Well Laid Plots

"Tea or coffee?" Jamie pokes his head out of the break room in my office, "I c'n make either."

"Tea, of course," I say, over my shoulder, "Three bags to a liter, and steeped for five minutes exactly. No cream, no sugar."

He grins, and shakes his head, "Ye'er sae English, Sassenach."

"Yes. And a good thing too, considering you just called me 'English English'."

"S'pose I did," he frowns slightly, and his head disappears back into the tiny room.

I smile, and turn back to the map of Leoch I have unrolled on my desk, re-checking the route we'll be taking today. I've never walked plots that are outdoors before, let alone on such uneven ground, or in such chilly weather. All the same, the layout of Leoch's arable fields is about what I expected from a rocky, hilly country like this one, and the route I have planned is as efficient as I can make it. . . which isn't very. I estimate we'll be trudging around, trying to get all the necessary samples, for at least four or five hours. And that's just the section I have planned for today.

I'm used to this stage taking three hours, at most - some of the larger farming concerns might require six hours, split over two days, but certainly no more than that - and I already doubt if I'll be able to walk the Leoch fields in less than a week. I'm used to walking grids of hydroponic vats, taking water and growing medium samples, testing for light source and growth tray integrity, and then going back to my lab, where I program the sensors, run a biome compatibility simulation and growth stat probability curve, calibrate my crop regulators for optimal resource distribution, and then let the planters and fertilizers get to work. I'm used to ten hectares of growing space fitting into a building of one fifth that area. I'm used to metal floors, scrubbed clean, the only soil in sight the carefully conserved trays of bio-active compost used to grow a few non-hybridized specialties. I'm used to a white lab coat, an info-screen, and a chem-test pack being my primary farming tools.

Despite the fact that I've been studying maps since yesterday, and have put on at least two full layers of the warmest clothing Annie has provided me, I feel wildly under-prepared to be walking the plots of a full-soil farm in late 21st century Scotland, in mid-November, armed with nothing but trowels, specimen vials, a bottle of tea, and one tall and ridiculously attractive Scotsman.

I feel wildly under-prepared for just dealing with the Scotsman, to be perfectly honest. But the confidence I felt when I awoke hasn't left me, though it is hiding behind some anxiety at the moment. . .

"There ye are, Sassenach," says Jamie, putting a largish metal bottle down next to me on the desk. A "thermos" he called it, when I invited him in out of the cold twenty minutes ago. He'd offered to make me 'a wee thermos of tea' while I finished preparing the day's battle plan.

I spent most of what was left of yesterday poring over this and several other maps, and trying to marshal my resources into anything resembling a methodical structure. I had set Geordie and Willie to work cleaning and organizing the lab as much as they could, and they were only occasionally distracted by Angus and Rupert, who spent the day lounging in the lab break room with several stacks of Davie Beaton's old magazines, retrieved from the recycling bins. By supper time Willie proudly showed me a halfway workable section of lab counter, full access to most of the lab's greenhouse, and a set of startlingly well-organized sprouting trays. By that time I had a mildly functional understanding of the layout and crop history of about a quarter of Leoch's arable fields, as well.

Encouraging developments, all of them, but still an alarmingly meagre arsenal for the job I've taken on. . .

I force myself to smile. With Jamie here, and a bottle of hot tea, what is there to worry about?

We're going to walk the fields, collect chem samples, collect biome samples, bag and label them, and spend the day together. What is there in that to be anxious over?

"Thank you," I say, sighing deeply. Then I wrinkle my nose, recognizing a familiar stink coming from the break room, "But why do I smell coffee?" I wave my hand in front of my face, trying to get rid of the odour.

"It's fer me," he shrugs, "I dinnae like tea."

"Oooo, sacrilege!" I hiss, both annoyance and reluctant allowance rising up in me. I hate coffee, but it's mostly the smell I can't stand. If he likes it, I suppose I'll have to find a way to deal with it, just like I did with my mother and her fondness for the vile stuff. "Tea is the nectar of the gods, Jamie." I open the dark blue enameled bottle he gave me and take a sip. Delicious. The steam rises up to me, blotting out the acidic pungency of the coffee from my nostrils, and bathing my face in soft fragrance.

"Hot leaf-water? Oh, aye. Nectar, tae be sure," he says, unenthusiastically. But he goes right back into the break room, and activates the office air-recirculator on the way. By the time I re-cap my bottle, there is only a faint lingering scent here in the office proper. "Thin, bitter, uninterestin' nectar. Aye."

I snort, "And of course you like coffee instead, of all things! The dark water that seeps from hell and smells like the devil! That has to break some kind of holy commandment somewhere, Jamie, it really does."

"Och, ceartainly, ceartainly. Ye ken I still aim tae drink it, regardless, aye? This pot included?" I see him moving about, fixing up his own thermos exactly the way he likes.

I sigh, over-dramatically, "Fine. But I demand fifteen kisses as penance." I push back from my desk. The plan is as planned as I can plan it. Now, to get it done.

"D'ye now?" Suddenly Jamie is leaning arrogantly against the doorway to the break room, his arms crossed, looking unfairly alluring for this time of morning.

I raise my chin, and put on all my Central airs and graces, "Yes. I do."

"Alrigh', then."

