Mother Claire

by Mustardlover16

Summary:

Jamie knew, from the second he decided she’d be his wife, that Claire was meant to be a mother. Since he made that marital choice a few minutes into knowing her, it stood to bear that he’d known it as long as he had her.

A series of moments in which Jamie witnesses Claire interacting with her children, all of them, born from her, or adopted (so many adopted children).

Notes:

Title is based on the way Book William and Marsali refer to Claire in the later books.

Chapter 1

Jamie knew, from the second he decided she’d be his wife, that Claire was meant to be a mother. Since he made that marital choice a few minutes into knowing her, it stood to bear that he’d known it as long as he had her.

He saw it the way she abandoned her own discomfort to restore it to others. He saw it in the way she fawned over wee plants in the garden, or a horse that threw a shoe. He saw it in the way her eyes flashed in protective fury when Laoghaire was to be strapped in the hall, or when Father Bain tried to use his barbaric exorcism methods on little Thomas. After they had wed, he felt it in the way she cradled his head to her chest after lovemaking. He sensed it in the touch of her cool hands upon him when she tended the most minor scrape. He heard it in the way she scolded every single member of the rent party that dared to be undernourished, reckless with their safety, or in any other way perilous to the health of others.

He didn’t have to see Claire with Faith to know she had been a good mother to her and would have continued to be so had they been blessed. He was mesmerized by the way she soothed a bairn yet to be born, but he saw her do it dozens of times, rubbing over a spot she insisted was the babe’s head, though all the bumps seemed to feel the same to him (wonderful, but indistinguishable as individual parts of a babe). That quiet, melodic, tone she took when narrating some piece of the outside world to their unborn child had a death grip on his throat and choked all but grateful tears from him.

Fergus was the first person he had ever seen her direct her entire maternal efforts into, during those weeks of pregnancy, and later after they had lost the babe.

It had made Jamie feel as warm as a cheetie curled before a hearth to see her straighten his clothes, fuss over the smear of dirt on his check, push a second helping of dinner. He knew Fergus felt the same awe of her tenderness that Jamie did.

Fergus admittedly held a bit of hero-worship where Jamie was concerned, but in Fergus’ eyes, he knew Claire had hung the moon and stars. The juxtaposition of at once, wanting to fight off any of her would-be attackers, while simultaneously yearning for her to praise him with a kiss on the cheek for his excellent marks in his writing lessons was comical. Jamie knew they’d be keeping the lad when he caught her sitting on a chaise in one of the spare rooms, reading the boy a story, his head pillowed in her lap, sound asleep.

They had discussed it that night, in their room at Jared’s estate, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder, one of his large hands fanned out over her rounded belly.

“He’s so young, Jamie. And those women at the brothel are too busy with their own affairs to properly watch out for him and keep him out of trouble.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face while she talked, so that she could keep one hand tucked against her belly and the other pressed against his heart. “And he’s bound to find trouble, he’s a magnet for it. And he needs-”

“He needs you, Sassenach.” Jamie cut in, tone loving and assertive.

“But that’s just it, Jamie he does need-” She stopped and blinked rapidly, clearly having expected Jamie to argue against keeping him. “Sorry, can you say that again?”

“He belongs wi’ ye.” Jamie spoke simply, but with great confidence.

“With us.” Claire replied firmly, as if trying to assuage some doubt in him.

“Aye, because I belong w’ ye too. I’m fond of the lad, Claire, I am. And he’s fond of me, too, I think. But he’s fond of me because he likes me to show him to fight with a sword, and grapple, and adventure. He loves you because he sees the mother he’s always longed for. Someone who cares where he sleeps at night. Who worries if he’ll be home in time for supper. Who scolds him when he’s nicked something he shouldn’t have, and you find out about it. He loves you because you love him.”

Her eyes had begun to water then, a frequent occurrence since becoming heavily pregnant. “He deserves to be loved.” Claire stated with a waterlogged voice.

“Aye. And ye do. He’s that lucky. We all are.” Jamie agreed warmly, patting the swell of their child softly.

For a while after Faith, that spark which always shone so brightly in her had dimmed some, and Jamie was inclined to believe Claire herself had purposely dimmed it. Not that he blamed her. Just the thought of their wee lass, only so big as his two hands put side by side width wise, gone before they truly had the chance to love her was heartrending. He could see the way she tried to protect herself from that pain, that unutterable loss, by tucking away any associated feelings and tendencies.

He only really started to see it again once they had joined Prince Charles’ army.

Fergus had always been brash, but “It has never been more true than in the middle of a bloody fucking war zone,” Claire had raved at Jamie one evening, sat in between two towering stacks of empty crates, and cradling her own head in her hands, bent at the waist and desperately trying not to cry in front of her husband.

“Mo cridhe…” Jamie had begged helplessly, impotent to stop the source of her fear.

“He followed you onto a battlefield, Jamie! He drew a knife on trained soldiers! He’s twelve years old and he killed a man! My-! My…” She panted as her breaths came in uncontrolled spurts, so shallow she took in no air.

Jamie shot a hand out to palm the back of her neck, drawing her to him until her blue-tinged lips huffed uselessly against his cheek. He whispered to her then, simple words. “In, Claire. Good. Now out. Again, in. And out.” She sagged against him, and he brought his hands up, bracketing her rib cage, holding her together lest she fly apart again.

This wasn’t Jamie’s first war. It wasn’t Claire’s either. He wondered dimly what she could have seen to hollow her out like this. Nothing he had experienced in battle in France, nor any of the tribulations he and Claire had faced together had left quite so lasting a scar as Claire’s world war had, though Jack Randall had certainly come close.

Her cheekbones jutted uncomfortably into his collar as he held her. He could spread his fingers wide and count each rib, each vertebra below the sinewy, too thin body of his wife. And still, despite her fear, and her hunger, and her trauma, Fergus was her only thought.

“Fergus is well. He is unharmed, and he is back in his cot. We’ll see to him presently. He’ll no’ get near a battlefield again, mo nighean donn, I swear it.”

Claire had keened into his tattered waistcoat then. “As long as he stays with us, he won’t be far enough away. Never. But I can’t…” She choked on a sob, and he had to glide a hand up and down her spinal column to coax her into a regular breathing pattern again. “I can’t send him away from me.” She confessed after several minutes.

“I’m sorry, a nighean.” He sighed into her hair, desperate with the need to change their situation.

Claire had leaned back then, and set cool, forgiving hands on his cheeks. “It’s not your fault.” She held his gaze for a long, blessedly quiet minute. “Let’s get back to Fergus.”

Jamie nodded solemnly, and thumbed at the tracks her tears had made on her muddy, blood splattered cheeks. He searched for a slightly less soiled portion of his shirtsleeve, wiped her face reverently with it, then rocked until his forehead came to rest against hers, lending her his strength.

Claire had spent the whole night lying on her back, Fergus pinned to her side, playing with strands of his hair and whispering promises of safety and family and peace. Jamie spent the whole night laying on his side, fingers entwined with hers, watching them, his family, studying the way Claire soothed their boy, and wondering if he’d get the chance to watch her do the same to their next wean.

…

After he’d sent Claire through the stones, he spent long nights in his cave, and in Ardsmuir prison thinking those were the only glimpses of motherhood he’d get the chance to experience with Claire. They were treasured, to be sure, and on nights when he wished most for comfort, he’d imagine his head in her lap, her fingers in his hair, or her fingernails dragging soothing patterns on his back, and her voice, like honey, reminding him that she was here and that he was alright.

Upon her return, he hadn’t thought much about it, other than the nearly uncontrollable need to hear about his daughter, Brianna.

He wondered if she noticed how she unconsciously cradled her arms when she talked about their daughter’s infancy. The realization caused a physical ache in him to know that she had picked up the habit of kicking out one hip and rocking gently when she stood still for too long, as if she had a fussy toddler latched to her and in need of calming.

He hadn’t ever noticed it before, but after her return, even without the overt, automatic displays of maternal instinct, he sensed that something was missing when he looked at her. He could never pin down exactly what it was, but she never seemed complete to him. It was only when she was reunited with Fergus that he figured it out. She had clearly spent the last 20 years with a child. She looked natural clutching Fergus to her, at ease in a way she hadn’t been since she’d found him again. All it had taken was her hands on his face, studying his every detail, drinking in the presence of one of her children.

While he longed to know what Claire might look like walking the streets of Edinburgh with their daughter, he could appreciate that he was blessed to know what it looked like to watch her do the same with their son.

In a pub, later than night, Jamie had gotten up from the table to retrieve a second round of ale for the table. The tavern was full, and too close for comfort, everyone jostling for elbow space and shouting to be heard over the din. He couldn’t hear the conversation they were having, but he saw the crow's feet Claire hadn’t had in her twenties, and she laughed at some smart-arse comment Fergus had undoubtedly made. Her fingers rested gently on his remaining hand and slid against his knuckles as she talked. Their heads were bent close together to hear one another, but there was something conspiratorial about the way their two curly wig heads bobbed and at times nearly touched at the forehead as they spoke.

Jamie had finally succeeded in refilling their mugs and had rounded a column in an attempt to avoid the crowd with three full-to-the-brim drinks. Fergus’s voice carried over to him, and he planted his shoulder into the column, leaning in, hungry to hear them share the kind of carefree, easy conversation he used to overhear in Paris. “Bran had taken my hand! Milord was chasing him around the dooryard in the moonlight! Mud was flying everywhere. Mistress was screeching at him to give it up as lost. I swear, I never laughed so hard, Milady.”

He heard Claire’s musical laugh, high and elegant, and so, so full of mirth. “My goodness, I would have paid to see that. Sounds like quite the display.”

Jamie peeked around the edge of his hiding spot to see Fergus’s curls bob frenetically. “Oui. He cut quite an impressive figure, I think, despite smelling like the deepest rut in a well-trod carriage path.”

Claire shrieked with laughter then, patting his arm jovially and shaking her head in disbelief. Fergus grinned that impish smile that always reminded Jamie that trouble was never far where this young man was concerned. Claire clutched the young man’s arm, as if needing support, and he saw a profound look come over Fergus. Jamie saw the moment Fergus truly recognized her for the same woman who had chided him for eating too many pastries and spoiling his appetite. Jamie watched him gulp and return her grasp with such purpose and joy.

“Oh, stop. I can’t breathe. My God, I forgot how funny you are.” She said through fits of laughter. She leaned closer to him, and she must have seen the transformation in his eyes, for she lowered her voice and said, “I did miss you. I- well, I lived a different life while I was gone. But not a day went by that I didn’t hear the lullabies you used to sing when I was carrying Faith. I saw you everywhere I went. And I missed you desperately.” Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears, and Jamie could feel his own welling in response. He never could stand to see her cry.

Fergus had every reason to be confused, to have a rush of conflicting emotions considering the reappearance of the mother he thought dead for the last 20 years. But, as with every challenge Jamie had seen him face, he took it in stride. A wry smile curled one corner of his mouth, but Jamie could see the relief and grief swirling behind it. “I did not think you left me by choice, Maman. It brings me great joy that I will not have to miss you any longer.”

Claire offered nothing more than a watery smile. Jamie decided he could re-enter without interrupting their moment, and he made a good show of sliding around the pillar as if he were avoiding a hidden patron. Fergus was just in the process of kissing both of her cheeks with his typical flourish and boyish charm, and he stood from the table.

“If you will excuse me,” He began, swiping his mug from Jamie and draining it in one very impressive gulp. “Milord has given me an exceedingly long list of errands to run, ostensibly to hoard you for himself tonight.” Fergus was subtle enough to drop an exaggeratedly lewd wink at that. “No matter. I have many more embarrassing stories of Milord, and now, many more nights to share them with you. Au revoir.”

…

Young Ian and Claire were close from the start, a fact that warmed Jamie’s heart to no end. It had much to do, Jamie thought, with their mutual empathy for all sorts of people, and their general lack of suspicion.

Ian had instantly taken to Claire, who was so used to mistrust based on her accent or proclivity for healing, that she was ecstatic to find a new ally, despite his youth. Their voyage back from France to Scotland gave them ample opportunity to pepper each other with questions and regale one another with the context that made up their pasts.

In the berth that Claire and Jamie shared (when his internal organs weren’t doing their damnedest to become external), Claire shared her joy with Jamie.

“He’s such a sweet boy. He’s got his father’s gentleness.” Claire said, in echo of a thought he’d had countless times since the lad was born. “But that keen mind. That’ll be Fraser blood through and through, not to mention the penchant for chaos.”

Jamie could only moan as another mighty rock of the boat churned his wame. “Ohh.” Claire muttered in pity, laying one icy hand on his forehead. She had just come in from the deck, and the chill was a blessing on his flushed skin. She took his grunt for dissatisfaction, and began to pull away, but Jamie shot an unseeing hand out, snatching at her wrist and leaning more fully into her touch. “Fergus outgrew needing me to tuck him in to fight off his nightmares. It’s a shame you couldn’t have outgrown this in the years since I was here last.”

The boat was a good sight calmer now, and her cool hand had brought him a brief respite from his agony. “I havena outgrown my nightmares, Sassenach.” He said playfully, braiding their fingers together. “Come chase them awa’ for me?” He suggested in that off-color way that made her blush from the neckline of her dress to the tips of her ears.

“As much as I’d like that, Soldier,” she said fondly (and indeed, very pink about the neck and face), pulling gently at a handful of hair at the back of his scalp, “I’ve seen this play before, and it always ends with me scrambling over you to avoid being on the wrong end of your nausea. You’ll just have to wait.”

Jamie chuckled in agreement, and scooted until his head rested against the soft, fleshy part of her hip, like a cat bunting up against a beloved owner. She stroked his scalp in blissful long strokes, which didn’t help the feline comparison his mind had conjured.

Claire’s mind had wandered back to the topic of their discussion. “I can see why you’re so fond of young Ian. He’s so guileless and earnest. I know he’s sixteen but… he’s got such a young, well-meaning heart, hasn’t he?”

Jamie smiled, though he closed his eyes at her ministrations. “Aye. There’s been much darkness since ye’ve been gone, but he’s like a lantern that never runs out of fuel, that one. He burns bright.”

“I shine, not burn.” Claire recited the MacKenzie motto, and suddenly it was as if two decades of longing melted away, and they were back in their bedchamber in Leoch castle, young, and in love, and far less scarred. Claire’s index finger snaked down to trace his eyebrows.

“I’m glad you had him. And Fergus too. It’s a wonder you haven’t gone gray keeping him alive into adulthood.” Claire observed wistfully.

“And Brianna? Did she no’ have ye pulling your hair out by the roots?” Jamie questioned quietly, resting his hand on her knee, which was folded up onto the berth next to him.

“Oh, by all means. She certainly does burn! A temper like a rabid boar. But she could be so sweet too. I worked odd hours as a doctor frequently. I’m not sure when exactly it started- she had to be 8 at least- but I’d wake up in my bed, after a few hours rest to find that she’d already left for school. But she always left something for me, so I knew she had come to say goodbye. A doll of hers, tucked under my arm, or a picture she had drawn for me on the nightstand.” Claire sniffled softly. “Even when she was older, at 16 or 17, I’d find the teapot filled and waiting on the stove, or a flower plucked from the garden we grew together.”

“Ye raised a kind, thoughtful lass.” Jamie rumbled against her skirts, which he had buried his face in.

“Yes. And you helped raise two impetuous, wonderful, charming young men. And their many other Murray siblings besides.”

Jamie curled his shoulder in so that he was practically on his belly, his face hidden against the warm solid weight of his wife, her knee clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, the warmth of it seeping through his linen shirt. “Be at ease.
I’ll chase off your nightmares, Soldier.”

…

The dynamic of Claire and Ian’s connection necessarily shifted after the events surrounding Geillis’ capture of the boy. Ian, lost, scared, and an ocean away from Jenny, had no mother to turn to for comfort for the first time in his life. Claire, for her part, could never resist the call of the suffering, and responded like a she-bear at the call of a distraught cub.

Jamie had always considered Ian to be his foster son, so it was truly heart-warming to see his wife take to him so easily. Ian suffered nightmares following the events in Jamaica, but was very self conscious of them, and was reticent to share them. He’d often show up to the morning campfire or table (depending how far into the backcountry they happened to be at the time) with dark circles under his eyes and a heavy, unseen force weighing down his shoulders.

Rather than interrogate him in front of Jamie, Claire would set a large glass of goat or cow milk (when it could be found) in front of the young man and heap an extra portion of breakfast onto his plate. Jamie knew Ian noticed it, and found it endearing, because it would usually prompt his first eye-contact and interaction of the morning. He’d look up at Claire from under a burdened brow and say in the softest voice, “Thank ye, Auntie.”

Most days, she’d let him go off with his uncle to complete whatever tasks they had on order that day. She knew from their time in Edinburgh, how keen he was to be seen as a man, responsible and capable.
On his worst mornings, though, Jamie was amused to hear her find some excuse that would not sting Ian’s pride but would offer him the respite he needed after a few nights tumultuous sleep. One such day, after a breakfast of corn hash, wild strawberries, and cured boar meat, Jamie stood to meet the day’s work, and Ian rose wordlessly to join him.

He had dragged his feet from his bedroll to their campfire that morning and hadn’t had the energy to say more than his thanks to Claire. Jamie and Claire shared a private, knowing look over the boy’s head.

“I’ll be off to the settlement just past those trees there.” Jamie indicated to Claire with the tip of the dirk he was busy securing to his belt. They were in the habit of telling each other where they were going, and how long they could be expected to be away, after years of having to go off in search of one another after some latest catastrophe. “I’m hoping one of the homesteads there will have a few laying chickens we might buy, and a rooster too, that we could use to set ourselves up with a steady supply of eggs.”

“Alright. How far?” Claire acknowledged, using dirt and little bit of water from her water skin to scrub the burned remains of their breakfast from the pan.

“A little o’er an hour’s walk. I dinnae want to take the horses. I want them fresh when we break camp tomorrow. I’ll try to acquire the birds, and maybe some odds and ends if the price is right.” Jamie supplied, jingling their coin purse dubiously.

“That’s fine, then. Be careful.” She looked up and smiled at him, and the sun felt just a little bit warmer than it had moments before. “I’d like to forage for some edibles and medicinals before we head off tomorrow. Perhaps even find some seeding plants I can use to start a garden once we’ve established a homestead.” Her eyes flicked almost imperceptibly at Ian, then Jamie, before darting back down to the plates and mugs she was collecting.

Claire knew that Jamie didn’t like her straying without either he or Ian with her, for her safety. Typically, it was a point of consternation for the couple, as she felt she could handle herself, and he had a very rational fear that some trouble would find her while she was alone and bent double and paying little mind to the world around her.

Jamie suppressed a smirk and played the role she had silently cast him in. “Aye, but take Ian and Rollo with you, aye? Ye know I dinnae like-”

Claire had to turn her face from Ian so he couldn’t catch her smile as she interrupted in her typical response, “Yes, yes. I’ve heard it before. Ian?”

Ian’s head bobbed up from where it was hovering over his beloved wolfdog. “Aye, Auntie, I’ll come wi’ ye. I’ll just have a pish before we go.” He stood and, as a unit, he and his dog went somewhere downwind to relieve themselves behind a tree.

When Ian was out of auditory range, Jamie’s smile twisted into a half-scolding, half-praising look. “Very clever, Sassenach. But in the future, if you plan to involve me in one of yer schemes, you could jes’ tell me, no?”

Claire scrunched her nose at him and smirked back. “I dunno, you seemed to get the gist without.”

Jamie bent and kissed her hair. “Your acting has improved with age, Sassenach. Look after the lad. I’ll be back soon.”

Jamie arrived back at their camp several hours later, with three hens and a rooster, as well as a used but well forged rasp, and a new hoof knife and nipper, all pulled on a sledge helpfully by the single goat one of the homesteaders had been happy to part with due to her ornery nature.

Lines of twine were strung up between the trees near their campfire, heavy with the wild onion and other unidentifiable greens Claire and Ian had hung there. Besides that, there was not a sight or sound to indicate where the two might be. Jamie tied the goat to a tree near a flowering patch of something-or-other, set the crate with the fowl down a ways from their bedrolls, and decided to caper about in search of them. He wasn’t particularly worried, but he was always more settled when he had his family within in visual range.

He found them not far off, sitting on a felled log near a stream, their backs to him, speaking in low tones. “...honestly nothing to be ashamed of, Ian. It’s a natural response when you’ve experience something frightening or traumatic. I’ve suffered from nightmares. They’ll lessen with time, I promise.” Jamie knew Claire and Ian probably wouldn’t mind him joining the conversation, but he waited, allowing Claire to have this moment with her nephew.

“What do you dream of Auntie?” Ian’s voice was hoarse from crying, and he watched Claire pass a hand behind him, to work some of the tension out of his shoulders in broad sweeps of a palm.

“Oh, lots of things. I was attacked by a pair of wolves one time, when I tried to break your uncle out of prison. Those yellow gnashing teeth, and feral blue eyes.” She shuddered. Ian’s own wolf raised his head as if he knew what she spoke of, and he rested his chin on her knee with a considering glance.

“That’s why you were so weary of him when I won him, then?” Ian questioned. He seemed to be encouraged that she had overcome some fear which had once plagued her.

“Yes. But he’s a good dog, isn’t he?” Her voice pitched up, crooning at the beast as she scratched his ears. “I have nightmares about… About the battles I was a part of, too. And the time I was nearly burned at the stake for witchcraft. And the long time I spent away from Jamie, and your parents. And lots of other things, besides.” Claire’s arm was draped across his shoulders now, and Ian had leaned into her embrace.

“How do ye sleep at all, with so many things to keep you up?” Ian enquired.

“Honestly Ian? I talk to Jamie. Or someone else I trust. Sometimes, before I have the courage to say it to another person, I tell it to one of the horses.” She laughed faintly. “And I try to take comfort in being with people I feel safe with. Like you. And I let your uncle tell me over and over again that I’ll be alright, until I believe it too.”

This felt to Jamie like a good place to enter the conversation himself. Jamie let himself be heard before he was seen, purposely stepping through dry brush. Claire inclined her head over her shoulder to see him, but didn’t seem surprised at all by his presence. They had always had a sense for the nearness of one another…

“Uncle Jamie!” Ian stuttered, apparently taken off guard.

“Relax lad. I thought I might join the conversation, if ye dinna mind much?” Jamie raised a pacifying hand, indicating Ian shouldn’t get up.

“I-I…” He muttered, cheeks tinging pink.

Jamie eased himself into a seat on the damp earth at Claire’s feet, sitting sideways so that one of his shoulders was slotted against her knees, and he faced their young charge. “Has your Auntie told ye how she spent months rocking me and soothing me back to sleep after I was captured by a redcoat?”

Ian’s mouth fell open in unabashed astonishment. “You, Uncle?”

Jamie’s gaze flickered to Claire out of the corner of his eyes, and she nodded her own confirmation. “Aye. I told ye some of it, after we buried Hayes, you remember?” Ian nodded hastily eyes wide. “I had nightmares every night for a long, long time after that. Violent ones. Sometimes more than once a night.” Jamie cleared his throat at the emotion that had gathered there, his eyes scanning the forest around him for a moment. “At first I was ashamed, I thought… I thought I couldna be a man, nor a worthy husband, if I woke up cowering into my blankets every night.”

He focused his attention on his wife then, and let the whiskey amber of her eyes cleanse him of some of that familiar doubt and fear which had begun to creep in for the telling of it. “What changed it? You dinna have any night terrors now.” Ian observed quietly.

“Ah, I do, but they’re no’ so vivid as they used to be, nor so common. In truth, it was your Auntie. She made me confess what I dreamt, so that it wasnae trapped in my mind anymore. Thoughts like those echo in the dark of yer mind, ye ken, and feed on your feelings, and they grow stronger. It’s hard to tell the difference between a robin and a raptor in the dark. Sometimes it takes a second set of eyes to illuminate things. Do you catch my meanin’, lad?”

“A-Aye, I think so.” Ian accepted, seeming more at ease.

Jamie decided to finish with one final thought. “Take it from someone who has spent the last few decades learning it, lad. Strength is more than never showing weakness. Ye ken as well as I do how strong your Auntie is. And yet, ye’d never think ill of her for fearin’ some danger or harm. Let the people who care for ye be the bearers of your fear. Tha’s how ye overcome it. Your auntie has been slaying my demons for more years than ye’ve been on the earth. And I hope I’ve done the same for her.”

Claire smiled at him then, eyes shining with admiration and affection. “You know you have, my love.” She turned to Ian, kissed his brow, and made to stand up. “Fighting beasties always works up my appetite. What say we find something to cook up, ey, gentlemen?”

Jamie stood first, and offered her his hand, which she accepted. Ian followed their lead and took a step toward them. Jamie lay a hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed understandingly, and the boy leaned forward to wrap an arm around each of them. Claire used the arm not around Jamie’s waist to pull Ian’s cheek to her sternum for a moment. “It’ll be alright, hmm?” She whispered.

Jamie’s heart seized for love of these two. He dropped his chin to rest on his nephew’s crown. “Aye. All is well.” Jamie agreed.

…

Claire was practically vibrating with excitement and buzzing about their small cabin like a wee bumblebee, straightening items on shelves, sweeping the roughhewn floors, checking their supper which cooked in the hearth in a large stoneware pot, and taking down drying herbs from the rack above the work top, never quite completing a task before whizzing to another.

“Claire, a leannan, slow down. They’ve all seen the cabin a dozen times or more at least.”

“Never mind that, it looks like a pigsty in here. Will you please straighten the bed?” It was put to him in the form of a question, but Jamie very much recognized it for what it really was: a command.
He did as he was told, straightening the linens, stacking their pillows, and folding their extra blanket at the foot of the bed, the way she liked it.

He looked behind him to see she had left a half-swept pile of dirt on the floor near the pantry and was standing on tip toes to reach the remaining silver candleholder that had been his mother’s. Jamie quickly opened the pantry door and swept the discarded pile there (it had a dirt floor, and Claire clearly wouldn’t notice the difference in the state she was in).

That accomplished, he strode over to where her fingers were just barely brushing the beautiful, ornamented holder and brought it down to her. She muttered something about the few precious scented beeswax candles she had made, then whirled to complete another inane task.

Jamie grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her back around to face him. “Mo ghoal, would ye stop tearing about the room like a madwoman?” He huddled so he could look up into her face. “Are ye nervous?”

Her shoulder slumped, arms hanging loosely at her sides as she sighed gently. “No- I… I’m just so excited, I think. I’ve got all this pent-up energy, I don’t know what to do with-absolutely not, don’t look at me that way. With our luck they’d all burst in through the door before we’ve had a chance to… fully enjoy each other.”

Jamie grinned. “Yer probably right about that, Sassenach.” He took the candlestick from her and mounted one of the unscented candles in it and placed it in the middle of the table which was already set for seven- Jamie and Claire, Fergus and Marsali, Brianna, Lizzie, and Ian.

Claire sat in one of the two chairs before the hearth and checked the contents of her pot roast. The hearty aroma of potatoes, onion, carrot, and stewed meat wafted up to Jamie. Claire poked at several potatoes with a fork to determine whether they were cooked through or not.

The front door swung open and Lizzie, Ian and Brianna trundled in. Lizzie had a large wooden bowl covered with cheese cloth, and Bree carried a small wicker basket.
“I’ve just made some fast butter, for the bread, Mistress.” Lizzie said, cheeks pink from exertion.

“And I thought it might be nice to have some fresh blackberries for dessert. There’s a huge bramble of them on the other side of the creek.” Bree noted, jerking her head at the basket.
Claire rose and retrieved both, finding places for them on the already crowded table. “That was very thoughtful of both you, thank you, you didn’t have to go through the trouble.” Claire praised somewhat formally.

Brianna rolled her eyes good naturedly and patted her mother on the shoulder. “Relax, Mama. We’re not gonna tear each other limb from limb. You adopted a bunch of young adults, not feral dogs.”
Claire laughed, having been caught, and took Bree’s nose in between two fingers, shaking her head like she might a naughty dog. “Hush, you. I’m not worried about the others, but I’ve always thought you might be half rabid yourself.” Bree snapped her teeth at her mother’s retreating fingers, and the group laughed as one.

Jamie came to stand behind Claire and put his hands on her shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “She’s been driving me crazy since dawn this morning, gave me a list a mile long.” Jamie received a mock glare from his wife, and he flashed them a charming smile. “Dinna worry, lass, I find it endearing. My wee perfectionist.”

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of Fergus and Marsali. Ian, being closest to the door, let them in, and the next ten minutes were spent in general introduction as Bree met her brother and sister-in-law for the first time.

Dinner was a noisy affair in which Fergus and Bree set their formidable wit against one another by trying to tell the most embarrassing stories about Jamie and Claire respectively. Ian joined the fun, and Marsali recounted the tale of her first meeting with Claire, which the party met with horror (mostly Lizzie’s) and amusement.

Jamie’s eyes bounced from person to person, drinking in the sight of them laughing, passing food, and chatting as if they’d been doing it together their whole lives. He hadn’t spared a glance for Claire since they’d sat to eat, and he did so now.

He was not disappointed.

Claire had a glow about her that was so heartbreakingly beautiful, he wished he could capture the image forever, in one of her photographs. It was the kind of serenity and inner joy he’d always longed to give her and had so rarely been able to.

She basked in the sounds of merriment, studying their faces as if to memorize this moment forever. His hand found hers on her knee beneath the table, and she welcomed his fingers in between her own. Jamie leant to whisper in her ear. “Our family, every one. Ours.”

A single tear shone in the corner of her eye. “Ours. And so beautiful.” She whispered back.

The moment was broken when the two noticed the silence and turned as one to see five pairs of eyes studying them teasingly. “If you’d like some privacy, all you have to do is ask, oui?” Fergus taunted boldly.

“Yeah, do you two mind getting a room?” Brianna suggested lewdly.

Ian looked ready to launch his own verbal assault, so Jamie lifted a single eyebrow, snatched at his wife, and bent her backwards, bestowing her with a very passionate, very familiar open mouth kiss.

Groans, exaggerated gagging, and five chairs scraping against floorboards proved Jamie to be the winner of that little exchange, and perhaps Claire too, if the glazed, hungry look in her eye was to be trusted.

...

There was something so devastatingly beautiful about watching her interact with their grandchildren. She looked so natural with a babe in arms, it struck him that he could probably count the number of times she had held a child in his presence.

She said the most daft, wonderful things when she spoke with them, making nonsense noises and silly faces while she spooned cool parritch or mashed fruits into their mouths. When she played with them, it didn’t matter whether the morning sun filtered through the silver streaks in her hair, she looked young and vibrant, and it took everything in him not to tear across a room to crush her in his arms.

When Fergus and Marsali joined them on The Ridge, the novelty of having both of her grandchildren within reach was not lost on Claire. Between building their cabin, planting for the spring season, and Jemmy’s recent birth, stress was high. Marsali, pregnant again, was trying her best to nest and prepare for the new babe. Brianna, a few weeks postpartum, was sleep deprived and very much missing the idea of modern conveniences such as disposable diapers and washing machines.

Jamie and Claire had offered to watch the children for a few hours to give the overwrought women a chance to take hot baths and a nap without the children demanding something from them. Jamie was engaged in a rousing game in which Germaine and he sat on the floor, facing one another, tiny feet pressed to massive ones, their legs vee-ed out, so that the two could roll a rag ball back and forth to one another without it escaping the confines of the makeshift arena of their legs. Occasionally, Jamie would encourage the little boy to toss it to him, and Jamie would make a show of shaking off his hand, or falling backward, as if the throw was enough to do real damage.

Claire’s charge, only a few weeks old, lay across her thighs as she sat on a settle by the fire, and danced her fingers a few inches from his face, encouraging him to focus his little eyes. By the gurgling Jamie could hear, he thought Jemmy was enjoying the show his Granny was orchestrating for him.

Not 30 minutes in, the two adults heard a set of hurried feet on the boards of the front porch. They exchanged a glance, before Claire sighed, shrugged and said, “Come here, Germiane. Grand-pere has to go, sweet boy. Come here.” She beckoned him with a one hand, the other patting the belly of the baby in her lap. Lizzie rushed in, bonnet askew with a wide look in her eye.

Claire relaxed slightly. With Lizzie, an emergency could be as simple as a horse throwing a shoe. “What’s amiss, then, lass?”

“It’s the White Sow. She’s slipped her pen and is terrorizing the goats again, sir.”

Jamie released a long breath. “I’ll kill that damned pig, more trouble than she’s worth the great, reeking-”

“Little ears, love. Maybe save those words for outside.” Claire suggested mildly.

“Aye.” Jamie grunted. He turned to promise Claire he’d be back soon, but they both knew the kind of chaos the thing could wreak.

Claire waved him off with a resigned frown. “I’ve got them handled. Do try to come back without any flesh wounds, won’t you?”

He leaned down, pecked her lips, and grabbed Germaine’s baby-round cheeks in his hands. “Ye mind your Granny, oui? I’ll hear about it if ye dinna.” The little boy nodded seriously, but Jamie sincerely doubted it would do much good. The boy was a menace to any breakable object or living creature within a twenty foot radius and had been since the day he was born.

An hour and a half later found Jamie rushing home, having succeeded, along with half a dozen other men, and Lizzie frantically waving a stick, to repen the pig, and calm the terrified goats. He was largely unscathed, other than a tweaked ankle and a mud-stained shirt that was likely to get him a cold glare from Mrs. Bug.

He removed his grimy boots and shook out the legs of his breeks and the front of his shirt, trying to flick at least some of the dirt and grass before he could track it into the house. He knew enough about women to know he’d be thankful he did so later, his wife included.

Claire had apparently quit the great room, he quickly discovered, but he was close enough to hear the whine and gurgle of two fussy weans, and he followed the sound into the room between Claire’s surgery and the kitchen that served mainly as a drying room for Claire’s many herbs and plants.

Claire looked up immediately upon his entry, Germaine on her hip, arms slung around her neck and legs wrapped around her hips, kicking her weakly in the low back and carrying on with a low, continuous whine. Claire held baby Jemmy against her shoulder with a single arm, and her whole body bounced and swayed in what was clearly supposed to be a soothing motion. He met her eyes. She looked harried but had a serene smile. Her curly wig stood at odd angles, as if one or both of the boys had been yanking at it.

Jamie paused in the doorway, a quiet smile on his face. “Ye look beautiful, Sassenach.”

She tilted her head, resting a cheek on the downy head of Jemmy, as if to give him another angle to admire. “And I have clearly trained you well. You’re sweet to say that. I feel a mess.”

“Ye’ve just wrangled two weans with Fraser and MacKenzie blood on your own, M'annsachd, that could fell a lesser woman.” Jamie teased, walking to her and reaching for Jemmy.

“I think not.” Claire denied quickly, swiveling so that only Germaine was in easy reach.

“Aye, I deserve that. Did ye no’ remember what I said, Germaine?”

Claire, now free of a squirming toddler, repositioned Jemmy so that he lay across a forearm, pressed against her bosom. She stretched a hand out to brush a lock away from the toddler’s flushed face, which now rested against Jamie’s shoulder. The boy was snuffling but had calmed himself. “Oh, don’t be too hard on him. He was a very good boy, and he laid down to take a nap, but Jemmy got fussy and wanted to make sure he was heard. It woke Germaine. He’s just sleepy and overstimulated.”

“Alright then. How about we all go sit for a bit eh? I think we could all use some quiet time.” They returned to the great room and sat side by side upon one of the cushioned chaises. Claire instantly reclined, shut her eyes, and lay the baby in her lap, one hand laid upon his chest. Jamie mimicked her, sitting Germaine sideways in his lap, and clutching the boy to his chest. The drapes had already been drawn, and it was too warm for a fire to be lit in the hearth, so the room was pleasantly dim and cool. Jamie rested his head against the back of the couch and rolled it to look at his wife. She sensed his eyes upon her and amber met sapphire as the two exchanged the kind of exhausted joy that was familiar to parents. Claire slid her head until it rested on his shoulder, and he let his head fall upon hers. The two closed their eyes and were found fast asleep an hour later by two amused, refreshed young mothers happy to retrieve their becalmed children.

Claire also insisted on teaching the grandchildren 20th century games she had played with Brianna when she was small. Jamie’s favorite was hide and seek, primarily because it was hilarious to watch her try to squeeze her not-quite-so-nimble body into the most absurd hiding spots. Jamie had just taken a break from harvesting grain to have some lunch. He wandered into Claire’s surgery, having not found her in her garden or in the kitchen, only to spot her hunched up below her desk, neck curled ridiculously to fit.

“Mo graidh?” He called her curiously. Her eyes opened and she got a finger to her lips to tell him murderously to shut up just before he heard Jemmy’s high, clear voice. “Gra’da?” The little boy twittered at him, around a mouthful of warm bread.

“Halo, Jem.” He smiled in amusement.

“See Granny?” Jemmy asked, whipping his head to and fro about the room.

“Ahh, Granny’s missing is she? Granny? Where are ye, Granny?” Jamie called, playing along. Brianna ambled into the room next, mirth sparking in her crystal blue eyes. “Brianna! Have ye seen Granny?”

Brianna tapped a finger to her chin, as if trying to think. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen her in a long time. I’m getting kind of worried. Do you think she’s lost?” Her tone carried exaggerated worry.

Jemmy toddled over to his mother, slapping a fist full of bread at her knees. “Granny lost!” He parroted.

Jamie stomped about the surgery, making a show of looking under the large empty bench, and throwing up the blankets to check beneath the bed. “I hope Granny’s alright!” He muttered much louder than necessary. He stalked over to the desk, whipped the chair out, and gasped emphatically. “Oh, thank goodness, there ye are, Granny! I’ve worried m’self sick lookin’ high and low for you!” Jamie thundered, snatching her out from the desk and throwing her up over his shoulder. Claire let out a soft, “oof”, and Jamie’s shoulder cracked audibly, and he reflected that these games might have been much easier on them 20 years or so prior. He mentally shrugged and lumbered over to the recovery bed, thumping down on it. “Jemmy! Look who I’ve found for ye! Tell her how we’ve missed her, aye?” Jamie yelled, caging his wife into a seat upon his knees.

“Granny!!! I miss you!” The boy responded immediately, running at her and throwing himself at her chest.

“Oh!” Claire cooed, lifting the little boy against her. “I missed you too Jemmy. Thank you for finding me.”

Brianna didn’t pass up the chance to be a part of this moment, and she sat down beside her father, patting Jemmy’s back and laying her head against Claire. “Welcome back Mama. We’re so glad you aren’t lost.”

Claire sighed contentedly. She kissed Jem, tapped her head against Bree’s, and scooched further back into her husband. Claire’s response held more sincerity than Jem could appreciate, Jamie knew, but he felt it likely that Brianna’s heart clenched with his when she said, “I am so very happy have been found here, by the people I love most.”

Chapter 2

Summary:

This one focuses on Marsali, a young William, and Faith and Henri-Chirstian. Marsali's is based on scenes in the Voyager novel where pirates board the ship, and Claire ends up with a nasty injury in order to save her life.

Claire was laid up in her berth, sweating and nauseous from pain, and weary from a thorough tongue lashing by her husband.

She tried to remember how fearful and anxious she felt every time Jamie had done something brave and stupid which had gotten him seriously hurt, and forgive him his harshness, but it was difficult with her head pounding as it was.

Jamie had stormed off after his tirade, likely to blow off steam somewhere. He was worried about Ian, and now he was worried about her, and it had burst forth in a moment of outrage.

It was close in her bunk, the air stale and damp and suffocating. She worried she might vomit and jar her arm. She focused on taking slow deep breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth.

She heard the door to the bunk room swing in, but didn’t bother to open her eyes. It was taking every ounce of concentration not to relieve herself of the contents of her stomach. If Jamie was back to holler at her some more, he’d have to do it while she lay flat on her back, and a held a hand up to block the light from her eyes.

The door clicked shut, and she felt a presence standing at the bunk watching her, but no one spoke. She waited an agonizingly long moment. “Jamie, really, if you’d like to tell me off more, either get it out of the way or come back when I’m more cognizant. I’ve the most splitting headache imaginable and I can’t so much as twitch without pain shooting up my entire right side.”

The silence was deafening, and Claire thought it possible that Jamie had come to apologize for his behavior, so she spread her fingers to look between the cracks.

It wasn’t Jamie that hovered outside her berth like a wraith, it was Marsali. She was pale as a sheet, and looked incredibly uncomfortable to be alone with Claire, but there was also a touch of concern in her eyes.

“Marsali. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed. Did you need something?” She asked, trying her best to be polite. She was bad at hiding her true feelings at the best of times, let alone after extreme trauma and blood loss and in indescribable amounts of pain. Marsali had been wicked to her from the moment they met, and relations hadn’t improved much with their journey on the Artemis.

