Claire opens her eyes. She's still lying by the stones. She looks around... nothing seems that different, but there is a feeling, something in the air that tells her she is not where she once was.
She sits up and immediately notices that the stones have ceased screaming. But now there is another noise, unfortunately a familiar one, it's the noise of battle that travels through the air. Unsure what's happening Claire gets to her feet in a bit of a daze. Only knowing she must get away from the approaching battle Claire manages to scramble away.
As her feet get more sure of themselves she starts moving quicker but she is unused to her long dress and manages to slip and fall, she ends up sliding and tumbling down a hill knocking herself out again.
When she finally comes to she sits there for a moment at the base of a tree, trying to gather her wits. A commotion from above causes her to hug the hill trying her best to not be discovered but the pop of gun shots forces her to look up. She see three men wearing kilts, running from six redcoats armed with MUSKETS!
Claire's breathing starts coming quicker... the stones, did they work? Did they really bring her through time? Cautiously she gets to her feet and rubs her head and neck, checking for some kind of injury.
Suddenly there's the sound of muskets firing again only now they seem to be much too close and a split second later a random ball SMACKS the tree trunk right next to her. She gapes at the tree for a second before darting in the opposite direction and running as all hell.
As she runs through the woods, the branches and underbrush lashing at her, tearing bits of her costume. She nearly falls, steadies herself against a tree and then is GRABBED FROM BEHIND. Taken... unaware, she's helpless for a moment, but when her eyes focus on her abductor's face, her expression turns to outrage.
Frank!
"Oh this is just bloody perfect, how the devil did you follow me?!"
She demands to know but she sees the look of confusion cross the man's face and realizes this man is not her husband tho the resemblance is eerie.
"You're not Frank..." She mutters still not believing her eyes.
"No, I am not," The man replies, Claire starts noticing subtle differences between the redcoat and her husband, for instance he's slightly more wrinkled, more worn... and he has long hair that is tied back, also his skin is deeply tanned, not fair and unmarred as Frank's is.
Claire backs up a couple of steps as the redcoat eyes her with interest, his gaze is threatening in a way very similar to Frank's when she's said something that has displeased him. She backs up further and bumps into a tree forcing her to stop putting distance between them.
"Who the bloody hell are you...?" Claire asks with a slight tremble in her voice despite trying to sound strong and unafraid.
"I am, madam, Jonathan Randall, Esquire, Captain of His Majesty's Eighth Dragoons." He adds a dramatic bow, "At your service."
"Tell me, who is this Frank you seemed so displeased to see?" He asks.
"My hus- husband." Claire forces out.
"Must be a very dashing gentlemen for you to confuse us, does this Frank have a last name?"
Claire panics not knowing what to say and instead turns and RUNS headlong through the woods. She's slashed and whipped by branches and leaves, but pays them no mind in her sudden, panicked reaction. Unfortunately she doesn't get very far before she's KNOCKED DOWN from behind by redcoat Randall.
He has her pinned to the ground as she struggles to get him off her.
"Let me go!" She shouts at him, but he only finds her struggle amusing,
"Oh, it's like that, is it?" He taunts, forcing her around he kisses her hard, forcing his tongue into her mouth, but as he does Claire bits down hard drawing blood and nearly taking his tongue off. He rears back shocked before striking her hard across her face.
"You will pay for that" he warns spitting blood into her face before he lays his body over hers and starts pulling up her skirts. Claire SCREAMS into his ear and brings up a KNEE into his crotch. He falls off her in pain and she scrambles up, but she doesn't get far before coming face to face with a ROCK WALL and before Claire can find a way out, Randall has rolled to his feet and blocks her path to safety.
"You know, if you liked it rough, all you had to do was say. I promise I will be able to match you BITE for bite, scratch for scratch... THRUST for thrust." He says causing her to feel sicker the closer he gets to her.
She tilts her chin up, refusing to let another bloody Randall intimidate her,
"You don't scare me." She says.
He smiles, "Oh I think I do."
She tries to bolt past him, but he's faster and THROWS her back with a force that nearly takes her off her feet.
"You intrigue me, madam. Whores are usually so dull and obvious. I look forward to plumbing your depths."
Suddenly he's on her and Claire is completely overpowered. Strong, powerful fingers dig into her throat and shove her against the rock, his knees forcing her legs apart and his free hand reaching below her skirt. Just when she fears she'll be the victim of yet another Randall a man comes CRASHING down on her assailant from above.
With a well placed blow to the head from a powerful fist, Randall is now lying on the ground, unconscious. The man, late 30's- early 40s wears a ragged shirt and filthy kilt, with pock-marked skin and a swarthy complexion.
"This way." He tells her grabbing Claire by the arm and jerking her into the woods.
