Archive of Our Own

When he finds her, she’s sitting on a blanket spread at the base of a tree, nearly hidden among the shadows of the canopy above. The early sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled patterns across her shoulders and the curve of her belly. A quiet word from a member of the house staff guided him here; with the birth of her child so close it’s no surprise that she spends most of her days alternating between the softness of her bed, the curve of a sofa, or, like now, waiting outside for any sign of Roger and her parents. Her legs stretch out in front of her. It’s not the easiest place for her to be at this stage but she makes it look like the most comfortable thing in the world. Her stillness in this moment of solitude seams her into the landscape itself.

He isn’t able to spend as much time here as he would like, always wanting to be close by should she need anything. While Brianna is surrounded by people willing and able to help, it’s easy to deceive with reassuring words in letters. His presence here may not be required, but seeing and judging her well-being first-hand eases his mind.

John knows better than to pretend it doesn’t gnaw at him, too – she’ll see right through it if he tries. After so much time without a letter confirming their arrival, their success, or their return, the urge to send his own search party is overwhelming. For Brianna, he knows that stress is magnified threefold. And if he is about to become a husband for a second time, he needs to know as soon as possible.

He pauses as he reaches her, watching as her hand moves charcoal over the page in messy, hurried strokes, as if racing to capture something fleeting before it can escape. Without context for the jumbled, overlapping lines and jagged edges, the image remains unclear. At the center is a faint outline of a small hand – her baby’s, perhaps – emerging from the tangled shapes, fragile and tentative.

He takes a careful step forward, she is too consumed by her work to notice him. He’s not certain there’s ever been a time she’s been so absorbed in a task that she was so unaware of her surroundings, especially in such a wide-open space.

“I didn’t know I was scheduled to be under supervision today,” her words are bitterly tired as she snaps the drawing pad closed. John smirks, not surprised and proud of her for catching him. Looking up she rolls her eyes, as if pleading to Providence to deliver her. “I didn’t think anyone would be brave enough to come out here.”

The words are barely audible, spoken to herself. John watches from a distance, The slightest shift in the air seems to draw her attention – his presence no doubt, though she doesn't look up immediately. 

John steps closer, his boots making a soft crunch against the grass.

“Supervision?” he repeats, trying to sound indignant, “I’ll have you know this is the first day of an extended leave and therefore any and all supervising will fall to your Aunt.” Her head turns towards the sound of his voice, her aggravated expression fades as her lips curve into a small, almost joyful smile.

“Oh, she is. I’m assuming she sent you out here because she thinks I’ll be less likely to bite your handsome head off your shoulders.”

Handsome, John thinks, and the faintest color rises to his cheeks. He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. Though her voice drips with sarcastic enthusiasm and the words roll off her tongue with ease, he doesn’t read too much into it. He can’t help but chuckle, amused by her dry wit. Clasping his hands behind his back, he leans forward to see her.

“Good morning, Miss Fraser…” His voice carries a mix of amusement and warmth, smiling as she shifts her attention to him.

“Good morning, Lord John,” her eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint, even as she clutches the sketchbook against her chest like a shield, “This is a lovely surprise.”

“My apologies,” he says, holding his hands slightly out in a gesture of peaceful surrender, “I was trying not to startle you.” Her eyes flicker to the blanket beneath her, and without a word she shifts, making room with a small, deliberate gesture. She pats the spot beside her with a casual grace that doesn’t need any further explanation.

“We were expecting you tomorrow, I thought.”

“Yes, William is in London, and I finalized the care of Mt. Josiah in my absence sooner than expected. I didn’t want to wait to see you…” He pauses, realizing the depth and truth of the words he’s about to say. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing – both of you.”

“I’m fine, John…we both are.” Her voice is strained in a way that betrays the effort it takes to sound normal, but he nods, deciding in this moment it’s wiser not to question her.

“I’m delighted to hear it…” his relief is evident in his tone as he gives an appreciative smile. “I see you’ve managed to make yourself entirely too comfortable, Miss Fraser. Why on earth are you all the way out here, sitting on tree roots when there are perfectly good sofas inside? I daresay you must run positively wild in my absence.”

Brianna gives him a playful side-eye, crossing her arms with a smirk. “Not at all, Lord John. I’m simply ensuring that you’re not so comfortable in your cushy life indoors that you can’t join us common folk on the ground every now and again.”

“You cut me to the quick, Miss Fraser,” John says with a grin, his voice teasing and feigning injury. He hesitates only a moment before lowering himself onto the blanket and facing her directly. He leans back on his hands, his boots press into the grass as he stretches his legs out before him, mirroring her relaxed position. She doesn’t mind the absence of formality, he knows, but he sits with enough distance to remain respectful. Her eyes search his face, softening in something akin to vulnerability.

“I’m not calling you a liar or anything,” she says, as a wry smile forms, “but I didn’t actually expect you to come all this way for me. It means more than I can say.”

“I must confess, Brianna, I’ve enjoyed your company far more than I imagined I would,” he responds, then, with an amused smile, he adds, “And I’ll admit, perhaps a little selfishly, I’ve been looking forward to meeting him.”

“You and me both…” Her hand instinctively drifts to her belly, her smile growing warm, if small. Tired, but genuine. She shifts again, tucking her bare, swollen feet beneath her skirt, her gaze turning to him with a flicker of concern. “Are you comfortable? We could go inside for breakfast, or tea if you’d prefer…”

“Quite comfortable, thank you.” He answers, though they both know it's for her benefit, not his. Brianna had spent enough time with him to know when his politeness didn’t quite match his true feelings. “But if you’d prefer, we could go inside. I ate before leaving this morning.”

“I was awake before the sun rose today,” she admits with a tired chuckle, “But to be honest, I’m not even hungry. I guess I just needed some time alone outside my room…” Her smile weakens, a tremor in her voice as she adds, “I want to be excited – I am – but it’s hard to sleep when this little one is wreaking havoc inside me.”

“That’s understandable,” he says sympathetically. She raises an eyebrow, but he catches the slight shift in her expression. It’s subtle but clear – he does not and could not ever understand what she’s going through. The warm breeze rustles the leaves above them and provides a brief distraction. “Is this where you come when you need to escape?”

She looks up, her gaze sweeping over the considerable distance between them and the house, as if its very presence is something she feels the need to hide from. “Sometimes. I’ve never quite become used to having servants waiting on me, and the closer I get to the delivery, the more they all hover.”

She winces, inhaling sharp and shallow, her posture shifting. It’s a subtle change, but when her hands move over her abdomen, John’s body tenses, instinctively poised to move toward her.

His first reaction is to reach out, to do something, but he can barely draw a breath. Running for help would take too long. His pulse pounds in his ears, his body locked in place, unable to tear his gaze away from her. He studies the way her eyes widen, the slight quiver in her lip, the deepening furrow between her brows. The confused worry in her expression hits him like a physical blow, and the world seems to tilt on its axis.

“Is everything all right?” John asks, a quiet note of worry lacing his voice.

“I’m fine, John. We’re both fine – really,” she says, her voice just a little too steady, the smallest tremor betraying the lie. Still, the doubt gnaws at him, no matter how much he wants to argue, to insist she’s not fine.

Instead, he swallows down the question, letting his gaze linger on her a little longer, trying to gauge whether she’ll open up, or if she needs time to hide behind that carefully constructed wall of composure.

“If you’re certain…” he says gently. The words feel like a courtesy he offers more for his own peace of mind than for hers. But then, he notices her clenched fingers, and he wonders if she believes herself. Brianna’s gaze drops to the sketchbook in her lap, her fingers gripping it tighter than he would’ve expected. It’s an anxious gesture, one that piques his curiosity, and he decides to ask lest it become a distraction.

“May I ask what you were drawing that you continue to hide it from me?” His tone is teasing, light, though the concern still lingers.

“Oh, um,” she blushes, her voice falters before offering a small, unsure smile. “It’s not finished yet.”

A wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He won’t push further, but the compulsion to coax her into sharing lingers.

“I’d still like to see it,” he says, his tone genuine and gentle. At the near suspicious look in her eyes, John leans in closer, shifting his expression into something playful, “I can’t imagine you’ve drawn something so dreadful as to offend my delicate sensibilities. Let me guess…is it a map to a hidden world full of creatures and wonders and treasures beyond imagination? Perhaps it’s a chart of the heavens – stars and constellations so secret that only the bravest sailors dare follow them?”

She giggles, though it’s more nervous than amused. “No...that’s not it.”

“No? Hmm,” he searches her eyes, now even more intrigued, “You are an engineer after all, have you drawn blueprints for a castle that hovers above the clouds, with towers so high they touch the stars themselves, requiring bridges that stretch across oceans. Or have you designed a bridge that links different worlds and realms with the stroke of a pen? Then again, you are your mother’s daughter, have you invented some tool or device meant to ease pain, lighten work, or even help with childbirth or healing?”

She shakes her head, still laughing as she smiles. “I wish I could say I had, but my ideas are far less practical than my mother’s.”

He raises an eyebrow, “Ah, so it must be a work of genius then. Something so revolutionary, you’re saving it for public debut. Do I need to apply for permission to see it, or will a simple declaration of interest suffice? If it truly is a masterpiece, perhaps I should buy it when it’s finished before it becomes the talk of the town.”

She presses a hand to her forehead, still a bit flustered but now managing a shy smile. “Well, I... It’s not like I’m planning to sell it or anything.”

John chuckles softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re not fooling me, Brianna. This is something special.”

“Oh my God, stop it,” using her hand to cover her smile, she shakes her head as she giggles, “You’re making way too much of this.” her voice is a little breathless, the playful glint in her eyes almost dares him to keep going, “Are you always this persistent, Lord John, or am I just lucky?” He senses there’s something more behind her words now – a hint that a future together may not be as far off as it once seemed.

“Just you, Miss Fraser, only you could manage to make me this persistent,” He answers, “But I assure you, in your case, that is a compliment.” She raises an eyebrow but says nothing. The way her lips part, and her expression shifts again, tells him she’s thinking something very specific. What it is, he’s not sure, but there is something new in her expression – relief, or perhaps gratitude.

Then she looks at him, really looks at him, and a sense of vulnerability and uncertainty takes over, but there is still a flash of trust. For the span of a heartbeat, she lets the walls she’s been carefully constructing around herself lower. And John feels the shift between them, the tenderness in it, like the very air is changing. Her smile fades, and there’s hesitation in her eyes, as if she’s deciding how much to let him in.

“It’s just… it’s not very good, John.” Her tone is more apologetic now.

“I’m quite sure that is not true in the slightest,” he tells her, but he catches the flicker of doubt in her gaze. This is about letting her make the choice to open up, but only when she is ready. With a nod of acceptance, he tells her, “I can wait,”

Brianna hesitates for another beat, then opens the sketchbook, but does so in a way that suggests she’s not entirely sure of herself.

