Chapter Text
The morning mist clung low over the water, turning the harbor into a world of gray and silver. The ship waited at the end of the pier, sails furled, crew shouting to one another as crates and trunks were loaded aboard. Claire stood beside Murtagh, her cloak pulled tight against the wind. She was taller now, her curls longer, her face sharper with the beginnings of womanhood. Jenny stood beside her, equally changed — confident, composed, her dark hair braided neatly down her back. Jamie, meanwhile, was all elbows and knees and wild red curls, his voice deeper than it had been last year but still cracking at the worst moments. He tried to look composed, but his stomach lurched every time he glanced at the rolling water. He didn’t know why. Not yet. Brian Fraser stood at the foot of the gangplank, arms crossed, eyes warm but shadowed. Mr. Murray stood beside him, a hand on young Ian’s shoulder. Ian — sixteen, steady, quiet, already carrying himself like the man he would become — grinned when he saw Jamie. “Ready for France, then?” Ian asked. Jamie swallowed hard, trying not to look at the waves. “Aye. Of course.” Ian smirked. “Ye look green already.” Jamie elbowed him. “Do not.” Claire hid a smile. Brian pulled Murtagh aside, lowering his voice. “Murtagh, I’m trustin’ ye wi’ the most precious things I have in this world.” Murtagh grunted. “Aye, I ken that.”
“Keep them safe,” Brian said, voice thickening. “Keep them out of trouble. And keep them away from politics. France is full of it.” Murtagh snorted. “So is Scotland.” Brian ignored that. “And for God’s sake, keep the lads from drinkin’ too much wine.” Murtagh raised a brow. “I’ll do my best. But ye ken Jamie — he’ll find trouble even in a church.” Brian sighed. “Aye. That’s what worries me.” While the men spoke, Jamie found himself watching Claire. Really watching her. She was laughing at something Jenny said, her curls blowing in the wind, her cheeks flushed with excitement. She looked older. Different. Beautiful in a way he didn’t have words for yet. His stomach flipped — and not from the waves. He didn’t understand the feeling. He only knew he’d never felt it before. Claire turned and caught him staring. Jamie jerked his gaze away so fast he nearly tripped over a coil of rope. Jenny snorted. “Smooth, brother.” Jamie glared at her. “Shut it.” But his ears were red. Brian pulled Jamie into a fierce hug. “Mind Murtagh. Mind yerself. And dinna try to impress anyone by bein’ reckless.” Jamie mumbled into his father’s shoulder, “I willna’.” Brian kissed the top of his head — something he hadn’t done in years — and Jamie stiffened, embarrassed, but didn’t pull away. Mr. Murray hugged Jenny and Claire both, then clapped Ian on the back. “Look after them, lad.” Ian nodded. “Aye, Da.” Claire stepped forward to Brian. “Thank you… for everything.” Brian cupped her cheek gently. “Ye’re family, Claire. Always.” Her throat tightened.
As the final crates were loaded, the ship rocked gently with the tide. Jamie swayed. His stomach lurched. He grabbed the railing, face going pale. Claire blinked. “Jamie? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he said through clenched teeth. Ian laughed. “Ye’re seasick already and we’ve no’ even left the dock.” Jamie glared at him. “I am NOT seasick.” He absolutely was. Claire stepped closer, concern softening her features. “Jamie… breathe.” He did. Slowly. Her presence steadied him more than the railing did. Murtagh called out, “Come on, ye lot! On board!” Jenny hugged her father one last time. Ian shook his father’s hand. Claire squeezed Brian’s hand, then followed the others up the gangplank. Jamie paused halfway up, turning back to look at his father. Brian raised a hand. Jamie raised his in return. Then he followed Claire onto the ship. The ropes were cast off. The sails unfurled. The wind caught. And the ship began to move. Jamie’s stomach flipped again — but this time, he wasn’t sure if it was the sea…or Claire. The ship hadn’t even cleared the harbor before Jamie realized something was terribly, horribly wrong. The deck swayed. The horizon tilted. His stomach lurched like it was trying to escape his body. He gripped the railing with white knuckles, breathing hard through his nose. Ian clapped him on the back. “Ye’re lookin’ a bit peaky, Jamie.” Jamie glared at him, though it lacked any real heat. “I’m fine.” He was absolutely not fine.
