#uncle Duncan on the other hand must be glowing

[strigital]

The Farlong Twins

i'm pretty sure when Daeghun wished these little imps out of his house he didn't mean "get snatched by Mindflayers and become infected with the protagonist disease" but at least he can finally enjoy his retirement, right?..

also can we appreciate that: their mom was: an improbable child of a drow and a sun elf, the kalach-cha, the champion of the West Harbor Harvest Fare, the knight-captain of the Crossroad Keep, a member of Lord Nahser's Nine, a killer of the King of Shadows, a survivor of the Spirit Eater's curse, a druid who could speak in Wild Shape and had a telthor for an animal companion, as well as the one who helped restore the Circle of Merdelain their dad was: an improbable son of a Night Hag and a mortal man, a Dreamwalker of indescribable power, a natural performer of great talent, a guardian of all Rashemen's spirits, a seducer of many a farmer's wife and daughter, a slayer of the Coveya Kurg'annis, and he who looked upon the Wall of the Faithless and chose to deny gods still meanwhile the kids: hee hoo brain wormies go brr :)

[7-wonders]

Wilted Roses Smell Just as Sweet

So I don’t know if this will be a prologue for an actual story, or if it’s just backstory, but this is that Beauty and the Beast AU I was talking about last week. Let me know what you think!

The butterfly effect, commonly found in pop culture, is the idea that the smallest action can result in bigger changes later in time. The flapping of a butterfly’s wings leading to a tornado is a popular example, and many people believe that the butterfly theory and karma go hand in hand. Although scientists and mathematicians have attempted to quantify the results of the butterfly effect, that directly contradicts the chaos theory from which the butterfly effect stems.

For the entirety of his life, Duncan Shepherd has found no reason to believe in any sort of cosmic effect. When you live a privileged life, there’s really no reason to believe that what you do will result in a different outcome. He already has everything, and has for his whole life, so it does no good to imagine what it would be like to have nothing. In retrospect, he should have paid more attention in the Intro to Psych class that he was forced to take to fulfill a general education requirement in college. Hindsight, however, is 20/20.

One simple fact had caused Duncan to decide that he needed a break. One simple fact had prompted Duncan to steal away to one of the family’s many homes, a large country home in the woods of the Appalachian Mountains. One simple fact had frozen Duncan’s heart into a block of ice, although one could make the argument that he held no warmth long before he learned that he was adopted.

The words still stung to think about. Adopted. Not truly a Shepherd. Being adopted is, in and of itself, not a bad thing. The way that Duncan’s “family” treated the adoption, illegally obtaining a child and erasing any trace of his true parentage, made it seem as though it was something dirty. 

After learning the truth, Duncan’s world had completely tilted on its axis. Unsure of what to do next, the only thing he was sure of was that he couldn’t bear to be around Annette or Bill for a while. He needed to get out of the poisonous city that was Washington, D.C. and clear his head. Luckily, the Shepherds own a multitude of houses in a variety of locations for him to choose from. Deciding that the seclusion of a forest was what would be most conducive to his recovery, Duncan chose to hide out in one of the family’s larger homes. Nestled within the Pennsylvanian Appalachian Mountains, the sheer size and splendor made it more of a chateau than a house. It was the perfect location to get away for awhile.

And so, the heir to the burgeoning Shepherd dynasty holed himself away in the hopes that a good month of sleeping, drinking, barking orders at the staff, and solitude would do him some good. Annette didn’t have much of a choice but to let him go; if she lost her son, she lost any chance she had at securing power for years to come. 

Small actions resulting in bigger changes further down the line. The decision not to tell Duncan he was adopted led to the explosive revelation by the President in an attempt to wound the family. The confrontation between mother and son, uncle and nephew, brother and sister, was followed by Duncan’s need for space.

Three weeks had passed since Duncan shut himself away from the world. His odd vacation was coming to an end, and while he couldn’t say that he was eager to return to his family, he did miss the hustle of the political center of the nation. For now, though, he was enjoying every last moment of calm that he could.

It was a surprisingly stormy evening, the wind blowing the trees that surrounded the house in every direction as rain fell upon the property in sheets and lightning cracked through the sky. Duncan had remained in his study for the evening, the fire providing much-needed warmth to the chilly room as he read. If there was one positive stemming from the fallout, it was that he had read more books than he had in years. He had finished Wuthering Heights yesterday, and was already halfway through Frankenstein when a knock at the door disrupted his concentration. Duncan had every intention of letting the evening staff answer the call of whomever had arrived, if only they weren’t strangely absent.

Three separate times, the visitor knocks on the door, and three separate times, Duncan waits for the door to open. By the fourth time, he huffs in resignation and decides that he’ll have to answer the door himself. What’s the point of having staff if they’re not going to do their jobs?, Duncan thinks as he unlocks the door and opens it harshly.

“This is private property, and I will--” Duncan trails off as he tries to take in what he’s seeing. An old woman stands in front of him, a soaked cloak covering her hunched form. Stringy white hair peeks out from the hood, and she smiles at him with a grin that’s missing a few teeth.

“I’m so sorry to bother you this evening,” she says hoarsely, “but I’m lost, and the storm’s getting too bad to walk in. I was wondering if I could use your phone and remain here until I can be collected? It’s cold out, and it’s so easy for a woman of my age to catch pneumonia in these conditions.”

Duncan sneers, put off by the way this elderly woman believes she can just get whatever she wants. Sensing this, she reaches into her cloak and roots around in an attempt to find something.

“I don’t have any money for you, but I do have this.” She produces a red rose in full bloom, looking as if it was just cut from a bush and not at all like it’s been held in the grasp of a sodden woman for hours now.

“You expect me to let a stranger into my house to use my phone and remain here for what could be hours, and in exchange for what? A stupid rose?”

The woman looks taken aback. “I promise you, only the finest roses are cultivated in my garden. Your kindness would surely be rewarded down the line.”

“There’s a ranger station about a mile south of here. They’ll have a phone that you can use, and hopefully some towels. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

The grin that she has been wearing morphs into a scowl. “You would deny an old woman shelter solely due to your whims?”

Duncan rolls his eyes, fed up with this interaction. “I already told you that you’re on private property, and now you’re beginning to test my patience. You’ll find what you need with the forest rangers, but I can’t help you. Goodnight.”

He goes to close the door, mind already wandering to thoughts of where he left off in his book, when a blinding strike of lightning has him throwing his arm over his eyes as he staggers back from the door. The wind whips the heavy wood open like it’s little more than a fragile screen door, the cold chilling Duncan to his very bones. Blinking his eyes to clear the spots that have gathered from the sudden brightness, he’s more than surprised to see that the old woman is gone, replaced by the figure of a glowing, ethereal woman.

There have always been stories of the magic that resides within the wilderness of the Appalachian Mountains, but Duncan had always taken them with a hefty grain of salt. After all, there’s no way that magic is real. It’s a fairy tale, a bedtime story told to children to ward off nightmares. Staring at what used to be an elderly woman, however, there’s no other answer to what she could be than an enchantress. 

