Chapter Rating - Soft M for non-graphic married nookie, and adult discussions of same.
Gathered For The Feast
We are still handsfast when we come in from the greenhouse. Our landlady stops us in the hall, and helps us take off the ribbon, carefully preserving the knot. Then she unpins both our crowns, and puts all three things on a nearby tray. She wipes our wrists over with disinfectant pads, tidies both our hair a bit, and looks us both up and down. Then, with a grunt of gruff approval, she directs us towards the dining room, from which is already coming some very loud sounds of music and cheering.
When we reach the big open doors, there is a small hazel broom on the floor in front of them. I look at her, and she mimes for us to jump over it.
I look at Jamie, as I have not heard of this tradition before, and it was not on the list of things Fiona had us doing. . .
He nods that we should go ahead.
The men inside notice we have arrived, and very loud, suggestive chaffing begins to urge us on.
"Aye, jump t'wee besom!"
"Shocked ye havenae dun et already!"
"Best besom I've seen in ages!"
"We'el close oor eyes iff'n ye want!"
"Bu' we wilnae close oor ears!"
There is much laughter, and when to the clapping chant of "Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!", we finally hop over the thing, much whistling and applause.
The landlady picks the broom up, and leads us to a small reception nook. She places it on a low table there, and scatters a few coins next to it.
Then she leaves us, on display, like trophies, where we must greet the rest of the guests as they come in.
Jamie's arm comes up behind me, and rests gently on my shoulder. He leans over, and murmurs to me,
"The greetin' will onlay take a few minutes, mo nighean donn – then we'll have supper."
My mind is still like smoke, off in some dreamland where magic words can make the past into the future, and the impossible into the only reliable thing.
Where the heart moves the stones. . .
All for the love of you. . .
"Please tell me you love me, Jamie."
He starts a little, as though shocked I would ask for my wedding gift in public. He leans even closer, and whispers in my ear,
"I love ye, Sorcha. My Claire."
My mind solidifies a little bit, and I am able to draw upon my years of Central training to face the suddenly ceaseless stream of guests coming in from the town. One or two at a time they pass us, kissing my hand and shaking Jamie's, dropping coins by the hazel broom, and always, always, making some sort of off colour comment.
After a while I tune out, greeting everyone on auto-pilot, while I am actually taking a long look at the whole dining room. There are three whole tables full of food – two with meats and salads and pies, and one with nothing but desserts. Just beyond them is a very large fireplace, with four musicians sitting in front of it, playing some rollicking, festival tunes.
Auld Alec is curled up beside the chair of one of them, his snores just audible underneath the uproar.
Morag, Edina and Avota enter just then, and I give each of them a hug. They grin at us, drop several more coins than is required, and eagerly join the feasting throng.
I look after them very dubiously for a minute, but of course they know what they're doing, and what sort of crowd they're getting into. . .
Jamie notices my concern, "Dinna fash, mo chridhe – Murtagh told all the men the girls were no' onlay here at your personal invitation, they were here off the clock. That they're no' workin', ken? The men c'n try an' get whate're they want out ov 'em, bu' they cannae use money tae force the issue. By Murtagh's orders. An' when he gives an order, then men ken he means et."
I smile in relief, "He's a good man, your godfather."
He nods, and pecks me on the cheek, "Aye, I ken it well."
Guests from the town are still coming in, some younger, single men now, and most of their comments are more off-colour than the rest. . .
Bawdy jokes. . .
Jokes that must have done duty at weddings since the dawn of time.
And some that haven't. . .
After five solid minutes of comments I don't understand, I finally lean over to Jamie,
"Why do they keep saying things about a jacuzzi?"
At last there is a lull in arrivals, so we retreat a little into the recess to talk more freely.
"Our landlady upgraded us to the honeymoon suite."
"Oh. That was kind of her."
"Aye. It's got a private deck, wi' a hot tub on it."
I know what a hot tub is. I've never seen one, but I know what one is. At last I understand all the jokes about cold weather and. . . well, what the cold can do to certain body parts. . .
"And they think that would be a good place to. . ."
"Aye, weel, they're havin' a go at us – it's how they do these things - 'round heer, a'least."
"Around everywhere, I should think. . ."
"Aye. Ye ken they wilnae stop until we. . . retire. . . aye?"
I sigh, dreading the thought of actually sitting among this lot and eating a prolonged meal while having to listen to it all. But rushing through would be even worse, and no matter what, when we do manage to leave, I have no doubt at all they're going to. . . going to. . . "But then they'll just go on celebrating that we have. . . retired. Won't they?"
"Aye, but we wilnae havetae deal wi' it then."
"True."
A playful look comes up in his eyes, "Would ye care tae retire now?"
My heart lifts at the prospect of relief, "Can we? Right now?"
"Aye. I arranged it all wi' the landlady yesterday. As soon as we cut the cake, she'll bring us whate're we want for supper tae the table in our room. We dinnae havetae see anybody else until taemorrow."
My heart goes soft, "You've arranged all that, just for me?"
He smirks, "For th'booth ov us, moor like. I'd jus' as soon no' havetae-"
"Ah, there he is – th'man o' the hour!" Rupert comes up, leering at us both, and slaps Jamie on the back, "Oor th'man ov the twa minutes, as may be! Ye'll ha'etae let us ken, eh Claire?"
"Will I?" I say, unamused.
"Aye, issno' evary day a lass gets tae break in a Fraser stallion, ken?" He punches Jamie just a bit too hard on the shoulder, all too obviously trying to get a rise out of him.
"Be that as it may, what makes you think I'll be sharing details?"
"Weel, no' sae much sharin' as shoutin' 'em, aye?" His leer broadens into a grin, and he winks at me.
Despite how little weight I usually give to such teasing from him, tonight, my nerves are frayed, and my annoyance flares easily to the surface, "Why, I had no idea you were so interested in what Jamie could do in bed! That's the real news here, I think, right darling?" I ostentatiously loop my arm through Jamie's.
"Och, aye," Janie smirks, "Ef only ye'ed let me ken sooner, but I'm afraid I'm marrit now, lad." He pats Rupert condescendingly on the cheek.
Rupert roars with laughter in response, but retreats, giving us our tiny bit of privacy back.
Jamie exhales, and visibly shakes some tension from his neck and shoulders, "As I was sayin' - I'd jus' as soon no' havetae deal wi' that all night, ken?"
"Too right."
"So let's cut the cake now, an' make a toast oor two, and leave them tae it."
"Sounds lovely."
There is a raucous cheer as we step out of the little side-nook, and more than a few wolf-whistles. We ignore it all, and go straight over to the table with all the desserts laid out on it.
The centerpiece, of course, is the three tiered, white-frosted cake, decorated with curls of preserved citrus peel, tiny sprigs of candied fir tips, and sugared rose petals. I take up the provided knife, and Jamie wraps his hand around mine, so we can cut the cake together. After we serve ourselves a small wedge, Jamie picks up a fork, and feeds me a bite. It's incredibly rich – loaded with fruit, fragrant with spices, and soaked with whisky.
