Chapter Thirty One - Lassies Who Lunch

Jamie's house is even more charming by daylight. The perfect lawn and white picket fence are so picturesque I know they must be maintained by someone else. There are no toys in the grass, and the flowerbeds are so perfect I wonder if the girls are even allowed out here at all - until I see the profusion of tiny deck chairs all over the porch, and the buckets full of soap-bubble trays and wands.

My arms are so full of lunch, and the gift bags I got for the girls in Vegas, and my overnight bag, and several more things I got at a couple places on the way over, I struggle to hit the doorbell, but I finally manage it with one elbow.

There is a great deal of muted shouting, and the distant sound of a lot of small feet running, but eventually the door opens upon an older, very kindly face of a woman. She smiles, and opens the door wide.

"You must be Claire," she says, taking my great armload of hamburgers and chicken nuggets from me, "I'm Mrs. Bug."

"Yes, I'm Claire. It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bug." I shift my overnight bag into a more comfortable position, and start looking frantically around for a place to put the rest of this stuff down.

"Right this way," she leads me towards what I fervently hope is the kitchen, "And I must say it is good to ken that Mister Fraser has found a fine new lady, he's been positively languishing without one!"

I chuckle, "Well, I don't know about the fine part, but I'll do my best when it comes to the lady."

"Och, I can see the look in Mister Fraser's eyes, dearie, that I can! I haven't seen him so happy in ages."

We finally reach the kitchen counter, and I dump everything there immediately, "Whoof. That's a relief. Well, I suppose marrying Jamie does mean I can have cooking lessons regularly, at least."

I wink at her, and hope like hell she'll infer what I need her to without me having to outright lie to her. Somehow, I don't want to do that to this soft, sweet, welcoming person.

She puts lunch down on the counter next to my bags, "So how did you meet Mister Fraser then, dearie?"

I start unpacking our food, a little awkwardly, ". . . Alex MacKenzie, you mean?" I lift an eyebrow, and gesture vaguely.

"Ahhhh, say no more, luv." She grins widely, winks and taps her nose. Then she elbows me, playfully, "Cooking lessons indeed! I can take a hint when it's given to me!"

I smile, and hand her a small bag of food, "Jamie tells me this is your usual order? I hope I got it right. . ."

She unrolls the top, and rummages a little, "Oh yes, it looks like it, dearie. Dinnae fash. It isn't me who-"

A tiny platinum-blonde head suddenly appears under the arch of the kitchen door, attached to a correspondingly tiny body, hopping and skipping and stomping, and currently clad in an almost impossible number of white and purple tulle ruffles.

She looks over at us, and freezes utterly still. Then her enormous gray-blue eyes open so wide, I'll swear she becomes at least ninety percent eyeball by volume.

"T'E NEW MAMA IS HEER!" she shouts, with a voice much louder than I ever knew such a tiny creature could possibly possess, "BEE-BEE! BEE-BEE! COM QU-" she stumbles a little as she spins wildly around, "QUICK QUICK QUICK. LY! QUICKLY!"

Then she darts off, at a leaping, stomping run, back the way she came.

Mrs. Bug takes in my surprised face, smiles softly, and elbows me again, "Good luck dearie. I'll be upstairs cleaning the schoolroom if you need me."

Then she fades quietly away into the background - both of the house and in my mind - as the kitchen is suddenly overrun by approximately eighty-seven highly energetic and very vocal ferrets in fancy princess dresses. All of whom appear to be addicted to rhinestones and glitter.

Or, perhaps it is four small girls in the middle of playing dress-up. For a surreal few minutes I genuinely wonder which one it is.

I don't know how I manage to reserve both mine and Jamie's orders from the hurricane of hands and shouts and grabbing and sorting and exclaiming and demanding and ripping and tearing and wailing and screaming and admonishing, but I do, and suddenly everything is quiet, and there are four girls happily humming and grinning and chatting around the kitchen table, and Jamie is standing next to me, smiling down at my clenched fists, and wide, blinking eyes.

"Having second thoughts, Sassenach?" he murmurs, gently taking his bag of food from me.

"No." I say, meekly, "Third, fourth, or fifth, maybe. But not second."

"Mmm," he hums, noncommittally, half-grins, and leads me to the table.

I give myself a small shake, and force myself to get over the shock. I've faced hostile boardrooms, public courtrooms, vicious depositions, and even worse cross-examinations. Four girls under ten should be, if not easy, then at least possible for me, right?

Right?

The only problem is, you didn't love any of those board members or gawkers or lawyers, Beauchamp.

You weren't married to their father, and you didn't want any of them to love you.

You can handle this just fine, and you know it. But you're terrified they'll hate you. That would be worse than any failure you can imagine, and you can imagine quite a bit.

Well, they don't seem to hate you so far, Beauchamp. Take that as good sign, and eat your lunch.

Slowly, I unclench my jaw, and open my dipping sauce.

Jamie is playing with the girls and all their meal toys – which happen to be four differently colored train cars that all link together – when he finally brings me in to the light, happy conversation the girls have maintained while we all ate.

"Weel then, my lassies," he says, fondly nodding as me, "I've brought ye a new lass, ta keep ye company. I hope ye'll be good friends ta her."

One by one, each pair of eyes meets mine, and acknowledges me solemnly. Sky blue. Sky blue veined with brown. Brown with an inner ring of green. And pale gray-blue.

"Legally, since she's my wife, she is also yer new mam, like I was sayin' beforehand. But we thought ye might like ta choose yer own special name for her – we all could – tagether, like. Ta welcome her inta the family. Aye?"

There is very little response to this, save for a lot of almost audible thinking.

Eventually, Sally picks up her toy, and comes over to me. She holds it out and says, straightforwardly, "Mine has three lions in it. Will you help me name them?"

"Of course," I say, and am about to get up when Sally suddenly boosts herself up on the table, and with a jump, plops herself solidly in my lap.

She's heavier than she looks, and the edge of the chair digs painfully into the back of my thigh, but I don't care. A long, messy ponytail of light golden brown is waving in my face, and cheap, mismatched pink and green ruffles are filling my arms, and the knot in my stomach actually loosens a tiny bit.

It takes a lot of minutes that I don't bother to count, with Jamie gently and deftly leading the conversation, but they all finally start talking to me, all of them slowly at first, but then with more confidence.

We name all the animals in the zoo train cars, and recite all the names of the Seven Dwarves, and Jamie winks at me and rattles off the names of the thirteen dwarves – "An' one Hobbit, dinnae forget.", and then Bree mentions that one of her school friends has a new mama too, which she calls a "bonus mom".

"But I don' like that much – it makes her sound like a video game."

"But it's a place ta start, aye?" Jamie prompts.

And then, at last, the suggestions come thick and fast, overlapping each other, with a lot of chatter, and laughter, and funny objections.

Very soon, tiny Jo-Jo is on my other knee, and I am bouncing both her and Sal at varying speeds, while they make silly humming noises.

"I don't really like it, but "smam" might work. . ." says Bree dubiously, "S for second? Or step? I don' know which. . ."

"Mm." I say, mildly, "I don't really like that one either, to be honest."

Bree nods, with casual acceptance.

Suddenly, my stomach tightens again, some sort of inner sense telling me something is wrong. Something must be wrong. There has been remarkably little strenuous opposition to all this. . . Much, much too little. . .

And then, as if on cue, it finally appears, from the last place I was expecting. From the last place Jamie was expecting – or at least he certainly never warned me about this particular possibility.

"But you can't be our mama at all!" yells Faith, bursting into angry tears, "Our mama is beautiful!"

Then she runs from the room, leaving the rest of us well and truly stunned.


Chapter Thirty Two - Mothers And Daughters

Mrs. Bug meets me in the upstairs hall, and points me silently towards the schoolroom. Her expression is somber, but hopeful, and so I take heart too.

Well, a little.

I was expecting to need to have to do something like this, after all.

Only not quite this badly.

And not for Faith.

Of all the girls, she is the oldest, and the quietest, and. . .

I stop in my tracks, and make two fists.

Oh Beauchamp, Beauchamp, could you be more of an idiot? Of course this is all hitting her the hardest. She's the oldest. And the quietest. How much do you want to bet she's been blaming herself for everything the past few years? You used to do that yourself, Beauchamp, and all three of your parents loved you to distraction. One of them never cheated on the other, or did anything so horribly, patently non-understandable to a child as suddenly, permanently disappearing. And even if Lamb, say, had died unexpectedly overseas, you'd still have automatically thought it had something to do with you, wouldn't you? It's what children naturally think. Add in that she's the oldest, and the most contemplative. . .

And probably the most like Jamie into the bargain. Which is probably at least part of why he's been depending on her the most. Without even noticing that's what he's been doing . . .

I force my hands to relax, as I reach for the schoolroom door. It's all so incredibly obvious in hindsight.

You better hope you learn real quick Beauchamp. . .

I walk into the room quietly. I see Faith by a small play-kitchen over by the far wall, but I don't approach her, or acknowledge her presence in any way. Neither does she acknowledge mine, but I do notice when she sees it's me. Her back gets a little straighter, but she doesn't say anything, or try to leave the room.

Well. That's at least a partially good sign. . .

I think. . .

I put her blue bag of gifts from Vegas on the low round table that dominates the middle of the room, and saunter casually over to what is clearly the library wall. It is covered with shelves full of books, and has a line of beanbag chairs and mini futons all scattered in front of it. As I get close I can see they are mostly children's books, naturally, of nearly every genre, but a few of the upper shelves have some YA novels, and several of the lower ones have the non-kids versions of reference books. Atlases, and dictionaries, and the like. I select a history of Tutankhamen's tomb that I know well, and have often enjoyed for its profusion of photographs, and go back to sit at the table.

Fifteen, twenty minutes pass, of me leafing quietly through my book, and Faith playing rather aggressively across the room. She very pointedly drops things loudly, and bangs drawers and cupboard doors, her deliberate posture very clearly daring me to say anything about it.

But I don't. And eventually, things quieten down a bit.

Slowly – very, very slowly – she edges closer and closer to the school-table, playing first with one thing, then another, nearly aimlessly, her real goal thoroughly obvious. I pretend to take no notice. Finally, she sits down a couple of places over from me. She has a photo gripped in her fist, which she shoves across the table at me.

"That's my mama," she whispers hoarsely, "See?"

She turns away from me as I pick it up.

And I look down into the sharp blue-green eyes, perfect waves of golden hair, and sly, kittenish smile of Jamie's first wife.

Annalise.

The late Mrs. Fraser.

Colum called her a shallow French twit, but looking at her now, I don't think that's entirely the case. It is difficult to form a full impression of someone from a static picture, or even a truly functional impression, for that matter, but I can see delicate bones, an expressive face, and something ever so slightly odd about the eyes and posture.