“Less eager to turn me away now, aren’t you?” Her red lips are twisted in a cruel smirk, the wind forcing Duncan to his knees in front of her.

“I’m sorry, I--I didn’t know…”

“What, you didn’t know that I was actually beautiful? If I would have shown up at your door in this form, you would have let me use your phone without any sort of hesitation.” It’s not a question: she’s seen into his very soul, and knows just as well as he how he would have reacted if it had been the beautiful young woman who knocked on his door.

“No, it’s just--”

“Silence,” she commands. “I have seen what lies in your heart. It’s cold and dark, with no love to be found. You carry such beauty on the outside, but it does not extend inwards. Your dutiful staff is treated as if they’re invisible, so what difference will it make if they are? If you want to act like a beast, Duncan Shepherd, then a beast you shall be.”

Pain rips through Duncan’s body, leaving him helpless to question how she knows his name or what she means.

“Until you can learn to love, and be loved in return, you shall outwardly display the beastliness that lies within your heart. And this rose, which you so quickly spurned, shall serve as a reminder of this curse. It will continue to bloom until your thirty fifth birthday. If you are unable to break the curse by then, you will die when the last petal falls off of the rose.”

Another bright crack of lightning has Duncan falling backwards. It’s as if there’s a tornado whipping through his home, and combined with the overwhelming pain he’s feeling, he can’t tell which way is up or down. The wind reaches a fever pitch along with his pain, and Duncan passes out before he can even attempt to fight back.

The light burns through his eyelids when Duncan finally regains consciousness. He’s sprawled on the floor in the entryway, but when he tries to remember how he ended up here, his memory is fuzzy. He must have had a bit too much to drink last night, and he’s certainly paying for it now. Staggering to his feet, the only thing on Duncan’s mind is getting some water to soothe his burning throat. After that order of business is taken care of, he’ll worry about getting one of the maids to close the blinds.

It’s when he runs a hand through his hair that Duncan begins to get the impression that something’s wrong. Is it possible for hair to grow so much in one night? His locks must fall to at least his chin now, when last night they were so neatly kept. Trailing down to his face, he feels more facial hair than the artful stubble he normally sported.

His heart begins to race when he once again inspects his hair, finding hard protrusions on top of his head that end in points. Racing to find a mirror, Duncan gasps when he looks at his shaking hands. Impossibly, they look sizes bigger, and his nails are fucking claws. The ornate mirror hung on the wall of the hallway reveals a truth that Duncan was certain had been a dream.

His hair and beard is wild and unkempt, almost reminding Duncan of fur. Jet black horns jut out of the top of his head, their points shining in the light of the hallway. When Duncan opens his mouth to let out an exclamation of fear and call for help, he instead screams at the sight of fangs in his mouth.

[magnoliasinbloom]

The Midwife - II

AO3 :: Previously

VIII

“Claire? Not Julia?” Mrs. Fitz was very confused. I was helping her make the bed in Jamie’s and my new room—our room as newlyweds.

“I do apologize, Mrs. Fitz. I did not know how the laird would receive me if he knew I was Jamie’s wife. His presumably dead wife, you recall.”

“Och, I do mind. The lad was beside himself wi’ grief.” Her eyes misted over. “He refused to eat, all he did was wander about the castle and help with the horses.” My heart tightened to hear it.

“I am terribly sorry about your granddaughter’s betrothal,” I mentioned cautiously.

Mrs. Fitz shrugged thoughtfully, arranging the pillows. “God kens I love Laoghaire, but… Dougal’s idea in making that match—nay, he needs a woman, not a girl. And Laoghaire will be a girl when she's fifty.”

I could understand what she meant. I hoped the girl would not be disappointed for long. I recounted my story for Mrs. Fitz: how my mother and I used to travel as healers, about my midwifing apprenticeship at l’Hôpital des Anges, Mother Hildegarde, and how Jamie and I met. She thought it terribly romantic that we were handfast, and that I had stayed behind to help the sisters through the epidemic.

As she left me to settle in, Mrs. Fitz turned at the door. “I do love the lad. I am glad he found you, dearie, in the end. Take care of each other.”

* * *

When Jamie and I stepped into the great hall for dinner the following night, we were the target of whispers and comments directed at us from all sides. News traveled fast in the castle; I could only imagine what was being said about me, Jamie’s wife, come back from the dead. I gripped Jamie’s arm tightly as he escorted us to our seats. He kept his head up high, meeting people’s stares with a frank gaze. We ate in companionable silence, and as soon as Jamie was done eating, I gestured for us to leave the hall.

We were near the side door when there was a commotion behind us. I turned to spot a head of blonde hair racing amongst the tables. Laoghaire—Mrs. Fitz tried to pull her back, but the girl was too fast. She approached us, me in particular. She came up to me and shoved me, palms outstretched. I stumbled, caught unawares, but Jamie held me upright.

“Seas!” Jamie exclaimed, placing himself between Laoghaire and myself. “Lass, get ye under control—this is no way to behave towards my wife!”

“Your wife?!” Laoghaire’s eyes were wild with anger. Mrs. Fitz had appeared behind her, and was doing her best to pull her away from us with quiet noises meant to soothe the girl. “I was to be yer wife! Ye broke yer promise, James Fraser! I canna forgive that!”

“There was no promise from me, and ye ken it well, Laoghaire,” Jamie said between clenched teeth. “I never agreed to it, and my uncle has accepted our union.” Everyone in the hall had fallen silent, the better to hear the confrontation.

“Jamie, let’s just go,” I pleaded, tugging on his arm. Laoghaire turned her attentions back to me.

“He’s mine! Get ye back to the hell ye came from, and leave him to me! Go I say!” Laoghaire stamped her foot like a child throwing a tantrum. My own temper got the best of me and I stepped around Jamie, bent on pulling her hair or clawing her eyes out, whichever I could reach first. He caught me around the waist first, though, and pulled me back into his chest.

“I shan’t be going anywhere, least of all without my husband,” I hissed. “You must cease to call him yours, girl, now that the law say otherwise.” I watched with a satisfied smirk as Laoghaire’s face fell, and she finally allowed herself to be towed away by her grandmother.

“Let’s go, Sassenach,” Jamie said quietly in my ear, as everyone watched Laoghaire leave the great hall towards the kitchens, and conversation started up again slowly in their wake. I broke free of Jamie’s grasp and left through the side door. Once out of the hall, I picked up my skirts and ran as fast as I could towards our room. I heard Jamie behind me, the heavy tread of his boots catching up.

“Sassenach—Claire!” He sounded out of breath as he neared my side. “I would prefer not to follow behind my own wife.”

I did not bother to turn around. “So walk faster.”