In two strides he has my chin in his hand, and is softly, sweetly, methodically deconstructing me with his mouth. He tastes like Mrs. Fitz's cinnamon rolls, and I have never felt so tolerant of the lingering smell of coffee. His touch is lamb stew, a steamshower, clean clothes. . . delicious, spreading contentment. Only I never knew contentment could feel this urgent.

I'm drifting off into an achingly warm place I haven't been to since Frank died, when he finally pulls away.

"One," I hear him murmur.

Then he sighs a little and says, more clearly, "Willie an' Geordie will be heer after the morning round wi' the horses," he shuffles some papers around on my desk, "Ye should probably leave a note fer them, sayin' what ye want done around heer while we're out."

I blink my eyes open, and finally resurface from wherever it was he just sent me, "Hmm? Sorry, I'm still on that 'one'. What do you mean - 'one'?"

He raises his eyebrows, "I'd a'thought t'was obvious, Sassenach. I can count tae fifteen as well as anyone, but ye didnae say a thing aboot how fast I had tae do it."

"You. . . you. . ."

My mind fumbles about, unable to think of anything but a single question. When? When did this start to feel so right?

"Are gon'tae be countin' tae fifteen verrah slowly. Aye."

I find my voice, if not my wits, "You're going to make this last all day, aren't you?"

"Aye. Sweetest penance I've evar had. Thankee, Sassenach," he salutes me, only half-mockingly.

"Oh, you devil," I groan, "Your liking coffee is no coincidence, that's for bloody sure. And here I thought you were going to try and stay on my good side."

"Och. All yer sides are good," he purrs, voice deepening suggestively.

In fact, it suggests that I might not be quite as powerless as I feel at the moment. . .

"All of them?" I say, lingering over my vowels.

"Aye. Every one."

"Even. . ." I turn to take a half-step towards a nearby bookshelf, and deliberately bump the desk with my hip.

He groans, and mutters, low and harsh, "Christ, Claire."

Yes, not only does all this feel right, it feels. . . normal. Like we've always been this intimate. Like I've known him all my life. . .

When, oh when did this stop feeling like cheating?

He comes up behind me, and gently holds my shoulders, "Ye ken I've no' even been tae confession in nearly fifteen years, aye? An' now, whene'er I jus' think about that perfect arse o' yers, 'tis enough foor me tae seriously reconsider my choices."

"Your choices about. . . religion?"

"My choices about worship, Sassenach." His lips connect with the small patch of skin between my ear and my scarf. He presses, nuzzles and inhales, savouring me, like I did him yesterday. He is freshly shaven this morning, his smooth skin brushing mine, raising tingles that only remind me more strongly that he's mere centimeters above the little rosy bruise still glowing on my collarbone. . .

"Two," he mutters into my skin.

Then, he lifts his head, and whispers into my ear, "Dinnae forget tae bring the specimen vials, mo ghràidh."

I groan, and desperately try to banish a severe case of full-body tingling. I stamp my foot, "I hate you, James Fraser."

"Aye, I noo," he says, grinning into my neck, "But th' local biome isnae goin' tae map itself, now is it?"

"No. Alas. And the soil chem tests won't run themselves, and the plots won't walk themselves," I sigh. The overwhelming task of getting Leoch's arable fields in hand is a stale, moldy prospect compared to what I want to do with this man. And to him. Repeatedly. "Not that I'm expecting anything all that interesting to turn up, of course. . ." A very belated, intensely furious blush overtakes me, ". . . nothing more interesting than you, anyway."

"I'll make shoor it isnae a boring day fer ye, then." He spins me around, wraps his arms around me, and takes my mouth again, until I seriously wonder if my legs have the muscular fortitude to be walking the plots today. . . or ever. . .

"Three," he says, an indeterminate amount of time later.

Shakily, I laugh and groan at the same time, pulling reluctantly away from him, "Why is this so easy, Jamie?"

He smirks, half mockingly arrogant, half oddly abashed, "Sae ye think I'm easy, d'ye?"

"Not you, silly. This." I gesture between us. "It took six dates for me to get to this point with Frank, but we knew practically everything about each other by then. When we weren't out doing something together, he was calling me, or writing me messages, and I was taking pictures of things he might like and sending them to him. We hardly ever stopped talking, even to. . . I mean. . . we didn't even make it official until. . ." I give a frustrated sigh, "You barely know me, Jamie! I know less about you, and already, I feel like. . ."

He raises his eyebrows, "Aye?"

"Like. . . like we're already beyond dating."

It isn't the answer I want to give, and it isn't the answer he wants to hear, but he still runs with it. "Instead of just about tae be going on our furst date, ye mean?"

I shake my head, "This isn't our first date, Jamie. That's part of my point. It's at least our fourth - fifth if you count being squished into a cupboard while hiding from the authorities, and then sleeping on top of each other for hours."

"An' what would ye say were the three others?"

I tick each one off on my fingers as I list them, "Making out the morning after, flirting in front of the fireplace with no one but two cats and a dog for chaperones, and me crying so much on your shirt yesterday, you found it necessary to give me homemade shampoo."

"Aye, weel, I reckoned t'was a better gift than real poo, ye ken."

I snort, "Har har. It was still a date, Jamie."

He nods, more out of contemplation than agreement, "Considerin' how unconventional all these so-called "dates" ha' been, I think we ought tae count the cupboard, most ceartainly."

