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Chapter Text

The air reeked of blood and gunpowder. It clung to the back of Claire’s throat like smoke, thick enough that she tasted iron when she breathed. Somewhere nearby, a horse screamed—then went silent.

She opened her eyes to grey sky and the slow drift of ash, flakes of it tumbling down as though the heavens themselves had burned. Her ears rang, dull and distant. When she tried to move, pain tore through her side and she gasped, clutching the earth to keep from spinning away.

For a long, breathless moment, she could only see fragments: a tangle of tartan and limbs; a musket half-buried in mud; a broken sword glinting beside a man’s open hand. The field stretched in every direction, littered with the fallen.

Culloden.

Memory struck in sharp bursts — the charge, the shouting, the clash of steel. Jamie’s voice calling orders above the din. Then the crash of musket fire, the weight of a man slamming into her, and blackness.

“Jamie,” she croaked, her voice raw. She turned her head, scanning the heaps of bodies around her. “Jamie!”

No answer. Only the whisper of wind over the moor.

She forced herself to crawl, each movement a scream of muscles. Her skirts were stiff with blood — not all of it her own. The ground was slick, and more than once her hands slipped, sinking into something warm and terrible. She didn’t look. She couldn’t.

Somewhere to her left, a faint sound — a groan. Familiar.

“Jamie?” She half-stumbled, half-crawled toward it, heart pounding in her chest. The noise came again, low and hoarse. She found him beneath a tangle of bodies — Black Jack Randall draped over him like a discarded cloak.

“God—Jamie—” She shoved the Randall’s body aside with shaking arms and dropped to her knees.

He lay on his back, pale beneath the grime, his lips tinged blue. Blood soaked the front of his shirt and pooled in the hollow of his shoulder. His sword arm was twisted awkwardly; she saw a gash on his leg that had nearly taken him down to the bone.

“Claire…” His voice was a whisper, so faint she barely caught it.

“I’m here.” She pressed trembling fingers to his neck, found a pulse — weak but steady. Relief hit so hard she nearly sobbed. “You’re alive.”

He managed a ghost of a smile. “Aye… though I’m no’ entirely sure why.”

She exhaled shakily, brushing mud and blood from his face. “Don’t you dare,” she said, voice breaking. “Don’t you dare die now, you bloody stubborn Scot.”

His eyes fluttered open, blue and fever-bright. “Ye’ve a mouth on ye yet, Sassenach.”

“Be glad I do. It means I’m not fainting.” She tore a strip from her underskirt and pressed it to the wounds. “Hold still.”

He hissed through his teeth but didn’t move. “The others?”

“I don’t know.” She swallowed hard. “I haven’t seen anyone alive but you.”

For a moment, silence fell between them — not peaceful, but stunned, the kind that came after thunder when the world seemed to hold its breath.

Claire pressed harder on the wound, felt the steady ooze of blood under her hand. Too deep. Too much. “I need to stop the bleeding. You’ll go into shock if—”

Jamie’s hand caught hers, his grip faint but insistent. “Leave me, lass. Ye’ve got to run. If the Redcoats come—”

“I’m not leaving you.” The words snapped like flint. “Don’t even suggest it.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips again. “I ken better than to argue wi’ ye when ye sound like that.”

She bent over him, tearing more fabric to bind the shoulder tight and secure the leg. Her fingers were steady from habit, but inside she trembled. Beneath the smell of death and smoke, she caught another scent — sharp and earthy — and her stomach turned.

Not now.

Her body was betraying her, reminding her of what she carried. A child. Their child. The knowledge pulsed under her skin like a second heartbeat. She’d meant to tell him after the battle, when they had survived, when the world wasn’t ending.

He must never know it here, she thought wildly. Not on this cursed field.

“Can you move?” she asked, forcing her voice steady.

“I can try.”

Together, they managed to get him upright, though he swayed, breath hissing between his teeth. His tartan was shredded; the Fraser colors dulled with grime and blood. Around them, the moor stretched empty, eerily silent but for the caw of distant birds.

“I think the English are sweeping the field,” Claire whispered. “We can’t stay here.”

Jamie looked toward the horizon, his expression grim. “There’s a burn to the north. If we can reach it—”

“We’ll go.” She slipped an arm under his and bore his weight against her shoulder. “Lean on me.”

“Christ, Sassenach, ye’re no but half my size.”

“Then stop being heavy,” she muttered, jaw tight.

He gave a breath of a laugh that turned into a groan, and they began to move — slow, halting steps through the mire.

Everywhere she looked, she saw faces she knew. Young men she’d treated, eaten with, laughed with. Gone. The sound of crows grew louder.

She fixed her eyes on the far ridge, refusing to stop. Jamie’s blood soaked through her bodice, warm against her ribs.

When they reached a small rise, Jamie stumbled and went to his knees. Claire knelt beside him, panting, brushing hair from her eyes.

“Rest,” she said, though the word tasted like defeat.

He looked out over the moor, eyes shadowed. “So this is how it ends,” he murmured. “Culloden Moor. The dream of Scotland buried wi’ her sons.”

“Not all of them,” she said sharply. “Not yet.”

He turned his gaze to her — tired, fierce, alive. “Aye. Not yet.”

She touched his cheek, mud and blood blending under her fingers. “I’ll find a way, Jamie. I always do.”

“Aye, that ye do, my brave lass.”

For a heartbeat, they were silent again, listening. Far off, the faint sound of shouting — English voices. Claire tensed.

“They’re coming,” she whispered.

Jamie’s eyes hardened. “Then we must go.”

She nodded.

Claire helped Jamie to his feet again, shifting his weight carefully onto her side. His left leg was bent at an unnatural angle; the tartan soaked through with blood. He gritted his teeth with every step.

“Lean on me,” she urged, sliding her arm firmly around his waist. “If you put weight on that leg, you’ll tear open the bandages and we’ll have to start all over again.”

“I can manage,” he muttered stubbornly. But the grimace on his face betrayed him. “Gods, Sassenach, I feel like an old man, half carried by his wife.”

“Then be an old man,” she snapped gently, “and let me do the carrying.”

The moor stretched out before them, empty and cruel. Smoke still rose from the distant ridge where the battle had raged, curling into the cold dawn sky. Claire’s stomach churned at the smell — blood, cordite, burned wool. She swallowed, trying to focus. One step at a time.

Every so often, Jamie stumbled, and she braced him. He hissed each time the weight shifted on his leg, but he never asked her to stop. There was pride in him, fierce and stubborn, but also trust — that quiet surrender that always made her heart ache.

“Claire,” he whispered after a particularly rocky step caused her to stumble. “Ye’re hurt.”

“I’m fine,” she said, though she was trembling. “Don’t look at me. You’re worse off.”

He caught her gaze with one blue eye, the other shadowed with pain. “Aye… but I’d feel better if I could do more for ye than lean like a damned child.”

“You’re already doing more than you should be,” she said, her voice tight with exhaustion.

They reached a narrow burn winding through the moor, water swollen from the spring thaw. It offered concealment but crossing it would be treacherous. Jamie hesitated.

“I can’t put weight on this leg,” he said. “If I fall, I’ll drag ye under.”

“You’re not falling,” Claire said firmly. “We’ll make it together.”

She guided him carefully into the shallow edge, feeling the current tug at her skirts and his coat. The water was icy, biting at exposed skin. He grunted as she adjusted his balance, leaning on her like a man dependent on his anchor.

Halfway across, a shout rang out — English, sharp and unmistakable. Claire froze.

“Keep moving!” Jamie hissed, though his face was pale and teeth clenched.

They pushed through the last stretch, muscles straining, hearts hammering. By the time they reached the far bank, both were soaked and shivering, but alive.

Claire pulled him into the reeds for cover. He sagged against her, exhaustion etched in every line of his face. “Ye… didn’t leave me,” he murmured.

“I told you,” she said softly. “I won’t. Not now, not ever.”

For a long moment, they sat in silence, the moor stretching around them, empty but dangerous. Claire pressed her hand briefly against her abdomen instinctively, a private thought she didn’t voice. Jamie didn’t notice; she wouldn’t let him yet.