We reached our room and Jamie closed the door behind us. “Sassenach, ye must no’ mind Laoghaire—”

“Not mind! Jamie, she shamed us in front of the entire castle!” I cried, flopping down on a chair by the hearth. “She’s made me out as some sort of devious red woman who would steal you away on a whim…”

“Ye are not a red woman,” he replied, stifling a smile. “They ken now that ye are Claire Fraser, from Paris, my true and only wife.” He pressed a kiss to the knot of hair on my head.

“No one approves Jamie… I was not expecting cheers and applause, but all this speculation and gossip is unbearable. Please, when can we leave for Lallybroch?”

“As soon as the MacKenzie allows it.” He came over to crouch next to me and took my hand in his. “I never thought to ask, Sassenach… can ye ride a horse?”

I laughed at this change of subject. “Not terribly well. I mostly rode in a wagon on my way here. Maman and I walked most everywhere.”

“I think ye should practice. We’ll ride to Lallybroch. Although I do mind something Jenny wrote me awhile back, when I let her ken we’d been handfast… married women shouldna ride horses.” Jamie laid his warm hand on my flat stomach. I sat up abruptly straighter, and laid my own hand over his.

“”Tis no danger to me at the moment,” I said gently. He nodded, accepting my reply. “Should that change, trust you will be the first to know.”

* * *

Rabbits were nibbling at the carrots. I would ask some of the castle lads to set snares near the vegetable garden. My medicinal herbs were also at risk. I knelt, pulling up weeds tirelessly. I noticed the edge of my cloak was rent as well, a piece torn clean out. It was a castle hand-me-down, given me by Mrs. Fitz. I would have to mend it, but first, I needed to take care of my crop. I was so absorbed in my task that I barely noticed the shadow that fell over me. I looked up when it cleared its throat to find Geillis Duncan smiling down at me.

“Oh, Mistress Duncan! How are you feeling?” I wiped my hands on my apron and covered the glare of sunlight with my hand.

“That is precisely why I’m here, Mistress Beauchamp. Or should I say Fraser?” She still smiled gently, cradling her enormous pregnant belly.

“Fraser, I suppose,” I said, returning her smile. “But Claire will do just fine. Did you walk here?”

“I took my husband’s carriage. ‘Tis a little far to walk from Cranesmuir to Leoch now; I tire so easily.”

“I think perhaps even the carriage ride might be too much, all that jostling about,” I said, gauging the heft of her belly. “It could cause you to go into labor.”

Geillis looked surprised. “I didna ken that. Should I go into confinement?”

I shook my head. “Fresh air does you good. Just avoid the carriage rides from now on. Is there anything I can do for you, mistress?”

“I did mean to ask ye for a tonic. Ye see, after every meal I have this burning sensation in my throat. I feel as though I might vomit, and my stomach hurts as well.” She seemed embarrassed. “Do ye ken what is happening?”

I smiled to put her at ease. “’Tis common enough—heartburn. Do you eat heavily seasoned foods or garlic?”

“Both,” she replied. I nodded and rummaged through the herbs in my garden. I plucked a bunch of peppermint leaves and tied them with a piece of twine from my ever-present basket.

“These should help. Brew a cup of tea with the leaves after every meal.” I handed the sheaf of leaves to her, and she held them tightly. She gave me an appraising glance, and I knew what she would ask. What many of the castle inhabitants were wondering themselves.

“Are ye with child, Claire?” she inquired curiously.

“No, at least not yet,” I replied cautiously.

“Arthur—my husband—and I had trouble conceiving. We had tried for years, and nothing. And now, a miracle.” Geillis smiled beatifically, a glow about her.

“We’ve only been married a few months, and apart for most of them. When we are ready, I hope it will happen.”

She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “There is a wise woman in the forest, ken. Some say witch, of course. She has herbs and tonics like ye do. She can make a barren woman conceive. And she also helps the lasses who get in trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Ye ken, trouble.” She gestured towards her belly.

“Oh.” I understood. “We called them angel makers in Paris. They were not as busy as the maîtresses sage femme, for all that. Do you know…” I hesitated to ask. “Does the wise woman use herbs to make angels, or… other methods?”

“I dinna ken… though those that survive the cure, shall we say, are often sick for days afterward. It minds me of witchcraft,” Geillis whispered.

“Do you believe in witches, Mistress Duncan?” I asked carefully.

“There are many things in this world for which we have no explanation. But to hold a bairn in yer arms, fruit of the union with yer husband… ‘tis a kind of magic some women would consider worthwhile to have, regardless of the cost.”

[betweensceneswriter]

Second Wife-Chapter 16: Comfort

Second Wife Table of Contents

Second Wife on AO3

Previously -  Chapter 15 : By the Ballocks Jenny’s always been good at putting Jamie in his place.

“Jesus!” [Jamie] said, unable to stop himself. “Ye’re lucky ye kept yer maidenhead!” An ugly flush washed darkly over her from stays to cap, and his jaws dropped. “Laoghaire MacKenzie! Ye werena such a wanton fool to let him take ye virgin to his bed!?”

"I didna ken he was marrit!” she cried, stamping her foot. “And it was after ye wed the Sassenach. I went to him for comfort.”

"Oh, and he gave it ye, I’m sure!”

"Hush your gob!” she shrieked, and picking up a stone watering pot from the bench by the shed, hurled it at his head (An Echo in the Bone, 676).

     The house smelled of meat and sweets, and every corner was filled with joyful noise.  Jamie still couldn’t keep all the little people straight, especially as Angus and Anthony, Matthew and Henry insisted on not staying in one place and constantly showing up in different configurations, but he was getting better. 

     Young Jamie’s wife was Joan, and they had handsome dark-haired Matthew and Henry, as well as baby Caroline.  Caroline was just a wee thing, whom little Joanie had latched onto, especially adoring the baby because Joan shared names with her ma.

     Maggie was married to a tall, quiet man named Paul Lyle.  They had two active boys named Angus and Anthony.  Four-year-old Angus had lost his two front teeth in a headlong jump into a table, and Jamie felt a twinge of remembrance, thinking of his own toothless friend of the same name—fellow cattle thief, ruffian, and rescuer, whom he’d lost in the Rising.

     Then there was Kitty—Katherine Mary—who was said to have a young man, and might soon be engaged.  The younger ones were the twins, Janet and Michael, and the youngest was Ian, who had been just a babe when Jamie left.

     Fortunately, it didn’t require the knowledge of names to play the silly games the little boys begged for.  “Nunka Jamie” quickly gained popularity as a great red-haired lion who would hunt the boys through the forest of furniture, a copper-maned pony who gave galloping rides about the house, and a terrifying Goliath, who did an impressive performance of falling to the ground when the boys, each playing David in turn, had flung their only-slightly-smelly stockings at his head.

     He finally collapsed, panting onto the couch, only to be attacked by the foursome, who demanded that Nunka Jamie tell them stories.

