Chapter Twenty One - There's Only So Much A Girl Can Take
My reactions to hearing him say the words at last are eerily similar to his.
Shock. Wonder. Speechlessness. A rush of questions that pile on each other so fast I can't actually ask a single one of them. A tiny bit of horror that I thought all the awful things I did.
And then joy.
And gratitude. And pure, vibrating relief.
And then I bury my head in his chest, and burst into tears.
I cling onto him, and his arms go around me, settling me close, and he murmurs to me all through it – using Gàidhlig words again, but this time with their translations tagged onto the end of them.
"Tha thu cho mìorbhuileach dhomh, mo ghràidh. . . You are so wonderful to me, my darling. . ."
Slowly, he strokes my hair, speaking softly against my forehead, "Mo nighean donn, feuch nach caoin thu, feuch, tha gaol agam ort, tha gaol cho mòr agam ort. . . My brown-haired lass, please don't cry, please, I love ye, I love ye so much. . ."
He lifts my face to him, and starts kissing away my tears.
"Such a wonder and a blessing ye are, Claire mo calman geal. . . my white dove. . ."
Holding him to me isn't enough. I'm hungry, starving for him. . . I reach between us and pull on his shirt until the hemline comes free of his jeans. Then I slide my hand under it, and run my fingertips along the taut softness of his stomach.
"Mo leannan. . . my sweetheart. . . that ye should love me. . . Cha mhòr gun urrainn dhomh a chreidsinn. . . I can hardly believe it." He soothes his hands across my back, and runs his fingers behind my ear, caressing the back of my head.
My tears slow, eased by his gentle openness.
"Have I forgotten anything, Sassenach?"
I hear the rueful smile in his voice.
"Mo hrear," I murmur, stroking my hand up to his breastbone, tugging out another several inches of his shirt as I go.
He looks particularly abashed at having to explain that one.
"My heart," he says, simply.
"And Sorcha?"
He grins, suddenly cheerful, "Tha's yer name - Claire. Bu' it also means 'brightness'," he looks earnestly into my eyes, "An' so ye are, ta me. My light, my Claire. . ."
He gives me a rueful, feather-light kiss across the temple.
"And the last thing you said, right after kissing me in the parking lot?"
"Ah. Yes."
Even in the dim light of the fireplace, I see his cheeks go red.
"I said I thought my heart was going ta burst. . ."
"Mmm," I hum, soothing my hand along his breastbone, very much enjoying his warm, smooth skin, "I'm glad it didn't."
Swiftly, I grab a tissue, wipe my eyes, and blow my nose, my outburst of relief turning now, very naturally, into curiosity.
"Why couldn't you believe that I would love you, Jamie?" I ask, slipping my hand back under his shirt, "Because I did, you know. Almost from the first moment."
"Weel. . . I. . ." he exhales sharply, sighing, "Mebbe it's because ye'er the furst woman ta say it ta me since my mam."
I blink, "No, Jamie! Surely not!"
"Say it an' mean it, aye," he nods curtly.
"But. . . the girls. . ."
"Ah!" he smiles softly, "Them. Aye they've said it too. Bu' I meant as a grown woman says it, no' a lass."
"And. . . your sister?"
He barks a laugh, "Jenny has ways of sayin' it wi'out saying it, ye ken?"
I nod. I may be an only child, but I understand that kind of relationship well enough.
"And. . ." my voice goes very small, "Annalise?"
He leans forward a little, pressing one of his hands against the one I still have up his shirt.
"I was a fool over Annalise, mo Sorcha. A fool, and young enough ta think it was love. An' stubborn enough no' ta let myself see it when t'was shown ta me it wasn't." He sighs deeply, "Aye, she used ta say it. But nevar like she meant it."
"So. . . when I said it. . ."
He leans back, eyes dreamy, "Ah, Sassenach, when ye said it like that. . . I knew. I knew this connection that we have – t'was somethin' real after all." He threads one finger though my curls, tucking them behind my ear, "An' I'm heart sorry I fell inta my mother tongue ta respond ta ye. T'was thoughtless, an' selfish of me."
I smile at him then, so far beyond forgiving him I'd actually forgotten to expect an apology until now, "That's all right, Jamie. I love the sound of it, truly I do. Just tell me what it means when you speak it, okay?"
"Aye, I will."
Suddenly, he jumps up, and goes over to the dining table, and rummages in one of the bags there. He returns with a small, clear plastic box. "Nae mattar how easy ye forgive me, I'll still be makin' it up ta ye for a while Sassenach."
He hands me the box, and I look with astonished pleasure at the lovely gold and amber pendant inside it.
"When ye'er raised as Catholic as I was, penance is almost instinctual, y'see, mo ghràidh."
He runs one fingertip down the line of my neck.
"Ye'el let me make it up ta ye, aye? So I c'n let it go?"
I put the box down, before the trembling in my fingers makes me drop it.
It really is remarkable, what this man can do to me.
For the first time in ages, I feel powerful. And not just that, but sexy.
I haven't felt sexy in. . .
In. . .
Well, in a pitifully long time, that's how long.
It suddenly strikes me, just how absurd this entire situation is.
Here we are, two adults, legally married, who like and love each other, and he, at least, is the hottest thing since Chris Hemsworth, and all we have done is kiss and hug each other a little?
That's not just absurd, that's a downright crime. . .
"So. . . what you're saying is. . ." I lick my lips, "You owe me?"
"Aye. I do."
"Right then," I smile wickedly, push him back into the couch, throw a leg over his lap, and settle myself firmly against him. His chest and thighs are solid and warm beneath me, his neck and chin in easy reach of my lips. . .
"Firstly," I smirk, "I want you to know that I am currently wearing completely sensible, plain, white cotton underwear."
His eyes go wide, "Christ, tha's playin' dirty Sassenach. . ."
I laugh pitilessly, "Of course it is. That's the idea."
He groans, lolling his head from side to side, "Ye'el be the death of me, mo Sorcha."
"And secondly," I say, pushing past his protests and grabbing his wrists, "You put your hands on my arse in that parking lot, and I was so worried and confused I couldn't enjoy it." I bring his hands to my sides. "I expect you to rectify this at once. At once, do you hear me, Fraser?"
Achingly slowly, his hands curl around my hips, "Yes ma'am," whispers, teasingly.
A crackling fire sprouts in my belly, and I set my teeth into the skin of his jaw, the short, rough stubble of the day grating against my lips, leaving a pleasant tingle behind. I nip and suck at his skin, perhaps hard enough to leave a mark, but at this point I don't care - "Do you love me, Jamie Fraser?"
He leans his head back as I bite and lick my way down his neck, "Aye. I do. More than I'll evar be able ta say. . ."
I pull back, and do what I have wanted to do since almost the first moment I saw him – I run my hand though his curls, down his cheek, and my fingertips across his lips. I want to memorize the shape of him, the texture of him. . .
"And I love you. . ."
His hands lock behind my head, and he kisses me so deeply neither of us can speak for several minutes.
"And. . . we're married," I pant against his cheek when he finally releases me.
"Aye. We are," he says, just as breathless as I am.
"And we're both committed to making this work."
He nods.
"And neither of us is currently drunk."
His hands tighten on me – not entirely in agreement, "No' wi' wine – tha's for sure. . ."
I smirk at him, "And we're both over eighteen. . ."
He chuckles sharply, "Dhia, I fervently hope so, Sassenach. . ."
I sit up a little, and look down into the twin sapphire rings of his passion-blown eyes.
"And so, tell me, Jamie. . . just what exactly is stopping us?"
