#seeing him run out in that kilt was truly the jaw drop moment of all time

[petrodragonicapocalypse]

stu in edinburgh, 2024 europe tour. pencil and ballpoint pen on paper.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Saorsa, Chapter 22

A/N  Here is the next installment of Saorsa.  At long last, after dragging things out for 21 chapters (21!), I’m finally sending Jamie and Claire on their honeymoon, with all the bow-chicka-wow-wow that implies.  Although it’s pretty tame, by my smut standards.  Why am I still writing?  Go read it!

Rather than link to all previously posted chapters, I’ll just direct those of you wanting to catch up on your Saorsa-reading to my AO3 page, where the fic is posted in its entirety.

Thank you to each of you liking and reblogging!  It does my little fanfic writer’s heart good.

The honeymoon was Claire’s idea.  After two weeks of painfully polite coexistence in which she felt they were both acting the parts of a newly married couple for an audience of two, she suggested the getaway.   Jamie had never heard of such a thing.  She insisted time spent cloistered away from their everyday lives was now the norm for newlyweds, and he begrudgingly agreed.   They left as soon as Murtagh returned from his visit home to the Isle of Lewis.

Jamie was an uneasy automobile passenger, and he refused to learn how to drive, so it was Claire who navigated onto the ferry that crossed the narrow channel to the Isle of Skye.

“Are you alright?” she asked as Jamie clutched the door handle in a white knuckled grip.

“Aye.  Jus’ no’ fond of ships, is all,” he answered, eyes pointed out the windshield as though he could bring the looming island closer with the strength of his stare.

“Just a few more minutes, an duine agam,” she assured, taking his clammy right hand in her left.

“Who’s been teachin’ ye Gàidhlig, Sassenach?” he asked, distracted from imminent sea sickness.

“Murtagh.  Just a few words, here and there.  I thought it would be useful, so I could speak it to the baby once he or she is born.”   As it usually did, her free hand came to rest on the softly rounded swell of her belly when she spoke of her child.

There was silence from the passenger’s seat.  She glanced over only to be met by a look of stunning intensity.  She felt naked before so much bridled emotion, but she could not break away.  The only movement between the two of them was the clenching of a muscle high in his jaw.

“Claire, I…”

Whatever Jamie was about to say, it was interrupted by the shunt of the ferry as it met the shore.  They both looked away, and the moment was gone.

The drive to their inn at Dunvegan was shrouded in low-lying clouds.  She could just make out the lower slopes of mountains robed in snow.  Jamie had once again fallen silent but seemed content to gaze at the passing scenery.  She parked carefully on the side of the main road in the tiny village, just two lines of tidy single-story stone cottages, a café and their inn.  

Jamie rose awkwardly from the car and stretched before walking to the boot to gather their shared suitcase.  As he did, a pair of women exited a nearby cottage, talking in loud, animated voices.   He froze, then spun around.

The women turned right at the pavement and continued walking and chatting.  Seeing the tall, handsome red-haired man standing near their path, they both uttered a polite “feasgar math” before continuing on their way.

“Feasgar math,” he responded belatedly, bowing slightly at the waist out of habit.  He turned around, slack-jawed, as the scene came into sharper focus.  The signage above the café and inn was in Gaelic.   There were horseshoes hung above every door and tartan decorations festooned a nearby fence.   Sheep bleated from the fields beyond.  Apart from their car and another parked across the street, nothing in view would have been out of place two centuries before.

She stepped onto the pavement beside Jamie and touched his chest.

“You see?  The Highland culture did not die.  It fled, far to the north and over the sea, but it survived.  Here,” she gestured around them.  “And here,” pressing her hand against his breastbone.  “It takes something tremendously resilient to face that sort of hardship and endure.”

Jamie’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.  She could see that he was struggling against tears.

“Come on.  Let’s check into our room, and then you can show me around.”

The matronly innkeeper greeted them in a waterfall of Gaelic, to which Jamie answered in kind.  He seemed taller suddenly, although perhaps it was the low, timber-beamed ceiling that made him appear so.   She heard him say “Claire Fraser, mo bhean”, while looking at her with pride.

If the innkeeper thought it strange that the tall Scot and his obviously pregnant English wife were making heart-eyes at each other across her lobby, she did not let on.  She led them up a steep stairwell into a hallway so low that Jamie had to duck to avoid banging his head.  At one end was a gabled room with a merry fire already lit.  It wasn’t large, having room for just an immense four-posted bed, two wooden chairs facing the fire, and a window with views across the slate roofs to the slate-grey sea beyond.

Thanking their hostess and promising to come downstairs later for tea, they stood facing each other from across the room with nervous expressions.  It was strange.  They had shared the laird’s bed chamber in the days since their wedding, but the idea of being alone in this strange room felt more intimate.  There were no routines or distractions to mask the fact that they were now man and wife.