“It’s terrible...” she mumbles, lifting her gaze and settling firm on his, “You have to promise me you won’t laugh if I show you.”

John leans forward, entirely serious, “No laughing. You have my word...”

With a reluctant sigh, she hands him the page, still avoiding his gaze. John holds his breath, keeping his features neutral, careful not to reveal any intense emotions. But instead of the darkness he anticipates, John blinks in surprise. He is unable to stop the soft chuckle at the detailed, delicate sketch now before him. The drawing is not of Bonnet, but of something far more serene.

The view from Jocasta’s front porch is unmistakable, where they’d spent so many quiet moments together. The sketch captures the warmth and light, all drawn with the soft strokes of charcoal. He’s fairly certain they are sitting under one of the trees depicted in the image. There are no signs of anguish, no storms or ghosts haunting the images of the page. It is beautiful in its simplicity.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh…”

“And I didn’t,” John replies, his voice full of quiet admiration. “This is…it’s not what I was expecting.”

She watches him closely, her lips pulling into a slight frown, “You almost look disappointed,”

“No, not disappointed…” he starts, pausing for a breath, “The details, the way you’ve captured the light...it’s like you’ve captured the some of the peace we’d find there. It’s...rare.” He gives her a sidelong glance, the teasing glint still in his eyes. “If this is what you consider a work in progress I can only imagine what the finished version will look like.” Her flush cheeks deepens, though the smile that follows softens the moment.

“It seems to me, Brianna Fraser, you’re hiding far more talent than you let on.” He hands the sketch back to her, doing his best to not watch or try to see what other drawings are there.

“It’s really not that good,” she whispers, her hand gently brushing over the sketch. She is still unsure, but the compliment seems to settle something inside her, “It’s just a little something to pass the time and keep my mind and my hands occupied while waiting...well, waiting for everything else. It’ll sound dramatic, but some of them can be kind of dark.”

“No,” John assures her. “It sounds honest. And that’s more than most people will ever give.”

Her smile doesn’t fade, but something akin to acceptance weaves over the sadness in her eyes. It’s a different smile from before, one that carries more weight – as if she’s allowing herself to believe someone truly sees her, as she is. A peace settles into her expression, as though she’s longed for this kind of reassurance: that her feelings, however complicated or painful, are not only seen but understood.

The drumming of her fingers on the cover is almost as silent as the withdrawal inside herself, retreating behind a barrier that’s built up over time. Her hands grip the pad now, almost protectively, as though holding it steady could keep everything else at bay.

In a rare moment of raw vulnerability, their eyes lock. In her gaze is a silent plea; he sees the conflict – wanting to trust him but unsure she should. All he can hope as he holds her gaze is that his own eyes convey what he feels – a promise of loyalty, a reassurance that he will remain here for her, not rushing, not speaking, but letting her feel his presence beside her, solid and unwavering. It’s a fragile thread, woven between them without words that speaks volumes.

But then, Brianna’s eyes dart to the side, a shadow crossing her features, and just like that, their fragile connection is gone. She shifts uncomfortably, her vulnerability slipping away, as though it never existed. She retreats behind the wall she’s built, and only when she feels safe again does she lift her eyes to meet his.

“I know he’s dead, John…” Her voice is softer now, quieter. “I don’t always have nightmares, and when I do, they’re not always violent or about him. But…” She falters, swallowing hard. “Last night, I dreamt the baby came early and needed… well, medicine we didn’t have. My mom wasn’t there – no one was. And then Bonnet shows up, and while I’m helpless in bed, unable to do a thing, he takes the baby…”

John’s breath catches, a strange tightness forming in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t. The sharpness of her words lands heavily between them, and the depth of her pain hits him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. That fleeting image from the sketch – her baby’s hand reaching out – now makes more sense. His heart aches with the fear that lingers in her voice.

“It may not have been violent,” he says softly, “but that sounds deeply distressing.” His words feel too small, too inadequate in the face of the horror she shared.

Brianna doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes are distant, as though seeing something far beyond him, as if she’s still trapped in the dream. Time seems to stretch as she processes the heaviness in her mind. Finally, her voice breaks the silence again, quiet and raw.

“I hate how much I still feel it.” Her fingers tremble as she sets the drawings down on the blanket beside her, letting them go as if she’s releasing a part of herself. But still, he can see how carefully she holds herself back.

“Sometimes, you’re going to feel more than you want to – more than you think you should. It’s part of how we heal.” John’s words come softly, but the ache to comfort her is undeniable.

“I know. I just…didn’t want anyone to see me like this. Broken.” He can barely hear the harsh whisper of her voice, then her words trail off. She looks down, hesitant, as though unsure how to continue, “Especially not you.”

John feels something sharp twist in his chest. He knows how hard it is to let someone see you when you're in a broken place – to fear that they’ll judge you, or worse, think less of you for how long it takes to heal. The weight of his own emotions presses against him, and he longs to close the distance between them, to offer comfort that goes beyond words.

“You’re not broken, Brianna,” he says, fixing his gaze on hers. “I’ll remind you of that as often as you need. But when you need to feel that way, to be vulnerable, you will never have to pretend you’re fine. It’s a privilege to witness this side of you – the real, unguarded you. I don’t want you to hold back, not for a second. Not from me.”

“I might as well just let you see all of them, get it over with...” she says with a bitter huff, holding the sketchbook in the air. “If we’re gonna be married, you might as well see what you’re getting yourself into.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and bitter, echoing the revulsion that fills her eyes. His heart constricts, for while her words are giving him permission to see this hidden part of her soul, it is not what she wants, nor would she show him in a normal frame of mind. As much as he wants to understand her pain, to be the one who helps her carry it, he’s not sure how far she’s willing to let him in, and he doesn’t want to push too hard.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says gently, offering a small, reassuring smile. “You don’t have to explain anything you’re not ready for – not yet.”

Her lips part for a moment as though she might argue, to insist on showing him anyway, but she simply nods.

“I just don’t want to scare you away with it,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. A soft chuckle escapes him before he can stop it. He leans in a little closer, his gaze unwavering.

“You could never scare me away, Miss Fraser. No matter what’s on those pages.”

“That almost sounds like a challenge…” she says, though something in her eyes tells him she’s wondering if he’s testing her resolve, as if he’s daring her to push him away.

“I won’t lie to you, Brianna. I’m trying to keep some distance, to not let myself get too attached emotionally. I don’t know what will happen, or how things will turn out. But that doesn’t mean I’m not here for you, or that I don’t care. I will be here, in whatever capacity you need me to be. I’m just trying to balance it all – to be able to show up and be here for you without making you feel pressured.”

“You’re not the only one.” She meets his gaze, her expression softening. “You already know so much about me – we’ve known each other’s secrets from the very beginning. I’m trying to avoid getting too attached to you, as well. Hell, half the time, I don’t even know how to ask for what I need. But we all need someone who cares, right? Someone who can be present…even in small ways.” Her voice steadies, becoming firmer. “Until we know what’s going to happen, neither of us can be sure of the right answer, or the safest course of action. But I want you to know that I do trust you, and I want you know you can trust me, too. I’m not hiding anything from you – I promise. I just…” She hesitates, searching for the right words. “I don’t want to burden you with it if I don’t have to.”

“Brianna…” His hand hovers near hers but never quite touches, “Your pain, as well as your healing, are your own.” His voice is quieter now, thoughtful. “I’d like to see what you’ve drawn. But I understand and will respect your need for privacy.” He pauses, then offers gently, “How about this – if we do have marry, I won’t expect you to show me anything. But once we’ve settled in Virginia or North Carolina, I would be honored if you trusted me with them. We can talk about them if you need to…but my offer stands even if we remain only friends.”

Her lips tremble into a smile. There is no doubt she is strong, but seeing her let go of the need to pretend she’s fine, John feels like he’s witnessing a new kind of quiet, unyielding strength. Tears well up in her eyes. She quickly masks her fear, the brief flicker of raw emotion replaced with a forced smile.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, my emotions have been all over the place,” she says, her voice thick with a quiet, self-deprecating laugh as she wipes away her tears.

John’s heart swells at the apology she doesn’t owe him. “Brianna, my dear, if there’s ever been a time to feel deeply, it’s now. You’re carrying more inside of you than anyone should have to. You are, no doubt, one of the strongest people I have ever met. But you’re also human. Don’t apologize for feeling what you feel. It’s part of this journey.”

Her smile deepens as a sense of peace settles over her. But she winces again, shifting away from the tree as sharp pain crosses her features. She leans forward, her breaths come in shallow gasps.

“Is everything all right?” His hands hover closer, no longer able to hide his concern.

“Hmm? Yeah,” she nods faintly, managing a weak smile. “This guy is just...kicking up a storm today.”

Before he can respond, she takes hold of his hands and guides them to her stomach, pressing his palms gently against her sides. Each time he’s felt the child move has struck him as a uniquely profound moment, a reminder of the trust she places in him. But this time, the movements beneath his hands aren’t the gentle, rolling waves he’s come to know. They’re sharp and chaotic – motions that explain why she can hardly sit still without wincing. His heart races, nearly matching the erratic rhythm.

“Luckily for you, I don’t think you’ll have to stay too long. I have a feeling I’ll give birth sooner rather than later.” John feels a pang of sympathy in his chest.

“For your sake, I hope you’re right,” he says, truly hoping this entire ordeal will be over sooner than later. “But I won’t be in any rush to leave, Brianna. I promised to be here for you, and I shall be.”

His hands begin to move, gently rubbing her stomach as though trying to soothe the restless child within. The motion is instinctive, an unconscious effort to ease her discomfort. When he realizes what he is doing, he freezes, pulling his hands away. Her eyes lock on his, unshed tears shimmering like glass. She stares at him with an expression so raw, so vulnerable, it makes him feel as though she is searching for proof he is real. That he’s here.

“Are you sure everything is all right?” He asks again, his voice quiet but insistent, finally reaching for and taking her hand, “Would you like some tea, or... is there anything I can get you?”

“If you could wield some of your influence and pass a law banning corsets for pregnant women, that would be perfect,” she says, her voice strained, though there’s a hint of humor in it.

John blinks, caught off guard. “I thought corsets were meant to hide…well, to conceal your condition.”

“It’s not exactly possible to hide this anymore.” She replies with a tired grin, gesturing to her rounded belly. “Besides restricting my air supply, it makes my stomach itch so much I could go mad. Honestly, John, it’s a miracle I haven’t burned them all already.” He chuckles softly albeit guiltily, relieved to see some of her usual humor shining through the strain.

