Chapter Rating – M for non-graphic married nookie, and mild blood/violence.

Danse Macabre

The next two weeks lead us quite a merry dance indeed. Things go both worse and better than they seem.

In the end, Jamie and I manage to give each other more than one full week without drama, but we can only do so in fits and starts, a few days at a time, interspersed with many other days of quite surreal happenings that neither of us fully understand until much later.

The first morning, I spend several hours "showing Mr. Petrie the ropes", as the current idiom goes. I am much more used to several other such phrases from the Skycities - "touring Central Control" being perhaps the most relevant. And yet, I do find the mention of rope to be more apposite in this instance, given how many disparate and complex responsibilities a Farm Manager must competently hold together.

We begin in the Manager's barn, discussing everything from Leoch's energy budget and my newly instituted recycling routines, to my current crop plan and hybridization initiatives. Then, we walk a few of the nearest plots. I show him the crop regulator, and discuss the several experiments I have made with it so far. He shows quite appropriate attention to everything, and asks some highly intelligent questions, but I don't see a gleam of real passionate interest in his eyes until we finally make it over to the Manager's garage. Fifteen seconds among the trucks and tractors, and I know I've found his specialty. His ears perk up, and his accent, usually tightly controlled and almost impossible for me to identify, falls back into an open and immediately distinctive Québécois Canadian. In less than a minute he has five bonnets open, has given me a shockingly accurate rundown of what "he merely guesses" the past six months of maintenance history of the fleet has been, and to top it off, he can tell me the Liger needs a tune-up by sight alone. "Ahnd by smell," he says. "Properly maintained brakes have a varreh distincteev smell. Ahnd so do they also when they need a going ohvar." He pays me several highly technical compliments, then rolls up his sleeves and gets down to business.

A half an hour later I leave him, happy as a well-fed hen, elbows-deep into the half disassembled Liger, still exclaiming at me even as I tell him I'm taking off for lunch. I chuckle as I wave farewell to him for now, and go back to the Manager's barn, in both a cheerful and thoughtful frame of mind.

Jamie and Fergus are there waiting for me, huddled over by something colourful and messy spread out all over the section of lab counter I've allotted to Fergus for his own use.

"It seems Mr. Petrie is quite a tinker," I say brightly, coming round to see what my boys are up to, "He'll fit right in as Manager, I think."

"Will he?" says Jamie, making room for me next to him, "That's good, Sassenach. Come see the crystals Fergus has made."

I spend some time exclaiming over the several pans of borax and food dye Fergus proudly shows me.

"And now, do you wish me to bring lunch to us here, papa?" He looks inquiringly up at Jamie, "Ours is back in your workshop. Shall I bring it heer?"

"If ye want, lad," Jamie musses Fergus's curls playfully, "Ask Geordie tae drive ye in a runabout if ye dinnae want tae walk, aye?"

"Aye!" Fergus grins eagerly, and runs into the office, exclaiming at Geordie at the top of his lungs.

Jamie smiles at me as the sounds of our son fade away into the distance, "Ahh, I have missed that racket."

I run a hand fondly along his cheek, then give him a long, lingering hug, "I know what you mean. Me too."

We sit down companionably a little ways down the lab counter, and I take up a few summary printouts of my latest round of hybrid tests. I'm going to have to choose which fine-tuned versions will move on to the propagation phases soon. Much sooner now than I had originally intended. . .

"What is this, Sassenach?" asks Jamie, leafing through the pad of cheap paper I brought here from my luggage this morning.

"Oh, that. I was so out of it the day we left, I forgot to bring my info scre- my e-padd with me on campaign, so all I had was a pencil and paper," I dig in my pocket and bring out my campaign com, "And the shite excuse for a camera in this thing, of course."

Jamie takes it from me, and starts scrolling through the long roll of photos, far more eagerly than I can account for. . .

"But. . ." he looks bewilderedly back and forth between me, the sketchpad and the com, "I though ye said it was Frank who was the artist?"

I smile fondly, "He was. Very much of one. Not that anyone but me ever knew that, of course. . ."

"But. . . Sorcha," he gestures at the pad full of sketches of leaves and bark and twigs and moss and fungi and flowers, and the camera roll full of pictures of the same, "What d'ye call all this, then?" He seizes a couple of my nearby sketchbooks, and leafs through them rapidly, "And these too?" He holds one up at the page where I did a colour study of the local evergreens two months ago.

