Chapter Eleven - Not As Advertised
We're third in line for this afternoon's bookings at the Happy Snappy Weddings Chapel. The waiting room is decorated in the standard billows of white tulle and drifts of pink and red roses, and yet somehow, the place smells of canned beef chili. Don't ask me how, because I'll never know.
A bell dings, and the couple in front of us are ushered into the wedding chamber, affording us a brief glimpse of what awaits us in a few minutes time.
We glance at each other, slightly disconcerted.
Jamie had been adamant - and so had I - that we not be married by an Elvis impersonator. Well, from the looks of things, a tired-eyed, bored sounding person of indeterminate age and gender will have to suffice.
And at this point, why not? Tough, tacky and tawdry - Vegas, am I right?
The bell dings again, and it's our turn. The white-painted doors open, and the ushers gesture us inside. A few seconds of the Wedding March play tinnily from some hidden speaker as we advance to the rose-bedecked alter. The waxy surfaces of the pink and red petals hardly seem real.
Perhaps they aren't.
This room smells even more strongly of canned meat, and the officiant looks even more jaded up close.
For a second, I hardly feel real myself.
The actual ceremony is brief and unremarkable. A few spoken words in front of the officiant and equally bored-looking witnesses, and the thing is done.
More memorable is the full half hour's worth of paperwork that follows, in a thoroughly depressing little olive green painted anteroom, that instead of chili, smells weirdly like burnt cinnamon. Jamie and I take turns to scan through the stunning amount of lawyer-speak before finally scribbling our signatures to all the places needed to make us legally married.
By the time we're done, I have cramps in my hand - I've never signed my name so many times in so few minutes before.
"Weel now," says Jamie, taking a deep breath of the cool, dry Vegas air as we finally re-emerge, "I think we've earnt our tea, don't ye agree? Mrs. Fraser?"
"Mmm, very much so. Mr. Fraser." I take his arm, and go up on my toes to peck him on the cheek, "Though, if that's a taste of the kind of paperwork it takes to make something legal, I'm not sure I want to know what it would take to legally change my name."
He waves a hand dismissively, "An optional extra, at best, mo nighean – a vestige of the time when wives were chattel – I'd never ask it of ye."
I smile up at him as he hands me into the back of the limo, "Has anyone ever told you what a wonderful husband you are, James Fraser?"
He holds my hand tighter for a second, and a strange look crosses his face, but other than that, he doesn't answer.
I decide not to press him.
He gets in next to me, and slips an arm around my shoulders, "So. Italian or Greek?"
"Excuse me?"
"Lunch," he chuckles, "I have reservations at two places, because I didnae ken what ye'ed be wanting after. . ." he nods at the retreating chapel, "After." He pulls out his phone, "So – Italian or Greek?"
I smile, and lean into his embrace. This was part of The Plan. I was to book our flight, choose our hotel, and plan the wedding – he was to plan the honeymoon, and book the flight home.
And now that the wedding is over. . . it's his turn to take charge.
The very thought is incredibly relaxing.
"Italian," I murmur.
"Aye." He taps things into his phone, and clicks the intercom to tell the driver where to go.
I just sit, and lean against him, surprisingly emotionally drained after such a mundane wedding.
At last he sighs, and leans back next to me, cuddling me closer. "No' ta criticize ye, Sassenach, but I'm afraid ta say we ought ta have sprung for the deluxe package at that chapel. . ."
I chuckle darkly, "That was the deluxe package."
"What!?"
"Oh yeah. Three hundred dollars extra for there to be music playing as we walked up, and fresh roses in the chapel."
"Those were real roses?"
I shrug, "Who can say?" I sigh deeply, "I'm sorry Jamie – that was NOT the quality advertised. . ."
He half smiles, "Was it legal?"
"It better be, after all that paperwork!"
"Aye, the paperwork was genuine – we both ken that well enough." He looks at me, eyes soft, a tiny smile around the corners of his mouth, "Ye'er mine, an' I'm yours. Tha's all that mattars. . ."
His hand curls around the back of my neck, and he pulls my mouth to his, completely enveloping my lips, and running his tongue along mine in a way that feels far better than I ever imagined it could.
He surfaces with a gasp, "I ken ye want ta wait 'til we ken each other better, but-"
"No," I say, hurriedly, "Kissing is part of The Plan. It's fine. It's good." I slide my hands up his lapels, and pull urgently at his collar, "It's good. Very good. . ."
"Oh, thank God," he groans, and lowers his mouth to mine again.
Very quickly, I learn just how long I can survive without oxygen. It's a surprisingly long time for someone who never learned to swim. . .
Wait a second.
He might need to know that. . .
The next time we have to stop and catch our breath, I tell him.
"I can't swim."
He stares at me, baffled.
"I never learned how to swim, Jamie." I look at him, pointedly, "You might need to know that, someday."
"Oh," he says, his voice strangely bland.
"Yeah. Oh. That's what we agreed to, isn't it? To tell each other everything we think the other might need to know? We can keep secrets if we want to, but we won't tell lies? That is The Plan, right?"
I pull out of his arms, and sit up straight, "Right?"
He doesn't say anything, instead leaning forward, and putting his head in his hands.
He takes a few very long, deep breaths.
"The last time someone told me I was a good husband was just over two years ago, Sassenach," he says, in a slow, aching voice, "An' it was Annalise, telling me I was too good a husband."
"Too good?," I gasp, "What? How. . ."
"That I was too good a husband, an' too good a man," his voice lowers to a whisper, "An' that's how I found out she was havin' an affair."
"Oh, Jamie. No. . ."
"Aye. I kent she was low an uncommon long time after Joanie was born, but I thought. . . I always thought she'd come to me, that she'd ask me for help. . ."
His hands make slow fists in his hair. I reach over and gently run a palm up and down his spine.
Very slowly, some of the tension eases out of him.
"Sally an' Joan arenae mine, Sassenach-"
"Yes they are," I interrupt.
His head snaps up, and his tortured gaze meets mine.
"Yes they are," I say, more forcefully, "If not yours, then whose? There isn't anyone who could care for or love them more, Jamie. I've only known you two days and even I know that."
A tiny bit of the pain leaves his face.
"Aye. I love them. As my own flesh and blood and bone."
"And that's all that matters."
This time, when he meets my forceful stare, there are tears clouding over the brilliant blue of his eyes.
"Aye, that's all that matters."
With that, he gathers me sharply to him, and seals his mouth over mine.
The limo driver has to make use of the intercom several times before we notice we've arrived at our restaurant.
Chapter Twelve - The Importance Of Body Language
Letting Jamie's take charge of today's plans was the best idea either of us have had yet.
After a delicious lunch, he takes me to a place that specializes in indoor mini-golf. There are five courses to pick from, and we choose the "Fairy Garden Experience". We spend the next few hours putting our brightly coloured golf balls through marvelous landscapes of huge fiberglass flowers and vines, oddly coloured stones, twisted tree root arches, mushroom windmills worthy of Smurf-ville itself, and even two or three rooms lit only by black light and covered in glow-in-the-dark neons.
The whole experience is a bit like a blend of that Fern Gully movie, and that one giant mushroom level from Skyrim - only there aren't any slime villains, and not once do we get attacked by giant bugs.
Which is to say it's just a tiny bit disappointing, really. But after this morning's debacle, I'm in no mood to criticize, and in no place at all to judge.
Jamie absolutely walloped me when it comes to overall score, but he is forced to concede that I am very, very good at trick shots. I actually win a free round by making a hole in one at the last hole, but since Jamie doesn't win one too, I take my free voucher to the desk, and trade it in for twenty dollars of their arcade tokens.
"Arcade tokens, Sassenach?" he arches an eyebrow at me.
"Just you wait," I say, feeling in my bones that any place so devoted to the genuine mini-golf experience is bound to have a first-class arcade.
And I turn out to be right. The game room is enormous, lit by nothing but neon and strobe lights, and is an absolute shrine to 80's and 90's nostalgia.
Jamie's mouth twists in several directions before he leans over and murmurs, teasingly, "Bet ye a cold drink I c'n beat yer socks off at Street Fighter."
I grin ferociously, and purr, "You're on, mister wise guy."
And the long and the short of it after that is - he's been buying me a steady stream of Mike's Hard Lemonades for the past two hours now, and he still owes me at least four more.
And he's been calling me Chun Li, which I have to say, hasn't been at all bad for my ego.
I can't quite remember how we got from the arcade to the dance club we're at now, but to be fair to me - gloating is distracting work.
Jamie plunks a basket of hot wings and a plateful of deep-fried mozzarella sticks down in the middle of our table, and slides me another bottle of lemonade.
"Only three left ta go now, Sassenach," he smirks, ruefully.
I pull my chair closer to him, and slip an arm through his, "Will you ever be able to forgive me, do you think?"