Even Mrs. Fitz hasn't made anything quite so good in all my time here in Scotland.
There is a second fork by the plate, and I pick it up to give Jamie a bite too.
Our eyes meet as I do, and all at once the loud, coarse jeering from the men means nothing. Less than nothing.
All that matters is we're married, and he made plans to give us privacy.
He often gives the illusion of being perfect, but he's really earning it so far tonight. . .
The landlady comes up and hands us two glasses of wine, gesturing us to the small open space at the front of the dining room, where two tiny microphones hang from the rafters. I look around as we take our places, and just down the hall, peeking out from around the corner, I can see a food cart, loaded with tureens and covered dishes.
Our way of escape is quite, quite clear. . .
Jamie goes over to exchange a few words with Murtagh, so I end up being the first to raise a glass, and call out for a toast.
The room quiets remarkably quickly.
A devilish little imp rises in my soul, and, almost without thinking, I say -
"Hey diddle diddle,
The cat and the fiddle,
The pair jumped over a broom.
The little men laughed,
To see such fun,
And the bride ran away with the groom."
Then I grab Jamie's hand, and pull him out into the hall.
It is a good twenty seconds before we hear the shouting and laughter start up again.
We smirk at each other. That showed them. . .
When we reach our rooms, the landlady follows us in, pushing the food cart, and smiling a quiet, knowledgeable smile.
As she unloads the food and sets the table, I look around this special suite she's given us. There is a large closet, a fireplace, a bathroom only accessible to us, a mini kitchen in one corner, much like the one Jamie has in his rooms back at Leoch, and big French doors just beyond the table. That must be how we could access the jacuzzi, if we wanted to. But it's the first of February, and there's no way we're going outside just to sit in water, no matter how warm that water may be.
I shiver, and look over at the bed.
It is a huge four-poster, canopied but without drapes, spotlessly clean, and looks very comfortable. Our landlady has hung our handfasting ribbon from the center of the richly carved headboard, with each of our wedding crowns on either side of it.
Jamie sees me noticing them, and briefly squeezes my hand.
She finishes setting out our supper, and turns to us.
"Weel, that's a bit of just about evarythin' the men'll be havin' in the dinin' room taenight. Is there annythin' else special ye'el be wantin' then?"
"I'm going to want some more of that cake. . ." I say, grinning.
"We'll be savin' t'whole top tier for ye, Mestress. Et's tradition."
"Oh. Well. . ." I pause a second, inexplicably at a loss. "That's nice. Thank you."
Jamie goes over to the bedstead, and reaching out, breaks off a tiny sprig from each of our crowns, making very sure to get a full flower of the heather, and three of the white rowanberries. He hands them very formally to the landlady, and as he does so, says something in the Gàidhlig. It sounds remarkably like what I remember Lamb saying at the beginning of that fateful night at Craigh na Dun. . .
"An' a blessing on all heer," Jamie finishes, solemnly, "Many thanks t'ye for yer excellent hospitality."
The landlady, wide-eyed, takes his offering as though he were handing her precious gems.
"Thank ye, sir. Et isnae often we get a groom who remembers t'auld ways."
Then she bows to us a little, "I hoop ye'el enjoy yer supper."
She goes out quietly, and Jamie locks the door behind her. Then he seats me at the table, as formally as though this were the High Table at Leoch, and serves up both our plates with all the studied dignity of a Laird.
I know he is one, only. . .
He told me that so recently, it still strikes me as odd, especially when we've been such friends these past three months.
Laird Broch Tuarach. . .
I once saw the Laird of Broch Tuarach with his arm up the business end of a cow.
And I've held him as he explained the maiming and burning of his back. . .
I've kissed him. Hugged him. Playfully elbowed and smacked him. Smelled him mere minutes after he's gotten out of the shower. . .
For some reason, I cannot make any of that align with "Laird" in my head at all.
When his eyes darken with determination, disbelief, or fury? Yes. That his hands can go from strong and powerful to delicate and gentle in an instant? Yes. The change in his posture whenever he enters his doctor-mode? Yes.
He is a Laird all those times. But when he's soft with me? Playful? Kind? No. He's someone else then.
He's my Jamie lad. My sly Sawney. My sweet Jammie Dodger. My dear Green Man. My gentle Ghillie Dhu. . .
He hands me my plate, and sits down across from me. The slices of slow-roast beef, and lashings of gravy smell wonderful, but I still go in for the cheese and bacon mash first. There's several other things on the plate – buttered green peas, honey roasted turnips, pepper cured salmon sliced thin on dark rye bread, and sweet spiced apple sauce – but there is just something I find comforting about mash that reminds me of home.
Home. . .
I wish I could take him home with me. . .
How I wish this was my home. . .
"Please tell me you love me, Jamie."
He looks over at me, takes my hand and kisses it.
"I love ye, Claire." He turns my hand over, and drops a kiss in my palm too, "I love ye. Tae the end ov days. . ."
I smile, and manage to relax a little. That sounded so sincere. So very nearly real. . . I turn my hand in his, and press our palms together, interlocking our fingers. Suddenly I notice - his hands are smooth, soft and pink – hardly callused at all.
Well that's new. Why I haven't noticed before now, I don't know. . .
Well, actually I do know. . .
But still. . .
I nod at his fingers, "How did you. . . ?"
He grins proudly, "Found a pineapple. The shopkeeper thought I was daft, tae be buying such a thing at this time ov the year, and at such a price as it was. Cannae say I blame him, at that. Felt fair daft myself. But I whirled it up in a blender and poured it inta a pair of gardener's gloves. Wore 'em for about an hour, and then scrubbed away wi' soap an' a toothbrush for I dinnae ken how long. Then I treated the skin wi' a balm I make from castor oil, beeswax, aloe an' rosemary." He pulls his hand away from mine, then holds them up, flexes them both, and turns them about for me to inspect, "Did pretty well, I think."
"I'll say." I tap my silvery painted nails lightly against each other, "The girls gave me a manicure last night, but it was nothing close to that."
"Agch, 'cause ye didnae need such measures, mo nighean."
I remember some of Edina's not-quite-grumbling comments about "leathery paws", and smile a little, "Possibly. But, why did you do it at all? I've always found your hands quite. . ." I fight back the beginnings of a blush, ". . . quite satisfactory, just as they are. Why go to such measures in the first place?"
"Weel. . . in the past four years I. . ." he pauses, and his eyes turn quite serious, ". . . I've often promised myself that when I wed, it would be with a Laird's hands. No' a stable boy's."
He looks down at his plate, his jaw sternly set.
"Oh, Jamie," I whisper, fondly reproachful, "You've never been a stable boy."
A muscle in one of his cheeks twitches, "Maybe no'. But I've felt like one often enough, takin' care of another man's stock on another man's land, for the benefit of another man's son. An' tae tell the truth, I've only rarely felt like a proper Laird, even sittin' at the head of the table at Lallybroch. Which I've done nobbut twice tae any purpose." He sighs the deep sigh I've come to recognize as the one he gives when he regrets the cruel inevitabilities of fate. "After mam moved tae France, I spent most o' my school holidays in Provence wi' her and Rob. An' then when I did go hoom for good, it was only a few weeks until. . ."