“Ye’re cold,” he said finally, shivering. “We’ll need fire soon, or we’ll both be done for.”

“I know,” she replied, scanning the moor for shelter. “We’ll move when it’s safe. Just a bit longer.”

Jamie’s hand brushed hers, seeking reassurance. “Sassenach… I’d die without ye.”

“You won’t,” she whispered. “I won’t let that happen.”

He kissed her forehead lightly, exhaustion making it almost reverent. “Then we’ll see this through,” he murmured. “Together.”

Chapter Text

The wind cut through Claire’s soaked skirts and stays, cold and merciless, and she shivered as she adjusted a makeshift splint on Jamie’s leg. Each movement caused him to wince, a low groan escaping his lips.

“Lean on me,” she urged, sliding her arm firmly around his waist. “If you put weight on that leg, you’ll damage it even more then it already is.”

“I can manage,” he muttered, but his words trailed off into a weak groan. His face was pale, slick with sweat and mud, and his eyes half-closed. “Christ… Sassenach… it burns…”

Claire’s stomach clenched. He was weaker than she’d realized — weaker than she could have imagined. His leg throbbed violently, the deep cut already starting to fester. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay calm.

Every few steps, Jamie stumbled, and she had to brace him fully against her. At one point, his body slumped forward entirely, and Claire caught him with a gasp. His weight was almost unbearable.

“Jamie!” she said sharply, shaking him gently. “Stay with me! Don’t pass out!”

He blinked, lips pale, and murmured, “Hard to… keep… breathing…”

“Not now,” Claire said, pressing him upright. “We’ll stop a moment, just a moment, and then we push on. You hear me?”

He nodded weakly, barely able to speak. His head lolled against her shoulder, sweat mixing with the blood and grime on his face. “Aye… Sassenach… I trust ye…”

The moor stretched before them in endless greys and greens. After what felt like hours, they came to a shallow burn, its waters running cold and clear. Claire knelt beside him, dragging his trembling body close.

“We need to clean this,” she said gently, though her hands shook. “The cut’s almost to the bone, and infection’s already setting in. It’ll only get worse if we wait.”

He groaned, trying to resist, but the fever and exhaustion made him compliant. “Christ… it hurts…” he whispered, closing his eyes as she rinsed the wound with icy water. The cold made him shiver violently, but Claire held him steady, pressing a cloth to his lips so he could bite down.

“Almost done,” she murmured, forcing herself to remain calm. She cleaned away the blood and grit as best she could, replacing makeshift bandages.

Jamie’s head lolled back; at one point, he slipped fully into unconsciousness, and Claire held him upright, whispering his name and shaking him gently.

Finally, he stirred, eyes fluttering open. “Ye… saved me again,” he murmured, voice weak and hoarse.

“We’re not done yet,” Claire said softly, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “We need to keep moving — but slowly. You’ll lean on me, and we’ll find help.”

They set off again, but it quickly became clear that Jamie was too weak to continue long on foot. His legs trembled, his grip on her arm slackened, and he nearly fainted with every hop. Claire’s heart hammered; she knew they would never make Lallybroch this way.

Then, through the morning mist, she saw a lone cart moving along a dirt track. The horse’s flanks shone with sweat, and a grizzled man guided it carefully.

“Over here! Please — help!” Claire shouted, waving frantically.

The man stopped, eyeing Jamie’s pale, bloodied form. “Ye lost, lass?” he called.

Claire ran, dragging Jamie toward the cart. His head lolled against her shoulder; his breathing was shallow, punctuated by groans. “Please — it’s my husband, he’s badly hurt from Culloden,” she begged. “I need to get him home to Broch Tuarach!”

The man hesitated, frowning. “That leg… ye canna walk all that way. Can ye lift him?”

Claire swallowed and nodded. “With your help I can — I’ll pay whatever you ask. Please.”

With careful effort, Claire and the man eased Jamie onto the cart bed. His head lolled to one side; he murmured incoherently, half in delirium from pain, fever, and exhaustion.

“You’ll be alright,” she whispered, pressing a hand to his fevered brow. “Almost home, Jamie. Just a little farther.”

The horse moved slowly, the cart creaking under their combined weight. Claire sat beside him, holding his hand, brushing back wet hair from his face.

Jamie murmured occasionally, fragments of words about the moor, the Redcoats, and his pain. She soothed him as best she could, refusing to let panic take hold.

Hours passed. Finally, the familiar contours of Lallybroch appeared. Claire’s chest tightened with hope and fear. Jamie slumped weakly, drifting in and out of consciousness, his body trembling. She leaned over him, murmuring soft reassurances, trying to hold him upright as they approached the gate.

The cart rolled slowly over the final stretch of dirt track, Claire’s arms shaking beneath Jamie’s weight. His head lolled against her shoulder, sweat and mud streaked across his pale face. 

At the gate, movement caught her eye. Jenny and Ian came running, Jenny’s shawl flapping in the wind, Ian’s expression grim, and Fergus—small but determined—just behind them.

“Claire! Jamie!” Jenny cried. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, Jamie…”

The cart owner, Ian and Claire lowered Jamie carefully to the ground. Jenny’s eyes were fixed on the cut to her brother’s leg. 

“Randall,” Claire said shortly in response. “I think it was him… with either a sword or bayonet. The cut is nearly to the bone, and infection’s already setting in. We need to get him inside, now.”

Ian and Jenny helped her steady Jamie, lifting him with care. He groaned, half-conscious, and at one point his head slipped forward, nearly collapsing.

Claire’s heart clenched, and she murmured his name, shaking him gently.

Inside the hall, Jenny and Mrs. Crook hurried to light fires, Ian and Fergus brought blankets, and with help, Claire laid Jamie on a the table in the dining room. His leg was swollen, discolored, and hot to the touch. Fever burned across his skin, and his breathing was shallow and uneven.

Claire pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. “Steady, Jamie,” she whispered. “I’m here. Just hold on.”

Hours passed. Jamie drifted between weak groans and fleeting consciousness. Claire worked tirelessly, cleaning the wound as best she could with what little herbs she had left and the cloths Jenny brought her. At one point, his eyes opened briefly, confused, and he mumbled incoherently about the moor, Redcoats, and pain before drifting back into fevered sleep.

Fergus hovered at the edge of the mattress, eyes wide. “Is… is milord going to be alright?” he asked softly.

Claire looked at him, heart heavy. “He will be,” she said, forcing calm into her voice. “We have to keep him still, keep him warm, and fight the infection. He’s strong… strong enough to survive this.”

Jenny knelt beside her, helping to prepare poultices and clean bandages as Claire instructed. “How long before this… could take him?” she asked quietly.

Claire shook her head. “I don’t know. But we fight, Jenny. Every hour, every minute. He needs us.”

Fergus leaned closer, offering a bowl and cloths when Claire asked. His small hands trembled as he helped, but he stayed, intent and quiet, absorbing everything.

Jamie groaned again, shivering, and Claire wrapped a blanket around his top half, pressing her hand to his fevered brow. “Shh… stay with me,” she murmured. “Don’t let go.”

The night deepened, and Claire barely slept, tending to him, changing bandages, cleaning the wound, and administering poultices to fight the growing infection. At one point, Jamie’s eyes opened again, and he caught her hand weakly.

“Claire…?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“I’m here,” she said softly. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

He closed his eyes again, letting her touch anchor him through fever and delirium. For hours, she worked quietly, speaking little, focusing entirely on keeping him alive.

Jenny and Ian exchanged worried glances but did as Claire instructed, supporting her as best they could. Fergus stayed close, occasionally asking if there was anything he could do, his eleven-year-old determination shining through despite the fear of having seen men die in battle in his eyes.

By dawn, Jamie’s fever had slightly lessened, but still there, and he lay still, pale but alive, his breathing steadier. Claire sank beside him, exhausted, her hand still resting on his. She had no words yet about the baby, no time for hope beyond the simple fact that he had survived the night.

For now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

The fire in the hall crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Claire sat beside Jamie, her hands pressed to his fevered brow, her own clothes damp with sweat and streaked with blood from the Moor and from Jamies wounds since. Jamie lay mostly still, his breathing uneven, lips dry and parched. Occasionally he murmured in his delirium, half-conscious words that made her heart ache. She’d press her forehead to his shoulder, whispering, “I’m here, Jamie. Just hold on.”