     Jenny smiled at the sight, and pointed the little band out to Laoghaire.  “The boys love their Papa, but Ian canna play wi’ them in the same way,” Jenny said.  “Can ye imagine—Marsali and Joanie having wee ones some day?  Jamie will be a wonderful grand-da.”

     Laoghaire smiled at the thought.  It was good to see Jamie here at Lallybroch.  Somehow he seemed more settled and comfortable.

      They had all gathered around the huge table in the dining hall for dinner: Ian and Jenny, James and Joan, Maggie and Paul, Jamie and Laoghaire, then Kitty, Janet, Michael, Ian, Marsali and Joanie. There were too many people to seat the entire family, so the four youngest boys had been fed first, and spent dinner time running wildly around in the great room, making their mothers start in terror every time there was a crash, and only relax when the loud sound wasn’t followed by devastated wailing.

     Jamie looked at his sister and Ian, sitting next to each other.  Their eyes sent each other messages without words. He knew marriage was not perfect, but he could easily see the depth of love and mutual understanding they had for each other.  And Jenny had spoken sense to him.  How could he judge ‘til death do us part’ from four months of marriage?

     Flanked by her daughters, Laoghaire looked happy, which made Jamie breathe easier.  Marsali’s hair had dried in golden ringlets.  Wee Janet sat next to her and the girls were giggling and whispering—apparently having become even better chums through the experience.  The boys had mucked out the stalls for their part in the foolishness, and had been thoroughly chastened by their da and uncle about their responsibility to treat young ladies honorably, beginning with their own sisters and cousins.

     But truly, no harm had been done.  For much of the afternoon the girls helped cook in the kitchen.  Joanie, slightly disappointed to not be able to swim, had satisfied herself with playing school with the wee boys, who made wonderful misbehaving students; Joanie was able to make them stand in a corner to her hearts’ content. 

     Wasn’t this what life was about? Jamie thought.  Family, and work, and food.  It was easy to feel satisfied with such abundance to table, though Jamie did consider, looking down at his belly, whether he should perhaps eat less pie.

     After dinner, after Nunka Jamie had worn out the young boys with playing (or perhaps it was the other way around), the family gathered in the hall to give Marsali her gifts.  Gifts for birthdays tended to be simple.  Young Jamie’s Joan gave Marsali some soft wool she had spun and dyed herself.  Ian and Janet gave her a worn novel that had already seen several owners and many years of use.  Laoghaire had sewn and embroidered her a new shift.  Maggie gave her a new tortoise-shell comb for her hair, which made Marsali flush.  It was quite fine as a gift.

      “My gift for you is not down here,” Jamie said.  “I want you to choose something from a trunk we have of clothing.  You are tall enough, and they aren’t getting much use.”

     Eventually the young families headed home or to their rooms: Young Jamie and his wife, boys, and baby to their apartments at Lallybroch, Maggie and her husband along with their boys off to the Lyle farm.  With a smaller audience, Jamie reached into the pocket of his jacket and fished out a small packet of folded paper, handing it to Marsali.   She opened it, read it quickly, and blushed a fiery red.

     Laoghaire had calmed slightly since the swimming incident and tried to reassure herself.  There was a fire of independence in Marsali that perhaps she had not had as a girl.  In addition, Marsali had a ma to talk to her about men and what they wanted, and what they would do to get it, and how she should behave to get what she wanted, two things which were diametrically opposed.

     Sadly, Laoghaire herself had none of this advice as a fifteen-year-old; and as a result, she had gone about it all wrong.

☆☆☆☆☆

     After she left the tavern, in the shy bliss of being known by John Robert MacLeod, Laoghaire could hear his words ringing in her head.  How could that bastard James Fraser say no to this beauty?  He’s a fool!  Oh, ye are so bonny, yer breasts like pillows the gods would sleep on, yer eyes sparkling like sapphires, yer lips like roses in a garden.

     The words continued to echo as she slipped into her house, retrieving her shift and dressing in her attic room.  She continued to hear them as she bid her brothers and sisters goodbye again and headed back toward Leoch.  John Robert was right, Laoghaire decided.  Jamie Fraser was a fool and Mistress Beauchamp a true witch to steal him away from her.  Only then did she realize she was walking past Geillis Duncan’s shop.

     She opened the door and a cacophony of scents assailed her nose.  Pungent, sweet, bitter, acidic, herbal.  The main portion of Geillis’s business came from running a perfectly respectable and effective apothecary.  But there was also the less-advertised menu of well-known potions and charms she would sell.  One just had to know what to ask for. 

      “I would like to buy an ill wish,” Laoghaire said, pulling her coin purse out of her pocket.  “One for a woman who has stolen a man.”

      “Aye?” Geillis asked.  She began bustling about the room, retrieving sticks, bones, string, and herbs. “Do ye have any of her hair?” Geillis asked, as she began to assemble the items at a back table. 

      “No, but I can add some when I place it in her bedchamber.”  Laoghaire’s nose wrinkled at the thought of Claire’s great tangled mop of hair.  How Jamie saw anything in her. . .

      “’Twouldna be for Mistress Beauchamp…I mean, Lady Broch Tuarach, would it?” Geillis asked, from behind the divider used in case any customers should enter who were interested only in the reputable half of her business. That woman deserved her reputation as a witch, Laoghaire thought.  She knew too much; seeing everything with those strange green eyes.

      “And if it was?” Laoghaire asked.  “Would ye not sell it to me, then?”

      “’Tisn’t my business to judge my customers,” Geillis remarked.  “’Tis just my business to know my customers.”

      “Aye?” said Laoghaire. 

      “And from what I see, ye are a pretty young thing,” Geillis said, green eyes glowing preternaturally.  “If ye end up wi’ a man before ye marry, ye must make sure to not sleep wi’ him for 10 days after yer courses.  And if ye do catch a bairn, ye must come to me for a tea which will help the bleeding to come.”

     Finally Geillis emerged from the back, carrying a crude bundle of sticks.  She wrapped it up in a piece of cloth, and handed it over to Laoghaire in exchange for a few coins.

      “Wrap three hairs around the center, if ye can find any.  And place it under his bed.  The charm should drive him away from her.”  Geillis looked at her shrewdly.  “I canna tell if it will draw him to you, though.”

      “I dinna think I need that,” Laoghaire said primly, thinking of John Robert.  He loved her, and they would be married.  Laoghaire nodded in thanks, then rushed away, hoping to find a time to slip into Jamie’s chamber unnoticed.

      “Laoghaire,” called a male voice from behind her.  The street was loud, so she turned, half hoping to see John Robert.  Her face fell slightly as she saw Hugh instead.  “Where ye headin’?” he asked cheerfully.  “May I accompany ye?”

     Laoghaire sighed, but there was no escape, so she let Hugh fall in step with her.

      “’Tis good to see ye again, Laoghaire,” he said.  “Ye look lovely today.”

     Of course she did, Laoghaire thought, lovely enough that she had a man.  She had no need of this gangly, pock-marked teenager.