Until a particularly fateful encounter with one Mr. Johnathan Randall. . .
A loud thump on the French doors interrupts the suddenly somber mood.
Jamie jumps up, and grabs a steak knife from the table. Cautiously, he unlocks them, and stands out of the swing zone as he carefully turns the door handle. . .
With a gust of freezing air, Angus and Rupert burst in, stumbling into each other in a great, lumbering rush, and nearly knocking the table over. Jamie barks several Gàidhlig curses, and wrestles them back beyond the doorframe. They hardly notice, being too busy arguing with each other.
"Ahgch - they're no' evan undressed yet."
"Ye can do it wi'out-"
"Aye, bu' no' on yer wedding night, ya eejit!"
"Bu' yoo said-"
"An' a wee keek wouldnae-"
"D'ye mind?" Jamie shouts incredulously, "We'er eatin' heer!" he gestures pointedly at the table, "An' I'd prefer it if ye didnae make my wife sick, but she will boak on ye, if ye annoy us too much – remember that!"
I nearly choke, holding back laughter.
"An' I may have gone out for doctor's trainin', but do recall yer dealin' wi' a Fraser, a son ov Black Brian, an' nephew tae one ov the most experienced War Chieftains in all ov the Highlands! Do! Mac Dubh!"
They blink at him, finally taking in that he is, in fact, bigger than them, very angry, and holding a sharp pointed object. . .
He slams the doors on them before they can properly respond.
He fastens the locks again, pounding on the door a few times for good measure, muttering curses all the while.
I smile, "My hero."
I'm not being sarcastic.
He turns to me, eyes softening.
He reaches a hand out towards me, "The first promise I evar made ye was that ye'ed be safe wi' me, Claire. An' now, everything I am is there tae shield ye. Anny weapon I c'n wield," he drops the steak knife back on the table, "My skill as a healer. My name. My clan. My fists. My body, an' my soul itself. I'll use them all tae protect ye."
I tuck the fingers of one hand lightly into the cool skin of his broad, smooth palm, "Thank you, Jamie. You're so sweet. So good to me. . ." I pull his hand to me, cradling it against my face. "Although. . . I have to admit. . . for tonight. . ." I look up at him, "It wasn't exactly your body's protection that I was hoping for. . ."
He blinks rapidly, and gently pulls his hand away, "Are ye done eatin'?"
"Yes." I nod, "For now."
He takes both our barely tasted plates of food, and goes to put them in the small refrigeration unit that is humming quietly in the corner. Then he covers the platters and serving bowls, activating the fridgevac mechanisms built into their bases, and clears the table of our silverware and napkins.
I pick up my glass of wine, and go sit on the couch in front of the fire.
I expect him to join me as soon as he's done clearing the table, but first he goes over to the huge walk-in closet, and removes his boots, setting them neatly just inside the door. Then, deftly, he takes off his sporran, his sparkling cufflinks, the little sword-shaped pin in the flap of his kilt, the small sapphire tack he has holding down his tie, a heavy gold watch and chain he has in his vest pocket. . .
I wonder who he borrowed all that jewelry from. The kilt pin we bought together yesterday, of course, and the stag's head broach must be from Murtagh, since he is the only other Fraser here, but the rest of it. . .
I touch the bit of ivory ribbon I have tied around my neck. Come to think of it, he probably has the right idea. . .
Without comment, I slide out of my shoes and stockings, pushing them into a little pile underneath the coffee table. I untie Murtagh's ribbon, and put it carefully on the table, away from the wine, just in case. I take off my earrings, dropping both into the heel of one of my shoes. My entire hairdo is held up with what Edina had called "an' absolutely magical clip", and it must be, because it is only just now beginning to tug painfully on my scalp. I decide to let Jamie remove it.
If he wants to. . .
When the time comes, of course. . .
I clamp down hard on the strange nervous feeling rising in the core of my stomach. I have no reason – no reason at all – to feel nervous.
Right?
We're married. We've agreed to do this. We like each other. We've flirted and made out dozens of times. . .
I take a few halting sips of my wine.
I hear him give a light, satisfied sigh, and then he pads over to the fireplace, and crouching down, puts piece of wood on the fire.
All of a sudden, the silence between us is unbearable.
"So. . ." I say, proud of how little my voice shakes, "No second thoughts?"
He smirks, turning halfway towards me, "Noo. Though - I did think ye might have had some."
"You did? When?"
"Aye. . ." he pokes at the fire, "When ye paused befoor the last line of the vows, I. . . weel, for a second my heart thought that mebbe ye'ed thought bettar of it at the last. . ." he gestures vaguely with the poker, not looking at me.
"Oh." I take another sip of my wine, "But you don't think that now?"
"Noo. I dinnae."
I don't reply to that, instead letting the silence ask my next question.
He stands up then, addressing his next few phrases to the painting over the hearth.
"T'was when they were posin' us for the photo that did it."
I wrinkle up my forehead. It's an answer, but one I cannot parse. "Did. . . what, exactly?"
He puts the poker away in its stand, "Reassured me, I suppose. When ye lifted yer eyes and met mine so squarely, so surely," he leans lightly against the hearth shelf, "When ye looked at me like that, I. . . I knew. Some part of me knew, annyway. Ye didnae regret marryin' me."
My stomach drops, "No. No regrets at all, my lad."
No. Not yet. . .
The more I remember the ceremony, and that song, the more selfish leaving feels. . .
It's there that my heart is longing for. . .
All for the love of you. . .
All the reasons I have to go crowd into my mind, reminding me how selfish staying would be. . .
My heart rate kicks up, and my conscience shouts at me.
He didn't sign up to untie your Gordian knots, Beauchamp! Give him a chance to back out! You have to!
"You know we don't have to do this tonight, right?" I say, as lightly as possible, "A cob for what Dougal says, and even less for what anyone thinks - we can wait, if that's what you want."
He turns, raising his eyebrows, but still not meeting my eyes.
"Is'tha what ye want?"
I shake my head, decisively, "No."
No, I want to experience and explore and savour you as much as I can, my sweet, darling man. If memories of you are all I'm going to have, I want as many of them as possible. . .
He nods, and finally comes to sit next to me on the couch, "Then let's. . . forge ahead, aye?"
But he still doesn't reach out to me, instead staring fixedly into the fireplace, his expression a thousand miles away.
"Jamie?"
"Aye?"
"Could you at least look at me?"
He glances at my hands, where they're curled around my wine glass, then slowly runs his palm across my wrists. He lifts my left hand, and turns it over, delicately tracing his fingertips around the tiny spot that is all that remains of my half of our blood vow. But he still doesn't speak, or meet my eyes, his tension and continuing hesitation clear in every movement.