Jamie spent an inordinate amount of time placing their luggage on a low stool, and then stared out the window like he was searching for answers.

“Did you want to take a walk down to the castle?” she suggested timidly.

“Aye,” he agreed eagerly.  “Tis a braw day for a ramble.”

She glanced at the fine drizzle that had begun to fall, shrugged and grabbed her Macintosh.

**

Jamie was like a giddy schoolboy upon entering the ancestral seat of Clan MacLeod.  The castle itself was not open to visitors, but they had the grounds to themselves.  He capered about the battlements, pointing out one feature after another.

“What eejit built those turrets?  They’re no’ big enough for a wee lad to enter, ne’er mind a marksman,” he commented, looking up at the main stronghold’s façade.

“I imagine they were added recently, merely for decoration,” she replied, smiling at his outraged tone.  “I understand the current Chief Macleod made significant improvements, prior to the war.”  Jamie replied with a truly Scottish noise that expressed dubiousness and concession in a single, guttural sound.   He spun around, taking in the whole view.

“I always heard it was the bonniest castle in all of Scotland, but I dinna believe it.  Now that I see it wi’ my own eyes, weel…”  Jamie scuffed his boot on the gritty rock, looking guilty for a moment.  “I still prefer Lallybroch, ye ken, but this, this is…” he trailed off, at a loss for words.

Jamie face grew pensive, a deep furrow bisecting his brow.

“What is it?” she asked, stepping closer.

“It’s only… Tormod MacLeod fought on the side of the English at Culloden.  I didna ken it at the time, but I read in yer husband’s books that the MacLeod attacked the lands of Jacobite supporters after the Rising, causing much suffering.  And yet here their laird abides, twa hundred years on, while the Frasers are nought but names on graves…”

She stepped towards him, wrapping an arm carefully around his broad back.

“Listen to me, James Fraser.  You fought bravely for a cause that you believed in, even though you knew the odds were overwhelmingly against you.  There is honour in that, and honour is stronger than any castle wall.   Also, you are my husband now.  I’d thank you to remember that.”

He wrapped an arm around her slim shoulders in return.   “Duly noted, Sassenach.”

They stood there in the drizzle, leaning slightly into each other until she interrupted the moment with a vital clarification.

“Oh, and Jamie?  I never said that a laird lived in this castle.”

He leaned back to gaze at her face, eyebrows lowered in confusion.

“Flora MacLeod of MacLeod, twenty-eighth clan chief of the MacLeod since her father passed away in 1935.”  She grinned smugly, watching the perplexity transform to amazement on his expressive face.  He let forth a burst of laughter.

“Dhia, I hope she looks fairer in a kilt than Tormod.  That man was a hairy beast.”

**

After a light meal of crusty bread, sheep’s milk cheese, dried sausage, and tea for Claire (“why do ye English insist on polluting water wi’ wee leaves, Sassenach?”), they retired to their room to warm themselves in front of the fire.

Jamie was quiet again, pulling at his lip as he stared into the flames.  She sensed he was working something through in his mind and gave him room for silence.  She allowed the warmth and crackling pop of green logs lull her into a state of suspended awareness.

“I havena been entirely truthful wi’ ye, Sassenach, and tis vexing me greatly,” Jamie began without taking his eyes from the fire.   Her stomach dropped, trying to imagine what fact was so awful that even his absolute candor bowed to the demand that it remain unspoken.

“When I asked ye tae be my wife, I told ye it was on account of yer bairn, how t’would be… practical for me tae be its Da, and tae help ye in the running of Lallybroch.”

“Yes.  I remember,” she said hesitantly.  “It’s a little late for second thoughts, Jamie.  The Catholic Church isn’t any fonder of divorce than they were two hundred years ago...”

“Ifrinn.  That’s no’ what I mean at all.  Christ, Claire, would ye let a man speak for once!”  He rose and began pacing the small room in tight circles.  His speech hurried to catch the cadence of his steps.

“Tis no’ that the reasons I gave were untrue.  Tis just that t’werenna the only ones.  No’ even the main one.  I asked ye tae be marrit, weel, because I wanted tae be yer husband.”

Running out of words, he stopped near the bed and looked at her.  At his apparent inability to continue, she ventured, “You are my husband, Jamie.  And I’m very grateful for…”

“No’ a husband in body.  Only a husband in name.”

“Oh,” she breathed.  “Oh!”  She felt her cheeks reddening, even warmer than the glow of the fire.  “Are you saying that you would want to be a husband… in body… to me?”

“Aye.  Och, look at ye, Sassenach.  What man wouldna want tae lie wi’ ye?  I’m only mortal.”

She tried to imagine how she looked to Jamie.  She was wearing a practical cotton dress, cut a little loose to accommodate her expanding waist.  Her cheeks were no doubt flushed from the walk in the rain, the fire, and Jamie’s sudden revelation.  She was certain her head was surrounded by a veritable Gorgon of curls.