Tiny Joan is the only one of the girls who favors her at all strongly, and even then, it is clear Annalise gave very little of her personality to her daughters. As much as I can tell so far, anyway. This is not a photo of a loud person, nor an energetic one, nor, strangely enough given her overall appearance, of a sweet one - all of which wee Joanie most certainly is. She does not look open or friendly like Sally, nor bold and honest like Bree, and certainly doesn't look sensitive and intelligent like Faith.

No. This is a photo of a self-centered person. She isn't even fully engaging with the professional photographer taking her picture. That's where the odd posture is coming from. . .

She is entirely, utterly. . . fatally wrapped up in herself.

But she is beautiful. Elfin and stylish, and perfectly made-up, so cleverly that it's nearly invisible. She looks fresh, and sculpted at the same time, like a lone white water lily on a still, dark pond. Rich. Elite. Lovely in all of the ways that I am not. Oh, I can pull off business-formal, and I know my way around a contour palette, but my hair will never be anything but wild, and my slenderness all too easily dips into skinniness, with bony angles showing up instead of rounded curves, if I ever work too hard for a week or two, or forget to take care of myself the way I should. I'll never be a perfect porcelain doll like the one in this photo. And my eyes are a strange brownish-yellow, flecked with dark green and black. Nothing like the classic, limpid sea-green Annalise had. . .

I hand the photo back to Faith.

"You're quite right. I don't look like her."

Faith looks more than a little shocked that I'm giving in so easily. She pushes more, trying to find the boundary.

"Ye'el never look like her."

"No. I never will."

"Ye'el never replace her."

"No. I won't."

Her face contorts with frustration and confusion, "An' I don' care if it's. . ." she pauses, obviously struggling with word that's new to her, ". . ."leegull". . . I don' want ta call ye mama."

"I know, dear. I don't want you to call me mama. I'm not here to replace anyone, love. That's why your Da and I thought you all ought to come up with your own thing to call me. So that way we-"

"You're no' supposed ta be nice!" she interrupts me, wailing petulantly, "You're supposed ta be old, an' ugly, an' mean, so's I c'n hate ye!"

Then, she dissolves into furious tears, and throws herself violently into my lap, her fists drumming against my thigh.

Very slowly, very gently, I rest my hand on the riot of her wild red curls.

Strange. Her hair is more like mine than it is her own mother's. . .

In almost imperceptible stages, she calms. She is still breathing heavily when she finally sits up, and slides back into her own chair, but other than an occasional sharp snuffle, her tears are spent.

I hand her a box of tissues.

"Would a hug help, dear?"

She takes the tissues, but shakes her head emphatically no.

"Okay. Would me leaving you alone help?"

She pauses, then shakes her head again, less emphatically.

"Okay."

I take up my book, and browse a bit, waiting.

"Mama never asked," she says, almost whispering, "She just left me alone."

My throat nearly closes at how bleak the poor dear sounds.

"Yes, sometimes adults forget they need to ask. Especially their own children. It's easy to forget when you assume you know without asking."

"But you don't forget?"

"Well, I'm new at this. It doesn't do to forget the important things on your very first day."

She considers this, for a long several seconds.

"I'm sorry I was mean."

"Forgiven."

She falls silent again, for a few minutes this time.

"I'm going to paint her one day, you know," she nods at the the photograph, "Holding white roses, and sitting on a golden throne."

"Sounds wonderful."

I've already noticed the many paintings taped up all over the walls. The majority of them are far better than might be usually expected from a child of nine, both in composition and in execution.

"Why don't you paint her now? Or practice, at least?"

She shakes her head, sadly, "Da says I cannae."

"He does?" I ask, taken aback. That doesn't sound like Jamie. . .

"Aye. No' yet."

I make a noncommittal noise, "Hm. I might have to talk to him about that."

She looks wildly at me, mouth gaping, "Would ye? Ye would do that?"

I blink, more than a little confused, "Of course."

She looks frantically around for a few seconds, then directly at me, "C'n I change my mind?"

"Change your. . ." I shrug, "I suppose so. . . but what. . ."

I can't finish asking her what about, because she's wrapped her arms around my neck, and I'm hugging her back, and her hair is in my eyes, and that's the only reason why my eyes are watering, yes indeed. . .

It is an age of the world before she pulls back. And nowhere near long enough.

I wonder, very much, if children ever know just how much of our hearts they hold. And I wonder too, if these girls specifically will ever know just how quickly I've become theirs.

Then Faith looks up at me, her eyes pert, and conspiratorial.

"I have an idea."

"I can't wait to hear it."

She leans in, and whispers in my ear.

I start back, surprised, "You know who Nobby Nobbs is?"

She nods vigorously, "Yes, Da said he preferred we read about Ankh-morpork instead of Hog-warts. At least for now."

I shrug a little. That sounds like Jamie. "Well, it's certainly the best suggestion I've heard so far. If everyone else agrees, I'm all for it."

She smiles at last, wide and shining, and drags me behind her as she rockets down the stairs. With one great, final leap, she lands in Jamie's arms.

"Da!" she exclaims, "She says we c'n call her Wum!"


Chapter Thirty Three - Doing It For Love

I'm not sure how he did it all in one afternoon, but Jamie has managed to almost entirely transform the master bedroom.

Well. That's not entirely true – he did explain to me that he was planning on swopping a good deal of the furniture here with the things in the guest bedroom – since he'd had some say in the furnishings there and preferred them anyway – and also that he would get some other stuff – sheets, towels, basic toiletries and so on – delivered by Prime.

But he's changed the pictures on the walls. He's rearranged the shelves. There are new chairs, new tables, new lighting. . . There are fresh flowers in new vases next to new lamps on top of new end tables next to the bed. And as for the bed, the quilt is new – or rather old – it looks like a hand-knitted antique, and it's almost the prettiest thing I've ever seen on a bed. And there are at least a dozen pillows where before was only one, and all of them have new, beautifully clean covers.

There are new rugs in the bathroom, not just towels, and far more than basic toiletries – he actually took note of nearly everything I had in my bathroom at my place, and has a duplicate waiting for me. Even down to my favorite type of lip balm. My regular hair care is in the shower, my preferred period products are next to the toilet, and my usual toothpaste is on the counter, right beside my favorite hand soap, lotion, face cream, face scrub, skin serum, tonic, and wipes. He's even got me a bottle of my favorite foundation - in the correct shade! - a tube of my current go-to eyeliner, a good lipstick, lip liner, lip gloss, and a very passable attempt at a blush/eyeshadow combo palette, from a brand I often use. The colors aren't exactly the ones I would have picked, but they're very, very close.

It's all so far beyond the minimum, and such an awful lot to have packed into such a short amount of time that I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, stunned, for nearly half a minute, turning around and around, trying to take it all in, my mouth half-open, my eyes wide.

Just a few days ago, this room didn't feel like Jamie's room at all. It felt like a sort of. . . crypt. . . A flat, cold place, where he was only existing, with the ghost of Annalise still hanging around, taunting him.

Now, it's so full of Jamie's personality it's almost overwhelming. And there isn't a single hint of the woman who came before me. . .

It doesn't feel like our room, though. Not quite. Not yet. But it's a massive step forward, and, as far as I can see, in exactly the right direction. For both of us.

He only grins at my reactions, "Like what ye see, Sassenach?"

"Like it?" I turn around one last time, and finally set down all the stuff I brought on the bed. In the face of all his effort, a bunch of things hastily bought from whatever store was nearest, and one small overnight bag feel woefully pitiful. I can hardly wait to bring more of my things here – really start to integrate our lives, "Jamie, you're a wonder. It's lovely."

I slide my arms around him, and relax into the long, deep kiss he gives me. It's been such a day. . .

"Mmm," he hums against my mouth, then starts to make his way deliciously down my neck, "An' I'm sure bedtime will get easier wi' time too, dinnae fash. It's already easier than t'was last year, an' wi' two of us now, it'll go on getting' better, I'm sure of it."

"Easier?" I chuckle, "There were only three pouting fits, two crying jags, six pairs of juice-soaked socks, three mouthwash spills, eight toothbrush mishaps, two lost teddy bears, three requests for cups of water, four night-lights, six special blankets, five read-throughs of Good Night Moon, twenty-eight separate requirements regarding exactly how open or closed five different doors have to be, ten separate requirements regarding which hall lights must to be left on or off, and only one debate on how many individual times "getting out of bed" one trip to the bathroom counts as, if you leave your going-with-you-to-the-bathroom stuffed animal in bed, but don't realize it until you're halfway through peeing, and so when you get up to go get it you trail pee down the hallway." I give a light sigh, "How could anything get easier than that?"

He laughs somewhat ruefully in response, "Still no regrets, mo Sorcha?"

"Regrets? No." I smirk a little, "Resents, perhaps. After tonight, I know evolution is bull."

His brow furrows in confusion, "Eh?"

"It must be, Jamie. Darwin had to have been a total asshat if he thought Humans evolved from fish. There is no way any parent, of any species, anywhere, has ever given up the advantage of having eight arms."

He blinks, then laughs aloud, "Ye might have something there, mo chridhe."

"Count on it," I grin, then open up my bag, and rummage around a bit, "But right now all I want is to change into something comfortable, and then snuggle up with you."

He pecks my chin, "Sounds lovely, Sassenach."

I go back into the bathroom, wash and change, and make full use of all the skincare products he's gotten me. A scan of the medicine cabinet shows he got my hair spray, my depilatory wax, and one of the perfumes I love too.

My heart warms, and little shivers go up my spine.

This man.

This man.

If he isn't in the running for Husband of the Year, it's only because I know he'd wave all of this off as just what a man does for the woman he loves.

Which only makes him all the sweeter, in my view.

It doesn't matter that I just opened a new bottle of this exact perfume two weeks ago, which means this one is a hundred dollars that manifestly did not need to be spent. We are allowed to have separate purchasing priorities, after all, just so long as they don't negatively impact our overall finances. He is giving this relationship his all. That counts. That counts for a lot.

And besides, there are things a woman just does for the man she loves, too. I may be new to wifehood, but I know that much. Overlooking a few points where he might have communicated better, and bringing the issue up gracefully in a different context is one of them. Were he practically any other man, I wouldn't give a plugged nickle about protecting his ego. Most men get enough of that elsewhere - they don't get to expect it from me too. And all too often they need a few bringdowns just to make them tolerable anyway.

But Jamie? I'd walk barefoot to Patagonia to avoid hurting this man's feelings.

I run a fingertip along the thick, smooth cardboard of the box, and tap it a couple of times, contemplatively. Then I open the box, take out the bottle, and give myself a few tiny sprays, at wrist and neck and knee. What's money, after all? When a man like Jamie Fraser loves you, there are more important things. . .

Many, many, far more important things.

He's leaning over the bed when I come back into the main room, and he starts violently when I touch him. Almost. . . guiltily. . .

What. . .

"Jamie? What's wrong?"

He holds out a box from one of the bags I brought, the guilty look quite undeniable, all over his face. . . "Why. . . why are ye buyin' condoms, Sorcha?"

