Something More

I wake up three times in the night.

The first time, I jerk awake, thinking I'm still clamped in that cupboard, being smothered by the foetid smell of horse droppings. But then I take another breath, and I know it isn't so. The shaking rhythm of a vehicle in motion is the same, the darkness around me is similar, but I'm warmer, freer, the air is clean, and two strong arms are holding me close, not wrapped tight around me because there's no room for anything less. I breathe in once more and know we're back in the van, Jamie has me on his lap, and my head is on his shoulder. The smell that's lingering in my nostrils, is his.

I haven't opened my eyes, but he must know I've awakened. I know he must, because his arms twitched tighter around me for a moment after I started awake. He doesn't say anything though, or acknowledge me beyond that, holding his arms and himself rigidly still. He is waiting for me to relax again, but urgently - like he wants me here, wants me to stay here, like he can't bear to let me go. Like he cares. Like he miraculously fell in love with me in that cupboard, and now there is so much between us that words or even caresses would be insufficient to express it all, so why break the spell?

I smile, my lips up against his collarbone. Will I never have done with wishful thinking? He's just being a gentleman, caring for me scrupulously, every step of the way, to the end of the line. But I know that's all this is. Duty. We'll get wherever we're going, our paths will part, and then he'll forget me soon enough.

But that doesn't prevent me from enjoying it while it lasts. From enjoying him. I reset my shoulders, and snuggle into him just the tiniest bit. I inhale deeply again, and hum softly against the skin of his neck. He really does smell amazing. I want to raise my head and bury my face in the curve behind his ear, nuzzling to get the full scent of him. If we were alone, and if things were different. . .

Well. Then things might be different.

Suddenly, I notice his arms are shaking with the effort of holding them so still for so long. He can't relax until I do. Such a perfect gentleman. . .

I hum again, almost contentedly, and oblige him by falling back to sleep.

The second time, I float up out of a strange, heavy dream, and I'm laid back on the suitcases piled next to us, my cloak rolled beneath my head for a pillow, with one of his arms slanted under my side, and the other slack across my thighs. I open my eyes halfway, and see his head lolling on his chest. He's asleep. Very.

The rhythm of the car hasn't changed, but the dark has become the deeper, colder dark of midnight and beyond. An occasional streetlamp illuminates things, but so brightly that the images they leave in my mind are blurred, overexposed, colourless jumbles.

The only clear thing is Jamie, his breathing deep and regular, his silhouette so near, the lines of it so pure, that even in the dark I can see his cap has shifted halfway down his forehead, pushing his hair into his eyes. I'm hyper-aware of every place we touch. The base of my spine against his thigh. One of his arms brushing my knees. His other arm digging into my bruised ribs. . .

Carefully, I shift so that I can reach his hand, and lift his arm from under me. For a wild second I don't know what to do with it. Then, I put his hand on my shoulder, lean my head against his wrist, and go back to sleep again.

The third time, I awaken instantly, like turning on a light switch, suddenly, but without shock. The cabin of the van is filled with the blue-grey light that speaks of dawn, and I am still leaned back on the uneven surface of the suitcases, my legs still draped over Jamie's lap, and one of his arms is still resting across my knees. This time he is also awake, his head still bent, but now over a personal info-screen. The cool blue-white light from it gilds his hair a strange green-brown, and brightens the dark blue of his cap.

"Mornin'," he looks over at me and smiles, "Sleep well?"

There is a shade of irony in his tone. Such an ordinary question doesn't sound quite right in these far-from-ordinary circumstances.

"Mmm. Better than I expected. . . or had reason to hope."

"Good." He smiles again, and goes back to scrolling though whatever he's looking at on his info-screen.

For a long minute, I consider him. He's young, certainly less than thirty, and possesses the kind of beauty that women dream about - but for themselves. Skin, eyes, eyelashes, hair, I'd gladly trade mine for his. Even the lines of his mouth are beautiful. But he's so intensely, assuredly male, I have to admit, I'm a little unsure what to make of him. I haven't had time to really think about him until now, and it suddenly strikes me as very odd that such a physical specimen should be traveling in such gruff, blunt company. . . and only be their horse wrangler. I know he can be gentle, courteous, caring - and with his looks, why isn't he the candidate for the Independent Scottish Council? Dougal is far from unappealing, but. . . Jamie. . . He's surely capable of more, much, much more. . .