Claire, who had been watching him from a few feet away, stepped closer. Her curls whipped around her face in the wind, her eyes full of concern. “Jamie… you’re green.”
“I am not,” he muttered, swallowing hard. Another wave hit the hull. Jamie swayed. His stomach rolled. Claire reached out and steadied him with a hand on his arm. “Come away from the railing,” she said gently. “Before you fall in.” Jamie let her guide him toward a quieter corner of the deck, away from the spray and the shouting sailors. He sank onto a coil of rope, elbows on his knees, head hanging. “I dinna ken what’s wrong wi’ me,” he groaned. “I feel like my insides are churnin’ like butter.” Claire knelt beside him. “You’re seasick.” Jamie lifted his head just enough to glare weakly. “I’ve no’ been on a ship before. How can I be sick already?” Claire smiled softly. “Some people are just sensitive to motion. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Jamie groaned again, burying his face in his hands. “Ian’s never goin’ tae let me live this down.” Claire brushed a curl off his forehead. “Ian teases everyone. Ignore him.” Jamie peeked at her through his fingers. “Easy for you tae say. Ye’re no’ dyin’.”
“You’re not dying,” she said, amused. “You’re seasick.”
“Feels the same.” Claire laughed — warm, soft, familiar — and Jamie felt something flutter in his chest that had nothing to do with the waves. She reached into her satchel and pulled out a small cloth pouch. “I thought this might happen,” she said. “Mrs. Fitz taught me a remedy.” Jamie blinked. “Ye… brought something for me?” Claire shrugged, cheeks pink from the wind. “Well… I know you. And I know you get sick easily.” Jamie’s ears went red. She opened the pouch and handed him a piece of candied ginger. “Chew this. Slowly.” Jamie obeyed, grimacing at the sharp taste — but within a minute, the nausea eased just enough for him to breathe. Claire sat beside him on the rope coil, shoulder pressed lightly to his. “Better?” she asked.
“Aye,” he murmured. “A bit.” Another wave rocked the ship. Jamie swayed — and Claire steadied him again without hesitation. He leaned into her touch before he could stop himself. Claire didn’t pull away. Jamie swallowed hard, heart thudding. “Thank ye, Sassenach,” he whispered. Claire smiled. “Always.” Jamie looked at her — really looked — and felt that strange flutter again. He didn’t understand it. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty: He was glad she was here.
The Channel was rough. Not storm‑rough, but enough that the ship pitched and rolled like a restless animal. Most of the passengers had found their sea legs by midday. Jamie Fraser had not. He was curled on the floor of the tiny cabin he shared with Ian and Murtagh, one arm wrapped around a bucket, the other braced against the boards as if the ship might toss him straight into the sea. Claire knelt beside him, her skirts tucked up, her hair tied back, her face full of determined sympathy. “Jamie,” she said gently, “you have to sip this.” Jamie groaned into the bucket. “I canna. I’ll die.”
“You’re not dying,” Claire said, though she sounded unconvinced after the last hour. “You’re seasick.” Jamie lifted his head just enough to glare at her. “Feels like death.” Then he retched again. Claire winced in sympathy and rubbed his back in slow, steady circles. “I know. I know. Just breathe.” Jamie’s ears burned with humiliation. “Ye shouldna be in here. It’s… it’s awful.” Claire ignored that completely. “Drink.” She pressed a cup of peppermint and ginger tea into his shaking hands. Jamie tried. The ship rolled. He gagged. Claire caught the cup before it spilled. “Right,” she murmured, thinking. “Let’s try something else.” She rummaged through her satchel, pulling out dried herbs, a small jar of honey, a cloth soaked in lavender water. Jamie watched her through bleary eyes, half‑convinced she was some kind of angel and half‑convinced she was trying to torture him. She pressed the cool cloth to his forehead. Jamie sighed — a long, miserable sound — and let his head fall into her lap. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t even realize he’d done it until Claire froze.