"Who the hell are you? Where are we" Claire asks her mysterious and grumpy rescuer but she is given no response.
"I said, WHERE ARE WE-" Before she can demand answers he suddenly whirls around placing a hand over her mouth and throws her body to the ground, pinning her there with his weight. She struggles, wide-eyed and expecting the worst.
In the distance, we suddenly hear English accents calling for help with the Captain. Claire struggles wildly, hoping to cry out for help. She bites down on Murtagh's hand, but instead of releasing her, he smashes a ROCK into her head knocking her unconscious.
Claire is carried on horseback and brought to an old cottage. She regains enough consciousness to feel him untie her hands, then he guides her through the door of the cottage.
Claire's eyes take a moment to adjust to the blaze of light inside still coming into consciousness from the blow to her head.
The cottage is alight from candles, oil lamps, and a fire in the hearth.
**Claire POV:
There is a rag-tag group of Highlander men and boys drinking, tending various wounds, and talking. One seems to stand apart as their leader, he is mid to late 40s, bald with a grey/white beard.
He looks up at me and my rescuer turned attacker,
"What is it you have there, Murtagh?" He asks... I suppose the brute's name is Murtagh.
"A sassenach wench, by her speech." He so politely responds.
He grips me around my arm and tugs me forward where the older man can take a look at me.
I decided that clutching at the remnants of my torn dress like a frightened child would only invite more predatory interest so I manage to pull away from Murtagh's grip and stand tall before my inspector with a steady expression on my face.
"A bonny one, sassenach or no." He remarks taking in my disheveled appearance,
"What's your name, lass?" He asks finally looking at my face and not my torn and muddied dress.
"Claire... Claire Beauchamp"
"Beauchamp? A French name, it is, surely?" He says trying to correct my pronunciation of my own bloody name.
"That's right." I say but he seems to pay my words no mind as he circles me like a shark,
"Where did ye find her?" He asks Murtagh who is still stood behind me as if they expect me to make break for it. In the dead of night with no idea where I am... it wasn't likely.
"At the foot o' Craigh na Dun havin' words with a certain Captain of dragoons wi' whom we are acquent'."
The men in the room all seem to bristle at the mention of Captain Randall, guess I wasn't the only one he had shown his less than appealing personality to.
"There seemed to be some question as to whether the lady was or was not a whore."
I dug my fingers into my fists but I so badly wanted to spin a around and slap that Murtagh for even suggesting such a thing.
"And what was the "lady's" position in this discussion?" The leader asks with enough condescension I wouldn't mind smacking him about as well.
"I. Am. Not." I stressed each word, letting my anger start to show through.
Something I said must have amused the group. They all seemed to be very interested in my whore status and started leering at me as if I was no more than an object.
A large, fat man in his early to mid 30s approached me
"We could put it to the test." He suggested, I wanted to vomit on his dirty face but I refused to show any weakness.
"That will do, Rupert. I don't hold wi' rape and we've not the time for it, anyway." The leader remarked as if taking the time to violate me would be inconvenient for THEM, yes I definitely wouldn't mind slapping him.
"Dougal, I've no idea what she might be, or who - but I'll stake my best shirt she's no a whore." Murtagh responded to whom I now knew was Dougal,
"Then why did you bloody bring it up?" I couldn't help myself quipping back.
Dougal looks shocked I had to nerve to speak without his permission and looks me over once more, surely re-calculating whether him and his men have time to rape me now... me and my bloody mouth.
Instead he just narrows his eyes at me, "We'll puzzle it out later. We've got a good distance to go tonight and we mun' do something for Jamie first; he canna ride like that."
He walks over to a man sat by the fire, he seems to be a young man, no more than 25, with a shock of red hair. He is sitting on a stool, rocking back and forth in pain as he clutches one shoulder with the opposite hand.
Suddenly the healer in me wakes up and I can't help the urge to go over and fix whatever is causing him pain but I don't dare move just yet... who knows they may not need my help, I wouldn't want to offend them, not that they seem to mind whether or not they offend me.
Dougal comes over and gently pulls away the protective hand on the young man's shoulder, while Murtagh quickly cuts away the dirty, blood-soaked linen shirt with a knife. I hear several men gasp at the sight of his injury, a bloody wound still flowing freely down his chest, but the real horror is the shoulder joint itself and the way his arm hangs at an unnatural angle.
"Out o' joint, poor bugger." Douglas remarks,
"Fell wi' my hand out when the musket ball knocked me off my saddle. I landed with all my weight on the hand, and crunch! There it went." I hear the man speak for the first time, there is something different in his voice, it almost seems gentler than his compatriots.
One of whom, Rupert I believe, has moved closer to peer at the wound.