“I shall do what I can, and should my influence prove insufficient to make such a change I will help you burn every corset in your wardrobe after the baby arrives.” Her laugh was brief but genuine, and for a moment, the tension ebbs, replaced by a shared sense of anticipation and fragile hope.

“You’re a man after my own heart, My Lord,” Perhaps she senses his lingering apprehension and gives a reassuring smile, “I’m ok, John I promise. But thank you.” It sounds even less convincing this time, and he can see the determination set in her eyes battling with her own increasing anxiety.

He tightens his grip on her hand just slightly, wrapping his fingers around hers. The gesture is simple, but to him, it speaks volumes. No hesitation. No need for words. Her eyes glisten, and for a moment, everything outside of them fades. They’re just two people in the quiet, the uncertainty of everything between them not a burden but a bond.

“If you are in pain, Miss Fraser, then perhaps you should not be sitting on the hard, unforgiving ground…” he stands, keeping his hold on her hand.

She laughs, “But if I sit on anything soft, I won’t be able to get up…”

It takes her a moment to adjust her position so he can assist her to her feet.

“And this is easier by comparison?”

“Nothing is easy right now, Lord John. It just feels better…” She brushes off her skirts as he leans down to pick up her drawing pad. "You can leave it here. No one else will be awake yet to see it." Staring wistfully at the empty road, she arches her body, pressing her hands in the small of her back. “I need them home, John. I need my mom here…”

“I pray for their imminent return as well…” he offers his arm and she accepts but stops them as they start in the direction of the house.

“It’s such a beautiful day, I’m not quite ready to go back in yet. Do you mind taking me on a short walk?”

“Of course…just a short one,” he emphasizes, already uncomfortable how far they are from the house.

The day is warm, the kind that hints at summer’s approach, but a lingering morning breeze keeps the air comfortably cool. They walk through thick, soft grass, shielding her bare feet from the rougher ground. Birds call from the trees, their songs blending with the rustle of leaves – a peaceful rhythm at odds with the slow, uneven steps beside him. She drifts forward in careful shuffles rather than walking, never quite letting go of his elbow – not out of affection, but necessity, using him just enough to steady herself before pressing on. He doesn’t comment, he only adjusts his pace to match hers, his presence a silent anchor as they continue forward.

“So, did Aunt Jocasta corner you about the wedding date upon your arrival?” Brianna asks, her tone playful, edged with dry amusement.

He laughs, a warm, rolling sound that carries his quiet relief, “When I arrived she was busy speaking with Mr. Fitzgibbons, so I was spared…”

“And you ran straight to me to escape before she could intercept you?” Brianna smirks, eyes glinting with playful accusation.

“But of course, I needed to ensure the well-being of my fiancé and our future child,” he says, keeping his tone light but earnest. “I think your aunt appreciates my concern for you.”

“She does. If anything, it only strengthens her conviction that she’s doing what’s best – that I should be grateful to marry a Lord and secure my child’s future and blah, blah, blah…” Her voice trails off with an edge of aggravation, and he doesn’t need to ask how many times she’s been reminded of her supposed duty, reputation, and securing her child’s future.

John leans in just a fraction, “Brianna, I have to ask…is there something going on between Mr. Fitzgibbons and Jocasta? Or am I completely off the mark?”

Brianna turns toward him in surprise, raising an eyebrow. “You’re asking me about them?”

“You’ve known them both longer than I have.” John feels a little sheepish but remains curious, tilting his head as if considering his own words. “I can’t help but wonder if I’m the only one noticing…the tension, if you will.”

Brianna laughs, shaking her head. “Oh my God, are you a gossip, Lord John?”

John blinks, momentarily startled before feigning innocence. “Gossip? I wouldn’t dream of prying…”

“You’re absolutely a gossip,” Brianna interjects, her eyes widening with realization. “Now I see it – Lord John Grey, all his natural inquisitiveness just an elaborate cover for collecting everyone’s secrets.”

John presses a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “I assure you, my interest is purely observational.”

“Mmhmm,” Brianna hums, unconvinced, her smirk growing. “That’s what they all say.”

John chuckles, slightly embarrassed but undeniably intrigued. “I’m not quite that bold. I just… well, I do find myself curious. They seem to share a rather…interesting connection.”

Brianna brightens, tightening her hold on his elbow as she leans in as if about to share a treasonous secret. “Yeah, they do,” she says with a small laugh. “But I don’t think they’re ready to admit it to themselves, let alone anyone else. You’re not the only one noticing, but whether they’ll ever acknowledge it is anyone’s guess.” She grins, a little more at ease now. “So who knows? Maybe it’s just a matter of time before they both come to their senses and elope.”

John laughs, relieved to be getting a lighter response, “Well, if that happens, I expect to be the first to know – though I’m beginning to suspect you just might keep it from me, Miss Fraser.”

Brianna smiles, “Don’t worry, Lord John, I’m sure you’ll be the first to hear all about it, if not the first to know.” She raises an eyebrow, playful but pointed “Just don’t go around asking too many questions or else I will have to assume you’re a spy…”

John gives a half-smile, a little sheepish, “I’ll try to control my...natural inquisitiveness.”

Brianna shakes her head while giggling, “A word of advice, milord, but you may have to work harder to keep your curiosity in check…”

He huffs a quiet breath, neither confirming nor denying the truth in her words. If this is a test of subtlety, he suspects he is failing spectacularly.

“Well I’ll be happy for them, if it is true. Hopefully her presence and influence can tame Mr. Fitzgibbons and make him settle down at long last…” he says.

Brianna chuckles at that, “I might not have known him long, but I promise you there is nothing in the world – including Da – that could make Murtagh stop fighting and settle down…”

“I fear you are right…” he doesn’t want to darken the mood, knowing just how close to the boiling point they are. Murtagh is an outlaw but beyond that, with the rebellion gaining traction, the crown is about to intercede in a way that will lead to nothing but bloodshed and heartache.

“So does William know we’re engaged, or that you’re here with me?” she asks, interrupting his thoughts.

“Indeed, I sent him a letter, though I didn’t go into much detail. But he knows I’m here.” John hesitates. “But we’re not engaged anymore…”

Brianna looks at him, confused and borderline terrified. “What do you mean?”

John pulls out a piece of parchment from his vest pocket. “We’re married now… or, we will be as soon as we sign this.”

Her eyes widen as she takes the paper from him, reading it carefully, then glancing back at him in disbelief.

“Are you serious?” she asks, the uncertainty in her voice tempers her excitement that’s beginning to bubble up.

“Am I ever not serious?” John teases dryly, though there’s sincerity in his words. “While I have every faith in your parents it’s becoming obvious they won’t be back in time, and we can't very well get married in public for show when you have already given birth.”

She nods, absorbing the information. “But this certificate...it’s dated months ago?”

“Indeed. It’s all set. We need only sign it. And when necessary, I have someone who can perform a short ceremony in front of witnesses – though he isn’t an ordained priest, so the vows won’t hold any formal weight.”

Brianna bursts into laughter, long and loud, the first time he’s heard her laugh so freely. Her joy is infectious, and John watches her, captivated. The sound is beautiful. He can only hope it won’t be the last time he hears her laugh like this.

She throws her arms around his neck, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, John. This is…this is everything.” He gently wraps his arms around her, his breath catching for a moment as he feels the chaotic, frantic movements of her child against his ribs. “You’re doing so much for me – for us.” Her voice falters, and he can feel the tremor in her touch. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to repay you for all your kindness.” Her voice falters as she pulls back, and he can feel the tremor in her touch. “And...in case I don’t see him, please thank Judge Alderdyce for me…”

Emotion tightens his throat, but he welcomes it. Her joy is a rare gift, and knowing he played a part in it feels… good, “This is his way of thanking you for your discretion…but I shall convey your thanks nonetheless.”

“I appreciate it,” She smiles, her fingers lingering against his chest for a heartbeat longer before she lets go.

They resume their hold, her elbow linked with his, and he can feel the shift in her mood – lighter, relieved. Such a small detail, a lie nonetheless, but one that will protect her heart in the long run. And his.

Life with Brianna, he knows, would not be terrible. But she is young and deserves to marry for love. William is her half-brother. And this foundation – already fragile – has too many cracks. Too many ways it could end in disaster and ruination.

And then there is William.

The thought crashes into him, unwelcome but inevitable, dragging his pulse up with it. Ruination. The word had barely settled in his mind before William’s name followed, and with it, the conversation they could no longer avoid.

His heart pounds harder, the rush of blood dulling his senses. He swallows, struggling to steady himself. Fear curls in his chest – what he’s about to say could change everything between them. He knows what he’s about to say could change everything between them.

She will look at him differently. The bond they’ve been building – fragile but real – will fracture. Will she hate him? Or worse…will she hate Jamie?

One thing is certain.

Jamie will never forgive him for telling her.

“Speaking of our trip to Wilmington,” John begins, forcing himself to sound casual, “I told you that if we needed to go through with anything, there were things I would need to tell you, things that should have been told to you by Jamie.”

“Yes, I remember,” Her voice is quiet, patient – but something in it makes him flinch. He already senses she may react much the same way she did upon learning Jamie was her father, not Frank. And there’s still a chance Jamie will return in time, making this betrayal unnecessary. But at this point, staying silent feels just as wrong.

John’s breath turns shallow, a lump forming in his throat, making it harder to speak, harder to breathe. His jaw tightens, fingers twitching at his sides. He’s already imagining the way her face will fall, the hurt in her eyes when she realizes that it wasn’t him who should’ve told her. That he had lied to her just as much as her father did. What if she doesn’t understand?

He inhales deeply, offers a silent prayer, and lets the words fall from his lips spill out. Even as they leave him, they don’t feel real. The whole thing feels wrong, simply because he has never uttered these words to anyone other than the closest confidants. Wherever he can, he avoids going into unnecessary details, and immediately the weight of it hangs in the air – so heavy it feels like he might choke on it. He watches her face, waiting for some sign that she’s heard him, that she’s processing the truth.

At first, there’s only confusion. She slows their pace, her lips part as if to speak, but she falters. The silence stretches, his whole body dense with the enormity of what he’s done.

“I am truly sorry,” His voice trembles as he struggles to continue, “I never thought you’d have to hear it from me,”

The words hang, fragile and hollow, and as soon as he says them, he knows – he knows – that nothing will ever feel the same between them. Her face doesn’t register what he expects at first. She is quiet, a sad, confused expression as her lips part as though she’s about to speak, but then her breath catches in her chest.

“Even if you and I do not marry…I can never tell William about you.” The words slip out like a reflex – an attempt to pull her back to the moment.

Her eyes widen in shock, then narrow as sadness sets in once more. “No, of course not. I understand,” she sighs, turning them around to walk back toward the house. She pauses for a moment, then looks up at him, her voice quieter now, “Do you remember what I said to you that day?”

