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Leather cracked as she flexed the fingers of her right hand. The reassuring weight of the heavy sword laid in her left. She certainly wasn’t left handed, but was taught that way. Thanking her breeches for their flexible nature, she moved her legs back far enough to leave an opening for the blade to rest on the bright orange and red leaves that littered the ground. The colouring of them almost reminded her of… A pile of dirty rags grumbled across her, illuminated by the fire that separated them.
Claire picked up the stone by her boot, and began scraping it against the iron blade. Another grunt resounded through the camp and she let out a long, irritated sigh.
“Is there something you would like to say, Murtagh?”
She already knew his distaste towards their little ‘quest’ of sorts. He never voiced his displeasure, nor his reluctance with his words, but was sure to fill her ears with exasperating Scottish noises of disapproval. Sometimes she wished her sword would just accidentally find a different target one day.
“Nay.”
“We’re almost there.”
“Aye.”
“I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”
“Aye.”
“Are you even listening to me?”
Murtagh answered in the form of a snore, and she rolled her eyes. With a practiced hand, she slipped the blade back into its scabbard. Her lips tugged up at the swift satisfying zing that accompanied the action. She tucked back into her bedroll, her hand never leaving the curved surface of the pommel. Her thumb moved over the groves of the metal, imagining a certain touch still lingered within it.
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
Hooves clopped against the stiff dirt below. The sun beamed down insufferably against the two travelers' exposed skin. Claire was tired, thirsty, and famished. What was meant to be a four day journey had turned into seven, and their supplies were steadily declining. Finishing the last small braid in her hair, she needed a distraction.
“How about a joke?”
“Ye mean other than this quest o’ yers?”
She paused, biting the flesh of her bottom lip and tugging loose a piece. Her mind raced to find any trace of humour past. Most of what she had shared in the past was with a certain man, who was definitely unashamed in his own bawdy humour, while they were tangled up in each other’s arms. And she was definitely not going to repeat those things to his godfather.
“Okay… um, what did the lord say when his squire told him the peasants were revolting?”
Murtagh looked over, expectantly. His brows quirked up in question, and Claire knew he wasn’t going to ask her what?, so she continued with the joke.
“He said aye, they never bath and always stink.”
An awkward moment of silence passed between them while Murtagh cleared his throat. Their default always was silence, but still, this reeked of awkwardness more so than before; the silence was always sort of… companionable. She wanted to scratch her whole body to rid the sensation.
“That was terrible.”
“It wasn’t that terrible.”
She shook her head and bit her cheek to suppress a grin. Murtagh stared straight ahead, stoic on his steed.
“Do you ever smile?”
“Do ye e’er shut yer gob?”
“I’m just trying to have civilised conversation here.” Her hands raised in surrender and she noticed the mirth shining at the corner of his eye, though he’d never admit it.
“Well, when ye say something o’ interest tae me, mebbe I’ll chime in.”
“You know what, I’m never going to shut up now.”
“Uch.”
“So you know of course, Convallaria majalis is quite beneficial in lessening…”
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
Muddied and uncomfortable in sopping clothes, they trudged to the noisy and compact tavern filled with boisterous laughter. Murtagh bent his head to the side, slapping the ear farthest from the ground with his hand. He had hoped to inspire the bog water out of his ears and stop the incessant ringing, but it only seemed that he caused himself more discomfort.
Claire pulled open the small pouch that rested on her hip. There was just barely enough to cover a meal and the fee for lodging. She sighed and gave the coin purse a shake, forcing the precious metals inside to clank against each other.
“Well, one more day Murtagh, what say you?”
“I say ye should steer well clear o’ bogland lass, and I’d do well tae steer clear o’ yer hide once we’re through wi’ all o’ this.”
“You can’t possibly think that was my fault. You’re the one that pushed me in there.”
“No, I was passing ye, tae help the horses o’er the squelching ground and all I did was simply brush past yer shoulder.”
“Well, anyway, we’re both soaked now, so I suggest you have a bath. Wouldn’t want your stench to be even more unbearable than it already is.” Claire jested, and she could have sworn that Murtagh’s lips twitched the tiniest amount under the dense cover of his beard.