I nod, "I agree. And it was quite an opener, as far as first dates go, I have to say."

"Mmphm," he grunts, "Soo. Five dates. And a sixth one already planned. Does that make me yer boyfriend now? Are ye my girlfriend?"

"That's what I'm getting at, Jamie. Logically, after five dates, I have to say of course. If we want those labels, they're ours to claim by this point. But I know so little about you still, and you only know bits and pieces about me."

"An' we only met a week ago. . ."

"That too. . ." my heart rate increases with shock. I'd actually forgotten how fast this has gone. Just how short a time it has been. So much has happened between us, and yet, so very, very little time has passed. Cumulatively, in terms of actual minutes while awake, I spent more time with Lamb in three days at the manse than I have with Jamie in a week at Leoch. And it still feels like we've been dating for ages.

Or have been married for a decade.

Or are in the middle of our honeymoon.

Or are the main characters in some bizarre kind of live action romance novel. . .

"I begin tae see what ye mean," he says, scratching the back of his neck, "It does seem we'er in a place. . . that we got heer more easily than. . . tha' this is. . ."

I smile, glad to see he's having just as much trouble defining us as I am.

"This is special, Jamie," I say, taking his hand and weaving my fingers through his, "Strong. And good," I go up on my toes to peck his cheek, "But we can't just let things happen any longer."

He frowns, "Bu' tha's the fun part. . ."

"Oh, we can always be spontaneous about dates, or gifts, or kissing, or teasing, or talking, or any of the millions of little things, don't worry. But when it comes to us, who we are, and what we expect from each other - we have to plan, take charge. . . be deliberate, and conscious about what we're doing. Or else. . . "

"Aye? Oor else?"

I suddenly realize to the fullest just how much this man means to me. Just how far I'd be willing to go, how much I'd be willing to do, for him. Now. Already. After only a week.

"We could destroy each other, Jamie. Completely wreck each other's lives." I look up at him, very serious, "I don't want to do that to you."

His expression hardens as he realizes I'm right, "Aye. I dinnae want tae do that to ye either."

"So," I pick up a pencil, and grab a yellow pad out of the desk drawer, "I'm going to write Geordie a note saying what I want done in the lab today. Would you mind putting the bags of specimen vials in the runabout?"

He nods, and goes. I turn my focus onto writing out detailed instructions for setting up the centrifuge, the vacuum chamber, and the optical spectrometer.

A steadying bit of distance, even if only momentary, is just what we need.

Once I'm done, I attach the small sheaf of papers to the little clip on the outside edge of the info-screen. Before he left yesterday, Geordie stuck it there, and told me if I had any instructions or requests, to leave them in it, and he'd be sure to see them.

Jamie is back inside now, standing silently in the center of the room, looking at. . . of all things. . . the chair across from my desk.

"Is this where ye said those things? Made yer pact wi' Dougal an' all?"

I nod.

He comes over to me, and gently puts his arms around me. "Claire, I'll be honest wi' ye. I dinnae ken what this is, what we are, or what tae expect next - from ye oor meself. An' I havenae the slightest idea where 'tis all goin'. But. . . those promises ye made. Those vows ye took wi' Dougal. . ." His jaw clenches, and he looks me straight in the eyes, "I want them."

Somehow, his intensity is disconcerting.

"You. . . want. . .?"

"Ye were forced tae say them wi' him. I want you tae give them tae me. Both of 'em. An' I'll give 'em back."

"But. . . but we. . . we promised. . ."

"Honour. And truth. Aye." He pulls back a little, running his hands up and down my arms, "He took those things from ye, and drove ye inta makin' a bargain wi' them. Like they were but coins in some back-alley poker game. Wi' yer peace of mind at stake. It turns my stomach, that does."

It suddenly strikes me, just exactly how monstrous Dougal has been. I realize that, on some subconscious level, I've been comparing him to Black Jack, and making allowances, because no matter how awful the situation with Dougal has gotten, it has never approached "violent four-on-one attack and attempted murder", at least.

But, I see now, that was a mistake. Black Jack is a different species of wrong - an evil man with corrupt power - the kind of man that abuses any and all who come into his sphere, for the pleasure, the joy of it. . .

Dougal hasn't sunk that low, but he also knows better.

At the moment I'm unsure if that makes his treatment of me worse or not.

There is a difference between a demon and a fallen angel. There has to be. But. . .

"An' alsoo. . ." Jamie hesitates, clenching his jaw again, "Ye dinnae ken how much it sticks in my craw - I didnae ken it until I came back inside jus' now. . . That there should be promises between ye and him - and such promises! - and none between ye an' me. He, who'd neglect ye, let ye suffer, and me, who'd die first." He pulls me close, and speaks into my hair, "I blame him entirely, ye ken, but I want them, Claire. The same promises. Only better, made pure, because they're freely given." He sighs deeply, the heat of his breath warming the top of my head, "I wilnae plead or press ye, an' if ye say no, I'll no' mention it again, but I want them, that I do. . ."

I hide my face in his jacket. This goes far beyond gallantry, hospitality, kindness, or friendship. Far beyond dating, even.

And far, far beyond a bit of pleasurable flirting and kissing. . .

"That's. . . a lot to ask, Jamie."

