Chapter Text
Claire balanced on the middle rail of the stall, her small boots tapping lightly against the wood as she swung her legs. Her wild brown curls, half‑restrained by a ribbon that had long since given up, bounced with every movement. Her homespun gown, neatly mended but hopelessly smudged at the hem, was tucked up to keep it from the straw. Alec, bent over a currycomb and a mare with the temperament of a queen, gave her a sideways look. “Mind yer feet, lass. Ye’ll set her skittish, carryin’ on like that.”
“I’m not carrying on,” Claire replied, her voice crisp and perfectly enunciated. “I’m only thinking Alec. My legs simply move when I think.”
“Aye,” Alec muttered, “and makin’ enough noise for the whole o’ Leoch tae hear ye thinkin’.” She ignored that entirely. “Alec, did you know Angus claims he can whistle loudly enough to summon thunder? He tried yesterday, but all he managed was turning his lips quite purple. Rupert laughed so hard he fell straight into the midden heap. Geillis said it was a sign from the fairies, but I don’t believe fairies concern themselves with midden heaps, do you?” Alec brushed the mare’s flank with long, patient strokes. “Can’t say I’ve asked them.” Claire leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Laoghaire said I was foolish for believing Geillis, but she’s only cross because she can’t climb the orchard wall as quickly as I can. She says I cheat, but I don’t cheat. I’m simply fast. Murtagh says it’s because I’ve goat legs. Do I have goat legs, Alec?”
“No’ unless goats have legs that never stop waggin’,” he said, reaching for another brush. Claire beamed. “Murtagh says I talk too much as well. But he talks plenty when he thinks no one is listening. He told the smith last week that the new colt has more sense than half the men in the castle. Do you think that’s true?” Alec snorted. “Wouldna surprise me.” She looked delighted by that answer. “I like the colt. He has a little white star on his nose—like someone dabbed him with a paintbrush. If I had a horse, I’d want one with a star. Or perhaps a stripe. Or perhaps—”
“Claire.” Alec straightened with a groan. “If ye ask me one more question before sunrise, I’ll have to start chargin’ ye for the privilege.” She blinked at him, solemn for a heartbeat. “But I’ve only asked a few.”
“A few,” he repeated, deadpan. She considered this. “Well… I could ask fewer if you answered more quickly.” Alec opened his mouth—likely to tell her exactly what he thought of that—when a faint noise outside caught his attention. Claire was still explaining—quite animatedly—how she’d once tried to braid Geillis’s hair and accidentally tied the ribbon to a chicken, when the stable door creaked open. A cool draft swept in, carrying the scent of heather and early morning smoke. She didn’t notice. But the man in the doorway did. Murtagh Fitzgibbons paused just inside, his silhouette framed by the rising light. His brows lifted at the sight of the wee English lass perched on the rail like a sparrow, her curls bouncing, her feet swinging, her voice carrying clear as a bell. Alec caught sight of him and gave a subtle nod, the kind that said Aye, ye see what I’m dealin’ with. Murtagh huffed a quiet laugh through his nose. “She’s at it again, then.”
“Aye,” Alec replied without looking up. “Questions enough tae fill a priest’s sermon.” Claire still hadn’t noticed him. She was far too busy describing the relative intelligence of chickens versus Rupert. Murtagh stepped closer, boots soft on the straw. “Mornin’, Claire.” She stopped mid‑sentence, her curls bouncing as she turned. “Oh! Good morning, Murtagh. Did you know Rupert fell into the midden heap yesterday? Angus said it was because he angered the thunder, but I think it was because he wasn’t looking where he was going.” Murtagh’s mouth twitched. “Aye, that sounds more likely.” She beamed at him, bright as a lantern. “I was just telling Alec all about it.”
“I heard,” he said dryly, though his eyes were warm. “Half the castle can.” Claire swung her legs again, entirely unbothered. “Well, someone ought to keep everyone informed.” Murtagh shook his head, fond and exasperated in equal measure. “Ye’re a wee storm, lass.” Claire took that as a compliment. And the stables—dim, dusty, and smelling of hay—felt just a little more alive for her being in them. “Claire,” he said, brushing straw from his sleeve, “I’ll be off for a few days. Ridin’ north.” She froze mid‑swing, curls bouncing. “Off? Where?”