"For bein' better than me at an arcade game?" he dips a cheese stick in the marinara sauce and takes a bite, "I think I'll manage ta get over it eventually." He sighs, and looks at me, eyes twinkling, "Jus' so long as ye arenae better than me at making a hollandaise sauce, I might even find it in my heart ta let bygones be bygones."
"Teach me how to make a hollandaise sauce, and we'll call it even."
"Deal."
The expression on his face is warm and sweet, and his eyes are focusing on my lips. Slowly, very slowly, his head leans closer to mine. . .
He. . . he wouldn't.
Would he?
Not in public. . .
Most of the songs up til now have been things I either don't like or don't know, but suddenly, music I recognize starts playing.
"Ooo, I love this one!" I exclaim, jumping up from our tiny table and practically skipping over to the nearby corner of dance floor.
I know it's only a temporary distraction, but good lord do I need a distraction right now. . .
High dive into frozen waves where the past comes back to life. . .
I rock my hips, and tap my heels to the beat.
Fight fear for the selfish pain, it was worth it every time.
I raise my arms, and get lost in the music. . .
Hold still right before we crash 'cause we both know how this ends. . .
A clock ticks 'til it breaks your glass and I drown in you again. . .
A deep, magnetic hum pulses through me, and somehow, piercing through all the noise and dark of the room, my eyes find Jamie's.
'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need. . .
Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why.
If I thought this music would be an escape, I was wrong.
Funny how little I want to escape now, though. . .
If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?
I can feel the touch of his eyes on me. . .
If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?
I writhe and twist, but now, I do it for no one else in the room – not even myself. Just for him. . .
Only for him. . .
Walk on through a red parade and refuse to make amends. . .
It cuts deep through our ground and makes us forget all common sense.
Our eyes meet again, and he's half out of his seat, wanting to come to me, but just barely holding himself in check.
Only my gaze holds him in place. . .
Don't speak as I try to leave 'cause we both know what we'll choose.
If you pull, then I'll push too deep and I'll fall right back to you. . .
He narrows his eyes at me, his face frozen into an emotionless mask that doesn't fool me for a second. . .
'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need
Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why. . .
But I do. I know exactly why. . .
If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy?
If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?
At this point the relentless motion of the dancers around me pulls me a bit deeper onto the dance floor, as though trying to swallow me up - but I grasp at the almost physical connection between myself and my husband, and manage to lever myself back to our table, just as the song ends.
Breathless, I slide back into the seat next to him.
He hasn't stopped staring at me for what feels like several hours now.
I lower my eyes and my voice, in a deliberate attempt to be flirtatiously demure, "Did you like watching me dance, Jamie?"
My tone is light, but his answer is very sober and serious.
"We'd better be getting home, Sassenach. I've a long day planned for us tomorrow."
"Ooo, you do?" I smile, and take a long swig from my berry-flavoured lemonade, "What are we doing?"
"Mmphm," he shakes his head, "That would be telling."
"Yes! Yes it would!" I bark an incredulous laugh, "It would be telling me."
"Aye, an' tha's jus' what I'm no' goin' ta do, mo ghràidh."
"Ugh, you're such a tease!"
At that, his hot hand clasps me around my wrist, and pulls my palm to his lips. The kiss he gives it is soft, and entirely chaste, but somehow. . . intimate. Secretive. Private.
I shiver. Yes. Going home would be a very good idea right about now. . .
"No, Sassenach, a tease is ye swingin' yer fine round arse at me while ye dance. That's a tease." He puts my hand back on the table.
I trace the faux wood grain of the table's surface with a fingertip.
"So. . . you did. . . enjoy it, then? Watching me, I mean?"
He exhales, slowly, "The only fault I found in it was that ye werenae doing so while wrapped in my arms. . ."
"Dance with me, Jamie," I make a motion to get up, but he holds me firmly in my chair.
"No."
"But. . ."
"I havenae liked any of the music so far. No' enough ta dance ta it, anyway."
"Oh." I wave a hand, "Well. Make a request then."
He lifts his chin, indicating the rest of the room, "Nah. They wouldnae like what I would request. . ."
"A fig for what they would like." I say, sharply, "It's your wedding day. Make whatever outlandish request you want, give the DJ a hundred bucks if he protests, and come dance with me. . ."
Jamie huffs a laugh, and shakes his head, but he does get up and go over to the DJ's booth.
I gnaw on a few hot wings while waiting for him, suddenly wanting to escape again.
What, oh what is wrong with me?
The problem is, you know exactly what's wrong with you, Beauchamp! You are only too aware of it!
I sigh at my inner voice, wishing I could, for once, get her to shut up.
Except that's part of the problem too, isn't it Beauchamp? You want to shout it, don't you? You'd like to stand here, in this club, and scream to anyone near enough to hear - "Jamie Fraser is mine mine mine!" - wouldn't you? So far from not wanting him to kiss you in public, you're afraid you wouldn't be able to stop at a kiss, aren't you? Aren't you?
Oh, shut up, voice in my head. . .
"And now, a very special tune, from one lad to his lassie, on a very special day. . ." The DJ's voice booms throughout the club, and at once sweet, melodic violins start playing over the speakers.
Not everyone clears the dance floor either. In fact, six or seven couples immediately start waltzing.
Say, it's only a paper moon,
Sailing over a cardboard sea.
But it wouldn't be make-believe,
If you believed in me. . .
A hand appears next to my elbow. I look up.
"May I have this dance, Sassenach?" Jamie asks, conspiratorially.
I put my hand in his, appreciating how clever he's being. Let the first verse play before we even take the floor, and it won't be immediately obvious who the requester was.
Of course, the full Highland costume might clue some people in to who the "lad and lassie" are, but he's being subtle. Thoughtful. Ingenious.
Incredibly attractive. . .
He slots one of my hands into his, settles his other hand on the swell of my hip, and with a few steps to find our pace, we're away. . .
Yes, it's only a canvas sky,
Hanging over a muslin tree.
But it wouldn't be make-believe,
If you believed in me.
His eyes are twin pools of deep, cool water, just waiting for me to dive into them, and in this moment, blithe, carefree, I do. . .
Without your love,
It's a honky-tonk parade.
Without your love,
It's a melody played in a penny arcade.
The frightening part about James Fraser isn't that I'm now married to a man I barely know and only met three days ago. No. The scary part is that when I look inside myself, I find him, already there. As if he's been a part of me since I was born.
It's a Barnum and Bailey world -
Just as phony as it can be. . .
We're always told how wonderful it will be when we find our soul mates.
But we're never told that they will hold a mirror up to our very selves, showing up all the flaws as well as features, turning us inside out at the same time they make us whole. . .
But it wouldn't be make-believe,
If you believed in me.
The violins go on a little while longer, and then die away.
Everyone claps politely, before going back to their usual hard, thumping dance beats.
Without another word, Jamie escorts me out to the limo, and tells the driver to take us back to our hotel.
Chapter Thirteen - I've Heard This One Before
I sit, half sprawled, on our leather couch, sipping a dram of fragrant single malt, comfortable in soft flannel trousers and oversized cotton t-shirt, staring into a softly humming gas fireplace, replete with an excellent fried fish supper.
Jamie had decided he did trust the Highland Glen's hotel kitchens as far as fish and chips after all, and, thankfully, they came through handsomely. So handsomely, in fact, that Jamie has just gotten up to put the two large leftover chunks of beer-battered cod, and fully half the chips away in the refrigerator, for us to reheat and enjoy later.
As a chef, Jamie deplores wasting food.
Yet another thing to admire about him, I think, sleepily.
I watch the silent, bluish flames flickering in the otherwise dark room, appreciating how they make mesmerizing, almost living patterns in the brass fittings and gilded picture frames surrounding me.
The cheesy ridiculousness of the room is much reduced by firelight. None of the overdone features seem silly anymore – rather, they loom, and glower, and would in fact be altogether menacing if I was here alone, or for some nefarious purpose. . .
Jamie returns, silent on bare feet, and eases himself onto the couch beside me. He replaced his formal outfit with sweatpants and t-shirt almost as quickly as I did upon returning to our rooms, and this easy, altogether Human shape of him fits in next to me delightfully naturally. I shift against him a little, and he raises an arm, so he might tuck me into his side.
He sips his own drink, and we stare into the flames, content.
He is lightly dragging the tips of two fingers up and down the sleeve of my t-shirt when he murmurs, "May I ask ye a question, Sassenach?"
"Of course," I say, stifling a yawn.
He pauses a long time before continuing, taking several deep, considering breaths.
"Why. . . did ye agree ta marry me?"
I look up at him, surprised, and more than a little confused.
"Because you needed to be married, Jamie." I push myself up a little, so I can look at his face, "And we agreed that we are attracted to each other, and like each other, and that we would want to be friends regardless of the circumstances, so our being married or not was a nearly negligible formality."
His mouth hardens at that, but he says nothing.