I laugh lightly, and take the book from him, "Not art, whatever else it may be. Craft, it certainly is. Or partially, at least. But it's mostly science."

"Science?" He looks at me incredulously.

"Of course, Jamie," I gesture around us, "None of this just happens, you know that. Getting an accurate recording of the state of growing things in all stages of their development is a vital part of the process. That's all my sketches are. Just another version of walking the plots, really. Sometimes the only way to truly, functionally understand something is to break it down by hand. And of course along the way you learn how to frame a photograph, and how to shade a leaf-bud, and how to catch the light on a petal to show the veining just right. But it isn't art, my dear. It's recording. Copying. Studying. It's more dissection than creation. Done artistically, perhaps, but it's not at all art in itself. Sit me down with a pack of drawing charcoal and art paper and nothing else, and I couldn't invent a single thing worth looking at, even in the abstract. Frank could. That's the difference."

He flips through a few pages of my sketches, dubiously, "But there's a dozen of these I'd frame, Sassenach – even yer pencil sketches on cheap paper! Dinnae tell me that's nowt!"

I chuckle, "That's the art of looking, Jamie. That's you. Appreciating something like that is an art in itself, darling. And that's just part of your own artistic talent. I admire and envy you for it, Jamie. You see so cleanly. You make connections so beautifully. So. . . eloquently. That's a skill. And a very rare one."

He doesn't say anything, but his ears do go bright red.

I put down the sketchbook and go over to the genetic sequencer, "I don't say there isn't art in my work at all, but it isn't in those sketches, I'm sure of that." I punch up a printout of my most recent version of a hybridized and modified sugar beet, and show it to him. "There. Take a look at that."

He scans over the predictive image, and all the graphs and write-ups, then looks over at me, confusion in his eyes.

"That's where my creativity is, Jamie," I say, tapping the papers he's holding, "That's what you'd get if you put me in a room alone, with nothing to reference. A newly designed living organism, with altered flavour profiles, leaf patterns and colour expressions, a new ideal growing temperature, an increased environmental acidity tolerance, an improved hydration salinity range, and an overall boosting of all bio-available nutrients. That's what I invent. That's where my inspiration goes." I gesture at the greenhouse door, and at all the sprouting trays waiting to be taken back beyond it, "There is my art." I shrug a little, "I'm not the best at it, nor among the best. Perhaps I'm not even very good. But that's where my art is, Jamie. Not here." I pick up a notebook and wave it vaguely, "These are just part of the process."

He takes the book from me, tenderly, "Aye, an essential part."

I smile softly at him, and relent, "Yes, Jamie. Quite, quite essential." I slide my arms around him, and hold him to me. He runs his fingers up my neck, and lifts my chin gently to his. . .

We only stop kissing when Fergus returns with lunch.

The next day is mostly peaceful, but it does start with something of a bang. The entirety of the family wing wakes up to find it has no hot water. I have only spent a few months on solid ground, so I clearly cannot be an expert, but if the collective shouts and furious stomping of several dozen working men denied their morning shower do not qualify as some level of an earthquake, I do not know what does.

An earthquake repeated about twenty minutes later, with the added strength of the collective displeasure of the entire kitchen staff, when all the stoves and ovens are found to be malfunctioning too.

The fault is found, much later in the day, and over supper Annie tells me it was a highly puzzling knot of dried herbs, that got caught – somehow! - and wound around the main switch for the natural gas line. All the way out in the power buildings, back behind Leoch's kitchen wing. . .

How a bunch of dried herbs even got out there to be tangled, no one seems to know.

Jamie, Fergus and I merely shrug at the story. We had taken sponge baths with water heated up over Bunsen burners in my lab, and later warmed up our lunch the same way.

Just a bit of household drama that didn't end up effecting us much.

Or so it seemed.

Three days later, Jamie surprises me at breakfast, saying he's decided it's time I learned how to swim. I blink a bit, and ask him exactly where he intends. . . He grins, grabs my hand, and takes me to a small patch of pasture not too far from his workshop cottage – a little nook of a grassy field, shielded from most of the rest of Leoch by a dense hedge of gorse and fir, and sprinkled over with a whole host of spring flowers. There, stuck in one corner like a surprisingly pivotal afterthought, is a huge water trough.

