Chapter Rating – Soft M for graphically suggestive cat-calling, adult discussion and themes, and mild kinkiness

A Dragonfly Of Amber

"Bu' ye cannae jus' wait up heer, Sassenach. That bannock ye had was hours ago!"

Jamie looks at me reproachfully while tucking in his shirt.

I sigh, "I had a few slices of roast beef too-"

"Aye, I ken, an' tha's nowise near enough tae survive on any longer," he pauses, and his cheeks flush, "No' what wi' all we'ev been. . ."

The past several hours replay in high-speed flashes in my head. Eyes and hands and soft words and sweet touches. . . and some not so sweet. . . and some not sweet at all. . .

The scent of his hair is still on the pillow I'm currently cuddling to my chest. I shiver, even though the room isn't too cold, and the bed is still very warm. . .

"And that's my point, Jamie. All we've been. And everyone knows we have been, too. You are welcome to go down to tea if you want. But if you want to have it with me, let's order it up here. Or bring me up something after you have yours, like I suggested. I'll survive just fine. The only thing both of us going down to the dining room will achieve is a lot of embarrassment."

He stops in the middle of putting on his boots, "Ye. . . ye arenae ashamed of-"

I roll my eyes, "Of course not, Jamie!" I groan with frustration, and flip the edge of the blankets over my head for a second, "But if there's one thing the Ruperts of this world are good at, it's being embarrassing."

And so much of what has happened between us since yesterday is so intensely private. Not just the fun we've had – the serious business of learning to be a married couple too. Those memories are ours – I'm not sure I want to dilute them with very probably less-than-pleasant memories involving other people just now.

And I'm also still getting used to the feelings of intense belonging that loving him has given me. I am sure I don't want to dilute those at the moment. . .

"Aye, I ken there'll be teasin' – a merciless lot o' it – but. . ." he rubs his hands together, then gets up, and kneels by the bed, bringing his face level to mine, "But I wantae be seen wi' ye, mo nighean donn. I want us tae show each other off. I want anyone who sees either of us tae automatically think of the other. So they all go out inta the world, declarin' that we belong tae each other. An' if that means endurin' a storm of crude comments made by unimaginative men, weel. . ." he runs a fingertip around the edge of my ear, then sighs a little, "I'd say that's nothin'. Bu' that's jus' my idea. I'm more used tae them than most – both the men, an' the comments. I'm not ye, an' I shouldnae assume. Jus' because ye can fight, an' well too, it doesnae mean ye like it or want tae do it – I ken that well enough. Would it be tae much for ye jus' now, Sorcha?"

I gape at him a little. This man. Will loving him ever not be a constant string of surprises?

Shut up and answer the man, Beauchamp.

"I. . . hadn't considered the showing each other off part."

He grins, "Aye, d'ye think I'm pretty enough tae be yer arm candy?" He runs a hand through his hair and preens shamelessly.

My breath catches, and some thoroughly tired bits of me remember in vivid detail exactly how they got so tired. . .

I can't resist him.

Dammit.

"Alright. Give me a minute."

When we enter the dining room, the downright fatherly looks we get from both Murtagh and Ned almost make up for the mocking applause and wolf whistles we get from everyone else.

Well. They make up for it a little bit, anyway. . .

Jamie directs us towards the most isolated corner, but we are still chaffed and teased mercilessly on our way there.

"Back from yer climb up Ben Nevis then, lassie?"

"Didnae ken they wasted Scottish cream fillin' English cakes 'round heer. . ."

"The Lioness an' the Unicorn were fightin' all round the town, eh?"

"Gi' 'er plum cake now an' gi' back tae drummin', aye?"

"What's the weather like i' the South, lad?"

"High pressure an' wet?"

"Aye, an' a bit stormy, I'll warrant!"

"Bu' does the wee rose have thorns?"

"She does now!"

"One, annyroad!"

As Jamie seats us in a tiny booth tucked under the staircase, most of the room loses sight of us, and the laughter and jibes become more general, and slightly more tolerable.