And then I remember the arrest warrant. Murder. He's wanted for murder. He hid in a cupboard in a horse trailer with me crammed up next to him because he's wanted for murder. . .

In the warmth of the car, the sky just brightening to a rosy dawn, and with my legs draped over his lap, the whole thing seems incredibly absurd.

Jamie puts down his info-screen, and glances at me sidelong, "Like what ye see?"

I lower my eyes, briefly ashamed of staring at him so. "I'm. . . more baffled by it."

"Are ye now?" He turns wide, curious eyes to mine, "An' why would tha' be?"

I gesture at how we're seated, "Well. . . why did you hold me all night? I mean, after the checkpoint was cleared, there was no need. . . was there?"

"Ah, Sassenach," he laughs, softly, and nods towards the front of the cabin, "While I was takin' care of ye, I didnae have to take a turn drivin'."

I snort at him, "You hate driving that much?"

"Weel, let's jus' say I like ye more. And besides. . ." his face sobers, and he looks down at his hands, "Ye fell asleep in that cupboard, scairt, and distressed, tremblin' like a wee colt wi'out its mam." He tentatively pats my knee, "I wanted yer wakin' tae be. . . well. . . no' that."

My heart warms. I can't help imagining what kind of father he'd be.

Well, that and. . . other things he might be good at.

"You certainly succeeded at that," I say, smiling into his eyes. We look at each other for a good deal longer than most people can without growing uncomfortable, all of what was said in that cupboard replaying in my head.

"Jamie?"

"Aye?"

"How did you know that I had no identity card?"

He sighs and leans back, closing his eyes. "When Murtagh brought ye in, ye were flat out. Dead to the world, ye ken?"

He looks quickly over at me. I nod.

"Weel, while I was wrappin' yer foot-"

"You took care of my ankle?"

"Aye. I grew up wi' three brothers - an' we were all venturesome lads - one of us had tae learn how tae bind up hurts, and I was the only one who showed any aptitude for it. . ."

"Right, sorry. Go on."

"Weel then. I was wrappin' yer foot, and Murtagh was tellin' me how brave ye'd been-"

I bark a laugh, interrupting him again.

"What?"

"Oh nothing. Go on." I don't know if I want this generous gallant of mine to know just how murderously angry I was during my encounter with Black Jack's men. . .

"We got curious, ye see. Ye'd given them a black eye, Murtagh said. Naebody does that tae Black Jack. Mostly they surrender or run. Ee's a devil of a bastard, ye ken."

"I'm beginning to. . ."

He half-smiles, ruefully, "And yer wee bag was there, and mebbe we shouldnae have, but we looked through it."

I smirk, "And found nothing but mushrooms, chestnuts and alisanders."

"Aye."

I lean forward, and whisper, centimeters from his ear, "And what if I'd hidden the card in my underclothes?"

He blinks, and flushes almost as dark red as his hair, "Ye. . . ye didnae. . . I mean. . . I mean we didnae. . ." He stutters to a halt as I laugh.

"Are you sure you held me all night just because you don't like driving, Jamie?", I run a hand up his arm, and for a second seriously consider running my fingers though the tangle of curls on his neck.

"Aye," says, stoutly, "That was the reason."

"Mm," I hum, noncommittally.

He looks down at where my fingers are now tracing a pattern on his shoulder, then rakes a glance across my face, his eyes coming to rest on my lips.

"That. . ." he says, slowly, "And summat more. . ."

Before I can reply, he notices something over my shoulder, and points, eagerly.

"Look a' that."

I twist around, and see the dark shape of a grandly proportioned house, silhouetted against the pink-streaked sky.

Whatever spell had been weaving between us is quite broken, and only just in time.

"What is it?" I ask, though whatever the place is called, I know this must be our destination.

He lifts my legs gently to the floor, and undoes his harness.

"That's Castle Leoch."