“Aye, I’ll go tae the stream while ye go bother the innkeeper about rooms.”
Out of the corner of her eye, a bedraggled woman stared her down, her gaze never wavering. She swallowed at the slight discomfort of such a burning look, and decided to directly confront her about it.
“Can I help you?”
“Och no, it’s what I can do fer ye, lass. Care tae hear yer fortunes?”
“I don’t have much in the way of payment.”
“One copper piece shall do.”
Claire glanced around the tavern, taking in the men gone with drink. Still no sign of Murtagh yet. Surprising, considering the fact that his idea of a proper bath was a short dip into whatever water he could find. She could spare a copper piece. Murtagh need not know. She needed something frivolous to take her mind off her current reality.
“Very well.”
“Let me see yer hand, lass.”
Pulling off the brown leather from her hand, she revealed the shine of silver wrapped around her fourth finger. The other band was hidden on her other hand, molded out of gold; it was the very first thing he had gifted her. Both were promises from a man that left her cold and empty. She tentatively placed the back of her hand into the green-eyed woman’s palm.
“Hmmm.” Her brow furrowed, as she studied the lines of her palm closely. “You ha’ lived a life well-traveled I see, filled tae the brim wi’ adventure.”
Claire’s mouth opened in mock shock. “However, did you guess such a thing?”
“Hush.” The woman’s long finger traced a small line in the centre of Claire’s palm, concern etched into her face. “Strange.”
“What?”
“Your true love will shed his false skin soon, with your help. Has he deceived you perhaps? Given you reason to believe he’s unfaithful?”
“Not once.”
“A gambler then?”
“No.”
“Hmmm. Ye see these two lines here. This one,” she traced the faint line leading towards her fourth finger, just below where her silver ring sat, “it represents fire and passion ye ken. A brilliance from the sun that will surely shine upon ye.” The woman pursed her lips. “But what’s strange here is the line branches, stretching out between yer second and third. It surely means yer lover has been untrue in some way. Perhaps to ye, and even himself. Hiding something about his flaming past?”
“We’re done here. He wouldn’t-”
“Wouldn’t ye like tae hear o’ yer bairns first? Aye, I see many beautiful bairns in yer future, wi’ a man who makes ye truly at home.”
Claire slammed the copper piece onto the wood right next to the fortune teller’s hand, picking up the rest of her ale and downing it. The words of a certain charmer years ago clung to her mind. Barren. “I’ll have no children. Not without-”
She was cut off by the sound of shouts, and fists on flesh. Sure enough, when she swivelled her head across the view of the tavern, there was Murtagh, freshly bathed and pummeling a drunkard.
“The name’s Geillis Duncan, if ye’re inspired tae take up my service again.”
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
The smooth dirt and rolling heather gradually turned into scraggly grass and rough terrain, and Claire’s stamina waned with it. Sure, this was the quickest way to their destination, but certainly the most physically demanding. She slipped more than she would like to admit, and Murtagh caught her elbow with his hand with an “easy lass,” and she righted herself, dusting off herself as if nothing had happened. He had been even more focused on her, ever since his infamous tumble in the tavern last night. Defending her honour against vitriol and acidic tongues, was apparently not good enough reason to smash three chairs and crack a table down the middle. But, alas, Claire had already paid for their meal and board, and they wouldn’t turn away what was keeping them afloat.
She huffed, a curl loose from its constraints bouncing along with her movement. Just one more peak, and they’d be closer to that thing. She could see the jagged rock now from where she was, towering and standing proud. It certainly seemed a proper home for the heartless beast. She let out another yawn, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
“Ye’re clearly tired lass. Why don’t we jes’ make camp fer the night and rest? One more day willnae harm us.” He kicked at a loose rock before him. “Or rather, why don’t we jes’ turn back? It isna too late to change yer mind.”
“No. I have to. We’ve come this far.” She pushed back the lump in her throat and stared at Murtagh straight on. “It’s all I have left.”
Murtagh stopped her with a hand on both shoulders. He squeezed them and his eyes crinkled in comfort towards her.