“He’s burning up,” Jenny said quietly, “He’ll no survive if we don’t clean it proper. The flesh… it’s gone bad. We must pour boiling water in the wound to cleanse it properly.”

Claire’s stomach knotted at Jenny’s words, but there was no time for hesitation, she new Jenny was right. Infection was a silent killer and she had no penicillin; Jamie’s fever was already wracking him with violent shudders. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

“Very well,” she said firmly. “Let’s get on with it. Ian… I’ll need you to hold him still.” Ian nodded grimly.

Jamie mumbled something incoherent, eyes half-lidded with fever. Claire pressed a hand gently to his chest, willing him to focus, willing him to fight.

Jenny brought a small pot of water to the fire and set it carefully on the hearth to boil. The hiss of heat made Claire’s skin crawl, but she knew it was necessary. She gathered clean cloths and herbs, forming a poultice in a small bowl, her hands working with practiced precision despite the tension.

As the water reached a rolling boil, Claire dipped a thick cloth into it, wringing it just enough to keep it scalding but not dripping. Jamie whimpered, low and frightened, as she touched the cloth to his skin, the steam rising and mingling with the smell of antiseptic herbs.

“Claire…” he rasped, voice faint, “ye… ye canna…”

“I have to, Jamie,” she said softly but firmly, pressing the cloth against the wound, letting the scalding water drip into the gash. Pain flared across his features, and he arched his back instinctively, groaning. Ian held him steady, his hand pressed on his shoulders. Claire quickly went about the work murmuring, “I’m here. Breathe for me. Just breathe.”

The water burned, both to her and to him, but it cleansed — blackened tissue softened, pus and grime lifted from the edges of the gash. Claire worked methodically, dipping cloth after cloth, pressing gently, wiping away the death that had begun to take hold.

Finally, she leaned back slightly, brushing damp hair from her own face. Her hands were red and raw, but the wound looked less like a death sentence and more like a battle fought bravely and held at bay. She dipped her fingers into the herbal poultice, thick and aromatic with antiseptic herbs — yarrow, plantain, comfrey — and spread it carefully across the cleaned flesh.

Jamie flinched again, eyes fluttering, but did not pull away. He was too weak, too exhausted —alive.

“There,” Claire said quietly, pressing a clean bandage over the poultice, securing it with strips of cloth. “You’ll be sore, but it’ll help the infection. You’re stronger than this, Jamie. I know it.”

He tried to speak, lips moving but no sound coming. Claire pressed her forehead to his, letting the heat of her skin anchor him, whispering, “I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”

Jenny gave a small, tense nod. “He’ll live?” she ask softly. “Once his fever breaks, we’ll know for certain, but your idea certainly helped keep him alive. We’ll have to watch him through the night to make sure he doesn’t get worse.” Claire responded.

Claire leaned back in the chair, holding Jamie’s hand, her every muscle aching. Fevered moans continued through the night, but each one was a reminder — he was still here, still fighting, still with her.

Outside, the wind moaned through the hall, but inside, the small fire flickered, warm and defiant. And as the first gray light of dawn touched the windowpanes, Claire allowed herself a single, exhausted breath of hope.

For now, Jamie was alive. For now, that was enough.

The fire had burned low, leaving the room a dim wash of orange and shadow. Claire sat rigid beside Jamie, his shallow breaths like a drumbeat against her own chest. Jenny had retreated to a corner with a blanket, dozing lightly but alert, one eye always on her brother.

Claire’s hands ached from the repeated dipping of cloths in scalding water, the poultice, the bandaging. Every movement sent a throb of pain up her arms, and a strange weariness settled deep in her bones. She pressed a hand to her stomach reflexively, feeling the subtle, insistent flutter, the quiet reminder that she was not alone in her own fight.

Jamie moaned, a wet, fevered sound, and she leaned closer, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “Steady,” she whispered. “Breathe with me.”

He shivered violently, teeth chattering, and she tugged the blanket around his shoulders. Jenny stirred, muttering, “We need to keep him warm, keep him hydrated…” She poured small spoonsful of broth into his mouth, and Claire helped steady him.

Hours passed in a blur of fevered moans, whispered reassurances, and the constant rotation of damp cloths. Every time she bent to tend to him, she felt the flutter of the life inside her, and Claire’s heart clenched — a mixture of fear and determination. She could not afford to succumb to exhaustion; she had two lives to protect now.

At one point, Jamie’s hand twitched, brushing hers. “Claire…” His voice was a rough whisper, almost gone, and she pressed her fingers to his palm. “I’m here,” she said, swallowing back the panic rising in her chest. “I’m not leaving you. Not ever.”

The night stretched on, each minute a fragile thread. The wind outside rattled the windows, carrying the sharp tang of spring air, and Claire imagined the cold sneaking through the stone walls. She shivered, but not from the cold — from the strain of holding her own body upright while keeping him alive.

Jenny’s soft voice broke the heavy silence. “I’ll take the next watch,” she said. “You rest, even a little.”

Claire shook her head, exhausted but resolute. “Not yet. I… I can’t. I need to be here.”

She did not say it aloud, but the truth burned inside her: she could not fail. Not him. Not the child growing within her.

Hours later, when the fire had dwindled to glowing embers, Jamie’s moans began to soften, his breaths deepened. 

Jenny’s hand on her shoulder broke her focus. “You need to sleep now, it’s been days since you’ve gotten any sleep, I’ll not let anythin happen to him” Jenny insisted.

Claire leaned back, head resting against the chair, body giving in and trembling from sheer fatigue. She closed her eyes for a heartbeat and felt the faint flutter of life inside her — a reminder that even in this small, tense room, hope still stirred, and she was finally able to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Morning light streamed through the dining room windows, cutting across the room and glinting off the polished table where Jamie lay stretched out. His shirt was still damp with dried blood, hair matted, face pale but slowly regaining color. Claire hovered near him, hands shaking slightly as she dabbed at his wounds with a damp cloth.

Jenny appeared in the doorway, arms crossed. “Claire,” she said firmly, “you’re no good to him if you dinna take care o’ yerself. Ye need ta wash. There’s a bath ready for you. Now.”

Claire shook her head, her voice tight. “I… I can’t leave him.”

“Ye can, and ye will,” Jenny insisted, softer now but unwavering. “Quickly, before he wakes. And then ye’ll eat.”

Reluctantly, Claire moved slowly toward the bath Mrs. Crook had drawn for her in the kitchen. The water was warm, scented faintly with soap and herbs, and as she soaked, the grime and blood of the past days washed away. She felt lighter, steadier. Jenny helped her from the bath and handed her a set of clean clothes.

“Now,” Jenny said, “you’ll eat something.”

Turning to enter the dining room, Claire saw Fergus standing there, bowl in hand, eyes wide with concern.

“Mrs. Crook made it,” Fergus said. “Just a little… to give you strength. For milord.”

Claire’s throat tightened as she sat in the chair next to Jamie. “Fergus…”

“I insist, milady,” he said firmly, stepping closer, the bowl offered like a shield against her exhaustion. “Just a few spoonsful. For milord.”

Tears pricked her eyes. She allowed him to guide the spoon to her lips. The broth was simple, warm, sustaining. More than food, it was a tangible reminder of love, family, and the home around her.

In the background, life continued in quiet motion: Jenny and Ian’s children playing near the hearth, Maggie trying to balance blocks on the floor, their laughter soft and persistent. Even in the midst of tending Jamie, the rhythm of home carried on.

Claire set the empty bowl aside and smiled shakily. “Thank you, Fergus,” she whispered.

Fergus grinned and ducked back, satisfied.

She turned back to Jamie, lying vulnerable yet steady on the table. Jenny handed her a fresh cloth and helped her change his bandages again, Claire showing her the poultice and the proper way to apply it. Fergus fetched water, occasionally offering encouragement in a quiet, solemn voice, but never leaving Jamie’s side.

