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The rent party stopped in a village large enough to boast an inn. Its first floor was a busy tavern with a jovial air, and several rooms occupied the second and third floors. Dougal was too thrifty to spend any money on the rooms, but the food was delicious and the ale strong. Jamie grabbed an extra bowl of stew and brought it to Mistress Beauchamp before someone else could take the seat beside her.
When he handed it to her, she inhaled deeply as she closed her eyes. A blissful smile spread across her lips. "That smells delicious."
He was thrilled to see her expression. He had pleased her, if only for a moment. "Surely it will taste better than the slop that Angus calls stew."
She tore a chunk of bread and handed it to him. "This is still warm, too. It's quite good." After taking her first bite, she let out a little moan that made his mouth go dry, a sound that would reverberate in his ears and echo throughout his body for many nights to come.
They chatted companionably as they ate, comparing their dinner with the cooking of Mrs. Fitz, joking about Angus and Rupert, and discussing the villages through which they had passed. They carefully avoided speaking of Dougal’s ulterior motives for the trip, although Jamie was sorely tempted. He felt instinctively as if he could tell Mistress Beauchamp anything. From time to time she would address him as Mr. MacTavish, and he wished to hear her say his real name. But though his identity was an open secret at Leoch, it was particularly dangerous to be known by strangers on the road, making the alias a necessity. Someday , he thought. Someday she would know his real name.
When he regaled her with a story about a rather violent game of shinty, he drew a bright laugh from her that beguiled him, but it was cut short by a crash and a loud, high pitched scream from the kitchen.
Claire was halfway to the next room before he found his feet. By the time he made it to the doorway, she was pulling a shrieking toddler away from flames that had taken hold of the rushes scattered across the floor. The boy’s pants had caught fire, and Claire threw her wide skirts over the wean to smother them. As Jamie grabbed a nearby pot of water to douse the fire, Claire rolled the child to and fro until the only thing rising from his clothing was smoke.
Soon the boy’s father, the innkeeper, barrelled into the room, nearly tripping over Jamie in his haste to get to his son. “Conall? Conall! Are you all right? What happened?”
In a clipped voice, Claire answered, “He was burned. Jamie, fetch my kit from the stables! I need water, both hot and cool. Angus, bring fresh water from the well. Rupert, set some to boiling. Ned, tear strips of linen for bandages.”
He hurried outside, pushing past the crowd of people gawking at the scene. When he returned with her kit, the air smelled distinctly of burned flesh. The boy had been moved onto one of the tables, and Claire was still barking out orders to bystanders. A bucket of cool water sat by her, and she poured ladles of it over the child’s legs, then carefully peeled scorched material away from the burned skin. Little Conall was struggling and weeping against his father’s hold, and Claire cooed soothing words to him as she worked. When she saw Jamie, she instructed him to retrieve two small pouches of herbs from her kit. “Steep a cup of tea, one spoonful from each. And get me honey. Lots of honey.”
In the kitchen, a maid was huddled in the corner being berated by an older woman for not sweeping the rushes away from the fire. Jamie interrupted them to ask for what he needed and then left them to their argument. He shouldered his way to the table and handed the honey to Claire, noticing for the first time that the her palms and the tips of her fingers were bright red and raw. He instinctively grabbed her wrist in alarm. “Claire! Your hands!”
She efficiently removed herself from his grasp. “It’s nothing.” The man next to him informed him that Claire had burned herself putting out the fire, then had ignored the heat of the smouldering fabric as she pulled it off.
“It’s not nothing,” Jamie insisted, worried about the injury. “You’re hurt!”
She ignored his protests and briskly said, “Put a generous amount of honey in the tea. Conall, darling, I know you’re scared, and I know you’re hurt. But I promise, the tea will help. Can you drink it for me, sweetheart?”
With the assistance of his father, he drank the cup and lay back down. Having bared what was left of his legs, Claire wrapped his badly burned flesh in strips of linen coated in honey. By the time she finished, the boy’s eyes had closed. His father looked up at Claire in alarm, but she stopped him from trying to wake the child, explaining that the tea would help him rest. “Can we get him into a bed?”