“Whatever ye wish, I’ll be by yer side. Just take pity on this auld coot. My bones are aching.”
Claire knew Murtagh was perfectly fine, in fact she didn’t think she’d seen him in better shape than these past years chasing around first Jamie and then her as well. He knew she wouldn’t rest for herself though, only if someone else needed it. So she humoured him.
“All right, we camp here tonight. You’ll need to be in your best shape as my pack mule. Can’t have you dragging us down.” She swung the leather sack from her back onto the ground. “But we leave before dawn.”
“Aye.” He doubted very much that she’d be agreeable at such an hour. He’d dodged many a book and candle waking her up at such a godforsaken time.
Claire unbuttoned her brown cloak and set it gingerly on the ground. She opened the leather sack, which contained all her worldly possessions, and began to lay out her bed roll. Her eyes traced the pinpoints of light in the dark sky. Scots, Greeks, and Romans alike danced on the vast backdrop. Epona. Pegasus. Corvus. The star at the very tip of Ursa Major, that Jamie claimed he would rip out of the sky and steal it away for her one day. Her fingers twisted the reassuring weight of the two circlets on her fourth fingers.
She curled up tight in the wool of her tartan, cuddling close to the lingering scent of it. She imagined it was his face she was thinking to that night. She could connect the dots to translate into flesh and bone. That he had earned his place amongst warriors and kings, and was smiling down at her.
“Am I doing the right thing Jamie?”
⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰
It was difficult for Murtagh to wake Claire up before dawn, without being impaled. One comment about her looking like a “melted candlestick” had set her off into a fit of silent rage. Not normally one to withhold her opinions, Murtagh was slightly frightened by the silence, and the withering glares she sent him.
The mountains were foggy that day, moisture clinging heavily to their skin and dampening everything surrounding them. Claire loved the weather, but it certainly was not ideal for the task at hand. She pulled out the miniature looking glass from her bag and inspected her appearance. Oh no, that wouldn’t do. She had an image of herself slaying the dragon, triumphant, curls pinned up out of her way, but still with that bit of something to make her look beautiful, her best fire resistant leather draped around her body, and a severed dragon head held tightly in her hand, and this frazzled state was certainly not close to it.
Claire executed her ablutions that day in an almost reverent manner. To add a little bit of flare, she used the embers of their fire last night to smear black against her lashes and eyelid, like she’d seen many ladies do before. Her hair was woven back in delicate braids and pinned up with small slivers of silver and gold ribbon knitted throughout, her leather breeches and coat had no visible signs of dirt, and she had flipped her cape inside out to show the dust-free dark green side instead of brown. Maybe the false outer confidence would diffuse into her very soul as well, gaining her an advantage over the beast. When she finished, she walked back to where Murtagh was packed and ready to go. He stood, his face dumbstruck with disbelief.
“We’re no’ going tae see the feckin’ king lass.”
“This may be the day we die, Murtagh. I would want to look my best if I’m seeing Jamie again.”
“Women, ye can never understand them.” He mumbled, shaking his head.
“Are you really going to the afterlife looking like that Murtagh?” She looked from head to toe to head again, taking in the dishevelled rags he claimed were clothes, and the underlying mysterious odour he somehow always carried with him.
“Aye, and I look a great deal prettier than ye. All this preening like a peacock and fer what?”
“If you want help, all you need do is ask.” Claire pushed against the sluggish feeling in her muscles to secure her sword to her hip and strap a dagger to her thigh. “We should reach the beast’s rumoured nest within six hours, if luck is on our side.”
“Well we clearly dinna ha’ that jes’ right now. I canna even see myself pish in this dreich day.”
Claire took a hearty swig from the wineskin and offered it to Murtagh. She patted herself, ensuring everything was in order. Sword, dagger, a very important vial from one Maître Raymond, though not as important as the whisky in her mind, and the small pouch of medicines tucked expertly away into one of her pockets. The pearls, the sharp ivory of boar tusks, and a sgian dubh expertly tucked away. All of their things gathered, they were prepared for what the day had in store for them. Or at least that’s what they thought.