"I noo," he pulls back, and looks over my face for a minute, "No matter if ye say it back, I'm goin' tae promise ye now, Claire. I promise ye honour and truth, no' just for three questions, or whenever we may have contentious dealings, but for always. Honour and truth, tha mi a 'gealltainn iad sin dhut, a ghràidh."

I don't know what the Gaelic words mean, but the sincerity, the commitment in his tone quite overwhelms me. For a moment I feel like some kind of medieval queen, taking a vow of fealty from a noble knight.

But, he wants to hear my promise in return. All at once, I am only a common farm technician from 2279 again, and truth - whole, unvarnished truth - is impossible. There are things about myself I simply cannot tell him.

Although. . .

If I was willing to promise Dougal, even willing to tell him about the future if it came down to it, don't I owe Jamie at least that much? I still have a say in when or if the time is right, of course, but. . .

"Truth. . . has room in it for secrets, you know," I say, at last.

"Oh, I ken it well," he says, an unreadable expression on his face.

"And. . . you accept that?"

"Aye. I do."

I nod, and take a deep breath, "Alright. I promise too. Honour and truth between us. For always."

He smiles, and we seal our oath with something much more pleasant than words.

"Four," he grins, "And the plots await ye, Madame."

He hands me my thermos, then bows and gestures me towards the door, half teasing, and half triumphant.

I shake my head, smile, and follow him to the runabout.

The nearest field is only a few dozen meters away, one wide track separating it from the grove of fruit trees that surround the kitchen gardens. There are only wooden fences around this section, though most of the other fields are surrounded with low stone walls, or wire-strung paling. Near the wide double-gate, Jamie stops the runabout, and jumps out, pointing at the base of the fence, where there are several dead weeds, and a spare, leggy bolt of mint, still clinging desperately to a few yellowish green leaves.

"These are things ye need, aye, Sassenach?"

"Yes they are," I say, handing him a bag with six specimen vials in it, "Try and get each plant separately, and get a sample of the soil right next to where they're growing. Try not to get any of the root matrix, if at all possible, just the soil. I'm going to walk this field, and get a soil sample from the middle of the plot."

"Aye," he says, extracting the mint and weeds with a little pointed trowel he brought, "Go oon. I'll catch up wi' ye."

I grab another bag of vials, and shoulder my way past the gate, into the first of the fields I'm to care for here at Leoch. The first of many. The soil here is well turned, and snug for the winter, just how I've always read soil should be. Due to the early frosts not coming quite as early as expected, this was the final field harvested last season, according to the books - harvested just three weeks ago. Now, the long, dark lines of earth stretch on, and on, this one moderately sized field seeming enormous, almost infinite, now that my feet are actually treading the clotted curls of soil. The field history manuals say that for the past three decades, this field has mostly been used for sugar beets, which is one reason why I wanted to start here.

Some of the best life advice I've ever received is, "Start with what you know, and learn from there". Well, I know sugar beets.

Now to do some learning.

I walk a ragged diagonal line across the field, stopping now and then to look, smell, feel, and listen to these new surroundings. The black, half-frozen soil makes thudding, heavy sounds beneath my step, and great fragments cling to my boots. The smell of it is surprisingly sweet, almost floral, instead of earthy. The field history manuals say this field is turned in with beet pulp, green compost, and cow manure to overwinter. I wonder which one the odour comes from - or if it is all three.

It takes until I am crouching down to collect my soil sample that I realize how quiet it is out here. The creak of the gate as Jamie enters the field sounds loud in my ears, and that is dozens of meters away. The soft scrape-scrape-tshh of my hand trowel spreads musically across the earth as it breaks past the hard outer crust of frost, and brings up a soft, friable sample for my vial. Jamie's heavily plodding tread rolls like drumbeats in the still, cold air.

He holds up two more bags of sample vials. "I thought we could doo that field while we'er here," he nods behind me and gestures down along the track a ways, "And come back tae the runabout along the fence. That way ye wilnae miss any samples ye need. Along that border, a'least."

"That's about what I had planned anyway," I say, putting the full vial back in with its fellows, "Let's go."

We finish walking the diagonal of the field together - me, hyper-aware of my surroundings, and him, silently letting me do my job.

I suppose everything about this might seem odd to him, but no, surely not. Someone who also works on a farm must know the importance of the lay of the land. The smell, the feel of things. Of seeing it all, for sure, in person.

Even with hydroponic indoor-farming, walking the plots is essential. An experienced farming tech can tell by instinct if a crop's projected biome will unbalance the growth curve. A good tech always knows the smell of the vats, the state of the growing trays, and the name of every hybrid in use under their domain.

As we reach the upper corner of this sugar beet plot, I finally feel like I'm starting to get a handle on things. Soil farming is massively different than hydroponics, but I can see, now, the importance of the sun, wind, rain, and seasons. They were all the crop regulators my predecessors had. . . and they did well enough with them. Better than well enough. There is no reason why I should not do just as well. I feel a phalanx of men and women at my back, Davie Beaton and all the others whose names I don't know, lending me their centuries of experience. I have a very, very long way to go yet, but, it's finally within my compass.

At last, I know where I am, as well as when.

A small mound of earth separates this field from the next - a low, compact line of pebbly dirt, just wide enough for a maintenance vehicle. Wordlessly, I hand Jamie three of the remaining empty vials for this field's worth of samples. He takes them, and walks along the mound, scanning for any plant material down the long edge of the field. I take the last two vials, and walk the short edge. We meet back up at the corner, vials full. I bag them, he labels them, and we go on to the next field.