The innkeeper gathered up the boy, and his sister, the woman who had been berating the maid, led Claire up the stairs. Eventually the crowd dispersed, murmuring about the night’s events, but Jamie lingered in the tavern waiting for Claire.
“Did ye no’ hear her, lad? She’ll stay wi’ the boy tonight,” Murtagh reminded him.
He knew it, but he had hoped she would come downstairs anyway. He wanted to make sure she was well, and that she was tending to her hands. When it became clear she wasn’t, he headed up the stairs and found her in a small bedroom sitting on a hard chair by the boy’s bed. The innkeeper sat by her and startled at his intrusion when he asked to speak with her. Claire followed him into the hallway. “‘Twas a good thing you’ve done for the boy. You saved his life.”
She looked back toward the closed door. “We don’t know that, not yet. It’s too soon. And anyway, anyone would have done the same.”
“That’s not true, and ye ken that. Perhaps someone else may have helped with the fire, but he was lucky a healer was nearby, and such a good one, at that.” Then he cleared his throat. “You should sleep. There’s naught to do now but wait, aye?”
She shook her head. “Actually, I need to wake him tonight to drink, since we can’t let him get dehydrated. It could kill him faster than infection.” At his blank look, she explained, “He’ll lose a lot of fluid through these burns. I’ll wake him every two hours to drink honey water. And I need to watch him for signs of fever.”
“Then I’ll fetch your things for ye. Will you stay in one of the rooms?”
“No. The innkeeper offered me quarters, but I can’t leave Conall tonight. But thank you for getting my things.”
She turned to the room again, but he placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Cl--Mistress Beauchamp, your hands. Let me see your hands.”
She reluctantly allowed him to take her hands in his, and he turned the palms up. They were red, blistered, and, if her careful movements were any indication, exquisitely painful. She tried to pull them back. “It’s nothing.”
“Dinna be daft, lass,” he said gently. “Come now. You’ve done all you can for now. The lad needs your healing touch, and ye canna give that to him if your hands are injured. It’s time to take care of you.”
Jamie led her back to the first floor and sat her down by the hearth. Then, copying what she had done for Conall, he carefully washed her hands with cool water, applied honey, and wrapped them in strips of clean linen, deliberately adding extra layers of padding. “Now I’m all sticky,” she complained, “and I can’t use my hands.”
It was just the opportunity he'd been waiting for. “Then you’ll use mine,” he insisted, and followed her up the stairs with her kit.
Jamie congratulated himself on his stroke of genius. Now he was forced to stay with her since she completely lacked dexterity. Even after the innkeeper went to his own bed, she remained seated at Conall’s side, waking him faithfully just as she’d said. It was Jamie, however, who mixed the honey water and held the cup for the boy. He dozed through the long night, waking intermittently to peer at her drowsily, taking note of the curve of her neck as her head tilted in fatigue, or the way the moonlight touched her fair skin.
The innkeeper relieved them the next morning when his son woke, calling for him. He was a tall man, though not so tall as Jamie, with classical features. He gave Claire a grateful smile, and his eyes lingered on her as she passed.
At breakfast Jamie half-jokingly offered to feed Claire, but she gave him a withering look, removed her dressings, and washed her tender hands. Still, he saw her wince when she tried to tear bread for herself, and he wordlessly took the loaf and did it for her. It was difficult not to laugh at her sheepish smile of thanks, which he returned, and Jamie’s exhaustion faded into a pleasant haze.
His good mood was ruined, however, when Dougal entered, declaring that it was time to leave. Jamie was ready to go, but Claire was not. She steadfastly refused to leave the boy. To make matters worse, the innkeeper heard her arguing and appeared at the foot of the stairs, begging her to stay. He offered her his finest room as a token of his appreciation, and she happily agreed. Jamie thought Dougal might try to drag her out bodily, but he interrupted his uncle’s tirade. “Might we have a word?”
Outside, and away from prying ears, Dougal hissed, “We canna let her stay. She’ll escape, and she knows too much. She’ll go to the Redcoats.”
“She won’t betray us. I’m sure of it.”
“Just because you’re smitten with the lass, doesna make her trustworthy!” Dougal declared. “You wouldn't be saying so if she was plain.”
Jamie’s cheeks reddened, but he simply pointed out, “She won’t leave the child, not when he needs care. Ye ken that.”