I blink rapidly a few times, thoroughly confused now, "Why? Because I think four children is enough for right now, don't you? And I don't think we ought to rely entirely on my IUD, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye. B-but. . ."

"There is no "but" about it, Jamie! I might want your babies, but I intend on having some wisdom about when I bring more of them into the world. Four is enough for now, yes?"

He looks a little shocked for a minute, then coughs a little, and gets himself in hand. "Aye."

"Good," I plant my fists on my hips, "Now please tell me why the mere sight of extremely common prophylactics make you look so guilty."

His jaw clenches, his ears turn pink, and he doesn't answer me right away. Very slowly, he puts the box of condoms on the bed. "Your first time. . . was my first time wi'out protection, Sassenach."

My head whirls at that, "But. . . but. . ."

"I think – I'm no' sure, mind – but I think Annalise poked holes in a condom she gave me, and that's how we got Fay an' Bree. I think she thought t'was the only way she was sure ta get me – if she got pregnant first. I don't know. No' for sure, like I say. . ." He shrugs, sadly. "There's nae way ta know for sure now, annyway. But. . . now. . ." He flicks the box, "Now I'm automatically suspicious of anything of the kind that I don't buy an' keep myself." He glances at me, ruefully, "But I'm no' suspicious of you at all, an' when ye came up to me like that, all of a sudden, it made me mindful. . ." he runs his fingers along his forehead, "Just how wrong my sex life has been for so long, Sorcha. An' it's my fault. . ."

I gasp in horror, and gather him to me, "Your fault? Jamie, someone else's lies and manipulations are never your fault. Don't you dare think that was your fault!"

"But I should'ha left, Sorcha! I should'ha divorced her, ages ago! I. . ." he breaks off, and cups my face in both of his hands, gently and reverently, "Less than a week wi' ye, Claire, an' I ken I've never known what love was before." He runs his thumbs lightly along my cheekbones, "Ye're so perfect, I dinnae deserve ye. . ."

I grin at him, and kiss him heartily, "Of course you don't. No one ever deserves anyone else, Jamie. Deserving people isn't allowed. No one ever owns anyone else, and no one is ever greater or less than anyone else. When it comes to worth, to plain Human value, we are all equals. What we do with that value can be better or worse, and we all have different talents and abilities, of course. Humans have infinite variety. But we're all priced at one Human soul apiece, regardless of class, creed, color or competence." I kiss him again, "I love you, Jamie. You. Your personality, your mind, your heart. We all have a past of one kind or another. Whatever yours is, we'll work through it. Just let me help you, Jamie. Without any idea of deserving it or not. Respect is far more important, anyway. Just you respect me, and I'll respect you, and everything will be wonderful. Okay?"

He shakes his head in wonder, his eyes distinctly damp, "You're a marvel, Sassenach."

I smirk a little. "Funny. I've always preferred DC."

He throws back his head a laughs at that, long, and loud, and gorgeously.

My heart absolutely melts at the sight.

You get to make him laugh like that for the rest of your lives, Beauchamp.

He is the marvel. And he doesn't even know it. . .

Slowly, he goes quiet again. Then he picks up the box of condoms.

"I think," he says, contemplatively, "I think I need tae use these ones that ye've bought. Use them an' ken ye're no' tricking me each time."

I nod, "Seems reasonable. Only problem is, I am too sore tonight. . ."

He nods, and goes to put the box away.

"So get the strawberry flavored ones from the other bag."

He pauses, and looks most improbably confused.

Can it be? Is it possible that in this one instance, I know more about this sort of thing than he does?

Either way, he's about to find out exactly how much you know, Beauchamp. . .

I roll my eyes at him, "There's an awful lot I'll swallow for you, Jamie. Even my pride, if it ever comes to that. But I'll be damned if I swallow yours too!"

It takes another few seconds before my full meaning lands. Then his jaw drops open, and he stammers out-

"I. . . I wasnae. . . I didnae mean. . . Christ, Sassenach, I wasnae asking for. . ."

I push back some sudden anxiety. I have only actually done this twice before.

And neither of the men were Jamie. . .

Confidence, Beauchamp. With this man, that's all it's going to take, and you know it.

"And I understand that, Jamie. But you need looking after, and I'm too sore for anything else at the moment." I stand bolt upright, cross my arms, and toss my head in my very best Professional Businesswoman fashion, "Now, are you going to go lie down, or do you want me on my knees?"


Chapter Thirty Four - Strawberries And Cream

I've heard women describe this sort of thing as a power trip before, but I have never believed them until this moment. The look of utterly stunned and helpless arousal on Jamie's face is beautiful, and leaves neither of us in any doubt as to who is in charge at the moment.

He stares at me, quite speechless, as I stride forward, and slip my hands under the hem of his shirt. In a daze, he raises his arms, and lets me remove it. I lean forward, and press a soft, almost chaste kiss to the smooth round of his shoulder, just where his collarbone swells before it descends into his muscles. Then I smirk, and lave my tongue across the spot, slowly and suggestively swirling the tip of it around, tasting him, feeling his shivers, and seeing his skin prickle into gooseflesh. His breathing goes deep, and rapid, and rough, and his arms move to embrace me. But I catch his wrists, and press them to the edge of bed right behind us. He tries to protest, but I silence him with a look, and then lean in again, so I might fully explore his chest with my mouth.

I've touched him quite a bit in the past few days, of course. Kissed him and caressed him, and done all manner of wonderfully intimate, pleasurable things with him. But this is the first time I've actually taken charge, or either of us have put his needs first, and his pleasure uppermost.

And by the look of astonished, almost frightened anticipation in his eyes, I can tell this has been the case for him only painfully rarely.

Well. Whatever else might be wrong, that at least is something I can fix.

I scrape my teeth across the skin of his ribs, and he lets out a wavering groan. I kiss down a mostly-healed strawberry mark I scratched into his belly two days ago, and busy my fingers with his belt buckle. . .

And, speaking of strawberries. . .

I grab a pillow from the bed, and quickly drop it on the floor before settling myself atop it. Then, I look up at him, and hold out a hand.

As if in a dream, he reaches back and rummages for a minute, then brings back a packet. Slowly, he places it in my palm. It's a small thing, wrapped in ridiculous red and pink foil that crackles as I open it. He stares as I extract the contents, and place them delicately in the O of my lips.

He gasps in utter shock as I swiftly duck my head, and apply it with my mouth. I pause a second, letting us both acclimate. One of his hands takes a large, and very firm fistful of my curls – not in any way controlling, or even guiding, but as though he must have a grip on my hair right now, and if he did not, he might well lose his grip on reality.

I know how he feels. As much as he needs to hold on to me, I am even more glad to have him there.

I look up at him, needing to see how he's doing.

A question enters his eyes, as clearly as if he has spoken the words.

. . . what do you get out of this, Sassenach?

I raise an eyebrow at him, unable to smirk at the moment, and answer, equally clearly.

Why, you, my love.

Then, I take a deep breath, and get to work in earnest.

Jamie descends immediately into the Gàidhlig, and stays there. He utters several strings of what I assume are curse words – and if so, they are ones even I have never heard before.

And, wow, is that saying something.

I run my fingertips along the scratches I left on his thighs yesterday. His hand resets its hold on my hair several times, but he does not let go.

Neither do I. . .

He snaps out a particularly sharp curse, and I look up at him again. Our eyes lock, and it is the intimacy of that which is the most remarkable thing about all this. The look of entirely open, vulnerable trust in his eyes drowns out even his passion, and is only overtaken, in the end, by a look of thoroughly adoring wonder, and incredulous, almost worshipful joy.

That look alone is more than enough for me to get out of this. . .

And quite beyond the sight of him in utter, glorious abandon, there are the sounds he makes, his helpless, insistent motions, the heat and textures of him, and the dear, final surrendering of self to self that our joinings always are. This time isn't any less for being mostly about him.

He is allowed to be the focus sometimes. The priority. The one served, and given to, and treasured. But I am beginning to think I am the first one who has ever convinced him this might be true. . .

His hand finally relaxes in my hair. Then he takes me by the shoulders, and pulls me to my feet. He lets us catch our breath for a few seconds, but then he grabs me roughly, and pulls my mouth to his, devouring me even more fervently then I just did him.

He pushes the rest of his clothes off, and manages to get me out of mine in between the deep, hungry clashes of our mouths. Then he slides us beneath the covers, and gathers me to him once more. His hands are everywhere, his lips are everywhere, his tongue and his teeth and his arms and his skin, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. . .

Except one place. . .

He rests a hand on my hip, and pulls back from me a little, a completely different question in his eyes now.

I take his hand by the wrist, peck a kiss to his knuckles, and slowly, very, very slowly, guide him.

I really am too sore for much, but he is delicate, and gentle, and precise, and attentive, and patient, and I have no complaints to make at all, at all, at all. . .

At last, we are stretched out next to each other, skin to skin, and I am holding his head to my chest, running my fingers through his brilliant curls, and contemplating all the different coruscating shades of red and orange and gold in them, when a question occurs to me. A basic, obvious question that I am shocked neither of us has asked yet.

"Jamie?"

"Aye, mo chridhe?"

"How old are you?"


Chapter Thirty Five - The Ugly Truth

I feel him smile against my chest, "Thirty two. And ye?"

"Thirty six."

He chuckles, "Pair of auld geezers, we are."

I playfully smack his shoulder, "Speak for yourself! No, I just wanted to know, because. . . well, firstly, because I think I ought to, right? I mean, I really would know, or should at least, by now, right? If we really had been dating for months?"

He squirms slightly, and nods, "Aye."

"And secondly, I seem to recall your birthday being mentioned? Once or twice in all of our conversations, I'm pretty sure you've said you have a birthday coming up, is that right? It's between now and when we go for our Green Card interview, isn't it?"

He squirms uncomfortably again, "Aye."

"What's up, Jamie?"

"Weel. Nothing much, I suppose. It's just that. . . I had forgotten, for a minute." He looks me in the eyes, "It's all so real, with ye, Sassenach. So true. It seems almost unbearably strange that we haveta pretend about anything."

He's right. We met less than a week ago, and we've only just now learned each other's ages, but in our minds? We've been a couple forever. It sounds incredibly cheesy even to think such a thing, but in our hearts, we've always been in love.

All my life, I've never even wondered whether or not I believed in soulmates, and now, the question is entirely moot.

I don't have to believe in someone I am currently holding in my arms, so bright, and beautiful, and warm, and oh, so lovely.

I don't have to wonder if we were meant to be. I only have to lean forward and kiss him, and I know. I might not know exactly at what moment he became my home, but I do know that he is. Entirely. Completely. Unquestionably. My home, my heart, my soul, my everything. The strength in my bones, and the very breath in my lungs.

He's right about love, too. Less than a week, and now I know that I didn't know what it was before either.

I feel so much more than safe with this man. I feel like the richest, most beloved woman in the world. Like the freest, most beautiful creature under the sky.

