BarelyContainedChaos

North Country Boy

Simon “Ghost” Riley x FOC Jules Kelsall

Playlist

1 - I Am The Resurrection

2 - You Know I Think I Recognise Your Face

3 - I’m The Pain You Tasted

4 - See Me Go Through Changes

5 - You Used to Hold Me

6 - Do You Ever Question Your Life

7 - I don’t Care For Your Attitude

8 - This Must Be Some Kind Of Fear

9 - Don’t Think ‘Cause I’m Talking We’re Friends

10 - The Bones of You

Ongoing

The English Captain

Part 2

Captain John Price x fem!Reader

Historical AU

Tick Tick Boom

Captain John Price x Reader

You turned slightly, brushing your fingertips down the slope of his bare shoulder. He didn’t stir, but the hand at your waist tightened, just slightly, as if he sensed your movement and wasn’t quite ready to let go. You weren’t ready either. You sighed, letting your head fall back onto the pillow. Sleep called to you, sweet and slow, but a distant clatter from the kitchen reminded you that the world would not wait forever. Nor would your sharp-tongued housekeeper if she found “that English captain” sneaking from your chambers with his boots in hand.

John stirred beside you with a low grunt, voice gravel-thick. “I’ll take that look as regret.”

You smiled into the blankets. “You may take it as concern for your reputation, Captain.”

He cracked one eye open. “That’s long since ruined, I’m afraid. I should be gone before the others wake.”

“You shouldn’t,” you disagreed, and didn’t move. Instead, you leaned over, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, then his cheek. You paused there, breathing him in.

“You meant what you said last night?” he asked, low and cautious. “About no sneaking.”

You reached up and ran your fingers through his rumpled hair, a fond gesture that startled even you with its intimacy.

“I meant every word, John. I’ll not play the coward for the sake of gossip.”

He exhaled slowly, as if a burden you couldn’t see had slipped from his shoulders. He drew back just far enough to look at you properly, those blue eyes so achingly earnest it made your chest hurt.

“Then I won’t run,” he said. “Not from you.”

He did dress eventually, though not before stealing one last kiss beside the hearth, his coat half-buttoned and your fingers tangled in his collar.

When you entered the kitchen, it was to the sight of your brother already seated, one brow cocked, and a smirk threatening the corners of his mouth.

“Sleep well, mo puthair?” he asked far too casually, taking a deliberate sip of his tea.

You met his eyes, your chin lifting in utter defiance. “Well enough. And you?”

He grinned, and Garrick choked on his own tea behind him.

But that English captain, damn him, strode in behind you like he had every right, took the empty seat beside yours, and said, “She was snoring, actually.”

You nearly dropped the butter dish. “I was not, John Price, as well you know!”

“Sounded like a piglet.”

Garrick laughed aloud this time, and even Lieutenant Riley cracked a smile from behind his mug, but John only leaned in close, catching your eye, his voice dropping for your ears alone.

“Still the best sleep I’ve ever had.”

~ Later that day ~

You were elbow-deep in flour when the shouting started. At first, you thought it might be Garrick and your brother wrestling again,  boys with too much idle time and not enough chores, but when the back door banged open hard enough to rattle the crockery, you knew something was wrong.

You wiped your hands on your apron and stepped into the hallway, only to be met with the thunderous tread of boots on stone and the low, vicious growl of a man halfway to violence. John Price. Your John. You knew him well enough by now to read the storm in his eyes as he stalked down the corridor, jaw clenched, hands twitching at his sides like they longed to be wrapped around someone’s throat. He didn’t even see you until you caught his arm.

“John,” you said sharply. “What happened?”

His chest heaved. He looked at you, really looked, and some of the fire in his eyes flickered low.

“Riley,” he muttered. “Took a blow for me.”

“From who?”

He hesitated. “Locals. A few angry lads from the village. Recognised the accents even though we’d been out with your brother.”

You stiffened. “Is Riley hurt?”

