By late afternoon, the Big House and the surrounding clearing are crowded with people. Brian has barely managed to greet one group before another appears. Inga remains beside him through much of it, introducing him to distant cousins. They greet neighbours and acquaintances who offer congratulations. Then another familiar carriage arrives.

"Aunt Jocasta." He says, smiling despite himself.

Jocasta Cameron steps carefully down, one hand resting lightly upon Ulysses's arm. She carries herself with the same quiet authority she always has.

"Brian." She says warmly. "Ye look weel." Her gaze shifts immediately to Inga.

"Aunt Jocasta, may I introduce Inga McGillivray."

Jocasta extends her hand. "Miss McGillivray."

Inga curtsies politely. "It is an honour to meet you."

"And ye." Jocasta studies her for a moment. "Weel, I suppose ye'll do. I spent months attempting te find 'im a suitable match, ye ken."

Brian closes his eyes briefly. "Aunt Jocasta."

"Wha'?" She asks innocently. She looks back at Inga. "There was Miss Forbes. A verra pleasant young woman. Sensible. Weel-connected."

"Aunt Jocasta."

"I merely wonder," she continues, entirely unabashed, "why he dinna choose tha' lovely young woman I selected fer 'im." 

Brian feels his jaw tighten. He can hear the edge in Jocasta's tone, the faint, dismissive sniff she gives as she looks Inga over, and it grates. He doesn't appreciate anyone, least of all family, speaking as though Inga is some inadequate choice.

"Well," she says, "wha'ever my previous efforts, it appears ye have made yer own choice. "And he does seem remarkably pleased with 'imself."

"That is because I am," Brian replies sharply.

Jocasta lifts her chin, clearly unconvinced, and Brian feels a fresh flicker of annoyance. He catches Inga's eye; she is smiling politely, but he can see the faint stiffness in her posture. It only heightens his irritation.

"Inga is everything I could have hoped for." He adds, his tone firmer than before. "And more."

Jocasta's brows rise at his emphasis, but she says nothing. Brian is glad of it; he is not entirely sure he could keep his temper if she offered another backhanded remark. He takes Inga's hand lightly, a quiet reassurance meant for her alone.

——

Darkness settles slowly over Fraser's Ridge. A great bonfire burns before the house, throwing sparks high into the summer night. It forms a brilliant blot of light against the darkness beyond the clearing. The sounds of a fiddle surround them along with the scent of roasting meat. Nearby stand long tables laden with sauerkraut, sausages, smoked eggs, and something involving corn and squash.

At some point, Brian finds himself with Manfred McGillivray, Lizzie's own betrothed and Brian's future brother-in-law, and Geordie Sutherland, Tommy Mueller and one of Ute's cousins from Salem, Ulmann Bachmann. All with arms linked, swaying to and fro as they sing something in German. Or Geordie and Brian try to, as Manfred, Tommy and Ulmann try to teach them. The song collapses repeatedly into confusion, as each verse dissolves into giggles and shoving accusations.

"Nein, nein." Ulmann protests, laughing. "That is not the word."

"It sounded like the word." Geordie objects.

"It was not."

Brian attempts the next line. Ulmann groans, and Manfred doubles over laughing while Tommy nearly drops his beer.

The song collapses completely. They try again. The second attempt lasts only slightly longer before dissolving into fresh confusion.

"You are making up German now," Manfred informs Brian.

"I am not."

"You absolutely are."

The argument immediately becomes impossible to follow once Geordie starts backing Brian up, even though the two of them have no facts to base their argument on. Eventually, the song dies altogether.

"Come," Manfred says to Brian. "I need another beer."

Not long after, Brian and Manfred find themselves wandering back toward the edge of the gathering. Brian spots Inga sitting with Ellen, Hilda, Lizzie and Senga. Manfred immediately drops down beside Lizzie. Grinning broadly, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and attempts to kiss her.

Lizzie slips neatly away. "Manfred."

"What?"