I sigh. A though I needed more proof that there's never anything new when men do this to me. . . It wouldn't be quite so bad if it were ever interesting, but it is always either crude sexual remarks, and class sneers, or both. Add in the sassenach thing and it all gets too, too predictable.

Hatred isn't just nasty – it's boring.

Just once I wish someone would insult my fashion sense – which I fully admit is often overly utilitarian and woefully unsophisticated in a lot of ways – or maybe my thoroughly ridiculous ability to remember the name and face of practically every person I've ever met, no matter how briefly, or how long ago – or even focus a little bit on my frankly silly French accent, or how funny most Gàidhlig still sounds when I try to do anything but sing it.

But no. All of that would mean getting to know me. Acknowledging my quirks. My individuality. My Humanity.

It's much less easy to dehumanize someone when you've used what time you've had in their company to get to know them. . .

I had thought I was past most of this with the majority of the men - again - but apparently marrying Jamie means a free pass back to day one with me. Again.

It wouldn't hurt so much if they weren't dragging Jamie into it this time too. He's lived with them for four years, and they respect and love him. They'd follow him as their Chieftain in a heartbeat. But the chance of a crude joke at his expense is still worth more than all of it.

And even that I'd dismiss as nothing more than rough affection or post-wedding exuberance, if it were not for the fact that Jamie unflinchingly accepted bearing a mark on his skin if it meant staving off just a small portion of it all. No, there's more happening here than simple teasing, and Jamie knows it better than I do. . .

These men have spent many weeks in the company and under the direct leadership of a man whose primary objective for years has been - and for the next three years will be – to bring about the violent and utter destruction of practically every English person currently in Scotland.

Is it any wonder that every time I'm vulnerable, the men see it as their own private preview of Culloden?

Why did Jamie insist we come down to tea, again?

He gives me an understanding smile and touches his fingers to mine, "Would ye like ale or whisky wi' our food, Sorcha?"

"Whisky," I give a lopsided grin that is almost a sneer, "Emphatically whisky."

"Aye, right enough," he signals down a server and gives our orders in the Gàidhlig.

As we wait, he tells me about the Korean novel he's currently reading, how much it's improving his vocabulary, and how different the idioms and ideas are, but also how fundamentally similar and Human they all turn out to be, once truly observed and understood. . .

I nod along, sipping on my whisky when it arrives, most of my attention on the still rowdy men surrounding us. . .

Then my brain finally makes the connection. What he's really telling me. . .

Oh.

We aren't just showing each other off here. He's humanizing me. In front of them. And it's working too – no one has approached us since we sat down, and we are able to have a perfectly private conversation, if we keep our voices low.

Well, this early on in the process it might just be him, of course – all two meters, extremely fit, newly-minted husband of him. Rupert and Angus did walk away with quite a story to tell about us last night, after all – and I just bet they embellished it, too.

But still.

My clever, brilliant, wise, delicious, sweetheart. . .

Just when I thought I couldn't possibly love him more.

He deserves a reward. . .

Surreptitiously, I slide my shoe along his boot, and his steady stream of words falters momentarily. Clearly no one has played footsie with him in a long time – if ever. I grin at him mischievously.

"Oh, do go on, Jamie dear. I'm listening."

He nods, inhales, backs up a little, and starts again. . .

The toe of my shoe caresses lightly around his anklebone.

He falters again.

"What's the matter darling? Whisky too strong?"

"Nae fear," he kicks back his portion and signals a server for more, "The opposite, rather. I said gi' ye a weapon an' ye'er deadly, did I no'?"

"Deadly?" I say, making my voice as low and sultry as I can in the middle of a crowded and noisy dining room, "And what weapon? Why, I can't pretend to understand what you're talking about, Jamie."

Slowly, I run my foot up the side of his boot, to where the seam of his jeans is tucked into them.

His expression goes from pained and bemused to simmering and dangerous in a thoroughly arousing blink of an eye, "Stop it, Sorcha," he says, in a voice so low I can barely hear it, "Or I'll bend ye ovar this table an' take ye right here. An' ye wouldnae enjoy that a bit."

