#a. malcolm

Chapter 5

"Christ, Ian!" Jamie sat up in the bed, tossing the blanket aside and standing. His young nephew stood to the side, blond hair tied at the nape of his neck and blue eyes looking up at him dolefully. "What the devil are ye doin' here?"

"I'm tired o' farm work," he answered with as much gusto as a fifteen-year-old who'd run away from home again could muster. "I'd rather be workin' in the city. I'll e'en send my wages home. Please, Uncle."

Jamie huffed a sigh. Two times previously had Young Ian escaped from Lallybroch and sought refuge at his print shop. He'd let the lad work for a week, then ridden back home with him. Jenny and Ian had welcomed them both (and given the younger a wallop to the head).

The second time, Ian Senior had spied them coming up the road and taken Ian the younger straight to the fence for his thrashing, bidding Jamie to go in and see Jenny. He'd walked into his former home and found Jenny on the sofa, working on some mending. When she'd met his eyes, before he had the chance to speak, an unspeakable fear darkened her face as she bolted from her seat. Her gaze had flitted over his shoulder, looking for the son who, by that time, had been gone from home nigh on a month. Jamie's wame had churned even then to recognize the terror that burned through her before he could get the words out. He's safe. And he's home.

Standing now in the dark, that look haunted him afresh. Because now, he understood it. Or was closer to understanding it.

All the years he'd loved Brianna, had worried over her and prayed for her safety and well-being, he'd never been truly terrified on her behalf. Never had he woken to find her bed empty and been left to fret with only a vague notion -- or hope -- that she'd gravitate toward family and only encounter friends along the way.

Now, though it had been only days, he had some frame of reference for what Jenny and Ian had gone through. He had not yet felt the fear of Brianna being in danger or even just thinking she could be. But he could imagine.

What if she hadn't walked in yesterday morning when he'd been expecting her? What if he knocked on her door at Smith's tomorrow and no one answered? His very heart would stop beating, he knew.

"How long have ye been gone, then?" Jamie turned his back on Ian as he strode to the hearth to light a fire.

"A week tomorrow," he admitted, voice timid.

Once the flames grew large enough to cast light into the room, Jamie turned again. "So that'll be a week that yer mam and da dinna ken where their youngest son is, then? A week they'll be frettin' yer hurt or worse?"

Ian rolled his eyes, affecting nonchalance. "They ken I'll come straight here, Uncle," he insisted.

"Aye, and there are no dangers on the road between Lallybroch and Edinburgh, then? Let alone in the city itself?"

Ian, young though he was, had the sense to look abashed. "Will ye bring me home again?"

Tired, frustrated, Jamie pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eye sockets, groaning. In truth, he understood Ian's restlessness. By his age, Jamie had been in Paris at university, greedy eyes wide as they drank in every sight they could. To be a boy near grown stuck on a farm, traversing the same halls and the same lands you'd known all your life could be a stifling thing.

No small part of him was tempted to just let the lad stay on in the shop; the more often he ran from home, the more time he spent on the road where any manner of ill fortune could befall him.

But Jenny's damn brown eyes, wide in fear, flashed before his own again.

S3 E6 — S5 E7

A. Malcolm — The Ballad of Roger Mac