"We can date, and get to know each other, and have conversations, and meet each other's families just as well married as not – and so, why not? Why not give it a try for six months, then see where we are? No-fault divorce is a thing, and so are open marriages-"
He opens his mouth to speak, but I hurry on,
"And I know you don't like the idea of either one of those – and that's all well and good – but the fact still remains – they exist. Legally, neither of us are trapped in this marriage, Jamie. We're both just as free now as we were this morning–"
He raises a hand in protest, "But-"
I catch his hand and grip it tightly, "Commitment to a relationship isn't slavery Jamie – it's growth. Mutual growth. It's trust – hope – that a relationship will become the strongest and most important in both lives involved." Gently, I push his curls back behind his ear, and run my fingers along the back of his neck, "It's giving of yourself – willingly – and knowing that what you give will always be accepted." I meet his eyes, "If that's not freedom, what is?"
The look on his face softens considerably, and he brings a hand up to caress my jaw, "But. . . the risk of it. . ."
"There's always risk," I say, gently taking hold of his wrist and turning my lips into his palm, "In everything, Jamie. Always."
He meets my eyes again, and says, softly, "But. . . why? Why did ye take a risk on me? Why?"
I sigh at the simple question, wishing heartily that it had a simple answer.
"A lot of reasons, really. Firstly because. . . well. . . you were asking for help. In my book, anyone who asks for help should get it." I pat his hand, "Granted, you're an able-bodied white male – chances are you'd find support of some kind no matter where you turned for help – but, in actual fact, you turned to me. And that's not nothing – or at least I don't consider it to be nothing."
I wrap my arm around his, and lean my head on his shoulder.
"Secondly, because I know what it's like to have a clerical error in my passport."
He laughs incredulously, "Really now?"
"Really really," I say. "It's such a strange feeling. This thing that's part of something so much bigger than you – but in a very personal way it also is you – and it's wrong. It's like finding out there's something wrong with your body - like cancer, or something - it isn't your fault, but somehow it's your responsibility. And there's this quiet, frantic voice in the back of your head, terrified of what might have happened if you hadn't noticed. . ."
Jamie nods, "Aye. Tha's right enough."
"And I'm a natural born American citizen, Jamie. I can only imagine what those feelings would have been like if I'd had to worry about deportation into the bargain."
He disentangles his arm from mine, then slides it around my shoulder, holding me tight.
"Thirdly – I know four couples who had quickie marriages with no lead-up and less fanfare, and one couple who actually married for green card purposes."
"Mmm," he hums, skeptically, "And?"
"And, of the four, three have been married for at least ten years, and the fourth for over twenty."
"An' the one?"
"They've been married forty six years next July. They knew each other two months before getting married – so, not quite as drastic as us, but he was a student, and she had a good, steady job, so she offered to buy a house with him, and see if they could make a go of it. It took them eleven years to have a child, but they've been happily married all that time, and-"
"Sassenach," Jamie interrupts, his voice equal parts amused and suspicious, "This couple. . . how do ye ken them?"
I lick my lips, and pause. There's no reason he shouldn't know, but it still feels like a big thing to tell him, somehow. . . I sigh a little, and take the plunge. "They're my parents, Jamie."
At this, he sits bolt upright, turns, and stares at me. "Yer parents married for green card purposes?"
"Officially? Yeah," I say, mildly.
His face darkens, "But? In reality?"
"But," I say, lightly, "Do you know what my mother would always say whenever I'd ask her what to look for in a man?"
"What's that?"
"She'd say. . ." my voice goes dreamy, remembering, "She'd tell me I'd be able to look at him and know – know in my bones – that he was the one. That my heart would be safe with him. And that his smile could warm me from across the room. That he'd earn my respect and my trust, and everything in between, and in return he wouldn't be afraid to be vulnerable with me. That there would be plain, grey days, and mundane chores, and the long, ordinary routine of daily life, but there would always be. . . something, something about him - the same something I could see, and know in my bones, that would make every day special, and wonderful, just because he was in it. . ."
My voice trails off, my eyes staring fixedly at the pale flames of the fireplace.
Silence falls between us, deep and heavy. The air is thick with questions we can't ask – not because we wouldn't get answers, but because neither of us is ready for those answers yet. Hot and cold thoughts run back and forth around us, like currents in the sea, fast, and broad, and unending.
The world shrinks down to the rhythm of my breath, and slow, steady beat of my heart.
Eventually, he gets up. Without a word he finishes his drink, stretches, yawns, and pops his neck. In the still deep silence of the room, I hear him sigh.
Then, his big, warm hand rests gently on my shoulder. When he speaks it is with great tenderness, but also with deep, assured, impressive finality.
"Come ta bed, Sassenach."
Chapter Fourteen - Second Best Bed
I silently look up at him, eyes wide and blinking, for a few very long and agonizing seconds.
Then his own eyes go wide with realization and horror, "Ta sleep, Sassenach, nothin' else. . ." he curses quietly for a second or two, grimacing at himself, "Weel. That's no' quite true. I do want ta hold ye, if ye'el let me. I dinnae think either of us are ready for more – no' just yet."
I have pity on him then, and smile at him, and let him help me up.
I have often gauged a relationship by how well we can share a bathroom, and in this, as in so many aspects I've noted already, Jamie comes through in spades. He doesn't crowd the sink while we brush our teeth, he's neither picky about my mess of cosmetics still spread out from this morning, nor is he particularly touchy about his own toiletries. He is extremely polite about toilet smells, and apparently just as scrupulous about hygiene here as I know Alex Mackenzie is in the kitchen.
I've just finished removing my makeup when he clears his throat.
"Yes?" I prompt him.
"In. . . the interest of tellin' each other everything we think they might need ta ken. . ." he scratches behind his ear, somewhat awkwardly, "When the girls arenae around I. . . I like ta sleep in my birthday suit."
I blink.
"Oh."
"But when a certain amount of modesty is called for. . . I normally wear boxers and an undershirt." He gestures at the small pile of cloth he has laid on the countertop.
"Jolly good," I say, with only mildly forced brightness, "In the interest of reciprocity, I think I ought to tell you that I do not own a single piece of sexy underwear."
He has just begun taking a sip of water, and he immediately chokes, splutters, and sprays the water everywhere. He coughs into the sink for a minute, then reaches for the toilet paper to clean up the mess.
It is all I can do to keep from laughing.
His eyes streaming, he glares at me.
"Lord-" he coughs, "Lord love ye, Sassenach, have some pity on a man, aye? I'm only feckin' Human."
I do laugh then - "Really Jamie? The thought of me in sensible, no-frills, work-a-day white cotton underwear gets you going that much, does it?"
He groans, "Ye have no idea, Sassenach."
The plain, simple longing in his voice hits me surprisingly hard.
"Jamie I. . . don't know how to do this."
He smirks, casually, "Furst time for everything."
I don't reply for just a second too long.
"Indeed."
His eyes go wide and he curses quietly to himself again, "God in heaven help me, will I never no' say the wrong thing at the wrong time!?" He takes me gently by the shoulders, "I didnae mean that, Sassenach, Christ above, I didnae mean that."
I see care, and. . . and admiration in his eyes, and finally I lose it, "Will you forget about my being a virgin for one flipping second Jamie?" I take a handful of his shirt - unable to either pull him to me or push him away - "I know how to be that. I know how to do that. And I know how to be a friend, a girlfriend, a housemate, and a lover. But god help me I have no idea how to be a wife." My voice catches, and suddenly I'm on the verge of tears, "And soon – so very very soon. . . to be a mother. . . I. . . I've never. . . god this is embarrassing. . ."
He shakes his head, "No, no, Sassenach. Dinna fash yourself. C'mere."
He opens his arms, and I don't hesitate to go into them.
"I've never even shared a bed with anyone, Jamie," I whisper into his shoulder, my cheeks flaming, "Not even platonically. Not since I was a little kid having sleepovers, and even then we were usually in different sleeping bags. I. . . I don't. . . know how to do this."
My fists drum against his back in impotent frustration.
He rests his cheek on the top of my head, "Ah, Sassenach. I was only teasing ye. Ye'er so capable, mo nighean, always. This really must be the furst time ye'ev no idea what ta do, I swear it must be. I mean, ye practically moved mountains ta get us here, didn't ye?"
I scoff, sharply, "You can say that, when I booked us this hotel, and that wedding chapel?" I pull away so I can look in his eyes, "So far this weekend, your plans have been wonderful - my plans have been bloody shite!"
He chuckles, "Ye believe in truth in advertisin', mo nighean. An' I mean really believe in it. An' that means sometimes a huckster can get past ye if he's quick and polished enough." He gently pats my cheek, "Just give ye a minute ta think and I doubt anyone or anything could get past ye, but if there's been one thing lacking this weekend, it's been any abundance of time ta think. Tha's all."
His eyes are soft, and his voice is painfully sincere.
"My god, you believe that!"