“But I can’t simply leave her here! Nor can we come back for weeks.”
“I’ll stay with her,” Jamie offered. “That way she can’t run off, and we’ll catch up to ye when the boy no longer needs her.”
The corner of Dougal’s mouth quirked up, and he folded his arms over his chest. “Ah, so that’s what this is about. Ye want the widow all to yourself, is that it? It doesna matter. I need ye with me. One of the other lads can stay behind.”
Jamie’s heart sank. He feared that if he lost sight of her, he would never find her again. “Who?”
Dougal stared in the direction of the campsite. “Angus perhaps, or Rupert? I can spare one of them.”
“Rupert would be drunk the whole time. If you’re truly worried about her running off, he’ll no’ find her. And Angus can hardly keep track of the arse on his own backside.”
“Willie, then,” Dougal proposed.
“Much as I like Willie, he’ll not be able to protect her alone if the need arises.”
Dougal conceded, “And with her, the need will surely arise. Fine. Your own kinsman. Murtagh can stay with her. He’s the one defended her from Randall in the first place.” Jamie sputtered, trying to find a reason that he should stay instead of his godfather, but his uncle would have none of it. Jamie left to find Murtagh while Dougal informed Claire of their plans, then returned to say goodbye.
He found Claire in Conall’s room. The boy had fallen asleep once more after taking a small breakfast. Claire and the innkeeper sat by Conall’s bed, heads bent together, speaking in low tones. The innkeeper was saying, “...hard since we lost his mam. A good woman, she was. My sister tries to help, but she has a brood of her own, and a babe needs a mother.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that, Norman. She sounds like a wonderful woman.” Jamie felt his hackles rise. Norman? Did she call him by his Christian name? Why did Claire address the innkeeper in such a familiar way? She hardly knew the man!
The innkeeper bowed his head. “I just wish he had some memory of her.”
“You can give him those memories,” Claire said gently. “My… my own parents died when I was small. Not quite so young, but young enough to have few memories of them. But my uncle who raised me, he told me of them. He kept them alive for me. It meant a lot to me. Still does.”
“Thank you, Claire. You’ve been such a comfort.” Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Jamie thought he spotted a tear in the man’s eye. But it definitely wasn’t his imagination when the innkeeper reached out to clutch Claire’s hand.
She tried to hide a wince, but the pain in her own burned hands was too startling. Jamie couldn’t help himself. He barged in and yanked the innkeeper back. Claire made a small, surprised noise as the innkeeper tried to keep his balance on his stool, and Jamie declared, “Her hands, man, her hands! They’re no’ healed. Come with me, Mistress Beauchamp. You need to keep them dressed.”
He tried to lead her down the stairs while the innkeeper stammered apologies, but she told him, “The rest of my things are in there.” She pointed down the hall and showed him into a more richly furnished room, complete with a soft-looking bed and a large copper washtub by the fire. The young maid was transferring hot water from a cauldron in the hearth. Claire immediately apologized, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought Norman said I should take this room. Just let me get my things.”
“‘Tis yours, Mistress,” the girl said. “Mr. MacDunn asked me to prepare a hot bath for ye. He thought you’d like a nice soak before going to bed, seeing as you sat up with young Conall night long.”
“Oh, how thoughtful of him!” She looked positively delighted at the prospect of a hot bath, while Jamie felt unjustifiably angry.
He warned her, “Remember your hands? Those burns, should ye put them in hot water?”
“I’ll help ye, Mistress,” said the maid. “You can just rest, and I’ll do the rest. Would you like me to wash your hair? 'Twas a fine lady stayed here some months back; she left behind some sweet smelling stuff, made her hair shiny and clean.”
“That sounds amazing!”
Jamie tried one more feeble protest. “But I’m to dress your hands, Mistress Beauchamp. You need them cared for. I’d like to help you before we go. I think Dougal told ye?”
“That Murtagh will stay behind with me? And we’ll catch up to you when the boy heals. Yes, I know.”
Again the maid piped up, “I can dress your hands after the bath, Mistress. You can tell me how?”
“I’m not even sure they need dressing,” she said, tucking her hands together against her dress to hide them.
Jamie gently took her wrists and pointed out the obvious damage. “Of course ye do. I ken these pain ye.”
