll do more of this in Season 5 since the plot is pretty weak in book 5. And the strong point, as always, is Claire and Jamie's romance.

[broughps]

Well if it was up to RDM we'd get lots of the battle stuff and less of J&C.

[broughps]

TFC

1. Roger and Bree's wedding.

2. Jamie giving Claire flowers

3. The Sperm

THE HOUSEHOLD WAS QUIET; it was the perfect opportunity for my
experiments. Mr. Bug had gone to Woolam’s Mill, taking the Beardsley
twins; Lizzie and Mr. Wemyss had gone to help Marsali with the new
mash; and Mrs. Bug, having left a pot of porridge and a platter of toast in
the kitchen, was out, too, combing the woods for the half-wild hens,
catching them one by one and dragging them in by the feet to be installed
in the handsome new chicken coop her husband had built. Bree and Roger
sometimes came up to the big house for their breakfast, but more often
chose to eat by their own hearth, as was the case this morning.

Enjoying the peace of the empty house, I made up a tray with cup,
teapot, cream, and sugar, and took it with me to my surgery, along with my
samples. The early morning light was perfect, pouring through the window
in a brilliant bar of gold. Leaving the tea to steep, I took a couple of small
glass bottles from the cupboard and went outside.

The day was chilly but beautiful, with a clear pale sky that promised a
little warmth later in the morning. At the moment, though, it was cold
enough that I was glad of my warm shawl, and the water in the horses’
trough was frigid, rimmed with sheets of fragile ice. Not cold enough to
kill the microbes, I supposed; I could see long strands of algae coating the
boards of the trough, swaying gently as I buckled the thin crust of ice and
disturbed the water, scraping one of my bottles along the slimy edge of the
trough.

I scooped up further samples of liquid from the springhouse and from a
puddle of muddy standing water near the privy, then hurried back to the
house to make my trials while the light was still good.

The microscope stood by the window where I had set it up the day
before, all gleaming brass and bright mirrors. A few seconds’ work to
place droplets on the glass slides I’d laid ready, and I bent to peer through
the eyepiece with rapt anticipation.

The ovoid of light bulged, diminished, went out altogether. I squinted,
turning the screw as slowly as I could, and . . . there it was. The mirror
steadied and the light resolved itself into a perfect pale circle, window to
another world.

I watched, enchanted, as the madly beating cilia of a paramecium bore it
in hot pursuit of invisible prey. Then a quiet drifting, the field of view
itself in constant movement as the drop of water on my slide shifted in its
microscopic tides. I waited a moment more, in hopes of spotting one of the
swift and elegant Euglena, or even a hydra, but no such luck; only bits of
mysterious black-green, daubs of cellular debris and burst algal cells.

I shifted the slide to and fro, but found nothing else of interest. That was
all right; I had plenty of other things to look at. I rinsed the glass rectangle
in a cup of alcohol, let it dry for a moment, then dipped a glass rod into
one of the small beakers I had lined up before my microscope, dabbing a
drop of liquid onto the clean slide.

It had taken some experimentation to put the microscope together
properly; it wasn’t much like a modern version, particularly when reduced
to its component parts for storage in Dr. Rawlings’s handsome box. Still,
the lenses were recognizable, and with that as a starting point, I had
managed to fit the optical bits into the stand without much trouble.
Obtaining sufficient light, though, had been more difficult, and I was
thrilled finally to have got it working.

“What are ye doing, Sassenach?” Jamie, with a piece of toast in one
hand, paused in the doorway.

“Seeing things,” I said, adjusting the focus.

“Oh, aye? What sorts of things?” He came into the room, smiling. “Not
ghosties, I trust. I will have had enough o’ those.”

“Come look,” I said, stepping back from the microscope. Mildly
puzzled, he bent and peered through the eyepiece, screwing up his other
eye in concentration.

He squinted for a moment, then gave an exclamation of pleased
surprise.

“I see them! Wee things with tails, swimming all about!” He
straightened up, smiling at me with a look of delight, then bent at once to
look again.

I felt a warm glow of pride in my new toy.

“Isn’t it marvelous?”

“Aye, marvelous,” he said, absorbed. “Look at them. Such busy wee
strivers as they are, all pushing and writhing against one another—and
such a mass of them!”

He watched for a few moments more, exclaiming under his breath, then
straightened up, shaking his head in amazement.

“I’ve never seen such a thing, Sassenach. Ye’d told me about the germs,
aye, but I never in life imagined them so! I thought they might have wee
teeth, and they don’t—but I never kent they would have such handsome,
lashing wee tails, or swim about in such numbers.”

“Well, some microorganisms do,” I said, moving to peer into the
eyepiece again myself. “These particular little beasts aren’t germs, though
—they’re sperms.”

“They’re what?”

He looked quite blank.

“Sperms,” I said patiently. “Male reproductive cells. You know, what
makes babies?”

I thought he might just possibly choke. His mouth opened, and a very
pretty shade of rose suffused his countenance.

“Ye mean seed?” he croaked. “Spunk?”

“Well . . . yes.” Watching him narrowly, I poured steaming tea into a
clean beaker and handed it to him as a restorative. He ignored it, though,
his eyes fixed on the microscope as though something might spring out of
the eyepiece at any moment and go writhing across the floor at our feet.

“Sperms,” he muttered to himself. “Sperms.” He shook his head
vigorously, then turned to me, a frightful thought having just occurred to
him.

“Whose are they?” he asked, his tone one of darkest suspicion.

“Er . . . well, yours, of course.” I cleared my throat, mildly embarrassed.

“Who else’s would they be?”

His hand darted reflexively between his legs, and he clutched himself
protectively.

“How the hell did ye get them?”

“How do you think?” I said, rather coldly. “I woke up in custody of
them this morning.”

His hand relaxed, but a deep blush of mortification stained his cheeks
dark crimson. He picked up the beaker of tea and drained it at a gulp,
temperature notwithstanding.

“I see,” he said, and coughed.

There was a moment of deep silence.

“I . . . um . . . didna ken they could stay alive,” he said at last. “Errrrm . .
. outside, I mean.”

“Well, if you leave them in a splotch on the sheet to dry out, they
don’t,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Keep them from drying out, though”—I
gestured at the small, covered beaker, with its small puddle of whitish fluid
—“and they’ll do for a few hours. In their proper habitat, though, they can
live for up to a week after . . . er . . . release.”

“Proper habitat,” he repeated, looking pensive. He darted a quick glance
at me. “Ye do mean—”

“I do,” I said, with some asperity.

“Mmphm.” At this point, he recalled the piece of toast he still held, and
took a bite, chewing meditatively.

“Do folk know about this? Now, I mean?”

“Know what? What sperm look like? Almost certainly. Microscopes
have been around for well over a hundred years, and the first thing anyone
with a working microscope does is to look at everything within reach.
Given that the inventor of the microscope was a man, I should certainly
think that . . . Don’t you?”

He gave me a look, and took another bite of toast, chewing in a marked
manner.

“I shouldna quite like to refer to it as ‘within reach,’ Sassenach,” he
said, through a mouthful of crumbs, and swallowed. “But I do take your
meaning.”

As though compelled by some irresistible force, he drifted toward the
microscope, bending to peer into it once more.

“They seem verra fierce,” he ventured, after a few moments’ inspection.

“Well, they do need to be,” I said, suppressing a smile at his faintly
abashed air of pride in his gametes’ prowess. “It’s a long slog, after all,
and a terrific fight at the end of it. Only one gets the honor, you know.”

He looked up, blank-faced. It dawned on me that he didn’t know. He’d
studied languages, mathematics, and Greek and Latin philosophy in Paris,
not medicine. And even if natural scientists of the time were aware of
sperm as separate entities, rather than a homogenous substance, it occurred
to me that they probably didn’t have any idea what sperm actually did.
“Wherever did you think babies came from?” I demanded, after a certain
amount of enlightenment regarding eggs, sperms, zygotes, and the like,
which left Jamie distinctly squiggle-eyed. He gave me a rather cold look.

“And me a farmer all my life? I ken precisely where they come from,”
he informed me. “I just didna ken that . . . er . . . that all of this daffery was
going on. I thought . . . well, I thought a man plants his seed into a
woman’s belly, and it . . . well . . . grows.” He waved vaguely in the
direction of my stomach. “You know—like . . . seed. Neeps, corn, melons,
and the like. I didna ken they swim about like tadpoles.”

“I see.” I rubbed a finger beneath my nose, trying not to laugh. “Hence
the agricultural designation of women as being either fertile or barren!”

“Mmphm.” Dismissing this with a wave of his hand, he frowned
thoughtfully at the teeming slide. “A week, ye said. So it’s possible that
the wee lad really is the Thrush’s get?”

Early in the day as it was, it took half a second or so for me to make the
leap from theory to practical application.

“Oh—Jemmy, you mean? Yes, it’s quite possible that he’s Roger’s
child.” Roger and Bonnet had lain with Brianna within two days of each
other. “I told you—and Bree—so.”

He nodded, looking abstracted, then remembered the toast and pushed
the rest of it into his mouth. Chewing, he bent for another look through the
eyepiece.

“Are they different, then? One man’s from another, I mean?”

“Er . . . not to look at, no.” I picked up my cup of tea and had a sip,
enjoying the delicate flavor. “They are different, of course—they carry the
characteristics a man passes to his offspring. . . .” That was about as far as
I thought it prudent to go; he was sufficiently staggered by my description
of fertilization; an explanation of genes and chromosomes might be rather
excessive at the moment. “But you can’t see the differences, even with a
microscope.”

He grunted at that, swallowed the mouthful of toast, and straightened
up.

“Why are ye looking, then?”

“Just curiosity.” I gestured at the collection of bottles and beakers on the
countertop. “I wanted to see how fine the resolution of the microscope
was, what sorts of things I might be able to see.”

“Oh, aye? And what then? What’s the purpose of it, I mean?”

“Well, to help me diagnose things. If I can take a sample of a person’s
stool, for instance, and see that he has internal parasites, then I’d know
better what medicine to give him.”

Jamie looked as though he would have preferred not to hear about such
things right after breakfast, but nodded. He drained his beaker and set it
down on the counter.

“Aye, that’s sensible. I’ll leave ye to get on with it, then.”

He bent and kissed me briefly, then headed for the door. Just short of it,
though, he turned back.

“The, um, sperms . . .” he said, a little awkwardly.

“Yes?”

“Can ye not take them out and give them decent burial or something?”

I hid a smile in my teacup.

“I’ll take good care of them,” I promised. “I always do, don’t I?”

[Bunny]

Yes, indeed she does. 😉

[broughps]

TFC

1. Roger and Bree's wedding.

2. Jamie giving Claire flowers

3. The Sperm

4. Snake bite

I’VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING like that in my entire life.” I leaned
closer, peering. “That is absolutely bizarre.”

“And you a healer half your life,” Jamie muttered crossly. “Ye canna tell
me they’ve no got snakes in your time.”

“They haven’t got many in downtown Boston. Besides, they wouldn’t
call out a surgeon to deal with a case of snakebite. Closest I came was
when a keeper at the zoo was bitten by a king cobra—a friend of mine did
the autopsy, and invited me to come and watch.”

I refrained from saying that Jamie looked a lot worse at present than the
subject of the autopsy had.

I set a hand gingerly on his ankle. The skin was puffy, hot and dry under
my hand. It was also red. Bright red. The brilliant color extended from his
feet up nearly to his rib cage; he looked as though he’d been dipped in
boiling water.

His face, ears, and neck were also flushed the color of a plum tomato;
only the pale skin of his chest had escaped, and even that was dotted with
pinpricks of red. Beyond the lobsterlike coloration, the skin was peeling
from his feet and hands, hanging in wispy shreds like Spanish moss.

I peered closely at his hip. Here, I could see that the redness was caused
by a denser version of the rash on his chest; the stipple of tiny dots showed
up clearly on the stretched skin over the ilial crest.

“You look like you’ve been roasted over a slow fire,” I said, rubbing a
finger over the rash in fascination. “I’ve never seen anything so red in my
life.” Not raised; I couldn’t feel the individual spots, though I could see
them at close range. Not a rash as such; I thought it must be petechiae,
pinpoint hemorrhages under the skin. But so many of them . . .

“I shouldna say ye’ve much room to criticize, Sassenach,” he said. Too
weak to nod, he cut his eyes at my fingers—stained with huge blotches of
yellow and blue.

<snip>

“I think he’ll be all right,” I assured her, suppressing my own fears. “He
feels dreadful, and looks worse—I’ve never seen anyone look like that in
all my born days—but if the wound doesn’t get infected . . .” I crossed my
sore fingers in superstitious prophylaxis.

“Ah, he’ll do,” Marsali said confidently. “Fergus said as they thought he
was dead when they found him and Roger Mac, but by the time they
crossed the second ridge, he was makin’ terrible jokes about the snake, so
they didna worry anymore.”

I wasn’t quite so sanguine myself, having seen the state of his injured
leg, but I smiled reassuringly.

“Yes, I think he’ll be fine. I’m just going to make an onion poultice and
clean out the wound a bit. Go and see him, why don’t you, while I fetch
the onions?”

Luckily there were plenty of onions; I had pulled them two weeks
before, when the first frost came, and dozens of knobbly braided strings
hung in the pantry, fragrant and crackling when I brushed against them. I
broke off six large onions and brought them into the kitchen to slice. My
fingers were tingling, half-burned and stiff from handling the boiling
clothes, and I worked slowly, not wanting to slice off a finger accidentally.

“Here, I’ll do that, a leannan.” Mrs. Bug took the knife out of my hand
and dealt briskly with the onions. “Is it a poultice? Aye, that’ll be the
thing. A good onion poultice will mend anything.” Still, a worried frown
puckered her forehead as she glanced toward the surgery.

“Can I help, Mama?” Bree came in from the hallway, also looking
worried. “Da looks awful; is he all right?”

“Ganda full?” Jem popped into the kitchen after his mother, less worried
about his grandfather than interested in the knife Mrs. Bug was using. He
dragged his little stool toward her, face purposeful under his coppery
fringe. “Me do!”

I brushed the hair out of my face with the back of my hand, eyes
watering fiercely from the onions.

“I think so.” I sniffed and blotted my eyes. “How’s Roger?”

“Roger’s good.” I could hear the small note of pride in her voice; Jamie
had told her Roger had saved his life. Possibly he had. I just hoped it
stayed saved.

“He’s asleep,” she added. Her mouth curved slightly as she met my
eyes, with complete understanding. If a man was in bed, at least you knew
where he was. And that he was safe, for the moment.

“Jem! You leave Mrs. Bug alone!” She scooped him off his stool and
whirled him away from the chopping board, feet kicking in protest. “Do
you need anything, Mama?”

I rubbed a finger between my brows, considering.

“Yes, can you try to find me some maggots? I’ll need them for Jamie’s
leg.” I frowned, glancing out the window at the bright autumn day. “I’m
afraid the frost has killed all the flies; I haven’t seen one in days. Try the
paddock, though; they’ll lay eggs in the warm dung.”

She made a brief face of distaste, but nodded, setting Jemmy down on
the floor.

“Come on, pal, let’s go find ickies for Grannie.”

“Icky-icky-icky-icky!” Jemmy scampered after her, enchanted at the
prospect.

I dropped the sliced onions into a bowl made from a hollowed gourd
and scooped a little of the hot water from the cauldron into it. Then I left
the onions to stew, and went back to the surgery. In the center of the room
was a sturdy pine table, serving as examination table, dentist’s chair, drug
preparation surface, or auxiliary dining table, depending on medical
exigencies and the number of dinner guests. At the moment, it was
supporting the supine form of Jamie, scarcely visible under his heap of
quilts and blankets. Marsali stood close to the table, head bent toward him
as she held a cup of water for him to sip.

“You’re sure you’re all right, Da?” she said. One hand stole toward him,
but she stopped, clearly afraid to touch him in his present condition.

“Oh, aye, I’ll do.” I could hear the deep fatigue in his voice, but a big
hand rose slowly out from under the quilts to touch her cheek.

“Fergus did braw work,” he said. “Kept the men together through the
night, found me and Roger Mac in the morning, brought everyone home
safe across the mountain. He’s a fine sense of direction.”

Marsali’s head was still bent, but I saw her cheek curve in a smile.

“I did tell him so. He’ll no give over berating himself for lettin’ the
beasts get away, though. Just one would ha’ fed the whole Ridge for the
winter, he said.”

Jamie gave a small grunt of dismissal.

“Och, we’ll manage.”

It was plainly an effort for him to speak, but I didn’t try to send Marsali
away. Roger told me Jamie had been vomiting blood as they brought him
back; I couldn’t give him brandy or whisky to ease the pain, and I hadn’t
any laudanum. Marsali’s presence might help to distract him from his
wretchedness.

I opened the cupboard quietly and brought out the big lidded bowl
where I kept my leeches. The pottery was cold, soothing to my scalded
hands. I had a dozen or so big ones; somnolent black blobs, half-floating in
their murky brew of water and cattail roots. I scooped three into a smaller
bowl full of clear water, and set it by the brazier to warm.

“Wake up, lads,” I said. “Time to earn your keep.”

I laid out the other things I would need, listening to the murmured
conversation behind me—Germain, baby Joan, a porcupine in the trees
near Marsali and Fergus’s cabin.

Coarse gauze for the onion poultice, the corked bottle with its mixture
of alcohol and sterile water, the stoneware jars of dried goldenseal,
coneflower, and comfrey. And the bottle of penicillin broth. I cursed
silently, looking at the label on it. It was nearly a month old; caught up in
the bear hunt and the autumn chores upon our return, I had not made a
fresh batch for weeks.

It would have to do. Pressing my lips together, I rubbed the herbs
between my hands, into the beechwood brewing cup, and with no more
than a faint sense of self-consciousness, silently said the blessing of Bride
over it. I’d take all the help I could get.

<snip>

I opened the medical chest and frowned into the tray that held saws and
scalpels. I took out the small, curve-bladed scalpel, its handle cool under
my fingers. I would have to debride the wound—clean away the dead
tissue, the shreds of skin and bits of leaf and cloth and dirt; the men had
plastered his leg with mud and wrapped it with a filthy neckerchief. Then I
could sprinkle the penicillin solution over the exposed surfaces; I hoped
that would help.

<snip>

I bit my lip, looking at the other blades. The biggest was a folding saw,
meant for field amputation, with a blade nearly eight inches long; I hadn’t
used it since Alamance. The thought of using it now made cold sweat
spring out under my arms and inch down my sides—but I’d seen his leg.

<snip>

I could feel the steps of the process of amputation, echoing in the
muscles of my hands and forearms; the tensile severing of skin and
muscle, the grate of bone, the snap of tendon, and the slippery, rubbery,
blood-squirting vessels, sliding away into the severed flesh like . . . snakes.

I swallowed. No. It wouldn’t come to that. Surely not.

<snip>

I turned round, swearing silently to myself once more. I’d thought so,
but had hoped I was wrong. Three babies in four years! And a one-handed
husband, who couldn’t manage the man’s work of a homestead and
wouldn’t do the “women’s work” of baby-minding and mash-brewing that
he could handle.

<snip>

I was biting my tongue hard enough to taste blood. Did the tansy oil and
vinegar mixture I’d given her not work? Or the dauco seeds? Or, as I
strongly suspected, had she just not bothered to use either one regularly?
Well, too late for questions or reproaches. I caught her eye as she glanced
up, and managed—I hoped—to look encouraging.

“Och,” she said with a feeble smile. “We’ll manage.”

The leeches were stirring, bodies stretching slowly like animated rubber
bands. I turned back the quilt over Jamie’s leg, and pressed the leeches
gently onto the swollen flesh near the wound.

“It looks nastier than it is,” I said reassuringly, hearing Marsali’s
unguarded gasp at the sight. That was true, but the reality was nasty
enough. The slashmarks were crusted black at the edges, but still gaped.
Instead of the sealing and granulation of normal healing, they were
beginning to erode, the exposed tissues oozing pus. The flesh around the
wounds was hugely swollen, black and mottled with sinister reddish
streaks.

I bit my lip, frowning as I considered the situation. I didn’t know what
kind of snake had bitten him—not that it made much difference, with no
antivenin for treatment—but it had plainly had a powerful hemolytic toxin.
Tiny blood vessels had ruptured and bled all over his body—internally, as
well as externally—and larger ones, near the site of the wound.

The foot and ankle on the injured side were still warm and pink—or
rather, red. That was a good sign, insofar as it meant the deeper circulation
was intact. The problem was to improve circulation near the wound,
enough to prevent a massive die-off and sloughing of tissue. The red
streaks bothered me very much indeed, though; they could be only part of
the hemorrhagic process, but it was more likely that they were the early
signs of septicemia—blood poisoning.

Roger hadn’t told me much of their night on the mountain, but he hadn’t
had to; I’d seen men before who’d sat through the dark with death beside
them. If Jamie had lived a night and a day since then, chances were he
would go on surviving—if I could control the infection. But in what
condition?

I hadn’t treated snakebite injuries before, but I’d seen sufficient
textbook illustrations. The poisoned tissue would die and rot; Jamie could
easily lose most of the muscle of his calf, which would cripple him
permanently—or worse, the wound could turn gangrenous.

I stole a look at him under my lashes. He was covered with quilts and so
ill he could barely move—and yet the lines of his body were drawn with
grace and the promise of strength. I couldn’t bear the thought of mutilating
him—and yet I would do it if I must. To cripple Jamie . . . to leave him
halt and half-limbed . . . the thought made my stomach clench and sweat
break out on my blue-blotched palms.

Would he wish that himself?

I reached for the cup of water by Jamie’s head and drained it myself. I
wouldn’t ask him. The choice was his by right—but he was mine, and I
had made my choice. I wouldn’t give him up, no matter what I had to do to
keep him.

“You’re sure you’re all right, Da?” Marsali had been watching my face.
Her eyes darted from me to Jamie and back, looking scared. I hastily tried
to rearrange my features into a look of competent assurance.

Jamie had been watching me, too. One corner of his mouth turned up.

“Aye, well, I did think so. Now I’m none so sure, though.”

“What’s the matter? Do you feel worse?” I asked anxiously.

“No, I feel fine,” he assured me—lying through his teeth. “It’s only,
when I’ve hurt myself, but it’s all right, ye always scold like a magpie—
but if I’m desperate bad, ye’re tender as milk. Now, ye havena called me
wicked names or uttered a word of reproach since I came home,
Sassenach. Does that mean ye think I’m dyin’?”

One eyebrow rose in irony, but I could see a true hint of worry in his
eyes. There were no vipers in Scotland; he couldn’t know what was
happening to his leg.

I took a deep breath and laid my hands lightly on his shoulders.

“Bloody man. Stepping on a snake! Couldn’t you have looked where
you were going?”

“Not whilst chasing a thousand-weight of meat downhill,” he said,
smiling. I felt a tiny relaxation in the muscles under my hands, and
repressed the urge to smile back. I glared down at him instead.

“You scared bloody hell out of me!” That at least was sincere.

The eyebrow went up again.

“Maybe ye think I wasna frightened, too?”

“You’re not allowed,” I said firmly. “Only one of us can be scared at a
time, and it’s my turn.”

That made him laugh, though the laughter was quickly succeeded by
coughing and a shaking chill.

“Fetch me a hot stone for his feet,” I said to Marsali, quickly tucking in
the quilts around him. “And fill the teapot with boiling water and bring
that, too.”

She darted hastily toward the kitchen. I glanced toward the window,
wondering whether Brianna was having any luck in finding maggots. They
had no equal in cleaning pustulant wounds without damage to the healthy
flesh nearby. If I was to save his leg as well as his life, I needed more help
than Saint Bride’s.

Wondering vaguely if there were a patron saint of maggots, I lifted the
edge of the quilt and stole a quick look at my other invertebrate assistants.
Good; I let out a small sigh of relief. The leeches worked fast; they were
already swelling into plumpness, sucking away the blood that was flooding
the tissues of his leg from ruptured capillaries. Without that pressure,
healthy circulation might be restored in time to keep skin and muscle alive.
I could see his hand clenched on the edge of the table, and could feel the
shuddering of his chill through my thighs, pressed against the wood.
I took his head between my hands; the skin of his cheeks was burning
hot.

“You are not going to die!” I hissed. “You’re not! I won’t let you!”

“People keep sayin’ that to me,” he muttered, eyes closed and sunken
with exhaustion. “Am I not allowed my own opinion?”

“No,” I said. “You’re not. Here, drink this.”

I held the cup of penicillin broth to his lips, steadying it while he drank.
He made faces, squinching his eyes shut, but swallowed it obediently
enough.

Marsali had brought the teapot, brimful of boiling water. I poured most
of it over the waiting herbs, and left them to steep, while I poured him a
cup of cold water to wash away the taste of the penicillin.

He swallowed the water, eyes still shut, then lay back on the pillow.

“What is that?” he asked. “It tastes of iron.”

“Water,” I replied. “Everything tastes of iron; your gums are bleeding.”

I handed the empty water jug to Marsali and asked her to bring more. “Put
honey in it,” I said. “About one part honey to four parts water.”

“Beef tea is what he needs,” she said, pausing to look at him, brow
furrowed with concern. “That’s what my Mam did swear by, and her Mam
before her. When a body’s lost a deal o’ blood, there’s naught like beef
tea.”

I thought Marsali must be seriously worried; she seldom mentioned her
mother in my hearing, out of a natural sense of tact. For once, though,
bloody Laoghaire was right; beef tea would be an excellent thing—if we
happened to have any fresh beef, which we didn’t.

“Honey water,” I said briefly, shooing her out of the room. I went to
fetch reinforcements from the leech department, pausing to check on
Brianna’s progress through the front window.

She was out by the paddock, barefoot, skirts kilted up above the knee,
shaking bits of horse dung from one foot. No luck so far, then. She saw me
at the window and waved, then motioned to the ax that stood nearby, then
to the edge of the wood. I nodded and waved back; a rotted log might be a
possibility.

Jemmy was on the ground nearby, his leading-strings securely tied to
the paddock fence. He certainly didn’t need them to help him stay upright,
but they did keep him from escaping while his mother was busy. He was
industriously engaged in pulling down the remains of a dried gourd-vine
that had grown up over the fence, crowing with delight as bits of crumbled
leaf and the dried remains of frostbitten gourds showered over his flaming
hair. His round face bore a look of determined intent, as he set about the
task of getting a gourd the size of his head into his mouth.

A movement caught the corner of my eye; Marsali, bringing up water
from the spring, to fill the crusted cauldron. No, she wasn’t showing at all
yet—Jamie was right, she was much too thin—but now that I knew, I
could see the pallor in her face, and the shadows under her eyes.

I thought Marsali must be seriously worried; she seldom mentioned her
mother in my hearing, out of a natural sense of tact. For once, though,
bloody Laoghaire was right; beef tea would be an excellent thing—if we
happened to have any fresh beef, which we didn’t.

Damn. Another glimpse of movement; Bree’s long pale legs, flashing
under her kilted skirts in the shadow of the big blue spruce. And was she
using the tansy oil? She was still nursing Jemmy, but that was no

guarantee, not at his age . . .

I swung around at a sound behind me, to find Jamie climbing slowly
back into his nest of quilts, looking like a great crimson sloth, my
amputation saw in one hand.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He eased himself down, grimacing, and lay back on the pillow,
breathing in long, deep gasps. The folded saw was clasped to his chest.

“I repeat,” I said, standing menacingly over him, hands on my hips,
“what the hell . . .”

He opened his eyes and lifted the saw an inch or so.

“No,” he said positively. “I ken what ye’re thinking, Sassenach, and I
willna have it.”

I took a deep breath, to keep my voice from quivering.

“You know I wouldn’t, not unless I absolutely had to.”

“No,” he said again, and gave me a familiar look of obstinacy. No
surprise at all that he never wondered who Jemmy looked like, I thought
with sour amusement.

“You don’t know what may happen—”

“I ken what’s happening to my leg better than you do, Sassenach,” he
interrupted, then paused to breathe some more. “I dinna care.”

“Maybe you don’t, but I do!”

“I’m no going to die,” he said firmly, “and I dinna wish to live with half
a leg. I’ve a horror of it.”

“Well, I’m not very keen on it myself. But if it’s a choice between your
leg and your life?”

“It’s not.”

“It damn well may be!”

“It won’t.” Age made not the slightest difference, I thought. Two years
or fifty, a Fraser was a Fraser, and no rock was more stubborn. I rubbed a
hand through my hair.

“All. Right,” I said, between clenched teeth. “Give me the bloody thing
and I’ll put it away.”

“Your word.”

“My what?” I stared at him.

“Your word,” he repeated, giving me back the stare, with interest. “I
may be fevered and lose my wits. I dinna want ye to take my leg if I’m in
no state to stop it.”

“If you’re in that sort of state, I’ll have no choice!”

“Perhaps ye don’t,” he said evenly, “but I do. I’ve made it. Your word,
Sassenach.”

“You bloody, unspeakable, infuriating—”

His smile was startling, a white grin in the ruddy face. “If ye call me a
Scot, Sassenach, then I know I’m going to live.”

 

<snip>

“They’re nearly finished with the butchering,” I said, coming to lay a
hand on his head. Still flushed and blazing. “Brianna’s done a wonderful
job of it,” I added, to distract both of us.