      “What’s that?” he asked curiously, pointing at the small fabric-wrapped bundle. 

      “Mistress Beauchamp asked me to bring her something from Geillis’s shop,” Laoghaire said, pleased that she was clever enough to think on her feet.

      “Ye mean, Mistress Fraser now, aye?” Hugh said.

     Laoghaire gritted her teeth, her eyes narrowing as she thought of Jamie and Claire together.  “Ye shouldna be so gleeful, Hugh,” she snapped.  “Ye know I cared for him, and I thought he cared for me.”

     Hugh stopped, taken aback by her response, and Laoghaire stalked on angrily, alone.  “I didna...Laoghaire!” he called after her.

      Laoghaire slipped into Jamie’s room when he and Mistress Beauchamp were in the hall for supper.  She scouted just long enough to see that their plates were filled, as were their glasses, and they were surrounded by people curious about the circumstances of their marriage.  Though the two sat next to each other, Laoghaire could see from their body language that they were not happy.  Jamie was not touching Mistress Beauchamp, and though he was often looking at her, she was not looking at him, sitting with her chin up proudly and her lips set.

     She snuck down the hallway, checking in both directions to make sure she was not seen as she entered the room, the ill wish in her hand.  It was tidy.  The bed was unrumpled and neatly made.  If they were acting like newlyweds and taking each other to bed many times a day, or if they had bedded each other right before dinner, Laoghaire thought, the bed would definitely be messier.  

     What was messy was the hair brush.  Laoghaire scrunched up her nose in disdain as she pulled a few frizzy hairs off the brush, then wrapped them around the center of the talisman.  Her heart thumping in her ears, Laoghaire approached the bed, knelt on the floor, and pushed the bundle underneath.

     She was about to leave the room, but her curiosity was not satisfied.  Laoghaire had done enough laundry to know the tell-tale signs of people bedding each other—stained sheets, particularly when the pale, roundish stains were slightly lower than center of the bed.  She blushed as she thought of John Robert.  She had bled, just slightly, but he had been ever so gentle.  And he had enough forethought that he’d laid down the cloth so they didn’t dirty the couch.

     With a glance over her shoulder, Laoghaire pulled down the covers, revealing the sheets all the way down to the feet.  No stains; none whatsoever.  And moreso, the sheets were only wrinkled in two separate areas, very close to the two edges of the bed.  They were not taking each other to bed, and they were not even sleeping close.  She felt vindictive pleasure settle in her stomach along with her nervousness.  Carefully, she spread the covers back in place, crept out of the door, and headed back to the kitchen to do her work.

     She needn’t have been so worried about being discovered while placing the ill wish.  The dinner went late into the evening.  Laoghaire felt especially happy to see Claire head off toward the sleeping wing alone, while Jamie seemed to be heading to a meeting with Dougal, Colum, and Ned Gowan.  Colum wore an angry frown, and Jamie looked like he was heading to the gallows. 

     Poor man, thought Laoghaire.  No one to comfort him tonight when he goes back to his room.  That cold Sassenach witch.  Maybe if Jamie drank himself into a stupor, he would at least take what he deserved from a wife.

     She thought of trying, just once more, to intercept Jamie, perhaps as he headed back to his room.  But as she was doing one last round of the  tables, pouring whisky, water, and tea, a hand touched her elbow.

      “Lass,” said a husky, masculine voice.  “How much later are ye serving tonight?” 

     She turned to see John Robert MacLeod, sitting smilingly at the table.  Her heart leapt.

     Bending down as if to pour water into his glass, she whispered, “What are ye doing here?”

      “I couldna be apart from ye, Laoghaire.”  John Robert responded.  “I invented some business to bring me up to the castle, and Colum has provided me a chamber for the night.  Will ye come to me, then?”

     Laoghaire had blushed, and looking for another way to delay and talk longer, spilt an amount of water on the floor.  She bent down to wipe it up, considering.  Again?  Twice in one day?  Her stomach clenched, and she could feel a warmth in her lower abdomen just from hearing his words.

      “I dinna think I can,” she said.  “’Twould be too hard to slip away.”

      “Oh, but Laoghaire, I canna go another hour without havin’ ye near me.  Yer beautiful eyes, your lovely form.  Ye are drivin’ me insane with desiring you.”  He truly sounded desperate for her.  It made Laoghaire’s body throb with wanting.

      “I canna sleep there, but I could come for a time,” she whispered back.  She wanted to go, truly just to hear him say such things to her again.

☆☆☆☆☆

      “Look, ma,” said Marsali, excitedly coming over to Laoghaire, dangling a shiny bauble from her wrist and placing the note in her mother’s hand.  “Fergus sent me this bracelet wi’ stones that look like sapphires in it.  He says such nice things.”  Marsali blushed. “That...that the stones are the color of my eyes, and made him think of me.”

     Her daughter’s eyes were like sapphires, Laoghaire thought, her heart sinking; sparkling at the flattery of a man.

Chapter 17 : Married Laoghaire couldn’t wait to be married.

[owlish-peacock36]

Bid Ye Soft Farewell- Ch. 3

Finally! This past week has been hectic, but I hope that you won't have to wait that long for another chapter again! At least for a while. 

A couple of things first. One, I would like to give a shout out to my significant otter for helping me get from point A to point B in this chapter. Just want to brag on him for a second. Also, I've created a fanfic archive page for my fics. You can find it here. I know there isn't very many at the moment, but there will be! Like I've said before, I'm a Tumblr baby, so if there are any issues with it, just let me know! 

Now, on with the show!

Chapter 3: The Storm and the Shadow

With morning came the glowing sun, and a hangover shared by all the men. Jamie himself was squinting in shimmering light, eyes blurred and head heavy. Made even worse by the fact that he had to perform double duty; every man did. And they would still be off schedule, if what Dougal said was to be believed. A week until they reached Port Royal.

           The only man who was seemingly in perfect spirits was Rupert. He could drink a man to his death.

           “Oh, lads! IN AMSTERDAM THERE LIVED A MAID…” He waited for the men to respond in kind, but only a few half-hearted grumbles permeated the air.

           “Mark well what I do say…” The loudest complaint came from Murtagh, who was in no mood for song and horseplay.

           “Shut yer hole!” The disappointment on Rupert’s face was palpable. Angus patted his friend’s shoulder sympathetically, and they both turned back to their work. Jamie was glad for the relative silence. The only sound was the breeze whipping about his ears. It was an unusually strong wind, and it worried Jamie.

           “There’s a storm brewing,” Murtagh murmured to him, as if deciphering his thoughts. “We’d better tell Dougal, or we’ll all blow awa’. Bloody man wouldna know a sunny day if it blinded him…” And with that, he crept away to the captain’s quarters, and Jamie trailed behind.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

           Jamie and Murtagh entered the captain’s quarters, temporarily blinded by the light coming in from the windows. Dougal was sitting at his desk, facing said windows. His black-clad shoulders were hunched, quill in one hand, his head in the other. The corners of a map were fluttering off the edge of the desk. Murtagh cleared his throat.