Like the happiest wife who ever wived, so long as he is at my side. . .

"I know what you mean. But we don't have to pretend to very many people, now that Colum knows and approves."

"He does?" he sits up suddenly, "Colum does?"

"Oh, yes." I sit up too, "I haven't told you yet, have I? It's been such a busy day. . ."

Quickly, I tell him about my conversation with Colum this morning. He chuckles.

"The MacKenzie stubbornness certainly won the day, didn't it?"

"Yes, I thought that too."

"Well, if we're in good wi' Colum, then at least things will be easier here at home. He'll make sure ye have time ta be a mother - an' a wife too – Colum's no' the man ta be over-workin' family. An' by-the-by - how is it ye dinnae ken that a spot on his board of advisors is the most sought-after position at the company?"

"It is?"

"Aye. The direct pay is less, but the stock options are as cushy as they get. An' the rest of the benefits package is something out of a storybook. Full Thanksgiving dinners, trips ta New York for Christmas, access ta no less than three private jets – an' that's jus' the start. How did ye no' ken about all that?"

"Well. I sort of did. I mean, I knew Leoch Foods was a rich enough company to provide those sorts of things, and I've heard a few stories, but. . . Jamie, to most folks at work, I'm the boss. I might have a good working relationship with most of them, but I'm not likely to be on the grapevine, or hear much scuttlebutt. And personally, that's something I've always liked about being in the corner office. I'm not a natural gossip, and workplace rumor-mongering has always felt pretty unbearable to me. I'm in the running to be the last person who would know what the most sought-after company perks are."

His lips twist a bit, "Ye might haveta change yer tune a bit now ye're boss ta four very talkative wee girlies, Sorcha."

I grin, "I've already noticed that." I snuggle back under the covers, as the air is chill on my skin, "Just like I've noticed that you've very deftly maneuvered the conversation away from your birthday."

His eyes tighten.

So does my stomach.

A suspicion has been growing in me for quite a while, and this is a very decisive nail in a very unfortunate coffin. . .

"I wouldn't push if I didn't need to know, love. Your usual family traditions, at the very least. Or if you aren't ready to share those, can you tell me what you want for your birthday? What you want us to do? Me to do?"

He huffs an ironic laugh, and the face he turns to me is both sorrowful and wry, "Ye want ta ken what I want? An' what I want ye ta do?"

"Well. . . yes."

"Nothing!"

He raps the word out like a curse.

I blink, "Noth-"

"D'ye wantae ken what the most consistent birthday tradition has been around heer?" his face contorts into a strange, furious sorrow, "Annalise! Didnae mattar whose day it was, it had tae be about her! If she had ta start fights, if she had tae ruin photos, if she had ta spoil holidays, or upset entire restaurants, she'd do it. Nae'un else was allowed ta be the center of attention. Only her."

Slowly, he unclenches his fists.

"I got so tired, Sorcha. So tired of standing between her and the girls. So tired of no' knowing if I was the one ta blame for even trying ta make things work. So tired of absorbing her vacuous, idiotic bullshit. She was all saccharine platitudes and trite poetic quotations, Sassenach." He runs a hand across his forehead, "She looked like this sweet, perfect princess. . . but she had the morals of Jabba the Hutt."

I don't smile. He is in deadly earnest.

He shrugs, helplessly, "D'ye ken what I really want for my birthday? A day. Just that! A day all to myself, a day about me!" He hangs his head, "An' I jus' wish I didnae feel like the world's greatest pig for even desiring such a thing!"

I nod sadly, "Jamie. . . the night we met. . ."

"Aye?" His face softens, and he reaches out to me, taking my hand and threading our fingers together.

"I. . . well. . . at first I thought you were the classic romantic tragedy widower – still in love with his lost bride, and devoted to her memory."

The laugh he gives at that is very short, and very hard.

"And, while you very quickly overturned that image in my mind, I've still been working from it, as an ideal. And what else ought I to have done, Jamie? It's not like I could have predicted that everything I was subsequently going to learn about her would reveal her to have been a. . . a. . ."

I hesitate to say it, but Jamie doesn't.

"A domestic abuser? Aye. And an unrepentant narcissist, and an emotionally unavailable, attention-seeking, utterly selfish. . . parasite. She had me tied up in knots for years. Had me thinkin' I was the problem, an' t'was my fault nothin' was getting' better."

"And that's the point, Jamie. Why didn't you tell me all this? Why haven't we had this conversation before now?"

He snorts, "Oh, aye, that's exactly what a man wants tae be talkin' about with his bride on their honeymoon," he lifts a sardonic eyebrow, ""By the way my dear, I'm still in therapy for the woman who came before ye – she abused me for nearly eight years, gave me four children, PTSD, and an inferiority complex, an' I couldnae be happier she's dead." Perfect post-wedding conversation that would have been. . ."

"No, it would have been awful. Instead, it's awful now. After I've already told Faith I'd talk to you about letting her go ahead and painting Annalise."

He catches his breath, and looks at me, speechless.

"You were freed from an abuser, Jamie. They lost a mother. She might not have been the best mother, but she was still the only one they had. They don't know the difference-"

"Yet."

"Thank you - yet - but the point still stands. They're still grieving. Of course they are. They're only learning how to Human, Jamie. And they've had a lot less practice at it than you or I. Faith wanting to paint her mother is a perfectly natural mourning response, wouldn't you say?"

"Aye."

"Well then. Why forbid it?"

He slashes at the air in impotent rage, "Because I cannae see her face wi'out retching, Sorcha! An' ye've seen Faith's pictures. She'll have her down pat in a week if she's allowed tae start now. I'd be seein' Annalise everywhere. An'. . . an' I already have flashbacks. . . I. . . I cannae. . ."

He puts his head in his hands, rather desperately trying not to lose control entirely.

I say softly, "Have you considered telling her that?"

"Telling. . ."

"Faith. She's nine, Jamie, not an idiot. Rather the opposite, from what I can see. She will very probably tread on your feelings from time to time, no matter what, alas, but that doesn't mean she's incapable or unwilling to try not to. If you'd just talk to her."

"And say what?" he shakes his head, his voice bleak, "That I. . . that Annalise was. . . that we. . ."

"No. You say something like, "Faith, we all grieve in our own ways – you know that, because Bree is grieving your mama in a different way than you, and so are Jo-jo and Sally. Well, Da is grieving too. And seeing your mama's face hurts me right now. So, you see, I want you to paint her if you need to, but I also would like it very much if you kept the paintings where I can't see them."

I pause, a little pointedly.

"You know, I'd like to bet that would do the trick. She's an eminently reasonable girl, Jamie. Not at all spoiled, or even mean-spirited. She apologized to me this afternoon, without any prompting. She loves, Jamie. She's bad at hate. She still loves her mother, and she needs a way to express that. Now. Before more damage is done. And, above it all, she loves you. She'll listen, I'm sure of it. If you'd only talk to her."

He sits silently for a minute, utterly still. Then he nods, slowly, and gets up.

"Ye're right, Sassenach. More right than I c'n say." He goes over to a drawer, and brings out a big double-handful of cotton clothes. He hands me half, and starts to put on the others, "But we'll see tae it in the morning, aye? Get dressed now, an' come sleep next tae me."

I hold up the set of his t-shirt and boxers, looking at them dubiously, "You want me to wear these?"

He pulls his shirt on, then clears his curls away from his eyes, "Aye. Unless ye've brought other clothes ta sleep in."

"But. . . why can't we. . ." I gesture vaguely between us, and at the clothes we've left scattered over the floor.

He smirks, and goes to pick them up, draping them neatly over the backs of a couple of chairs, "Oh, if it were just us, we could." He gestures at the door, and down the hall, "But it isnae just us. An' I promise ye, come half-six, ye'll be glad ye have clothes on. Trust me, Sorcha, aye?"

I shrug. "Alright." I get out of bed, and put the clothes on. Then I get back beneath the covers, and reach at him with open arms, in very deliberate mimicry of our wedding night, "Now, will you let me hold you?"

His whole face goes soft, and a great deal of tension flows out of his posture.

"Aye. Jus' try an' stop me."


Chapter Thirty Six - Day And Night Mares

I do turn out to be thankful I'm wearing clothes, but I learn why at three-thirty, not six-thirty.

A thin, soft sound pulls me up out of a deep dream.

"Dahhh? Dahhh?"

One of the girls is whisper-calling for Jamie. . .

I feel him stir slightly behind me, but not quite awaken, and when I open my eyes, the small figure is bobbing around near my side of the bed anyway. I try to force myself fully awake, only half successfully.

"Mmmwhatsit, swee'heart?"

"Mmwwmah?"

"Yes dear."

"Mmbad drem."

"Oh dear. Tha's icky. Be'er ge'in."

On autopilot, I fold back the covers, and scootch back a little ways to make room. The tiny figure that can only be wee Joanie hesitates.

"Wmah?"

"Yes dear?"

She hesitates again, then hefts her fluffy stuffed bear up before her, and clambers up into the clear space I've made for her.

I've only been doing what my own mother used to do when I had bad dreams, so I say the next thing she always used to say.

"Ge' com'fable honey. No nigh'mare s'gonna come 'round where the snuggle fairy is."

"Suggle fariy?"

"S'right. All nigh'mares skared of 'er."

I can practically hear her absorbing this.

"O."

Eventually, she curls around her bear, and wriggles her body around until the freezing-cold soles of her feet are just touching the tops of my thighs.

I have never been heartily thankful I happened to be wearing boxer shorts before, but now, at least those two ice cubes she has attached to her legs are touching me through cotton, and not on my bare skin.

I hold back my squeak of surprise, and carefully drape the covers over her. With any luck, she'll warm up quickly. . .

From the tension in his back, and the sound of his breathing, I can tell Jamie is awake now, but he doesn't interrupt our little interaction. I can almost hear him smile. I cuddle a little closer to him, and he to me.

I'm just easing back into sleep when Joanie speaks again.

"Wmah?"

"Mmmyes, luv?"

"Is the fariy heer now?"

"Mmcourse, baby. Snuggle fairy comes to ann'where you snuggle. Ev'n when yer a'lone. All y'need s'blanket. She p'tects you."

"O."

She doesn't say anything more, but I can hear her thinking again.

Time slows into the long, easy seconds of the middle of the night, and we all fall back into deep, settled sleep.

In the morning, everything happens fast. Waking up, showers, getting dressed, Mrs. Bug's arrival, coffee, breakfast, making lunches, and a great trooping into the schoolroom for Zoom classes all happen seemingly at the speed of light.

And then, I'm at the door, kissing Jamie goodbye for the day.

"Seems all backwards, this," he chuckles, "Ye're the businesswoman, an' all I want is ta raise my girls in peace."

"I know, love," I say, kissing him briefly again, "Everything is just in transition right now. We'll get things sorted soon enough, and then nothing will feel backwards." I smirk, "Only upside-down."