It wasn’t entirely the girl’s fault her mother was a foul-mouthed wench who’d likely smeared Claire’s good name at every opportunity.

It wasn’t Claire’s fault either, but she supposed the onus was on herself, as the adult, to be the bigger person. Jamie was extremely fond of the girl, so she must have redeeming qualities.

“Daddy said- he said ye were very badly hurt. He said you thought ye’d be fine but-” the girl swallowed heavily and looked away, a touch of shame coloring her cheeks. “But I ken he’s worrit. I saw him crying before he turned away.” Marsali’s eyes drifted to Claire’s arm, which was wrapped in a mountain of bandage from wrist to shoulder, and which lay propped up on a large pillow Jamie had crossly rolled from a split sail. “He yelled at ye?” She squeaked suddenly, as if she had just processed the rest of what Claire had said.

“Yes. I’ll be fine, and he knows it. He only yelled because he knows I’ll live. He’s… overextended. He’ll come back and apologize once he’s calmed down.” Claire assured, appeased slightly by the guilt she could see written all over her face.

Marsali looked rather dubious at this response. “Been on the wrong end of one of his scoldings, have you?” Claire asked knowingly.

Marsali’s eyes flitted to the door before returning to Claire. “Aye, they’re terrifying. It was only twice but…” She seemed reticent to be overheard by the subject of their conversation.

“Oh yes, he makes a good show of it, I’ll give you that. I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve known your-” Claire admirably tried to seem as if she hadn’t choked on the word, “stepfather for over twenty years. He is all bark and no bite. He blusters around and disappears to brood for a bit, and then he’s tender as milk again, worrying like a mother hen.”

It was only then that Claire realized Marsali was clutching at something, both hands behind her back, but her dress concealed any hint of what it might be. “I’m sorry… Did you need something? I suppose I’ve taken your bunk, but I’ll just have to stay here or face the wrath of my husband again.”

Marsali shook her head vigorously. “N-no, I…” She blew out a frustrated breath and started again, steadier. “I spoke with the Chinaman, and he said he was brewin’ ye a tea for the pain. I thought I might bring it to ye.” She produced the large flagon, still steaming.

Claire blinked several times rapidly, unprepared for the sudden thoughtfulness. “O-oh, thank you, Marsali. That’s… very kind.”

Marsali’s blush deepened at Claire’s obvious surprise. “I know I’ve been fair awful to ye. I know better, I do, I just… got carried awa’, I suppose.”

Claire nodded dumbly, and, without thinking, tried to push herself up. She knew instantly it was a mistake, and she banged her head loudly against the berth in an attempt to distract her from the blinding white pain of her arm. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Fucking Christ.” She swore involuntarily.

Marsali tripped over herself trying to come closer, but jerked to a stop before she could touch Claire, unsure. “I could… I could prop a pillow behind yer shoulders?” She offered meekly.

Claire nodded shallowly; eyes still squeezed tight shut. She felt a slim hand touch the shoulder of her good arm, and Claire managed to lean forward an inch or two without too much pain, allowing the young woman to slide a pillow there to prop her up.

That done, Claire opened her eyes, to see Marsali holding the cup before Claire’s lips. “I think it has brandy, or whiskey, mebbe. It might help, no?”

Claire nodded again and tilted her head until her lips came in contact with the brim of the flagon. Marsali patiently helped her take a few swallows until Claire retreated back to the comfort of her pillow. “Thank you, Marsali. Really. I do feel a bit better already.” Claire admitted, trying to reward the young lady for her efforts. She saw a glimmer of what her husband and Fergus admired so much in her. She could be very kind when she had the mind to be.

“I should be the one thankin’ you, and we both know it, M-Mrs. Fraser.” She said formally, and making every effort to maintain eye contact despite her discomfort, Claire noticed.

“Claire is fine, Marsali. But- that’s a kind gesture.”

Marsali nodded but she evidently wasn’t finished yet, and she studied the aromatic steam as it rose in wisps from the tankard in her hands.

“Yer only hurt because I disobeyed Daddy, and you came after me. If I’d stayed put, that pirate wouldn’t have found me and wouldn’t have- and ye wouldn’t have had to make a target of yerself.” The young woman was fighting off tears very bravely, and she slumped so that she was sitting at the very edge of the bunk.

“Did he hurt you, Marsali? I didn’t get the chance to ask. Are you alright?” Claire said, suddenly more alert. Everything had happened so fast, and the blood loss had clearly taken a toll on her processing speed.

“Me?” Marsali shrieked as if affronted, before seeing Claire’s flinch and lowering her voice. “And you sitting there with your arm sliced like a Hogmany ham.” She lifted the cup in question again and Claire indicated that she would like another sip. “He didna have a chance to touch me. I’m verra lucky you came when ye did. And I’m verra sorry for putting you in that position. Now ye’ve been butchered AND screamed at.”

Claire laughed at the frank appraisal of her situation, and Marsali looked up sharply. Likely she thought Claire half mad. Likely, Claire was or would be soon. Never a dull moment, she thought.

“I don’t mean to startle you. You just took me by surprised is all. Fergus did say you had a wry sense of humor. ‘Butchered and screamed at’,” I couldn’t have summed it up better myself.” Claire chuckled again, clutching at her side. It occurred to her there might have been a bit more liquor in the tea than she’d realized.

Marsali seemed to have loosened up enough to see a bit of humor in what she said, and she giggled quietly.

Claire tried to rally herself into saying something more sincere to the girl, who had clearly put great effort into her apology. “Marsali, I’m glad you weren’t hurt. If it had to be one of us, I’m happy to have been the one. I know you didn’t intend for any of this to happen. But you must know I couldn’t just stand by and let you be hurt.”

Marsali shrugged as if she was, in actuality, not aware of this fact. “I havena done much to deserve your consideration… Claire.”

“You needn’t do anything, Marsali. You have it, alright?” Claire reassured drowsily. She leaned heavily back into her pillow.

Marsali stood, as if to take her leave, but turned round once more. “Why did ye no’ tell Daddy? That it was my fault, I mean.”

Claire weighed her words carefully before answering, eyes studying the grain pattern of the wood berth. “I didn’t think it worth mentioning. Besides, I know for a fact he wouldn’t strap me. The worst I’ll suffer is a few minutes of his bellowing. And I bellow back.” Claire shot her a sly smile.

Just then, the door swung open again, and Jamie stepped in. Remorse and forced calm hung around him in a dense cloud. “Er, halo, lass, I didna ken ye were w’ yer aunt- em, w’ Claire I mean.” He addressed Marsali, clearly unprepared to grovel in front of his adoptive daughter.

“I just came to bring her one of Willoughby’s potions, to help her sleep.” Marsali replied, indicating the cup.

Jamie nodded dimly and took a seat at the edge of the berth, just as Marsali had. He took a whiff, started (clearly it was as spiked as Claire thought, to startle a Scot), and extended the tankard to Claire, an olive branch. Claire was too tired to be catty, and she nodded, but remained still, and let Jamie bring it the rest of the way to her lips and gently offer her some. He set it down, then, and ran a large, scarred knuckle down the bridge of her nose, and along the parenthesis of her jawbone. Claire noticed Marsali watching Jamie closely, as if observing this sort of domestic interaction for the first time.

“Are ye in much pain then?” He was studying her bandages for signs of bleeding and Claire lifted a single eyebrow at Marsali as if to say, ‘I told you so’.

Claire slid her good hand along the bunk until it met his, and he instantly took it and smoothed looping patterns into her knuckles and the back of her hand. “I feel better. Marsali has been kind enough to look after me.” Claire let her gaze focus past her husband’s shoulder, on the girl.

She dipped her head once in acknowledgment. “Is the light still botherin’ yer eyes, Claire? I can drape a sheet from the top berth or put out the candle.”

Jamie’s brows furrowed low over contrite indigo eyes. Apparently, he was also not quite prepared for the sweetness in her tone.

“A sheet would be fine, thank you.” Claire returned graciously.

Marsali retrieved a sheet, stuffed the edge below her bedding, and let it fall down behind Jamie, so that they were ensconced together. “Sleep well, Claire.” She said from the other side of the sheet, before Claire heard retreating steps and the door sliding open and shut once more.

“What’s made you such fast friends, then?” Jamie inquired suspiciously.

“Oh Jamie. I really haven’t the energy. The animosity is over. Can that be enough?” She murmured, succumbing to pain and alcohol.

“Aye. A happy turn of events, then. I suppose if I hadna worn ye out with my stomping and snorting about, I’d mebbe have earned the story.” He agreed easily.

“You’re forgiven. Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?” Claire finally let her eyes drift shut. She felt the blanket being tucked more firmly around her, and felt Jamie curl his legs up to fit in the snug bunk.

“I’ll be staying the night. It’ll be hard for Marsali and Fergus to slink around with me in the room.” He decreed, putting a warm hand on her belly. She scooted her head a bit so he could share her pillow, and she felt his lips brush against her temple before she fell into sleep.

…

Jamie had sensed, when he’d arrived back at the cabin with William, that there had been a shift between John and Claire. The tension and awkwardness which was generally hidden behind stiff English manners had fallen away, and the two seemed nearly friendly.

Jamie had convinced John to stay one more day, as he and William had arrived back at the cabin around midday, and they wouldn’t make it too far down the road before the sun went down and they’d need to set up camp. If they left at first light the next day, they’d back it to the nearest settlement with an inn if they pushed the horses, ate in the saddle, and were sparing with breaks.

John and he played a game of chess, and Jamie told him of the less colorful parts of his few days with William.

John, clearly still fatigued, tired after a couple of hours, and Jamie claimed to have chores in the barn to be getting to so that John might have a wee nap in the armchair by the fire without embarrassment.

Claire, having only gotten a few hours to get to know William in the company of John and Jamie, had asked William if he might want to help her prepare a celebratory dinner before their departure. Jamie had seen William look to John, as if he wanted to stay with the men and enjoy their company instead, but a subtle eyebrow flick had William gamely agreeing with a decent approximation of willingness.

Jamie pitched some hay to the horses, scattered scraps for the goats, and opened the door of the smoke shed to check the tinder box there. He ducked into the chicken coop to collect the eggs, and seeing the overabundance, threw three or four in the pig’s scrap trough as well. He fed Clarence a carrot, because he knew Claire had likely been so busy caring for John, the mule had gone without his daily treat from his mistress.

He found them out by the creek where Claire had first met William. Claire was teaching the boy how to net fish and scale and gut them.

They squatted next to each other in the soft mud of the bank, the hems of Claire’s skirts tucked between her calves and her thighs to keep the mud from them. She wore a brown shawl about her shoulders, the one that had a single line each of red and black dyed wool along the bottom, an ode to the Fraser family tartan, and a gift to Claire from Jenny upon hearing that they had recovered Ian.

Her hair was pulled back into a knot at the back of her neck, and she nodded enthusiastically as William took his turn scaling one of the trout.

He could tell Claire was itching to tell him to adjust his hold on the knife, but that she didn’t want to cross the line between friendly guidance and overbearing motherliness.

Finally, an unwieldy swipe brought the knife much too close to the fingers of his other hand, and Claire made a graceful suggestion which William accepted eagerly. He took another swipe, much more smoothly and assuredly, and Jamie watched the boy turn his face up to Claire to receive her assessment.

“That’s just it, William. Are you sure you didn’t know how to do this before I showed you?” She praised.

He grinned proudly and shook his head. “No ma’am. I have had a fine teacher though.” He said in that courtly, but warm and familiar way he was so used to hearing from John.

Claire, a head taller than him squatting, even down the bank from him, scrunched her nose at him fondly. “Very gracious, young man. I’m glad for your company, you know.”

William blushed slightly and turned his head away somewhat bashfully. “Halo, the house!” Jamie called playfully, making his way down the bank.

William looked up, and greeted Jamie with a firm smile that almost caused his knees to give out. “Hello. Is Papa…?”

“Fine. Needed a wee nap to restore himself. Thought I’d make myself useful.” Jamie said, reaching Claire’s side. Without thought, Jamie leaned in to kiss Claire’s cheek, and though she was turned almost completely in the opposite direction, she edged her cheek toward him to receive it. A gesture they had completed more times in their lives than he could count. He saw William watching but trying to look as if he wasn’t.

Jamie pondered that, as he straightened up. William always seemed to watch he and Claire with rapt interest. Jamie supposed the lad wasn’t entirely used to seeing two adults be so romantically affectionate with one another. John was reserved at the best of times, and he couldn’t imagine he was any less so married to a woman, given his preference for men.

Well. Jamie might not have much he could teach the lad, nor enough time to do it. But maybe he could impart some lasting impression of how a man ought to treat the woman he loved. If he could do that, Jamie thought, that would be something rare and wonderful indeed.

Jamie stopped to reach the pails of prepared fish and fish refuse and moved them up the hills a way to prevent them from being knocked down.

“Have ye ever skipped stones, William?” Jamie asked with enthusiasm, bending low to search for a few flat stones for the three of them.

Williams furrowed his brow and shook his head in confusion. “We’ll teach ye how. I used to do it wi’ my eldest brother, on a loch near Lallybroch, my home, when I was a boy your age.”

Jamie handed one to Claire, and indicated she should go first. Claire accepted the stone. “Hold the stone like this, so it’s even with the surface of the water. It can take quite a bit of practice, but it’s mostly in your wrist. If you do it right…” Claire explained, before pulling back her arm and launching the stone. It skipped upon the surface of the water four times before sinking out of sight.

William shot an astonished look at her, and then turned a greedy eye on Jamie, eager to watch him as well. Jamie raised an eyebrow at Claire, and she stepped aside, arms raised in a ‘be my guest’ gesture.

Jamie sidled up to the edge of the water, turned the stone over in his fingers a few times, then sent his own rock sailing. It skipped upon the surface of the water seven times before losing momentum.

Claire rolled her eyes and clapped sarcastically for him. “Thanks for letting me go first. I’d hate to have to follow that act.” Claire said with snide amusement.

“Och, dinna be a sore loser, Sassenach. Bad form in front of the lad.” He darted his eyes to check if William was watching before he stuck his tongue out at Claire like a bratty child. He’d be damned if William didn’t see a man could show love and respect for his wife AND have a wee bit of fun with her.

Claire noted Jamie’s glance and William's bewildered glance. It wasn’t hard to know what Jamie was thinking. Claire swatted his chest like a playful cat. “Hold your tongue, Fraser, if you’d like to eat supper tonight.”

“Och, I’m shaking in m’ boots, Sassenach.” He grinned smugly at her.

She rolled her eyes and turned to William. His eyes were round as saucers. “Have a go, William. Let’s see if, between the two of us, we can’t beat Jamie.”

“I shall try…” He agreed doubtfully and turned to the creek. He launched his rock upwards, and it sank low below the surface without a single bounce. Claire was standing right over the boy's shoulder, and he whipped around to look at her, incensed that he hadn’t gotten it on the first try. “You said…!” He began, and Jamie could hear the excuse there, but before he could correct it himself, Claire had spoken.

She lay a slender hand lightly on his small shoulder and bent to select another stone. “That’s alright, we’ll just give it another go. It can take a bit of practice. You held the rock perfectly.” She handed him another stone and he slotted it against his palm between thumb and index finger. “Just so. But you threw it upwards, instead of sending it forward. It’s a very delicate movement.” She moved to stand behind him and held his throwing wrist in hers. “We’ll do it together once.”

Jamie saw the flash of irritation and fierce independence rise up William’s face in a flush. Jamie couldn’t remember ever seeing Claire grapple with anything more than a fussy wean, certainly not a bullheaded Fraser when his dander was beginning to rise. “I can do it myself!” He huffed.

Claire raised a disapproving eyebrow but stood back. “Pardon me. I’ll let you practice on your own, shall I?” He could see she was fighting the urge to snap at him for his tone.

She turned away to leave to boy to his snit, and began collecting stones that she and Jamie might throw. Jamie wandered a little way up the bank with her, stooping to help her gather them.

“Bloody bull-headed Frasers.” His wife muttered accusingly at him when they were out of ear shot. A glance over his shoulder showed that William was making little progress, and his shoulders were inching closer and closer towards his ears in irritation.

Jamie chuckled lowly. “Aye. I suppose you’d know all about that.” He studied her face, and her wild honey eyes.

She turned a corner of her mouth upon acknowledgment. “I’ve had this same row a hundred times with Brianna. Once he’s worked himself into a right fit, he’ll give up, claim it’s silly, and swear he won’t play it anymore. If we keep having fun with it, he’ll give up soon enough and want to be included. That or he’ll throw an almighty tantrum and storm back to the house and pout for the rest of the night.” She shrugged, seemingly unperturbed by either outcome.

She smiled, then, and plucked a flower with delicate white petals sprouting from a single stem. She brought it to her nose to smell, then offered it to him. It was a habit they’d picked up since making their home in the colonies. They’d missed so much, in their time apart. Now, they made every effort to take the time to enjoy life’s little pleasures. The flower had a very faint floral perfume, and he smiled, before tucking it behind her ear.

“Ye’ve got us Frasers figured out then, have ye?” He teased lightly, stepping into her, and gathering her to him by the waist.

With her back to William, most of her movements would be unseen, even if he could tear himself away from the frustrating sounds of his stones plunking down into the river. Claire slid a hand to Jamie’s backside and gave it a firm squeeze, drawing him just a little bit closer. “Yes, I think I have.”

He gasped, and shut his eyes, the weight of her body against his arousing and extremely distracting. She grazed her lips against his tauntingly, and then side stepped around him, leaving him bereft with only the cool breeze off the creek to caress his lips.

Just then, as if on cue, William’s melt down reached critical heights. He kicked the bucket of fish guts and scales with such fury, it splattered the bank with them. He stormed up the incline of the bank. Claire whirled to face the boy, and Jamie noticed through the haze of longing that she wore a mask of mild annoyance.

“William?” She prompted, as if she already knew the response. She did, of course. She had raised his daughter, Jamie thought.

“This is a childish game! It’s frivolous and impractical and I won’t waste another minute on it.” He shouted imperiously. It cut through the Claire-induced fog that had gripped Jamie, and he felt his own hackles rise to see the boy direct such vitriol at Claire.

Again, though, she responded, even keeled, before he could string two words together.

“Very well, William, if you want to have that attitude about it, that’s your choice. But while your father is resting, you’ll have to stay here with us. Find a seat, we haven’t finished playing our game yet.” She turned to Jamie, and raised a brow, silently commanding him to do as she bade and not interfere. It was the same glimmer in her eye she got when she was about to inflict some medical treatment which was “for his own good” but which would hurt like hell. A twitch of his head told her he’d follow her lead.

William wound back, prepared to protest, and Claire unleashed a withering glare upon him. “I won’t hear another word about it, young man. Sit.” There was a dangerous edge to her voice, and when William heard it, he swallowed whatever he had been about to say and dropped down to a seat upon the earth. Holy God, but she was magnificent.

She nodded her satisfaction, then gave William her back, to face the river. She released the stones which she had kept tucked into her apron and selected her first stone. “Your turn, Jamie.” She said temperately.

“Aye, so it is.” He set down his own pile of stones, which had been stacked in one of his large hands.

He took up the first stone and hurled it across the creek. It bounced six times. He grinned triumphantly. “Let’s see ye do better, mo nighean donn.”

Claire tilted her head in a calculating manner, drew back her arm, and released. The stone skidded across the water so quickly it was hard to tell, but Jamie counted at least ten skips. “How was that, my lad?” She asked over her shoulder.

Jamie grinned at her. Ah she was enjoying herself. Good. “Fine throw. I counted 10, no?”

“Eleven by my count.” She answered without a trace of gloating or irritation.

“Fine then. That brings your score to 15, and mine to 13, with three throws left between us, no?”

She nodded and stood back to give him his turn. William sat upon the bank, scowling, and head turned away from them, as if begging them to look at him and witness his fury. Jamie pointedly ignored it, as did Claire.

“Enjoy the sight of me winning.” Jamie said, giving another stone a mighty heave. He knew the second it left his hands that the throw was shite, entirely the wrong angle. It bounced once high into the air before it plummeted disappointingly. He pursed his lips in irritation and spun to face the music.

Claire narrowed her eyes. He could see her trying to decide whether he’d mucked it up on purpose. He shrugged, and felt a little bit of heat tickle his ears. “Pride goeth before the fall. I suppose t’was a reprisal of Biblical proportions.” He admitted sheepishly.

“There’s always next time, hmm?” She supplied graciously as she approached for her next turn. The movement of her arm was elegant, graceful as it sliced through the air. Her stone bounced eight times, barely leaving the surface of the water before making contact again. Claire hopped once, giddy with excitement. She whirled and her eyes were warm and bright and welcoming, like the warm glow of the hearth fire through the windows of the cabin after a long day.

“A good throw, a nighean.” He appraised proudly.

She curtsied her thanks playfully, happy to be stepping back into the lighthearted essence of their game. Jamie took his turn, and recovered himself nicely, getting another seven points.

“That was a nice one! You’d have gone more skips if it hadn’t hit the bank on the far end. How do you always manage to send it so far?” Claire asked incredulously.

Jamie made a show of flexing his muscles comically. She flitted over to him and wrapped her arms around one of his biceps, threatening to dangle her entire weight from it. He lifted her just enough that her toes were the only piece that remained on the ground, and he rewarded her with a breezy, fleeting kiss.

He stepped back. “On ye get. I’ve still got a fighting chance against ye.” He glanced over her head to see William jerk his head in the opposite direction as if he hadn’t been watching them longingly.

She released his arm with a fond squeeze. She bent low into her next throw, and the rock danced across the water as if dancing against the top of the water. Claire shrugged helplessly.

Jamie returned the gesture. “It hardly bounced at all. If I didn’t know better, I’d ha’ thought you cast a spell on it to float. Shall we say ten, my white lady?” He teased her approvingly.

“Yes, I’m pleased with ten.” She accepted warmly. “Last turn, solider. Make it count.”

He knelt down, inspecting his pile of stones, searching for the best one. He found one that was rounded on all sides except for single corner which jutted out. He selected that one and rested the pointed end against his trigger finger. He blew a deep breath, focus on control instead of power, and let it fly. He watched it skim the surface of the water, and Claire’s voice rose up high and unbelieving as it carved its path, “…thirteen, fourteen, fifteen! FIFTEEN?”

“Aye, fifteen by my count too.” Jamie crowed proudly. William had abandoned his pretense of being uninterested and his eyes bulged comically out of his head in sheer astonishment.

“What a grand finale. Good show!” Claire praised.

Jamie crossed an arm in front of his waist and took a deep bow as Claire clapped.

He selected a stone for her and placed it in her hand gently as she passed him on the way to her spot for her final turn. She inspected it with false suspicion as if he might try to sabotage her with a poor stone. Finding no obvious faults, she sent it skipping a paltry five times. When she turned back, her nose was scrunched disapprovingly. “Not my best.”

“But enough. I believe that brings your count to thirty-eight, and mine to thirty-six.” Jamie replied warmly. He opened his arms, and she stepped into them happily. He lifted her and twirled her about like they were carefree teenagers, not an auld married couple. She laughed brightly and he basked in it like wee Adso it a patch of sun.

He set her upon her feet, careful to avoid the wreckage of William’s tantrum. “I’ll go collect your prize, aye? Stay here.” He shifted his eyes to William and back to his wife. Her lips twisted up in understanding.

“A winner’s kiss before you go?” She requested.

He smirked. “You were the winner, were ye no’? Seems like the prize is mine in this exchange.” He told her, but obliged, lips slotting against hers like they were made to it.

He released her then and went to forage for a suitable award.

There was a cropping of flowers just behind Claire’s vegetable patch, and he went to make his hunt, within earshot of his son and wife.

William had hunched over his knees at Jamie’s departure and was digging into the mud with a stick disenchantedly. He saw Claire sit next to him out of the corner of his eye, stopped as he was to inspect the flowers.

“I get frustrated when I’m not instantly good at something.” Claire told the boy mildly. “I find it frustrating, and a bit embarrassing. I hate to be poor at something. But I learned a long time ago that some things take a lot of time and practice to master, and that learning the harder things can feel very rewarding sometimes. You know, when they’re not infuriating me.” She confessed with a sardonic smile.

William was quiet for a long time, staring past the opposite bank of the river. He seemed to have recovered his decorum, and Jamie could see by the set of his shoulders that he was uncomfortable. “I behaved poorly. Please accept my apology.” He said stiffly, and if Jamie hadn’t been paying attention, it could have come from the mouth of John himself.

“Are you apologizing for the tone you took with me, or the row you had with the White Sow’s snack?” She eyed the strewn bits of fish pointedly.

Jamie smirked into his stock. Claire was averse to using the strap as punishment, but her tongue lashings were nearly as brutal, delivered in that cool, reproving tone that made one want to crawl into a dark hole and disappear.

“I-” William faltered, and a flush rose up his face, he grimaced and shook his head. “Both. I was beastly to you and have done you and Mr. Fraser a great dishonor. I… I’m terribly ashamed. I am sorry for all of it.”

Jamie nodded his approval to himself as he plucked a handful of yellow flowers- Jessamine, someone had told Claire when they had first settled here. It was a good apology, and he could hear the shame tinging William’s voice.

Claire had mercy on him. “I accept your apology.” She stood and brushed off her skirts casually. “I’ve a dinner to make, but I think we have enough time to try a few more throws, if you’re interested.”

William’s eyebrows raised in astonishment, and perhaps a little of the wonder Jamie often felt around her too. He smiled, having collected his bounty, and he made his way back to them amiably.

William stood and nodded. “Yes ma’am, if you’re still willing. I’d like to learn.”

Jamie took William’s seat on the bank and watched Claire explain the mechanics of stone throwing, the importance of stone selection, and the necessity for a relatively calm body of water. William absorbed her attention and lecture with rapture, following her hand as it waved about with her explanation.

A witch she wasna, but there was no denying the power she had over others, especially Fraser men.

Finally, she stepped behind him, set her hand upon his wrist, and demonstrated the movement. The stone skipped three times under their combined efforts. William yelped giddily and asked her to try it again. She did, and the two got another five skips.

Jamie had finished braiding the stems of his flowers into a laurel when he heard movement behind him. John had awoken from his nap and had come out to find them. Jamie studied the man. He looked more rested, now, and not so pale and drawn, and he moved with the grace and power that Jamie was familiar with.

“It’s not hard to tell she was a wonderful mother, is it?” John inquired with a fondness Jamie was not used to him bestowing on Claire.

“She still is one. But aye.” Jamie’s gaze turned back to his wife, who had taken a step back and was now verbally coaching William, who had managed to skip a few stones on his own.

“Yes, forgive my slip of the tongue. She is a rare woman, Jamie. I’m sorry you never had the chance to raise children together.” John’s hands were clasped behind his back, but Jamie could tell he was fighting against the urge to touch his shoulder.

Jamie shook his head and stood, fingering the crown of flowers he had crafted. The yellow would bring out the embers in her eyes, he knew already. “Och, I’m done regretting the past. She’s here now, and I have moments like this. That can be my only focus now.” He made his way toward his wife without another word. "Your prize, Sassenach!” Jamie called, climbing down the bank to her, holding it aloft.

She admired it with keen, fond eyes, and she stroked the petals of one of the flowers delicately. “It’s beautiful. Will you crown me?”

Jamie shot her a look of such pure devotion; he could see her blush and look over his shoulder at William and John. “It would be my pleasure.” He stepped into her space, set the crown on her head, and brushed a curl out of her face so that he could see every inch of it. He bestowed her cheek with a soft kiss and tilted to give the other the same treatment. She leaned into the pressure of his lips for a second, before pulling back and granting him the soft, sweet smile that made his knees weak.

She stepped around him then, and reached for the bucket with their cleaned fish, smiling at the other two with a faint apology in her smile. William hurried forward, out of the grasp of John, and took the bucket from Claire’s hand in a very gentlemanly manner, earning him a smile from Claire as they made their way to the cabin for supper.

...

It was early morning; Jamie’s internal clock was telling him. Very early. He shifted to his back, and the bed settled unnaturally- Claire wasna in bed with him. He cracked his eyes open, hoping she was just sitting in the window as she tended to do when she became overheated- a somewhat new and frequent occurrence which she assured him was an unfortunate side effect of women growing older.

A quick keek around revealed an empty room, and the candlestick on Claire’s bedside table was missing. He sighed, resigned to the fact that he’d be getting up to find her, but not quite ready to go about doing so. He stretched. Claire was, by her own admission, “very much not a morning person”. It nearly took an act of God to get her out of bed before the sun rose. Early in their marriage he had been equally parts amused and confounded to find her burying her head beneath the pillows when he rose to start the day, or grumbling at the breakfast campfire, hair sticking up like an aggravated hedgehog.

He ran a palm down his face and rolled to a seat, kicking about in the discarded clothes on the floor until he found his long shirt. It wouldn’t do to go wandering around in his altogethers only to scandalize Mrs. Bug, or one of the other tenants.

Besides, he suspected his typical teasing and seduction routine wouldn’t work its usual magic in coaxing his wife back to bed. She had been melancholy lately since Roger and Bree had taken their family back to their own time.

Not that he blamed her in the slightest. His daughter had taken a piece of his heart with her and the edges were raw and bleeding still, weeks later. Jem and Mandy too, the blessings he never imagined. Even Roger- who he hadn’t predicted ever liking upon meeting him- had become precious to Jamie in a very special way.

Jamie took the stairs slowly to the first floor, not sneaking, but trying not to make excessive noise either. Marsali had spent the last two or three nights in their guest room with Henri-Christian, who had a nasty cold. It made Claire and Marsali feel better to know Granny was just a room away if things took a turn for the worst.

A rhythmic creaking told Jamie that Claire was in her medicine room, just between the surgery and the kitchen, in the rocking chair he had built her for her last birthday. With six grandchildren and counting, and an unquenchable baby fever, Claire was nearly always soothing a babe, and her leg had never been quite the same since she’d broken it in the wreck of the Artemis. He’d even fashioned her a wee footstool which rocked as well, and which allowed her to put her foot up as she liked to do when it ached.

He heard her voice then, lilting and lovely as she sang some 20th century lullaby. A fire glowed merrily in the hearth, throwing her into sharp silhouette. He was about to duck into the kitchen and put a kettle on to brew her some peppermint tea when he heard the distinct wet crackle of hard crying.

His head whipped back around to Claire, whose back was to him. She was still singing, still rocking, and she definitely held a baby- it had to be Henri- but yes, she was definitely crying.

He hurried forward, nervous at once. He knelt down, a single knee slamming into the stone floor, hands seeking her arm in comfort automatically. “Claire, what’s amiss? Is Henri no’ well? Shall I fetch Marsali?”

Claire started slightly, but his words only seemed to make her cry harder. He started to rise, to get Marsali (he’d want to know and be there if his child was very ill) but she shook her head in a jerky, stilted manner, and a sob spilled over. She released Henri with a single hand, expertly cradled to her still, and she dashed at her cheeks with the back of her hand before muffling another sob with it.

He felt his heart sink down somewhere to the level of his stomach, and he reflexively swallowed back the tears that had risen up the back of his throat. He had no clue what was going on, but seeing Claire so was enough to send him into fits if he didn’t get a grip on himself. He’d gone soft in his age, he supposed, but he nearly always wept when she did these days. He wasna built to watch her suffer.

“Mo ghraidh, ye must tell me what’s wrong. Ye’ve got me fair worrit.”

Her eyes were closed, and she still held her hand to her mouth, but she nodded to acknowledge she heard him. She tried to take deep, calming breaths, but they stuttered and were short and sharp. Christ, he hadna seen her this worked up in a while.

He hated to leave her like this, but he wanted to find a way to help sooth her, which meant leaving her temporarily. “I’ll be right back, a nighean. It’s alright.” He said solidly, placing a warm hand on her shoulder briefly. He left the room at a fast walk, but once he was out of the room, he picked up his pace, flinging himself up the stairs for a pair of pants and several of his clean handkerchiefs. He snatched up her knitted wrap as an afterthought too.

Then he sprinted down the stairs to the kitchen, slowing only to pass the room Marsali was in, out of courtesy since she’d had many sleepless nights this week with Henri.

In the kitchen he grabbed the hanging kettle, peppermint tea leaves, and a fresh linen towel, and took his haul back to the medicine room. He was gratified to see that Claire had calmed somewhat but she was still crying in earnest. He hung the kettle over the hearth fire, swung the arm so that it wasn’t over direct heat, and would therefore take quite a while to boil. Then he dipped the linen towel in a ewer of water and wrung it out until it didn’t drip.

He dragged a nearby chair over to Claire and sat. Her left hand was patting the stomach of the swaddled little boy in a soothing gesture well known to parents. Once Jamie had settled, however, she removed her hand from the baby and stretched it out to Jamie, who took it gratefully and brought it to his lips to kiss her knuckles.

Claire opened her eyes, tear bright and the color of topaz. He hooked his thumb around hers, so that the J scar on her hand would press against the matching C on his, their permanent declaration for one another made long ago, on a dun in Scotland on the eve of battle.

His free hand used the damp cloth to mop at her face, and he ached to see her lean into his loving touch. When her face was clean, he draped the cool towel over her neck, and she sighed her appreciation.

“I’m a mess, I’m sorry. I had meant to pull myself together before you woke.” She sighed regretfully, her head resting back against the chair but tilted so they were facing one another.

“What possessed ye to do a daft-heided thing such as that, mo cridhe?” He asked benignly, so that she took it in the softly chiding way that he meant it.

Her mouth turned up at the corners, even as a single tear slipped down her cheek unbidden. He rested one hand on her upturned cheek then, brushing his thumb back and forth along her high, impertinent, lovely cheekbone.

“I just didn’t want to upset you. You’ve taken on so much, and I’ve been a mess since- since the Browns. I didn’t want to worry you. I thought I could handle it on my own.” She burrowed deeper into the comfort of his hand, pressed a kiss to his callused palm.

“Och, Sassenach, I didna marry you for your fine cooking or your home making skills.” He said teasingly, for they both knew neither was her strong suit. “I married ye for the love I bear ye, and because I wanted a part in your life. It’s nae just my job to comfort ye. It’s my honor.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead firmly. He withdrew and flicked a thumb across wee Henri’s forehead in greeting. “The lad’s well then?”

“Yes, he’s fine. Over the worst of it. He was a bit fussy when I got up, and I offered to take him and let Marsali sleep.” One of her long slender fingers traced the sleeping face of the little boy. “I-I thought holding him might make me feel a little better.”

Jamie watched Henri as his Granny doted on him in his sleep. He thought maybe it would help if he wasna staring her down just now.

“How’s that, then?” He prodded gently.

“Today is May the twelfth. I hadn’t even realized- I mean, it almost passed, and I didn’t even recognize it except by afterthought!” She burst out, her breath hitching. He could hear the congestion in her chest, and he knew she’d work herself back up if he let her.

Before he could say something placating, however, or run the tips of his fingers down her arm to calm her, he had a sudden flash of memory that reminded him why the twelfth of May was significant. In his mind's eye, he saw a small granite headstone, and his wife, kneeling in the grass before it, tracing the words “Faith Fraser May 12, 1744 - May 12, 1744.”

His own gasp sounded wet and choked and he slid from his seat back to his knees next to her chair, gathering her to him. He remembered at the last moment she held the infant and refrained from the crushing hug that was his instinct. “Oh, my own, my heart… I’m so verra, verra sorry. Oh, my lass.” He slotted her face into the crook of his neck, held her there with a large hand to the back of her head.

He felt hot tears slide down the open neck of his shirt, and he couldn’t be sure whether they were hers or his.

“Henri-Christian, he’s small, like she was. So little. He’s so warm and full of life. A full head of hair. Sh-she hardly had any. Not even any eye lashes.” She wept into his neck.

“Aye, he’s braw.” Was all Jamie could choke out. He hadn’t any words for this kind of suffering anyway, but he suspected that after nearly thirty years of repressing it, she needed to get the words out. They rarely spoke of her, even though he was sure she came to mind often, as she should. Still, the silence had left the wound raw and ragged.

“I held her for hours. She was... Well, she was already gone but I- I held her, and it was like she was still there, with me. Like she was meant to be.”

She had said as much before, but it didn’t hurt any less hearing it the second time and with three decades of separation from it. Still, he listened.

“I haven’t cried for her in a long time. Frank made me promise not to speak of my time here. But to not speak of my daughter? It was the cruelest thing he could have asked.” She sniffled and he reached into his pocket for one of the handkerchiefs he’d brought her. She blew her nose wetly without ever leaving the shelter of his shoulder. Jamie didn’t mind a bit. “What kind of mother doesn’t cry for a lost child? What kind of a mother would promise not to mention their baby?” She curled in on herself, huddled around the baby. “I’m a coward and a disgrace.”

“That’s enough, mo nighean donn.” He stated lowly, firmly. She was allowed grief, anger, despair, regret, even. But he’d not allow her to feel shame or guilt. She’d never have gone back to Frank, who’d imposed such a thing on her, if it hadn’t been Jamie himself who’d sent her, quite against her will. “Ye did what ye had to, to care for the babe you were blessed with, for Brianna. And you did all ye could for wee Faith. She wasna unloved and she wasna forgotten.” He spoke into the crown of her head, warm breath buffeting silver curls there.

She brought Henri from her lap to her bosom, kissed his cheeks and his forehead and his upturned nose. He stirred but didn’t wake. “I suppose I’m so used to having Bree around… At least I had some physical proof that I’d done something right. When she was small, I could hold her to me. And even when she was older, I could watch her play or listen to her talk about her latest project… Hell, I could listen to her talk about the weather, it didn’t matter, I’d known I had done one thing right… But now…”

She trailed off, at a loss for words. But now Bree was gone, back to her century, with no telling if or when she’d come back. Or if she and her family had even made it safely in the first place, for there certainly was no guarantee.

Now she was left with nothing but the doubtful, churning, self-hating thoughts she had no business thinking, but which were the plague of any parent worth their salt. And him. She had him.

He lifted the babe from her arms and took him the few steps it took to reach the surgery. He set the little boy on one of the cots, surrounded on either side by a pillow out of an abundance of caution, but he hadn’t even started learning to roll over yet.

Then he pulled Claire up from the chair by both hands, stooped slightly, and slid his arms around her hips, sliding his arms below hers so that when he stood, there was nowhere for her arms to go but around his neck, and her wee feet dangled in the air above the floor.

“It just feels like I’ve lost them both now.” She admitted hollowly into the juncture of his shoulder.

“I ken it, I do. Oh, my own. I’d take yer pain as mine if I could.” He held her against him fiercely, as if it could block out some of the hurt. Sometimes, he was convinced it could. Not just now, though.

“I wouldn’t let you.” It was the strongest her voice had sounded all night, and she squeezed him back reassuringly.

He set her down on her feet. “Let’s go for a walk, Claire. We’ll leave Henri w’ his Ma. Our tenants and your patients can wait a day. We’ll have a gander about our land, and we’ll remember our wee lass. We may not have Bree this year, but we have each other, aye?”

“Yes, we do. And it’s such a blessing. I hope you know that. No matter what, I’m glad to be here with you, Jamie.” She stood back so she could see his face and caress his jawline with the backs of her fingers.

“I ken.” He kissed her then and poured all the love he had for her into the connection of their lips.

He retreated, she kissed his cheek, and he removed himself to retrieve the infant.

When he re-entered the room, he swung the arm which held the forgotten tea pot off the fire and left it there to deal with later. Claire had wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and they walked up the stairs to get dressed for their walk. Marsali was up by the time they left their room, and she took Henri for his breakfast.

The day went slowly, languidly, as they walked hand in hand through the wilderness that was their backyard. They spoke of that precious, wonderful time when they’d gotten to celebrate her pregnancy with Faith. Discussed the hopes and dreams they’d had for Faith that had been buried with her. They cried, and they laughed as they shared stories of Fergus, and Bree, and Willie, the children they’d had that had grown into their own hopes and dreams

Notes:

More to come, I think. I still have an idea for Roger, and I'd like to include one of an older William, at the very least, but I wanted to get his chapter up and posted. Any requests or suggestions for who else you'd like to feature in this story?

Chapter 3

Roger Mac was meant to have met him twenty minutes ago in the paddock, for another lesson in trimming and shoeing horses. He was coming along nicely but he had a long way to go before Jamie felt safe enough to leave the lad to it with Jamie’s beloved beasts.

Jamie sighed heavily and headed toward Roger’s and Brianna’s cabin- the one that had once been his and Claire’s. He smiled fondly and looked in the direction of the surgery of the Big House. Should he check on Claire, he wondered?