John thinks for a moment before answering. “If memory serves, you said William deserved to know the truth about his father.”

“Yes,” Brianna replies, her voice steady. “And he does. You should tell William. Both of you should.”

“For now, I cannot be the one to tell him.” John’s voice is firm, but there’s a note of regret in it. “He’s a soldier, and we’re on the brink of war. This is hardly an appropriate time to turn his entire world upside down. Do you have any idea what it would do to him, to find out about this now?”

Brianna studies him, searching his face, “As a matter of fact, John, yes – you know I do.” She pauses before speaking again, an added weight to her words. “So take it from someone who has experienced this firsthand. There’s no way to avoid that when he finds out he will be hurt and angry, William may even hate you for a time – but he loves you. He’ll forgive you. I’m not trying to push, but if he finds out on his own…it’ll make the betrayal deeper. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to fix.” John listens, but he can feel a tension building in his chest.

“I understand your viewpoint, but it’s Jamie’s decision, in the end. He gave up his right to be a father to William, and now there’s so much at stake if he chooses to abdicate his title. And William remembers your father fondly, that may be ruined as well…”

“John, I love Da, but this has nothing to do with him.,” Brianna’s voice is steady, but there’s an undercurrent of urgency in it. “As the man who raised him…you are the only father William has ever known, and if you decide you want to tell him, you should. Everything that happens after that, like how to move forward, would be between you and William alone.” Brianna pauses, her gaze intense. “There is never going to be a good or a convenient time tell him. You can’t let fear of upsetting Jamie keep you from doing what’s right.”

John huffs a small laugh, though it’s devoid of humor. “I know, Brianna. But I still want to protect him from the pain.”

“I know, I understand that,” Brianna says, her voice softer now, tinged with an unspoken sadness. “It’s almost worse, though. If you think he doesn’t truly want to be the ninth Earl, then not telling him means you care more about the appearance of it than your son’s happiness. Maybe William will choose to abdicate the title, or maybe he’ll uphold the lie. Either way, you’ll be there to guide him through all of that. And if he wants to start a relationship with Jamie in the meantime, then he can.” 

“As always, I appreciate your directness and outspoken nature,” John says, giving her a rueful smile, but he feels frozen by the truth of her words, “I understand, and I value your opinion.”

Brianna laughs softly, though there’s a sad edge to it. “No, you don’t.”

“I do, Brianna,” John insists, “It just feels unnecessary to cause him that kind of pain.”

Brianna’s expression shifts, growing more serious. “My father knew about Jamie my entire life, and he died before I ever got to hear his side of things. If I had, maybe it would’ve made it easier...maybe it would’ve lessened the pain, or my anger at Mama. My biggest regret is that I didn’t tell him I loved him the last time I saw him.” Her words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of what was left unsaid. She reaches out, squeezing his hand gently. “Don’t let this be your regret, John. If you want to tell William, do it. You don’t want to wait too long.”

Brianna’s hand in his is a grounding force, though he still feels the sting of past mistakes and the inevitability of what comes next. Ever since meeting her, one of his biggest hopes is that William will one day speak of John the way Brianna speaks of Frank.

“I am sorry…that you lost him.” Brianna nods in acknowledgement, but says nothing more on the matter. The house is getting blessedly closer which is a relief because he can feel by her walking that her pain is worsening.

“Did Da love her, William’s mother?” she asks suddenly.

John hesitates, his voice becoming thoughtful as he speaks. “No, nor did she love him. As my late wife, Isobel, once said, Geneva was governed by passion. If she wanted something, she would stop at nothing to get it. And if she couldn’t, she’d rebel in ways that tipped the scales in her favor. In her defense, she was being forced to marry a man much older than her. I don’t know what her father was thinking to agree to it. I think Jamie was with her out of pity, she didn’t have control of what was about to happen and so she wielded what control she had left.”

Brianna’s face softens with sympathy. “That’s sad…”

“Indeed,” John replies, “Her death was a terrible shock, to say the least. But it brought me Isobel...and William.”

“Did you and Isobel ever want children of your own? Or try for them?” Brianna’s voice holds an undercurrent of curiosity but care as well.

John’s gaze drifts for a moment, “We did want them. William was our priority. We agreed to wait until he was a little older before trying…” He trails off, unable to finish the thought.

Brianna tightens her grip on his elbow. “I’m so sorry, John.” She whispers.

“Thank you,” his voice thick with emotion and he has to swallow before continuing, “The way things ended with Isobel…that’s why I’m afraid to marry again. I never truly mourned her the way I should have. I was fond of her, truly, but the truth is...I think I may have slowly killed something in her. She wasn’t the woman she was meant to be with me, Brianna. That thought haunts me. I couldn’t be who she needed, and in the end, I couldn’t save her and I...I don’t want that history repeated with you.”

His voice falters as he speaks, and his gaze flickers away, avoiding meeting her eyes. The words hang heavy in the air, and for a long moment, Brianna doesn’t speak. John can feel her eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to look at her. Her compassion is evident, but her silence speaks volumes.

“Well, I genuinely hope we don’t have to, but again, I can’t thank you–” her hand tightens around his with unexpected force, a stark contrast to the usual gentleness of her touch that takes him by surprise. When he looks at her, the strain on her face and fear in her eyes is obvious, before she quickly averts her gaze, her breathing becomes sharp and shallow.

“Brianna, what is it?” he asks, his voice low with concern.

Her fingers squeeze again, the pressure almost painful now as her knuckles turn white against his. He grips her hand in return, steadying her as best as he can, fairly certain he knows what’s coming next and hoping to everything holy that he is wrong.

“This feels…different,” her voice quivers, each exhale laced with anxiety. Her body jerks forward, as if bracing against an unseen force that makes her cry out as her arm covers her abdomen. “John, I—I think my water just broke…”

He swallows hard, his heart skipping a beat. His voice is calm, though he’s anything but.

“Stay calm.”

“You too, there,” she laughs, a strained, almost desperate sound. He allows himself to smile, he doesn’t want her to feel or see his own fear. “I can’t…John, the baby can’t come yet. My mother needs to be here. She’s supposed to be here…”

“I know…I know, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” His heart aches for her, the helplessness thick in his chest. “Your child has other ideas, I’m afraid.”

He looks around, his mind racing as he darts his gaze back toward the distant house, they’re still too far for comfort. He’d been there enough times to know it wouldn’t be too difficult getting back, but the distance and uneven ground made it far from ideal. It feels like every step Brianna takes is one more toward something huge, something that doesn’t care about the timeline or what they were or were not ready for.

“Do you want to rest for a moment?” John suggests, his mind racing. He can see how pale she was, the sweat forming on her forehead with the strain makes him panic. “Or...I could run ahead, get help.”

“No.” Her voice was sharp, though it softened almost immediately. “I don’t need help. I’ll be fine, I just need...” Brianna gasps as her knees buckle, near stopping John’s heart as he steadies her.

“Brianna—”

“I’m fine,” she insists, though her voice betrays her. She glances at him, her face twisted in discomfort. “We’re almost there...”

She attempts to stand separate from him, as if she genuinely doesn’t need his help. He lets her, though his hands hover ready to support her again when needed. True to Fraser form, she is stubborn as a mule. While John credits Jamie for the Fraser stubbornness, at least in Brianna’s case, she inherited it straight from her mother. Beyond stubbornness - it’s an outrageous sense of independence, one he is fairly certain does not exist in any other woman he’s ever met.

She stops walking again, gasping for air, her face contorting in pain. John catches her immediately, but he is unprepared for just how much force is behind her grip as she grabs his hand once more.

“Brianna.” He didn’t expect her fingers to dig into his skin so hard, like she is pulling him into the pain with her, and he isn’t too proud to admit it takes his breath away.

“Sorry,” she whispers through clenched teeth, though her grip doesn’t loosen.

“It’s okay,” he assures her, but his voice feels raw. John blinks, still surprised by the strength in her. She is trembling, but when she grips his hand, it’s like the whole of her strength is there, focused entirely on holding on. He never realized how much force was packed into those small hands.

“This is all your fault,” Brianna says between quick, ragged breaths, but there’s a teasing edge to her voice despite the pain.

John pauses mid-stride, “My fault?”

“Yes, your fault,” she repeats, her eyes gleaming with a spark. “He didn’t kick up a storm until you showed up and started talking to me.” Her voice wavers, but there's humor in it now. “It seems my son is just as eager to meet you as you are him…”

John blinks, caught between disbelief and amusement, before a quiet laugh escapes him. “I didn’t mean to cause such commotion. Though, I doubt I’m the one he’s in such a hurry to meet,” he says, casting a pointed glance at her belly. “I’d wager he’s far more excited to see you.”

“Yeah, well I already told him he’s supposed to wait, so clearly he’s already not listening to me…”

John lets out a shaky laugh, but inside, the tightness in his chest remains. It isn’t just the physical weight of helping her. It’s everything – the fear, the panic, the overwhelming responsibility he never signed up for. And yet, here he is, doing the best he can.

And it still doesn’t feel like enough.

John had expected to be in control. Hell, he’d always been in control. He’s led troops through hostile territory, kept his head during firefights, navigated dangerous situations with the precision of a soldier. But right now, with Brianna leaning heavily against him, is the most terrifying thing he’s ever felt.

“Alright, we’re gonna do this, Brianna. It’s not that far, so we’ll go as slow as you need,” John says, pushing the panic to the back of his mind. He could deal with it later. She nods and he tightens his grip on her arm, her eyes flickering with something close to trust, and for a moment, he felt like she believes him. They’d make it.

Brianna stops again, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts as the next contraction hits. She presses her free hand to her belly, her face contorting with pain. John reaches out, steadying her, though he has no idea what to do next.

“I’m fine,” she pants, before he can even ask, though they both know she isn’t.

She takes a few shaky steps, admirably determined to keep moving, but John can see how much it is taking out of her. It makes him feel helpless, and that is not something he is used to. He pushes the thought aside and tries to keep his expression reassuring, even if he has no idea what the hell he was doing.

“Well,” he says, forcing an optimistic edge to his voice, “I’ve heard all you have to do is breathe, right? I mean…it’s just breathing, isn’t it?”

Brianna turns her head slowly, giving him a look – somewhere between skeptical and mildly offended, amidst the pain still tightening her features.

“Breathing?”

John laughs – nervously – immediately regretting every decision that led him to this moment. He only wants to help and now somehow he is making it worse.

“Well, I–” He flounders. “I don’t know. I thought there was some…breathing thing involved. That’s what they always say, right? ‘Just breathe through it.’”

Brianna exhales sharply, but whether it was frustration, amusement, or just pain, John isn’t sure. “Breathing, huh?” she echoes, wryly. Even through the strain in her voice, her lips quirk upward, just slightly.