           “There’s a storm on the horizon, Dougal. Its best we batten down the hatches.” Dougal rose from his chair, and swiftly spun around to face them.

           Dougal was a handsome man, if what the lassies said could be believed. Tall and imposing, he was the perfect build for a captain. He had no hair on his head, but made up for it with the long, chestnut-colored beard, peppered with gray. His face was weathered from the sun, ruddy and freckled. But perhaps it wasn’t his looks that the women were attracted to, but rather his charm. He could convince a man to kill his own mother, if he wanted. Hell, he convinced Jamie to join this crew.  

           “Shit. Tell Rupert an’ Willy to make sure the cargo is secure. Tell Angus to trim the sails, and tell Duncan to douse the galley. We’ll need all hands on deck fer this…”

           “Aye.” And with that, Murtagh turned to leave, and Jamie made move to follow.

           “Wait, lad.” Jamie tensed. Dougal never spoke to him privately unless he needed something.

           “Yes, Uncle?” Jamie asked carefully. Dougal sauntered next to him, and flung his arm over Jamie’s shoulder. This caused Jamie’s tension to increase tenfold.

           “I’ve something to ask ye.”

           “Yes, Uncle?” Jamie repeated.

           “I’ve heard rumor about a hefty prize, aye? Located near the Southern Cay.”

           “Aye?”

           “Aye. A ship, ken? Wrecked upon the shore. Gold glittering upon the shore…” Dougal sighed, painting this pretty picture.

           “Weel, sounds an easy prize then.” Jamie turned to make his leave, but Dougal stopped him again.

           “Tis not so simple, lad. There are sentries, aye? Dozens of them. Watching over the treasure until a proper ship can come and collect. That’s where want you to come in.”

           “Dougal, I dinna want any part of this scheme. Ye told me once we dropped anchor at Port Royal, ye’d let me free, with my fair share.”

           “Aye, weel, I changed my mind didn’t I?” Dougal said this with annoyance and frustration. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. But just as quickly as the anger came, it went, replaced with arrogance and a deceitful grin. “Besides, you willna get your share until ye do this for me.”

           “Ye’ve said this for years Uncle! ‘Do this, and I’ll give ye yer share. Do that, and ye can go back to Scotland.’ And how much more must I do to please ye!” Jamie’s face was hot, his eyes wild. Dougal had seen this look before. Best to assuage his frustrations now, and deal with the repercussions later, when he wasn’t alone with him. He was a big man, but Jamie was bigger.

           “This is the last time. I promise,” Dougal soothed, giving him his best reassuring smile. In his heart, Jamie didn’t believe him. But he didn’t have much of a choice.

           “What is it?”

           “Scout the place, lad. Take a couple of the men, and see how the place looks,” Dougal said, as if it were the easiest task in the world.

           “If what ye say is true, we’ll be shot on sight! Its suicide!” Jamie didn’t much feel like dying in the near future.

           “Nay. ‘Twill be perfectly safe. Beside, yer a braw fighter. Ye could take the guards down if ye needed. Ye’ll have a few men with ye.”

           “5 men against dozens? Braw fighters or no, it will no end well.” Dougal just shrugged. “And if I refuse?”

           “Ye won’t. For I am yer captain, and I hold yer future in my hands.” It was the plain, God’s honest truth. Dougal knew it. Jamie knew it. And there was nothing he could do about it.

           “Aye.”

           “Good lad.” Dougal clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “Now, get back out there, and get to work. We’ve a storm to prepare for.” Jamie made yet another turn to leave before being stopped by Dougal’s voice. “And tell the men not to leave their orange peels lying around. I’m no their mother, and I’ll no be picking up after them.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

             The storm came upon them slowly and deliberately. The wind began to shriek, crying out to those that would listen.

           “Oi, sounds a bit like your mother last night. Eh, Duncan?” Angus hollered above the howling gusts.

           The dark sky crept quickly upon them, skipping through a day’s worth of sunlight in an hour. Soon, the world was shadowed in an unearthly gray, the clouds lit from behind from the lightning within them.

           The men grew serious, bracing themselves for what was coming their way. A storm was never a happy occasion. Lost crew members. Lost cargo. Lost ship fragments. That was what the crew had to look forward to; they just wondered which one it would be this time. Perhaps all three.

           As the waves grew higher, the men’s brows sank lower, absorbed in the task of keeping the ship afloat. No men would die tonight. Not if any of them had a say in it.

           The booming of thunder echoed the crashing seas. The waves struck the ship. The men tumbled, tripped, fell. Screams and yells fell on deaf ears.

           Fighting a storm was like fighting a man, Jamie thought. The relentless movements of the opponent. The struggle to stay alive. The worry for crew members, and knowing that the worry is futile.

No rest until it’s over.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

           The hours of laboring finally drew to a close, as the blasts of air calmed to a warm breeze, and the rain danced lightly over their bodies. The sea was still choppy, and jolted the men off their feet on occasion.

           “Least we survived, eh?” Murtagh grumbled to Jamie, as they surveyed the ragged sails.

           “Aye. They’ll get us to Port Royal, though.”

           “Ye never did tell me what Dougal said to ye.”

           “Later, all right?” Jamie didn’t want speak badly of the captain in front of his men.

           “Aye.” Murtagh gave Jamie a knowing look. He knew how the lad felt: disgusted by things he did, wanting out of this ‘trade.’

           “I’ll tell ye this, though. I’ll no be leaving at Port Royal, like I thought.” Murtagh nodded. He expected as much.

           A crash from underneath them broke them out of their conversation. It was a familiar sound. Barrels tumbling and rolling across the wooden boards. Glass breaking. Wood splintering. All from the cargo hold.

           “HELL! Rupert! Did I no tell ye to secure the cargo, ye idiot!” Dougal screeched from somewhere above them on the quarter deck.

           “Aye! I did! Must’ve broke loose!”

           “Weel, you and Jamie go tighten back up! And ye better pray to God that nothing’s broken…”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

           Jamie led the small party down the creaky steps to the hold, Rupert mumbling curses the whole way.

           “Shit. Shit. Shit. Fuckin’ cargo.” Jamie grinned at Rupert’s colorful language. He had a way with words.

           The smile quickly disappeared, however, when he caught sight of the hold. Not because of the fallen cargo. It was a mess, but could be easily cleaned and reorganized.

           He stopped grinning, because there among the jumbled barrels and crates, was a small shadow picking its way carefully around them.

           A human shadow.

           It stopped in its tracks as it caught sight of him. Frozen, like prey trapped by a predator.  Rupert was the first to move.

           “Jesus Christ!” He yelled, as he jumped over the railing, directly into the hold. The shadow sprang into action then, jumping over barrels to escape Rupert’s sizeable presence.