He laughs, then takes my hand more seriously, "I'll give ye a cooking lesson when I get home, aye? Grilled cheese sandwiches, and my special Cream of Five Roasted Vegetables Soup. The girls love it, an' they probably won't want what I hope I'll be bringin' home for us from the test kitchens tanight."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Well, if the dev team has done as they should while I've been gone, today ought ta be the final test day for the venison and pickled onion pie I mean ta put on Leoch's new seasonal menu. Which means there'll be a half dozen or so different goes at it to choose from, with at least a dozen pies in each go. I'll be back with enough for a week's dinners for the both of us, at least."

"Sound's lovely."

He scowls a bit, "They'd better've done as I told 'em ta do. I'll no' be happy if I haveta be eatin' bland pie for a week."

I laugh, and give him a gentle push out the door, "Sounds like the best of all possible worries you could be having, to me."

"Aye, ye're right, Sassenach," he pecks the tip of my nose, "See ye tanight, mo ghràidh."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

I watch him get into his car, and pull out of the driveway.

Slowly, I go back into the house, a most surreal drop in the pit of my stomach.

I nearly float upstairs, in an almost dissociative state, sounds echoing from the half-open door of the schoolroom as though they were coming from the bottom of a well, and the sunlight streaming in from the windows glowing hazy on the edges of my vision, as though I am seeing everything in a dream. Colours are brighter, smells are sharper, and it is only now, alone, in a strange house, surrounded by lives and routines I do not know, that the utter enormity of the past week bears down on me.

I stare blankly at the doors down the hallway, somewhat dizzily unsure which one I will choose. . .

I don't regret anything. I'm not even truly worried. I chose this life, with these people, willingly, eagerly, with my eyes open, my heart invested, and my soul ready. Or so I thought. . .

I could never have been ready. Not really. Not even in the months I have to say I had, and certainly not in the day and half I actually had.

The change is so much. I wouldn't have any of it otherwise, but it is still so much. I'm not backwards, or upside down, I'm. . .

Oh, what am I?

Inside-out?

I stagger a little muzzily through the second door on the left. The guest room. Where all of Annalise's old furniture is, and where we've agreed my new office space will be. My office and cat-acclimatization room.

I plop down onto the nearest chaise-lounge, or whatever the things are called, only barely noticing the elegant blue and white upholstery, and rest my head heavily in my hands, trying to encompass it all for a bit.

Okay. First and foremost. I love Jamie. Of course, I'm not naive enough to think that is all this will take. Not by half. But not only do I love him, we fit. We're compatible. And in the few areas we've discovered we aren't, so far we've both been adult enough to make compromises or allowances enough to give the other space to be themselves. Neither of us is frightened of the changes the other can and will bring to the other. Wary, perhaps. Intelligently skeptical. But we also trust each other. More than enough has occurred between us in the past week for there to be multiple opportunities for us to earn the other's trust – and we have, each and every time. That's huge. Because it means not only are our hearts in this, our consciences are too. Neither of us are only looking out for ourselves, but instinctively for the other now too.

And that's partnership. That's marriage.

I know that. I can encompass that.

So why does all this still feel so surreal?

I lift my head, and look around at the furniture haphazardly scattered all over the room. Chairs and tables and wardrobes and mirror stands and chests of drawers. . .

All that remains of a life. A life not well lived. And a death come early, but not untimely.

And, all at once, I know.

I don't feel inside-out, or backwards, or upside down.

I feel haunted.

I've lifted the ghost of Annalise from Jamie, or started to, at least, and begun to help him help the girls to do so as well.

But in doing so, I have, of necessity, taken her upon myself.

And she's still here.

And no one could possibly encompass that. No self-respecting wife would allow it.

No halfway decent husband would expect it, either. . .

I will live with grief, I will deal with sorrow, I can and will give my energy, my heart and breath and blood itself for my family's healing.

I can not, I will not - I dare not live one more second in the presence of evil.

I stand up swiftly, and stare myself down in the dressing table mirror, all askew and uneven as it is.

"This is my house now," I say, to myself, but also not, "Mine. My family, my children, my husband, my life. You abandoned them years ago. You never even truly had them. You had the chance to, but you chose yourself instead. You did damage them, but they all belong to me now. And I belong to them. And nothing can change that."

I plant my hands on the dressing table, and lean forward, whispering fiercely at the image in the mirror, "I'll fight you whenever, and wherever I must, but understand this – I have already won. We already have everything you tried to take, and now, we will have more. We will grow. We will heal. We will forget. Do you see? All you'll be is a shadow vanished in the light. A ragged old spirit with no one left to scare. Understand? You will be less than nothing. In fact, you already are – and once they realize that, nothing will be able to bring you back."

Some ancient instinct compels me to stand up straight, and hold my arms out in front of myself, palm-forward. I speak in commanding, otherworldly tones,

"I command you, Annalise de Marillac, to the abyss you made for yourself, to the oblivion that you chose, to the end all evil must come to, in the presence of right and good."

And, is it my imagination? In the yellowy-brown reflection of my own eyes, for the briefest of seconds, there seems to be a flash of blue, tinted with sea green, and in my ears there seems to be the most distant echoing sound of mocking laughter, tinged with the frantic, hectic terror of a soul that knows its due, and that there is no escape. . .

I lower my hands, and the vision – if vision it was – is gone.

So is the surreal burdensome feeling.

And suddenly this is just a roomful of old furniture. Old furniture that Jamie doesn't like, but lived with for years as better than the effort it would take to get rid of it.

Used to live with.

Now, he's told me to get what price I can for it all on FB Marketplace, and if no one wants it there, we'll donate it.

I pull out my phone and start taking pictures of each piece, and posting them up with, I think, quite reasonable asking prices.

I spend the next several hours shifting things in and out of the room, and planning my office layout, and starting to set up the large en suite bathroom and attached walk-in closet as a cat-haven for Rabbie, Stuart and Adso, when I bring them here next week.

I only stop when it's lunchtime, and I go to eat with the girls.

And all the time, I desperately try not to think how it is that I knew Annalise's maiden name. . .


Chapter Thirty Seven - Gotta Woo My Baby

"They're running the Culloden series at the nearest Castle Leoch this weekend," says Jamie, poking his head into my office.

"Oh, are they?" I look up at him, and smile. It's taken a lot of work, and a little longer than the week we had initially planned, but we've finally achieved a stable enough routine that an unexpected interruption from him at an odd time of day isn't in the least upsetting to my work-brain. That wouldn't have been true just a few days ago, but now. . .

I hand a folder of printouts to Mary, "Get these filed, and contact that last vendor, and that's all for today. You can take off early."

"Th-thanks, Claire."

One of the first things I had suggested to Colum was that Mary be transferred along with me, as a PA. He had agreed at once, sensing almost instinctively, I think, that I needed just a little bit of workplace continuity. Between her and Mrs. Bug, I've started to not only find my way into my new job, but also to find my niche in the household.

Nothing is perfect yet, but it's definitely something to have started. . .

"The Culloden series is good. It's our most popular show by far," I say. Mary nods amiably to Jamie on her way out of the room, just as he sits down across the desk from me. "Angus made a YouTube channel just for it about a year ago, and he reports that the traffic there suggests we could run it up to three times as frequently as we do, even keeping it as a four-parter. Our other four part shows don't draw nearly the same numbers – I suggested to Colum yesterday that we get the writers to edit them down to two-parters. The next most attended show is Prestonpans, and that's a two-parter. Though I have to admit I don't really know how it's going to be possible to edit the Robert the Bruce saga down to less than an hour of stage time, not unless you cut a lot of the horse work. . ."

I break off. The look in his eyes is interested, but not focused.

"You're not here to talk about work, are you?"

He smiles wryly, "Aye, I'll talk about whatever ye want with ye, Sorcha, but I was meaning that since Joanie and Sally havena seen the Culloden series yet, Mrs. Bug could take the girls ta see it this Saturday afternoon, an' we could have a night out tagether."

I get up from my desk, and slip into his arms, "Mmm. Have I told you lately that you're absolutely brilliant?"

"Hm, no' exactly lately. . ."

"Remiss of me then, because you are." I kiss him heartily, then turn back to my desk, "Just let me log off for today, and then you can apply your brilliance towards making me a drink."

"Oho, I can, can I?" he raises an eyebrow, and slaps me smartly on the backside.

I snort with laughter, "Yes, you can. And you can tell me what you have planned for this weekend."

His expression goes soft, even as his eyes heat up, "Weel. . . we could go over ta your place, an' pick up yer wee cheeties. I ken an hour or so every other night isnae enough, nor what we planned."

"True, but it's all we've had time for, so far."

"Aye, I ken, but let's bring 'em home for good, aye? I'll cook up somethin' special, jus' for the two of us, and we'll eat it over there, all romantic like. An' if Mrs. Bug doesna mind stayin' overnight heer, we could sleep there, an' all come home Sunday mornin'."

My fingers tremble a little as I close my laptop. The past week has been very full, and very rushed. Practically everything has been positive, and we certainly haven't been at odds with each other, but we've had neither energy nor time to do more than kiss, and maybe grab an hour or so of privacy in the middle of the night, snuck in between bathroom runs, bad dreams, nightlight mishaps, spilled water, lost stuffed animals, tangled blankets, forbidden flashlights, and whispering campaigns world governments ought to envy. Oh, and sleeping, on occasion. . .

We've mostly spent what scant private time has been afforded to us just talking, and very little else. Getting to know each other. Sharing our minds, and opening our hearts. Not for any green card – or not only, anyway – but because we want to. And in fact, hearing his thoughts on such things as religion, politics and so on, and being encouraged to share my own such deep contemplations, has been more intimate than sex. I wouldn't have missed a second of any of it, and I treasure him more now - even more than I did a week ago, as impossible as that might have seemed then. Learning each other's minds has been essential, worthwhile, good and very pleasurable work.

But, it has still been work.

Now, he is talking about some play.

And yes, yes, yes, I am ready for some play. . .

"Did I say brilliant? You're a genius," I kiss him quickly, "Let's ask her."

We go downstairs arm in arm, and find Mrs. Bug in the breakfast nook, lingering over a glass of iced tea and her latest historical romance novel. The girls are just beyond, in the living room, singing along to their current favorite – Cinderella.

She agrees with Jamie's plan almost instantly, and gives both of us a look of soft, almost motherly pride at the request. She has been very circumspect about what she says, especially in front of Jamie, but I get the distinct impression that she did not like Annalise. Either way, she is highly approving of me, a thing which I have found almost impossible to over-value in the past couple of weeks.

We leave her to her book, and go into the main kitchen, where Jamie makes us both a drink, and then proceeds to take me meticulously through his recipes for French Onion soup, red bell pepper, cucumber, chickpea and dill vinaigrette, and herb-y soda bread bannocks, with apple-butter spread.