She’d accused him of hovering ever since the Browns had captured her, and he couldn’t deny the charge. But Christ, could he be blamed? He’d seen many tragedies and horrors in his life, perhaps too many for one man. But the sight of her, gagged, cowering, brutalized, and with not an inch of skin unscathed had nearly sent him to an early grave. It had surely sent more than a dozen men to theirs, at his word, and no regret about it.

No, she’d been steadier this week, and they were careful to keep at least two able bodied men about the house when any of the women were there. He’d check on her- no, avail himself of her company, he’d say with the sly grin she couldn’t resist- after he found Roger.

Jamie picked his way down the well-worn path to the MacKenzie cabin. They’d long since cleared it of any brush and debris and cut back the growth on either side to make travel easier for Bree and their wean.

Jamie heard Roger’s voice as he approached the cabin. His son-in-law’s voice had always been distinctive, especially when his only transferable skill from his time to Jamie’s had been his musicality. After his hanging, it was even more so, still a deep baritone, but more rugged now, with a noticeable rasp, as if he never quite managed to clear his throat. Claire had been trying to urge Roger to try singing again, said he’d have to strengthen his throat if he had any hope of recovering his voice, but Roger had refused.

Jamie rounded the corner to see Roger on the porch of the cabin in conversation with Claire. From the back, he couldna see her bruised face, and it could have been a scene from years past when this was still their home. Jamie stopped to admire the view and savor it for the peace it brought him.

He had a mind to scold Claire for wandering out on her own, but he knew it would do nothing but cause an argument, and he was loathe to that at the best of times. And these- these times were certainly nowhere close.

“I-I brought you the tonic for your throat.” Claire was saying, but her voice sounded shaky. It was the first time she’d gone so far from the house without Jamie. He understood the need to regain some semblance of normalcy, but he’d be damned if he ever was unmoved by the fear in her voice. Still, he held himself back. Jamie and Claire had their own brand of healing and were well accustomed to it. But Roger had his own gentle way about him, and it might do his wife good of a different sort.

“Thank ye, Claire. You must know you didn’t have to bring it all this way. I could have come to you; I was on my way to see Jamie anyhow.” Roger said, graciously ignoring the tremor of her hands as he took the bottle.

“I know, I know. But you’re always so good about taking it and- well, I know you’ve been out for days, if my count is right.” She said, breath flighty and quick.

“Your count is very rarely wrong. Sit, have a wee dram for your troubles, no? Then we’ll walk down together.” Roger looked down on her with kind, tender eyes, and Jamie found himself thankful in ways he’d never imagined for the man who’d wed his daughter.

Roger put a firm, kind hand on her elbow and directed her toward a chair which sat on the porch. Claire admirably downplayed a flinch at his movement toward her, but Roger guided her into the chair, undeterred.

“You don’t treat me like a piece glass. Breakable, you know, like the others tend to do.” Claire acknowledged with detectable appreciation.

Roger smiled at her and poured her a whiskey from his hip flask before leaning against the rail of the porch to face her. “Nah, I know better than that. Men have been killed for less.” He joked, and elicited a faint huff of laughter from her, the first Jamie had seen since before. “Besides, you never treated me as such either. Not when I came back from the Mohawk, nor after my hanging.”

“I didn’t see you as broken, or fragile.” She answered his unspoken question with the sort of honesty she was infamous for. It was raw, and he knew Roger felt it too.

“I never told ye what it meant to me, you being there for me, and for the care of Bree while I couldn’t- both times. Ye’ve always looked after me, and I never have told ye how I see it, how it’s touched me. I should know by now how important it is to say such things before ye fear ye dinna have the chance.” Roger Mac had always had a way with words, and Jamie felt a lump rise in his throat at things that he wasn’t meant to hear. He needed to hear all of it like he needed to breathe air.

There was a distinct sniffle indicative of Claire’s oncoming tears. “I’ve known you since you were a little boy, you know. No more than five. You were quieter then, but you were always observing the world around you, taking in everything everyone said. A very sweet, very dear lad.”

Jamie could see the look in his eyes- the eyes of a lad who’d long yearned for a mother. A lad who couldn’t remember the embrace of one, but who longed for it still. It was a look Jamie knew had been mirrored in his own face many a time since his boyhood.

“I remembered you, from back then. I didn’t recognize you as the same person when you first returned to Scotland, but my whole life I remembered the woman who’d snuck me cookies and bandaged my scraped knee. Ye sang a song to me once, I never could remember what it was, but I remembered the sound of your voice.” It was Roger’s turn to choke up, more prone to it now than he’d ever been before the noose. It made his voice reedy and weak.

He held a hand over his mouth, as if trying to keep the painful sounds in his throat from escaping. He swallowed several times, and it looked difficult in the extreme. He recovered himself slightly. “I never had a picture of my Ma. Only one of my Da. The reverend told me stories of course, told me what she looked like, but I couldna form a picture. Every time I tried… she only looked like you. It sounds daft, I know, you were only there for a few weeks but…” Roger shrugged helplessly passed the lump in his throat. Tears sparkled at the corners of his eyes.

Claire held out her hand to him. Even from this distance, some ten yards away, Jamie could see the cuts along her knuckles from where she’d fought her captors and split the skin there. Still, she offered her hand and Roger took it, clutching the ends of her fingers in his large palm. “Swinging on a Star.” Claire said, and the words were just a confusing jumble of vocabulary to Jamie. Roger’s confusion was proof enough that he’d no idea what she’d meant either.

“Pardon?” Roger’s tone made it clear he was worried that she’d completely lost it. She had said one or two delirious things when they’d found her…

“The song I sang you. Swinging on a Star. Bing Crosby. Do you know it?” She clarified, tilting her head to illustrate she’d gone back to their earlier conversation.

“Oh. No, I don’t suppose I do. Will ye- can I hear it?” Roger begged.

Claire sat up gamely, pressed her back into the chair behind her. “I don’t know if I recall all of it still, but the chorus…” She cleared her throat, but she didn’t let go of his hand. “Would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar? And be better off than you are?” Her voice was high and clear. Untrained, but warm and hopeful. Her brow furrowed with concentration, as she tried to remember the next part of the song. “I-well I can’t remember…” She repeated the chorus again, more confidently, but stopped at the same spot and screwing her face up in concentration. “I think- well it can’t be, but I think the next bit is something about a mule with funny ears.”

A startled laugh escaped Roger, and he collapsed to a seat on the floor of the porch.  “I think I remember that bit! My God! ‘A mule is an animal with big funny ears, kicks up at anything he hears’… I canna remember the rest. I think ye had me in fits by that point.” Jamie noticed that Roger hadn’t attempted to sing it, but that the rhythm of his speech had followed the tune Claire had sung earlier.

“Yes, you thought it was hilarious. I think I may have made an embarrassment of myself.  I think I was acting it out to you.” Claire’s smile had brightened, and Jamie could tell she was lost in a memory. She’d had that faraway look in her eye often since she’d been back, but not with this kind of joy.

“Mrs. Graham was a wonderful woman. But she was always my carer. You- I remember thinking that must be what a Ma might do.” Roger said, and he pressed his cheek to her hand, eyes closed against the memories.

Jamie saw her other hand rest atop Roger’s head, and smooth down the hair there. She didn’t look scared anymore or shaken. She looked loving, and concerned, and so achingly parental.

This was a strength Jamie knew he’d never understood. He’d seen it on Claire many a time, and though he’d known the love and agony and beauty of being a father, he thought he’d never quite understand this, that maybe it was inherent only to those who bore children themselves. All of her frailty and distress shrugged off in an instant, she bent and kissed Roger’s crown and stroked his shoulder. “A good lad. You always were.” She said fondly.

“I’m- I’m so glad you’re here with us. I was worried for Bree, and for Jamie, when we went to find you. How they’d fare if- but we all need ye. I…” Roger’s eloquence failed him.

Claire patted his cheek kindly, letting him know she understood. “I’m here.” She stated simply.

Roger cried in earnest then, and curled in on himself, hand over his face. Claire got to her knees, a painful looking maneuver, and got her arms around the boy- for that’s how he looked just now, despite his muckle size. She wrapped her arms around him, and kissed his temple, and scratched his back with torn nails.

His hands came around her, to grasp at her shoulder blades, and Jamie noticed how she’d not so much as twitched. Even in Jamie’s presence, and Bree’s, any movement in Claire’s direction made her jump. But not this time. She rested her cheek on his crown, and stared into the distance, and repeated, “I’m here.”

Roger settled soon after, and he leveraged Claire off the unforgiving ground and back into the chair with the care and attention he might have with Jemmy.

“You’re very dear to me too, Claire.” Roger said sincerely.

“I know it Roger, but it is a wonderful thing to hear.” She replied and tipped her glass of whiskey in salute. “And since we’re being forthright, I want you to take what I say next to heart, hmm?” Her voice held a note of chiding to it, one not to be reproached or ignored. Jamie was well familiar with it.

Roger was keen to it. “Aye, of course.” He bowed his head slightly in deference.

“You’ve been through hell and back, I know it. And you’re still here. You’re still standing. But it’s not enough anymore, darling. You must start living again. I was born to medicine. Jamie to leading men. Bree was born to invent. You were born to sing, and you can’t be afraid to do it anymore. There’s too little time for such a gift to go to waste. Do you understand me?” She held his eyes, green on gold, even as a tremor returned to her frame.

Roger gulped, but didn’t shy from her gaze. His lips trembled as he held his emotion back, but he nodded to indicate he took her meaning. “A-aye. I hear you.”

And Jamie thought there was much more laced in those few words than just an acknowledgment of what she had said. Roger had heard the yearning in Claire’s declaration. She wanted the same for herself. For someone to lend her the strength of their hope.

Jamie inched forward, drawn by the sadness and fear and hope and vitality warring in the frame of a battered woman. His woman, who was refusing to crumble, even as she fell to pieces. Christ Almighty, she was brave.

“Shall I start now, do ye think?” Roger offered, taking a wee nip from his own flask, and clearing his throat in preparation.

“N-no time like the present.” Her tone was full of false self-assurance. It had cost her greatly to say the things she had. It had reminded her of her own hell she was clawing her way back from.

“Any requests?” He scratched at his beard a little self-consciously, but Jamie saw the determination to do this for Claire. To give her a lifeline to cling to.

“The Beatles. You and Bree used to play them all the time. A good memory.” She requested directly.

“Aye. How’s the one go….?” He ran a hand through thick black hair, scratched at the back of his neck, and cleared his throat again. “There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed…” He sang low, so low, Jamie could hardly make out the words so far out as he was. The growl of his voice was deep, heavy. Heavier than it had once been, to be sure, but it carried such depth of feeling, Jamie felt his stomach drop. “Some forever-" Roger’s voice broke, rising in a high sharp. He rubbed his throat self-consciously, but he started again, “Some forever, not for better. Some have gone, and some remain.”

Claire had tipped her head back and closed her eyes, and one of her feet tapped softly in time with the song.

Roger continued the next bit, his voice growing in volume as he gained his confidence. His voice crackled, like the skid of feet on gravel, but it carried well. None of his notes were sour, that Jamie could tell, but even if they had been, the look on Roger’s face would have negated any error. The look of wonder and elation on his face brought pride rushing hot and warm into Jamie’s heart. A glance at his wife showed she hadn’t changed position, but a quiet, knowing smile lit her face.

Jamie refocused on the words again. “…no one compares with you. And these memories lose their meaning when I think of love as something new.”

Claire lifted her head upright, and watched Roger finish the final few lines. She was calm again, and she smiled serenely at Roger. He grinned back at her.

“It wasna perfect but… it didn’t hurt.” He said, and the way he said it implied this was something of a miracle. “It’s no’ like it once was but…”

“But it was beautiful.”

Roger had stood and held his hand out to her to help her up, and she took it with no hesitation. No sooner had she gotten to her feet, than she’d been swept off them in a fierce bear hug from Roger. “It wasn’t bad, was it? Ah, Ma. Thank ye for the gift of ye.”

She laughed at his antics, which had escalated to twirling them about once, but Jamie could see she clung to him just as he did her. “It’s the least I could give you, darling. Your joy, your peace… you have to protect it, and fight for it back.” She kissed his cheek as he set her down. “And use it to help others do the same, yes?”

“Aye. Always.” Roger confirmed, bending to collect his sporran and her medicine basket. Jamie crept back down the path, thinking he could meet them down the way.

She crooked her arm through his and he gallantly escorted her down the path, and Jamie emerged from around a bend to hear them humming together, the same tune Roger had just serenaded her with.

“There ye are, Roger Mac. And what sort of time do ye call this?” Jamie accused with not a hint of derision.

Roger gave him a cheeky nod and gestured to Claire with great pageantry. “I came upon a fair lass on my way, I couldna stand to leave her behind.”

Jamie yanked Claire’s basket from Roger’s hand, and made a show of elbowing the younger man out of the way so he could take up the escort of said ‘fair lass’. “Aye, well find another. This one’s taken.” He said wolfishly, raising her hand to kiss her knuckles.

Roger shrugged and smiled at the two and fell in step beside them while they made their way back to the Big House. When they came to the point midway between the house and the paddock, Claire leaned into the broad expanse of her husband’s chest, rested there for a moment, and waited until he bestowed a kiss upon her forehead. She waved her farewell, and tossed over her shoulder casually, “Start off small, Roger. Easy range. Don’t sing your voice raw. Ease your way into it. Make a joyful noise, yes? Not a painful one? That’s a good lad.” And she turned back to the house without waiting for an answer.

Jamie raised an eyebrow at Roger, and Roger understood the question for what it was. “She can be a very persuasive woman, when she wants to be. How ye ever win an argument with her is beyond me.”

Jamie chuckled fondly. “Aye. I do hope her persuasion of you isna the same as she uses on me. But aye, she gets what she wants more often than no’, and I’m always the better for it.”

Roger nodded as he haltered the first gelding to be shod. “That’s so.”
…

 

It was hard for Jamie to appreciate at the time, being so worried for Claire as he was, but her great illness did offer him a glimpse of just how cherished his wife was.

Of course, he had always felt that way himself, from the moment he laid eyes on her. Whether she knew it or not, his heart recognized its mate, and disregarded the scorn, derision, and jealousy of all those who had seen her as a threat. It was interesting, he pondered in their bed, cradling her weak, sickness ravished form to himself, that her power was always recognized.

When she had first come, Dougal and his men had interpreted her differentness, her intelligence, as a trap set by the English, a spy sent to collect information and relay it back. Even wearing naught but a ratty shift, and an air of unease and strangeness- a wee lass no more than half their stature- they sensed her strength and were threatened by it.

Others thought her a witch, or enchantress, a white lady, or a faerie. No matter the label, she had always been considered a woman with influence over those around her, and time and again, men and women alike identified her as a danger.

Never a healer, always a witch. Never a hope, always a peril. Never a savior, always a harbinger.

Aye, there had been one or two who saw her as he did; Mrs. Fitz, Murtaugh, Master Raymond, Mother Hildegard. His family. But even they, who loved her, and welcomed her presence- and peculiarity- in their lives, never mistook her for weak, insignificant, or ineffectual.

Always a force, his wee wife. Mo sginn. A force, aye, but a wellspring too. Mighty and ever flowing, Claire washed over her people with the inevitability and intensity of a tide. She moved the world around her, changed her very landscape, just by nature of being herself.

He had been moved the very second she stepped into the croft he had sat battered in and he had yet to find the ground standing still below him. And now, they had their own clan, everyone a force in their own right, but drawn to her inexorably, as the needle of a compass to true north.

And that very clan had paced, and fretted, and gathered under their roof spellbound with the fear of her departure.

On the fourth day of her illness, Mrs. Bug had convinced him to leave Claire for a few moments, to have a walk about and find some of her cooking in the kitchen to sustain himself. He knew she thought it strange that he’d not quit her side and leave her to the care of the women, and he couldn’t give a damn. They’d not made vows before the Almighty to this woman. They’d not born the scars of defending her. They’d not shared a home and a bed and children and a life of hopes and dreams and heartbreak and despair.

He went down to the kitchen as instructed, more to find the secreted stash of Claire’s favorite tea than to find anything for himself. He had hopes that she might rouse enough to drink some, if he brewed it just the way she liked, with a sprig of mint and a healthy daub of honey.

Before he could cross into the kitchen, however, he heard the low hum of many voices. They were reverent, subdued, but recognizable. He entered the dining room to find Brianna, Roger, Marsali, Fergus, Lizzie, Kezzie, Jo, Ian, and their five grandchildren gathered there, holding hands, praying, and comforting one another.

“Da?” Brianna demanded at once, standing and sliding Jemmy from her lap to the floor. “Mama, is she…?” Typically, as outspoken as her Ma, Brianna’s voice tapered off into nothingness.

“The same, but still wi’ us.” Jamie tried to sound encouraging, but for all the times he was sure he’d lost her, he didn’t think he’d truly ever come as close as this. “Mrs. Bug insisted I walk for a bit. She’ll call if there’s any change.”

“Good. That’s- she hasn’t gotten worse, and she hasn’t given up yet. That’s a good thing, yeah?” Brianna’s cautious optimism was an exact mirror to his, more of a far-flung hope than true fact. She stretched out a hand to rub his arm encouragingly, a gesture he’d bestowed thousands of times. His daughter. Theirs.

“Aye, she once quoted me something a man she’d known had said,” Jamie peered below his brow at her, and Roger, to indicate he’d meant someone from their time. “It was, ‘Never give in, never, never, never’. She’s quite fond of it, finds great promise and purpose in it. Often, when we argue, I think she’s mebbe taken it to heart a wee bit too well…” He forced a weak chuckle out of a dry throat, but the room hummed with humor and wry acknowledgment.

“Yes, a… friend of hers was full of sayings like that. He inspired many, including Mama. She used to quote him to me too, when I was growing up.” Brianna seemed relieved by the memory, enlivened by the remembrance of her mother’s grit and determination.

Jamie forced himself to nod and smile. “Have ye gathered to say a prayer then?” He surveyed the group with mild interest. His interactions with most of them had been limited to asking those who were tending his wife what they were doing, why they were doing it, how they knew it to be the right course of treatment, and whether there was anything he might do to help her.

“It… it was an accidental gathering, really.” Marsali chimed in, eyeing the group. “I suppose… Fergus and I were worrit, ken, and we came to see if we could be of use. I remember most of what she taught me, even Fergus was havin’ dreams last night of the herbs and concoctions she used to use when she worked at l'hôpital. And the weans-” She choked slightly, and Fergus set a settling hand on her shoulder while she gathered herself.

“They missed their grand-mère, oui?” Fergus finished for her. Joanie stumbled out from behind him and reached up for her grandfather. Jamie himself was unsure he had the strength to lift the lass, but he never knew Claire to deny any wean comfort, and he couldn’t stomach the idea of doing so now while she couldna. “Granny kisses us better. We can try too, aye? Bisous.” She said, in that confusing, beautiful mix of Scots and French, leaving sloppy wet kisses on each of Jamie’s cheeks in the manner he’d seen Claire perform for scraped knees, bruised elbows, and stubbed toes.

Jamie had been determined not to cry in front of his children, for their sake, but he was nearly desperate in this moment to both break down and weep and stiffen his spine and be strong for the bairns.

He could only respond with the words he’d heard Claire say a thousand times after applying this particular home remedy. “The best medicine.”

“The twins and I were tending Mistress’ garden for her, but it didn’t bring the comfort we were hoping. We came in to see what might need seeing to instead, and…” Lizzie gestured to the group, indicating how their search had ended. The boys nodded like studious schoolboys on either side of her, neither touching her, but close enough to draw comfort from sheer proximity.

“And I knew I’d not get Bree to come back to the cabin at a time like this, so I brought wee Jem for a sleepover at Granny’s.” Roger explained kindly.
Funny, Jamie noticed, that the house he had built with his own two hands was always either “The Big House” or “Granny’s House”. And so very, very fitting, for it was nothing more than a well assembled pile of timber without her.

Ian spoke up next, from a corner he had been propped up against. “The Mohawk believe in the power of gathering as a people. I brought her a pouch- sage and cedar, good for healing, ye ken. I canna help think it a sign that we should all come here seeking to help and comfort. We canna go away wi’out sharing it with Auntie Claire. Mebbe her spirit will feel ours, and find its way back?”

Jamie felt humbled by the love of these people, his family. He suppressed a sob and gestured for Ian to come to him, and the young man slotted a shoulder under his arm for a hug.

“Ye’ve all made me verra proud to know ye all, just now. Let me brew Claire her tea, and clear Mrs. Bug away and then I’ll bring ye in to sit with her for a while.”

They nodded as a group, and the parents in the room began collecting their children and explaining how they must go about when in a sick room.

Jamie found the stove of the iron oven still hot and made quick work of boiling water and preparing a stoneware mug of tea. With his task accomplished, he returned to the room they shared and received a withering look from Mrs. Bug.

“I thank ye for looking after my wife, but I’ll be taking over again. The whole brood is downstairs and they’ve no intention of leaving without spending some time wi’ her, and I’m no’ inclined to deny them.”

Mrs. Bug harrumphed but left without speaking, and Jamie crossed the room to the bed. Claire lay flat and pale and limp on her side of the bed, and Jamie’s heart fluttered precariously. God, that she might live. “Sassenach. Your bairns are all downstairs, sick wi’ worry for ye. I ken yer tired, mo cridhe, but they need ye, and I canna be everything they need from ye.” He brushed a shorn lock of hair down, mourning the loss of heavy, thick coils of sable and silver.

She stirred, a whimper fighting its way from deep within her. Jamie coaxed her again, this time with a thumb brushing against her hairline, her brows, her chin. “Your weans are here. Will ye see them?”

The first view of amber in four days nearly caused his elbows to give out and send him crashing down atop her. He hastily set down the hot tea and got a hand up under her neck to lift her face to his for inspection. “Ja-?” One broken syllable laced with confusion was all she could manage, but it was enough.

“Aye, it’s me. And soon to be a whole clutch of our worried young lads and lasses. Do ye have the strength to see them?”
If he hadn’t been cradling her head in his palm, the nod she gave would have gone unseen. She was frail, and weak in a way he’d never experienced, but she hadn’t given up yet.

With hands under her armpits, he manipulated her into a sitting position, held up by every single free pillow and cushion he had at his disposal. He wrapped her in a thick wool arasaid to ward off chill.

“I’ve made ye the tea you like, even though I know you’ll harp at me since it’s so hard to come by in these times. Best not let it go to waste, no?” He dipped a spoon in the mug and stirred the contents, before spooning out a small measure and testing the temperature by taking a sip himself. Satisfied, he dipped the spoon again and offered it against her lips. She hinged her jaw open woodenly, and he trickled the stuff slowly into her mouth. She closed her eyes against the pain of swallowing, but he felt the tip of her finger come to rest against one of his, which rested against her hip.

“Good then?” He asked gently.

“Good.” Came her hoarse reply. Her eyelids dipped sleepily, as if just the effort of that one word had drained her, but she fought the drowsiness admirably.

“They won’t stay long. I just thought it might be a comfort to ye, to have them close. It has been for me, when I set my mind to it.” Her only answer was to dart her eyes in the direction of the tea, and Jamie obliged her with several more spoonfuls, encouraged that she was accepting it. There had been times over the last few days where she fought, delirious, against even the most basic necessities being offered.

Jamie patted her blanketed knee and strode to the door. He called Brianna’s name down the winding staircase, and heard the footsteps of many begin the ascent to their room.

Jemmy’s corn silk head popped through the room first, restrained by his mother who whispered a reminder of, “Gentle Jem. Gentle.”

The little boy visibly reined himself in, and climbed onto the bed, rather than launch himself on it as he had clearly been prepared to do. He crawled up until he sat next to Claire, pressed into her side, and lay his head on her bosom. Claire squeezed the boy gently against her with great effort. Still, when the boy glanced up into her face, she smiled at him tenderly.

Brianna and Roger stepped in front of Jamie, who stood sentinel at the head of the bed, near his wife. They both stooped to kiss her cheeks. “It’s good to see ye sitting up, Claire.” Roger said as Fergus, Marsali, and their lot filtered in.

Fergus and Marsali went to the other side of the bed, and the two sat on the edge, and helped Germain, Joan, and Felicite up onto the bed. The three crawled calmly toward Claire’s legs, and lay down, each of their heads pillowed on some part of her lap or legs. Jamie wasn’t sure who said what- he suspected Marsali- but the typically rowdy bunch was much subdued in a way that made his heart heavy with love. Claire clenched her eyes shut against the strain of lifting her arm, intent on touching each of the weans. She could reach only one, reclined against the headboard as she was, and Jamie quickly shifted a hand behind her back to steady her as she leant forward to pat the heads of the other two.

Jamie saw Fergus and Marsali exchange looks of relief and joy at her efforts. It was more than they’d seen her do since her illness began, except for the writhing of her fevers. “It is a relief to see you looking so well, Milady. We have been lost without you.” Fergus told her, scooting a swaddled Henri to her across the bedspread to receive his Granny’s greeting.

“Aye, Ma, we dinna know what to do wi’ ourselves without you around. I’ve missed ye so.” Marsali added, a watery smile gracing her lips.

Claire let Jamie lower her back against the headboard, reliant on his strength where she had none. She dipped her head once to acknowledge Fergus and Marsali, but Jamie sensed she was saving her strength.

Lizzie, Jo, and Kezzie all sat upon the chest at the foot of the bed that contained their extra linens, blankets, and knit things. Lizzie reached out first, and bestowed a loving squeeze to Claire’s ankle, which the two boys copied. “Does my heart joy to see ye up, Mistress.”

Claire knocked her foot against Lizzie’s hand gently as the final person entered the room. Ian glided in, threw his bundle of sage and cedar in the roaring hearth, before weaving through the bunch to tap his forehead against hers, and whisper what sounded to Jamie like a Mohawk blessing. The smell of burning sage and cedar filled the room, and he saw Claire breathe deeply.

Claire’s eyes closed for the duration and reopened with a tender look of affection clouding amber to a deep goldenrod color. She reached out for Brianna, who instantly took her hand and clenched it.

Jamie watched her take another deep, fortifying breath. She cleared her throat once, and looked to Jamie, who stooped to offer her a bit more tea to coat her throat. “I just want to say, I’m blessed to have you all here to care so much for me, and Jamie, and-” Her voice wavered a bit, and Jamie placed a hand on her shoulder. “And I love you all more than I can say.”

Joanie and Felicite moved as one then, and crawled to their mother, who retrieved what they were so clearly after- a bunch of dandelions and other nuisance flowers they had plucked for a bouquet. Felicite crawled with the bunch clutched in one hand and dropped it in Granny’s lap. “Love ye, Granny.” She said bravely.

“Feel better.” Joanie added, kissing her hand, and pressing it to Claire’s lap, right next to the floral offering.

Jem and Germain echoed wishes of “feel better” and “bisous”, bestowing their own kisses wherever they could reach.

Claire summoned the strength to say, “I feel better already, darlings. Thank you.” But Jamie could tell she was fading fast, depleted.

The other adults in the room could see it as well, and they stood as a unit, collecting children and setting the bed back to rights. They all lined up on Claire’s side of the bed, and took turns whispering lovingly, offering prayers, or to fetch her anything, and all reminding her that they loved her.

Jamie watched the procession with tears in his eyes. Not all of them were theirs by blood- most of them weren’t- but he could see in each of them some lesson of love, courage, wisdom, and kindness that she had imparted upon this family. The lasting influence she had on him, of hope, had trickled down to each of these, and was as essential to them as it was to him.

They made their retreat swiftly, and Jamie slid a few of the cushions out so his wife could sink further back into the pillows. Her eyes were shut, and she looked a bit more pale than she had earlier, but as Jamie bent to kiss her forehead, she surprised him yet again with the strength of her voice. “Thank you for this family, Jamie. I won’t leave it, not yet. I’m not done, so don’t give up on me.”

Jamie shook his head at her. “Never, Sassenach.”

Notes:

Lyrics from Bing Crosby's Swinging on a Star and The Beatle's In My Life are clearly not my own!

I messed with the timelines for Claire’s illness so Fergus and his family could be there. It was a NEED not a want.

Mo sginn is 'my force' in Gaelic, to the best of my knowledge based on online translators and dictionaries. "Never give in, never never never" is a quote by Winston Churchhill. Finally, "bisous" is, according to online dictionaries and translators, french for "kisses".

More to come, at some point... Suggestions? Thoughts?

Chapter 4

It was hard to keep his eyes off his wife on a good day. She was bonny, so verra bonny, and even having her back for over a year, it felt like a miracle to look over his shoulder and have more than just the ghost of her presence there.

She could be washing laundry or elbows deep in dirt in the garden and it took his breath away. He loved watching her accomplish ordinary tasks- cooking dinner, feeding the animals, pulling splinters from Ian’s hands. All of it had been too far from his reality for so long, and he knew God had blessed him to be witness to such small things.

It didna matter a wit whether she wore the earth-tone homespun of their homestead or the corseted finery of his Aunt Jocasta’s plantation, she looked to him like the finest piece of artwork.

None of it held a candle to the first time he saw Claire holding their bairn. Weel, bairn wasna precisely accurate- the lass was 22, and towered over her mother, but it was no less momentous for all that.

He’d been married to Claire for nigh on 25 years. She had silver in her hair now and crows feet at the corners of her eyes, and her strong, long arms wrapped around their daughter, and she’d never been more beautiful than in that moment.

She was shocked, that much was clear on her glass face, but she didn’t hesitate a second to embrace Brianna. “Bree- my baby!” Was the first thing she could put voice to, and it struck Jamie mute.

His lass clung to her mother just as fiercely as Claire clung to her, and he wanted nothing more than to sit down and watch as they held each other and basked in the presence of one another.

He made eye contact with Claire, and he tried to convey everything he felt in that moment: the overwhelming love for both of them, the joy of being together as a family for the first time, the gratitude he felt that Claire had been strong enough to come back to him when she’d had all that she did in her own time.

He remembered Claire saying that Brianna and she had struggled to be close as she had grown into a woman, but he saw none of that as he gathered up his wife’s basket and ushered them into a bothy to get out of the oncoming rain.

His daughter- for she was clearly his, red hair, high cheeks, and looming stature- had nearly been glued to her mother’s side from the moment they had been reunited. He could tell that, much like her mother, the lass was used to possessing a self-confidence uncommon for women of his time. It was also clear that, like her mother had been before her, her natural instinct was at war with the uncertainty of being in a strange place, a different time, and foreign people.

Claire smoothed down the lass’s red hair, put an arm around her shoulder, and spoke lowly to her in the kind of drowsy, pleasant tone one usually takes with a wean in the wee hours of the morning.

Jamie wanted to clutch the moment in his two hands and never let it go. Brianna gentled under her mother’s care in a way she hadn’t when she’d only been with Jamie. It was natural, of course, and Jamie felt no guilt or remorse for it. The only thing he felt was pride- pride for his wife, who had once cried to him as she had confessed she didn’t think she was fit to be a good mother.

He was mesmerized by the way that Brianna, who so clearly resembled him, was her mother’s daughter. The way she carried herself, shoulders back, chin high, eyes never flitting away in meekness. She had a fire about her, his lass, and though it seemed in need of a bit of stoking just then, he knew the embers of it like the back of his hand. After all, they had been taken straight from the source, his own wee inferno of vim and vigor; his Sorcha.

“Bree. I just can’t believe it! I can’t believe you’re here!” Claire said for what was probably the fifth time.

“I know, Mama. But I am here and…” Brianna’s eyes darted to Jamie before flitting back to her mother, as if she wasn’t quite sure about what she had to say in front of him. Jamie tried not to let the sting of it show on his face. He couldn’t blame the lass- she’d never met him and hadn’t known of his existence until very recently.

“What is it, Darling?” Claire asked, using a finger to tuck back a lock of flaming red hair.

Bree turned back to her mother. “I’m just so glad I found you. I missed you, Mama.” Her shoulders tucked in then, and it was clear that she had started to cry.

Claire folded the young woman against her chest, cradling her head and rocking side to side gently. “Alright, Bree. You’re alright. I missed you too, Baby. So much.”

It took a few minutes, but Jamie watched as Bree relaxed into her mother’s embrace, drooping as if she finally felt safe enough to give in to a long-felt exhaustion. Claire must have felt it too, Jamie thought, for her brow furrowed in concern, and she held Bree just a little bit tighter as she bent to kiss the top of her head.

How had he gone a whole lifetime without witnessing this? He was almost glad he had never seen Claire with Faith or Bree before she’d returned to Frank, for the thought of having experienced it, and then never seeing it again might have been too great for him to handle.

Still, he ached to have memories of Bree as a fussy babe, a wee toddler with a scraped knee, a young lass in need of comfort, seeking it out in the arms of her mother.

He supposed this moment, and any other he was blessed to be witness to from here on out would have to do. He felt warmth suffuse his chest, a lightness he hadn’t felt in decades. Aye. It was more than enough.

“Bree, darling, why don’t you have a rest? Lizzie and Ian are out seeing about getting another horse, and Jamie and I will arrange for a room near ours shortly. Our room is the last on the right just up those stairs.” Claire pointed the direction, and Bree lifted her head to acknowledge it.

“Yeah, a lie down wouldn’t hurt, I guess. You’ll tell Lizzie when she gets back?” Bree wiped her eyes discretely, and Claire instantly reached across the table and into Jamie’s breast pocket for the handkerchief he always kept there. Claire dipped the corner in her glass of water and swiped at the corner of her daughter’s eyes, and across the swells of her flushed cheeks, as if she were a small child. Bree seemed more comforted than affronted by the gesture though.

“Yes, I’ll look after Lizzie, I promise. Go get under the covers and have a nap. I’ll come get you for supper, yes?”

“Yeah, Mama. Thanks.”

Bree stood and seemed to realize she hadn’t said much to Jamie since she’d found him in the alley. She blinked several times, trying to find something to say.

“We have time now, Brianna, to get to know one another. Have your rest. I’ll be here, aye?”

She took a deep breath and smiled at him, a small, fragile thing, but genuine for all that, and maybe a wee bit hopeful.

“I think I’d like that. I promise, I’m not always this big a mess.” She joked mildly, slight embarrassment tinging her tone.

“Och, no’ a mess, lass. Ye should have seen the state of yer mother when I first laid eyes on her. Looked like a drowned badger, soaked to the bone and gnashing her teeth at anything that moved. Covered in dirt, wearing naught but scraps, hair frizzed about her head like thistle down. A feral wee thing, she was.” Jamie raised his brows and flashed wide, mockingly concerned blue eyes at his daughter to demonstrate his point.

Claire swiped at his elbow, and Jamie dodged back tilting his head at Brianna as if Claire had just proven his point. “Perhaps she’s no’ been quite tamed yet.”

“Hush, you bloody Scot.” Claire said, withholding her laughter for all she was worth. “He didn’t look much better. Looked like a damned Viking Berkserker, covered in blood and mud and sweat, half naked and drooping like a half-baked pudding.”

Jamie smirked and straightened the lapels of his coat in a casually comfortable way. “Aye, we dinna stand on first impressions much here. I was mad for her from the first, and she was blushing scarlet the moment we locked eyes.”

Claire was blushing even now at the memory, and she slid her hand across the table to him. He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Well, it all worked out the way it was supposed to. My status as a drowned, feral badger notwithstanding.”

“My wee pest. Come pester me some more.” Jamie acknowledged, dragging her around the table to sit on his knee. She bashed his head lightly with hers in retribution, only to rest it there a second later in penance.

He watched his daughter study them- particularly her mother- as if it was her first time seeing them. Jamie recalled Claire saying her marriage to Frank had fluctuated from downright turbulent at worst, to carefully noncombative at best. He supposed she’d never seen her mother tease and cajole and flirt in this manner, at ease and in love.

At once he felt anger at Frank Randall for not appreciating what he had, and relief that Brianna had a chance to see that what he had with her mother was true and abiding.

Brianna seemed to come to some conclusion in her mind, for she nodded once, and turned toward the stairs. “I’ll see you for supper, Mama.”

“We’ll be down here if you need anything.” Claire reminded her as she mounted the stairs.

Claire let out a shaky breath and burrowed further into Jamie, drawing him closer with an arm around his neck. He slid both arms around her waist, holding her securely, letting her take her time to organize her thoughts.

“There’s something off with her. She’s… different. Unsteady. I’m not sure I even want to know why except-” she sighed deeply, “except I’m not sure I can go not knowing either.”

“She’s no’ alone. She has you here to take care of her, and me, if she’s the least bit interested. I know ye’ll see her well, mo nighean donn.” He kissed her temple and squeezed her waist reassuringly.

“Yes. Whatever she needs, she’ll have it. I swear it.”

Jamie scooted over on the bench, and set his wife down next to him, hip to hip. “Ye ken, I’ll never forget the sight of our daughter in your arms, Sassenach. I feel I’ll never be the same, for havin’ witnessed something so right.”

“Have you held her?” Claire asked in a whisper, head pillowed on his shoulder, a cocoon of intimacy and privacy surrounding them in a boisterous, crowded pub.

“Aye. I near wept like a lass. Does the feeling ever become… less?” He questioned in wonder.

“No. Every time, it’s like the first.”

He pressed his cheek to the crown of her head, grateful for everything that she was, that they had gone through, to have gotten where they were now. “What a blessing she is.”

...

Jamie and Bree sat on the porch, cleaning a large assortment of rifles and pistols which were in need of attention. Marsali sat with them, patting the bottom of wee Henri Christian and yawning into her shoulder.

A pitcher of lemonade sat on the patio table; assorted glasses strewn about half drunk.

The sounds of children laughing and squealing in delight floated up to them on the porch. The last three days had seen the most obscene downpours of rain the occupants of Fraser’s Ridge had ever seen, and the weans of the Fraser and McKenzie households were wound up tighter than a pocket watch.

Roger and Claire had decided to try to expel some of their energy in hopes that the mothers of the bunch might enjoy some well-earned peace and quiet that night.

They were playing some game in which Roger and Claire tossed a rag ball back and forth to one another, and the children- Joan, Felicite, Germain, and Jemmy- stood between them and tried to intercept the ball before it made it to one of the other adults.

Roger and Claire stood far apart, several yards, and wound their arms back in an attempt to get the ball to one another, trying to encourage the children to run to and fro to blow off some steam.

Of course, to keep the children engaged, the adults occasionally “dropped” the ball or missed catching it entirely, so that whichever wean snatched it was now on the outside of the group, attempting to keep it away from those in the middle.

Claire was currently in the middle, and fighting Joan, Felicite and Jemmy, who were clutching at her legs in a puddle of mud to stop her from getting any closer to Germain, the current holder of the ball.

She held her skirts up, already hopelessly weighed down with mud, and dragged her feet, heavy with children, toward what she had deemed the weak link. Germain shrieked and clumsily threw the ball to Roger, who stumbled forward to catch it before Claire could snatch it.

“Unhand me, you beasties!!!” She roared laughingly, plucking up Joan, tossing her a few inches into the air, and setting her back on the ground. She grabbed at Felicite next, flipping her onto her back and blowing a raspberry on her stomach, eliciting delighted cackles, and depositing her on her bottom by her sister. Finally, she extracted Jemmy, poking at his ribs until he squirmed away in tickled agony.

She lurched toward Roger, who was clenching the ball in two fists, pressed firmly to his chest. “No! Granny canna get it! Germain!” He beseeched desperately.

Jamie chuckled at their antics. “For a woman no’ so soon passed fifty, she’s sprightly, is she no’?”

Marsali sighed tiredly, sinking further into her chair. “She’s wearin’ me out just watching her!”

Brianna snickered, setting down the rifle she’d just finished, and reaching for the next. “She’s going to pull something if she’s not careful. She’s not as young as she used to be!” She pitched her voice high for the last sentence, so that Claire could hear her as the woman spread her arms wide and blocked Roger in, hoping to cause him to fumble the throw to Germaine.

Claire didn’t look away from the task at hand but used the hand closest to the porch to flip her daughter a 20th century rude gesture. Brianna cackled, and Jamie shook his head.

“Did ye play like this when you were a wean, then?” He asked, curious. He’d heard much about their life together, but despite having her in his life for years now, he was always curious for more.

“Well- I suppose it was different. She played quite a lot of with me, when she was home from work. But Daddy- Frank, that is- he wasn’t one to rough and tumble. Card games, checkers, those were more… polite. Cerebral, I guess. And the tension between them kind of hampered stuff like this. I didn’t have any siblings so… it was just the two of us. And it was, I dunno, quieter? More restrained, maybe.” Brianna released a long breath through her nose, not regretful necessarily, but contemplative. “I remember this one time, we went on a walk with our dog, Smokey.” She hesitated, and Jamie knew she was trying to edit the story in a way that wouldn’t raise questions from Marsali.