“Lallybroch.” Claire gasped so loudly the mare in the next stall startled. “Lallybroch?” she breathed, hands clasped to her chest like a heroine in a play. “You’re going to Lallybroch?”
“Aye,” Murtagh said, amused. “That’s what I just told ye.”
“But—Lallybroch! The most beautiful place in the Highlands! With the river that sings and the hills that glow and the house that looks like a castle and the—”
“Aye, aye,” he cut in, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I ken what I said aboot it.” She leaned forward, eyes wide. “Take me with you.”
“No.”
“Murtagh!” She hopped down from the rail with a thud, skirts swishing, curls flying. She marched right up to him, chin lifted. “Please. Please take me. I’ll be ever so good.”
“It’s no’ safe,” he said, crossing his arms. “Roads are rough. Weather’s turnin’. Bandits aboot.”
“I don’t care about bandits,” Claire declared. “I’m going to lose my mind if I stay in this castle with Laoghaire and the others any longer.” Murtagh snorted. “Funny. When I see ye with yer wee friends, ye look awfully happy.” Claire huffed—an enormous, dramatic huff—and blew a stray curl off her forehead. “That’s only because I’m very good at pretending.”
“Aye, I’ve noticed,” he said dryly. “Murtagh, please,” she begged, tugging at his sleeve. “I want to see the world!”
“The world?” His brows shot up. “’Tis only Lallybroch, lass.”
“It’s not only Lallybroch,” she insisted, spinning away from him and heading for the ladder to the loft. “It’s the place you told me about—the place with the warm kitchen and the clever horses and the river where you used to fish when you were a boy. And the hills where the heather grows taller than your knees. And the orchard where the apples taste like honey. And—” She climbed the ladder rung by rung, voice floating down like a dream. “And your godchildren live there. Your godchildren, Murtagh! I shall simply die if I don’t meet someone new.” Murtagh sighed, hands on his hips, watching her reach the loft and flop dramatically onto a pile of hay. “Claire.” She peeked over the edge, curls spilling like a waterfall. “Yes?” He shook his head, defeated. “I was takin’ ye along the whole time.” She blinked. “You were?”
“Aye. I only wanted to tease ye a bit.” Claire shrieked—a joyful, piercing sound that sent three pigeons flying from the rafters. She scrambled down the ladder so fast she nearly missed a rung, barreled into Murtagh, and wrapped her arms around his middle “Oh, Murtagh, you’re the best man in the entire Highlands!” He grunted, patting her awkwardly on the back. “Aye, weel. Dinna tell Alec. He’ll want proof.” Claire beamed up at him, curls wild, cheeks flushed, eyes shining with the promise of adventure. Lallybroch awaited. And Murtagh—gruff, weary, soft‑hearted Murtagh—was doomed to enjoy every minute of it.
Claire shot out of the stables like a stone from a sling. “I must prepare!” she shouted over her shoulder, curls flying behind her. “Murtagh, Alec—I have so much to do before we leave!” Alec shook his head. “God help whoever crosses her path.” Murtagh grunted. “Aye. Pray for the castle.” Claire didn’t hear them. She was already sprinting across the courtyard, skirts gathered in her fists, boots thudding against the packed earth. She barreled through the kitchen doors—and ran smack into Laoghaire MacKenzie. Who staggered back, scowling. “Watch where ye’re goin’, Claire!” Claire bounced on her toes, too excited to be offended. “Sorry! I’m in a dreadful hurry!” Laoghaire crossed her arms, eyebrow arched. “And where were ye this mornin’? We already made the bread wi’out ye.”
“I was in the barn helping with the horses, of course,” Claire said, chin lifted, voice perfectly crisp. Laoghaire rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t fall over. “Aye, and I’m the Queen o’ France. Ye always run from kitchen duty. And laundry day. And mending. And—” Claire waved a hand. “Yes, yes, I know, I’m hopeless. But I’ve no time for chores today!” Before Laoghaire could retort, Mrs. Fitz bustled in, cheeks flushed from the heat of the ovens. “Claire Beauchamp! What on earth—”
“Mrs. Fitz!” Claire practically squealed. “I’m going to Lallybroch!” Mrs. Fitz blinked. “Lallybroch? Wi’ who?”