"Oh?" I press my toe up along the seam a little further, wondering exactly where the boundary is going to be here. . . "Are you so certain I wouldn't?"

His eyes blaze with barely restrained fire, "Jesus, Mary and Bride. . ."

I give a sneaky little smile, and lick my lips, "You said we were going to show each other off, but you never said how much. . ."

I slowly work my foot between his knees. . .

He gapes at me, shocked back into the sweet lad he usually is.

My eyes flick to the men around us, and I push my foot forward. . . "Besides, I bet they'd love to see a Sassenach get f-"

"Mo Dhia. . ." his hand flies across the table, and grips my wrist firmly. I can feel his pulse beat in his palm.

The light of a real warning glows in his eyes.

There it is. The Gàidhlig marks the boundary. Yes, that tracks. . .

Very well then.

I pull my foot back.

Good to know.

"I only promised I wouldn't push you last night, Jamie. I never said anything about today. You should know by now I love a good sparring match."

He closes his eyes, and takes a long, deep breath, exhaling slowly, "Promise me ye wilnae spar wi' me in public, Sorcha, please? No' about this. For now, a'least?"

He doesn't sound angry, he sounds. . . sorrowful. . .

What?

I twist my wrist out of his softened grip, and touch his hand soothingly, "Of course, my dear, if that's what you want. But. . ."

Our food comes just then, and we pause to address the steak and ale pie, pickled carrots, and curry baked cauliflower.

"I'm sorry I wasnae clear about it earlier, Sorcha," he says, a few minutes later, "I do love the boldness of ye. I do want tae show ye off, an' be shown off by ye. But this. . ." the toe of his boot touches my ankle, "This is sae new between us that I. . . I. . ."

I see him fight back a blush, but he can't stop his ears from turning a lovely soft pink.

Oh. . .

"You can't be jealous, Jamie?"

A Laird's look rises in his eyes.

"I can."

"But. . . of who?" I glance around, incredulously.

"What d'ye mean of who? Of ye. Of us. Of this," his boot strokes up and down my leg a little.

"But Jamie, you played along. You escalated it. . ."

He quirks his eyebrows, "An' ye were the one who didnae want tae come down tae tea at all because there might be embarrassment."

I pause, and tilt my head in acknowledgment, "Okay. Fair point."

"A'course I played along, mo ghràidh. A'course I escalated. Ye'er my wife." He gestures with his fork, "Sparrin' wi' ye is half the fun of it. I jus' didnae gauge ye right, an' we went somewhere I wasnae expectin'. Did I no' tell ye I keep forgettin' how terrifyin' ye are?"

"But you can't think. . ." I look around again, "Not really think. . ."

"I don't."

"Well then?"

He sighs, "Jealousy isnae just anger against rivals, mo nighean donn. Surely ye ken that? It's also a bone deep need tae. . . protect. Tae fence somethin' away sae securely that there's nae question it's yers. Tae guard it." He playfully bumps the toe of his boot against my shoe, "In the auld auld days, that was love. Honour too. We may ha' grown as a species since, but some of us still feel like that sometimes. Have ye ever felt in such a way, Sorcha?"

The past two days wrap themselves up together and snuggle into my heart. How did I ever question that this man was my soulmate? I smile softly, "Of course I have, Jamie. Why don't you take a minute and really parse the reason I didn't want to come down to tea, hmm?"

I see the gears whirl in his mind for a little bit. An enchanting smolder joins the Laird's expression in his eyes, "Really?"

"Of course really, you sweet strawberry biscuit!" I take a bite of cauliflower, and look at him saucily, "You're my Jammie Dodger. No one gets to dunk you in their tea but me, and as for giving you a wee nibble. . ." I swipe a hand across my mouth, and touch my tongue to a fingertip with a coy little flourish.

A rather. . . reminiscent little move. I've only done anything like it in his presence once before. . . Exactly once. Pearls may or may not have been involved. . .