Sally and Bree appear beside us while we are making the bread, still singing Once Upon a Dream, and between them they manage to get nearly all of the dusting flour, and several remnants of dough all over the kitchen. Jamie just laughs it off, and hands them both kitchen wipes, telling them to pretend to be Cinderella to some purpose for a minute. They do, and clean up after themselves, laughing the whole time.

A half an hour later, as the delectable odours of warm, fresh bread begin to permeate the house, Faith and Sally volunteer to set the table, and wee Jo actually consents to having her hands washed before she eats. Perhaps this is because I've let her climb the kitchen stepladder to do it at the big sink, but regardless, it is a win.

Sweet she may be, but our wee Jo-Jo is also fiercely stubborn, and no one touches her hands without permission, and usually considerable warning.

Jamie quickly whips up a bowl of cream, and Bree helps him make a granola and blueberry cranachan, and then dinner is done, and, each of us carrying a platter or pot full of something, we all troop in to the kitchen table, where Mrs. Bug is now waiting for us. She always stays on French Onion soup nights, Jamie says.

I don't mind. She could stay for dinner every night, as far as I am concerned. She's part of the family now, in my opinion, and since she hasn't much of her own family, why on earth shouldn't she?

Jamie ladles out soup, and I serve up salad, and Mrs. Bug butters the girl's bannocks, and then we all fold our hands, as Jamie says a brief grace, from the Book of Common Prayer.

"Dear Lord, thank you for this food we are about to eat. We are grateful for Your provision, and we ask that You would bless this food and continue to guide our family along Your path. In the name of Your son Jesus, amen."

"Amen," I whisper.

The girls do not whisper. Their "amens" are loud, and hungry, and once said, they waste no time at all in starting in on the food.

I start much more quietly and carefully, for the soup is still quite hot, and so is the bread. Mrs. Bug pauses in mid-bite, and jumps up. Scurrying shamefacedly, she fetches the big jug of raspberry iced tea she has made from the refrigerator, and offers some to us. I catch Jamie's eye as she bustles about, pouring glasses for everyone. He smiles at me, and I smile back. We don't need words – or rather, our exchange of looks is just as clear as words.

This is the life, isn't it, Sorcha?

It certainly is, my love.


Chapter Thirty Eight - Of Pets And Palm Readings

Walking back into my apartment is very strange, this time around. I've been here several times in the past week, of course, but tonight it is with a very specific goal in mind – that of removing all permanent residents from the premises.

Which makes things sound terribly dire, I know, but really, it is odd. . .

I've lived here quite contentedly for six years. I've had my family and my friends, and my cats, and my job, and all the myriad of distractions and entertainments every reasonably modern life can provide these days. It wasn't a remarkable life, but it was a comfortable one, full of interest and happiness, and freedom and fun. If it was the quiet versions of them, what of it? I've never had any ambitions to be a socialite, or even popular.

Yes, my six years here were quite satisfactory.

And now, we are going to pack up my three Flerken-spawn, and not come back for who knows how long. They probably never will. . .

Of course, I am not ready to move out entirely. Besides the fact that all of my things are here, and as Jamie has pointed out, it's a very handy place to get some privacy for a night out, I'm not ready to give up my independence quite so completely, and certainly not this suddenly.

I want a place to run to, if I need it. A place where three-decades-single, lifelong-only-child me can come for some solitude, if necessary. I know that at some point, I'm going to want a spot where I can lock the door behind me, put on a movie, and check out - and not worry about if someone will get their head stuck in a rocking chair or something while I'm gone.

I haven't talked about it with Jamie yet – there have been many other priorities, after all – but he shows all the signs of understanding, even before we talk about it.

I'll definitely bring it up this weekend. . .

Jamie rolls the big cooler with our dinner in it directly into my kitchen, and starts unloading it immediately. I can hear the bottles clink in the refrigerator as he unloads the wine he brought.

I check the three cat-carriers I have left open on the living room floor, and see Rabbie, napping contentedly in his. The other two are empty, but that's not surprising to me. I gather a few scattered toys into a basket, and then a sweet, quiet miaow comes from the direction of my bedroom. I look over, and out comes Stuart, who runs over to me, and starts arching against my legs, and head-butting my ankles. I pet and coo at him, the poor confused dear. He, out of my three house-goblins, has been the most upset by the past two weeks. Rabbie, my pretty orange baby, has only had the brain cell once in his whole darling life, and that was last year, for a single day. And other than for that one day, he hasn't had a care in his entire existence. He's a cuddlebug, certainly, but he's never missed me. Adso, of course, doesn't need me at all – or, at least, is convinced he doesn't. I'm not sure who he thinks will buy him raw salmon steaks when he refuses to eat anything else, if I don't, but, well, that's cats for you. I wouldn't change my gray ghost one bit. . . the little spoiled brat.

My Stu-stu, conversely, is both Flerken and floof. He is here for both my servility and my snuggles.

I pick him up, and he immediately curls into my chest and starts purring, far more loudly than his small self looks capable of. I scritch between his ears, and babble all the baby-nonsense it just makes sense to lavish on him.

"Ooo is a good boi then? Oo is a sweet itty-kitty, mm?"

He miaows again, and rolls in my arms, asking for tummy scritches.

"Oh, is it you, then? Mm, yeah? You a good boi?"

I bury my fingertips in his tummy-fluff, and catch-and-release his paws as he playfully bats them at my knuckles. Then he squirms suddenly, and jumps out of my arms, trotting over to his favorite wispy feather-toy, and miaowing at it, very pointedly.

I smile indulgently, "Oh, you want to play, do you?"

He looks up at me, and miaows again.

I relent - not that I was resisting very hard – and go sit on the floor next to him, and get down to some serious play. . .

"The girls are going to love you, Stuart, my sweetie," I murmur, as I swing the feather toy back and forth, "I do hope you'll love them. . ."

Jamie comes out of the kitchen then, and comes over to us, smiling as he sees what we are doing.

"That one's Stuart, aye?"

I nod, "Yes."

"Pretty wee beastie."

"Oh yes, all my boys are lookers."

I raise an eyebrow, and look at him askance.

He blinks and half-smiles when the point lands, "Glad I pass muster, then."

"Mmm. And a good deal more." I hand him the feather toy, "Is dinner going to take long?"

"Not very. I have a sauce ta make, and a salad ta toss, but everything else is in the oven or on the stove, warming through very nicely."

"So I have time to go get my keys back from Mrs. Graham?"

He waves the toy for Stuart, grinning as he leaps for it, "Aye, I expect so."

"Right then," I kiss his cheek, and slip off down the hall to Mrs. Graham's apartment.

She answers after the first ring, and greets me happily. I hand her back the hair clips I borrowed two weeks ago, and start to explain why a four-day weekend of her taking care of my cats turned into two weeks of her watching my apartment, but she silences me with a wave,

"No problem, dearie, no problem at all. Honeymoons are bound to upset all kinds of apple carts-"

I start violently, "H. . . how did. . ."

I hadn't told her where I was going two weeks ago, or why. And we haven't spoken more than twenty words to each other since.

She waves the hair clips, "I got a wee glance at your hands while you were over borrowing these, and I saw all the signs, dearie. All the signs. I hope you'll be very happy. But I expect you will – he's very handsome, and he loves you desperately, of course."

I stare at her, my mouth half-open, thoroughly flabbergasted.

"He. . . does?"

She gives a soft, matronly smile, "Oh, yes." She holds out her hand for mine, "Do you want me to check?"

She's nattered on about things being "written in the hand" before, and she often speaks about the future as if it has already happened, but she's never been this direct about any of it.

She's never acted like it was. . . real.

Slowly, wondering just exactly what I'm getting into here, I set my hand in hers, palm-up.

She tilts it back and forth in the light, humming softly as she, apparently, takes careful note of what looks to me like a tangle of quite ordinary and meaningless wrinkles and lines.

"Ah. Yes," she says, quietly pleased, "Tall, handsome, and very. . . compatible," her eyes twinkle knowingly at me, "Mentally and physically. There was an instant connection, very strong physical attraction, and very few interpersonal hang-ups, yes?"

I blink slowly, once or twice, "Oh. Uh. Yes."

"And maybe one or two little spooky things have happened too, eh? Some things you can't quite explain?"

"Uhm. . ." I have scarcely felt quite so awkward in anyone's presence before, and I simply do not know where to look. . . "Uh. Yes. Nothing big, just a little. . . well. Odd."

She nods, quite oblivious to my discomfort, "Oh yes. It's because you're soulmates. See?" She points at an indistinguishable point on my hand, "Most palm readers would say that looks like two husbands, side by side – two marriages at once." Her eyes sparkle, "Naughty, naughty. But those markings can mean something else – and usually do, in my experience. They mean you've met your spouse before - in another life. And look here. And here." She points at two more equally indistinguishable spots, "You see? You're clearly an old soul, and you're part of an immortal bloodline. You've not only met your husband before, you've married him before. In other timelines in this universe, and in other universes. All of them, perhaps. You're true mates – mirrored souls. Fated to come together. Not just soul mates – infinite soul mates."

I blink again, totally lost now, "Al. . . alright. Bu. . . but. . ."

She smiles widely, "But what does that have to do with odd things happening? Well, dearie, you see, time is a funny thing. History. . . well. You could say it. . . leaks. There are so many loops, and pockets, and bits and pieces. Things spill out, here and there. So many things that never happened, because they happened too many times. Things that just keep happening, because they never did. Most people just call them coincidences, or conspiracies, or glitches in the Matrix, or Mandala effects, or just the way the world works." Her eyes go distant, and her voice goes dreamy, "But soulmates now. . . soulmates can't lie to themselves. They're too connected to the way things really are. They're woven into the very fabric of history - they can see – they can know. In ways most people just can't, and never will."

My mind buzzes, completely overwhelmed.

"Oh."

There's no way she misses the flat disbelief in my voice.

"Not what you thought, dearie?"

"No. I. . . I thought. . ." I shake my head, trying to remember exactly what I had thought. . . "I thought it was. . . well. A ghost. Maybe."

"And it might have been, dearie," she taps my palm one last time before finally releasing my hand, "But this is why you noticed it, I'm sure."

I give my whole self a little shake this time, trying to wake up out of the strange almost-fugue state she's managed to put me in.

"Well." I say, matter-of-factly, "Maybe so. But uhm. . . well. . ." I smile, brightly, "My keys?"

"Oh! Of course, dearie." She hands over the jingling lanyard, "It's been a pleasure to be your neighbor, dearie, that it has."

Impulsively, I give her a quick hug, and a peck on the cheek. My parents waited a long time to have me. Uncle Lamb is the closest thing I've ever had to grandparents. In all my imaginings of grandmothers, Mrs. Graham isn't far off from my ideal. She might be a slight bit strange, but she's a good old soul for all that.

Suddenly, I'm going to miss her a great deal more than I thought I would. . .

"I'll come visit sometimes, how about that? We will."