Chapter Twenty Two - Virgin Territory
His hands go still in their slow exploration of my body, and he leans back, his mouth working dubiously.
"Protection?" he asks, flatly.
I shake my head, "IUD. And I have a dose of Plan B in my toiletry bag."
He stares at me.
"Y'know – just in case?"
He blinks.
"Really Sassenach?"
I scoff lightly, "The incredulity in your voice is hardly called for, Jamie. It's our honeymoon. Are you seriously telling me you didn't plan for just in case?"
He shakes his head, "I nevar once dreamed that. . . that ye'd. . . that we. . . would. . ."
He swallows heavily, his neck muscles contracting beneath my fingers.
I smile, "You know, if I didn't have. . ." I press closer to him, "Very solid evidence to the contrary, I might be in danger of interpreting that as you not wanting me."
His jaw drops, "Not want ye? Jesus, Mary and Bride, I'd have ta be in a coma not ta want ye, mo ghràidh – an' even then I'm no' entirely sure yer mere presence wouldnae wake me up good and proper. No. . . I was more askin' about. . . weel. . . safety. . ."
I roll my eyes, "I'm a virgin, Jamie."
"Lest we forget," he groans.
"Exactly," I say, practically, "And my last serious relationship was in college. And you have been a widower for two years. A widower who literally had to ask his uncle to set him up with someone suitable to marry." I laugh a little, "When you're asking Dougal to produce a possible partner, I think I can deduce how many possible partners you've had lately. . . And even if I'm wrong, given what I know about your attitude towards hygiene, I have difficulty thinking of you as anything other than clean."
"An' ye'ed just trust me on that?"
"Well, we have promised each other the truth, right?"
"Aye."
I push away from him a bit, and cross my arms. "Fine then, let's be blunt. Jamie Fraser, am I safe with you?"
His eyes rake over every inch of me, very seriously. "Aye. In evary way, Claire, evary part of ye is safe wi' me."
I sigh theatrically, "Now, that is a shame. I was looking forward to a little danger. . ."
His eyes blaze at me, "Oh, were ye now?"
"Yeah. Just a little. . ."
"Mmphm. Consensual danger."
"Exactly."
I nibble on his neck a bit, to show him what I mean.
He downright growls in response.
"Be bloody careful what ye wish for, Sassenach. . ."
Then, with a pounce, he throws me over his shoulder, so incredibly casually his strength is frightening. In a very few seconds, I find myself up against a wall, with two-plus meters of extremely determined Highland Scot pressed tight between my thighs. His kisses are rough and biting, and I hear a few stitches rip somewhere, but I am far too engulfed in him to care from what or where.
I am just beginning to wonder how I will manage to pry him off me long enough to remove my clothes, when he suddenly sets me on my feet, and backs away a step or two.
"Are. . . are ye sure, Sassenach?"
His eyes are intent, and the hand he brings up to cup my face is almost excessively gentle. As though this is the last chance either of us have to make a choice.
I, for one, don't have to think about it.
"I'm sure."
"Ye. . . ye'll nevar get another furst time. . ."
I grin, "Well, if we do this right, I'll never have another honeymoon either."
His expression darkens, and for one wild second I wonder just what exactly I've let myself in for. . .
But then he yanks his shirt off, and I don't have any more coherent thoughts for an embarrassingly long time.
The next time I surface, the rest of our clothes have gone. . . somewhere. . . and I'm laid out flat on the bed, Jamie between my knees, kissing the swell of my calf with the same fervor as if it were my mouth.
I reach down, bury my fingers in his hair, and pull the weight of him across me – my very own, king-sized, Scottish duvet.
He sets his teeth in my neck, not very hard, but firmly, and a thoroughly ecstatic jolt runs though me.
"Mmm," he hums against the new, lightly stinging bruise he's made, "Enjoying yerself, Sassenach?"
I mumble a response that is two parts desperation, two parts threat, three parts profanity, and several thousand parts pure, animal want.
He chuckles, voice thick and deep with his own desire, "Patience, Sorcha. We'el get there, I promise ye. . ."
And then his hands are everywhere, followed soon after by his mouth, and I am lost once again in simple, delicious, thoughtless feeling.
This part lasts much longer than I expect it to, running the gamut between desperate and feverish, to gentle and tender, to playful and teasing, to slow and languid and back again, at least twice, for what seems like hours, until I can scarcely speak, much less beg, which is all I want to do, though I can barely recall what for. . .
I incoherently moan his name a few times, and he seems to understand.
"This. . . might hurt, mo chridhe," he husks into my ear, "I'm sorry. . ."
I pull at him, not caring at this point.
But there is neither pain, nor even discomfort, really - only an unfamiliar pressure from an angle I'm not used to, and then a full, satisfying feeling unlike anything a toy has ever given me.
In truth, there is just Jamie, warm and passionate and delightful, the connection between us sweeter, and deeper, and more profound than it has ever been before.
I cry out at the wonder of it. At the sheer, joyful discovery of it. . .
Before this moment, I never knew "making love" could be literal.
We loved each other before. We love each other more now.
It is simply, vitally true, though I don't ask how.
Mostly because I can't think of anything except for the man currently entwined with me. . .
A thin mist of sweat makes the air heavy between us, his shoulder muscles are hard beneath my hands, his breath is hot against my neck, and he mutters snatches of Gaelic I can't understand and don't try to disentangle, but I know I hear both versions of my name in there somewhere. . .
And then. . .
Then. . .
I jumped off a waterfall once. Ran and jumped, into the pulsing, hungry air of a Mediterranean summer. Jumped and dove, head first, into the crystal-pure, ice-cold waters of the sea.
It was like the universe held its breath, and the world yawned wide before swallowing me whole.
I was never more alive than in that moment – flung into space, and falling as though to my death, but then, into the elemental embrace of time itself.
If poor words can describe it at all, what I felt then is something like what I feel now.
But it falls far short.
Chapter Twenty Three - Only Human
I am awakened from my light sleep by my wife stirring in my arms. I briefly try to pull her closer to me, but she twists away, grunting the word "toilet", and I let her go.
The word brings me fully awake, and I watch her shadowy form pad across our darkened hotel room, only to be illuminated briefly by the caustic white light of the bathroom, her skin glowing an overexposed pearly pink for a second before she slips through the door.
She walks in beauty like the night. . .
I grin ruefully at myself. I've been known to get rather soppy and emotional after sex, to the point of quoting truly terrible amounts of poetry at my lovers, to an almost Vogonish degree. I have reams and reams of the stuff at my recall, and I have discovered there's nothing quite like a broad Scots accent to make even the most mundane quotes sound deeply romantic. My abysmal singing voice notwithstanding, there was even a period during my college years that I laboured under the nickname of "Jamie the Bard". I do admit that most of my girlfriends actually appreciated the majority of it - especially Shakespeare's sonnets - but even Mary MacNab, the most patient girl I ever dated, eventually told me to please shut up.
And here, now, with Claire, all of that seems like what it ultimately was - just so much showing off. Oh, I'd happily recite the entire text of The Tempest to her if she asked me, but to try and impress her with my high-class knowledge seems absurd, unnecessary, and weirdly manipulative. Claire fell in love with ordinary, work-a-day James Fraser, not the jumped-up intelligentsia scholar from my school days.
I tuck my hands behind my head and allow myself a smug grin.
Claire.
Claire fell in love with me.
Claire is in love with me.
Slowly, the smugness fades out of my soul, and I only stare in wonder, at and beyond the horrendous gaudy tartan of bed's canopy, which I can see only dimly by this light.