"I set up a smaller one ovar there for the few cattle that used this'un," he says, gesturing down the field, to the wider pasture lands, "It's closer tae their feed an' easier tae clean annyway – an' then I spent a day scrubbin' this'un out." He pats the edge of the cylindrical vat, nearly a meter tall and at least four meters wide, and splashes his hand in the crystal-clear water inside it, "An' twa more fillin' it an' giving it an initial heatin' up."

I look at the imposing thing, more than a little dubiously, "Yes, how did you do that?" I can see an irrigation tap near the boundary ditch a few meters away, and the ashes from a small fire right beside the trough, but I'm sure that wouldn't have been nearly enough. . . not for what must surely be thousands of liters. . .

He grins, and kneels next to the spent coals, and starts to rekindle them, "The auld Stone Age way, Sorcha. Sometimes, it's the simplest ways that are best." He pulls matches and some tinder out of his pockets, and grabs a few bits of wood from a pile nearby. After the blaze is well going, he stacks several armloads of big rocks around it, and turns them with sticks, so they heat evenly. Then, using a set of fireplace tongs I recognize from our rooms, he captures one rock at a time, dunks it briefly into a bucket of water to remove most of the ash, and then drops the still steaming thing unceremoniously into the pool. After the whole pile of stones have been heated and put into the vat, he fishes around with the tongs, and removes them, one by one, and stacks them up by the fire, to dry and heat again.

It takes a lot of work, and time, and patience, but eventually, I splash my fingers in the water, and it's pleasantly cool. Not particularly warm, but inviting enough for me to not shrink at the prospect of getting into it naked. . .

We both start to undress rather slowly.

"We'll go inta Cranesmuir soon, Sorcha. Get ye a bathing dress an' some proper kit," he says, grinning while folding our clothes away safely beneath the towels we've brought.

"But in the meantime, you mean to enjoy this state of things to the fullest, is that what you mean?"

His grin turns sly, and he looks me up and down, very appreciatively, "Oh, aye. Verrah much."

The wink he gives me heats me through to my marrow.

But I still shiver as the spring breeze ruffles across my skin, and again the first time I come up from submerging myself in the water completely, and the air strikes cold on my wet hair.

Jamie climbs the stepladder he's placed for us to get in and out, and slides into the water beside me. He smiles at me, kisses my shoulder briefly, and begins my instruction.

The bodily motions are simple enough, and Jamie is a good teacher. I learn slowly, but steadily, and it isn't too long before I move past floating and basic paddling. Eventually, we learn that the diameter of the pool is just wide enough for me to take two good, long overarm strokes, turn around against the far wall, and take three shorter breast-strokes back.

"Agch, ye'el be rivallin' a wee salmon before ye ken it, Sassenach," says Jamie, after I have successfully completed my third round of this exercise, "But I think that's about enough for one day, aye?"

"Oooo, yes," I say, getting out rapidly, and gratefully wrapping myself in a towel, "I'm starving. . ."

"No' nearly as starvin' as the day we met. . ." he says, not exactly sharply, but with a pale sort of bitterness that I can't quite define.

My whole body halts, in confusion and a little revulsion. Not for Jamie, but for who I was that day. Depressed, sick, wounded and grieving. . . distant. . . cold. . . sarcastic, and violently independent. . . I still cannot for the life of me understand what Jamie saw in me. . .

"I. . . was just coming out of a depression then, Jamie. A very bad one. And I had just had a bad 'flu, as well."

"Aye. Ye got sent here for quarantine, ye said." He scrubs his hair vigorously, and starts to dress himself methodically.

"Yes," my lips twist ruefully as I get dressed too, "That first day you saw me I had actually improved a little bit. . . Lamb and Mrs. Graham were taking good care of me."

"Hmmphm," he grunts, and pulls me to him just as soon as my clothes are securely on, the skin tight around his eyes, and the look in them dark, and burning, "I dinnae like thinking about how things were for ye then."

"I don't suppose you would," I say, a little bleakly.

He hears the echoes of despair in my voice, and shakes his head violently, "No, Sassenach, no' how you were. How things were."

I blink up at him, needing reassurance.

"I dinnae like thinking how close I got tae losing ye before I evar met ye, Sorcha," he sighs, and his jaw works, "How many times I came close tae never kenning ye at all. I dinnae like the thought of those things, mo nighean. No' in the least."