An hour later, they reached the top of one of the smaller hills surrounding the tall peak of their destination. Claire didn’t notice the body before it was too late, and her boot toed against the burnt remains. She stumbled, face to face with the weathered skin. Her body began to repel such a sight, and shivers racked her body. All she could do was hover over the man and stare until Murtagh pulled her away.
Is this what Jamie looked like, when he met his end? Completely terrorised and his flesh retreating into itself in an attempt to escape the heat. Or worse, would she find his body amongst the ones she found, and have to carry a dragon’s head in one hand, while the other dragged her dead husband home? She tamped down the bile that rose up in her throat and the sting of tears, and brushed off her pants, though there was not a spot of dirt to be found on them. Standing up, she placed her hands down on her thighs for support and took deep breaths. Murtagh looked over to her, concern etched into his face, but she tried to nip it in the bud.
“I’m fine, Murtagh.”
Detaching herself from the morbid scene in front of her, she finally took all of it in. A tapestry lay between two of the men, who had its material clutched in their bony fingers, as if they were fighting over it when their sheer panic kicked in. The tapestry seemed mostly unharmed, no scorch marks or burnt off edges, save for tears where the men had clearly manhandled it. She reached towards the material, but hissed as her hand recoiled from the sting of it.
“There must be some sort of spell or hex on it. I’m not able to touch it but clearly these men thought it would save them.” She nodded at the two men, noticing a gleam from one of their fingers.
She squatted near his hand, inspecting the ring on his right pinky finger. It was a fine gold, with intricate designs etched into its small surface. The only thing Claire could really read out in that moment were the initials BJR. The other man had a twin ring, she noticed, but with different etchings on it. FWR. Could they have been brothers? The crest in the background was the same little sparrows dotting the edge on both.
“The monster shouldn’t be out this far.” She mumbled more to herself than to elicit an answer from her companion, but still he replied.
“It could be anywhere in this boggin’ place. Lass we should bide elsewhere fer now. There’s no way we can pull this off wi’ the weather the way it is now. I’d bargain the wee bastard has an advantage o’er us, probably hiding out behind one o’ these rocks.”
His head nodded towards the jagged rock that reminded her of talons emerging from the earth. They looked even more imposing under the thick choking fog; it had to be more than two hundred metres at least.
Claire’s knuckles whitened as she gripped the hilt of her sword. The blood thrummed through her body at a rapid pace, reminding her of her time watching hummingbirds beat their small wings, hovering. That’s what those few moments were, stationary, hovering just on the edge of conscious thought, before all hell broke loose.
The bright red tail whipped through the dense grey surrounding it, a harbinger for the fiery death that was to come. An earth-shattering roar shook her to her very core. They were supposed to have time to formulate more of a plan, maybe throw Murtagh in as bait while Claire went for the beast’s throat, but they had miscalculated.
“Run!” She screamed and dashed across the loose rocks on the ground.
Murtagh followed swiftly behind her, no specific destination in their minds until Claire spotted the triangular outcropping of rock where the stones had leaned against each other. The opening was just barely large enough to squeeze herself and then Murtagh through. They sat gasping under the small protection the rocks provided, exhausted from the full-out sprint just seconds ago.
They could hear the dragon nearby, its talons scraping against rock as it progressed towards them, and they could hear the deep huff from within its chest, preparing to spew fire. It stopped, pivoted, and returned its claws back along the same path. Pacing around them, it tapped a talon on the ground before taking up a post right before the small cave that barely fit the two humans. Claire had to hold back a shriek when one of its piercing blue eyes peered to the inside. It blinked, waiting and slumping to the ground to rest.
“What the hell is it doing?” Claire whispered, fear straining her voice.
“I dinna ken lass, but we’re well and truly stuck now.”
“Do you have a plan? I could always offer you up as bait and then slice its disgusting head off while its distracted.”
“That’s no’ much o’ a plan.”
“Do you still have those stink pouches, you know the ones J-” She didn’t want to say his name.
“The ones that smell like a fat arse’s farts and will blind ye fer a moment if ye’re no’ careful? Aye, I have some tae spare lass.” Murtagh pulled out the foul-smelling weapon out from his pack. Claire definitely did not want to know what was in those things, but there they laid on his palms, nestled safely within sheep stomach like a very poor imitation of haggis.