“With Murtagh!” Claire said, bouncing again. “We’re leaving soon and I must pack immediately.” Laoghaire’s head snapped around. “Lallybroch? I want tae go too!” Claire planted a hand on her hip. “Murtagh would never take you. You’re not his friend.” Laoghaire scoffed. “I am too!”
“You are not.”
“I am!”
“You’re not even nice to him.”
“I am so!”
“You are not!” Mrs. Fitz clapped her hands sharply. “Enough! Both o’ ye. There’s work tae be done. Laoghaire, ye’ll finish the bannocks. Claire—” But Claire was already halfway to the door. “I can’t possibly do chores today, Mrs. Fitz! I must pack for my journey!”
“Claire!” Mrs. Fitz called after her. “Ye dinna even ken what tae pack!” But Claire was gone, curls flying, heart soaring, shouting something about needing ribbons, boots, and possibly a map of the entire Highlands. Mrs. Fitz sighed. “That child will be the death o’ me.” Laoghaire muttered, “I hope she gets lost.” Mrs. Fitz swatted her with a wooden spoon. “Mind yer tongue.”
Claire’s room looked as though a storm had blown through it. Shifts were draped over the bedposts, stockings hung from the chair, ribbons trailed across the floor like colorful snakes. Claire herself stood in the middle of it all, holding up two nearly identical gowns and muttering, “I simply must bring both. One never knows what adventures require.” Then she tossed them both over her shoulder. The door burst open. “CLAIRE!” Geillis shrieked, stumbling inside. “Mrs. Fitz said ye were packin’ but she didna say ye were creatin’ a battlefield!” Claire spun around, curls bouncing. “Geillis! I’m going to Lallybroch!” Geillis gasped dramatically, clutching her chest. “Lallybroch? The place wi’ the river ye said sings? The one wi’ the hills ye said glow? The one wi’ the—”
“Yes, yes, that Lallybroch!” Claire squealed. The two girls immediately dissolved into shrieks and laughter, grabbing handfuls of clothes and tossing them into Claire’s chest with absolutely no system whatsoever. “Ye dinna need five shifts!” Geillis cackled. “I might!” Claire insisted, throwing another one in. “What if I fall in a river? Or two rivers? Or—” Geillis flung a stocking at her face. Claire retaliated by draping a shift over her own head like a ghost and tackling Geillis onto the floor. That was the exact moment Laoghaire walked in. She stopped dead, nose wrinkling. “Grandmother says tae make sure ye pack—” She blinked at the sight: Claire wrestling Geillis, shift over her head, both girls shrieking with laughter, clothes flying everywhere.
Laoghaire crossed her arms. “Ye two look like weasels in a flour sack.” Claire popped up, shift still half over her curls. “Laoghaire, I’m going to Lallybroch!” Laoghaire’s eyes narrowed. “I ken Claire! I ken! And I want tae go too.” Claire planted her hands on her hips. “Well, you can’t. Murtagh said it would be just the two of us.”
“He did not!!”
“He did too!”
“I am going!”
“You’re not even nice to him!”
“I am so!”
“You are not!” The door opened again. Murtagh stepped inside, took one look at the chaos, and burst out laughing. “Sweet saints above,” he muttered, bending to pick up a gown from the floor. “Ye pack like a madwoman, Claire.”
“I’m excited,” she said, tossing another ribbon into the chest. “Aye, I can see that.” He began folding things neatly—far more neatly than any of the girls had managed. Laoghaire seized her moment. “Murtagh, it’s no’ fair ye’re takin’ Claire and no’ me! She canna even pack her own bag!” Murtagh didn’t look up. “Claire’s comin’ because she’s been like a daughter tae me since she arrived at Leoch. I canna leave her here alone. And because she’s got more sense than she shows.” Claire beamed. Laoghaire scowled. “But Mrs. Fitz will be needin’ Claire!” Murtagh shook his head. “Mrs. Fitz will be needin’ you, lass. Ye’re stayin’.” Laoghaire stomped her foot. “But I want tae go!”