Then her fingers slid into his curls, brushing them back from his sweaty forehead, gentle and sure. Jamie melted. Not romantically — he was too sick for that — but with the bone‑deep relief of someone who had been fighting his own body for hours and finally found something steady to hold onto. Claire stroked his hair, humming under her breath, the way Mrs. Fitz used to hum in the kitchens. “Better?” she whispered. Jamie mumbled something that might have been “aye” or might have been “kill me now.” Claire smiled softly. “You’re doing fine.” He wasn’t. But she said it anyway. Minutes passed. Then an hour. Jamie drifted in and out of sleep, his cheek warm against her thigh, her fingers combing through his curls whenever the ship rocked too sharply. The cabin door banged open. Murtagh stomped inside, muttering about fools and French sailors and the price of apples in foreign ports. Then he stopped dead.
Claire sat on the floor, back against the bunk, skirts spread around her, Jamie’s head in her lap, her fingers moving gently through his hair. The bucket sat inches away, still half‑full of Jamie’s misery. Jamie was dead asleep. Claire looked up, cheeks pink but chin lifted. “He finally settled.” Murtagh stared at them for a long moment. Then he sighed — long, deep, resigned. “Och, lass,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “I leave ye two alone for half a day and ye’ve turned the lad into a bairn again.” Claire bristled. “He’s sick.”
“Aye,” Murtagh said, “and ye’re the only thing keepin’ him from throwin’ himself overboard.” He stepped inside, quieter now, softer than he’d ever admit. “Ye’ve done well, Claire.” She looked down at Jamie — pale, exhausted, but finally peaceful. “I wasn’t going to leave him,” she said simply. Murtagh nodded. “Aye. I ken that.” He pulled a blanket from the bunk and draped it over Jamie’s shoulders, careful not to wake him. Then he looked at Claire — really looked — and something like pride flickered in his eyes. “Rest while ye can, lass. France is still a day away.” Claire nodded, leaning her head back against the bunk, her fingers still tangled in Jamie’s curls. Murtagh closed the door behind him.
The ship groaned as it finally bumped against the dock. Sailors shouted, ropes were thrown, gulls screamed overhead — and Jamie Fraser practically leapt off the gangplank the moment Murtagh allowed it. He hit the solid planks of the pier with both feet, swayed once, then threw his arms wide like he’d just been reborn. “Saints preserve us,” he declared loudly, “I’ll never leave France. I’m movin’ here. Ye’ll never get me on that floatin’ bucket o’ shite again.” Ian burst out laughing. Jenny snorted so hard she nearly choked. Claire covered her mouth, trying not to grin. Murtagh muttered, “Dramatic wee gobshite,” but even he was smiling. Jamie, still pale and wobbly, planted his hands on his hips like a conquering hero. “I mean it. I’m stayin’. France is my home now.” Jenny raised a brow. “Weel, I guess ye can go ahead and say goodbye tae Claire now then.” Jamie froze. Jenny continued sweetly, “Because she loves Scotland too much tae abandon us for France.”
Jamie’s ears went scarlet. He ducked his head, suddenly fascinated by the boards beneath his feet. “I— I didna say I was leavin’ everyone,” he mumbled. “Just the ship.” Claire stepped forward, her smile soft but sure. “I’d follow Jamie anywhere.” Jamie’s head snapped up. Claire added, with a teasing tilt of her head, “But maybe not just yet. I am partial to Scotland.” Jamie’s blush deepened — not the embarrassed, seasick flush from before, but something warmer, something he didn’t have a name for yet. His stomach fluttered, and for once it had nothing to do with the waves. Ian elbowed him. “Ye hear that? She’d follow ye anywhere.” Jamie shoved him back, mortified. “Shut it, Ian.” But he couldn’t stop the small, stunned smile tugging at his mouth. Claire saw it. And she smiled too.