Claire felt the strength of her makeshift family around her: Jenny and Ian, the children, Fergus — all quietly holding the edges of this chaotic, tender world together. She was never truly alone, and even in the chaos, there was care, love, and steady hands to guide her.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s breathing was steadier now, though every movement made him wince. He still lay on the kitchen table, the poultices on his leg drawing warmth and relief, his head propped on folded blankets. Claire sat beside him, brushing damp hair from his forehead. She had washed off the grime and blood from the battlefield, and Jenny had fussed over her like a mother hen, continuing to make sure she ate.

In the corner, Ian watched over the children, keeping a gentle hand on Kitty’s sleeping on his shoulder while wee Jamie and Maggie played quietly. Fergus moved with quiet efficiency doing what he could to be helpful to Jenny and Claire, so it came as no surprise when he returned to Claire with a bowl of warm stew once again.

“Milady,” Fergus said softly, holding it out to her. “you need to eat.”

Claire accepted it with a small smile, letting him guide her to a chair. Jenny, bustling behind her, offered a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Eat, Claire. Strength for him, strength for yourself.”

Claire spooned the stew carefully, listening to the quiet hum of the kitchen: the children’s soft laughter, Ian moving about the hearth, Fergus cleaning surfaces and keeping an eye on Jamie. It was a fragile, ordinary rhythm, yet it felt sacred after the horrors she had survived.

When Jamie’s blue eyes flickered open, he reached for her. “Sassenach…”

“I’m here, Jamie,” she said grabbing his hand. “We’ve been with you the whole time. You’re getting stronger.”

He smiled weakly. “Aye… I can feel it.”

Claire brushed back a strand of Jamie’s damp hair and murmured softly, “You need to eat something, love.”

Jamie groaned, turning his head slightly, but the effort of lifting a spoon to his lips seemed too great. Claire’s heart clenched.

She looked to Fergus, who nodded solemnly, understanding without words. “Milord,” Fergus said, stepping closer, “just a little, oui? For strength.” He guided a spoonful of broth that Jenny had given him to Jamie’s mouth, careful not to jostle him. Jamie swallowed, grimacing at first, then relaxed slightly.

Another spoonful, and he managed a whisper of thanks.

Claire continued patiently, spooning broth and soft bits of bread to him, her hand steady despite her own trembling. Slowly, the color returned to his cheeks, and his breaths grew less labored. After a while, she allowed him to rest, brushing her fingers gently over his hair as he sank into a more peaceful sleep.

Jenny and Ian had paused in the background, watching with quiet relief, the children playing softly around their feet. Once Jamie’s eyes closed again, Claire took a deep breath. She knew it was time to tell them everything.

Sitting on a chair near the hearth, Claire recounted the journey: leaving Lallybroch, the fear and loss on the road to Culloden, the battle itself, the desperate fight for survival, and their miraculous return. Ian listened, hands folded, eyes wide, while Jenny’s jaw tightened with quiet anger at the injustice and danger they had endured. Fergus sat nearby, silent, absorbing all the details from after he was sent back to Lallybroch.

Claire’s voice faltered at times, memories of blood and smoke making her pause, but she pressed on. “We lost so many… so many brave men,” she said softly. “And yet… Jamie…” She glanced at the table where he slept, “he survived. By some miracle, we survived.”

Jenny reached out, squeezing her hand. “You did everything you could, Claire. And we’re grateful you’re both back. That’s what matters.”

Ian nodded solemnly. “Aye, lass. You’ve both been through hell. We’ll see ye through now.”

Days passed with careful tending. Jamie’s fever persisted, stubborn and unyielding, though slowly, imperceptibly at first, his strength began to return.

Claire stayed at his side, applying poultices, cleaning his wounds, and ensuring he ate enough to regain his strength.

Then, one morning, a few days later, as the sun filtered softly through the dining room windows, Jamie’s breathing was steady, warm color returning to his cheeks. He opened his eyes, looking at Claire with clarity, and the fever that had haunted him for days was finally broken.

“I feel… lighter,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but filled with relief. Claire smiled, brushing a hand over his damp hair, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, putting her hand on his forehead.

“I think your fever’s finally broken, Jamie,” she said softly with a smile on her face.

Jenny, Ian, Fergus, and even the children seemed to exhale collectively, a shared relief settling over the room like a warm blanket. Life in the kitchen returned to its quiet, measured rhythm, ordinary and miraculous all at once—a testament to endurance, love, and the fragile hope of recovery.

Chapter Text

The spring sunlight crept through the windowpanes of the dining room, pale gold and softened by the thin linen curtains. It lay across the table where Jamie rested, casting faint warmth over the coarse linen that covered his chest. His breathing was even now, though the rasp of recovery still lived in it — the sound of a man climbing slowly back from the edge of death.

Claire wrung out a cloth and laid it gently against his brow. The fever had broken at last, leaving him spent but lucid. He’d spoken a little that morning, just enough to complain that she hovered like a nursemaid. She had scolded him fondly, and that small exchange — that flash of the old Jamie Fraser — had nearly undone her.

He stirred again now, lids flickering. “Sassenach?”

“I’m here.” She brushed damp curls from his temple. “You ought to be sleeping.”

“Aye, I was.” His lips curved faintly. “But the notion o’ you watching me sleep, wi’ that look ye get — the one that says ye’re judging how well I breathe — it’s enough to rouse any man.”

Claire smiled despite herself. “If you stopped nearly dying every few weeks, perhaps I’d look less severe.”

Jamie gave a breath of laughter, though it caught in his chest. “Ah, well. I’ll keep that in mind, if ever I find myself wi’ spare time.”

She replaced the cloth, checking the edge of the bandage at his thigh. The wound looked clean — pink, not red — and she allowed herself a sigh. Relief, fragile and dangerous, swelled in her chest.

He watched her in silence for a moment. “You’ve the face o’ a woman wi’ something on her mind,” he said quietly. “Out wi’ it, then.”

Claire hesitated, her hands stilled on the basin rim. How could she begin? The words were simple, but the weight of them pressed against her ribs.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” she said finally.

Jamie’s brows drew together. “Bad news, then?”

“No.” She shook her head quickly, her throat tight. “Not bad.”

He studied her a long moment, patient, eyes steady and blue as the Highland sky. “Then what is it, mo nighean donn?”

Claire drew a breath and came closer, resting her hand against his. His fingers were warm and rough beneath her touch. “Jamie… I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed was so deep she could hear the wind in the chimney, the creak of the house settling on its stones. Jamie blinked once, then again, as though he had not heard her properly.

“With—” He swallowed hard, his voice rough. “Ye mean… our child?”

She gave a faint laugh that trembled with tears. “I don’t believe there’s any other candidate.”

For a heartbeat longer he only stared, eyes wide, lips parted in disbelief. Then his hand tightened suddenly around hers, strong despite his weakness. “Christ, Claire… are ye sure?”

“Yes.” Her smile trembled, but it was real. “I realized before the battle — I meant to tell you after… but then everything happened so quickly.”

Jamie’s breath left him in a long, shuddering sigh. He closed his eyes, and for a moment she thought he might weep. When he opened them again, they were bright — not from fever now, but from something rawer, deeper.

Jamie’s hand tightened around hers — strong, trembling. “A bairn.” He said it like a prayer. Then, softer: “After all this…”

Claire’s eyes burned. “I wanted to be glad — I am glad — but…” She faltered. “We’ve lost one before.”

The words hung between them, fragile and terrible.

Jamie’s gaze softened, a shadow passing across his face. “Aye,” he murmured. “Our wee lass.”

Faith.

Her name was never spoken lightly. The ache of it still lived under Claire’s ribs, nearly two years old but never dulled — the memory of tiny fingers, of death in her arms. It haunted her sometimes in dreams, and now, the thought of another child, another chance, made her heart race with both joy and dread.

“I’m afraid,” Claire whispered. “After what happened in Paris… I can’t bear to lose another. Not now. Not after everything.”

Jamie’s thumb traced a slow circle over her knuckles. “Ye won’t face it alone this time,” he said quietly. “Ye’ll not bleed and suffer with strangers about ye. Ye’ll have me, and Jenny, and the whole house if need be. We’ll mind ye well.”

Claire closed her eyes, a tear slipping free. “I know. I just—every time I feel hope, I feel fear right beside it.”

