17 September, 2149

St. Catherine the Red Hospital, Isle of Barra, Scotland

CATRÌONA POV

It was strange working in a hospital that had been named after me. Of course, no one but me knew that it had been named after me, but it was still strange. The St. Catherine the Red Hospital was built sometime after 2131 as a military hospital and named for a famed Scottish healer from the Jacobite era who was also a saint and was a Barra native - that was me. When the war had ended, the hospital stayed, and quite a few people moved out to the Hebrides while the mainland recovered from the war, so there were plenty of patients to see.

"Hello, there, I'm Dr. Fowlis," I said to my next patient after opening the curtain. "I understand ye've got a bit of a twisted wrist?"

"Oh, yes. I was visiting Kisimul Castle when I fell down the stairs leading up to the entrance hall," said the girl in an American accent.

"Oh yes, I ken exactly what stairs yer speakin' of," I said, recalling the few times I'd taken a tumble down those very same steps in my days as a resident of Cìosamul Castle. "So yer name is… Amanda Fowlis?"

"Yup, that's me, but I prefer Amy," she said. "I heard you say your name is Fowlis, too? Are you from here?"

"Aye, I am," I said to her with a smile. "What brings ye here? Yer from America, are ye?"

"Yup! I wanted to visit my ancestral lands. My grandfather was sent to America during the first rebellion and he grew up there. Then he had my dad who had me. My grandfather was always so interested in our family history and our family tree and we wanted to take this trip together, but unfortunately, he died of colon cancer a couple of years before the war ended," Amy told me.

"Oh, I'm verra sorry te hear tha'," I told her as I examined her wrist. "Well, it doesnae seem te be broken, but we'll get an x-ray just te be sure. Can I get radiology in here?" I resumed looking at Amy's wrist while I waited for the radiology tech. "So, Amy, what's yer family tree look like? Were ye and yer grandsire able te track back verra far?"

"All the way back to the eighteenth century," said Amy. "I mean, I'm sure it goes further, but around that point is when my family tree gets a bit muddy… My grandfather thought that we were descendants of one of the Lords of Kisimul."

"Ye mean Laird," I told her. "Here in Scotland, we're Lairds, no' Lords," I told her kindly. "Do ye ken which? There were three, I believe, in the eighteenth century."

"You know your history," said Amy, and I smiled and nodded.

"Aye, my own father was the same. Always wanted us te make sure we kent where we came from. I'm a direct descendant of the 7th Laird of Cìosamul, Eairdsidh Ruadh," I told her, and Amy's pretty grey eyes widened.

"Really? Oh, well, I guess we are, too, if the document we found was right," said Amy. "We think that our branch of the family tree stems from an illegitimate son of one of the Lords - I mean Lairds - the one after Archie, I think." I froze and adjusted myself so I didn't look too visibly uncomfortable.

"Ye mean… Cailean Fowlis?" I asked her.

"Uh huh, that's him! There's really only one document to back that claim, though, and we aren't sure how true it really is," said Amy. "It was a letter written I think by Cailean's nephew. His name was…"

"Archie," I said, pretending to busy myself by testing the capillary refill of Amy's fingertips by giving them a gentle squeeze.

"Oh, yeah, that's right! It was an interesting article. It said that the letter was written by Archie to his aunt - but I guess not Cailean's wife - and it was found stuffed in a tight space in a desk that they were restoring in the castle. It said something along the lines of 'Uncle Cailean has a bastard son' and then he talked about how much he missed his parents," Amy told me. "Here, I can pull it up." She pulled out her mobile phone and searched in Google, then found the article in question. "It says that the historian thinks that Archie was a child and was the son of Cailean's sister, but his surname was never mentioned so they don't know who the sister married. They think the aunt must be the father's sister. They also say that this is the only document that confirms that Cailean Fowlis had an illegitimate son, which was suspected."

"When… When was the letter written? Does it say?" I asked her.

"They aren't sure because the date is smudged, but it looks like sometime in June or July in the 1750s," said Amy. "The letter mentions Eairdsidh Ruadh as his grandfather and he died in 1759 so I guess sometime before then."

"Aye, probably," I said, fighting the choked up feeling in my throat. "Oi, where's radiology? I need an x-ray in here!"


I was a bit thrown off for the rest of the day. That news that Amy Fowlis gave me was the first I'd heard of anyone in my family beyond when I left in 1751. So Cailean got them to Barra safely… Thank Christ for that. And Cailean evidently had an illegitimate son? That was strange to me because he loved Saoirse very much. It must have been a child from a relationship he'd had before he met her. He had enjoyed the company of quite a few whores in his day. At least I could be comforted by the idea that my children made it safely to Barra, and lived with my grandfather.

When I made it home, I stepped in through the doorframe of my restored childhood home, safe to live in and housing myself and Maevis and frequently hosting the Tanners as well. Maidie, who was off of work, had gone to stay at the house to watch Maevis for me while Don finished up some last minute painting in one of the upstairs rooms. "Mama!" Maevis cried as soon as I opened the door.

"Maevis! Mo chridhe , I missed ye verra much!" I exclaimed, kneeling down so I could scoop up my toddler daughter into my arms. "Were ye good fer Auntie Maidie, hen?"

"She was very good," said Maidie from the kitchen, stirring a pot of stew. "She's such a good child. I only wish Rory were as good as she is!"

"She gets that from her Da," I said, smiling down into Maevis's sweet blue eyes - something else she got from her father.

"You don't talk about him much," Maidie told me. "What was he like?"

"The sweetest, kindest and most passionate man I've ever met," I said as I brushed my fingers through her hair.

"That's it? That's all I get?" Maidie asked me, and I gave her a sad smile.

"Someday, I'll tell ye all aboot him," I told her as Don came down the stairs.

"These ceilings are so low," Don said as he ducked beneath a beam on the ceiling. "How old is this house, anyway?"

"Four hundred, at least," I answered him. "It was built by the 7th Laird of Cìosamul as a gift fer his son sometime in the 1720's."

"Oh, that is very old," said Maidie.

"He didnae get te live in it - at least, not right away - but I do know the name of the first residents of this house," I told them. "It was a family of four, and they were Frasers…"


Autumn 1753

Lallybroch, The Highlands, Scotland

Jamie made his way through the woods to Lallybroch's yard with a bleeding deer carcass tossed over his shoulders. In the years since he had returned to Lallybroch, his hair and beard had grown long, and he began to wear a brown hat to help conceal the bright red of his hair. Of course, it didn't hide much, but it was enough. As he entered the yard, Jenny's back was to him, and he paused briefly by the herb garden. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw a flash of red - the red of Catrìona's hair. His attention was drawn back by a small squeal coming from Jenny as she held her hand to her chest, her other hand resting on her swollen belly.

"Ye've nearly scairt the bowels out of me!" she scolded him with a heavy huff, and then she rested her hands on her hips. "They've taken Ian again."

"Again?" Jamie asked her neutrally.

"Aye," Jenny replied with frustration. "I foolishly hoped they were through when two years passed with no redcoats bedevilin' us."

"We could go after them, Milord!" came the deepened voice of a teenaged Fergus, now eighteen years old. He had grown rather wiley and immature, and with a fighting heart, he was always looking for trouble to stir up. "We could slit their throats in the night and free Monsieur Murray."

"Aye, tha's a fine idea," said Jenny sarcastically.

"A deed tha' would likely bring the whole garrison te Lallybroch te kill us all, yerself included," Jamie told him rather firmly. "No, ye'll not do such a foolish thing, Fergus."

"But Monsieur Murray-" Fergus began, but Jamie cut him off.

"I said no. Do as yer told," Jamie told him, walking past the pair of them to drop the deer carcass on the ground near the kitchen entrance. "Take this inside with wee Jamie."

"Yes, Milord," said Fergus, assisting Young Jamie with carrying that large carcass inside to be butchered.