His jaw drops as he realizes what I'm talking about, and then he throws his head back and laughs so loudly that most of the people in our range of vision pause their conversations a little to stare. But he waves the looks away, and getting himself under control, smiles broadly at me, "I've never liked that nickname until now, Sorcha."

I rest my chin in one hand, "How about if I promise to be careful about sparring with you in public? Words and gestures, but no touching, since that seems to be what fires you up so badly?"

He considers a minute, "Aye, I think that might work, mo chridhe. A chess match, instead of a game of shinty." Pointedly, he rests the toe of his boot firmly on my foot.

I lightly kick-slap him away, like my shoe is a caman-stick and his foot is the ball, "Save the tackling for the bedroom, got it."

He snort-laughs so hard he almost spits out a sip of whisky. But he doesn't, and after a centering moment, looks at me with a very insistent request in his eyes.

"All right, no more just now. I promise."

He grins, and focuses back on his food. I watch him eat for a few minutes, so full of loving him that I cannot understand how I am containing it all.

I must tell him soon.

I must. Or I think I might burst.

But I certainly can't say it here. . .

"Tell me more about the kite flying festival, Jamie?"

"Oh, aye. Weel. . ."

He launches back into the story of his novel. He's such an evocative storyteller himself that I can see the kites as he describes them – fantastical creatures dancing in the air, as the wind pushes them further and further into the sky, the scent of the dry grass and the sweep of the clouds framing the entire earth in silver and gold. . .

A small but heavy paper-wrapped package flies in from who knows where, and lands with a solid thunk on the table between us.

Jamie picks it up, curiously. Whatever it is, it's about the size of a ten-pound coin, or. . . yes, a Jammie Dodger biscuit. . . It is wrapped in a very thickly-folded strip of plain white writing paper.

"Hugh?" Jamie says, looking around.

I look around too, bewildered, "What? Who-"

"One o' Lallybroch's tenants – tha's how he usedtae communicate wi' us boys – he'd throw a stone wi' a note tied 'round it ovar the fence. . ."

Jamie holds out his arms and makes few strange but very precise gestures.

Gestures I. . . know? Gestures I can read?

What. . .

~Where are you?~

~You are here. I know you are here~

And then a gesture I don't know, but that I assume is Hugh's name.

Oh.

Of course.

It's been so long. . .

~Time has been very too long~, say a pair of hands that appear beside our table. We both look up into the smiling face of a man pushing a small luggage cart, ~We miss you Black Son~

Jamie smiles so hard I think he might start crying. He signs the gesture I don't know again, "Hugh!", he says, and then envelops the man in an enormous hug. Then he stands him off with a great shout of laughter, and signs some more, ~To see you is very good. Very good. How are you here?~ "Sae good tae see ye. What brings ye here?"

~Church-father message sent to wobble-spire~

~I see. I was not knowing~ "Oh. I didnae know he'd done tha'."

~Yes. He said you had been married~

Jamie grins some more, and nods towards me, using both hands to sign as he says, "~Yes, this is-~"

I have to spell the name, and I am very rusty at the other signs, but it's all come back to me remarkably well. . .

"~M-u-r-t-a-g-h is a good man. Thank you for being here~"

Both men stare at me, delighted surprise on Hugh's face, and plain shock on Jamie's.

Hugh recovers first.

~You sign! How do you know it?~

~Tractors are very loud. Sometimes to speak we cannot speak~ "Sometimes farm equipment is so loud it's the only way to talk."

Considering the span of time, and the vast divide in cultures, not a lot has changed from Hugh's expressive hand-speech to the farming station Standard Core Gestural dialect I know. Skycity Core fusion generator rooms are extremely noisy places, so it is not surprising that SCG first developed there, but it was maintained in the farming stations. Get all the crop regulators in a station going at once, and you have to wear ear protection even when you're working in the back-room laboratories. On busy days, SCG is the only effective way to communicate.

"Will wondars nevar cease," Jamie breathes, staring at me, and not signing.

~I see Black Son married good~ Hugh holds out his hand.