“Smokey was massive, bigger than Rollo by at least a few stone. More a bear than a dog. We kept throwing this stick for him to chase, and he’d fetch it back, and we’d throw it again. Well, Mama threw it a bit too far, and the stick ended up in a pond near a few high society families picnicking there- family of Daddy’s coworkers. Smokey leapt right in, water be damned, and he barreled back over to us and splattered every last one of us in pond scum and filth. Mama thought it was so funny, she ended up on her ass on the ground, Smokey covering her in drool and God knows what else,” Brianna was caught in the humor of the memory, and tears slid past the corners of her sparkling blue eyes. “God, Daddy was mortified. ‘Have some decorum!’ He’d said. Mama just rolled her eyes and threw her arms around Smokey’s big, fluffy neck and told him over and over what a good boy he was.”

Brianna watched her mother now, eyes alight, as Claire lost a boot in the mud, shrugged, and kept charging in one stockinged foot after Felicite, who had somehow come in possession of the ball. “Of course, I couldn’t be left out. Before I knew it I was right there with Mama, wrestling with that behemoth of a dog, covered in fifth and making an absolute disgrace of the Randall name, I’m sure.”

Jamie snorted disdainfully. “Ye could never.”

Brianna smiled at him wanly but nodded. “It makes me glad that Jemmy will get more memories like that than I had. I had a good childhood- I was safe, and loved, and free to make my own path. But moments like this? Jemmy will have hundreds like this, so many, it won’t even occur to him that they’re special. He won’t have to grow up making himself more ‘suitable’, or watching his mother make herself quieter to avoid criticism.”

“Our bairns will only ever know their Granny this way, loud and vibrant and so in love wi’ them they canna fathom it.” Marsali acknowledged contentedly. “My Ma was always so busy griping with one of her husbands or trying to put bread on the table in between them that she ne’er had time for games, or tenderness. No’ that I blame her, mind, but ‘tis a blessing that our weans have it different.”

Jamie felt a lump rise in his throat at the thought of Claire, prancing around with a wee Bree, exuberant and lovely, flushed with joy in her child, silently shouldering the scorn of Frank Randall.

Amidst all the talk and reminiscing, Roger had wound up in the middle with Claire, and Germain and Jemmy were busy running the ball to one another, too weary of the long reach of the adults to comply with the rules of the game.

The younger girls toddled after them, and when Joan managed to catch up, she snatched both boys by the backs of their shirts as they attempted to exchange the ball. Felicite was hot on her sister’s heels and the result was a writhing dog pile of children all scrounging and scrambling for the ball. Roger lunged forward and began picking apart the chaos, seizing Jem by the collar and lifting him straight into the air. He plucked the ball from the young boy's dimpled fists, declared, “I’ve got it now, what will ye do about it?” And took off at a sprint, leaving a bundle of scrabbling children in his wake.

“Oh no you don’t!” Claire exclaimed, making chase with an impressive burst of speed.

“Christ!” Roger yelped, looking back and playing up his terror for the kids.

One second, Claire had her hand outstretched, about to make contact with Roger and, presumably, wrest the ball from his performatively defensive hands. The adults on the porch watched on with rapt, amused attention, when in the next second, Claire hit the ground with a sickening, resounding smack, Jemmy and Germain each laid out on one of her calves.

“Jesus!” Jamie bellowed, throwing himself off the porch without touching a single step, and abandoning everything in his rush to get to Claire.

Roger kneeled over her, and he could see she was clutching her neck. The boys were scrambling to their feet, looks of pure shock and feigned innocence plastered to their cherubic faces. “Step aside, ye wee gomerals!” Jamie barked, sweeping them aside with a large hand.

“Ah Dhia, Sassenach, are ye alright?” Jamie questioned, dropping to a knee near Roger.

She groaned and tilted her head up to look at him through a squinted eye. He heard Brianna and Marsali approaching hurriedly behind him and snatching up their little offenders.

Roger had a hand on one of her shoulders, trying without much finesse to assess the damage.

Claire didn’t say anything, but she made a twirling gesture with her finger in Jamie’s direction that he took to mean she wanted to be rolled over onto her back.

Jamie put one hand over hers, where it lay on her neck, and the other beneath a shoulder to roll her over. Roger took this as a cue to get her other shoulder and together they eased her onto her back, Jamie carefully cradling her head.

Jamie loomed over her head, trying to block the sun from her eyes, while inspecting her facial expressions for any signs of severe pain.

“Sassenach?” He prompted, patting her cheek delicately.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. That knocked the wind out of me.” She said on a gasp, meeting Jamie’s concerned gaze one eye at a time.

“Mama, are you hurt?” Bree questioned, somewhere between panic and extreme motherly irritation.

“Hmm.” She assessed grumpily. “I’m fine, though I dare say I’ll be sore tomorrow.”

“Did ye hit yet head, a nighean?” He asked with forced calm, having heard her ask it of patients a hundred times, long fingers probing her curly wig for bumps.

“No, Jamie. Really, I’m fine. I just lost my bearings there for a second. Help me sit up, there’s no need to make a fuss.”  She reached a hand up and he begrudgingly took it, hauling her into a seated position, and dragging her until she could be propped up against his knee.

“Ye didna lose anything! Ye had them clobbered out of ye!” Jamie turned a thunderous gaze on the boys. “And just what do the two of ye mean by manhandling yer Granny? Is that anyway to treat a lady?”

The boys hung their heads as a unit, making no sound. They’d each learned enough over the years to know that their Grandda was one of the most loving people there was but was no lax disciplinarian either. “What possessed ye to do such a thing? Of all the reckless, foolish things to do. What do ye have to say for yourselves?”

Jemmy’s lower lip began to wobble, and his eyes filled with tears. “Sorry, Granny. We didna mean it.”

Germain glanced quickly at Jamie, who was still glowering down at them, and echoed the sentiment. “Oui, it was an accident. We’re sorry.”

Claire opened her mouth to reply, but Jamie cut her off before she could get a word out. “Sorry doesna cut it, lads. Ye could have seriously hurt your Granny, because ye didna think before ye acted so heedlessly. Ye must learn that yer actions have consequences, whether ye intend them or no’. Ye’ll meet me at the porch rails after I’ve walked Granny in and fetched my strap, aye?”

The boys whimpered but wisely said nothing. Jamie got a hand under each of Claire’s elbows and raised her to her feet. She was absolutely covered in mud and grass stains that Jamie thought unlikely to come out in the wash.

Jamie fussed about, tucking Claire’s hand into the crook of his elbow and escorting her slowly to the house. She’d said she was unharmed, and he knew it to be mostly true, but it was also clear that she was moving slower than normal, and that she’d likely downplayed her soreness, so he’d go easy on the lads.

He groused as she sucked air through her teeth upon setting her full weight on her left foot on the stair, but she waved him off dismissively.

“Let’s get ye to bed.” He said shortly, still perhaps a bit more worried than was strictly necessary.

Bree swept past them up the stairs. “I’ll find you a change of clothes, Mama.”

“Thank you, Darling. No, Jamie, the sitting room is fine. It’s not as serious as all that.” She patted his hand kindly but pulled him away from the stairway that led to their room.

He muttered something about a mule headed wife that Claire chose to ignore in favor of lowering herself gingerly into one of the armchairs.

“Try not to be too harsh with them, Jamie. They’re only boys and I was encouraging them. I riled them up, it’s my fault.” She pled on their behalf.

“Whether you riled them up or no’ is not the issue. They know better than to treat any woman rough, let alone you. I ought to tan their hides for the way they threw ye to the ground.” He grunted, running a hand through her hair again, checking for goose eggs.

“Yes, they ought to be more careful, I agree. But they’re just boys, and they don’t know their own strength. It’s fine, truly, I’m not badly hurt.” Claire argued bravely on their behalf. She’d been so caught up in the fun, in the way their laughter echoed across the hills and dales of their home, and the way their eyes sparked with pure, unadulterated, unfiltered delight. It had been an age since she had felt so free to do the same, or even the courage to, what with all the tumult they’d faced of late.

“Sassenach, I know yer heart. I can see every thought that’s racing through yer mind just now. But ye must trust me when I say this is a lesson every man must learn, and it canna be early enough. They must learn restraint. They must know how and when to temper their strength. They must grasp when they ought to exert power, and who they may use it against. This is one of those times ye must have faith that I ken what I’m doin’, that I learned these lessons myself at their age.”

He knelt on the floor before her, his hand rubbing soothing circles on Claire’s knees, looking up at her from under serious, kind brows.

She bowed forward to kiss his forehead. “You’ll do what’s best.” She agreed readily.

Brianna and Marsali had both apparently been hovering in the door, for they came in then- the former carrying a simple slip dress for Claire to change into, the latter with a decanter of whiskey and a ewer of water for washing.

“Ye’ll understand what I mean, my lasses?” Jamie inquired of the two.

A look passed between the three women, from one to the other and back. Each had been on the receiving end of violence from men more than once, and the ghosts of those memories lingered thick and heavy in the silence that followed.

“Aye, Daddy.” Marsali said, pecking him on the cheek before moving around him to douse a washcloth in water and begin scrubbing at Claire’s dirt crusted hands.

“I know, Da. They’ve got to know.” She said a little more stiffly, but she rubbed her palm across his upper arm and went to sit by her mother.

Jamie left then, to find his strap.

They re-entered some minutes later, the boys' faces’ red and tear stained, quiet and remorseful. Claire had been helped into her dress and cleaned up as well as could be expected without a full bath, and she sat up as the boys carved a purposeful path toward her.

Jemmy instantly crawled up and into her lap and rested his small head against her breast. Claire held him to her fiercely and shushed him when his hiccups stuttered into earnest tears. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Granny.” We wailed pitifully, little hands clenching the fabric of her dress. “I won’t do it again, I promise.” Big fat tears soaked the front of her dress, and she sighed past a lump that was forming in her throat.

“Oh, Darling, I know. Having you close is already making me feel better. It’ll be okay, Lovey.” She kissed his hair and patted his back gently for several moments before Brianna stepped in the take him in her own arms.

Germain stepped up next. He was a bit overgrown to sit in her lap, but he climbed up on the couch and knelt next to her and launched his arms around her neck. He too sounded tear-logged, but he held his composure better as he pledged into her neck, “I swear I won’t ever do it again. Please forgive me, Grandmere. We will treat you better, always.”

“Sweet boy. Of course, you’re both forgiven. I couldn’t ask for two better grandsons. I love you both.” She kissed his ear, which was the closest thing she could reach, and he sat down on the other end, hands folded in his lap.

Jamie entered again. “Boys, ye’ll see to the stalls now, and you’ll have bread and water for yer supper. Go on.”

The boys got up, kissed Claire on the cheek, and marched out. Roger wandered in as they departed and watched out the window until they’d made it past the house.

“How do ye do it? Ye’d think they’d had their hides tanned clean off the way they’re weeping.” He wondered aloud.

“Have they not?” Claire questioned, confused. She swiveled to face Jamie, who was pouring two glasses of his latest whiskey.

“Nah, they only had but the one stripe each. A strapping can make a fine point now and then, but the right words can shame a lad just as much or more, and the sting usually lasts much longer.” He said in a satisfied manner, handing her a glass with two generous fingers of whiskey.

“I’ll have Mr. Bug start a cauldron of water on the fire. I think it best ye take a hot soak Sassenach, before ye start feeling e’ery one of those wee scrapes and bruises yer like t’ have.”

Notes:

Just two little bits this time. I have a couple more in the works- one that involves Young Ian, and one that features Murtaugh!

I'm not going to lie, I really, really love Granny Claire. Drop more suggestions or requests below. Thanks to all the readers leaving such wonderful comments. I am so glad you all are enjoying this!

Chapter 5

Notes:

This chapter contains mild spoilers for Season 7 Episode 9, Unfinished Business.

In the midst of his anguish, in the flashes of moments when Jamie could see past the fuzzy walls of pain and misery, Jamie had taken notice that Murtagh was fretting over his wife more than was typical.

He hadn’t much time to ponder it, though, as his mind bombarded him with flashes of his experiences at Wentworth. Sound, color, odor, and pain swirled in a miasma of torment which consumed most of his waking hours and all of his unconscious ones.

Claire herself hovered nearly constantly over him, her face twisted with sorrow and pity that curdled his innards.

It was as if his body remembered the comfort of her touch at the very same time his mind rejected it. The relief of it echoed through his muscles; his marrow recalled the glide of her fingertips, the heat of her skin, the graze of lips and palms as soothing as prayer.

But what his body inherently knew, his mind recoiled from. The ache in him which only she could quell rebelled against the clench and cringing of his mind anytime she drew close to him.

She’d told him she’d lay down and die with him, and it had jolted him enough to allow her to tend his wounds, allow her to brush the hair out of his eyes or swipe a cloth across his clammy forehead when he woke from tormenting visions of Randall looming over him.

But more than that he could hardly bear before nausea lurched through his body. Once she’d been spooning portions of stew into his mouth and had, by reflex, set her hand just above his knee. She’d done it a hundred times in the course of their marriage, a reassurance to both of them that they were together. He’d felt the comfort of it each of those hundred times, but there in that abbey, he’d only had the instant sense of dread before he’d thrown his upper body over the other side of his cot and lost his first substantive meal in days.

Claire had jerked away as if struck, apologized profusely, and set to clean the mess he’d made of the floor, pale and shaking with shock.

Jamie woke later that night to find Claire settled precariously on an uneven wood stool, jammed in a corner to keep herself upright, chin drooping against her blouse in exhaustion. Murtagh was standing over her, shoulders hunched protectively around her as he tried to ease a pillow between her shoulders and the rough stone surface of the wall she leant against.

Jamie watched through his eyelashes, hoping not to be discovered awake. Claire didn’t wake when Murtagh’s hand closed over her shoulder, nor even resettle herself, which only went to show how tired she must be. She did, however, as Murtagh tilted her torso back to rest against the cushion he had placed there. Her arms shot out and her eyes flew wide, as if to stop herself from falling, and she clutched the nearest handhold- Murtagh’s long, lean arms.

“Och, a leannan, I’m sorry. Be still, I was tryin’ to make you more comfortable.” His voice was low and gentle in a way it rarely was. It reminded him of the way Murtagh used to speak with him as a young lad, after his mother had died.

“That’s alright. I should be awake anyway. I was meant to sit with him, make sure he he’d wake from his dreams knowing he was safe.” She sat up straighter, crossing her arms in a protective manner.

“Lass, I know yer afraid for him, but ye need yer rest now more than e’er.” It took everything in Jamie not to release a long, relaxed sigh at the sight of one of Murtagh’s scarred thumbs stroking gently at Claire’s shoulder in a soothing gesture. It was everything he wanted to be able to do for her, and yet so far out of his reach he couldn’t even fathom it.

Claire stuck her chin in the air, ready to argue with Murtagh. Before she could open her mouth to tell him not to order her about, Murtagh squatted low to the ground, so that he was no longer bowed over her. “M’eudail, I ken what ye’ll say. Ye must remember that I’ve taken an oath with Jamie to care for you, too. I know fine well that ye’re no delicate flower, and that yer more n’ capable of caring for the lad. But I must do what I can to care for you, aye?” Jamie saw Claire steal a glance in his direction and wilt slightly before turning back to his godfather and nodding. “Ye are no burden to me, Claire. I’ll keep ye fit and safe until he’s able to do so once again.”

She sniffled gently, and placed one of her hands on Murtagh’s where it rested in the crook of her elbow. “I can’t leave him right now. I couldn’t bear to.”

“Aye, I ken.”

Jamie watched in shock and awe as Murtagh artfully convinced her to let him set her up in a chair he dragged into the room. He set it up by the hearth, near where she’d been, and put the cushion down on the wooden seat of it, before ushering her into it, and dragging one of her heels up to rest on the stool she had previously been sitting upon. The older man turned and left the room without speaking, but the door didn’t shut so Jamie was relatively sure he’d be back shortly. He watched Claire lean back into the chair, cross her other ankle atop the first on the stool, and sigh a relieved breath. Murtagh returned with a threadbare blanket- but clearly one of the nicer ones, free from any moth holes- and a large tankard of what smelled like cock-a-leekie soup.

He draped the blanket over her propped up legs and handed her the mug. “As much as ye can manage, a nighean.” He ordered as pleasantly as Jamie had ever heard the dour man.

Jamie knew his godfather to be fond of Claire- he’d lived long enough with the man to know the signs despite his perpetual frown, steely growl, and invariable attitude. The man wasn’t one for open displays of affection, though, and he knew Claire often wondered if the man even liked her, the way he always groused.

But it couldn’t be questioned now, the way he clucked after her like a mother hen.

Jamie wondered at this. They’d been married several months now, and the three had been through more than their fair share of hairy situations. What warranted this new behavior?

Jamie stayed awake long enough to watch Murtagh pester Claire into finishing the entire mug of soup before taking the mug and insisting she get some sleep. Claire rolled her eyes fondly but agreed to do as he said, and Jamie saw her sink further into the chair, head tipped back toward the ceiling.

Jamie found it soothing that the two were becoming closer, and that he could rely on the faithful care of his godfather to look after Claire, who needed it more than she would ever admit. He also found it rather endearing that his grumpy godfather had succumbed to the charms of his wife.

It also didn’t go unnoticed by the younger man that his godfather ushered his wife out of the room every morning like clockwork. He entered before daylight had even started brightening the room, woke Claire from her perilous rest, and steered her toward the door in short order. “Fresh air, lass, ye must have it. Dinnae go past the courtyard, mind. I’ll come find ye.”

She would stand, bleary eyed and grumpy, but giving no complaint, despite her distaste for early mornings. Claire usually crossed to Jamie first thing, checked for fever or signs of infection in his hand, but it was obvious that she was more rushed in her tasks in the mornings than he was accustomed to her being, and rather drawn as well.

Murtagh then usually turned to Jamie, helped him up to the chamber pot, and left him to it. “I’ll be off to see that yer wife has breakfast. The wee besom hasna been eating as she should in her state.”

Even trapped in the dark corners of his own mind, Jamie found that an odd statement. “In her state?”

Murtagh straightened at once, stiff as a plank, but threw a hand over his shoulder with forced casualness as if to dismiss it. “Ye ken what she’s like when she’s about her healin’, especially when yer the patient. Too focused on everyone else around her to look after her own affairs. No’ sleepin’ or eatin’.”

“Aye.” Jamie eyed the older man wearily, scrutinizing his expression for any changes or clues he might find there. “She’s thin, is she no’?”

Murtagh returned his stare, unaffected by the inspection in a way that most of Jamie’s men weren’t. “Aye. She’s been livin’ rough since ye’ve been gone. But that’s what she has us for, no?”

Jame narrowed his eyes, not quite believing him, but unwilling to come right out and call the man a liar. “Just so.”

“She’s stubborn, damn her, so it’ll take both of us braw and canny to keep her out of trouble. Get well for her, lad.” With that, the man ambled out, presumably to go force milk and some hearty breakfast into her gullet.

Murtagh had also become in the habit of brewing tea at a near constant rate that baffled Jamie, for he’d never seen the man so much as sniff in the direction of a kettle in his entire life. Suddenly, every time Jamie found his wame unsettled by a sudden memory, a mug of ginger tea appeared in his hands before he had the time to fully process it. It was rare to see Claire without one of Murtagh’s brews either, and it would have been amusing if it hadn’t been so out of character.

Like clockwork, Murtagh came round to check on the pair- for it was clear that Murtagh wasn’t only seeking Jamie out, and finding Claire by happenstance- every couple of hours. He’d pat Jamie on the shoulder, ask after his pain, or make some comment on Jamie’s general state, and then, ostensibly, he’d turn to Claire. It was almost as if he was checking her color for illness. He’d look her up and down, grunt in that unimpressed way he’d perfected long before Jamie was a twinkle in his da’s eye, and quit the room. He’d return several moments later with a cup of tea and force it into Claire’s hands in a way that precluded any argument.

She’d sip at it daintily as she went about her doctoring, not a protest to be heard, nor even a quizzical glance at Murtagh’s hovering. Jamie found it extremely puzzling, as it might once have been a point of great amusement for the couple, and a source of endless teasing directed at the old man, for going soft in his old age.

Two weeks in to their stay at the abbey, having witnessed this very interaction dozens of times by that point, it occurred to Jamie for the first time that perhaps, Murtagh knew something about Claire that Jamie didn’t. It was so simple, so obvious when he pieced together all the changes in their interactions and demeanor, and yet, it seemed impossible.

Jamie had only been separated from Claire for a scant few weeks. And in the time since the witch trial, the two had nearly been inseparable. He wouldn’t claim to know everything about Claire Elizabeth Fraser, but he knew a damned sight more than Murtagh- or at least he had before Wentworth.

Murtagh had said she’d lived rough since he’d been taken- what did that mean, and how did Murtagh fit into the equation? Jamie found this mystery a preferable diversion- if not a happy one- from his broody, haunting thoughts of Wentworth, and he spent a great deal of time trying to puzzle it out when he wasn’t prisoner to a disturbed sleep or made incoherent by laudanum.

Finally, his curiosity could not be contained any longer; Claire, who had just been tending his wounds, fled the room in a hurry, with a lame excuse about forgetting some herb, rushing past the monk who had brought Jamie a plate of eggs for his breakfast. Murtagh had been thrust out of the doorway during her flight, having just prepared his first of many dishes of tea.

Jamie watched as his godfather sighed heavily and looked over his shoulder as if considering whether or not to follow her. Murtagh was a stoic man, and not one given to much expression, but even Jamie, disconnected from his own body, could see concern etched into the lines of his brow.

“Have ye forgotten your herbs too, a ghoistidh? Or will ye tell me the truth? What’s wrong with Claire?” Jamie grunted with the effort of sitting up, but he couldn’t glare effectively lying flat on his back.

“Who’s to say anything’s the matter wi’ Claire? Has she said as much to you?” Murtagh glared back, undaunted by Jamie’s keen focus, or any threat that his health might make him weak to such a stare returned.

“Stop talking in riddles, if ye dinna mind. I asked after my wife. She acts strange. She flees the room without warning. She’s pale, and thin, and though she’s in my room near constantly, she eats almost nothing. Ye’ve been lingering around her near every time I turn around, and ye fuss o’er like a wean. I’ve lost much, but I havena lost my sight.” Jamie growled, swallowing irritation and futility that made him want to lash out at whatever- or whomever- was nearest.

His godfather’s gaze turned critical then, and he saw the man’s glittering brown eyes scrutinize him from the tips of his toes to the last hair at the top of his head. “If ye’re so worried about such things, why dinna ye ask her yourself? She’s your wife.”

Jamie grunted, frustrated. He’d had all this out with Murtagh already, and Claire as well. Couldn’t they see why he couldn’t do such a thing? Didn’t they understand why he must let her go?

“I’ve given you both my answer already. She deserves better than me; I’ll no’ ruin her by letting my filth touch her, nor break her heart anymore than I have by giving her hope I’ve no right to encourage. Now tell me what ye know, man.” Jamie’s voice was full of barely contained rage. Claire was clearly plagued by something, and his godfather was here playing mind games with him, trying to maneuver Jamie into changing his mind.

The older man stepped into the room, fast as a viper, arms crossed before his heaving chest. Jamie saw a very real anger in his eyes, one that nearly matched his own, he thought. “And what if I do ken your wife is ill?” Murtagh spit accusingly. “What if she is unwell? What’ll ye do about it? If ye dinna mean to touch her, or nurture her spirit, what good will it do either of ye to know it? You can waste away as you wish, and leave her to do the same, since ye mean to forsake yer weddin’ vows anyway.”

Jamie exploded out of bed in a fit of fury so consuming, for a moment he felt none of his injuries. “Murtagh!” He roared, spittle flying, muscles bunching and firing, preparing to fight. He wanted to say more, to deny the charges, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would refute his godfathers claims and still be truth.

Murtagh raised his fists in a defensive posture, his face no less ferocious than his godson’s. “Ye canna have it both ways, lad. Ye either do what a husband should do and look after her wife, or ye let her be, and let fate take care of her for ye!”

Jamie swung at his godfather then, on impulse. Every fiber in his body rebelled against the concept of Claire, uncared for, dead or dying. It was hasty, sloppy at best, and Murtagh ducked easily and shoved Jamie back with all his strength. Weakened as he was, Jamie staggered back, knees giving out as his calves hit the bed frame.

Murtagh advanced then and stood over Jamie. The anger that had been there seconds before was gone, replaced with what looked to Jamie like grief. “Ye’re living a delusion if ye think either of ye can go on this way. Ye told her ye’d live, so that she would. Then ye must- and no’ just in body. I was witness to yer handfasting, Jamie; the two of ye are bound not only in body, ken, but in spirit too. If her spirit is to go on, then so must yours. And if she is ill, and needs tending, then you shall do the tending, or no one at all. Claire is here, wi’ ye. She left the safety of your home, trekked across the country, broke ye out of prison, and nursed ye from the brink of death. If that is no’ worth livin’ for, lad, then nothing is, or ever will be.” He sat next to Jamie then, slumped in defeat, a saturated, desolate plea in his voice as he continued, “I care for the lass. She’s mine as you are. I’ll no’ let her starve nor come to violence, if it’s in my power to stop it, but I canna give her a happy life. Only one man can.”

Murtagh sat beside him for a while then, listening to the fire crackle, studying the walls which Jamie had long since memorized. Eventually, he nodded and stood, accepting Jamie’s silence. “Alright then. Ye have a think on that. I’ll go find Claire, before she finds trouble.”

With not even a backwards glance, he left, and Jamie could hear his footsteps echoing down the halls, pace faster than his normal stride.

Think Jamie did, all that day. Claire and Murtagh were scarce, only making brief appearances before leaving once again. He caught Claire shooting him more than one furtive, discerning glance before jerking her gaze back to the work at hand.

At his very core, he knew Murtagh was right. How he might go about reconciling his trauma with this truth was where the real rub lay.

That evening, to Jamie’s hidden relief, Claire spent the night in her chair, just as she always did. He’d been short and nonverbal the whole day, despite himself, and she had withdrawn from using her soothing tone or offering any comforts outside of those necessitated by his injuries.

Regardless of the cool, distant tone of their interactions all day, Claire entered the bed chamber, followed closely by Murtagh who carried an extra pillow, which he slid behind her low back after she was seated. She perched her feet on the stool and the older man draped the blanket over her lap and legs comfortably. He left a cup of tea in easy reach, and then bent down and kissed her cheek. “G’night, lass.”

Later that night, Jamie woke with a queer feeling in his gut- not a griping wame, just a heavy, sinking feeling. His sleep had been, for the first time in ages, undisturbed by dreams of Randall, but centered instead on Claire. Nothing about them was distinctly upsetting; most were visions of his wife going about her day to day life. In one, he saw her dressed in a bonny emerald green dress, traipsing about a garden alone. In another, he watched as she bent over the bassinet at Lallybroch, tickling the cheeks of wee Maggie.

Half conscious, he tried to force himself back into sleep, back into the place without pain where images of Claire didn’t burn for the seeing of them. It struck him then why he’d woken in the first place- in his dreams, her face had been turned away, but he was sure that she carried a deep sadness in both. Startled by the realization, he wrestled himself into full consciousness, determined to search Claire’s sleeping face to find what truth lay there.

When he woke, however, he found Claire awake, and Murtagh too, crouched by the arm of her chair, whispering urgently to her. Both her hands pressed into her stomach, as if cradling something within, or trying to contain it from spilling out. Her shoulders were hunched and she was crying freely.

Jamie repressed a gasp at the sorrow he saw in her, the same that had been detectable even in his dreams- even without really seeing her.

“Dinna give up hope, a leannan. All will be well. Things have a way of workin’ out where the twa o’ ye are concerned.” He offered gently, and it sounded to Jamie as if it was more a reminder, as if he’d told her many times before.

She nodded through her tears, and he set a large, rough hand overtop the two of hers. It seemed to make her cry harder, and Jamie tamped down the instinct to spring out of bed and hold her. He would do it, he decided, he would fight his way back to being the man she needed, but this moment was for Claire and his godfather.

“Settle down, lass, there ye are. I’ve got ye, just now. I’m no’ who yer wantin’, nor am I so braw to look at, but you’re no’ alone, if that’s any comfort.”

Claire’s mouth twisted into a wry, watery smirk at his banter, and Jamie ached to see the love that so clearly reflected in her features. “Well, you know what they say: looks aren’t everything. And it is a comfort to me, to have you here.” She answered hoarsely, and the crackling noise that followed was more laugh than tears this time.

“Tis a fine thing to hear, lamb.” He accepted graciously.

Claire sucked in a deep, steadying breath and pushed herself back into the chair, unfolding herself from the hunched over position she had contorted herself into.

“You ought to get off that floor before your knees give out. You’re not exactly a spring chicken, you know, and I know you’ll be clucking after me bright and early tomorrow so you might as well go get some rest while you can.” Claire said fondly, cheeks flushing becomingly as she teased her husband’s kinsman.

“Ye watch her havering, hen.” The scolding tone he used was entirely undercut by the fond pat he bestowed on her cheek with the ends of his fingers.

Murtagh left then, and Claire turned her face to the fire, studying the flames as they danced and leapt.

“Ye have me too, Claire.” Jamie said then, firm but quiet, so as not to disturb the peace of the room.

Her head whipped around to find him looking at her, forearm extended off the bed and reaching for her with an open, inviting palm. “I’m sat here missin’ you, and I wake to find you missin’ me too, sitting in the same room. There’s no sense in it. I’m sorry, mo cridhe. Come to me?”

Jamie knew instantly he’d said the right thing, for the way her body seemed to lighten, lift, and the way her face shone, like firelight spilling into the night air upon opening a door.

She stood in a hurry, wavered as if dizzy, and then trundled over to the opposite side of the bed, on his good side. He shifted over a bit, and she paused. Her brows creased and eyebrows lifted in uncertainty, and her hand hovered questioningly over the edge of the blanket.

Jamie gulped reflexively and tried to play it off by clearing his throat. Christ. He wanted her there. He did. But suddenly the thought of being ensconced- ensnared- under the blankets with anyone, unable to quickly escape their touch…

“It’s alright. I’m warm anyway.” She offered, and sat atop the bedspread. Jesus. God. He loved her. She always accused him of reading her thoughts like a book, but she had a certain knack for seeing his unspoken truths too.

She lowered herself down and lay on her back, near enough to his body, but not touching. She held herself stiffly, as if afraid any movement would startle him. Jamie forced his shoulders to sink into the mattress, his breath to come deep and even, before he slid his exposed hand over and wove his fingers loosely with hers. Instantly, her body relaxed, and in mere moments, he heard her breath soften into the shallow, slow rhythm of sleep.

He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but as he counted her breaths, focused on the warmth of her palm pressed into his, he felt himself dragged toward sleep too.

…

Claire, ever popular with children, was in the dooryard with Maggie and Katie’s brood, along with several of the dogs.

A chair had been placed on the landing just outside the front door, to allow the elder Ian to sit out and take in some fresh air, which Claire thought might do him some good. Jenny and Jamie sat on the steps just below, shelling peas and enjoying time with family they never thought to have again.

Claire was surrounded by no less than 6 bairns of varying ages, and she let them teach her a nursery rhyme which involved prancing about in a circle, holding hands, and trying to duck under the clasped hands of other members of the circle.

The farm dogs milled about the outside, pacing and watching, tongues lolling, and occasionally barking in answer to some shrill shriek from one of the children.

Young Ian appeared under the arch headed out towards Lallybroch lands, hefting several flakes of hay for the horses.

Dogs yipped and growled their excitement, and he feigned a pounce or two at them, riling them up in that boyish way that Jamie had always been fond of.

One backed up excitedly, bounding into the play, jowls flying with the force of his jubilant barks.

“That’s my wee Ian, no doubt about it.” Jenny muttered conspiratorially to the other adults that occupied the stairs with her. “He may look a vicious heathen, but he’s got that same smile, and more energy than a body has a right to.” Her smile was the very picture of maternal- half affectionate, half exasperated, but all loving.

“Aye, he’s been a blessing to us during some verra dark times, Young Ian. He doesna always take the time to think through something as ye might wish he did, but he’s full to the brim with the kind of optimism ye need, just when ye need it most.” Jamie acknowledged, throwing a look back at the lad’s namesake with full of knowing and gratitude.

The dog Ian had wound up was nipping at the lad’s heels now, hoping to further engage his playmate who had straightened to see to the horses’ supper.

Ian ignored him, and ordered the beast to calm himself in Gaelic. The dog, having a less profound grasp of human speech than Rollo, ignored this request and kept up his game, lunging haphazardly in hopes of drawing Ian back into the game.

Ian shrugged and turned to distribute the hay, but turned around just in time to see the dog back straight into Claire, who was faced the opposite way and completely unprepared for 80 pounds of canine to collide with her calves.

Before she even had the chance to topple, or disentangle her hands from the grasps of the children, young Ian was upon her with two steadying hands on her shoulders.

“I’ve got ye, Auntie!” Ian assured worriedly.

The children had released her hands and Claire was rocked back on her heels, supported from behind by her nephew, looking startled.

“Goodness, I guess you have! Good catch!” She said a little breathlessly, looking over her shoulder at him.

Ian left one hand on her shoulder and shooed the dog away with the other. “Move, ye scoundrel. Awa’ wi’ ye.”

The dog whimpered, tucked its tail, and fled.

Claire half turned to face Ian more fully, and only when he met her eye and she patted his arm did he let her go, sure of her steadiness.

“Are ye alright, Auntie?” He questioned softly, eying her previously injured leg dubiously, as it always tended to ache in dreich weather, without the encouragement of a near tumble.

“I’m fine, Ian, truly. No damage done. You swooped in to my rescue before I even knew I needed it. Very gallantly, I might add.” She praised.

His brow was still furrowed in worry, and Claire took his chin between her thumb and finger and gave it a little shake. “Don’t look so worried. I’m made of sturdier stuff than that, you know. Or have you started to doubt it?”

Ian rolled his eyes fondly at that, and blew air between his lips in a firm rejection. “Nae, Auntie, I woulnae make that mistake more than the one time.”

She chuffed at him and patted his cheek, tapping her thumb to the two nearest pinpricks of his tattoos before releasing him and turning to the stairs where the rest of the adults sat watching.

Jamie stood as Claire approached, and held his hand to her. She reached out for his, and when their fingers collided, he dragged her forward by the point of connection, kissing her knuckles.

“I think it’s time Young Ian and I go check the snares, see if we’ve caught anything worth roasting.” He nodded at the lad, then gestured with his chin toward the elder Ian. “Let’s get your da inside and go on a wee gander, aye?”

Young Ian agreed readily, nodding his head in that way he did which shook his braids and beads about. The three of them disappeared into the house slowly, and Jenny went about gathering up the children who had continued their game undisturbed.

Jamie and his nephew appeared in the door a few moments later, each with an empty game bag thrown over their shoulders, a blade strapped at their waists.

“Don’t you think you should go back and get a heavier coat, Ian? The wind is turning awfully chill, and the sun will be setting in a few hours.” Claire worried after the boy as he made his way down the steps.

“Auntie, if ye ever want me to stop accusin’ you of fussing like an auld biddy, ye must stop fussing like an auld biddy in the first place, no?” Ian gibed gleefully.

Claire flicked his leg in retaliation as he passed and valiantly tried to cover her smirk.

When the two men reached the bottom of the stairs, they turned to face the women who were still seated there, though at the edges so that there had been a path to descend.

Claire reached both hands out for Jamie first, in what looked to Jenny a well practiced routine, and he stooped to peck her on the lips lovingly. “Dinna fash, Sassenach. We’ll be back before you have the chance to miss us.” He smiled reassuringly at her, blue eyes alight with love.

“I seriously doubt that.” She replied knowingly, but she returned his smile nonetheless. Jamie stepped back and Ian took his place, and Claire framed his face with her two hands, and swept her thumbs from his nose to the outer edge of his cheeks. He leant forward, tapped her forehead with his, and stood again.

“Happy hunting, gentleman.” She called after their retreating forms.

Ian swiveled, walked backwards a few paces, and shot Claire a jaunty goodbye wave.

Claire grinned at his antics. She turned to find Jenny studying her curiously. “That gesture you bestowed on him, is it a Mohawk custom, then? To trace those marks on his face?”

Despite all that Jamie, Claire, and Ian had worried on the journey back to Scotland, the Murray family had seemed happy to learn and embrace Ian’s adopted Indian customs and mannerisms.

Claire blinked several times, startled. Claire supposed she had touched his tattoos twice in the span of a few minutes, but it had been largely unconscious- habitual even. Like certain functions the body performs without direction: an involuntary response.

“Er, no, at least, I don’t think so. I hardly realized did I it, honestly. I’ve certainly never seen anyone else do it. It’s only-” Claire seemed to search for a way to explain it.

“When we first found ourselves in America, we were… displaced, we didn’t quite belong. But then, most of the settlers there didn’t. And then, we adapted, and just as we began to thrive- well, Ian ended up with the Mohawk. He told us he felt very much an outsider then, a-”

“A Sassenach.” Jenny declared with no small hint of irony. Claire smirked in acknowledgment. Jenny had scooted closer to Claire as she began the tale, and she leant forward as if to catch more of the details.

“Just so. But eventually, he adapted, and he began to thrive amongst them. And then he was forced from the tribe, and he found his way back to us- not quite the man we had once known, but not entirely changed either. But some of their ways had taken root in him, become part of who he was, and he found himself an outsider to the Ridge that had once been his home. I think… Well, I think he must have felt very much alone, not quite belonging, not quite exiled. Misunderstood for the way he dressed and spoke and interacted. I confess, I saw a bit of my younger self in him. I knew what it felt like, to feel you couldn’t be yourself and still be part of the family you very much long for.”

Claire’s gaze saw far beyond the arch of the dooryard, or even the trees past that. They seemed to shear straight through the horizon and keep on going.

“I’m sorry if I ever had a part in making you feel that way, Claire.” Jenny said sincerely.

“Don’t spend another minute thinking on it, Jenny. I haven’t. I never blamed you or anyone else.” She smiled to show her sincerity.

“My son, he was lonely then? Was he very much heartbroken?” There was a need to know in the tone of her voice, but also a deep pang that yearned never to hear of such anguish visiting her son.

“Yes, he was. I supposed it just started as a simple act of… recognition, perhaps. I wanted him to know someone saw him- not who they expected him to be- and loved him because of it, not in spite of it. I touched his tattoos because… they were just as much a part of the young man as his eyes, or his fingers. I never said it, of course but… I think he knew what it meant all the same.”

Jenny sighed in relief, her eyes scanning the treeline for signs of Jamie and Ian.

“I ken he did. I saw it in him just now. My son’s right fond of ye, sister.” It was said warmly, but in true Mackenzie fashion, not without a hint of calculation.

“Well it goes both ways. He is very dear to Jamie and I. We never got the chance to truly raise children together, but having Ian with us these many years has given us a small taste of it.” Claire seemed to realize she may have stepped into uncertain territory and attempted to backpedal. “Of course, you and Ian did the lion’s share of the work, and did a wonderful job at that. Jamie and I only-”

“Ach, dinna worry, Claire, I dinna begrudge you and my brother the care of my son. From the time he was very small, it seemed he yearned for a bit more wild than Ian and I could give him. If we couldna, I’m glad you and Jamie were able to. He’s sees ye as a ma, ye ken. I see it in the way he looks at ye.”

Claire seemed flustered at that, and blushed brightly. “Well-I… I’m extremely fond of him. I’d never presume…” She took a bracing breath and started again. “Fergus, as much as I loved him, as much as Jamie and I wished, he was more yours than he was ever mine. I had him not even a full year and then… you raised him. And you raised Ian. I’ve certainly taken care of him, and I love him more than I have a right to, but…. No, I only raised one child.”

Heartbreak was audible in her words, and Jenny set a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Aye, I raised your bairn, but the whole household knew it wasna me he thought of as his ma, no matter how long I had the care of him. And Ian… he’s mine, sure enough, and I brought him up in the world… but ye’ve helped him become who he was always meant to be, in a way he couldn’t have, under my roof. Ye’ve just as much to do wi’ who he is as I do.”

Tears, clear as crystal sparkled at the corners of Claire’s eyes. “He… does feel like mine, I admit. I’d never have expected it, but I’ve been glad of it more times than I could count.”

Jenny smiled at her then, and it appeared to Claire to have no small amount of relief in it, as if she had been longing to hear the exact answer. “So. You have raised my son, and I have raised yours, Claire.

When Ian and Jamie re-entered the dooryard, each hefting a couple of rabbits, it was to the sight of Jenny and Claire embracing fiercely. Jamie felt something shift back in to place, somewhere near his heart. He had promised his Sorcha much when they had married, and family had been chief among them.