I shiver a little, this time not because of the wind, but remembering just how much I didn't want to come to Cold Island 12, and how close I came to trying to beg off. I huddle closer to his big, warm self, and hug him tighter to me, "Thank heaven Fate had other plans, eh?"

He strokes the wet curls on the back of my head, then leans down a little and kisses me, "Aye." He smiles at me softly, "An' ye'er right - there really is nothin' like swimming for workin' up an appetite."

"Lunch?" I ask, brightly.

"Aye."

Things are quite idyllic as we wander back to the kitchens, and the rest of the day passes peacefully.

Even the drama at supper isn't nearly so negatively charged as it might be. . .

For the first time since Jamie and I returned from campaign, Colum comes down for supper.

He makes a big, formal entrance, just like my very first night here, only this time Jamie dances attendance for him at the High Table, instead of Dougal. I am again sat at Colum's left hand, with Leticia to his right. Jamie is on my other side, with the long, imposing double line of MacKenzies all laid out before us.

Colum does not say anything special – neither to me nor to Jamie – and neither does he cause any kind of a scene, or deliberately recall to anyone's mind the last time there was a formal meal here in the dining room.

But for all that, he is making a very, very clear statement.

He is Laird of Leoch. He is Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie. Himself. Jamie is his close kin, and very nearly his equal. Not quite, but nearly. And I am Jamie's choice. He, Colum, might not like that entirely, but he has decided to accept it. The Clan will fall in line, or if they object, they will come to him personally. He will brook no public outcry.

The Sassenach is one of us now – he might as well have written it in inch-high letters across his forehead. The simple fact that he is here, and Jamie and I are sat at the High Table, means he has Made His Decision. In private, his opinion might very well be "marry in haste, repent at leisure" - and I am very clearly still On Probation – Mr. Petrie is still taking over my old position, for instance - but in public, for now, he has chosen to back us.

And that's huge.

So huge, in fact, that the stinging nettles almost don't matter at all. . .

There is usually a sprig or two of some fragrant herb wrapped in the cloth napkins set at the formal tables for supper. Thyme, rosemary, marjoram, tarragon, savoury, and several others are often used. Even juniper, on occasion. When you open your napkin at a formal supper at Leoch, you simply come to expect something green to land in your hands. But tonight, instead of the usual collective setting-aside of a bushel's worth or so of unremarkable twigs, there is a room-wide spate of sharp jerks back, hissing pain, shaking hands, and a not insignificant amount of angry grumbling.

The High Table isn't immune – both Jamie and Leticia are stung before everyone fully realizes what is going on.

A few moments later, Colum summons Mrs. Fitz to the dining room – a very rare occurrence during supper – and he demands to know what is going on.

Their conversation is short, sharp, very quiet, and very clearly highly unsatisfactory to both of them. Three lower-ranking kitchen staff are summoned. Mrs Fitz talks to them, under Colum's stern and watchful eye. If any of their total bafflement is acted, then the screen has lost some major talent to Leoch's kitchens.

In the end, I see two things I have not seen yet in all my time here at Leoch – Mrs. Fitz serving at table in the dining room – and paper napkins at a formal supper.

But there is practically no harm done – there isn't even much call on Jamie for soothing drawing ointment the next day.

A mild, forgettable prank. . .

Right?

Two days later, the three of us are having lunch in Jamie's workshop – Jamie himself relaxing with a book and a sandwich on the couch, Fergus with his usual pick-n-mix tray of raw vegetables and fruit, pretzels, crackers, cheese, cold cuts, and at least five types of dipping sauces, on a low chair next to the coffee table, and me on a high stool at Jamie's worktable, with a thermos of soup, and a small cardboard takeaway box full of hot cheesy toast – when I see Jamie's latest batch of shampoo in its bottles, and decide to do something to pass the time.

It takes twenty minutes for Jamie to notice what I am doing, and when he does, he gets up, and slides behind me, putting a caressing hand on my hip, and pressing a kiss to my neck.

"Ye won our wee bet, Sorcha. An' that wee cookbook of yours shipped yesterday. Ye ken ye dinnae have tae do that, aye?"