"What's ta believe, Sassenach? 'Tis there ta be seen – just how much good ye'ev been for Leoch Foods. An' it hasnae been by any crooked means, that's plain as plain. An' how ye took on Dougal? I dinnae ken there's one woman in R&D doesnae want ta straight up be ye. An' more than a few of the young men do to, for their own reasons, nae doubt. An' why shouldn't they?"
I lean my head on his chest again, and for a few long minutes, he just holds me.
I run my hands along his spine, enjoying discovering part of the pattern of his bones and muscles.
At last, some tension eases out of me.
"So, you don't. . . you don't mind that I have no idea how to share a bed with you, Jamie?"
"Ah, Sassenach. What could be simpler?"
I can hear the grin in voice.
His hug tightens around me a little bit, "If evar there was a bed big enough ta share, it's this one, aye? Ye could probably roll over twice in the same direction an' no' evan ken I was there." He pushes me away from him, just far enough to look into my eyes, "An' if that's no' enough, ye'ev prooved the couch is more than comfortable. I'll sleep there, an' gladly, if tha's what ye want."
My eyes rove all over his face. His dear, dear face. This stranger, my husband.
My best friend, this stranger. . .
He's being sincere. There isn't a particle of hesitation, or even disappointment in his eyes. He'd do that – he'd do ten times more than that – and on his wedding night, for my sake.
"No," I say, stolidly, "That's not what I want. I don't know what I want. Or. . . no, I guess I do know what I want, it's just that I'm not ready for what I want. . . or, maybe it isn't what I want, exactly. . ."
Gently Jamie puts two fingers to my lips. Somehow, this instantly stops my helpless babbling.
He takes my hand, and leads me into the main room, and around to his side of the bed. He spends a minute arranging pillows and unfolding duvets, and then, half grinning, he gets in, scootches himself backward towards the middle of the bed, and flips back the duvet, showing at least four feet of empty space.
"There's more than enough room for ye, mo ghràidh . . ." he holds out his arms, "But. . . will ye let me hold ye?"
One of these days, I'm going to have to ask him what all his pet names for me actually mean.
I swallow. The clean, white warmth of the bed, and the steady sweetness of his arms beckon to me. . .
"On one condition."
"Annything, mo nighean."
"You don't apologize in the morning."
A baffled question crosses his face.
Helplessly, I blush, "I know what. . . what's likely to happen. To. . . to you. In the morning."
He blinks rapidly, and a wave of fiery red crosses his own cheeks, "Sassenach, I. . ."
I can feel the "I'm sorry" on his lips, and I stamp my foot. I have to stop him from saying it.
"Promise me you won't apologize for it. Please Jamie. I. . . might be able to do this. . . sleep here, I mean. . . if. . . if I know for sure you won't regret it tomorrow."
He lowers his arms for a minute, and says soberly, "I could never regret it, Claire. No' for a single moment. No' any of it."
"Then promise me, Jamie."
"I promise I wilnae apologize for anything. . . involuntary. In the morning or otherwise. Fair?" He raises his arms to me again.
"Fair," I whisper, and this time I ease myself down into the comfort of the bed, and the embrace of his arms.
I cuddle my shoulders into his chest and sigh. His hand comes up, and rests on my elbow, steadying me against him. Slowly, his warmth seeps into me, calming my stomach, my mind, and my soul.
And then, stirring them all up again. . .
I didn't expect. . .
Oh god, I never knew. . .
Just this, just lying next to him in bed is so good, so absolutely wonderful, it's almost too much. Jamie is here, pressed against me, surrounding me, the scent and pressure of him so close, so present, so beautifully and intoxicatingly real. . .
I hardly know what to do with it all.
Again, I don't know what to say.
What would a wife say?
What would a wife do. . . ?
I twist in his embrace, until I am facing him. I wind an arm around him, holding him tighter to me.
Yes. This is much better.
I feel his breath on my forehead. There is a tension in him that wasn't there a minute ago.
His lips brushing my eyebrows, he whispers, "I very much want ta kiss ye, mo nighean. May I?"
"Of course, Jamie."
His hand tilts my chin up, and he lowers his mouth to mine.
We've kissed before now, in at least a half a dozen ways – frantically, gently, quickly, fiercely, softly, passionately, chastely – but never before easily.
His mouth slips over mine in a soothing caress, and his tongue massages against my lips with a delicate touch. I let him in gratefully, inhaling the subtle, complex scent of him at the same time. I drink deeply from the kiss, and dig my fingers into his back.
I expect to feel a burst of fire in my stomach, or a shower of tingles all up and down my spine, but that isn't what happens at all.
Instead, a sweet, cool breeze touches my soul, sighing into every hidden place inside me, dulling every sharp edge, easing every tension, smoothing over every aching, burning spot with clean, beautiful peace. . .
There's nothing passionless or impersonal about his kisses, but they contain far more of the passion of care, rather than the passion of. . . well, passion.
Again and again he kisses me, and every time I feel freer, softer, sleepier. . .
I suddenly realize - he isn't winding me up – he's easing me down.
From the press of him against me, I can tell it isn't because he doesn't want me either – it's because. . .
Because. . .
Because it isn't time yet.
We've packed a lot into these past few days. A lot of changes. A lot of realizations. A lot of confessions. A lot of growth. We are quite literally different people now than we were a few days ago.
I suspect he knows even better than I do that piling sex on top of all of that would likely be the worst thing we could do, at least for tonight. We'd probably only half enjoy it anyway, given how tired we both are, and I'm certain we'd never fully process it. Which isn't what either of us need. . .
Add to that all the complicated things he's still feeling over Annalise, and the fact that I'm a virgin? No. He's right. Not tonight.
But soon. . .
Soon. . .
A flavour of hope enters his easy, gentling kisses. Hope. . . and promise. . .
Yes. Very soon.
I'm just dropping off when I realize – no one has ever kissed me to sleep before.
But, as Jamie says, there's a first time for everything.
Chapter Fifteen - Here's Mud In Your Mind's Eye
I awake to sizzling sounds, and the smell of freshly ground coffee. I half-open my eyes, and see Jamie in the kitchenette, pouring batter from a jug, flipping pancakes, draining bacon, and humming tunelessly along with an oldies station he has playing on his phone.
I smile, and sigh contentedly. It's an idyllic image – one I would be more than happy to wake up to for, say, the next fifty years or so.
But still, somehow. . . it's incomplete.
Slowly, one by one, I add in some of the things he's told me about the girls.
The loud, thudding feet of the nine year old twins, Bree and Faith, who always run everywhere, and the correspondingly loud voice of Bree, asking - or more likely demanding - specially shaped pancakes from her father, while Faith sits incongruously quietly at a bar stool, watching Jamie's technique in pouring the batter.
Followed by a soft pat-pat from the tiny angel-feet of three and a half year old Joanie, being led down the passage by the ever-moving, slippy-slidey feet of nearly six year old Sally, who always wears socks, and sings each and every moment of the livelong day, and dances while she sings.
These second two seem to act far more like twins than the first two, sitting down together on the corner of an area rug, babbling softly to each other in their own private language, and beginning to play a sweet, incomprehensible game they have invented, using large wooden beads, shoelaces, and their stuffed bears, completely in harmony, even their motions coordinated.
The long red curls and pert, upturned noses might seem at first glance to be all that is alike about the older two. Faith is thoughtful, studious and methodical, Bree is impulsive, eager and adventurous. Faith is already studying to be an artist – Bree has yet to be convinced she can't make a living shooting elephants in the Brazilian rain forest. They refuse to be dressed alike, sometimes even growing angry when they are referred to as "the twins".
But for all that, they love each other fiercely, and though they usually play dramatically different games, they often do so in the same room, each keeping an eye on the other, even while they play alone.
In the eye of my mind, all four of them converge around a large, honey-coloured kitchen table, Faith spreading her napkin demurely on her knee, and Sally rhythmically kicking the leg of her chair. Jamie distributes plates and silverware, and then serves up tiny silver dollar pancakes for Joan, a small Micky Mouse shaped one for Sally, a perfectly neat stack of midsize ones for Faith, and two large bunny rabbit shaped ones for Bree. He makes sure they all take a serving from the bowl of fruit salad he passes around, and then everyone quiets down as he says grace. . .
There. That picture is complete. And it's just as idyllic, in my opinion.
Suddenly, a part of me can't wait for the weekend to be over. I'm ready to meet them. I want to meet them, in a way I haven't until now. Up until today, the girls have been nothing more than faces in pictures glowing on telephone screens, or funny little people in some of Jamie's best stories.
They've been ideas. Features. Almost. . . accessories.
But today. . .
Today, they are children.
Jamie's children.
My children.
Our children.
Out of all the parts of our plans, the bits about the children are the most up in the air, the most unpredictable, the most likely to go completely pear-shaped. . .
And the most vital.
Jamie and I may be walking a thin line when it comes to the U.S. Passport office, but that's nothing when compared to the lines we'll have to walk with these four small Humans.
I've always loved kids, but four at once is a tall order. . .