This one, the manuals say, is a potato field. They listed three small, sweet varieties that have been grown here, and noted that they are intended mainly for use in the house kitchens, not as animal fodder or to be sold. At the top edge, there is a low stone wall - important to note when planning what machines to use for ploughing and harvesting. Jamie takes five empty vials and makes to walk this shorter border, calling over his shoulder to me as he does so.

"There's fungi and mosses grow along this wall, Sassenach. I'll see tae them. Walk yer field, an meet me a' the far gate," he gestures cater-corner from where we're standing.

I nod, and do so.

Two fields, then six, then ten, we're halfway though what I have planned for today, when Jamie calls for a break. We take our drinks, still hot in their steel bottles, and go sit in the corner of a low stone wall, where the rock and the land curve just so, making a pocket of warmer green amongst the wide, chill grey of the Leoch fields in November. The skies too, are wide and grey, the air cold, the odour of the fields strong. But I have never felt less dreary or oppressed.

I've never felt less lonely, either.

Jamie is telling me about a mushroom he found two fields ago, a poisonous one, but still useful, because it has styptic properties if applied topically, when for just a moment, thin, halfhearted shafts of sunlight peek though the masses of steel-grey clouds. Even this is enough to light him up - pale skin, vivid hair, electric blue eyes that can glow, warm and sweet with laughter, just as easily as they can crackle, ice-hard and serious. Laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, shaggy curls very nearly as wild as my own, broad, long-fingered hands at least twice the size of mine. . . I've never taken such unalloyed pleasure in just looking at a man before. Not this close to, anyway, and not one I was also free to touch.

Who is this man? And what is this thing that we have between us?

"Ye dinnae care aboot the local flora a' the moment, doo ye, Sassenach?" he says, looking at me askance.

I feel a ridiculous blush come up on my cheeks, and I shake my head, "At the moment, I'm afraid I don't. Not at all."

He takes a swallow of his coffee, "Sae what's on yer mind, then?"

"Ohh. . . just how little I know about you."

And how little that seems to matter to the part of me that wants to climb inside him and lose myself.

"Weel, my favourite colour is brown, if tha' helps."

I blink. "Your. . . favourite colour?"

"Aye. Tha's the traditional opening question, is it no'?"

I snort and laugh a little, "Alright. Sure. Brown. Isn't that a bit dull?" I say, my mind's eye seeing the blooms of rust on the walls of Lower townships, and the blank brown of uncharged collector panels.

"And ye a botanist!" he scoffs, "Nae, Sassenach, brown is one o' th'most varied and beautiful o' colours. Soo many different shades an' tones, wi' so many other colours included. Reds and golds, greens, purples, ye can find them all in brown," he gestures all around us, "Really look at a chestnut tree sometime, mo nighean, oor a walnut, oor an oak. Sometimes brown is a creamy, delicate white. Sometimes brown is a warm, luminous black. Sometimes it's clear water, flowing over pebbles in a stream, glinting wi' sunlight, and sometimes it's the hills, the heather an' the grass, ripplin' in the wind."

I smile, enchanted by all this whimsy over a colour, "Well. . . when you put it that way. . ."

"Aye." He looks at me mischievously, "Soo then, what's yers?"

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"A'coorse I wilnae laugh. Oor if I doo, it wilnae be at ye."

"Growing up, it used to be every kind of pink. Stereotypical, I know. As an adult, I found I usually preferred red. But, recently. . ."

Ever since seeing the dark, clean waves of reclaimed ocean around Cold Island 12, in fact. . .

"Aye?"

"Stygian Blue."

"Agch," he shakes his head, "Ye would like an impossible colour best."

"Chimerical, to be specific."

"Fine, ye would go fer a chimerical colour - one I cannae get made inta a dress oor find flowers in. How exactly am I supposed tae doo boyfriend things fer ye, when ye have a favourite colour like that?"

I give an exaggerated sigh, "You'll just have to do other kinds of boyfriend things, I suppose."

He reaches out and pulls me to him, kissing me, all warm and gentle and deep.

"Five," he says, running a finger down my jaw.

I grin as I pull away, but also wrinkle my nose, "Bleh. You taste like coffee."

"D'ye really hate coffee sae much, then?"

"Well, it's mostly the smell, and yeah, I do." I take the last mouthful of my tea, "I can tolerate the taste, occasionally, when it's mixed with other things, but the smell. . . ugh."

"Doo. . . ye really care that I dinnae like tea?"

"No, of course not," I say, lightly, "You like what you like, it's not a problem."

He draws his brows together, "It is if ye truly hate somethin' I like. Oor t'other way 'round."

"Maybe. But there are ways. Compromises. We'll figure it out."

"Aye. We will."

He takes my hand, and plants open-mouthed kisses all along the ridge of my knuckles. Then, he blows a thin stream of air across them, and a jolt goes up my arm.

"Six," he smirks.

I pull my hand away, and clear my throat, desperately trying to keep my composure.

"So, you're Catholic?"

He shakes his head, "Raised Catholic. Murtagh's my godfather."

"Oh! I did wonder, vaguely. Just what he was to you, I mean. Or what you were to him. Two Frasers among all these Mackenzies - he has to be here for a reason."