           “Ach, no ye don’t!” Jamie himself was frozen, watching this cat and mouse game taking place in front of him. Rupert was a strong, capable man. Jamie had seen him take down three men at once. But the shadow was agile, like a large cat, jumping and twisting just out of reach.

           But the hold was small, and there was only so much room to jump and twist. Rupert had the shadow trapped in the far corner, his strength overpowering its agility. Their two shadows became one as he pinned its arms behind its back, and pushed it toward Jamie and the stairs.

           The mess was all but forgotten.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

           Jamie was in charge of holding the weapons Rupert had removed from the stranger: multiple daggers and pistols, and one long sword. Jamie wondered where the stranger hid it all.

           They stepped into the dull light of late afternoon, the stranger tensed, awaiting its fate. It did not struggle, though.

           Only in the diffused light could Jamie see the stranger for the first time. Wild dark hair, clubbed back and topped with an askew tricorn. Loose breeks and a too-large jacket hid the body, but the face gave it away.

           A face soft and pretty, as only a woman’s can be. Large lips, pressed into a perfect straight line. Eyes, the same color as the setting sun, fringed with black lashes. He noticed a scar, running from the end of her right eyebrow to the prominent cheekbone.

           “Weel, what have we here, Rupert?” Dougal sauntered over to the three of them, a devilish glint in his eye. He noticed the lovely face, too, then.

           “Found this in the hold. Put up a good fight.” Dougal nodded.

           “What’s yer name, lass?” But the woman stared through Dougal, eyes bored and mouth tensed. She would not answer.

           “We found these on her, cap’n,” Rupert interjected. He nodded toward Jamie, and he dropped the weapons at Dougal’s feet. Dougal knelt, and rummaged through them, nodding in appreciation at the well-made weapons. He held the sword up to the light, recognition dawning on his face. He stood, and faced his crew.

           “I’ve heard tales, as ye all have as well,” Dougal began. He spoke strongly and loudly so all men could hear the story about to be told. “Of a woman. A pirate lady. A well-bred English woman, thrust into piracy. Some men say she’s a witch, others a ghost. They say she could kill a man wi’ the edge o’ her sword, and heal him wi’ the other.  She could hypnotize a man to betray his own kin. She’s done it before.” The men were nodding and mumbling. They had heard this one before. “A bonny fighter, quick and nimble. Could disappear in front of yer eyes, only to reappear behind ye. Recognized only because of her sapphire sword. The last thing some men see.” At this, Dougal help up the sword in question, blue light glinting off the hilt. The woman narrowed her eyes, but otherwise, her face didn’t change. Dougal turned to speak to her, but still used his storytelling voice so the men could hear:

           “Welcome aboard The Thistle, La Dame Blanche.”

[imagineclaireandjamie]

I was reading your amazing flood my mornings post yesterday and a naughty thought came to mind: what would jamie's reaction be to prophylactics? Thank you!

Flood my Mornings: Not Yet 

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

See all past installments via Bonnie’s Master List

Previous installment: Helluva Beast (Jamie gets behind the wheel).

September, 1950

“Erm…Jamie? Did I…break you?”

We had just finished making love and I’d closed my eyes, feeling sensation rippling across my body and my blackened vision sparking like heat lightning. Satisfied and exhausted, I’d opened my eyes to see Jamie (still inside me) looking down in a kind of wild, fascinated horror, face rigid as though someone had put a knife against his throat.

“Jamie?” I said again, giving him a poke in the belly, “Have your English flown away?” I asked with a grin in my pidgin Gaelic.

This seemed to bring him back to his senses, for he blinked, shook his head to clear it, and murmured an apologetic, “No, no, mo chridhe, I’m alright.” He pulled himself out of me and sat kneeling on the bed between my legs.“I’m sorry, I just realized that–” He halted again, gaping wordlessly and running his fingers backward through his hair in agitation. 

“Out with it, lad,” I said, laughing at the strangeness of seeing that familiar gesture in his now-laughably-short hair. I pulled the coverlet across to cover my naked body, still cozily exhausted.

“When you talked about wanting another bairn,” he said slowly, “ye said ‘not yet,’ aye?”

I froze. 

Now? Could I tell him now? Was this the right time? 

“Well, yes, I suppose I did, or something to that effect,” I said carefully, hearing alarm bells sound when his nostrils flared and his mouth went taut. “I don’t remember the exact—”

“But have we no’ been trying in effect these last two months?”

“Ohhhhh,” I said, understanding.

“It’s only I got a wave of panic, just then,” he said, the dismay clear in his voice, “that ye might get wi’ child before you’re ready…and it’s only— I wondered…if I ought not to come to your bed—lie wi’ ye—until…until then.”

I swept up onto my knees before him and stopped his mouth with a kiss. Pulling back, I held his face in my hands.  “You’re so very sweet, my love.”

“Sweet?” he said darkly. “Damnably careless.” He made a scoffing sound deep in his throat, and his face contorted as though he were trying to hold back an explosion. “Claire, I’m…so sorry. What must ye think of me?” 

“Dinna fash,” I said, an an exaggerated accent I hoped would make him laugh. “I’ve been taking precautions.”

His eyebrows went high in shock. “Precautions?”

Ooft, a bloody great SLEW of minefield talks to be had this night, it seems. 

…and quite the field indeed, when the prospect of discussing birth control with an eighteenth-century CATHOLIC husband could be deemed the lesser of the mines!

After a deep breath and a prayer, I succinctly explained the concept of the diaphragm and—following a quick trip to the washroom to excavate and sanitize—showed him the handy little thing. 

He said nothing during this; not a word. He was holding it gingerly in the palm of one hand, staring at it as though it were about to go off. 

“I’d…like to know how you feel about my using it,” I said cautiously, trying to both scrutinize him and avoid his eye. I was talking too fast in my nervousness, babbling to fill the silence. “The other option is a rubber sleeve that you would have to wear, every time. More or less effective, but I’m told it lessens the sensation quite a bit for the man’s part. This seemed more…well…unobtrusive.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, and at last said, full of emotion. “I…think it’s a wonderful invention.”

“Really?” I said, releasing a huge breath in relief and leaning back on the pillows. “Truly? You were so quiet, there, I thought you must be upset with me.”

He shook his head. “I was only thinking about all the women back home–back then who might have benefitted from such a device. All the lives it might have saved.”

“Your mother?” I said gently. 

“Well… no, I dinna think so….” he said, moving to lay on his side facing me. “She and my father, they wanted another bairn, aye?” He rolled the diaphragm meditatively between his fingers. “But I can think of many a woman that would have deemed it a verra great blessing indeed to be free of perpetual pregnancy and risk; to simply enjoy the bairns she had been given already….and no’ be driven to slip a bairn in desperation.”