The two women were a sniffling, teary-eyed mess when Jamie reached the stairs, but they broke apart and Claire shot him a serene, reassuring smile so that he knew it wasn’t anything awful. Something about the turn of her lips or maybe the squint of her eyes told him she’d fill him in later.

Jamie handed off his game to Young Ian and held one hand out each to his women, helping them up off the cool, unforgiving stone steps and back into the house.

Later that night, lying in the bed that had once been theirs, she told him what had caused such a tearful celebration between the two, who had an admittedly rocky past.

“She said Ian sees me as a mother.” There was the kind of awe in her voice he only ever heard when she spoke of Bree, or wee Fergus, or one of the grandchildren.

“Was it such a surprise to ye, then?” Jamie asked, doing his best to mask his amusement. She lay in the crook of his shoulder on her side. One of his hands traced back and forth down her exposed arm.

Claire was silent for a long time and Jamie craned his neck back to see if she was still awake. She always got pleasantly drowsy when he scratched at her wee arms and back.

Prompted by his look, she finally said, “I mean, I know I certainly felt maternal towards him, from nearly the moment we got him back from Geillis, if not even before. But.. I am a mother, and the lady of your estate, and I thought it might only be that I take that role in the lives of many- most of the young folk settled with us, see?”

Jamie grunted, a smile creeping up his face. “Ye dinna lack for maternal instinct, that’s true enough. But the way that boy loves ye isna that of a tenant and Mistress, nor just an aunt and nephew. Ye see him, and ye love him in a way different from anyone else, and he kens it well.” Jamie felt her burrow deeper into his side then, seeking warmth and peace. He tightened his hold, willing to give her all that she’d take and more.

“Truth be told, I think I do see him the way others don’t. That sense of foreign-ness, of being apart from others even when you’re right in the mix of them. The understanding that you can’t share parts of yourself with most of the people around you, for fear of rejection or misunderstanding… It’s part of why I told you I wanted to tell Jenny and Ian and the rest about me. There are some that I will necessarily have to keep parts of myself from, but not them- not our family. Not anymore.” Her fingers took up their own rhythm of stroking his chest and shoulder, soothing away any guilt before he had a chance to feel it.

“We’ll tell them, Sassenach. I willna have ye feeling lonely or cut off from the family I gave ye. I should never have asked it in the first place.”

She kissed just above his heart, and he tucked his nose into the mess of curls at the top of her head, inhaled deeply.

The next day as she and Jamie endeavored to explain Claire’s history and knowledge to Michael, Ian, and Jenny, Claire found it comforting and rather fitting that Young Ian sat on their side of the table, with her and Jamie. It did much to confirm to her what Jenny and Jamie had already told her- what she must have known already, for she had felt it too. Jamie held her hand fiercely, and said his piece when necessary, but mostly nodded toward Claire in encouragement. At some point, she felt Young Ian’s foot slide along the floor and nudge hers, his own way of bracing her through the difficult confession, and she felt her heart burst from the joy of it

Notes:

Okay, another two ficlets on the books! Huge time skip in between these, from almost the very beginning to some of the newest episodes. Really fond of the one following Wentworth, I really enjoyed writing soft Murtagh. Kind of cheeky, but technically Claire is pregnant, so, we’re throwing it in the mother Claire saga… Expect more to come as new episodes come out!

*Edit* wow I was way too excited to post this chapter and found so many typos. I think I caught most of them. Y’all are so tolerant 😂

Suggestions and comments are appreciated.

Chapter 6

Jamie felt the excitement of another Christmas season bubbling in the pit of his gut like a kettle over a well stoked fire.

Christmas wasn’t much celebrated in Scotland, as he’d told Claire decades ago when they’d first made their home at Lallybroch. She hadn’t fussed, had simply assimilated to celebrate the 1700’s highland tradition of Hogmany.

He had asked her to share her memories of 20th century Christmas, knowing that though she’d chosen to stay with him, she might still miss such traditions and comforts.

Still, before she’d gone back to her time to raise Brianna, Christmas hadn’t meant more to him than a vigil Mass (when he was stationary long enough in one location to accommodate such a thing) and a few muttered stories before a fireplace, with Claire in his lap.

The first December after she’d returned to Jamie, he had seen the cloud of homesickness hovering over her. She wouldn’t say it aloud, but she longed for the holiday traditions she and Bree had developed over the years.

He had pieced together snippets of remembered anecdotes and put them into fruition in the wee hours of Christmas Eve while she’d been fast asleep.

He’d laced pine boughs with holly berries down the center of their rough hewn dining table, interspersed with the tail ends of their homemade rushlight candles. He had hung two stockings, one of hers, notable by the wee ankles and long, slim feet, and one of his, hulking in comparison, very broad around the calves and hastily patched in one or two spots at the heel and toe.

They’d only just managed to make the cabin watertight in preparation for winter, and they were short on capital or a market to even buy anything from, located in the remote backwoods as they were.

He’d managed to make some advantageous trades with the native Indians, however, who had gotten their hands on a fair supply of hard candy maple drops from an Iroquois tribe up north. His aunt had, by happenstance, sent candied orange and lemon rinds, a remarkable luxury by their standards. He doled equal amounts of each treat, wrapped in cheese cloth, into both hanging stockings. The final meager gift had been a rather handsome owl feather quill. He had found the feather on a hunting expedition, manicured it into a handsome shape, and meticulously trimmed the nib to assure neat penmanship.

They were small things, hardly the work of an hour, but he’d woken late on Christmas morning to a squeal of delight. Before he had even managed to sit upright in bed, she was diving beneath the blankets with her stocking, burying icy feet beneath his thigh, and happily unearthing her gifts.

Christmas had only grown as a family tradition with the arrival of Fergus, Marsali, Bree, and Roger to the Ridge, and four grandchildren between them.

Now, in a new land, a home of their own making, and with a family growing every time Jamie and Claire turned their heads, Christmas was a celebration of epic proportions.

Jamie, Marsali, and Claire spent Christmas Eve in the medicine room just off the surgery, making last minute preparations for the Christmas holiday.

Roger, Bree, Fergus, Lizzie and the Beardsley boys were watching the flock of Jamie and Claire’s grandchildren while Jamie and Claire executed the final touches on the house for Christmas morning. Marsali, usually in charge of minding 3 wee bairns while maintaining the whiskey still had been invited to join them as a reprieve. 

Claire had noticed the poor young mother had been strained at the family dinner that evening, juggling her two fussy, picky young girls at a mealtime while Fergus supervised their much easier eldest boy, Germain. Claire had nearly snapped at her adoptive son herself when Marsali had suffered through Joan wailing and hitting her as she attempted to spoon mashed potato into the mouth of newly two year old Felicite.

She knew it would do no good, however, and it wasn’t her job to meddle in the marital or parental affairs of others without a very justifiable reason indeed.

Instead, she had schemed her way into bestowing the young woman with some well earned child-free time.

Claire and Bree had been exchanging irritated glances and looks of exasperation toward Fergus all night, so when Claire petitioned the young women of the table to help her after dinner, Bree made her excuses.

“Lizzie and I were actually going to start churning and packing another batch of butter tonight. Roger was going to entertain Jemmy for the evening.” She said automatically, directing pointed ‘don’t argue with me’ glares at both her husband and her long time friend. Both uttered dutiful, Scottish noises of assent.

“Oh, dear. I really could use an extra hand tonight. Marsali, is there any way you could spare an hour or two?” Claire had inquired, buttering a soft roll and reaching across the table to place it before Joan in an attempt to distract her from her tantrum. The ploy worked and the little girl began ripping pieces off and stuffing them messily into her mouth.

Marsali darted a panicked eye at all three of her rambunctious children. It spoke of a desperation for a few minutes peace, and a resignation of such a possibility.

Claire neatly solved the issue without Marsali needing to say a word. “Perhaps Fergus and the children can join Roger. I’m sure between the two of them they can manage, especially with Bree and Lizzie only a room away.”

Fergus looked a little put out, but he knew better than to argue with Claire when she used that firm, matriarchal, tone of voice. Jamie smiled into a forkful of garlic roasted venison. He might be the one known for playing chess, but his wee wife was a fair tactician when she put her mind to it, especially in matters of family politic.

Thus, Marsali found herself in the company of two adults with not a child in sight for the first time in ages.

Jamie had stoked the fire to a roaring blaze to ward off the chill. Marsali sat at the work bench upon a cushioned chair, feet propped up on an adjacent stool.  Claire had set her to the task of wrapping sweeties of all sorts in scraps of dyed cloth: sugared pecans, boiled hard caramels, dried figs, and small squares of honeycomb wrapped in waxed paper (Bree’s latest modern convenience) and tied with twine.

A steaming earthenware jug sat before all three adults, each containing a generous portion of what Claire called a hot toddy; a concoction of whiskey, hot water, lemon, honey and cinnamon.

Normally, Jamie would think such a thing an absolute waste of good whisky. However, as his own still had yet to produce anything that could be considered good whisky (he was on the cusp of it, the only missing ingredient now was time), he found her potion one of the only agreeable ways to drink the most recent batches.

Jamie sipped at his mug, and concentrated on adding a few final rows of stitches to each of the wrist warmers he had knitted for the children. He had decided to add a stripe of color to the top edges of the gauntlets as a final flourish.

Claire sat at the table next to Marsali, the alcohol lamp usually reserved for surgeries sitting perilously close to a stack of fabric swatches and thread as she worked on her own project.

Claire was muttering under her breath to Marsali, loud enough for Jamie to hear from his chair by the fire. “Bloody show off.”

Marsali snickered into her mug, but made an affirmative noise in the back of her throat.

“What are ye over there defamin’ me for? What have I done to deserve it?” Jamie chided teasingly.

Claire was in the process of placing the final stitches on the rag doll she was making for Joanie. Her head was bent over her work, eyes squinted as she made the last row of precise stitches. She didn’t even turn her head to look at him. “Wipe that annoying smirk of your face, you bloody Scot.” She barked. “You know very well what I mean.”

“Weel it isnae my fault ye couldna clickit to save your own hide. What would ye have me do, allow our grandchildren to freeze for the sake of your pride? The holes were the size of a Spanish dollar.”

Marsali narrowly avoided spewing a mouthful of her drink across the table. Even after swallowing her drink, she failed to hide her amusement, giggling behind her hand, eyes watering.

Jamie grinned at her and delivered his infamous owlish, two eyed wink.

“How bloody dare you!” Claire crowed, pawing at the table for something she could chuck at him. Her hand landed on the pin cushion Marsali had made for her, and she launched it at Jamie’s head.

It bounced comically to the floor, and he snatched at it, dropping it into his basket of wool and knitting needles. “Ye better hope ye dinna need that, for I willna be offering it back without a proper apology.” He gloated smugly.

Marsali laughed then, a full belly laugh, and slapped her palm against the table in mirth. “The two of ye are all the entertainment a person needs. I never heard two people talk more daftly to one another in my whole life.”

Claire finally allowed her feigned scowl to fall away, giving way to a smile full of pearly white teeth.

Jamie peered over the rim of his spectacles to inspect his work before smoothing out the pair he’d been working on and setting them at the end of the bench for Marsali to wrap.

“Och, we’re just old enough to realize life will be as serious and somber as it can. Ye must make your own joy when ye can, aye?” He got up, groaning as he stretched his back, and kissed Marsali’s head on the way to Claire. He plucked up her latest doll- this one for Felicite- and gave it a fond shake. He brushed a kiss to his wife’s cheek.

“The lasses will love these, Sassenach, sure enough.” He approved. Jamie moved around the table then to survey the mounting pile, absolutely loaded down with goodies and gifts. “Christ, they’ll all be spoiled rotten, Claire. They’ll no’ be good for a damned thing.” His nose was scrunched in mock disbelief.

Marsali nodded along, but added his latest contribution to the appropriate pile for the corresponding recipient. “Aye, Da, but it does make ye feel queer proud, does it no’? To think of the way things were in Scotland years back, scrambling to survive… My bairns dinna ken what it’s really like to be hungry, or scared, or cold.”

Jamie relented then, and nodded along. “That’s so. And ye ken well enough that I’m just as fond of indulging the bairns as yer ma.”

Claire blinked rapidly, and it took Jamie a second to realize he’d called her such. Marsali, however, didn’t bat an eye, only continued to wrap gifts and distribute them appropriately.

He watched Claire’s face light up. The two had come a long way from their first encounter, and he could see how much it meant to his wife that the young woman hadn’t even thought to correct him.

“Aye,” Marsali said, unaware of the private revelation occurring over her head. “Granny Claire is a braw one for cosseting. I dinna think Germain or Joanie touched the ground once before they were two. Always on Granny’s hip, if not mine. And wee Felicite isna far behind.”

Claire stood up to freshen up everyone’s drink, blushing lightly. She retrieved a loaf of sweet apple bread Mrs. Bug had baked that morning, and sliced everyone a generous helping.

Jamie swallowed a cheeky grin and helped himself to the treat. Marsali shot him a conspiratorial glance. “She canna help herself, can she?” Marsali laughed.

“Nae.”

Claire’s blush spread down her neck, and she puttered around her improvised work station, studiously ignoring the two.

Marsali had mercy first and gave up the teasing. Claire was busy cutting a pattern out of what appeared to be split pair of trousers. The shape she had just finished was very recognizably the silhouette of a Buffalo, Germain’s latest obsession.

“Oh.” Marsali admired gently, fingering the nose of the beast and Claire cut out the other piece.

“I canna remember being as excited about anything as a bairn as mine are about Christmas every year.” Marsali noted as Claire finished cutting the second piece and matched the two together, one on top of the other, before threading a needle in order to join them.

“I wasn’t nearly as fond of Christmas before I had Bree. And then, for the first time, I realized that I could make magic, at least in her eyes. It’s a very addictive feeling.” Claire admitted.

“I’m excited to see their wee faces light up tomorrow, but God, I does feel fine to have adult conversation.” Marsali confessed. Her eyes shot wide, and she covered her mouth as if surprised she’d said such a thing out loud.

Jamie grunted in a knowing manner, and shrugged it off, moving to finish the last of the wrist warmers for the children.

Claire set her sewing down intentionally and smoothed her hand down Marsali’s hair, which she had taken down when they settled in to their work. “It’s perfectly normal for a mother to need a little time away- especially one with three young children. You know that, don’t you?”

Marsali peaked at her from the corner of her eye, fiddling idly with a spare bit of twine. “It doesna make me a bad mother?”

Claire shook her head, and Jamie saw a look of deep understanding pass between the two. “Oh my dear. No, it certainly doesn’t. It makes you human. You are a wonderful mother, Marsali.”

“Do ye really think so?” She sounded deeply discomfited.

Claire abandoned her project and stood to the side of the young woman. Claire placed her hands on Marsali’s shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. “It’s hard to see it when you’re in the middle of things, but you’re doing a wonderful job raising your children and caring for your family, Marsali. None of it is easy. The secret of motherhood that you don’t realize until later down the line is that no matter how well you do it, you’re always going to think you should have done more.” Claire sighed sympathetically, and pulled the young woman under her arm for a bracing hug. “And that even if you’ve done everything right, nothing will ever be perfect.”

Marsali dropped her head to the table in defeat. Her voice was muffled as she spoke into the surface of the table, “Ye dinna paint a very promising picture, Mother Claire.”

Claire chuckled good naturedly and bent over to kiss the back of Marsali’s smooth blonde head. “Maybe not. But it’s honest, and it’s not so bleak as it sounds. You have three beautiful, vibrant, kind, well cared for children. That is a very big accomplishment. And I am very proud to call them my grandbabies. So, I’ll not have you ridiculing their mother, as I am very fond and proud of her as well.”

Marsali rolled her head so that she could peer over her shoulder at Claire, who bore the kind of proud, loving smile that endeared her to most of the young people of the ridge when on the receiving end.

Claire rubbed her back comfortingly, squeezed her shoulder, and checked her mug to confirm she didn’t need a top off. Marsali pushed herself back up and began to wrap the remaining few gifts. Jamie watched Claire release a relieved breath, pleased to have encouraged Marsali, and return to her sewing project. When the little buffalo was nearly sewed all the way around, she stuffed it with corn husks to give it dimension and sewed up the final couple inches.

“Those wee stuffed animals you’ve made are so precious.” Marsali acknowledged.

“Oh thank you. They’re not so nice as the one I bought Brianna when she was little; a small white rabbit. It was absolutely adorable. You could sit it up and move its little legs and ears…But I don’t think the boys will mind much that they’re a little flat. I just have Jemmy’s fox to finish.”

“I ken they’re no’ for me, but I can hardly wait for the children to unwrap their gifts. The way their wee eyes sparkle and their cheeks flush wi’ the excitement. Och. It’s a verra fine thing to see.” Jamie said, placing the last set of wrist warmers on the table and setting his hands on his hips as he watched Claire and Marsali work in silence for several minutes.

She shone up at him, tilting it so he could get a peak at the little nose she had embroidered onto the end of its snout. He nodded his admiration.

Marsali leant over to get her own look and she cooed appreciatively.

Having completed their projects, the three adults stood and stretched, and Claire eyed the kettle she’d used to make their drinks. “There’s enough left for half a glass each. Shall we toast a job well done?”

Marsali nodded enthusiastically and held out her mug, and Claire obliged happily. Jamie offered Claire both of their mugs and she poured a portion into each.

Jamie raised his mug and let his gaze pierce Claire’s. “Slàinte Mhath. And a special blessin’ for my women, who ken how to brew up a wee bit o’ magic.”

Claire tipped her mug against his, and drank deeply. Jamie turned to Marsali to do the same. She seemed surprised, but he bent forward conspiratorially, “Claire and I wouldna have the joy of three of our wee grandchildren wi’out you, now would we?”

She clinked cups with him and downed the last swig of the warming drink.

Jamie felt Claire’s hip aggressively bump his, and he knew it to be her signal for him to move. He obliged her with a disgruntled snort, but when he caught sight of the tender look on her face as she gazed at Marsali, he settled into a gentle smile.

Claire took Marsali’s face into her hands. “I miss spending time with you, my dear girl. I’ll work it out with Lizzie and Fergus so that one afternoon a week, you and I get to enjoy each other’s company, yes? I don’t care if I help you with the laundry or if we drink tea or go on a walk. Whatever it is, someone else will be in charge of the littles for a while and we can talk through some of the thoughts that roll around up here.” At this, Claire brushed her thumbs along Marsali’s temples. “And don’t even think of arguing with me.” She finished wryly, patting her cheek.

Marsali threw her arms around Claire quite suddenly, but Claire was ready to accept the embrace. She dragged a warm hand along Marsali’s back and squeezed her close. “If I’m a good ma to my bairns, it’s at least in part because I’ve had ye to set such a fine example, Ma. And I’ll no’ fight the chance to learn more. Fergus is usually about the house on Tuesday afternoons. That should work fine for our purposes, aye?”

Claire’s eyes were squinted with pleasure and satisfaction. She nodded gamely, fighting off a few tears of joy. Jamie entered the fray then, wrapping both women up against his broad chest and bestowing a kiss upon the crowns of each head.

“I’ll walk ye home, lass. It’ll be an early morning tomorrow, bairns bouncing off the wall before ye even have time to gather yer wits, aye?”

 

As predicted, the next morning found two groggy and bleary eyed parents- one dark headed with curls askew and one blonde, uncombed hair hastily tucked beneath a cap- and three squealing bairns banging on the front door of the big house before the sun had even broached the horizon.

Bree, Roger, and Jemmy had spent the night in a guest room, anticipating an early morning. Claire was blinking blankly at an empty space of wall, clutching a chicory coffee like a starving man to a loaf of bread. Jamie, the only early bird of the bunch, leapt up to let in Marsali, Fergus and the littles.

They shrieked and dog piled him immediately with peals of laughter and various shouted versions of, “Happy Christmas!”

He laughed and towed the lot into the sitting room, where stockings had been hung after dinner the night before. Claire glanced up from the depths of her coffee cup just in time to see Jemmy throw himself at Jamie from a standing position on the arm of one of the chaises, knowing he’d be caught.

The man was a hulking figure at the best of times, but laden with four over excited children and barking with laughter, Claire thought he looked larger than life.

It energized her, and she stood up, eager to be part of the chaos. Felicite instantly released her grandfather’s leg (she had been sitting on one large foot, legs and arms wrapped around him like a wee monkey) and hopped up and down clapping at Claire, the universal signal for ‘up’.

Claire clapped her own hands twice and the little girl bounced into them. “G’anny!” She delighted, bashing her puckered lips busily against Claire’s cheek.

“Oh, my sweet girl! Happy Christmas, little love.” Claire greeted her, smile stretching dazzlingly.

Jemmy, an only child, and not so used to having to share attention as his adoptive cousins, levered away from Jamie’s chest towards Claire.

The boy had recently hit a growth spurt which had gained him at least two inches and perhaps close to a stone in weight, and hadn’t fully accepted the concept that he might be too big to carry any longer.

Jamie leant back, and was about to gently admonish the boy, but Claire silently shook her head and adjusted Felicite to a single hip. She opened her free arm, and Jamie pursed his lips somewhat disapprovingly, but said nothing, and did what he could to make the transfer easier on her.

She groaned under the combined weight of the two, but she nuzzled against Jemmy when he buried his little face into her shoulder and murmured his Christmas greetings.

“Do we think we can have breakfast before we open presents?” She asked teasingly to her precious cargo, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet to jostle the two.

“No, Granny!!! We waited all night.” Jemmy dragged out the “L’s” in “all” for several seconds to increase the urgency of his plea. 

“Oh but I’m just so hungry. Surely you can wait a few minutes more. No more than an hour. Maybe two.” Claire taunted goofily, blowing raspberries into the crease of his neck and staring at him with their foreheads touching so that they had to go cross eyed to look at each other.

Jemmy, finally catching on to the game, giggled and shook his head without parting their foreheads. “No.”

“No?”

“No!” And he retaliated with his own clumsy raspberry to her cheek.

Claire pinched his side just enough to tickle, and when he squirmed and dead weighted himself backwards, Jamie threw a hand forward to catch him before he could upend himself, Claire, and the baby.

“Enough of ye!” Jamie growled playfully, extracting the wee hooligan from Claire’s arms before he could break her in two. He plopped Jemmy on the chaise, then bent for Germain, who was on his other leg, and did the same. Joan, who had agilely climbed onto his back was lifted by her arms over his head and received the same plopping treatment, much to her amusement, before Claire relinquished the final grandbaby for her much softer landing on the chaise.

“Stay there while we hug your Mas and Pas and we’ll open some gifts, aye?” Jamie announced to the children. This was apparently enough incentive to minimize the fidgeting of four young children to the jiggling of tiny feet and impatient tapping of little hands.

The adults then exchanged their own abbreviated greetings, women hugging warmly, men shaking hands firmly, and Jamie kissing each of his daughters’ cheeks gently.

The next hour was a balance between encouraging the chaos of four rambunctious, overly excitable (and soon, very sugar high) children, and the attempt of six adults to exchange presents and heartfelt glad tidings over the frenzied noise.

Mrs. Bug entered the room only once to leave a jug of apple juice, a kettle of coffee, and enough tin cups for the lot, and left the family to their small celebration. The ridge would have its large Hogmany feast in a week’s time. Christmas was reserved for the Fraser-McKenzie clan.

Jamie made frequent passes around the room, taking in the blessing and abundance his family had created. Most especially, though, he looked to Claire and enjoyed the sight of her surrounded by the family she had made possible. Her insistence that they adopt Fergus, her return which had eventually brought Bree and Roger, and her efforts to make Marsali just as much a part of the family as the rest had made moments like these possible.

His face ached from smiling when she sat on the floor with the children playing dolls with their new stuffies. He sighed with pleasure at the sight of Bree, Marsali and Claire clutching their drinks to their chests, sharing a laugh, and making the most of Bree’s matches to light candles along the decorated mantle. A snort of amused outrage emanated from deep within him as Roger pulled a sprig of mistletoe from behind his back and insisted on kissing her cheek, and receiving one in return. Fergus took the cue to snatch it and request the same, and Jamie barreled forward before the wee boys could take up the game. He plucked the weed out of Fergus’ gloating hand, held it above their heads, and laid claim to her mouth to a chorus of adult whooping and childish protests of disgust.

…

Even when she wasn’t wailing, her complete despair echoed through the town house, felt in every room by anyone who made it past the threshold.

The weight of it, the utter turmoil, settled perversely as a stillness throughout the home. It felt as though one must take caution to set their drinking glasses down with no sound, to muffle their footsteps, and speak in hushed tones, as if not to disturb some ghost that resided there.

Ian felt it the moment he stepped into the house, before Lord John could even make him aware of Uncle Jamie’s misfortune. It washed over him like a stormfront, first the chill, then the sense of danger. John, in a quiet, wavering voice, explained the news. Ah, there it was. The devastation of high, whipping winds, pealing thunder, and cracking, white-hot lightening.

Uncle Jamie. Dead. And Auntie Claire… Not dead, but equally unreachable.  William stood shoulder to shoulder with Lord John, and with eyes directed at the floor, explained to Ian that Claire had not left her room since the news three days past, and had refused any food brought to her door.

Ian felt a pressure on his chest, like a canon had been parked on his rib cage.

Since meeting his Auntie nigh on a decade ago, as long as they’d been together, she had been there for him. Aside from the time he’d been with the Mohawk, there hadna been a bleak day or a moment of dark thought that she hadn’t been there to offer her support.

They’d spent the majority of the journey back from Scotland  recalling tales of his father and spending every free moment in each other’s company to ward off the impending loss.

She’d always mended his wounds, offered an uncritical ear to his woes, shared advice when needed, and bestowed a comforting embrace before it was even requested. On more than one occasion, he could remember her adding her physical strength to his own; hauling wood, mending fence, or other such chores, undeterred by her size, age, or sex.

He felt the acid of sickness crawl up his throat at the thought of her being alone these last few days, with no one to lend her the same solidity.

Ian nodded his thanks to the two men once and spun on his heel, taking the stairs two at a time. He rapped on her door with a knuckle.

No reply came within, and he felt a swoop in his wame, as if he’d just jumped from a great height. He knocked again, more urgently this time.

“Leave me alone, John. I’m alive, isn’t that enough?” He could hear the strain of her throat. She’d been screaming no doubt. Her tone was reedy, thin, and more desolate than he could have possibly imagined.

Ian wasted no more time. The key had been left in the door by John, in case of emergency, and he turned it swiftly. He hardly remembered to shut the door behind him for the sake of her privacy before he had collapsed to his knees beside the bed and snatched her hand to his chest, cradled between both of his.

He had seen her bound and beaten to a bloody pulp, terrified of her own shadow, not so long ago.

She had been in a better state then, he thought, looking at her sallow face and unfocused gaze.

Her eyes, usually the color of the sunshine through honey comb, were the dull, yellow-brown of festered whiskey malt.

She showed very little awareness of his presence, and he tucked their clasped hands under his chin, hoping to squeeze some recognition or liveliness into her. She stirred slightly, and her glassy eyes seemed to struggle for focus on his face.

“Auntie?” Ian plead, helpless to do anything else. Now that he was here, sat in the face of her enormous grief, he was at a loss for a single thing to say or do. What could he possibly offer to ease this kind of suffering? How had she made it seem so easy, all those times she sat with him until his sadness felt manageable once more?

“Ian.” She croaked.

It brought him a small measure of comfort to see her search his face wearily. He noticed her lips were heavily chapped, and he thought her skin had yellowed to the shade of bad buttermilk.

“Auntie, if I bring ye some tea, will ye no’ drink it for me?”

She shook her head, eyed the empty brandy decanter, and tucked her chin in to her chest as if to ward off any restorative he could offer.

“Aye, ye must.” He kissed the back of her hand briefly, plucked the decanter between two fingers, and marched back to the door. He placed it on the floor just outside her door, and requested one of the servants to bring a tea service. Apparently John had anticipated the request, and in a few moments, Ian was setting the tray before Claire on the bedside table.

She tried to roll to her other shoulder, so that her back faced him, but he stopped her with a strong hand, and dragged her closer to the edge where he crouched.

“I ken ye canna bear the pain, Auntie, and I canna hope to understand what yer feelin’. But one day, ye may find a reason to get up again, and ye’ll need the strength tae do it. Just a cup, please.” He heard his voice crack, and he felt his eyes water. He bit his lip hard against the wave of pain. He could feel this later, could let Rachel carry him through it. Claire needed him now.

She seemed to have perked up slightly, though she still said nothing. He slid a hand beneath her, and guided her to a seat upon the mattress. She didn’t scream or claw at him as John warned him she might. No, she plainly allowed him to hoist her up, and didn’t protest when he sat beside her on the bed and hauled her against him. The back of her head fell limply against his neck, tucked under his chin, and he wound an arm around her shoulder to keep her steady. The other hand he used to pass her a cup of tea, only half full, hoping it might seem more manageable.

She sighed as his fingertips brushed hers. He left the pads of two fingers beneath the bottom of the cup as she brought it to her lips. Her hand shook- whether from the effort to lift it or from depth of feeling, he was unsure- and he didn’t want to risk the chance she’d spill.

She took a small sip- hardly enough to wet her lips- and sank further back into him. “That’s it.” He encouraged. He thought if he kept their interactions simple, concrete, maybe she’d find it grounding.

He felt her fingers clench around the teacup more firmly (absorbing the warmth maybe?) and she attempted a more substantial sip. He felt the tiniest sigh of relief pass through her, and he couldn’t help but allow the relief to work its way up his spine and into his shoulders as well.

She finished the cup with some fervor, then, and dabbed at her lips with the back of her hand.

She pushed herself up and sat up against the head board. She eyed the teapot but remained where she was, and held the teacup in a single hand in her lap.

“I wasna here, Auntie. It’s unforgivable. I… I’m sorry.”

Her lips began to quiver, and Ian almost regretted bringing it up.

“Lord John says ye’ve holed yerself away up here, and ye willnae see anyone. Well, I dinna mean to tell ye how to heal, but ye canna go wi’out eatin’ or drinking.” Ian said, looking under his brow at her, somewhat unsettled by the role reversal that seemed to be taking place, in which he was in charge of her care. Solely, he realized. Brianna and Roger had gone back to their time. Fergus and Marsali, with their four bairns and Fergus’s recent struggles had more than enough to look after in Wilmington. And now, Uncle Jamie was gone. He was the family she had to rely on now.

He might have worried about his ability to do so, not so very long ago. He couldn’t even find it within himself to fret now; whether he was ready or not made no difference. He would do it, and he would do it well. She had never left him in a moment of need.

“Heal…” She responded at last, sounding foggy and confused. “I’m not sure that’s possible, Ian.”

From anyone else, it might have sounded girlish and dramatic. In her sophisticated, throaty alto, it only sounded resolute, honest.

“Aye.” Ian acknowledged, setting a hand on her knee kindly. “I can see the truth in that.” All the times she’d comforted him, she’d never given him empty platitudes or false hope. He couldna give her any less now.

Her hand landed on his, then. It seemed like an act of soothing, but Ian could see she was drawing just as much from it as she had meant to give.

“I am here, Auntie. You’ll never be alone, so long as I’m on this earth, ye ken? I have been yours and Uncle Jamie’s for the keeping since I was taken on Silkie Island. You are mine for the keeping now, and I’ll do my verra best by ye.” He had avoided, up until this point, making extended eye contact with her. The chasm of loneliness and suffering he found there was too deep, too cavernous and threatening. He did so now, though, and didn’t shy away when the full force of her pain lanced through him.

She seemed beyond tears, drained dry, but he could tell the instinct was there by the flail of her throat as she swallowed, and the tremor of her chest as she fought back a sob.

“I an. ”

He knew what it meant. It was heartbreak and acceptance and fear and regret and despair, all wound together.

He pulled the empty cup from her hand, poured a full serving, and returned it to her. She accepted it and he broke a scone in half and served it upon a tea saucer.

She took a draught of the tea, but seemed suspicious at best of the pastry.

“Will ye try to eat? I worry for ye.” Ian coaxed  carefully. It wouldna do for her to think he pitied her. Nothing made her rear back like that.

“I… I’m not sure. I’ve been so nauseous since… My stomach lurches at just the thought.” She crumbled the edge of the scone between a thumb and finger, before squeamishly flicking the crumbs from her digits.

“The last time when you were verra ill- ye were queasy then, too. Ye drank ginger tea. Chewed mint. And Lizzie made ye lemon cookies. Ye liked those quite a bit when ye couldna keep much else down. Could ye give one of those a try, do ye think?”

She studied him silently for a long time, leonine eyes piercing through to the very marrow of his bones.

She nudged the center of his forehead, right between his brows with the edge of her thumb. “You get the same dimple here, when you’re troubled. A Fraser trait, then.” She said conclusively. He could hear the distance returning, at the visceral reminder of Jamie.

He leaned into her, trying to reel her back to him, to the present. “Auntie?”

Her face was blank again, eyes foggy, and she lay back limply against the headboard.

“Auntie, please.”

Her gaze ghosted over him, hovered over his head without really seeing him. He braced a palm against her cheek, hoping to rouse her. She inhaled deeply and released it slowly. “The lemon. I can try.” It sounded as if her voice came from a very long way off, no matter that she was sitting a few inches in front of him. “I’ll try for you.”

Ian nodded and quit the room, hoping to find another accommodating maid who might be able to approximate the lemon cookies Claire was so fond of. The woman in charge of the kitchen, who reminded him very much of Mrs. Crook, confidently confirmed she could whip up something of the like, and scurried off to the market to purchase some fresh citrus.

Ian mounted the stairs once more, determined not leave his aunt just yet. He couldn’t stay by her side day and night as he might wish- he had orders, after all, this was still a war. But he could stay for a while, check in on her frequently, and return to fetch her from the care of Lord John when things were a bit more stable.

This time, when he entered her room, he didn’t knock. There was a sense of foreboding emanating from the room, and he couldn’t find it in himself to stop long enough for the civility.

She was still on the bed, curled around a pillow in the most heartbreakingly childlike fashion. Her eyes were fastened on the open medicine chest that John had acquired for her. He was sure the chest hadn’t been opened when he left.

Ian scanned the rest of the room, looking for anything else amiss. Something was very wrong in this room, and it stole his breath to understand how quickly the peace had been sucked from the room. It was like a piece of debris amid a churning, storm turned ocean; there one moment, gone the next, before one’s very eye.

He was suddenly very aware of the peril of leaving his aunt alone with her thoughts and grief for too long. He’d have to petition John not to allow her to withdraw from the company of others for any extended period of time.

A final sweep of the room revealed one other detail he had missed before, one that made his heart skip a beat. One of Uncle Jamie’s scarves- hand knitted by the man himself, and worn frequently in cold weather- hanging from a hook on the bureau, never to be worn again.

No. Claire could not be allowed to wallow alone if she had any hope of holding onto her sanity.

He watched her, silent and still as the dead. Even with careful study, he could hardly see the movement of her breath. It was very strange, to see her in such a way without Uncle Jamie hovering over her.

They’d seen more than their fair share of trouble since he’d met his aunt, but it hit him that this may have been one of the first times he was seeing her in such anguish without Jamie at her side.

When it was his uncle that was hurt or downtrodden, she was brave. Scared, but always facing the threat head on with a straight back, stiff upper lip, and an even tone. When the roles were reversed, he couldn’t recall a single image of her that did not also contain his Uncle, pasted to her side with a set jaw and a worried gaze.

If he felt the loss, so far removed, how much more did that emptiness press down upon her?

He shivered, strode toward the scarf and yanked it from its peg. He sat down heavily on the mattress and folded the length of woven fabric in half twice over. Once finished, he slid one end of the fabric into her clawed hand, and the other underneath her head, which lay flat upon the mattress.

Her fingers twitched briefly, the only sign she had noticed any change. After the span of a few short breaths, however, he saw he nose dip down into the weave of the grey knit, and he heard her draw a deep lungful of air.

“Jamie.”

It wasn’t even audible, just a soundless movement of her mouth, but one Ian had seen too many times not to recognize.

She buried her nose further into the scarf. It must still smell of him, Ian surmised.

“He hasna gone without a trace, Auntie. There are still ways to feel him, to know his love and care for ye. I think it’s still possible to hear him, see him. No, I dinna believe he’s left us altogether.” Ian wasn’t sure why he said it, or where it came from, other than a deep need to give this woman something to hang on to, something to stay for.

“Oh Ian.” It sounded like an admonishment, though a gentle one. She kept her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and her nose angled into the scarf as she spoke the next words. “I know that. I haven’t stopped hearing his voice, or seeing flashes of his face since John told me he was-” she paused, refusing to say the word. “It doesn’t matter whether I’m awake or asleep. Eyes open or shut. Occupying myself or lying here doing nothing at all. I can’t stop hearing him. And I think it might kill me if it goes on. But what will I do if it stops, and I hear him no more?”

“Oh.” Ian said, and he felt it fairly well summed up the situation. Haunted, he mused, and tortured by it, and yet frightened even more by the possibility of silence and solitude.

He was out of his depth. Horrifically so. Still, who else could do anything to help her but himself?

“Ye’ll tell me what ye hear, what ye see, Auntie. Ye’ll write it down for Brianna, and Roger, and Jemmy and Mandy.” Ian nodded, more sure of himself, and he brushed a few curls out of her face so that their view of one another was unobstructed. “Ye’ll recount it to Marsali and Fergus, and all your wee grandchildren. One day, mebbe you could share it wi’ Rachel, so she can ken him more deeply, and our bairns if we have any. Only one person on this earth knew him sae deeply, Auntie, that he could be kept alive, and that’s you.”

He spotted her silver wedding band shining in the waning light of the day. He plucked her finger between his thumb and finger and delivered his final plea. “He cannae live if ye willnae. So. I’ll bring up the biscuits when they’re ready and we’ll share them between the two of us, aye?”

He felt her fingers curl against his palm at the grind of the metal band digging into her finger. She said nothing and her mouth was twisted with fresh anguish, but she nodded fractionally anyway.

Notes:

Merry Christmas, readers! Had to rush this one out before the holiday!

I’ve been wanting to do another Marsali piece for a while. As for the one with Ian, I think it’s plain to tell that he’s one of my favorite characters. I think it’s clear enough, but in case it isn’t, the scene with Ian and Claire occurs before John and Claire marry.

Hope you all enjoy- tell me your favorite part of this chapter! I published another one shot last week. Have a look if you haven’t already :)

Chapter 7

While Jamie’s life no longer hung in the balance, caring for him was only marginally less stressful.

The snake venom had run its course and Bree’s makeshift syringe had allowed for the full effectiveness of Claire’s penicillin against infection.

Jamie wasn’t boiling with fever, writhing with maggots, or rife with infected lesions.

He was, however, still nowhere back to full strength, and was being restricted from most physical exertion, much to his chagrin.

Any time he tried to broach the subject of moving about to stretch his legs or going to see to some of his less strenuous chores, he was swiftly and thoroughly shut down by a pinched lipped Claire. Then Claire would declare him an awful patient, to which he would counter that she ought to look in a mirror every once in a while, which inevitably led to a full snit which ended when Claire stomped out of the surgery to blow off some steam and Jamie would throw himself back down on the sick bed and brood.

This morning, however, it seemed that Claire had taken a different strategy in an attempt to prevent another quarrel.

She entered the surgery in a twirl of skirts, the faint scent of baked bread and honey drifting in with her. She held a tray in one hand, and held Jemmy against one hip with the other.

Jamie sat up and brushed the blankets aside. “Hallo, laddie. G’mornin, Sassenach.”

Claire, who had been looking for something on her work bench, whirled with a quiet smile. “Morning, darling. Jemmy, shall we sit with Granda and eat some breakfast, do you think?”

“Aye!” He called, uncaring of the early hour or the nearness to his grandmother’s ear canal.

She flinched but smooched his round cheek enthusiastically anyway when he jerked back to look at her. He kicked his little feet against her, a clear encouragement to move toward Jamie.

Jamie held out his hands for the lad as Claire approached, and she relinquished the little tyrant. Jamie held him upside down against his chest, patted his bottom as if to shake him down for loose change, and then sat him across his knee when the lad’s squealing hit glass-breaking pitches.

“What’s brought ye over so early, wee man?” Jamie asked congenially, jouncing the lad on his good knee as he reached for a spoonful of parritch from the tray Claire had set beside him.

“We’re gonna play games to make your leg better!!” Jemmy enthused, a large drip of honey smeared from the corner of his mouth to underneath his chin.

Jamie let his confusion be aimed at Claire, who sat on the surgery cot opposite him, neatly tearing small pieces of buttered and honeyed bread and popping them into her mouth.