She reluctantly agreed. The maid bustled him into the hall so that she could get Claire into the bath. Jamie fidgeted as he waited, listening through the door at the sounds inside. He heard something about laces, and what may have been the swish of fabric, and he couldn’t help but imagine what was going on. He tried to stop himself but failed miserably, especially when he heard a splash as Claire entered the water and let out an audible moan.
His uncomfortable musings were interrupted by a hard voice yelling his name, then heavy feet plodding up the stairs. Angus poked his head around the corner. “There ye are, lad. Time to go.”
“Not yet, I have to… I have to…” He couldn’t come up with any excuse that would delay Angus.
“Ye have to what?”
He pointed at the door. “Mistress Beauchamp, she’s, well, she’s occupied.”
This roused Angus’s curiosity. “Occupied doing what? Isna the boy down there?” He pointed in the opposite direction down the hall.
“Yes, she’s… busy. I need to wait until she’s done before I can go.”
Now Angus rolled his eyes. “Bollocks, ye have to wait. She’s Murtagh’s problem now, not yours. Get a move on, man. Dougal’s waiting. We’re all waiting. It’s time to go.” When he didn’t move, his mouth flapping open and closed uselessly, Angus threatened, “Do I need to drag ye? I’ll gladly shove you down the stairs.”
He knew Angus wasn’t entirely joking. He placed his hands on the door, wishing he could open it. Then he flushed as he realized what he would see. He cleared his throat of the lump that had formed and called out, “Mistress Beauchamp? I’ve got to go now, but I’ll… we’ll see ye soon.”
“All right,” she answered, her voice muffled. “Thank you, Mr. MacTavish.”
Angus grabbed his elbow and asked, “What’s going on in there?”
He whispered, “A bath. She’s taking a bath.”
Angus perked up visibly. “Aye? Truly?” Then he bent to peer through the keyhole, and Jamie had to yank him back and box his head.
As he dragged Angus away, he called once more, “Please, Mistress, take care of yourself while I’m gone.”
He didn’t hear her reply.
The next several days dragged by so slowly that Jamie wondered if time itself was grinding to a halt. It was misery. Not only was he worried about Mistress Beauchamp, who was surrounded by strangers but for Murtagh, but he missed her as well. He was constantly sullen, sat alone by the campfire, ate by himself, and worked himself into a silent rage when Dougal bared his back to rooms full of strangers. Dougal didn’t mind his rage in the least, and, in fact, used it when he sharpened his tales as weapons against the English.
His companions initially teased him about his foul mood, then figured out the cause. On the seventh day, Angus called out, “What do ye miss most about Mistress Beauchamp? Her pretty eyes?” He fluttered his eyelids. Then he pursed his lips and made a ridiculous kissing sound. “Those lovely lips? Or maybe it's…” Now he made a crude gesture with his hands, which spurred Jamie to stand and brandish a fist at Angus, who nearly fell over laughing.
Rupert pointed out, “I’m not sure she’d welcome such advances from the lad. I expect by the time we get back, she’ll be betrothed to the innkeeper.”
While Jamie froze in alarm, Ned nodded and agreed. “Did ye see the way he eyed her when we first brought her in? And that was before she saved his son.”
Jamie had noticed. The innkeeper had frozen in place, staring at her in stupefaction instead of responding to Dougal's request for food and ale.
“Smitten, he is,” Rupert agreed. “And widowed.”
One of the men behind Rupert chimed in, “A man gets used to having a woman in his bed.”
“And if a woman what looked like the Sassenach dropped out of the sky?” Angus waggled his eyebrows.
Ned added, “He’ll make her an offer. No doubt.”
Jamie wanted to mount his horse immediately and ride straight back to her and… and… He didn’t actually know what he’d do, so he said nothing. He just clenched his fists and hunched into himself, feeling his chest clench at the thought of Mistress Beauchamp, of Claire, marrying that man. But it was Dougal who growled, “He can ask, but she canna accept.”
“Why not?” Willie asked, surprised.
Angus said, “Aye, she’s a widow and a free woman. He’s prosperous, seems decent enough.”
Much to Jamie’s irritation, Willie added, “Rather handsome, too.” His statement drew strange looks from the other men. “What? He is!”
