She’s nearly asleep when she hears it, a gentle thumping sound. Perhaps she’s just imagining things, but then she hears it again, and there is someone outside her room.
She is an inn full of drunk men who ordinarily would not look kindly on a sassenach, who’s hatred has been stoked by the cruelty of her people and Dougal’s rousing speech.
She has no way to defend herself, but she won’t go down without a fight.
She steps gingerly out of bed, hoping that the cracking of the floorboard hasn’t ruined her element of surprise. She reaches for the candlestick, the only weapon she can find, praying that it will be enough.
Her heart is pounding, adrenaline surging as she gets closer to the threat. There is even more noise as she approaches the door, likely a combination of her steps and whoever’s outside.
Her door is latched, but for how long? She has no doubt this door would break down easily, and maybe she should wait for that, hope that the commotion draws the men up to save her.
But she’s never been one to put faith in others to save her, and the loyalty of Dougal’s men to her is questionable at best.
She raises her weapon, steels herself and opens the door.
She takes one step and trips over something, no, someone. Yelling out, “What on Earth—” as she tries not to fall. She hears what she can only assume is a curse in Gaelic as she starts to process that the thing she tripped on is Jamie, and that he is laying outside her door.
He starts to stand as she berates him, “What are you doing sneaking around outside my door?” because she cannot figure out for the life of her what he was doing other than scaring the hell out of her.
“I wasn’t sneaking about, I was sleeping,” he bites back, “or trying to.”
He sighs, looking down for a second before telling her, “The tap room’s full of townsmen half gone with drink. I was worried some of them might venture up here in search of…” She knows without him saying it as that was her fear as well. “Well… I didna think you’d care overmuch for such attentions.”
Now that she’s recovered from the fright he gave her, she recognizes how sweet that is. None of the other men would have spared a thought for her, but then she and Jamie have always had a special relationship. She’s well aware he’s attracted to her, but it’s more than that. He’s kind and considerate where she has not been.
It’s time for that to change.
She remarks, “After the events of today, I doubt any of them are feeling very kindly towards an Englishwoman.” He nods, leaving unspoken the threat he’s protecting her from. That action deserves recognition, but first, “I’m sorry I stepped on you.” He chuckles at that as she goes on, “You’re being kind.”
He breathes what she thinks is a no but can’t be sure. He’s smiling, so she knows all is forgiven, just like that, but it’s not enough. She can’t let him stay out here on the uncomfortable floor where it’s cold.
She starts back into her room. “You can’t sleep out here. At least come into the room. It’s warmer.”
At first, she thinks he’s offended by the way his face twists, but his words quickly soothe away that insecurity. “Sleep in your room… with you? I couldn’t do that. Yer reputation would be ruined.”
It’s comical now that she knows why he’s looking at her like that, and she chuckles softly. “My reputation? You’ve slept under the stars with me before, you and ten other men.”
He’s looking down. Has she embarrassed him? “That isna the same thing at all.”
They can agree to disagree on this because, “I don’t have much of a reputation to be ruined. I’m a sassenach whore remember?”
That seems to shake whatever awkward embarrassment was plaguing him, and he reaches for her hand, and something about the contact and how his eyes lock on her is weighted. “Claire, yer no’ a hoor, and I wouldna risk it, risk yer anythin’ just for my comfort.”
That is so sweet, he is so sweet, but, “Jamie, I can’t allow you to sleep out here. We’ve a long day tomorrow. Come inside, no one will be the wiser, and if they are so be it. I don’t care about my reputation.”
“You can and you will, I won’t take no for an answer.”
He teases, “Yer a feisty one, aren’t ye?” and she smiles because she knows she’s gotten her way.
While she knows she could have left him to sleep out there, and he would have never complained, she would have felt horrible about it. He may not be willing to risk her reputation, but she is. Who cares what these Scots think of her? She’s going to make it back to the stones someday, back to Frank. She has to believe that.
Jamie releases her hand, and it’s only then she realizes he was holding it for their entire banter back and forth. He’s so physically expressive, and she’s a little too comfortable with him touching her. He feels safe and warm, is the only person who’s provided her comfort in this trying time and she soaks it up like a sponge when she should have nipped it in the bud.
What would Frank say if he knew how she’s been cozying up to another man?