"Dinnae think I cannae tell ye'er awake, Madame Lazybones," Jamie's cheerful voice breaks into my reverie, "Now get out of that bed and come make us some of that smashing coffee ye said ye could make – I've the grounds here, all ready for ye."
I grin then, and stretch, but I don't reply to him otherwise. I sit up, leisurely, and slowly pad down the three little stairs to get out of the bed. I run a hand through my riot of curls, and yawn.
"Lemme go do something with m'hair, m'kay?" I say, voice still thick with sleep, "M'be right back."
He gives me a bright, teasing glance, "Go on then. But hurry back, aye? I need my sous chef."
I go though my morning routine quite mechanically, those two words echoing through my brain, drowning everything else out -
Sous chef.
Sous chef.
Me?
Impossible.
I can boil water, fry an egg, and just about bake a potato. If I have all the ingredients to hand, and I follow instructions very carefully, I can even make a fairly complicated stew. But I'm not any kind of chef.
I know he was speaking metaphorically, but my woeful inadequacy to be anything of the sort on a practical front really digs at me.
As I wash and dry my hands, my jaw sets. As Alex MacKenzie always says – prepare your work space, go one step at a time, concentrate, and never give up.
I smirk a little at that. I really have known Jamie a lot longer than three days, haven't I?
Of course, after last night, it feels like I've known him for years.
But if I'm honest with myself, it's felt that way for even longer, really. Last night merely clinched it – I don't just want to live with this man – I want to make a life with him. Up to and including more children, if and when we're ready.
I exhale sharply at myself.
Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, at least meet the four he's already got before you start having his babies, Beauchamp!
Something within me flares, hot and sweet and shivering, at the very thought of having Jamie's babies.
Oh. . .
Yes.
Yesyesyes. . .
C'mon, get yourself together Beauchamp!
I square my shoulders, re-enter the main room, stride confidently over to the kitchenette, and without a word, take total charge of french press.
There is coffee to make, and it's time to prove that I can make a smashing cup of coffee.
Chapter Sixteen - I'm So Into You
Jamie spends nearly all of breakfast coaxing stories of my trips with Lamb out of me.
I don't initially take too much notice – he's curious about my past, of course he is - but after my fifth long ramble about the dust and the heat, or the mud and the rain, and always the sweat, and the stink, and the grime, and the recalcitrant animals, and the local political skirmishes, and just the sheer amount of work involved with traditional field archaeology - usually with what looks like not a lot more than some tumble-down piles of rubble and a few bits of scraggy pottery to show for it. . .
"You don't really want to know how Lamb taught me to tell the difference between Neolithic and Bronze Age flint knapping do you, Jamie?"
"Oh aye, I do, Sassenach," he nods vigorously, and sops up the last bit of maple syrup on his plate with his final bite of pancake, "S'fascinating stuff, all this diggin' up of ancient cultures." He pops the bite of pancake in his mouth, and hums around it, "M'a l'il bit surprised ye didna go in for sumthin' a' th'sort yerself – when it came time for ye ta be choosing a career, I mean."
"Well, I nearly did, if you want to know the truth."
"What kept ye from it, then?"
"Well. . ."
I stand, and begin to clear our plates.
"I do think it's something I ought ta know, Sassenach," he smiles over his shoulder at me, "But yer face lights up whenever ye talk of Lamb. I'd gladly listen ta ye talk of horse shite if it makes ye look as happy as that. . ."
Suddenly, I nearly implode, trying to keep myself from laughing.
All this talk of Lamb. . .
And here I'd almost forgotten. . .
Almost.
The memory is not entirely polite – but it is funny, and it is the reason why I never went in for field archaeology. . .
Well, part of the reason.
Okay, a lot of the reason. . .
If Jamie notices my face turning red while I hold my breath with indecision, he wisely says nothing.
I exhale sharply, "Well. . . okay. . ."
I launch into the story, trying to keep the more technical details out of it – and signally failing, as Jamie's often confused look shows – but eventually getting around to the part that has Lamb literally pushing a donkey up a hill, while half of our dig team stare at us in amazement.
". . . so then Lamb turns to me and says, "And that's why you never poke an ass in the ass." And he hands me the stick-"
Jamie has pretty much dissolved into laughter at this point, but he pulls himself together enough to gasp out - "Please, god tell me ye threw it away!"
"No, I had it bronzed and I display it on the shelf next to my masters degree."
He sits up then, mouth open, eyes wide with horror.
I snort a laugh, "Of course I threw it away, Jamie! But only when the local archaeologist wasn't watching, because he'd seen the whole thing, naturally, and even though he didn't speak English, he'd have been able to tell something was up if I'd just tossed it there and then – so I ended up spending the next half hour in that blasted hill trench with Lamb, staring at literally nothing, but pretending it was full of the most interesting archaeology imaginable, holding that stick, just waiting for the local archaeologist to leave so I can throw the bloody thing away and go home for tea!"
Jamie chuckles, shaking his head.
"And the whole debacle kind of put me off the idea of pure field archaeology. Rewarding as it can be, I knew then I was cut out for something a little more. . . predictable."
Jamie snorts. I elbow him in the shoulder.
"Alright – less messy, then!"
He barks a laugh. I wave him off with a rude gesture, but he only grins.
"I almost went into experimental archaeology – and I'm still deeply interested in the subject. They utilize such a wide variety of processes - more than any other profession I've ever heard of. An experimental archaeologist is never bored, that's for sure – and they're frequently less messy than your bog-standard field archaeologist is – but my forte had always been the management side of things, you see. Talking to our team of local diggers, planning menus, buying replacement camping kit whenever things got damaged, balancing the budget, making sure everyone and everything got where it needed to be on time and in one piece. . ." I shrug, "In the end, a degree in business management just made more sense."
Jamie nods, seriously, "Aye. I can see that now. . ." his eyes glint, "An' nae doubt ye deal with significantly fewer. . . asses. . ."
"I'm not entirely certain about that!" I say, joining him in laughter, "More like graduated up to the really stubborn cases. Just look at Dougal-"
"Agch, do I have ta?"
"No, not really, but even you have to admit he's something of a case study when it comes to being an arse."
"Aye, that's true enough."
With a slow, lazy twist, Jamie stretches, and yawns. I'm just putting our coffee mugs into the dishwasher, so my back is to him. I allow myself a delicious shiver at the sounds he makes, and for just a few seconds, let myself dwell on the image I had of him yesterday around this time - shirtless, shining with steam and sweat, his curls dark and damp, just sweeping the strong curve of his back, his arm casually to one side, gently cradling a crystalline glass of whisky. . .
My breath hitches when I suddenly realize. . . I have literally no idea what his other hand was doing. . .
"So, ye ready for me ta tell ye where we're going today, mo ghràidh?"
I take a deep breath.
Get it together, Beauchamp!
"Yes, I am!" I say, with a tone of mock offense.
"Mmm. Too bad I'm no'," he smirks at me, eyes alight with mischief.
"You devil," I hiss, and punch the dishwasher's buttons with more strength than is strictly called for.
His smirk widens into a smile, "I promise ye'el like it, Sassenach. Wear something for outdoors, an' something ye dinnae mind gettin' wet."
I blink.
"Wet?"
Briefly, his eyes run over me, in a way he hasn't yet let them, to my knowledge. . .
His look is like a touch, and every nerve ending in me fires, shocked with how blatantly naked just a glance can be.
I've been leered at before. This is not that. It is. . . something else entirely. Something I'm not sure isn't unique to Jamie himself. I only know that no other man in the world has, or could ever, look at me like this.
When he speaks, his voice is low, and suggestive.
"Aye. Wet."
If his intention was to make me melt on the spot, then, mission accomplished.
Things have been so easy, so playful up to this point. . .
I take a shallow, ragged breath, not quite sure where I am with him. Are we friends, getting to know each other, transparent and open, without a care in the world, just laughing and talking. . .
Or, are we dancing lovers, hooded and smoldering, our every word hot, flowing foreplay, our every action double-edged, pressed tight to skin flushed with blood so near to the surface the very pulse may cause us to burst. . .
Or are we somehow both – sweet spun sugar with a core of rock candy – a cool, soft cloud enveloping a sultry, seductive pool of dark, steaming water - sensible, no-frills underwear on warm, desirable bodies, aching with want. . .
The memory of last night shoots through me. The feel of him pressed tight to me. . . the smell of him. . . the taste of him.
And all we did was hug and kiss. . .
We both know we want more.
Well then.
If he's willing to do this – to push at the soft, slippery boundary between us, to play delicately with the curls of feeling as they unfurl within and without our living, vibrant flesh, to caress the keen edge of temperature that hovers between cool, calculated teasing, and pure, boiling hunger. . .
If he's willing to do all that, then, that's a game which two can play. . .
I look at him from underneath lowered lids, and I consciously angle my body so he can't miss the curve of my hip, just where it emerges from the loose waistband of my flannel trousers.
"I did tell you that I can't swim?"