"Well, I suppose everra new commander needs te make a name fer himself," said Jenny, continuing the conversation. "This one's called Captain Lewis. He talkin' aboot the 'Dunbonnet'. I take it that's what they've taken te callin' ye now. And soon, ye'll have ballads sung in yer honour." She chuckled to herself, then lost her smile when she realised that Jamie wasn't taking her bait. "'Tis time te tally the rents… Ian was just aboot te start in the books. Dinnae suppose ye could do that fer me." Jamie didn't respond to her. "Brother?" Still no response, and she huffed and placed her hands on her hips. "Ye ken why I can lie te the English and feel at peace? It's because I'm not lyin'! James Fraser hasnae been here in a long time!" Jamie still didn't answer, and she let out another huff. "Fine, be silent. Go back te yer cave, fer all I care, but at least wait fer yer cut of the meat." Slowly, she waddled her way inside of the house, pushing past Jamie, who watched her silently.

She was right; James Fraser hadn't been around for a long time. Ever since he had to send Catrìona back through the stones and say goodbye to his children, likely forever, at Cìosamul, James Fraser had been dead. All that was left was a shell of the man he used to be, hidden beneath a matted and dirtied mane of red hair that he began to curse his mother for giving him.


A few days after learning of the return of the English redcoats, Jamie was in his cave carving a small snake from a wooden branch, similar to the one he'd been given by his brother. He flipped it over and lightly touched the carved name on the bottom - Archie. Jamie wanted to make his son one of those snakes for a long time, but never really had the chance to. Now, it was too late, and Jamie would likely never be able to give his son that carved snake. A rustling outside of the cave alerted him and he looked up just as Fergus pushed back the vines and entered the cave.

"What are ye doin' here?" Jamie demanded from him, and Fergus raised his hands up defensively.

"I was careful, Milord. I was not followed," Fergus told him. "I cut back on myself, just like you taught me." Slowly, Fergus pulled a pistol out from the inside of his jacket, and Jamie's eyes widened and he jumped up to snatch the pistol from Fergus's hands.

"Where did ye get this?" Jamie hissed at him.

"It was in the dovecote, Milord. I want to learn how to shoot. I want to defend our home," Fergus said to him. "I need to be ready."

"Ready? Fer what?" Jamie asked him.

"For the next rebellion!" Fergus said with too much excitement.

"The next rebellion?" Jamie asked him. "There will be no next rebellion. Do ye think war is somethin' enjoyable? That killin' men is somethin' te be proud of?"

"The Englishmen are," said Fergus.

"I dinnae care what the English are and arenae proud of. There will be no more fightin'. Put this back where ye found it," Jamie told him firmly, and Fergus seemed to stamp his foot defiantly.

"Just because you are a coward now does not mean I am!" Fergus exclaimed, and Jamie scoffed at him.

"Weapons are outlawed. If yer found with it, ye'll be killed, now put it back where ye found it and dinnae touch it again," Jamie told him firmly, giving him the pistol back.

"Would you tell Archie to put it back?" Fergus asked him as Jamie turned back to sit down on his makeshift bed again, and Jamie froze.

"Aye," Jamie told him. "And I'd tan his hide fer doin' somethin' so foolish. Now go."

"Fine, but when war comes again, I will tell you I told you so," said Fergus, and as he turned to leave, he was interrupted by the sound of more rustling, and then Mrs. MacNabb, who had taken on Mrs. Crook's job when she'd passed away the previous winter, poked her head into the cave.

"Oh, I'm sorry te interrupt, but the bairn had a mind te come a wee bit early, and ye'll have a wee niece or nephew soon. She's askin' fer ye, Mr. Fraser," Mrs. MacNabb said.

"Is she?" Jamie asked her. "Aye… Suppose I'll come. She wanted me te have a look at the ledgers as well." Both Fergus and Jamie followed Mrs. MacNabb back to Lallybroch, avoiding the English at any cost. Fergus was instructed to wait outside while Jamie went in to look over the ledgers, finding it difficult to concentrate with Jenny's screams above him. It made him mindful of the fact that he'd never been present for Catrìona's labours, and now never would. He had met both Archie and Brèagha after they had been born, but truth to be told, he preferred it that way. After hearing Jenny's torturous screams and wails, he didn't think he'd be able to manage-

The sound of a gunshot made him jump, and his stomach leapt into his chest. A gunshot would be certain to draw the English in. Goddamn it, Fergus , Jamie thought to himself. He rushed outside to find Fergus, Rabbie MacNabb and Young Jamie all crowding over the corpse of a blackbird, the recently-fired pistol still smoking in Fergus's hand. "Are ye daft?" Jamie demanded from Fergus, storming over to the three young lads and snatching the pistol from Fergus's hand - he had a right mind to whack the young man over the head with it. "I told ye te put this back and never touch it again!"

"I am sorry, Milord, but there was a raven-" Fergus began, but Jamie cut him off.

"I dinnae care fer yer excuses, and the English willnae either!" Jamie snapped at him.

"But we were just protectin' the bairn, sir! Ravens are bad omens!" Rabbie exclaimed.

"Do ye think the English will give a damn aboot superstitions?" Jamie demanded from him right as Mrs. MacNabb came out of the home with her skirts in hand.

"Rabbie MacNabb, what were ye thinkin'?" she demanded from her son as she approached the three young lads, and then she turned her attention to Jamie. "Oh, ye've got a lovely wee nephew, and he's fine and healthy. Ye go inside, I'll handle this." Jamie nodded and quickly rushed into the house, making his way up the stairs and stopping in the doorway to Jenny's room, where she lay on the bed holding the bairn in her arms. For a few moments, he watched her, this mother with her newborn child, in silence, until she spoke to him.

"I thought I'd call him Ian," Jenny said to Jamie without looking at him. "Time we named one after the man that sired them, aye?" She then turned her head to look at him, beckoning him to enter. When he did, she handed him her newborn son, Jamie expertly cradling the wee lad in his arms. "Ye always look braw with a wee bairn in yer arms, Jamie… Seein' ye holdin' yer own son when ye came back from France… It was a sight I thought I'd never see, and when ye said ye'd sent them away, I… I didnae think I'd ever see it again." She paused for a moment, watching Jamie silently holding her son. "How long has it been since ye've lain with a woman last?"

"Dinnae start, Janet," Jamie told her with a warning tone.

"'She's dead', tha's all ye've ever told me. And yer bairns are lost te ye," Jenny continued. "Ye ken, Mary MacNabb's still young enough fer bairns. I couldnae run the house without her, after Mrs. Crook died, and she's a fine mother te Rabbie-"

"I willnae marry," Jamie told her without looking at her.

"Is that what Catrìona would want?" Jenny said to her brother, and then she let out a sigh. "Well, perhaps it's best ye dinnae bring a child into this… What sort of father could ye be, cooped up in a cave as a wanted man?"

"Perhaps the bairn should meet his brothers and sisters," said Jamie, trying to end the conversation, but Jenny was stubborn.

"Do ye hear me, brother? I just want ye te find some happiness!" she exclaimed, suddenly jumping at the sound of the front door downstairs slamming open, followed by heavy booted footsteps.

"Find the weapon!" shouted the voice of what must've been Captain Lewis. "You, there! Where's your mistress?"

"Go! In the wardrobe!" Jenny exclaimed as Jamie ducked inside of it, closing himself in and trying to cover himself with clothes. Through the small crack, he could see the red-coated soldiers storming into Jenny's bedchamber rather rudely.

"Where's the weapon?" Captain Lewis's voice demanded from Jenny.

"Weapon? We have no weapons here, Captain," Jenny told him nonchalantly.

"My scouts heard a shot from the vicinity of this estate, so I ask again. Where are you hiding the weapon?" Captain Lewis demanded firmly.

"I cannae answer fer what yer scouts heard, but I'll tell ye again, I dinnae ken of any weapons here, we'd never risk such a thing!" Jenny snapped at him. "The woods around this estate are verra vast, mind you."