He nods, "He's hands doon one o' the best men I've evar met. I love him, an' I thank the Church fer him on the daily. But beyond that," he taps his left chest, "It didnae take holt. Heer, ye ken. I dinnae have aught against those as find meaning there, but foor me. . ." he shrugs, and gestures at the sky, "I dinna ken whoo's oot there, oor what, oor if there's anyone oor anythin'. An' as fer what they may oor may not want us tae doo fer them, oor because o' them. . . agch. . . whoo kens that at all, if they're beein' truly honest? But I ken a Human is moor than blood and bone and skin. A Human has a mind, an' a soul. That, I ken." He shrugs again, "It's enough fer me."

"Fair enough," I nod.

"An' ye?"

I lean back against the mossy stones, "I wasn't raised anything. Not for or against, just. . . nothing. And, oddly enough, that didn't take hold for me, either. I wanted something more than nothing." I pause for a bit, then shake my head, "I flailed about for a long time. I looked into Islam, and Buddhism, and Hinduism, and Gaia, and Judaism, and Catholicism, of course, and at least a dozen more things I can only half remember."

"Nowt took?"

"Nothing took. It was all too. . . I don't know. Too. . . contrived, I suppose. Or at least it seemed that way to me. In the end, none of it felt real."

His lip twists in sympathy, "A common enough feelin'. An' now?"

"Now, I'm a confirmed agnostic." I smile at him, "No matter where we both started, it sounds like we ended up in pretty much the same place. Sometimes I think there can't possibly be anything but us, and there never was, so Humanity had better be enough for me." I sigh, "And sometimes, I think there has to be. . . well. . . something more than us. A source. A goal. A reason or. . . purpose, I suppose. Something I don't know and couldn't discover, but is still there, just. . . waiting."

"An' is tha' enough fer ye?"

"Well, as far as a belief system goes, it isn't much more than nothing, but, it is something, I guess. And it still leaves the way open for me to explore. Yeah. It's enough."

"Can I ask ye a terribly personal follow-up question?"

I snort, "Oh, please do. I can't wait to hear what you think is more personal than 'what's your religion?'."

"What did Frank believe?"

That brings me up short. "Oh. Yeah, that'll do it." I sigh again. "He was CoE Protestant. And entirely casual and incurious about it."

"I see," he says, blandly.

For some reason, this annoys me, "Do you? What do you see?"

"That ye value curiosity, and open-mindedness," he says, carefully, "Mebbe even more than ye think ye do - an' that was something ye and Frank didnae have quite in common."

I run my fingers along the rough, dry grass between us. "That's. . . true. But also not."

"Can ye tell me about him?" he asks, gently.

I blink, a bit incredulous, "Do. . . you really want to know?"

"Aye."

He has promised me truth. This is the truth. I can see it, there in his eyes.

"Alright." Warm remembrances come flooding back, filling my heart with their sweetness, "Frank was. . . Well, he was good. And steadfast, and loving. And so much more intelligent than most people gave him credit for. He was quiet, reserved, but. . . sure. Generous. Kind. I could always count on him. And he always encouraged me, even inspired me. He never got in the way of my stubborn curiosity - quite the opposite. He often stood between me and people who thought I should have just slotted neatly into their traditional notions of wifehood. But he would, on occasion. . . oh, how to put it? . . . He would channel me, I suppose. He'd lift me up, make sure I listened to myself, make sure I never let my curiosity get the better of me, you know? He supported me, even though he almost never came along with me on 'my wonderings', as he called them. He was my anchor. And he always made me a better person, just by existing. I didn't just love him, I loved who I was when I was with him, too."

The dry grass is sharp against my palm. Perhaps that is why two tears prick in my eyes. Perhaps it isn't.

"Ye do give a man a lot tae live up tae, Sassenach." Jamie sighs, and smiles, ruefully.

I lift an eyebrow in his direction, "Too heavy for a tea break chat?"

"Nae. I did ask."

"You did."

"Somethin' easier next?"

"What a glorious idea."

We both dust our hands on our jeans, and he lends me a hand to help me up.

"What's yer favourite novel?"

"Ohh, you said easier - that's a hard one. . ." I lead the way back to the runabout.

"Aye, ye'er right. Favourite sci-fi or fantasy novel, then. And dinnae say Lord Of The Rings, I'm beggin' ye."

I wasn't going to. Nowhere close. But his insistence rankles me.

"Why not, if it's true?"

"Because it's like sayin' yer favorite composer is Beethoven. An' yer favourite work o' his is the Fifth Symphony. Aye, aye, we all know that one, and likin' it isnae bad, but have a wee bit o' imagination in yer choice of a favourite, please." He starts the runabout, getting us on the way to our next field.

"Says the man who didn't like it that my favourite colour is Stygian Blue."

"A colour isnae art, Sassenach."

"Fine, fine. Out of the Silent Planet, by C. S. Lewis."

"Now tha's an imaginative choice. Why d'ye like that one?"

"Because the depiction of Mars is so full. Not just detailed - packed with meaning. With value. It's a dying planet, but, its races, its cultures - they survive, they go on, they move forward. And there's so many plants, and creatures. Even in its decline, Mars is rich with life. I like that."

He hands me a bag of vials, "Spoken like a true botanist, mo nighean."

More like a true survivor of World War IV. But I acknowledge the compliment, and kiss his cheek.