“Aye,” he said gently. “That’s how ye ken it’s worth something.”

He reached up, fingers brushing her cheek. “Ye think I dinna fear it too? I do. But when I look at ye — when I think what it means, that there’s life inside ye again — it feels like… mercy. After all that’s been taken from us.”

She let out a trembling breath. “You truly believe that?”

“I do.” His voice roughened, thick with emotion. “When I lay on that field, I thought I’d met the end o’ every good thing. But God’s given us more time, and now He’s given us this. I canna see it as anything but grace.”

Her laughter was watery but real. “You always did have an inconvenient amount of faith.”

He smiled faintly. “Aye, well. It’s the stubborn sort — like my wife.”

She snorted softly, and he shifted, reaching to rest a hand over her belly. The gesture was reverent, uncertain — as though he feared to disturb the life beneath. His palm was warm, heavy, grounding.

“There’s a wee soul in there,” he murmured, wonder threading his words. “A bit o’ you, a bit o’ me… and maybe a bit o’ her too.”

Claire’s heart constricted — the ache of grief and hope entwined. “Perhaps so,” she whispered.

He pressed a kiss to her hand, then to the curve of her belly through the fabric of her gown. “Then we’ll thank God for her, and for this one too. For all the life He’s seen fit to give us.”

The tears came freely then, not of sorrow but release. She bent to kiss his forehead, the faint rasp of his stubble against her lips a small, perfect reminder of the world’s stubbornness to end.

They sat like that for a long time — his hand over her stomach, her fingers tangled in his hair — until the knock at the door broke the spell.

“Claire?” Jenny’s voice, soft but urgent. “Ian’s just come back — Redcoats, near the north ridge.”

Claire straightened, wiping her eyes quickly. “Come in, Jenny.”

Jenny entered, her expression tight. “They’re scouts, most like. But it’s trouble all the same.”

Jamie’s jaw tensed, but he stayed where he was. “Keep everyone close to the house,” he said quietly. “We’ve had enough loss for one lifetime.”

Jenny nodded, glancing between them. Her sharp eyes softened as she looked at Claire. “All well?”

Claire hesitated — then smiled, faint and luminous. “All well,” she said.

Jenny’s smile deepened, quiet understanding flickering there. “Good. We’ll hold fast, then.”

When she left, Jamie leaned back against the pillows, hand still resting protectively over her abdomen.

“So the world turns again,” he murmured. “The English, the fear — and yet, here we are, still making life where death’s tried to have its way.”

Claire bent close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then let’s live, Jamie. Let’s live for her — for them — for us.”

He met her gaze, blue eyes steady and bright. “Aye, Sassenach. Always.”

Outside, the wind whispered through the budding trees, and the faint cries of lambs echoed across the valley — fragile sounds of spring defying the shadow of war. And within the walls of Lallybroch, life, once lost, stirred anew.

Chapter Text

The days that followed slipped into a rhythm — fragile, familiar, and edged with unease. The valley was quiet, but never still. Word drifted from tenant to tenant, carried on cautious tongues: Redcoats seen near the river ford; a patrol asking questions in Beauly; a farmer’s son pressed into service down the road.

At Lallybroch, they lived as though on borrowed peace.

Jamie had left his sickbed sooner than Claire liked, though “left” was generous — he managed from the table to a chair near the hearth, giving orders to Ian and Fergus with a patience that frayed by afternoon. His leg still ached fiercely, and when he shifted wrong, his breath hissed through clenched teeth.

Claire caught him that morning, attempting to stand without help.

“James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, if you put weight on that leg again, I’ll have Jenny tie you to the chair.”

He froze mid-motion, hands braced on the table. “Ye think she’d dare?”

“I think she’d enjoy it,” Claire said dryly, folding her arms. “Sit down.”

He sighed, sinking back with mock surrender. “Aye, aye, General. Though I dinna ken if being scolded by ye or Jenny’s worse punishment.”

Claire arched a brow. “You’re lucky to be scolded at all. Some men who fought at Culloden can’t hear a word, let alone argue back.”

That silenced him. His gaze softened, contrition and gratitude blending in the quiet way that always undid her. He reached for her hand, his fingers rough and warm. “Aye, Sassenach. I ken it well.”

She squeezed his hand, then glanced toward the window. The early light spilled across the fields, catching the faint shimmer of dew. From this distance, the land looked peaceful — the illusion of safety.

Jenny came in then, apron dusted with flour, her hair pinned back but escaping in stubborn curls. “Fergus says the scouts are still near the ridge,” she said grimly. “They’ve been seen twice this week. Ian’s spoken to the tenants; most’ve moved their weapons to the mill in case the Redcoats search the houses.”

Jamie frowned. “Are they pressing folk for names?”

“Not yet,” Jenny said. “But they’re askin’ about the Jacobites that fought at Culloden. Anyone seen heading north after the battle.”

Claire felt the tension ripple through the room. The implication was clear — the Redcoats were hunting survivors.

Jamie’s voice was calm, but a muscle ticked in his jaw. “They’ll no find what they’re lookin’ for here.”

Jenny crossed her arms, sharp eyes on her brother. “Aye, because you’ll be keepin’ to the house until that leg heals and they’re gone. I mean it, Jamie. I’ll no bury ye twice.”

Jamie met her gaze evenly. “I’ll no bring trouble to your door, Jenny. But if they come here—”

“We’ll deal wi’ it,” she interrupted, her voice fierce. “Together.”

Claire watched the exchange in silence. The bond between brother and sister had always struck her — two halves of the same unyielding will. It comforted her, even as it frightened her.

When Jenny left, Jamie turned to her, voice softer. “Ye’ve that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says ye’ve already worked out six ways to hide me if the Redcoats come.”

Claire tried for a smile. “Seven, actually. And none of them involve you playing the hero.”

Jamie’s mouth twitched. “Ye’ve a poor opinion of my acting, then?”

“I have a poor opinion of your self-preservation,” she said, folding a fresh poultice over his leg. “And besides—” She hesitated.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It isn’t just you anymore,” she said quietly. “There’s the baby to think of now.”

His expression softened at once, guilt and tenderness mingling in equal measure. “Aye. I’ve thought o’ little else since ye told me.” He looked down, thumb brushing the edge of her hand where it rested on his knee. “It feels strange, ye ken? To think o’ a bairn after—”

“After everything,” Claire finished for him.

He nodded. “I dinna know whether to weep or give thanks, so I do a bit o’ both.”

She smiled faintly. “That seems appropriate.”

A sound from outside interrupted them — hooves on the packed earth, quick and urgent. Jamie’s head snapped up. Fergus burst through the door a moment later, cheeks flushed.

“Milord — soldiers on the road! Four, maybe five. Riding fast.”

Jamie was already pushing himself upright before Claire could protest. “Jenny!” he called toward the hallway. “Get the bairns below. Fergus, ye ken what to do.”

Fergus nodded, darting out again.

Claire grabbed Jamie’s arm. “Jamie, you can’t—”

“I’ll no fight them,” he said, steady but firm. “But I’ll stand if they knock at my door.”

The sound of hooves drew nearer, echoing up the lane. Claire’s heart hammered. Jenny appeared again, her face pale but composed. “The bairns are safe,” she said briskly. “Ian’s gone to the gate. Best we keep ye seated, Jamie. A laird in his chair looks less like a fugitive than a man on the run.”

Jamie gave a wry smile. “Aye, I’ve played the laird before. I can do it again.”

Moments later, the heavy thud of boots sounded at the threshold. A Redcoat officer stepped into the room — young, stiff-backed, with a face too smooth for the weight of war. Two soldiers flanked him.

“James Fraser?” the officer demanded.

Jamie didn’t flinch. “Aye. What business have ye?”

The officer’s gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on Claire. “We’ve orders to inspect the premises. Rebels have been reported in these parts.”

“Rebels?” Jamie said evenly. “Ye’ll find none here, Captain.”

“Colonel,” the man corrected sharply. He eyed Jamie’s bandaged leg. “You were injured?”

Jamie’s voice was smooth, almost casual. “Aye. Fell from a horse some weeks ago. Been abed since.”