She raised a single eyebrow in acknowledgment and chewed her bite before replying. “That’s right, Jem. Granda has to build up muscle in his hurt leg so he can go riding horses and fishing and hunting with you like he wants. So we’re going to play some games that will help him build his muscle back. Physiotherapy. Can you say that?”

Jemmy looked at her quizzically, brow wrinkled adorably. “Fizzy-oh-tarry.”

Jamie suppressed a snort. “A fine try, lad.” He handed Jem another piece of bread- more honey than bread, in truth- and the little boy tore in to it with gusto.

“So ye plan to torture me some more, is that it? Is this my punishment for bein’ short wi’ ye then?” Jamie asked with the sort of crooked grin that conveyed self-aware apology and a disgruntled amusement that she had resorted to using their grandchild to manipulate Jamie into her treatment plan.

“I thought it rather a better option than leaving you to sit in bed all day. But if thats what you prefer, Jemmy and I can take our company elsewhere.” Claire replied as neutrally as her glass face would allow. The beginnings of a displeased frown tugged at the corners of her lips, though, and he could see by the tension in her neck that she was ready for another row.

“Ye ken I canna say no to the lad, which is why you brought him, I suspect.” He shot her a narrowed eyed look before leaning over and squeezing Jemmy into his side until the boy squawked and laughed. Jamie grinned and kissed the boy’s head. Jamie studied Claire evenly for a moment, and sighed. “Ye think your therapy will get me back my strength?” He queried in resignation.

“I do. It’s the same concept as the exercises I had you do after I repaired your hand in France.” Her eyes darted to the hand with two stiff fingers that had never quite mended correctly. “Of course, the damage was much worse, then, and I had much less training. This is a simple matter of muscle atrophy and wound care. None of your bones or ligaments were affected. I can make you well again. I know I can.”

Jamie stared at his bandaged leg briefly, while Jemmy, bored of grown up conversation, crawled on hand and knees behind his back. He felt little fingers on his shoulders, and wee leather shoes on his mid-back, and then the lad was climbing him like a chimp, and settling himself in a seat on his grandfather’s shoulders.

Jamie looked up as Jemmy clung to his head for balance. He grabbed one of the boy’s ankles to keep him from tumbling backwards. Jemmy’s wide smile eased some tension in him, and Jamie shook himself like a dog to a chorus of shrieks and laughter from his passenger.

He faced Claire again, purposely softening his gaze, and pushing back the fears and doubts that he wouldn’t be strong enough to provide for and protect his family.

She met his gaze warmly, admiring the playful scene before her. He could see the worry and exhaustion hidden in the corners of her eyes. If his mind hadn’t already been made up, that would have decided him. “I’ve never known ye not to do your best when healing any of my many wounds. If ye say it’ll work, then it will.”

She bowed her head briefly in relief. When she looked up again, her smile looked fit to split her face down the middle, and she jumped up from her seat.

She put two dry, warm hands on his cheeks and kissed him fiercely. He had given her quite a start, when he’d resolved himself to die rather than live without his leg. He needed to remember how much that had scared her when he felt his dander rising with self flagellation. He was frustrated at his inability to do what he usually did- what he must do. There was no need to take it out on Claire, who was doing everything she could do care for him, and the family, and fill in for Jamie where she could.

Jemmy, still atop his shoulders, pulled at handfuls of hair. “Me next, Granny, do me!”

Claire’s eyes sparkled, and her fingers stroked affection against Jamie’s whiskered cheeks as she turned her attention to their young audience member. “You next, hmm? Alright, you brought this on yourself!”

She arched toward him with waggling fingers, and Jamie felt himself thrown forward as Jemmy lurched into his Granny’s embrace. Jamie couldn’t see much more than a flurry of her skirts, as he was eye level with her stomach at present, but he heard her rain down smacking, silly kisses upon the boy, and was quite sure by the squirming that she was tickling him as well.

Suddenly, the weight of the boy was lifted from his shoulders, and Claire stepped back with an armful of wriggling wean and the sparkle of pure delight in her eyes.

She set him down on his feet and crouched down to see eye to eye with him. He bounced about and she held him by the ribs on either side to still him. “Alright, Jem, go get the ball, right where I showed you, yes?”

Jemmy crowed and sailed out of the surgery, little feet stomping on wood floors.

The lad came storming back in seconds later with a large, round leather ball, cheeks rosy from all the excitement.

Claire beamed and Jemmy toddled over to her, presenting the ball to her with a heavy thump when it connected with her bent knees.

“Good work, Jem.” She praised cheerfully. “I’ll start with Granda, and when he’s ready you can help him play, alright? But first I’d like to see you pass your ball all the away around this counter 10 times, okay? Remember how Da taught you?”

Jemmy nudged the ball a few inches with his foot, before directing it the other direction with a gentle kick from the other foot.

“Beautiful! Go ahead and start your circles. Count aloud so Granny can hear you.”

Having set the lad to occupy his time, Claire dragged the small bench at the end of the bed toward the threshold which lead into her medicine room.

“Alright, Soldier, it’s time to put you to work too. Stand up, and we’ll get you on this bench.”

Jamie appreciated that she didn’t try to lever him up as she had in past days, by wedging a shoulder beneath the pit of his arm. Instead she let him go on his own, her hand hovering as unobtrusively as possible near his arm in case he might need steadying. (He did, once he’d straightened his knees, but he had grabbed for the bed poster and regained his aplomb without hearing a gasp, swear, or hiss from Claire, which was a relief.)

He smiled gratefully at her, and decided that swiveling 90 degrees so that he faced into the surgery was perhaps slightly beyond his abilities, free handed. He took hold of the bed post with both hands, and shuffled his feet under him until he faced the right direction. By the time Jemmy had counted to two (the bench was long and his ball juggling was somewhat clumsy) Jamie was sitting upon the bench, hip muscles twinging slightly.

“What now?” He asked reluctantly, realizing rather suddenly that his joke about torture might not be too far from the truth.

“It’s not just the muscles in the injured part of your leg that have weakened, as I’m sure you’re aware. Jemmy is going to help us with those later-"

“Three- aye, I’mma help fix ye, Granda!” Jem interrupted gamely, hopping a little before starting his fourth lap.

Claire shook her head in amusement and rolled her eyes fondly. “Right. So, we’re going to work on your upper legs and lower back first. And once you’re proper sore, we’ll change tack. I’d like to say it’s not as bad as it sounds, but I’ve had patients say is absolutely dreadful.”

Jamie glared at her beneath his lashes, only half playfully. “It’ll help?”

“In time, yes.” She confirmed steadily.

Jamie nodded in acquiescence and shrugged. “What will ye have me do, then?”

Claire shot a brief look over her shoulder at the lad before raising a conspiratorial brow. “Any other time, lad, and I’d have a very different answer. But for now, I suppose I’ll have to make do. I’ve placed you in between the beds so that you have the bed posts on either side if you should need them. But, if you can, I’d like you to stand up and then sit back down with as little aid as possible.”

Jamie nodded again, grunted, and thrust his hips slightly forward, to give him a bit of momentum off the bench. He stood, canted slightly to his bad side, straightened, and stood at his full height right before Claire. It had been weeks since he had this vantage of her, the twinkle of sunlight as it sparked off the silver curls at the top of her head. The way the freckles along the bridge of her nose begged for the pressure of his lips. The way he could see the beginnings of a smile by the way the corners of her eyes twitched before her lips had even begun their ascent.

She gleamed proudly up at him, clearly enjoying the view just as much as he was. He pressed a sincere kiss to her lips (though not quite as thorough as he’d like, following her suggestive comment) before his knees threatened to buckle and he sat down somewhat less gracefully than intended.

Jemmy was up to five and a half, and Jamie tried to focus on the twitching and firing of each muscle, so that he could concentrate his efforts there on his next go.

Jamie stood again, this time trying to rely less on swinging upward, and more on a natural rise. It was difficult. Much more bloody difficult than he’d like, but it was possible.

His heels rocked beneath him, and instead of reaching out to the bed, his first instinct had him grabbing at Claire. She shot out a forearm, and this finger wrapped around it, lending him enough stability to settle on the bench without falling into it.

“Steady on, Soldier.” She encouraged bracingly. She retracted her hand knowingly, to offer him the chance to go at it on his own, and he grunted his thanks. “Two more, shall we? What are you up to now, Jem?”

“Seven!”

“Lovely, darling. What comes after seven?” She tossed over her shoulder, stepping back one pace and gesturing for Jamie to try once more.

He could see how she tried to deflect some of the attention away from his weakness and made efforts not to hover and fidget as she was inclined to do. He must remember this the next time he felt harangued by her worry and well-meant offers of assistance.

He stood again and felt his bad leg give slightly at the knee and hip. He righted himself by throwing his shoulders the opposite direction, stood for the count of five, and reached back behind him with the fingers of his good hand to assist himself back into a seat. He was sweating now, which aggravated him greatly.

He could see Claire biting her lip with the effort of suppressing some anxious question. He took a steadying breath and made to rise once more. His hip was twitching madly, and he felt the burn of underused muscles fatiguing the entire leg.

Still, he held his standing position for a (quick) count of five, blowing a stream of frustrated air out of puckered lips before doing his best not to collapse back against the bench.

He heaved a few breaths, and Claire shot him her best impression of an encouraging smile, one which certainly did not reach her eyes, which were plainly nervous and pained by his discomfort.

“One more, for good measure.” Jamie stated calmly, stretching out his legs and feet to try to loosen the tension that had settled in them.

Claire looked ready to argue, and Jamie tried to mentally prepare himself to meet it with patience, despite the ticking muscle in his clenched jaw. He watched her keen eyes take in every diagnostic detail of his features. Her lips pursed and then her chest slowly expanded and contracted with a deep breath.

“Try to widen your stance slightly, at your feet. That should help steady you just a bit. Then fix your eyes on a single point in the room and give it all your effort.”

In his surprise, he felt his head whip upward without making the conscious decision to do so. He saw her steadfast whiskey eyes staring him down, lending him her nearly infinite resilience.

This must have been the face, albeit years older, that shored up the dwindling spirits of wounded soldiers in a war more brutal than his imagination could give life to.

He inched his feet further apart, planted his hands on his knees, straightened his back, and stood to face her, returning every bit of constancy and confidence that she leveled at him.

Her hair was twisted into a tight bun, but he slid his fingers in against the curve of the back of her skull anyway, inclined her face toward his with a thumb behind the corner of her jaw, and captured her supple lower lip between his, nibbling gently, then smoothing away the sting with his tongue. Her wee nails pricked against the scarred flesh above his shoulder blades.

“Eight, nine, ten! Granda stood for 10! Good job, Granda!” The impact of a four-year-old Jemmy barreling into his knees, despite the added stability of Claire’s body against his was enough to nearly topple him.

If Claire’s arms had not been around him already, she’d have not braced him in time to prevent what would have been a rather unseemly tumble. As it was, even if she had been fully prepared, there was no way she could completely manage the weight of her solid 6’5” Scotsman, and it was all she could do to bend her knees and lock her spine and slow his descent enough that his arse landed on the bench instead of the floor.

Claire didn’t bother scolding Jem, who looked suitably bashful, upon Jamie’s near collapse. The lad mumbled an apology into his grandsire’s knee and wheedled in between his legs for a consolatory hug around the waist. Jamie indulged the boy with a hand that spanned the entirety of the lad’s back.

“What do you two think about a little bit of friendly competition?”

Jemmy fidgeted excitedly, a look not too far off from when he was a wee bit younger and making a mess of his clout.

Claire scrunched her nose up with affection. “It’s very simple. You must stand on one foot, with your hands down at your side. You have to balance, no holding on to the bed or bench.” She shot a mockingly accusatory glare at the little boy who cackled gleefully, and tapped both palms on the bed, as if to prove his unruliness before the game could truly start. “Whoever can hold their balance the longest wins!”

Jamie levered himself up from the bench, figuring he must give himself every possible advantage, as this wasna likely to go well for him.

They started on their left feet, and almost instantly, Jemmy tumbled forward, rolled rump over head, and sat giggling, hands planted between his spread-eagle legs. Jamie and Claire were still standing, though Jamie could feel a slight wobble in his knee. Still, it proved slightly less of a challenge than the squatting, as once he found his equilibrium, he found it rather easy to maintain. After what must have been over half a minute, Jemmy had grown decidedly restless. He hopped precariously close to the toes of his grandparents, perhaps hoping the force might knock them off balance. When that failed, he resorted to more blatant forms of sabotage, grabbed two overflowing handfuls of his Granny’s apron, and pulled with all his might.

Claire yelped, kicked out, and regained her footing.

“No’ verra nice, Jem. Dinna do it again, or there’ll be consequences.” Jamie said, lowering his foot slowly and feeling quite pleased that he had dropped his foot because he wanted to, and not because he hadn’t the strength to keep it up.

The boy bit his lip and puckered his brows, but Jamie didna give him the attention he was after.

“The other side, now, I expect?”

Claire shot him a sideways smile in lieu of answering aloud. Jamie breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. This would be a much greater challenge, he knew, for he now had some idea of how much weaker his right side had become.

“The key will be in your low belly and your knee. Stay rigid in your core and do your best to keep that knee from juddering. Easier said than done, I know.” Claire threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender.

Jamie allowed Jemmy to count them in to this round, though he had to be lead through counting backwards from five.

This round went not even half the time, if Jamie was a betting man. As last time, Jem lacked the coordination to stand on one foot for more than a few seconds. Claire looked as steady a Scots Pine, but Jamie’s knee began to falter after a matter of seconds, and it was all he could do to make it to the count of twelve in his head before he set his foot down, more embarrassed by the prospect of falling on his face than losing a game.

Caire stood down the second he finished and did her best not to look rushed into helping him to a seat. Claire fetched him a glass of water which Jamie gulped down, only realizing how parched he was when he’d drained the cup and requested another. She obliged and raked her hands through his hair fondly as he finished off the second.

When he had gained a bit of composure, Jemmy set leather ball in Jamie’s lap.

“Ready for your turn helping Granda, are you?” Claire asked him with amusement.

Jemmy nodded enthusiastically. “Play, Granda!”

Jamie smiled and lifted the ball, turning it over in his hands to inspect the handiwork. “What’s a ball have to do wi’ fixin my leg?”

Claire smiled and took it from him, pointing Jemmy to the other end of the room. “It just makes it more fun. We can work on building muscle and finer movements at the same time. All you need to do is kick the ball to Jemmy. He’ll pick different spots at the other end of the surgery, and you’ll kick it to him. We’ll try 10 on each leg. In a week or two, we’ll up the ante and do it standing.”

Jemmy stood right in front of the surgery workbench, tongue stuck out in concentration, bending at the knee repeatedly in a gesture of ill contained stimulation.

Jamie passed a skeptical look to Claire, but he said nothing, only setting the ball before his good foot and toeing the ball forward. Jemmy squealed and leapt forward, leaning over to stop the ball with his hands. Once the ball was still, he stood up and clumsily kicked the ball back toward his grandfather. It skittered somewhat to the side, but Claire passed it back to Jamie with the end of her shoe.

Jemmy went to the far-left end of the room, and Jamie easily angled his good foot and directed the ball toward Jemmy, with considerably more speed this time. The ball skidded across the floor with a sound like a corn husk tumbling along with a breeze.

Jemmy and he alternated passes, and Jamie found no great difficulty in using his fully functioning leg to complete the game. When they’d reached ten sets, Claire asked him to switch. He rolled the hide beneath the ball of his foot, trying to judge his maneuverability. It was admittedly stiff and cumbersome, and he surmised he’d be much less pleased with the results of this round.

Jemmy chose his starting position in the right corner of the room, and Jamie tried to adjust the angle of his leg to send the ball. It was his right leg that had been bitten, and he found that pointing his toes outward, away from his body was much more difficult than pointing them inward. If Jemmy had chosen the left corner, he’d have a much better shot. Just holding his foot at this angle, lifted off the floor as it currently was, was causing his hip, knee, and calf to twinge.

He sighed and gave it his best. His heel skimmed the ground inadvertently, and his toe met the ball much too straight on. The ball limped weakly down the middle of the room and wedged itself under the footboard of the work bench.

Jamie snorted in irritation and glared at the sympathetic glance he was receiving from Claire.

“That’s what we’re working on. There’d be no point of trying this at all if there were nothing to improve upon.”

It sounded so close to something she’d said to Marsali when the lass was practicing her stitching on a butchered pig, or Germain when she was helping him tie his shoes that it made him want to bellow at her.

Instead, he curled his lips briefly in distaste and gestured for Jemmy to pass it back. The lad did (and with significantly more finesse that Jamie himself had just demonstrated) and went to the left side of the room.

The ball didn’t sail across the room with as much power as when he’d used to left leg, but it was at least less directionally challenged, and the strain wasn’t as great as his first go. He found the same to be true of the pass straight down the middle of the room.

“To the right, lad. My right. Aye.” Jamie said, indicating with a jutting thumb where he wanted the boy to be.

He was met with the same result, a pitifully slow roll, and horribly off target, and he felt his fist curl involuntarily.

“Nah, lad, stay there. I’ll get it right if it kills me. Dinna move until I tell ye.”

Jemmy, blissfully unaware of the tension which was crackling in the air like an oncoming thunderstorm, crowed his wee encouragements.

When the ball failed to meet its target for a third time, Jemmy very matter of factly said, “I’m over here, Granda. You’re supposed to kick it this way, like this.” The little red headed chimp tilted his foot out to the side, propped up on a heel, as if it was no mean feat, which, Jamie reflected bitterly, it wasna.

The base of his fist cracked against the wood of the bench.

Claire stepped in before the tension could spill over. “Alright, that’s it for today. Jemmy, you’ve been a wonderful helper. Go find Mama in the summer kitchen, just past the dairy shed. That’s a good lad. Tell her Granny said yes to one sweetie for your help.”

Jemmy held up two fingers with a pleading look, and a perfectly pouty lip. Claire pinched his nose affectionately but resisted his considerable charms. “No, just one.” She held one finger up in demonstration and used it to squash one of his down against his palm in a playful wrestling match. He giggled and she patted his rump and sent him out the surgery door in the right direction.

“Claire, dinna manage me as ye do the bairns or so help me, I’ll no’ be liable for my temper.” Jamie said through gritted teeth.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve just as little desire to have my head bitten off as you have of giving your abused body a little grace.” She snapped waspishly.

She knelt by his feet and put a hand on the outside edge of his poor foot. “Push against it as hard as you can.” He did as she asked. She completed the same test on his good foot.

“You have the range of motion; it’s just weakened from little use. It will get better. When you’re abed, you can practice pushing with all your might against something. The wall, the bed frame, or a dresser, if you’re sitting up with your legs over the edge. In the short term it’ll fatigue and feel weak, but over time the muscle will build.”

She stood and considered the foot, which remained pointed out at the angle he needed to kick.

“Now don’t shout me silly at the suggestion or I’ll make you regret it. But I think you’ll have some success if you don’t lift your foot so high off the floor. Your kick will have less power, yes, but I think you’ll get it where you want it to go. We’ll add the power back in a few days, when you’ve built up some strength.”

Jamie stubbornly ignored her and kicked the ball with as much force as he could muster. The ball did not go in its intended direction. In fact, Jamie hit the ball entirely too low, and it popped up into the air and sailed into a collection of glass jars on the countertop against the back windows. The jars promptly tumbled to the floor, shattered, and spilled their various contents onto the stone floor.

Just then, Jemmy popped his head back in the door from which he had gone, cheeking some boiled sweetie his Mama had given him. He threw elated fists in the air. “Good job, Granda!”

The lad ambled over and patted his little sticky palms against Jamie’s knees. Jamie skimmed a hand over the curve of the boys smooth, silky head, keeping his view pointedly away from his seething grandmother.

Her jaw was set, nostrils flared and knuckles gleaming white as bone from the clench of her fingers.

“Yes. Good job, Granda.” Her tone was like ice and left no room for further obstinance nor repentance.

Jamie shuffled forward on the bench, palming Jemmy into the medicine room, and making to stand up and help Claire with the mess.

“Take one step away from that bench, Fraser, and you’ll regret the day you were born.” She threatened, not even bothering to look over her shoulder to confirm what she knew to be happening. “Jemmy, fetch Granny an empty bucket, would you? No, go out through the front.”

Jemmy rushed away to do as he was told, skipping and humming some bright tune.

Jamie felt rather like a scolded school child (which was earned, considering the way he’d acted moments before). She had begun sweeping up the glass and former contents. The toned muscles of her arms and shoulder stood out, taught. “Claire, I-”

“You’ll sit there, and you’ll watch me clean the mess you’ve made. If by then I haven’t mashed half of this wreckage into your lunch, you’ll eat. Hopefully by that point, you’ll have collected yourself enough to take some frustrating but well intended advice.” At this point, she finally turned around to look at him, her eyes ablaze. It was more than a little arousing, but he didn’t think saying so out loud would win him any favors just then.

He repressed a heavy sigh of regret and shame, lest it be misinterpreted as impudence, and nodded mutely.

By the time she was finished cleaning, he was thoroughly abashed, and Claire was no less irritable for having been repeatedly pricked and scratched by minuscule pieces of broken glass.

She left him to sort himself back into the bed and returned shortly with a large ration of roast bison and some stewed greens he thought might be spinach.

She neatly handed him a plate and fork, then retreated again before she could pick any more fights with him, just for the sake of being contrary. So much for remembering her virtues and controlling his temper, he thought morosely.

By the time supper rolled around, she had called truce once more by offering to give him his walking stick so that he could make it to the dining room to eat with the family.

He accepted gratefully, and sat to her left, rather than the head of the table as he usually did, so he could hold her hand while they ate.

And that night, after she was done doctoring him, he collected her hairbrush from her vanity, sat behind her on the bed, and brushed out her hair gently. She was carrying on a majority of the animal care that he usually took care of, in addition to her normal doctoring, gardening, and chores about the home. She carried the tension in her shoulders. He dug his thumbs into the knots above the wings of her shoulders. Her head drooped. She swung it slowly from side to side, trying to release the stiffness.

"If I apologize now, will it come off as insincere?" Jamie asked lowly, pinching the thin muscles along the back of her neck.

"You haven't an insincere bone in your body, Jamie. You're forgiven. But don't take that to mean you can do it again and expect a back rub will cure it. Her tone was low and sultry and lethargic. She drifted slowly back into him, almost as if by reflex, rather than intention.

He shifted them back on the mattress, dragging the blankets up around them and curving his body around hers. "No, I wouldna make that mistake again, a nighean." 

…

“Granda, what are ye starin’ at?” Germain was tugging at his coat tails while Jamie leaned against the lintel of the barn.

In point of fact, he was watching his wife- or more specifically, her arse, for she was bent double in her garden, harvesting some crop or another she had devised to keep her clan healthy and hale.

He didn’t think that was the most appropriate thing to tell his eight-year-old grandson, however, so he landed on a half-truth. “I’m takin’ a keek at your Granny, see?”

He pointed at Claire, who was upright once more and carefully stepping over a row of wee sprouts to reach the next.

“Why’re you always watching her?” Jemmy, Germain’s partner in crime, chimed in, hanging from the frame of a stall door right behind him.

“Weel, I suppose I must think she’s worth looking at, aye?”

The boys turned quizzical looks at him, as if the thought of admiring a bonny lass was a foreign concept. He supposed, for them, it must be. The conversation dredged up memories from a lifetime ago, when he was a lad their age, wondering what being in love might feel like. He felt the ghost of his father standing here now and could almost picture the way he had sat upon a stone wall with Jamie, no older than these lads now, and taught him the way of a man loving his wife.

It was a lesson that Jamie had carried with him his whole life, and one that had run through his mind a hundred different moments since he’d met Claire. He’d never thought of it much, as a young man fostering wi’ Dougal, or chasing fancies in Paris. No, the words had only really revealed their true value and meaning after meeting his faerie woman.

His father had not lived long enough to see grandchildren, but Jamie knew Brian Dubh would have imparted the same lesson to them. Well, Brian Fraser was long gone, but Jamie was here, and he could share what his father could not, to his own grandchildren.

“Someday, lads, ye’ll find yourself a woman that ye canna help but stare at. It’s a fine thing, to love a woman. Mebbe the most important thing ye’ll ever do.”

He glanced at both, and they stuck out their tongues in exaggerated disgust. It was so like something he’d done at this age that it made him laugh. What was the turning point, he wondered, when a boy was more attracted to a girl than he was confused and repulsed? He could vaguely remember what had seemed a great separation between lasses and lads.

He lifted Jemmy from the frame of the horse stall and set him on the ground. “C’mon lads, there’s a few things I’ve yet to teach ye, it seems.”

They followed behind him, as he walked along the fence of the horse pasture which overlooked Claire’s garden at a distance. He’d planned it so, because it meant her garden got good light, but also because when Jamie wasn’t traveling on some errand for the Governor, or checking in on his many tenants, he was most often in the barn or working the horses. It was too far to talk, or truly spend any quality time with her, but they could share waves, glances, and he could appreciate the view over his shoulder, now and then.

Jamie stood on the bottom rung of the fence and seated himself where he had a good view of her. The lads scrambled up beside him and sat astride the post on either side, wrapping the agile little legs around it for balance.

“Someday, when you’re older, ye’ll meet a lass. It might be the moment ye see her, or it might be a while after ye’ve known her. But one day, ye’ll look at her, and ye’ll know she was made to be yours. Men marry for many reasons, but ye’d be best served to marry a woman ye love like that.” Jamie dipped his chin, indicating the woman in question with a direct glance.

“I dinna want to marry a lass, Granda. They dinna like to climb trees, or catch frogs, or make mud pies. Who doesna like to make mud pies?” Jemmy was so earnest in his statement, little nose scrunched in confusion and bewilderment. Jamie fought down a grin.

“No’ every lass is built the same, a chuilein. There could be some who willna be scairt to get their hands dirty.” Jamie answered as comfortingly as possible. It was hard to do with a straight face, but he had years of practicing an impassive facade.

“But girls are…well, they are… un peu bizarre.” Germain contributed bluntly, looking to his mate for confirmation. Jemmy nodded emphatically, searching his grandfather’s face for some sort of corroboration.

Jamie allowed his smile to spread across this face then, and he laughed. The wee lad wasna wrong on that account. “Aye, they can be strange. Your Granny is, to date, the strangest woman I’ve ever met. Ye ken what I call her?”

“Sassenach!” The boys chimed in unison. They said it with the exact same lilt and inflection that he had said it with a thousand times, that they had heard a thousand times. It stoked a fire, somewhere beneath his heart, to hear it the way she must.

“Aye, that’s right. Ye ken what it means? English, yes. But also, outlander. Stranger. Ye’ll be old enough to notice your Granny isna like the other women on The Ridge. She stands out, ken, always against the grain. And I love her all the more, for her strangeness.”

Just then, as if she could hear him speaking, she stood straight and turned round to see the three, sitting on the fence, studying her. Her basket, loaded down with the fruits of her labor, dangled loosely from her fingertips. Her shoulders relaxed, and she raised her hand to wave. She wore a soft, content smile on her face, and the grey shawl that brought out the silver in her hair.

He waved back mildly, mirroring her gentle smile. The boys waved much more boisterously, with choruses of “Hallo, Granny!”

Her smile broadened a toothy grin before she turned back to her work.

“Grand-pere, do you have to marry a lass?” Germain asked quizzically, his mind clearly still churning through the problem.

“Well, I suppose ye dinna have to. But ye must if you’re to have a family of your own one day. It might be lonely if ye dinna, though.” Jamie delivered the information evenly, with a note of sympathetic understanding, as if he was delivering a blow.

The boys looked at one another skeptically, then back at their grandmother. “Granny isna so bad, as far as ladies go. She gives us sweeties, and she gives good hugs. She’s verra fast, when we play chase. I never saw a girl run so fast.” Jemmy hedged carefully, shrugging his shoulders.

Germain recoiled with a scowl. “Aye but she makes us brush our teeth and wash our hands before supper. And she doesna like it when we climb as high as we can or ride the horses as fast as we want.”

Jamie hooked the tops of his feet on the lower rung of the fence, to keep his balance. His hands had been bracing him steadily, but he raised both to put on the shoulder of both his grandsons in a consolatory gesture.

“Ye make valid points, both. I dinna think ye’ll understand, until you are older, but I want ye to do your best to remember what I say just the same. A woman can be many things: bonny and sweet, or stern and assertive. But it takes a woman to teach ye what it is to be a man. They make ye realize why ‘tis important ye act as you’re bein’ raised to be, gentlemen: protective, and caring, and considerate, and moral, and just. A woman is a sense of home, of rightness, of comfort, and peace, even when there’s none to be had in the world around ye.”

He squeezed their respective shoulders bracingly and met each of their eyes firmly. The boys were quiet, considering, but didn’t seem altogether displeased or confused by what he’d said. Good then. Maybe it would stick with them.

He removed his hands, noticed a smudge of dirt on his pants, and brushed it off gruffly. All of a sudden, he felt that sense of security and belonging which he had just been describing, and he looked up to see Claire mounting the wee hill between them. Her eyes locked with his, jewel bright and looking like home.

He hopped down from the fence and went out to meet her. She set down her basket, hiked up her skirts, and scurried her way up the last half of the hill, as eager to be in his arms as he was to have her there.

She collided cheerfully with his chest, a bit out of breath, and warm from her exertions in the garden. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her, pressing a hand to the small of her back to press her more firmly to him.

She stood on tiptoes, too keen for the kiss to wait the extra second it would have taken him to crane his neck down to meet her. When they parted, she rocked back onto her heels. Her cheeks were rosy, and flush, and a wee bit dewy, and it made her look like the lass she had been the day they met. A woman still, but youthful and full of brass and vivacity.

He needn’t see the upward curl of her lips to know she was smiling now. He could remain there, with their foreheads leant against one another, and see it in the glow of her gaze, and the crinkle of the laughter lines at the corners of her eyes.

“Mo cridhe.” He welcomed under his breath.

He felt her thumb draw patterns, trace old scars on his mid back. “My love.” He buried his nose in her curls, drew in a slow breath, then took a single step back, lest he risk throwing all caution and propriety to the wind. He tucked her under his arm, and lead her to the boys, who were examining the two with critical attention.

“Hello, lovies.” She greeted them, reaching out a hand to them.

They could resist her pull no less than Jamie himself could, and they scrambled off the fence to receive a one-handed hug, pressing their wee faces into the folds of her skirts.

“And what have you three troublemakers been up to?” She asked in that high, inquisitive, fond way she always did with the weans.

“Grand-pere has been teaching us about women.” Germain answered rather importantly, jutting his shoulders back, and holding his head high.

Claire twinkled up at Jamie, her brows drawn together in curiosity and suspicion. “Has he, now?”

“Aye! Dinna worry, we dinna like lasses much, but I said I thought bein’ married to you might be alright.” Jemmy included helpfully, patting her thigh in apparent reassurance.

“Oh, well, thank you. Certainly, high praise.” She answered, peering at Jamie out of the corner of her eye, she added lowly, “I think.”

Jamie shot her a sheepish grin. “Och, I was just sharin’ wi’ them my father’s philosophies on marriage, aye? And what a joy it is to have the privilege of sharin’ a life wi’ the woman ye love.” He squeezed her tighter against his ribs and hip, smoothing a rough palm down the thin sleeve of her blouse.

She patted the plane of his stomach sedately, radiating affection, and hugging him back just as fiercely. “Well. I suppose, being a wife, I may not have as much in the way of advice as your Granda. But I know one thing.” She stooped to get the boys’ attention, and they obliged, eyes wide and trusting. “If you do have a wife one day, and you treat her the way Granda does me, you will be a very worthy husband indeed.”

She straightened, snuggled back into his side, and twined her fingers atop his, where they rested at her hip.

“I’m verra honored that ye think so. And if no one kent it but you, it would still be the greatest accomplishment of my life.” He saw the magnitude and depth of his love for her reflected in the sepia tone of her eyes. His heart skipped a beat, and he remembered the hundreds of days he’d spent without her, since knowing her, and how empty and lifeless they seemed by comparison.

How could you explain such a feeling to lads as young as these? He wasn’t sure he was even equal to the task of explaining it fully and eloquently to Claire, let alone two weans who could hardly grasp the concept of being friendly toward a non-familial member of the opposite sex.

“She’s the joy of my heart, lads, and the source of nearly every good thing I’ve ever had, includin’ the twa of ye.” He exerted a bit of pressure, encouraging Claire to turn back toward the house with him, and the weans followed suit. He felt her wrap her arm around his waist and dig her thumb under the edge of his belt, as if she craved a more permanent connection between their bodies. She released his fingers with her other hand and held Jemmy’s hand instead, swinging their arms between them in a silly manner as they started toward the house.

“Granny, I’m a gentleman! Watch!” Germain declared, and sauntered forward to gallantly pluck her basket off the ground.

“What a chivalrous young man!” She enthused, highly amused.

“What else does a gentleman do, Granda?” Jemmy prompted, looking back and forth between his Granny and Granda inquisitively. They were still making their lazy way back the house in the late afternoon sun.

Jamie considered the lad before shooting a heated look at Claire- one full of all the glorious passion and aching comfort he’d always craved to bestow upon her. She felt the familiar radiance of it flaring up her body from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head. She shivered pleasantly at the sensation. They stepped into the shade which surrounded the outside edge of her garden, backed up to the wood as it was. Goose flesh erupted on her bare forearms and neck.

Jamie issued his signature owlish, two eyed wink and hurried to unbutton his coat. He wrestled it off his frame and stopped Claire with a light hand on her arm. He whirled his coat around her shoulders, buttoned two of the middle buttons to fasten it around her like a cloak, and smoothed down the sleeves. It absolutely dwarfed her, and something about the sight had him feeling tender as milk. “A gentleman always looks after the needs of his lady before his own.” He instructed, but the azure of his eyes never left hers. “Warm, a nighean?” His voice was gravelly, full of emotion.

She nodded mutely, overcome by the sentimentality which had swept into what had started as a rather lighthearted affair.

Jamie smiled his gratification at this answer. He turned to Jemmy, and Germain who had stopped swinging the basket, and was ponderously examining the gentle flush and quiet, nearly meek demeanor of his Granny; it was clear he was unused to her quiet, blushing capitulation. It gave Jamie a queer feeling in his wame; the lads hadn’t much occasion to see her peaceful, unhurried, or unburdened from the responsibility of the wellbeing of her family or tenants. His wife lived loudly, whether she be at her work, or at play with the children, or in the solitude and serenity of her own garden.

Jamie unearthed her left hand from the furrows of his coat and kissed his ring there, before turning back to the boys. “If there’s ever a choice between your comfort and safety or theirs, ye must always choose theirs, aye?”

She curled her fingers in his warm hand, needing to convey her gratitude for the man he was. He recognized it immediately and he squeezed back so she’d know he heard.

He lead her around the waist high stone wall he’d fashioned around her garden to keep the pests out, toward the breezeway which split the lower level of their house in two. The boys trailed behind and watched Jamie hand her up the steps. She shook her head at him, all devoted exasperation. Quite the lesson her eyes teased.

He raised a single brow. Aye, it replied.

All of a sudden, he seized her about the waist, hoisting her off the boards of the porch. She squealed in delighted surprise, and he clutched her over his shoulder as he spun to face the lads. “And by God, my lads, ye do your best to make her laugh whene’er ye can.”

He jounced her further over his shoulder, hands firmly gripping the backs of her knees to keep her from going over and wheeled the both of them around in fast circles, so that her riotous curls spread out in the air like a cloud. Her arms wound around his torso as best they could, and she shrieked and cackled in the way that made him want to close his eyes and bask in the ardor of it.

When he finally set her down, he kept a hand on her hip- as much to help him keep his feet as to help her. They were huffing and wheezing with laughter and the boys wore matching ear-to-ear grins. They ran forward and tackled their Granny in a fierce hug. He could tell she was still reeling a bit, so he steadied her with a hand between her shoulder blades as she curled each of her hands around a boy, holding them close to her hips.

She looked over her shoulder at him and craned her neck, and he couldna resist the silent request there, even if he had wanted (which he most certainly didn’t.)

…

Jamie patted the flank of the yearling filly he’d just finished working with; she was a fine, chestnut thing with bright, intelligent eyes, and a proud air about her. He untied her halter and let her out in the pasture, and she flicked up her tail, whinnying for her dam, who was grazing at the far end of the pasture.

Jamie glanced at the house, toward the surgery. He could see the faint outline of Claire moving about in the windows. He couldna see much detail from here, but he could see she moved slower than was typical, and he could imagine the resigned, heavy stoop of her shoulders.

His Sassenach was having a hard time adjusting to life without family on The Ridge with them. He was too, there was no way around it, but he thought it was different for her. She had spent much of her free time with Bree, Marsali, and the bairns in particular, though she missed all of them, Roger and Fergus included.

They still had Ian, aye, and Lizzie, and the twins. But it wasna the same, and they both knew it.

Not to mention, she’d been very fond of the Christie girl. The lass had betrayed them no doubt about it, but her death had still been a loss, compounded against the recent departure of Bree and her family back to their time, and Fergus and his family to New Bern.

To have lost the daily interaction, familial connection, and comfort of any of them would have been a trial to Claire, who had wanted such a home and a family for longer even than he’d known her. To have them all leave, quite suddenly, and so close together in time had been an especially cruel twist of fate.

He sighed, thinking he might go check on her, invite her to take lunch with him. Perhaps out in the garden, or down by the creek, somewhere where the lack of chatter and bustle wasna so suffocating.

He ambled down the hill prepared to barter to convince her to leave the surgery long enough for a quick break.

He snapped his finger in frustration, remembering suddenly that he had been asked to mediate a minor dispute between two tenants pertaining to the ownership of… sheep, was it?

He’d agreed to meet them first thing, and it was already nearing noon. He spun on his heel, cursing under his breath and resolving himself to be done by teatime, and drag her out of the surgery even if she was kicking and screaming.

An hour and a half later saw Jamie trudging back with a slightly deafened right ear thanks to Mr. McNally’s roaring and Mrs. Callum’s blethering.

The surgery loomed into sight as he approached a wee hill, and it made him sigh in relief. What he wouldna give for a quiet few minutes with Claire, in the shade of some tree…

Unfortunately, things rarely worked out so fortuitously for him, and before he could see her, he could hear her, shouting and spitting with righteous fury.

Jamie hurried up the slope, and when he crested it, he could see Claire, clutching a bairn of perhaps four or five protectively to her chest. Ian stood in front of her, trying to act as a buffer between her and the couple he assumed to be the child’s mother and father, who were both bellowing and screeching and pointing accusatory fingers at his wife. A quick inspection revealed them to be Mr. And Mrs. Barclay.

Rollo, Ian’s faithful companion, sat behind Claire dutifully, but growled and bared his teeth at any flash of Mrs. Barclay that appeared around the wall of his Master.

Jamie sighed deeply, clenched his fists, and strode purposefully up to the scene.

“Unhand him, you filthy witch! How dare you spread your wickedness; how dare you try to corrupt my wee Lachlan!” The woman screeched over Ian’s shoulder, directing the full power of her vitriol at Claire. Ian held her neutrally by the elbows, not allowing her to get any closer, but clearly not willing to inflict any more force for fear of a full-on brawl.

The husband stood beside her, cursing Claire in Gaelic, but somewhat more intimidated by the dark look on Ian’s face, and the menacing tattoos that stood out there.

“You’re allowing foolish gossip to interfere with the well-being of your son! If you’d only see reason, I could fix his arm, and you could be out of my nefarious presence!” Claire shouted back, sarcasm dripping from her final remark. He could see she was tempted to get in the woman’s face, but she held herself curiously still. The wee lad in her arms was red in the face, wailing, and his arm was curled in against his chest at an odd angle.

“Enough!” Jamie hollered before any of them could start in again.

Four heads whipped around to see him. The only one unfazed by his entrance was the lad, who was clearly in too much pain and distress to evaluate the latest development.

Claire seemed to sag in relief, and Ian too seemed glad of Jamie’s arrival. The lad was managing as best he could, Jamie knew, and doing a fine job of it, truth be told. By the sweat on Claire’s brow and the weariness in Ian’s shoulders, he thought the conflict must have been ongoing for some time.

“What is the meaning of this?” Jamie growled, stepping up beside Ian, and further shielding Claire. A quick assessment as he stepped into line with his nephew showed Claire to be, by outward appearance, unharmed. He saw her face only in profile, and her color was high in her cheek, but he thought it might only be the flush of deep ire.

“The hag willna release my boy to me. She wants to practice her charms on him and I willna have it.” Mrs. Barclay tersely replied. He recognized the woman from the settlement of fisherfolk near the edge of his land. Mrs. Barclay had retreated two steps, so that Ian no longer had hold of her, but she looked no less enraged for all that.

