In The Name of Honor Part 1 Secrets and Lies Chapter 2, a diana gabaldon fanfic

Title: In The Name of Honor - Part 1 Secrets and Lies – Chapter 2

Author: Marianne H. Stillie

Categories/Genres: Fantasy; Drama; Hurt/Comfort; Romance

Rating: T

Pairing: Claire and Lord John Grey

Summary: The secrets and lies of the past conspire to change the present and future for Claire and Lord John Grey.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and places for the Outlander Novels are the property of Diana Gabaldon, Bantam Books, The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment, not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks are intended. Previously unrecognized characters, places and this story are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Archive: Please do not archive anywhere without the author's permission.

In The Name of Honor

Part 1 – Secrets and Lies

Chapter 2

After my sprint up the staircase to the second floor, I approached John's bedroom with trepidation, very grateful he had awoken from the coma, yet afraid of what I'd see. I could hear Rachel and Dottie's voices talking to him, one steady and firm, the other high-pitched and anxious.

There wasn't time to change my contaminated clothes. I did scrub my hands thoroughly with soap and water then with brandy from the dresser once I was inside the sickroom. The two young women were struggling to keep John from thrashing about in his bed. I was grateful for the strips of linen keeping his broken ribs constrained. Adding a punctured lung to the already life-threatening list of injuries would have finished him. I knew his panicked movements were making his pain worse, his mind desperately trying to escape the agony his nerve endings were communicating to him.

What really tore my heart were the barely audible words his damaged throat was struggling to make. The first distorted sound I heard his voice box utter was, "Claire." Despite the gripping pain it caused him, he haltingly followed it with, "I...neeeed...Claire."

Moving the two women back, I drew up my sentry chair. "I'm here, John."

His slitted eyes focused on me, and he reached out a shaking hand. I grabbed hold and felt the power of his slender fingers from his agony. "Hurts," the word an urgent croak.

With my other hand I smoothed his thick hair back from his forehead letting my fingers gently travel down his damaged face. I wanted to unravel the bedclothes his body was tangled in from his thrashing about, but relieving his pain had to come first. "I know, John. I have medicine for you."

His other hand broke free of the twisted quilt and grabbed my arm, "Plea…se," he begged through swollen, discolored lips.

I could easily guess what his agonized "please" meant.

William rushed through the bedroom door. He dropped what looked like a blood-smeared dirk onto the table by the window. I didn't want to know whose blood was on the blade. He stood very still, his eyes darting from his father to me, a soldier waiting for orders.

"Willie is here, John. As soon as he's washed his hands," I said speaking directly to my stepson, "he'll sit with you while I get your medicine."

Obedient my second nature, William did as I asked then took my place beside John. It was hard to disentangle his hands from mine. In his pain, John Grey was holding onto me with an iron grip. Seeing my difficulty, Willie expertly transferred his father's clenched fingers to his waiting hands.

"Hold tightly, Papa. Mother Claire will help you feel better very soon."

John's pain-glazed eyes locked onto his son's face. For a second, his bruised facial muscles tried to form a smile then his body's physical exigencies overrode it. He grimaced as the waves of pain took possession again.

Motioning Rachel and Dottie to my side at the dresser, I gave them instructions while my hands removed the bottle of syrup of poppies from my medical chest. "Go down to the kitchen and prepare a tray with clean cups, a pitcher of the infusion from the cook house, a pot of honey and a pot of the yarrow tea, heated. Keep yourselves and everything on the tray as germ free as possible."

"Yes, Friend Claire," Rachel said, used to my terminology.

Dottie nodded, more concerned with helping her uncle than in my confusing words. "Yes, Aunt Claire."

They were both out the door and hurrying downstairs in an eye blink.

One of the things I had added to my meager selection of instruments was an oversized ceramic thimble I had found on John's dresser, one of those odd acquisitions he'd brought home from somewhere in his harmless kleptomania. Rinsing it with brandy, I filled it halfway with the golden drops of potent painkiller. I needed to ease John's pain yet still have him awake.

Leaning close to him, I placed my hand comfortingly on his chest. "Do you think you can stand the pain if William holds you against his chest? It will be easier for you to swallow that way, and it won't be for long."