His confession expelled, Jamie was once again able to meet her eyes, and what she saw there ignited a spark inside her that she was certain had been extinguished forever.  She rose gracefully and made her way to where he was standing.  In her stocking feet, she had to look up into his face. When she did, she felt electricity prickle her skin.

“Well, it is our honeymoon.  I suppose it would be the… traditional thing to do.”

Her hand came to rest on Jamie’s damp linen shirt.  Underneath, she could feel his heat and the tremor of muscles held tightly in check.  A broad palm cupped her hip.

“I dinna mean this verra minute, Claire.  Ye can take yer time tae consider.   And wi’ the bairn…”

She ignored him, plucking gently at the fabric.  “Your shirt is damp.  You’ll catch a chill.  You should hang it… by the fire…” she finished as he disposed of the offending clothing in a single move.  Her hand now was free to rest against bare, gold-hued flesh.  

She paced a tight circle around his body, stopping behind him where the firelight and shadows emphasized the lacerated surface of his back.  Jamie’s shoulders stopped rising and falling as he held his breath, obviously nervous for his scars to be so closely observed.  Before he could comment or grow restive, she pressed a careful kiss along his spine, teasing her fingertips over the sensitive skin of his flank as she completed her turn.

“Yer dress is wet as weel, Sassenach.  I wouldna wish ye tae fall ill.”  His voice, deep normally, was positively cavernous, pulling her pulse deep into her belly.

She spun away and lifted her hair from her neck, presenting the zipper.  After a moment’s pause, Jamie’s fingers fluttered across her nape.

“What do I do?” he asked in an entirely different tone.  Gone was his brash confidence, and she reminded herself anew that he was only twenty-two, five years her junior, and came from a world unaffected by modern notions of love or sex.  Not wanting to embarrass him by calling attention to his inexperience, real or perceived, she determined that if Jamie was in want of guidance, he’d ask.   As he had just done.

“You pull downwards on the little tab.  It’s called a zipper,” she whispered back.  A metallic tearing noise, and her dress loosened.  Moist breath blew against the tiny hairs of her back, causing them to rise in greeting.

“Verra practical wee fastening, Sassenach,” he muttered as the garment cleaved in two, held up by the precarious slopes of her shoulders.

She turned back to him, and the sparks in his eyes rivalled those in the hearth, hot as ingots with a pulsing blue glow.  A ratchety breath stuttered from her lungs.

“Ye dinna have tae do this, mo bhean ghaoil.  Imma verra patient man.  I’ve already bided twa hundred years just tae meet ye.”

Her lips twitched at his beautiful, though not entirely accurate gallantry.

“Mo bhean ghaoil?” she asked as she let first one, then the other shoulder dip.  Her dress fell easily to the floor.

“My beautiful wife.” The words withered away to air as the vision of her body unfolded before him.  Undulating ribbons of amber and shadow caressed the ivory of her skin, broken by the pale satin of her long line bra and maternity girdle.

“That’s where ye’ve been hiding yer corset,” Jamie muttered, half to himself.  They were both drawing hungry lungfuls of breath, the space between them fraught with an oncoming storm.

Very slowly, as though certain she would startle and flee, he raised an outstretched hand until it met her breastbone with the pressure of a feather.  She could feel the tremors that shook within him as he dragged each fingertip downward until they gathered in the warm valley between her breasts.  The air in the room suddenly felt thick, too heavy to breathe.

Just as it seemed Jamie’s hand was about to venture below the edge of her undergarments, a memory assaulted her addled senses.  Jamie, unknown to her as anything other than a mysterious and gravely injured patient, lay sleeping on his side in her room at Lallybroch.  He was still fevered, and she had lowered the sheet to his waist, allowing night air to caress his wounded back.  The firelight caught the powerful lines of his shoulder and pectorals, lighting each russet hair that bisected his torso so that he glowed like a lazy sunrise.  She had been flooded by a sudden desire to know where that trail of hair led.

“It’s my turn,” she asserted, reaching for the belt holding up his trousers.

The buckle clattered to the floor without heed as Jamie pulled her roughly upwards into his descending mouth.  It was a kiss without introduction or politeness, a tactical assault on her senses launched through the breach of his open mouth.  It bore no relation to the few chaste kisses they had thus far shared as man and wife.  She had evidently pushed him past the breaking point of his ingrained courteous behaviour.

They parted, stunned speechless, wet mouths agape.  He angrily pushed his trousers past his hips and the two collapsed onto the high mattress in an inelegant flop, limbs battling and grasping anywhere for purchase.   Her legs fell open instinctively to cradle the long, muscular arc of his body.   A cool button nudged her inner thigh.  Calloused hands pushed desperately on the unyielding structure of her girdle.  A coarse abrasion between her legs.  Heat.  And then an urgent plunge, both familiar and foreign.