Claire stepped forward, schooling her face to calm. “My husband hasn’t left the house. You can ask anyone in the valley.”

The colonel looked at her — long enough that she felt the weight of his suspicion. But after a moment, he nodded curtly. “We’ll have a look around nonetheless.”

Jenny appeared at Claire’s shoulder. “Aye, then. But ye’ll mind the floors — I’ve only just scrubbed them.”

The colonel blinked, taken aback by her brisk domestic authority. “We’ll be brief.”

They were — though every second felt endless. Soldiers tramped through hall and kitchen, their red coats too bright against the muted walls. Fergus trailed behind them with exaggerated politeness, offering to show them “every nook milord allows,” his accent disarming.

When they finally left, Jenny bolted the door and leaned against it, breath shaking. “Bloody bastards,” she muttered.

Jamie exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. Claire pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart still hammering beneath the thin linen.

“They’ll be back,” he said quietly. “They’re hunting ghosts — and they’ve found the scent.”

Claire’s gaze met his. “Then we’ll be ready for them.”

He caught her hand, holding it against his chest. “Aye. For us… and for the bairn.”

Outside, the clatter of hooves faded into the distance. The air in the house hung heavy — smoke, fear, and the faint sweetness of spring.

Inside that stillness, Jamie and Claire stood together, bound by the same unyielding truth that had carried them through battlefields and loss alike: whatever came, they would face it side by side.

Chapter Text

The air still held winter’s chill, though the calendar marked May. A thin mist hung over the fields of Lallybroch, blurring the hills into grey and green. The ground, dark with recent rain, clung to the soles of Claire’s shoes as she knelt beside Jenny in the garden.

Jenny drove her spade into the earth with practiced rhythm, turning the soil in neat ridges. “We’re a bit late for planting in the small gardens,” she said, breath misting in the cold air. “Most folk’ve had their seed down since March.”

“Then we’ll just have to hope the ground’s forgiving,” Claire replied, brushing mud from her hands. “If the soil isn’t frozen and the eyes have sprouted, there’s still time enough. The weather’s been too cold for much growth anyway.”

Jenny cast her a look of mild suspicion, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You speak wi’ a farmer’s tongue for a woman who’d never milked a cow till she came here.”

Claire smiled faintly. “Let’s say I’ve learned to listen to good advice when I hear it — and to science when no one’s listening.”

Jenny snorted, but the faintest hint of amusement softened her features. “Science or no, ye’ve a fine way of makin’ me think ye ken what’s comin’ before the rest of us.”

Claire hesitated, pressing a clump of soil between her palms. “I only know hunger’s an enemy that never fights fair. It’s best to prepare before it shows its face.”

Jenny glanced toward the hills, where the tenant men were breaking new ridges. “Aye,” she said quietly.

They worked in silence for a while, the dull thud of spades and the scent of wet earth filling the air. The potato sets lay in baskets beside them — small, knobbly things, eyes pale and sprouting. Claire showed Jenny how to cut them and place each piece in its furrow, eyes upward, before covering it lightly.

Jenny eyed the tubers skeptically. “Strange things. Hard to believe these’ll feed anyone for years.”

“They will,” Claire said firmly. “Give them good soil, keep them earthed up when they sprout, and store them dry when they’re dug. They’ll last the winter when oats won’t.”

Jenny raised a brow. “Sounded nearly miraculous when ye said that before but the return we got last year was more then we could've imagined.”

Claire gave a small, grim smile. “Sometimes survival feels that way.”

By midday, the mist had thinned, and the sun peeked weakly through. Ian’s voice carried faintly from the field above, calling to the tenants planting potatos. Fergus ran messages between them, eager and breathless, his boots caked with mud.

When the last of the potato furrows were filled, Jenny straightened with a satisfied sigh. “There, now. If the Lord’s kind, we’ll have something to show by harvest.”

Claire rubbed her lower back, feeling the dull ache there — part fatigue, part the small, fluttering life within her. “And if He isn’t kind,” she said, “at least we’ve done what we can.”

Jenny followed her gaze and soft yet suspecting. “How are ye feeling?”

“Tired,” Claire admitted, smiling faintly. “But all right, I just need to keep Jamie well. I’ve been the lucky one so far.”

Jenny brushed her hands on her apron. “Ye’ll need to mind yourself. Work’s good for the soul, but too much of it can break the body.”

Claire huffed a laugh. “You sound like your brother.”

“Good. Maybe ye’ll listen to me better than he does.”

They shared a smile, and for a moment the air between them felt easier — two women bound by work, worry, and love for the same stubborn man.

By the time they returned to the house, the light was fading and the chill settling in again. Smoke rose from the chimneys, and the scent of peat and onions drifted from the kitchen. Inside, the warmth of the hearth wrapped around them like a blanket.

Fergus was perched at the table, polishing silver with solemn determination. He looked up as they entered. “Milady, milord’s in the study,” he said. “He says he’s counting sheep that havena learned their numbers.”

Jenny rolled her eyes. “Ledgers again. He’ll drive himself daft.”

Claire smiled tiredly. “Then I’d best intervene before the sheep revolt.”

She found Jamie at the desk, the fire casting long shadows across his face. He looked up as she entered, the weariness easing from his eyes when he saw her.

“Ye’ve been out in the fields,” he said, taking in her muddy skirts.

“Yes,” she said, setting down her gloves. “We’ve just finished planting the potatoes. You’d think we were burying treasure from the way Jenny guards that patch.”

Jamie chuckled. “Aye, well — she guards all things dear to her.”

He gestured to the chair beside him. “Come, sit. Ye’ll be sore from work.”

Claire obliged, grateful to rest her legs. “How’s the estate?”

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Holding. Barely. The tenants’ve done their planting, but the rents’ll be thin this year. Too many men gone to ground or lost at Culloden. Ian’s been doing what he can.”

Claire reached across the desk and covered his hand with hers. “Then we make do. You’ve kept them alive this long.”

Jamie gave a rueful smile. “Aye. Alive, maybe. But no safe. Word came this morning — the Redcoats’ve taken a farmstead east o’ Beauly. Burned it for harboring men from the rising.”

Her stomach twisted. “God.”

He nodded grimly. “They’ll keep sweeping north. It’s only a matter of time before they come this way again.”

Claire’s fingers tightened around his. “Then we’ll be ready.”

He studied her a moment — the dirt still under her nails, the stubborn set of her jaw — and something in him softened. “Ye remind me of my mother,” he said quietly. “Ma would’ve planted potatoes too, if she’d known of them. She’d no sit idle, waiting for mercy.”

“Neither will we,” Claire said simply.

He smiled, faint and fierce. “Aye. Then God help anyone who tries to starve a Fraser.”

Later, when Mrs. Crook set out supper — a hearty stew and fresh bread — the Frasers and Murray’s ate together by the fire. The children’s laughter drifted faintly from upstairs.

It felt, for a fleeting moment, almost like peace.

As night fell, Claire stood at the window, looking out over the dark fields. The furrows stretched neat and straight beneath the rising moon, the earth newly turned, waiting. Somewhere beneath that soil lay the hope of months to come — small, fragile, but alive.

Jamie came to stand behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Ye’ve given us more than ye ken, Sassenach.”

Claire turned to meet his gaze. “It’s not me, Jamie. It’s the earth itself — it only needs a little faith.”

He smiled faintly. “Then faith we’ll have.”

Outside, a cold wind swept over the valley, bending the early grass. And beneath the soil of Lallybroch, the first potatoes — their strange, secret promise — began to take root.

Chapter Text

By June, the valley had softened into green. The scars of battle — in earth, in body, in heart — had begun to fade, though none were forgotten.

The days came early and lingered long. Claire woke each morning to the sound of doves in the eaves and the faint clatter of pails from the yard. The scent of damp earth drifted through the open window, mingled with heather and peat smoke — the smell of life reclaiming what death had tried to take.
Lallybroch was stirring again.

Jamie’s recovery had been slow but sure. His limp remained, and he tired easily, but each week he gained strength. Ian had fashioned him a sturdy walking stick, carved from rowan wood, and by mid-month he was moving about the courtyard unaided.