The truth is, I haven't done this in a very long time. Closer to seven years than two. I had almost forgotten what it was like to touch, and stroke, and kiss, then listen, and kiss again, and then. . .
I've never been someone's first before.
I've never had sex without protection before either.
Which I know is an odd thing for a man with four children. . .
How I fathered twins while wearing a condom is hardly one of the mysteries of the universe. If I never know for sure how it happened – and it is certain now that I won't – then that's no tragedy. Two girls with my hair, eyes, and instinctual love of porridge – not to mention the promise of my height – well, who needs a paternity test after all that?
Of course, years later, the thought has occurred to me more than once that there are other tall Scottish men with red hair in the world. . . but I am nearly certain Annalise still loved me then.
Or, at least what passed for love with her.
By now I've accepted the idea that I was never more than a plaything in her eyes. I'm a grown man – I can endure the fact that a woman isn't devoted to me body and soul – though it did hurt that I was married to such a woman. But what I really came to despise was the fact that playthings were all children were to her too – Human-shaped dolls she could dress up and make cooing noises at. But just let one of them have a nightmare, or come to her with a scraped knee. . .
She loved having children. And somehow hated being a mother.
When she got pregnant with Sally I was suspicious. I was still under her thrall then, but I could still count – and the long dry spell between us and her business trip to Prague added up to three months without, so how she could come home six weeks pregnant. . .
And still I told myself it was because I didn't love her enough.
Or, to be more accurate, she told me I didn't love her enough.
She was the tiniest of women, but she delighted in making me feel small.
Two years of therapy later and I'm still not sure I can love any woman enough.
Enough that they won't emotionally abandon me and my children, anyway. . .
Dr. Fitzgibbons is more Highland Scots Catholic than I am, but even he says I ought to have divorced her years ago, and why did I put up with the emotional abuse for so long?
I told him I supposed I put up with it because when you've spent the majority of your life feeling so huge and lumbering you habitually give yourself even odds on whether or not you can walk through an ordinary sized doorway without permanently injuring several body parts, occasionally feeling small is something of a relief.
He had pointed out, and rightly, that this didn't explain why I would allow her continued access to my children.
Little Joanie had just turned two that week. The first birthday in the house after Annalise had died.
The first birthday in the house without a mother.
The first birthday that was allowed to be about the birthday girl, and not about how Annalise had planned it, and decorated for it, and designed the cake especially, and how she had taken inspiration from a dress she had seen in Milan. . .
That was the first birthday I felt free – free to lavish attention on my girls, free to spoil them a bit, free to plan their futures with them in mind, not Annalise. . .
It wasn't until that moment I realized I hadn't been protecting the girls like I thought. . .
I had broken down then – though Murtagh had called it a "break-through".
I'm still not convinced they aren't different words for the same thing.
I had promised myself a long break from any kind of relationship after that, and was doing pretty well keeping it, thank you very much, until I looked over our family's set of identity cards while planning a trip to Scotland for this summer. . .
One look at Claire has changed my whole life.
Everything – everything about her is different.
How she thinks, how she reacts. How she feels. How I feel.
I've never felt small around her. Well, not small exactly. . . more like not less-than. . .
But not more-than either.
Something in between.
Capable. That's it.
Claire makes me feel capable. Capable of doing things, yes, but also of not doing them if I don't want to. Capable of all the little ordinary things of life, as well as a few extraordinary. . . well – extras.
Like pushing her up against a wall and holding her so tightly to me I manage to rip a few stitches in her jeans.
Like feeling her beneath me, delighted and shuddering, crying my name aloud to the heavens. . .
Making love with Claire has done something to the matted tangle of heartstrings wadded up inside my chest. It's almost as if one or two of them are emerging from their long confusion, and entering into a world not engineered to entirely destroy them.
I'm not sure if I'm hopeful, excited, terrified, or some incredible combination of all three.
But I do know I love Claire, and she loves me.
I'm not quite sure how I've managed to stay mortal in the midst of it all. Put Claire in my arms and I feel like God himself.
Or a god, at least. With his goddess. And we both live to worship each other.
She's only been gone a minute and already my arms ache for her.
At this moment she emerges from the too-bright little room - a deliciously curvy back-lit silhouette this time, instead of the glowing pearl-skinned statue she went in, but she pads with the same soft footsteps into and across the main room. Only she doesn't get back into our bed, instead walking round to the kitchenette, and opening the refrigerator.
The pale light makes an eerie blue-white mask of her face, but even this can't obscure the wry twist to her lips.
"What's wrong, mo chridhe?" I whisper.
"I'm starving, Jamie," she gives a sultry chuckle that does positively indecent things to parts of me I thought I had nicely tamed for the rest of the evening. . . "We haven't eaten since the picnic this afternoon."
"Weel. No' food. . ."
I make eye contact with her across the room, and even in the weak, indirect light from the still-open refrigerator, the connection between us is powerful, undeniable – almost a physical, visible thread between us, glowing spring-green and summer-gold.
She closes the refrigerator door, and glides across the room to me, bending over the side of the bed to give me a long, soft, lingering kiss.
I almost pull her under the duvet with me, and use every skill I possess to make her forget everything but my name. . .
Then she pulls away from me a little, tilting her head, prompting me to follow her.
"C'mon Jamie," she says in a siren's voice, "Come teach me how to make a hollandaise sauce."
Chapter Twenty Four - Saucy Lady
I keep getting in Jamie's way as he cooks.
Poor boy.
I had one arm around him while he made the toast and opened the packet of smoked salmon, and two arms around him while he fried the eggs, cobbled together a double boiler, assembled the hollandaise ingredients, and melted the butter.
Now, I keep bumping my hip into his, slowly sliding our legs together while he butters the toast, layers the fish on it, and then the eggs on the fish.
He keeps giving me bemused glances, but never actually manages to tell me to stop.
Finally, he turns on me, seemingly in exasperation, and presses me between the cold block of the refrigerator and the warm length of his body. The double thickness of our bathrobes is the only thing separating us at all. . .
"Now then, Sassenach," he rumbles, giving a very good impression of an annoyed professional – but there is a rasp of passion behind it all, and the way his hips are pressing into mine does not convince me he is in the least annoyed - "D'ye want ta learn how ta make this wee sauce, or don't ye?"
My eyes fix on the curves at the base of his neck, just visible behind the soft, folded collar of his robe, "Oh, yes. I want you to show me everything," I purr, and nudge my face into his smooth, hot, fragrant skin, nipping and sucking on his collarbone, "Everything, Jamie – don't leave anything out."
He growls, either in reaction or response I'm not sure, and then he picks me up entirely, spins us around, and twists me by the shoulders so I face the stove. I make a noise which is very much like a squeal, but he ignores it, instead taking one of my wrists in each of his hands, forcefully showing me what I must do.
And then his body is flush up against my back, his breath whispering instructions hotly in my ears.
I smirk. This is what I wanted, but it is also much much more than I ever expected. . .
"Ye start here, mo ghràidh, wi' these things here, in the pot like this," he puts the sauce ingredients into the double boiler, "An' ye take that-" he clamps one of my hands around a whisk, "An' that-" and wraps my other hand around the bowl to hold it steady, "An' now – don't stop."
He makes the hand I have holding the whisk begin to whip the mixture – quickly and unceasingly.