I put down the latest bottle of shampoo, with its newly hand-inked label, and pick up the next one, with its small blank bit of paper waiting for my pen, and say,

"Oh no? I don't have to do something I am both capable of and enjoy doing, while having lunch with my family? I don't have to do a thing which my husband has previously expressed a desire for me to do, and clearly needs to be done? I don't have to do something useful and productive while visiting my husband's place of work?" I kiss him quickly on the lips, "Well, thank you, love. But I did take calligraphy classes once upon a time – so I might as well put what poor skills I have to some good use." I write in the next label with a few more curlicues than strictly necessary, and brandish the pen with a flourish, "And besides, are you seriously going to tell me you want to do it instead?"

He half-grins, ruefully. He knows I know just how much he hates dull, repetitive chores – and especially ones that keep him in one spot for too long. Jamie is more than capable of sitting still, of course – but when he is working, he much prefers to be able to walk about, move here and there – stretch his legs, swing his arms and such. Stir a cauldron. Prepare herbs. Or, if his body can't be busy, his mind must be – with a book, or music. But preferably both.

I, however, can sink into the pattern of a repetitive task, and find some rest there. At least, I can do so much more easily than he can. We both know that.

"Weel. Thank ye."

He kisses me, long, and softly, but with a lot of promise for later.

Fergus looks across at us, and smiles.

That night is Feeding Night, for all the children's pets who eat on a weekly schedule. I bring a handful of kitchen scraps and a few bits of dried fruit as a treat for Fergus's new rats - Twinkle and Star. They, of course, are fed every day, but a few extra treats tonight won't go amiss. . . I sprinkle the goodies around both levels of their cage, let them sniff my fingers, and I pat their heads a little. Star climbs into my hand after a minute, and Twinkle nibbles gently on my thumb. I smile, and stroke them lightly, and then extract my hand, and close up the cage.

None of the boys are in this room at the moment – the snakes in the next room over are being fed, and there isn't a single boy at Leoch who misses such an event if he can possibly help it. And then there are several tanks of fish and turtles on the girl's side of the hall that most of the boys like to watch being fed too, before the proceedings get back around to the axolotls, frogs and geckos in here.

I am sitting on Fergus's bed, expecting to have to wait at least a quarter of an hour before I see him, when suddenly he bursts in, pauses a moment when he sees me, and then rushes to me, with a contorted face and stormy tears.

Shocked, I comfort him a minute without words. I am just about to ask gently for an explanation when Jamie appears too, his face grim, and an explanation already in his eyes.

He starts with a very long, deep sigh, "Laoghaire-"

I interrupt with a grumbling sigh of my own, "Gah! What now?"

"Apparently she didnae ken Fergus was ours. Or didn't until she heard him call me papa taenight. She's been letting him 'n Hamish play wi' her girls, but now she just made a scene forbiddin' them tae play taegether annymore." He comes forward, and strokes Fergus's hair, trying to sooth his tears, "There now, lad. There isnae a parent at Leoch isnae on our side. One of the things we all agree tae when we move here is that we bring nae borders of class wi' us. Hamish plays wi' sons of kitchen staff, and those boys dinnae make a boast of it." Jamie looks at me and murmurs, as an aside, "She made a sneer at his bein' adopted, Sassenach. . ."

He trails off as he sees my fists and jaw clench. Red Sorcha rises up in me, so fast and so fierce I am almost rough with Fergus, as I lift him off my lap, and into Jamie's arms.

I stride imperiously down the hall, and into the room where the children are currently watching some fancy fish or another eat their portion of live worms. I come up beside Laoghaire, and take her wrist in a vise-like grip. She starts, but does not call out. I nod, sharply. Good.

Very deliberately, I twist her arm up behind her, and lean in as she winces.

"You will come with me. Quietly."

My voice is very soft, but equally cold, and sounds even more dangerous than I intended it to.

I don't wait for her to answer, just pulling on her arm so that it puts pressure on her shoulder socket. I steer her out of the room, downstairs, and down the hall, to Mrs. Fitz's sitting room and office. She is there at this time of night, like I knew she would be, and she rises when she sees us.

"Laoghaire!" she says, looking confusedly between the two of us, "What. . ."

I tighten my grip on Laoghaire's arm, warning her not to speak.

"Would you please go and inform the Lady Leticia that her presence is required, Mrs. Fitz? On a matter of Clan business. Please."

The poor woman looks almost dazed, but she nods, and goes.

I do not release my hold on Laoghaire until the two older women return.

Leticia takes in the situation at a glance, and nods, wisely.