I take it, trying desperately to remember how to introduce myself. I can easily recall the signs for test tubes or sprouting trays, but the simple pleasantries are very far back in my memory. . .

~I am C-l-a-i-r-e. You good. To meet is~ "My name's Claire. I'm very glad to meet you."

His eyes carefully follow the movement of my lips as well as my hands, and he doesn't mention my slightly mangled signing.

~I have a marriage present for you pair~ He points at the large package resting on the luggage cart.

I try out the gesture Hugh called Jamie, just to see what it's like ~You made Black Son happy. That is good present enough~ "You made Jamie smile. That's enough for me."

Hugh smiles, but doesn't reply, starting to wrangle the clearly very heavy box off the cart.

At the sight and sound of his name, Jamie snaps out of his wondering haze, and helps Hugh lift the cloth-wrapped present onto our table. It lands with a decided thud, and a distant, very faint, metallic rustle. Jamie undoes the long set of cords wrapped around the thing, and folds back the plain gray wool wrapping. Underneath is a plain chest, covered in black leather.

For the second time in as many minutes, Jamie lights up so brightly tears start to form in his eyes.

~The strawberry _! Who gave them?~ "The Fraser jewels! How did ye get them?"

~Some. Not all. Church-father told _ to give me the most good things and bring here~

~_! That means-~ "Ian! I'll havetae-"

~I see you are here~ "Glad ye got here, Hugh," Murtagh interrupts, ~Sad to part you so soon, purpose that brings _ he _ -~ "Sorrae tae take ye away sae quick, but ye ken Dougal when he has a bee in his-"

"~Dougal? What does he-~"

~Yes. He has a species of _ he wants to do in _ and-~ "Aye, t'ere's some kinda commando thing he wants tae run in Inverness, an'-"

~And he needs me for _~

I am so bewildered, trying to keep up with the speech, and the signing, and the signs I don't know, and what with everyone interrupting each other, I am very nearly lost. . .

I hold my hands out in the middle of everyone, and mime the latest of Hugh's signs I don't know, and an emphatic question mark.

It's the signing equivalent of shouting to make myself heard.

Everyone settles a bit, and Jamie answers me.

"~Intelligence~"

"~Aye, an' does he ever need it. . .~" says Murtagh, smirking. He embraces Hugh then, slapping him on the back a few times. Then they walk slowly out of the dining room, signing a pleasant conversation as they go.

Jamie watches them for a long minute, then turns back to me, all sorts of wonder in his eyes.

"Ye are, unquestionably, the most amazin' woman I've evar met, Sorcha."

A thoroughly inexplicable blush warms my face, "For knowing sign language?"

He leans on the jewel casket in front of him, "Nae, no just for that." He undoes the hasp, and throws back the lid, revealing a black velvet interior, full of shining, gleaming, sparkling colours. He reverently lifts something out of one corner, and bending over to me, slips a long string of pearls over my head, "For being the most natural Lady Lallybroch any man could'ha asked for, the best War Chieftain I've evar met, and prettier than the bonniest bride I evar dreamed, inta the bargain." He bends down a bit further, and kisses me briefly, then sits back down to finish his tea.

I run the pearls between my fingers, not knowing what to say. A mere "thank you" would be woefully inadequate after that, and I positively refuse to let a public dining room be the first place he hears "I love you, Jamie" from me. . .

I repeatedly stroke my thumb over the smooth, soothing surface of the pearls instead. I've seen pearls before, even touched one or two, but never so many at once, and never such lovely ones as these. They are all slightly irregular, and somehow this brings out their gloss and subtle colours all the more.

When the words do finally come, they are remarkably simple and easy.

"They're beautiful, Jamie. I can see why your mother was inspired by them."

"Aye."

There are a lifetime of memories in his smile.

I let the necklace drop, for now, and re-focus on all the myriad of other things that just happened. . .

"Now, what was Murtagh saying about Inverness and a commando run?"