"Yes,' he whispered roughly.

Because of his brief time in the barn, William's clothing was relatively clean from his earlier ablutions. With the utmost gentleness for such a big man, he lifted and cradled his father's smaller, light-boned body against his chest, his right arm keeping the older man's injury-frail frame upright. With his left hand, he took the thimble and held it up to John's tightly clenched mouth. "Just take little sips, Papa. Slowly, so you won't choke."

I could tell John's first instinct was to take all the tempting liquid and swallow it quickly to relieve his pain. His mouth and tongue and throat muscles that were in severe trauma had other ideas. The first small sip made him gag and splutter. William withdrew the thimble and placed it on the bedside table then reached for the cup of water I held out to him. "It's all right, Papa. Take a little water to help the medicine go down."

As had happened often from my first glimpse of William Ransom in the miniature I'd seen in Jamaica twelve years ago, he brought out memories of his sister whom he resembled so strongly. I no longer had Brianna as my right hand nursing assistant. Her younger brother was turning out to be an excellent substitute.

The minutes slipped by and I could see the opiate taking effect. John hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours. With his empty stomach, the potent painkiller was being rapidly absorbed into his system. His body quiet and limp, I broached the next phase of my treatment.

Taking the empty thimble from William, I took hold of John's lax right hand. "I know you want to sleep, John, but I can't let you do that quite yet."

His swollen eyes opened as fully as they could, the slitted pupils showing the effects of the drug. Yet there was an alertness there that let me know he was prepared for my professional pronouncements with complete trust. He nodded silently.

"I've made an infusion to help reduce the swelling in your throat. You must drink as much of it as you can. Will you do that for me?"

There was a hesitation and a compressing of his sutured lips, his Grey stubbornness that I remembered so well from his time at Fraser's Ridge when he was ill with measle. I couldn't help smiling. "I'll make sure there's plenty of honey added first so it won't taste so bad."

The long blond eyelashes blinked slowly in gratitude.

Taking a deep breath, I continued, "I've also made an herbal tea that I insist you drink. Your body is badly dehydrated and you need all the liquids you can take in."

His broken nose attempted a wrinkle in distaste. To John, real tea was from the Orient or India, not from a house garden. "Bran…dy?" he asked brokenly.

"Yes, but in moderation. And plenty of water."

One generous blond eyebrow quirked awkwardly against its stiff suture then subsided. Sighing deeply despite his chest bindings, he squeezed my hand then leaned heavily back against his son.

With a smile his father couldn't see, William gently held John closer. Looking at me, he said authoritatively, "You really should change and freshen up, Mother Claire. I'll take care of Papa while you compose yourself."

His language confused me but I smiled gratefully. "I will. Thank you."

In my room across the hall, I stripped the ripped, stained clothing from my aching body. I was determined not to let what had happened in the barn take hold of my emotions, preventing me from giving my patient the very best of care. It might have worked except for two things. The distinctive musky scent of Jamie's sexuality on my clothes and coating my privates was pervasive. I used all the water in the ewer and several applications of violet-scented French soap to cleanse my skin with some success. The reek of Jamie's violent rape was too strong in my mind to be dismissed so easily. Worst of all, the fresh change of clothes brought comprehension of Willie's words and the intense look in his eyes. He knew exactly what had been done to me in the barn.

I had placed John's gold and crystal pocket watch on the bedside table. It was open, the face helping me keep track of each hour for his treatment regimen: his throat infusion, tea for hydration along with water whenever I could cajole him into drinking it, and modest doses of the poppy syrup to keep his pain at bay.

The delicate chiming was now marking the midnight end of one very long and frightening day, and ushering in the beginning of another that could bring either happiness or grief in the blink of an eye.

I finally had to give in and let John sleep. His body had been far too exhausted from the pain to torture him further. All the liquids he had consumed had accomplished one very positive thing. To my relief, the urine he'd passed into the chamber pot had been clear with no signs of red or pink to indicate blood in his kidneys from the beating, as Denny had feared. I would wake him again in an hour for another dose of the infusion that had already reduced the swelling in his throat in combination with more hot compresses.