"That'd be nice, dearie."

I squeeze her hand, and turn to go.

I walk slowly back to my apartment, trying rather desperately to get back inside my own mind. . .

When I open my door, a great wave of savoury smells greet me. I can identify something bread-y, and something tomato-sauce-y, and maybe something chicken-y, but mostly, I'm just suddenly starving, and it smells like total heaven.

I go to my room to wash up a bit, and then meet Jamie in the living room.

He hands me a glass of wine, and clinks his own against it, "It's the moscato ye had here, Sorcha. I wanta save the rosé and riesling we brought for the three course dessert I have planned."

"Mmm," I take a sip, and grin at him, "Fancy. Three whole courses of dessert, huh?"

He raises an eyebrow, and smirks at me, "Aye."

I answer his smirk with a coy and knowing smile.

Two weeks. I have known this man just over two weeks. And this is where we are at.

Maybe memories and emotions spilling out from multiple universes and timelines isn't such a crackpot idea after all. . .

"I can't wait, love. But in the meantime, what else have you made? It smells terrific."

He leads me over to the table, and gestures at it proudly, "Turtle soup, mulled ale, some genuine Scottish cheese, my famous Pink and Purple salad with toasted sesame vinaigrette, Aberdeen butteries with garlic and chives, scalloped cheesy potatoes, and. . ." suddenly, he blushes, and it's so adorable I don't know why I'm not kissing him, right now, ". . . and. . . Marry Me chicken."

And then, he takes my left hand, gets down on one knee, and looks up at me imploringly, "Will ye, Claire?"


Chapter Thirty Nine - Speak Now, And Forever Hold Your Pearls

I blink, both charmed and baffled at the same time, and in equal measure.

"Jamie. . . my lovely, darling man, I. . ." I run gentle fingertips down the side of his face, ". . . I do hesitate to point out the obvious. . . but. . ." I stare pointedly at my left hand, where he is still holding it, and more specifically at the ring. His ring. Our ring, that he put there, two weeks ago. . .

"Och, I ken that," he smiles and kisses it, "But a legal thing, done for the need of it, isnae a marriage, Claire. I ken we've both tried ta say it is, but we both know we werenae really married until the moment we'd both said "I love you". We jus' happened ta get married first, an' said it afterwards." He runs his thumb across my knuckles, and kisses them again, "I set all this up tanight because I wanted ye tae ken - I'd've asked ye anyway, had we met under different circumstances. I'd've asked again and again – whatever the circumstances. Only the most emphatic no from ye could evar have stopped me askin', an' evan then, I'd still have yearned for ye, in silence. An' so I'm askin' now, wi' my heart, an' no' my head. Will ye, Claire?"

"Oh, Jamie. . ." I can't keep myself from kissing him any longer, and I pull his mouth to mine, pausing just long enough to breathe my answer against his lips, "Yes. A million times, yes," and then I blithely lose myself in loving him.

When I am next aware of my surroundings, we are laid out on the couch, still wearing clothes, but with our limbs entwined as though we aren't. I pull away just enough so I can catch my breath.

And suddenly, infinity not only seems like the only possible, the only logical thing, it doesn't seem like long enough. . .

"I'd have said yes, Jamie. In any world, in any time, in any place, for any reason. If you are the one doing the asking, I'm in. Every atom of me. Every spark of my soul. Regardless of circumstances. Just so you know."

His eyes flash, and his lips twitch up in a half smile of total wonderment, and then he gathers me to him again.

I lose myself for even longer this time, and only surface at last because suddenly, my stomach burbles, loudly demanding that epic romance take some notice of the plain practicalities of life.

Jamie pulls back at the sound, eyebrows raised in surprise. Then we both dissolve into companionable laughter. He gets up, and offers a hand to me.

"Weel. This'll be all the sweeter for a wee bit of pleasurable anticipation, aye?"

I take his hand, and let him pull me to my feet. "Yes, I'm sure it will."

I am expecting him to lead me back over to the table with our dinner on it, but he doesn't. He simply stands in front of the couch for a long few seconds, holding my hand. Then, his free hand digs around in his pocket, and brings out the long string of Scottish pearls he gave me for my something old.

"Handsfast wi' me, Sassenach. Wi' these."

A half dozen emotions surge through me, only a few of which I can even fully identify. . .

"Handsfast? What's. . ."

He smiles, "Auld Scottish traditional marriage, Sorcha. I dinna intend ta let anyone else dabble their fingers in binding us tagether this time. We do it ourselves, or no' at all, aye?"

My heart warms at the thought, even as my brow furrows with more confusion.

"Jamie, knowing what I know now, I don't understand how you could have stood to see me wear those pearls at our ceremony - even that ceremony at that chapel - knowing they used to be. . . hers. How can you possibly want to. . ."

He gives his head one sharp, violent shake, "No, Sassenach. I gave them to her, aye. But she nevar wore them. They were beneath her. A cheap trinket that only proved I was a half-cultured brute, without true taste, or any intelligence ta speak of."

"Jamie!" I gasp, horrified, "The. . . the more I learn about that woman, the more I want to. . . to. . ." I bite back quite a lot of profanity, "To punch her in her stuck-up, cruel little face!"

"Aye," he nods, "I ken how ye feel. I've felt the same, many a time these past two years. Believe me." He shakes his head, ruefully, "But there's nothing doing, Sorcha. She's dead. Dead an' gone. Buried an' banished. There's no revenge left ta take. The only thing ta do is move on. Move forward. Ta grow. Ta live." He holds up the pearls, "Ta love."

I see his point, and take up the other end of the necklace with my free hand. Then, together, we wrap the long string of them around our joined hands, as many times at it will go, finishing by tying them loosely closed, so our fingers and wrists are bound with pearls.

Then his gaze catches mine, and he holds it.

"Repeat after me, as best as ye can, aye?"

I nod.

"'S tu smior de mo chnàimh, na mo chuislean 's tu 'n fhuil."

I haltingly say the Gàidhlig words, knowing they must mean something special.

Then, he translates. . .

"Ye are the marrow in my bones, and the blood in my veins."

I repeat this too.

"Bheir mi dhut-sa mo chorp, gum bith 'n dithis mar aon."

Slowly, I repeat again.

"I will give ye my body, that we two might be one."

I close my eyes, and say the words with all my heart.

"Bheir mi dhut-sa slàn m' anam, gus an crìochnaich ar saoghal."

Once more, my mouth forms the strange sounds, clumsily, but willingly, as though I have indeed said them a thousand times before, in times and worlds that I don't remember. . .

"I will give you my whole soul, until our world ends."

I open my eyes, and lock gazes with him again.

"I will give you my whole soul, until our world ends."

Then he leans forward, and kisses me. Softly, chastely, and for all time. . .

We are more married now than any religious ceremony or any legal document could ever make us.

Not just soulmates. . .

Infinite soulmates.

We have been, we will be, we are, and we will always be.

In a flash, it is simply, perfectly, true.

I don't ask why, or how, because my stomach chooses this moment to rumble again, and we both chuckle in response.

"High time I fed ye, Sorcha," Jamie says, amused, and slowly extracts our hands from the soft knot of pearls, while still preserving the tangle of them. He goes over to the kitchen drawer with all my hand towels in it, and puts them there, closing the drawer securely. I ask a question with my eyes that he answers at once, "Ye canna undo the knot for at least twenty-four hours, Sassenach. And in there, yer wee moggys wilnae get at it."

"Ah. I see." I take the arm he offers me, and look pertly up at him, "Now, what was that you said about the food? Some sort of chicken, is it?"

He seats me at the table only after lightly slapping my rear, "Hush, woman. Sit an' eat yer dinner."

I hum mischievously, and lick my lips at him.

He groans at the sight, and all at once, every wicked imp in my soul rises up to torture him.

I eat my soup suggestively, sucking the spoon clean with every bite. I savor every bit of the sauce laden chicken like it is the best thing I have ever eaten. . . which it very nearly is. I hum over the cheesy potatoes and flaky, buttery rolls like they are the naughtiest things I've ever put in my mouth. . . which they very nearly are. I sip at my ale, and crunch at his radish, radicchio, purple cabbage and pink ginger salad like I'm enjoying a different set of delicacies entirely. . .

Finally, he clomps his fists heavily on the table, "If ye dinna stop that, Claire, I'll throw ye down on this very table, and take ye right in the middle of yer salad, an' as much as I have planned for tanight, an' as lovely as yer arse is, I dinnae much care for the thought of licking my good dressing off it. No' wi'out warning, ye ken."

I nearly choke on a sip of ale.

"So just settle down, aye?" He deepens his voice beautifully, and narrows his eyes at me, "An' finish yer dinner like a good girl."

I drop my fork, as every nerve ending in my entire body lights up. My god this is a game two can play! Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ. . .

I have to catch my breath for minute, and only pick my fork back up very carefully, with still-trembling fingers.

And this is just the start. Pace yourself, Beauchamp! You have all night! And most of tomorrow morning, too. . .

We finish the last of dinner in silence. And with considerably less. . . extras.

But, he does run the toe of his shoe slowly up and down my instep the entire time. . .

By the time he's clearing the table, we're both nearly panting, and both entirely hot under the collar.

He brings a small wooden tray and two bottles back from his last trip to the kitchen.

He pours us some of the rosé while I stare at the board. There are very clearly only three servings here, and small ones at that. . .

I take the glass of wine with a very confused look on my face.

A bright, wonderful look comes into his eyes. He takes a long sip of his wine, then leans towards me, saying softly, "I dinna intend ta leave either of us wanting, Sassenach. There's a butter pecan brownie, Irn-bru an' sour cherry swirl tablet, an' a frosted pineapple tartlet for ye. But as for me. . ."

He reaches a hand out, and makes me stand for him, and then he leans back, and runs his eyes all over me, slowly, and very suggestively, "My three course dessert, Sorcha, is you."


Chapter Forty - Second Honeymoon

"I've given much thought ta what I want ta do to ye, once I had ye all ta myself again, Sassenach," Jamie says, his eyes flashing brightly, "Wi' time ta serve ye. . . suitably."

"Have you now?" I say, and go to him, as though drawn by some invisible, irresistible force. Which I suppose my love for him is, when you get right down to it. . . I settle myself snugly in his lap, and turn to face him. Softly, I run the backs of my fingers across his cheeks, up and down his jaw, and along the smooth skin of his throat, before finally slipping my hands under the collar of his shirt. Gently, I start scratching the back of his neck.

He hums with pleasure, practically purring, just as charmingly and almost as cattishly as Adso, or Rabbie. I lean in, and whisper, "Tell me, Jamie. Tell me everything."