"So. What's yours?"

"Le Petit Prince, by Saint-Exupéry."

"Oh, I love that one too! What's your favourite bit?"

He pauses a long time, almost as if he didn't anticipate the question. Which is odd, considering he asked me first. He comes with me as I walk the field, measuring his step to mine. When we reach the silent peace that only resides in the very midst of sleeping earth, he says, lowly -

"It is only wi' the heart tha' one can see a'right. What is essential is invisible tae the eye."

I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't. We reach the far end of the field. I hand him two vials, gesturing him along the short border, and I take three, scanning down the long border.

When we return to the runabout, I ask, "Do you like it in French, or the English translation?"

He seems to wake up at that, and grins at me, "Both, o'course."

"No 'of course' about it," I say, "Other than a few essential phrases, I'm very shaky speaking in French, and I can't read it very well either. I didn't know you could at all."

"Read it, speak it. . ." he shrugs, "I cannae sing in it, but then, I cannae sing in any language. . ."

"And just how many languages do you speak?"

"Fluently? Twelve."

"Twelve? You're kidding!"

"Nae, Sassenach. English, Gaelic, French, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Russian, Greek, Arabic, Japanese, and Mandarin Chinese."

I stare at him, mouth open.

"A man needs a hobby, mo ghràidh."

"A hobby? That's. . . quite a casual amusement you've got there, my friend."

"I'm alsoo middlin' good at Latin, Cantonese, Korean, Swahili, Tuareg, Danish, Norwegian, Tagalog, Hindi, Urdu, and Thai. And I'm currently learnin' Polish."

"Oh no!" I giggle at him, "You're a nerd!"

"Ahgch," he lightly punches my shoulder, then pulls us up to the next field, "Says th'lass who fixed a Rover engine with jus' a little bit moor than her bare hands, an' the next day, hacked a computer."

"Only because those things are a part of my work, Jamie!"

"Aye, and the languages were supposed tae be part of mine."

That sobers me up quickly. "Oh. Oh, 'supposed' to be?"

"Aye. I majored in cultural medicines at Université, and studied as many languages as I could, because my dream job was tae work for Médecins Sans Frontières."

"Doctors. . . with no. . ."

"Without Borders."

"Right."

We walk the edges of this field first, unwilling to give up the closeness of our talk just yet.

"I wanted tae travel the world - but no' just fer me, ye ken. I wanted tae be someone who wouldnae only understand what other people said, but could alsoo understand how they were feeling. What it was like tae be the way they were. How tae make them feel like acceptin' help was. . . an addition tae them. No' a subtraction." He gives a heavy sigh, "But, the murder put an end tae all that, a'course. Whoever killed him killed that dream too. A'least for the foreseeable future." He grins at me, "But I cannae get rid o' the language bug, it seems. No' countin' Polish, I leaned three languages this year - Tagalog, Urdu and Korean."

"Well, you're right. That's a hobby. And not particularly nerdy. . ."

He turns to me, eyes twinkling, "Ye ken, I also speak Elvish, Klingon, and Dothraki."

"Smartass," I punch him in the arm, and he acts exaggeratedly hurt, clutching his shoulder as if I punched him harder than a toddler could. "Smartass nerd!" I shout with laughter, grab his shoulders and shake him playfully. Then he catches my eyes, and I stop, instantly falling silent.

"Kiss me," I all but order him.

He does, on the temple, short and hard.

"That's seven," I say, taking up the count.

He kisses me again, on the jaw, right where I'm inexplicably ticklish.

"Eight."

And again, softly, on the chin.

"Nine."

Once more, on the soft skin below my ear.

"Ten."

His leans his forehead against mine, and it's not a kiss. It's somehow better.

"Ye could tell me tae doo anythin' just now, Sassenach. Dinnae ken why, but I cannae tell ye no taeday. . ."

"Anything, huh?"

"Aye, I'm under yer spell."

I run my fingers lightly along one of his shoulders, and up his neck, cupping his jaw, "And you're okay with that?"

"There's nae place I'd rather be."

He pulls me close, and kisses me like he did back in the manager's office. When he's done, I have to clutch on to him for another few seconds, or I know my legs will give out.

"Eleven," he says, smirking.

I groan. "Who's under whose spell, again. . .?

He laughs triumphantly, then stills, all of a sudden, just like I did a minute ago.

"His name was William. My older brother. The furst one tae read tae me in French."

I take his hand, and lead him down the long diagonal of the field.

"We called him Bobby. T'was my Ma's nickname for him - she allus said tha' as a bairn he was as bonny as a bobbin. He was eight years older than me - an' my sister Jenny between us. He didnae have tae like me - probably ought tae have hated me, wee beastie tha' I was, then. But he read me bedtime stories instead. Tom Sawyer. My Side O' The Mountain. James Herriot. Sherlock Holmes. Alice In Wonderland. An' The Little Prince, in French."

"Was?" I say, knowing all too well what the answer will be.

"He died when I was eighteen. Right before I went off tae university. Undiagnosed brain aneurysm. One minute he was there. The next he was gone. It was tha' quick," he snaps his fingers, "Too quick. Cruel quick. Gave my Ma a complete nervous breakdown."

We've reached the middle of the field. He hands me the vial for my soil sample.