Mr. Barclay, clearly not as volatile as his wife (nor as reckless), added his own piece, doing his best not to glare up his nose at Jamie. “We’ll have the lad back and give ye nae more trouble.”

Jamie grunted, making his displeasure at being given, though somewhat indirectly, an order from one of his tenants. Mr. Barclay paled slightly but didn’t otherwise react.

Jamie turned his head just enough to see Claire out of the corner of one eye, keeping the other firmly on the couple.

“He’s broken his arm, uncle. The lad was out in the woods close to the clearing by the house. I didna see him hurt himself, but I heard the lad crying. I knew it must be mended, so I carried him straight to Auntie. She was only askin’ the lad what had happened and trying to lead him to the surgery when they arrived, and refused to let Auntie treat him.” Ian’s eyes never left the two embittered parents, his arms were crossed, mouth set in a warning scowl.

The lad was verra protective of Claire and it showed in the threat which was written all over the tense lines of his body. The dog still sat watchfully behind Claire, his head on a swivel, alert for signs of danger. Ian had no doubt ordered the dog to watch for approaching strangers. The Ridge had become most inhospitable to its Laird and Lady since the death of Malva Christie.

Claire stood, stone faced and grimacing in the wake of this latest trial. Lachlan, a wee lad wi’ corn silk hair, was curled against her chest, his face pressed into her bosom. The only movement he detected was the gentle tap of her hand on his back, offering the only comfort she could at present.

“Mr. Barclay, I implore ye to be reasonable. My wife has treated the tenants of The Ridge for as long as it has had settlers, including dozens of the fisherfolk ye live among. She only means to fix the lad up and send him on his way, wi’ you and your wife.” Jamie kept his tone even, despite wanting to curse them for the upheaval.

“I won’t suffer that conjure woman to use her potions or curses on my boy!” Mrs. Barclay protested with a shrill shriek. She threw herself forward, and Jamie’s hand shot out, gripping her by a shoulder and pushing her back with no small force.

“Ye’ll watch your tongue where Mistress Fraser is concerned, Mrs. Barclay.” Jamie threatened lowly.

Mr. Barclay recognized the danger in Jamie’s tone, and he took hold of his wife around the middle, forcing her a few steps back. Jamie wasn’t any more liked or trusted than Claire was at the moment, owing to the rumors of his dalliance with Malva, but he was a good deal more feared, especially in light of his actions against the Browns following Claire’s abduction.

Ian took a single step toward the Barclay’s to discourage any other displays, and Jamie took the chance to focus slightly more attention on his wife.

The lad has stopped whimpering and was dreadfully pale now. Jamie raised a questioning brow at Claire.

“He’s going into shock. All I need is some time to set and splint his arm. He’ll likely be fine after that, so long as he’s kept warm and given plenty of water and broth to keep up his strength. It’s only the work of a few minutes, as I tried to tell his parents.” There was a slight tint of accusation there, but she fought it down remarkably well, knowing his wife as he did.

Jamie nodded his head at Claire, an assurance he’d see her safe and ensure the lad’s care.

He turned back to the parents. “My wife has made an oath to render aid to the sick and injured. She’ll take him into her surgery and bind his arm. I’ll allow ye to stand in the doorway and watch, and take him as soon as she’s finished, as long as ye’ll stay civil. If ye canna do so, she’ll go about her business anyway, and ye can answer to the dog, my nephew, and I for your trouble.”

Mrs. Barclay spat on the ground at Ian’s feet, as close as she could get to Claire without lunging around the lad. His hand darted to the hilt of his knife, swift as lightening, and Mr. Barclay dragged his wife a further few steps back.

Jamie gritted his teeth. If it were one of them that was injured, rather than the wean, he’d just as soon let them go and to hell with the consequences. Even now, it was tempting.

But he knew there would be no convincing Claire not to patch the lad up, and even if he could, the guilt of it would weigh heavily on the both of them.

Mr. Barclay curled his lips to reveal stained, fetted teeth. “Get on wi’ it then and let this be done.”

Claire looked to her husband, and he nodded. It said do what ye must, and I’ll make sure it’s safe for ye to do so. She smiled grimly, just a brief flicker, and turned on her heel, marching purposely up the steps to her surgery.

He saw, in his mind's eye, a portrait Bree had once drawn of Claire, as a tender young woman, with brave, determined eyes, dressed in her crisp military uniform. Brianna had said the portrait was a likeness of a photo she’d found as a young girl, hidden in an old shoe box, along with other bits of detritus from mother’s past. She’d been fascinated by it, and took it out frequently, when unsupervised, to try to match it up to the woman who read her bedtime stories, burned their dinner at least twice a week, and cursed a blue streak when she stubbed her toe.

Bree had said she’d had a hard time reconciling the woman in the photo as being Claire Randall, her mother. Jamie had shaken his head at that, a swift denial. No, he’d said, that’s my Claire, sure enough.

He followed her up the steps, determined to keep an eye on her. Ian and Rollo stood about three steps away from the bottom of the stairs, both menacing enough to keep the Barclays brooding but quiet two paces further back from the stairs.

Claire laid Lachlan down on her examination table, taking extra care to set his lolling head gently on the thin pillow. She propped his feet up with whatever was close at hand- in this case, a stack of books that had been left on her work bench.

“At least he’s out for the moment. I won’t be threatened with burning at the stake for having to give him a dose of laudanum for the setting.” Claire muttered tensely, gently probing the injured arm to locate the break.

“Dinna joke like that.” Jamie whispered harshly, breath whooshing out of him through gritted teeth.

Her eyes darted out the open door, then back to the work before her. He noticed her hands trembled as she set out splinting material and bandages. “It wasn’t a joke.” She admitted.

Jamie too glanced at the parents, both of whom were craning to see what Claire was doing. “Aye, I see that.” Jamie acknowledged gently, squeezing her fingers briefly, in hopes of offering her some comfort.

The lad didna flinch as she set the bone with a single quick, efficient movement. Her brows furrowed but she took two flat slats of wood, broke them to size over the edge of the bench, and immobilized his arm with the slats and a mountain of bandages.

Claire bustled around, checking his vitals, flicking up his eye lids, palpating his head for bumps, and searching for any other injury she might have missed in the muddle. He could tell she was taking her time about it. It went against her instinct to let them take the boy while he was unconscious, with no real picture of his mental state.

“Have ye any care instructions they need to follow, Sassenach? I doubt they’ll bring him back, but if I write a list, they might consult it, when the dust has settled.” Jamie offered, trying to buy her a bit more time and ease the concern which has settled upon her like a yoke.

“Yes.” She answered knowingly. She waited for him to fetch paper, and one of the charcoal pencils Bree had crafted. “Tell them to administer willow bark tea for pain as needed, sweetened with honey or sugar if he won’t take it… Tell them to keep it splinted as it is for six weeks, replacing the bandage as necessary to keep it clean- I’ll send them with some extras. He’s not to use the arm for lifting, climbing, crawling or any other physical activity until the splint is removed. Oh! Calcium- tell them to give him milk to drink with every meal they can- cow, goat it doesn’t matter… Is that all? What else…? If he shows signs of fever- well, I doubt they’ll bring him here, even if he’s dying of it. You can leave that off, I suppose.” She sighed feebly, disliking the helpless feeling.

She glanced over her shoulder, trying to gauge how much longer she could draw this out. The couple were becoming restless, though Rollo’s occasional growls seemed to temper their irritation, for the time being.

She hunched and patted the lad’s cheek. “Lachlan, can you hear me? Time to wake up, dear.” She attempted, keeping her voice low and even.

The parents were far enough away and seemed not to have heard, Jamie observed.

She tried again, jostling the lad’s shoulder carefully. “Lachlan, time to wake up.” The boy stirred, squinched up his face, and his eyes fluttered open. Claire smiled brilliantly, focusing all her attention on him. “Hello there. I’ve fixed your hurt arm, sweetheart. Wrapped it all up so it can get better. Does it hurt much?”

The boy’s lower lip trembled and he nodded without lifting his head from the pillow.

“I’m so sorry, dear. Does anything else hurt?” She smoothed her palm down over his head.

“No, m’m.”

She helped him to sit up. “Not your head?”

He shook his head and mumbled his dissent.

“How old are you, Lachlan?” She asked gently, passing her hand over his back, shoulders and arms, carefully, trying to spot any unreported soreness.

“Four.” He answered through a throat thick with repressed tears.

“Four? My goodness. This many?” She held up four fingers.

He nodded, and stuck his thumb in his mouth as a self soothing habit.

“Can you count them?” He nodded, and she started him off, using a single finger on her other hand to indicate each finger. “One…”

The pudgy hand not currently acting as a pacifying device point at her hand and recited around his thumb, “two, free, four.”

“Smart lad!” She praised.

She stood up straight then, shooting an appraising look at her various medicines. Jamie didn’t like the scheming look in her eye. “Sassenach…”

“Could you please explain the instructions you’ve written out for his parents?” She asked, uncovering a teaspoon which had been folded in gauze, to indicate its sterilized status.

“Aye. And what’ll you be up to, while I’m at it?” He eyed her suspiciously.

She surreptitiously palmed a jar of honey off the counter and spooned up a dollop of the stuff.

“Only rewarding an exceedingly polite and cooperative patient.” She answered, begging from beneath her lashes to let her have this small concession.

He huffed at her fondly, too charmed by her grandmotherly doting to deny her. He could grant her this, easily, and the lad as well.

“Ye daftie. Wait until I’ve well and truly got their attention, aye?” He responded fondly.

She grinned and nodded, and Jamie retrieved the note and the extra bandages.

“Alright, Mr. And Mrs. Barclay, the lad’s almost ready. My wife’s composed a list for his care, so that he can heal good and proper.” Jamie announced, throwing back his shoulders to their full breadth and walking with a good deal of purpose, to draw their attention. It worked, and they focused solely on him as he pointed to each item, explained it as much detail as he could muster, and reminded them that the same instructions had been issued and followed by a young man some three houses down from the Barclay’s, to his great benefit.

He was just wracking his brain for any other tidbit he could opine on when he heard feet on the stairs, and he turned to see Claire descending them, the lad sitting happily on her hip, looking comfortable and much recovered since his treat. Claire had clearly washed the lad’s face, for the tear streaks were gone, and his eyes were noticeably less puffy.

Mrs. Barclay barreled toward Claire and yanked the boy from her arms, as if Claire’s touch might burn on contact.

She made no protest, and didn’t bother to issue a warning to have a care. She sighed deeply, crossing her arms, and looking for all the world like there was something missing from her person, in a way that hadn’t been true a moment before. She sighed deeply, crossed her arms, and backed up onto the lowest step.

The Barclays said no more, only turned abruptly and set out down the path for home.

Claire sighed again, a weary, careworn thing.

Jamie echoed, turning to study her. She was rocking side to side, as if she still had a bairn on her hip in need of gentling. “Thigibh thugam, Sorcha.” Come to me, Claire.

She hadn’t the grasp of Gaelic that Bree or Roger had, but she’d hear that one often enough to know what he said, and she tipped forward on her toes until she fell into him, arms stretched out above his shoulders, thanks to the added height of the step.

He settled his hands on her waist, long fingers stretching out across her low back. He hefted all her weight, dragging her wee toes off the stair so that gravity could settle her into him more firmly. She buried her nose in the burrow created by her elbow and the crook of his neck.

When she’d finally relaxed the tension in her arms and chest, he set her down, and she smiled gratefully at him. Ian made his own survey of her, and the two reached for each other at the same time, one arm over and one arm under, mutually giving and taking comfort.

“I’m sorry for the trouble, Auntie.” The lad’s eyes were shut tight. Rollo bumped the outside of Claire’s leg with a wet, concerned nose.

Claire scoffed and leaned back, setting a hand on his cheek. “Nonsense. I’ve been fighting those charges since the day I arrived here. And a bit of bluster is worth it if I have the chance to save the lad a lifetime of pain from a poorly set bone. Thanks for coming to my defense.”

Ian rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. “As if I would go anywhere while you were needin’ me.” Jamie watched the lad survey Claire carefully and come to the same conclusion he did- the experience with the Barclays had worn on his wife more than she cared to admit. “C’mon, Auntie. I’m pure done in.”

The straight lipped, unamused face she tossed at the lad told both men she wasn’t falling for the deception, and she wanted him to know it, but that she hadn’t the energy to do anything more about it.

They wandered into the sitting room and Jamie directed her to the chaise, wandering to the side table to pour three good servings of whiskey. He pinched the rims of all three glasses between the fingers of his good hand and dispersed them to a chorus of thanks.

Claire had kicked her feet up on the lounger and had slumped slightly back into the arm. She was cradling the glass to her chest, her thousand yard stare directed at some indistinct point of the opposite wall. Ian shared a commiserating glance with Jamie. The lad saw it too; holding that bairn had been a stark reminder to Claire of what she was missing.

Jamie snagged her crossed ankles in his free hand, levered himself under them, and let this rest gently in his lap. He set his glass on the floor close to the leg of the chaise and set to work undoing the laces of her boots. Ian made for the opposite chaise, to share their company, but Claire’s hand shot out to him. He offered her his hand, the only logical course of action. “Your braids are all pell mell. Let me fix them. My mending basket is in the corner.”

Ian retrieved the basket before he sank to the floor, sitting crossed legged with his back to her. Ian always secured his braids with thread, for more permanence, which was ideal until it was time to tidy them again. She used her small set of scissors to neatly snip each thread. When they were free, she used her fingernails to separate the thin strands of each thin braid, occasionally dragging them from scalp to the ends of his hair to comb it out.

“I know you’re letting me dote on you because you’re worried about me.” She said, beginning the first of the braids, using the smallest strands of hair and keeping them taught from the scalp on the way down.

“Aye. Is it workin’ then? Even just a bit?” He couldn’t turn his head all the way, as she had him by the hair, but he could just catch a glimpse out of the corner of his eye.

She leant her head enough to make better eye contact. “Yes, a bit.” He closed his eyes to receive the kiss on his forehead.

 

Notes:

So.... I'm not sure how this chapter ended up over 12,000 words but... I'm sorry? You're welcome?

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

Ian approached with the tent canvas rolled tight and tied with rawhide rope. He set it heavily in the back of his uncle’s wagon and considered the man, who watched Claire and the wee lass, Fanny, sit upon a bench outside the church-turned-hospital.

Jamie’s hands were still upon the chest of medical implements he had been loading into the wagon, his face a study in concentration.

Ian redirected his attention to the lasses again, trying to discern what had his uncle so distracted.

Claire ran long, thin fingers along the tops of the girl’s shoulders, then rubbed a bracing palm down the line of her spine. Ian, who Claire had comforted innumerable times, could feel the ghost of that firm caress, the way it made ye felt safe and soothed.

Fanny sniffled, dragged a ragged sleeve across her dripping nose.

“It isn’t very easy to go somewhere you’ve never been, with people you don’t know, is it?” Claire whispered empathetically.

Fanny’s wee eyes scrunched with a fresh wave of tears, and she shook her head in answer. She clutched a wee cloth tightly in her hand, as if it might hold comfort or some truth that might relieve her.

Claire laid a gentle hand atop the girl’s clasped ones. “That’s it, lovey. She loved you very much, and she kept you safe. I promise the very same. Soon we won’t be strangers, and that new place won’t feel so foreign. And you’ll feel safe and loved again.”

Fanny turned her head into Claire’s bosom, and Ian watched her expertly cradle her head like she would a bairn, starting up a rocking as if by pure instinct.

Jamie released an abbreviated choking noise, and Ian broke his watch, clapping a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

Jamie startled and turned to face him. “Ian, lad. Ye’ve brought the last of it then?” Jamie asked, clearing his throat and eyeing the loaded supplies.

“D’ye ever regret no’ raising Brianna wi’ Auntie Claire?” Ian asked in lieu of answering the question he knew was just a pretense to clear the cloud of emotion thundering about his uncle’s head.

Jamie glanced back over his shoulder, a quick, impulsive movement, as if to check their continued presence. He turned troubled, piercing blue eyes back on his nephew.

“I… I regretted that I couldna see her, see them grow. But, no… I never regretted that they were safe…” Uncle Jamie couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off the girls. Ian watched him drink in the scene, observed the keen focus Jamie afforded Claire’s gentle hands as they soothed Fanny.

“She was a braw mam, tha’s clear as the blue sky.” Ian noted calmly. In the absence of his mother, whom he had been parted from for the better part of eleven years, Ian had received much in the way of motherly advice, scolding, and nurturing from Claire.

He felt his heart stutter step with the echos of soft, whispered words and fierce embraces.

“Aye. I dinna let myself dwell much on what I ken I missed, but now…” Jamie sniffed sharply. “Mebbe God has seen fit to bless me wi’ it now.”

Jamie loaded the last of their supplies, rattling about in the back of the wagon to adjust their placement. It caused Claire to look up, dragging her gaze away from the young girl she held. There was a tightness in her shoulders, a pinched concern at the corners of her eyes.

“It’s time, then?” She asked with a forced evenness.

“Aye, Sassenach, we best be off and make use of the light.” Jamie answered, injecting calmness into the reply. A journey such as they were about to embark on was daunting enough with three able bodied adults armed to the gills and practiced in wilderness survival. The backcountry was teeming with unsavory characters, wild beasts, and inconvenient pitfalls. To bring a child on such a trip? It was nerve wracking.

Jamie watched as Claire pressed a hand over her healing stomach and apply a shallow, rolling pressure with the heel of her hand. She had gained the nervous habit after waking from surgery, and Jamie had often been forced to hold her wrist while she slept during the early days of her recovery to prevent her from disrupting Dr. Hunter’s delicate stitching.

Still, his brave wife nodded and turned back to Fanny, giving her a bracing squeeze of the shoulders and helping her to stand. “Let’s be off then, no use in wasting precious time.” Fanny looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes, but took Claire’s hand when she offered it and huddled close into her side as they walked toward the wagon.

Claire bent and lifted Fanny until her feet brushed the toeboard and she could swivel to seat herself on the bench seat. His wife managed not to wince at the strain it clearly put on her, but Jamie wasn’t as easily fooled as their new ward. He stepped forward and drew a hand around her waist, seemingly to reel her in for a kiss on the cheek. In truth, his subtle squeeze of her hip was a warning not to attempt the climb into the seat without his aid.

Claire accepted his kiss on her cheek with a tilt of her head, and set her hands on his shoulders so that he could lift her up onto the step. He did so and kept a hand on the small of her back until she was planted on the bench next to Fanny. Jamie nodded his head to Ian, who took the silent cue to mount his horse behind the wagon. Jamie climbed into the wagon none so nimbly as he once had, and took the mules’ reins from Claire’s hands.

Fanny had been withdrawn and sullen in the couple of days since William had left her in their care, and it was no wonder. Still, Jamie usually had an impeccable knack wi’ bairns, and he’d yet to crack her shell.

He could tell by the furrow of Claire’s brow that she was thinking along the same lines. They hadn’t any luck in engaging the girl in conversation so far, and not for lack of trying.

Claire seemed to look at the path before them, considering their surroundings before turning a calculating gaze on Fanny. “Would you like to play a game to pass the time, Fanny?” Claire asked kindly, and with a dose of warm enthusiasm.

The little girl raised her head politely to acknowledge she was being spoken to, but shrugged and said nothing.

“Well, I’ll start with Jamie and Ian, and you join if you feel up to it.” Claire allowed gently. “I’ll pick something I can see in my surroundings, and give one hint, and Jamie and Ian will have to guess until one of them says the right thing.” Ian heeled his horse until he rode even with the riders of the wagon, always the first volunteer to help Claire.

“Let’s have it then, Auntie Claire.” He flashed white teeth in a game smile.

Claire made a show of taking a 360° look around her. “Hmm. I spy with my little eyes… something yellow.”

Jamie smiled fondly. He remembered Brianna and Claire once recalling such games she’d learned on a disastrous family “roadtrip” in which nearly everything that could go wrong had-but on which Claire had been determined to make the most of her hard earned vacation time. Frank had been in a foul mood after the airline had lost their luggage and their borrowed car had broken down during a particularly brutal rainstorm.

Claire had climbed into the back seat and entertained Brianna while they had waited to see if Frank could flag down a passing car for help.

The ladies had recounted the story over dinner during a similarly egregious downpour on The Ridge, giggling and wiping tears from their eyes as they described such games as “20 Questions”, “I Spy”, a finger counting game called “Sticks”, and a rather confounding game called “the License Plate game” that apparently involved placards required to be displayed on their automobiles.

“Could it be those flowers there, Sassenach?” Jamie asked, indicating with a jut of his chin toward some flowers in the rut beside the road.

Claire smirked like he’d fallen for her trap. “Nice guess, but no.”

“Is it the flowers on Fanny’s kerchief?” Ian guessed, smacking at a deer fly that had landed on his horse’s neck.

“Better luck next time, lad.”

Fanny’s wee fingers had reached up to fiddle with the three embroidered daffodils clustered on one edge of a kerchief Claire had managed to acquire to keep the sun off the lass’ face. She had yet to speak, but she surveyed her surroundings with a bright interest previously unseen by the group.

“Titian’s gnashing teeth?” Jamie eyed Ian’s mount curiously. The horse was indeed champing at the bit in irritation, likely due to the presence of another two biting deer flies that had alighted on one red cheek.

“Wrong again, Solider.”

Ian and Jamie both bent and tried several times to swat at the flies plaguing the horse while offering a few more suggestions, to similar denials from Claire.

Finally, a high, clear voice asked, “Is it the cord on your medicine pouch?” A little set of hands accompanied the inquiry, lifting up a small bit of lacing that acted as a fastening for the pouch of medicinals Claire had taken to keeping on her person.

Claire’s grin broadened, and she patted Fanny on the knee encouragingly. “Well done, Fanny. Why don’t you open it up and see what’s in there?”

Jamie raised an eyebrow at that over the top of the lass’ head. Claire merely raised both of hers in reply.

Fanny came away with a small hard candy, faintly yellow in color. Ah, so it had been a set up from the start, Jamie realized. With Claire and Fanny sitting so close together and the pouch in between them on Claire’s hip, neither of the boys had any chance of seeing it.

Fanny looked up questioningly, and Claire nodded at her, urging her to try the treat. Claire had been distributing handfuls of the lemon drops she had made to soldiers showing signs of scurvy from poor rations. They had driven past an abandoned orchard weeks back and she had insisted that they stop and load down as many baskets as possible with the citrus fruit.

Fanny popped the candy in her mouth delicately and puckered her lips, which were turned up into a faint smile at the corners.

“You’ve won the first round, Fanny. That means it’s your turn to pick something and have us guess. Would you like a go?”

Claire’s hand snaked out and took a grounding grasp at the nape of Fanny’s neck. Her thumb smoothed back and forth at the juncture where her shoulder met her neck, and Jamie watched the girl relax a little at the touch. Jamie hadn’t even see the girl tense. Had she been so the whole time?

“I’ll try.” She answered shyly, brushing a strand of blond her back under her kerchief.

“Wonderful. Do you remember how it starts?” Claire’s eyes sparkled with joy and she looked down at the girl- her granddaughter, though Claire and Jamie were currently the only ones aware of the fact. Claire had been missing the weans since the moment Brianna and Roger left The Ridge, and with Marsali and Fergus’ brood in Philadelphia, she hadn’t many lads or lasses to spoil as she liked to.

“I spy with my little eyes…?” Claire flashed her a bright smile and a nod, and the lass continued, “Something…white!”

“My shirt?” Jamie pinched the linen between his fingers demonstratively.

“Guess again!”

“My bracelet?” Ian held aloft his wrist, displaying a boar tusk cuff.

“Not that.” She answered, her smile beginning to widen.

Claire kicked the an ankle at the hem or her dress, where her petticoats peeked out. “My petticoats?”

“Try again!”

The group took turns in that manner, offering all sorts of answers, each time to be met with a bigger grin, or a maniacal giggle and a teasing denial. As the number of incorrect guesses increased, the lass’ glee multiplied, and the adults came up with increasingly absurd responses to egg her on.

“Is it my teeth?” At her snort of hilarity Jamie rebutted, “Weel, they’ve a tinge of yellow, aye, but they’re more white than anything!” With an exaggerated exasperation.

The wee lass could do nothing but shake her head as she was overtaken by giggles.

“Is it the whites of my eyes?” Ian begged, widening his eyes comically and blowing air into his cheeks so he looked like a puffed up pelican.

“No!” The little girl shrieked, drawing out the ‘o’ and falling into Claire’s side as she was taken by another bout of laughter.

The three adults beamed at each other triumphantly. As awful as the circumstances that led to this moment, it was such a joy to have the company of someone so young and vibrant.

“We’ve guessed every white thing we’ve seen for the last two miles!” Claire complained amiably, elbowing the young girl jovially.

“No you haven’t! There’s still one more!!” Her jubilance was infectious, and it spread across the group like a warm tide.

“We must concede, lass, else ye’ll have us guessing ‘til we’re blue in the face!” Jamie teased.

Fanny turned big, round, blue eyes on Claire. “What happens if you give up before you guess?”

“Then you’ve won again, clever girl.” Claire tapped the end of the girl’s nose with a playful fingertip.

She scrunched her button nose in delight, and looked to the Jamie and Ian.

“Tell us then! I’m fair dyin’ to know the answer.” Ian pleaded theatrically.

“It’s the star on Titian’s head!” The lass crowed, pointing one small finger in the direction of the horse’s head.

Ian looked baffled at that, and stood in the stirrups to try to peer over the horse’s head. “But how am I supposed to see it from back here?” He exclaimed in mock offense.

Fanny leaned back against the bench and kicked her feet in unrestrained amusement, laughing away.

Jamie smoothed a large hand over the top of the lass’ head. She didn’t lean into the touch, but nor did she shy away from it, Jamie noted with pleasure. She looked straight up at him, and for once he didn’t see the stain of grief or hardship there. He’d thought, not so long ago, that he hadn’t much left to do in life to consider it well lived. He was far from the young, inexperienced man he’d been when he met Claire. But as he watched his wife pass an arm around the girl and press her into her side familiarly, he saw a chance at achieving milestones he thought had been long left behind.

To raise a child wi’ Claire? And one of their own blood no less?

Aye, there was much to live for yet.


…

Jamie found his wife leant back against a tree, haphazardly poking up the coals of what had been their roaring campfire when they had left for their duties this morning.

It looked as though she held aloft the long stick she was using as a poker with sheer force of will, and she fought to keep her eyes open at every blink.

Still, she made a bonny sight, sitting there cross-legged and relaxed, curled hair matted and frizzed from an apparently very busy day in the hospital tent.

She roused slightly at the sound of his footsteps, and a wry twist of her mouth indicated she was aware of just how exhausted she looked.

“Not a word, Soldier.” She continued to poke up the coals with one hand, and pitched to the left to add some kindling to the bright red coals.

“Ye’re as beautiful as ever, mo cridhe.” He came to a heavy seat beside her, rocked back on his hands, and kissed her lips quickly.

She side-eyed him and added another handful of dry leaves and twigs. “I suppose those words can be tolerated.” She amended righteously, then leaned in again, requesting another kiss.

He obliged, of course, and when she reached for the cast iron pan they used for a majority of their cooking, he plucked the stick from her hand, continuing the work of stoking the fire back up.

Claire was a wee bit off-balanced in her exhaustion, Jamie noticed. Her marketing basket-which was used for a wide variety of things, in light of the fact that they were a good 50 miles from any respectable market- sat just out of reach. Instead of getting up and retrieving it, she scooted a few inches toward it on her bottom and bent over her crossed legs, arms stretched out to snatch it up. When that failed, she rocked forward, and Jamie only had time to get the fingers of one hand in the ties of her apron to keep her from going over and landing face first in the dirt.

She didn’t acknowledge the saving pull of his hand, only began pulling foodstuff from her basket and organizing them in the system that only made sense to her. God, she was strange, and he loved her for it.

She set aside a tied linen bundle that could only be a dozen or more rolls, based on the sweet, warm aroma and the bulk. Next, she removed a large bundle of wild green tomatoes, a sizable bowl of hashed venison he recognized from the noon meal at the mess tent, and eight eggs.

“Have ye grown a second stomach, mo neighn, or have ye only decided to fatten me for slaughter?” Jamie prodded, jutting a chin toward the large quantity of food.

“Rachel and Denny will be joining us for supper.”

“It couldna wait until tomorrow? Ye’re dead yer feet, lass.” Jamie observed gently. No need in poking a calm hornets nest.

At this she sighed and slumped sideways until her temple bumped against his chin and her shoulder wedged below the pit of his arm. His lips pursed to kiss at her hairline without intentional thought and he brought a hand to the warm, curved space between her breast and her waist. “I invited them over before I knew how to day was going to turn out.” She admitted grudgingly. “They both end up taking most of their meals alone, while the other watches patients or runs errands. I watched Rachel eat her porridge under the shade of a tree this morning. I couldn’t help but think she looked terribly young, and alone.”

She tilted her head up, seeking Jamie’s eyes. He brought a hand up and used a thumb to caress the pinched skin at the corners of her eyes and her furrowed brows. He could see a kinship in the flecks of gold and whiskey and amber. He nodded shallowly, so close his nose brushed against hers.

“I know they were raised by caring people in their village. But I remember what it was to be a young woman, just coming into my own, and feeling just a bit adrift, without a mother to guide me. Denny too, he must have carried a terrible sense of responsibility, looking out for his sister at only ten years old. I just thought…” She shrugged and turned back into him, at a loss for how to articulate it.

Jamie knew her heart, though, and her meaning was plain to him. “Aye, ye saw a pair of wee strays and couldna pass them by. I ken how ye are.”

Jamie felt her elbow bury itself in his ribs, but he didn’t care to do anything about it. “You‘ve picked up a stray or two in your time, too, you know.”

“Och, aye. I’ve got my favorite stray just here.” He squeezed her in acknowledgment.

“Why I ought to-”

It was at this moment that Denny and Rachel made their appearance, weaving amongst the various tents, wagons, crates, and bodies that made up an army camp.

Claire hauled herself off her husband, and reached for the skillet which had been warming at the edge of the fire. She dropped in a dollop of bacon fat and began slicing the wee tomatoes in half for frying.

“Halo, make ye’rselves comfortable.” Jamie grunted his way to standing, shook Denzell’s hand in a friendly manner, and offered Rachel the only seating accommodations they had- a round tree stump Jamie had happened across when surveying sights to pitch his and Claire’s tent.

“Oh, no, I insist thee take it, Friend Claire!” She tried to deny politely.

Claire squinted kindly at the lass from her seat upon the ground. “Not to worry, dear, we don’t stand on ceremony here. I’m already down here. No use embarrassing myself trying to drag myself back up. Come sit by me and we can finish frying these up, hmm?”

Jamie snorted and crouched to move the stump so Rachel could be seated by Claire. She nodded her thanks and sat, clearly knowing better than to try to argue with Claire. Jamie reckoned the girl had seen Claire shout down more than her fair share of ranking military men during their shared time in the medical tent.

Denzell and Jamie took their own relaxed seats around the fire, Jamie on Claire’s left and Denzell next to him.

Rachel took over slicing the tomatoes while Claire stirred the current contents of the pan.

“A long day, was it?” Jamie asked Denny companionably. He realized he and Claire hadn’t even discussed their own day, and how Claire had come to such exhaustion (though he’d seen her doctoring enough times to have the general idea).

“Oh yes, but most rewarding. Mrs. Fraser has an indefatigable knowledge of medicine- each day is quite a learning opportunity.” Denny said in the formal but warm manner of speech that was his trademark.

“Aye, she’s a bonny healer.” Jamie acknowledged, planting his hands flat on the ground- one behind her back- and leant his weight back slightly.

Claire, whose back was clearly bothering her, noticed the accommodation at once and rested back against her makeshift backrest. She smiled at them both and scraped the tomatoes to one side of the pan before gesturing Rachel to start cracking eggs into the pan. “She-” Claire began, stirring the eggs viciously to scramble them as Rachel cracked each new egg, “also insisted you call her Claire.”

Once the eggs had all been scrambled and were on their way to cooking, she put the venison on to warm in beside the tomatoes. “And really, Denny, you and Rachel have been the true miracle here. My unconventional methods always raise brows and usually encourage some show of ego. It has been such a blessing to have two sharp sets of minds and two more capable sets of hands. I’m afraid without the two of you, I’d be fighting a losing battle for many of those patients.”

Rachel blushed, and Denny beamed under the praise. Jamie could see Claire blooming back to life, too.

“Enough about work. We’ll be up to our eyeballs in medicine at day break tomorrow. Let’s eat.”

Jamie tried to remember back to their younger years, when they were first getting to know one another, young newlyweds. Claire had encountered any number of weans and lads and lasses in their travels, and had of course always treated them compassionately, but he couldn’t help but see some differences now.

He thought there wasna so much melancholy to her interactions as there had once been. Likely, that had been due to her belief that she was barren, or later, after Faith, a deep and inescapable sense of loss.

Perhaps it was because she’d had the chance to raise Brianna, had spent countless hours with grandchildren and the families of The Ridge.

Claire and Rachel began plating servings of the egg, tomato, and venison scramble, and Denny reached forward to distribute dinner rolls and cutlery onto each of the mismatched plates.

Claire pushed the two plates with the largest portions toward Jamie and Denny, kept the smallest for herself. Jamie huffed and forked a few more bites from his plate onto hers. She had a self sacrificial streak a mile long, when she had a mind to it.

She eyed him but smiled, and he smiled back, not in a chiding mood.

“Claire, we must thank thee for showing us such hospitality. A rare moment of calm with friends is such a rarity in times such as these.” Rachel complimented earnestly.

Claire patted her knee with one hand, and in overwhelmingly motherly gesture, encouraged her to eat. “You are quite welcome, my dear. Taste the food first before you heap on any more compliments. Cooking has never been one of my strong suits.” Claire joked, tone thick with a dozens of inside jokes and tales.

Jamie grinned around a mouthful of admittedly edible food. “Tha’s true enough. If we hadna married under such hurried circumstances, I might have been better served interviewin’ ye for your home making skills.” Jamie teased rakishly.

Denny choked on a fork load of eggs and Claire shot forward to pound at his back, glaring at Jamie all the while.

He looked to Rachel who was also beet red and avoiding his eyes in clear embarrassment.

“Er- I’ve gone and put my foot in my mouth, aye? The circumstances of our marriage were hasty, aye but, not in the way ye might be thinking, see-” Jamie hurried to correct.

“I think you’ve said enough.” Claire huffed, sitting down now that Denny’s choking crisis had ended. “I was being hunted by an evil man, a captain in his majesty’s army. He had done myself and Jamie significant harm and was set to do more, by compelling me into his custody under English rule of law. A rather sharp lawyer we were traveling with convinced Jamie and his uncle that my marrying a Scot- and thus becoming a Scottish citizen- would protect me against such a law.”

Rachel’s eyes were as round and wide as her dinner plate, and she hurried to dab at a corner of her mouth with a handkerchief from her apron before replying. “Thee must pardon me. It’s only… Thee have always displayed such… affection and closeness. I always imagined it a love-match.” She seemed to shy then, as if she’d lost her nerve to finish the thought.

Jamie found his mental footing once again, and answered for the both of them. “Weel, the marriage was made more amenable by the fact that we were already verra close friends, see? And as for myself, I can attest to lovin’ Claire since the first moment I saw her- though I was near seein’ double at the time.”

She bumped his shoulder with hers, close and warm and forgiving. “Yes, he’d just finished beating back a band of redcoats- including the captain- and had sustained a rather gruesome disjointed shoulder.” Claire recalled fondly.

Denny looked utterly bemused at this, but equally interested in their shared tale. “What a colorful history between thee! Surely, such strife could have endangered many a marriage, I should think.”

Jamie barked out a laugh, and doled out another roll each to Denny, Rachel and Claire, to mop up the remains of the meal from their plates. “It’s been more colorful than can be told in a single setting. But I’ve never once doubted I was meant to be her husband. God made me to love her, ye ken?”

Rachel sighed wistfully. “I hope one day I might know the same.”

Denny nodded and popped the last piece of bread in his mouth. “A worthy goal, if one can be so blessed.”

Claire slipped a hand to the nape of Jamie’s neck and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “I was married to my first husband when I was 19. I remember wondering if my marriage to Frank was anything like my parent’s marriage. Wondering if my mother would approve.”

“Did thee come to a conclusion?” Rachel questioned eagerly.

Claire, not one to be idle long, looked toward the bucket she used for washing, and made to stand. Jamie rested a hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to remain seated, and stood to fetch it for her. He set it down carefully in front of her, so it wouldn’t slosh over, and returned to his relaxed seat, hands on the ground, one arm stretched out behind Claire.

She began clearing the first of the pewter-ware but directed her attention to Rachel. “I think, yes, she would have approved. He was a socially suitable match and a good man. We cared for each other.” She shrugged, looking for her next words. “But I think all mothers want to give their children the world: they want them not just to be content but happy. Not just in a peaceable marriage, but a loving one.”

She turned and considered Jamie for a moment, and he dipped his head once to acknowledge the warmth that jumped the small gap between their bodies and engulfed him. She smiled, a lazy, sentimental thing, just for him. He felt his own lips quirk in response, by reflex.

“I believe my mother would have been infinitely more proud of mine and Jamie’s marriage.” She concluded, placing a brief kiss on his shoulder in casual affection.

Jamie nudged the top of her head with his chin. “Aye, I ken this is the kind o’ match my parents intended for me. They wouldna have been pleased with anything less.”

“I didn’t have an opportunity to see my parents marriage, or to discuss our mother’s hopes for me. But Denny remembers them being quite fond of each other.” Rachel said longingly.

“It was a marriage of true equals. They would have wanted the same for Rachel and myself.” Denny agreed. “Having charge of thee, I will do my best to ensure you find something similar.” A protective, loving strength entered his voice, and Jamie saw Claire’s approval of the young man grow in the set of her mouth.

A rustling from the woods behind them revealed a shaggy, panting Rollo followed by Ian, who carried a string of large trout. “Rachel! Tis a pleasure to see ye. And you, Denzell.” Ian greeted quickly.

Rachel’s eyes sparkled with a particular brand of doe-eyed fondness that neither Jamie nor Claire missed.

“Friend Ian! Well met. Did thee catch all those yourself or did thy loyal companion do the dirty work for thee?” She jibbed playfully.

“Rollo’s a bonny hunter, but not verra willing to share.” Ian replied, sitting down and shifting the coals about to bake his catch. He spared a glance for his aunt and uncle after burying the fish beneath the ashes. “Hao.” He shot them his signature lopsided grin.

Claire pursed her lips, clearly trying to smother a matching grin of her own. “Hello, Ian. I do wish you’d let me know before you wander out into the woods on your own. I was looking for you earlier and not a single person knew where you’d gone.” She had attempted a scolding tone, but hadn’t quite managed it. She’d always had a soft spot for Young Ian.

Ian chuckled and looked to Denny and a Rachel conspiratorially, hunching his shoulders and saying in a stage whisper, “She’s a great one for the fretting and fussing, my Auntie. But I keep her around for my Uncle’s sake. Fair lost wi’out her, he is.”

Rachel hid a laugh demurely behind a handkerchief, and Denny looked ready to do the same behind a curled fist.

Jamie raised a stoic brow, partially begging Ian to continue. “Your Auntie’s tongue lashings are a fair bit worse than mine, lad. I’d go careful, ken?”

Ian rocked back on his backside, hands clutching at his knees, laughing. “Aye, ye’d know that a far sight more than I would.” He chortled.

Jamie’s put upon stoicism broke out into an equally churlish smile then. “I would.”

Claire rolled her eyes at their antics. “Please feel free to ignore them. They’re not fit for civilized society.”

Denny huffed dismissively. “No need. It’s been quite some time since Rachel and I have dined within any civilized setting, and we found them rather stiff, didn’t we Sissy?”

“Yes. This is much more enjoyable. And the entertainment is free!” She agreed.

They all had a good laugh about that which lulled into the sounds of fading day: cicadas buzzing, the rustle of a stiff breeze through tall grass, the softening rabble of weary soldiers.

Claire regarded the siblings in the way Jamie was used to seeing when she observed Fergus, Marsali, Ian, Roger, and Brianna. A lump rose in his throat at the thought of their loss of Brianna and Roger.

“Have you given any thought to where you’ll settle after this is all over with?” Claire asked quietly.

Rachel deferred to Denny who scratched at his stubbled chin consideringly. “We’ve given thought to it. There are many communities of Friends not so far out. Of course, there is our role in this fight for independency to consider. We were put out of meeting before. But there are likely blossoming communities of like-minded Friends. And if not, my skills would be put to good use in a city, where I could establish a practice and support myself and Rachel…” Denny didn’t seem too enthusiastic about the prospect, and Rachel looked even less so, by Jamie’s assessment.