“Bruised. He’ll be fine.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to something rougher. “But I won’t be, if I see one of those bastards again.”

You stood your ground, unflinching, your other hand on your aproned hip. “You’ll do no good spilling more blood. Not here. Not now.”

His eyes searched yours, dark with fury and something deeper; shame, maybe. Guilt.

You softened your grip, sliding your hand down to his.

“Come,” you said gently. “Let me clean you up.”

He looked down at himself, as if only now realising the blood on his knuckles. You sat him at the table in your small parlour, the one with the worn books and the whisky cabinet he now opened without asking, and took a cloth to his hands. The skin was scraped, the knuckles split. You worked in silence, his eyes on your face the whole time.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said, almost like he didn’t understand it.

You looked up. “Should I be?”

He gave a rough laugh. “You saw what I just came from.”

“And I saw you come to me after.” You dabbed a little harder than necessary. “Don’t mistake rage for danger, Captain.”

His hand caught your wrist. “I’m no gentleman,” he said, his voice low. “I’ve done things. Things I wouldn’t want touching your life.”

You stepped closer, looking down at him.

“You’ve already touched my life,” you murmured. “With your hands, your words, your heart. And if you think I’d let some fight in the village undo that-”

He surged to his feet, towering over you, one hand still at your wrist and the other sliding around your waist. You didn’t stop him. You didn’t want to.

“I dream of you,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “Every night. Even when I’m waking.”

You swayed toward him like a branch toward the sun.

“Then you sleep alone no longer,” you stated.

That night, he didn’t sneak through your door like a man committing sin. He walked through it like a promise made flesh.

There was less frenzy than before, no desperate flurry of limbs, no crashing against door frames, just heat and weight and aching tenderness. John stripped you slowly, reverently, as if each layer peeled away revealed a truth he wasn’t ready to let go of.

When he finally eased into you, it was with a groan that shuddered through his entire body. He kissed you like he meant to brand you with it, and maybe he did. Maybe you both did.

Later, when your bodies were slick with sweat and the moonlight painted silver across the sheets, he rolled to his side and wrapped himself around you, chest to your back, arm across your waist like a claim.

“I want to build something here,” he murmured against your skin. “If you’d have me.”

Your breath caught, but your answer did not waver.

“Aye,” you whispered. “I would.”

~ A few days later ~

The village was humming when you arrived. Market day always brought its share of bustle, but today there was a particular heat to the air, not from the weather, which was damp and cool as ever, but from the undercurrent of glances and whispers that followed you as you walked the stalls. You were used to stares. You were a MacTavish woman, after all. Fiercely independent, with more land than most and no husband to answer for you anymore

Until now. Because he had come with you.

John Price, former Redcoat and current cause of every scandalised jaw in Glenallen, walked beside you like he didn’t care a whit for the way the townsfolk stared. Which, of course, he didn’t. The man had survived battles. A pack of muttering grannies was not about to shake him, but you noticed the eyes. The way they lingered too long on your joined hands. The way they followed the movement of his arm when he reached over to pluck a sprig of heather from your shoulder.

“I think this suits you,” he said, tucking it behind your ear with that small, secret smile he wore just for you.

You swatted at him, cheeks warm. “You’re doing it on purpose now.”

“Doing what?”

“Making a scene.”

His eyes twinkled. “My Sweet Heart, I am a scene.”

You bit your lip to hide your laugh. “Aye, a cocky one at that.”

“Of course, but you like me that way.”

You didn’t bother denying it.

The baker’s wife caught your arm as you passed. A soft, round woman with hands dusted in flour and a gleam in her eye that said she’d heard everything.

“Mistress Galbraith,” she said sweetly, referring to you by your late husband’s name. “So nice to see you out and about. And with such fine company.”

You smiled politely. “Cap- Mr Price is a guest of the house. He and his men have been helping with repairs.”

