The knock on Colum's door rung through the room, drawing his gaze upwards. He pushed aside the papers he had been reading as Lise creaked open the door, peering around the heavy wood. She smiled warmly at the Laird, stepping through the doorway, instead of simply lunging around the door. Straightening her spine, and folding her hands delicately in front of her, Lise spoke, a cheerful manner creeping into her tone.

"I do hope I'm no disturbing ye?" She offered as an apology, inclining her head slightly to the Laird, a deference of respect. Colum gestured to the seat that faced him, and Lise gratefully closed the door behind her, moving over to the Laird's desk.

"Not at all. I always have time for a Stuart," Colum allowed himself a small, polite smile. Lise's smile wavered slightly. Colum noticed the hesitation in her smile, and his politeness stiffened slightly. Leaning back in his chair, he watched the young woman with a wary eye. "What can I do for you, Mistress?" The question seemed to be a trap, despite the fact that Lise had come to his door, to ask him for a favour. She swallowed difficultly, and glanced downwards, to her hands, gripping each other tightly on her lap.

"I had an altercation with yer brother in the corridor last night," She began. Colum's brow darkened, and he opened his mouth as though to speak, but Lise silenced him with a raise of her hand. The light filtering in through the window threw light on to the series of calluses on her right hand. A working hand. "Nothing came of it. I just thought I would tell ye, for if that is how ye treat yer guests…" Lise trailed off, leaving an unspoken, undefined threat hanging in the air. Colum paused, lingering on the taste of the threat, before leaning over the table and grasping her right hand. He twisted it over, palm facing up.

"You've been lying to me lass," He commented, pressing her fingers back to show the calluses to her. "This is no the hand of a highborn woman."

"No. It's no."

"Who are ye?" Colum demanded, releasing her hand, and throwing it back to her. Lise shook her wrist, an indignant expression forming on her face as she rubbed the soreness from her tendons. "I have gifted ye my hospitality, I have a right to ken who my guests are."

Lise's answer was mostly the truth.

"A descendant of the Stuart line, a royal - in terms of blood - but a bastard in reality." Technically none of that was a lie. She was a direct descendant of the Stuart family, through the bastard son of James Stuart, The Old Pretender himself. So technically, her blood had been royal at one point in the crown's history – and technically she had been born a bastard. Lise, in this moment, was not a liar. "I'm sorry to have deceived ye, but I felt a bastard might not be welcome in your halls," Lise apologised, bowing her head in deference to the Laird once more. Colum watched her with a wary eye. Suspicion clouded over his gaze, and he leant back in his chair once more.

Lise's family history spilled from her lips for over an hour, an endless stream of anecdotes, misinformation, family legends, and, occasionally, unfiltered truth.

She had missed telling the truth about her family. So enthralled in her recounting of her family, Lise had forgotten the reason why she entered the office in the first place. Her initial desire for recompense was forgotten, and instead she left, not with a promise of a slap on the wrist for Dougal, but instead a place in Castle Leoch.


The rent-gathering party left at dawn the next morning, with Claire in tow behind them. She did not quite understand how a group of men collecting rent might require a healer, but she knew better than to question Dougal when his mind was set.

The string of horses trotted out towards the wooded land, the high trees scraping up towards the still dark sky, reaching up until the fingertips of their leaves met the speckles of starlight. They followed in a neat line, following the well-trodden path, soft underfoot from the night's rain. The light patter of hooves was lost to the darkness of the dawn, absorbed in the ever-growing sunlight that spread its reach across the sky.
Dougal led the pack, striding out in front on his horse, tall and proud. His legs gripped the horse's side confidently, a sword falling in line with his thigh. Behind him came a collection of other clansmen, indistinguishable in the early morning light, in their midst, a bright burst of red hair marked Jaime's presence. Immediately behind him followed Claire, riding alone, she looked shorter than she ever had. Her posture was bolt upright, a tension in her grip, uncertain in her position in this group and on the horse. She was not the last member of the group by far – a young boy followed her, barely old enough to have grown any scruff on his chin, and after came her familiar shadows; Angus and Rupert. Little to their knowledge, their pack would gain another rider in the woods ahead, an unexpected bonus to their vicious-looking crusade of Scots.


No matter how much Lise tried to pass it off as "intellectual curiosity", her defining remained in the 18th Century exactly what it had been in the late 21st Century: nosiness. She had wandered into the woods in the middle of the night, dressed in the lightest dress she could find, and had hitched it up around her thighs. She had tied knots either side of her thighs, allowing her to move with more freedom, and keep her hands free. Lise looked ridiculous. Legs splattered with mud, hair unbound and knotted with leaves where it had caught on branches, she looked more banshee than human. Her skin was so encased in mud, it was near impossible to know its true colour. She blended in with her surroundings magically, the darkness cloaking her in a safety of anonymity. She loved going unnoticed. Utterly engrossed in trying to convince the wild cat to edge closer to her, she had not noticed the soft footfalls of the rent-party creeping up behind her. She had managed to pick the cat up, amazed at its size and weight, and yet passivity towards her, when a loud snap made her head dart around. The cat panicked, and fled, claws out as it sprung off of Lise's body. The sharp claws dug into her flesh and ripped her chest; where they did not cut, they left long, trailing red welts across her body.