"You know you can relax, right?" I say, with only slightly forced levity, "It's not as though I'm going to suddenly jump on you, I promise. . ." I smirk, wryly, "Fun as that would be."
He nods, eyes still lowered, but he also grins with such boyish sweetness my heart clutches at the sight of it.
"Aye."
I poke his shoulder, teasingly, "And it isn't as if we've never slept together before. . ."
His grin fades, and he draws his eyebrows together, "Aye, slept. But we havenae been properly bedded atal. An' besides. . ." he trails off.
I put down my wine. Whatever happens tonight, I'm going to face it entirely sober. He deserves that much from me, if not a whole lot more.
"Yes? And?"
Finally, he turns brilliant, smoldering eyes to mine, and looks me up and down.
His look is like a touch – I can feel it, curling and coiling all over me, shifting and slipping, caressing all over my skin. . .
And then he starts running his fingertips lightly across my arms, over my bodice, and up to my neck, face and hair, gracing every bit of my exposed skin with delicate, feather-light contact. He pushes back the few curls left free at my temples, and traces the edges of my ears with his thumbs.
The resinous snapping from the fireplace is echoed in the sharp, electric tingling each touch of his leaves zinging through my body.
In mere seconds, I go from mild anticipation, to wildly regretting promising not to jump on him.
"Claire, mo Sorcha," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, "Heer I am, presented wi' my marriage feast. . ." He runs one fingertip over my chin, and gently down the front of my throat. Then he glides his palms down the front of my dress, and wraps both hands around my waist, tugging me sharply towards him, "Such. . . rich abundance, mo leannan. . . I havenae the slightest idea whear tae begin. An' I'm-"
He pauses, and I smile at him. He's begun already, oh yes indeed, though he clearly doesn't quite understand that. . .
"I'm. . ." his ears go brilliant red, and his voice trembles roughly, "Would ye think it very childish of me if I said I was nervous, mo chridhe?"
I shake my head, "No, my lad. Not childish at all." I run a hand up and down the lapel of his coat, feeling the smooth layers of cloth shifting beneath my fingers, "Apprehension over the unknown? I think that's probably the only mature response." I lightly kiss his chin. "Would you like to hear some of the best advice I've ever been given?"
He nods vigorously, "Aye. Aye, I would."
I lift his right wrist, push up the sleeve, and kiss right above his tiny spot, "Start with what you know. And learn from there."
"Mph," he grunts, softly, "Seems simple enough. . ."
"It is, really," I say, trying to sound practical and reassuring, "Why don't you give it a try? Say one thing you know - about me, or about. . . well, this - and then tell me something you would like to learn."
"Alright. . ." He sighs a bit, and reaches out to cup the back of my head. Slowly, he removes the hair clip, and watches as my curls tumble down over my shoulders. I sigh softly at the welcome release, and he smiles at the small sound. He runs his fingers through my hair, and pushes some long curls behind my ears. Then, he runs a thumb down my cheekbone and across my mouth.
"I. . ." his lips twitch in a hesitant smile, "I ken how tae kiss ye."
"Yes," I sigh, happily, "Yes you do."
He leans in, as though he indeed means to kiss me, but then holds back, "An'. . . an' I'd very much like tae learn. . . what it's like tae kiss ye. . . here."
Then, he dips his head to my décolletage, my daring neckline allowing him to explore far lower than he's ever had easy access to before. He nuzzles and tastes my skin with an almost frenzied passion, but still with the same delightful sweetness he always uses when kissing me. My hands find his own curls, and I run my fingers through them, enjoying his touch, his closeness, and like always, his scent. Him kissing the soft skin of my chest was one of the first things I ever imagined him doing, back in that cupboard that seems so long ago. . .
Like so many things, the reality is far, far superior to dreams.
Suddenly he nips at me, and not gently. The gasp and moan I give in response are so sharp and loud, I'm almost embarrassed. The enormous rush of heat I feel though. . . well. . . there's no almost about it. . .
He's always had this effect on me, of course, but this is ridiculous. . .
It's been over five years since I've. . . well. . . been properly bedded. That must be it.
Yes.
No other reason. . .
"I had a devil o' a time rememberin' tae do things in the right order after I saw ye dressed like this, mo nighean donn," he mutters into my skin, "God, ye'er almost spillin' ovar. . ." then he soothes the place he's bitten with a long, slow, warm lick. "Mmmmph. Like sweet ice cream. . ." His lips fasten onto another soft spot, and he bites down again.
The jolt all this gives me is very nearly too much. I almost stop him right here, pull away and go. . . somewhere – anywhere - to find where my composure has fled to.
Just how close I am to completely losing it right now is utterly mortifying. . .
"I-I'm not. . . used to corsets, I'm afraid," I babble shakily, "I didn't realize how - how much it would. . . um. . . emphasize my curves, and. . . u-uh-"
I break off as he lifts his head, and gives me an utterly disarming half-smile, "Keep talkin' like tha', Sorcha, an' I'll be thinkin' ye'er jus' as nervous as I am."
"B-but I am, Jamie."
He blinks, incredulous, "Are ye really?"
I nod.
"But. . . ye'ev done this afore. . ."
I shake my head, "Not with you, I haven't." I cup his jaw, and run my thumb along his cheekbone and lips, mimicking the caress he gave me a minute ago, "And you of all people should already know that who you do it with makes all the difference. All the difference in the world."
"Weel," he smiles softly, "If tha's the case. . . tak yer oon advice then." He leans back a little, and opens his arms, in both invitation and reverence.
It's silly, but the gesture does calm me, quite significantly.
I regard him for a minute, running my eyes over the long, formidable lines of his body, from the curls I've mussed, to the strong jut of his chin, across his broad shoulders, to the wide, graceful sweep of his arms, down to his thickly muscled legs, where they stretch out from beneath his kilt.
Every bit of him is the very image of male power and beauty.
I have to push past yet another hitch in my breath. I cannot believe my glorious luck. Here he is, a wild, practically unbelievable fantasy, as large as life and twice as sexy, sitting there wrapped in Fraser tartan. . .
And he's mine.
Mine to touch, mine to kiss, mine to teach.
For a little while, anyway. . .
"I know what you look like with your shirt off," I say, at last.
"Aye, ye do, thank Christ."
He chuckles ruefully, and all at once the vision of primal power before me is transformed into a sweet, inexperienced young man, who is bravely approaching this unexpected wedding night of his with all the tenderness and grace as would befit a prince.
My heart swells with affection for him – this darling, perfect laddie, who is trusting me to teach him, and who will tell me he loves me if I ask him to. . .
"Now, I want to learn what it's like to take your shirt off. All by myself."
He nods, and drops his arms slack to his sides.
Tenderly, I unclasp the Fraser brooch from his shoulder, and let the top half of the plaid fall to his waist. I slip the brooch into the breast pocket of his coat before I begin to unbutton it. I tap each small brass disc before I pull it from its buttonhole, making a pleasant rhythm and a pattern that he echoes with light tapping touches to my knee. It's reassuring to be in harmony, even over such a tiny thing. As I undo the last button, he smiles such a soft, comforting smile at me that I can't help but lean in for a kiss. It's gentle, and sweet, and somehow completely grounds me.