“I was thinking, you blind the dragon with those, while I climb one of these stones. Then you steer it over to me once its vision is still subdued so I can jump on its back and jam the potion straight down its gullet. Maybe even stab out an eye or two.”
“What could possibly go wrong wi’ that?”
“Well, do you have any better suggestions? It clearly can’t wiggle it’s way into here. But, it hasn’t burnt us to a crisp yet, probably wanting to play some sadistic waiting game. Like a bloody cat with a mouse. It’s either we run out there and take a chance to survive it, or we waste away in here.”
“Weel I’m already wasting away as it is.” Claire looked over to her companion, a sardonic smile spread on her frightened face.
“Dinna fash,” She said in poor imitation of her dead husband. “We’ll be adding dragon slayer to our titles today, Sir Fraser.”
She spat on the leather covering her hands and tightened her grip on the dense iron sword. In Jamie’s hands, it was practically a toothpick, but to her smaller frame it weighed her toned arms down with the force of an elephant. But, it was her burden to bear, and she gladly did so. She pulled the dagger strapped to her thigh out of its sheath with a zing. With a grunt, Murtagh squatted under the arch of the small cave. On second thought, it wouldn’t be wise for her to be holding both sword and dagger when she was climbing the sheer incline on the rock spires, so she placed them both back in their secure homes. Her grip tightened on the small sgian dubh strapped to her thigh. Yes, she could secure it in between her teeth on the ascent for quick access. She flexed her hands, mentally preparing and the bite of the blade helped her focus on the one point ahead, the one goal that hovered around close outside.
Two minutes passed before the dragon made the fifth consecutive sharp turn in his march surveying the two trapped humans. His back would be turned for ten seconds .
“Now!” Claire shouted and Murtagh began stumbling out of the small shelter.
He sped away in a crouch, looking more like the product of a crab and goblin breeding in his stance, and leapt high, dashing the foul smelling liquid and gas into the atmosphere. Claire covered her mouth and nose with the edge of her cloak, but it wasn’t much help; the stench made her want to gag on sight and pass out. Hopping out from her own squat underneath the rocks, she dashed up the uneven surface of the mountain peak. The tall sharp rock was almost perpendicular to the ground by now and she placed her sgian dubh expertly within her mouth to free her hands. Scrabbling for purchase on the sheer wall of rock, her upper body pulled most of the weight as her feet scrambled. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw no movement from the giant red beast. Stunned as it was, sniffing and huffing the nuisance of what had been dispelled, its tail wacked carelessly at anything within its vicinity. And Murtagh just so happened to be in the line of fire.
His body soared straight into a column of dark stone, two over from the one Claire was scaling, and toppled the rock with the impact. An audible crack resounded as his body thumped from its flying height of fifteen metres and fell with a sudden thud on the dirt.
“Murtagh!” Claire screamed around the blade in her mouth, but it was muffled and came out as an unintelligible choked sob.
He sat up slowly and coughed, groaning in loathing towards his state in life, but otherwise there was no visible sign of grave injuries. Claire was nearing the top of the rock face, so she let go of her hold of it with her right hand, twisting her body so it faced the dangers below. The beast zeroed in on her movements, stepping over Murtagh’s struggling form with little regard. She had to have been at least ten metres above the reach of its claws. She would be ready. Swaying her body for momentum, she jumped at what she thought would be the perfect arc in the sky to plunge a blade into the dragon and pierce its bright whisky eyes. But she miscalculated. The rock she pushed off was still slippery from the smothering fog and she collided right into hard scales and sharp talons, right into its grasp. Her sgian dubh fell to the ground with a loud clang, right next to Murtagh where he had scuddled away from the ensuing battle and the trample of giant dragon feet.
Its hand squeezed her ribs tightly, nearly bruising but not quite. Still, the feel of its giant slithery scales made her feel like she was suffocating, inside and out, and she desperately flailed her arms about to get some sort of hold against the creature, to claw even her fingers against it to cause harm to it. The panic rose into a fever pitch and her mind shrunk into it. Nothing could have ever been as suffocating as the news of her husband’s death though. But here she had failed him once again, played right into the hands of the very creature that burnt him to ash before.