“And I want peace and quiet,” Murtagh said. “Seems none o’ us are gettin’ what we want.” Claire giggled, throwing her arms around him. “I’m ready!” Murtagh eyed the overflowing chest. “Ye’re no’ bringin’ all that.” Claire gasped. “But Murtagh—”
“No.”
“But—”
“No.” Geillis whispered, “He’s right, ye ken. Ye dinna need that many shifts.” Claire sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m bringing at least eight.” Murtagh groaned. “Lord give me strength.” Claire stood over her travel chest like a general surveying a battlefield. Except her battlefield was made of twelve shifts, five gowns, three pairs of stockings, two cloaks, a stack of ribbons taller than her forearm, a wooden horse, a seashell, a rock she was certain was magical, and a herbal book she couldn’t actually read yet but liked the pictures in. She planted her fists on her hips. “I think I’ve packed quite sensibly.” Murtagh stepped into the room, took one look, and nearly choked. “Sweet saints, lass… ye movin’ tae Lallybroch or conquerin’ it?” Claire ignored him, trying to force the lid closed. It bounced back up like a spring. “I need all of it,” she insisted. “Every single thing.”
“No,” Murtagh said, already rolling up his sleeves. “Ye dinna.” He knelt beside the chest and began pulling things out with the grim determination of a man who had fought battles and found this harder. “Ye’re takin’ two gowns,” he said firmly. “Two?” Claire gasped. “Murtagh, that’s barbaric.”
“Three,” he amended, because he was weak to her dramatics. “But no more.” Claire huffed. “Fine. But I’m choosing them.”
“Aye, I expected as much.” She tossed aside a green gown, then a blue one, then held up a yellow one to the light. “This one makes me look like sunshine.”
“Aye, weel, sunshine’s heavy,” Murtagh muttered, folding it neatly anyway. He reached for the stack of shifts. “Ye’re takin’ four.”
“Eight.”
“Four.”
“Six.”
“Four.” Claire crossed her arms. “Five.” Murtagh sighed. “Fine. Five. But no more.” She grinned triumphantly. He held up the wooden horse. “This stays.” Claire gasped. “Absolutely not! That’s my favorite.”
“Ye’ve ten favorites.”
“But that one is my most favorite. You carved it for me!” Murtagh groaned and set it aside. “Fine. One toy.” Claire immediately tried to sneak the seashell in. “No,” he said without looking. She tried the rock. “No.” She tried the book. “No.” She tried the ribbon pile. “Claire, ye dinna need twenty ribbons.”
“I do!”
“Ye dinna.”
“I do!”
“Ye dinna.” She stomped her foot. “Murtagh, I must look presentable!”
“Ye’re goin’ tae a farm, no’ the King’s court.” Claire gasped as though mortally wounded. “Lallybroch is not a farm. It’s a magical estate with singing rivers and glowing hills and—”
“Aye, aye,” he said, rubbing his temples. “Take three ribbons.”
“Five.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
“Three.” Claire narrowed her eyes. “Three and a half.” Murtagh blinked. “How in God’s name does one take half a ribbon?” Claire held up a ribbon that had torn in the middle. “Like this.” Murtagh stared at it, then at her, then burst out laughing. “Fine. Three and a half.” He packed them neatly. Claire watched him, arms crossed, pretending to be annoyed but glowing with affection. “You know,” she said primly, “I could have done all this myself.”
“Aye,” Murtagh said, snapping the chest shut with a decisive thud, “and we’d be takin’ a wagon instead o’ two horses.” Claire stuck out her tongue at him. He ruffled her curls. “Come on, lass. Ye’re packed.” She beamed. “We’re really going.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “We’re really goin’.” And for a moment, the chaos quieted, and Claire’s whole world felt bright and wide and waiting.
Alec had nearly finished saddling the horses when he heard the unmistakable sound of Claire barreling across the courtyard. “WE’RE LEAVING!” she shouted before she even reached the stable doors. Alec winced. “God preserve us.” Rupert and Angus—who had absolutely no business being in the stables this early—turned at the commotion, identical grins spreading across their faces. Claire skidded to a stop in front of them, curls wild, cheeks flushed, chest heaving with excitement. “Guess what!” she announced. Rupert leaned down, hands on his knees. “What’s that, wee lass?”