Whatever happens next between us may well be awkward. Clumsy, even. But I am not nervous or embarrassed anymore.
With fully mustered confidence, I push his coat open, and undo his vest, and then his tie. Finally, I slide my hands up his chest, then across his shoulders and down his back, peeling all three garments off at once.
And then he's there in his shirtsleeves, looking at me with a strange mixture of mischief and awe. He's warm beneath my touch, with waves of his scent coming up to me like an earnest of all the pleasure to come.
I bend my head to kiss the underside of his jaw, then continue kissing downwards as I undo his shirt buttons one by one.
"Please tell me you love me, Jamie," I murmur, suddenly needing to hear it again.
"Ah, mo Sorcha," he hums, and throws his arms loosely around me, "I love ye. I love everaythin' about ye. From yer wild curlywig, tae yer wee sharp tongue, tae yer fine round arse. . ." Suddenly he reaches down and grabs me playfully, "Tha' especially."
I snort as I laughingly raise my head to his. "You insufferable beast," I say, fondly, and lean in to kiss him again, slow and soft and lingering. . .
He tastes of the spices from our wedding supper, edged with a tiny tang of wine, but through it all there is the warm richness of his lips that I have come to know so well these past months.
Know, and enjoy.
And crave. . .
Once I finally let go of his mouth, I work my fingers under the hem of his undershirt, and push it up his chest. But his dress shirt is still on, so it gets stuck halfway. I push some more, utterly ineffectually, expecting him to raise his arms so I can finish taking them off.
He doesn't.
"Jamie. . ." I whine, "Come on! Help a girl out."
He looks at me, eyes delightfully mischievous, "Oh? Whatever happened tae doin' it all by yerself then?"
I growl, and slap his shoulder, "Unfaiiiiir."
He smirks, "Ye were the one who said I was insufferable. . ."
"Mmm. And so you are," I bring my lips to his ear, and whisper, flirtatiously, "Insufferable. . . Incorrigible. . . Impossible. . ."
I bury my face in his neck and inhale deeply. Tonight his skin smells like spiced peanut butter cookies, steaming fresh from a caf's first bake of the morning.
I have never, ever, wanted to just devour him as much as I do this instant. . .
He deftly removes both garments with one smooth motion.
"Incredible. . ." I breathe.
And incredible is the word. I sit back to look at him more fully.
The few glimpses I've had before are nothing to him now, shirtless in the golden firelight, brilliant red hair loose around his shoulders, sprawled on the couch, wearing nothing but a belted plaid draped over his hips. Such an expanse of pale skin – soft over firm flesh, begging to be caressed and kissed, simply pleading for me to hold myself against it, drag my entire body all over it, bite and lick and nuzzle and. . .
I gently brush my fingers down the little valley that starts at the base of his throat and ends just above his belt buckle.
Or rather, disappears beneath it. . .
"You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen, James Fraser. Bar none."
In fact, he's so beautiful that I'm beginning to feel slightly insecure. I've never been all that notable in the looks department, and I'm certainly not a textbook specimen like he is.
I let my hand trail back and forth, and up and down, lightly caressing his side, hip, stomach and chest. Suddenly, he stops me, catching my wrist.
"Now then," he rumbles, "Ye'ev had yer eyeful, an' a chance tae explore a bit," He nods meaningfully at my clothes, "Fair is fair – now I wantae look at ye, an' do a bit ov explorin' on my own account."
I smile a small, private grin, and turn around. He hasn't had much of a chance to look at the back of my dress yet. . .
"Lord love ye, mo ghràidh!" he gasps, "Sae many laces!"
I chuckle, and look pertly over my shoulder, "Feeling up to it, Fraser?"
He snorts, "Ye'ed bettar believe it. Mrs. Fraser," and gives me a brief kiss behind the ear, proceeding to get to work.
Since it is all one piece, the overdress is fairly simple, despite all its frills and embroidery. It takes him several minutes, but eventually he peels me carefully out of the top half of it, and I stand up to slip off the skirt. I drape the whole thing over the back of a nearby chair, and sit back down. The two piece underdress baffles him a bit, until I show him the hidden ties at my waist. Then he manages deftly enough. Once that is gone, the quilted satin panels and long criss-crossed laces of the corset are fully revealed, complex and sturdy, like the steel-beam support of a Skycity Spire. He pauses, and runs his fingers along the elegant curve it makes of my body.
"How did these evar go out of fashion, I wonder?"
I grin, "Enjoying the view?"
"Och, ye've nae idea, mo Sorcha." He curls both arms around my middle, and buries his lips in the back of my neck. I hum, and wriggle my shoulders against the bare skin of his chest, enjoying the warmth and pressure of him. Touching is good. We're equals when we touch. . .
"Such a sight as this," he sighs hotly against the back of my head, "Any man would be blest tae see but once in his whole life, mo chridhe. I've ceartainly nevar seen aught that equals it." He runs a hand up my arm, and across my shoulder, down my spine, and finally curls his long fingers around my hip, tugging me towards him again.
I just barely keep myself from flinching. I'm hardly that special. And what with times being what they are, and the international computer network being what it is, he has to have seen hundreds of women – thousands maybe – no doubt each one far more beautiful than I am, and in a much more advanced state of undress.
But any half-formed protest I might have made dies in my throat as he gently sets his teeth in the crook of my neck, and bites down a little, moaning as though he's starving, and I am some delectable confection. The feel and sound of him jolt straight down my spine, then jump up into my stomach and twirl there, hot and vibrating.
"Mmm, an' tae touch ye too? Tae ken I dinnae havetae stop touchin' ye this time?" he moans again, and it is positively indecent, the things the sounds of him do to me. . . "God save me Sorcha, evary time I touch ye. . ." he gives me hot, open-mouthed kisses all the way up my neck, "I'd be thinkin' I'd died and gone tae heaven, save that there's nae marryin' nor givin' in marriage there. . ." One of his hands comes around, and presses me more fully to him, running slowly up and down my stomach.
I reach back and lean a fist against his knee, needing to steady myself. He's right. Oh yes. He has no idea how right. Just touching him is a blessing, far beyond any I have ever deserved.
And this is only the beginning. . .
Finally, he pulls back, and starts tugging at the corset's laces. There's nothing hurried or greedy about his motions, just steady, deliberate pulls, leaving not the slightest doubt as to his ultimate intention.
Somehow, it's the most arousing thing he's done to me yet, and leaves my heart racing, my skin completely flushed.
At last he lifts it free, and reveals the gauzy, lacy slip of a shift Avota chose for me after learning of Jamie's inexperience. My "something borrowed". It's still a bit much - an absurd cobweb of a thing that leaves incredibly little to the imagination. . .
Somewhat shakily, I stand up, putting the corset neatly next to the overdress. Then I turn back to him.
