#090518

Letizia recycling a blue gala gown by Felipe Varela

November 13, 2008: Prince Charles 60th birthday party in London

May 18, 2009: Dinner offered to the president of Dominican Republic Leonel Antonio Fernández Reyna and first lady Margarita Cedeño 

November 24, 2009: Foreign Press Association awards in London, UK

April 25, 2011: Gala dinner offered to the Emir of the State of Qatar and Sheikha Mozah Nint (1, 2) 

April 30, 2013: Arrival at the Muziekbouw following the water pageant after the abdication of Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands and the Inauguration of King Willem Alexander of the Netherlands in Amsterdam, Netherlands.  

I pulled the bandages off as carefully as I could. Still, the rayon pad stuck to the flesh, coming away with a soft crackling of dried blood. Droplets of fresh blood oozed around the edges of the wound, and I apologized for hurting him, though he hadn’t moved or made a sound.

He smiled slightly, with a hint perhaps of flirtation. “No worry, lass. I’ve been hurt much worse, and by people much less pretty.” He bent forward for me to wash the wound with the boiled garlic decoction, and the quilt slipped from his shoulder.

I saw at once that, whether meant as a compliment or not, his remark was a statement of plain fact; he had been hurt much worse. His upper back was covered with a criss-cross of faded white lines. He had been savagely flogged, and more than once. There were small lines of silvery scar tissue in some spots, where the welts had crossed, and irregular patches where several blows had struck the same spot, flaying off skin and gouging the muscle beneath.

I had, of course, seen a great variety of wounds and injuries, doing combat nursing, but there was something about these scars that seemed shockingly brutal. I must have drawn in my breath at the sight, for he turned his head and caught me staring. He shrugged his good shoulder.

“Lobsterbacks. Flogged me twice, in the space of a week. They’d ha’ done it twice the same day, I expect, were they not afraid of killing me. No joy in flogging a dead man.”

I tried to keep my voice steady while I sponged. “I shouldn’t think anyone would do such a thing for joy.”

“No? You should ha’ seen him.”

“Who?”

“The redcoat captain that skinned my back for me. If he was not precisely joyous, he was at least verra pleased with himself. More nor I was,” he added wryly. “Randall was the name.”

“Randall!” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice. Cold blue eyes fixed on mine.

“You’re familiar with the man?” The voice was suddenly suspicious.

“No, no! I used to know a family of that name, a long time, uh, a long time ago.” In my nervousness, I dropped the sponge cloth.

“Drat, now that will have to be boiled again.” I scooped it off the floor and bustled to the fireplace, trying to hide my confusion in busyness. Could this Captain Randall possibly be Frank’s ancestor, the soldier with the sterling record, gallant on the field of battle, recipient of commendations from dukes? And if so, could someone related to my sweet gentle Frank possibly be capable of inflicting the horrifying marks on this lad’s back?

I busied myself at the fire, dropping in a few more handfuls of witch hazel and garlic, setting more cloths to soak. When I thought I could control my voice and face, I came back to Jamie, sponge in hand.

“Why were you flogged?” I asked abruptly.

It was hardly tactful, but I badly wanted to know, and was too tired to phrase it more gently.

He sighed, moving his shoulder uneasily under my ministrations. He was tired, too, and I was undoubtedly hurting him, gentle as I tried to be.

“The first time was escape, and the second was theft—or at least that’s what the charge-sheet read.”

“What were you escaping from?”

“The English,” he said, with an ironic lift of his brow. “If ye mean where, Fort William.”

“I gathered it was the English,” I said, matching the dryness of his tone. “What were you doing in Fort William in the first place?”

He rubbed his brow with his free hand. “Oh, that. I think that was obstruction.”

“Obstruction, escape, and theft. You sound a right dangerous character,” I said lightly, hoping to distract him from what I was doing.

It worked at least slightly; one corner of the wide mouth turned up, and one dark blue eye glinted back over his shoulder at me.

“Oh, I am that,” he said. “A wonder you think yourself safe in the same room wi’ me, and you an English lassie.”

—Outlander/Cross Stitch

Photos: Starz, Season One, Episode Two, August 16, 2014

Book: Outlander (Cross Stitch), Chapter Four, Diana Gabaldon, 1991

Tumblr: September 5, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

I have to agree, it’s pretty cool!

Euanh's Bistro | 090518