“Has she?” His eyes were half-open, but fixed in a fever-stare; that
dream-soaked daze where shadows writhe in the wavering hot air over a
fire. As I spoke, though, he came slowly back from wherever he had been,
and his eyes met mine, heavy-lidded but clear, and he smiled faintly.
“That’s good.”

<snip>

“Are you hungry, Jamie?” I asked. I was starving myself; though I
hadn’t realized it ’til I smelled food. I closed my eyes and inhaled, buoyed
up by the hearty scent of liver and onions.

“No,” he said, sounding drowsy. “I dinna fancy anything.”

“You should eat a bit of soup, if you can, before you fall asleep.” I
turned and smoothed the hair off his face, frowning a little as I looked at
him. The flush had faded a bit, I thought—hard to tell for sure in the
uncertain light of fire and candle. We had got enough honey-water and
herb tea into him so that his eyes were no longer sunken with dehydration,
but the bones of cheek and jaw were still prominent; he hadn’t eaten in
more than forty-eight hours, and the fever was consuming an immense
amount of energy, consuming his tissues.

<snip>

“Congratulations, Da,” Brianna said, moving to Jamie’s side. He opened
one eye, which passed with a marked lack of enthusiasm down Brianna’s
figure. Stripped to a knee-length shift for butchering, she was splotched
from head to toe with gouts of dark blood, and the muslin had stuck to her
in random patches.

“Oh, aye?” he said. “For what?”

“The maggots. You did it,” she explained. She opened her other hand,
revealing a misshapen blob of metal—a squashed rifle-ball. “The maggots
were in a wound in the hindquarters—I dug this out of the hole behind
them.”

I laughed, as much from relief as from amusement.

“Jamie! You shot it in the arse?”

Jamie’s mouth twitched a little.

“I didna think I’d hit it at all,” he said. “I was only trying to turn the
herd toward Fergus.” He reached up a slow hand and took the ball, rolling
it gently between his fingers.

“Maybe you should keep it for good luck,” Brianna said. She spoke
lightly, but I could see the furrow between her invisible brows. “Or to bite
on while Mama’s working on your leg.”

“Too late,” he said, with a very faint smile.

It was then she caught sight of the small leather strip that lay on the
table near his head, marked with overlapping crescents—the deep imprints
of Jamie’s teeth. She glanced at me, appalled. I lifted one shoulder slightly.
I had spent more than an hour cleaning the wound in his leg, and it hadn’t
been easy on either of us.

I cleared my throat, and turned back to the maggots. From the corner of
my eye, I saw Bree lay the back of her hand gently against Jamie’s cheek.
He turned his head and kissed her knuckles, blood notwithstanding.

“Dinna fash, lassie,” he said. His voice was faint, but steady. “I’m fine.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but caught sight of Bree’s face
and bit my tongue instead. She’d been working hard, and still had Jemmy
and Roger to care for; she needn’t worry for Jamie, too—not yet.

I dropped the maggots into a small bowl of sterile water and swished
them rapidly round, then dumped them back on the bed of wet leaves.

“It won’t hurt,” I said to Jamie, trying to reassure myself as much as
him.

“Oh, aye,” he said, with an unbecoming cynicism. “I’ve heard that one
before.”

“Actually, she’s right,” said a soft, rasping voice behind me. Roger had
already had a quick wash; his dark hair lay damp against his collar, and his
clothes were clean. Jemmy, half asleep, lay against his father’s shoulder,
dreamily sucking his thumb. Roger came over to the table to look down at
Jamie.

“How is it, man?” he said quietly.

Jamie moved his head on the pillow, dismissive of discomfort.

“I’ll do.”

“That’s good.” To my surprise, Roger grasped Jamie’s shoulder in a
brief gesture of comfort. I’d never seen him do that before, and once more
I wondered just what had passed between them on the mountain.

“Marsali’s bringing up some beef tea—or rather, buffalo tea—for him,”
Roger said, frowning slightly as he looked at me. “Maybe you’d best be
having some, too.”

“Good idea,” I said. I closed my eyes briefly and took a deep breath.
Only when I sat down did I realize that I had been on my feet since the
early morning. Pain outlined every bone in my feet and legs, and I could
feel the ache where I had broken my left tibia, a few years before. Duty
called, though.

“Well, time and tide wait for no maggot,” I said, struggling back to my
feet. “Best get on with it.”

Jamie gave a small snort and stretched, then relaxed, his long body
reluctantly readying itself. He watched with resignation while I fetched the
plate of maggots and my forceps, then reached for the leather strip by his
head.

“You’ll not need that,” Roger said. He pulled up another stool and sat
down. “It’s true what she said, the wee beasts don’t hurt.”

Jamie snorted again, and Roger grinned at him.

“Mind,” he said, “they tickle something fierce. That’s only if ye think
about it, though. If ye can keep all thought of them out of your mind, why,
there’s nothing to it.”

Jamie eyed him.

“Ye’re a great comfort, MacKenzie,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Roger, with a husk of a laugh. “Here, I brought ye
something.” He leaned forward and deposited a drowsy Jemmy into
Jamie’s arms. The little boy uttered a small squawk of surprise, then
relaxed as Jamie’s arms tightened about him in reflex. One chubby hand
swung free, seeking anchorage, then found it.

“Hot,” he murmured, smiling beatifically. Fist twined in Jamie’s ruddy
hair, he sighed deeply and went soundly to sleep on his grandfather’s
fever-warm chest.

Jamie narrowed his eyes at me as I picked up the forceps. Then he gave
a slight shrug, laid his stubbled cheek gently against Jemmy’s silk-bright
hair, and closed his own eyes, though the tenseness in his features was a
marked contrast to the rounded peace of Jemmy’s.

It couldn’t have been easier; I simply lifted away the fresh onion
poultice, and tucked the maggots one by one into the ulcerated slashmarks
on Jamie’s calf. Roger circled behind me to watch.

“It looks almost like a leg again,” he said, sounding surprised. “I never
thought it would.”

I smiled, though I didn’t look round at him, too intent on my delicate
work. “Leeches are very effective,” I said. “Though your rather crude
knifework may have been useful, too—you left big enough holes that the
pus and fluid were able to drain; that helped.”

It was true; while the limb was still hot and grossly discolored, the
swelling had subsided markedly. The long stretch of shinbone and the
delicate arch of foot and ankle were once more visible. I was under no
illusion about the dangers still remaining—infection, gangrene, sloughing
—but nonetheless, my heart grew lighter. It was recognizably Jamie’s leg.

I pinched another maggot just behind the head with my forceps, careful
not to crush it. I lifted the edge of the skin with the slender probe I held in
my other hand, and deftly inserted the tiny, wiggling thing into the small
pocket thus provided—trying to ignore the nastily spongy feel of the flesh
under my fingers, and my memory of Aaron Beardsley’s foot.

“Done,” I said, a moment later, and gently replaced the poultice. Stewed
onion and garlic wrapped in muslin and soaked with penicillin broth would
keep the wounds moist and draining. Renewed every hour or so, I hoped
that the warmth of the poultices would also encourage circulation in the
leg. And then a dressing of honey, to prevent any further bacterial
invasions.

Concentration alone had kept my hands steady. Now it was done, and
there was nothing more to do but wait. The saucer of wet leaves rattled
against the counter as I set it down.

I didn’t think I had ever been so tired before.

BETWEEN THEM, Roger and Mr. Bug got Jamie up to our bedroom. I
hadn’t wanted to disturb his leg by moving him from the surgery, but he
insisted.

“I dinna want ye to be sleeping on the floor down here, Sassenach,” he
said, when I protested. He smiled at me. “Ye should be in your bed—but I
ken ye willna leave me alone, and so that means I must go and be in it, too,
aye?”

I would have argued further, but in all truth, I was so tired that I
wouldn’t have complained much if he had insisted we both sleep in the
barn.

Once he was settled, though, my doubts returned.

“I’ll joggle your leg,” I said, hanging up my gown on one of the pegs.
“I’ll just make up a pallet by the fire here, and—”

“You will not,” he said definitely. “Ye’ll sleep wi’ me.” He lay back on
the pillows, eyes closed, his hair an auburn tumble against the linen. His
skin had begun to fade; it wasn’t quite so red. It was, however, alarmingly
pale where the tiny hemorrhages didn’t stain it.

“You would argue on your deathbed,” I said crossly. “You don’t have to
be constantly in charge, you know. You could lie still and let other people
take care of things, for once. What do you think would happen, if—”

He opened his eyes and gave me a dark blue look.

“Sassenach,” he said softly.

“What?”

“I would like ye to touch me . . . without hurting me. Just once before I
sleep. Would ye mind much?”

I stopped and drew breath, terribly disconcerted at the realization that he
was right. Caught up in the emergency and worry of his condition,
everything I had done to him during the day had been painful, intrusive, or
both. Marsali, Brianna, Roger, Jemmy—all of them had touched him in
gentleness, offering sympathy and comfort.

And I—I had been so terrified at the possibility of what might happen,
of what I might be forced to do, that I had taken no time, allowed no room
for gentleness. I looked away for a moment, blinking until the tears
retreated. Then I stood and walked over to the bed, bent, and kissed him,
very softly.

I stroked the hair back from his forehead, smoothed his brows with my
thumb. Arch Bug had shaved him; the skin of his cheek was smooth, hot
against the side of my hand. His bones were hard under his skin, framing
his strength—and yet he seemed suddenly fragile. I felt fragile, too.

“I want ye to sleep beside me, Sassenach,” he whispered.

“All right.” I smiled at him, my lips trembling only a little. “Let me
brush out my hair.”

I sat down in my shift, shook out my hair, and took up the brush. He
watched me, not speaking, but with a faint smile on his lips, as I worked.
He liked to watch me brush my hair; I hoped it was as soothing to him as it
was to me.

There were noises downstairs, but they were muffled, safely distant. The
shutters were ajar; firelight flickered against the glass of the window from
the dying bonfire in the yard. I glanced at the window, wondering if I
ought to close the shutters.

“Leave them, Sassenach,” he murmured from the bed. “I like to hear the
talk.” The sound of voices from outside was comforting, rising and falling,
with small bursts of laughter.

The sound of the brush was soft and regular, like surf on sand, and I felt
the stress of the day lessen slowly, as though I could brush all the anxieties
and dreads out of my hair as easily as tangles and bits of pumpkin vine.
When at last I put down the brush and rose, Jamie’s eyes were closed.
I knelt to smoor the fire, rose to blow out the candle, and went at last to
bed.

I eased myself gently into the bed beside him, not to jostle. He lay
turned away from me, on his side, and I turned toward him, echoing the
curve of his body with my own, careful not to touch him.

I lay very quietly, listening. All the house sounds had settled to their
night-time rhythm; the hiss of the fire and the rumble of wind in the flue,
the sudden startling crack! of the stairs, as though some unwary foot had
stepped upon a riser. Mr. Wemyss’s adenoidal snoring reached me,
reduced to a soothing buzz by the thickness of the intervening doors.

There were still voices outside, muffled by distance, disjointed with
drink and the lateness of the hour. All jovial, though; no sound of hostility
or incipient violence. I didn’t really care, though. The inhabitants of the
Ridge could hammer each other senseless and dance on the remains, for all
I cared. All my attention was focused on Jamie.

His breathing was shallow but even, his shoulders relaxed. I didn’t want
to disturb him; he needed rest above all things. At the same time, I ached
to touch him. I wanted to reassure myself that he was here, alive beside me
—but I also needed badly to know how things went with him.

Was he feverish? Had the incipient infection in his leg blossomed in
spite of the penicillin, spreading poison through his blood?

I moved my head cautiously, bringing my face within an inch of his
shirt-covered back, and breathed in, slow and deep. I could feel the
warmth of him on my face, but couldn’t tell through the linen nightshirt
just how hot he really was.

He smelt faintly of the woods, more strongly of blood. The onions in the
dressing gave off a bitter tang; so did his sweat.

I inhaled again, testing the air. No scent of pus. Too early for the smell
of gangrene, even if the rot was beginning, invisible under the bandages. I
thought there was a strange scent about his skin, though; something I
hadn’t smelled before. Necrosis of the tissue? Some breakdown product of
the snake’s venom? I blew a short breath through my nose and took in a
fresh one, deeper.

“Do I stink verra badly?” he inquired.

“Uk!” I said, startled into biting my tongue, and he quivered slightly, in
what I took to be suppressed amusement.

“Ye sound like a wee truffle-pig, Sassenach, snortling away back there.”

“Oh, indeed,” I said, a bit crossly. I touched the tender spot on my
tongue. “Well, at least you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Like a pile of moldy tripes.”

“Very picturesque,” I said. “Can you be a trifle more specific?” I put a
hand lightly on his side, and he let his breath out in a sound like a small
moan.

“Like a pile of moldy tripes . . .” he said, and pausing to breathe heavily,
added, “. . . .with maggots.”

“You’d joke on your deathbed, wouldn’t you?” Even as I said it, I felt a
tremor of unease. He would, and I hoped this wasn’t it.

“Well, I’ll try, Sassenach,” he murmured, sounding drowsy. “But I’m no
really at my best under the circumstances.”

“Do you hurt much?”

“No. I’m just . . . tired.” He sounded as though he were in fact too
exhausted to search for the proper word, and had settled for that one by
default.

“Little wonder if you are. I’ll go and sleep somewhere else, so you can
rest.” I made to throw back the covers and rise, but he stopped me, raising
one hand slightly.

“No. No, dinna leave me.” His shoulder fell back toward me, and he
tried to lift his head from the pillow. I felt still more uneasy when I
realized that he was too weak even to turn over by himself.

“I won’t leave you. Maybe I should sleep in the chair, though. I don’t
want to—”

“I’m cold,” he said softly. “I’m verra cold.”

I pressed my fingers lightly just under his breastbone, seeking the big
abdominal pulse. His heartbeat was rapid, shallower than it should have
been. He wasn’t feverish. He didn’t just feel cold, he was cold to the touch,
his skin chilled and his fingers icy. I found that very alarming.

No longer shy, I cuddled close against him, my breasts squashing softly
against his back, cheek resting on his shoulder blade. I concentrated as
hard as I could on generating body heat, trying to radiate warmth through
my skin and into his. So often he had enfolded me in the curve of his body,
sheltering me, giving me the warmth of his big body. I wished passionately
that I were larger, and could do the same for him now; as it was, I could do
no more than cling to him like a small, fierce mustard plaster, and hope I
had the same effect.

Very gently, I found the hem of his shirt and pulled it up, then cupped
my hands to fit the rounds of his buttocks. They tightened slightly in
surprise, then relaxed.

It occurred to me to wonder just why I felt I must lay hands on him, but
I didn’t trouble my mind with it; I had had the feeling many times before,
and had long since given up worrying that it wasn’t scientific.

I could feel the faintly pebbled texture of the rash upon his skin, and the
thought came unbidden of the lamia. A creature smooth and cool to the
touch, a shape-shifter, passionately venomous, its nature infectious. A
swift bite and the snake’s poison spreading, slowing his heart, chilling his
warm blood; I could imagine tiny scales rising under his skin in the dark.
I forcibly repressed the thought, but not the shudder that went with it.

“Claire,” he said softly. “Touch me.”

I couldn’t hear his heartbeat. I could hear mine; a thick, muffled sound
in the ear pressed to the pillow.

I slid my hand over the slope of his belly, and more slowly down,
fingers parting the coarse curly tangle, dipping low to cup the rounded
shapes of him. What heat he had was here.

I stroked him with a thumb and felt him stir. The breath went out of him
in a long sigh, and his body seemed to grow heavier, sinking into the
mattress as he relaxed. His flesh was like candle wax in my hand, smooth
and silky as it warmed.

I felt very odd; no longer frightened, but with all my senses at once
preternaturally acute and yet . . . peaceful. I was no longer conscious of
any sounds save Jamie’s breathing and the beating of his heart; the
darkness was filled with them. I had no conscious thought, but seemed to
act purely by instinct, reaching down and under, seeking the heart of his
heat in the center of his being.

Then I was moving—or we were moving together. One hand reached
down between us, up between his legs, my fingertips on the spot just
behind his testicles. My other hand reached over, around, moving with the
same rhythm that flexed my thighs and lifted my hips, thrusting against
him from behind.

I could have done it forever, and felt that perhaps I did. I had no sense of
time passing, only of a dreamy peace, and that slow, steady rhythm as we
moved together in the dark. Somewhere, sometime, I felt a steady pulsing,
first in the one hand, then in both. It melded with the beat of his heart.

He sighed, long and deep, and I felt the air rush from my own lungs. We
lay silent and passed gently into unconsciousness, together.

I WOKE FEELING utterly peaceful. I lay still, without thought, listening
to the thrum of blood through my veins, watching the drift of sunlit
particles in the beam of light that fell through the half-opened shutters.
Then I remembered, and flung myself over in bed, staring.

His eyes were closed, and his skin was the color of old ivory. His head
was turned slightly away from me, so that the cords of his neck stood out,
but I couldn’t see any pulse in his throat. He was still warm, or at least the
bedclothes were still warm. I sniffed the air, urgently. The room was fetid
with the scent of onions and honey and fever-sweat, but no stink of sudden
death.

I clapped a hand on the center of his chest, and he jerked, startled, and
opened his eyes.

“You bastard,” I said, so relieved to feel the rise of his chest as he drew
breath that my voice trembled. “You tried to die on me, didn’t you?”

His chest rose and fell, rose and fell, under my hand, and my own heart
jerked and shuddered, as though I had been pulled back at the last moment
from an unexpected precipice.

He blinked at me. His eyes were heavy, still clouded with fever.

“It didna take much effort, Sassenach,” he said, his voice soft and husky
from sleep. “Not dying was harder.”

He made no pretense of not understanding me. In the light of day, I saw
clearly what exhaustion and the aftereffects of shock had stopped me
seeing the night before. His insistence on his own bed. The open shutters,
so he could hear the voices of his family below, his tenants outside. And
me beside him. He had, very carefully, and without saying a word to me,
decided how and where he wanted to die.

“You thought you were dying when we brought you up here, didn’t
you?” I asked. My voice sounded more bewildered than accusing.
It took him a moment to answer, though he didn’t look hesitant. It was
more as though he was looking for the proper words.

“Well, I didna ken for sure, no,” he said slowly. “Though I did feel verra
ill.” His eyes closed, slowly, as though he were too tired to keep them
open. “I still do,” he added, in a detached sort of voice. “Ye needna worry,
though—I’ve made my choice.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

I groped beneath the covers, and found his wrist. He was warm; hot
again, in fact, and with a pulse that was too fast, too shallow. Still, it was
so different from the deathly chill I had felt in him the night before that my
first reaction was relief.

He took a couple of deep breaths, then turned his head and opened his
eyes to look at me.

“I mean I could have died last night.”

He could, certainly—and yet that wasn’t what he meant. He made it
sound like a conscious—

“What do you mean you’ve made your choice? You’ve decided not to
die, after all?” I tried to speak lightly, but it wasn’t working very well. I
remembered all too well that odd sense of timeless stillness that had
surrounded us.

“It was verra strange,” he said. “And yet it wasna strange at all.” He
sounded faintly surprised.

<snip>

“It was as if there was a—it wasna a door, exactly, but a passageway of
some kind—before me. And I could go through it, if I wanted. And I did
want to,” he said, giving me a sideways glance and a shy smile.

He had known what lay behind him, too, and realized that for that
moment, he could choose. Go forward—or turn back.

“And that’s when you asked me to touch you?”

“I knew ye were the only thing that could bring me back,” he said
simply. “I didna have the strength, myself.”

There was a huge lump in my throat; I couldn’t speak, but squeezed his
hand very tight.

“Why?” I asked at last. “Why did you . . . choose to stay?” My throat
was still tight, and my voice was hoarse. He heard it, and his hand
tightened on mine; a ghost of his usual firm grip, and yet with the memory
of strength within it.

“Because ye need me,” he said, very softly.

“Not because you love me?”

He looked up then, with a shadow of a smile.

“Sassenach . . . I love ye now, and I will love ye always. Whether I am
dead—or you—whether we are together or apart. You know it is true,” he
said quietly, and touched my face. “I know it of you, and ye know it of me
as well.”

He bent his head then, the bright hair swinging down across his cheek.
“I didna mean only you, Sassenach. I have work still to do. I thought—
for a bit—that perhaps it wasna so; that ye all might manage, with Roger
Mac and auld Arch, Joseph and the Beardsleys. But there is war coming,
and—for my sins—” he grimaced slightly, “I am a chief.”

He shook his head slightly, in resignation.

“God has made me what I am. He has given me the duty—and I must do
it, whatever the cost.”

“The cost,” I echoed uneasily, hearing something harsher than
resignation in his voice. He looked at me, then glanced, almost off-handed,
toward the foot of the bed.

“My leg’s no much worse,” he said, matter-of-factly, “but it’s no better.
I think ye’ll have to take it off.”

<snip>

IT WAS JUST AFTER DARK when I made my way upstairs, carrying my
tray of potions and implements, feeling a mixture of excitement and
trepidation.

Jamie was propped on his pillows, surrounded by visitors. People had
been coming by the house all day to see him and wish him well; a good
many of them had simply stayed, and a host of anxious faces turned
toward me as I came in, glimmering in the light of the candles.
He looked very ill, flushed and drawn, and I wondered whether I ought
to have chased the visitors away. I saw Murdo Lindsay take his hand,
though, and squeeze it tight, and realized that the distraction and support of
his company through the day was probably much more helpful to him than
the rest that he wouldn’t have taken in any case.

“Well, then,” Jamie said, with a good assumption of casualness, “we’re
ready, I suppose.” He stretched his legs, flexing his toes hard under the
blanket. Given the state of his leg, it must have hurt dreadfully, but I
recognized that he was taking what he thought would be the last
opportunity to move the limb, and bit the inside of my lip.

“Well, we’re ready to have a go at something,” I said, smiling at him
with an attempt at confident reassurance. “And anyone who would like to
pray about it, please do.”

A rustle of surprise replaced the air of dread that had been sprung up at
my appearance, and I saw Marsali, who was holding a sleeping Joan with
one hand, grope hastily in her pocket with the other to pull out her rosary.

There was a rush to clear the bedside table, which was littered with
books, papers, candle-stubs, various treats brought up to tempt Jamie’s
appetite—all untouched—and, for some unfathomable reason, the fretboard
of a dulcimer and a half-tanned groundhog hide. I set down the tray,
and Brianna, who had come up with me, stepped forward, her invention
carefully held in both hands, like an acolyte presenting bread to a priest.

“What in the name of Christ is that?” Jamie frowned at the object, then
up at me.

“It’s sort of a do-it-yourself rattlesnake,” Brianna told him.

Everyone murmured with interest, craning their necks to see—though
the interest was diverted almost at once as I turned back the quilt and
began to unwrap his leg, to a chorus of shocked murmurs and sympathetic
exclamations at sight of it.

Lizzie and Marsali had been faithfully applying fresh, hot onion and
flaxseed poultices to it all day, and wisps of steam rose from the wrappings
as I put them aside. The flesh of his leg was bright red to the knee, at least
in those parts that weren’t black or seeping with pus. We had removed the
maggots temporarily, afraid the heat would kill them; they were presently
downstairs on a plate in my surgery, happily occupied with some of the
nastier bits of the Bugs’ gleanings. If I succeeded in saving the leg, they
could help with the tidying-up, later.

I had carefully gone through the detritus bit by bit, examining the blue
molds with my microscope, and putting aside everything that could be
identified as bearing Penicillium into a large bowl. Over this
miscellaneous collection I had poured the fermented corn liquor, allowing
the whole to steep during the day—and with luck, to dissolve any actual
raw penicillin from the garbage into the alcoholic liquid.

Meanwhile, I had made a selection of those herbs with a reputation for
the internal treatment of suppurative conditions, and made a stiff decoction
of them, steeped in boiling water for several hours. I poured a cup of this
highly aromatic solution, and handed it to Roger, carefully averting my
nose.

“Make him drink it,” I said. “All of it,” I added pointedly, fixing Jamie
with a look.

Jamie sniffed the proffered cup, and gave me the look back—but
obediently sipped, making exaggerated faces for the entertainment of his
company, who giggled appreciatively. The mood thus lightened, I
proceeded to the main event, turning to take the makeshift hypodermic
from Bree.

The Beardsley twins, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the corner,
pressed forward to see, swelling with pride. They had gone out at once at
Bree’s request, coming back in mid-afternoon with a fine rattlesnake,
nearly three feet long—and fortunately dead, having been cut nearly in
half with an ax, so as to preserve the valuable head.

I had dissected out the poison sacs with great caution, detaching the
fangs, and then had put Mrs. Bug to the task of rinsing the fangs repeatedly
with alcohol, to eradicate any lingering traces of venom.

Bree had taken the oiled silk that had been used to wrap the astrolabe,
and stitched part of it into a small tube, gathering one end of this with a
draw-stitch, like a purse-string. She had cut a thick segment from a
turkey’s wing-quill, softened with hot water, and used this to join the
gathered end of the silk tube to the fang. Melted beeswax had sealed the
joints of tube, quill, and fang, and been spread carefully along the line of
the stitching, to prevent leakage. It was a nice, neat job—but it did look
quite like a small, fat snake with one enormous curved fang, and
occasioned no little comment from the spectators.

Murdo Lindsay was still holding one of Jamie’s hands. As I motioned to
Fergus to hold the candle for me, I saw Jamie reach out the other toward
Roger. Roger looked momentarily startled, but grabbed the hand and knelt
down by the bed, holding on tight.

I ran my fingers lightly over the leg, selected a good spot, clear of major
blood vessels, swabbed it with pure alcohol, and jabbed the fang in, as
deeply as I could. There was a gasp from the spectators, and a sharp intake
of breath from Jamie, but he didn’t move.

“All right.” I nodded at Brianna, who was standing by with the bottle of
strained corn-alcohol. Teeth sunk in her lower lip, she poured carefully,
filling the silk tube as I supported it. I folded the open top tightly over, and
with thumb and forefinger, firmly pressed downward, forcing the liquid
out through the fang and into the tissues of the leg.

Jamie made a small, breathless noise, and both Murdo and Roger leaned
inward instinctively, their shoulders pressing against his, holding on.
I didn’t dare go too fast, for fear of cracking the wax seals by exerting
too much pressure, though we had a second syringe, made with the other
fang, just in case. I worked my way up and down the leg, with Bree
refilling the syringe with each injection, and blood rose glistening from the
holes as I withdrew the fang, rolling in tiny rivulets down the side of his
leg. Without being asked, Lizzie picked up a cloth and blotted it clean,
eyes intent on the job.

The room was silent, but I felt everyone’s breath held as I chose a new
spot, let out in a sigh as the stab was made—and then the unconscious
leaning toward the bed as I squeezed the stinging alcohol deep into the
infected tissues. The muscles stood out in knots on Jamie’s forearms, and
sweat ran down his face like rain, but neither he, nor Murdo, nor Roger
made a sound or moved.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Joseph Wemyss stroke back the hair
from Jamie’s forehead, and wipe away the sweat from his face and neck
with a towel.

“Because ye need me,” he’d said. And I realized then that it wasn’t only
me that he’d meant.

It didn’t take a long time. When it was done, I spread honey carefully
over all the open wounds, and rubbed oil of wintergreen into the skin of
foot and calf.

“That’s a nice job of basting, Sassenach. D’ye reckon it’s ready for the
oven yet?” Jamie asked, and wiggled his toes, causing the tension in the
room to relax into laughter.

Everyone did leave, then, patting Jamie’s shoulder or kissing his cheek
in farewell, with gruff wishes of good luck. He smiled and nodded, lifting
his hand in farewell, exchanging goodbyes, making small jokes.

When the door closed behind the last of them, he lay back on the pillow
and closed his eyes, letting all his breath out in a long, deep sigh. I set
about tidying my tray, setting the syringe to soak in alcohol, corking
bottles, folding bandages. Then I sat down beside him, and he reached out
a hand to me, not opening his eyes.

His skin was warm and dry, the hand reddened from Murdo’s fierce
grip. I traced his knuckles gently with my thumb, listening to the rumble
and clatter of the house below, subdued but lively.

“It will work,” I said softly, after a minute. “I know it will.”

“I know,” he said. He took a deep breath, and at last, began to weep.

[Bunny]

It’s not right to get teary-eyed early in the morning. *deep breathe*

[broughps]

TFC

1. Roger and Bree's wedding.

2. Jamie giving Claire flowers

3. The Sperm

4. Snake bite

5. Jemmy wanting to go with Roger and Jamie and Ian coming home

JAMIE NODDED at something behind him, smiling.

“I see we’ve help today.”

Roger looked back to see Jemmy stumping along behind them, his small
fair brow furrowed in fierce concentration, a fist-sized rock clutched to his
chest with both hands. Roger wanted to laugh at the sight, but instead
turned and squatted down, waiting for the boy to catch them up.

“Is that for the new hogpen, a ghille ruaidh?” he said.

Jemmy nodded solemnly. The morning was still cool, but the little boy’s
cheeks glowed with effort.