His forehead was pushed into the pillow above her shoulder.  Untutored, laboured grunts echoed in her ears.

“Jamie,” she gasped.  “Jamie, you’re crushing me.”

He rose immediately onto his elbows, relieving the grinding pressure on her chest, but seemed unable to halt the tidal surge of his body into hers.   In a moment, it was moot.  He froze, letting loose a shuddering moan that scaled his spine one vertebra at a time.   Collapsing sideways onto his back, his face was a portrait of mute astonishment.

She lay beside him, staring at the beamed ceiling, and tried to gather her thoughts.  It wasn’t as though she hadn’t invited this very thing.  And while the… encounter had been ephemerally brief, she could not deny that she’d enjoyed it.  Enjoyed being the recipient of so much passion, no matter how short-lived.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jamie’s ring finger bouncing, tapping a morse code of disquiet against his chest.  Awkwardness was a palpable third presence in the bed between them.  She wanted to say something to ease his nerves, but words floated away as she tried to wrangle them into coherent sentences.

“Claire, I… please tell me I didna hurt ye.  Ye or the bairn.”

His quiet anguish snapped the cord that had been holding her tongue still in her mouth.

“No.  Jamie, of course not.  I would have said something, if you had.”

“I didna ken it would be sae… fierce,” he confessed.

That certainly answered her earlier question about his prior experience.  She couldn’t help feeling a flutter of… something… deep in her belly at the thought.

“It can be.  But my body is designed to protect the baby.  It will probably become more awkward, as I grow larger.   I’ll tell you, if anything doesn’t feel…nice.”

Jamie rose on an elbow, peering down at her.  His face was now alight with novice curiosity.

“Ye liked it then?  Men gossip about these things, ye ken, and I had heard that most women dinna like it.”

It was too late, and her nerves were too taxed to launch into a conversation about female sexual pleasure and a man’s role in assuring it.  She hazarded it was a better lesson to learn by example, in any event.  But she didn’t want him to go to sleep disappointed in himself.

Instead she told him the truth.

“I did like it, Jamie.  Very much.  I’m tired now, but perhaps in the morning…?”

He grinned like a Cheshire cat.  Shucking his trousers carelessly, he splayed naked across the bed with his hands tucked behind his head, looking for all the world like a piece of toppled Grecian statuary.  It suddenly hurt to breath.  The simmering warmth low in her belly threatened to burst into flame, but she was truly exhausted.   What she needed most was sleep.

Turning modestly aside, she unhooked her bra and unzipped her girdle before quickly donning a white nightdress.  She could feel Jamie’s eyes run over the bared skin of her back.  

“Cuir stad air do cheann, Sassenach,” he said softly as she once again settled beside him.

He lay behind her, fingers trailing through her hair and down her arms like spider webs.   She fell asleep to his quiet Gaelic mutterings, a lilting lullaby.

**

an duine agam - my husband

feasgar math - good afternoon

mo bhean - my wife

mo bhean ghaoil - my beautiful wife

Cuir stad air do cheann - Rest your head

[mo-nighean-rouge]

Where You Lead

Canon Divergence AU: Faith survived and stayed at Lallybroch when Claire returned through the stones before Culloden. An accidental trip to Craigh Na Dun turns life upside down for the Frasers once again.

Artwork by the wonderful @cantrixgrisea

Chapter 1/ Chapter 2/ Chapter 3/ Chapter 4/ Chapter 5

AO3

Chapter 6

Jamie couldn’t believe his eyes. Before him stood a man that he had thought a year and half dead. He had witnessed the blow that felled Black Jack Randall on Culloden Moor. But that confidence didn’t extend to stilling the tense set of his shoulders or the fury quickly rising in his blood. Instead, memories of his own pain at Randall’s hand flashed through his mind. Randall’s threats and misuse of Claire.

Belatedly, he noticed that Claire had risen the moment the door opened. She was looking between the two men, her face displaying her distress over the situation.

“Claire, Darling, I came as soon as I could,” the man began in a polished English accent. “Reggie phoned and said our daughter was ill.” When the man looked up and met Jamie’s eye, his jaw dropped.

“You can’t be serious,” he uttered. “This is him, then? The Scottish Barbarian you dallied with… What’s he doing here now after abandoning you for all this time?”

Claire looked down at Jamie, likely observing the way he had begun to shake with rage at the situation at hand. This man couldn’t be allowed to speak to Claire in such a way. She lifted Brianna from his arms and walked her to the buggy, placing her back in gently.

The man’s eyes followed the bairn in Claire’s arms with a strained expression. For a moment, he looked hopeful in the midst of his anger.

“Frank, we need to talk,” she said. She pulled him out the door by the sleeve. Before she shut it behind them, she turned back. Jamie tried to catch her eye, but she looked only at Faith. “Stay here, Baby.”