He is staring fixedly at me, his mouth slightly open, his expression thoroughly stunned.
I realize that, as I am now backlit by the fireplace, from his perspective I am leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. I restrain the impulse to automatically cross my arms in front of relevant bits of myself.
His eyes flick me up and down a few times, and he closes his mouth, only to visibly swallow hard and clench his jaw tightly closed. Other than that, he does not react.
A few long seconds pass. As they do, each one slower than the last, I grow more and more uncomfortable, worried that I've offended some residual Catholic sensibility of his, or moved too fast for his virginity to keep up with just yet, or. . .
Oh god, has he finally noticed how normal-looking I am compared to him?
A wave of insecurity nearly swamps me, "Will you please bloody say something?" I whine, just barely avoiding stamping my foot like a child.
He blinks rapidly, then snaps his eyes to mine, "Ye'ev only gone and made me speechless, woman, there's nae need tae get vulgar about it. . ." He holds my gaze for a second longer, and then he reaches out and drags me to him, pressing me against his chest and stroking hungrily up and down my sides and back. My worries melt under his warm, eager touch, and finally I let my hands begin their own exploration of his neck, shoulders, and back.
When I touched his scars before it was not with any intention of enjoying doing so. I'm surprised how much of a difference my approach makes. They feel so much more attractive tonight - the slick, leathery texture of them contrasting with the softer, warmer feel of his unmarked skin, and underneath them, the sleek, powerful bunching of his muscles accentuating the hard, heavy angles of him, the solid bones, the sturdy frame.
He isn't just irresistible, he's indestructible.
I drag my nails lightly up and down his spine. Christ, even his bones are stubborn!
Bloody Scot.
But I wouldn't have him any other way. . .
His hands are planted firmly on my arse when his mouth finds mine again, and he leans back, carrying me with him, kissing and caressing me all the while. The thin gauze of my shift and the heavy wool of his kilt bunch and slide tantalizingly between us with soft, rustling sounds.
We're well on our way to being thoroughly tangled up. . .
"Mmm," I hum against his neck, "There isn't much room here. Shall we move this to the bed?"
"Ah. Ye-es," he nearly slurs, sounding almost drunk with passion, "Goo' idea."
I stand up slowly, letting his eyes linger on every inch of me. I turn then, walking slowly across the room, giving him an eyeful of the arse he likes so much.
I hear him stand, and I can feel his intent, voracious gaze all over my body.
I shiver, anticipating all the lovely things that look means. . .
"And Jamie?" I say, over my shoulder, "Lose the kilt."
He blinks, stunned again. Either at my words or at my open display of myself, I'm not sure.
Come to think of it, it's probably both. . .
I turn again to face him, and lick my lips as seductively as I know how. Then, I raise my arms, and slowly, provocatively, remove the shift. I stand there for a just moment, basking in his continuing hungry gaze, and then slip easily between the bed's gloriously clean sheets.
I flick my eyes to his, and smile mischievously, patting the bed beside me, "Well, there's room. Get in."
He blinks again, his mouth falling open, but still standing there, speechless and moveless. He never expected those words of his to come back to bite him. Not like this anyway. . .
"We did agree that next time I had you in my bed, you were going to prove that True Scotsman thing, didn't we?" I prompt him, teasingly.
He swallows hard and finally finds his words, "Aye. We did," he says, hoarsely, "But I'm no' in yer bed yet. . ."
"Oh?" I lift a mocking eyebrow, "Is that a threat?"
"Noo. . . et's only. . ."
"Yes?"
I was certain his ears could not possibly be redder, but it turns out I was wrong. . .
"Weel. . ." he coughs a little, "I'm nervous enough, ye ken?"
"You're still nervous?"
"Aye, still."
I rake my eyes over him, from those shaggy, rakish curls, to his deeply muscled chest, to the kilt now hanging precariously off his slim, delicious hips. Give him a claymore, and he'd be the living embodiment of every trashy Highland Romance novel cover ever published.
But he isn't. He's my sweet Scottish laddie, wise and tender and good, and so very, very dear. There's not an atom of trash about him.
I smile, softly, "You have absolutely no reason to be. But it's alright if you are. I won't push you. Not tonight, anyway." I look at him saucily, "Now will you get in? Husband?"
He blinks at the word, the blue of his eyes almost drowning in dark, burning black, "Aye. Wife."
He slips off his plaid just as he slides under the covers next to me. I watch him only out of the corner of my eye, not trying to see anything more than he's willing to show me yet. I don't reach over to him immediately either, letting both of us acclimate at our own pace, getting used to the novelty of being this close to each other without any barriers between.
As the warmth of him soaks into the sheets, I reach over and run my fingers down his arm. Then, I slide my hand into his, and weave our fingers together, just like we have done so many times before. Just like we did when we were handfasted. He relaxes noticeably at this familiar caress, and squeezes my hand reassuringly, before letting go as he turns himself up on one side.
"So where d'ye want me, then?"
I giggle at such practical words, said in the rough, breathy whispers we're both using so much tonight. With that tone of voice, I'm certain he could make a discussion of sheep manure sound romantic.
"Hm. Let's start here, shall we?"
I curl my arms around his neck, and kiss him, slowly, but deeply and repeatedly, all the while easing our bodies closer, bit by bit. Eventually, his arms wrap around me, and he pulls us the last few centimeters of the way.
The first full contact of our skin does not come with a shock, which is rather a shock in itself. Neither is there any discomfort, or even any awkwardness – instead, he breaks our kiss, smiles delightedly, then leans into me and kisses me again, all with the blessedly sweet reassurance of astonishing normalcy, of soul-deep familiarity – almost as though we have been here a thousand times before, and our skin still remembers it - even though the rest of our minds and bodies have forgotten, somehow.
It's impossible.
But it's true.
As always for me, there is something inexplicably easy about being intimate with Jamie.
Then, our hands start to wander, our limbs twine together, and I blithely lose track of time. . .
A familiar, misty haze rises up from the depths of my mind. It swells and swirls to cover over all of my senses, making me glow with warmth and excitement. It seeps into my bones, gently guiding me back into a sweet, sensuous place in my soul that I haven't been to for so very, very long. . .
A mist among the trees. Flowers in a field. Deep water glowing with fire. A wild glade filled with rich orange light. . .
Rain and sun, and a star calling me home. . .
Ye know how to please a man. . .
Slowly, I wake up to the fact that parts of me are aching. I remember the feeling. It's hunger, not pain. A humming, inviting emptiness - an essential, delectable sort of yearning. It's so insistent that I can't ignore it. . . and I don't want to. . .
"Mmm. Jamie. . . please. . ." I say, with a moan that only a fool could misinterpret.
He is anything but a fool.
"Mmphm. I ken a woman can have pleasure moor than once, an' now I wantae learn if I can-"
His hands know where to go next, but his touch is too direct, too firm, too fast. . . and then his words register in my mind. . .
"Whoa there, my lad," I say, snapping out of my glorious haze depressingly quickly. I catch his wrist and bring it to my side. After a brief moment of surprise, he concedes with a nod, and goes back to stroking up and down my spine.