"I remind you, Madam, that as an officer in His Majesty's army, I am obligated to search this house should I have the slightest suspicion that the Acts of Proscription have been breached, and we will continue to do so until you comply with my request," Captain Lewis told her rather firmly, and Jenny scoffed.

"Captain, I have cooperated with every request made by His Majesty's soldiers," Jenny told him. There was a brief pause in the conversation, but Jamie only had a sliver of a view of what was going on.

"Have you delivered a child, Madam?" asked Captain Lewis suddenly. Shit. The child in question was currently in Jamie's arms fast asleep.

"Aye, I have," Jenny answered him.

"Where is it? Should it not be at your breast?" asked Captain Lewis suspiciously.

"Oh, aye… It was a fearsome birth, and the bairn wasnae breathin' when he came," Jenny explained, feigning a sad tone. "Ye see… He was already gone."

"Good," came the sharp, braggartly voice of another man in the room. "That's one less teutcher we'll have to deal with."

"Hold your tongue, Corporal," Captain Lewis snapped at the man, and then his tone softened. "Where is the body?"

"The midwife took it away te clean it fer burial," said Jenny.

"I see," said Captain Lewis's voice. "Find the midwife and have her bring the body."

"Oh, no, Sir!" Jenny exclaimed with mock anguish. "Captain, please, I cannae bear it-"

"Here's the pistol, Captain!" came Mrs. MacNabb's voice, her small feet carrying her into the room. "'Tis mine."

"Yours?" asked Captain Lewis suspiciously.

"Aye, it belonged te my late husband, Ronald," said Mrs. MacNabb mournfully, who truthfully hated her abusive husband. "It was the only thing I had left of him. Ye see, he died in a fire… I kept it, and it gave me comfort. I promise ye, Mistress Murray kent nothin' of it."

"And on what occasion did you have to fire it?" demanded Captain Lewis.

"I saw a raven land near the house while Milady was deliverin' her child, so I shot it dead," Mrs. MacNabb explained.

"Aye, but it was too late," said Jenny, chiming in. "As I told ye, the bairn was born dead."

"Just one of the foolish Highland superstitions, sir. Believin' a common bird can bring ill luck," came a Scottish voice. A Scottish redcoat?

"Oh, I'm heart sorry, Mistress," said Mrs. MacNabb.

"Should I take her into custody, Captain?" asked that nasty corporal.

"We have the weapon. She is no threat," Captain Lewis replied. "But I warn you once more, Madam, that if another violation occurs, there will be no mercy. Good day to you." Jamie waited for several minutes after the footsteps left the bedchamber before he came out of the wardrobe, handing Jenny back her bairn, which she immediately put to her breast.

"I've seen the look in his eyes, this new Captain… He's not one te give up," Jenny told him. "He'll not stop till yer hangin' from the end of a rope." She then turned her attention to Mrs. MacNabb. "Take a shovel. Dig a grave in the cemetery, in case they look."

"Yes, Mistress," said Mrs. MacNabb, ducking out of the room.


It was weeks later when Jamie heard commotion outside of his cave. At first, what he heard were muffled voices that began to grow louder as they got closer. "Dirty Scotsman! You betray your own people! And the Scots hate you for it!" Fergus's French accent wafted through the trees, still quite a good distance from Jamie's cave.

"Ye brazen wee bastard!" the Scottish redcoat shouted after Fergus, evidently chasing him in the woods. Jamie peered out through the vines to watch this chase happen.

"Your face is as red as your coat!" Fergus shouted at the redcoat. "You fancies!"

"I'll rip yer tongue out!" shouted the redcoat, short, stout and fat as he chased Fergus through the woods.

"Filthy redcoats!" Fergus shouted again, and Jamie realised that there were actually two redcoats on his tail. "Morons!"

"Ye'll pay fer those words!" shouted the Scottish redcoat. "That tongue will get my boot up yer arse!"

"Dinnae taunt them," Jamie muttered quietly to himself.

"No woman will have you!" Fergus shouted back at them.

"Get back here, you filthy urchin!" shouted the other redcoat, an English one.

"Run, ye fool!" Jamie muttered again to himself.

"French scum, we'll string ye up!" shouted the Scottish redcoat again right as Fergus tripped over a log, and the Scottish redcoat threw himself on top of Fergus. "Ha! Ye cannae run from me! Hold him down, Jenkins!"

"Go to hell!" Fergus spat at them stupidly as he tried to resist the two redcoats.

"Hold on, he's just a boy," said Jenkins as the Scottish redcoat raised his sword, and Jamie had to avert his eyes as he heard Fergus scream as the Scottish soldier sliced Fergus's hand clean off.

"Come on, leave him!" Jamie heard the Scottish redcoat say.

"If we do nothing, he'll die!" exclaimed Jenkins, and Jamie turned his head back to see the Scottish redcoat yank on the arm of Jenkins to drag him away.

"Tha's an order, Private!" said the redcoat. Jamie waited until they were out of sight before he made his way down to where Fergus lay whimpering, cradling his bleeding stump where his hand had once been against his chest.

"Christ, laddie," Jamie said quietly, undoing his belt and using it as a tourniquet around Fergus's forearm. "Easy, now. Dinnae fash, Fergus. I've watched Milady do this many times. Come now, let's see if I can still lift ye…" Using his knees, he bent down to pick up the young man, his lower back straining a bit, but once he shifted his balance, he managed fine. Jamie certainly wasn't as young as he used to be at thirty-two, but he still had enough strength to carry an eighteen-year-old lad several miles back to Lallybroch, where Jenny and Mrs. MacNabb tended to Fergus's injury.

"Yer quick actions saved him, brother," Jenny told him after leaving Fergus to rest in one of the rooms.

"I should have stopped them," Jamie said quietly and bitterly.

"Then ye'd be dead, and so would he," Jenny replied. "We'd all be dead, ye ken that."

"Dead…" Jamie muttered quietly, tears beginning to form in his eyes. "If only I could be…"

"Oh, brother," Jenny said, embracing Jamie when she noticed tears rolling down his cheeks. "It'll be all right, mo chridhe . Everrathin' will be someday."

"When?" Jamie asked her solemnly. "I've no wife, no children. The children I did have will forget me wi' time…"

"They'd never forget ye, ye clotheid!" Jenny exclaimed, pulling back from the embrace. "My wee nephew admired the hell out of ye. The way he used te follow ye around like a wee pup… And my niece I cannae speak for, as she was just a bairn, but as a daughter meself, a lass never forgets her father. Ye hear me?" Jamie nodded subtly, wiping his eyes dry. "And ye do have a child - Fergus. He looks up te ye like a son, always hated how he could never be with ye. He never understood why it was safer fer him te stay here, when the English kent he was here."

"Aye," said Jamie, nodding again. "Aye, I suppose I do…"

"Go see te him," Jenny replied, nodding her head in the direction of the room, and Jamie went inside. Fergus lay on the bed in a drunk stupor, having taken a lot of whisky in order to get through the cauterising that had been done on his now stump of a hand. It was heavily bandaged and laying on a pillow slightly above his head while Fergus breathed heavily. Jamie bent down to touch his shoulder and Fergus shifted his head a little to look at him.

"Ye all right, ye wee fool?" Jamie asked him.

"Oh… I am sorry, Milord," Fergus said to him sadly and with shame.

"What were ye thinkin', laddie?" Jamie asked him, sitting down on the bed beside him.

"I… I tried te lead them away from the cave," Fergus replied meekly.

"Aye, so ye were," said Jamie proudly. "Ye did well, lad. And… I'm the one who should be sorry. Ye remind me that… that I have somethin' te fight fer. Havin' had te give up my children fer their safety was the hardest thing I've ever done, but wi' you, I'm not left alone." Fergus smiled sleepily at him.

"There you are, Milord," said Fergus happily, and Jamie glanced at the bandaged stump.

"Does it hurt much?" Jamie asked him, flexing his own right hand in memory of the injury it had once sustained.