“Thank you,” Roger said gravely. He held out his hand. “Shall I take it,
then?”

Jemmy shook his head violently, heavy fringe flying.

“Me do!”

“It’s a long walk, a ghille ruaidh,” Jamie said. “And your mother will
miss ye, no?”

“No!”

“Grand-da’s right, a bhalaich, Mummy needs you,” Roger said,
reaching for the rock. “Here, let me take . . .”

“No!” Jemmy clutched the rock protectively against his smock, mouth
set in a stubborn line.

“But ye can’t . . .” Jamie began.

“Come!”

“No, I said ye must . . .” Roger began.

“COME!”

“Now, look, lad—” both men began together, then stopped, looked at
each other, and laughed.

“Where’s Mummy, then?” Roger said, trying another tack. “Mummy
will be worried about you, aye?”

The small red head shook in vehement negation.

“Claire said the women meant to be quilting today,” Jamie said to
Roger. “Marsali’s brought a pattern; they’ll maybe have started the
stitching of it.” He squatted down beside Roger, eye to eye with his
grandson.

“Have ye got away from your mother, then?”

The soft pink mouth, hitherto clamped tight, twitched, allowing a small
giggle to escape.

“Thought so,” Roger said in resignation. “Come on, then. Back to the
house.” He stood up and swung the little boy up into his arms, rock and all.

“No, no! NO!” Jemmy stiffened in resistance, his feet digging painfully
into Roger’s belly as his body arched backward like a bow. “Me help! Me
HELP!”

Trying to make his own arguments heard through Jemmy’s roars
without shouting, while at the same time keeping the boy from falling
backward onto his head, Roger didn’t at first hear the cries from the
direction of the house. When he finally resorted to clapping a hand over
his offspring’s wide-open mouth, though, feminine calls of
“Jeeeeemmmeeeeeeee!” were clearly audible through the trees.

“See, Mrs. Lizzie’s looking for ye,” Jamie said to his grandson, jerking
a thumb toward the sound.

“Not only Lizzie,” Roger said. More women’s voices were echoing the
chorus, with increasing notes of annoyance. “Mum and Grannie Claire,
and Grannie Bug and Auntie Marsali, too, from the sounds of it. They
don’t sound very pleased with you, lad.”

“We’d best take him, back, then,” Jamie said. He looked at his
grandson, not without sympathy. “Mind, you’re like to get your bum
smacked, laddie. Women dinna like it when ye run off on them.”

This threatening prospect caused Jemmy to drop his rock and wrap his
arms and legs tightly round Roger.

“Go with YOU, Daddy,” he said coaxingly.

“But Mummy—”

“NO MUMMY! Want Daddy!”

Roger patted Jemmy’s back, small but solid under his grubby smock. He
was torn; this was the first time Jem had so definitely wanted him in
preference to Bree, and he had to admit to a sneaking feeling of flattery.
Even if his son’s present partiality sprang as much from an urge to avoid
punishment as from a desire for his company, Jem had wanted to come
with him.

“I suppose we could take him,” he said to Jamie, over Jem’s head, now
nestled trustingly against his collarbone. “Just for the morning; I could
fetch him back at noon.”

“Oh, aye,” Jamie said. He smiled at his grandson, picked up the fallen
stone, and handed it back to him. “Building hogpens is proper man’s work,
aye? None of this prinking and yaffling the ladies are so fond of.”

“Speaking of yaffling . . .” Roger lifted his chin in the direction of the
house, where the cries of “JEEMEEEEE!” were now taking on a distinctly
irritated tone, tinged with panic. “We’d best tell them we have him.”

“I’ll go.” Jamie dropped the rucksack off his shoulder with a sigh, and
raised one eyebrow at his grandson. “Mind, lad, ye owe me. When women
are in a fret, they’ll take it out on the first man they see, whether he’s to
blame or not. Like enough I’ll get my bum smacked.” He rolled his eyes,
but grinned at Jemmy, then turned and set off for the house at a trot.

Jemmy giggled.

“Smack, Grand-da!” he called.

“Hush, wee rascal.” Roger gave him a soft slap on the bottom, and
realized that Jem was wearing short breeks under his smock, but no clout
under them. He swung the boy down onto his feet.

“D’ye need to go potty?” he asked automatically, falling into Brianna’s
peculiar idiom.

“No,” Jem said, just as automatically, but with a reflexive kneading of
his crotch that made his father take him by the arm, firmly steering him off
the path and behind a convenient bush.

“Come on. Let’s have a try, while we wait for Grand-da.”

IT SEEMED RATHER a long time before Jamie reappeared, though the
indignant cries of the searchers had been quickly stilled. If Jamie had got
his bum smacked, Roger thought cynically, he appeared to have enjoyed it.
A slight flush showed on the high cheekbones, and he wore a faint but
definite air of satisfaction.

This was explained at once, though, when Jamie produced a small
bundle from inside his shirt and unwrapped a linen towel, revealing half a
dozen fresh biscuits, still warm, and dripping with melted butter and
honey.

“I think perhaps Mrs. Bug meant them for the quilting circle,” he said,
distributing the booty. “But there was plenty of batter left in the bowl; I
doubt they’ll be missed.”

“If they are, I’ll blame it on you,” Roger assured him, catching a dribble
of warm honey that ran down his wrist. He wiped it off and sucked his
finger, eyes closing momentarily in ecstasy.

“What now, ye’d give me up to the Inquisition?” Jamie’s eyes creased
into blue triangles of amusement as he wiped crumbs from his mouth.
“And after I shared my plunder with ye, too—there’s gratitude!”

“Your reputation will stand it,” Roger said wryly. “Jem and I are
persona non grata after what happened to her spice cake last week, but
Himself can do no wrong, as far as Grannie Bug is concerned. She
wouldn’t mind if you ate the entire contents of the pantry single-handed.”

Jamie licked a smear of honey from the corner of his mouth, with the
smug complacency of a man permanently in Mrs. Bug’s good books.

“Well, that’s as may be,” he admitted. “Still, if ye expect to blame it on
me, we’d best wipe a bit of the evidence off the laddie before we go
home.”

Jemmy had been addressing himself to his treat with single-minded
concentration, with the result that his entire face gleamed with butter,
daubs of honey ran in amber trails down his smock, and what appeared to
be several small globs of half-chewed biscuit were stuck in his hair.

“How in hell did you do that so fast?” Roger demanded in amazement.
“Look what ye’ve done to your shirt! Your mother will kill us both.” He
took the towel and made an abortive attempt to wipe some of the mess off,
but succeeded only in spreading it farther.

“Dinna fash,” Jamie said tolerantly. “He’ll be so covered wi’ filth by the
end of the day, his mother will never notice a few crumbs extra. Watch
out, lad!” A quick grab saved half a biscuit that had broken off as the boy
made an attempt to cram the last pastry into his mouth in a single gulp.

“Still,” Jamie said, biting thoughtfully into the rescued biscuit-half as he
looked at his grandson, “perhaps we’ll souse him in the creek a bit. We
dinna want the pigs to smell the honey on him.”

A faint qualm of unease went over Roger, as he realized that Jamie was
in fact not joking about the pigs. It was common to see or hear pigs in the
wood nearby, rooting through the leaf-mold under oaks and poplars, or
grunting blissfully over a trove of chestnut mast. Food was plentiful at this
season, and the pigs were no threat to grown men. A small boy, though,
smelling of sweetness . . . you thought of pigs as only eating roots and
nuts, but Roger had a vivid memory of the big white sow, seen a few days
before, with the naked, blood-smeared tail of a possum dangling from her
maw as she champed placidly away.

A chunk of biscuit seemed to be stuck in his throat. He picked Jemmy
up, despite the stickiness, and tucked him giggling under one arm, so the
little boy’s arms and legs dangled in the air.

“Come on, then,” Roger said, resigned. “Mummy won’t like it a bit, if
you get eaten by a pig.”

FENCE POLES LAY piled near the stone pillar. Roger dug about until he
found a splintered piece short enough for convenience, and used it to lever
a big chunk of granite up far enough to get both hands under it. Squatting,
he got it onto his thighs, and very slowly stood up, his back straightening
one vertebra at a time, fingers digging into the lichen-splotched surface
with the effort of lifting. The rag tied round his head was drenched, and
perspiration was running down his face. He shook his head to flick the
stinging sweat out of his eyes.

“Daddy, Daddy!”

Roger felt a sudden tug at his breeches, blinked sweat out of his eye, and
planted his feet well apart to keep his balance without dropping the heavy
rock. He tightened his grip and glanced down, annoyed.

“What, lad?”

Jemmy had tight hold of the cloth with both hands. He was looking
toward the wood.

“Pig, Daddy,” he whispered. “Big pig.”

Roger glanced in the direction of the little boy’s gaze and froze.
It was a huge black boar, perhaps eight feet away. The thing stood more
than three feet at the shoulder, and must weigh two hundred pounds or
more, with curving yellow tushes the length of Jemmy’s forearm. It stood
with lifted head, piggy snout moistly working as it snuffed the air for food
or threat.

“Shit,” Roger said involuntarily.

Jemmy, who would normally have seized on any inadvertent vulgarity
and trumpeted it gleefully, now merely clung tighter to his father’s leg.

Thoughts raced through Roger’s mind like colliding freight cars. Would
it attack if he moved? He had to move; the muscles of his arms were
trembling under the strain. He’d splashed Jem with water; did the boy still
smell—or look—like something on the pig’s menu?

He picked one coherent thought out of the wreckage.

“Jem,” he said, his voice very clam, “get behind me. Do it now,” he
added with emphasis, as the boar turned its head in their direction.
It saw them; he could see the small dark eyes change focus. It took a
few steps forward, its hooves absurdly small and dainty under its menacing
bulk.

“Do you see Grand-da, Jem?” he asked, keeping his voice calm. Streaks
of fire were burning through his arms, and his elbows felt as though they’d
been crushed in a vise.

“No,” Jemmy whispered. Roger could feel the little boy crowding close
behind him, pressed against his legs.

“Well, look round. He went to the stream; he’ll be coming back from
that direction. Turn round and look.”

The boar was cautious, but not afraid. That was what came of not
hunting the things sufficiently, he thought. They ought to be gutting a few
in the wood once a week, as an object lesson to the rest.

“Grand-da!” Jemmy’s voice rang out from behind him, shrill with fear.
At the sound, the pig’s hackles sprang suddenly erect in a ridge of
coarse hair down its spine and it lowered its head, muscles bunching.

“Run, Jem!” Roger cried. “Run to Grand-da!” A surge of adrenaline
shot through him and suddenly the rock weighed nothing. He flung it at the
charging pig, catching it on the shoulder. It gave a whuff! of surprise,
faltered, then opened its mouth with a roar and came at him, tushes
slashing as it swung its head.

He couldn’t duck aside and let it go past; Jem was still close behind
him. He kicked it in the jaw with all his strength, then flung himself on it,
grasping for a hold round its neck.

His fingers slipped and slid, unable to get a firm grip on the wiry hair,
stubbing and sliding off the hard rolls of tight-packed flesh. Christ, it was
like wrestling an animated sack of concrete! He felt something warm and
wet on his hand and jerked it back; had it slashed him? He felt no pain.

Maybe only saliva from the gnashing jaws—maybe blood from a gash too
deep to feel. No time to look. He thrust the hand back down, flailing
blindly, got his fingers round a hairy leg, and pulled hard.

The pig fell sideways with a squeal of surprise, throwing him off its
back. He hit the ground on hands and one knee, and his knee struck stone.
A bolt of pain shot from ankle to groin, and he curled up involuntarily,
momentarily paralyzed from the shock.

The boar was up, shaking itself with a grunt and a rattle of bristles, but
facing away from him. Dust rose from its coat and he could see the
corkscrew tail, coiled up tight against its rump. A second more, and the pig
would turn, rip him from gut to gullet, and stamp on the pieces. He
grabbed for a rock, but it burst in his hand, nothing but a clod of dirt.
The gasp and thud of a running man came from his left, and he heard a
breathless shout.

“Tulach Ard! Tulach Ard!”

The boar heard Jamie’s cry and swung snorting round to meet this new
enemy, mouth agape and eyes gone red with rage.

Jamie had his dirk in his hand; Roger saw the gleam of metal as Jamie
dropped low and swung it wide, slashing at the boar, then danced aside as
it charged. A knife. Fight that thing with a knife?

You are out of your fucking mind, Roger thought quite clearly.

“No, I’m not,” Jamie said, panting, and Roger realized that he must have
spoken aloud. Jamie crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, and
reached his free hand toward Roger, his eyes still fastened on the pig,
which had paused, kneading the ground with its hooves and clashing its
teeth, swinging its head back and forth between the two men, estimating its
chances.

“Bioran!” Jamie said, beckoning urgently. “Stick, spear—gie it to me!”

Spear . . . the splintered fence-pole. His numbed leg still wouldn’t work,
but he could move. He threw himself to the side, grabbed the ragged shaft
of wood, and fell back on his haunches, bracing it before him like a boarspear,
sharp end pointed toward the foe.

“Tulach Ard!” he bellowed. “Come here, you fat fucker!”

Distracted for an instant, the boar swung toward him. Jamie lunged at it,
stabbing down, aiming between the shoulder blades. There was a piercing
squeal and the boar wheeled, blood flying from a deep gash in its shoulder.
Jamie threw himself sideways, tripped on something, fell, and skidded
hard across the mud and grass, the knife spinning from his outflung hand.

Lunging forward, Roger jabbed his makeshift spear as hard as he could
just below the boar’s tail. The animal uttered a piercing squeal and
appeared to rise straight into the air. The spear jerked through his hands,
rough bark ripping skin off his palms. He grabbed it hard and managed to
keep hold of it as the boar crashed onto its side in a blur of writhing fury,
gnashing, roaring, and spraying blood and black mud in all directions.

Jamie was up, mud-streaked and bellowing. He’d got hold of another
fence-pole, with which he took a mighty swing at the rising pig, the wood
meeting its head with a crack like a well-hit baseball just as the animal
achieved its feet. The boar, mildly stunned, gave a grunt and sat down.

A shrill cry from behind made Roger whirl on his haunches. Jemmy, his
grandfather’s dirk held over his head with both hands and wobbling
precariously, was staggering toward the boar, his face beet-red with
ferocious intent.

“Jem!” he shouted. “Get back!”

The boar grunted loudly behind him, and Jamie shouted something.
Roger had no attention to spare; he lunged toward his son, but caught a
flicker of movement from the wood beyond Jemmy that made him glance
up. A streak of gray, low to the ground and moving so fast that he had no
more than an impression of its nature.

That was enough.

“Wolves!” he shouted to Jamie, and with a feeling that wolves on top of
pigs was patently unfair, reached Jemmy, grabbed the knife, and threw
himself on top of the boy.

He pressed himself to the ground, feeling Jemmy squirm frantically
under him, and waited, feeling strangely calm. Would it be tusk or tooth?
he wondered.

“It’s all right, Jem. Be still. It’s all right, Daddy’s got you.” His forehead
was pressed against the earth, Jem’s head tucked in the hollow of his
shoulder. He had one arm sheltering the little boy, the knife gripped in his
other hand. He hunched his shoulders, feeling the back of his neck bare
and vulnerable, but couldn’t move to protect it.

He could hear the wolf now, howling and yipping to its companions.
The boar was making an ungodly noise, a sort of long, continuous scream,
and Jamie, too short of breath to go on shouting, seemed to be calling it
names in brief, incoherent bursts of Gaelic.

There was an odd whirr overhead and a peculiar, hollow-sounding
thump!, succeeded by sudden and utter silence.

Startled, Roger raised his head a few inches, and saw the pig standing a
few feet before him, its jaw hanging open in what looked like sheer
astonishment. Jamie was standing behind it, smeared from forehead to
knee with blood-streaked mud, and wearing an identical expression.

Then the boar’s front legs gave way and it fell to its knees. It wobbled,
eyes glazing, and collapsed onto its side, the shaft of an arrow poking up,
looking frail and inconsequential by comparison to the animal’s bulk.

Jemmy was squirming and crying underneath him. He sat up slowly,
and gathered the little boy up into his arms. He noticed, remotely, that his
hands were shaking, but he felt curiously blank. The torn skin on his palms
stung, and his knee was throbbing. Patting Jemmy’s back in automatic
comfort, he turned his head toward the wood and saw the Indian standing
at the edge of the trees, bow in hand.

It occurred to him, dimly, to look for the wolf. It was nosing at the pig’s
carcass, no more than a few feet from Jamie, but his father-in-law was
paying it no mind at all. He too was staring at the Indian.

“Ian,” he said softly, and a look of incredulous joy blossomed slowly
through the smears of mud, grass, and blood. “Oh, Christ. It’s Ian.”

<snip>

Jamie was waiting in the hall. The moment I appeared, he grabbed me
by the arm and hustled me out of the front door.

“What—” I began, bewildered. Then I saw the tall Indian sitting on the
edge of the stoop.

“What—” I said again, and then he stood up, turned, and smiled at me.

“Ian!” I shrieked, and flung myself into his arms.

He was thin and hard as a piece of sun-dried rawhide, and his clothes
smelled of wood-damp and earth, with a faint echo of the smoke and bodysmells
of a long-house. I stood back, wiping my eyes, to look at him, and a
cold nose nudged my hand, making me utter another small shriek.

“You!” I said to Rollo. “I thought I’d never see you again!” Overcome
with emotion, I rubbed his ears madly. He uttered a short bark and dropped
to his forepaws, wagging equally madly.

“Dog! Dog-dog! Here, dog!” Jemmy burst from the door of his own
cabin, running as fast as his short legs would carry him, wet hair standing
on end and face beaming. Rollo shot toward him, hitting him amidships
and bowling him over in a flurry of squeals.

I had at first feared that Rollo—who was, after all, half-wolf—saw
Jemmy as prey, but it was immediately apparent that the two were merely
engaged in mutually ecstatic play. Brianna’s maternal sonar had picked up
the squealing, though, and she came rushing to the door.

“What—” she began, eyes going to the melee taking place on the grass.
Then Ian stepped forward, took her in his arms, and kissed her. Her shriek
in turn brought the quilting circle boiling out onto the porch, in an eruption
of questions, exclamations, and small subsidiary shrieks in
acknowledgment of the general excitement.

In the midst of the resulting pandemonium, I suddenly noticed that
Roger, who had appeared from somewhere, was sporting a fresh raw graze
across his forehead, a black eye, and a clean shirt. I glanced at Jamie, who
was standing next to me watching the goings-on, his face wreathed in a
permanent grin. His shirt, by contrast, was not only filthy but ripped down
the front, and with an enormous rent in one sleeve. There were huge
smears of mud and dried blood on the linen, too, though I didn’t see any
fresh blood showing. Given Jemmy’s wet hair and clean shirt—not that it
was, anymore—this was all highly suspicious.

“What on earth have you lot been doing?” I demanded.

He shook his head, still grinning.

“It doesna signify, Sassenach. Though I have got a fresh hog for ye to
butcher—when ye’ve the time.”

I pushed back a lock of hair in exasperation.

“Is this the local equivalent of killing the fatted calf in honor of the
prodigal’s return?” I asked, nodding at Ian, who was by now completely
submerged in a tide of women. Lizzie, I saw, was clinging to one of his
arms, her pale face absolutely ablaze with excitement. I felt a slight qualm,
seeing it, but pushed it away for the moment.

“Has Ian brought friends? Or—his family, perhaps?” He had said his
wife was expecting, and that was nearly two years back. The child—if all
had gone well—must be nearly old enough to walk.

Jamie’s smile dimmed a little at that.

“No,” he said. “He’s alone. Save for the dog, of course,” he added, with
a nod at Rollo, who was lying on his back, paws in the air, squirming
happily under Jemmy’s onslaught.

“Oh. Well.” I smoothed down my hair and re-tied the ribbon, beginning
to think what ought to be done regarding the quilters, the fresh hog, and
some sort of celebratory supper—though I supposed Mrs. Bug would deal
with that.

“How long is he staying, did he say?”

Jamie took a deep breath, putting a hand on my back.

“For good,” he said, and his voice was full of joy—but with an odd
tinge of sadness that made me look up at him in puzzlement. “He’s come
home.”

[broughps]

So what are your five scenes from The Fiery Cross?

[AJ01]

1. Jamies “confession” at the Gathering, before the children are baptized
2. Roger scolding Jocasta when she accused him of being after Bree’s fortune
3. Ian’s return
4. After the Beardsley baby is born and Jamie asks Claire if she wants to keep it. Very sweet.
5. Snakebite scene

[broughps]

ABOSAA

1. Jamie explaining about why he's so excited to see Claire whenever he comes back from visiting the Cherokee.

HOT BUTTERED TOAST, cider, and conversation had
made me feel momentarily better. I found myself so tired,
though, that I could barely drag myself up the stairs, and
was obliged to sit on the bed, swaying blearily, in hopes
of getting up the strength to take off my clothes. It was a
few moments before I noticed that Jamie was hovering in
the doorway.

“Erm . . . ?” I said vaguely.

“I didna ken, did ye want me to stay with ye tonight?”
he asked diffidently. “If ye’d rest better alone, I could
take Joseph’s bed. Or if ye’d like, I could sleep beside ye,
on the floor.”

“Oh,” I said blankly, trying to weigh these alternatives.
“No. Stay. Sleep with me, I mean.” From the bottom of a
well of fatigue, I summoned something like a smile. “You
can warm the bed, at least.”

A most peculiar expression flitted across his face at
that, and I blinked, not sure I’d seen it. I had, though; his
face was caught between embarrassment and dismayed
amusement—with somewhere behind all that the sort of
look he might have worn if going to the stake: heroically
resigned.

“What on earth have you been doing?” I asked,
sufficiently surprised as to be shaken out of my torpor.

Embarrassment was getting the upper hand; the tips of
his ears were going red, and a flush was visible in his
cheeks, even by the dim light of the taper I’d set on the
table.

“I wasna going to tell ye,” he muttered, avoiding my
gaze. “I swore wee Ian and Roger Mac to silence.”

“Oh, they’ve been silent as the grave,” I assured him.

Though this statement did perhaps explain the occasional
odd look on Roger’s face, of late. “What’s been going
on?”

He sighed, scraping the edge of his boot across the
floor.

“Aye, well. It’s Tsisqua, d’ye see? He meant it as
hospitality, the first time, but then when Ian told him . . .
well, it wasna the best thing to have said, under the
circumstances, only . . . And then the next time we came,
and there they were again, only a different pair, and when
I tried to make them leave, they said Bird said to say that
it was honor to my vow, for what good was a vow that
cost nothing to keep? And I will be damned if I ken does
he mean that, or is he only thinking that either I’ll crack
and he’ll have the upper hand of me for good, or that I’ll
get him the guns he wants to put an end to it one way or
the other—or is he only having a joke at my expense?
Even Ian says he canna tell which it is, and if he—”

“Jamie,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

He stole a quick glance at me, then looked away again.
“Ah . . . naked women,” he blurted, and went red as a
piece of new flannel.

I stared at him for a moment. My ears still buzzed
slightly, but there wasn’t anything wrong with my
hearing. I pointed a finger at him—carefully, because all
my fingers were swollen and bruised.

“You,” I said, in measured tones, “come here right
now. Sit down right there”—I pointed at the bed beside
me—“and tell me in words of one syllable exactly what
you’ve been doing.”

He did, with the result that five minutes later I was
lying flat on the bed, wheezing with laughter, moaning
with the pain to my cracked ribs, and with helpless tears
running down my temples and into my ears.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” I gasped. “I can’t stand
it, I really can’t. Help me sit up.” I extended a hand,
yelped with pain as his fingers closed on my lacerated
wrist, but got upright at last, bent over with a pillow
clutched to my middle, and clutched it tighter each time a
gust of recurrent laughter struck me.

“I’m glad ye think it’s sae funny, Sassenach,” Jamie
said very dryly. He’d recovered himself to some extent,
though his face was still flushed. “Ye’re sure ye’re no
hysterical?”

“No, not at all.” I sniffed, dabbing at my eyes with a
damp linen hankie, then snorted with uncontainable mirth.
“Oh! Ow, God, that hurts.”

Sighing, he poured a cup of water from the flask on the
bedside table, and held it for me to drink. It was cool, but
flat and rather stale; I thought perhaps it had been
standing since before . . .

“All right,” I said, waving the cup away and dabbing
moisture very carefully from my lips. “I’m fine.” I
breathed shallowly, feeling my heart begin to slow down.
“Well. So. At least now I know why you’ve been coming
back from the Cherokee villages in such a state of—of—”
I felt an unhinged giggle rising, and bent over, moaning as
I stifled it. “Oh, Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. And here I
thought it was thoughts of me, driving you mad with
lust.”

He snorted then himself, though mildly. He put down
the cup, rose, and turned back the coverlet. Then he
looked at me, and his eyes were clear, unguarded.

“Claire,” he said, quite gently, “it was you. It’s always
been you, and it always will be. Get into bed, and put the
candle out. As soon as I’ve fastened the shutters, smoored
the hearth, and barred the door, I’ll come and keep ye
warm.”

[Krish728]

My five scenes from The Fiery Cross:

1) Jamie's "confession" scene. Would love to see that on-screen.

2) Jamie gives flowers to Claire.

3) Jenny's letter to Jamie. One of my top favorites in the whole series. 

4) Snake bite.

5) Young Ian's return.

[broughps]

ABOSAA

1. Jamie explaining about why he's so excited to see Claire whenever he comes back from visiting the Cherokee.

2. Jamie helping Brianna move a rock in the creek/stream and Jemmy "learning" to swim - I love the sweetness of Jemmy kissing Jamie's back and he and Germaine wanting to protect Jamie by killing the rest of the English soldiers.

BRIANNA DROVE THE SHARP end of the spade into
the muddy bank and pulled out a chunk of clay the color
of chocolate fudge. She could have done without the
reminder of food, she thought, flinging it aside into the
current with a grunt. She hitched up her soggy shift and
wiped a forearm across her brow. She hadn’t eaten since
mid-morning, and it was nearly teatime. Not that she
meant to stop until supper. Roger was up the mountain,
helping Amy McCallum rebuild her chimney stack, and
the little boys had gone up to the Big House to be fed
bread and butter and honey and generally spoiled by Mrs.
Bug. She’d wait to eat; there was too much to do here.

“D’ye need help, lass?”

She squinted, shading her eyes against the sun. Her
father was standing on the bank above, viewing her
efforts with what looked like amusement.

“Do I look like I need help?” she asked irritably,
swiping the back of a mud-streaked hand across her jaw.

“Ye do, aye.”

He’d been fishing; barefoot and wet to mid-thigh. He
laid his rod against a tree and swung the creel from his
shoulder, woven reeds creaking with the weight of the
catch. Then he grasped a sapling for balance, and started
to edge down the slippery bank, bare toes squelching in
the mud.

“Wait—take your shirt off!” She realized her mistake
an instant too late. A startled look flitted across his face,
only for a moment, and then was gone.

“I mean . . . the mud . . .” she said, knowing it was too
late. “The washing.”

“Oh, aye, to be sure.” Without hesitation, he pulled the
shirt over his head and turned his back to her, hunting for
a convenient branch from which to hang it.

His scars were not really shocking. She’d glimpsed
them before, imagined them many times, and the reality
was much less vivid. The scars were old, a faint silvered
net, moving easily over the shadows of his ribs as he
reached upward. He moved naturally. Only the tension in
his shoulders suggested otherwise.

Her hand closed involuntarily, feeling for an absent
pencil, feeling the stroke of the line that would capture
that tiny sense of unease, the jarring note that would draw
the observer closer, closer still, wondering what it was
about this scene of pastoral grace. . . .

Thou shalt not uncover thy father’s nakedness, she
thought, and spread her hand flat, pressing it hard against
her thigh. But he had turned back and was coming down
the bank, eyes on the tangled rushes and protruding stones
underfoot.

He slid the last two feet and arrived beside her with a
splash, arms flailing to keep his balance. She laughed, as
he’d intended, and he smiled. She’d thought for an instant
to speak of it, make some apology—but he would not
meet her eyes.

“So, then, move it, or go round?” His attention focused
on the boulder embedded in the bank, he leaned his
weight against it and shoved experimentally.

“Can we move it, do you think?” She waded up beside
him, retucking the hem of her shift, which she had pulled
between her legs and fastened with a belt. “Going round
would mean digging another ten feet of ditch.”

“That much?” He glanced at her in surprise.

“Yes. I want to cut a notch here, to cut through to that
bend—then I can put a small water-wheel here and get a
good fall.” She leaned past him, pointing downstream.
“The next-best place would be down there—see where the
banks rise?—but this is better.”

“Aye, all right. Wait a bit, then.” He made his way
back to the bank, scrambled up, and disappeared into the
wood, from whence he returned with several stout lengths
of fresh oak sapling, still sporting the remnants of their
glossy leaves.

“We dinna need to get it out of the creekbed, aye?” he
asked. “Only move it a few feet, so ye can cut through the
bank beyond it?”

“That’s it.” Rivulets of sweat, trapped by her thick
eyebrows, ran tickling down the sides of her face. She’d
been digging for the best part of an hour; her arms ached
from heaving shovelsful of heavy mud, and her hands
were blistered. With a sense of profound gratitude, she
surrendered the spade and stepped back in the creek,
stooping to splash cold water on her scratched arms and
flushed face.