Jenny had scolded him thoroughly for it, of course, but Claire couldn’t quite bring herself to do the same. She’d watched him emerge from fever and pain and silence — to see him upright in the sun again was worth every ache in her back.

That morning, she found him in the field, sleeves rolled, inspecting the small plot of potatoes she and Jenny had planted six weeks earlier. The first green shoots had pushed through the soil, tender but determined.

“They’ve taken,” Jamie said with quiet satisfaction. “Ye were right, Sassenach.”

Claire smiled, kneeling to brush soil from one of the shoots. “They’re hardy things. A bit like us. They'll feed us for years after Culloden.”

He chuckled softly. “Aye. They dinna mind the cold, and they thrive on neglect.”

She rose, brushing her hands against her skirts. “You’re comparing me to a potato?”

He grinned, leaning on his stick. “Only the best kind. Ye’ve got roots that hold fast.”

“Flatterer,” she said, but her lips curved all the same.

The humor faded a little as she glanced toward the ridge, where a thin plume of smoke rose in the distance. “That’s the tenants’ upper field, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Jamie said grimly. “They’ve taken to burning brush at night, keepin’ watch. Redcoats’ve been through twice this week. Asked questions again.”
Claire’s stomach tightened. “About you?”

“About any man fit to raise a sword,” he said quietly. “Same as before.”

He leaned heavily on his stick, eyes dark with thought. “They dinna ken who they’re hunting, but it’s only a matter of time before someone remembers too much.”

Claire reached for his arm. “We’ll be ready if they come again.”

He turned to her, his expression softening. “Ye always say ‘we.’”

“Of course,” she said. “You think I’ll stand aside while you face them alone?”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’d rather ye stood behind me, Sassenach.”

She gave him a look that needed no words, and after a moment, he nodded, conceding the argument he’d never win.

That evening, as twilight gathered over the courtyard, the family sat by the hearth for supper — Jenny and Ian at one end of the long table, the children clustered around their knees and Fergus next to Claire. Mrs. Crook ladled stew into bowls smiling at wee Maggie, who was determined to “help.”
Jamie sat quietly beside Claire, spoon untouched, his hand resting lightly on hers beneath the table. When the children were shooed off to bed, and the room had quieted to the gentle crackle of the fire, he cleared his throat.

“Jenny,” he began, voice careful, “Ian. There’s something Claire and I should tell ye.”

Jenny looked up immediately, suspicion flickering across her sharp features. “Ye’ve that tone that means I’m about to worry.”

“Not worry,” Jamie said quickly. “Though I canna promise ye’ll no fuss.”

Ian’s eyes twinkled faintly. “Go on, then. Out wi’ it.”

Jamie took a breath and glanced at Claire, who gave a small, reassuring nod. “Claire’s with child,” he said simply.

For a moment, silence hung between them, so deep Claire could hear the wind in the chimney. Then Jenny let out a sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh.

“Truly?” she said, eyes wide. “Ye’re sure? I suspected but didna want to say anythin”

Claire nodded, a small smile curving her lips. “Quite sure. It’s early yet, but… yes.”

Jenny’s eyes shone suddenly with tears. “Oh, Claire!” She was across the room in an instant, wrapping her in a fierce hug that smelled of flour and stew. “After all that’s happened…” She drew back, shaking her head in wonder. “God’s blessed ye both indeed.”

Ian stood, smiling broadly, and clasped Jamie’s shoulder with his good hand. “A new Fraser bairn,” he said warmly. “That’s the best news I’ve heard since… well, since before the battle.”

Jamie’s expression softened, his voice low. “Aye. It feels a strange kind o’ miracle, after all that’s gone.”

Jenny swiped at her eyes and immediately turned practical. “Then ye’ll be eatin’ proper, Claire — no more forgettin’ your meals when ye’re tending him or the fields. And ye’ll rest when I tell ye to, aye?”

Claire laughed, unable to help herself. “You sound just like Jamie.”

“Good,” Jenny said briskly. “One voice o’ reason’s no enough in this house.”

Jamie grinned. “Aye, and between the two of ye, I’ll no dare open my mouth again.”

Ian chuckled. “Better that way, man.”

The laughter that followed was soft but full — the kind of laughter that had been absent from Lallybroch for too long. For a few precious minutes, the air was lighter, the shadows farther away.

When Jenny finally sat again, she looked at Claire with that steady, sisterly affection that had grown between them through work, loss, and shared stubbornness. “It’ll do us all good to have new life in this house,” she said. “It’s been too long since we’ve had cause to celebrate.”

Claire nodded, her throat tight. “It feels… like hope.”

Jamie reached for her hand under the table, his thumb tracing slow circles over her knuckles. “Aye, Sassenach,” he said softly. “Hope’s what we’ve planted here.”

Jenny smiled at that — small, knowing, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Then we’ll see it grow, all of it — the bairn and the land together.”

Later, after the others had gone to bed, Claire stood by the window, the night air cool on her face. She could hear the low hum of summer insects, the rustle of the wind in the fields. Jamie came to stand behind her, his arm slipping around her waist.

“They took it well,” he murmured.

“They love you,” she said. “They love us. Of course they did.”

He kissed her temple, voice soft. “I’ll no forget this night, Sassenach. For once, there was only joy.”

Claire turned, resting a hand on his chest. “Then we’ll hold on to it.”

Outside, the moon rose over the fields, casting pale light across the first rows of potatoes — green leaves trembling in the wind. Beneath the soil, life was growing unseen, slow and steady.

Chapter Text

The days had lengthened into midsummer. The air was warm and sweet, the fields full and humming with life. From the window of their room, Claire could see the pale blossoms spreading across the potato ridges — white and violet stars against the dark green.

Life, she thought, was stubborn. It always found a way to bloom, even in broken ground.

Jamie was sitting near the hearth, mending the strap of his powder horn. His hair, still longer than fashion, glowed copper in the fading light. The limp was lighter now; he moved with more confidence, though the pain never fully left him.

Claire watched him for a long while before he noticed her gaze.

“What is it, Sassenach?” he asked softly, the corner of his mouth curving.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just… remembering.”

He rose and came to her, his hand warm against her cheek. “There’s been too much remembering of late,” he murmured. “And not enough living.”

The air between them seemed to still.

Since Culloden, there had been so many barriers — grief, fear, exhaustion. Nights spent holding him through fevered dreams, mornings filled with silent work. But now, with the valley breathing again and the harvest coming on, a quiet space had opened between them — a space that felt like home.

Jamie’s hand slipped to the back of her neck, his thumb brushing her pulse. “Are ye sure, mo nighean donn?” he whispered.

She answered him not in words, but by reaching for him.

Outside, the wind stirred through the fields, carrying the scent of peat smoke and heather. Inside, the candlelight flickered against the stone walls, and for the first time since before the battle, they found each other again — not in desperation, but in peace.

When the light finally dimmed, they lay together in the quiet dark, breath mingling, hearts steady. Claire traced the scar at his shoulder, the faint rise of it under her fingertips.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said softly.

Jamie caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. “Ye didna. And ye never will.”

They lay that way until dawn crept pale across the floorboards, the world outside calling them back to duty.

The next day brought heat and work and a faint, uneasy edge.

Jenny and Ian had already been awake since before sunrise, hauling crates down from the attic. Fergus darted back and forth with bundles wrapped in cloth.

“What are you doing?” Claire asked as she came down the stair.

Jenny looked up, her expression brisk. “Hiding what must be hid like you said to before the battle. There’s talk the Redcoats’re making rounds through Broch Mordha — burning what they find. Tartans, relics, anything that smacks o’ Jacobite pride.”

Ian appeared from the study, his face set. “It’s true. I met a man on the road this morning — said they’d taken his cousin for keepin’ a bit o’ cloth in his house. They’re makin’ examples.”

He moved to the priest hole, pulling loose the stones from the back wall. Behind them lay a narrow hollow, long used for smuggling whisky and the occasional contraband book.

“Put them here,” he said. “The tartans, the prayer books, the medals — all of it.”

Jenny hesitated only a moment before handing over the first bundle. “It feels like buryin’ the heart of the place,” she said quietly.