"A bit," Fergus replied. "Sometimes, it feels warm or scratchy, or it hurts like it is still there. Monsieur Murray, he say that sometimes, he can still feel his leg."

"Aye, I've heard somethin' aboot that," Jamie replied softly.

"Madame Murray, she has been most generous with the whisky," Fergus continued. "Although you know that I prefer the taste of French wine." Jamie couldn't help but chuckle lightly at Fergus's attempt at lightening the mood. "Do not trouble yourself, Milord, for I have been fortunate. Do you recall the agreement we made in Paris? When you hired me to steal letters for you?"

"Aye," Jamie said curiously.

"You said, should I be arrested or executed, you would have Masses said for me for a year, and should I lose an ear… or a hand…" He glanced briefly at his stump before returning his gaze to Jamie.

"Then I would support ye fer the rest of yer life," Jamie finished for him. "Ye can trust me te keep that bargain, laddie." Fergus smiled cheekily at him.

"I have always trusted you, Milord," he told him. "I think I am most lucky. I have become a man of leisure, no?" Jamie couldn't help but chuckle and he lightly patted Fergus's shoulder.

"Get some rest, laddie, or Madame Murray will have my head, and yers, on a silver platter," Jamie told him, allowing Fergus to get some sleep while he made his way back to Jenny. She was downstairs in front of the fire cradling baby Ian, who suckled happily from her breast. Jamie stood against the bannister of the upper level, watching the sight and suddenly able to picture Catrìona with a bairn suckling at her breast. He'd seen it many times, but he couldn't help but wonder if she held the bairn he sent back with her through the stones to her breast the same way. He wondered if it had been a boy or a girl - would be, rather, considering it wouldn't be born for four hundred years. His vision flashed back to the present, watching Jenny, safe and secure, remembering how close the English were, remembering the scratches on the walls and the priceless items stolen. Every day, she and Ian put their lives and the lives of their children on the line for him , keeping him safe - well, he couldn't let them do that any longer. "Jenny," Jamie said after a moment, interrupting her peace as she followed his voice and met his eyes.

"Jamie! Are ye well? Ye look troubled," she asked him, urging him to come down and sit beside her on the settee. He did so, sitting beside her and glancing down into the freshly fed face of Young Ian. "Tell me, brother. What troubles ye?"

"I cannae stay here any longer," he said. "Every passin' moment that the English dinnae have me is another moment ye spend in danger. I cannae do that te ye anymore."

"Where would ye even go? Ye cannae go back te Barra," Jenny said to him, not fully understanding what it was that Jamie was saying.

"I'll go wherever the English take me," he told her, and her eyes widened.

"Like hell ye will," she spat at him.

"Janet," Jamie began. "There's a hefty reward fer my capture. If ye were te turn me in-"

"Turn in my own brother? Have ye gone mad?" Jenny demanded from him.

"The English willnae stop until they find me, Jenny. If ye turn me in, ye'll get the reward money and they'll not come after ye anymore due te yer loyalty te the Crown," Jamie explained to her.

"Te hell with the Crown! I'll do no such thing! Condemin' my own brother te the gallows… or worse!" Jenny exclaimed, upsetting Young Ian.

"Not much else is worse than the gallows," said Jamie somewhat sarcastically. "Just send word te Captain Lewis, tell him ye've heard from me."

"No! I cannae do that!" Jenny snapped at him.

"Then I'll ask Mrs. MacNabb te do it! Ye'll still get the money either way. Do ye truly think I can endure watchin' my own family suffer at the hands of the English? What if Young Jamie loses a hand te them next? Or they come and kill one of ye? I'll not be responsible fer any further injuries te this family so ye will do as I say and turn me in!" Jamie spat back at her.

"I cannae do it, Jamie! Christ, have ye not seen the inside of enough prisons fer one lifetime?" Jenny demanded of him, and Jamie couldn't help but chuckle.

"Aye, well… it cannae be any worse than the prison I live in now," Jamie said to her quietly. "Tell the Captain first thing in the mornin'. In three days' time, I'll come, and then the English will leave ye alone forever."


It was the night before Jamie would be arrested by the English. He found that he couldn't sleep, so he sat up watching the flames of the fire. Red, like the hair of his beloved wife… Catrìona, whom he'd mourned for and longed for once before in this cave and did so again. Archie, too, had flaming red hair, and Brèagha as well. He wondered if Catrìona's next child would have hair as red as they did. He wondered how Tom was treating her… He wondered if Tom still wanted her, was willing to raise his child, would love both of them as if no time had passed. Jamie knew for certain that he would always love Catrìona no matter how many years had passed. He would love her for all of eternity, and it was a comfort to know that he would soon be reunited with her - or at least wait for her in purgatory.

"Ahem," Jamie heard a small voice say, and he turned his head to the entrance of the cave, now free of most of the long red hair he had cut shorter, as well as his beard. Standing in the entrance was Mary MacNabb, older than Jamie, but not by much, holding a picnic basket that was half covered by a dark cloak. "Mistress Jenny has sent food. Would ye… Would ye mind the company?"

"Aye," Jamie said after a moment of thinking. "Aye, it would be welcome." Mary nodded, entering the cave and setting down the basket on a stone. "It's verra brave of ye, turnin' yerself in… I certainly wish ye didnae have te."

"Aye," said Jamie, looking back at the flames and away from her. "I would do anything te protect my family… I already have once, and now I must do so again. If ye dinnae mind, take the books back te Lallybroch, and then-" He was interrupted by the sound of cloth hitting the floor and when he looked up, Mary MacNabb had dropped her cloak, revealing nothing but her shift underneath, her curves protruding through them and the subtle shadow of her nipples visible through the cloth. Slowly, she undid her hair, allowing her mousy brown hair to fall down her shoulders. Jamie scoffed. "Who's idea was this? Yers? Or my sister's? Did she think I'd change my mind on my last day of freedom?"

"Does it matter?" Mary asked him.

"No," Jamie replied. "No, it doesnae matter, because it willnae happen. Now, if ye willnae leave, then I'll have te." He stood up to walk past her, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest. "I meant it."

"Sir," she said back to him, meeting his eyes. "Yer sister didnae ask me te do what I'm doin' - it is my choice. And I ken well enough what yer thinkin', fer I've seen yer lady and how it was between the two of ye. I wish I could say it was that way between me and my Ronald… but it wasnae so. Still, it isnae my mind te make ye feel ye've betrayed what ye had. What I want is te share somethin' different, somethin' less…" She paused for a moment. "Somethin' we both need… Somethin' te keep us whole as we move forward in life… Do ye think ye might ken the warmth of a woman's bed beyond this night?"

"I dinnae ken," Jamie replied quietly, understanding her reasoning. What she had was a need for someone to comfort her, to remind her that she was a whole woman again, just as Jamie needed the reminder that he was a whole man. It had been two years since he had said goodbye to Catrìona at the stones, and in all that time, he hadn't felt the heat of a woman's bed. He hadn't wanted to, lest it was her, but she was gone. Catrìona was gone, but Mary MacNabb was here, now, practically naked and offering herself to him. She took his hand and raised it to her breast - it was small, almost the same size as Catrìona's, and she was warm like Catrìona, too. He closed his eyes, relishing in the memory of his wife's breast cupped in his hand, pretending that it belonged to her.

"I've not done this in a verra long time," said Mary, breaking the silence. She untied the strings of her shift and allowed it to fall, replacing Jamie's hand on her now bare breast. "Ye can look at me, if ye like." Not opening his eyes, Jamie subtly shook his head.

"Yer a bonny lass, but… it's just… somethin' I do," Jamie replied, and she drew him nearer to him, close enough so she could bring her lips to his.

She was not Catrìona.


JENNY POV

It pained her to have to do this. To turn her own brother in? How could she live with herself? Her parents would so ashamed of her. She could hear them now - How could you do this, Jenny? Your own brother, after all he's sacrificed for you?

"Chin up, lass," she heard Ian whisper beside her. "Ye need te not look as if yer watchin' a funeral."