Dougal tossed a stick into the fire. “She’s under the protection of the Clan MacKenzie. So she’ll need my permission, or Colum’s, to wed.”
Now Jamie found his voice. “Does she know that? Or might we return to find her already…” He couldn’t bear to finish the sentence, and swallowed hard.
“Damn it,” Dougal huffed. “I should have left a MacKenzie with her. Murtagh won’t put a stop to it.”
Angus stuck his hand up. “I can go back.”
“She’ll just run away from you, stinking lug!” Rupert laughed.
Before anyone else could take the job, Jamie declared, “I’ll go. I’ll make sure the innkeeper doesna take her.”
Dougal began, “No. As I told ye, I need you with me.”
Before Jamie could argue, Ned pointed out, “We’re not due in Mallaig for three days. And you know you won’t have any difficulty getting them to cooperate. We can spare Jamie. Besides, if you send Angus by himself, she’ll marry the innkeeper just to spite him. But she’s fond of young Jamie.”
Dougal eyed Jamie, sizing him up as a flight risk. He knew Jamie would have no reason to stay if he and Murtagh were left alone with only the Sassenach to watch them. In the end, he sent Rupert with him to fetch her back.
Two days later, they arrived at the inn to find wee Conall seated at a table in the tavern, happily shoving a bannock into his mouth while he swung his bandaged legs beneath him. His father, however, was nowhere to be found, nor was Claire.
Murtagh emerged from the back and clapped him on the shoulder. “I didna expect to see ye so soon, laddie.”
Jamie didn't bother with preliminaries. “Where is she?”
Murtagh looked round. “She was here when I left. Did you look upstairs?”
Before he could move, the innkeeper’s sister said, “Gone to gather herbs. Claire said she was running low.”
Jamie spun around to face Murtagh. “Why did you let her go alone? She's no’ safe by herself!”
“She's not alone,” the maid chimed in. “Mr. MacDunn took her. But I dinna expect that she’ll come back with just plants. He took yer mam’s ring with him.” She giggled as she glanced at the innkeeper’s sister.
Jamie’s head started to spin, while the older woman simply smiled. “Mm. So he's taken my advice for once. Good. She'll make a fine wife.”
“What?” Jamie yelled. “She canna do that! He can't do that!”
Both women’s heads snapped toward him. “Why not?” asked the sister.
“Oh!” The maid’s eyes widened, and her hands flew to her mouth. “Is she yours? Is she your intended? She didn't say.”
Jamie sputtered an incoherent denial. Rupert didn't disguise his amusement while he clarified, “She's under the protection of the clan MacKenzie. She canna marry without the consent of the MacKenzie himself or the war chief.”
Just in case it wasn't clear, Jamie added, “And they do not consent. Where did they go?”
The innkeeper's sister didn't appreciate the response and began to argue, wondering what business it was of the MacKenzie what one widowed English healer did. But Jamie’s anger intimidated the maid, who pointed him toward a path cutting through the forest east of the village, and he rushed off, Murtagh and Rupert on his heels.
The path forked twice before they found Claire, so they split up. Ten minutes later, the sound of Claire’s distinctive laughter alerted Jamie to her location, but unlike the usual smile that it brought to his lips, this time it pulled his face into a frown and sent his stomach rolling.
Through the trees, he spotted the innkeeper knocking what appeared to be a bouquet of delicate purple flowers out of Claire’s hands onto the ground. Her basket went down too, scattering herbs everywhere. “Then don't touch them, for God’s sake!”
“Oh, it's not the flowers that are deadly. It's safe to touch, just don't eat the leaves or berries,” she told him.
Now the innkeeper looked sheepish and knelt to gather the plants. “So I did that for no reason? Oh, God! I’m sorry!”
She laughed again. “You meant well.”
“I truly don't want to kill ye, Claire. ‘Twould be a poor way to thank ye for all ye’ve done.”
She bent down to help him with a smile, and her reply was soft enough that Jamie couldn't hear it.
The innkeeper continued, “It's not just saving Conall’s life, ye ken. You make him smile like no one I've ever seen before.”
“He's a lovely boy. Oh dear, don't mix that in with the others! That's the nightshade!” She reached for the plant to toss it aside, but the innkeeper did something that made Jamie’s heart stop. He dropped the poisonous plant and took her extended hand. She froze, and so did Jamie.