Frank followed Claire’s gaze, eyes widening in surprise and recognition at the sight of Faith.

Jamie deflated as the door closed firmly. Frank. The man indirectly descended from Jack Randall. The man Claire had intervened to save, nearly costing her own life in the process.

His heart fell in his chest as he realized that he and Claire had not truly discussed their plans for the future in the several hours they’d had together. Neither had they mentioned their feelings after all this time. Jamie had thought he saw the same passion in Claire’s eyes upon their reunion, but perhaps time had changed her.

Jamie was once able to decipher her emotions more readily than his own, with just one look upon the face he knew better than any other.

But it had been more than a year. Maybe she needed Frank more now. Perhaps she didn’t want Jamie at all. She may have rejoiced at their appearance only for Faith’s sake.

He looked toward his eldest daughter, who had frozen in the middle of her bed. The look of terror in her eyes nearly undid him. He opened his arms to her. “Mo chuisle,” he beckoned.

Faith scrambled to his lap, her face hitting his shoulder just as the tears came bursting forth.

“Da,” she sobbed. She shook in his arms. “Do ye needta hide?” She looked up to meet his eyes. “Will we haveta leave Mama?”

His own shoulders threatened to tremble as he tightened his arms around his daughter and tilted his head to place a kiss on her forehead.

“Nay, mo chridhe,” he whispered. “Yer mam… kens the man. He willna hurt ye.”

Jamie shifted Faith in his arms and stood, crossing the room to peer in at Brianna once again.

His two bairns. He knew the moment he had first seen Faith that he would do anything to keep her safe and content. He had only needed knowledge of his second child’s existence to want everything for her, as well.

Jamie would face any trial of becoming accustomed to a different time, of existing in a world with Frank Randall, of sacrificing his heart in order to see to his daughters’ protection and well-being.

Our daughter, Frank had said. He must have meant Bree. Jamie tried to force images of the three of them happily living together for the past months out of his mind. Would Frank come to consider Faith his own daughter, too? With how many Randalls must his life intertwine?

But how would he share a city, children, with Claire if they couldn’t share everything else? To not hold her as they fell asleep each night and wake with her soft hair in his face? To not tell her all his heart and cherish the words that came from hers?

Jamie wished for her joy, above all else.

He would have to lessen her guilt about their separation. For Claire. Lend sense to it, even as he ached for her.

The tears hit Jamie’s eyes as he fell into the chair next to Brianna’s buggy, Faith cuddled against his chest.

He closed his eyes. May he have the strength not to beg her to choose him.

________________________________________

 Claire pulled Frank into the same office she had used to take Mrs. Graham’s telephone call. She turned to face him, crossing her arms over her chest. She took note of the defensive stance he had adapted.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Me?! I get a call that you’re in hysterics at the hospital and my daughter is sick, catch the next flight from Oxford only to find you with him and you ask why I’m here?” His fists clenched at his sides. “And who in the bloody hell is that other child?”

“Enough, Frank!” Any semblance of patience she had was lost. “You know very well I’ve told you where Jamie has been all this time. Whether or not you believed me is of your own consequence.”

He grimaced. “Surely we’ve heard enough of that tale by now, Claire.”

“And you wondered why I haven’t agreed to move back to Oxford with you,” she snorted.

“Claire, I do love you. I’m more than willing to raise our child together,” he hesitated. “Both of them, as there’s no denying where those lovely curls came from,” Frank reached out to run a hand through her hair. She stepped away before he could reach.

“They aren’t your children, and you know that! Faith Fraser. Brianna Fraser, as soon as I can do anything about it,” she told him. “They have a father. The most wonderful I could imagine.”

His face fell at that.

“I can’t be what you want anymore, Frank, and it’s time we acknowledged it,” she said finally. She pulled the gold ring off her left finger and placed it in his palm.

Frank blinked at her in surprise, then his face settled into a scowl. Straightening his hat, he stormed out of the room. “You’ll be hearing from a lawyer, then,” he called over his shoulder.

Claire leaned into the desk behind her, finally allowing herself to breathe. Just as well. Composed and feeling free, she left the room and headed back toward her family.

Opening the door slowly, she observed Faith back in her bed, curled away from the door. Jamie was sitting in a chair next to Bree’s carriage. His eyes were closed and his head upturned, lips moving in supplication.

Jamie looked up at her as the door clicked shut. He wore a pained expression.

Claire took the first few steps toward him, but stopped abruptly when he stood. His eyes were somber and his jaw tense. He nodded his chin toward the door, so she led them into the hallway.

“So ye’ve gone back to Frank then, Nurse Randall?” he sneered.

She froze. This couldn’t be the same man she had just defended to Frank. Couldn’t be the way they would speak to each other now that they were free to be together again.