"Am I not watchin' my brother be sent te his death?" Jenny muttered back to him.

"They dinnae hang Jacobites anymore, lass. He'll likely just be sent te prison," Ian replied. "I heard somethin' aboot the Black Fowlis bein' sent te Ardsmuir. There was talk of it in the town, a year or so ago. Ye ken tha's Cailean, aye?"

"Aye, of course I ken who that is," Jenny snapped at him, steeling herself as she saw Jamie begin to make his appearance in the courtyard. He still looked rather raggedy, but he'd cleaned himself up considerably, shaving that god awful beard and cutting his hair shorter. On his head was that damned brown cap that dubbed him the Dunbonnet.

"Jenny," said Jamie gladly, the happiest she had ever seen him in the last two years, but his eyes didn't share the sentiment. He paused for a moment, acting like he was surprised by the cold look on her face. He likely thought she meant to look as if she were unhappy to see him, but truthfully, she was furious he was making her do this. "Jenny, it's me… I've come home!" Suddenly, through the gate came a horde of English soldiers, four of them grabbing Jamie and dragging him backwards. He knew they were coming, probably saw their damned red coats hiding in the brush, but still acted surprised by the English grabbing him.

"James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser," said Captain Lewis as Jamie was put in chains and thrown onto a wagon, "otherwise known as 'Red Jamie', you are hereby under arrest for high treason against His Majesty King George."

"No, not my own sister!" Jamie called out dramatically, tearing Jenny's heart into more shreds as Captain Lewis placed a pouch of money into her open palm - blood money, more like. "How could ye?"

"This is yer own fault! Ye gave me no choice, brother! And I'll never forgive ye! Never!" Jenny called back to him angrily, masking her distress.

"This is blood money! Mother and Father would be so ashamed of ye!" Jamie called back, as if reading her mind, and she fought the tears in her eyes.

"Do not listen to that criminal, Madam, you have done well," said Captain Lewis. "You have done a service to the Crown." A service, indeed. She thought back briefly to the officer she'd murdered eight years before, who was still buried in a plot underneath a grave marked 'James Alexander Malcom Mackenzie Fraser'. If only she could do the same to Captain Lewis.


15 February, 1755

Ardsmuir Prison, Scotland

LORD JOHN POV

Lord John William Grey had to avoid stepping over deep puddles as he made his way across the stone courtyard of Ardsmuir Prison. It was dark and gloomy, with clouds covering the sky and rain pouring down. Usually, at this time of year, it would be snow, but it was an unseasonably warm day - John could at least be grateful for that. He climbed the many uneven stone stairs, following behind one of the officers as he was led to the Governor's Quarters, then let inside to see the current Governor Quarry at his desk enjoying the last of a meal. "Ah, you must be the next poor sot sent here!" said Quarry to Lord John, wiping his hands on a napkin and standing. "So, what do we think of this heavenly stone palace?" Lord John paused for a moment, glancing first around the uncleanliness of the room and then again out the window.

"Is it always so gloomy?" Lord John found himself asking, and Governor Quarry cackled.

"Oh, chin up, My Lord. The drink here is fine compensation, and I have left you a list of booze-merchants," said Quarry, joining Lord John by the window. Out in the distance, John could see a herd of humanoid dark figures - the prisoners, likely. "Aye, Ardsmuir is the carbuncle on God's arse… Five years, I have been here, and that is five years too long. I give you joy of your new posting, My Lord."

"It does appear a trifle incommodious, indeed," said Lord John rather dryly. "I assume the rumours that the skies are always grey are true?"

"Of course. It is Scotland, after all - and the backside of bloody Scotland at that," said Quarry with a cough. "Now, paperwork is the worst of the duty. After that, there's not a great deal to do, really, save to hunt for grouse and the Frenchman's gold."

"You mean the fortune in bullion that Louis of France sent to Charles Stuart?" asked Lord John, his face perking up. If he found the Jacobite gold, it would be enough to save his arse from this hell of a punishment he'd been sent to.

"Aye," said Quarry. "They say the Highland army hid it somewhere on the Moor, but also that the Red Witch cursed it. I was captivated by it my first year, determined to find it, but after a few years, I finally yielded to my better senses. However, as I am sure you are well aware, the man that does deliver treasure such as so to London would certainly have the attention of the Crown, no?"

"Indeed," said John, glancing back out at the prisoners. "I understand the prisoners to be mostly Jacobite Highlanders."

"Yes, and docile as sheep, most of them. No heart in them after Culloden. Three years ago, we had the Black Fowlis among us, but his Lord of a grandsire managed to get him on house arrest. Now we have another acclaimed Jacobite these last two - Red Jamie," said Quarry proudly, piquing John's interest again. For a moment, he felt the heat of fury boil in his stomach. He'd sworn to end the life of Red Jamie ten years prior before Prestonpans, and now, he had that chance. "God, I'll be glad to get back into society!"

"I take it there is not much in terms of society?" Lord John asked him, masking his bitterness at the mention of Red Jamie.

"Oh, you'll find that 'society' will consist only of conversation with your officers, and one prisoner," said Quarry, watching as John raised an eyebrow at him. "Red Jamie is the only Jacobite officer we have and we keep the man chained, and though he is as lowly as the rest of them, the men respect him as their chief. They call him 'Mac Dubh'. I don't know what it means, I reckon some sign of respect of sort, but if matters arise, he acts as their spokesman. The guards are all afraid of him. Those that fought at Prestonpans say he's the Devil himself. They said the same about the Black Fowlis, only that he was more vicious, but I found him to be quite a nuisance. As for Red Jamie, he's nothing more than a poor Devil now. You'll need Fraser's good will and cooperation. I had him take supper with me once a week, when we could discuss matters of the prisoners."

"I'll not dine with that prisoner," said Lord John with a scoff."

"As you wish," said Quarry. "What you do here is no concern of mine. I also have an arrangement with the Lord of Cìosamul - the Black Fowlis's grandsire. Every two months, his nephew will come to check up on the welfare of the prisoners. If he finds their conditions agreeable, he'll give you thirty pounds," Quarry told him. "Well, I'll leave you to it, then. Good luck, Major. God knows what you've done to be sent to this hell." With that said, Quarry was quick to leave, leaving Lord John to stew in his misery. Dine with Red Jamie… What a silly request. Why should Red Jamie get any better treatment than the other prisoners? If anything, he should get worse - he supposed he did, spending all his time in irons. Well, Red Jamie would learn to respect Lord John better than he had Quarry, if he wanted to live.


March 1755

JAMIE POV

"I've just seen the new Governor fer the first time," said one of the men to Jamie, called Hayes. "Have ye seen him yet?"

"Aye, I had a look at him in the yard," Jamie replied, warming his hands near the peat fire. "We havenae spoken."

"Well, better the Devil ye ken, than the Devil ye dinnae," said Hayes. "Mac Dubh, am I wrong?"

"No, Hayes, yer not wrong," Jamie told him. "I cannae say if yer right, yet." Jamie found himself distracted by a wet cough, and turning his attention to the aging man in the corner of the cell, Jamie stood from the hearth and joined Murtagh in the corner, pulling the scrap of a blanket higher up to his chin to keep him warm.

"So," said Murtagh between coughs. "Ye've seen the new Governor then? Is that what the neep-heids were blatherin' aboot?"

"Aye, I've seen him," Jamie replied quietly. "He seems familiar, but I cannae place him. I understand his name is Grey."

"Och, well," said Murtagh, letting out a cough. "Matters not. All the mollies look alike. Take God's own eye to tell one from another."

"Aye, well, they say the same aboot us," Jamie told him. Murtagh coughed into his hands again, then produced a small swatch of tartan cloth from his pocket, holding it to his lips. "Best ye tuck that away… Ye ken the punishment fer havin' it."

"Aye," Murtagh agreed again, tucking the tartan back into his pocket. "So… Ye took no measure of the man?"