“Mistress Beauchamp. Claire.”
“Norman?” Her voice was high and surprised.
Could he watch this? Could he stand her and let this happen? He simply could not. But he couldn't move, either.
“I want to thank ye for what you've done for me, for my son,” the innkeeper began.
“Oh! Of course. He’s just a delight, and he will be well. I'm sure of it. He's quite strong, you know, a vigorous child,” Claire babbled.
“Thanks to you. Thanks only to you. You saved him, not only from the fire, but the terrible fever. I owe you everything, Claire, and we’re so blessed that you came into our lives.”
“Just good luck, I suppose. I was glad to help.”
She tried to remove her hand, but the innkeeper tightened his grip, and that was what finally motivated Jamie forward. As the innkeeper continued, “I hope you'll consider staying with us, Claire…”
“She won't,” Jamie declared, revealing himself.
Claire twisted to see him and toppled backward with the sudden move, breaking away from the innkeeper’s hand. “Mr. MacTavish? Jamie?” She peered up at him.
Both men reached out their hands to help her up, but she chose neither and stood up of her own power, brushing down her skirts.
“What's the meaning of this?” the innkeeper demanded indignantly.
“I'm to fetch her back. I saw your boy. He looks quite well. I doubt he needs her assistance any longer.”
“Fetch her back to what?” the innkeeper asked, then answered his own question. “A roving band of men? Living hard on the road? That's no place for a lady. She will stay at the inn in comfort.”
Claire broke in, “Oh, it's not so bad on the road. Nor at the inn, for that matter.”
The men both ignored her. “She’ll do no such thing,” Jamie stated. “She's coming with me.”
“Upon whose orders?” the innkeeper protested. “Yours?”
“Dougal's.”
Claire replied in a clipped voice, “Dougal MacKenzie does not order me about.”
The innkeeper looked triumphant. “You see? She'll stay.”
“No, she won't!” Jamie stepped close, using his height to intimidate the other man.
But the innkeeper did not back down. “Yes, she will! She's not yours to order about.”
“She's not yours either! She's under the care of the MacKenzie!”
“He doesn't own her!”
“Neither do you! You hardly even know her!”
“What, and you do? She told me she only met your party on the road. You've no claim to her. Who the Hell do you think you are?”
“At least I've known her longer than a week!”
“You know nothing about her!”
They argued back and forth, getting nowhere, until eventually the innkeeper leaned around Jamie. “Claire? Claire?”
It was only then that Jamie realized she was nowhere to be seen. “Where is she?”
She was gone, her basket gone with her.
They rushed back to the inn and heard her voice coming from the kitchen. Both men stopped abruptly when they heard her say, “...ridiculous male posturing. They're like two peacocks flaunting their tail feathers at one another. Honestly, it was insufferable.”
Neither wanted to enter at that moment, but neither was above eavesdropping. They held still on the other side of the door.
“Ye’ve seen a peacock?” the maid asked.
Claire sounded startled by the question. “Oh, well, yes. They're actually quite beautiful. The men, rather less so.”
“So you won't be marrying Mr. MacDunn?” the maid asked, sounding disappointed. “He's a good man, you know. The tavern does good business even when there are no boarders for the rooms, so he’s verra prosperous. And handsome, don't you think? He'll make a good husband. He'd take good care of ye. And he's so fond of ye.”
Claire didn't answer immediately, and both men held their breath waiting for her reply. “Oh, I'm quite fond of him as well. He’s very kind, and lovely to talk to.” Jamie’s heart sank while the innkeeper started to grin. “But…”
The maid added, “And Conall simply adores ye. He needs a mother, and you have such a way wi’ him.”
“He's just a doll,” Claire conceded, and Jamie wondered if the maid was right. He truly wanted her for his, and had done so since the first moment he had laid eyes on her, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Their first contact had spurred a visceral, base, and singularly powerful reaction in him which had only deepened since she had fixed his arm. But what had he to offer her? Him, an outlaw, with a price on his head? He was a laird, yes, but only in name. He hadn't even told her he was a Fraser. For all she knew, he was but a stable boy. But then he heard her continue, “Yes, Conall is a sweet boy. But Norman didn't actually ask me, you know.”