"Mmmm, the touch of ye, Sorcha." He groans, and his arms go around me, one hand settling across my back, and the other. . . "Christ! This lovely, round arse of yers!" Suddenly, he takes a proper handful, and clasps me even closer to him, "Ta see ye evary day, an' hear ye, live with ye - ta get wee tastes of ye, all throughout the day, from seeing ye in my clothes every time we wake up, ta bumping our hips tagether while we brush our teeth, ta taking sips out of the same coffee cup, an' then ta sleep next ta ye all night, an' ken all the time that I canna just have ye – strip ye naked, an' spread ye out across the nearest soft, clean place, an' do everything my heart desires to ye – it's been such a tease, Sassenach." With another groan, he rocks our bodies against each other, "The past week has been the longest, purest, most delicious torture, mo nighean donn."

I hum in agreement, all of my senses rapidly being consumed by the intensity of his. This only quickens when he lowers his head to my neck, and firmly bites a place he knows drives me wild. My whole body jolts with the sharp, electric sting of it, but my cry turns into a moan as he gentles the spot with several soft, soothing licks, and the lightening in my veins turns to warm, liquid heat.

His grip on my backside turns to deep, massaging strokes, "I've only survived by imagining all the ways I wanted ta have ye – first among which is ye on your hands an' knees, this perfect arse of yours in the air, an'. . ." he gives me a good smack, not too hard, but considerably heavier than his usual light slaps, and certainly more than enough to turn the soft fire inside me to sharp, prickly electricity again. My vision actually sparks white at the unexpectedly sweet, utterly magnificent naughtiness of it. I've never wanted such a thing before, but now, every bit of me is suddenly demanding it, and more. Much, much more. . . oh yes. Yes. My reaction is so raw, and so intense that I hiss, and lurch upright with a gasp, as though the blow gave me actual pain.

All at once he snaps his eyes to mine, questioning, suddenly terribly worried that he might have overstepped. . .

His mouth opens in speechless fear, but his eyes are more than clear enough.

Did I hurt you, my heart? I didn't mean -

I shake my head, and give him a look back.

No, my love. You didn't. The opposite.

Are you sure?

For answer, I reach over to the dessert plate, and take up the nearest morsel. It happens to be the cube of chocolate brownie. I put it halfway between my lips, and bring it to his mouth. A smile fleets through his eyes as he slants his head, bites half of the brownie away, and seals his lips to mine. The warm, rich, dark and heady sweetness of chocolate spreads like wildfire across my senses, followed perfectly with the buttery soft crunch of toasted pecans. For a minute, the caress of his hands on my rear, and the press of his mouth against mine aren't the most intense things I'm feeling. . .

Why did you never fantasize about marrying a chef, Beauchamp? You missed out on decades of dreaming about things like this. . .

I smile, and swallow, then lean in to deepen our kiss. I have nothing to regret. This reality is far, far, far preferable to even the best of dreams. . .

Sharing the lingering flavors of chocolate like this is almost unbearably lovely, but I pull back much sooner than either of us were quite expecting.

"I don't want a cake for my birthday, Jamie."

His lips quirk up at the non-sequitur, "Aye. Ye dinnae much like cake. Unless it's nectarine an' cherry blossom cheesecake. Wi' almond bits in the crust an' pistachios and crispy toasted coconut on top."

I snort, and chuckle a little, "Trust a chef to remember that, out of all the huge number of random things we've talked about lately!"

"Aye. A'course."

"You lovely darling. . ." I can't help but kiss him again, and in doing so, I nearly forget what I was going to say. . . "But if you presented me with three whole tiers of that brownie, Jamie?" I lick my lips and moan, "I would be so far from complaining I'd make you question whose birthday it was."

"Oh aye?" he cradles both hands under my backside, and lifts me up as he stands. I wrap my arms and legs around him, holding on as he carries me to the bedroom, "That good, was it?"

"Mmm. Yes." I nuzzle into his neck as he leans over me while setting me gently on the bed, "Tell me more things you thought, Jamie. Things you wanted to do with me."

Mischief flashes in his eyes, and he runs a saucy hand through his hair. I have only rarely seen a man preen before, but suddenly that is unmistakably what he is doing.

Slowly, achingly slowly, he starts to unbutton his shirt.

"I want ye ta watch me, Sassenach."

Several bits of me that had just managed to get back to lazily melting, suddenly jerk awake once more, with arousal so sharp, it's almost painful.

"You. . ." This time I am the one who cannot speak, and I meet his eyes with my own question.

Are you sure you trust me enough, Jamie, my love ?

There is something so vulnerable about him right now, even though he is the one in charge at the moment. I don't want to push him, don't want to upset his delicate balance. . .

An intense, glorious look comes into his eyes, even as he smirks the most infinitely sexy smile at me that I've ever witnessed.

I trust you even more than this, Sorcha.

Suddenly, I understand. My heart soars.

I jump up, and turning around, I divest the bed of its covers. Blankets are for later, when we want calm, and cool.

Right now, we are wild adventurers, and we are on fire. . .

I tear off my clothes, and lay down right in the middle of the bed, lounging opulently against the pillows, my hands arrogantly behind my head. I look suggestively at him, putting as much smolder into my expression as I possibly can.

"Show me, Jamie."

And he does.

First, he turns around, and with a slow, suggestive writhe, removes his belt. He raises his whole arm to dispose of it, and drops it to the floor with a decided clunk.

My entire body clenches at the sound.

Then, he faces me again, and very deliberately rolls up his sleeves, flexing his forearms as he bares them for me. He runs his hands through his hair again, and he actually poses, preening again, so gorgeously, just for me. . .

I have always felt more than a little bit uncomfortable looking at explicit photos or videos. Even when I know the people in them are celebrities, or other professionals, fully of age, properly protected and paid, and who enthusiastically want to be seen in that way, to me it has still always felt terribly voyeuristic, and not at all worthwhile.

But this?

Watching my husband display himself as he takes his clothes off for me has to be the most brain-meltingly erotic thing I have ever experienced, and not because he goes on to do anything shocking, or even particularly sexual, really.

No, it is because I know how much he's been hurt. How many times he's bared his heart to someone, and it's been thrown back at him with a curse. How often he's been wanted for nothing but his body, his soul be damned.

How rarely he's ever been this unguarded, and still been safe.

Him taking his clothes off for me like this isn't foreplay. Not for him. It's aftercare. He's telling me he can be this open with me now, because I've already given him the climactic pleasure of being known. . . and of being loved and accepted anyway.

And now. . .

Now it's his turn. His turn to show me, to prove upon my body just how much he knows me, and loves and accepts me anyway.

He is declaring us both safe. Intimately, gloriously, delectably safe.

And so, now, we can both indulge in a little bit of consensual danger. . .

At last, he peels off his undershirt, and stalks towards the bed. Slowly, he crawls in, and settles himself between my knees. He leans forward, the weight and heat of him hovering over me, the imposing bulk of his shoulders and chest just barely brushing my skin. He nuzzles his face into the crook of my neck, and then starts savoring me, exactly as slowly and as thoroughly as he just displayed himself. He kisses and caresses his way down my body, spending even longer than usual on my breasts and my belly, until he finally lifts my legs, and drapes them over his shoulders.

I've been so wrapped up in him, and enjoying doing this with him again, that it hasn't dawned on me until now, exactly what he's planning to do. . .

He starts slowly lowering his head, and all of a sudden it's too much. I reach out, and stop him.

He looks up at me, totally confused.

"What's wrong, Sassenach?"

I scratch behind my ear, and suddenly can't quite meet his eyes.

"You. . . you, um. . . do you remember when you said I would never get another first time?"

"Aye."

"Well. That wasn't exactly true. Not. . . not in the literal sense. . . Not when you consider all firsts. . ."

He blinks rapidly, several times. "Ye mean. . . no one has evar. . . Evar?"

"No."

"And ye still ken how ta give it?" He scoffs incredulously, "How, Sassenach? How have ye possibly managed ta learn how ta give - and sae well - when ye've never gotten? How? An' - more important, maybe - why? Good god, why?"

"Well. . . well. . . I. . ." a fierce, almost painful blush comes up on my cheeks and neck, "I like giving it, Jamie. I like it, for me. It's a bit weird, I know, but. . . I do. I've never given it when someone asked me to, you know. Only when I've offered. And even that only happened twice before you. Neither man offered back, that's all. I. . . I just. . . I didn't think most men liked. . ."

I trail off as he throws his head back and laughs, so long and so heartily that my embarrassment actually starts to fade. At last, he calms, and snuggles his cheek against the inside of my knee, "D'ye ken what we call men who say they like women, but dinna like pleasing them?"

"What?"

"Boys."

I blink.

"I dinna ken what sort of man ye usedta date, Sorcha, but clearly none have evar served ye properly, if ye think doin' something wi' them that ye like – for yerself, for him, for ye both, or for its own sake – is in any way weird. It isnae. If ye have privacy, consent an' safety, that's normal. An' whatever hangups any of them had about pleasuring ye, let me reassure ye right now – t'was no' about you. Evar."

I look at him, somewhat dubiously, "Ever?"

"Aye."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because a man refusing his partner pleasure is nae moor than a bragging tactic, mo ghràidh. Meant for other immature men. Boys showing off ta each other, tryin' tae prove they own a playground that no one can own, because it's state property. It's empty, pointless posturing – nothin' about their partner at all."

My mind whirls. Academically, I know he's right, but here and now, logic has no place in me. . .

"But. . . but. . . wouldn't you prefer. . ."

He laughs again, "Prefer? Aye! I have all sorts of preferences Sassenach! Ye've already discovered a few, surely ye must ken that? But foremost among them is - I prefer ye! Any way I can get ye." His eyes blaze with fervent intent, "Tanight, I dinna have time ta waste on preferences. I mean ta serve ye properly, and well, an' verrah, verrah thoroughly." His voice lowers to a sweet, vibrating rumble, "An' I will no' have ye too sore for me ta do it all over again tamorrow morning. All of it. Ye ken?"

I open my mouth to reply, but I am too overwhelmed, so I say nothing. I fall back against the pillows, too stunned to even think properly, my mind hazy with passion, and love, and a very strange but incredibly intoxicating lust that I am scrambling to try and understand. . .

Somehow, not only am I furious that no one has loved me like this before, and simultaneously enraged at the mere thought of anyone else ever touching me like this again, I am also desperately, almost unimaginably hungry for him, and viciously frustrated at myself for not realizing before just how deeply, truly I have always wanted this. . .

He takes in my speechlessness, and only smirks. All at once, our safe, adventuring, playful space is back in the ascendant, and everything - everything - is alright.

"Aye, that's right," he purrs richly, almost smugly, "Lay back an' let me care for ye, Sorcha. Let me show ye how a real man loves his woman. . ."

His hands slide up my thighs, and he lowers his head again. I am in no state to protest this time. . .

He nuzzles his face just below my belly button, and murmurs into my skin, "Ye c'n try tae keep track if ye like, Sassenach. But I warn ye now. . . I mean tae make ye forget yer own name. . ."

I can only whimper helplessly, nod, and grab his curls, in a desperate attempt to keep the barest hold on my sanity. . .

I lose count at nine.