She pictured the nights they had spent curled together in the encampment for some battle or another, whispering of their deepest fears and desires. For themselves. For Faith. For the other children they wanted to have. For Lallybroch. Her heart tightened as she tried to cling to that image, unable to reconcile it with the one in front of her.

“What?” she blurted. “Jamie…” She leaned to place a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off.

“Nay. He willna want to share ye,” he said hotly.

Ice struck in Claire’s heart. Part of her knew that the man who had tried to sacrifice his life for her own protection and that of their daughters would not turn her away so coldly. But the rest was crumbling at his rejection.

“I thought you were dead!” she seethed. “So I did what you asked of me, you bloody brute!”

His brow furrowing, he cast his head to the floor, eyes darting around desperately. He looked anywhere but at her.

“You made the decision for me to leave, Jamie,” she whispered. “You took everything from me, so I did my best to pick up the pieces of what was left.”

Jamie’s shoulders slumped. Before she could stop him, he turned on his heel, bursting back through the door with his kilt swinging behind him.

________________________________________

 Faith rolled over in the bed as the door closed, Mama and Da on the other side. She had pretended to be asleep when Da laid her down. But she heard his quiet sobs as she looked out the window of the big room.

Da’s reaction only made her more scared. She thought he would be happy to be with Mama. But something was wrong. She knew that. She hadn’t even looked at her parents as they left the room, worried to see what their faces might tell her.

Sitting up, Faith looked toward the floor. It was a taller bed than she had ever slept in, but she was determined. She carefully made the jump down.

She crossed the room to the buggy by the door. She had gotten a brief glimpse of the bairn inside, and was curious even in her fear about her parents.

Faith climbed into the chair next to the baby’s buggy and stood over it. She peered at the small face inside, eyes peacefully closed and thumb in mouth. She had seen bairns near Lallybroch when she made visits with Mama or Aunt Jenny. Mama would tell her she had been even smaller than them once. Faith found that hard to believe.

As she continued staring at the bairn, its eyes popped open. Faith reached into the buggy, and a smaller hand reached out to grab her finger. This startled Faith, but she didn’t mind. She smiled down at the baby and earned a small one back. She wanted to touch the bairn’s short red curls but remembered that she didn’t always like it when strangers touched her own hair. She grinned as she realized the red hair reminded her of Da’s. He had seemed interested in the baby, too. Maybe that was why.

Faith dropped into the chair and continued to study the bairn while holding its wee hand. She placed her chin in her other hand, wondering when Mama and Da would come back. Maybe they would take the baby back to its mama, or she would come to pick it up. But Faith didn’t mind watching over it until then.

Faith’s head turned toward the door as it squeaked open.

[beyondforks]

Book Review: Gallowglass by Jennifer Allis Provost

Gallowglass (Gallowglass #1) by Jennifer Allis Provost Genre: Adult Fiction (Fantasy Romance) Date Published: June 6, 2017 Cover Artist: Deranged Doctor Design Publisher: Bellatrix Press

Karina didn’t set out to free the Seelie Queen’s gallowglass. Now she’ll do anything to keep him.

After Karina and her brother, Chris’s, lives fall apart in separate yet equally spectacular ways, they leave New York behind and head to the UK. Karina buries herself in research for her doctoral thesis, all the while studiously not thinking about the man who broke her heart, while Chris—who’d been a best-selling author before his ex-fiancée sued him for plagiarism—drinks his way across the British Isles. 

In Scotland, they visit the grave of Robert Kirk, a seventeenth- century minister who was kidnapped by fairies. No one is more shocked than Karina when a handsome man with a Scottish brogue appears, claiming to be the Robert Kirk of legend. What’s more, he says he spent the last few hundred years as the Gallowglass, the Seelie Queen’s personal assassin. When they’re attacked by demons, Karina understands how dearly the queen wants him back.

As Karina and Robert grow closer, Chris’s attempts to drown his sorrows lead him to a pub, and a woman called Sorcha. Chris is instantly smitten with her, so much so he spends days with Sorcha and lies to his sister about his whereabouts. When Chris comes home covered in fey kisses, Karina realizes that the Seelie Queen isn’t just after Robert.

Can Karina outsmart the Seelie Queen, or is Robert doomed to forever be the Gallowglass?

Gallowglass is the first book in the Gallowglass series by  Jennifer Allis Provost. This story had cute moments, naughty moments, and action moments. It also had quite a bit of down time, and it was hard to stay focused during some of Rina's research ventures. I would have liked something more to happen during those times to hold my attention better. I loved the setting though. Scotland and fae are a definite draw for me. I enjoyed the cute attraction between Robert and Rina. They were pretty adorable and had some steamy moments. I actually thought it read more like a young adult novel until it got to those naughty bits.

Gallowglass by Jennifer Allis Provost was kindly provided to me by Bewitching Book Tours for review. The opinions are my own.