And then there are all kinds of swishing noises from the egg yolks and the mustard, and a sharp, pattering clack-clack from the whisk wires, and the slow, slippery dripping of butter, and a soft, steady hum from the gas stove, and all the rustling, shifting sounds of two active bodies dressed in nothing but bathrobes, but behind it all is the deep, almost tangible silence of midnight, and behind that - two hearts, beating wildly, two sets of lungs, gasping for air, two pairs of dry lips finding moisture only in each other, and the slick, restless pulsing of-
"Don' stop," he whispers again, slowly streaming in melted butter from a small jug.
I try and focus on the pale, creamy mixture developing in the bowl, desperate to hold back the great waves of memories I seem to be living in at the moment.
Not to mention that I seem to involuntarily shiver every time he touches me now. . .
He pours another long, thin stream of sweet, oily butter. This time his lips brush the rim of my ear as he whispers, "Tha's it, ye'er almost thear. Keep goin'."
I shudder, and almost drop the whisk, but I brace against his solid bulk behind me, get a firmer grasp, and actually speed up.
"Aye, tha's perfect, mo chridhe. . ."
He streams in more butter. . .
I draw my lower lip between my teeth, knowing I can't keep it up for long. . .
"An' ye'er done."
In one smooth motion he sets down the empty butter jug, turns off the stove, and lifts the bowl with the finished sauce. Then he pours it into another jug nearby, using short, smooth sweeps with a rubber spatula, not wasting a drop.
With a long, long sigh of relief, I lean against the counter, and lick the whisk.
"Mmm. Wow."
Jamie gives a great guffaw of laughter, teasingly bumping his hip into mine.
"Wow indeed, Sassenach."
He pours a healthy – or rather, probably very un-healthy – portion of the sauce over our salmon and eggs on toast, then lifts both plates over to the dining table, wordlessly indicating for me to follow him.
He sets both plates down in front of just one chair, then he seats himself, and reaches his arms out to me, smiling a silent question to me at the same time.
Indulgently, I smile back, and settle myself on his lap.
We lift our toast at the same time, tap the edges together in salute, and proceed to dig in.
It's so good, I can't help talking with my mouth full, "Hmmmm, ish so tangy, Jamie. An creamy an rish an smooth. . . "
He smiles softly at me, using his thumb to flick crumbs from one side of my mouth, "Oh, aye. An' the sauce isnae so bad either."
Briefly, we put our toast down, and I give him a long, sweet kiss. In fact, it lasts so long, it is decidedly not sweet by the time I pull away.
The arm he has steadying me on his lap tightens convulsively, his glazed eyes meeting mine in a look that practically crackles.
With hunger.
With want.
Want that knows what it could be having right now, and is practically screaming from its deprivation. . .
But I shake my head at him, and give a tiny wink, mouthing the words "not yet". My heart races as I peck him on the chin - I'm feeling more and more delightfully like the world's naughtiest tease by the second.
His free hand comes up, as if to grab the collar of my robe and pull it down. . . but brushes past me and picks up his toast again instead. I smirk, and follow suit.
"So does this dish have a name?" I muse, "It isn't eggs Benedict, exactly. . ."
He grins and takes another bite, "Mmphm. Aye. It does. Eggs Fraser."
I chuckle, and he leans his forehead on my cheek. It's such a sweetly intimate gesture that all of a sudden my throat thickens with tears. This man.
This man.
He. . .
He. . .
I put down my toast, and clutch him to me, running my fingers through his hair, across his shoulders and up and down his back.
I know so little about him still. What his childhood was like, what he used to do over the summer holidays, if he's ever broken a bone, if he can make an origami crane. . . Does he like licorice? Can he change a tire?
But at the same time I know things about him I don't know about people I've known my whole life.
I know the sounds he makes when I run a fingernail up his neck and behind his ear.
I know how steady he is on his feet, even when a frantic wild woman is trying to remove his jeans. . .
I know how soft his heart is, and how sensitive his soul.
I know he is wise, and strong, and kind, and generous, and funny, and interesting, and passionate, and yes, horribly stubborn.
But I know I trust him with my life. In fact, I trust him with even more than that.
I trust him with my pride.
And I know he trusts me with his.
We're friends. Best friends. Allies. Comrades. I don't just have his heart, I have his respect as well. And he has mine.
And holding him in my arms feels like having an army at my back.
I've never become friends with anyone this fast. Never. Let alone. . .
I scritch the back of his neck, and he purrs, sidling his shoulders and arching into my touch like a cat. I reach beneath the collar of his robe and scratch lightly along the skin of his shoulders, and he groans, his eyes rolling back in ecstasy.
"Och, I'll give ye forty thousand years ta stop that, Sassenach."
"Feel nice?"
"Mmphm. Tha's one way ye might put it. . ." he gives an exaggerated stretch and a yawn, and then picks up his toast again.
I shift in his lap, and pick up mine again as well.
Whatever this is between us, it is clearly meant to be. Fate, or destiny, or what have you. There's no other explanation for each of us just finding our soul mate – just being effortlessly delivered to each other like we were.
Here he is – the love of my life. And I didn't even have to look. . .
"So. . ." Jamie says, slowly chewing and swallowing his last bite, "Now that we've eaten the breakfast I'd planned fer tamorrow-" he glances at the clock above the stove, "-nine hours early – d'ye have any suggestions as ta what we should do for breakfast tamorrow?"
I shake my head, and grin knowingly, "No. But I have a few educated guesses."
"Oh? D'ye now?"
"I do."
I wipe my fingers and mouth, and hand him a napkin so he can do the same. Then I coil my arms around his neck, and cuddle into his lap a bit, "In the first place – there have to be porridge fixings-"
"But ye dinna-"
I hold a finger against his lips, "Let me finish – that's just in the first place. Second place – leftovers. I know we still have some. You can make me some authentic rumbledethumps – how about that?"
His eyes glitter, and his mouth twitches, "Oh aye, tha's fine. . ."
"And thirdly – we can ask room service to send us some bananas, and baked beans, and some fried ham, and maybe some mince and skirlie-"
"But – Sassenach. . ." he pauses, looking genuinely confused, "Why would ye want all that for breakfast?"
"Oh, I won't," I grin mischievously, "But you might."
He only looks more confused. I lower my head to his ear, and whisper, with long, drawn-out vowels,
"Prooteein. . ."
After that, I can tell by the look in his eyes that neither of us is going to be getting much more sleep tonight. . .
But, what little we do get is surprisingly refreshing.
Chapter Twenty Five - Phone Home
I wake up the next morning, delightfully sore in places it's never occurred to me before now that the Human body could be. I yawn, and stretch, and blink, and try to reconcile my reality with the sound that just woke me up.
After a night spent naked with Jamie Fraser, discovering all the heights and depths of pleasure with him, and participating in the kind of epic romance that usually only exists in very specific books of poetry, it somehow seems strangely appropriate that I've been awakened by perhaps the most prosaic sound imaginable.
A long, wet, extremely deliberate fart noise.
But behind it, there is the tinkle of at least two girls laughing.
"Bree!" says Jamie, reprovingly, "What did I tell ye about making such sounds on purpose?"
"Sorry Da," says a sweet girlish voice that doesn't, really, sound particularly sorry, "But it makes Jo an' Sal laugh-"
"Aye, an' as I've I told ye before - that isnae an excuse!"
"Yes Da," says the voice, now a little subdued, "D'ye wanta see the map I made in class?"
"Why, a'course I do, Wee Bee."
There is a faint shuffling sound, and the muffled patter of hurrying feet.
"Dinnae run in the house!" Jamie calls, raising his voice.
I turn over, and see Jamie sitting at the dining table, his phone on a little stand in front of him. I can't see the screen from this angle, but he's obviously Facetiming with the girls.