"I ha' been afraid of something like this for days," she says, and pulls out a long, flat box from under her light cloak. She opens it on the desk in front of us.

It contains two thin, almost delicate looking stiletto daggers, very fine and feminine in appearance, almost like a cross between ice-picks and hatpins. The hilts are gilded, and set with emeralds and moonstones, making them glitter, and look poisonously lovely. Save for the deadly gleam along their razor sharp edges, they seem almost like toys. Deluxe, beautiful, dangerous toys.

"This is hardly the furst time the MacKenzie women ha' needed tae resolve a problem at the point of a blade," says Leticia, matter-of-factly, "It isnae common. But neither is it unheard of."

She gestures meaningfully at us. Or, rather, me.

I let Laoghaire go. She stumbles forward a half step with a gasp and a sneering look at me,

"Ye cannae mean tae-"

"I warned you before, whelp," I say imperiously drawing myself up to my full height, and my simmering rage lending a depth to my voice that frightens even me, "You do not know who you are dealing with." I narrow my eyes at her, "You hurt my son. Deliberately. You will pay for that, if for nothing else."

She flinches a bit, and finally has the grace to look a little guilty.

Leticia comes around the desk, and hands us each a dagger.

"First blood," she says, authoritatively, "Or until I say hold. Ye will fight by the rules, ladies. I shall see tae it."

"But. . ." Laoghaire starts, looking positively bewildered.

I sneer at her, in fastidious disdain, "What's the matter? Scared? Offended?"

She opens he mouth to reply, but Leticia silences us both with a look, "Now then," she says, "There'll be nae taunting." She holds a wing of her soft grey cloak between us, "I shall count down from three, an' then-"

The office door bangs open, and Jamie bursts in, muttering imprecations, and practically growling objections.

I whirl, and stop him with one hand. He tries to speak to me, but for the second time in fifteen minutes, the blood-light in my eyes silences him.

I speak calmly into the tense quiet, "This is a matter between women, Jamie. Sometimes, the she-wolves must fight. For the good of the Pack."

He doesn't agree. But, slowly, he concedes. He crosses his arms, and goes to stand next to Mrs. Fitz, as my darkly glowering, highly unhappy second.

Leticia turns back to us, and raises her cloak once more. I hold my dagger as I have been taught, and lift it into a defense position. Leticia counts down, drops her cloak, and steps back.

For a long, infinite second, everything is still.

Then Laoghaire lashes out wildly, with a blow I easily deflect. Her next strike is less wild, and bears more of the force of her burning, pent-up rage. But I shunt it aside too, getting my own half-strike in at the same time. I connect only with hair and cloth, as she dodges most of it, but it is strike nonetheless.

We circle a bit, sizing each other up. She is fighting from pure rage, that is clear – we are only a few seconds in, and she is already panting with exertion. I, conversely, have not only training, but justice on my side, and the cold, ruthless power of Red Sorcha holding me together. I do not in any way discount her wild unpredictability in this moment, but that can only take her so far for so long. I have staying power – she does not.

Her next two slashes are much more tentative, and I dodge them easily.

And then, I am not sure, but I think the firelight glances off my wedding ring, for a flash of red-gold light shows for a moment in her eyes, and she lunges at me with a shout.

It is a great miscalculation, because she leaves herself wide open, and I disarm her with a clashing twist of blades. Then, I slam her against the wall, my entire body holding her still, while one of my arms hold hers down, and my other arm wields my dagger before her eyes.

Cold blue light sparkles off the blade, like ice in moonlight.

I hold the blade close to her face, and revel for a moment in the fear in her eyes.

But Jamie is in the room, and I know what I must do. . .

"Whatever mercy still lives in me is because of my family," I murmur. Almost gently, I run the dagger tip along her cheek, "You tried to take my husband from me. And then lashed out at my son when you failed. Well. You may thank both of them for your life tonight."

I stab sharply at her, and the point pierces the soft, fleshy part of her ear, sticking itself a good ways into the wooden paneling, and pinning her upright against the wall, like a moth to a card.

A thin line of blood trails down the woodwork.

"Take the warning this time, whelp. Do not try me again."

I turn my back to her, and stride from the room, Red Sorcha blazing, however small the victory.

Two nights later, extremely fresh horse dung is tracked all over the carpets that line the the hallway to the children's rooms.