I sped back to the ruined kirk, my knuckles white as I gripped the wheel. The real reason I didn’t get on Chris about his constant mooning over Olivia was that at least he and Olivia had had something. I’d had nothing with Jared. No it hadn’t quite been nothing, but it may as well have been. One thing that Chris and I had both learned on this trip is that an ocean is not nearly enough distance to outrun your past. I parked in the kirk’s tourist lot, leapt out of the rental and ran across the bridge and up the fairy hill, startling some of the local wildlife along the way. When I reached the Minister’s Pine I was panting, my heart pounding as sweat poured down my back. I had to find that quartz. I just had to. I dropped to my knees and felt around near the base of the tree. I found my brush rather quickly, along with my hairclip and the stupidly expensive Mont Blanc pen that my advisor had given me when I earned my masters degree. But the quartz, the quartz wasn’t anywhere. The bits of lunch I’d had turned to lead in my stomach; if the quartz was gone, then it was really, truly over. “Lookin’ for this, are ye now?” I turned toward the voice, blinked, and pushed my glasses up to my forehead. Yeah, he was really there. Standing in front of me was a tall man in what I assumed was period dress. Instead of a kilt—we American girls tend to think that all Scotsmen run around in kilts, no matter the occasion; sadly, this is not the case—he was wearing a padded brown leather coat topped with chain mail, along with matching brown pants and well-worn leather boots. A helmet was tucked under his arm, and I could see the hilt of a claymore, one of those medieval broadswords that were so heavy you had to swing it with two hands, poking up over his shoulder. A shield rested next to the sword’s hilt, its curved edge just visible above the man’s shoulder. I hadn’t realized they did reenactments at Doon Hill, and I made a mental note to check the brochure for show times. I also noticed that the actor had his hand extended, with my lump of rose quartz sitting on his open palm. “Yes!” I got to my feet, and grabbed the stone. “Thank you,” I said once I remembered my manners, stroking the stone with my thumb. The man looked at me intently, his expression wavering somewhere between confusion and curiosity. “What made you think it was mine?” “Saw ye drop it, I did,” he replied. “And you’ve been waiting here since then?” “I knew ye would be back for me.” I blinked, since I must have misunderstood his accent. What I’d heard as ‘me’ must have really been ‘it’. Accents do tend to garble words. “I really appreciate you waiting for me. Thank you,” I said, extending my hand. He eyed my hand, dark brows low over his blue eyes. Then he grasped my fingers and brought them toward his mouth. “What are you doing?” I snapped, snatching my hand away. “I thought ye wanted me to kiss your hand,” he explained. “I wanted to shake your hand!” He looked befuddled rather than offended, so I attributed this to yet another cultural misunderstanding. It was becoming quite the list. “Well, regardless, thank you. I’m Rina.” “Rina,” he repeated, that Scottish brogue of his making my nickname sound positively decadent. “’Tis quite an unusual name.” “It’s short for Karina,” I explained. “Karina Siobhan Stewart,” I added, wondering why I’d felt compelled to give him my full name. Historically I’d only been called Karina Siobhan when I was in trouble. “And I am Robert Kirk,” he said, extending his hand. This guy was way deep in character, like method actor deep. I shook his hand, and we both smiled. “Good to meet you, Mr. Kirk.” “Reverend Kirk,” he corrected. “My apologies, Reverend Kirk.” These reenactors sure liked to stick to their roles, though I’d never expected to see a reverend wearing chain mail. We stood there for a moment, holding hands and grinning like a couple of fools, and I took the time to really look at him. He was older than me, probably a bit older than Chris too, with dark, tousled hair, chiseled features, and a roguish glint in his blue eyes. They had obviously picked reenactors that would appeal to the ladies. “Do no’ fash, Karina lass, no offense was taken,” he murmured, and my cheeks were suddenly hot. I took back my hand, barely resisting the urge to fan myself. “I should be going,” I said. “My brother’s waiting for me.” I scanned the area around the Minister’s Pine, ascertained that I’d left nothing else of import behind, and turned toward the path. A hand on my arm stopped me. “Ye canna leave me here,” the reenactor said. “Ye must take me with ye.” “What? No!” I faced him, planting my feet before him and whipping out my cell phone. “I don’t know what goes on here in Scotland, but I’m an American citizen. Stay back, or I’ll call 911.” I didn’t even know if they had 911 in Scotland. Would I have to call Scotland Yard instead? I hoped my phone had some kind of app for international emergencies. I waved my phone in what I hoped was a menacing manner, and Robert—or whatever his name was—eyed it as if it would bite him. “Put away your tricks, lass,” he said. “It was ye what called me here in the first place.” I shook my head. “This is an act, right? Reverend Kirk, freed at long last from the Minister’s Pine?” “’Tis no act, lass. Would that it were.” He stepped closer, and took my