“He was about to! He took his mother's ring for ye. ‘Tis beautiful, a sapphire on a silver band. ‘Twould look so pretty on your slim finger!”
“I'm not… I can't… I'm not free for him,” she ended feebly.
“Oh. Is it the great red lad follows you ‘round? I knew he fancied ye, but when he barged back in here today in such a panic… Weel, he said you're no’ his, but I can tell he really thinks ye are.”
“What?” Claire sounded shocked. Jamie was thankful she couldn’t see him, for he’d gone red from his chest to the tips of his ears.
The maid continued, “I think he's even more handsome than Mr. MacDunn, and he adores ye. Is he yours?”
“Jamie? Mine? That’s absurd! He's not… He doesn't…”
He was, and he did, even if she didn't know it.
The maid knew, though. “He does. Has he asked you yet? If not, he will. I can tell, just like I could tell Mr. MacDunn meant to...”
“No one’s asked me, and no one will,” Claire cut her off. She pulled out the argument Jamie had arrived with just to try to end the conversation. “The MacKenzie must agree, and he won't, so there's no point in asking.”
“Does he have someone else in mind for ye?”
“I certainly hope not! I don't want to marry, and I don't have to, so I won't. And certainly after their ridiculous behavior today, neither Jamie or Norman. They might have well whipped them out and measured them side by side.”
After a beat, the maid asked, “Measured what?”
The women continued talking in less favorable terms, and the men backed away. They didn't need to hear any more.
The innkeeper poured a mug of ale and drank deeply, then poured another and handed it to Jamie. “Neither of us, then.”
“I dinna think we impressed her today.”
The innkeeper sighed heavily. “I gathered pretty flowers for her as a gift. But they turned out to be deadly nightshade. Powerful poison, she said.”
Jamie couldn’t help but laugh, and then the innkeeper followed suit. “Maybe she’ll use it on one of us.”
The inkeeper mused, “I should have stuck to the hot baths. She loved that. Maybe if I’d had one drawn for her every day…” Both men swallowed hard at the thought of Claire sinking naked into the warm water. They wandered outside, where they sat on a bench and looked at the sky. “What are you doing back, anyway?”
After a long draw on the mug, Jamie answered, “Stopping you from marrying her.” The innkeeper rolled his eyes, and Jamie insisted, “No, really. Dougal realized ye might ask and sent us back to stop it.”
“He wants her for himself?” the innkeeper guessed.
Jamie smirked. “I expect so, but I dinna think his wife will like it.”
The innkeeper laughed, and they drank the rest of their ale in silence.
When they departed the next morning, neither Jamie, the innkeeper, nor Dougal had claimed Claire. She still belonged only to herself, though she seemed to have made space in her heart for the little boy. Conall cried when she kissed him goodbye, and the innkeeper took her hand and pressed his lips to it. Bile rose in Jamie's throat at the sight, but watching the gesture reminded him of the burns she had sustained.
As they walked to the stables, he asked, “Did you take care of yourself while we were gone, Mistress Beauchamp?” Then he took the excuse to take one hand gently in his and asked, “How are the burns?” He opened her palm, which was slightly pinker than usual but otherwise unmarred.
“Quite well, thank you. You were right to apply the honey. It helped.” He was absurdly pleased, and he ran his thumb along the crease in her hand. It was just as soft as he remembered. She made a small sound in her throat and then immediately became embarrassed at the noise. “Sorry, they’re just sensitive.”
He reluctantly released her. “I dinna want to hurt ye.”
She reassured him, “Oh, you didn’t. It doesn’t hurt.” At his skeptical look, she placed her hand on his forearm and reassured him, “Truly. It just tingles a bit.”
He believed her, so he didn’t hesitate to take her hand again to lift her onto the horse. Then he mounted behind her and wrapped his arms around her to take the reins. “Comfortable?” he asked her. She nodded in answer, and her wild hair tickled his face, making him smile.
The mare moved, and the slight jolt pushed them even closer together, his arms round hers, her curves against his planes, her back against his chest, and her lovely round arse between his thighs. It was exactly as he remembered. She fit there perfectly, as if her body had been made just for his.