Why, of course he is. I'm sure he's missed them. . .
Some part of me I've only just let awaken misses them too.
You're a mother now, Beauchamp! A mother.
My stomach churns very strangely. I didn't know excitement and terror could mix in exactly this way. . .
I have to restrain myself from going over to sit next to him. This is not how we've planned to introduce me to them. Besides, with the sheer number of deliciously stinging love bites on my neck, I'm not exactly in any shape to meet anyone at the moment. . .
"Aye, that's champion, Bee-bee, darling."
"Fay colored it in, but I drew it. It's a treasure map!"
"Aye. I c'n see the X marks the spot and everything."
"Yes. And it's a haunted magical island, where all the ghosts of eaten Pop-Tarts go, so they can sit in the rainbow pools and have sprinkle showers and not be eaten anymore."
An indescribable look crosses Jamie's face, "That sounds. . . like a good time. . ."
"Uh-huh. And the treasure is a magic playbox, and you put your old toys in it and shake it around and it turns them new!"
"Exciting."
"And Ms. Williams said we didn't have to name our islands, but I called it Wishterland, but Fay says that's dumb and it should be Treasure Island, and she doesn't think Pop Tart ghosts should go there."
"Well. . . she got to make her own island, didn't she?"
"Yes. It's called Cantalope."
There is a pause several heartbeats longer than would be necessary for a parent any less scrupulous than Jamie.
". . . . . . cantaloupe?"
"Yes, it's where all the fruit you can't spell comes from."
"I see."
There is a distant, muffled call from the screen.
"Mrs. Bug says breakfast is ready, Da."
"Weel, then ye'ed best go eat it then, mo nighean. Tell yer sisters I love them to the moon an' back."
"I will!"
"We will!" chimes in a sweet, similar voice.
"Be nice tae yer sisters, Fay m'annsachd!"
There is only great giggling in response, and then the screen goes silent.
Jamie sits a long time, staring past the dark screen with a smile of soft wonder on his face.
"I can't wait to be part of your family, Jamie."
He turns to me, an entirely different type of smile overtaking his expression. In a very few strides, he's beside me in bed again.
"Ye already are, Sassenach. Very much so." He kisses down my cheek, and gently nuzzles against all the marks he's left on my neck, "They're goin' ta love ye. But not half as much as I do. . ." He leans in to kiss my mouth, but I stop him, briefly.
"Wait, bathroom first," I wriggle out from under the vast ocean of duvets on this planet of a bed, "And for that matter, when does our flight leave?"
He glances at the clock and groans, "Four hours."
I grin, "Alright then. When I get back you'd better work fast, Fraser."
"Mmm. Not my strongest suit, but I'll try anything once. For ye, that is."
I chuckle, and go to brush my teeth before enjoying my husband some more.
Chapter Twenty Six - A Man's Gotta Do
By a massive stroke of good luck, we both got upgraded to First Class on our flight back to Boston. Maybe it's because there are still so few people traveling, what with the pandemic and all, or maybe it's that we're flying out of Vegas on an off-season, to the slightly-less-than-massively-popular-destination-at-any-season of Boston.
Either way, I hardly care, I still escorted Claire to her seat with as much ceremony and pride as though it was the best box at an opera. We've both flown First before, of course, but I for one have never been randomly upgraded before, and this feels like a wonderfully good omen. I was initially going to splurge for us, since it's our honeymoon, after all, and Dougal is paying, but then I chose not to push his benevolence too far. I know what my uncles are like when they're pushed, and it's never pretty. But the universe decided we deserved First Class anyway. Lovely.
Just like the woman currently fast asleep against my shoulder.
She told me while we were checking out from the hotel that she never slept on flights, and was somewhat squeamish about this one, since we slept so little last night. . .
I smile down at the head of wild curls so near to my own, and listen to the tiny, cute little snores she's making.
I inhale the soft scent of her hair, and my heart melts.
I am so, so entirely gone. This woman isn't just my dream come true, she is every dream I've ever had, doubled and tripled and made into vibrant, living, colourful perfection. Does she have flaws? I'm sure I could think of some if I wanted to. I do not want to. Even her bone-deep stubbornness is going to be an asset in a household with four small girls in it. And it's tempered in her anyway, with compassion and empathy and generosity and kindness.
And she loves you, Fraser. Remember that part.
Oh yes. Impossible to forget that part. Or the many, many, many ways she finds to express it. . .
The many. . . creative ways. . .
She happens to have been entirely right about my need for protein this morning.
I have to admit I am thankful for a long flight at the moment. It's giving me a chance to recuperate a little. None of my previous lovers were anywhere near as. . . enthusiastic as Claire has turned out to be. Not even those twins my last year of college could compare to when Claire. . . I smirk at the memory, and shift in my seat a tiny bit. A vixen indeed.
The stewardess comes by, and I order a meal for both of us, not knowing how long Claire will be able to sleep.
I've been lusted after for basically my entire life. As soon as I hit puberty, I've had to beat off the admirers with a stick, a club, and a claymore. It's why I turned to Dougal for help finding a wife in the first place. I knew he'd find me someone decent that probably wouldn't just want me for my body, and might not even want me for that. Even though, just a few days ago, I was fairly solidly convinced my body was all I would ever truly bring to a relationship. I know I'm catnip on legs. I've spent some time denying it, a very little while exploiting it, and a lot of time just trying not to think about it at all.
But what I've never done, is feel called upon to outdo it. Claire wants me, that's been clear as day from the start, but I've never wanted someone more than they've wanted me. I bear the deliciously stinging evidence of how much she's invested in us all over my chest and back and thighs, and all that makes me want to do is mark her - in more and more obvious places. And several not so obvious.
I've never gone feral for a woman before. Love, I knew I was capable of. Care? Reverence? Respect? Of course. But never-ending, unfathomable, insatiable hunger? Not that. Never before Claire. It didn't even really hit me until the middle of last night, the first time she got on top. . .
I close my eyes and suppress a groan. There is no way this woman was a virgin before last night. Not in her spirit. No, in her mind, I have no doubt, she was every naughty, scalding-hot daydream that could possibly come to a lonely, abandoned, starving husband, yearning for someone to fill his heart. And now that I've got her, she has shown herself to be all that and more, purified and elevated and made good and meaningful and worthy, by being herself, whole, and real, and Human, and not at all a dream.
And I am helplessly, hopelessly, endlessly in love with her. . .
This green card plan of ours had better work, because now I'm damned if I'll be parted from her more than a few hours for the rest of my life.
Our food comes, but Claire never wakes up to eat it. I finally wake her on our descent into Boston. Owlishly, she blinks, and mutters something. I smile, and hand her a cup of coffee. It's cold, but I put enough milk and sugar in it while it was hot for her to be able to get it down. Then she settles back into her seat, and tries valiantly to wake up before we land.
She's mostly managed it by the time we get to baggage claim, and has full command of herself when we finally get into the Uber. I'm about to give the address for the little Air BnB we'd planned on for tonight when she speaks to the driver, giving him her home address.
She smiles at my surprised expression, and fastens her seatbelt before leaning her head against my shoulder again, "I'm done with you in strange beds, James Fraser. I want you in my home, my love."
I take her hand in mine, and once again, think it is very possible that my heart is going to burst.
Chapter Twenty Seven - The Night After The Night Before
I leave Jamie in the front room of my apartment, and rush gratefully to the bathroom. It isn't just that the only thing I've eaten or drunk in the last six hours has been a cup of incredibly subpar coffee, it's that I've been traveling all that time, and I feel terribly sweaty and gross.