“Indeed,” I agreed gravely, thinking of how many such women I’d known and seen in my own brief time in the eighteenth-century; women whose lives hung in the balance between the forces of men’s desires, the capabilities of their own bodies, and the dark, desperate ways out that might be offered by the Geillis Duncan of their community. I shuddered involuntarily and cleared my throat. “I did wonder if perhaps you might oppose it on religious grounds.” 

“Oh, aye?”

“The Catholic church has opposed contraception time out of mind, you know: circumventing God’s plan for humans ‘being fruitful and multiplying,’ among other objections.”

Jamie furrowed his eyebrows indignantly. “But that puts all the responsibility for things on woman, then, no? She must accept what spunk comes her way and whatever might spring from it, but man may spill it with impunity? Seems horribly unjust to—What are you grinning at like a wee frog, Sassenach? Do ye no’ agree?”

“No, I most certainly do! You should write pamphlets, darling!” I laughed, relieved by his unexpected open-mindedness. “So…you don’t think me wicked for using it?”

“No, Christ, not at all,” he said at once, firmly. “To my mind, if God can forgive a man for sowing his oats hither and thither and whenever he pleases, I’m certain He can forgive a woman for taking prudent precautions against the wily stuff.”

“Wily indeed,” I said, grinning still wider. 

I did wonder if Jamie would be quite as progressive in a decade or two when a grown Brianna began exploring her own contraception possibilities….

Ah, well: sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

“And besides,” he said, more softly, “It’s no’ as if we mean to use it so that we might commit sin….If I’m wrong or blasphemous, I’ll answer to God for it on the day of judgement, and gladly, but for the time being, I see no evil in two loving parents waiting for the proper time to bring another bairn into the world.” He kissed me. “No….Ye shall take your precautions until you’re ready…”

Until I’m ready. 

One mine down. Another about to explode. 

He leaned forward and took my face between his hands, kissing me so tenderly I wanted to cry.   

I could feel the pressure of suppressed thoughts ready to burst out from my chest.

“Jamie…but it’s…”

His eyes were crinkled up with mirth. “No ‘buts’ about it. If the pope has a problem wi’ it, he can take it up wi’ me himself.”

Despite my distress, I gave a small laugh, imagining Pope Pius XII in our living room, having it out on the ethics of contraceptives with my formidable husband. “No, that isn’t…Jamie, I need to say something.”

It came out in a rush and he stiffened at once. “What is it, mo chridhe?”

“I had thought…” I grabbed a pillow and wrapped my arms around it, grounding myself to it. “That is…I had thought to wait a time before conceiving again…”

I stopped. He tilted his head to the side, mouth quirked as though repressing a smile. His eyes sparkled with…anticipation? “You…will be thinking differently, now?”

“I want to go to medical school,” I blurted gracelessly.

In the space of one blink of the eye, his glowing features turned to stone. Not angry, nor surprised; just that impassive blank of control that he wielded so skillfully to keep his emotions undetected. He was closed. Present. But closed. “Did ye no’ already have your schooling to be a nurse?” His voice was light and even, but not his own.

Oh, please, God, please let him understand.

“I did,” I began slowly, “but that was for nursing. To be a full MD–medical doctor–you have to go back for more rigorous training; but you have so many more capabilities, for it. You can do surgeries, prescribe care, make the diagnoses that matter! And it…well, it’s expensive, and it takes a good number of years to complete, but…it’s something I’ve been contemplating for some time, now.”

“‘Expensive,’ ye say…Can we afford it?” he asked. His face was still inscrutable, his voice calm. He wasn’t looking at me.

“Yes. I’ve still got part of my inheritance left over from Uncle Lamb…and with your salary coming in, we should be able to manage, if we’re careful about our expenditures. They do offer loans for tuition, and if it comes to it, we can take advantage of that. My earning potential will be immensely higher once I’m an MD, so we’ll have no trouble paying them back.”

He didn’t speak, but nodded his head, brows furrowed in thought.

“I can do it, Jamie,” I said, doing my utmost to keep the pleading out of my voice, but hearing it nonetheless. “It’ll be hard for a few years, but we have Penelope, and I can do much of the studying the first two years from home, and–”

He raised a hand.

“Jamie, please listen to me–”

But he put a quelling hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “If ye want this thing, Claire….you’ll have it.”

I sat gaping at him. “Thank you,” I breathed, a huge weight rising from my shoulders. “Truly, thank you.”

He smiled, a little weakly, but with genuine love and feeling. “I’ve no doubt that you’ll be wonderful….and we’ll manage wi’ the details as they come. Together.”

I leaned down and kissed him, running my fingers through his hair. “Jamie….thank you….You have no idea how much this means to me. It’s…God, just… thank you, sweetheart.” 

“What would I no’ do for your sake, mo chridhe?” he said, so quietly it was no more than a breath against my cheek.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, steeling myself for the final revelation of the evening. “And so…I’ve been thinking…perhaps we ought not to….put off having the second baby, after all?”

His head snapped up and I watched as—in an instant—his mask cracked and fell away, from first shock and then from the dawning of the most breathtaking smile. “I thought–” He exhaled heavily, stertorous, his whole body seeming to shake as the words tumbled out of him. “Claire, I thought ye were telling me ye’d decided ye’d changed your mind and didna wish to bear another child so you might pursue your schooling!”

“No, no!” I exclaimed, feeling my heart rise like a balloon. “Oh, no, sweetheart! I just meant if the child was a year or two of age before I began medical school, rather than falling pregnant in the midst of things, that would be ide–”

“I was fully prepared to stand by ye if that was your wish, and never say a word more about it, but–” He grabbed me around the waist and pushed me back down on the pillows, kissing me with abandon. When he pulled away, his face above me was filled to bursting with tenderness and joy and love. “Oh, God, Claire,“ he groaned, cupping my face with his free hand. “I’m so happy.”

“So am I,” I whispered, breathless with it.

He was beaming. “We’ve a marvelous future, ahead, do we not? You’ll make a verra fine doctor, Sassenach, and I ken already you’re a wonderful mother.” He pulled back and laid a hand gently on my belly. He rubbed tenderly, murmuring something in Gaelic I couldn’t understand.

“There’s nothing in there at the moment, you know.” I said it to be humorous, but my voice cracked.

“But it’s a wonderful thought, aye?” he said, looking up with tears in his eyes. “That ye’ll soon carry a child—our child—in a peaceful time?”

And you’ll be here for all of it.

He kissed my hand, then straightened and picked the diaphragm up off the bedspread. He looked down at it for a moment, laughed—a deep, full, throaty incredulous sound—and flung it carelessly over his shoulder, crawling toward me with a deep, significant growl.

“Again?” I said, laughing as he tugged me bodily down beneath him in that way that drove me wild. “ALREADY?”

“Well, it didna count all the times you’ve worn the wee stopper, now did it?” He lowered his head to fasten his lips maddeningly around one nipple before grinning up at me with one eyebrow raised. “We must get on wi’ it, if you’re to become a doctor anytime soon.”

to be continued