A single, unimpressed eyebrow arches, “Is that what you tell your soldiers before leading them into battle? ‘No matter the pain, gentlemen, just breathe through it!’”

John blinks. Caught. Off. Guard.

Then, despite everything, a chuckle escapes him. “Fair point,” he admits, shaking his head. “Not my best advice.”

She almost smirks. Then a sharp gasp escapes her as she grips his arm with enough strength to make him wince. The joking is over. A surge of worry cuts through whatever nerves or awkwardness had been there seconds before.

When she speaks again, her voice is small – thin, fraying at the edges. “This really hurts…”

John’s stomach knots. She clings to him, her eyes squeeze shut, her whole body tensing against the pain. John has lived through duels, wars, ambushes, gunfire…none of it made him feel as powerless as this.

He has no idea how to fix this. No strategy, no orders, no escape plan.

All he could do was hold on, keep them both on their feet and in motion.

“Alright, you’ve got this, Brianna,” he says, committing fully now, figuring he can make it no worse at this point. “Just pretend you’re...you know, storming a battlefield, and this is just one more obstacle. You’re unstoppable.”

Her lips twitch, despite the pain. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the baby’s gonna be the one doing the storming...”

John barks out a laugh at that, surprising even himself. His fingers brush against her shoulder, a quick, almost protective gesture, as he gave her a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fair enough.”

He could feel her breaths coming too fast, too shallow. And every time she staggers, every time she leans into him, it throws him off balance just a little. He adjusts, finding his footing, but it is a strange feeling – he is used to being the one who took control, who is always steady. But now, he was doing everything he could just to stay upright himself, holding her up as much as he could without letting it show that he, too, felt completely off-kilter.

He was surprised by how much it hurt – her grip, the strain in her body as she tensed against him. And it wasn’t just physical; he felt the weight of the moment, the urgency of it. Her head rested briefly against his shoulder, and he could feel the quick thrum of her pulse against his skin. For all her strength, she was vulnerable in a way that made him feel powerless.

“I promise I’m ok…we’re almost there…” Her voice, soft and strained, hit him harder than he expected. For a brief moment, John could feel the full force of how much she was trusting him. He wasn’t just walking her home. He wasn’t just helping her through the pain. She was putting herself in his hands, and that terrified him more than anything else he’d ever faced.

“You’re...so strong,” John says, though he isn’t sure if she even heard him. She is shaking now, her breath erratic, her body trembling with the effort to stay steady, and it hit him just how strong she is – stronger than he had ever imagined.

But he could feel it now – every step they take is more hesitant, like she was barely keeping herself together, like she was fighting every second to stay on her feet. And all he could do was hold on and keep moving forward.

Brianna leaned into him again, dragging his weight sideways. John shifted, cursing the uneven ground beneath them. She isn’t giving him much to work with, and yet, any time she falters, he is there – catching her, steadying her, trying to make it look like he had it under control, even though inside, he is just as unsteady as she is – maybe even more so.

“You’re gonna stay, right?” the small tone of her voice, making such a simple plea as if he was planning on going somewhere almost hurts.

“Of course. I’m not going anywhere.”

John swallows hard, pushing down the rising tide of panic in his chest. He had been in the middle of firefights, storms, and chaos, but this? This is different. He isn’t useful here. He isn’t good at waiting, watching things unravel. This is happening, whether they’re ready or not. And he won’t let her see his anxiety. Not when so much trust has been placed in him. 

This isn’t the first time John will be present at a birth. Years ago, he had helped his cousin through labor, though his role had been more of a steadying presence than an active participant. Even then, he remembered the fear, the helplessness of watching someone fight through such pain while knowing there was little he could do to ease it. But this time, it isn’t just Brianna’s and the child's life in his hands. It is Claire’s and Jamie’s by extension, and Roger’s as well. If anything happens to her or the baby, John knows that none of them would ever forgive him. He knows he would never forgive himself. Jamie, Claire, and Roger will return, and when they do, they will find both mother and child are safe. And if it’s up to him – if it means he has to carry her every step of the way – he’ll make sure of it. 

Brianna stumbles again, her breath coming in ragged gasps. John catches her just in time. The ground beneath them is uneven, and her grip on him tightens – fingers digging into his arm with relentless force.

“Brianna,” he said, voice a little too sharp. “I need you to focus on breathing, okay? Just...focus on that. We’re so close now.”

Her eyes flickered up at him, her face pale and strained. “I...I don’t know if I can do this, John.”

The words take his breath away. John has always been the calm in the face of chaos – trained to lead soldiers through fire, to think under pressure when everything around him was unraveling. The sweat of battle, the roar of gunfire or the silent tension before the next move...he had handled all of it. This? Walking Brianna back to the house is supposed to be easy by comparison. But while she labors in pain against him, his mind is spinning with a thousand thoughts, for the first time in his life, John has no idea what to do. And that terrifies him more than anything.

Then, as she stumbles again, gasping for air, his stomach twists. His instincts scream at him to do something – anything – but there’s no quick fix here.

He can’t give orders, can’t take control the way he’s used to. Not like this.

God , this isn’t a battlefield.

She isn’t under fire.

There’s no enemy to fight, no battle plan to follow. Just pain. Just time. And he can’t outmaneuver either of them.

This is just a simple walk to the house. He’s walked thousands of miles, trekked through dangerous terrain, led men across war zones. And yet, he can’t shake the feeling that they’re running out of time – that everything is happening too fast, with help too far away. Running a hand over his face, he forces his thoughts into order. Focus. Focus.

Get it together, John.

“Brianna…did I ever tell you about the time I survived a cannon blast?” John starts, his voice a little too breathless. “I was in Prussia – about twelve years ago now – the Battle of Krefeld…”

Brianna’s face shifts to him with concern. She blinks. Once. Twice. Then, despite the obvious pain, her expression tightens into something unreadable – half disbelief, half exasperation.

“John,” she rasps, “Are you seriously – right now – telling me a war story?”

He hesitates, lips pressing together before nodding. “Technically the canon malfunctioned right beside me. I don’t remember much but when I woke up they said they’d have to amputate my left arm, but I told them no. I didn’t want them to. Wouldn’t let them. Luckily my older brother was there to support my decision.” He pauses, trying to gather the words.

“Anyway,” John continues, feeling a little too much adrenaline now, “I almost died in the process. They removed as much as they could, but it was too dangerous to remove all the shrapnel so there is still some left in my shoulder.”

He tried to gesture nonchalantly to his shoulder, like it wasn’t a big deal, like it was just a story. But the truth of it – a life hanging by a thread, a body damaged in ways no one could fully repair – made the air feel suddenly thicker. He is rambling, trying to distract her, trying to distract himself.

“Is this your way of asking me to hold onto your other arm?” she asks incredulously.

“No,” he can’t help but laugh, “Not at all, you’re only crushing my hand – which is fine.”

“And why are you telling me this?” Brianna’s voice was weak, but there was an exasperation to it – she could tell he was grasping at straws. His mind is racing, his chest tight as the panic is taking back over.

“Because it could be worse?” he blurts out. He isn’t sure if he even believes it, but the words are out there now. “You could be bleeding on a battlefield with pieces of shrapnel in your shoulder, instead of walking to a house on this lovely plantation, right?”

Brianna is silent, he can't quite read her expression. He can feel the tension in her body, feel how much effort it was costing her just to stay on her feet. And maybe... maybe it doesn’t matter if things could be worse. What matters is what’s happening right now.

Brianna blinks at him, breath hitching as another contraction stole her words. Then, when she could finally speak, she gave him a look that was somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement.

“John,” she rasps, tightening her grip on his arm, “did you seriously just say that to a woman in labor?”

John opens his mouth, then closes it. He has no defense. None whatsoever.

Brianna huffs a shaky laugh, then winces. “Oh my God. I–” she sucks in a breath, pressing a hand to her stomach, “I honestly don’t know whether to smack you or thank you for trying.”

John let out an uneasy chuckle, adjusting his hold on her as she leaned into him again.

“Whichever makes you feel better,” he admits, a little hoarse. “Not that I am, but even if I was completely panicking, I’m doing it very quietly.”

“Tell that to your face, Sir…” Brianna giggles, exhaling through her nose, the corner of her lips twitching despite the pain. “That does make me feel better, actually,” she admits, then, softer, “At least I’m not the only one.”

John glances at her, at the tight lines of pain around her eyes, the sheer determination in the way she grits her teeth and keeps going. As if he ever could have doubted her strength.

“You’re doing amazing, Brianna,” he says, and he isn’t just saying it to keep her calm. He means it. “I’ll shut up. No more war stories, I promise.”

The walls of the house loom closer, but Brianna’s breath continues to come in quick bursts, her body jerking with each wave of pain. The trembling of her body intensifies, her grip on his hand relentless, yet he doesn’t dare let go.

The urgency sinks in. As soon as they are close enough, he shouts in his most commanding voice for the servants to prepare a room and alert Mistress Cameron.

“I’ve got you, darling, keep leaning on me.” he murmurs, trying to steady her. Jocasta and Murtagh are already there when they reach the door, but Brianna stumbles, a muffled groan slipping through clenched teeth.

“We’re here,” he says, relief flooding him, though it’s short-lived when he sees the pain clouding her face.

“Lord John, please help my niece up to her room. We’ll gather all the supplies required and be up directly…”

“Of course, Mistress Cameron,”

Brianna’s sighs in sheer exhaustion, and her pace slows, each step dragging as she braces herself against the pain. Her breath turns sharp, a staccato rhythm that mirrors the urgency around them. They’ve barely started up the stairs, the pain evident in her face as she groans and doubles over, each breath a ragged gasp. Just when it feels like the world might collapse under the weight of the moment, Murtagh’s deep, familiar voice cuts through the tension.

“I’ve gotcha, lass.” His presence is like a lifeline, Brianna takes his offered hand, and Murtagh’s grin turns grim but understanding as he catches John’s eye. There’s a knowing look in his gaze: They’re both going to feel this one. They push forward, step after step, until they are through the front door at last. All of their relief is short lived when they come to base of the staircase they must climb to reach Brianna’s room.

“Why do there have to be so many stairs?” Brianna groans, pain and frustration lacing every word. John feels the same way, but there’s no time for complaints.

“When this is over, I shall pass a law banning stairs as well…” John jokes, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them. The sound of her surprised, genuine laughter is exactly what he needs.

“Is that before or after the burning of the corsets?” Brianna quips, still managing to give him a mischievous smile. John feels his cheeks flush as Murtagh looks between them, a confused frown creasing his forehead. “Either way, you have my full support…”

He moves to help her up the next step, her weight leaning on him more than usual. “You’re so strong, Brianna, just keep it up we’ll be there in no time.”