I spend a good twenty minutes freshening up. I'd spend even longer, but I'm more than half worried of what Jamie is going to think about my everyday-messy apartment that I didn't bother to clean before we left for Vegas. I had more than enough to do already, and he was never going to need to be in my apartment at all, ever, so I left it as is, and. . .
I desperately try not to have a total mental breakdown.
So much between us has changed, so fast. Our relationship can still competently be measured in hours, and I'm already at the point where I physically need him to fit, not just into my life, but into my home, and my heart. There is a large part of me that is terrified he won't. That some aspect of his history or trait of his personality will come up that I just can't accept, or live with, or reconcile. And I'm even more frightened of the reverse – that some part of my life or self will arise that he can't live with. I've never built my life goals or ideals with a partner in mind. I've automatically made room for him, and I've been delighted to do so, but I'm so much my own person. . .
I've lived such a blessed, truly independent life for so long. . . what if he doesn't like something he sees? I will more than willingly rearrange my entire life for him, but I won't change one particle of my self - not for him or anyone – unless I do it for my self too. What if he doesn't like that? He's been incredibly accommodating so far. . . just how far will that accommodation go?
I know he's a good man. But I am so fearfully unused to him, or anyone, being my man.
And I know it's probably my empty stomach and the random anxiety I often get when I'm hungry. . . but it's all been so random, and sudden, and inexplicable, and unplanned, and wonderful, and gorgeous and so, so, so perfect. Almost too perfect. Even our disagreements and misunderstandings have been perfect. It's like we have been and still are under some kind of enchantment, and the smallest thing could break the spell.
I just got him. And now I am so scared I'm going to lose him. . .
And then I walk back into my front room, and he's sprawled across the couch, with all three of my cats sitting on him. Even Adso, my grey ghost, who likes no one, and only comes out to eat at midnight, is inexplicably grooming himself smack dab in the center of Jamie's chest. Rabbie, the first ginger in my life, is curled up, appropriately enough, on Jamie's head, showing off how similar their hair colour is. And Stuart, my bonny but perfectly plain tabby, is draped ridiculously all over Jamie's legs, and is playing most ungently with the feather toy Jamie is shaking for him.
My heart melts at the sight, taking my anxieties with it.
My cats love him. He loves my cats. That has to be a good sign. . .
He grins at me as I go past him into the kitchen, "Want any help there, Sassenach? I can shift yer wee moggys in half a sec-"
"Nope," I cut in, "You sit and play – Adso never bestows his presence on strangers, and does so rarely enough for me - I'd never interrupt your audience with The King Of All Cats. And besides, I'm just going to re-heat a couple Castle Leoch meals I have frozen. I can manage that without help."
He grins even wider at the mention of Castle Leoch, "Auld Alex MacKenzie's been in the kitchen with ye often, then?"
"Nearly every week." I raise my voice so he can hear me around the corner, "Do you want wine, beer, whisky or gin?"
"With what Leoch meal?"
"Creamy chicken stew, soda bread, warm tomato lentil salad, and sticky toffee pudding."
"Red wine or white?"
"I have both. A merlot, a zinfandel, a reisling, and a moscato."
"Merlot."
"You got it."
I put everything in to warm, open the wine, set the table, and am just about to ask him what mood music he wants when he pokes his head into the kitchen anyway.
"I'm going ta go freshen up a wee bit, Sassenach. Won't be a second."
"Mozart or Mendelssohn?" I call after him, bringing up some playlists on my phone.
"Mulan!" he shouts from the bathroom.
"What?"
He opens the door slightly and leans his head out, "I like Disney music."
"During dinner?"
"At any time. I have four girls, Sorcha. I learnt to like it out of sheer self-preservation."
Then he shuts the door again, leaving me quite stunned.
If that's the case, I am probably going to have to do the same.
No time like the present. . .
I spend the next ten minutes scrolling through my app, and trying to assemble a playlist vaguely non-childish-sounding. There are a good number of instrumentals that answer the brief, and when we both finally sit in, I don't feel like we're at a theme park.
It's a start, at least. . .
We spend the meal talking about some of our experiences seeing movies in the theater, and how much we both miss going. With our lives and now the pandemic, neither of us have been in several years.
"Weel, at least I have a few good ideas for date nights, aye?" he smiles and pecks my cheek as he clears the table.
"You didn't before?"
"Oh, I had ideas, aye – but these I know are good ones."
"Mmm," I hum, and finish my wine, "Intending on wooing me, are you?"
He comes up behind my chair, and sets a warm hand on my shoulder, "For the rest of my life, Sorcha."
His voice is all deep and rumbly, and his presence is so nice and comforting. . .
Bits of me start positively melting. . .
I turn my head, and run the tip of my tongue up his index finger.
He freezes, and then jerks back, a look of utterly inexplicable uncertainty flooding his features.
"Jamie?" I ask, concerned, "What is it?"
His ears go red, "I. . . I just want ta reassure you that. . . That I don't. . . That I won't. . ."
"Jamie." I shake my head, "Just have out with it. I won't be angry, whatever it is, I promise."
"Well. Ye must be proper tired. And sore. I just wanted ye ta know. . . tonight. . . I. . . I don't require. . ."
I stand up, and reach out to him. When he comes to me, I cradle his head, and cup his jaw, running a thumb across his lips. Unsurprisingly, his look softens at my touch.
Agonizingly slowly, I lick my own lips, and look up at him with hooded eyes.
"But I do, Jamie. I require it immediately."
Chapter Twenty Eight - All A Man Could Ever Want
"Ye do?"
God save me, this woman.
She gives an adorable little snort, and cheeky wee grin, "Of course I do, silly!"
Is this really the woman who didn't know how to sleep next to me two nights ago? Who didn't know I existed a week ago? Christ, this vixen must have been begging to be released. . .
Both her arms and one of her legs curl around me, and I am lost, lost, lost again. In her scent and her softness, and the sounds she makes. . .
"You've given me a taste of you, Jamie," she says, low and sweetly, giving me a taste of her mouth, "And now I want you like I've never wanted anything in my life."
I don't know how she manages to speak what I am thinking, I only know I am infinitely grateful she can.
Both of us half-stumbling, she drags me into her bedroom, and frantically helps me off with my shirt and trousers. I almost don't care that I feel like the world's clumsiest brute when our arms clash, and everything gets tangled in the least romantic manner. But I do care terribly when I face-plant into the pillows after yanking myself free, landing in an entirely inelegant sprawl, and giving a most unbecoming "oompf!" noise.
But she just laughs it off, so heartily and good-naturedly I'm genuinely stunned.
Annalise would have laughed at me, but Claire is so obviously laughing at the situation, it diffuses every feeling of embarrassment I have, almost before they start.
I look up at her, speechless for a minute.
She sees the wonder and disbelief in my eyes, and leans in to kiss my ear, whispering as she does so.
"Jamie, darling, I decided a long time ago that if I couldn't laugh with the person I have sex with, while I'm having sex with them, then it wouldn't matter who they were – the relationship wouldn't be worth it." She nuzzles into my neck and nibbles on me in a most tantalizing manner, "But you are, love. This is."
A feeling surges through me. It isn't arousal, though it brings that with it. It isn't love either, not exactly. . .
"And I've got a sort of feeling that this is the kind of wanting that doesn't stop, Jamie. Certainly not for a little soreness or sleepiness or awkwardness."
I gather Claire to me, slide my hands under her clothes, and caress and massage at her for a while before getting her naked.