“Heavy work,” her father observed, grunting a little as
he briskly finished undermining the boulder. “Could ye
not have asked Roger Mac to do it?”

“He’s busy,” she said, perceiving the shortness of her
tone, but not inclined to disguise it.

Her father darted a sharp glance at her, but said no
more, merely busying himself with the proper placement
of his oak staves. Attracted like iron filings to the
magnetism of their grandfather’s presence, Jemmy and
Germain appeared like magic, loudly wanting to help.

She’d asked them to help, and they’d helped—for a few
minutes, before being drawn away by the glimpse of a
porcupine high up in the trees. With Jamie in charge, of
course, they leaped to the task, madly scooping dirt from
the bank with flat bits of wood, giggling, pushing, getting
in the way, and stuffing handsful of mud down the back
of each other’s breeches.

Jamie being Jamie, he ignored the nuisance, merely
directing their efforts and finally ordering them out of the
creek, so as not to be crushed.

“All right, lass,” he said, turning to her. “Take a grip
there.” The boulder had been loosened from the confining
clay, and now protruded from the bank, oak staves thrust
into the mud beneath, sticking up on either side, and
another behind.

She seized the one he indicated, while he took the other
two.

“On the count of three . . . one . . . two . . . heave!”

Jem and Germain, perched above, chimed in, chanting
“One . . . two . . . heave!” like a small Greek chorus.
There was a splinter in her thumb and the wood rasped
against the waterlogged creases of her skin, but she felt
suddenly like laughing.

“One . . . two . . . hea—” With a sudden shift, a swirl of
mud, and a cascade of loose dirt from the bank above, the
boulder gave way, falling into the stream with a splash
that soaked them both to the chest and made both little
boys shriek with joy.

Jamie was grinning ear-to-ear and so was she, wet shift
and muddy children notwithstanding. The boulder now
lay near the opposite bank of the stream, and—just as she
had calculated—the diverted current was already eating
into the newly created hollow in the near bank, a strong
eddy eating away the fine-grained clay in streams and
spirals.

“See that?” She nodded at it, dabbing her mudspattered
face on the shoulder of her shift. “I don’t know
how far it will erode, but if I let it go for a day or two,
there won’t be much digging left to do.”

“Ye kent that would happen?” Her father glanced at
her, face alight, and laughed. “Why, ye clever, bonnie
wee thing!”

The glow of recognized achievement did quite a bit to
dampen her resentment of Roger’s absence. The presence
of a bottle of cider in Jamie’s creel, keeping cold amongst
the dead trout, did a lot more. They sat companionably on
the bank, passing the bottle back and forth, admiring the
industry of the new eddy pool at work.

“This looks like good clay,” she observed, leaning
forward to scoop a little of the wet stuff out of the
crumbling bank. She squeezed it in her hand, letting
grayish water run down her arm, and opened her hand to
show him how it kept its shape, showing clearly the prints
of her fingers.

“Good for your kiln?” he asked, peering dutifully at it.

“Worth a try.” She had made several less-thansuccessful
experiments with the kiln so far, producing a
succession of malformed plates and bowls, most of which
had either exploded in the kiln or shattered immediately
upon removal. One or two survivals, deformed and
scorched round the edges, had been pressed into dubious
service, but it was precious little reward for the effort of
stoking the kiln and minding it for days.

What she needed was advice from someone who knew
about kilns and making earthenware. But with the strained
relations now existent between the Ridge and Salem, she
couldn’t seek it. It had been awkward enough, her
speaking directly to Brother Mordecai about his ceramic
processes—a Popish woman, and speaking to a man she
wasn’t married to, the scandal!

“Damn wee Manfred,” her father agreed, hearing her
complaint. He’d heard it before, but didn’t mention it. He
hesitated. “Would it maybe help was I to go and ask? A
few o’ the Brethren will still speak to me, and it might be
that they’d let me talk wi’ Mordecai. If ye were to tell me
what it is ye need to know . . . ? Ye could maybe write it
down.”

“Oh, Da, I love you!” Grateful, she leaned to kiss him,
and he laughed, clearly gratified to be doing her a service.
Elated, she took another drink of cider, and rosy visions
of hardened clay pipes began to dance in her brain. She
had a wooden cistern already built, with a lot of complaint
and obstruction from Ronnie Sinclair. She needed help to
heave that into place. Then, if she could get only twenty
feet of reliable pipe . . .

“Mama, come look!” Jem’s impatient voice cut through
the fog of calculation. With a mental sigh, she made a
hasty note of where she had been, and pushed the process
carefully into a corner of her mind, where it would
perhaps helpfully ferment.

She handed the bottle back to her father, and made her
way down the bank to where the boys squatted, expecting
to be shown frog spawn, a drowned skunk, or some other
wonder of nature appealing to small boys.

“What is it?” she called.

“Look, look!” Jemmy spotted her and popped upright,
pointing to the rock at his feet.

<snip>

“They’re finger bones, lass,” he said, lowering his
voice as he glanced at Jemmy—who had lost interest in
the fire and was now sliding down the muddy bank, to the
further detriment of his breeches. “Dinna touch them,” he
added—unnecessarily, as she had drawn back her hand in
instant revulsion.

<snip>

“Where could they have come from?” she asked, also
low-voiced—though Jemmy and Germain had begun
pelting each other with mudballs, and wouldn’t have
noticed if she’d shouted.

<snip>

“Mama!” The patter of bare feet on the rock behind her
was succeeded by a tug at her sleeve. “Mama, we’re
hungry!”

“Of course you are,” she said, rising to meet the
demand, but still gazing abstractedly at the charred
remnants. “You haven’t eaten in nearly an hour. What did
you—” Her gaze drifted slowly from the fire to her son,
then snapped abruptly, focusing on the two little boys,
who stood grinning at her, covered from head to foot in
mud.

“Look at you!” she said, dismay tempered by
resignation. “How could you possibly get that filthy?”

“Oh, it’s easy, lass,” her father assured her, grinning as
he rose to his feet. “Easy cured, too, though.” He bent,
and seizing Germain by the back of shirt and seat of
breeks, heaved him neatly off the rock and into the pool
below.

“Me, too, me, too! Me, too, Grandda!” Jemmy was
dancing up and down in excitement, spattering clods of
mud in all direction.

“Oh, aye. You, too.” Jamie bent and grabbed Jem
round the waist, launching him high into the air in a
flutter of shirt before Brianna could cry out.

“He can’t swim!”

This protest coincided with a huge splash, as Jem hit
the water and promptly sank like a rock. She was striding
toward the edge, prepared to dive in after him, when her
father put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“Wait a bit,” he said. “How will ye ken whether he
swims or not, if ye dinna let him try?”

Germain was already arrowing his way toward shore,
his sleek blond head dark with water. Jemmy popped up
behind him, though, splashing and spluttering, and
Germain dived, turned like an otter, and came up
alongside.

“Kick!” he called to Jemmy, churning up a huge spray
in illustration. “Go on your back!”

Jemmy ceased flailing, went on his back, and kicked
madly. His hair was plastered over his face and the spray
of his efforts must have obscured any remnants of vision
—but he went on valiantly kicking, to encouraging
whoops from Jamie and Germain.

The pool was no more than ten feet across, and he
reached the shallows on the opposite bank within seconds,
beaching among the rocks by virtue of crashing headfirst
into one. He stopped, thrashing feebly in the shallows,
then bounced to his feet, showering water, and shoved the
wet hair out of his face. He looked amazed.

“I can swim!” he shouted. “Mama, I can swim!”

“That’s wonderful!” she called, torn between sharing
his ecstatic pride, the urge to rush home and tell Roger
about it—and dire visions of Jemmy now leaping
heedlessly into bottomless ponds and rock-jagged rapids,
under the reckless delusion that he could indeed swim.
But he’d gotten his feet wet, in no uncertain terms; there
was no going back.

“Come here!” She bent toward him, clapping her
hands. “Can you swim back to me? Come on, come
here!”

He looked blankly at her for an instant, then around
him at the rippling water of the pool. The blaze of
excitement in his face died.

“I forget,” he said, and his mouth curled down, fat with
sudden woe. “I forget how!”

“Fall down and kick!” Germain bellowed helpfully,
from his perch on the rock. “You can do it, cousin!”

Jemmy took one or two blundering steps into the water,
but stopped, lip trembling, terror and confusion starting to
overwhelm him.

“Stay there, a chuisle! I’m coming!” Jamie called, and
dove cleanly into the pool, a long pale streak beneath the
water, bubbles streaming from hair and breeks. He
popped up in front of Jemmy in an explosion of breath
and shook his head, flinging strands of wet red hair out of
his face.

“Come along then, man,” he said, scooting round on his
knees in the shallows, so that his back was to Jemmy. He
looked back, patting his own shoulder. “Take hold of me
here, aye? We’ll swim back together.”

And they did, kicking and splashing in ungainly dog
paddle, Jemmy’s shrieks of excitement echoed by
Germain, who had leaped into the water to paddle
alongside.

Hauled out onto the rock, the three of them lay
puddled, gasping and laughing at her feet, water spreading
in pools around them.

“Well, you are cleaner,” she said judiciously, moving
her foot away from a spreading streamlet. “I’ll admit that
much.”

“Of course we are.” Jamie sat up, wringing out the long
tail of his hair. “It occurs to me, lass, that there’s maybe a
better way to do what ye want.”

“What I w—oh. You mean the water?”

“Aye, that.” He sniffed, and rubbed the back of his
hand under his nose. “I’ll show ye, if ye come up to the
house after supper.”

“What’s that, Grandda?” Jemmy had got to his feet,
wet hair standing up in red spikes, and was looking
curiously at Jamie’s back. He put out a tentative finger
and traced one of the long, curving scars.

“What? Oh . . . that.” Jamie’s face went quite blank for
a moment. “It’s . . . ah . . .”

“Some bad people hurt Grandda once,” she interrupted
firmly, bending down to pick Jemmy up. “But that was a
long time ago. He’s all right now. You weigh a ton!”

“Papa says Grandpère is perhaps a silkie,” Germain
remarked, viewing Jamie’s back with interest. “Like his
papa before him. Did the bad people find you in your
silkie skin, Grandpère, and try to cut it from you? He
would then of course become a man again,” he explained
matter-of-factly, looking up at Jemmy, “and could kill
them with his sword.”

Jamie was staring at Germain. He blinked, and wiped
his nose again.

“Oh,” he said. “Aye. Um. Aye, I expect that was the
way of it. If your papa says so.”

“What’s a silkie?” asked Jemmy, bewildered but
interested. He wiggled in Brianna’s arms, wanting to be
put down, and she lowered him back to the rock.

“I don’t know,” Germain admitted. “But they have fur.
What’s a silkie, Grandpère?”

Jamie closed his eyes against the sinking sun, and
rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head a little.
Brianna thought he was smiling, but couldn’t tell for sure.

“Ah, well,” he said, sitting up straighter, opening his
eyes, and throwing back his wet hair. “A silkie is a
creature who is a man upon the land, but becomes a seal
within the sea. And a seal,” he added, cutting off Jemmy,
who had been opening his mouth to ask, “is a great sleek
beastie that barks like a dog, is as big as an ox, and
beautiful as the black of night. They live in the sea, but
come out onto the rocks near the shore sometimes.”

“Have you seen them, Grandpère?” Germain asked,
eager.

“Oh, many a time,” Jamie assured him. “There are a
great many seals who live on the coasts of Scotland.”

“Scotland,” Jemmy echoed. His eyes were round.

“Ma mère says Scotland is a good place,” Germain
remarked. “She cries sometimes, when she talks of it. I
am not so sure I would like it, though.”

“Why not?” Brianna asked.

“It’s full of giants and water horses and . . . things,”
Germain replied, frowning. “I don’t want to meet any of
those. And parritch, Maman says, but we have parritch
here.”

“So we have. And I expect it’s time we were going
home to eat some.” Jamie got to his feet and stretched,
groaning in the pleasure of it. The late-afternoon sun
washed rock and water with a golden light, gleaming on
the boys’ cheeks and the bright hairs on her father’s arms.

Jemmy stretched and groaned, too, in worshipful
imitation, and Jamie laughed.

“Come on, wee fishie. D’ye want a ride home?” He
bent so that Jemmy could scramble onto his back, then
straightened up, settling the little boy’s weight, and put
out a hand to take Germain’s.

Jamie saw her attention turn momentarily back toward
the blackened smudge at the edge of the rock.

“Leave it, lass,” he said quietly. “It’s a charm of some
kind. Ye dinna want to touch it.”

Then he stepped off the rock and made for the trail,
Jemmy on his back and Germain clutched firmly by the
back of the neck, both boys giggling as they made their
way through the slippery mud of the path.

Brianna retrieved her spade and Jamie’s shirt from the
creekbank, and caught the boys up on the trail to the Big
House. A breeze had begun to breathe through the trees,
chilly in the damp cloth of her shift, but the heat of
walking was enough to keep her from being cold.
Germain was singing softly to himself, still hand-inhand
with his grandfather, his small blond head tilting
back and forth like a metronome.

Jemmy sighed in exhausted bliss, legs wrapped round
Jamie’s middle, arms about his neck, and leaned his sunreddened
cheek against the scarred back. Then he thought
of something, for he raised his head and kissed his
grandfather with a loud smacking noise, between the
shoulder blades.

Her father jerked, nearly dropping Jem, and made a
high-pitched noise that made her laugh.

“Is that make it better?” Jem inquired seriously, pulling
himself up and trying to look over Jamie’s shoulder into
his face.

“Oh. Aye, lad,” his grandfather assured him, face
twitching. “Much better.”

The gnats and midges were out in force now. She beat a
cloud of them away from her face, and slapped a
mosquito that lit on Germain’s neck.

“Ak!” he said, hunching his shoulders, but then
resumed singing “Alouette,” undisturbed.

Jemmy’s shirt was thin, worn linen, cut down from one
of Roger’s old ones. The cloth had dried to the shape of
his body, square-rumped and solid, the breadth of his
small, tender shoulders echoing the wide set of the older,
firmer ones he clung to. She glanced from the redheads to
Germain, walking reed-thin and graceful through shadows
and light, still singing, and thought how desperately
beautiful men were.

“Who were the bad people, Grandda?” Jemmy asked
drowsily, head nodding with the rhythm of Jamie’s steps.

“Sassunaich,” Jamie replied briefly. “English
soldiers.”

“English canaille,” Germain amplified, breaking off his
song. “They are the ones who cut off my papa’s hand,
too.”

“They were?” Jemmy’s head lifted in momentary
attention, then fell back between Jamie’s shoulder blades
with a thump that made his grandfather grunt. “Did you
kill them with your sword, Grandda?”

“Some of them.”

“I will kill the rest, when I am big,” Germain declared.
“If there are any left.”

“I suppose there might be.” Jamie hitched Jem’s weight
a little higher, letting go Germain’s hand in order to hold
Jemmy’s slackening legs tight to his body.

“Me, too,” Jemmy murmured, eyelids drooping. “I’ll
kill them, too.”

At the fork in the trail, Jamie surrendered her son to
her, sound asleep, and took back his shirt. He pulled it on,
brushing disheveled hair out of his face as his head came
through. He smiled at her, then leaned forward and kissed
her forehead, gently, putting one hand on Jemmy’s round,
red head where it lay against her shoulder.

“Dinna fash yourself, lass,” he said softly. “I’ll speak to
Mordecai. And your man. Take care of this one.”

[broughps]

ABOSAA

1. Jamie explaining about why he's so excited to see Claire whenever he comes back from visiting the Cherokee.

2. Jamie helping Brianna move a rock in the creek/stream and Jemmy "learning" to swim - I love the sweetness of Jemmy kissing Jamie's back and he and Germaine wanting to protect Jamie by killing the rest of the English soldiers. 

3. Roger's first sermon

HE’D CHOSEN “Love thy neighbor as thyself” as the
text for his first sermon. “An oldie but a goodie,” as he’d
told Brianna, causing her to fizz slightly. And having
heard at least a hundred variations on that theme, he was
reasonably sure of having sufficient material to go on for
the requisite thirty or forty minutes.

A standard church service was a great deal longer—
several readings of psalms, discussion of the lesson of the
day, intercessions for members of the congregation—but
his voice wouldn’t take that yet. He was going to have to
work up to the full-bore service, which could easily run
three hours. He’d arrange with Tom Christie, who was an
elder, to do the readings and the earliest parayers, to start
with. Then they’d see how things went.

Brianna was sitting modestly off to one side now,
watching him—not like Jackie Kennedy, thank God, but
with a hidden smile that warmed her eyes whenever he
met her gaze.

He’d brought notes, in case he should dry up or
inspiration fail, but found that he didn’t need them. He’d
had a moment’s breathlessness, when Tom Christie, who
had read the lesson, snapped shut his Bible and looked
significantly at him—but once launched, he felt quite at
home; it was a lot like lecturing at university, though God
knew the congregation was more attentive by far than his
university students usually were. They didn’t interrupt
with questions or argue with him, either—at least not
while he was talking.

He was intensely conscious for the first few moments
of his surroundings: the faint fug of bodies and last
night’s fried onions in the air, the scuffed boards of the
floor, scrubbed and smelling of lye soap, and the close
press of people, ranged on benches, but so many that they
crammed into every bit of standing space, as well. Within
a few minutes, though, he lost all sense of anything
beyond the faces in front of him.

Allan Christie hadn’t exaggerated; everyone had come.
It was nearly as crowded as it had been during his last
public appearance, presiding at old Mrs. Wilson’s
untimely resurrection.

He wondered how much that occasion had to do with
his present popularity. A few people were watching him
covertly, with a faint air of expectation, as though he
might turn water into wine for an encore, but for the most
part, they appeared satisfied with the preaching. His voice
was hoarse, but loud enough, thank God.

He believed in what he was saying; after the start he
found himself talking more easily, and without the need
of concentrating on his speech was able to glance from
one person to another, making it seem he spoke to each
one personally—meanwhile making fleeting observations
in the back of his mind.

Marsali and Fergus hadn’t come—no surprise there—
but Germain was present; he sat with Jem and Aidan
McCallum next to Brianna. All three boys had poked each
other excitedly and pointed at him when he began to
speak, but Brianna had quelled this behavior with some
muttered threat of sufficient force to reduce them to
simple squirming. Aidan’s mother sat on his other side,
looking at Roger with a sort of open adoration that made
him uneasy.

The Christies had the place of honor in the center of the
first bench: Malva Christie, demure in a lacy cap, her
brother sitting protectively on one side, her father on the
other, apparently unaware of the occasional looks shot her
way by some of the young men.

Rather to Roger’s surprise, Jamie and Claire had come,
as well, though they stood at the very back. His father-inlaw
was calmly impassive, but Claire’s face was an open
book; she clearly found the proceedings amusing.
“. . . and if we are truly considering the love of Christ
as it is . . .” It was instinct, honed by innumerable
lectures, that made him aware that something was amiss.
There was some slight disturbance in the far corner,
where several half-grown lads had congregated. A couple
of the numerous McAfee boys, and Jacky Lachlan, widely
known as a limb of Satan.

No more than a nudge, the glint of an eye, some sense
of subterranean excitement. But he sensed it, and kept
glancing back at that corner with a narrowed eye, in hopes
of keeping them subdued. And so happened to be looking
when the serpent slithered out between Mrs. Crombie’s
shoes. It was a largish king snake, brightly striped with
red, yellow, and black, and it seemed fairly calm, all
things considered.

“Now, ye may say, ‘Who’s my neighbor, then?’ And a
good question, coming to live in a place where half the
folk ye meet are strangers—and plenty of them more than
a bit strange, too.”

A titter of appreciation ran through the congregation at
that. The snake was casting about in a leisurely sort of
way, head raised and tongue flickering with interest as it
tested the air. It must be a tame snake; it wasn’t bothered
by the crush of people.

The reverse was not true; snakes were rare in Scotland,
and most of the immigrants were nervous of them.
Beyond the natural association with the devil, most folk
couldn’t or wouldn’t distinguish a poison snake from any
other, since the only Scottish snake, the adder, was
venomous. They’d have fits, Roger thought grimly, were
they to look down and see what was gliding silently along
the floorboards by their feet.

A strangled giggle, cut short, rose from the corner of
guilty parties, and several heads in the congregation
turned, uttering a censorious “Shoosh!” in unison.

“. . . when I was hungry, ye gave me to eat; when I was
thirsty, ye gave me to drink. And who d’ye ken here who
would ever turn away even . . . even a Sassenach, say,
who came to your door hungry?”

A ripple of amusement, and slightly scandalized
glances at Claire, who was rather pink, but with
suppressed laughter, he thought, not offense.

A quick glance down; the snake, having paused for a
rest, was on the move again, snooving its way gently
round the end of a bench. A sudden movement caught
Roger’s eye; Jamie had seen the snake, and jerked. Now
he was standing rigid, eyeing it as though it were a bomb.
Roger had been sending up brief prayers, in the
interstices of his sermon, suggesting that heavenly
benevolence might see fit to shoo the snake quietly out
the open door at the back. He intensified these prayers, at
the same time unobtrusively unbuttoning his coat to allow
for freer action.

If the damned thing came toward the front of the room
instead of the back, he’d have to dive forward and try to
catch it before it got out in full sight of everyone. That
would cause a disturbance, but nothing to what might
happen if . . .

“. . . now ye’ll have noticed what Jesus said, when He
spoke to the Samaritan woman at the well . . .”

The snake was still wrapped halfway round the bench
leg, making up its mind. It was no more than three feet
from his father-in-law. Jamie was watching it like a hawk,
and a visible gloss of sweat had appeared on his brow.
Roger was aware that his father-in-law had a fixed dislike
of snakes—and no wonder, given that a big rattler had
nearly killed him three years before.

Too far now for Roger to reach the thing; there were
three benches of bodies between him and the snake. Bree,
who could have dealt with it, was right away on the far
side of the room. No help for it, he decided, with an
inward sigh of resignation. He’d have to stop the
proceedings, and in a very calm voice, call upon someone
dependable—who? He cast hastily round, and spotted Ian
Murray, who was within reach, thank God, to grasp the
thing and take it out.

He was opening his mouth to do just this, in fact, when
the snake, bored with the scenery in its view, slid rapidly
round the bench and headed straight along the back row.
Roger’s eye was on the snake, so he was as surprised as
anyone—including the snake, no doubt—when Jamie
suddenly stooped and snatched it from the floor, whipping
the startled serpent under his plaid.

Jamie was a large man, and the stir of his movement
made several people look over their shoulders to see what
had happened. He shifted, coughed, and endeavored to
look passionately interested in Roger’s sermon. Seeing
that there was nothing to look at, everyone turned back,
settling themselves more comfortably.

“. . . Now, we come across the Samaritans again, do we
not, in the story of the Good Samaritan? Ye’ll most of ye
ken that one, but for the weans who may not have heard it
yet—” Roger smiled at Jem, Germain, and Aidan, who all
wriggled like worms and made small, ecstatic squeaks at
the thrill of being singled out.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Jamie,
standing frozen and pale as his best linen sark. Something
was moving about inside said sark, and the barest hint of
bright scales showed in his clenched hand—the snake was
evidently trying to escape up his arm, being restrained
from popping through the neck of the shirt only by
Jamie’s desperate grip on its tail.

Jamie was sweating badly; so was Roger. He saw
Brianna frown a little at him.

“. . . and so the Samaritan told the innkeeper to mind
the poor fellow, bind up his wounds, and feed him, and
he’d stop to settle the account on his way back from his
business. So . . .”

Roger saw Claire lean close to Jamie, whispering
something. His father-in-law shook his head. At a guess,
Claire had noticed the snake—she could scarcely fail to—
and was urging Jamie to go outside with it, but Jamie was
nobly refusing, not wanting to further disrupt the sermon,
as he couldn’t go out without pushing past a number of
other standees.

Roger paused to wipe his face with the large
handkerchief Brianna had provided for the purpose, and
under cover of this, saw Claire reach into the slit of her
skirt and draw out a large calico pocket.

She appeared to be arguing with Jamie in a whisper; he
was shaking his head, looking like the Spartan with the
fox at his vitals.

Then the snake’s head appeared suddenly under
Jamie’s chin, tongue flicking, and Jamie’s eyes went
wide. Claire stood instantly on tiptoe, seized it by the
neck, and whipping the astonished reptile out of her
husband’s shirt like a length of rope, crammed the
writhing ball headfirst into her pocket and jerked shut the
drawstring.

“Praise the Lord!” Roger blurted, to which the
congregation obligingly chorused “Amen!” though
looking a little puzzled at the interjection.

The man next to Claire, who had witnessed this rapid
sequence of events, stared at her bug-eyed. She stuffed
the pocket—now heaving with marked agitation—back
into her skirt, dropped her shawl over it, and giving the
gentleman beside her a “What are you looking at, mate?”
sort of stare, faced front and adopted a look of pious
concentration.

Roger made it somehow to the end, sufficiently
relieved at having the snake in custody that even leading
the final hymn—an interminable back-and-forth “line
hymn” in which he was obliged to chant each line, this
echoed by the congregation—didn’t disconcert him too
much, though he had almost no voice left and what there
was creaked like an unoiled hinge.

His shirt was clinging to him and the cool air outside
was a balm as he stood shaking hands, bowing, accepting
the kind words of his flock.

“A grand sermon, Mr. MacKenzie, grand!” Mrs.
Gwilty assured him. She nudged the wizened gentleman
who accompanied her, who might be either her husband
or her father-in-law. “Was it no the grand sermon, then,
Mr. Gwilty?”

“Mmphm,” said the wizened gentleman judiciously.
“No bad, no bad. Bit short, and ye left out the fine story
aboot the harlot, but nay doot ye’ll get the way of it in
time.”

“Nay doubt,” Roger said, nodding and smiling,
wondering, What harlot? “Thank ye for coming.”

“Oh, wouldna have missed it for the world,” the next
lady informed him. “Though the singing wasna quite what
one might have hoped for, was it?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Perhaps next time—”

“I never did care for Psalm 109, it’s that dreary. Next
time, perhaps ye’ll give us one o’ the mair sprightly ones,
aye?”

“Aye, I expect—”

“DaddyDaddyDaddy!” Jem cannoned into his legs,
clutching him affectionately round the thighs and nearly
knocking him over.

“Nice job,” said Brianna, looking amused. “What was
going on in the back of the room? You kept looking back
there, but I couldn’t see anything, and—”

“Fine sermon, sir, fine sermon!” The older Mr. Ogilvie
bowed to him, then walked off, his wife’s hand in his arm,
saying to her, “The puir lad canna carry a tune in his shoe,
but the preaching wasna sae bad, all things considered.”

Germain and Aidan joined Jemmy, all trying to hug
him at once, and he did his best to encompass them, smile
at everyone, and nod agreeably to suggestions that he
speak louder, preach in the Gaelic, refrain from Latin
(what Latin?) and Popish references, try to look more
sober, try to look happier, try not to twitch, and put in
more stories.

Jamie came out, and gravely shook his hand.

“Verra nice,” he said.

“Thanks.” Roger struggled to find words. “You—well.
Thanks,” he repeated.

“Greater love hath no man,” Claire observed, smiling
at him from behind Jamie’s elbow. The wind lifted her
shawl, and he could see the side of her skirt moving
oddly.

Jamie made a small amused sound.

“Mmphm. Ye might drop by, maybe, and have a word
wi’ Rab McAfee and Isaiah Lachlan—perhaps a short
sermon on the text, ‘He who loveth his son chasteneth him
betimes?’”

“McAfee and Lachlan. Aye, I’ll do that.” Or perhaps
he’d just get the McAfees and Jacky Lachlan alone and
see to the chastening himself.

He saw off the last of the congregation, took his leave
of Tom Christie and his family with thanks, and headed
for home and luncheon, his own family in tow. Normally,
there would be another service in the afternoon, but he
wasn’t up to that yet.

Old Mrs. Abernathy was a little way before them on the
path, being assisted by her friend, the slightly less-ancient
Mrs. Coinneach.

“A nice-looking lad,” Mrs. Abernathy was remarking,
her cracked old voice floating back on the crisp fall air.
“But nervous, och! Sweating rivers, did ye see?”

“Aye, well, shy, I suppose,” Mrs. Coinneach replied
comfortably. “I expect he’ll settle, though, in time.”

[broughps]

ABOSAA

1. Jamie explaining about why he's so excited to see Claire whenever he comes back from visiting the Cherokee.

2. Jamie helping Brianna move a rock in the creek/stream and Jemmy "learning" to swim - I love the sweetness of Jemmy kissing Jamie's back and he and Germaine wanting to protect Jamie by killing the rest of the English soldiers. 

3. Roger's first sermon

4. Claire after she's seen Tom Christie after she's been sick.

WE MADE IT BACK to the house, stopping frequently
for rest, and arrived panting, dripping with sweat, and
generally exhilarated by the adventure. No one had
missed me, but Mr. Christie insisted upon delivering me
inside, which meant that everyone observed my absence
ex post facto, and in the irrational way of people, at once
became very annoyed.