“Easy for you to say,” she grumbles.

“Just one step at a time, love,” Murtagh adds, his voice low and tender, betraying the worry in his eyes.

They make their way up the stairs, each step a new wave of tension. Brianna’s grip on his hand wavers now, holding tight and loosening her grip in time with each inhale and exhale of breath.

At the top of the stairs, she sways, unsteady on her feet. John’s grip tightens around her waist instinctively, his other hand bracing her arm to keep her upright. Murtagh shifts closer on her other side, his broad hand firm against her back as he stands slightly behind her.

“Just a little further now, love.”

Brianna exhales sharply, her breath shaky, but she nods.

“Last door on the left…” Even through the pain, she doesn’t complain, doesn’t beg for rest – just clenches her jaw and keeps moving, step by step. The tremors running through her feel painful now, the sheer exhaustion is present in every labored breath, but she keeps going. And that, more than anything, makes his heart twist.

The hallway seems to stretch long before them, but the large doors to her room are finally in sight. John glances at Murtagh over the top of Brianna’s head, and though neither man speaks, the message passes between them clearly: Almost there. Just hold on.

By the time they reach the door, Brianna barely lifts her head. He doesn’t hesitate – just shifts his hold, letting Murtagh push open the door and hold it.

The moment they step inside, his focus is only on the woman in his arms. The weight of her body against John is near full now, her legs struggling beneath her. With a final, careful movement, John guides her toward the bed, his grip unwavering.

“You’re alright, darling,” he says, lowering her onto the edge of the mattress. “We made it.”

“Aye, and not a moment too soon.” Murtagh huffs, shaking out his hand with a subtle grimace. His fingers flex briefly, as if working out the lingering ache from Brianna’s unyielding grip – but there’s warmth in his rough voice, a quiet reassurance beneath the gruffness.

As he steps back, inhaling a deep breath of sheer relief, John is taken aback by the sheer opulence of the room. It isn’t just grand – it’s almost suffocating in its extravagance.

The massive canopy bed at the room’s center is nothing short of ostentatious – heavy brocade curtains drape from each post, thick enough to block out the sunlight that streams through two towering windows – each one framed by plum-colored silk, blending seamlessly into the room’s overwhelming display of wealth. The bedding, embroidered with shimmering gold thread, catches the light like molten metal, exuding both indulgence and excess.

Intricate, gold-trimmed moldings carve their way across the ceiling, framing murals of deep purple and gilded flourishes that stretch across every uncovered surface. Between the windows, a small writing desk and vanity with its delicate carvings and modest size sit in stark contrast to the grandeur surrounding them. The placement feels begrudging, as though someone conceded to practicality but only just.

Then, there’s the chaise lounge at the foot of the bed. Its deeper shade of velvet purple does not match the rest of the room’s carefully curated palette, a deviation that irks him for reasons he can’t quite place. Whether it was an oversight or a reluctant concession to comfort, it offends his sense of order in a way he finds mildly aggravating. It doesn’t belong. And yet, out of everything in the room, it is the only piece that looks as though it was meant to be used rather than admired.

John exhales slowly, “This certainly is a very purple room…”

“Aye,” Murtagh responds dryly, looking equally uncomfortable in the setting.

Brianna gasps, holding her abdomen as the pain intensifies, but then looks at Murtagh with a clear request in her eyes. “Murtagh, could you please find Lizzy for me? Ask her to get the blanket and my drawing pad from where I was sitting before she comes up here?”

“Of course, lass,” he replies without hesitation.

“I will go fetch the doctor,” John starts to step away, but before he can, Brianna squeezes his hand again. He didn’t think it possible, but she squeezes his hand even harder, pulling him back.

“Not you, John. Don’t leave yet. Phaedra is a midwife here, it’s not needed.”

“I meant for our hands,” he teases, and she gives him a wry smile as he returns his full attention to her.

After taking several long deep breaths, she says, “John…I need you to do something for me.” Her voice trembles as she motions to the vanity between the windows, “Open the top drawer there.” John does as she requests, finding only a pile of neatly arranged letters inside. He picks them up and holds them in his hand, confused.

“I wrote letters,” she explains, “I’m not sure if they’re all coming back but I wrote one to everyone, in case something goes wrong during the birth.”

“Brianna–”

“No, it’s all right.” She shakes her head, her voice quiet but firm, “Women die in childbirth every day and have been for centuries. I know it’s possible. I just wanted everyone to have something, even you.”

A pang of protectiveness grips him – an ache, deep and visceral. He wants to shield her, to promise that she will never need these letters. But he knows better. Silently, he tucks them into his coat pocket. “I’ll keep them safe.”

She manages a weak smile, her eyes glint with a hint of dark humor. “By the way, don’t read that unless I’m dead – because if you do, we’re getting divorced.”

He grins, “Duly noted, my love.”

As John tucks the letters into his pocket, something else catches his attention – the marriage certificate. Brianna’s breath is shallow as he retrieves it, her face pale, but she meets his eyes with an unwavering intensity.

“We should sign it now,” she says, her voice unsteady but resolute. They both understand the weight of what they are about to do, yet the moment feels inevitable as if they’re sealing their fate. John retrieves a quill, moving deliberately. He watches her closely – whether her hand shakes as she signs, he doesn’t know. But his certainly does.

John lifts the document, bringing his face closer as he releases a careful breath across the ink, waiting for it settle and seep into the page. From the corner of her eye, Brianna watches too, following the movement, he can’t be sure if she’s truly seeing it or just avoiding looking at him. Her breathing intensifies, and the look on her face shifts – it’s not the panic or the pain of the impending delivery or the document they just signed, but something conflicted. Something terrified.

Brianna’s hands twist in her lap, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress as she casts her gaze downward. He waits, witnessing the battle of her emotions play across her face.

“John...” her voice is low and hoarse and she swallows hard before finally looking up at him, “I need to ask you something.”

“Anything.” he replies, his voice steady despite the tension.

Guilt joins the emotions in her expression as Brianna struggles to find words, “I–I have no right to ask this of you, but if something happens to me…and if Roger doesn’t come back, or my parents…if I don’t make it through this, would you...would you look after him? Take care of my child?”

The raw vulnerability she shows is almost too much for his heart to bear. He understands why she needs to ask it, why her worst and deepest fear has finally found its voice. His panic rises with hers, the weight of the world is shifting from her shoulders to his. The enormity of what she’s asking terrifies him. All the air seems pulled from his lungs and sucked from the room, and all he can do is match each fractured breath. The turmoil in her eyes – guilt, hope, fear, love – all blending together, is joined now by doubt as his silence stretches between them.

“You don’t have to keep him, of course, but can you make sure–” She stammers, eyes still lost in the terror of what might come. “I don’t want to ask any more of you, but...” she whispers, her voice tinged with guilt. “But I need to know.”

John sits on the edge of the mattress beside her and reaches out, lifting her chin gently until their eyes meet. Her body stills – not in relief, but as if suspended between fear and detachment, hovering on the edge of something she can’t control. Whether she is grounding herself or slipping away entirely, he isn’t sure. The depths of her fear reflect back at him, dark and endless, like an abyss dragging him into the same quiet desperation of needing to know, needing to hold onto something certain.

“Brianna,” he says, his voice low but unwavering. “As long as I draw breath, your child will be safe with me.” His voice softens, each word wrapped in sincerity. “I would never leave him to anyone else. I will raise him, and I will love him as my own. I give you my word.”

The tension in her body doesn’t ease, not completely, but something shifts in her expression – a crack in her resolve, like she’s been holding her breath for too long, and only now dares to release it. Her fingers still curl in his sleeve, her lips part, but she doesn’t speak right away. Instead, she nods – barely – like if she moves this will all vanish.

Then, without warning, the tears she’s been holding back slip free. With his hand still there, John doesn’t hesitate, brushing them away with his thumb. His touch is light, fleeting – a quivering breath escapes her as she lets go of his shirt and grips his wrist, holding him there. Her fingers tighten, not in pain, not pulling him closer, but not letting him go either.

She blinks up at him, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank you…”

John only nods, his hand still hovering at her cheek for a moment longer than necessary, before letting it fall away.

Her eyes tell him the words aren’t enough, just like ‘you’re welcome’ feels hollow and trite. The words don’t carry even a fraction of the depth of what they’re feeling, but it’s all they have.

The door swings open, and Jocasta enters with a team of servants, their presence filling the room with quiet authority. Reluctantly, John rises from the mattress, clasping his hands formally behind his back. As Jocasta steps in, the room shifts. The authority in her voice, the flurry of activity around the bed, feels almost jarring after the quiet intimacy of their exchange. Brianna’s eyes don’t leave John, her grip still tight on his hand, and the look on her face says everything he needs to know. She doesn’t want him to go – the last thing he wants is to leave her, but as the midwives begin to assemble, he rises, giving her hand one last squeeze before he steps back.

“Thank you, your Lordship,” Jocasta says graciously, a team of servants bearing linens and water filing in behind her, “We shall take it from here. You’ve done more than enough, Lord John…”

The nurses and midwives that enter in behind Jocasta move with the precision and purpose of a well-trained battalion, assembling around the bed like soldiers rallying for a mission. Each woman executes her role with a diligence that speaks to years of experience, a fact he appreciates as he wishes more than ever Claire were here in person.

Their steps are swift yet measured, a choreography of care and confidence as the soft hum of their voices fill the room with quiet encouragement and gentle commands that create a reassuring atmosphere.

As the moments unfold, their hands move with the assurance of seasoned professionals, each action deliberate and synchronized. In this delicate operation, every heartbeat and breath is attended to with unwavering focus. The room is charged with energy as they work together, a seamless unit bound by a singular mission: to bring a new life into the world.

Brianna looks even more reluctant to let go of John’s hand as the room fills, everyone moving with purpose and confidence as they prepare for what’s ahead. But Brianna’s grip on John’s hand makes her thoughts clear, her eyes never leaving his.

“John… please,” she whispers, her voice breaking a little. “Don’t go.”

His heart twinges at the rawness in her voice, the quiet desperate plea that seems to cut through the noise and all activity. He can’t help but feel a tightness in his chest as the realization hits him – the eyes of everyone in that room fall on them – him, specifically – and he feels the clear message to leave.

“I’ll be right outside, Brianna,” he assures her, his voice steady but tinged with his own unwillingness to leave her. She shakes her head, tears filling her eyes once more.

“You can’t go yet, John,” she protests, her breath catching in her chest. “I need you here. Don’t leave me.” He pauses, reluctant to leave, but Jocasta’s voice calls out gently but firmly.