Maybe it was meant to be. To follow in her husband’s final moments. Though she wished they had gone together to the afterlife. She had never truly forgiven him for leaving her behind.
Warm breath and small puffs of smoke tickled the hairs of her neck and she turned her head further away from the eyes of her captor. She wasn’t afraid to die; she was only afraid of the journey and pain that led to that end. But a minute later, and she felt no licks of flame burning her flesh, or the sharp stabs of giant canines. Craning her neck back, she saw the beast was waiting for something. The dragon had shifted onto its haunches like a little puppy, cocking its head to observe the woman it had caught. Playing with its food. Or, Claire had heard of animals before that never even ate its prey, but simply hunted out of boredom. She didn’t know which fate she would prefer.
Looking closer at the creature, there was something almost intelligent behind its eyes. Eyes that were an exact reflection of her own. And its scales were all a varying shade of red, auburn, and gold like an insufferable redhead she had once known very well. While Claire analysed the creature up close, dangling probably fifteen metres up in the air and bound up by nothing but the hand of the creature she had sworn revenge against, Murtagh was frozen in disbelief on the ground. No one survived an encounter with that kind without killing or being killed.
A small ray of sunlight peeked through the oppressive clouds and glinted off a bright gold metal near the creature’s wrist. The flash brought Claire out of her trance of reverie. It was the very same armlet she had made Jamie after their handfasting to match the golden band around her finger he had given. Some sick trophy after killing its owner. It was his goddamnit! And if she couldn’t have it to remember him by then no one could.
She would have vomited right on the talons clutching her uncomfortably tight if it weren’t for the rage flooding through her veins. Her arms reached toward the piece of gold in question and began hitting and scratching the dragon in the process. The problem was it was swollen around his opposite wrist, way too far away from where she was stuck. “Give it back you hideous fucking bastard!” Tears stung her eyes. Many times in the past few months she had felt helpless, but in that moment she felt utterly so.
Her squirming and thrashing about resulted in no success though, and only inspired huffs of annoyance from the thing holding her captive. Below, Murtagh was whipping his sword against the ankle of the beast to thwart it off with not much success either. Its scales were impregnable.
Suddenly, Claire’s breath escaped her lungs and the world slipped from under her feet. Her stomach dropped and she felt the pressure around her body no longer. Her screams bounced off the many rock surfaces around them, echoing in a haunting symphony of terror.
But just as her spine was about to crack on the unforgiving surface of the ground, under the relentless force of gravity, the sharp points of the dragon’s talons plucked her up once more, this time in its opposite hand. So she was to be its plaything? A small rag doll to throw around before it became bored and dropped her a moment too long. Her heart thudded dangerously in her chest and her blood thundered through her ears. The dragon twined her body around his fingers like the pieces of cabbage from the stew she so often ate, caught on the tines of her utensil.
But, she was much closer to the object she desired this time. It clanged so close to her as the beast moved, as if he was wishing to tempt her further to have her fall in yet another trap. Claire looked back and forth to her surroundings and the things in closest proximity. Darting from the heavy foreboding clouds, to the ground where Murtagh sat hunched over in pain, to the rock spires that were way too far away now, the scaly hand nearly crushing her bones, she finally settled on the oddly familiar eyes of the creature before her. He, for he was most certainly a he with all the arrogance imbued in his soul, shook his head in annoyance, mimicking the braying of a steed and glanced to the circlet that captured his wrist once more. Then he set his gaze on the tiny human in his hand once more, begging for something.
Did he just roll his eyes at her? The dragon seemed more inconvenienced than anything. Less blood crazed and more contemplating whether to scratch his bum, take a nap, or both at that moment.
Claire snatched out her hand from under his hold in a last-ditch effort and dug her hands under the flesh choked by the very tight circlet. It was as if it was hanging by only a single bit of scale, swollen and stretched in size to fit something meant for ten times its circumference.