I was scolded by everyone in sight, including Young
Ian, frog-marched upstairs virtually by the scruff of the
neck, and thrust forcibly back into bed, where, I was
given to understand, I should be lucky to be given bread
and milk for my supper. The most annoying aspect of the
whole situation was Thomas Christie, standing at the foot
of the stairs with a mug of beer in his hand, watching as I
was led off, and wearing the only grin I had ever seen on
his hairy face.

“What in the name of God possessed ye, Sassenach?”

Jamie jerked back the quilt and gestured peremptorily at
the sheets.

“Well, I felt quite well, and—”

“Well! Ye’re the color of bad buttermilk, and trembling
so ye can scarcely—here, let me do that.” Making
snorting noises, he pushed my hands away from the laces
of my petticoats, and had them off me in a trice.

“Have ye lost your mind?” he demanded. “And to
sneak off like that without telling anyone, too! What if
ye’d fallen? What if ye got ill again?”

“If I’d told anyone, they wouldn’t have let me go out,”
I said mildly. “And I am a physician, you know. Surely I
can judge my own state of health.”

He gave me a look, strongly suggesting that he
wouldn’t trust me to judge a flower show, but merely
gave a louder than usual snort in reply.

He then picked me up bodily, carried me to the bed,
and placed me gently into it—but with enough
demonstration of restrained strength as to let me know
that he would have preferred to drop me from a height.
He then straightened up, giving me a baleful look.

“If ye didna look as though ye were about to faint,
Sassenach, I swear I would turn ye over and smack your
bum for ye.”

“You can’t,” I said, rather faintly. “I haven’t got one.” I
was in fact a little tired . . . well, to be honest, my heart
was beating like a kettledrum, my ears were ringing, and
if I didn’t lie down flat at once, I likely would faint. I did
lie down, and lay with my eyes closed, feeling the room
spin gently round me, like a merry-go-round, complete
with flashing lights and hurdy-gurdy music.

Through this confusion of sensations, I dimly sensed
hands on my legs, then a pleasant coolness on my heated
body. Then something warm and cloudlike enveloped my
head, and I flailed my hands about wildly, trying to get it
off before I smothered.

I emerged, blinking and panting, to discover that I was
naked. I glanced at my pallid, sagging, skeletal remains,
and snatched the sheet up over myself. Jamie was bending
to collect my discarded gown, petticoat, and jacket from
the floor, adding these to the shift he had folded over his
arm. He picked up my shoes and stockings and added
these to his bag.

“You,” he said, pointing a long accusatory finger at me,
“are going nowhere. You are not allowed to kill yourself,
do I make myself clear?”

“Oh, so that’s where Bree gets it,” I murmured, trying
to stop my head from swimming. I closed my eyes again.
“I seem to recall,” I said, “a certain abbey in France.
And a very stubborn young man in ill health. And his
friend Murtagh, who took his clothes in order to prevent
his getting up and wandering off before he was fit.”

Silence. I opened one eye. He was standing stock still,
the fading light from the window striking sparks in his
hair.

“Whereupon,” I said conversationally, “if memory
serves, you promptly climbed out a window and
decamped. Naked. In the middle of winter.”

The stiff fingers of his right hand tapped twice against
his leg.

“I was four-and-twenty,” he said at last, sounding gruff.
“I wasna meant to have any sense.”

“I wouldn’t argue with that for an instant,” I assured
him. I opened the other eye and fixed him with both. “But
you do know why I did it. I had to.”

He drew a very deep breath, sighed, and set down my
clothes. He came and sat down on the bed beside me,
making the wooden frame creak and groan beneath his
weight.

He picked up my hand, and held it as though it were
something precious and fragile. It was, too—or at least it
looked fragile, a delicate construct of transparent skin and
the shadow of the bones within it. He ran his thumb
gently down the back of my hand, tracing the bones from
phalange to ulna, and I felt an odd, small tingle of distant
memory; the vision of my own bones, glowing blue
through the skin, and Master Raymond’s hands, cupping
my inflamed and empty womb, saying to me through the
mists of fever, “Call him. Call the red man.”

“Jamie,” I said very softly. Sunlight flashed on the
metal of my silver wedding ring. He took hold of it
between thumb and forefinger, and slid the little metal
circlet gently up and down my finger, so loose that it
didn’t even catch on the bony knuckle.

“Be careful,” I said. “I don’t want to lose it.”

“Ye won’t.” He folded my fingers closed, his own hand
closing large and warm around mine.

He sat silent for a time, and we watched the bar of sun
creep slowly across the counterpane. Adso had moved
with it, to stay in its warmth, and the light tipped his fur
with a soft silver glow, the fine hairs that edged his ears
tiny and distinct.

“It’s a great comfort,” he said at last, “to see the sun
come up and go down. When I dwelt in the cave, when I
was in prison, it gave me hope, to see the light come and
go, and know that the world went about its business.”

He was looking out the window, toward the blue
distance where the sky darkened toward infinity. His
throat moved a little as he swallowed.

“It gives me the same feeling, Sassenach,” he said, “to
hear ye rustling about in your surgery, rattling things and
swearin’ to yourself.” He turned his head, then, to look at
me, and his eyes held the depths of the coming night.

“If ye were no longer there—or somewhere—” he said
very softly, “then the sun would no longer come up or go
down.” He lifted my hand and kissed it, very gently. He
laid it, closed around my ring, upon my chest, rose, and
left.

[Bunny]

*sigh*. *sniff*.

[broughps]

ABOSAA

1. Jamie explaining about why he's so excited to see Claire whenever he comes back from visiting the Cherokee.

2. Jamie helping Brianna move a rock in the creek/stream and Jemmy "learning" to swim - I love the sweetness of Jemmy kissing Jamie's back and he and Germaine wanting to protect Jamie by killing the rest of the English soldiers. 

3. Roger's first sermon

4. Claire after she's seen Tom Christie after she's been sick.

5. LJG and Jamie looking out at Willie and Bree

LORD JOHN STEPPED INTO HIS ROOM at the inn,
and was surprised—astonished, in fact—to discover that
he had a visitor.

“John.” Jamie Fraser turned from the window, and gave
him a small smile.

“Jamie.” He returned it, trying to control the sudden
sense of elation he felt. He had used Jamie Fraser’s
Christian name perhaps three times in the last twenty-five
years; the intimacy of it was exhilarating, but he mustn’t
let it show.

“Will I order us refreshment?” he asked politely. Jamie
had not moved from the window; he glanced out, then
back at John and shook his head, still smiling faintly.

“I thank ye, no. We are enemies, are we not?”

“We find ourselves regrettably upon opposing sides of
what I trust will be a short-lived conflict,” Lord John
corrected.

Fraser looked down at him, with an odd, regretful sort
of expression.

“Not short,” he said. “But regrettable, aye.”

“Indeed.” Lord John cleared his throat, and moved to
the window, careful not to brush against his visitor. He
looked out, and saw the likely reason for Fraser’s visit.

“Ah,” he said, seeing Brianna Fraser MacKenzie on the
wooden sidewalk below. “Oh!” he said, in a different
tone. For William Clarence Henry George Ransom, ninth
Earl of Ellesmere, had just come out of the inn and bowed
to her.

“Sweet Jesus,” he said, apprehension making his scalp
prickle. “Will she tell him?”

Fraser shook his head, his eyes on the two young
people below.

“She will not,” he said quietly. “She gave me her
word.”

Relief coursed through his veins like water.

“Thank you,” he said. Fraser shrugged slightly,
dismissing it. It was, after all, what he desired, as well—
or so Lord John assumed.

The two of them were talking together—William said
something and Brianna laughed, throwing back her hair.
Jamie watched in fascination. Dear God, they were alike!
The small tricks of expression, of posture, of gesture . . .
It must be apparent to the most casual observer. In fact, he
saw a couple pass them and the woman smile, pleased at
the sight of the handsome matched pair.

“She will not tell him,” Lord John repeated, somewhat
dismayed by the sight. “But she displays herself to him.
Will he not—but no. I don’t suppose he will.”

“I hope not,” Jamie said, eyes still fixed on them. “But
if he does—he still will not know. And she insisted she
must see him once more—that was the price of her
silence.”

John nodded, silent. Brianna’s husband was coming
now, their little boy held by one hand, his hair as vivid as
his mother’s in the bright summer sun. He held a baby in
the crook of his arm—Brianna took it from him, turning
back the blanket to display the child to William, who
inspected it with every indication of politeness.

He realized suddenly that every fragment of Fraser’s
being was focused on the scene outside. Of course; he had
not seen Willie since the boy was twelve. And to see the
two together—his daughter and the son he could never
speak to or acknowledge. He would have touched Fraser,
put a hand on his arm in sympathy, but knowing the
probable effect of his touch, forbore to do it.

“I have come,” Fraser said suddenly, “to ask a favor of
you.”

“I am your servant, sir,” Lord John said, terribly
pleased, but taking refuge in formality.

“Not for myself,” Fraser said with a glance at him. “For
Brianna.”

“My pleasure will be the greater,” John assured him. “I
am exceeding fond of your daughter, her temperamental
resemblances to her sire notwithstanding.”

The corner of Fraser’s mouth lifted, and he returned his
gaze to the scene below.

“Indeed,” he said. “Well, then. I canna tell ye why I
require this—but I need a jewel.”

“A jewel?” Lord John’s voice sounded blank, even to
his own ears. “What sort of jewel?”

“Any sort.” Fraser shrugged, impatient. “It doesna
matter—so long as it should be some precious gem. I
once gave ye such a stone—” His mouth twitched at that;
he had handed over the stone, a sapphire, under duress, as
a prisoner of the Crown. “Though I dinna suppose ye’d
have that by ye, still.”

In point of fact, he did. That particular sapphire had
traveled with him for the last twenty-five years, and was
at this moment in the pocket of his waistcoat.

He glanced at his left hand, which bore a broad gold
band, set with a brilliant, faceted sapphire. Hector’s ring.
Given to him by his first lover at the age of sixteen.
Hector had died at Culloden—the day after John had met
James Fraser, in the dark of a Scottish mountain pass.

Without hesitation, but with some difficulty—the ring
had been worn a long time, and had sunk a little way into
the flesh of his finger—he twisted it off and dropped it
into Jamie’s hand.

Fraser’s brows rose in astonishment.

“This? Are ye sur—”

“Take it.” He reached out then, and closed Jamie’s
fingers around it with his own. The contact was fleeting,
but his hand tingled, and he closed his own fist, hoping to
keep the sensation.

“Thank you,” Jamie said again, quietly.

“It is—my very great pleasure.” The party below was
breaking up—Brianna was taking her leave, the baby held
in her arms, her husband and son already halfway down
the walk. William bowed, hat off, the shape of his
chestnut head so perfectly echoing that of the red—

Suddenly, Lord John could not bear to see them part.
He wished to keep that, too—the sight of them together.
He closed his eyes and stood, hands on the sill, feeling the
movement of the breeze past his face. Something touched
his shoulder, very briefly, and he felt a sense of
movement in the air beside him.

When he opened his eyes again, all three of them were
gone.

[broughps]

ECHO

1. The MacKenzies and William talking before the MacKenzies go forward in time

THE PIRATE’S HEAD had disappeared. William heard the
speculations from a group of idlers on the quay nearby, wondering whether
it would be seen again.

“Na, him be gone for good,” said a ragged man of mixed blood, shaking
his head. “De ally-gator don’ take him, de water will.”

A backwoodsman shifted his tobacco and spat into the water in
disagreement.

“No, he’s good for another day—two, maybe. Them gristly bits what
holds the head on, they dry out in the sun. Tighten up like iron. Seen it
many a time with deer carcasses.”

William saw Mrs. MacKenzie glance quickly at the harbor, then away.
She looked pale, he thought, and maneuvered himself slightly so as to
block her view of the men and the brown flood of high tide, though since it
was high, the corpse tied to its stake was naturally not visible. The stake
was, though—a stark reminder of the price of crime. The pirate had been
staked to drown on the mudflats several days before, the persistence of his
decaying corpse an ongoing topic of public conversation.

“Jem!” Mr. MacKenzie called sharply, and lunged past William in
pursuit of his son. The little boy, red-haired like his mother, had wandered
away to listen to the men’s talk, and was now leaning perilously out over
the water, clinging to a bollard in an attempt to see the dead pirate.

Mr. MacKenzie snatched the boy by the collar, pulled him in, and swept
him up in his arms, though the boy struggled, craning back toward the
swampish harbor.

“I want to see the wallygator eat the pirate, Daddy!”

The idlers laughed, and even MacKenzie smiled a little, though the
smile disappeared when he glanced at his wife. He was at her side in an
instant, one hand beneath her elbow.

“I think we must be going,” MacKenzie said, shifting his son’s weight
in order better to support his wife, whose distress was apparent.

“Lieutenant Ransom—Lord Ellesmere, I mean”—he corrected with an
apologetic smile at William—“will have other engagements, I’m sure.”

This was true; William was engaged to meet his father for supper. Still,
his father had arranged to meet him at the tavern just across the quay; there
was no risk of missing him. William said as much, and urged them to stay,
for he was enjoying their company—Mrs. MacKenzie’s, particularly—but
she smiled regretfully, though her color was better, and patted the capped
head of the baby in her arms.

“No, we do have to be going.” She glanced at her son, still struggling to
get down, and William saw her eyes flicker toward the harbor and the stark
pole that stood above the flood. She resolutely looked away, fixing her
eyes upon William’s face instead. “The baby’s waking up; she’ll be
wanting food. It was so lovely to meet you, though. I wish we might talk
longer.” She said this with the greatest sincerity, and touched his arm
lightly, giving him a pleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach.

The idlers were now placing wagers on the reappearance of the drowned
pirate, though by the looks of things, none of them had two groats to rub
together.

“Two to one he’s still there when the tide goes out.”

“Five to one the body’s still there, but the head’s gone. I don’t care what
you say about the gristly bits, Lem, that there head was just a-hangin’ by a
thread when this last tide come in. Next un’ll take it, sure.”

Hoping to drown this conversation out, William embarked on an
elaborate farewell, going so far as to kiss Mrs. MacKenzie’s hand with his
best court manner—and, seized by inspiration, kissed the baby girl’s hand,
too, making them all laugh. Mr. MacKenzie gave him rather an odd look,
but didn’t seem offended, and shook his hand in a most republican manner
—playing out the joke by setting down his son and making the little boy
shake hands as well.

“Have you kilt anybody?” the boy inquired with interest, looking at
William’s dress sword.

“No, not yet,” William replied, smiling.

“My grandsire’s kilt two dozen men!”

“Jemmy!” Both parents spoke at once, and the little boy’s shoulders
went up around his ears.

“Well, he has!”

“I’m sure he is a bold and bloody man, your grandsire,” William assured
the little boy gravely. “The King always has need of such men.”

“My grandda says the King can kiss his arse,” the boy replied matter-offactly.

“JEMMY!”

Mr. MacKenzie clapped a hand over his outspoken offspring’s mouth.

“You know your grandda didn’t say that!” Mrs. MacKenzie said. The
little boy nodded agreeably, and his father removed the muffling hand.

“No. Grannie did, though.”

“Well, that’s somewhat more likely,” Mr. MacKenzie murmured,
obviously trying not to laugh. “But we still don’t say things like that to
soldiers—they work for the King.”

“Oh,” said Jemmy, clearly losing interest. “Is the tide going out now?”

he asked hopefully, craning his neck toward the harbor once more.

“No,” Mr. MacKenzie said firmly. “Not for hours. You’ll be in bed.”

Mrs. MacKenzie smiled at William in apology, her cheeks charmingly
flushed with embarrassment, and the family took its leave with some haste,
leaving William struggling between laughter and dismay.

[broughps]

ECHO

1. The MacKenzies and William talking before the MacKenzies go forward in time

2. Ian naming Emily's son

WHEN THE DOOR OPENED, the young white woman who stood
there gaped at him, eyes round as pennies. He’d been in the act of wiping
his bloody nose with his shirttail. He completed this action and inclined his
head civilly.

“Will ye be so good as to ask Wakyo’teyehsnonhsa if she will be
pleased to speak wi’ Ian Murray?”

The young woman blinked, twice. Then she nodded and swung the door
to—pausing with it halfway shut, in order to look at him once more and
assure herself that she’d really seen him.

Feeling strange, he stepped down into the garden. It was a formal
English garden, with rosebushes and lavender and stone-flagged paths.
The smell of it reminded him of Auntie Claire, and he wondered briefly
whether Thayendanegea had brought back an English gardener from
London.

There were two women at work in the garden, some distance away; one
was a white woman, by the color of the hair beneath her cap, and in her
middle years by the stoop of her shoulders—perhaps Brant’s wife? he
wondered. Was the young woman who had answered the door their
daughter? The other woman was Indian, with her hair in a plait down her
back but streaked with white. Neither one turned to look at him.

When he heard the click of the door latch behind him, he waited a
moment before turning around, steeling himself against the disappointment
of being told that she was not here—or, worse, that she had refused to see
him.

But she was there. Emily. Small and straight, with her breasts showing
round in the neck of a blue calico gown, her long hair bound up behind but
uncovered. And her face fearful—but eager. Her eyes lit with joy at the
sight of him, and she took a step toward him.

He would have crushed her to him had she come to him, made any
gesture inviting it. And what then? he wondered dimly, but it didn’t matter;
after that first impulsive movement toward him, she stopped and stood, her
hands fluttering for an instant as though they would shape the air between
them, but then folding tight before her, hidden in the folds of her skirt.

“Wolf’s Brother,” she said softly, in Mohawk. “My heart is warm to see
you.”

“Mine, too,” he said in the same language.

“Have you come to speak with Thayendanegea?” she asked, tilting her
head back toward the house.

“Perhaps later.” Neither of them mentioned his nose, though from the
throbbing, it was likely twice its normal size and there was blood all down
the front of his shirt. He glanced around; there was a path that led away
from the house, and he nodded at that. “Will you walk with me?”

She hesitated for a moment. The flame in her eyes had not gone out, but
it burned lower now; there were other things there—caution, mild distress,
and what he thought was pride. He was surprised that he should see them
so clearly. It was as though she were made of glass.

“I—the children,” she blurted, half turning toward the house.

“It doesna matter,” he said. “I only—” A dribble of blood from one
nostril stopped him, and he paused to wipe the back of his hand across his
upper lip. He took the two steps necessary to bring them within touching
distance, though he was careful not to touch her.

“I wished to say to you that I am sorry,” he said formally, in Mohawk.
“That I could not give you children. And that I am glad you have them.”
A lovely warm flush rose in her cheeks, and he saw the pride in her
overcome the distress.

“May I see them?” he asked, surprising himself as much as her.

She wavered for an instant, but then turned and went into the house. He
sat on a stone wall, waiting, and she returned a few moments later with a
small boy, maybe five years old, and a girl of three or so in short plaits,
who looked gravely at him and sucked her fist.

Blood had run down the back of his throat; it felt raw and tasted of iron.

Now and then on his journey, he’d gone carefully over the explanation
Auntie Claire had given him. Not with any notion of telling it to Emily; it
could mean nothing to her—he barely understood it himself. Only, maybe,
as some shield against this moment, seeing her with the children he could
not give her.

“Call it fate,” Claire had said, looking at him with a hawk’s eye, the one
that sees from far above, so far above, maybe, that what seems
mercilessness is truly compassion. “Or call it bad luck. But it wasn’t your
fault. Or hers.”

“Come here,” he said in Mohawk, putting out a hand to the little boy.
The boy glanced at his mother, but then came to him, looking up in
curiosity to his face.

“I see you in his face,” he said softly to her, speaking English. “And in
his hands,” he added in Mohawk, taking the child’s hands—so amazingly
small—in his own. It was true: the boy had her hands, fine-boned and
supple; they curled up like sleeping mice in his palms, then the fingers
sprang out like a spider’s legs and the boy giggled. He laughed, too, closed
his own hands swiftly on the boy’s, like a bear gulping a pair of trout,
making the child shriek, then let go.

“Are you happy?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said softly. She looked down, not meeting his eyes, and he
knew it was because she would answer honestly but did not wish to see if
her answer hurt him. He put a hand under her chin—her skin was so soft!
—and lifted her face to him.

“Are you happy?” he asked again, and smiled a little as he said it.

“Yes,” she said again. But then gave a small sigh, and her own hand
touched his face at last, light as a moth’s wing. “But sometimes I miss you,
Ian.” There was nothing wrong with her accent, but his Scots name
sounded impossibly exotic on her tongue—it always had.

He felt a lump in his throat, but kept the faint smile on his face.

“I see you dinna ask me whether I’m happy,” he said, and could have
kicked himself.

She gave him a quick look, direct as a knife point.

“I have eyes,” she said, very simply.

There was a silence between them. He looked away but could feel her
there, breathing. Ripe. Soft. He felt her softening further, opening. She had
been wise not to go into the garden with him. Here, with her son playing in
the dirt near her feet, it was safe. For her, at least.

“Do you mean to stay?” she asked at last, and he shook his head.

“I am going to Scotland,” he said.

“You will take a wife among your own people.” There was relief in that,
but regret, too.

“Are your people no longer my own?” he asked, with a flash of
fierceness. “They washed the white blood from my body in the river—you
were there.”

“I was there.”

She looked at him for a long time, searching his face. Likely enough
that she would never see him again; did she seek to remember him, or was
she looking for something in his features, he wondered?

The latter. She turned abruptly, raising a hand to him to wait, and
disappeared into the house.

The little girl ran after her, not wanting to stay with the stranger, but the
little boy lingered, interested.

“Are you Wolf’s Brother?”

“I am, aye. And you?”

“They call me Digger.” It was a child’s sort of name, used for
convenience until the person’s real name should declare itself in some
way. Ian nodded, and they remained a few minutes, looking each other
over with interest, but with no sense of awkwardness between them.

“She who is mother’s mother to my mother,” Digger said quite
suddenly. “She talked about you. To me.”

“She did?” said Ian, startled. That would be Tewaktenyonh. A great
woman, head of the Women’s Council at Snaketown—and the person who
had sent him away.

“Does Tewaktenyonh still live?” he asked, curious.

“Oh, yes. She’s older than the mountains,” the little boy answered
seriously. “She has only two teeth left, but she still eats.”

Ian smiled at that.

“Good. What did she say to you of me?”

The boy screwed up his face, recollecting the words.

“She said I was the child of your spirit but I should not say so to my
father.”

Ian felt the blow of that, harder than any the child’s father had dealt him,
and couldn’t speak for a moment.

“Aye, I dinna think ye should say so, either,” he said, when words
returned to him. He repeated the sentiment in Mohawk, in case the boy
might not have understood English, and the child nodded, tranquil.

“Will I be with you, sometime?” he asked, only vaguely interested in the
answer. A lizard had come out onto the stone wall to bask, and his eyes
were fixed on it.

Ian forced his own words to be casual.

“If I live.”

The boy’s eyes were narrowed, watching the lizard, and the tiny right
hand twitched, just a little. The distance was too far, though; he knew it,
and glanced at Ian, who was closer. Ian cut his eyes at the lizard without
moving, then looked back at the boy and agreement sprang up between
them. Don’t move, his eyes warned, and the boy seemed to cease
breathing.

It didn’t do to think in such situations. Without pausing to draw breath,
he snatched, and the lizard was in his hand, astonished and thrashing.
The little boy chortled and hopped up and down, clapping his hands
with glee, then held them out for the lizard, which he received with the
greatest concentration, folding his hands about it so that it might not
escape.

“And what will ye do with him?” Ian asked, smiling.

The boy held the lizard up to his face, peering at it intently, and his
brow furrowed in thought.

“I will name him,” he said at last. “Then he will be mine and bless me
when I see him again.” He brought the lizard up, eyeball to eyeball, and
each stared unblinking at the other.

“Your name is Bob,” the boy declared at last in English, and with great
ceremony set the lizard on the ground. Bob leapt from his hands and
disappeared under a log.

“A verra good name,” Ian said gravely. His bruised ribs hurt with the
need not to laugh, but the urge vanished in the next moment, as the distant
door opened and Emily came out, a bundle in her arms.

She came up to him and presented him with a child, swaddled and
bound to a cradleboard, in much the same way he had presented the lizard
to Digger.

“This is my second daughter,” she said, shyly proud. “Will you choose
her name?”

He was moved, and touched Emily’s hand, very lightly, before taking
the cradleboard onto his knee and looking searchingly into the tiny face.
She could not have given him greater honor, this permanent mark of the
feeling she had once held for him—still might hold for him.

But as he looked at the little girl—she regarded him with round, serious
eyes, taking in this new manifestation of her personal landscape—a
conviction took root in him. He didn’t question it; it was simply there, and
undeniable.

“Thank you,” he said, and smiled at Emily with great affection. He laid
his hand—huge, and rough with callus and the nicks of living—on the
tiny, perfect, soft-haired head. “I will bless all your children wi’ the
blessings of Bride and of Michael.” He lifted his hand then, and reaching
out, drew Digger to him. “But this one is mine to name.”

Her face went quite blank with astonishment, and she looked quickly
from him to her son and back. She swallowed visibly, unsure—but it
didn’t matter; he was sure.

“Your name is Swiftest of Lizards,” he said, in Mohawk. The Swiftest
of Lizards thought for a minute, then nodded, pleased, and with a laugh of
pure delight, darted away.

[Krish728]

Ok.. it's very hard to choose five scenes from ABOSAA. I love the book (it's in my top 3) because it is more a collective effort of all scenes combined together. To me, except for Brianna/William meeting for the first time scene, there are no other stand out scenes in this book. I also like the plot twists in this book. Bugs'. Jocasta's. Christies'. 

[broughps]

ECHO

1. The MacKenzies and William talking before the MacKenzies go forward in time

2. Ian naming Emily's son

3. Claire saving Jamie from the Widow and her son

I paused and shouted into the mist, calling his name. I heard answering
calls, but none in his voice. Ahead of me lay a young man, arms outflung,
a look of blank astonishment on his face, blood pooled round his upper
body like a great halo. His lower half lay six feet away. I walked between
the pieces, keeping my skirts close, nostrils pinched tight against the thick
iron smell of blood.

The light was fading now, but I saw Jamie as soon as I came over the
edge of the next rise. He was lying on his face in the hollow, one arm flung
out, the other curled beneath him. The shoulders of his dark blue coat were
nearly black with damp, and his legs thrown wide, booted heels askew.

The breath caught in my throat, and I ran down the slope toward him,
heedless of grass clumps, mud, and brambles. As I got close, though, I saw
a scuttling figure dart out from behind a nearby bush and dash toward him.
It fell to its knees beside him and, without hesitation, grasped his hair and
yanked his head to one side. Something glinted in the figure’s hand, bright
even in the dull light.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Drop it, you bastard!”

Startled, the figure looked up as I flung myself over the last yards of
space. Narrow red-rimmed eyes glared up at me out of a round face
streaked with soot and grime.

“Get off!” she snarled. “I found ’im first!” It was a knife in her hand;
she made little jabbing motions at me, in an effort to drive me away.
I was too furious—and too afraid for Jamie—to be scared for myself.

“Let go of him! Touch him and I’ll kill you!” I said. My fists were
clenched, and I must have looked as though I meant it, for the woman
flinched back, loosing her hold on Jamie’s hair.

“He’s mine,” she said, thrusting her chin pugnaciously at me. “Go find
yourself another.”

Another form slipped out of the mist and materialized by her side. It was
the boy I had seen earlier, filthy and scruffy as the woman herself. He had
no knife but clutched a crude metal strip, cut from a canteen. The edge of
it was dark, with rust or blood.

He glared at me. “He’s ours, Mum said! Get on wi’ yer! Scat!”

Not waiting to see whether I would or not, he flung a leg over Jamie’s
back, sat on him, and began to grope in the side pockets of his coat.

“ ’E’s still alive, Mum,” he advised. “I can feel ’is ’eart beatin’. Best slit
his throat quick; I don’t think ’e’s bad hurt.”

I grabbed the boy by the collar and jerked him off Jamie’s body, making
him drop his weapon. He squealed and flailed at me with arms and elbows,
but I kneed him in the rump, hard enough to jar his backbone, then got my
elbow locked about his neck in a stranglehold, his skinny wrist vised in my
other hand.

“Leave him go!” The woman’s eyes narrowed like a weasel’s, and her
eye-teeth shone in a snarl.

I didn’t dare take my eyes away from the woman’s long enough to look
at Jamie. I could see him, though, at the edge of my vision, head turned to
the side, his neck gleaming white, exposed and vulnerable.

“Stand up and step back,” I said, “or I’ll choke him to death, I swear I
will!”

She crouched over Jamie’s body, knife in hand, as she measured me,
trying to make up her mind whether I meant it. I did.

The boy struggled and twisted in my grasp, his feet hammering against
my shins. He was small for his age, and thin as a stick, but strong
nonetheless; it was like wrestling an eel. I tightened my hold on his neck;
he gurgled and quit struggling. His hair was thick with rancid grease and
dirt, the smell of it rank in my nostrils.

Slowly, the woman stood up. She was much smaller than I, and scrawny
with it—bony wrists stuck out of the ragged sleeves. I couldn’t guess her
age—under the filth and the puffiness of malnutrition, she might have been
anything from twenty to fifty.