He shrugs, "Dinnae ken. Ye do pretty much havetae go through Inverness tae get heer from Broch Mordha, a'course, bu' as for Dougal's plans, weel – ye'ev spoken tae him more recently than I have, an' that was-"

The answer hits me all at once, "Oh!" I clap a hand over my mouth for a second, then significantly lower my voice, "That was one of the orders I gave him."

"A commando raid was? What. . ."

I nod, "Yes. I ordered him to help us get your warrant lifted. And one of the things we need if we're even going to try to do that. . ."

"The armoured truck goin' through Inverness. . ." he leans his head in his hands a moment, "Christ, Sorcha. He's followin' yer orders. Dougal!"

"For his own reasons, and in his own way, I'm certain."

"Och. Aye, a'course. Bu' still."

Yes.

Still. . .

Alain approaches our table, eyes lowered, with literally his cap in his hand.

"Jam?", he says, respectfully, "The men would like tae ken if we're tae see the weddin' gifts or no'. . ."

"Agch! A'course!" Jamie grabs the little paper-wrapped package, and untwists the long folded strip from around the thing in the center.

When opened up, it is clear the papers are an inventory. He runs down it quickly, skimming over the pages with a few nods of recognition.

Then Jamie tells Alain to help him, and together they shift the heavy casket to the nearest larger table. The people sitting there eagerly move their things out of the way.

He opens the chest again, and lifts out several trays of beautiful, colourful things, and then dips into two drawers of even more. He isn't half finished laying everything out to his satisfaction before nearly the whole room has either queued up along one side of the table, or crowded around the other.

I smile at them. A flash of gold still on our own table catches my eye.

The thing the inventory papers were wrapped around.

I pick it up and inspect it. It is either a very small plaid brooch, or a very large statement pin, in the shape of a very odd insect. The body is clearly that of a dragonfly, made of polished amber cabochons in a brass setting, and the wings are just as clearly those of a moth, in sulfur yellow enamel on silver. I'd say it was some sort of mistake, but everything about it is far too deliberate for that. . .

Jamie sits back down across from me, grinning over at the men as they file past the Fraser jewels, pointing and exclaiming and discussing. Angus has taken up a station at the table, supervising them if they want to pick anything up.

"Auld wedding tradition, Sorcha," says Jamie, turning back to me with a smile, "The guests get tae view the gifts. Usually at the reception feast."

I laugh, very quietly, "Good thing they don't know what our gifts actually were, then. . ."

"Aye," he chuckles, "I wouldnae ha' stood for tha'."

"Me either," I laugh along with him, then hold up the insect brooch, "What is this, Jamie? It's half one thing, half another – I can't work it out."

He takes it gently from me, and holds it up by its long backing pin, "This issa Meetin' Sprite, Sorcha. A fairy that takes on the aspects of twa or more people or ideas in harmony, an' that's where it draws its power from. Fairy like that c'n drain the life out ov a friendship in three Sundays flat – oor so they say." He lays it down on the table between us again, "Wear a representation of them like this tho, an' ye draw the power back. It c'n be any set ov livin' things. They say it's wheer we got the idea of griffons an' chimeras an' the like, and mebbe evan mermaids, winged horses, an' centaurs – compound, impossible creeturs – all dangerous an' strange. Yet somehow, still fascinatin'." He lightly taps a fingertip on the cool enamel of the wings, "Dinnae ken the exact story of this one heer. Bound tae have been one tho."

I draw a fingertip down the line of smooth amber jewels that make up the dragonfly's body. . .

"Would you wear it, Jamie?"

He blinks, surprised. "Certainly. . ." he says, slowly, but makes no move to pick it up.

"For me?" I ask, touching the pearls around my neck, only half knowing where I'm going with this, "Because you and I. . ." I reach out and take his hand, "I don't know how we're going to get through this, Jamie, but I do know we're meant to be together. Even if we do look like a. . ." I push the brooch towards him a little, ". . . a. . . sort of dangerous accident no one can really explain."

He nods, contemplatively, then picks up the fairy talisman, and pins it over his heart.