"You are drunk."

"A little." She pushes his face away and Manfred looks wounded.

Brian sits down beside Inga. "Good evening."

She smiles. "Good evening. Are you drunk too?"

Brian shrugs and smiles sloppily. "Maybe." He wiggles his eyebrows sillily. "Have you enjoyed your mother's party?" He takes her hand, the one with the ring on it. Having engagement rings isn't something seen as necessary amongst the community, but Brian had wanted to add a flavour of the 20th century, and Inga had accepted it happily.

Mama had given the ring to Brian, saying it was his paternal grandfather's, his namesake's, ring when he had learnt the truth about his parentage. She had been wearing it when she and Brian had travelled back to the future and had lost the gem. Brian had gone to Theo Frye's smithy to have the new gem fitted into the hollow setting.

His statement makes her laugh. "I believe Mother would say it is our party."

"I believe your mother would be wrong." 

They continue to talk, just the two of them. They drift from teasing remarks to quiet observations about the guests, the food and the music. Brian feels the pleasant haze of drink soften the edges of the world, and Inga's warm and familiar laugh keeps pulling him closer, until the rest of the gathering seems to fade into a distant hum.

Hearing the name "Wemyss", Brian returns to the conversation at hand, only to discover that the others are not discussing Lizzie, who Brian notices had wandered off to get some food with a swaying Manfred following her, but rather her father.

"Auntie Gertrud." Hilda declares and belches softly, fist to her mouth. "She's a widow-woman herself; she'd be the best for him." Brian thinks she's had her share of beer, not that he can talk; her cap is awry, and her pale face looks flushed, even by firelight.

"Auntie Gertrud would have poor wee Mr Wemyss dead in a year." Senga objects, laughing. "She's twice his size. If she didn't kill him from exhaustion, she'd roll over in her sleep and squash him flat."

Ellen claps both hands to her mouth, but less in shock than to stifle her giggles. 

"Aye, well, I think he's not much bothered at the thought. See him?" Inga nods past the beer-drinkers, and Brian has no trouble picking out Mr Wemyss's head, his hair pale and flyaway as his daughter's. He is in animated conversation with a stout woman in an apron and cap, who nudges him intimately in the ribs, laughing. As Brian watches, though, Ute McGillivray approaches with purpose. Trailing behind her is a tall blonde woman who looks distinctly uncertain about the entire affair.

"Oh, who's that?" Inga cranes her neck forward.

Senga elbows her, scandalised. "Stop that, du schweinehund! Mutti's looking this way!" Inga pouts, leaning away from her sister.

"At least she's occupied," Hilda giggles, looking pointedly at Senga, no doubt thinking of their Mother's involvement in Senga's own marriage prospects.

"Exactly." Ellen agrees. "Poor Ronnie Sinclair finally gets a night off."

The entire group bursts out laughing just as Lizzie and Manfred make their way back, retaking their seats. The former frowns when she notices the women surrounding her Father. "Who?" She says, sounding like an owl. "Who's that, Freddie?" She says, pointing discreetly toward the blond woman, who is smiling shyly as Ute introduces her to Mr Wemyss.

Manfred blinks, swaying a little on his knees, but answers readily enough. "Oh. That's Fräulein Berrisch. Pastor Berrisch's sister."

Senga and Hilda make little cooing sounds of interest while Inga giggles; Lizzie frowns a little, but then relaxes as she sees her father tilt back his head to address the newcomer; Fräulein Berrisch is nearly as tall as Ellen.

Well, that explains why she's still a Fräulein, Brian thinks with sympathy. The woman's hair is streaked with grey, where it shows beneath her cap, and she has a rather plain face, though her eyes hold a calm sweetness.

"Oh, a Protestant, then," Lizzie says, in a dismissive tone that makes it clear that the Fräulein could hardly be considered as a potential mate for her father.