"Hey's gey young," said Jamie. "Younger than me, looks scarce more than a bairn, maybe… Maybe Archie's age. Likely aulder, but looks te be. He'll be eleven now, my lad… Anywho, he carries himself well, shoulders square, and a ramrod up his arse." Murtagh couldn't help but chuckle.

"The ramrod is standard issue in the British army," said Murtagh, and Jamie shared his chuckle., then happened to notice a wound on Murtagh's hand.

"Ye've been bitten again," he said, grasping Murtagh's hand and looking at the injury.

"Aye, the rats are growin' uncommonly bold," Murtagh replied, coughing again.

"And la grippe as well," Jamie replied, pulling some herbs out of his own pocket, and Murtagh scoffed.

"Och, not more of yer damn thistles," he said. "Do ye think me a pig?"

"Aye, as stubborn as one. It's only milk thistle. Take the heads off, mash the leaves and stems," Jamie told him. "Catrìona taught me this. She kent a fair amount of healin', she did."

"Aye, so she did," said Murtagh with a heavy sigh. Footsteps began to approach the cell and Sergeant Robert Murchison appeared at the door.

"James Fraser," said Murchison sharply. Intrigued by this request, Jamie agreed to go with Murchison, who brought him to the Governor's Quarters. "The prisoner, sir, as commanded," said Murchison to Governor Grey, who was sat at his desk eyeing Jamie curiously.

"Thank you, Sergeant," said Grey, dismissing Murchison. Once Jamie and the Governor were alone, Grey stood and approached Jamie, Jamie's eyes watching him like a hawk. "James Fraser," Grey began. "I am Major John William Grey, the Governor of this prison. I believe you and Governor Quarry had an… understanding."

"Aye, we did," Jamie said shortly and neutrally.

"I would like to continue that arrangement, with you acting as spokesman to the prisoners," Grey said to him.

"Verra well," Jamie replied.

"I have requested supper be sent for us both," said Grey, referring to a table that Jamie had frequently dined at with Quarry, and his eyes widened at the sight of a rat on his silvery platter. "Damn my eyes, it's after my supper!" he exclaimed, shooing the rat off of the plate. "Has this prison got a cat?"

"I believe in the storerooms, sir," Jamie replied, not moving from where he had been placed by Murchison.

"I'll have to have one fetched up here at once," said Grey bitterly, and then he turned his attention to Jamie. "Are there… Are there many rats in the cells?"

"Great many, sir," Jamie replied politely. "They sometimes scurry across my chest whilst I'm sleepin'."

"Then I will ensure that every cell has its own cat," said Grey.

"I dinnae think the men would care te have a cat takin' all their rats," Jamie said to him, and Grey's eyes widened in shock.

"Surely, the prisoners do not eat them?" Grey asked him with a scandalised tone.

"Only when they're fortunate enough te catch one," said Jamie in response, amused at Grey's horrified expression. "The squalor is shockin', isnae it? God kens what ye did te be sent here, but fer yer own sake, I hope ye deserved it."

"Quite," said Grey bitterly. "We shall have to continue this meeting next week. I think it best you return to your cell, prisoner."

"Aye, sir," said Jamie, bowing his head a little to Grey, and then he was gone.


Summer 1755

LORD JOHN POV

More rain. Always rain in this bloody land. Always grey skies and cold air no matter what time of year it was and-

" A' bhana-bhuidseach! A' bhana-bhuidseach! Tha i… Ce n'est pas une dame blanche! " came the disoriented voice of an aging man, and Lord John followed the sound to see a man stumble and collapse onto the ground. "The gold… the gold… The Devil hath the gold…"

"The Devil… the gold," John repeated quietly to himself. "The gold… You, there! Halt! Bring me that man!"

" Chuir a' ghalla had the gold… an t-òr air falach air an eilean…" the man muttered again.

"Who are you, sir?" Lord John demanded of him. "How do you come by this place?"

"The gold is cursed," said the man quietly and weakly.

"Did he just say gold?" said one of the British officers to Lord John.

"Take him with us. Fetch him a doctor, as well," Lord John ordered. The man, who's name they'd learned was Duncan Kerr, was completely delirious and uttering pieces of phrases in Gaelic, French and English, making absolutely no sense. Lord John only spoke two of those languages, but he suspected that he knew of someone who spoke all three. Lord John heard the familiar chains and stood up as Sergeant Murchison brought in James Fraser, who was soaked to the bone from the rain. "Mr. Fraser, thank you for coming," Lord John said to him.

"Ye speak as though I had a choice," Fraser said to him with a cheeky grin.

"Indeed," said Lord John. "I summoned you because a situation has arisen in which I need your assistance."

"And what might that be, sir?" asked Fraser.

"An t-òr… an t-òr… Am Frangach a donné l'or… " Kerr muttered incoherently, and Lord John watched as Jamie raised a furry red brow at the man.

"This man is named Duncan Kerr," Lord John explained. "He has been found wandering the moor near the coast. He appears to be gravely ill, near death even, and his speech is deranged. However, certain matters to which he refers appear to be of… substantial interest to the Crown."

"So I see," said Jamie, watching Kerr moan about the gold in various languages.

"Unfortunately, he has been found to babble in a mixture of Gaelic and French, with no more than a word or two in English," Lord John said to him. "I should like your assistance to translate what this man has to say. I am told you speak both Gaelic and French. Come, we haven't much time."

"I'm afraid I must decline, sir," said Fraser, catching John off guard.

"Decline? May I inquire as to why, Mr. Fraser?" Lord John asked him suspiciously.

"I am a prisoner, not an interpreter," Fraser replied, and Lord John gave a soft frustrated huff.

"Mr. Fraser, if you comply, I will have your irons struck off," John told him irritably. "I understand you have been wearing them for two years now. I can't imagine how heavy they must feel - however, I have two conditions. You give a full and true account of whatever the fellow says, and you relay to no one, save me, any information you extract from the man."

"And I have but one condition, sir," Fraser replied, surprising John again. "That ye provide blankets and proper medicine fer all the men that are ill. Ye do have that arrangement with my grandsire, do ye not?"

"I thought he was only the grandsire of the Black Fowlis," said John curiously.

"Aye, but my wife's as well. She is the sister of the Black Fowlis," said Fraser, and Lord John closed his eyes for a moment.

"Aye, his wife, and before ye go, I'll have a look at that arm, give it a good bind." Even her voice in his memory was sharp and harsh. The Red Witch, wife of Red Jamie and sister of the Black Fowlis - the only of the three most wanted Jacobite criminals, save for Charles Stuart himself, who remained unaccounted for.

"Quite," said Lord John, a little unsettled by the memory of that fierce woman. The Red Witch was a frightful woman, and knowing she had cursed the gold and likely all of England, even the thought of being near Red Jamie and the mention of the Jacobite gold began to unsettle him, but he swallowed that fear. "It is… a most ambitious request," said Lord John, narrowing his eyes at Fraser when he noticed how visibly disturbed he must have been by the mention of the Red Witch. "We are in short supply of both and I can't possibly bring that about."

"Then this conversation is over. I shall remain in these irons," Fraser replied.

"Mr. Fraser, believe me when I tell you that I would honour your request if I were able, but I simply am not. The best I can do is send word to the Lord of Cìosamul requesting additional funds for both," Lord John told him.

"Hmph. Then I would settle for one man," said Fraser. "My kinsman, Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser. He has been strugglin' te survive here ever since Culloden."

"I will inquire as to what we have in the stores," Lord John told him.

"Then we have a deal," Fraser replied. Lord John ordered the irons struck from Fraser's wrists and he rubbed them. Lord John could see how the irons had chafed his wrists nearly raw over the last two years. Jamie knelt down beside the man and spoke to him in Gaelic, or French when Kerr spoke it.

" Tha an t-òr mallaichte… Chuir i am falach e… " Kerr muttered quietly to Fraser.

"Aye," Fraser replied.

" Tha e marbh. Tha Clann Choinnich marbh ," Kerr said again.