In an instant, she was placed gently down on the ground near Murtagh, baffled at the creature's quick change of purpose, she still raced over to her friend and godfather, throwing her body over his. As tall as she was and as short as he was, it wasn’t hard to shield him. What little protection her body would give against fire, she thought sardonically. At least she’d die looking at the face of a friend rather than the face of her foe.
But once more that day, the rage of the fire never came. Or well one did, but not the one she would ever think. His arms wrapped tight around her back, pulling her battered body back to his warm chest. Her own personal sun. The one that had warmed her on countless nights out of doors in the harsh Scottish weather. Her death grip on the golden armband slackened and it circled ‘round and ‘round in the trodden dirt below them.
“Ah Dhia!” and “Oh God!” both echoed out in the air around them.
Claire crushed her body to Jamie’s, crying into his shoulder and manoeuvring so they were pushed flush against each other, chest to chest, so there was not even an atom separating them. He survived. Thank God, he survived. But how?
Her voice shook with fear still; there was something to be lost now. “Where’d it go Jamie? It was just here. We need to go-”
Her words were cut off as his chapped lips pressed roughly against hers, demanding to consume and be consumed. Mo chridhe. A break to gather breath. Mo ghraidh. He barely even lifted his mouth from hers, breathing the muffled words into her mouth. Mo leannan. The endearment was shoved down her throat. Sassenach. Claire was on her back now, with no memory of getting there. Mo nighean donn. Jamie’s hands itched at the laces of her trousers, eager to join with her, but hearing someone’s throat clear, he reluctantly stopped his worship of her body with a groan. He would have gladly continued if it was someone else interrupting them, a stranger. But the bushy-browed man would never let him live it down. He squatted up from his prone position over Claire, begging his cockstand to calm so he could be presentable before his godfather.
It took Claire a few more embarrassing moments to come to, humming in bliss, covered in dirt and leaves. But once she felt the loss of Jamie’s touch she jolted up. Frantically surveying the landscape, she panicked when there was no dragon in sight.
“I don’t understand it was just here.”
Jamie gathered Claire back against him, hugging her head tight against his chest. It was agony to be parted. It also helped that she covered the bits of virtue he didn’t wish his godfather to see. Not in all their proper glory.
Her wee curls tickled his skin and he beamed. Never again did he think he’d feel such a thing. Kissing her head, he looked at nothing else but her. Just as he had done minutes ago when this whole encounter began.
Murtagh meanwhile, was having a crisis a few metres across from them, pulling at the roots of his grey hairs. “He feckin’ was the dragon lass!”
“What?” Claire’s brows furrowed in confusion and she ran her hands along Jamie’s bare skin. Human. Very human.
“I dinna ken what he is but he started to glow and shrink down into his wee bitty size right when ye took yon jewellery off his arm.” Murtagh nodded to the stretched golden ring on the ground.
Claire’s gaze didn’t follow his though, still enraptured in the love radiating from her husband’s eyes. The eyes that were now returned to their natural slanted blue state. He was already naked as the day he was born, and she was suddenly exasperated at her current clothed state. His hands twitched to relieve her of them, but of course, they just had to have company. The man was tolerable at the best of times, but he certainly had become a nuisance at that tense moment.
“I’ll jes…I’ll leave ye two to it then.” The nuisance in question shook his head and walked back down the trail to the horses, swooping down to pick Jamie’s armlet on the way.
“How?”
“A witch they call Duncan.” He seethed. If Claire squinted just right she could still see the former traits of his dragon self within those words. The hiss, the tone, the fire, and smoke.
“Geillis Duncan? You mean that terrible fortune teller.”
“Aye, dinna tell me yer paths have crossed. Steer well clear of her mo ghràidh.”
“Let’s not talk about that right now.” Claire’s cloak clumped in a heap on the ground. The rest quickly followed with Jamie’s help.
Once more, she was under him on the ground, with her cloak as a cushion. His knees boxed her hips in and they continued to touch every inch of skin on the other, relearning what they had so burned for for months. His mouth found hers for what felt like the first and thousandth time of their lives. Home again. She whispered words of love and adoration and he returned them in the heartfelt rhythm of his native tongue.
“Let’s not talk of anything.”
In one fluid motion, they were home.