The wind carried the scent of salt and foreign spices. The docks bustled with merchants shouting in French, sailors unloading crates, and horses stamping impatiently. Jenny looped her arm through Claire’s. “Come on. Let’s see what France looks like when ye’re no’ green and dyin’.” Claire laughed. “I’m not the one who was dying.” Behind them, Jamie muttered, “I wasna dyin’. Just… sufferin’.” Murtagh clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Aye, lad. And ye’ll suffer again on the way home.” Jamie paled instantly. Claire squeezed his hand — just once, quick and warm. Jamie straightened, trying to look brave. France stretched out before them — bright, loud, unfamiliar. And Jamie Fraser, fourteen and newly aware of the girl beside him, stepped forward into it with his heart thudding like a drum.
La Rochelle was nothing like Scotland. The air smelled of salt, spices, and baking bread. The streets were narrow and bright, lined with stalls selling everything from silk ribbons to strange fruits Claire had never seen. People shouted in French, laughed in French, bargained in French — and the children were instantly swept up in it. Murtagh was not. He planted his hands on his hips, scowling at the bustling street. “Right. Stay close. Dinna wander. Dinna touch anythin’. Dinna—” But he was talking to empty air. Jenny and Claire had already drifted toward a stall selling bright blue glass bottles, their eyes wide. Jamie and Ian had veered the opposite direction, noses lifted like hounds catching a scent. Murtagh groaned. “Saints preserve me.” Claire tugged Jenny toward a stall overflowing with colorful scarves. “Regardez!” Claire said proudly, pointing. “C’est… très joli!” Jenny blinked. “What did ye just say?” Claire grinned. “It’s very pretty. Jenny tried it. “Tray… jolly?” The Frenchwoman behind the stall beamed. “Très joli, oui!” Jenny lit up. “Aye! That’s what I said!” Claire laughed, linking arms with her. They moved from stall to stall, trying out their French on anyone who would listen.
“Bonjour!”
“Merci!”
“Combien?”
They butchered half of it, but the locals seemed charmed anyway. Meanwhile, Jamie and Ian had found paradise. A baker stood behind a cart piled high with warm pastries, steam rising from them like a siren call. Jamie pointed. “What’s that?” Ian shrugged. “Dinna ken. But it smells like heaven.” The baker smiled. “Pain au chocolat.” Jamie blinked. “Pain? It’s made of pain?” Ian snorted. “If that’s pain, I’ll take two.” They each bought one, biting in at the same time. Jamie’s eyes rolled back in bliss. “Claire has tae try this.” Ian elbowed him. “Aye, ye want her tae try everythin’ ye like now.” Jamie flushed. “Shut it.” Murtagh finally caught up to the girls. “Ye two! I said stay close!” Jenny waved him off. “We are close.”
“Close tae what?” Murtagh snapped. “Ye’re half a mile from where I left ye!” Claire pointed at a stall of carved wooden animals. “Look, Murtagh! Un cheval!” The vendor clapped. “Très bien!” Murtagh pinched the bridge of his nose. “God give me strength.” Then Jamie and Ian reappeared, crumbs on their shirts, chocolate on Jamie’s mouth. Murtagh stared at them. “What did ye eat?” Jamie wiped his face with his sleeve. “Pain au chocolat.” Murtagh blinked. “Ye ate pain?” Ian burst out laughing. They walked together then — Claire and Jenny pointing at everything, Jamie and Ian trying every food they passed, Murtagh muttering threats in Gaelic but unable to hide the small smile tugging at his beard. Claire breathed in deeply, her heart swelling. “France is… beautiful,” she whispered. Jamie looked at her — really looked — and felt that flutter again. “Aye,” he said softly. “It is.” Jenny elbowed him. “Ye’re lookin’ at Claire, not France.” Jamie nearly tripped over a crate. Claire blushed, but smiled. And Murtagh, trailing behind them, shook his head. “God help me,” he muttered. “This trip’s goin’ tae kill me.” But he was smiling too.