hands in both of his. Robert’s hands were warm and callused, and, despite all this nonsense, comforting. “I am Robert Kirk himself, and ye have freed me no from just a tree, but from Elphame, and the Seelie Queen herself.” “Elphame?” I asked. “Aye,” he replied. “Some refer to it as the Fairy Realm.” I leaned against the Minister’s Pine. He claimed he was from Elphame. Of course he was. How did I always attract the weirdos? It was generally agreed that when magic left the world, it was because the fairy realm had closed its doors to humans. Some claimed that human industrialization, and its rampant use of iron, had caused the fae to retreat, while others claimed the global shift from pagan to monotheistic faiths was the culprit. No matter which theory you favored, the end result was the same; there was no new magic. For hundreds of years humans had made do with a few crumbling artifacts and enchanted items, but those items were wearing out too. It was as if magic had a half-life, and we’d long since passed the middle point. “You can’t be from Elphame,” I said. “It’s closed. It’s been closed for centuries.” “Has it, now? I will say this, when I was a boy the land was thick with magic. Ye could hardly walk the roads without encountering one o’ the Good People.” “When you were a boy,” I repeated, then I remembered that Robert Kirk had lived in the seventeenth century. Magic hadn’t started disappearing until a century later. “Still, it’s closed now.” “Just because a door has been closed, does no’ mean it canna be reopened.” I slid down to the ground and Robert sat beside me, both of us leaning against the tree he’d recently emerged from. Wait, when did I start believing him? “So, um, you think all of this is real?” I ventured, gesturing around the clearing. “The legend and all?” Robert smiled wanly. “Ye have heard o’ me, then?” “They say you told the world of the fairies’ secrets, so they imprisoned you in a tree.” “That is no the whole of the tale.” Robert closed his eyes as he leaned his head back against the trunk. “I did have dealings with the Good People, but it was no them who abducted me.” “Then who did?” “’Twas Nicnevin, the Seelie Queen herself.” My jaw dropped, and if I hadn’t already been on the ground I would have fallen. As it was, my arm went out from under me, and my shoulder bumped into Robert. “Are ye all right, lass?” Robert asked. “Yes,” I lied. There was nothing all right about this. “Why did the queen take you?” “She fancied me,” he replied. “Offered me an apple, ye ken. I said no, it angered her, she cursed me. And here we are today.” I looked up at him. He still had his head tipped back against the tree, his eyes closed. “That sounds like the ridiculously oversimplified version.” At that, he opened his eyes and speared me with his gaze. “Would ye be likin’ all the details, then, lass?” I swallowed. “Um, maybe not just yet.” My gaze moved from Robert’s face to the quartz in my hand. “What makes you think I freed you?” “Ye made contact wi’ the tree, wishin’ to rescue me. Wishes are powerful things, ye ken.” Robert leaned over and touched the quartz. “Then ye dropped your stone, and a door opened for me. I ha’ been waitin’ for ye ever since.” “Wishes are powerful things,” I repeated. “Why do you want to leave with me? You don’t even know me.” “I know ye freed me, and that is no small thing,” Robert replied. “I also know that as soon as Nicneven kens I’ve left me post, she will send her creatures to retrieve me.” “Creatures?” “Aye. And I do no’ want to be here when they arrive.” I took a deep breath and got to my feet, Robert following suit. Once we were standing I looked into his clear blue eyes, his guileless face, and sighed. He was either telling the truth, or he was the greatest actor in the world. Or I was the world’s biggest idiot; the jury was still out on that. “Well, let’s go.” “Go?” he repeated hopefully. “If you’re telling the truth—and I’m not saying that you are—I can’t just leave you here. And, if you’re not telling the truth, I’ll drop you at the nearest police station,” I added, trying to act tough in front of the armored man with the sword. Robert inclined his head, and took both of my hands in his. “Lass, soon enough ye will ken that I only speak what’s true.” He once again brought my knuckles to his lips; this time, I let him kiss me. It was nice, having one’s hand kissed by a dark, handsome man. “Karina Siobhan Stewart, I am now your charge, and I shall follow your every command.” “Okay. Um.” I looked him over and issued my first command. “First of all, you can’t tromp around Aberfoyle wearing chain mail. You’re going to have to take off your armor.”

Jennifer Allis Provost writes books about faeries, orcs and elves. Zombies too. She grew up in the wilds of Western Massachusetts and had read every book in the local library by age twelve. (It was a small library). An early love of mythology and folklore led to her epic fantasy series, The Chronicles of Parthalan and her day job as a cubicle monkey helped shape her urban fantasy, Copper Girl. When she’s not writing about things that go bump in the night (and sometimes during the day) she’s working on her MFA in Creative Nonfiction. To learn more about Jennifer Allis Provost and her books, visit her website.You can also find her on Goodreads, Facebook, and Twitter.