“Is that so? Repairs?” Her gaze flicked to where John now stood at a butcher’s stall, inspecting a haunch of venison with the focus of a man considering battle strategy. “He looks like he’s settled in nicely.”

You offered your most polite, none-of-your-business smile. “He’s respectful. Helpful. And skilled with his hands.”

“Oh, I’m sure he is, dear,” she said, eyes sparkling.

You left her behind with pink in your cheeks and an armful of gossip she’d surely spread like butter across the village. By the time you made it home, the clouds had begun to gather. A storm was coming, you could feel it in your bones, but there was laughter in the courtyard as you returned, the kind that made the whole place feel lighter.

Johnny was carving something by the kitchen steps, Riley and Garrick arguing good-naturedly over fence placement, and Rabbie the stable lad was chasing the chickens again.

Your English captain reached for your basket without a word and walked beside you toward the kitchen door. Just before you stepped inside, he caught your hand and pulled you gently back.

You turned and found yourself pressed lightly against the stone wall, his eyes dark with something deeper than desire.

“They’ll talk,” he said softly.

“Aye,” you replied. “Let them.”

“You’re certain?”

You leaned up, brushing your lips against his.

“I am.”

His kiss was slow this time. Claiming. When he finally stepped back, your knees weren’t entirely steady.

“And you’ll stand beside me when they come knocking?” you asked.

“I’ll stand between you and the bloody world, if I have to,” he murmured, and with a final kiss to your brow, he disappeared into the house.

~ The Harvest Festival ~

The village green was alive with colour. Pennants fluttered from poles, children shrieked with laughter around the maypole, and the scent of roast meat and peat smoke hung thick in the air. You should have been enjoying it, but he was watching you again. Jamie Brodie. A once-scrawny Highland lad turned bitter man, whose pride used to fancy itself equal to yours. He’d courted you years ago, before Angus, before Johnny ran off to fight, back when the idea of marriage had been a duty rather than a dream. You’d turned him down, kindly but firmly, and he’d never quite forgiven you.

Now, as you moved through the crowd with John Price at your side, tall, English, and nigh-on impossible to ignore, Jamie’s eyes followed your every step like a loaded pistol. John noticed. Of course he did. He’d said little since you arrived, save for the occasional dry quip, but you’d seen the way his hand lingered near his belt knife. You’d seen the flex of his jaw when Jamie muttered to the cooper’s son and they both laughed, loud enough for you to hear it, but not the words. Your John didn’t like things he couldn’t see coming, and right now, the tension in the air was thick enough to cut.

It happened just as the sun dipped below the hill, bathing the green in gold. You’d stepped away for a moment, fetching a mug of cider, when Jamie slid out from behind the ale tent and caught you by the arm.

“Did’na think you’d show face,” he said, his voice tight with contempt. “Thought you’d be too busy rolling in your Englishman’s bed.”

You froze, cold fury prickling up your spine.

“You’ll mind your tongue, Jamie Brodie,” you said, loud enough to turn heads.

“Oh, I’m mindin’ it fine, Mistress Galbraith. Just speakin’ what the village already knows. That you’ve shamed your name for a man who’d hang us all if the King snapped his fingers.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but another voice beat you to it. Low. Deadly. English.

“I’d love for you to say that again.”

The crowd parted like mist on the loch. John stood there, sleeves rolled, fists already clenched, and murder in his eyes.

Jamie turned, scoffing. “Oh aye, and what will ye do, Captain? Raise your musket? Show us your English justice?”

John didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten. He stepped forward, slowly and deliberately, until they were nearly nose to nose.

“You insult a woman in the street,” he said, voice calm and cutting. “You lay hands on her. You slander her name. Where I’m from, we don’t call that justice. We call that cowardice.”

Jamie shoved him. It was a mistake. John didn’t even flinch. His hand snapped up, catching Jamie by the shirtfront, and shoved him back against the post of the ale tent with enough force as to rattle the wood.