Paris was louder than La Rochelle, brighter, more crowded, more everything. By the time Murtagh herded the four of them through the winding streets toward the wealthy merchant district, the children were buzzing with excitement. Then they turned a corner. And Jared’s townhouse rose before them — tall, elegant, with carved stonework and iron balconies overflowing with flowers. Claire stopped in her tracks. “Oh… it’s beautiful.” Jenny let out a low whistle. “This is where we’re stayin’? Saints.” Jamie stared up at the façade, mouth slightly open, curls blowing in the breeze. “It’s bigger than Lallybroch.” Ian elbowed him. “Everything’s bigger than Lallybroch.” Jamie shoved him back, but he didn’t take his eyes off the house. Murtagh, meanwhile, looked like he was calculating how many ways the children could get into trouble inside it.
Before Murtagh could knock, the door swung open. Jared Fraser — tall, broad‑shouldered, impeccably dressed — beamed at them. “Jamie! Claire! Jenny! Ian! And Murtagh, ye old goat — get inside before ye let the whole street in!” Jamie lit up. “Cousin Jared!” Jared swept him into a hug, then pulled back to look him over. “Saints, lad, ye’ve grown. All legs and elbows.” Jamie flushed. “Aye, weel…” Jared turned to Claire next, his expression softening. “And you, my dear — Paris suits ye already.” Claire blushed, dipping her head. “Thank you, Jared.” Jenny stepped forward with a grin. “And what about me?” Jared laughed. “Ye look like ye’re about to take over the entire city.” Jenny preened. “Aye, weel, someone has tae.” Ian snorted. “God help Paris.”
The entry hall was grand — marble floors, tall windows, tapestries, servants bustling everywhere. Claire and Jenny spun slowly, taking it all in. Jamie and Ian were less subtle.
“Look at that!”
“Is that real gold?”
“Jamie, dinna touch that!”
“I’m no’ touchin’ it, I’m just lookin’!”
Murtagh pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear tae God, if one of ye breaks somethin’, I’ll throw ye in the Seine myself.” Jared clapped him on the back. “Och, let them look. They’re bairns. And they’re Frasers — they’ll behave.” Murtagh muttered, “That’s what I’m afraid of.” A maid passed carrying a tray of fruit. Claire brightened. “Bonjour!” The maid smiled. “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” Jenny tried next. “Merci beaucoup!” The maid nodded approvingly. Jamie puffed up, eager to join in. “Uh… bonjour?” Ian snickered. “Ye sound like ye’re coughin’ up a hairball.” Jamie elbowed him. “Shut it, Ian.” Claire giggled. “You just need to relax, Jamie. Your French is beautiful.” Jamie’s ears went pink — but he smiled. Jared led them into a sitting room filled with sunlight and velvet cushions. “Ye’ll stay here as long as ye like,” he said warmly. “Paris is yours to explore — within reason.” Murtagh shot him a look. “Define reason.” Jared grinned. “Whatever keeps ye from wringin’ their necks.” Claire laughed. Jenny smirked. Ian looked delighted. Jamie, still pale from the journey but glowing with excitement, leaned close to Claire. “This is goin’ tae be brilliant,” he whispered. Claire nodded, eyes shining. “Aye. It already is.” And for the first time since leaving Scotland, Jamie felt steady on his feet. Not because the ground wasn’t moving. But because Claire was beside him.
