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Leoch
Jamie would watch her as she left the stables. He liked to see her walk away, her bottom round and shapely, even under her pleated and padded skirts. Some days he would stare so long that Auld Alec would come and shout at him to work. It was a command that would make Jamie laugh, Claire already gone from his sight on her way back to the keep.
But there would be another time. She would come another day, and then he could watch her leave again.
Mackenzie Lands
He saw the way she looked at him the night that Dougal tore away his sark. It was not pity that had been in her eyes, but anger. It was anger at Dougal for exposing him so, but no pity.
That night Jamie saw her at the campfire, glancing toward him as if she wished to speak. Claire knew the story of the scars he bore, but it did not change the way that she looked at him. That alone was worth more than he could ever find words for, and he was a talented man with words.
When she did approach, he had been taciturn at best, some part of him never wanted to draw her further into things she should not have a part of.
Leoch
When she washed, the water would glisten on her skin. It looked like the pearls he had given her on their wedding night, and Jamie wanted to drink each drop. He would have dried her with his body had she let him, but she did not, insisting that she had her surgery to go to.
Some mornings that was enough of a deterrent. Others it was not, and he would catch her with his hand, pulling her against him. Claire would laugh, and insist that he still stunk from the hunt, or the stables. But it was always be a feeble protest, abandoned as soon as his mouth was upon hers. He could taste the lavender that she bathed in upon her skin as he laid her on the bed. That was the shine of the pearls, as sweet as she was.
When they were done, Claire would poke him in the belly, telling him that she needed to bathe again and so did he. But Jamie would pull her close, curling his fingers in his hair and kiss her again. Those days she was late to her surgery, but there was never a complaint.
Leoch
Terror as he’d never thought possible gripped him when he saw the crowd about his wife and Geilis. Jamie rode unheeding through the crowd, waiting until he was close to throw the jet beads about her neck. He knew she was no witch, but he also knew her other secrets, and that she could tell tales that would see her killed a dozen times.
He did not breathe, even when he had her on the horse. It took distance, a great distance between them and the town below Leoch before he could rest. But he would not sleep well for weeks, every time seeing the strike of the lash on her skin, and knowing that had he been any later she would be lost to him forever.
Lallybroch
Finding her in the kitchen with Jenny was his favourite thing; grinding her herbs with the mortar and pestle, or helping with their dinner. He would see her laughing, flour smudged on her cheek and curls escaping her plait to frame her face. Those unruly curls that he loved so and she found insufferable. She tried to tame them in vain, pulling them into a plait or a tie but never managied to subdue.
Her hair escaped her, as she sometimes escaped him, unwilling to listen to him as a wife should. But Jamie knew as he watched her that he would not want to subdue her any more than he would Jenny. Claire was strong and clever, and could manage herself. At least he never wanted it when she was seeing sense and not putting herself in danger.
She and Jenny would talk or laugh. A babe or child would be somewhere about, sleeping or helping, and Jamie would think of their own child. One day it would be Claire with a wean at her breast and a child at her knee. His child. A boy with burning red hair like his that had her curl, or a raven-headed boy with bright blue eyes. He found he did not care, only that they had children who were healthy and bonny.
Jenny would often notice him first, but smile and leave him be. Claire would feel the weight of his eyes moments later, and if not wee Jamie would fly at him, wrapping chubby arms about his legs.
When she saw him she would straighten, pushing a stray curl behind her ear, or wiping away some blotch. He knew how she felt, as he did the same. Jamie would straighten his sark, or fix the way that his plaid fell before realising that he did it.
Ste. Anne de Beaupre
Weeks passed before he was himself again. His hand still ached with each moment, but the pain no longer dragged him into the dark places it once had. It was but another wound that he had earned in battle. It did not mean that he slept well, for he did not. Her beside him when he woke was the relief that he needed. He would draw her close each time, and each night he would sleep longer.
A week passed where he barely woke at all, so to wake and find Claire gone was a surprise. Jamie pulled himself from bed, his plaid wrapped about him as he searched the cold halls of the Abbey.
It startled him to find her in the chapel, though he could not say why -- he had heard she spent many a night there. Seeing it was another thing, however. Perpetual adoration was something uniquely Catholic, and though Claire was Jamie knew it was something she did not feel strongly about as strange as that was to him.
Yet he thought that might have changed, watching her attending the altar. It made him smile, candles lighting her face. The glow was warm and she shone like an angel, the curls of her hair glowing as a halo. Jamie watched in peace, saying his own prayer in silence.
When she came back to the room he feigned sleep and stirring, pulling her close. She was there, and she had faith – in him and in God. What more could he want?