"Aye, but she's a nice woman, for all that. Come and dance, Elizabeth." Manfred has clearly lost any interest in Mr Wemyss and the Fräulein; he pulls Lizzie, protesting, to her feet and propels her toward the circle of dancers. She goes reluctantly, but Brian sees that by the time they have reached the dance, Lizzie is laughing at something Manfred has said, and he is smiling down at her, the firelight glowing on the handsome planes of his face. They are a nice-looking couple.

Beside him, Inga is smiling too. Brian looks at her for a moment, then he stands and offers an exaggerated bow. "Fräulein McGillivray."

She immediately starts laughing. "Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"Brian." She warns but there's a smile on her face.

"Would the lady honour me with a dance?" Inga shakes her head, still smiling. Brian bows even lower. "Please." The others are already laughing.

Inga finally rises. "Very well."

"Excellent."

He offers his arm and she takes it. As they walk toward the dancers, Brian can still hear Senga and Hilda arguing behind them while Ellen throws in her two cents now and again. Neither appears remotely interested in stopping. For once, however, Brian is content to leave them to it. The music is playing, the fire is warm, and Inga's hand rests lightly on his arm. For the moment, nothing else seems particularly important.

——

A/N:

Schweinehund = Someone who behaves crassly (typically a man) can be called a "pig" or a "dog." German combines both.

You were the reason he lived, the reason he breathed when he was not keeping a long-held promise to his nephew. 

Perhaps that's why now, he stood in front of you, eyes locked with yours as they never had. You saw every mark on his face—every wrinkle, every sun-kissed spot, every crease of a man who had lived a life of daring. He saw you just the same, though his recollection of your features had long since burned itself into the back of his mind. 

He had fallen completely and utterly in love with you like an absolute fool, and yet, he did not regret a moment of it. 

His tongue darted out to wet his tongue, words soon flowing in an uncharacteristic way—he really was trying. "I've to confess to ye," he said, hands balled into fists by his side. "It's somethin' I've held on for months now, an' I cannae hold it any longer." 

Your eyes widened at his words, but you made no move to interrupt. You may not have known—the intrigue, however, was enough to keep you enraptured with the rugged man before you. Ultimately, whatever he confessed to you now, you would accept it in stride. You were certain that there were parts of him that were like your own in that you cared for him. Deeply.

"I love ye," he said, voice quiet yet powerful in its own way. "I love ye, and there's no part of me that's ready to live without you." His hands relaxed by his side. For a man who stood proud before so many powerful man, he was a lost cause in front of you. "I cannae go another day without yet knowin', but I understand if there's no way you feel the same."

"What?" you balked, almost immediately speaking as soon as he finished. "What do you mean? Why would I not feel the same?"

"I never seem to catch your eye," he said, eyes twinkling with mirth. He always looked away on purpose, or pretended to be looking at something beyond you. 

"Oh, Christ, Murtagh," you said, frowning deeply. "You never catch my eye because you're a stubborn man who refuses to be caught."

A small smile tugged at his lips. He tilted his head curiously as he watched, unable to stop himself from such a childish, mundane act. "For what it's worth, I cannae say I've ever spent a day without thinkin' of ye." 

That familiar burn of embarrassment—or, well, your nerves—began to bubble in the pit of your chest, a tell-tale sign that he was getting to you with merely his words. You cleared your throat, glancing around. No one was watching, but it would not last that way forever. 

"Should we... should we go some other place?" you asked softly. "You know. Speak of this without any prying ears."

"Pryin' ears? You care so much, hm?"

"No," you quickly said. "No, no, I don't. I just... assumed you would rather talk in private instead of letting everyone know your business."

His smile did not disappear. He continued to look at you, assessing the situation, before he nodded and motioned with a hand for you to lead the way. 

"After ye, then," he said. "Take me where this conversation will best be had."

You hung the stars—that much was true. What you'd soon learn was that Murtagh now knew you to paint the very sky itself, your soul a canvas marked by all you were and all you would ever be—now with the help of the rugged Scotsman, as long as you let him.