Jared’s dining room glowed with candlelight, the long table set with polished silver and delicate porcelain. Servants moved quietly around them, carrying platters of roasted duck, bowls of glazed carrots, baskets of warm bread. Claire inhaled deeply. “It smells incredible.” Jenny nodded, eyes wide. “I’ve never seen a table like this.” Jamie swallowed hard — partly from nerves, partly from hunger. “I could eat a horse.” Ian smirked. “Ye nearly did at lunch.” Jamie elbowed him under the table. A maid approached with a basket of bread. Claire straightened, eager. “Bonsoir,” she said, her accent careful but soft. The maid smiled warmly. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” Jenny tried next. “Merci beaucoup.”
“Très bien,” the maid praised. Jamie puffed up, determined not to be left behind. “Bonsoir.” The maid nodded approvingly. “Très bien, monsieur.” Jamie lit up like someone had handed him a medal. Claire’s heart did a strange little flip. As the meal went on, Jamie grew bolder. When a footman poured wine, Jamie said, “Merci.” Perfectly. When another servant offered more duck, Jamie said, “Oui, s’il vous plaît.” Claire blinked. That was… actually very good. Jenny noticed too. “Where did ye learn tae say it like that?” Jamie shrugged, cheeks pink. “I listened. And Jared corrected me earlier.” Claire smiled at him — warm, proud, impressed. Jamie’s ears went red. He tried again when dessert arrived. “C’est… délicieux.” Claire nearly dropped her spoon. “Jamie,” she whispered, “your French is lovely.” Jamie froze. Lovely. She’d said lovely. His heart thudded so hard he was sure the entire table could hear it.
Claire leaned closer, her curls brushing his shoulder. “Say something else.” Jamie’s brain emptied completely. “Uh… je… je suis… très… uh…” Ian snorted. “He’s broken.” Jenny smirked. “Claire, ye’ve melted his brain.” Jamie glared at all of them, mortified. “I’m fine.” Claire giggled — soft, delighted — and Jamie felt that flutter again, the one he didn’t understand but couldn’t ignore. He tried again, quietly, just for her. “Je suis… content.” Claire’s smile softened. “I’m glad you’re happy.” Jamie swallowed. “Aye. I am.” At the head of the table, Murtagh watched the three of them — Claire glowing, Jenny laughing, Jamie turning red every five minutes — and muttered into his wine: “God help me. France is goin’ tae be a long trip.” Jared clapped him on the back. “Och, let them enjoy it. They’re young.”
“Aye,” Murtagh grumbled. “That’s what worries me.” But even he couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his beard. By the time dessert plates were cleared, Claire was glowing, Jenny was practicing French verbs with the footman, Ian was teasing Jamie mercilessly, and Jamie…Jamie was watching Claire. Noticing the way she laughed. The way she leaned toward him. The way she said his name in French — Clairrrre — rolling the R just to make him blush. He didn’t understand what he was feeling. But he knew one thing: He wanted more dinners like this. More nights like this. More time with her.
Jamie woke before the sun — not because he meant to, but because the townhouse was already alive with the sounds of Paris waking. Carriages rattled outside, vendors shouted in the street, and somewhere downstairs, pots clanged in the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, and wandered toward the parlor, thinking maybe he’d find Ian or Jenny. Instead, he heard Claire. And she sounded… determined. “…please, Murtagh, I have to go. There’s an apothecary on Rue des Rosiers and I’ve been dreaming about it since we arrived.” Jamie froze in the doorway, unseen. Murtagh groaned. “Lass, ye canna go wanderin’ Paris alone.”
“I wouldn’t be alone,” Claire insisted. “Jenny can come with me.”
“Two lasses alone in Paris?” Murtagh snorted. “No thank ye. I’d rather wrestle a boar.” Claire huffed — that sharp, indignant little sound she made when someone underestimated her. “Girls are very capable creatures when given the opportunity.” Jamie snorted a laugh before he could stop himself. Both heads whipped toward him. Claire’s face lit up. “Jamie!” He blinked, suddenly aware he was standing there in his rumpled shirt, curls sticking up in every direction. Claire pointed at him triumphantly. “Jamie is a big lad. He can go with me.” Jamie’s heart stopped. Claire stepped closer, gesturing at his arms. “See? Jamie can protect me.” Jamie’s ears went scarlet. He had never been so aware of his own limbs in his life. “I— well— I mean—” he stammered.