My voice is much lower than usual. Soft. Smoky.
"Ye did."
Slowly, I push a fall of curls back behind my ear, and I give a tiny smirk, "If things get too. . . wet. . . then you'll have to dive in after me."
His eyes, usually the colour of a bright summer sky, are now two spots of luminous black, tense and ravenous.
"Ye ken I will."
"I do." I say, echoing the words I said yesterday in front of the officiant, only this time I imbue them with passion, trust, desire – and, most importantly, love.
He hears it, hears it all, and his expression changes, in ways I don't even try to describe to myself.
I lower my eyes, and turn, and walk into the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind me.
I feel his eyes on my back all the way across the room.
Chapter Seventeen - One Small Step For Man
Saturday, March 12th, 2022. 11:30 AM, just outside Las Vegas Nevada.
I will always remember this as the day, place, and time that I, James Fraser, finally impressed Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp.
My wife. . .
It's still strange to call her that. It has only been true for 21 hours 31 minutes.
But hey, who's counting?
The past four days have totally upended my life, in more ways than one.
To be fair, discovering exactly how much of a fool you've been, and being shown exactly how much you'll have to grovel and beg to make it right will do that to any man.
If only I hadn't deluded myself about Annalise. I could have called it quits six years ago, taken Faith and Bree, gone back to Scotland, and she wouldn't have protested. I doubt she'd have even noticed. And then none of this would have happened. None of it. . .
I pull myself up short.
That's right - none of it would have happened.
Not Sally. Not little Joanie.
Or, if they had, they wouldn't have been mine. . .
And not Claire. Claire would certainly never have happened. Not to ordinary, working-man me. High-flying, fine-businesswoman, famous-for-taking-down-her-abuser Claire Beauchamp would never have taken a second glance at me.
And really, why should she?
I could hardly believe it when she introduced herself that night at Leoch. I had thought for sure Dougal had to have meant some other Ms. Beauchamp. Not Claire Beauchamp. Not the woman who had not only publicly exposed him last year, but had soundly trounced him as well. . .
What, on God's good green earth, had he been thinking?
Clearly, he hadn't been.
Or, rather, he had, but with the wrong head.
I shift a little in my own trousers. I can't quite blame him for that – though I can and do blame him for how he acted on it – because I do have to admit, there isn't a single thing about Claire Beauchamp that isn't instantly and overwhelmingly intoxicating.
From those snapping amber eyes, to her gloriously wild curls, to her razor-keen mind, to her incredible, petal-soft skin, and rosy, delectable mouth. . .
Her mind, Fraser. Remember how attracted you are to her mind!
Because that was what had truly impressed me, that first night at Castle Leoch. This woman's ability to jump straight into a thoroughly unlikely situation, break it down into a myriad of steps, rearrange them into a viable plan, and then somehow pick the whole thing up at once, turn and twist it around in her mind, rigorously reviewing every facet, ruthlessly examining it for flaws, accepting or rejecting it as likely to be completed, and then making a myriad of suggested alterations "to improve the likelihood of success".
She had made at least half a dozen suggestions that I would never have come up with on my own – never mind the fact that we were talking about her marrying a complete and total stranger in two days time. . .
By the end of the evening, I knew Dougal ought to be immeasurably thankful this woman hadn't wanted his head on a platter.
But even more, I knew I'd be thankful for anything she chose to give me.
Like that beautiful, impulsive, delicious first kiss. . .
My mouth is still tingling from the pure, exquisite shock of it. That she's kissed me several times since hasn't dulled the feeling in the least.
Virgin? The woman's a vixen. But that she hasn't yet found a man who lives up to her standards of sleeping with isn't a surprise to me at all.
My arms throb with the memory of holding her last night. I really did that. I got to hold her, kiss her, care for her, tend to her.
I highly doubt she's let a man do that for her since she's been out of diapers.
An independent woman, my wife.
I smile, thinking of our banter this morning. Even though I have to yet again adjust my trousers at the memory, I found her enthusiastic flirtation highly encouraging. She's been nicely receptive to my attentions this weekend, but she's never taken charge like that before.
I get the feeling taking charge is her natural state of being. To see her employ that in an active attempt to seduce me. . .
As if I needed seducing at this point. . .
My heart thumps, painfully.
Maybe we can parley this undeniable connection between us into a real relationship.
Her eyes light up when she sees the Precious River Interactive Tours sign and staging area. Not the same light as when she talks about her beloved uncle, but a similar, wild, adventurous light. In that moment, I know.
I did it. I impressed her. I made her happy.
I am capable of making her happy.
My heart swells with pride, almost overshadowing the core-deep, yawning ache there is in me that simply wants her.
Almost.
She turns to me, eyes wide, "We're going silver panning? How did you know?"
I've never seen anything as beautiful as the delighted grin now gracing my Sassenach's face.
"Ken what, Sassenach?"
"That I've always wanted to do this?"
"I didnae know that, mo chridhe. . ."
The truth is, when she'd asked me to plan the honeymoon, my immediate instinct was to look up anything in Vegas that was not casino-related. The very thought of subjecting my beautiful Sassenach to a series of Vegas stage shows turned my wame.
Silver panning was the third result on my search page. Simple as that.
Her arms go around my neck, and her lips touch my cheek. "You're an absolute marvel, James Fraser," she whispers.
Is it possible to die of joy?
Maybe no one ever has.
Reckon I'd be the first. . .
We spend the next half hour getting kitted out properly, and meeting our ravine-walker horses that will take us to the panning site.
Old Alec, the tour guide, takes us both in hand, showing us how to manage our animals.
He doesn't have to spend much time with me – I'm used to horses from growing up on my family's Highland farm.
But Claire isn't so lucky, and it takes her some minutes to get the knack of it.
But, in the end, she does. Of course she does.
And then, with a toss of her head more wild and free than the restive beast beneath her, an eager grin, and not a glance behind, my Claire turns her horse, and leads the way into the ravine.
I smile, take up my reins, and follow her.
My wife is an independent woman.
And I wouldn't have her any other way.
Chapter Eighteen - Time Is Precious
The sun is finally westering, on one of the most beautiful days of my life.
If I had spent the day indoors, reading, or just sitting quietly, merely in the same room with Jamie, it would have been beautiful enough – but to have spent it outdoors, knee deep in the crystalline water of this bend in the river, breathing sweet, clean air, surrounded by the red-gold striations of the ravine, and the fresh, open, spring-blue of the sky, accompanied by the soft plish-plash of the water in our pans, and the occasional crunching stamp of a hoof from underneath the nearby pavilion sheltering our horses - not to mention a glorious picnic lunch, and Jamie's lovely, cheerful presence throughout – all that has made it a red-letter day, a day to be remembered, a day for the books – a day I will cherish in my memory, like a particularly rare gem.
And twice in the past two hours, I have seen the bright grey sheen of silver dust on the bottom of my pan, and called Jamie over to see it. Each time, he has proudly carried it over to the sluice-box and washing trays, and carefully transferred it to the small vial that contains our combined finds.
As I understand is usual with these sorts of experience tours, whatever silver we find today is ours to keep. Old Alec had given us two vials back at the staging area, but Jamie insisted on putting whatever showed up in our pans into the same tiny glass tube.
"There's a kit can turn a glass vial like that inta a necklace pendant, Sassenach," he'd said when I protested, "We'll no' be making more than one of those if we go that road. It'll be unique – I insist upon tha'."
I had smiled indulgently at him, and relented.
I touch the silver of my wedding ring - the small, foreign object on my hand that Jamie placed there less than four days ago. It still feels strange between my fingers - a hard little ridge, warm from contact with my body, but shining with the distant, cold distortion of a convex mirror, elongated and alien.
I realize now that the tiny amount of metal dust we've gathered today is actually far more symbolic between the two of us than the ring is. After all, we've found it together, to the surprise and joy of us both, in a place and time that no one could have predicted, with mutual labor and patience.
And in a delightful, exquisitely beautiful setting. . .
The light, which has been so clear and clean all day, is turning orange at last, with the few wisps of high cloud that show above the ridge to the east beginning to glow gold and pink and lavender against the sky.
I wade over to where Jamie is panning out his last find for the day, and lean on his shoulder while he swirls the water round and round on the base of the pan, washing the frail, gleaming smear of silver dust over and over with the clear, cold water. The thin 'swish-swish' sounds and the motions of his arm are hypnotic, and I close my eyes, basking in the warm light, and the new nip in the cooling wind.
Briefly, madly, I want to stay here forever. Just like this, leaning against him, in the rich light of an early spring evening, listening to the gentle sounds of sweeping winds and flowing water. I want the two of us, alone, separate from all the noise and cares of the world, in such easy harmony that our very breathing is synchronized. In this crazy, mad moment, I want to be immortalized in stone, frozen here for eternity, the peace and joy I'm feeling right now shining across the ages, glorious and perfect.
But then I open my eyes, and smile at him, and the mad impulse fades.