This feeling. What is it?
It isn't comfort. It isn't care.
It isn't. . . sorrow?
Why would I think it could possibly be sorrow?
Claire gets tired of waiting, and pulls her clothes off herself, rolling us around until we are under the covers, skin to skin, our limbs just about as tangled as is it possible for two people's to be. . .
"For god's sake, woman!" I groan, "Won't ye even let me try ta control myself?"
She grins wickedly, and digs her nails into my backside, "No, I don't think I will. I think I like you uncontrolled."
I groan again, and take her mouth like the feral beast she insists I be. . .
I know what power feels like. And confidence. And fear and cowardice, for that matter.
Sex has always contained a little of all of them, for me. Or a lot.
This isn't any of them.
I sink against my wife, surrounding myself with her body, and her spirit. She holds me close, giving them both to me, freely, eagerly. . .
She sets her teeth in my neck, and demands my soul in return.
I give it to her. At once. Without hesitation. Without question.
Without regret.
And then I know.
It's trust.
I've never trusted anyone like this. Not with the core of my heart. I've been betrayed so often, in so many ways, it's never been safe for me to do so until now.
But with Claire I feel. . . sacred. Not just loved. Not just respected. Not even just worshiped. She makes me feel treasured. Immortalized.
This gorgeous, beautiful, miraculous woman makes me feel like a legend. A legend I allow only her to tell. . .
She mewls the tiniest of screams, and then surrenders into panting, moaning, writhing pleasure in my arms.
I enjoy the sight for a full minute before I follow her.
Sometime later, I have her tucked under my chin, a few long strands of her wild curls tickling my nose, the scent of her sweat and her shampoo mingling into a delightful, heady perfume I know I'll remember all my life.
She stirs, and hums a little, "Is this usual, Jamie?" she asks, very softly, "This. . . all this. . . thisness between us? The wanting? How good it feels when we. . . ?"
She looks up at me, so beautifully innocent and wise all at once.
"No, mo nighean donn," I murmur, running my fingers through her hair, and up and down her neck, "No, this is different. Certainly different than anything I've ever had before. It's different than anything I've ever seen before, for that matter. It's special. You're special." I run a hand down the elegant curve of her back, "And you're mine."
Our eyes lock, and I whisper, fervently, "An' I'm yours. All yours."
She hugs me tightly for a long minute, then asks, hesitantly, "Jamie?"
"Yes?"
"I. . . I know we were going to let you introduce me to the girls slowly. Bring me up in conversation a few times, and talk me over a bit before I meet them. And that would give you time to meet my parents and Lamb, and let us rearrange our lives at something approaching a manageable pace before I move in with you. . ."
"But. . . ?"
"But. . . Jamie. . . I don't think I want to sleep without you in my bed now. Even if we don't. . ." Her face blazes against my chest, "I'm so addicted to you, Jamie. Already. Don't make me do without you. Not so soon after discovering how wonderful you are."
My heart soars, and I nod, slowly, "We'll figure it out, mo ghràidh."
"Will we?"
"Yes."
I cuddle her even closer to me.
"But in the morning."
Chapter Twenty Nine - So Much More Than I Ever Planned
For the first time, I wake up before him.
I've never had a chance to watch him sleep until now, and I revel in the opportunity
The morning light is still dim and blue through the frosted glass of my bedroom's transom windows, so his hair looks almost brown in the cool shadows of our bed. His face is slack and peaceful, though his lips do quirk upwards from time to time, as though his dreams are pleasant. He has curled one arm up in the blankets, and the other underneath his pillow, so his head is at a slightly odd angle to his body. He has one foot thrust over into my side of the bed, but I seemingly welcomed this, for both of my feet are on either side of his, imprisoning his ankle between mine.
This means my right foot has gone numb, and I carefully extract it, flexing my ankle until the buzzing pinpricks go away.
It's an odd feeling, knowing this man beside me, unguarded and naked and vulnerable, is not only a willing bedmate of mine, but one I've asked for. Or rather demanded, pleaded for. I never even wanted to share a bed until three nights ago, and now this gloriously strange creature of a husband is here, where I've begged him to be, soft, and trusting, and open, and loving, and a whole wild, passionate force of nature, wrapped up in glowing hot skin and brilliant red hair.
I shift my hips, and wince a little. If there was any doubt, last night only reassured me that I have indeed been fully unvirgined. And Jamie was right, just as he has been about most everything else on this subject – I am proper sore. He's not exactly of a light weight, nor of an unenthusiastic nature. And while he has been highly considerate, and mostly gentle, I don't think he's exactly small either – not that I have a lot of practical comparisons I can make - but it is definitely certain that I haven't been sparing with him. Considering our last couple of nights, he could probably be half his length and girth and I'd still be feeling it. It's going to be an adventure sitting down for the next few days. . . Week, maybe. . .
But I loved every minute of it, and god. . . I love him. . .
Very, very softly, I run a finger across the stubble on his upper lip.
The sex, fun as it has been, has only been an expression of something else. Or rather several somethings, all deeper and far more meaningful than mere momentary pleasure. Commitment. Love. Trust. Passion. Shared passions. Shared values. Shared lives.
It's been days. But we've somehow managed to fit in a decade or two of relationship and personal growth. We're nowhere near the people we were when we started.
I need to meet the girls now. There's a hole in my heart where they belong. I can't love their father without missing them, oh so terribly, terribly, terribly. . .
And I know what I have to do. It's been obvious since the minute I knew I loved him. I've just been too distracted, or too busy – or too chicken – to do it.
Slowly, I get up, put on a robe, and my favorite old slippers uncle Lamb bought me when I graduated college. They're shaped like fuzzy diplomas, and have no right being as ridiculously comfy as they are.
I feed Rabbie and Stuart, and refresh Adso's water. The picky Prima Donna won't drink out of the pet fountain – only from his special blue glazed bowl, and only if the water is poured from the matching water jug. And he can tell, the little mind-reading beast. . .
I make coffee, and serve myself up some yogurt and dried fruit. I could demolish some fresh pineapple at the moment, but I made sure there was no fresh fruit in the apartment before I left. . .
"Coffee smells good, Sassenach," says Jamie, striding in, and looking most unfairly alluring for someone with sleep-rumpled hair, and wearing only a t-shirt and boxer shorts. "What c'n I make us for breakfast? D'ye have bread? Eggs? Jam? Good, I'll make French toast. . ."
"Jamie, I need to talk to you, love."
"Oh, aye?" He slows down shifting things in and out of my fridge and cupboards, and setting up dipping stations, but doesn't stop, "I'm listening."
I tell him. I'm very clear about it.
It takes a long heart-to-heart before he believes me, and we're long done with breakfast before he accepts what I've known almost from the start.
"Ye're sure, Sorcha?" he asks one last time, pecking me fondly on the lips as we prepare to part for the day – he back home at last, and me into the office.
"Entirely. It just makes sense."
"Weel. I'll have a word or two ta say about that."
"A word or two more, you mean?"
He chuckles, "Aye. You've come up against the Fraser stubbornness, I'm afraid, Sorcha."
"Well, you've come up against the Beauchamp stubbornness, and given I've lived almost three decades with me, and only a few days with you, I know who I'm betting on."
He smirks, "Ye might be right, Sassenach. But either way you ought ta sell tickets, really you ought."
"I very much doubt an audience would be appreciated."
"Now that is most certainly true."
He kisses me again, and we go to our respective cars.