But then, Frank seems convinced she cheated on him despite her doing no such thing. She knows he was trying to tell her how much he loved her when he said he wouldn’t mind if she had taken up with someone else, but the accusation left a bitter taste in her mouth she overlooked in favour of enjoying their time together.
She had, of course, noticed he made no such declaration of fidelity, and there’s a part of her that wonders if he had been unfaithful to her, and if that was driving his insecurity, if his guilt led him to project the same act onto her in an effort to clear his conscience. Or if the reason he told her it was okay if she had was not because he loves her so much, but because he expected her to return the sentiment. Or is she the one projecting?
It’s an irrelevant line of thought, but one that keeps popping into her head no matter how many times she chases it away. It’s certainly not what she should be thinking of as Jamie settles down on her floor.
This floor isn’t much better than the floor outside her door. It’s warmer, to be sure, but if him being in here is so scandalous, they might as well do something actually scandalous.
“Jamie, it’s a big bed. Plenty of room for two.”
He flushes and stutters, “Claire, ye… ye want me in yer bed, with you? I… I canna—”
“I promise not to do anything to ruin your reputation, Mr. McTavish. We can each stick to our own sides. You can pretend I’m not even here if that helps.”
He mumbles something under his breath that she doesn’t quite catch, and she raises a brow at him, staring him down until he sighs, “It’s no’ proper.”
“I thought the ship sailed on propriety when you entered my room unaccompanied.”
“Christ, Sassenach, I’m tryin’ to defend yer virtue here.”
She breaks out into peals of laughter, leaving him with an incredulous look on his face. “I have no virtue in need of defending, I was married after all.”
He looks sheepish, “I just, I meant…”
She decides to spare him, “I know, and it’s sweet, but I would feel terrible leaving you on the floor when there is all this space over here. Now come on, let’s go to bed.”
It seems she’s rid him of his last protest because he teases, “To bed… or to sleep?”
She snickers, “Don’t worry, your virtue will remain intact.”
And so they settle in, her on the right side and him on the left, as far in the corner as he can be, curled up on his side on the edge in a way that can’t be comfortable.
For God’s sake, this man…
She rolls over to him, wraps her arms around him and urges him onto his back, but he turns more fully so he’s on his side facing her, their faces only a few inches apart.
It’s a position they’ve found themselves in a few times now, close enough to kiss, and as always she finds herself anticipating what cannot be.
She can’t quite bring herself to break the intoxicating eye contact and loses herself in those gorgeous blue eyes for a moment. He’s so beautiful. He’s warm, expressive, respectful—sometimes too much so. She almost wishes he was less so, that he’d make a move and connect their lips the way they both so clearly want.
But that would be a mistake. She is married. She is not an adulteress; she cannot do that to Frank.
She turns back away from Jamie, settling on her side, trying not to think about how his breath had picked up as he stared at her, about how those lips would feel on hers. It’s less tempting over here, not seeing him, but she knows he’s in the bed with her, and that awareness is still enticing.
She tries to block out his presence, tries to relax and sleep, tries to forget that she’s not alone.
Her efforts are in vain, though, because her dreams betray her. She dreams of his mouth, of his lips on her neck, on her breasts, on her sex. She dreams of quick, deep thrusts and him swallowing her moans as she comes and comes, even dreams of sucking at him, of watching his face contort with pleasure as he spills in her mouth.
Then she wakes up with Jamie’s warm body against her back, his hot breath washing over her neck in a way that makes her shiver. His arm is around her middle just below her breasts, her rear pressed flush against where he’s hard even in sleep, and God, this is not helping her predicament.
One of her dreams started out just like this, her waking snuggled up in his arms and him kissing down her neck until she turned to face him, then…
Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, what is wrong with her?
She cannot be this riled when he wakes up or she’ll do something stupid, very stupid, but God, it would feel so good. She’s been dying to feel those lips on hers, those hands on her.
She just misses sex, that’s all. Misses being close to someone in that way.
It’s not that it’s him, it’s that there’s someone here with her.
How sad is it that she doesn’t believe her own lies? She can’t when he’s right here feeling so warm and safe. It’s because he’s Jamie, because he’s this gorgeous creature she’s been inexplicably attracted to since day one. She wants him, there’s no use denying it.
Wants him, but can’t have him, because it would be so wrong.
