The Scottish Prisoner

Could I but lay my head in your lap, lass. Feel your hand on me, and sleep wi' the scent of you in my bed. Christ, Sassenach. I need ye.

Lord that she might be safe. She and my children.

To this point, he could not really have said that he loved William. Feel the terror of responsibility for him, yes. Carry thought of him like a gem in his pocket, certainly, reaching now and then to touch it, marveling. But now he felt the perfection of the tiny bones of William’s spine through his clothes, smooth as marbles under his fingers, smelled the scent of him, rich with the incense of innocence and the faint tang of shit and clean linen. And thought his heart would break with love.

He touched the rough crucifix that lay against his chest and whispered to the moving air, "Lord, that she might be safe, she and my children." Then turned his cheek to her reaching hand and touched her throught the veils of time.

I would not piss on him was he burning in the flames of hell," Grey said politely. One of Hal's brows flicked upward, but only momentarily. "Just so," he said dryly. "The question, though, is whether Fraser might be inclined to perform a similar service for you." Grey placed his cup carefully in the center of the desk. "Only if he thought I might drown," he said, and went out.

I heard you went to Ireland...I haven't seen it in many years. Is it still green then, and beautiful? Wet as a bath sponge and mud to the knees but, aye, it was green enough.

You could tell from the books whether a library was meant for show or not. Books that were used had an open, interested feel to them, even if closed and neatly lined up on a shelf in strict order with their fellows. You felt as though the book took as much interest in you as you did in it and was willing to help when you reached for it.

Jamie felt a strong desire to go across and see what the open books were, to go to the shelves and run his knuckles gently over the leather and wood and buckrum of the bindings until a book should speak to him and come willingly into his hand.

There were some chains you wore because you wanted to.

You felt as though the book took as much interest in you as you did in it and was willing to help when you reached for it.

Soldiers manage by dividing themselves. They're one man in the killing, another at home, and the man that dandles his bairn on his knee has nothing to do wi' the man who crushed his enemy's throat with his boot, so he tells himself, sometimes successfully.

It … wasna a scream of fear, or even anger. It … ehm … well, it was the way a woman will scream, sometimes, if she’s … pleased.” “In bed, you mean.” It wasn’t a question. “So do men. Sometimes.” You idiot! Of all the things you might have said …

Queen's knight," he said quietly. "To queen two." It was, he knew, a dangerous opening.

Fraser nodded casually toward Twelvetrees. “Is there anything ye want me to beat out of him?

Had it really happened, that memory? Or was it only his desire that now and then brought her so vividly to life, in snatched moments that left him desperate with longing but strangely comforted, as though she had in fact touched him briefly?

Still, he was pleased to know that he could recall so much of the play and passed the rest of the journey pleasantly in reciting lines to himself, being careful not to snort.

Books that were used had an open, interested feel to them, even if closed and neatly lined up on a shelf in strict order with their fellows. You felt as though the book took as much interest in you as you did in it and was willing to help when you reached for it.

I'll be setting off just after the Angelus bell- at noon, I mean - should that suit your honors.

I’m glad you’re not dead. Wasn’t sure for a bit.” Hal went out before he could reply. Tears welled in John’s eyes, and he dashed at them with the sleeve of his nightshirt, muttering irritably in a vain attempt to convince himself that he wasn’t moved.

Fraser closed his eyes for an instant, frowning, then opened them again. “I see,” he said, very dry. “So was I to kill him, ye’d be obliged to fight me? And if he killed me, ye’d fight him? And should we kill each other, what then?” “I suppose I’d call a surgeon to dispose of your bodies and then commit suicide,” Grey said, a little testily. “But let us not be rhetorical.

Father to son. And with that thought, all the disconnected, fragmentary, scattered fancies in his brain dropped suddenly into a single, vivid image: Jamie Fraser, seen from the back, looking over the horses in the paddock at Helwater. And beside him, standing on a rail and clinging to a higher one, William, Earl of Ellesmere. The alert cock of their heads, the set of their shoulders, the wide stance—just the same.

He remembered Jamie’s face as they rode in to Helwater, alight as they saw the women on the lawn—with William.

He’d suspected it when he’d found Fraser in the chapel with Geneva Dunsany’s coffin, just before her funeral. But now he knew, beyond doubt. Knew, too, why Fraser did not desire his freedom.

He felt both elated and peaceful, almost valedictory: a strange state of mind to experience in the wake of a funeral. Part of it was Charlie, of course, and the knowledge that he had not failed his dead friend. Beyond that, though, was the knowledge that it lay within his power to do something equally important for the living one. He could keep James Fraser prisoner.

His most intimate keepsake was one that could not be lost or stolen, though. He flexed his left hand, where the thin white line of the letter “C”—carved a little crookedly, but still perfectly legible—showed on the mound at the base of his thumb. The “J” he had left on her would be likewise still visible, he supposed. He hoped.

quite suddenly, Grey knew what to say. “Queen’s knight,” he said quietly. “To queen two.” It was, he knew, a dangerous opening. Fraser didn’t move, but Grey felt his sideways glance. After an instant’s hesitation, he replied, “King’s knight to bishop two,” and Grey felt his heart lighten. It was the answer to the Torremolinos Gambit, the one he had used on that far-off, disastrous evening at Ardsmuir, when he had first laid his hand on Jamie Fraser’s.

No,” he repeated, more sharply. “Of course I did not kill Gerald Siverly. What kind of flapdoodle is that?” Grey thought briefly of inquiring whether there was more than one sort of flapdoodle and, if so, what the categories might be, but thought better of it and ignored the question as rhetorical.

He hadn’t seen—or heard from—Grey since that day. Had the man been nursing a grudge all this time and finally decided to put paid to Jamie Fraser’s account, once and for all? It was the most likely explanation—and unforgivable things had been said on both sides. Worse, both of them had meant the things they said, and both of them knew it. No excuse of hot blood speaking—though, in all justice, his own blood had boiled, and …

Put that down, you bloody nit,” Grey said, halting just short of striking range. “What the devil are you doing here?” Twelvetrees straightened up, his expression going from alarm to outrage. “What the devil are you doing here, you infamous fiend?” Fraser laughed, and both Grey and Twelvetrees glared at him. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said mildly, though his broad face still bore a look of amusement. He waved his fingers, in the manner of one urging a small child to go and say hello to an aged relative. “Be going on wi’ your business. Dinna mind me.” Jamie looked around, picked up a small wing chair that Grey had knocked over in his precipitous entry, and sat in it, leaning back with an air of pleased expectation.