“My man lies yonder, dead on the ground,” she said, jerking her head at
the fog behind her. “ ’E hadn’t nothing but his musket, and the sergeant’ll
take that back.”

Her eyes slid toward the distant wood, where the British troops had
retreated. “I’ll find a man soon, but I’ve children to feed in the meantime
—two besides the boy.” She licked her lips, and a coaxing note entered her
voice. “You’re alone; you can manage better than we can. Let me have this
one—there’s more over there.” She pointed with her chin toward the slope
behind me, where the rebel dead and wounded lay.

My grasp must have loosened slightly as I listened, for the boy, who had
hung quiescent in my grasp, made a sudden lunge and burst free, diving
over Jamie’s body to roll at his mother’s feet.

He got up beside her, watching me with rat’s eyes, beady-bright and
watchful. He bent and groped about in the grass, coming up with the
makeshift dagger.

“Hold ’er off, Mum,” he said, his voice raspy from the choking. “I’ll
take ’im.”

From the corner of my eye, I had caught the gleam of metal, half buried
in the grass.

“Wait!” I said, and took a step back. “Don’t kill him. Don’t.” A step to
the side, another back. “I’ll go, I’ll let you have him, but…” I lunged to the
side and got my hand on the cold metal hilt.

I had picked up Jamie’s sword before. It was a cavalry sword, larger and
heavier than the usual, but I didn’t notice now.

I snatched it up and swung it in a two-handed arc that ripped the air and
left the metal ringing in my hands.

Mother and son jumped back, identical looks of ludicrous surprise on
their round, grimy faces.

“Get away!” I said.

Her mouth opened, but she didn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry for your man,” I said. “But my man lies here. Get away, I
said!” I raised the sword, and the woman stepped back hastily, dragging
the boy by the arm.

She turned and went, muttering curses at me over her shoulder, but I
paid no attention to what she said. The boy’s eyes stayed fixed on me as he
went, dark coals in the dim light. He would know me again—and I him.

They vanished in the mist, and I lowered the sword, which suddenly
weighed too much to hold. I dropped it on the grass and fell to my knees
beside Jamie.

My own heart was pounding in my ears and my hands were shaking
with reaction, as I groped for the pulse in his neck. I turned his head and
could see it, throbbing steadily just below his jaw.

“Thank God!” I whispered to myself. “Oh, thank God!”

I ran my hands over him quickly, searching for injury before I moved
him. I didn’t think the scavengers would come back; I could hear the
voices of a group of men, distant on the ridge behind me—a rebel detail
coming to fetch the wounded.

There was a large knot on his brow, already turning purple. Nothing else
that I could see. The boy had been right, I thought, with gratitude; he
wasn’t badly hurt. Then I rolled him onto his back and saw his hand.
Highlanders were accustomed to fight with sword in one hand, targe in
the other, the small leather shield used to deflect an opponent’s blow. He
hadn’t had a targe.

The blade had struck him between the third and fourth fingers of his
right hand and sliced through the hand itself, a deep, ugly wound that split
his palm and the body of his hand, halfway to the wrist.

Despite the horrid look of the wound, there wasn’t much blood; the
hand had been curled under him, his weight acting as a pressure bandage.
The front of his shirt was smeared with red, deeply stained over his heart. I
ripped open his shirt and felt inside, to be sure that the blood was from his
hand, but it was. His chest was cool and damp from the grass but
unscathed, his nipples shrunken and stiff with chill.

“That… tickles,” he said in a drowsy voice. He pawed awkwardly at his
chest with his left hand, trying to brush my hand away.

“Sorry,” I said, repressing the urge to laugh with the joy of seeing him
alive and conscious. I got an arm behind his shoulders and helped him to
sit up. He looked drunk, with one eye swollen half shut and grass in his
hair. He acted drunk, too, swaying alarmingly from side to side.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Sick,” he said succinctly. He leaned to the side and threw up.
I eased him back on the grass and wiped his mouth, then set about
bandaging his hand.

“Someone will be here soon,” I assured him. “We’ll get you back to the
wagon, and I can take care of this.”

“Mmphm.” He grunted slightly as I pulled the bandage tight. “What
happened?”

“What happened?” I stopped what I was doing and stared at him.
“You’re asking me?”

“What happened in the battle, I mean,” he said patiently, regarding me
with his one good eye. “I know what happened to me—roughly,” he
added, wincing as he touched his forehead.

“Yes, roughly,” I said rudely. “You got yourself chopped like a
butchered hog, and your head half caved in. Being a sodding bloody hero
again, that’s what happened to you!”

“I wasna—” he began, but I interrupted, my relief over seeing him alive
being rapidly succeeded by rage.

“You didn’t have to go to Ticonderoga! You shouldn’t have gone! Stick
to the writing and the printing, you said. You weren’t going to fight unless
you had to, you said. Well, you didn’t have to, but you did it anyway, you
vain glorious, pigheaded, grandstanding Scot!”

“Grandstanding?” he inquired.

“You know just what I mean, because it’s just what you did! You might
have been killed!”

“Aye,” he agreed ruefully. “I thought I was, when the dragoon came
down on me. I screeched and scairt his horse, though,” he added more
cheerfully. “It reared up and got me in the face with its knee.”

“Don’t change the subject!” I snapped.

“Is the subject not that I’m not killed?” he asked, trying to raise one
brow and failing, with another wince.

“No! The subject is your stupidity, your bloody selfish stubbornness!”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that! You—you—oaf! How dare you do that to me? You think I
haven’t got anything better to do with my life than trot round after you,
sticking pieces back on?” I was frankly shrieking at him by this time.

To my increased fury, he grinned at me, his expression made the more
rakish by the half-closed eye.

“Ye’d have been a good fishwife, Sassenach,” he observed. “Ye’ve the
tongue for it.”

“You shut up, you fucking bloody—”

“They’ll hear you,” he said mildly, with a wave toward the party of
Continental soldiers making their way down the slope toward us.

“I don’t care who hears me! If you weren’t already hurt, I’d—I’d—”

“Be careful, Sassenach,” he said, still grinning. “Ye dinna want to knock
off any more pieces; ye’ll only have to stick them back on, aye?”

“Don’t bloody tempt me,” I said through my teeth, with a glance at the
sword I had dropped.

He saw it and reached for it, but couldn’t quite manage. With an
explosive snort, I leaned across his body and grabbed the hilt, putting it in
his hand. I heard a shout from the men coming down the hill and turned to
wave at them.

“Anyone hearing ye just now would likely think ye didna care for me
owermuch, Sassenach,” he said, behind me.

I turned to look down at him. The impudent grin was gone, but he was
still smiling.

“Ye’ve the tongue of a venemous shrew,” he said, “but you’re a bonnie
wee swordsman, Sassenach.”

My mouth opened, but the words that had been so abundant a moment
before had all evaporated like the rising mist.

He laid his good hand on my arm. “For now, a nighean donn—thank ye
for my life.”

I closed my mouth. The men had nearly reached us, rustling through the
grass, their exclamations and chatter drowning out the ever-fainter moans
of the wounded.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

[broughps]

ECHO

1. The MacKenzies and William talking before the MacKenzies go forward in time

2. Ian naming Emily's son

3. Claire saving Jamie from the Widow and her son

4. Jamie needs Claire

USEFUL HERBS, I wrote, and paused—as usual—to consider.
Writing with a quill caused one to be both more deliberate and more
economical in writing than doing it with ballpoint or typewriter. Still, I
thought, I’d best just make a list here and jot down notes regarding each
herb as they came to me, then make a clean draft when I’d got it all
straight and made sure to include everything, rather than try to do it all in a
single run.

Lavender, peppermint, comfrey, I wrote without hesitation. Calendula,
feverfew, foxglove, meadow-sweet. Then went back to add a large asterisk
beside foxglove to remind me to add strong cautions about the use, as all
parts of the plant were extremely poisonous in any but very small doses. I
twiddled the quill, biting my lip in indecision. Ought it to mention that one
at all, given that this was meant to be a useful medical guide for the
common man, not for medical practitioners with experience in various
medicaments? Because, really, you ought not dose anyone with foxglove
unless you’d been trained… Best not. I crossed it out but then had second
thoughts. Perhaps I’d better mention it, with a drawing, but also with a
severe warning that it should be used only by a physician, in case someone
had the bright idea of remedying Uncle Tophiger’s dropsy permanently….

A shadow fell across the floor in front of me and I looked up. Jamie was
standing there with a most peculiar look on his face.

“What?” I said, startled. “Has something happened?”

“No,” he said, and advancing into the study, leaned down and put his
hands on the desk, bringing his face within a foot of mine.

“Have ye ever been in the slightest doubt that I need ye?” he demanded.
It took roughly half a second of thought to answer this.

“No,” I replied promptly. “To the best of my knowledge, you needed me
urgently the moment I saw you. And I haven’t had reason to think you’ve
got any more self-sufficient since. What on earth happened to your
forehead? Those look like tooth—” He lunged across the desk and kissed
me before I could finish the observation.

“Thank ye,” he said fervently, and, un-lunging, whirled and went out,
evidently in the highest of spirits.

“What’s amiss wi’ Uncle Jamie?” Ian demanded, coming in on Jamie’s
heels. He glanced back toward the open door into the hall, from the depths
of which a loud, tuneless humming was coming, like that of a trapped
bumblebee. “Is he drunk?”

“I don’t think so,” I said dubiously, running my tongue across my lips.
“He didn’t taste of anything alcoholic.”

“Aye, well.” Ian lifted a shoulder, dismissing his uncle’s eccentricities.
“I was just up beyond Broch Mordha, and Mr. MacAllister said to me that
his wife’s mother was taken bad in the night, and would ye maybe think of
coming by, if it wasn’t a trouble to ye?”

“No trouble at all,” I assured him, rising with alacrity. “Just let me get
my bag.”

[broughps]

ECHO

1. The MacKenzies and William talking before the MacKenzies go forward in time

2. Ian naming Emily's son

3. Claire saving Jamie from the Widow and her son

4. Jamie needs Claire

5. Jamie returns from the dead

I WAS PINNING up my hair for tea when there was a scratch at the
bedroom door.

“Come,” John called, in the act of pulling on his boots. The door opened
cautiously, revealing the odd little Cornish boy who sometimes served as
William’s orderly. He said something to John, in what I assumed to be
English, and handed him a note. John nodded kindly and dismissed him.

“Could you understand what he said?” I asked curiously, as he broke the
seal with his thumb.

“Who? Oh, Colenso? No, not a word,” he said absently, and pursed his
lips in a soundless whistle at whatever he was reading.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A note from Colonel Graves,” he said, carefully refolding it. I wonder
if—”

There was another knock at the door, and John frowned at it.

“Not now,” he said. “Come back later.”

“Well, I would,” said a polite voice in a Scottish accent. “But there’s
some urgency, ken?”

The door opened, and Jamie stepped in, closing it behind him. He saw
me, stood stock-still for an instant, and then I was in his arms, the
overwhelming warmth and size of him blotting out in an instant everything
around me.

I didn’t know where my blood had gone. Every drop had left my head,
and flickering lights danced before my eyes—but none of it was supplying
my legs, which had abruptly dissolved under me.

Jamie was holding me up and kissing me, tasting of beer and his beard
stubble rasping my face, his fingers buried in my hair, and my breasts
warmed and swelled against his chest.

“Oh, there it is,” I murmured.

“What?” he asked, breaking off for a moment.

“My blood.” I touched my tingling lips. “Do that again.”

“Oh, I will,” he assured me. “But there are a number of English soldiers
in the neighborhood, and I think—”

The sound of pounding came from below, and reality snapped back into
place like a rubber band. I stared at him and sat down very suddenly, my
heart pounding like a drum.

“Why the bloody hell aren’t you dead?”

He lifted one shoulder in a brief shrug, the corner of his mouth turning
up. He was very thin, brown-faced, and dirty; I could smell his sweat and
the grime of long-worn clothes. And the faint whiff of vomit—he’d not
been long off a boat.

“Delay for a few seconds longer, Mr. Fraser, and you may well go back
to being dead.” John had gone to the window, peering down into the street.
He turned, and I saw that his face was pale but glowing like a candle.

“Aye? They were a bit faster than I thought, then,” Jamie said ruefully,
going to look out. He turned from the window and smiled. “It’s good to
see ye, John—if only for the moment.”

John’s answering smile lit his eyes. He reached out a hand and touched
Jamie’s arm, very briefly, as though wishing to assure himself that he was
in fact solid.

“Yes,” he said, reaching then for the door. “But come. Down the back
stair. Or there’s a hatchway to the attic—if you can get onto the roof—”
Jamie looked at me, his heart in his eyes.

“I’ll come back,” he said. “When I can.” He lifted a hand toward me but
stopped with a grimace, turned abruptly to follow John, and they were
gone, the sound of their footsteps nearly drowned by the noises from
downstairs. I heard the door open below and a rough male voice
demanding entrance. Mrs. Figg, bless her intransigent little heart, was
having none of it.

I’d been sitting like Lot’s wife, shocked into immobility, but at the
sound of Mrs. Figg’s rich expletives was galvanized into action.

My mind was so stunned by the events of the last five minutes that it
was, paradoxically, quite clear. There was simply no room in it for
thoughts, speculations, relief, joy, or even worry—the only mental faculty
I still possessed, apparently, was the ability to respond to an emergency. I
snatched my cap, crammed it on my head, and started for the door, stuffing
my hair up into it as I went. Mrs. Figg and I together could surely delay the
soldiers long enough…

This scheme would probably have worked, save that, as I rushed out
onto the landing, I ran into Willie—literally, as he came bounding up the
stair and collided heavily with me.

“Mother Claire! Where’s Papa? There are—” He had seized me by the
arms as I reeled backward, but his concern for me was superseded by a
sound from the hall beyond the landing. He glanced toward the sound—
then let go of me, his eyes bulging.

Jamie stood at the end of the hall, some ten feet away; John stood beside
him, white as a sheet, and his eyes bulging as much as Willie’s were. This
resemblance to Willie, striking as it was, was completely overwhelmed by
Jamie’s own resemblance to the Ninth Earl of Ellesmere. William’s face
had hardened and matured, losing all trace of childish softness, and from
both ends of the short hall, deep blue Fraser cat-eyes stared out of the bold,
solid bones of the MacKenzies. And Willie was old enough to shave on a
daily basis; he knew what he looked like.

Willie’s mouth worked, soundless with shock. He looked wildly at me,
back at Jamie, back at me—and saw the truth in my face.

“Who are you?” he said hoarsely, wheeling on Jamie.

I saw Jamie draw himself slowly upright, ignoring the noise below.

“James Fraser,” he said. His eyes were fixed on William with a burning
intensity, as though to absorb every vestige of a sight he would not see
again. “Ye kent me once as Alex MacKenzie. At Helwater.”

William blinked, blinked again, and his gaze shifted momentarily to
John.

“And who—who the bloody hell am I?” he demanded, the end of the
question rising in a squeak.

John opened his mouth, but it was Jamie who answered.

“You are a stinking Papist,” he said, very precisely, “and your baptismal
name is James.” The ghost of regret crossed his face and then was gone.
“It was the only name I had a right to give ye,” he said quietly, eyes on his
son. “I’m sorry.”

Willie’s left hand slapped at his hip, reflexively looking for a sword.
Finding nothing, he slapped at his chest. His hands were shaking so badly
that he couldn’t manage buttons; he simply seized the fabric and ripped
open his shirt, reached in and fumbled for something. He pulled it over his
head and, in the same motion, hurled the object at Jamie.

Jamie’s reflexes brought his hand up automatically, and the wooden
rosary smacked into it, the beads swinging, tangled in his fingers.

“God damn you, sir,” Willie said, voice trembling. “God damn you to
hell!” He half-turned blindly, then spun on his heel to face John. “And
you! You knew, didn’t you? God damn you, too!”

“William—” John reached out a hand to him, helpless, but before he
could say anything more, there was a sound of voices in the hall below and
heavy feet on the stair.

“Sassenach—keep him back!” Jamie’s voice reached me through the
hubbub, sharp and clear. By sheer reflex, I obeyed and seized Willie by the
arm. He glanced at me, mouth open, completely nonplused.

“What—” His voice was drowned by the thunder of feet on the stairs
and a triumphant whoop from the redcoat in front.

“There he is!”

Suddenly the landing was thronged with bodies pushing and shoving,
trying to get past Willie and me into the hallway. I clung like grim death,
despite the jostling and despite Willie’s own belated efforts to free himself.

All at once the shouting stopped, and the press of bodies relaxed just a
bit. My cap had been knocked over my eyes in the struggle, and I let go of
Willie’s arm with one hand in order to pull it off. I dropped it on the floor.
I had a feeling that my status as a respectable woman wasn’t going to be
important for much longer.

Brushing disheveled hair out of my eyes with a forearm, I resumed my
grip on Willie, though this was largely unnecessary, as he seemed turned
to stone. The redcoats were shifting on their feet, clearly ready to charge
but inhibited by something. I turned a little and saw Jamie, one arm
wrapped around John Grey’s throat, holding a pistol to John’s temple.

“One step more,” he said, calmly but loud enough to be easily heard,
“and I put a ball through his brain. D’ye think I’ve anything to lose?”

Actually, given that Willie and myself were standing right in front of
him, I rather thought he did—but the soldiers didn’t know that, and
judging from the expression on Willie’s face, he would have torn his
tongue out by the roots rather than blurt out the truth. I also thought he
didn’t particularly care at the moment if Jamie did kill John and then die in
a fusillade of bullets. His arm was like iron under my grip; he’d have
killed them both himself, if he could.

There was a murmur of menace from the men around me and a shifting
of bodies, men readying themselves—but no one moved.

Jamie glanced once at me, face unreadable, then moved toward the back
stair, half-dragging John with him. They vanished from view, and the
corporal next to me sprang into action, turning and gesturing to his men on
the stair.

“Round back! Hurry!”

“Hold!” Willie had come abruptly to life. Jerking his arm away from my
slackened grip, he turned on the corporal. “Have you men posted at the
back of the house?”

The corporal, noticing Willie’s uniform for the first time, straightened
himself and saluted.

“No, sir. I didn’t think—”

“Idiot,” Willie said shortly.

“Yes, sir. But we can catch them if we hurry, sir.” He was rocking up
onto his toes as he spoke, in an agony to be gone.

Willie’s fists were clenched, and so were his teeth. I could see the
thoughts crossing his face, as clearly as if they’d been printed on his
forehead in movable type.

He didn’t think Jamie would shoot Lord John but wasn’t sure of it. If he
sent men after them, there was a decent chance that the soldiers would
catch up to them—which in turn meant some chance that one or both
would die. And if neither died but Jamie was captured—there was no
telling what he might say or to whom. Too much risk.

With a faint sense of déjà vu, I saw him make these calculations, then
turn to the corporal.

“Return to your commander,” he said calmly. “Let him know that
Colonel Grey has been taken hostage by … by the rebels, and ask him to
notify all guard posts. I am to be informed at once of any news.”

There was a displeased murmur from the soldiers on the landing but
nothing that could actually be called insubordination, and even this died
away in the face of William’s glare. The corporal’s teeth set briefly in his
lip, but he saluted.

“Yes, sir.” He turned smartly on his heel, with a peremptory gesture that
sent the soldiers clumping heavily down the stair.

Willie watched them go. Then, as though suddenly noticing it, he bent
and picked up my cap from the floor. Kneading it between his hands, he
gave me a long, speculative look. The next little while was going to be
interesting, I saw.

I didn’t care. While I was quite sure that Jamie wouldn’t shoot John
under any circumstances, I was under no misapprehensions about the
danger to either of them. I could smell it; the scent of sweat and
gunpowder hung thick in the air on the landing, and the soles of my feet
still vibrated from the slam of the heavy door below. None of it mattered.

He was alive.

So was I.

<snip>

I … UH … IF you’ll excuse me for a moment…” I backed slowly to
the door of my room and, seizing the knob, whipped inside and shut the
door, leaving Willie to recover himself in decent privacy. And not only
Willie.

I pressed myself against the door as though pursued by werewolves, my
blood thundering in my ears.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I whispered. Something like a geyser rose
up inside me and burst in my head, the spray of it sparkling with sunlight
and diamonds. I was dimly aware that it had come on to rain outside, and
dirty gray water was streaking the windowpanes, but that didn’t matter a
bit to the effervescence inside me.

I stood still for several minutes, eyes closed, not thinking anything, just
murmuring, “Thank you, God,” over and over, soundlessly.

A tentative rap on the door jarred me out of this trance, and I turned to
open it. William stood on the landing.

His shirt still hung open where he’d torn it, and I could see the pulse
beat fast in the hollow of his throat. He bowed awkwardly to me, trying to
achieve a smile but notably failing in the attempt. He gave it up.

“I am not sure what to call you,” he said. “Under the—the
circumstances.”

“Oh,” I said, mildly disconcerted. “Well. I don’t think—at least I hope
that the relationship between you and me hasn’t changed.” I realized, with
a sudden dampening of my euphoria, that it very well might now, and the
thought gave me a deep pang. I was very fond of him, for his own sake, as
well as for his father’s—or fathers’, as the case might be.

“Could you bring yourself to go on calling me ‘Mother Claire,’ do you
think? Just until we can think of something more… appropriate,” I added
hastily, seeing reluctance narrow his eyes. “After all, I suppose I am still
your stepmother. Regardless of the … er… the situation.”

He turned that over for a moment, then nodded briefly.

“May I come in? I wish to talk to you.”

“Yes, I suppose you do.”

If I hadn’t known both his fathers, I would have marveled at his ability
to suppress the rage and confusion he had so clearly exhibited a quarter of
a hour ago. Jamie did it by instinct, John by long experience—but both of
them had an iron power of will, and whether William’s was bred in the
bone or acquired by example, he most assuredly had one.

“Shall I send for something?” I asked. “A little brandy? It’s good for
shock.”

He shook his head. He wouldn’t sit—I didn’t think he could—but
leaned against the wall.

“I suppose that you knew? You could scarcely help but notice the
resemblance, I suppose,” he added bitterly.

“It is rather striking,” I agreed, with caution. “Yes, I knew. My husband
told me”—I groped for some delicate way of putting it— “the, um,
circumstances of your birth some years ago.”

And just how was I going to describe those circumstances?

It hadn’t exactly escaped me that there were a few awkward
explanations to be made—but caught up in the alarms of Jamie’s sudden
reappearance and escape and the giddiness of my own subsequent
euphoria, it somehow hadn’t occurred to me that I would be the person
making them.

I’d seen the little shrine he kept in his room, the double portrait of his
two mothers—both so heartbreakingly young. If age was good for
anything, surely it should have given me the wisdom to deal with this?

How could I tell him that he was the result of an impulsive, self-willed
young girl’s blackmail? Let alone tell him that he had been the cause of
both his legal parents’ deaths? And if anyone was going to tell him what
his birth had meant to Jamie, it was going to have to be Jamie.

“Your mother…” I began, and hesitated. Jamie would have taken the
blame solely upon himself rather than blacken Geneva’s memory to her
son, I knew. I wasn’t having that.

“She was reckless,” William said, watching me closely. “Everybody
says she was reckless. Was it—I suppose I only want to know, was it
rape?”

“God, no!” I said, horrified, and saw his fists uncurl a little.

“That’s good,” he said, and let out the breath he’d been holding.
“You’re sure he didn’t lie to you?”

“I’m sure.” He and his father might be able to hide their feelings; I
certainly couldn’t, and while I would never be able to make a living
playing cards, having a glass face was occasionally a good thing. I stood
still and let him see that I told the truth.

“Do you think—did he say—” He stopped and swallowed, hard. “Did
they love each other, do you think?”

“As much as they could, I think,” I said softly. “They hadn’t much time,
only the one night.” I ached for him and would have liked so much to take
him in my arms and comfort him. But he was a man, and a young one,
fierce about his pain. He’d deal with it as he could, and I thought it would
be some years—if ever—before he learned to share it.

“Yes,” he said, and pressed his lips together, as though he’d been going
to say something else and thought better of it. “Yes, I—I see.” It was quite
clear from his tone that he didn’t but, reeling under the impact of
realization, had no idea what to ask next, let alone what to do with the
information he had.

“I was born almost exactly nine months after my parents’ marriage,” he
said, giving me a hard look. “Did they deceive my father? Or did my
mother play the whore with her groom before she wed?”

“That might be a bit harsh,” I began.

“No, it isn’t,” he snapped. “Which was it?”

“Your fa—Jamie. He’d never deceive another man in his marriage.”

Except Frank, I thought, a little wildly. But, of course, he hadn’t known at
first that he was doing it…

“My father,” he said abruptly. “Pa—Lord John, I mean. He knew—
knows?”

“Yes.” Thin ice again. I didn’t think he had any idea that Lord John had
married Isobel principally for his sake—and Jamie’s—but didn’t want him
going anywhere near the question of Lord John’s motives.

“All of them,” I said firmly, “all four of them; they wanted what was
best for you.”

“Best for me,” he repeated bleakly. “Right.” His knuckles had gone
white again, and he gave me a look through narrowed eyes that I
recognized all too well: a Fraser about to go off with a bang. I also knew
perfectly well that there was no way of stopping one from detonating but
had a try anyway, putting out a hand to him.

“William,” I began. “Believe me—”

“I do,” he said. “Don’t bloody tell me any more. God damn it!” And,
whirling on his heel, he drove his fist through the paneling with a thud that
shook the room, wrenched his hand out of the hole he’d made, and
stormed out. I heard crunching and rending as he paused to kick out
several of the balusters on the landing and rip a length of the stair railing
off, and I made it to the door in time to see him draw back a four-foot
chunk of wood over his shoulder, swing, and strike the crystal chandelier
that hung over the stairwell in an explosion of shattering glass. For a
moment, he teetered on the open edge of the landing and I thought he
would fall, or hurl himself off, but he staggered back from the edge and
threw the chunk of wood like a javelin at the remnant of the chandelier
with a burst of breath that might have been a grunt or a sob.

Then he rushed headlong down the stairs, thumping his wounded fist at
intervals against the wall, where it left bloody smudges. He hit the front
door with his shoulder, rebounded, jerked it open, and went out like a
locomotive.

I stood frozen on the landing in the midst of chaos and destruction,
gripping the edge of the broken balustrade. Tiny rainbows danced on walls
and ceiling like multicolored dragonflies sprung out of the shattered crystal
that littered the floor.

Something moved; a shadow fell across the floor of the hall below. A
small, dark figure walked slowly in through the open doorway. Putting
back the hood of her cloak, Jenny Fraser Murray looked round at the
devastation, then up at me, her face a pale oval glimmering with humor.

“Like father, like son, I see,” she remarked. “God help us all.”

[broughps]

So what are your five from ECHO?

[Krish728]

Book #7 five scenes.. this one's easy.

1) Brianna and William conversation.

2) Ian and William's meeting in the woods.

3) Ian confessing his love to Rachel.

4) Ian, Rachel and William face-off against Arch Bug. 

5) Jamie back from the "DEAD".

[broughps]

MOBY

1. William remembering Mac

“Shit,” he said, under his breath, but Captain
Richardson had seen him and was coming toward
him, smiling genially.

“Captain Lord Ellesmere. Your servant, sir.”

“Yours, sir,” William said, as pleasantly as he
could. What did the scoundrel want now? he
wondered. Not that Richardson was a scoundrel—or
not necessarily one, despite Randall’s warning. It
might, after all, be Randall who was the scoundrel.

But he did hold rather a grudge against Richardson,
on Mother Claire’s account, as well as his own. The
thought of Mother Claire stabbed him unexpectedly,
and he forced it back. None of it was her fault.

“I’m surprised to see you here, your lordship,”

Richardson said, glancing round at the roiling camp.
The sun was up, and bands of gold lit the fog of dust
rising from the mules’ rough coats. “You are a
conventioneer, are you not?”

“I am,” William said coldly. Richardson certainly
knew he was. William felt obliged to defend himself,
though against what, he wasn’t sure. “I cannot fight.”
He spread his arms slightly. “As you see, I carry no
weapons.” He made polite motions indicating his
immediate need to be elsewhere, but Richardson
went on standing there, smiling with that very
ordinary face, so unremarkable that his own mother
probably couldn’t pick him out of a crowd, save for a
large brown mole on the side of his chin.

“Ah, to be sure.” Richardson drew a little closer,
lowering his voice. “That being the case . . . I wonder
whether—”

“No,” William said definitely. “I am one of General
Clinton’s aides, and I cannot leave my duty. You will
excuse me, sir; I am expected.”

He turned on his heel and made off, his heart
hammering—and realized rather belatedly that he
had left his horse behind. Richardson was still
standing at the far side of the horse park, talking to a
groom who was taking down the pickets, coiling the
rope around one shoulder as he did so. The crowd of
horses and mules was swiftly diminishing, but there
were enough still near Visigoth to enable William to
duck in and pretend to be fiddling with his
saddlebags, head bent to hide his face until
Richardson should go away.

The conversation had left him with an unsettling
image of his erstwhile stepmother as he had last seen
her, disheveled and en déshabillé but glowing with a
radiant life he had never seen. He didn’t suppose she
was his stepmother anymore, but he’d liked her.
Belatedly, it occurred to him that Claire now-Fraser
still was his stepmother—by a different father. . . .
Bloody hell.