Murtagh barked a laugh. “Aye, he’s big enough. But the lad’ll be too worrit about lookin’ at you tae see trouble comin’.” Jamie’s blush deepened to a dangerous shade. Claire didn’t miss a beat. “Jamie will keep me safe,” she said firmly. “He always does.” Jamie’s breath caught. Always. He swallowed hard, trying to look composed and failing spectacularly. “I… aye,” he managed. “I will.” Claire smiled at him — warm, trusting, proud. Jamie felt ten feet tall. Murtagh threw his hands up. “Fine! Fine. The lad can go. But ye stay together. And ye come straight back. And if either of ye so much as look at a dark alley—” Claire beamed. “Thank you, Murtagh!” Jamie tried to look brave. “Aye. We’ll be careful.” Murtagh muttered something in Gaelic that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience. But Jamie barely heard him. Claire had chosen him. And as she looped her arm through his and tugged him toward the door, Jamie thought — with a dizzy, fluttering certainty —He’d follow her anywhere.
Claire had disappeared upstairs with a determined, “I have to change before we leave,” leaving Jamie and Murtagh in the parlor. Jamie had gone to change too — tugging on his cleanest shirt, smoothing his curls, trying to look older than fourteen. He was still fussing with the cuffs when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Light. Measured. Soft as a heartbeat. Jamie turned. And froze. Claire descended the staircase like she’d stepped out of a Parisian painting. The dress was red — not the muted, practical red of Scotland, but a deep, rich crimson that shimmered in the morning light. The bodice was fitted, the sleeves elegant, the skirts flowing in a way that made her look older, taller, almost regal. She looked like she belonged in France. Like she belonged anywhere. Jamie’s jaw dropped. He didn’t even try to hide it. His breath left him in one stunned rush. “Claire…” She paused on the last step, smoothing her skirt nervously. “Is it too much? Jared said it was fashionable here.” Jamie shook his head, curls bouncing. “No. It’s… it’s…”
He couldn’t find the word. Claire smiled — soft, shy, pleased. Jenny, who had just entered behind her, smirked. “Ye look like ye’ve been hit wi’ a club, Jamie.” Jamie snapped his mouth shut, cheeks blazing. He’d seen Claire in homespun gowns, in aprons, and in her healer’s smock. But this? This was different. This was Claire as a young woman — confident, elegant, glowing. Jamie swallowed hard, suddenly aware of his too‑long limbs and his shirt that didn’t quite fit across the shoulders anymore. Claire stepped toward him, her eyes bright. “Well? Will I do for the streets of Paris?” Jamie’s voice cracked. “Aye.” He cleared his throat, mortified. “Aye. Ye look… ye look bonnie.” Claire’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you, Jamie.”
Murtagh, who had been watching the entire exchange with the expression of a man aging ten years per minute, snorted loudly. “Christ above. I should’ve kent better than tae let the lass dress like a French duchess. The lad’s no’ goin’ tae see a single bit o’ danger now.” Jamie turned even redder. “I can see danger!”
“Aye,” Murtagh muttered, “but ye’ll be too busy starin’ at Claire tae notice it.” Claire rolled her eyes. “Murtagh, honestly.” But Jamie… Jamie couldn’t deny it. He was staring. He couldn’t help it. Claire stepped closer, her voice soft but sure. “Jamie will keep me safe,” she said, looking straight at him. “I'd never doubt him.” Jamie’s heart thudded so hard he thought it might burst. He straightened, shoulders back, chest lifting with a pride he didn’t know how to hide. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I will.” Claire smiled — warm, trusting, radiant. And Jamie Fraser, fourteen years old and hopelessly undone, thought: I’d walk through fire for her.