My welcome at the office is warm, but not effusive. I didn't tell any of them why I left suddenly, or where I was going, only that I needed a few days for a non-sickness related emergency. Everyone understood then, and is glad to see me back now. I give Mary a hug. I missed her, quite a bit. As I turn away to go into my office, I hand her a small business card, with a handwritten number on the back.
"Would you arrange a Zoom meeting for me with this contact, Mary, please?"
"C-certainly. For when?"
"Now. As soon as possible."
She looks down at the card. Her eyes go wide, and she blinks at me, stunned.
"Yes, really," I say to her unasked question, "Yes, now."
She blinks once more, and then nods, "Of c-course."
I close my office door between us, and go over to my desk to set up for a Zoom call.
It takes Mary a little bit longer than it would with a previously established contact, but not too much longer.
The window on my computer screen flickers, and a very stately background resolves itself, accompanied by an equally aristocratic face.
I nod respectfully, "Good morning Mr. MacKenzie. Or afternoon, in your case."
"Good afternoon, Ms. Beauchamp," says Colum, quietly dignified, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
I smile, but solemnly, "This is more of a courtesy call, I'm afraid. I'm tendering my resignation. Effective immediately."
Chapter Thirty - Course Correction
Colum is quiet a few moments, but he does not visibly react.
"A courtesy call, you said? May I assume the courtesy will involve an explanation as to why?"
I nod, "You may. It all began last week, when your brother asked me for a favour."
This time he blinks rapidly for a few seconds, and his jaw hardens.
"Dougal. . . asked you for a favour?"
I nod again, "Yes, that was more or less my reaction."
"And you. . . rendered this favour?"
"Well. . . yes. . . but not exactly. . ."
I hunker down to it, and explain. I start at the beginning, and tell it all. I don't leave anything out – except intimate details about me and Jamie, of course, but Colum is a decent soul, and doesn't press for those, or get anywhere close to doing so.
". . . and the simple fact is, sir, there are times in one's life when one's priorities change. I love Jamie. I love the girls. And their physical and emotional well-being is more important to me now than my career. My own physical and emotional well-being has always been so – this is merely a logical extension of that. I may return to the corporate world once things are more settled at home. I may seek out a new career entirely, who knows? I've always wanted to get into experimental archaeology. I'm not going to limit myself, and I won't ask you to put any part of Leoch on hold for the sake of my personal issues either. I considered a leave of absence, but that's not very good business sense in this case – you need someone who is totally committed in this job – totally committed to this job. And the fact is, I will never be that again, no matter where I decide to take my career." I pause a second, and take a deep breath before winding up, "I'm not giving anything up to be wife and mother, sir. I'm not doing anyone a favour, or being coerced into anything. I'm simply rearranging things so I can explore a different life path that has presented itself. And I'm thoroughly looking forward to it."
I sit back, and wait for the outburst.
It never happens.
What does happen is Colum stares at me, for so long and so intently even my businesswoman's shield-grade steel armour starts to crack a little.
"So, ye'er tellin' me, lass," he savours the word, very deliberately. He knows, better than anyone, that Dougal is officially not allowed to call me that anymore. . . "Ye'er tellin' me that you – you – my most upright and loyal of managers – find my nephew so attractive you'll risk a fine and possible jail time for Green Card fraud to continue sleeping in his bed?"
I am taken aback by this, "Fraud? What fraud? He isn't in violation of anything, and neither am I. If there's fraud anywhere it's with whatever distribution office that issued him a passport that read "married" and "issued March 11th 1742"! Does anyone think he risks a fine and possible jail time for being three hundred years old? Or for carrying an official US document that says it was issued before the United States was a legal entity? He reported both errors quite properly the minute he noticed them, but it's a government issued document, Mr. MacKenzie. Do you think he ought to just trust both errors will be fixed without any hitches along the way? When one error is as showy and as impossible as that, and the other as simple and mundane? Do either of us trust that the US government will give both errors equal attention? One might as well trust in God sir – and keep in mind I'm an atheist. The only thing he ought to have done differently was check his passport for errors sooner. And one cannot go back in time, sir, one simply cannot."
He considers this for even longer, but thankfully not while staring at me this time.
"I have always found it instructive," he says at last, "To take very careful note of which part of statements people are offended by."
I blink at him.
"You are in love with my nephew. And you married him for the reasons you gave me."
I blink some more.
"This is a family business, lass. An' I'll be damned if I dinnae keep my niece on the payroll."
"Sir. . ."
"You've said quite enough, lass. Now it's my turn. Dougal may be a fool and an idiot, yet I do admit he has impeccable taste in women. But I must say, you have chosen by far the better way to enter this family. Young Jamie has long deserved something a fair sight better than that shallow French twit, and no mistake."
I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out.
He taps at something offscreen, "You've been transferred to my personal advisory board – as a remote worker. I'll expect you to dial in for meetings once a week – and make contributions at them too. Be sure it's still work, lass – and the pay isn't quite as good either. But the benefits package is better, seeing as you're family now, and the hours are far more flexible."
Close your mouth, Beauchamp.
"But. . . sir. . ."
"The proper response is "Thank you, Colum." He leans back in his chair, "I don't expect uncle from you quite so soon, but I wager you'll come round to it eventually."
"Th. . . thank you. Colum."
He smiles, tightly, "That's better. Tell the girls hello from me, and tell Jamie I expect him home for Hogmanay. Good day to you."
He taps a button, and the screen goes blank.
I sit in utter shock for I don't know how long. Eventually, I mutter some sort of explanation to my team, and then drift out into the parking lot.
I take out my phone and bring Jamie up in chat.
CEB – Well. I told him.
JAMMF – How'd he take it?
CEB – Not. . . exactly how we hoped.
JAMMF – How YOU hoped, you mean?
CEB – Well. Yes.
JAMMF - Who won, Beauchamp or Fraser?
I laugh then, because, in the end, it is MacKenzie stubbornness that has won the day.
CEB – I'll tell you when I get there. It needs to be in person.
JAMMF – Can't wait.
Neither can I. . .
I get into my car, and start punching things into my GPS app.
CEB – What am I bringing home for lunch?
Home. Our home. . .
JAMMF – MickD's
CEB – Really?
JAMMF – Problem?
CEB – No. I just wouldn't have thought a professional chef. . .
JAMMF – I'm a father too, Sassenach. Sometimes only nuggies will do.
CEB - . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . nuggies?
JAMMF – Yep. In all their processed, deep-fried glory. Talk to me after six hours of four separate emotional breakdowns, and I'll tell you calories matter more than nutrition, quiet matters more than sodium or fats intake, and sleep matters more than life. Trust me.
CEB – Oh, I trust you.
JAMMF – I did tell you you'd need everything possible to recommend you? Well, bringing nuggies and fries for lunch are just one more thing that will do that.
CEB – I see. . .
JAMMF – Here are the usual orders -
I take careful note of the detailed list that follows.
CEB – This may take half a second. . .
JAMMF – We will be waiting. Impatiently.
CEB – I love you.
JAMMF – I love you too.
I take a deep breath, and finally address the four miniature elephants in the room.
CEB – How are they taking it so far?
JAMMF – Pretty good. They knew Mrs. Bug wouldn't be their babysitter forever.
CEB – I'm still going to need her, you know. Four girls and a house to take care of – and I can't cook.
JAMMF – Yet, Sassenach. You can't cook yet.
I grin at my phone.
CEB – We'll talk more when I get there. Logging off now – driving.
JAMMF – Good. Stay safe.
I close the chat app, and tell my GPS to find the nearest McDonald's drive through.
Time to go meet the rest of my family. . .