In a rare moment of amusement in this exhausting day, I watched my stepson as he gingerly poked at the bloated bodies of the leeches in their watery pool. He had companionably told me that his father hated leeches as much as he did. His revulsion at sight of them had definitely changed from the stridently shouting ten-year-old boy I had found beside that stream on Fraser's Ridge ten years ago. The adult William Ransom had bravely applied the slimy creatures at my careful direction to John's throat and to areas of his face that were still heavily blood-bruised.

Now that he knew what Jamie had done to his father in such graphic detail, there was no point in sheltering him as I was sheltering Dottie. When I had stripped away the tangled bedclothes revealing John's grossly enlarged genitals and black and blue buttocks, William had given a very loud exclamation of shock. The words Jamie had used to describe how he'd savaged John's lower body with his knees had produced the grotesque consequence that Willie now saw in reality.

There was a fresh eruption of rage in the set of his body as well as a colorful string of mumbled curses as I delicately applied a layer of leeches to his father's privates. His eyes stayed riveted on John's face, watching for a renewed wave of pain. I was deeply touched by the growing protectiveness William was exhibiting toward his father. I could tell he was very relieved when the treatment was over.

I also began to wonder if he had found out his father's secret sometime in the past. Jamie's other revelations that had come out, the words he'd used could not be misunderstood as anything except what they were, had to have shocked William, but only if he didn't already know John's true nature. His silence along with the lack of emotional reactions was most telling. He was keeping his own counsel for the time being.

John had fallen asleep during our passive ministrations. The gentle hands on his body and the cool wetness of the leeches were soothing after the bouts of pain he had endured before the welcome drug.

William sat down on the stool next to my chair. Taking my hands in his, he kissed each one tenderly. His gentleness reminded me so much of John's comforting hands the second time we'd shared a bed. I couldn't say it aloud, but like father, like son.

"I know you don't want to talk about what happened earlier, and I understand. If you ever do, want to talk that is, I will listen because of who you are to this family. I do promise that I will never discuss with Papa what was said and done in that barn without your express permission."

Leaning forward, I kissed his cheek lingeringly. "Thank you, William. Now, if you would remove our fat little friends back to the kitchen, I would appreciate it. I'm so exhausted, I couldn't manage those stairs unless the house was on fire."

"Of course. I'll be in my room down the hall if you need anything. I presume you do intend to sleep some time?" he teased. Standing, he added, "Thank you, Mother Claire."

Kissing my cheek, he was out the door with the natural grace of his young body, the basin of leeches in hand. Contentedly, I listened to his stocking-clad feet padding softly toward the landing.

Something made me look over at the table by the window. The bloody dirk was gone, leaving only a small smear of blood on the lace cloth. I still didn't want to know whose blood was on the blade.

The half hour chime from John's pocket watch woke me with a start. Blearily, I checked the time. It had been only a half hour since William had left with the basin of leeches. In a panic, I sat on the bed and examined John to make sure he was still breathing. It only took minutes after an apnea attack to lose a life. I kept my hand on his chest, anxiously measuring the number and length of each breath. They were somewhat deeper and stronger than last I'd checked.

I knew in my heart the worst was far from over. There were too many of John's injuries that could suddenly go bad. Infections were on-going threats as were broken ribs that might not heal properly due to his previous chest injury. Neck or back damage that wouldn't show up until he was ambulatory again. Something I didn't even know was potentially a life-threatening crisis such as a hidden head trauma that could threaten the stability of the plate under his scalp. At the rate my mind was compiling such grave possibilities, I wouldn't have to worry about falling asleep again.

I was deeply exhausted though. I had changed into a nightgown and robe planning to crawl into my own bed when Rachel was scheduled to take over my vigil at dawn. Dawn was still a ways away. I hoped John had a good book somewhere in his private collection of reading matter. I hadn't spent enough time in his room to investigate his bookshelves.

There wasn't much to do until it was time to wake him for his next dose of infusion and more fluids so I fussed over my patient instead. His body had shifted sideways on the thick layer of pillows that were helping him breathe easier. In moving him more comfortably upright, he stirred in what was now a more normal sleep pattern. I made sure I touched him firmly and affectionately to give him ease and security. This time there were noticeable reactions to my tactile stimuli, several muscle twitches and a very definite sigh of contentment. Gratefully, all his movements were without any pain.