“Brianna, let him go. Men are not allowed in the room when a babe is born…” Murtagh stands just outside the door, watching, but he’s not the one Brianna is looking for. Her gaze is focused on John, and he feels her reluctance like lead settle in his bones. She squeezes his hand even harder as the midwives prepare to usher him out. Her grip tightens, and her eyes a mix of anxiety and a need for comfort that John hasn’t seen before.

“Please…you’re so calming and comforting – I don’t want you to leave…” Brianna whispers again, her voice full of quiet desperation, her lips trembling. “I don’t want him to leave!”

His throat tightens at the vulnerability in her expression. He’s never seen her so open, so dependent on him. It’s a stark contrast to the strong, composed woman he’s gotten to know.

“I’m not leaving you, Brianna,” he says gently, his thumb rubbing over her hand in an effort to comfort her. He gives a warning look at the surrounding midwives and servants, then back at her, wanting to make her feel as secure as possible. “I will be right outside that door. As soon as your baby is born, I’ll be the first one in.”

Her expression softens a bit, though her grip remains strong on his hand. She lets out a soft sigh, a mix of resignation and frustration, and then glares over at Jocasta, who’s waiting patiently by the door.

“Fine,” Brianna says with a heavy breath, “But you’d better be the first one in, John. I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”

John smiles despite the heaviness in the air, offering a reassuring squeeze, “I’ll hold you to that.”

He pauses, a soft, thoughtful look crossing his face before he gently raises her hand to his lips. His kiss is tender, almost reverent, as if sealing his promise to her. He stands in the hallway, unable to shake the sense of dread gnawing at his gut.

With that, he steps back, giving a small nod to Jocasta, who takes over the room with a quiet but firm authority. Then he is ushered from the room into the hallway, the doors closing firmly behind him. Murtagh is already pacing. John steadies himself with a deep breath before pulling his father’s watch from his pocket.

He notes the early hour, steeling his nerves for what will likely be a lengthy delivery. The letters Brianna entrusted to him feel heavier than paper should. He can almost feel them pressing against his chest, an unspoken reminder of everything at stake. Though he hopes she will toss them all in the fire, the very possibility of their contents makes him want to ride out and summon a physician. It’s not too late. Obviously they all would prefer her mother be here, but the prospect of the babe being born without a skilled doctor at hand still feels unnecessarily reckless.

Miss Wemyss exits the room and John without remorse tries to peek inside, “Miss Bree is requestin’ lunch, and wanted me to offer and see if either of you would like anythin’…”

“How can she eat during this?” Murtagh asks in disbelief.

“Thank you, I am not hungry…” The young maid bows and leaves them alone. Murtagh continues his pacing, lost in his own thoughts. The heat of the house, the tension in his chest, and the sheer exhaustion begin to press on him. John shrugs off his coat, folding it over a nearby chair and unbuttoning the top few buttons, loosening the crisp line of his shirt so he can breath.

Lord John holds no grudge against Murtagh Fitzgibbons, he is the only person more loyal to the Fraser family than himself. His reckless and obstinate nature notwithstanding, he has a deep abiding respect for the man. Yet for all his posturing, John can see Murtagh is just as terrified as he is. Even if he and Murtagh were as close as he and Jamie, he can’t imagine they would be able to speak; he can’t imagine being able to focus through even a single game of chess or any other game they may find to distract themselves with.

Neither of them can leave, both pacing outside the door in case help is needed. Neither of them wants to be the one to report to Jamie – or Claire – that Brianna has died in childbirth, which is exactly what it sounds like. As he listens, John could not help imagining that if they did marry and she were truly his wife, no force on this earth could push him from that room. He would be there, hand clasped in hers, letting her crush it to dust if it gave her even a sliver of comfort. Instead, he is here – helpless – while the woman he cares for more than he ever thought possible suffers through this.

He can feel her agonized screaming in his bones. Even more disturbing are the periodic bouts of silence as the hours dragged on. He doesn’t need to be a woman to know that childbirth is excruciating. For a time, he hoped he and Isobel would have children of their own, but now he is almost glad, he can imagine the guilt he would feel at putting his wife through something so terrible, no matter the joy that would follow.

Lord John sat outside the door, a silent witness to the chaos unfolding behind it. He did not know what Murtagh felt, but he could feel his own heart hammering in his chest, the fear rising like a tide. Fatherhood had never been on his radar. But now, as Brianna fought to bring new life into the world, it loomed closer than ever – impossibly real. His hand absently brushed over the cool metal of his wedding ring, the ring he had worn for so long as a reminder of what might have been.

John sits with palpable tension, his fingers absently tracing the cool metal of his gold ring. Not truly a wedding band – never an official promise – but still, a piece of Hector he had carried with him for years. A reminder of love lost, of a bond that should have been unbreakable. In all things… except one.

The memories of a life with Hector, of a family they could never have live within him like echoes in an empty hall, vibrant as ever, each one tinged with a bittersweet longing that feels almost unbearable.

When he thinks of it, the best future he had envisioned for himself is one where he is still William’s father; where he remains unattached. The idea of falling in love with anyone, especially someone who is not only a female but the daughter of his dearest friend, is not something he ever could have prepared for – even if someone had told him or predicted it in his future.

And now there is Brianna, bringing a child into the world, and something in him is shifting, an unexpected longing for a future he had never considered. His heart wrestles with a mix of hope and trepidation. He has spent so long navigating life alone, other than William, fatherhood was a distant dream that felt like it belonged to someone else. In another life. Now, listening to Brianna in labor just beyond the door, waiting for a child who isn’t his but whom he already feels bound to protect, isn’t just an abstract idea. It’s real. Immediate. And terrifying

Turning the gold ring on his finger, John reminds himself once more that the child is not his, nor Brianna his wife. The elation and love he feels is for another man’s family. A man who may very well be on his way here with Brianna’s parents, or already on a ship back to his home. Long has he been bound to the Fraser family, yet here he stands in their place, bound instead to this child.

He can’t deny it anymore. His future has shifted, irrevocably. The child, despite not being his by blood, already feels like his. And that thought alone terrifies him.

How can he protect a future when the past is weighed down by grief and the present is as unpredictable as a tempest?

He closes his eyes, sending up another prayer when another – louder – agonized wail cuts through him. But this time, it’s followed by something new. A cry.

Those first cries pierce the breathless silence, sharp and sudden. He has never felt a greater relief than at the sound of an infant cry. John’s lungs burn, but he doesn’t exhale – can’t exhale. Not yet. He waits, listening, bracing for the worst. Then, through the haze of women’s voices – cheers, hurried movement, the newborn’s wails – Brianna’s voice breaks through.

Only then does the breath escape him, releasing hours of pure agony, hours caught between holding his breath or losing it entirely. But his heart… his heart is swelling, overcome with relief and something so vast, so profound, he has no name for it.

An eternity stretches between that first cry and the slow creak of the door.

John is already there. He has to see. He needs to see. They are safe. They are alive.

“It’s a boy,” Jocasta declares with a broad smile, “Lord John, she is asking for you.”

“Of course,” John exhales, adjusting his waistcoat. He turns to Murtagh, a small but knowing nod. “Would you join me, Mr. Fitzgibbons? At least long enough to say hello.”

Murtagh hesitates, then follows. They enter the room, and Brianna looks up, pale but beautiful, her exhaustion evident. A smile, weak but genuine, graces her lips. It comes as an afterthought that Brianna might not have wanted the company of anyone else so soon – even family – but the smile she gives Murtagh as he approaches puts his anxiety to rest.

“After hours of labor and ya still look beautiful…” Brianna rolls her eyes, but her smile brightens. The older man keeps a bit of distance, not quite reaching for her or the baby “How do ya feel, Lass?”

“Exhausted…but I’ve never felt more alive…” She adjusts her hold, pulling the blankets away to reveal the baby.

“What a braw lad he is…” As tears fill the man’s eyes, John has the sense that until her parents return, he will never be far from their side. “Well, I’ll leave ya to Lord John, lass. Yell if you should need me…”

At any other time John might have taken offense to such a statement, as if he would ever cause Brianna or her child harm. At least in this moment, John knows he’s teasing. It makes him smile and he waits for the sound of the doors closing to turn toward her.

Like Murtagh he doesn’t reach for her or try to hold the boy, though he’d been lying if he said he didn’t want to. Just like that day on Jocasta’s porch when she felt the baby kick for the first time, his immediate reaction was to ask if he might feel. It was something deeply personal and profound and he can’t imagine ever asking that of any other woman, but Brianna only smiled.

She trusted him even then. Perhaps it was nothing, but he can’t help but think that it meant something more now, as his hands tremble with the need to hold them both his arms.

“Thank you for coming in…” she says, her voice hoarse from the labor.

“I appreciate the invitation,” John replies, his voice steady, though his insides are anything but. His gaze lingers on her face. “Mr. Fitzgibbons is right – after hours of labor and you still look beautiful.”

She looks at him, startled. “You think I’m beautiful?”

John scoffs in surprise but smiles. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Brianna blinks, unsure. “I just…didn’t think you would have an opinion on it, I guess?”

John smiles again in an attempt to put her at ease. “I don’t need to want to be with someone that way to know they’re beautiful. And while I’ve only ever seen you carrying this child, I know you’ll be every bit as beautiful once your body returns to its regular form.”

Her eyes grow misty, but she blinks rapidly, as if trying to shake the feeling before it settles too deeply. A flush creeps up her neck – whether from exhaustion or something else entirely, he doesn’t ask. “Ya know, at some point, Lord John, I’m gonna need you to be a little less perfect.”

John tilts his head, feigning consideration. “Shall I turn into a cranky old man before nightfall? In just a few hours you’ll be sick of me entirely.”

Brianna exhales a quiet laugh, “Even if you tried, you’d fail.”

John huffs, placing a hand over his chest. “How very dare you. I am perfectly capable of being intolerable.”

She lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I believe you.”

His lips twitch, but he wisely decides to let the comment go unanswered.

Brianna chuckles softly, though her eyes are distant, but her laughter fades too quickly. Her fingers brush against the baby’s blanket, and John can see the weight of them – the thoughts she isn’t voicing.

“How do you feel truly, Brianna?”

“Honestly?” he nods. “I don’t know. I just keep thinking…”

“About?”

“Roger. Bonnet.” Her jaw clenches at his name and hatred flashes in her eyes. “I was so afraid, John…I was just so afraid. Even though I decided in my mind and in my heart to keep him and love him, I couldn’t shake the doubt that when I saw him, maybe I wouldn’t feel that way. What if I didn’t feel the same bond? What if I couldn’t love him the way I should?”

“It seems to me, Brianna that you have nothing to fear on that score…” her eyes are so full of love John can feel it from here. She doesn’t take her eyes away from the newborn face or her son.