He set his teeth, rummaging in the saddlebag for
his canteen. Now that that Scotch bugger had
returned from his watery grave, throwing everything
and everyone into confusion . . . why couldn’t he
have drowned and never come back?

Never come back.

You are a stinking Papist, and your baptismal
name is James.” He froze as though shot in the back.
He bloody remembered it. The stables at Helwater,
the warm smell of horses and mash, and the prickle
of straw that worked its way through his stockings.
Cold stone floors. He’d been crying . . . Why? All he
recalled was a huge wash of desolation, total
helplessness. The end of the world. Mac leaving.

He took a long, slow breath and pressed his lips
together. Mac. The word didn’t bring back a face; he
couldn’t remember what Mac had looked like. He’d
been big, that was all. Bigger than Grandfather or
any of the footmen or the other grooms. Safety. A
sense of constant happiness like a soft, worn
blanket.

“Shit,” he whispered, closing his eyes. And had that
happiness been a lie, too? He’d been too little to
know the difference between a groom’s deference to
the young master and real kindness. But . . .

“‘You are a stinking Papist,’” he whispered, and
caught his breath on something that might have
been a sob. “ ‘And your baptismal name is James.’”

“It was the only name I had a right to give ye.”

He realized that his knuckles were pressed against
his chest, against his gorget—but it wasn’t the
gorget’s reassurance that he sought. It was that of
the little bumps of the plain wooden rosary that he’d
worn around his neck for years, hidden under his
shirt where no one would see it. The rosary Mac had
given him . . . along with his name.

With a suddenness that shocked him, he felt his
eyes swim. You went away. You left me!

“Shit!” he said, and punched his fist so hard into
the saddlebag that the horse snorted and shied, and
a bolt of white-hot pain shot up his arm, obliterating
everything.

[broughps]

MOBY

1. William remembering Mac

2. Claire after she's been shot

I SWAM DIZZILY TO the surface of
consciousness, thinking, What was it Ernest
Hemingway had said, about how one is
supposed to pass out from the pain but you don’t? I
just had, but he was more or less right; the
unconsciousness hadn’t lasted more than a few seconds. I
was curled into a tight ball, both hands pressed against my
right side, and I could feel the blood welling between my
fingers, hot and cold and sticky, and it was beginning to
hurt . . . very much . . .

“Sassenach! Claire!” I swam out of the fog again
and managed to open one eye. Jamie was kneeling
by me. He was touching me, had his hands on me,
but I couldn’t feel it. . . .

Sweat or blood or something ran burning into my
eyes. I could hear someone gasping—short, shallow,
panting breaths. Me, or Jamie? I was cold. I
shouldn’t be cold, it was hot as blazes today. . . . I
felt jellied, quivering. And it hurt. A lot.

“Sassenach!”

Hands turned me. I screamed. Tried to. I felt it
wrench my throat but couldn’t hear it; there was a
roaring in my ears. Shock, I thought. I couldn’t feel
my limbs, my feet. I felt the blood leaving my body.

It hurt.

The shock’s wearing off, I thought. Or is it getting
worse? I could see the pain now, going off in bursts
like black lightning, jagged and searing.

“Sassenach!”

“What?” I said through clenched teeth. “Auh!”

“Are ye dying?”

“Probably.”

Gutshot. The word formed unpleasantly in my
mind, and I hoped vaguely that I hadn’t spoken it out
loud. Even if I had, though . . . surely Jamie could
see the wound . . .

Someone was trying to pull my hands away, and I
struggled to keep them in place, keep pressing, but
my arms had no strength and I saw one hand
hanging limp as they lifted it, the nails outlined black
with blood, fingers coated scarlet, dripping.

Someone rolled me onto my back and I thought I
screamed again.

It hurt unspeakably. Jellied. Impact shock. Cells
blasted to shreds and goo. No function . . . organ
failure.

Tightness. Couldn’t breathe. Jerking, and someone
cursing above me. My eyes were open, I saw color,
but the air was thick with pulsing spots.

Shouting. Talk.

I couldn’t draw breath. Something tight around my
middle. What’s gone? How much?

God, it hurt. Oh, God.

JAMIE COULDN’T take his eyes off Claire’s
face, lest she die in the second when he looked away. He
fumbled for a kerchief, but he’d given it to Bixby, and in
desperation seized a fold of her skirt and pressed it hard to
her side. She made a horrible sound and he nearly let go,
but the ground under her was already darkening with
blood and he pressed harder, shouting, “Help! Help me,
Rachel! Dottie!”

But no one came, and when he risked a split
second’s glance around, he saw nothing but clumps
of wounded and dead under the trees some distance
away and the flickering forms of soldiers, some
running, some wandering dazed through the
tombstones. If the girls had been nearby, they must
have been forced to run when the skirmish rolled
through the graveyard.

He felt the slow tickle of Claire’s blood running
over the back of his hand and shouted again, his dry
throat tearing with the effort. Someone must hear.
Someone did. He heard running footsteps on the
gravel and saw a doctor named Leckie whom he
knew racing toward him, white-faced, hurdling a
tombstone as he came.

“Shot?” Leckie asked, breathless, collapsing onto
his knees beside Jamie. Jamie couldn’t speak, but
nodded. Sweat was running down his face and the
crease of his spine, but his hands seemed frozen to
her body; he couldn’t pull them away, couldn’t let go
until Leckie, pawing in one of Claire’s baskets, seized
a wad of lint and jerked Jamie’s hand out of the way
in order to clap it in place.

The surgeon elbowed him ruthlessly aside and he
scuttled crabwise a foot or two away, then rose to his
feet, swaying helplessly. Jamie couldn’t look away
but became slowly aware that a knot of soldiers had
gathered, appalled, shuffling among themselves, not
knowing what to do. Jamie gulped air, seized the
nearest of these, and sent him running to the church
in search of Dr. Hunter. She’d want Denny. If she
survived long enough for him to come—

“Sir! General Fraser!” Not even the shouting of his
own name made him look away from the spectacle
on the ground: the blood, so much of it, soaking her
clothes, making a hideous dark red puddle that
stained the knees of Leckie’s breeches as he knelt
over her; her hair, untied and spilling wild, full of
grass and bits of leaf from the ground she lay on, her
face—oh, Christ, her face.

“Sir!” Someone grabbed his arm to compel his
attention. He drove his elbow hard into whoever it
was, and the man grunted in surprise and let go.

A gabble of whispers, agitation, people telling the
newcomer that it was the general’s wife, hurt, shot,
dead or dying . . .

“She’s not dying!” he turned and bellowed at them.
He thought dimly that he must look demented; their
blackened faces were aghast. Bixby stepped out and
touched his shoulder gingerly, as though he were a
lighted grenade that might go off in the next second.
He thought he might.

“Can I help, sir?” Bixby said quietly.

“No,” he managed to say. “I—he—” He gestured to
Leckie, busy on the ground.

“General,” said the newcomer, at his other elbow.
He turned to find a blue-clad regular, a very young
man in a baggy lieutenant’s uniform, face set in
dogged earnestness. “I dislike to intrude, sir, but as
your wife’s not dying—”

“Go away!”

The lieutenant flinched, but stood his ground.

“Sir,” he said stubbornly. “General Lee has sent me
urgently to find you. He requires that you attend him
at once.”

“Bugger Lee,” said Bixby, very rudely, saving Jamie
the trouble, and advanced on the newcomer, fists
clenched.

The lieutenant was already flushed with heat, but
at this grew redder. He ignored Bixby, though,
attention focused on Jamie.

“You must come, sir.”

VOICES . . . I heard words, disjointed, coming out of
the fog like bullets, striking randomly.

“. . . find Denzell Hunter!”

“General—”

“No!”

“—but you’re needed at—”

“No!”

“—orders—”

“NO!”

And another voice, this one stiff with fear.

“. . . could be shot for treason and desertion, sir!”

That focused my wandering attention and I heard
the reply, clearly.

“Then they’ll shoot me where I stand, sir, for I will
not leave her side!”

Good, I thought, and, comforted, lapsed into the
spinning void again.

“TAKE OFF YOUR coat and waistcoat, lad,”

Jamie said abruptly. The boy looked completely
bewildered, but—stimulated by a menacing movement
from Bixby—did as he was told. Jamie took him by the
shoulder, turned him round, and said, “Stand still, aye?”

Stooping swiftly, he scooped a handful from the
horrifying puddle of bloody mud and, standing,
wrote carefully on the messenger’s white back with a
finger:

I resign my commission. J. Fraser.

He made to fling the remnants of mud away but,
after a moment’s hesitation, added a smeared and
reluctant Sir at the top of the message, then clapped
the boy on the shoulder.

“Go and show that to General Lee,” he said. The
lieutenant went pale.

“The general’s in a horrid passion, sir,” he said. “I
dassen’t!”

Jamie looked at him. The boy swallowed, said,
“Yes, sir,” shrugged on his garments, and went at a
run, unbuttoned and flapping.

Rubbing his hands heedlessly on his breeches,
Jamie knelt again beside Dr. Leckie, who spared him
a quick nod. The doctor was pressing a wad of lint
and a handful of skirt hard against Claire’s side with
both hands. The surgeon’s hands were red to the
elbow, and sweat was running down his face,
dripping from his chin.

“Sassenach,” Jamie said softly, afraid to touch her.
His own clothes were sodden with sweat, but he was
cold to the core. “Can ye hear me, lass?”

She’d regained consciousness, and his heart rose
into his throat. Her eyes were closed, shut tight in a
furious grimace of pain and concentration. She did
hear him; the golden eyes opened and fixed on him.
She didn’t speak; her breath hissed through clenched
teeth. She did see him, though, he was sure of that—
and her eyes weren’t clouded with shock, nor dim
with imminent death. Not yet.

Dr. Leckie was looking at her face, too, intent. He
let out his own breath, and the tension in his
shoulders eased a little, though he didn’t relax the
pressure of his hands.

“Can you get me more lint, a wad of bandage,
anything?” he asked. “I think the bleeding is
slowing.”

Claire’s bag lay open a little way behind Leckie.
Jamie lunged for it, upended it on the ground, and
snatched up a double handful of rolled bandages
from the litter. Leckie’s hand made a sucking sound
as he pulled it away from the sopping wad of cloth
and grabbed the fresh bandages.

“You might cut her laces,” the doctor said calmly.
“I need her stays off. And it will help her to breathe
more easily.”

Jamie fumbled his dirk free, hands shaking in his
haste.

“Un . . . tie . . . them!” Claire grunted, scowling
ferociously.

Jamie grinned absurdly at hearing her voice, and
his hands steadied. So she thought she’d live to need
her laces. He gulped air and set himself to undo the
knot. Her stay laces were leather and as usual soaked
with sweat—but she used a very simple granny knot,
and he got it loose with the tip of his dirk.

The knot fell free and he jerked the laces loose,
wrenching the stays wide apart. Her bosom rose
white as she gasped, and he felt an instant’s
embarrassment as he saw her nipples stiffen through
the sweat-soaked fabric of her shift. He wanted to
cover her.

There were flies everywhere, black and buzzing,
drawn by the blood. Leckie shook his head to
dislodge one that lighted on his eyebrow. They were
swarming round Jamie’s own ears, but he didn’t
bother about them, instead brushing them away as
they crawled on Claire’s body, over her twitching,
pallid face, her hands half curled and helpless.

“Here,” Leckie said, and, seizing one of Jamie’s
hands, pushed it down on the fresh compress. “Press
hard on that.” He sat back on his heels, grabbed
another bandage roll, and unfurled it. With some
lifting and grunting and a terrible moan from Claire,
together they contrived to pass the cingulum round
her body, securing the dressing in place.

“Right.” Leckie swayed for a moment, then got
laboriously to his feet. “The bleeding’s mostly
stopped—for now,” he said to Jamie. “I’ll come back
when I can.” He swallowed and looked directly at
Claire’s face, wiping his chin on his sleeve. “Good
luck to you, ma’am.”

And with that, he simply strode off toward the
open doors of the church, not looking back. Jamie
felt such a rush of fury that he would have gone after
the man and dragged him back, could he have left
Claire’s side. He’d left—just left her, the bastard!
Alone, helpless!

“May the devil eat your soul and salt it well first,
you whore!” he shouted in Gàidhlig after the
vanished surgeon. Overcome by fright and the sheer
rage of helplessness, he dropped to his knees beside
his wife and pounded a fist blindly on the ground.

“Did you just . . . call him a . . . whore?” The
whispered words made him open his eyes.

“Sassenach!” He was scrambling for his discarded
canteen, lost in the rubble of stuff from her bag.
“Here, let me get ye water.”

“No. Not . . . yet.” She managed to raise one hand
halfway, and he stopped dead, canteen in hand.

“Why not?” She was the gray of rotted oats and
slick with sweat, trembling like a leaf. He could see
her lips beginning to crack in the heat, for God’s
sake.

“I don’t . . . know.” She worked her mouth a
moment before finding the next words. “Don’t . . .
know where it is.” The trembling hand touched the
dressing—already showing a stain of blood seeping
through. “If it’s perf . . . perf’rated the . . . bowel.
Drink would . . . kill me. Fast. Intestin’l . . . sh-shshock.”

He sat down by her slowly and, closing his eyes,
breathed deliberately for a few seconds. For the
moment, everything had disappeared: the church,
the battle, the screams and shouts and the rumble of
limber wheels along the rutted road through
Freehold. There wasn’t anything but her and him,
and he opened his eyes to look on her face, to fix it in
his mind forever.

“Aye,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he
could. “And if that’s the case . . . and if it didna kill ye
quick . . . I’ve seen men die gutshot. Balnain died
that way. It’s long and it’s foul, and I willna have ye
die like that, Claire. I won’t!”

He meant it, truly he did. But his hand squeezed
the canteen hard enough to dent the tin. How could
he give her the water that might kill her right before
his eyes, right . . . now?

Not now, he prayed. Please, don’t let it be now!

“I’m not . . . keen . . . either way,” she whispered,
after a long pause. She blinked away a green-bellied
fly, shining like emerald, that had come to drink her
tears. “I need . . . Denny.” A soft gasp. “Quick.”

“He’s coming.” He could barely breathe, and his
hands hovered over her, afraid to touch anything.
“Denny’s coming. Hold on!”

The answer to this was a tiny grunt—her eyes were
squinched shut and her jaw set hard—but she’d
heard him, at least. With the vague recollection that
she always said you must cover folk suffering from
shock and lift their feet, he took off his coat and put
it over her, then took off his waistcoat, rolled it up,
and shoved it under her feet. At least the coat
covered the blood that had now soaked the whole
side of her dress. It terrified him to see that.

Her fists were clenched, both driven hard into her
wounded side; he couldn’t hold her hand. He put a
hand on her shoulder, so she’d know he was there,
shut his eyes, and prayed with his whole being.

THE SUN WAS NEARLY down, and
Denzell Hunter was laying out his knives. The air
was thick with the sweetness of corn liquor; he’d
dipped his instruments in it, and they lay gleaming wetly
on the clean napkin Mrs. Macken had put down on the
sideboard.

Young Mrs. Macken herself was hovering in the
doorway, a hand pressed over her mouth and her
eyes big as a cow’s. Jamie tried to give her a
reassuring smile, but whatever his expression was, it
wasn’t a smile and appeared to alarm her further, for
she retreated into the darkness of her pantry.

She’d likely been alarmed all day, like everyone
else in the village of Freehold; she was heavily
pregnant and her husband was fighting with the
Continentals. And still more alarmed for the last
hour, ever since Jamie had pounded on her door.
He’d battered six doors before hers. She was the first
to answer, and, in poor return for her hospitality,
now found a badly injured woman lying on her
kitchen table, oozing blood like a fresh-killed deer.

That image unnerved him still further—Mrs.
Macken was not the only one in the house who was
shaken by events—and he came close and took
Claire’s hand, as much to reassure himself as her.

“How is it, Sassenach?” he said, low-voiced.

“Bloody awful,” she replied hoarsely, and bit her
lip to keep from saying more.

“Had ye best have a wee nip?” He moved to pick up
the bottle of rough corn liquor from the sideboard,
but she shook her head.

“Not quite yet. I don’t think it struck the bowel—
but I’d rather die of blood loss than sepsis or shock,
if I’m wrong.”

He squeezed her hand. It was cold, and he hoped
she would keep talking, though at the same time he
knew he ought not to make her talk. She’d need all
her strength. He tried as hard as he could to will
some of his own strength into her without hurting
her.

Mrs. Macken edged into the room, carrying a
candlestick with a fresh wax candle; he could smell
the sweetness of the beeswax, and the scent of honey
reminded him of John Grey. He wondered for an
instant whether Grey had made it back to the British
lines, but he had no real attention for anything but
Claire.

Right this moment, he was busy regretting that
he’d ever disapproved of her making ether. He would
have given anything he possessed to spare her
awareness of the next half hour.

The setting sun washed the room in gold, and the
blood seeping through her bandages showed dark.

“ALWAYS CONCENTRATE when you’re
using a sharp knife,” I said weakly. “You might lose a
finger, else. My granny used to say that, and my mother,
too.”

My mother had died when I was five, my granny a
few years later—but I hadn’t seen her often, as Uncle
Lamb spent at least half his time on archaeological
expeditions round the world, with me as part of his
baggage.

“Did you frequently play with sharp knives as a
child?” Denny asked. He smiled, though his eyes
stayed fixed on the scalpel he was carefully
sharpening on a small oilstone. I could smell the oil,
a soft murky scent under the tang of blood and the
resinous smell of the unfinished rafters baking
overhead.

“Constantly,” I breathed, and shifted my position
as slowly as I could. I bit my lip hard and managed to
ease my back without groaning aloud. It made
Jamie’s knuckles go white when I did.

He was standing by the window at the moment,
clutching the sill as he looked out.

Seeing him there, broad shoulders outlined by the
sinking sun, brought back a sudden memory,
surprising in its sharpness. Or rather, memories, for
the layers of experience came back altogether, in a
wodge, and I was seeing Jamie rigid with his fear
and grief, the slight black figure of Malva Christie
leaning toward him—and remembered feeling both a
vague affront and a tremendous sense of peace as I
began to leave my body, carried on the wings of
fever.

I shook the memory off at once, frightened even to
think of that beckoning peace. The fear was
reassuring; I wasn’t yet so close to death as to find it
appealing.

“I’m sure it went through the liver,” I said to
Denny, gritting my teeth. “That much blood . . .”

“I’m sure thee is right,” he said, pressing gently on
my side. “The liver is a great mass of densely
vascularized tissue,” he added, turning to Jamie,
who didn’t turn from the window but hunched his
shoulders against the possibility of being told
anything else of a horrifying nature.

“But the excellent thing about a wound to the
liver,” Denny added cheerfully, “is that the liver,
unlike the other organs of the body, will regenerate
itself—or so thy wife tells me.”

Jamie cast me a brief, haunted look, and went back
to staring out the window. I breathed as shallowly as
I could, trying to ignore the pain, and trying even
harder not to think about what Denny was about to
do.

That little exercise in self-discipline lasted about
three seconds. If we were all lucky, it would be
simple, and quick. He had to widen the bullet’s
entrance wound enough to see the direction of its
track and to insert a probe along it, in hopes of
finding the bullet before he had to dig for it. Then a
quick—I could only hope—insertion of whichever
one of his jawed forceps looked most appropriate.
He had three, of different lengths, plus a davier:
good for grasping a rounded object, but the jaws
were much bigger than the tips of a forceps and
would cause more bleeding.

If it wasn’t simple or quick, I’d very likely be dead
within the next half hour. Denny was entirely correct
in what he’d told Jamie: the liver is hugely
vascularized, an enormous sponge of tiny blood
vessels crossed by very large ones like the hepatic
portal vein. That’s why the wound, superficially tiny,
had bled so alarmingly. None of the major vessels
had been damaged—yet—because I would have bled
to death in minutes if they had been.

I was trying to breathe shallowly, because of the
pain, but had an overwhelming need to draw deep,
gasping breaths; I needed oxygen, because of the
blood loss.

Sally flitted through my mind, and I seized on
thought of her as distraction. She’d survived the
amputation, screaming through a leather gag,
Gabriel—yes, Gabriel, that was the name of the
young man with her—white-eyed as a panicked
horse, fighting to hold her steady and not to faint
himself. She had fainted, luckily, toward the end—So
sucks to you, Ernest, I thought blearily—and I’d left
them both in Rachel’s care.

“Where’s Rachel, Denny?” I asked, suddenly
thinking to wonder. I thought I’d glimpsed her
briefly in the churchyard after I’d been shot, but
couldn’t be sure of anything that had happened in
that blur of black and white.

Denny’s hand stopped for an instant, the cautery
iron he was holding suspended over a tiny brazier
he’d set fuming at the end of the sideboard.

“She is searching for Ian, I believe,” he said quietly,
and laid the iron very gently in the fire. “Is thee
ready, Claire?”

Ian, I thought. Oh, God. He hasn’t come back.

“As I’ll ever be,” I managed, already imagining the
stench of burning flesh. Mine.

If the bullet was resting near one of the large
vessels, Denny’s probing and grasping could rupture
it and I’d hemorrhage internally. The cauterization
might cause shock suddenly to set in and assassinate
me without warning. Most likely, I’d survive the
surgery but die of lingering infection. Consoling
thought . . . At least in that case I’d have time to
write a brief note to Brianna—and perhaps warn
Jamie to be more careful about who he married next
time. . . .

“Wait,” Jamie said. He didn’t raise his voice, but
there was enough urgency in it to freeze Denny.

I closed my eyes, rested a hand gingerly on the
dressing, and tried to envision just where the
damned bullet might be. Was it only in the liver, or
had it gone all the way through? There was so much
trauma and swelling, though, that the pain was
generalized over the whole right side of my
abdomen; I couldn’t pick out a single, vivid line of
bright pain leading to the ball.

“What is it, Jamie?” Denny asked, impatient to be
about his business.

“Your betrothed,” Jamie said, sounding bemused.
“Coming up the road with a gang of soldiers.”

“Does thee think she is under arrest?” Denny
asked, with a fair assumption of calm. I saw his hand
tremble slightly as he picked up a linen napkin,
though.

“I dinna think so,” Jamie said doubtfully. “She’s
laughing wi’ a couple of them.”

Denny took his spectacles off and wiped them
carefully.

“Dorothea is a Grey,” he pointed out. “Any member
of her family would pause on the gallows to exchange
witty banter with the hangman before graciously
putting the noose about his neck with his own
hands.”

That was so true that it made me laugh, though my
humor was cut off at once by a jolt of pain that took
my breath away. Jamie looked at me sharply, but I
flapped a hand weakly at him, and he went to open
the door.

Dorothea popped in, turning to wave over her
shoulder and call goodbye to her escort, and I heard
Denny sigh in relief as he put his spectacles back on.

“Oh, good,” she said, going to kiss him. “I hoped
you hadn’t started yet. I’ve brought a few things.
Mrs. Fraser—Claire—how are you? I mean, how is
thee?” She put down the large basket she was
carrying and came at once to the table I was lying on,
to take my hand and gaze sympathetically at me with
her big blue eyes.

“I’ve been slightly better,” I said, making an effort
not to grit my teeth. I felt clammy and nauseated.

“General La Fayette was most concerned to hear
that you’d been hurt,” she said. “He has all of his
aides telling their rosary beads for you.”

“How kind,” I said, meaning it, but rather hoping
the marquis hadn’t sent a complicated greeting that I
might need to compose a reply to. Having got this
far, I wanted to get the bloody business over with, no
matter what happened.

“And he sent this,” she said, a rather smug look on
her face as she held up a squat green-glass bottle.
“Thee will want this first, I think, Denny.”

“What—” Denny began, reaching for the bottle, but
Dorothea had pulled the cork, and the sweet coughsyrup
smell of sherry rolled out—with the ghost of a
very distinctive herbal scent beneath it, something
between camphor and sage.

“Laudanum,” said Jamie, and his face took on such
a startling look of relief that only then did I realize
how frightened he had been for me. “God bless ye,
Dottie!”

“It occurred to me that Friend Gilbert might just
possibly have a few things that might be useful,” she
said modestly. “All the Frenchmen I know are
dreadful cranks about their health and have
enormous collections of tonics and pastilles and
clysters. So I went and asked.”

Jamie had me half sitting, with his arm braced
behind my back and the bottle at my lips, before I
could add my own thanks.

“Wait, will you?” I said crossly, putting my hand
over the bottle’s open mouth. “I haven’t any idea
how strong this stuff is. You won’t do me any good
by killing me with opium.”

It cost me something to say so; my instinct was to
drain the bottle forthwith, if it would stop the beastly
pain. That nitwit Spartan who allowed the fox to
gnaw his vitals had nothing on me. But, come right
down to it, I didn’t want to die, either of gunshot,
fever, or medical misadventure. And so Dottie
borrowed a spoon from Mrs. Macken, who watched
in grisly fascination from the door while I took two
spoonfuls, lay down, and waited an interminable
quarter of an hour to judge the effects.

“The marquis sent all sorts of delicacies and things
to aid your recovery,” Dottie said encouragingly,
turning to the basket and starting to lift things out by
way of distraction. “Partridge in jelly, mushroom
pâté, some terrible-smelling cheese, and—”

My sudden desire to vomit ceased just as suddenly,
and I half-sat up, causing Jamie to emit a cry of
alarm and grab me by the shoulders. Just as well
that he did; I would have fallen onto the floor. I
wasn’t attending, though, my attention fixed on
Dottie’s basket.

“Roquefort,” I said urgently. “Is it Roquefort
cheese? Sort of gray, with green and blue veins?”

“Why, I don’t know,” she said, startled by my
vehemence. She gingerly plucked a cloth-wrapped
parcel out of the basket and held it delicately in front
of me. The odor wafting from it was enough, and I
relaxed—very slowly—back down.

“Good,” I breathed. “Denzell—when you’ve
finished . . . pack the wound with cheese.”

Used to me as he was, this still made Denny’s jaw
drop. He glanced from me to the cheese, plainly
thinking that fever must have set in with unusual
speed and severity.

“Penicillin,” I said, swallowing and waving a hand
at the cheese. My mouth felt sticky from the
laudanum. “The mold that makes that sort of cheese
is a species of Penicillium. Use the stuff from the
veins.”

Denny shut his mouth and nodded, determined.
“I will. But we must begin soon, Claire. The light is
going.”

The light was going, and the sense of urgency in
the room was palpable. But Mrs. Macken brought
more candles, and Denny assured me that it was a
simple operation; he would do quite as well by
candlelight.

More laudanum. I was beginning to feel it—a not
unpleasant dizzy sensation—and I made Jamie lay
me down again. The pain was definitely less.

“Give me a bit more,” I said, and my voice didn’t
seem to belong to me.

I took as deep a breath as I could and eased myself
into a good position, looking with distaste at the
leather gag that lay beside me. Someone—perhaps
Dr. Leckie—had slit my shift up the side earlier in
the proceedings. I spread the edges of the opening
wide and stretched out my hand to Jamie.

The shadows grew between the smoke-stained
rafters. The kitchen fire was banked, but still live,
and the glow of it began to show red on the hearth.
Looking up at the flickering rafters in my drugged
state reminded me too much of the time I had nearly
died of bacterial poisoning, and I shut my eyes.
Jamie was holding my left hand, curled on my
breast, his other hand gently stroking my hair,
smoothing damp wisps of it off my face.

“Better now, a nighean?” he whispered, and I
nodded—or thought I did. Mrs. Macken murmured
some question to Dottie, received an answer, and
went out. The pain was still there but distant now, a
small, flickering fire that I could shut out by closing
my eyes. The thud of my heartbeat was more
immediate, and I was beginning to experience . . .
not hallucinations, quite. Disconnected images,
though—the faces of strangers that faded in and out
behind my eyes. Some were looking at me, others
seemed oblivious; they smiled and sneered and
grimaced but had nothing, really, to do with me.

“Again, Sassenach,” Jamie whispered, lifting my
head and putting the spoon to my lips, sticky with
sherry and the bitter taste of opium. “One more.” I
swallowed and lay back. If I died, would I see my
mother again? I wondered, and experienced an
urgent longing for her, shocking in its intensity.

I was trying to summon her face before me, bring
her out of the floating horde of strangers, when I
suddenly lost my grip on my own thoughts and
began to float off into a sphere of dark, dark blue.

“Don’t leave me, Claire,” Jamie whispered, very
close to my ear. “This time, I’ll beg. Dinna go from
me. Please.” I could feel the warmth of his face, see
the glow of his breath on my cheek, though my eyes
were closed.

“I won’t,” I said—or thought I said—and went. My
last clear thought was that I’d forgotten to tell him
not to marry a fool.

[broughps]

MOBY

1. William remembering Mac

2. Claire after she's been shot

3. John and Hal ask Jamie and Claire for help

I HADN’T SEEN ANY of the previous day’s
flock of visitors, though Jamie had told me about
them. This day, though, brought one for me. Mrs.
Macken brought him up the stairs, in spite of her
advanced state of pregnancy, and showed him into my
tiny room with great respect.