"Deo gratias," I prayed sincerely.

Leaning back in my chair, I felt tears building for the first time. In the privacy of John's bedroom, I let them come out full force. As an educated professional ruled by rationality and science, I immediately looked for a concrete reason for my tears, which wasn't hard in Philadelphia in the late eighteenth century. In all the muck and confusion of my brain, I vocalized, "Pick one, Beauchamp!"

The "biggest" reason was obvious – Jamie Fraser, husband, lover, rapist and attempted murderer. I had always been so good at sorting, organizing and planning. Even during the worst of crises and trauma in my old life and with this one, I had been able to find direction. I was feeling so shattered by Jamie's ugly revelations and his near demented treatment of John and me, I couldn't find the missing thread in my personal knitting.

Perhaps I was trying too hard or expecting too much in too short a time. It had been only a few short hours since my long-time husband and lover had raped me. I had seen enough traumatized women during my years in that Boston hospital to know that none of them recovered that quickly from such an experience, and certainly not unscathed psychologically.

But I didn't want to be one of those women. I was too angry and too fed up with feeling like a victim to allow my psyche that consideration. Even being beaten and raped by the thugs who had abducted me on the Ridge five years ago hadn't made me feel like this. I refused to be a victim to my own spouse's obsessive jealousy!

I did know one thing for sure. I no longer wanted to be married to Jamie Fraser. It was over, dead, poisoned by his past lies, defective conscience and debased honor. All the good things had been made a sham by his callous destruction of the trust we had sworn to each other. I couldn't forgive anymore. Not him anyway. With one tiny fleeting thought I wondered what would become of the man who had sworn in his heart of hearts that he could never live without me. His faith had failed him miserably there. I almost wished that he had believed more firmly and thought of the consequences before he'd made his flawed choices both before and after we were reunited.

That sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that had come with Jamie's confession was back. His brazen excuses for what he did and what he didn't do in Geneva's bed were like a nightmare echo in my memory along with everything he had said and done in the barn. When I thought Jamie was dead, I had wanted to die myself, to be with him again. Now I wanted to live out of spite to refute the tainted love I'd lived with the last twelve years. The love we had once had was necrotic and I needed to bury it.

Twenty years of my life in the future had been destroyed because of my refusal to let go of Jamie Fraser. Love and jealousy weren't logical I knew very well. I was now paying for my foolish, childish romanticism. Yes, there was Brianna. Even William's existence could be considered a blessing and a balm to my anger and guilt. What still haunted me was that I had yet to fulfill my penance to Frank. It was far too late to change what I'd done to him. As a beginning to my long overdue penance, I decided to keep the gold ring Frank had placed on my finger in the same tiny Scottish Catholic church where I had been forced to marry Jamie in 1743. I had betrayed my true husband enough already. Maybe God would show me a way to make that right somehow.

The simplest solution would be to return to my own time through the stones. I was sure I could find Brianna, Roger and my grandchildren. As fearful as I was of making another of those horrific transitions, I would gladly take the chance to be reunited with them. To have a stable, modern life again, in a world where people didn't die en masse of simple colds, and women weren't at the mercy of their reproductive organs.

There were still wars and cruelty and hate in the future I had to admit. That wouldn't go away. In truth, there were people I loved here who needed my medical skill even more. My knowledge of the future could change some small things for the better. My being here had already saved lives and changed events, not on a grand scale but where it mattered personally.

With my next thought I made my choice. I would stay in this time. I would also move north, back to Boston. The days of witch trials were over in Massachusetts so I had a good chance to escape being burned at the stake as a white witch. I could also make a difference once the Colonies were free of the British. It would be exciting to see those early days happen in reality instead of words from books.