I don't want immortality or isolation – I just want him. Him, all of him, any way I can get him. . .
"Thank you for a wonderful day, Jamie."
He looks at me, and smiles that devastatingly charming smile of his, "My pleasure, Sassenach."
I sigh happily, "Mmm. Mine too."
It's a little difficult to tell, the light being so golden at the moment, but I think he blushes.
Suddenly, I want to do much much more than thank him. I want to give him an experience as wonderful and as meaningful as today has been for me.
My own cheeks warm a bit, because I can only think of one thing I could possibly do to give him that, and. . .
I clench my jaw.
I am not going to sleep with a man – any man, but especially Jamie - just because I feel I owe it to him.
He may be allowed to hold me, but I'm not beholden to him.
No, you're not beholden to him, Beauchamp. . .
I blink.
What?
It isn't him you're beholden to, Beauchamp.
What the hell. . .
You're beholden to you, Beauchamp. To yourself. And you're beholden to the truth. Don't you owe him that much? The truth? The whole truth?
Oh, please, just shut up. . .
C'mon Beauchamp! You know it's the right thing to do. You might even enjoy it. . .
Sometimes, I really hate the voice in my head.
I get out of the water, and sit down at our little picnic spot to dry off my feet and put my hiking boots back on.
I hear Brimstone nicker quietly, and take a long drink from her water bucket.
She knows what shoes mean, right enough. They mean I'm going to be on her back again very soon. Poor girl. It's been at least twelve or thirteen years since I last had anything to do with horses – and while it's true you never forget how, it's also true that you can get terribly rusty, and I didn't have very extensive experience in the first place. Added to which, Brimstone is a high-class lady, quite unlike the nags which used to be all Lamb's expeditions could usually afford, and my rough and ready method of riding quite offended her sensibilities, the poor thing.
Donas, Jamie's horse, nickers back to her, and lays his head across her neck, as if to say, "Don't worry lass, the one I'm carrying won't let anything bad happen to you either."
Jamie finishes up putting his last find in the vial, and then he joins me on the large blanket we have spread out on the riverside.
It takes him several minutes to dry himself off and put his shoes on. When he's done, he pauses. Without turning to me, or saying anything, he reaches his hand out to mine, and laces our fingers together.
We haven't talked much today, but I've never felt closer to anyone than I do now.
At last, I understand something my father told me once, not long after I had started dating for the first time. "Silence," he'd said, seriously, "Silence is a great test of a relationship. Perhaps the greatest. If you can be comfortably silent with someone, you can live with them. If you can't, then forget it. Life is lived in silences – just like solid objects are 99 percent empty space."
He never gave me any other dating advice than that, but, I have to say, it's been an incredibly good gauge so far.
Jamie is the only one I've ever been this comfortable with in silence.
He packs up our kit, smiling ruefully at me when he has to take up the blanket to fold it, but still not saying anything, preserving the fragile magic of the evening.
Unhurriedly, we walk over to the horses. Jamie loads up their saddlebags with our kit, clucking soothingly at them both. Almost as an afterthought, he hands me the little vial. I slip it into the breast pocket of my shirt, and safely button it closed.
The horses trust him. I trust him.
He trusts me.
Still without a word, he helps me into Brimstone's saddle, and with one swing of his long legs, he settles himself astride Donas.
With each gravelly thump of a hoof on the long, winding pathway, I desperately try to gather courage. All the courage I know I'll need.
Because it's true. I do owe it to him. And it is the right thing to do. And I will enjoy it.
After all, I've been wanting to do it for days now. And I know, I know – my heart is safe with him.
At the ridge of the ravine I look back into the deepening sunset, trying to find in that immortal light at least a fragment of inspiration.
Because, no matter how true it is, the thought of saying it aloud is still scary.
Life may be lived in the 99 percent silence, but the 1 percent is life too – and all the more weighty, perhaps, for being so much rarer.
As we ride slowly back to the staging area, I feel the solid presence of the man beside me, and know.
I have to.
I want to.
I will. . .
He ties the horses up at the hitching post, and comes around Brimstone to help me out of the saddle.
I slide gratefully into his arms, and twine my own about his neck. For a brief moment, I rest my forehead against him, and ghost my lips across his, in a chaste but intimate kiss. Then I lean back a little, and look into his eyes, glimmering darkly ultramarine in the purple light of dusk.
The silence between us is complete.
I don't know where the strength comes from, but I open my mouth, and say it.
"I love you."
Chapter Nineteen - Never Did Run Smooth
I was expecting shock.
I was expecting a long, awkward silence, wondering looks, baffled stares, perhaps even some stammered, unfinished questions.
I was even expecting a little bit of horror at the suddenness of my declaration.
And Jamie does all those things.
But whatever I was expecting him to do next, him leaning his head on my shoulder and bursting into tears certainly wasn't it.
And yet here he is – head bowed, his arms wrapped so tightly around me he's nearly lifting me off the ground, his face buried in the side of my neck, with great, wracking sobs shuddering though him.
I don't know if I expect him to say I love you back or not, but oh, god do I hope. . .
His tears only last a few seconds, giving way almost immediately into quite incomprehensible phrases muttered into my skin -
"My Sassenach, tha thu mìorbhuileach dhomh mo nighean donn, tha gaol agam ort - a Dhia, mo Sorcha, Cha mhòr gun urrainn dhomh a chreidsinn mo leannan, tha gaol agam ort, mo chridhe. . ."
It's difficult to be sure, but I make out at least three new pet names. . .
That can't be a bad reaction, can it?
He kisses up my neck and across my face, so frantically he only twice brushes across my lips.
It's not enough.
It's not nearly enough.
I catch his head between my hands, and pull his mouth to mine. He relents willingly, devouring my lips with the same frantic vigor he was giving my neck. His hands clutch against my back, pressing me so tightly to him it is doubly hard for me to breathe. . .
My god, why is he so desperate? He's acting like if he doesn't hold on to every part of me he can reach, I'm going to dissolve away into thin air, or disappear straight though solid rock or something. If I didn't know better, I'd even say he was scared of losing me.
But why?
Why?
I can only think of one reason, and that's if. . .
If. . .
A sickening knot of ice water settles in the pit of my stomach.
If he doesn't want to say it back.
If he doesn't want to say he loves me, all this desperation could well be him trying to fill the space with the nearest approximations to it he can come up with on a spur of the moment.
Or. . . maybe it isn't that he doesn't want to say it.
Maybe it isn't true. Maybe he doesn't love me.
Maybe the promise of truth between us is the strongest thing binding us together, and everything else is merely the reactions of our meat-machine bodies, automatically and soullessly recognizing our all-too obvious chemical and physiological compatibility.
The kiss between us deepens, and his hands migrate to my arse, but the cold knot in my stomach only grows.
Up until now, my lusting after Jamie has felt special. Timeless. Clean. Almost. . . pure. As though there was far more behind it than could ever be expressed, so I need not try.
It all seemed like. . . foreplay. Not a sham. . .
But maybe that was all only because it was happening so fast. . .
He finally pulls away from my mouth, gasping for air, groaning like a dying man, "O dhia, tha mi a 'smaoineachadh gu bheil mo chridhe a' dol a spreadhadh, mo ghràidh. . ."
As I catch my breath, the future stretches out interminably before me. I'm fairly sure I manage to cram all the doubts and fears of a twenty-year relationship into something like twenty seconds.
For the first time in the last four days, I feel terror.
If it has all been fake. . . if it has all been for nothing. . . I. . .
Somehow, in just the few short hours of these past four days, James Fraser has completely spoiled me for other men.
If I can't have him, then I'll never have anyone.
And frankly, I don't want to live in a world where Jamie isn't mine.
"Wh-what does all of that mean, Jamie?" I stammer, shaky, but determined to snap myself out of the sudden horrible sinkhole my brain has thrown me into, "Mo grai, and mo hrear, and mo kneein doun, and all the rest of it? Is it Gaelic?"
Jamie's arms slacken around me. He steps back a little, then takes me firmly by the shoulders. In the glow of the newly lighted signage over the Precious River Gift Shop, his face looks even more shocked than when I'd said I love you.
"Claire," he says, in a thoroughly disbelieving tone, "Ye dinnae ken the Gàidhlig?"
My mind flips and flops and squirms under his gaze, but I'm just as confused as he seems to be.
"Of course not! Why on earth would you think I do?"
He blinks rapidly, "Ye. . . ye said ye kent what Sassenach meant-"
"One word doesn't make a language, Jamie!" I nearly shout, "Of course I picked up what Sassenach meant – working for Leoch, I've been called that more times than I've been called a cold-hearted bitch for not putting out!" I gesture incredulously, "And of the people who don't think I'm a "dammed Sassenach" which of them do you think has the time or inclination to teach me ancient Scottish? Dougal?"