He wasn’t in uniform and was—for him—quite
subfusc, in a coat and breeches of the dull gray that
was referred to (with accuracy) as “sad-colored,”
though he had taken the trouble to wear a dove-gray
waistcoat with it that flattered his coloring.

“How are you, my dear?” he asked, taking off his
hat. Not waiting for an answer, he came down on one
knee by the bed, took my hand, and kissed it lightly.
His blond hair had been washed, I saw—I smelled
his bergamot soap—and trimmed to a uniform
length. As that length was roughly an inch, the
overall effect reminded me irresistibly of a fuzzy
duckling. I laughed, then gasped and pressed a hand
to my side.

“Dinna make her laugh!” Jamie said, glowering at
John. His tone was cold, but I saw him take in John’s
aspect, and the corner of his own mouth twitched.

“I know,” John said ruefully to me, passing a hand
over his head and ignoring Jamie completely. “Isn’t
it dreadful? I ought really to wear a wig for the sake
of public decency, but I couldn’t bear it in the heat.”

“Don’t know that I blame you,” I told him, and ran
a hand through the damp mass of my own hair,
drying on my shoulders. “Though I haven’t yet got to
the point of wanting to shave my head,” I added
pointedly, not quite turning my head toward Jamie.

“Don’t. It wouldn’t suit you at all,” John assured
me.

“How is your eye?” I asked, gingerly trying to raise
myself on the pillow. “Let me have a look at it.”

“Stay there,” he said, and, leaning over me, opened
both eyes wide. “I think it’s quite good. It’s still a bit
tender to the touch and gets the odd twinge when I
move it too far up or to the right, but—do you smell
French cheese?” He sounded slightly startled.

“Mmm.” I was gently prodding the flesh around
the orbit, which showed only a slight residual
swelling. The sclera was still quite bloodshot, but the
bruising was much better. I thumbed down the lower
lid to inspect the conjunctiva: a nice slippery pink,
no sign of infection. “Does it water?”

“Only in strong sunlight, and not very much,” he
assured me, straightening up. He smiled at me.
“Thank you, my dear.”

Jamie didn’t say anything, but the way he breathed
had a distinctly edgy feel about it. I ignored him. If
he chose to make a fuss, I couldn’t bloody stop him.

“What are ye doing here?” he asked abruptly. John
looked up at him, one brow raised, as though
surprised to see him looming on the other side of my
bed. John rose slowly to his feet, holding Jamie’s
eyes with his own.

“What do you think I’m doing?” he asked quietly.

There was no hint of challenge in the question, and I
could see Jamie suddenly check his own hostility,
frowning slightly as he looked John over,
considering.

One side of John’s mouth turned up a little.

“Do you think I’ve come to fight you for the favors
of this lady? Or to seduce her from your side?”
Jamie didn’t laugh, but the line between his brows
smoothed out.

“I don’t,” he said dryly. “And as ye dinna seem to
be much damaged, I doubt ye’ve come to be
doctored.”

John gave an amiable bob of the head, indicating
that this line of reasoning was correct.

“And I doubt, as well,” Jamie continued, an edge
creeping into his voice, “that ye’ve come to continue
our previous discussion.”

John inhaled slowly, and exhaled even slower,
regarding Jamie with a level gaze. “Is it your opinion
that anything remains to be said, regarding any part
of that discussion?”

There was a marked silence. I glanced from one to
the other, Jamie’s eyes narrowed and John’s eyes
wide, both with fixed blue stares. All it lacked was
growling and the slow lashing of tails.

“Are you armed, John?” I inquired pleasantly.

He glanced at me, startled. “No.”

“Good,” I said, grunting slightly as I struggled to sit
up. “Then you obviously aren’t going to kill him”—I
nodded at Jamie, standing over me with fists half
curled—“and if he didn’t break your neck the first
time, he isn’t going to do it now. Are you?” I
inquired, arching a brow at Jamie.

He looked down his nose at me, but I saw the slight
relaxation of his mouth. And his hands. “Probably
not.”

“Well, then.” I brushed the hair back from my face.
“No point in hitting each other. And harsh language
would detract from the pleasant nature of this visit,
wouldn’t it?”

Neither of them chose to answer this.

“That was not actually a rhetorical question,” I
said. “But let that go.” I turned to John, folding my
hands in my lap. “Flattered as I am by the attention,
I don’t think you came solely to inquire after my
well-being. So if you’ll pardon my vulgar curiosity . . .
why are you here?”

He finally relaxed and, at my nod, took the stool,
linking his fingers round his knee.

“I’ve come to ask your help,” he said directly to
Jamie. “But also”—it was slight, but I noticed the
hesitation—“to make you an offer. Not as quid pro
quo,” he added. “The offer is not contingent on your
assistance.”

Jamie made a Scottish noise indicating deep
skepticism but willingness to listen.

John nodded and took a breath before continuing.
“You once mentioned to me, my dear, that—”

“Dinna be calling her that.”

“Mrs. Fraser,” John amended, and, with a polite
bow to me, turned his attention to Jamie, “once
mentioned that she—and you, I would imagine—had
some acquaintance with General Arnold.”

Jamie and I exchanged puzzled looks. He shrugged
and folded his arms.

“Aye, we do.”

“Good. What I—and my brother”—I felt, rather
than saw, Jamie’s start at mention of Hal—“would
ask of you is a note of introduction to Arnold, with
your personal request that the general allow us
official entrance into the city—and whatever aid he
might find it convenient to give us—for the purpose
of making a search for my son.”

John let out the rest of his breath and sat, head
down, not moving. Nobody moved.

At last, Jamie let out a long sigh and sat down on
the room’s other stool.

“Tell me,” he said, resigned. “What’s the wee
bastard done now?”

THE STORY FINISHED, John inhaled, made
to rub his bad eye, and luckily stopped in time.

“I’ll put a bit more honey in that before you leave,”
I told him. “It will ease the grittiness.” This non
sequitur helped to bridge the awkward gap in the
conversation left by Jamie’s being struck
momentarily speechless.

“Jesus,” he said, and rubbed a hand hard over his
face. He was still wearing the bloodstained shirt and
breeches in which he’d fought; he hadn’t shaved in
three days, had barely slept or eaten, and looked like
something you wouldn’t want to meet in broad
daylight, let alone a dark alley. He took a deep breath
and shook his head like a dog shedding water.

“So ye think the two of them have gone to
Philadelphia—William and this Richardson?”

“Probably not together—or at least not to begin
with,” John said. “William’s groom said he left to
find a couple of . . . er . . . girls who had gone from
the camp. But we strongly suspect that this was a
ploy by Richardson, to decoy William out of camp
and intercept him on the road.”

Jamie made an irascible noise.

“I should like to think the lad’s no such a fatheided
gomerel as to go off wi’ this Richardson. Not
after the man sent him into the Great Dismal last
year and nearly killed him.”

“He told you that?”

“Oh. He didna tell ye that?” Jamie’s voice might
possibly have held a shade of scorn, had one been
listening closely.

“I’m damned sure he didn’t tell you anything,”
John replied, with an edge. “He hadn’t seen you for
years before he met you at Chestnut Street, I’d bet
money he hasn’t seen you since, and I’m reasonably
sure I would have noticed had he mentioned
Richardson in the hallway there.”

“No,” Jamie said briefly. “He told my nephew, Ian
Murray. Or at least,” he amended, “Ian got it from
what he said, raving wi’ fever when Ian got him out
of the swamp. Richardson sent him wi’ a message for
some men in Dismal Town—men he said were
Loyalists. But half the men in Dismal Town are
named Washington.”

John’s appearance of pugnacity had vanished. He
looked pale, and the fading bruises stood out like
leprosy against his skin. He took a deep breath,
glanced round the room, and, seeing a half-empty
bottle of claret on the table, picked it up and drank a
quarter of it without stopping.

He set it down, stifled a belch, rose with a brief nod
and a “wait a moment,” and went out, leaving Jamie
and me staring at each other in bafflement.

This was not significantly assuaged by the
reappearance of John, followed by the Duke of
Pardloe. Jamie said something remarkably creative
in Gàidhlig, and I gave him a look of startled
appreciation.

“And a good day to you, too, General Fraser,” Hal
said, with a correct bow. Like John, he was dressed
in civvies, though with a rather loud mulberry
striped waistcoat, and I did wonder where he’d got it
from.

“I have resigned my commission,” Jamie said
coldly. “ ‘Mr. Fraser’ will do. May I ask to what we
owe the honor of your presence, Your Grace?”

Hal’s lips pressed tight together, but, with a glance
at his brother, he obliged with a brief précis of his
personal concern with Captain Richardson.

“And I do, of course, wish to retrieve my nephew,
William—should he in fact be with Richardson. My
brother informs me that you have doubts as to the
probability of this being the case?”

“I do,” Jamie said shortly. “My son is not a fool,
nor a weakling.” I caught the faint emphasis on “my
son,” and so did both Greys, who stiffened slightly.
“He wouldna go off on some feeble pretext, nor
would he allow someone of whom he was suspicious
to take him captive.”

“You have a bloody lot of faith in a boy you haven’t
seen since he was six,” Hal observed
conversationally.

Jamie smiled, with considerable rue.

“I had the making of him until he was six,” he said,
and turned his gaze on John. “I ken what he’s made
of. And I ken who shaped him after that. Tell me I’m
wrong, my lord.”

There was a marked silence, broken only by
Lieutenant Macken’s voice below, calling plaintively
to his wife about the location of his clean stockings.

“Well, then,” Hal said with a sigh. “Where do you
think William’s gone, if he’s not with Richardson?”

“He’s gone after the girls he spoke of,” Jamie said,
lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “He told his groom
so, did he not? D’ye ken who these lassies are?”

The Greys exchanged looks of muted chagrin, and I
coughed, very carefully, holding a pillow to my
stomach.

“If that’s the case,” I said, “then presumably he’ll
come back, once he’s either found them or given up
looking for them. Wouldn’t he? Would he go AWOL
over them—er . . . absent without leave, I mean?”

“He wouldn’t have to risk that,” Hal said. “He’s
been relieved of duty.”

“What?” John exclaimed, rounding on his brother.
“What the devil for?”

Hal sighed, exasperated. “Leaving camp when he
was ordered to stay there in the middle of a battle,
what else? Getting into a fight with another officer,
ending up at the bottom of a ravine with a dent in his
skull through being in the wrong place at the wrong
time, and in general being a bloody nuisance.”

“You’re right, he is your son,” I said to Jamie,
amused. He snorted, but didn’t look altogether
displeased.

“Speaking of nephews,” Jamie said to Hal, “ye
seem remarkably well informed, Your Grace. Might
ye know anything of an Indian scout named Ian
Murray?”

Hal looked blank, but John’s head turned quickly
in Jamie’s direction.

“Yes,” he said. “I do. He was taken prisoner late on
the day of battle and walked with me into camp,
whereupon he killed another scout with a tomahawk
and walked out again.”

“Blood will tell,” I murmured, though privately
both shocked and worried. “Er . . . was he injured?”

“Aye, he was,” Jamie answered brusquely. “He’d
been shot wi’ an arrow, in the shoulder. I couldna
pull it, but I broke the shaft for him.”

“And . . . no one’s seen him since the night of the
battle?” I asked, striving to keep my voice steady.

The men exchanged glances, but none of them would
meet my eyes.

“I, um, did give him a canteen of water mixed with
brandy,” John said, a little diffidently. “He wouldn’t
take a horse.”

“Rachel will find him,” Jamie said, as firmly as he
could. “And I’ve asked Ian Mòr to watch out for the
lad. He’ll be all right.”

“I trust your faith in your blood will be justified,
sir,” Hal said with a sigh, evidently meaning it. “But
as we can do nothing about Murray, and the
question of William’s whereabouts is apparently
moot for the moment . . . I hesitate to intrude my
concerns regarding my blood, but I have stringent
reasons for finding Captain Richardson, quite apart
from anything he may have done or not done with
William. And to that end . . .”

“Aye,” Jamie said, and the tension in his shoulders
relaxed. “Aye, of course, Your Grace. Sassenach, will
ye have the goodness not to die whilst I go and ask
Mrs. Macken for paper and ink?”

“We have some,” John said, reaching into the
leather pouch he’d been carrying under his arm.
“Allow me.” And proceeded to lay out paper, an
inkhorn, a small bundle of quills, and a stub of red
sealing wax.

Everyone watched as Jamie mixed the ink,
trimmed a quill, and began. Knowing how laborious
writing was for him and how much he’d hate being
watched, I pushed myself up a little more, stifling a
groan, and turned to Hal.

“John mentioned that you wanted to make us an
offer,” I said. “Of course we’re happy to help,
regardless. But out of curiosity—”

“Oh.” Hal blinked but changed gears rapidly, fixing
his gaze on me. “Yes. The offer I had in mind has
nothing to do with Mr. Fraser’s kind

accommodation,” he said. “John suggested it, as a
matter of convenience for all concerned.” He turned
to his brother, who smiled at me.

“My house on Chestnut Street,” John said. “Plainly
I shan’t be living there for the foreseeable future.
And I understand that you had taken refuge with the
printer’s family in Philadelphia. Given your present
fragile state of health”—he nodded delicately at the
small heap of bloody dressings in the corner
—“clearly it would be more comfortable for you to
resume residence at my house. You—”

A deep Scottish noise interrupted him, and he
looked up at Jamie, startled.

“The last time I was compelled to accept assistance
from your brother, my lord,” Jamie said precisely,
staring at John, “I was your prisoner and incapable
of caring for my own family. Now I am no man’s
prisoner, nor ever will be again. I shall make
provision for my wife.”

In dead silence, with all eyes fixed on him, he bent
his head to the paper and slowly signed his name.

JAMIE SAW THE GREYS out of the
house and came back with an air of grim
satisfaction. I would have laughed if it hadn’t hurt to
do it, but settled for smiling at him.

“Your son, your nephew, your wife,” I said.
“Fraser, three; Grey, nil.”

He gave me a startled look, but then his face truly
relaxed for the first time in days. “You’re feeling
better, then,” he said, and, coming across the room,
bent and kissed me. “Talk daft to me some more,
aye?” He sat down heavily on the stool and sighed,
but with relief.

“Mind,” he said, “I havena the slightest idea how
I’m going to keep ye, with no money, no commission,
and no profession. But keep ye I will.”

“No profession, forsooth,” I said comfortably.
“Name one thing you can’t do.”

“Sing.”

“Oh. Well, besides that.”

He spread his hands on his knees, looking critically
at the scars on his maimed right hand.

“I doubt I could make a living as a juggler or a
pickpocket, either. Let alone a scribe.”

“You haven’t got to write,” I said. “You have a
printing press—Bonnie, by name.”

[broughps]

MOBY

1. William remembering Mac

2. Claire after she's been shot

3. John and Hal ask Jamie and Claire for help

4. William asking Jamie about the circumstances of his birth

WILLIAM SHOVED his way through
the crowds in the City Market, oblivious to the
complaints of those rebounding from his
impact.

He knew where he was going and what he meant to
do when he got there. It was the only thing left to do
before leaving Savannah. After that . . . it didn’t
matter.

His head throbbed like an inflamed boil.
Everything throbbed. His hand—he’d probably
broken something, but he didn’t care. His heart,
pounding and sore inside his chest. He hadn’t slept
since they’d buried Jane; would likely never sleep
again and didn’t care.

He remembered where the warehouse was. The
place was almost empty; doubtless the soldiers had
taken everything the owner hadn’t had time to move
out of reach. Three men were lounging by the far
wall, sitting on the few remaining casks of salt fish
and smoking their pipes; the smell of tobacco
reached him, a small comfort in the echoing cold
fishiness of the building.

“James Fraser?” he said to one of the loungers, and
the man pointed with the stem of his pipe toward a
small office, a sort of shed attached to the far wall of
the warehouse.

The door was open; Fraser was seated at a table
covered with papers, writing something by the light
that fell through a tiny barred window behind him.
He looked up at the sound of William’s footsteps
and, seeing him, put down his quill and rose slowly
to his feet. William came forward, facing him across
the table.

“I have come to take my farewell,” William said,
very formally. His voice was less firm than he liked,
and he cleared his throat hard.

“Aye? Where is it that ye mean to go?” Fraser was
wearing his plaid, the faded colors muted further by
the dimness of the light, but what light there was
sparked suddenly from his hair as he moved his
head.

“I don’t know,” William said, gruff. “It doesn’t
matter.” He took a deep breath. “I—wished to thank
you. For what you did. Even though—” His throat
closed tight; try as he might, he couldn’t keep Jane’s
small white hand out of his thoughts.

Fraser made a slight dismissive motion and said
softly, “God rest her, poor wee lass.”

“Even so,” William said, and cleared his throat
again. “But there is one further favor that I wished to
ask of you.”

Fraser’s head came up; he looked surprised but
nodded.

“Aye, of course,” he said. “If I can.”

William turned and pulled the door shut, then
turned to face the man again.

“Tell me how I came to be.”

The whites of Fraser’s eyes flashed in brief
astonishment, then disappeared as his eyes
narrowed.

“I want to know what happened,” William said.
“When you lay with my mother. What happened that
night? If it was night,” he added, and then felt
foolish for doing so.

Fraser eyed him for a moment.

“Ye want to tell me what it was like, the first time
ye lay with a woman?”

William felt the blood rush into his head, but
before he could speak, the Scot went on.

“Aye, exactly. A decent man doesna speak of such
things. Ye dinna tell your friends such things, do ye?
No, of course not. So much less would ye tell your . . .
father, or a father his . . .”

The hesitation before “father” was brief, but
William caught it, no trouble. Fraser’s mouth was
firm, though, and his eyes direct.

“I wouldna tell ye, no matter who ye were. But
being who ye are—”

“Being who I am, I think I have a right to know!”

Fraser looked at him for a moment, expressionless.
He closed his eyes for an instant and sighed. Then
opened them and drew himself up, straightening his
shoulders.

“No, ye haven’t. But that’s not what ye want to
know, in any case,” he said. “Ye want to know, did I
force your mother. I did not. Ye want to know, did I
love your mother. I did not.”

William let that lie there for a moment, controlling
his breathing ’til he was sure his voice would be
steady.

“Did she love you?” It would have been easy to
love him. The thought came to him unbidden—and
unwelcome—but with it, his own memories of Mac
the groom. Something he shared with his mother.

Fraser’s eyes were cast down, watching a trail of
tiny ants running along the scuffed floorboards.

“She was verra young,” he said softly. “I was twice
her age. It was my fault.”

There was a brief silence, broken only by their
breathing and the distant shouts of men working on
the river.

“I’ve seen the portraits,” William said abruptly. “Of
my—of the eighth earl. Her husband. Have you?”

Fraser’s mouth twisted a little, but he shook his
head.

“You know, though—knew. He was fifty years older
than she was.”

Fraser’s maimed hand twitched, fingers tapping
lightly against his thigh. Yes, he’d known. How could
he not have known? He dipped his head, not quite a
nod.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” William said, louder
than he’d intended.

“Didna think ye were,” Fraser muttered, but didn’t
look at him.

“I can count,” William went on, through his teeth.
“You lay with her just before her wedding. Or was it
just after?”

That went home; Fraser’s head jerked up and there
was a flash of dark-blue anger.

“I wouldna deceive another man in his marriage.
Believe that of me, at least.”

Oddly enough, he did. And in spite of the anger he
still struggled to keep in check, he began to think he
perhaps understood how it might have been.

“She was reckless.” He made it a statement, not a
question, and saw Fraser blink. It wasn’t a nod, but
he thought it was acknowledgment and went on,
more confident.

“Everyone says that—everyone who knew her. She
was reckless, beautiful, careless . . . she took chances
. . .”

“She had courage.” It was said softly, the words
dropped like pebbles in water, and the ripples spread
through the tiny room. Fraser was still looking
straight at him. “Did they tell ye that, then? Her
family, the folk who kent her?”

“No,” William said, and felt the word sharp as a
stone in his throat. For just an instant, he’d seen her
in those words. He’d seen her, and the knowledge of
the immensity of his loss struck through his anger
like a lightning bolt. He drove his fist into the table,
striking it once, twice, hammering it ’til the wood
shook and the legs juddered over the floor, papers
flying and the inkwell falling over.

He stopped as suddenly as he’d started, and the
racket ceased.

“Are you sorry?” he said, and made no effort to
keep his voice from shaking. “Are you sorry for it,
damn you?”

Fraser had turned away; now he turned sharply to
face William but didn’t speak at once. When he did,
his voice was low and firm.

“She died because of it, and I shall sorrow for her
death and do penance for my part in it until my own
dying day. But—” He compressed his lips for an
instant, and then, too fast for William to back away,
came round the table and, raising his hand, cupped
William’s cheek, the touch light and fierce.

“No,” he whispered. “No! I am not sorry.” Then he
whirled on his heel, threw open the door, and was
gone, kilt flying.

[broughps]

MOBY

1. William remembering Mac

2. Claire after she's been shot

3. John and Hal ask Jamie and Claire for help

4. William asking Jamie about the circumstances of his birth

5. Claire and Jamie finally make it back to the Ridge

I COULDN’T STOP BREATHING.
From the moment we left the salt-marsh miasma of
Savannah, with its constant fog of rice paddies, mud,
and decaying crustaceans, the air had grown clearer, the
scents cleaner—well, putting aside the Wilmington
mudflats, redolent with their memories of crocodiles and
dead pirates—spicier, and more distinct. And as we
reached the summit of the final pass, I thought I might
explode from simple joy at the scent of the late-spring
woods, an intoxicating mix of pine and balsam fir, oaks
mingling the spice of fresh green leaves with the must of
the winter’s fallen acorns, and the nutty sweetness of
chestnut mast under a layer of wet dead leaves, so thick
that it made the air seem buoyant, bearing me up. I
couldn’t get enough of it into my lungs.

“If ye keep gasping like that, Sassenach, ye’re like
to pass out,” Jamie said, smiling as he came up
beside me. “How’s the new knife, then?”

“Wonderful! Look, I found a huge ginseng root,
and a birch gall and—”

He stopped this with a kiss, and I dropped the
soggy gunnysack full of plants on the path and kissed
him back. He’d been eating wild spring onions and
watercress plucked dripping from a creek and he
smelled of his own male scent, pine sap, and the
bloody tang of the two dead rabbits hanging at his
belt; it was like kissing the wilderness itself, and it
went on for a bit, interrupted only by a discreet
cough a few feet away.

We let go of each other at once, and I took an
automatic step back behind Jamie even as he
stepped in front of me, hand hovering within reach
of his dirk. A split second later, he’d taken a huge
stride forward and engulfed Mr. Wemyss in an
enormous hug.

“Joseph! A charaid! Ciamar a tha thu?”

Mr. Wemyss, a small, slight, elderly man, was
swept literally off his feet; I could see a shoe
dangling loose from the toes of one stockinged foot
as he groped for traction. Smiling at this, I glanced
round to see if Rachel and Ian had come into sight
yet and spotted instead a small, round-faced boy on
the path. He was perhaps four or five, with long fair
hair, this flying loose around his shoulders.

“Er . . . Rodney?” I asked, making a hasty guess. I
hadn’t seen him since he was two or so, but I
couldn’t think who else might be accompanying Mr.
Wemyss.

The child nodded, examining me soberly.

“You be the conjure-woman?” he said, in a
remarkably deep voice.

“Yes,” I said, rather surprised at this address, but
still more surprised at how right my

acknowledgment of it felt. I realized at that moment
that I had been resuming my identity as we walked,
that step by step as we climbed the mountain,
smelling its scents and harvesting its plenty, I had
sloughed off a few layers of the recent past and
become again what I had last been in this place. I
had come back.

“Yes,” I said again. “I am Mrs. Fraser. You may call
me Grannie Fraser, if you like.”

He nodded thoughtfully, taking this in and
mouthing “Grannie Fraser” to himself once or twice,
as though to taste it. Then he looked at Jamie, who
had set Mr. Wemyss back on his feet and was smiling
down at him with a look of joy that turned my heart
to wax.

“Izzat Himself?” Rodney whispered, drawing close
to me.

“That is Himself,” I agreed, nodding gravely.

“Aidan said he was big,” Rodney remarked, after
another moment’s scrutiny.

“Is he big enough, do you think?” I asked, rather
surprised by the realization that I didn’t want
Rodney to be disappointed in this first sight of
Himself.

Rodney gave an odd sideways tilt of his head,
terribly familiar—it was what his mother, Lizzie, did
when making a judgment about something—and
said philosophically, “Well, he’s lot’s bigger ’n me,
anyway.”

“Everything is relative,” I agreed. “And speaking of
relatives, how is your mother? And your . . . er . . .
father?”

I was wondering whether Lizzie’s unorthodox
marriage was still in effect. Having fallen
accidentally in love with identical-twin brothers, she
had—with a guile and cunning unexpected in a
demure nineteen-year-old Scottish bond servant—
contrived to marry them both. There was no telling
whether Rodney’s father was Josiah or Keziah
Beardsley, but I did wonder—

“Oh, Mammy’s breedin’ again,” Rodney said
casually. “She says she’s a-going to castrate Daddy or
Da or both of ’em, if that’s what it takes to put a stop
to it.”

“Ah . . . well, that would be effective,” I said, rather
taken aback. “How many sisters or brothers have you
got?” I’d delivered a sister before we’d left the Ridge,
but—

“One sister, one brother.” Rodney was clearly
growing bored with me and stood on his toes to look
down the path behind me. “Is that Mary?”

“What?” Turning, I saw Ian and Rachel navigating
a horseshoe bend some way below; they vanished
into the trees even as I watched.

“You know, Mary ’n Joseph a-flying into Egypt,” he
said, and I laughed in sudden understanding.

Rachel, very noticeably pregnant, was riding
Clarence, with Ian, who hadn’t troubled to shave for
the last several months and was sporting a beard of
quasi-biblical dimensions, walking beside her. Jenny
was presumably still out of sight behind them, riding
the mare with Franny and leading the pack mule.

“That’s Rachel,” I said. “And her husband, Ian. Ian
is Himself’s nephew. You mentioned Aidan—is his
family well, too?” Jamie and Mr. Wemyss had
started off toward the trailhead, talking sixteen to
the dozen about affairs on the Ridge. Rodney took
my hand in a gentlemanly way and nodded after
them.

“We’d best be going down. I want to tell Mam first,
afore Opa gets there.”

“Opa . . . oh, your grandfather?” Joseph Wemyss
had married a German lady named Monika, soon
after Rodney’s birth, and I thought I recalled that
“Opa” was a German expression for “grandfather.”

“Ja,” Rodney said, confirming this supposition.

The trail meandered back and forth across the
upper slopes of the Ridge, offering me tantalizing
glimpses through the trees of the settlement below:
scattered cabins among the bright-flowered laurels,
the fresh-turned black earth of vegetable gardens—I
touched the digging knife at my belt, suddenly dying
to have my hands in the dirt, to pull weeds . . .

“Oh, you are losing your grip, Beauchamp,” I
murmured at the thought of ecstatic weed-pulling,
but smiled nonetheless.

Rodney was not a chatterbox, but we kept up an
amiable conversation as we walked. He said that he
and his opa had walked up to the head of the pass
every day for the last week, to be sure of meeting us.

“Mam and Missus Higgins have a ham saved for
ye, for supper,” he told me, and licked his lips in
anticipation. “And there’s honey to have with our
corn bread! Daddy found a bee tree last Tuesday
sennight and I helped him smoke ’em. And . . .”

I replied, but absentmindedly, and after a bit we
both lapsed into a companionable silence. I was
bracing myself for the sight of the clearing where the
Big House had once stood—and a brief, deep qualm
swept through me, remembering fire.

The last time I had seen the house, it was no more
than a heap of blackened timbers. Jamie had already
chosen a site for a new house and had felled the trees
for it, leaving them stacked. Sadness and regret there
might be in this return—but there were bright green
spikes of anticipation poking through that scorched
earth. Jamie had promised me a new garden, a new
surgery, a bed long enough to stretch out in—and
glass windows.

Just before we came to the spot where the trail
ended above the clearing, Jamie and Mr. Wemyss
stopped, waiting for Rodney and me to catch up.

With a shy smile, Mr. Wemyss kissed my hand and
then took Rodney’s, saying, “Come along, Roddy,
you can be first to tell your mam that Himself and
his lady have come back!”

Jamie took my hand and squeezed it hard. He was
flushed from the walk, and even more from
excitement; the color ran right down into the open
neck of his shirt, turning his skin a beautiful rosy
bronze.

“I’ve brought ye home, Sassenach,” he said, his
voice a little husky. “It willna be the same—and I
canna say how things will be now—but I’ve kept my
word.”

My throat was so choked that I could barely
whisper “Thank you.” We stood for a long moment,
clasped tight together, summoning up the strength
to go around that last corner and look at what had
been, and what might be.

Something brushed the hem of my skirt, and I
looked down, expecting that a late cone from the big
spruce we were standing by had fallen.

A large gray cat looked up at me with big, calm
eyes of celadon green and dropped a fat, hairy, very
dead wood rat at my feet.

“Oh, God!” I said, and burst into tears.

[broughps]

So what are your five from MOBY?