Ian had barely hidden his expression of disgust at the mention of a city.

Claire nodded understandingly. “Well, just know that you’d always be welcome at The Ridge, if you were in want or need of a place to go.” She looked at Jamie, and he took her cue happily.

“Aye, there’s plenty of land to settle still, and a good many hands to help ye. And I’m sure Claire would welcome another reasonable and competent doctor. Lord knows the current residents keep her bustling about as it is.”

Denny bowed his head at the sentiment. “I’m gratified and humbled at such an offer. We may one day have the opportunity to accept.”

Ian scraped the ash of the smallest of his fish, poking at it with his finger gingerly to determine readiness. “Ye’ll not find a bonnier place, outside of Scotland. Still has a bit of the wild. Peaceful. A good place to build a home, raise a family.”

Ian smiled at Jamie and Claire then, admiration plain on his tattooed face. “I wasna raised there, but I did a fair bit of growing up there all the same.”

Claire’s face split on a massive yawn which she hastily covered. “Excuse me. I suppose that’s my body’s way to telling me I’m too old to be up this late.” Her knees cracked as she made her way to standing, a hand on Jamie’s shoulder. He braced her at the elbow until she was steady on her feet and ran her fingers through his untied hair.

“Goodnight Rachel, Denzell. You ought to come by again soon. We’ve enjoyed your company.” She made her way behind Rachel, squeezing the girl’s outstretched fingers, and bent down to plant a kiss on the row of braids flowing down the back of Ian’s head. “Feel free to keep growing up. But not too much, hmm?” She taunted, tugging at a braid.

Ian tilted his head back and kissed her cheek. “No worries on my account, Auntie. I ken ye love me for my boyish charm.”

Claire said no more, shaking her head and waving her farewell before disappearing into the modest tent she and Jamie shared.

Jamie made a great show of stretching as well. “I’m no’ far behind.” He reached his hand down, shook Denzell’s. “G’night!”

He stopped outside the tent, shucking off his boots, and heard one last snippet as he ducked into the tent.

“Thee has only known thy aunt for several years, isn’t that what thee had said? You two are very close.” Rachel whispered with some unspoken longing.

“Och, it didn’t take more than a few weeks for us to be thick as thieves. She grows on ye all of a sudden. Dinna fash, if you and your brother spend much more time with her, she’ll have adopted ye too, and no doubt about it.”

Notes:

An update after a bit of a hiatus! More to come soon, if things go according to plan. Please share what you liked, and leave a comment if you have ideas or suggestions for future prompts! Definitely have another William scene coming soon, and likely more with Rachel, and all our old favorites.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Jamie rolled his head around on his shoulders, trying to loosen the stiff muscles there and attempting not to let his foul mood be apparent to the rest of the household.

It was full winter, the season of catarrh and ague. Claire’s surgery had been overtaken for weeks with patients, and she often didn’t make it to bed until midnight, when she made it at all.

He slept ill without her, but she’d encouraged him to keep his distance. She said he could catch something from her, even if she wasna sick. It didna make a lick of sense to him, but he’d learned long ago not to question such things. She didna tell him how to run the barn or plough the acreage, and he didna interfere with her doctoring.

Weel, it had all come to a heid now, for Jemmy and Germain had both come down wi’ ague, and Claire was having not only to manage her current patients, but also two fussy weans and two new mothers fretting up a storm.

It was late, and Claire sat in the sitting room in a high backed chair, eyes half mast with exhaustion, hands hanging loosely over the padded arms of the chair. Bree was pacing, half mad with worry, bouncing a crying Jemmy whose snorts sounded congested and raw.

Marsali faired no better, slumped over in a settle, Germain laying along her lap, kicking and whining and gumming at a fold of his ma’s skirt grumpily.

“Mama, isn’t there anything you can do? They’ve been at it for over hours. I feel like I’m losing my mind.” Brianna rasped, sounding choked up and at the end of her rope.

Marsali choked on a sob as Germain palmed the skirt out of his mouth and shrieked, surley piercing the ear of his mother who had been bent over him. “Claire I’m fair begin’ ye to do anything ye might.” Her voice was laden with desperation too.

Jamie, who had just made a restless lap around the room, looked to Claire, ready to remind the lasses that Claire was doing everything she could, and was clearly on the verge of a meltdown herself.

Claire closed her eyes, pressed her fingers against her eyelids tight, and took a deliberately slow breath.

Jamie stepped forward and opened his mouth to voice his defense, when Claire shook her heid like a wee hound, pushed hard off the armchair, and strode toward the door.

“One moment, girls, give me one moment. I’ll see what I can come up with. Don’t fret.” She nearly sprinted from the room and Jamie shot mildly exasperated looks toward the mothers before chasing down his wife.

When he caught up with her she was halfway to the medicine room already, wringing her hands and muttering what sounded like a list of herbs. She grimaced, snorted, and glared at the mention of nearly every one, however, and Jamie recognized her half-crazed attempt at prescription on too little sleep and a waning supply of medicaments.

He set a hand on her back and she startled, so stuck was she in her own head. “Jesus H!” She exclaimed, hand to her chest.

“What can I do, mo cridhe?”

Claire pulled at the roots of her hair, as if trying to pluck a solution from the depths of her thoughts.

“I don’t know. I’m out of eucalyptus and peppermint, which would be best for their congestion. I can’t give them anything ingestible, they’re far too young…” She worried at her forehead with the ends of her fingers, rubbing restlessly as her eyes scanned each of the bottles, jars, and boxes which contained her stores.

“If there’s nothin’ to do, then we’ll tell them as much. Sometimes there’s no’ to do but hold them tight until they’ve cried themselves to sleep.” Jamie said softly. His heart ached for the weans, and their mothers, truly, but he’d been around Jenny’s bairns enough to know the veracity of the statement. “The girl’s will learn the truth of it, it’s the hardest part o’ bein’ a parent, aye, but part of it just the same.”

Claire shrugged that off ferociously, tapping an index finger on her chin. “Try telling that to a frantic new mother. It goes over like a glass of sour milk.”

“Ye canna fix everything, mo luaidh.”

Claire let him guide her head toward his shoulder, which she tapped her forehead against several times in frustration, before she accepted a gentle shush, and a glancing swipe of his hand through her curls, to unstick them from the back of her neck.

All of a sudden, she popped up from the comfort of his shirtsleeve like a wee rabbit from its burrow. “Thyme!”

“Time? Aye, as I said, nothin’ for it but time.” He agreed, brow falling low over his eyes. Surely Claire wasna coming down wi’ the ague and suffering from confusion?

“No, thyme- the herb- and holy basil. I have both of those. All I need is a good wide pan for steam…” Her dexterous fingers flitted against glass, ceramics, and stoneware in search of their prize.

She flicked her gaze over her should at him for half a second. “Love, could you- no, that’s not it- water, could you possibly- damn, where is that blasted-”

“Water and a pan, I’ll manage.” He muttered, half amused, half worried she’d wear herself into the ground before she could administer her latest cure. He reached around her, and plucked a pot with a pasted label which marked it as the thyme, and ushered it into her hand before he left her to fetch the water and pan.

When he returned, Claire had pulled her hair back with the yellow kerchief he had brought her from his last visit to River Run. She looked determined and weary and every bit the woman he had married some twenty odd years ago.

He held aloft a large pan of water, which he had poured straight from a still warm kettle, so they wouldna have to wait so long for it to steam. Claire made a pass at his cheek with puckered lips and he turned to receive her thankful kiss with his mouth instead. She hummed her amusement, pecked him again, and then moved back toward the sitting room, Jamie close on her heels.

Bree stood in place, rocking tiredly, the tip of one finger in Jemmy’s wee rosebud mouth, in an attempt to sooth him. He had quieted some, but still whined pitifully, and tears stood out at the corners of his eyes.

Marsali was leaned back against the settle, Germain held up against her shoulder, and she patted his heaving back as the wee lad snuffled and snorted through a snotty nose.

“Alright, boys, Granny’s going to make it better.” Claire announced, gliding into the room with purpose. Jamie set the pan on the grate in the fireplace, poking up the fire to speed along the process. Claire sprinkled a generous portion of each of her herbs in the water, and snatched the plain table cloth that lay across the table in the corner used for card games, or whittling, depending upon its occupant.

Germain squalled weakly and Claire set a course for he and Marsali, sparing an apologetic glance toward Bree and Jem.

Claire held out her hands in the universal Granny sign language for “pass the baby”. Marsali gratefully passed the bairn over and Claire sat close, laying the lad along her legs, feet pressing into her belly. “While we wait for the water to steam, we can try to loosen up all that phlegm manually.” Claire said in a soothing whisper tone. She stroked her thumbs along the wean’s brow, starting from the center and working out. After several passes, she did the same starting at the top of the nose and working down the cheeks.

Marsali laid her cheek on Claire’s shoulder, watching her movements and studying the bairn as he jolted his head side to side, trying to escape his Granny’s fingers. For a few moments, nothing seemed to change, but then Germain screwed up his wee features. Claire skillfully flipped him onto his belly and patted at his back. His wee ribcage gave a shudder as the lad coughed. Claire, unbothered, used the edge of her apron to scrape the mucus and slobber from Germaine’s mouth and sat him up on her knees.

Before the lad had a chance to protest this treatment, he sneezed, producing an impressive amount of snot, which Claire wiped away again without thought. When the boy had recovered himself, he blinked sleepily, and breathed in, without the wet crackle of congestion. It seemed to surprise the boy as much as his mother, and he lurched forward into Claire’s bosom. “That’s it, good lad. That feels better, hmm?”

One tiny fist closed reflexively on the neckline of Claire’s dress, and the boy subsided into a cozy drowse.

At the sight, Marsali slumped even further into Claire’s side, tears prickling at the corners of cornflower blue eyes. “Oh, blessed Bride. Thank ye.”

Claire turned her cheek into the top of Marsali’s capped head. “Oh, sweet girl. It’s alright. He’s just fine. You’ll get through this. I know it’s hard. You’re doing a fine job.”

Holding the baby to her chest as she was, she had no hand to offer Marsali, but she kissed her crown and rested her cheek back against the lass in as much of an embrace as she could muster. Marsali let out a strangled sigh. “Thank ye, Ma.”

“Of course, Sweetheart.” She sat up and looked to Bree, who held still Jemmy. His whine had faded to a low, on and off whimper.

“Jamie, come take Germaine?”

Jamie did as asked, bending low to receive the wean, cradling him expertly in one arm, and drawing Marsali into the crook of his opposite shoulder.

Claire stood, pressing both hands firmly into her low back, stretching, as she made her way to the hearth. Using her apron, she removed the steaming pan from the fire, and brought it over to the table. A mellow, earthy aroma wafted from the hot water.

Claire reached out for her other grandson, and Bree handed him over restlessly. “Grab that tablecloth, Bree. Drape it over me and the pan.” Claire held the baby sitting up, his back to her front, one hand under his chin to support his neck.

Bree helped her to scoot the chair in closer to the table, so that she and the babe were a few inches from the steaming pan of water. Thus situated, Bree swathed her mother and the pan beneath the tablecloth, to trap the medicated steam. Jem mewled, unaccustomed to the close, stuffy air, but Claire persisted and tried to distract him by tapping his cheeks, twiddling his fingers, blowing raspberries on the top of his head, and other such nonsense.

The silhouette of Claire, hunched beneath the cloth, making silly noises and eliciting wee squeaks and squawks from the lad, proved to be quite amusing for the rest of the adults in the room.

After a few minutes, Claire heaved the fabric off her, hair fluffy and disordered, huffing in a blast of cool air. Jem had a fist thrust in his mouth, gumming cheerily, rosy cheeked and bright eyed. Claire too was flushed and sweating, but she held the air of success.

Bree reflexively reached for Jem, who seemed delighted to see his Ma. He giggled and Bree beamed at her own mother. “You’re a lifesaver, Mama.”

Jamie moved behind her, squeezing the tense muscles on either side of her neck. She tilted her head back until it rested against his abdomen, and let him work at one of the knots in her trapezius. “I’ll send you both home with a sachet of herbs, so you can do the steam therapy when they get congested again. Try to massage their faces while the water warms, to help loosen the phlegm. And if they continue to be fussy, cradle them on their stomachs, and pat them down. It works a charm.”

Marsali stood, Germaine peacefully asleep in her arms. “Ye dinna have any magical cures for dirty clouts or bairns wi’ a passion for throwing more mash than they eat?” She scrunched her nose toward Germaine and rolled her eyes good naturedly.

Claire laughed, and shook her head in mock disappointment. “Unfortunately even my baby wrangling powers aren’t equal to those tasks. But I do know a certain Granny who’s willing to change a clout or two.”

“Granny Claire saves the day again.” Bree teased, coming over to plant a kiss on her mother’s cheek. Claire patted her daughter’s cheek affectionately and swept her palm over over the infant’s head.

“Bree, Marsali, you two are welcome to the guest room down the hall. The boys can share the trundle, and Mrs. Bug will be up in a couple hours if you need another pan of water. And of course, we’ll be upstairs if either of you need anything. You best rest while you can.”

The girls carried their weans toward the guest room in question, and Jamie lowered a hand from one of her shoulders to help her stand. Once she was on her feet, he passed a hand behind her to her lower back.

“Yer a braw Granny, Sassenach. Those bairns dinna ken how good they have it.” Jamie praised.

“This is the kind of life I never imagined I could have, before I met you, you know. I have it pretty damn good myself.”

Jamie muffled a bark of laughter in the frizzed hair of the top of her head, and kissed the exposed back of her neck. “Aye, God has seen fit to bless us more than I could ha’ hoped for."

 

...

 

John was a good companion. Thoughtful, generous with his time and affluence. Gentle in his reminders to take care of herself.

She enjoyed discussing poetry and music with him, and his quiet demeanor belied a sense of humor that could take her off guard enough to startle laughter out of her.

Still, the truth of these things barely kept numbness at bay. She could sit down for a spell, feeling a queer sense of hollowness, thinking she might dispel it, only to come back to herself several hours later, staring at the same patch of wallpaper now a few shades darker in the fading daylight.

It was rather alarming, to be so unattached from one’s own body and mind. Even at the dinner parties John threw, one moment she’d be arm in arm with her husband discussing the latest fashion trend with some politician’s wife, blink, and open her eyes to herself sitting in an arm chair by an open window, Willie standing unobtrusively behind her shoulder.

“Jesus H Christ.”

A punch glass appeared from over her shoulder, and she followed the red coated arm up to find Willie wearing a soft smile and worried brow.

“Have a sip. It’s cool, and it’s fresh.” He offered quietly, eyes scanning the room, warning off busy bodies.

Claire relented, and took the cup. William was right. The punch was cool, and sweet, and after a few steps, the noise of the room clarified from a burbling white noise to the distinct sounds of cutlery of china, polite conversation, and the typical shuffling and clattering of men playing cards.

“Thank you, William.”

“Of course. I think I shall have a glass myself. Would you like another?” He held his hand out questioningly, and she looked down in confusion only to find she’d drained the whole thing.

“Oh. Well, if you’re going that way…” Claire tried to feign casualness, but her disassociation from her body was truly starting to concern her.

“I am, at that. Wait here?” It was posed as a question, but was evidently not, as he left to fill their glasses without waiting for an answer. She felt like being alone, but was polite enough not to disappear on Willie, who had clearly been keeping watch of her.

So she sat, and blinked, and tried to see if she could remember how she’d gotten from John’s side in the front parlor, listening to a string quartet, to sitting in the informal dining room which had been turned into a refreshments buffet.

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t. There was a block of time- she wasn’t even sure how much- that was completely empty in her mind. William returned, two punch cups in hand.

“Would you be up for a walk? It’s awfully stuffy in here.” He offered his elbow quite gallantly, and Claire accepted at once.

She let him hoist her up and she shook out her billowing skirts and held the glass close to her décolletage as he escorted her through the hall toward the servant’s entrance, which exited into a narrow but relatively clean and secluded alley.

The first wave of fresh air (as fresh as a 1700s city could be, that is) was a relief after the close, stale atmosphere of the house.

William took a deep breath as well, and when he appraised her, his shoulders dropped a bit of their tension. “You look much improved. Are you feeling well now?”

Claire patted the inside of his elbow, where her hand was nestled. “I do, now that we’re out in the open. I suppose I didn’t realize how suffocating it was in the house until I wasn’t no longer in it.”

William nodded his agreement, and put a warm hand over hers at his elbow, pressing warm regard into the very tips of her fingers. Claire sighed greatly, and tilted her head up to make eye contact with William, painfully familiar though it was.

He met her eye, smiling softly. “I do appreciate your company, Willie, but wouldn’t you rather be back home dancing with the young ladies there? I may be an old maid, but I recognize the look of besotted eligible girls when I see them.”

William shook his head vehemently, turned his gaze to their meandering path down the street. “I’m much more interested in holding your attention, at the moment, Mother Claire.”

Claire huffed, frustrated more with herself than William. “You needn’t concern yourself, Willie. I’ll be alright.”

“And I’ll be sure to know it if I keep by your side, won’t I?” Willie responded, with that cheeky charm that was so familiar to her.

Up ahead, beneath a pair of wrought iron gas street lamps, a group of street performers- two fiddlers and a piper- played a happy little jig, and passersby had stopped to clap along and dance in the street.

William seemed inclined to avoid it, and cross to the other side of the street, but Claire was drawn to the cheerful, messy, indecorous nature of their revelry. It was so far off from the stiff, proper, manicured ceremony of the dinner parties in John’s brownstones. It felt more like evenings on The Ridge, gathered around a bonfire, passing around half decent whiskey and surrounded by familiar joy.

She pulled William along by their connection at the crook of his elbow, and he put up no more than a token protest by slowing their pace and inspecting the crowd with a soldier's wary eye.

Young men swung their sweethearts around in looping, dizzying figure eights, stomping and hooting and clapping while the girls flicked their skirts and kicked up their heels. On the outermost rim of the crowd, a group of young children held hands and frolicked in their own clumsy version of the dance.

William did not seem keen on joining in the excitement, but Claire could close her eyes and hear Jemmy, Germaine, Felicite, Joanie, and Henri-Christian among the giggles and cheers of the children. She could imagine, for a moment, being back in the home He had built for her, with the family they had created, and it was intoxicating in its proximity.

A young girl with brown curls and blue eyes stumbled out of the group and crashed into Claire’s legs. Her motherly instincts were never too far below the surface, and she caught the girl by the hands, holding her up before she could tumble to the cobbles below.

The girl looked up, and instantly shined at her with gap-toothed delight. “Fank you, mistress!” She said with an adorable lisp.

Claire grinned back, unable and unwilling to fight the impulse. “Most welcome. That’s quite the dance. Wherever did you learn a thing like that?”

The girl laughed as if she’d said something hilarious. “Come try!” She cheered, and dragged Claire forward by the hand. Claire let herself be drawn forward, despite the dissenting grunt and restraining hand she felt at her back.

One of the girl’s friends came over and latched on to Claire’s other hand, and the two began skipping and hopping with all the organization and grace of a group of rabid hamsters. Still, they swung their arms and yipped and threw back their heads in the most glorious, rowdy elation.

Claire mimicked as best she could on stiff joints and half-remembered glee. After a few moments of heel tapping, it felt less like play pretend and more like the real happiness she had become so accustomed to since she’d returned to this time.

She laughed toward the sky, felt her lungs fill fully for the first time in weeks. She could feel her hair slipping from its precariously pinned up-do. She looked over her shoulder at William, who was looking at her like she’d grown a second head. She whooped, shook her head like a wet dog, and felt her curls fly into disarray.

She squeezed the hands of the two young girls, and joined their hands to one another before leaping back toward William. He made an attempt to dodge her, clearly hip to her intention. He underestimated her speed, however, and she grasped his fingers, tugging him forward. He tipped precariously toward her, grabbing her at the elbows in an attempt not to barrel over her.

She swung his arms to one side, then the other, jumping up and down on the tips of her toes. He stood still, looking ridiculous as she puppeted his arms, and regarding her for all the world as if she had gone mad.

Perhaps she had.

“Dance with me, William! Loosen up, act your age, for once!” She crowed, strafing under one of his arms, forcing him to either spin her or let her go. He seemed unwilling to let her go, as if he might never reel her back in if he did, and she spun on her Morocco heels three times before she stopped again.

“You know, when most of my elders tell me to act my age, they typically mean for me to avoid this kind of behavior.” William shouted over the noise of the crowd and the musicians.

Claire smirked at him, and used her considerable force to compel William to enter into a barrel roll, or twist Claire’s wrists painfully. Raised a true gentleman, he relented at the last moment, and ducked and spun with her. When they met face to face once again, all sense of propriety and resistance had fled.

“You’re mad, do you know?” He hollered, joining the crowd in clapping his hands against his knees in thunderous excitement.

Claire kicked one ankle out from under her skirts, then the other, glowing and radiating the heat of her exertions. “So I’ve heard. Do you mind it?”

Willie reached for her, lifted her off the street by her hips, strutted a quick circle, and set her back down. “Not a bit!” He assured.

It might have been minutes, it might have been hours, but eventually, they stumbled back from the crowd, panting and bent at the waist trying to catch their breath.

Claire felt Willie’s hand on her upper back, and she lurched up to acknowledge him.

“So there’s the Claire I’ve heard so much about.” He noted curiously.

“What’s that?” Claire questioned, straightening her dress, and accepting his arm as he gestured back down the road in the direction of John’s brownstone.

“Ian and Rachel speak very highly of you, you know. Papa too, when he’s had a drink or two and is feeling sentimental.” William tilted in his head toward her conspiratorially. “They’ve been worried about you these last few months.”

She squeezed his elbow, huffing lowly.

“I’ll have to find cause to see it more often.” William concluded, leading her up the steps of his stepfather’s home. “It was a marvelous sight indeed.”

Notes:

Yeah, I noticed a lot of you were asking for more Granny Claire and William. Well, here you have it. More to come soon, hopefully. What else is this story missing?

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Jamie exited the big house to find Claire sitting on the porch overlooking her garden. He’d placed the chair there while she’d been recovering from her illness. Too weak to do the things she liked, but too high strung to remain in bed, Jamie would walk her painstakingly down the stairs, out the door, and onto the porch on his arm, and bring her a sewing project or a book to read.

The chair had stayed since, and had become one of Claire’s favorite haunts when she was contemplative or in need of a wee bit of peace.

Adso was draped across her lap, pleased as punch to have a warm place to lay and receive a constant stream of scratches.

Jamie lifted his eyes to the ceiling in fond exasperation. The damned cat was a menace more often than he wasn’t. He was always dragging his kills into the surgery for Claire’s inspection when she had sensitive patients. He terrorized most visitors within an inch of their lives, and had grown out of his kittenish fondness of everyone save Claire, whom he adored.

“I knew that cheetie fer yours th’ moment I laid eyes on him. Ye never could resist a braw laddie with piercin’ eyes and a penchant for a wee bit o’ trouble.” Jamie admonished without conviction.

Claire acknowledged him with a smug, though watery smirk, and an exuberant scratch of Adso’s wee ears. “You’d know all about that, would you?” Her voice was reedy and careworn. She was missing Bree, Roger, and the weans then.

“I would.” He answered simply. He ducked in the doorway and snatched a stool from her surgery so that he might sit with her. She kept her gaze on the stalks and greenery which bobbed in the faint breeze below the steps of the porch.

She readjusted her hold of the wee silver creature, so that he was cradled against her chest and she could drop a kiss to the top of his head. “He hasn’t let anyone hold him since he was a kitten.” She mused quietly, considering the cat, who had begun to purr so loudly, Jamie could hear it three feet away.

Jamie snuck a hand out to rub his cheek and slide the pad of one finger up his nose. The bugger leant into his touch, took a mighty inhale, and had the gall to look offended when he realized who had touched him.

Jamie retreated before the feline could make up his mind to retaliate and inserted a firm correction, “He hasn’t let anyone but you hold him since he was a kitten. He’s mad fond of ye. Kens yer in turmoil. He doesna like it when yer no’ yerself. He threw a fit when ye were ill.”

Claire turned to Jamie sharply, brows drawn low. “Did he really? You never told me that.”

Jamie tugged on the end of the little shite’s tail while his eyes were closed in pleasure, earning a warning yowl from the intractable cat. “Weel I had a good deal on my mind, I supposed it didna signify at the time. I had to shut him out of the house. He kept pawing at ye in bed, and when I closed him out of our room he set to caterwaulin’ fit to rouse the dead. He wasna best pleased wi’ me, refused any food or cream when I offered it to him.”

Claire mock gasped, offended on behalf of her beloved cat. “Did he do that? The nerve of some people.” Her chin was dipped low, addressing her companion.

Adso seemed to agree, for he stretched out his neck and butted her chin with the back of his head as if to receive her sympathy.

Jamie scoffed good-naturedly at his wife’s theatrics. It was good to see a bit of playfulness in the midst of her melancholy.

“How is it today, mo cridhe?” He finally asked while she was absorbed in the task of scratching the cat’s belly, much to his delight. He’d lose a hand trying such a thing.

Claire’s hand came to rest in the soft silky undercoat of his belly and the cat craned his head round to lick the back of her hand encouragingly.

“I’m alright. I was just missing Jem when I went to do my morning chores. He got too old to want to cuddle me in the evenings, and he was much too big for me to throw around as I used to do. But he used to find me in the mornings and help me find which vegetables ought to be plucked, and he always carried the feed buckets for the goats and Clarence. And when we were done he used to sit with me and eat butter and jam on toast and tell me his plans for the day.” She sighed and fussed with Adso’s fur for a moment. “He likely would have outgrown it soon, but sometimes he still reached to hold my hand when we walked to the barn.”

She heaved a great sigh, and a single tear tracked a path down her cheek. She shut her eyes against anymore, and stroked Adso in a perfunctory way that meant she was seeking distraction from strong emotion.

“Tha’ Jeremiah Fraser knows enough to be verra glad for time wi’ his Granny.” Jamie observed consolingly. He missed the lot of them too, desperately. He missed them around the Sunday dinner table, and Thursday evening story nights when Jamie and Claire watched the weans for Bree and Roger. He missed ticking off firsts with Jem and Roger, a lad’s first piss on a tree, first hunt, first successful snare, first time steering the plow mule alone.

“I miss little Mandy. All the things I was excited to see. Sitting up, crawling, walking. I never even got to hear her laugh or see her hair curl into those sweet little ringlets like Bree had when she was toddling. I won’t know her favorite color, or her first word.”

She cried in earnest then, holding her breath to prevent sobs, which caused her to heave and puff thickly. Adso stood and turned about, facing Claire instead of the garden. He flopped against the arm which she held against her body and fitted his head in the crook of her elbow and her bosom. Instinctively, Claire reached her other hand out to stroke his back, and he curled his wee neck in so that his nose was buried in his own chest.

“What else, my own?” There was no point in telling her it was alright, for he didn’t believe it himself- it wasn’t fair or right that they had to be separated from their family. And there was no fixing it, either, so any promises that it would get better were wasted too. All he could do was give her the space to share her burden with him, so they could bear it together.

“Roger!” She croaked, sniffing through a runny nose. “Thank God he’s with Bree, but I could use some of his quiet wisdom right about now. He could get right to the root of something you didn’t even know you were feeling. He’s a wonderful father, I’d never wish him not to be with them, it’s only- I didn’t expect to need him with me as much as Bree!”

The hand that was stroking the cat reached blindly outwards for Jamie and he took it, guiding it to his heart gently. She pressed into him there, with the palm of her hand, not pushing away, just seeking solidness.

He leant into the pressure, taking his own comfort from the contact. It was a wonder how just the touch of her fingertips could sooth- it didn’t make all of his pain go away, but it was a balm, dampening some of the sting, and leaving a reassuring warmth it it’s stead.

“Bree.” She finally gasped. “I miss Brianna so badly I can hardly breathe.” Her frame began to rattle with the force of her grief, and Adso stood again. Far from looking disturbed, however, the cat simply sat and raised a forelimb to her chest, pawing and kneading at her sternum. Claire dragged the cat forward one-handed, clutching him to her. He leant into the crook of her chin, bunting and purring all the while.

Jamie pressed her other hand more firmly against his breast, willing her soul to settle as best it could. His other hand hooked behind her knees and swiveled her around to face him. He passed a hand up and down her flank and hip, reminding her of his presence. His eyes filled with tears, and not for the first time, he was glad that Bree and Claire had each other in the twenty years he and Claire had been parted. It burned that he hadn’t watched his daughter grow, but it was a relief beyond measure to know Claire hadn’t suffered in the same way she had with Faith. He’d never begrudge her that awesome comfort.

“My baby. My smart, strong, beautiful daughter. Mine.” Claire stuttered quietly. The hand on his chest migrated to his shoulder, the back of his neck, and he knew instantly what she sought. He wedged his knees under her thigh and guided her from her chair into his lap without much jostling on her part.

“Your daughter is well, a muirninn. She and Roger have each other, as we do. She has her weans. She misses you too, but ye ken as weel as I do she canna help but flourish wherever she is.” He settled her against him, a reassuring, familiar weight, crowning brown-silver curls with words of comfort and a kiss or two for good measure. She turned her face into his neck, hugged an unusually unbothered Adso closer to her.

Jamie encircled them in his arms, content to share space and pain and breath.

“You feel it too?” Claire asked at last, sounding lost, her lips catching on the stubble at the corner of his jaw.

“I feel it too, e’ry bit.” His chest was tight with how greatly he felt it. He felt his tears drip down past his jaw into the nest of Claire’s curls. She didna seem to mind, though, and he knew his anguish was as safe with her as her heartache was with him.

Adso adjusted himself once again, and Jamie was equal parts amazed and confused that the wee bugger turned to lay his chin along Jamie’s forearm and work himself back up to a purr.

Claire glanced down, following the cat, and chuffed a weak laugh. “See, he’s not so bad, once you get to know him, Adso. I wasn’t sure at first either, but you grow used to the smell.”

“The-!” Jamie protested, squeezing her fiercely enough to make her squeak. “Ye wee nag! I canna believe the blasphemy.”

He felt her lips curve upward and press a kiss underneath his chin. “You always were a sucker for a damsel in distress.”

“Och, a damsel is it? A damned pain in my arse, is more like.” He nuzzled a stubbled cheek against the crown of her head.

Adso lifted his head and nipped at Jamie’s arm in a cautionary manner- certainly not a full bite, but the threat was there.

“Aw, Adso, my hero. Defending my honor, are you? Good lad. What a smart cat.” Claire praised, her voice a little more clear and light. Adso begun vigorously licking at one of his front paws, as if to rid himself of a foul taste on his mouth, and Claire laughed fully, clear as a bell.

It did a great deal toward clearing Jamie’s own clouded mind, and he drew her impossibly closer to his chest. “Yer lucky I love ye woman, fer I’d be far less tolerant otherwise.”

She tightened her hold around his neck. “I love you too, darling. I’ve got the two best gentleman I know to look after me when I’m downhearted.”

“Weel, so long as he treats ye weel, I dinna suppose there’s much to do but suffer his company for your sake.”

 

...

 

Claire, having known Young Ian for most of his adult life, knew exactly where to find him.

It was dark and the ship was working on a skeleton crew thanks to the balmy weather and calm seas. He was on the stern end of the deck, his feet dangling over the edge, arms curled around the rails, watching the receding waters.

Claire crossed her legs and fit herself in between two of the rails, tucking her skirts in between her legs to discourage the cool sea air from freezing her out before she could speak with her nephew.

“The moon is sae bright tonight. Ye can see straight across the sea, watch its reflection on the surface of the water.” Ian said by way of greeting.

He hadn’t said much, but Claire could hear the home-sickness in his voice, the longing to be in a place with family that had known you for a lifetime and a home that you had seen from every angle and vantage point. “Makes you wish for a clear night in Scotland, when the heather is blossoming and the peat is soaking up the most recent rain. Everything looks so pristine. You can see the dew drops dripping from the flower petals and smell the bluebells blooming…”

“Aye.” Ian choked, bowing his head against a sudden onslaught of tears.

“They see the same moon we see, you know. Your mother and father and uncle could be sitting in the library right now, admiring it through the window, enjoying a dram by the fire.” Claire tried to remember how many times she had sat by her nephew on nights like this. Jamie called them kindred spirits, once, and she could feel the truth of it in her bones. They weren’t blood, and she hadn’t known him from an infant like Jamie had, but she knew Ian in a way she didn’t any of her other many nieces and nephews.

“Do ye ken, Auntie, how many full moons Da has left?” He croaked, blinking hard to clear his vision of the pooling tears.

“Few enough that he’ll be appreciating every one he can see, if I know your father the way I think I do.” Claire answered honestly, softly.

Ian’s hand released its white knuckle grip on the railing and crossed the minuscule space between them, laced with hers familiarly. His fingers were large and work-rough, desperate but deliberately gentle. She sandwiched his hand between both of hers, soothing as much as she could.

“I miss him, and I dinna ken if he’s even gone.”

“Oh, Ian.”

Claire could hold herself back no longer. He was a man, no longer the lad she had met. He wasn’t even hers to comfort, really, except that throughout their acquaintance, she had often been the only one who could.

She let go his hand, but only long enough to drag herself from between the rails and pull him from his own seat into her body. All pretense thus given up, he curled into her, large body dwarfing hers, arms wrapped around her waist and face buried in the front of her woolen shawl.

Claire leaned back against the wall of what was probably the captain’s quarters, brought her arms round his shoulders, and held on for dear life.

She was well familiar with that sensation of bottomless grief, the specter of emptiness and despair which threatened to consume every last bit of the person you were.

Ian was grown. Too old for platitudes like, “everything will be alright”. She’d never been a fan of, “don’t cry”. What good did that do, but bottle up some bit of emotion the body was meant to release?

She stuck with simple, true phrases. “I’m here, Ian. I have you. You won’t go through this alone, sweet boy.” She brushed back his braids, mopped at the cheek which wasn’t buried against her chest.

A member of the crew rounded the corner and froze at the sight they made. Claire made a shooing gesture and valiantly fought the glare off her face, but she didn’t think she managed it.

Ian, for his part, held on tight. Every once in a while he lifted his head, as if to respond to one of her mantras, but he’d only shake his head and lay back against her.

Honestly, it was a relief to Claire. There were many times in Ian’s young life that he’d felt he had to keep his pain to himself. That he trusted her enough to share in it was quite a high honor, she knew. His younger notion of saving her the trouble was noble, and a kind thought. But in his years he’d learned a thing or two about life, and about his Auntie. He now recognized the strength in her small shoulders, the sureness in her thin-fingered hands. He knew she had enough grit to stand up against the dark, and to hold him up in the face of it without buckling under the weight.

For the first time since she and Ian had set off from Lallybroch, she was oddly glad it was just the two of them. Jamie would have assuredly been a comfort to Ian, and Ian’s sense of masculinity wasn’t so fragile as to be threatened by crying in front of his uncle. But without a doubt, Ian would have naturally got to his uncle, if Jamie didn’t seek him out in the first place.

And while it wasn’t her favorite way to spend time with Ian (hands down, her favorite was playing Brag while enjoying a tot or two of whiskey), it did give her the rare opportunity to care for him in a way he typically felt he was too old for.

Claire would be the first to admit she hadn’t been quite the same since Bree had taken her family back to modern times, and with Marsali and Fergus in Philadelphia, she felt every bit the empty-nester.

Of course, she’d prefer the opportunity to dote on Ian without an impending family tragedy, but life just didn’t work that way sometimes.

“Auntie?” Ian said abruptly, sitting up and narrowly avoiding her chin with the top of his head.

She lay a hand on his cheek gently, tilting his head so that the moonlight caught his eyes, illuminated the feelings there. “Yes, Ian?”

“Uncle Jamie always says having you close is a rare comfort.” He mused abstractedly.

“Your uncle is a bit biased where I’m concerned.” Claire answered wryly.

“Och, aye, but he isna wrong.” Ian brushed the last of his tears in the crook of his shirtsleeve. “Uncle Jamie said you lost your parents when you were quite young. How long did it take ye to stop missing them, then?”

“Oh.” Claire said, the wind quite taken out of her. She hadn’t thought of her parents in a long time, now. “I did, but it- well it just isn’t the same. I was almost too young to really remember anything about them at all. I was hardly raised by them.”

Ian looked troubled at this, but Claire waved it away, a hurt long since healed. “My uncle- his loss was much harder. He raised me, and he died when I was a young lady, younger than you. That was probably the closest I came to really losing a parent.” Uncle Lamb had been dear, if eccentric, but affectionate and encouraging of her love of learning. He used to hold her by the elbows and squeeze, and heap upon her the most loving kind of praise. She cupped her elbows in the palms of her hands, tried to mimic that feeling.

“Do ye miss him still?” Ian questioned, pillowing his cheek on her shoulder and winding his arms around one of hers. She laced their fingers together again.

“Yes. But not in the same way. More often, when I think of him now, instead of feeling alone and lost, I feel… watched over. I tend to remember little things I haven’t thought of in years, like the way he always smelled of cigar smoke and aftershave. The way he didn’t like any of his food to touch on his plate but he didn’t mind trampling over the stack of unread papers by the front door. I remember the way he’d knock on my door, and come kiss my forehead, and remind me to say my prayers, even when I was much too old for it, and keen enough to know he wasn’t much of a believer himself.”

Claire shrugged, and Ian’s head rolled with the movement, before tucking further in to her neck. She nuzzled the top of his head, kissed it, and used it to rest her own cheek against.

“My Da always said I was too eager to grow up. He always plucked at his whiskers and say, ‘it’s nae as fun as it looks, lad, dinna go tryin’ to trade places wi’ me just yet’. He always snuck me figs when Mam was makin’ the Hogmany pudding. He knew they were my favorite.” Claire could feel hot tears soaking into the fabric of her dress, but they weren’t joined by the wracking sobs from earlier.

“I ken there’s no way of bein’ certain, Auntie Claire, but I feel as though tonight might be his last. There’s no sense in it, but I canna feel otherwise.” His voice was naught but a whisper, thin, and ragged.

“I’ll stay up with you, if you like. Pray a rosary or two, if you wish.” She answered bravely, fighting off fond memories of a younger man, welcoming her to Lallybroch, all smooth corners where Jenny had been rough edges.

“Ye dinna like the rosary. Ye always tell Uncle Jamie it’s the most tedious prayer the church e’er conceived.” Ian snorted, crossing himself reflexively as if to ward of blasphemy, even in his amusement.

“Fifty three Hail Marys? It’s nearly unreasonable.” Claire responded automatically, sarcasm thick. Jamie had roused this debate a hundred times, just because he loved it when she talked ‘daft and brazen’. Truthfully, she hadn’t much against the prayer, but she liked the toothy way Jamie grinned when she got up on her soap box fit to get herself excommunicated.

Ian rolled his neck, tapping the cap of her shoulder with his forehead in mock reproach.

“It doesn’t matter a wit whether I like it. I love you, and I know you keep your rosary on you always. And I love your father, mother, and uncle, and I know they’d be comforted if we recited a rosary for Ian’s safe passage.”

Ian said nothing, nor did he reach for his prayer beads, but she felt him make the sign of the cross as best he could without untangling their limbs, and she repeated the gesture. They murmured the Apostles Creed, barely audible over the sound of the waves lapping against the shiplap. When they got to the first decade, she felt the tip of his index finger land on hers, counting out each Hail Mary on her fingers.

They let the swaying of the boat and the rhythm of the prayers loll them into a quiet, still rest, and they stayed in their sheltered little alcove on the back of the boat until sunrise, greeting the first day of many without Ian Mor.

 

 

Notes:

A muirninn- my darlin

These are kind of similar, and a bit short, but I liked that they kind of mirrored each other in a way, and I've been itching to post again. For all those asking for more Ian, here ya go. I couldn't resist the urge to throw Adso in there too, at the suggestion of another reader.

I have another grandkid story in the works please leave suggestions for another ficlet I can pair with it!

Notes:

The show focuses a lot on Claire and Jamie's relationship, and Claire and Brianna's as well. In between all the action and drama, we miss a lot of the smaller interactions of Claire and her family outside of those two. This was just a little tribute to Claire. We often think of her as fierce and smart, as a doctor and a protector, as a wife. Claire's also tender, and soft, and warm, and motherly.

I think there is space for future additions to this story. I would really like to include more of Marsali, Roger, William, and the grandchildren that I've missed. Maybe even Faith. If you have any ideas like that you'd like to read, drop it in the comments! Or if you've got suggestions for other fics entirely, share your thoughts.