“You ever speak her name with anything less than respect again,” he said quietly, “I’ll make sure you’re drinking ale through broken teeth for the rest of your life.”

Silence. Then a single murmured, “Aye,” from the blacksmith, and another, “He had that coming,” from old Mrs. Kerr.

Price released Jamie with a shove and turned to you, his face still tight with fury.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded, your breath caught in your chest. He reached for you, right there, in front of them all, and tucked your hand into the crook of his arm like it had always belonged there. The message was clear. She is mine to protect, and I am not afraid to do so.

That night, as the firelight danced on your bedroom wall and your heartbeat still hadn’t settled, he brushed a hand through your hair and said, “I know I’m not what they want for you.”

You turned, meeting his gaze in the dim light. “No, mo cridhe,” you whispered, drawing him down into a kiss. “You’re so much more.”

~ Autumn Arrived ~

The hills were ablaze with gold and rust, the heather now brittle beneath the wind, and the first bite of frost kissed the air. You walked the ridge alone at first, your shawl wrapped tight around your shoulders, breath misting in the morning cold. The air was quiet up here, only the call of distant crows and the soft tread of footsteps behind you. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

“I thought I’d find you here,” John said quietly.

You smiled. “I needed to think.”

“Bad news?”

You reached into your pocket and handed him the letter.

“The seal was broken when it arrived. I didn’t see your name on the front until I started reading,” you apologised.

He unfolded it slowly, the paper crackling in the breeze. His eyes scanned the page, and then hardened.

“Price,” he read aloud, the name sounding like a curse. “You are hereby summoned to London to answer for your conduct regarding the loss of uniformed men in the Highlands and for your failure to return to command at Fort William. Your commission remains under investigation.”

He folded the paper once, then again, carefully and precisely, before slipping it back into your hand.

“Well,” he said, the muscles in his jaw tight. “That answers that.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “They’ll strip your title.”

“They might do more than that.”

You turned to face him fully. “I’ll not let them take you from here.”

A small smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “And how would you stop them? With stubbornness and a kitchen knife?”

You reached for his hand. “If I have to. A Highland woman can do a lot with a kitchen knife.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and you felt the way his guard slipped. Just a little.

“I swore to protect you,” he said hoarsely. “And instead, I’ve dragged your name through every alehouse from here to Inverness. I’ve put a target on your door.”

“You put love in my bed,” you snapped. “You put safety in my bones.” He stared at you, thunderstruck. “And if you think I’ll watch you walk away to London, to a trial, to a-a…noose, just so they can have their damn rules and ribbons back, then you’ve misunderstood me entirely.”

There was a beat of silence, then: “Marry me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Marry me.” His hands found your arms, rough and shaking. “If I’m to be dragged to court, I want to go with your name on my tongue and my ring on your finger. I want them to see what I’ve fought for. Who I’ve stayed for.”

You shook your head, laughing through the tears that burned your eyes.

“You don’t even have a ring.”

“I’ll make one. Out of a bloody horseshoe if I must.”

You threw your arms around his neck and kissed him so hard it knocked the wind from your chest. He held you like he meant it, like he always had. Behind your closed eyes, the golden hills of Scotland swore they’d never forget this moment.

~ Three days later, in the old stone chapel ~

The stone chapel had seen centuries of war and weather. It stood crouched beneath the hill like a secret,  mossy, half-crumbling, and holy in a way no gilded cathedral could ever match. And it was here that you stood, breath held, hand tight in your brother’s, as the old priest read the final words of the vow.

John Price had never looked more like himself; no uniform, no weapons, just a dark wool coat over a crisp shirt, his beard freshly trimmed and his hair damp from a river wash. His eyes never left yours. Not for a single moment.

“…and let no man sunder what is bound by love,” the priest finished.

There was a heartbeat of silence, then your voice, soft but steady.

“I will.”

John’s came immediately, deep and clear. “I will.”