Jamie stiffens as he wakes, Claire is in his arms. He clearly pulled her to him in his sleep, sought out her presence when she was clear she didn’t want that. After all his efforts to keep this as-proper-as-can-be-under-the-circumstance, he was the one who made this into something scandalous.
He never should have entered her room. He should have fought harder, refused to taint her in this way no matter what she said.
But he is weak for her, cannot bear to say no to her.
Now look what’s happened, he’s groping her in her sleep, his cock standing and pressed against her. If she knew what he’d done…
He needs to shift out of this position without waking her and get out of here before someone realizes.
He may want her desperately, but he would never act on it, she’s still grieving.
He tries in vain to slip out of the embrace unnoticed, but as soon he moves his hand an inch, she stirs and turns to face him.
She’s so unbelievably beautiful, it takes his breath away. Is even more so like this, eyes thick with sleep, her whole body soft and relaxed. He’s a lucky man to get to see this, would be even luckier if he could see this every day.
That’s not in the cards for them, though. He can’t marry her, can’t tie her to someone with a price on their head, to a life in hiding and the constant risks.
All he can do is long for her, and oh, how he does. But that’s all it can ever be.
He cannot bring himself to move, to break this moment despite how utterly inappropriate it is. She is too stunning for him to ever look away.
Then she licks her lips, and his breathing catches as she draws in closer, closer.
He needs to pull away, but then her lips are on his, and he’s a goner. This is what he wanted for weeks, months. He is powerless to resist.
This is crazy. She should not be doing this. Her heart is hammering, but now that she’s started kissing Jamie Fraser, she can’t seem to stop.
He’s a good kisser, such a good kisser, his lips firm against hers but not demanding, his coarse facial hair tickling deliciously against her skin.
It’s just kissing, it won’t be anything more, can’t be anything more. Just one kiss—one long kiss, apparently—just to get it out of her system.
But when they break for air he is flushed and staring at her in a way that makes her burn. She doesn’t mean to lean in for one more, but she moves slightly, then his lips are on her again and God.
For the first time in months, she feels good, feels alive, feels right. She clings to that feeling, uses it to excuse her misbehaviour, and pulls him closer to her.
Her hands roam his back as his tangle in her hair, the delightful sensation sending goosebumps up her spine.
She kisses him harder, turning their open-mouthed kisses into deep, tongue-filled ones. He moans into her mouth as her tongue seeks his out, and the sound has her pressing her thighs together against the warm ache he’s sparked in her.
This was such a bad idea, such a good idea because of how it feels, but she wants more, desperately, is greedy with this desire to take and take and take and damn the consequences.
He’s breathing hard as their kiss breaks, and his breath is not the only thing that’s hard. She presses into his erection, and he lets out this low groan that’s pure sex and goes right between her thighs.
“Claire,” he pants. “We canna…”
Even though they are very much on the same page, neither moves. They are still wrapped up in each other, his lips a few scant inches apart from hers, his torso and the evidence of his arousal still flush against her.
She honestly can’t say who leans in, but they are kissing again, hot, deep kisses that only make her want him more.
She starts to rock against him, seeking out friction where she needs it most, not caring about the mistake that she’s well aware this is.
When he kisses down her neck, she moans, heat flaring through her as he ghosts his lips over her sensitive skin. Her hand comes to hold him there, pressing him more firmly into her, and thank God for a man who can take direction, because he firms up those kisses, right where she directed, to that spot that makes her instantly wet (not that she wasn’t before).
He starts to sample her neck, testing out different spots and pressures as she melts into a puddle of want.
She pulls him down onto her and he continues his meandering trail across all the exposed skin he can reach, more often than not returning to that spot and amping everything up.
She is throbbing, grabs his hair perhaps more tight than is necessary, and directs his mouth back to hers so she can claim it for a passionate kiss. She spills all of her want into the kiss and he gives it back just as good.
There are too many layers of clothing between them. They’ve already come this far, what’s a little more?
She’d slept in her dress because it was cold and she has a hell of a time getting all these layers on and off herself, but it’s a choice she regrets now.
While she loves the feel of him on top of her, she pushes him back down onto the bed, rolling on top of him, taking a moment to fix her askew skirts so they are bunched up at her hips, settling on his legs where she’s straddled him.