“I used to think my mother resented me – and my father – because I look like Jamie. It was more complicated than that, but…Mama told me once that the first time she nursed me, she loved me for me, not for who my father was. I didn’t understand that until they placed him in my arms. As I nursed him, I couldn’t stop looking at his face, his perfect little fingers and toes. It doesn’t matter which of them is the father because he is mine…and he is so innocent and beautiful…” her voice cracks and she trails off, “And I can’t stop asking how something so precious and perfect could come out of something so horrible…”

“Shhh, Brianna,” he does something against his better judgment and sits on the bed beside her, “Do not upset yourself…” She does something he is not expecting and cuddles close to his side. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and slides his arm under hers, giving her arm some support. “Do you really believe Bonnet is the father?”

“I don’t know, John…I want so badly for Roger to be the father. But then I think it’s just wishful thinking. I was with Roger first, but what if…what if Bonnet really is the one who–” She cuts herself off, wiping away her tears as the words become too painful, “I want to believe in Roger, but what if it’s not him? What if he decides that really he can’t love him and leaves us?” He sighs, bringing his hand to the back of her head, stroking her hair and kissing her temple. She leans into the touch, not trying to pull away.

As he sits beside Brianna, he throws caution to the wind regarding propriety. He’s wanted to hold her like this all day. The soft linen of his sleeves, now pushed up slightly, his vest still undone. It is a small thing – hardly disheveling, but for him, he is no longer the well-dressed Lord John Grey; here, he is simply John, holding something infinitely more precious than any title.

“I wish I could give you peace of mind, Brianna. That I could go find them all and bring them back and put an end to the waiting and the uncertainty. Since I cannot, all I will say is that if Bonnet is the father then you have one less thing to worry about. No one will know, especially not your son, you said as much earlier, he is dead. It does not matter, nor if Roger stays, he is yours Brianna. And that wedding certificate may be a lie, but I have meant every single word I said. I will take care of you both, unless you no longer wish it.”

Brianna shifts closer, perhaps seeking comfort without even realizing it. The movement gives John the opportunity to let his arm settle more securely around her. For a long moment, she says nothing, her fingers draw soft patterns against the blanket. When she finally speaks, it’s almost as if she’s following a thought she hadn’t meant to voice aloud.

“John, that story you told me about Prussia, is that true?”

“I would not lie to you.” Her breathing slows but intensifies, her gaze lingers on him, searching. There isn’t pity in her eyes or sadness, something closer to understanding reflects back at him.

“Twelve years doesn’t feel that long ago…” Her voice is softer than before, contemplative.

Twelve years. A lifetime. And yet, not so long at all. He has never thought much about the span of it, only that it lingers – some wounds never truly close, only dull to an ache. He’s never spoken of Prussia to anyone who didn’t need to know, yet she looks at him now as if seeing him differently, as if recognizing that his past holds shadows just as deep as hers. John exhales, offering a wry smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It feels like a lifetime ago…and like it happened yesterday all at the same time.”

“Huh,” She tilts her head slightly, considering this. Then, with a small smirk, she says, “And here I just thought you were just another stuffy English lord in a fancy coat.”

“That wounds me deeply, Miss Fraser.” They allow themselves another moment to laugh. she is the first to stop and catch her breath, her expression still full of affection and perhaps a solemn awe.

“Well, I’m very glad that you lived and that your brother was there to stop them. Rather selfishly, your left arm was most helpful to me today…” John huffs a quiet laugh, grateful for the shift in tone, the tension in his chest eases, “I’m sorry if I hurt your hand, though, or if I made the pain worse.”

“My pain is nothing compared to what you endured…” he says, shaking his head. Then after a beat, because he knows she needs to laugh, he adds – quite sincerely, “It was a marvel to watch you. So going forward, I shall inform all the soldiers in training that they must simply ‘breathe through it.’ After all, they’re only storming a battlefield, not giving birth…”

Her laughter fills the room, bright and unrestrained. John closes his eyes as it resounds in his ears – a balm to his soul. He commits the sound to memory, wanting to keep it with him, to hold onto this brief moment of levity.

But then, as the laughter fades, so does the lightness in her expression. The moment lingers between them, the weight of everything left unsaid settling back into place.

“I’m sorry,” she sniffles, swiping at her eyes. “I know you don’t feel the same way, but I am so glad you’re here.” Her fingers twist in the blanket, voice trembling. “I just feel like I’m getting away with a crime here, like I’m stealing your life and your future from you.”

“I can understand why you feel that way, but please Brianna, you will only be enriching my life and my future…” John brushes a lock of damp hair from her forehead, his touch light, reverent. His voice is just as soft and steady. “There is no need to apologize. I’m here because there is nowhere else I want to be.”

Brianna exhales, her shoulders sagging as if those words ease the burden on her back. She shifts, adjusting her grip on the baby, fingers skimming over the soft linen swaddling him.

“I haven’t named him yet,” she whispers. “I want to, but…I keep thinking Roger should be here.” Her voice wavers, a flash of uncertainty shadows her face as she looks down at the tiny bundle in her arms. Slowly, she pulls the blankets back just a little, her fingers brushing over his cheek with the gentlest of touches. “He is so perfect, isn’t he?” She looks up at him then, her eyes tired but shining.

“Indeed, he is…” his gaze falling to the child nestled in her arms, and the silence becomes comfortable in its quiet. Brianna looks down at her son again, stroking his tiny fingers as if memorizing the feel of them. When she speaks again, her voice is reverent.

“Do you want to hold him?”

John’s breath stills for a moment, humbled – not just by the offer, but by the trust it carries. She is not only giving him this child to hold; she is placing him in John’s arms, entrusting him in the most literal sense. He swallows, steadying himself before responding, his voice quiet but certain.

“Very much so.”

With the same quiet confidence she’s had all along, she shifts, pulling her arm away. The transition is seamless, the baby doesn’t stir as she lets the bundle settle into John’s waiting embrace. The baby is lighter than he expects, soft and warm, swaddled in blankets. There is a part of John still unused to this kind of tenderness, that fears breaking the boy with a touch too firm. The baby’s face is peaceful, eyes closed, John’s eyes trace every delicate feature, overcome by the way something so new, so fragile, can feel so deeply significant.

John’s heart melts, and a lump forms in his throat. He barely fills the length of John’s forearm, and time seems to come to a standstill. For all the chaotic movement he felt this morning, this is a startling but welcome contrast.

“Hello, little one,” His voice is barely audible, as if speaking too loud might shatter the fragile moment they are sharing. He stirs and stretches in his arms, his little fingers curling around John’s thumb, and the small contact felt like a spark of connection, fleeting yet profound.

John stands from the bed, rocking and swaying, letting the quiet rhythm of the baby’s breathing calm him. His perfect little face is soft and serene, so peaceful in his arms as if he understands no harm will come to him here.

He had seen so many faces hardened by war, time, and grief. But this? This new life – this tiny being – is the beginning of something pure, something untouched by the pain of the world. Right now, he is holding a future that has yet to be written, one without grief, without loss. A future he now has the chance to protect.

John’s gaze shifts to Brianna, resting against the headboard surrounded by pillows, watching him with a quiet, knowing smile. It is then that John realizes how profoundly his own feelings are tangled into this moment. He knows he may never be the baby’s father, not in any official capacity, but there is something undeniable about the way he feels connected to this child – he would always be there for him, watching him grow. The bond he’s forming with Brianna, the trust she’s placing in him, has led him to this point where he holds a piece of her heart in his arms. John swallows hard, feeling the weight of her words, of what this child represented – he is a part of a larger family that binds them all together.

He doesn’t know if he would ever understand the depth of that love, but he knows that in this moment, he is part of something larger, something woven together by friendship, loyalty, and the unspoken understanding between them. The baby shifts in his arms again, this time letting out a contented sigh as his eyes flutter open. John marvels at the tiny fingers that flex and relax around his thumb and a tiny sigh escapes his lips as he seems to settle into an even deeper peace against his chest.

John can’t suppress his smile – a rare but genuine expression of joy. He can feel the weight of loneliness lift, replaced by the promise of new beginnings. This is not just a first meeting; it’s the birth of a bond that would forever intertwine their lives in ways he had yet to imagine.

Those eyes, though still unfocused, capture John’s gaze. And in that quiet exchange, John understands on a whole other level that it is the bond of family that matters, not blood. It is the shared moments, the love that surrounds a child, that makes a father, a brother, or protector.

With a quiet chuckle, he whispers, “Welcome to the world, young man…”

He presses a gentle kiss to the baby’s forehead – soft, fleeting, but unshakable. A silent promise. A vow no one is asking him to make, but one he knows, in his heart, he never could break.

With an intensely deep sigh, John turns, still cradling the baby as he moves back to Brianna’s side. Her body is already giving into exhaustion, her breathing is evening out, her head tilts and her eyes are barely open. 

“Would you like him back?” he asks. He can see in her eyes the answer is yes, but her body is too tired to follow through. Her fingers brush the boy’s blanket, but she couldn’t even keep her arm in that position. “Rest, Brianna. We’ll be right here when you wake.”

She nods, her head already sinking into the pillow. He makes sure the blanket fully covers Brianna’s shoulders and he remains sitting on top of the blanket. He toes off his shoes and props up a pillow of his own, settling his back against the headboard, keeping his movements slow and careful. His legs stretch out in front of him, marveling at the impressive grip of a sleeping newborn. The tiny puffs of air John feels on his skin make him want to tighten his hold, everything about him is so fragile.

The house stirs outside the door, a distant sound that falls into the background of his mind. He doesn’t know what time it is, nor how much time passes from one moment to the next, but her son whimpers. As the baby shifts against him, his little fingers curling into the loose fabric of John's shirt, he feels the tiniest shiver. The house is warm, yet the boy’s hands feel uncomfortably cold. Without thinking, John undoes a few more buttons, slipping the baby against his skin, gently tightening the blanket around him.

John exhales, pressing his lips against the soft crown of his head. The warmth between them is instant, the baby’s breathing deepening in quiet relief. John lets his hand rest against the boy’s back, rubbing slow, careful circles – more for himself than for the child, grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of his tiny chest.

The instant warmth seems to calm him, except for a shuddering breath, he goes utterly still. John’s hand feels impossibly large against such a delicate frame but he rubs slow circles over his back, to comfort the baby but also so John can know and feel the boy is still breathing. Everything is so remarkably still it disturbs him.

All he can hear is the fireplace, her deep breathing, and the soft steady breathing of this little miracle. Sleep has never come easily to him, not in peacetime, nor in the quiet safety of a home. The stillness unsettles him more than battle ever has. But John is still here, still awake – because he is always awake. Even though he is unnaturally exhausted, the reason he will find no rest tonight is one that brings him joy. Tonight, he does not pace. He does not move.

For the first time in longer than he can remember, the quiet does not feel like something to escape.

It feels like something to revel in.