" An t-òr, a dhuine, " said Fraser quietly.

"Colum… Dougal… A h-uile gin dhiubh… " Kerr continued as if Fraser hadn't spoken. " Bidh daoine ag ràdh mar a dh'fhalbh Eilidh NicCoinnich… "

" An t-òr ," Fraser said again - Lord John deduced that it was the Gaelic word for gold, and it was similar to the French word for gold.

"Do ye be warned, lad," said Kerr in English, grasping Fraser's shirt. "It was given by the ban-druidh… la dame blanche." Lord John watched as Fraser stiffened slightly, then loosened himself up again.

"Who... Who is she?" Fraser asked him. "The white witch?"

"She… She seeks a brave man… a Mackenzie," said Kerr, drifting off into sleep.

"Speak te me. Duncan, speak te me," Fraser said, trying to wake him up.

"She… will come… fer ye…" said Kerr, uttering his last words before he died in front of them.

"Well?" Lord John said impatiently after a moment. "Mr. Fraser, tell me what he said."

"Speakin' of white witches and selkies," Fraser replied, standing back up.

"Selkies? White witches? That's it ?" Lord John demanded. "You're holding back."

"I keep my bargains, sir," Fraser told him calmly.

"Do you, sir?" Lord John spat at him. "I suspect there is more to this story. I can force you to talk." Jamie gave a very soft, quiet chuckle.

"There's nothin' ye can do that hasnae been done te me already, so try if ye must," Fraser told him, and Lord John stubbornly let out a frustrated huff.

"We will speak again, Mr. Fraser," he said dismissively. "Bring the prisoner back to his cell."


JAMIE POV

A few days had passed, and Jamie was brought back to the Governor's Quarters, summoned by Governor Grey. "I have promised you I would dine with you to discuss affairs of the prisoners, as you had with Governor Quarry," Grey said to him, and Jamie lightly smiled.

"Yer thinkin' yer pleasantness will loosen my tongue," Jamie said to him with amusement.

"Oh… No, sir, of course I didn't mean…" Lord John began.

"Ye can return me te the cells, if ye have that in mind," Jamie said to him, wanting any excuse to leave these quarters.

"Mr. Fraser, I only ask you to dine with me in attempt to forge a connection between us better suited to our situation here," Grey told him, urging him to have a seat.

"Verra well," said Jamie, sitting down at the table, where a plate of food sat before him. It was a small bird with a cooked potato with butter on the side. "Then I'll ask ye te allow us te hunt fer ourselves, since the Crown cannae supply our men with adequate food."

"A hunt? Give you weapons and allow you to wander the moor?" said Grey with a scoff. "God's teeth, Mr. Fraser."

"Not weapons, and not wanderin'," Jamie replied. "Give us leave te set snares upon the moor when we're cuttin' peat and keep meat as we take. We could also gather watercress, sir."

"Whatever for?" Grey asked him.

"Te eat," Jamie replied. "Eatin' green plants will stop ye gettin' scurvy."

"Wherever did you get such a notion?" asked Grey incredulously.

"From my wife," Jamie replied, and Grey's face seemed to change to one of concern.

"The Red Witch," he said. "Well, I… I shall take your proposal under consideration… Now, may we please begin? The pheasant will get cold. Extremely feeble-minded bird, all but begged to be shot. Nonetheless, quite tasty in a wine sauce, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye," said Jamie, cutting into the meat.


LORD JOHN POV

"What do you mean he's escaped?" Lord John demanded from Sergeant Murchison.

"He just ran off, My Lord! We searched the Moors, but we did not find him!" Murchison exclaimed.

"Well, search harder! What will the King think if he hears we allowed Red Jamie to escape?" Lord John snapped at him. "Find him!"

"Sir!" called another Sergeant, running over to Grey and Murchison from below the cliff. "Sir! We thought we saw him swimming out to the islands!"

"I want the cliffs searched in both directions. Keep an eye out for boats below. God knows there's room enough to hide a sloop behind some of those islands," Lord John said irritably.

"If he went in anywhere along this stretch, Major, you'll have seen the last of him," the Corporal told him.

"I do not need reminding, Corporal," Lord John snapped at him. "Remain here until nightfall, then return to the moors." For three days, Fraser remained missing, and finally, Lord John decided to take a boat out to the largest island where the ruins of a stone tower of sorts stood. He made his way up the rocks to the bushes that concealed the stone, and as he entered, he was suddenly grabbed, his own sword pressed against his throat.

"Aye, tha's how it's done, William Grey, second son of Viscount Melton," Lord John heard the harsh voice of James Fraser mutter threateningly into his ear. "How long did it take yer comrades te find ye after we tied ye te that tree? Were ye there so long as te shit yerself?"

"You remembered," John strained out, not fighting against Fraser as he held him firmly.

"Aye," Fraser replied menacingly. "After ye called me te yer quarters the first time. I tend te remember anyone who tries te slit my throat."

"Why did you… not speak of it before?" John asked him.

"I was waitin' fer the proper occasion," Fraser replied. "What reason did ye have fer not remindin' me?"

"I think you know why," John spat at him, remembering how Fraser twisted his arm and broke it and tricked him into believing his own wife was an English lady in distress. "They were the actions of a foolish boy and I regret them to this very day… The mere memory of them burns shame into my gut. But fortunately for you , my foolishness at Corrieyairack saved your life at Culloden, did it not?"

"Aye, yer brother, Lord Melton, was an honourable gentleman," Fraser replied.

"And my family debt to you has been discharged," John said to him.

"But not yer promise," Fraser told him.

"Promise?"

"When we last parted, ye vowed te me that ye hoped te discharge the debt of owin' yer life te me in the future, and that once it was discharged, ye would kill me," Fraser told him, and then he let him go, dropping the blade and kneeling down before Lord John, who righted himself as he turned to face Fraser with a curious look on his face. "Well, sir… Here I am."

"I… I am not a murderer of unarmed prisoners," Lord John told him, surprised and confused at what was happening. Fraser wanted him to kill him? But why? "Why do you want me to kill you, Mr. Fraser?" Fraser fell silent, slumping down and turning his gaze to the ground.

"I told ye faithfully all that Kerr had told me… What I didnae tell ye was that some of what he said had… meanin'… te me," Fraser told him quietly.

"What meaning was that?" asked Lord John, trying to remember the conversation. "Your… Your wife?"

"Aye," Fraser replied. "She… She's gone… She was a healer - a white lady. She was called the Red Witch fer her red hair, but she was a white lady. The Gaelic word fer 'white witch' is ' ban-druidh '."

"So… the man's words referred to your wife?" Lord John asked him.

"I thought they might be, so I needed te see fer myself," Fraser told him, looking back up at John. "I gave up everrathin'… My children, my home, my family… I was given an ounce of hope that she might be here… but it wasnae so. She is truly gone."

"And… the gold, Mr. Fraser?" Lord John asked him as Fraser looked down at his hands again, chuckling lightly.

"King Louis never sent gold te the Stuarts," Fraser replied. "Trust me, even he had sense te see that the Stuart claim te throne was a lost cause. All I found instead was… an empty box, save fer one jewel."

"It… it is a moving story, Mr. Fraser… Yet, there is no evidence that is the truth," Lord John said to him.

"I give ye my word my story is true," Fraser replied, standing up and pulling something out of his pocket. "And I have this as well." He placed a teardrop-shaped sparkling sapphire gem in Lord John's expectant palm, Lord John's eyes widening. "I saved it, thinkin' it might be useful if ever I were te be freed."

There was merit to Fraser's story, and Fraser's willingness to return, and be shackled again, solidified Lord John's belief in Fraser's story. He was an honest man, James Fraser, and would grow to become a friend to John. As more time passed, Lord John began to regularly host James Fraser in his quarters for dinner followed by a game of chess, and after a sly move, Fraser couldn't help but laugh as he sacrificed his queen. "Why, ye cunnin' wee bastard," he said to Lord John. "Where the hell did ye learn that trick?"