This is the only nice thing about no underwear in the eighteenth century—easy access.
Now she can rub her clit against his erection. And she would, but she is soaked, and she can’t imagine he wants to explain a wet stain on his kilt.
“Jamie, can I…” she lets her actions speak for themselves as her hands fiddle with his kilt. He nods, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, full of lust and unbridled want, which only makes her hotter for him.
She gets them situated and she’s sure it’s a sight, both almost fully clothed, their garments pushed up and out of the way so only their sexes are bare and touching.
As soon as she connects with him they both moan, and he pulls her in for another hot kiss as she starts to grind firmly against him, heat pooling in her lower belly as that delicious friction starts to build the pressure inside her.
It’s not perfect; she wants to really feel him, wants to feel him inside her, but they can’t do that. This will do, God this will do, especially if he keeps looking at her like he is now, like he wants to devour her whole.
He’s so attractive, she thinks that often, but he has never been hotter than he is now, his face screwing up with pleasure as she grinds against him again and again. The hot, slippery friction is working for both of them and for a while, the only sound in the room is from the two of them gasping and moaning.
She’s quaking as she rubs against him, and on one grind she slips up farther and his tip is pressed right against her. It would so easy to sink down onto him and ride him into oblivion—she’s so wet he’d slip right in, but she slips back because they aren’t doing that, slides herself up and down him over and over. This is good, this is more than enough, this will get them off easily.
She does pick up her pace slightly and Jamie lets out this desperate whimper that’s so hot she moans in response.
Each drag of her clit against him both soothes the ache and makes it sharper as the pressure starts to coil inside her, winding up tight ready to spin out.
“Christ, Claire, ye feel so good. I’m about to—mmm,” his face twists into this pained expression as his eyes stuck shut and she knows he’s close. She is too, she just needs another minute that he doesn’t have.
She sits up fully, still pressed against his cock but unmoving, awkwardly maneuvering up under her skirt. Jamie must figure out her intent because he holds her skirts for her, so that her hand can come down to strum over her clit.
He keeps holding her skirts, watching fascinated as she builds herself up, her hips rocking involuntarily into her own touch. Pleasure sparks through her from the firm spirals against her clit. God, she’s close, she’s almost there, she's—
She feels him twice underneath her then his hands grip her hips, guiding them into a rhythm she is happy to pick back up. Yes, this is what she wants, she wants to come on him—that’s going to happen, and soon. She shifts back into position, her hands coming to either side of his face as she grinds against him once more.
His breathing is erratic and he is clinging onto the edge, waiting for her cue, fighting the instinct to release.
He looks so hot, this is so hot, and it only takes a few more seconds before the pressure that’s built up inside of her explodes out into shivery waves of delectable sensation. Her rhythm falters as the pleasure surges but he thrusts up from beneath her, his hands keeping her going and drawing it out.
He gasps, “Oh, Christ,” and she feels him spill onto her stomach and likely the inner layer of her skirt (thank god for layers).
His head falls back onto the pillow and she settles herself on his chest, listening to the beat of his heart as it starts to slow.
They don’t say anything for several minutes, until he clears his throat, and she looks up in time to watch as he softly asks, “Do ye regret it?”
She sighs, and his face falls as hers twists in guilt, but it’s not what he thinks. “I don’t.”
There it is. The truth. She is a terrible, terrible person, but she doesn’t regret it. Not now, not snuggled up in his arms.
He grins wolfishly, “Good,” before pulling her in for a soft tender kiss. “Because I couldna live with myself if I’d taken advantage of ye.”
Him, taking advantage of her? If anything it’s the other way around. “You could never,” she breathes.
He shakes his head, and the mood shifts to something lighter, she’s not sure how. Then he remarks curiously, “I didna know a woman could… does it happen every time?”
She chuckles, and gives him a teasing grin. “Only if the man is a very good lover.”
His chest puffs with pride over that, and it shouldn’t make her heart flutter, but it does.
For some reason, her mind flits back to Gwyllyn’s song and Jamie’s translation, about the woman who travelled through the stones to a far distant land, where she lived for a time among strangers, who became lovers and friends before going back. She’d thought to herself then that half of the song had described had already happened to her, why not the other half. But she hadn’t counted on that other half including her taking a lover.
Could she be the legend, is that her story? That’s nonsense, isn’t it?
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