“I’m going to Lallybroch!” Angus gasped dramatically. “Lallybroch? The grand estate wi’ the river and the hills and the—”
“Yes!” Claire squealed. “And I’m going to explore the entire estate with—” She froze. Her mind went blank. She turned slowly toward Murtagh, who had just entered behind her, carrying her now‑reasonably‑packed chest. “Who are your godchildren again?” she whispered. Murtagh sighed. “Willie, Jenny, and Jamie.” Claire spun back to Rupert and Angus, triumphant. “Willie, Jenny, and Jamie! I shall explore the whole estate with Willie, Jenny, and Jamie!” Rupert nodded solemnly. “A fine plan.” Angus added, “Mind ye dinna fall in the river. Heard it sings loud enough tae drown out a lass’s chatter.” Claire ignored him entirely. “I’m going to climb the orchard wall, and find the secret paths, and see the heather fields, and maybe even ride a horse all by myself if Murtagh lets me—”
“I willna,” Murtagh said immediately. “—and I’ll meet all the tenants, and help in the kitchens, and—” Alec snorted. “Help in the kitchens? Aye, I’ll believe that when the laird grows wings.” Claire planted her fists on her hips. “I could help in the kitchens.” Rupert and Angus exchanged a look that said absolutely not. Claire continued anyway. “And the journey there will be marvelous! We’ll see forests and rivers and mountains and—”
“Aye, and rain,” Alec muttered. “And mud. And midges.”
“And silence,” Murtagh added pointedly. “Because ye willna be talkin’ the whole way.” Claire blinked at him. Then she smiled. Then she laughed. Then she said, “Of course I will.” Murtagh groaned. “Aye. I ken ye will.” Rupert clapped Murtagh on the back. “Good luck, man.” Angus added, “We’ll say a prayer for ye.” Murtagh muttered something unrepeatable under his breath. Claire bounced on her toes, practically vibrating with joy. “Is it time? Can we go? Are we leaving now?” Murtagh shook his head, resigned and fond all at once. “Aye, lass. Mount up.” And with that, the adventure truly began.
The morning sun had barely crested the hills when they set off, Claire perched in front of Murtagh on the saddle, her small boots dangling, curls bouncing with every step of the horse. Their second horse followed behind, laden with the chest Murtagh had repacked with military precision. Claire had been talking for exactly one hour and twenty‑three minutes. “…and when we get to Lallybroch, I’m going to find the orchard first, because Geillis says orchards are where secrets hide, and then I’ll find the river, and then I’ll find the heather fields, and then—”
“Aye, lass,” Murtagh murmured, “ye’ve said.”
“But I didn’t tell you about the plan for the heather fields.”
“Aye, ye did.”
“Oh.” Claire paused. “Well, I’ll tell you again.” And she did. She talked about the hills, the sky, the shape of the clouds, the way the wind smelled, the color of the grass, the way the saddle creaked, the sound of the horse’s hooves, the exact number of midges she’d seen so far, and how she was certain one of them had been following her since the stables. Murtagh grunted at intervals, the way a man does when he has accepted his fate. Eventually, Claire ran out of ordinary things to say. So she drifted into the things Murtagh didn’t understand. The things he had warned her not to speak of. “…and then there are the cars, which go faster than horses, but they’re terribly loud, and the lights in the houses turn on without candles, and—”
“Claire,” Murtagh murmured, leaning down so only she could hear, “ye ken ye shouldna talk about such things.” She huffed. “It’s just us, Murtagh.”
“Aye,” he said, “but keep yer voice low.” She lowered it. Barely. “I don’t know what happened at the standing stones,” she said softly. “One moment I was there, and the next I woke up here. I don’t understand it.” Murtagh’s arms tightened around her, steadying her as the horse stepped over a rut. Claire stared ahead, voice small. “I don’t ever want to go back.” Murtagh’s breath caught. “Why’s that, lass?” She swallowed. “Because Uncle Lamb is gone.” Murtagh said nothing, letting the silence settle like a blanket. Claire continued, voice trembling. “We were on a dig. He was teaching me how to clean pottery shards. And then… there was an accident. Near the stones. I looked for him. He was laying on the ground, not breathing, I touched the stone and—” She pressed her lips together. “And he wasn’t there anymore.” Murtagh bowed his head, grief softening the lines of his face. “I’m sorry, Claire.” She leaned back against him, small and brave and heartbreakingly earnest. “I don’t want to go back to a place where he’s gone. Here… here I have you.” Murtagh’s throat worked. “Aye, lass.”