It is such a crude, pointless, childish thing, everyone assumes one of the boys did it as a bit of mischief, and refuses to confess.

We all shrug, and don't connect it to anything else that has been happening lately.

Not immediately, at least. . .

Four days after that, Jamie comes up to me after lunch, and tosses me a set of keys.

"I ken diving home from Cranesmuir at night that one time isnae hardly enough of a chance at the Mustang for ye, Sassenach," he grins at me, "I've borrowed it for us this afternoon – let's go tae the beach, aye?"

I look down at the keys, and up to him again, "I've never been to the beach. Not a non-toxic one, anyway."

"Aye. I ken."

I grin, and go to collect Fergus.

It is a glorious drive, and a glorious day, with the most wonderful company, and a delicious instrument beneath my hands. . .

The kick of power that runs through me as I shift the Mustang into gear is something almost erotic. I run my hands over the wheel and gear lever almost as though they are Jamie's shoulders and back. The rush of the wind is like our breathless panting when we come up for air after our longest kisses, and the purring vibration of the engine is like when we. . .

I never thought Jamie's hand on my thigh could calm me down, but now, it does. He strokes me, softly and steadily, and I am able to keep my mind on the road.

The trip takes an hour, which is somehow just exactly the right amount of time, and nowhere nearly long enough.

Jamie spreads towels out on the pebbly sand, and Fergus ranges all up and down the shore, exploring and exclaiming and generally exulting as only an eleven year old boy can in such fresh, living air. . .

I sit next to Jamie, and spend the first few minutes simply breathing.

The sound of the waves. The texture of the sand and the stones. The deep, perfect colours of the sky and the land. The feel of Jamie beside me. All pale in comparison to the odour of the air.

There is something so overwhelmingly alive about it – something so real and timeless and deep, I can't explain it, even in the privacy of my own head. The power of it is so much that eventually I cannot focus on it any more, and I turn to snuggle into my husband's waiting embrace.

Softly, he strokes my hair, and kisses me lightly, like we are two teenagers out on a date, with a lenient but still very watchful chaperone.

Which, essentially, I suppose we are. . .

Still, I lean in to kiss him again.

"Mmmm. I do love it when ye do that," Jamie says, sometime later.

"Do what?"

"The moment ye melt against me, Sorcha. When all your worry and care goes away, and ye'er just you. Beautiful and free. Ye make this wee sound – dinnae ken what tae call it, exactly – somehow it's halfway between a sigh and gasp, with the tiniest sweet wee moan behind it. But whenever I hear it, well. . . then I ken I've served ye well. Given ye the peace and safety ye deserve. Earnt myself one more day of the right tae call myself yer provider."

I am shocked at the word, "But. . . Jamie! You've already given me so much-"

He shakes his head vehemently, "No, Claire, I havenae. The truth is, I'll never be able tae give ye much." He nods sadly towards the Mustang, "No' in the way of things. An' certainly no' in the way of money. An' that'll be doubly true if an' when we evar manage tae get tae Lallybroch. It'll be twice as much work there, for the both of us, with half as much support, for half as much reward as there is tae be got at Leoch. Things'll nevar be easy. Or soft, more'n likely. It's good ye dinnae care much for stylish clothes or fancy jewelry or suchlike fripperies – it's no' likely we'll evar be able tae afford them. I cannae lade ye with goods, or give ye much of anything beyond the common." He puts his fingertips to my mouth, to forestall my response, "All that's left is for me tae fill your heart, Claire. Tae drape ye with love and joy, and inspiration and freedom and love, and peace, and fun, and love, and love, and. . ."

He can't kiss me quite like we both want him to – not with Fergus playing so close by, but he still manages to make it something that only a few months ago, I would have thought was an impossible dream.

"Whenever I give ye you, Sassenach – whenever I see ye bein' the freest, fullest, sweetest an' best version of yerself, then, then I feel I've given ye summat worthwhile. That I can claim the right tae call myself a man. Your man. That I think, maybe, I've lived up tae yer expectations."

I blink, "My expec. . . Jamie! You are so much more than I ever expect. Always. You're a walking, breathing, lovely, warm, beautiful miracle."

"Yer standards, then."

"Oh, you exceed my standards, my love. You always have." I shake my head, "Oh, Jamie. I thought for so long I needed to earn you – don't fall into that trap, please, my sweet."