I sigh a bit, "First, that whole multiples thing doesn't necessarily apply to all women."
"Oh, it doesnae?"
"No."
He pauses a second, "Not. . . all women, then?"
His italics are pointed and devastating.
"No. Not all of us."
And never me, no matter how often Frank tried. No matter how often I've tried myself, for that matter.
"Ah."
There is a great deal more understanding in that one syllable than any virgin should be allowed to have. . .
And speaking of that. . .
I clear my throat, a little uncomfortably, "Secondly, what do you mean if you can? I thought this was half the reason you're only technically a virgin!"
"Weel. . . aye, mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Aye. . . it. . . I mean. . . that is. . ."
Suddenly, his face closes off, his eyes shutting me out.
He sits up, turning resolutely away from me. The chill of his abrupt absence washes across my skin.
My stomach drops. Uh-oh. This can not be good. . .
He sighs, long and deeply, "Dougal said-"
"Oh hell!" I interrupt with a growl of frustration. "I might have known! He gave you "advice" last night, didn't he?"
He nods, confusion and worry written all over his posture.
Well. Better to deal with this crap now than to let it fester until later.
I glide a hand across his back, his muscles unbelievably tense beneath the scars. What on earth did Dougal tell him?
"First of all - come back to me."
I open my arms and pull him close, stroking the smooth skin of his chest and arms, trying to soothe him. Finally, with a full-body shiver, he shakes off his worries for the moment, and wraps his arms around me again, burrowing his face into my neck.
"Now," I say, gently petting his hair, "What did Dougal say?"
He huffs a sigh, "He said. . . he said that most women faked it anyway, an' tha' I shouldnae be worrit if I couldnae please ye, especially since I'd no' be the furst tae. . ."
I tamp down on a spurt of fury that's much stronger than I expected it to be, and say, encouragingly, "Yes?"
"Since I'd no' be the furst tae. . . grind yer corn." His face blazes against my skin, clearly offended at such crude language from his uncle, "An' that has me wonderin', y'see – can I even. . . did I evar. . . I mean, how if Laoghaire and Annalise were only faking? I ken John wasn't, but that's hardly a comfort in this situation. . ."
I sigh, so angry at Dougal I have to let it go for the moment, or it's going to seem like I'm angry at Jamie. . . "Alright. Is that all?"
"No' exactly. . . The other men told me things too."
I sigh again. Of course they did.
"Okay then. Let's hear what they said."
He sighs with reluctance, but continues, "Murtagh said most women prefer a. . . a "French novel" an' a di. . . I mean. . . a device, rather than a living man, sae I ought tae jus' get taenight over with. An' then after taenight I ought tae let ye come tae me only when ye want tae, and no' tae bother ye with my oon desires."
My lips twist into a disappointed sneer. "Oh. He said all that, did he?"
"Aye. An' Angus said I should play wi' yer breasts a lot, and Rupert said I ought tae. . ." he gives a light cough, "That is, he offerd tae gi' me advice on how tae. . . weel, how tae kiss ye. . . in places that arenae exactly yer mouth. Ken?"
I huff a short, sharp laugh, "Oh, I ken just fine."
"Aye. An' neither of them believed me when I said I already kent how tae do those things, an' went on quite a while about various. . . weel, they called them 'attack patterns'." He half-smiles against my neck, voice softening, "An' Ned said that ye were an experienced, self-assured women, very clear on what ye want and what ye dinnae, sae if I would jus' listen tae ye, an' go slow, I probably wouldnae go too far wrong."
"That last is good advice."
He lifts his head, "Is it now?"
"Of course it is!" I snort, "If you didn't think so, just what do you think you've been doing up 'til now?"
His arms tighten a bit around me, "I kent his advice was good, Sorcha, but I wasnae quite sure about it for taenight, y'see. What wi' our choice of wedding gifts, things are a bit. . . a bit different than the usual, aye?"
"True that," I run the tip of my nose across his cheek, and kiss along his jaw.
"So I just thought I'd. . . let ye mek the decisions taenight. I could give those tae ye, at least. Whatever decisions needed tae be made, they'd be yers. An' I'd jus'. . . trust ye fer th'rest. . ."
I melt at the warm purr of affection in his voice, "Well. . ." I run a fingertip across his lips, "To be honest, that's not such a bad rule of thumb either. . ."
He grins.
"Anyhow. . . way to go, Ned." I pause a second, and purse my lips, "Rupert and Angus aren't wrong either. . . "
His eyebrows fly up and he laughs aloud, "Ov all the things I expected I might hear taenight, that was not among them, mo Sorcha!"
I laugh along with him, "I know - trust me, I'm just as shocked as you are."
He grins at me, playfully, "Mebbe now would be a good time tae tell ye then. . . I admit, I think their suggestions sounded mighty interestin'. Weel, some of them did, anyway. Ye'll haveta show me what ye like, aye?"
I smile back, "I will. Never fear. And I want to learn what you like too."
He curls a finger around my chin, lifting my eyes to his.
"I like you."
I give him a soft, sweet kiss that is somehow even more intimate than our current naked cuddling.
"So. . . what about what Murtagh said, then?"
I squirm a bit, ". . . well, I'd hardly expect gold-standard advice from a bachelor – although Ned puts the lie to that, doesn't he?"
He smirks, "Apparently so. . ."
"But if this were the seventeenth or eighteenth century or something, what Murtagh said might fly. . . if I were the virgin instead of you. Just get the first unpleasantness over, and then let me decide where we go from there? That's. . . not ridiculously awful advice. . . for three hundred or so years ago, maybe."
"Three hundred years ago. . . an' our positions were reversed, ye mean?"
I wince, "Yeah. Either way. . . not great when it comes to practicalities. Or modern expectations, for that matter."
"So, ye wilnae evar choose a romance novel ovar me?"
I scoff, "I'd say the odds of that are extremely slim."
He pauses, and his ears go red, "An' what about. . . devices?"
"Oh," I shrug, "They have their place."
He blinks a few times, incredulously, his Catholic upbringing showing very clearly all over his face, "Doo they indeed?"
I nod, "Yep. A very distinct place. Some of them you'll like too, I'm sure. In fact, there are a few I can practically guarantee you'll love – but I think that's a discussion for another time."
"Agreed." He smiles sweetly now, an encouraged look spreading across his features.
"Now. As to what Dougal said. . ."
The look fades as he sobers very quickly, "Aye?"
"Well, I can't speak for all women, obviously, but that most of them fake it. . . seems unlikely, to say the least. I'm sure some people do, but I can't imagine it's all by any stretch, and it wouldn't only be women if it were. And then again, perhaps most people do fake it - but only at one time or another. If someone doesn't have a very considerate lover, it can probably seem like the least troublesome option. It makes a sort of sense, if you think about it." I look him straight in the eyes, "But - more relevant than all of those things - do you really think I would ever lie to you like that?"