“You saved me, Murtagh,” she whispered. “I want to stay with you forever.” He closed his eyes, the weight of her words settling deep. “Ye can stay wi’ me as long as ye like,” he said quietly. “As long as I draw breath.” Claire smiled, leaning her head against his chest. Because when things felt unsafe in this world, Claire had Murtagh. And she knew he’d never leave her.
The sun was dipping low when the familiar stone walls of Lallybroch came into view. Claire straightened in the saddle, eyes wide, curls bouncing with every step of the horse. “Murtagh,” she whispered, breathless, “it’s real.”
“Aye, lass,” he said softly. “Told ye it was.” As they rode into the courtyard, Brian Fraser looked up from the horse he was brushing down. Tall, broad‑shouldered, kind‑eyed. He broke into a grin. “Murtagh! Ye scruffy devil, ye made it.” And from the garden, wiping her hands on her apron, Ellen Fraser called, “About time! I thought ye’d taken a detour through the Isles.” Murtagh snorted. “Would’ve been quieter.” Claire giggled. Ellen’s eyes landed on Claire, softening immediately. “And who’s this bonnie lass?” Before Claire could answer, the courtyard erupted. Three voices—loud, overlapping, unmistakably siblings—came barreling around the corner. “Jamie, ye wee clod, give it back!”
“I didna take it!”
“Ye did so!”
“Didna!”
“Did!”
“DIDNA!”
“Both o’ ye hush!” Jenny snapped, shoving Willie with one hand and Jamie with the other. “Mam will hear ye!” But then Willie froze. Jenny froze. Jamie froze. All three stared at Claire and Murtagh like they’d just spotted a mythical creature. Then— “Mo Ghoistidh!” Willie shouted, sprinting across the courtyard. “Godfather!” Jenny echoed, right behind him. Jamie, smallest but fastest, launched himself at Murtagh’s leg like a tiny red‑haired cannonball. “Mo ghoistidh! Ye’re back!” Murtagh staggered under the weight of three children clinging to him. “Aye, aye, I’m back, ye pack o’ wolves!”
Claire watched them, utterly enchanted. Willie—tall for ten, dark hair like Brian’s. Jenny—sharp‑eyed, fierce, already ruling the world at eight. Jamie—six years old, all freckles and fire and a shock of bright red curls—stared up at Claire with wide blue eyes. Claire stared right back. Then, without thinking, she reached out and gently touched one of the curls, her voice soft with awe. “Oh… they’re beautiful.” Jamie’s entire face flushed pink. He ducked his head, suddenly shy, scuffing his boot against the stones. Before he could muster a reply, Ellen stepped forward, smiling warmly at Claire. “Och, and yers are just as fair, a nighean — a wee tumble o’ brown silk.” Claire blinked up at her, surprised and pleased, her own wild brown curls bouncing as she straightened. Jamie peeked at Claire again, still blushing, but now with a tiny, proud smile tugging at his mouth.
Willie laughed. “Who’s she?” Murtagh rested a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “This is Claire. She’s travelin’ wi’ me.” Jenny stepped forward, hands on her hips. “Why?” Claire lifted her chin. “Because I’m going to explore Lallybroch.” Jamie’s eyes widened. “All o’ it?”
“Every inch.” Willie grinned. “We’ll show ye the orchard.” Jenny added, “And the burn.” Jamie puffed his chest. “And the secret places.” Claire gasped. “There are secret places?” All three nodded solemnly. Murtagh groaned. “God help me.” Brian chuckled. “Looks like ye’ve got yer hands full, Murtagh.” Ellen smiled warmly at Claire. “Come inside, lass. Ye must be hungry.” Claire beamed, heart full, curls wild, eyes shining. She had arrived. And Lallybroch—alive with voices, laughter, and red curls—felt like the beginning of everything.