His eyes and jaw tighten, and suddenly, a dangerous look comes into his eyes. For a brief moment I see the hot, wild core of him – the true son of fierce, relentless Highland warriors – and in an instant I understand the elemental, vital power of his race of men – the sort who would willingly, joyfully fight a losing battle, forever if they may, if the reason they fight is for life and for love.
That soothes me a little. If just the mention of Dougal brings out flashes of the territorial fighter in him, then what has gone between us hasn't all been for nothing, surely. . .
"I know Alba gu Bràth, and Sassenach, and that's about it, Jamie," I say, confused and discouraged, and oh, so forlorn.
He hears it, and his eyes tighten again, about a thousand different emotions crossing his face at once. Then, he steps near to me again, and puts one finger gently beneath my chin, drawing me eye to eye with him.
"Aye, I've been a fool an' I'm sorry for it, Sassenach." He kisses me softly, almost reverently, on the lips, "I promise I'll tell ye what it all means – evary word. Bu' no' heer." He looks around us, at the bare, empty Precious River staging area, bleakly lit by cold, flashing neon, "No' now."
Reluctantly, I nod.
"Good," he whispers. Then he straightens up to his full height, and I don't think I'm imagining the slightly forced note in his cheery tone, "An' for sure it has been a lovely day, aye? Let's go get something ta remember it by. . ."
He turns, and leads the way into the gift shop.
I pull myself together, and follow him, desperately trying to convince myself not to be heartbroken that he still hasn't said he loves me.
Tha thu cho mìorbhuileach dhomh - You are so wonderful to me
Tha gaol agam ort – I love you
Cha mhòr gun urrainn dhomh a chreidsinn - I can hardly believe it
O dhia, tha mi a 'smaoineachadh gu bheil mo chridhe a' dol a spreadhadh - Oh god, I think my heart is going to burst
Chapter Twenty - When A Man Loves A Woman
I leave Claire to her own devices in the gift shop and go at once over to the custom jewelry counter. I scan the room for the shop attendant at the same time – I am in a hurry.
There is a hollow, aching look in my Claire's eyes, and I mean to get us back to our hotel and deal with it as fast as humanly possible.
I'm about to grab the Memento Vial transformer kit, deeply, painfully aware of how little it is to give her, especially when I must make this big of an apology, when my eye falls on a small rack of locally made fine jewelry, and I hesitate.
What was it Murtagh always says? "Nevar underestimate a woman, lad. 'For the female of the species is more deadly than the male' - now tha's a verrah true sayin', it is."
Given that Murtagh is a crusty old bachelor, and nearly all women are his natural enemy, that's not entirely bad advice, considering.
But, fool that I am, in my efforts to never underestimate her, I went and did the opposite.
Of course she doesn't understand the Gàidhlig, Fraser! And you deserve everything she gives you for ever once thinking she did!
Simply, the connection between us has been such that from the very beginning, it has felt natural to speak to her in the language of my heart.
Well. Natural it might have been. But I was still forgetting that it is highly unlikely she's ever had a chance to learn the Gàidhlig, much less come to love it as I do.
It's my first language. Deep in my mind, I still form my thoughts in it.
And when I heard those words from her – those blessed, holy words, from the mouth of a woman so much better than me I might labour two hundred years and still not deserve her. . . well.
You ought to have told her, Fraser! Told her just exactly what the Gàidhlig means to you, and how likely you are to use it when you feel deep emotion!
It was a mistake. A foolish, selfish mistake. And now there is pain in her eyes – a pain I put there – and I must do all I can, now, at once, to remove it again.
But not here. Not by cold, impersonal neon light, in the place she chose, and I failed to appreciate properly.
Slowly, I spin the little case of jewelry, not knowing at all what I am looking for, but, somehow I knowing I'll know it when I see it.
My father always says to bring something other than words when you make an apology. He says it doesn't have to be much – but it must be something. He says it shows you're thinking beyond just being forgiven, and actually want to change the behavior that led to your mistake.
I don't know if that's true or not.
All I know is I want Claire to feel the same beauty I did when she told me she. . .
I can't even think the words without the same warm rush in my stomach, and hot tears starting into my eyes.
Annalise used to say it, but always with a teasing lilt to her saccharine-sweet voice. Like she was just humouring me.
Geneva used to say it, but always desperately, madly – never calmly or softly. That was how I knew it wasn't real.
And Black Jack said it once too. . . but I do my best never to think of that.
But when Claire said it. . .
She chose her moment gracefully, perfectly, and said the words so truly. . .
I love you.
The memory warms me through, and will do, for the rest of my life.
And now, I must give such a memory to her.
In the last compartment of the small rotating jewelry case, there is a large amber pendant, on a darkly antiqued golden chain. The setting is a square of filigree, hung by one corner to make a diamond shape, but the amber itself is a perfectly domed circle, about the size of a quarter.
It matches her eyes, and her hair.
I hold it up to the light, and I see there, embedded in the center of the stone, is an ancient dragonfly wing, its beautiful lacy pattern at once impossibly delicate, and immortally tough.
It's perfect.
I buy it right there at the jewelry counter, along with the transformer kit, and four small packs of hair clips I noticed in a basket by the register – one in each of my daughter's favourite colours.
I smile at the thought of my girls.
Faith likes light blue – though she will gladly take blue of any kind, Bree prefers dark green – camo if she can get it, Sally is my pink princess girl, and Joan, being only three and a half, hasn't yet made up her mind, but her preference generally swings between yellow, orange, and magenta.
I've missed them an awful lot more than I thought I would this weekend. I've gone away before, but I've never been this disconnected.
Or rather, this wrapped up in someone else.
Ah well, only two more nights away. . .
I nearly run into Claire as she swings around a nearby aisle. She is carrying an inordinate number of gift bags – far more than I ever thought she would buy for herself. . .
And then I see. The bags are blue, green, pink, and orange. I see colouring books in all of them, a spyglass in the green one, a pack of paintbrushes in the blue one, a large bottle of bubbles in the pink one, and a magic wand topped with a magenta crystal star in the orange one.
There are obviously more things in each bag, but the rest of it is hidden by drifts of tissue paper and the handfuls of fruit snacks piled on top.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart speeds up.
It is easy to love quiet, neat, creative Faith, and angelic, delicate little Joan. . .
But these gifts incline just as much towards outgoing, adventurous Bree, and generous, practical Sally.
As I often tell them – I have four favourite children.
Claire doesn't just love me. She loves my children.
All of my children.
"So what is all this, Sassenach?" I ask.
I know, but I want to hear her say it.
"Well," she stammers a little, "I. . . I wanted the girls to know we were thinking of them while we were away. It must have been a surprise to them – you leaving so suddenly like you did – and I just thought they should know we. . . that they. . . really were here with us, in spirit if not in body."
She brings something up on her phone, and shows me, "See? I've been keeping track of all the things you've told me, and all the ideas I've had about what-"
She breaks off, blushing adorably.
"Oh. Is. . . is that creepy?"
If I ever doubted – and God help me, I have doubted, more than once, this weekend – if our instantaneous connection could possibly last, if I loved her enough to make her a good husband, if Claire was the best sort of woman to bring into my life and into my children's lives so abruptly – but all those doubts are swept away now.
The hollow look hasn't left her eyes. She must be suffering. And still – still! - she is thinking of others and not herself.
Thinking of the children.
My children.
Our children.
Thinking of them like her own, on their own, and not just appendages to me.
Christ in heaven help me, I've never wanted a woman more. . .
Slow down, Fraser! You have to make things right with her first!
So I do. So I will. And if she banishes me from our bed afterwards, then I will take that as my due.
"No' at all, Sassenach. Very natural – an' useful too. Four kids under ten s'no joke. Ye'll need everything possible ta recommend ye when ye meet them – an' I have no doubts t'will no' be easy at furst."
She nods. "That was what I was thinking."
"I'll call us an Uber while you go and pay, aye?"
She nods again, and goes to the register.
My original plan was to stop by a restaurant on our way back to the hotel, and get some take-out for our supper.
But there is food in the room already, and reconciling with my wife is more important than eating.
Making the mother of my children happy is perhaps the most important thing I will ever do. . .
Our ride home is tense, and quiet. Uncomfortably so. The only thing keeping me from blurting out my feelings there and then is the knowledge of what I have planned for as soon as we get to our rooms.
Just as soon as we get there. . .
Claire swipes the key card, and holds the door open for me, as I am carrying all our purchases. Then she goes directly to the restroom, murmuring that she needs to freshen up.
I don't stop her, since it gives me a minute to prepare.
I open a bottle of wine, and lay a light supper of olives and brie out on the coffee table in front of the fire. I turn the flames on, and the lights down low.
I am contemplating lighting a candle or two when she returns, looking dubious, and so fragile that it cuts my heart afresh to see her.
I draw her down next to me on the couch, and take her slim, soft hand in both of mine, like I did that night, so long ago now, when I asked her to marry me. I look into her wonderful, living golden eyes.
I don't beat about the bush.
"Claire. I love ye."