And when the ring, a simple band hammered from a Highland brooch, was slipped onto your finger, his thumb lingered there, warm and reverent.

You were married with the crows for witnesses, the moss as your carpet, and the man you loved swearing himself to you with a voice akin to the granite of the Highlands themselves.

That night, the house was quiet. Johnny had given you his blessing with suspiciously red-rimmed eyes, the lads were two drams deep into celebration by the fire, and the candlelight in your chambers flickered low and golden.

You waited by the hearth, hands clasped at your stomach, nerves fluttering like moths in your ribs. You were no maiden, far from it, but this felt different. Deeper. Heavier. Forever. The door opened quietly, and then he was there.

John didn’t speak. He simply crossed the room and kissed you, slow, reverent, like a man drinking holy water. His hands framed your face like you were something to be cherished, not claimed.

“You’re mine,” he whispered.

“And you are mine,” you replied.

He undressed you like he’d memorised every tie, every button. His touch was patient, his mouth soft, and when he laid you back against the bed and murmured mo gràdh against your throat, you felt it down to your bones. It was not a night of haste or hunger, but of homecoming. Of two people who had already been joined, now bound in name and soul.

~ A week later ~

The air in London tasted wrong. There were too many chimneys, too many carriages, too much soot and steel and arrogance in the streets. You clutched your shawl tighter, your fingers tucked into the crook of John’s elbow as you walked toward the Parliament House.

He hadn’t spoken much on the journey south. Not out of fear, but focus. Every day closer to the city hardened something in his shoulders, sharpened his jaw, but at night, in the quiet of rented rooms, he curled around you like a prayer. Now you were here, dressed in muted green, your hair braided like the Highlands still touched you, climbing the steps toward a chamber full of men who did not know your name and did not care to. Only what he’d done, or not done, and how best to punish him for it.

The room was less a courtroom and more a performance. A long table. A circle of red coats and powdered wigs. A lone seat in the centre. You didn’t sit, you stood behind your husband, and when they barked at him to remove his coat, he did it without hesitation, but kept his wedding ring on. You saw a few brows twitch. Good.

The first hour was more civil than you’d expected. Formal questions, discussions of chain of command. Then came the snide remarks, about insubordination, “fraternising with rebels,” failure to return to Fort William.

John answered each one evenly. Until one of the older officers, Lord Beresford, from the sound of it, glanced toward you and sneered.

“And this… Highland mistress of yours. Was she worth your commission?”

You barely felt the movement, only realising John had stood when his chair hit the floor behind him.

“Say that again,” he said, with a voice quiet enough to turn heads.

The entire chamber stilled.

“I said–”

“I heard you,” John growled. “But I’ll give you the chance to reconsider.”

The man paled slightly, but puffed out his chest. “Captain, you are here to answer, not threaten–”

“I’ve faced cannon fire, starvation, and betrayal from men in this very room,” John said, stepping forward, his voice as steely as you’d ever heard it. “But I’ve never lifted my hand in anger to a civilian, not until today, when one is foolish enough to think my wife is up for debate.”

Gasps and murmurs filled the air, the words wife and Highland crackling like kindling through the chamber.

“She took in men your army discarded,” he continued, his voice rising. “She risked her life and lands for soldiers you abandoned in the field, and you dare speak her name with anything less than reverence?”

“Enough,” barked the judge. “Captain Price, stand down.”

But John’s voice had the final word. “She is worth more than any title you could ever take.”

And he sat, slow, deliberate, his back straight, his ring shining under the gaslight.

They couldn’t hang him. Not after the testimony of his men. Not after the murmurs in the city about the “Highland woman” who stood at his back like a queen carved from granite.

The charges were reduced. His commission quietly revoked. A note in the record which said he left “by mutual agreement.”

You left London with no title, no pension, no sword, but with a man whose honour had never belonged to them in the first place.

That night, in the coach bound north, you kissed the scar along his jaw and whispered, “Still want to stand beside me?”