"The wound's no trouble. The ball went right through, and it's clean - - the blood's runnin' free enough. I don't know quite what to do about the disjointure, though. You canna ride with it that way, can you, Jamie lad?" He asks, Jamie... the name seems to suit him.
"Hurts bad enough sitting still, I couldna manage a horse." He squeaks out letting the pain show in his voice. One of my feet seems to move on its own wanting to bring me over to him but I don't move more than a step before I regain control.
"Dinna worrit yourself. I don't mean to be leaving him behind." Dougal told him.
Rupert looked about to the other men, "No help for it, then. We'll have to try and force the joint back. Here, lad." he says as he uncorks a leather flask and Jamie wastes no time in taking a drink.
Rupert instructs Murtagh and someone named Charlie to hold him down.
Rupert grabs hold of Jamie's wrist as the other two get a firm grip on the young man. Jamie braces himself as Rupert gets ready to yank on the arm with all his might - I couldn't do it, I couldn't stay silent any more I knew what would happen if I let them continue and despite being knocked about my Murtagh and disrespected by Dougal and the other men, this Jamie had done nothing for me to let him suffer for.
"DON'T YOU DARE!" I found myself shouting out, I shocked not only myself but also the men around by the force in my voice, oh well I'm in it now...
"You'll break his arm if you do it like that." I explain, still none of them moved or made a sound as if they all thought they were hallucinating me, I rolled my eyes and moved forward, "Out of the way, please."
Surprisingly, they do as they're told and step back leaving room for me to examine the shoulder professionally for a moment.
"You have to get the bone of the upper arm at the proper angle before it will slip back into its joint." I try to explain to them but they all look at me like I'm speaking in tongues.
I take Jamie's wrist and pull it up, while turning the elbow in.
I look Jamie in the eyes for the first time and am momentarily frozen by how beautiful they are, but as I see him wince in pain I come back into myself,
"This is the worst part." I warn him.
Jamie holds my stare showing me he's not afraid, "It canna hurt much worse than it does. Get on wi' it." He says giving me a nod to let me know he trust me.
I cup his elbow, then use all my strength to force the limb up, feeling for the moment it will pop back into the socket. Jamie grimaces and I can feel the sweet gathering on my forehead, finally, there's a soft CRUNCHING POP and the arm is back in the socket. The relief on Jamie's face is immediate and obvious.
"It doesna hurt anymore!" He looks up at me like I've preformed magic, I just give him a nod and let him know soon it will, "It will be tender for several days. You musn't extend the joint at all for two or three days; when you do use it again, go very slowly at first. Stop at once if it begins to hurt, and use warm compresses on it daily."
Suddenly another man bursts into the cottage, "Dougal?" He calls for the leader to come closer. But my attention is pulled back to Jamie when he starts talking again,
"I'm taking a guess you've dun this before." He asks.
"Yes, I trained for many years and served for even more when war started."
"Ye dinna seem ole' enough to have that many years at anythin'" He remarks studying me.
I thought back to how someone would give their age in "olden times,"
"I am 6 and twenty." I told surprising him a little.
"Hm, thought you were around my age." He confesses.
"And how old is that?" I ask, now looking to his gun shot wound.
"3 and twenty." He tells me.
"Well 3 years is not so far off."
"No, 'spose it int."
There was a moment of awkward silence between us were I felt about 16 again but I just put my focus back on the medicine.
"The wound needs to be disinfected before it can be dressed." I told him, Murtagh came over questioning what I meant.
I tried to search for the right words,
"The dirt must be removed from the wound and it must be treated with a compound to discourage germs and promote healing." I explain but they just looked at me more confused, come on Beauchamp think... what will Scotts understand...
"Alcohol?"
Murtagh seemed to be pleased to hear a word he recognizes, and quickly pushed a flask into my hands.
"This'll hurt." I warn Jamie,
"it all hurts." He tells me. I nod and pour alcohol over the open wound, then look about for something to dress it with.
"Do you have a bandage or piece of clean cloth." I ask.
The men look at each other blankly.
I'm looking about the room for anything remotely clean looking, I am getting frustrated I decided just to lift up my skirts and rip some cloth off from the inner layers.
The men look at one another in a mixture of shame and confusion but I don't have the energy to deal with their bloody backwards sensibilities were mentioning rape in front of a woman is fine but her tearing of a piece of cloth from under her dress is going too far.
In quick order I make do with what I have and dress Jamie's wounds. Just as I finish Dougal reemerges and pushes his way back through his men,
"Can you ride, lad?" he asks Jamie who tells him, "Aye."
"Good. We're leaving."
Great... now what? I suppose it would be expecting too much to be takin to a warm bath.