My tears had decreased as my decisions fell into place one by one. There would still be times when I'd remember and regret. Maybe even wish the last two days hadn't happened so I could have the life I'd expected with Jamie: going back home to Fraser's Ridge, building the new house, growing even older with him until our ends, either separately or together, came. The nostalgia would hurt, deep and often, but I would survive and go on with the next phase of my life. I had rarely been one for sentimental symbolism. This time it was a necessity. The wide silver wedding ring Jamie had put on my finger thirty-five years ago was so deeply imbedded in the third finger of my right hand it was a struggle to remove it. Slowly, it slipped along my finger, first over one large knuckle then over the small second knuckle until it was finally off. Off my finger, off my hand, off my body. Getting Jamie out of my mind would be harder and take longer after all our years together, but I would make sure it was accomplished.

The one thing I did know for sure was that my marriage was over. Not just a simple civilized separation. It must be a total sundering of the legal ties that bound me to the Highlander in this time. Recalling the coming month, I decided it appropriately ironic that we were just barely making our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. What was the modern symbolism for it?

The first step of my plan would be to find a reputable attorney and begin the divorce process. Getting out of my despoiled marriage had to come first. I wished the wonderful Ned Gowan was on this side of the Atlantic. If ever there was a lawyer a woman could depend on within the unequal strictures of eighteenth century law, it was that wily Protestant Scotsman.

With my missing thread back in place, I made my first new life decision, which was finding an entertaining book to read. There were two neatly arranged shelves above John's writing desk. Taking my reading spectacles out of the case I carried with me in my pocket, I perused the richly bound volumes. Since he hadn't been in Philadelphia long enough to accumulate many books, my selection was limited to a dozen novels of various types: Defoe, Fielding, Voltaire and others I wasn't familiar with. I was very surprised to see Goethe's "The Sorrows of Young Werner", considered to be the beginning of Romanticism, and only recently published. His copy in English must have been sent from London. There was a book of Shakespeare's plays and another of his sonnets, a bible I recognized as a Catholic Douay-Rheims edition, a rather risqué French art book, a collection of plays by Aeschylus, Plato's "The Republic", the John Donne book he had loaned Jamie years ago and, of course, Marcus Aurelius' "Meditations". John Grey was as eclectic in his reading as he was in his speech and avocations.

Choosing the Greek plays that I hadn't read since my freshman year in college, I settled back into my chair beside John's bed. I skipped through the first two plays and went directly to what had been my favorite, "Prometheus Bound".

Though being deeply involved in the character's tragic suffering, I became aware of the total silence in the room. John's breathing was irregular with a definite resonance as his throat and lungs struggled to take in air. That sound was totally missing.

I was on the bed beside him, my hands pressing on his rigid chest to get him breathing again. Nothing happened. No sound, no movement. Aggressively, I pounded on his chest, ignoring the fact of his bound broken ribs.

"If you think you're going to die on my watch John William Grey, you're very much mistaken!"

Another pound, then again. My hands were poised for another, when there was a precious sound from the body under my hands.

Taking in a deep inhalation of air, John choked, opened his eyes and breathed in two more short urgent gulps of air. Leaning forward, his weak body crumpled into my arms.

Heavily pressed against me, he coughed harshly to clear his throat. His head tilted up and focused on my face in the dim light of the candles around the room. "What…hap…pened?"

"You stopped breathing."

"Oh." I felt him tremble as he took in a very careful and very wavering fresh breath. "Water?"

Breathing my own deep sigh of relief, I lowered him cautiously onto the pillows and brought him a cup of water. Carefully helping him drink, I said, "Since it's almost time for your infusion, I'll give it to you now."

He nodded reluctantly. "Hurts… again."

"Infusion first, then poppy syrup. Then you can go back to sleep."

"Yes…ma…dam," his warm breath whispered against the silk of my robe.

It took almost an hour to get enough of the infusion and a dose of poppy syrup into John, his raw throat regurgitating the necessary fluids in rebellion. I added a fresh hot compress to his throat fully expecting him to fall back to sleep quickly. Instead his eyes fixed on the candle flame on the dresser. The opiate tended to cause disturbing images.

His jaw had clenched and his hands were working restlessly on the bedclothes. To divert his mind from whatever unpleasant visions he was seeing, I asked, "Would you like me to read to you?"

Slowly, his eyes turned to me. "What?"

"Aeschylus."

John blinked once which I took to mean assent and closed his eyes. He listened closely to my voice until he fell asleep.