He blinks rapidly, as though he hadn't fully considered that aspect of it until now, "Weel, given what ye'ev asked ov me taenight, I. . . I thought ye might. . . might. . ."
"What I am asking from you is a very specific, negotiated exception, so your next word better be "not", James Fraser. . ."
He looks unsure, and his lips twitch dubiously, "Not. . . not even. . . if ye'ed promised a man the wedding night ov his dreams? Ye wouldnae lie tae him, jus' a little bit, then? Tae smooth things ovar, like? Mek him feel less awkward?"
And for a brief moment he looks younger than his years – like a boy barely out of his teens, lanky and disjointed, in a situation far, far over his head. . .
"Jamie. . ." I sigh, and shake my head, "I promised you truth months ago. We set no limits on that promise. Honour and truth, for always. Do you think I would go back on that? Especially now, while the scars from our blood pact are still open on our wrists?" I lift my arm and point at the little spot, "Do you think I would betray you like that? Do you?"
He shakes his head, decisively, "No. I dinnae."
"Good. Because I'm telling you now, my lad, there will come a time when you'll wish I could lie to you – wish I would lie to you, even. But I won't. Not about this, and not about anything else. . ."
Visions of the stones of Craigh na Dun dance before my eyes. I lower my gaze, and study the tiny curls of his chest hair for a long minute.
I lick my lips, slowly, "Doubtless, it will make some things a whole lot more difficult between us, but all the same, I'll do it, Jamie. I will always tell you the truth. Out of sheer bloody-minded stubbornness, if for no other reason. You know I will."
"Aye. I do."
I nod in agreement, "Alright then. There's that sorted." I hold him firmly to me, "When you have a truly caring lover, faking it isn't necessary anyway. If you care enough, you'll always find better ways to communicate than that."
"Aye, a'course. So ye would." Finally, he looks relieved.
"And besides that, let me tell you, my lad. . . when I. . ." I cough a bit, and can't stop a blush from warming my cheeks and ears, "When. . . it happens. . . you'll know."
"Will I now? How d'ye ken?"
I give a low chuckle, "Because it's thoroughly unmistakable, that's how. Or at least it is for me. You'll see. I couldn't fake it if I tried, Jamie. Not here and now, and certainly not with you – not ever with you."
"Did. . ." he pauses, gathering his still-scattered self confidence, "Did ye evar. . . wi' Frank?"
"Ever get there, or ever fake it?"
"Both."
I smile softly at him, "Let me be very clear - the first is irrelevant right now. . ." I pat his shoulder, "But in the interest of honesty - yes. And it's an emphatic no to the second. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to, on more than one occasion." I sigh, "It's just the way things go, sometimes." I smooth my fingers across his shoulders, then run them delightedly over his backside, just because I can. "But we always talked through it. Got past it. Figured things out. Because. . ."
"Because he loved ye. . ." He lowers his head to mine, but I pull back for a moment.
"Because this isn't just about pleasure, Jamie. It - this - is about us. Our relationship. You and me, together."
"Mm. Aye. Together. I like the sound of that. . ."
Then he kisses me, so warm and slow that I practically bathe in the comfort of it. My mind blanks with the force of being here, with him, like this. . .
Just a few months ago, I was a widowed, homeless power peddler, camping on the Rim of Skycity 15. How on earth have I ended up here, being passionately embraced by my gorgeous Scottish Laird of a husband, 200 years in the past?
With the touch, scent and flavour of Jamie all around me, it doesn't matter how. Only that it is.
Oh, how I'm going to miss him when I go home. . .
Finally, he pulls back to let me breathe, "I ken what ye sound like when I kiss ye." His eyes narrow, slyly, "Now, I wantae learn what ye sound like. . . when I tickle ye. . ." He moves his fingers boldly up and down my sides as I shriek, and laugh, and try to push him away. He laughs along with me, then stops suddenly, pulling me close.
"I ken what it's like tae have a caring-" he kisses over my right ear with a resounding smack, "-beautiful-" a similar kiss right in the middle of my forehead, "-generous-" one cheek, "-understanding-" then the other, "-delicious wife-" he finishes with a kiss to my chin, "Who is sae wonderful, shee'll evan interrupt her own wedding night tae explain the misconceptions of a daft loon tae him." He runs a finger softly down the side of my throat, lingering along the curve of my collarbone. "An' now, I wantae learn the most surprising place ye like tae be kissed. No' the naughtiest, mind – the most surprisin'. Tell me, an' I'll kiss ye thear - wheresoevar it be."
I grin, and point to the middle of the right side of my jaw, "Here. I don't know why, but gentle touches there sends tingles all down my spine. . . to here." I lift his hand and place it very precisely on the back of my thigh.
He looks up from kissing the place I indicated, eyes wide, fingers flexing spasmodically, "Och, all the way doon tae there, aye?"
"Mmm-hmm," I hum.
"Agch, tha's good tae ken, mo leannan. Verrah, verrah good. . ." he dips his head, and gets back to work. . .
It takes us at least half an hour to get back to where we were before, but it is time very pleasantly spent, learning sweet, intimate details about each other. I get to discover how much he likes it when I run my nails lightly up and down his pecs, scraping gently over his nipples. He discovers a place on my inner arm that sends shivers through my stomach – a spot which I didn't know about before either. I learn that the tops of his feet are surprisingly sensitive, and he learns that I love it when he combs his fingers through the hair on the back of my head, and pulls, every so slightly roughly. He finds out exactly how much I have always adored his big, warm hands, and I find out just how much he has always wanted me to nip him hard on the collarbone. . .
I'm running my hands luxuriously through his curls, watching him softly kiss patterns across my stomach, when I finally ache again. It's the same hazy, warm, blooming hunger as before, but sharper for having been so long in abeyance, coming back even stronger than it was a half an hour ago.
"Jamie?"
"Mmm?" he rumbles against my skin.
"I know what you look like when you make a discovery," I gently tug on his earlobe, but he doesn't look up, "Now, I want to learn what you look like when. . . when you. . . lose something."
Then, he does look up, and there is not the slightest particle of misunderstanding in his eyes.
"I want to see the look on your face when you're completely mine, my lad."
"Oh, aye?"
"Aye."
"Alright. . ."
At last, he moves over me, kissing me, and whispering my name as I guide him. Then he rears back with a gasp, and his eyes rake across my face. There is something indescribable in their expression, raw and naked and new. I am completely sure he's never looked like this before - that he's never looked at anyone like this before.
This is a Jamie Fraser neither of us have ever met.
But, he is intent on showing me this final, most intimate part of his soul. He threads the fingers of one hand through mine, pressing our palms together, as though such a touch will give us lead-tells in this, the most ancient of all dances.
Perhaps it will.
This touch of his, at least, I know.
Our eyes lock, and I grip his hand tightly, saying his name in a voice I can hardly recognize as my own.
He desperately whispers my name in response. . .
And then. . .
And then, I am not in the least surprised to learn that even the hidden, guarded, most secret parts of this man are stunningly, heartrendingly, achingly beautiful.