"Can ye no stay put, lass?" Dougal asked, exasperation filling the quieted woods. Lise lifted her gaze and hand from her wounds on her chest, waving to the party.

"I mean, technically, aye. But why would I? That's the boring thing to do," She beamed. Lise glanced down at her hands, smeared with her own blood. "Ye've no brought Claire with ye, by any chance have ye?"

"Nosey bitch," muttered Dougal, before wheeling his horse around and calling for Claire. Lise patted his leg condescendingly as she headed towards the healer. Tossing her head, she called back over her shoulder:

"Intellectual curiosity!"


Claire had scolded Lise the whole time she tended to her cuts. The disapproval filled Claire's gaze, and she was more rough with her strokes against the Scottish girl's flesh than was strictly necessary. The damp cloth that Claire used to rub the dirt and disease from Lise's skin stung against her skin, a prickling of nettle stings, retribution for being so careless. Claire reapplied the unknown liquid to the cloth and thrust it back over the wound.

"Ow," Lise commented flatly, looking up at Claire without expression. Her face was devoid of emotion, completely lacking any reaction, despite her protestations. Lise's face suggested she was numb to the stings of Claire's scolding and her 'healing'. The fire that scorched her collarbone, ripping through her capillaries and into her veins demanded that Lise acknowledge the pain she was feeling. Stubborn, petty, and endlessly afraid of looking weak, Lise forced her face to stay neutral.

"You know we don't have antibiotics, or sterile equipment here, right?" Hissed Claire in a low tone, her voice barely rising low enough for Lise to hear her. "Getting injured isn't as easy to fix as it was back home."

"Yes, thank you, mum," Lise murmured back, rolling her eyes. She shrugged Claire's hand off of her chest, yanking her clothes back up over her shoulder and dismissed Claire's concerns. She brushed the embedded dirt unsuccessfully from her clothes and spun around to face the men. "Where you boys running away to? Can I come?"
Dougal looked at her for a moment. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Then opening his eyes and staring into Lise's very essence, he spoke his answer. His gaze tore through her, holding her hostage in the moment, his usual callousness seeming more malicious now. Lise retained the stoically statuesque expression, staring right back at him, hard as a marble statue. Her fingers twitched slightly, the only part of her that moved.

"Jaime. Ye can babysit the lass," barked Dougal, not breaking eye contact with Lise.

"I didnae need babysitting. I can handle myself thank ye very much."

"Ye cannae ride tho, can ye?" Jaime lowered a hand to pull Lise up on to his horse. She crossed her arms at him and scowled.

"Shut up Jaime." Her scowl faded as she realised that she couldn't get on to the horse and sulk, so she relinquished her sulk, and took the Highlander's hand. Hauling her up in front of him, Jaime shook his head slightly.

"Dougal's right, ye shouldnae be here. Why can ye no stay put?" He murmured into her ear. Lise grinned at the space ahead of her. She fidgeted until she was in a comfortable position, and then replied to Jaime.

"Nae body ever did anything worth knowing about by staying put."


The lake was calm, unnervingly so for Scotland. The standard breeze did not ripple the glass water that shimmered in the sunlight. It was glass, smoothed over with an elegant finish, a mirror, reflecting the party of highlanders back at themselves. Claire stood by the water's edge, the sounds of jostling men echoing behind her as she spoke a poem across the still water, broken only by the mossy ground that poked its head curiously above the water, listening to her words. The memory of her husband lingered in her mind as she spoke the words, a pang in her heart aching as she murmured softly to the day. Her words were joined by another voice, a chorus of poetry singing out across the lake. Claire turned to him as the cacophony of men grew louder, laughter bubbling out of them and roaring loudly. Claire and her companion turned to look at them, curiosity in Claire's gaze, amusement and disapproval in the lawyer's own gaze.

"What is it they're shouting over there?" asked Claire, watching the men laugh and mock the youngest of their flock. Lise leant back on the rock she used as a chair and raised an eyebrow.

"They're taking the piss. Willie's being told to…" Lise trailed off as she looked at the lawyer, his stern gaze causing her to falter. She bit the inside of her cheek and seemed to think, her brow furrowing slightly. Then her face smoothed out, and irritation toss her expression into the lake. "Ach, well you translate if I'm no allowed to repeat it."
Ned Gowan stared Lise down for a moment, and she called something across to Willie, purposefully using Gaelic, and grinning at Claire. She danced over to the men and beamed broadly as she joined the raucous behaviour.
Claire and Ned stared to move over towards the horses, and Ned finally gave a somewhat amended account of the men's mockery.

"They're encouraging him to have… biblical relations," he paused. "With his sister." Claire's eyebrows raised, and she pressed down a smile.

"Lovely." The word came out short, entertained but disapproving in equal measure. She was content to wander and talk with the lawyer, leaving Lise to bubble over with false mockery with the men. Claire glanced at Lise only once, and so missed the hand that clapped down on Lise's shoulder with a good-humoured mirth and the horror that filled Lise's expression. Claire missed the outright hatred that flooded into her eyes, and instead focused on healing the wrong individual. Claire relieved Ned's asthma but failed to relieve the mental turmoil that haunted Lise.