Chapter Text
Prologue
Paradox
May, 1744
Paris
“Tomorrow’s dawn will see you dead.”
Jamie’s eyes swept the large clearing in the Bois de Boulogne, his own words echoing in his mind. He was once again standing just off the path of the Seven Saints, though this occasion could not be more different from the last.
The first and only other time he’d fought a duel, he’d been scarcely more than a lad, driven to foolishness over a lassie. He briefly considered his reasons for choosing this place again--doubtless his tradition-loving MacKenzie side teaming up with the stubborn Fraser in him.
But this time, this duel, would be different. He was no longer a fresh-faced boy hoping to win the affections of a seemingly unattainable girl. He was a man preparing to bring vengeance upon the black-hearted bastard who’d terrorized his life and his family for the last time.
In his mind’s eye, the scene at the brothel repeated itself on an endless loop. Even now, Jamie’s hands shook with rage at the memory of Fergus’s pained shrieks and the bright red welt of an all-too-familiar brand on the lad’s exposed backside. Jamie had all but lost his head entirely, throwing Randall bodily from the room and kicking him down the long flight of stairs with his breeks still open. Randall had spat his usual snide remarks, and Jamie had replied in kind, delivering his terms to the blackguard with barely a moment’s hesitation.
Claire had been resting when he’d returned to the townhouse, and the hastily scribbled ‘I am sorry’ had been the most he could manage in recompense. She would be angry, of course, but she would forgive him once she knew the way of things.
Randall showed up just before dawn, full of bile and taunting words meant to inflame Jamie’s ire--as though it were not already blazing beyond the point of containment. But he forced himself to remain coldly silent as they circled each other like rival predators. His bloodthirst swelled in his chest, and he almost smiled when Randall unsheathed his sword and took position.
Jamie couldn’t help but be pleased they’d chosen swords over pistols. He wanted to feel his blade enter the cavity where Randall’s heart should’ve been. He wanted to look into the man’s eyes as the light left them and know the bastard would never hurt anyone again.
“Always knew you Scots were a simple lot, but I’ll admit, I expected more of you. Thought you were an educated barbarian. Aren’t you supposed to be a laird? Have you truly nothing to say?” Randall baited. And for the first time that morning, Jamie took it.
“I’m no’ nearly so fond of my own voice as ye are of yours. I came here to do my talking with a blade.”
The first clang of steel felt like lighting in his blood, and he moved with the agile grace of a man who’d been handling a sword since he was strong enough to lift one. They spun in tight circles of stroke and parry, and Jamie was slightly gratified to find Randall an able opponent. Killing him wouldn’t satisfy his bloodlust half as well if the man were inept.
Jamie heard a cacophony of shouting at the edge of the clearing and saw in his periphery the group of armored men who had assembled there. He inwardly cursed whomever had reported his activities to the gens d’armes, who were no doubt salivating to arrest him for dueling. But he would deal with that later. Only when he heard an achingly familiar voice call out did he spare a glance in that direction.
“Stop, Jamie! You can’t do this!”
He felt a pang of guilt for her pale face and stricken expression, but he returned his full attention to the fight. Randall was trying his best to kill him, and he didn’t intend to let that happen. He would apologize to his wife later, when there was time to explain what the thrice-damned bastard had done to Fergus.
She’ll understand…
A soft rain began to fall around the two combatants, but neither lost their focus. Indeed, were it not for the dampening grass, they might have been well-matched. But while it rained frequently in England, the gentry didn’t lower themselves to do their training in such conditions, and purchasing an army commission came with similar allowances.
Scots, on the other hand, were much hardier stock. Between the summer rains and the other seasonal periods of deep or melting snow, the ground was nearly always wet, and boys grew up learning to wield a blade in any weather. It was this advantage that gave Jamie the edge, allowing him the speed and coordination to land a solid strike.
But when he finally felt his blade connect with Randall’s flesh, it was the man’s groin that suffered damage rather than his chest, as Jamie would have preferred. He expected the man’s shout of pain and rage, expected him to either fall to the ground or to charge forward in a frenzy.
What Jamie never expected--or even dreamt possible--was for the man now howling on the business end of his blade to have shifted forms in a blink. His tidy stock and breeches had become a sark and plaid. His clean-shaven face had been replaced by a dark, scruffy beard. And the voice that had so often haunted his nightmares had transformed into one that had offered him comfort for as long as he could remember. The shouts of pain were accompanied by a string of Gaelic in which his godfather described in vivid detail what the devil might do with him before condemning him to an eternity of hellfire.
Jamie fell back in stunned silence, confusion making his brain feel sluggish as he tried to make sense of it. The patch of sodden earth where Randall had stood but a moment ago was now occupied by Murtagh, who was still blustering as he lifted his kilt to inspect the damage. Jamie’s wide eyes followed the motion to see that his godfather was bleeding from a gash on his inner thigh. It was neither deep nor life-threatening--only located near a tender area. His gaze then swept the clearing, and another discovery left him staggering.
They were alone.
Not thirty seconds ago, there had been a throng of people watching from the treeline, his pregnant wife among them. But the foliage was still and undisturbed, as though the audience that had trampled through it only moments ago had never been there.
What in the name of God is going on?
“Ye’re damn lucky I’m wearin’ a kilt. If I’d lost my cock to a bit of sparring, I’d ha’ buried the remains of it right next to yer grave,” his irate godfather proclaimed.
Jamie shook himself from his stupor and finally managed to form coherent words.
“Where’s Claire?”
“Who?”
“Claire. She was right there,” he insisted, pointing to the copse of trees where he’d last seen her.
Murtagh glanced in that direction and looked back at him with an expression of irritation and bewilderment.
“What the devil are ye talkin’ about, ye eejit? We’ve been sparrin’ alone since we got here.”
At his words, Jamie felt a heavy weight settle into the pit of his stomach as his heart accelerated with panic.
“No… No, I was fightin’ Randall, and Claire was right there.”
Murtagh looked increasingly confused and more than a little concerned as he scrutinized Jamie’s face.
“Who’s Claire?”
A/N: Thank you to those of you who dare to read WIPs and especially those who leave comments along the way! You're the best!