"I was goin' tae go tae school in England, but I applied to Université de Paris the day after the funeral, sae I could take her tae the little cottage we own in Provence, an' look after her as much as I could, even while I was at school. My younger brother Rob lives there wi' her now, an' works fer my cousin Jared. They do well by her. Bu' she hasnae been the same since."

There's something behind his words. Something he hasn't said yet, even in the middle of all these revelations. . .

"But?" I prompt.

"But. . . 'What is essential is invisible tae the eye'. I ken Bobby is still heer, somewhere. Even if he cannae be seen."

I throw my arms around his neck, and gently press my lips to one side of his mouth.

"Twelve," I whisper.

The other side.

"Thirteen."

I lean away a little, but he catches the back of my head, and pulls me to him, as slowly and as carefully as if it is the first time.

It is a chaste kiss, but meaningful, and sweet. Satisfying.

"Fourteen," he says.

I look him straight in the eyes.

"You're a good man, James Fraser."

He doesn't reply.

Back at the runabout, he asks, "D'ye have any favourite music?"

"Oh, I like all sorts of music," I say, while labeling the latest bag of samples, "I listen to a bit of almost everything, from all different places and eras - by all manner of artists. But favourite? I'm so eclectic it's hard to pin down a favourite."

"Anythin' ye never tire of?"

I smile, "Now that's easy. Saint-Saëns - Danse Macabre. Oh, and Holst's The Planets. I could listen to that one over and over."

He nods, "Me too."

"Hey now, no fair taking my answers! Get your own favourite!" I lightly slap his shoulder as he turns the runabout up the track to the next section of fields.

"Ye said yerself ye dinnae have a favourite!"

"Well, too bad! That's the closest I've got, so go get your own, you favourite stealer!"

"Ye wee plague, I dinnae ken wha' I'm tae doo wi' y-"

"Favourite stealer, favourite stealer!"

"Agch! Fine! Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man, an' Four Seasons by Vivaldi, are ye happy now?"

"Yes," I say, in between laughing at him, "Though I'm a bit surprised there's no Scottish music there."

"Imaginative favourites, remember? 'Sides, ye'll hear a good deal of my favourite traditional music at the concert oon Friday."

"Right, about that," I say, suddenly so deeply serious it's very clear I'm teasing him, "What should I wear?"

"Weel, that depends." There's a twinkle in his eyes that mirrors my teasing.

"Depends on what?"

"Who ye'er dressin' for."

He takes one hand off the steering yoke, and lays it across my shoulders, a classic leering smirk gracing his face.

"Okay. . . I'll bite. What are my choices?"

"Weel, ye can dress for yerself - meaning ye can wear whatever ye like. Ye can dress for the situation - meanin' whatever ye have that's comfortable tae dance in." We pull up to a wide gate made from metal spars and strung wires, but he makes no move to get out of the runabout, nor lets me even think of leaving without him, "Ye could even dress for Rupert or Angus an' that type - meanin' anything with a low neckline and a suggestion of hidden lace. Ye'd knock 'em all flat, I have nae doot. Eef tha's what ye want."

"Uh-huhhh. . . or?" I think I can guess what he's going to say next, but I feign ignorance, just to tease him.

"Oor, ye could dress fer me."

I lick my lips, "Meaning. . . ?"

"Anything. So long as yer arse looks good."

I snort, "You, Jamie Fraser, are incorrigible."

"Noo, I'm encourageable."

With his accent, it takes me a second to understand his joke. When I get it, I laugh so loud it echoes off the nearby hedges.

He grins, and jumps out of the runabout, "It is good tae see ye laugh soo much, Sassenach."

We've finally reached the top fields, the ones furthest from the house, and the last I have planned for today.

At the end of this field, there is a wide strip of brush before the trees start, full of scrub and berry bushes, and here and there a section of poorly maintained hedge. I take two full bags of vials and walk this border first - the biome samples from here will be far more relevant than the field's soil chemistry.

Jamie goes a pace or two into the brush, picking leaves and here and there a berry or two, investigating vines and young trees, and bringing back all manner of samples for me.

We're almost done, when he gives a loud, hissing, "Huish!"

Which is odd, since we aren't currently talking.

"What?" I whisper, fiercely.

"Cannae ye hear it?" he leans close to me, and points into the brush, "Ower thear."

Now that I'm paying attention, I can hear something. Not close, but near enough to be clearly heard, just the same. A rustling, a chattering. Now and then a yip.

"Soonds like a brace o' wee foxes," he says, eyes lit up, posture eager and curious, "I'm goin' tae try an' see them."

Slowly, carefully, barely making a sound, he wades into the bushes. He's a few dozen meters away when he crouches down, disappearing from my view entirely.

"Och, wouldnae ye jus' luv tae wake up one morning and find that wee fox cub was makin' a nest in yer underbrush?" says a mysterious female voice.

A woman appears beside me, seeming to have sprung right out of the hedges. I turn and look at her. She is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, with light red hair and snapping green eyes over a well-formed, sardonic mouth. She is wearing a hooded black coat with a logo on it proclaiming "Duncan's Farming Supplies", but this tells me less than nothing.

And also, she just appeared from nowhere. . .

". . . excuse me?" I manage to ask.

She smiles, and puts out her hand.

"Geillis Duncan, at yer searvice."

"tha mi a 'gealltainn iad sin dhut, a ghràidh" - I promise these to you, dear