"It isnae earning ye – no exactly. It's more. . . it's more earning myself." He leans back onto his towel, "As a man, ye ken, we're told all our lives who we ought tae be, an' how. An' ye see. . . it's only rarely I've ever felt man enough. An' I've bought inta the whole idea less than most." He shrugs, "But when I'm with ye. . . I feel I c'n move mountains. Nae doubt it's all a lot of foolish thoughts an' nothing more, but. . . just for once in this life, to feel like a proper man. . . I cannae tell ye how sweet it's been."

I blink again, unable to fully take in what I am hearing, "But. . . but Jamie, that's horrible. The idea! You aren't a real man unless you're providing for a woman? Making me happy is how you earn the right to, to, be yourself? That's mad!"

"Aye, I ken it is," he nods, "That's what I'm sayin' Sorcha. I don't put the same value that most do on the idea. But that I've been able to have it, like this? I'm winning a rigged game by playin' by my own rules, Sassenach. I'm getting tae be a chess Grand Master by playin' Triple Cranko. It's wonderful fun." He smiles at me, mischief and adoration in his eyes.

My worry retreats, while my desire for him only grows, "Well. If my presence has brought you half the joy that yours has brought me, I'm more than grateful I came through the stones to begin with."

"Aye." He runs a fingertip up and down each finger of my hand. I cannot help but shiver at his touch, "Hundreds of miles, and two hundreds years separated us, mo nighean. An' still, we found each other. I'm grateful for every moment we have."

"Grateful. . . and a few other things. . ."

"Aye."

I drive slowly back to Leoch, to prolong the amount of time he has to surreptitiously rest his fingers on the inside of my knee, and stroke ever so lightly up my thigh. . .

We send Fergus to dinner in the kitchen just as soon as we get home, but skip the meal ourselves, since a different sort of appetite has far too much hold on us at the moment. Jamie practically chases me down the hallways to our rooms, and he pushes me up against a bedpost the very moment we are securely locked inside.

"Such. A horrible. Tease," I gasp out, as he bites deliciously all up and down my neck.

"Oh, aye?"

"Mmm, you know you are, Jamie."

"Aye," he lavishes my chin with kisses, then takes my mouth, deeply, and hotly, and with such passion that bits of me very nearly spontaneously combust.

"I love you. So much," I manage to say the minute he lets me breathe, "I don't know how I lived before loving you. I can't imagine it now. I can't even imagine breathing without holding you in my heart."

"Mo nighean donn. My beautiful, beloved bride," he lifts me up by my rear, and sets me gently on the bed. But there isn't much that's gentle about how he eagerly pulls my clothes off. . . "I'd marry ye every day if that's what ye wanted."

"Mmm. And have a wedding night every night?"

He slides out of his own clothes as though they are mere annoyances, "An' why not?"

I pull the hot weight of him down on top of me, "Oh, you greedy. . . impossible. . . insufferable. . . incorrigible man!"

"Ah, now at last I ken what ye really think of me," he groans happily, "Do go on, Sassenach."

"Hmmm. Let me see. Stubborn? No, doesn't go far enough." I wrap my arms around him, and start lightly scratching his back. He purrs in appreciation. "Untoward? Maybe. . . unregenerate?" I run my hands down his sides, and dig my nails into his rear, "Relentless. . . rough. . . ruthless. . . rugged. . ."

Then, my brain and body run out of words entirely – that is, if they are not Jamie's name, and mostly incoherent moans of encouragement and approval.

I lose track of time entirely, but there is still some light in the sky out the window when I come back from the bathroom after.

I lean on the door frame, and contemplate him from across the room. He's stretched out on his stomach, facing me, but with his eyes closed, his breathing indicating he's more than half asleep. All his best, most grippable, caressable curves are on display, with the brilliant copper-gold of his hair setting off the softly pale glow of his skin. His hand hangs off the edge of the bed, his fingers long, and strong, and work-worn, and undoubtedly one of the sexiest things about him-

My thoughts are interrupted by a flash of red from somewhere it shouldn't be. . .

"Jamie? What's that?"

He sits up at once, fully awakened by the alarm in my voice.

I come over to him, and bending down, fish briefly under the edge of the bed. My hand comes back with a small cubic thing, glowing pale red, and lying, slightly warm, on my palm.

It is a spy camera. And it is active.