"My elder brother taught it to me," Lord John replied, sitting back.

"Yer brother verra stubbornly refused te shoot me," Fraser said suddenly. "I wasnae inclined te be grateful fer the favour at the time."

"You wished to be shot?" Lord John asked him curiously.

"Aye. I thought I had reason te at the time," Fraser replied. "I had thought my wife and my son were lost te me, but then she came back te me, with a wee daughter as well." Fraser smiled at the thought of his family - a very beautiful smile, actually. James Fraser was a very handsome man, and Lord John couldn't blame his wife for loving him.

"What were their names?" Lord John asked him.

"They still live. They're with my grandsire in Barra," Fraser replied. "Archie, my son… He's the spit of his mother. Her bonny cheeks and her grey eyes. He'll be eleven now, twelve in December. And my daughter, Brèagha… ' brèagha' is the Gaelic word fer 'pretty', and she is. She's got bonny blue eyes and a mass of bonny red curls. She'll be nine this autumn."

"They sound wonderful," said Lord John, a sad feeling suddenly overcoming him. "I… cannot imagine the pain you felt at… having to give them up."

"Aye," Fraser replied. "I gave up my daughter fer her safety once, but my son fer his twice."

"I felt… similarly… at the time, wishing to be shot after Culloden," Lord John confessed to Fraser. "I… lost a particular friend at Culloden. He was the reason I joined the army. There isn't much for a second son of a Lord to get."

"Aye, I was once the second son myself," Fraser replied.

"So I joined the army. My friend, he… inspired me. My brother was there when I found him dying. I didn't even have the chance to say a proper goodbye. He dragged me away. He was embarrassed, you see," Lord John explained to him. "He said I would overcome it - come to terms with it - in time… Hal is generally right, but not always. Some people, you… grieve over forever." He paused for a moment. "Do you find your life greatly burdensome, Mr. Fraser?"

"Perhaps… Not greatly so," Fraser replied. "The thought of my children livin', even if I cease te do so, keeps me goin'. But I think perhaps the greatest burden is carin' fer those we cannae help, not in havin' no one fer whom te care. That is… emptiness, but no great burden." Lord John nodded slightly.

"Your wife was a healer, you said?" Lord John asked him.

"Aye, she was, and no witch," Fraser replied. "Nothin' te fear, if she liked ye, but a real terror if ye gave her a reason not te." He chuckled warmly at the memory. "What a fire of a personality, she had… My son has it now. Her name… was Catrìona."

"You cared for her very much," Lord John observed.

"Aye, I loved her… Still do," Fraser replied. "I meant te thank ye, Major. The night we met at Corrieyairack, what ye did fer my wife… Perhaps ye may have some concern fer this lady's honour."

"She truly was a fearsome thing to behold," said Lord John, and Fraser let out a laugh.

"Aye, but ye were a worthy foe," Fraser replied amicably, and Lord John laughed.

"If you found a sixteen-year-old shitting himself with fear a worthy opponent, Mr. Fraser, it is little wonder the Highland army was defeated," said Lord John with amusement.

"Well, a man that doesnae shit himself with a knife held te his throat has either no bowels, or no brains," Fraser replied. "Strangely enough, that logic didnae apply te my wife. She was fearless, she was. Ye could threaten her with death and she'd laugh in yer face and turn around and threaten you ." He shook his head. "Ye wouldnae speak te save yer own life, but ye would te save the honour of a lady. I admire that."

"Your wife was not in danger at all, not with you," Lord John replied.

"No, but ye didnae ken that at the time," Fraser replied. "Ye thought te save her life and her virtue at the risk of yer own. I've thought of that now and again, since I lost her…"

"I see," Lord John replied, placing a hand on Fraser's knee, a little close to his waist. "I am sorry for your loss." He glanced up at Fraser to see a venomous, deadly look in Fraser's sky blue gaze.

"Take yer hand off of me," Fraser warned him, "or I will kill ye." Taking the hint, Lord John retracted his hand, awkwardly pushing his chair away from the table and a little further away from the man.

"It… It is likely time for… for you to return to your cell," said Lord John, standing up with Fraser's eyes watching him as he moved. That blue gaze was on him the entire time Fraser was led out of the room, finally leaving once Fraser had left the room.


Summer 1756

JAMIE POV

"Prepare to march the men!" came the voice of one of the sergeants. The prisoners were lined up and chained together, ready to depart the prison. It was being turned into a garrison for the British army, which meant that the prisoners needed to vacate the premises. They would be sent to the colonies as indentured servants, their contracts lasting twenty years. What Jamie wished was to stay behind, not wanting to be so far from his children, but at least he could write to them from the colonies, so long as whoever owned his contract allowed him.

"Fraser!" came Grey's voice, unchaining Jamie from the line and yanking on his arm.

"Wait, what's happenin'?" Jamie demanded, looking back at Murtagh, who seemed alarmed at Jamie being pulled away.

"The prison is closing, the prisoners are being removed," Grey told him as he dragged Jamie away from the line of men.

"Aye, I figured that out fer myself," Jamie replied.

"The fortress is to be garrisoned by the Queen's Seventh Own Regiment of Dragoons," Grey told him.

"And where am I bein' taken?" Jamie asked him. "I want my kinsman wi' me."

"I can only keep one of you," Grey told him. For several days following, Grey rode with Jamie to some unknown place, dragging him behind by a rope attached to his wrists. Jamie's feet ached and the ropes had rubbed his wrists raw, and his anger at being forcibly removed from Murtagh, who still wasn't entirely well, kept Jamie silent.

"It has been several days," said Grey when he'd stopped on a hilltop. "You will have to speak to me eventually."

"This is no better than slavery," Jamie said to him quietly, kneeling down on the ground to enable his feet to rest.

"A term of indenture is not slavery, Mr. Fraser. The prisoners will regain their freedom after their contracts end," Grey told him, and Jamie scoffed.

"Aye, if they live as long," Jamie replied. "Ye've yet te explain te me why I wasnae sent te the colonies with them. Why do ye keep me here, Grey?"

" You , sir, are not merely a prisoner," Grey replied. "You are a convicted traitor, imprisoned at the pleasure of His Majesty. It is why your brother was allowed to be out under house arrest. Your sentence cannot be commuted without Royal approval, and His Majesty has not seen fit to give that approval." He paused for a moment as he climbed down from his horse and approached Jamie, bending down to untie the ropes from Jamie's wrists. He rubbed the burns delicately, hissing a little at the pain. "I couldn't give you freedom, Mr. Fraser. This is the next best I could manage."

"Where am I te go then?" Jamie asked him, glancing up at Grey.

"An estate called Helwater," Grey replied. "You'll serve Lord Dunsany. I shall visit you once each quarter, to ensure your welfare. But I caution you… Your new host is not well disposed to Charles Stuart or his followers. You can scarcely hope to conceal the fact that you're a Scot, and a Highlander at that. If you will consider a piece of well-meant advice, it might be judicious not to use a name as easily recognised as your own."

"Why? Why would ye do such a thing fer me? I didnae let ye have yer way," Jamie asked him, shocked at this act of kindness that Grey had shown him.

"I… regret that particular moment of weakness… It was foolish of me. But… I told you about someone you cared about, and you did the same, and told me about your children… You gave me my life all those years ago, and now, I give you yours," Grey told him. "I hope you use it well."

"But… Yer brother discharged that debt," Jamie replied incredulously.

"For the sake of the family name," Grey told him. "I discharge it for the sake of my own." Jamie nodded subtly, glancing down briefly at his hands.

"May I write te my children?" he asked meekly.

"I see no reason why not, but your letters must be in English and they are to be read by Lord Dunsany, if he will allow it," Grey replied. "Now, Mr. Fraser, let us be on our way." He held out a hand to Jamie to help him stand, and then Jamie willingly followed Grey down the hill, which overlooked the grand Georgian estate known as Helwater.