“Aye,” Ian replied, “but better buried than burned.”

They worked quickly, the room heavy with dust and silence. The children helped in their small ways, solemn for once. Claire folded each piece with care — the old Fraser plaid, faded but still rich with red and green, the leather-bound Gaelic psalters, even the carved sgian-dubhs that had belonged to Brian Fraser.

When the last stone was set back in place, Jamie rested his hand on the wall. “We’ll bring them out again one day,” he said, voice low. “When it’s safe.”
Jenny nodded. “We will.”

But even as they stood there, the distant sound of hooves broke the air.

Claire’s head snapped up. “They’re here.”

Within moments, the yard was filled with noise — shouted orders, the jangle of bridles, the dull thud of boots. Redcoats, a dozen at least, rode into the courtyard, the Union flag stitched on their sleeves bright against the summer green.

Jamie stepped out to meet them, his shoulders squared. Ian followed, leaning on his crutch, his face hard as stone. Claire stayed close to the doorway, her heart pounding.

The officer dismounted — a young man with a pale, sharp face and eyes too old for his years. “James Fraser,” he said crisply. “Laird of Lallybroch.”
Jamie inclined his head slightly. “Aye.”

“You fought with the Jacobite forces,” the man said. “We’ve had reports.”

“I fought for my kin and my land,” Jamie replied evenly. “But the battle’s done.”

The officer’s gaze flicked to the house, to the open doors and the figures watching from within. “So it is,” he said. “And yet there’s talk of rebels still hiding here. Of treasonous relics kept under this roof.”

“There’s naught here but a farm and a family,” Jamie said.

The officer stepped closer, his voice lowering. “I’ll have this house searched. And if I find proof you’ve harbored traitors, I’ll see it burned to the ground.”
Jamie didn’t move. “Do what ye must.”

The search was swift and brutal. Drawers overturned, shelves emptied, chairs broken. The soldiers stomped through rooms, scattering linens and books, ripping through the barns. Claire followed them helplessly, fury and fear twisting in her gut.

They found nothing.

At last, the officer emerged again, face flushed with frustration. “You’re a lucky man, Fraser,” he said. “But luck runs out.”

He swung into the saddle, leaning down close enough that Claire could see the tightness in his jaw. “We’ll be back,” he said. “And if we find so much as a scrap of plaid, I’ll see your wife and family driven from these walls.”

Jamie met his gaze, unflinching. “Then I’ll be waiting.”

When they were gone, silence settled like ash. The courtyard was a ruin of broken pottery and trampled earth.

Jenny stood in the doorway, fists clenched. “Beasts,” she whispered. “They’ve no shame left in them.”

Claire moved to Jamie, her hand finding his arm. “You could have been killed.”

He turned to her, eyes soft but weary. “Aye. But not today.”

Fergus appeared at the edge of the yard, carrying one of the children’s wooden toys, its leg broken clean off. “Milord,” he said, voice small, “they broke it.”

Jamie took the toy gently, turning it over in his hand. “Then we’ll mend it,” he said.

He looked up at Claire then — the ruin around them, the smoke in the distance, the faint sound of Jenny’s voice soothing a crying child — and something in his expression steadied.

“They can tear at what they see,” he said quietly, “but they canna touch what keeps us standing.”

Claire met his eyes, her heart aching with love and defiance both. “And what is that?”

He smiled faintly. “Us.”

That night, when the house was silent again and the lanterns were dark, Claire lay awake listening to the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. His hand found hers beneath the covers — a silent vow in the dark.

Outside, the wind rose, carrying the scent of crushed heather and rain. The storm had not passed. But neither had they.

Chapter Text

Morning came soft and grey over Lallybroch, the air heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth and crushed heather. The yard still bore the marks of the raid — splintered wood, scattered straw, a broken hinge hanging loose from the barn door — but already, life had begun to knit itself back together.

Claire stood at the kitchen window, one hand resting absently on the curve of her belly. It had begun to show now, a small, steady swell beneath her apron. She felt it most in the mornings — that gentle weight, that promise.

Jenny’s voice rang from outside, sharp but cheerful. “Ian, dinna lift that alone, ye great fool — ye’ll have me diggin’ ye out from under it!”

Ian’s answering laugh carried across the yard. “Ye’ll no tell me how to mend a door, woman. I’ve done it since ye were bairns yourselves.”

Jamie, sleeves rolled, was hauling the broken table leg from the courtyard, a hammer tucked into his belt. Fergus trailed after him, arms full of nails and a look of grave importance on his face.

Claire smiled faintly. Even in ruin, there was rhythm — that unspoken harmony of family.

Mrs. Crook bustled in behind her, balancing a tray of bread and cheese. “If they’ll no stop for food, I’ll feed the lot of them out the window,” she muttered, setting it down with a thump. “Men and their pride. At least Fergus has sense enough to eat while he works.”

At that moment, Fergus appeared at the door, dirt on his cheek and his dark hair in wild disarray. “Milady,” he said with a small bow, “Milord says the barn will live, though she is wounded. I told him I shall repair her like a surgeon.”

Claire laughed softly. “A surgeon, is it? I think you’ve been spending too much time with me.”

Fergus grinned, unabashed. “Mais oui, Milady. You have taught me to fix what is broken.”

Mrs. Crook’s eyes softened as she ruffled his hair. “Off with ye, then, wee doctor. There’s soup when ye’re done.”

When he’d gone, Claire turned to the older woman. “He’s growing so fast.”

Mrs. Crook nodded, smiling faintly. “He’s a fine lad, that one. Loyal as they come. Calls the Laird ‘papa when he thinks no one hears.”

Claire felt her throat tighten. “yes,” she said softly. “And he’s ours, in every way that matters.”

By midday, the house hummed with quiet industry. The children gathered broken bits of crockery, chattering as they worked. Jenny supervised the mending of curtains, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, her voice brisk. Ian repaired the hinge on the barn, while Jamie replaced the shattered latch on the study door.

Every sound — the scrape of nails, the rhythm of hammers, the murmur of voices — felt like a heartbeat, steady and sure.

Claire moved between them, tending small cuts, fetching water, easing the stiffness in Jamie’s leg when he paused too long. Each time she brushed against him, his hand lingered on hers, brief but grounding.

At one point, she found Ian resting on a stool, wiping sweat from his brow. “How’s the leg?” she asked, crouching beside him.

Ian smiled wryly. “It aches when it rains, but then, so do I.”

“You should take more rest,” she said.

“Aye, and who’d keep the place standing if I did?” he said, but there was warmth in it. “It does me good to be useful, Claire. Better to mend a door than sit in a chair rememberin’ who we’ve lost.”

She nodded, understanding all too well. “We mend what we can,” she said softly.

He smiled, eyes kind. “Aye. Ye’ve the right of it.”

That evening, when the light began to fade and the work was finally done, the family gathered around the kitchen table. It was the same table the soldiers had overturned — now straightened, sanded, its scars hidden beneath a fresh cloth.

Mrs. Crook ladled stew into bowls, the smell of onions and barley filling the room. Jenny poured ale, her face flushed from the heat of the hearth. The children giggled over their bread, and Fergus sat proudly between Jamie and Ian, gesturing animatedly as he told some story of his “heroic carpentry.”

Jamie laughed, a deep, unguarded sound Claire hadn’t heard in too long. “If ye keep talkin’ like that, lad, I’ll be out o’ work myself.”

Fergus grinned, his accent slipping between French and Highland. “Then I will open a workshop — Fergus, carpenter and gentleman!”

Jenny rolled her eyes affectionately. “God save us all.”

The laughter warmed the air, softening what remained of the day’s strain. Claire sat back, one hand resting over the swell of her stomach, watching the firelight play across the faces she loved — strong, flawed, defiant.

When the children were finally sent to bed and the dishes cleared, the adults lingered. Outside, the night was full of cricket song and the rustle of leaves.

Jamie leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on the flames. “They’ll come again,” he said quietly. “We ken that.”

“Aye,” Jenny said. “But they’ll find us ready.”

Ian nodded, his good hand resting on the table. “The land’s our shield. They canna take what they dinna understand.”

Fergus straightened, his voice firm. “And we will not be afraid.”

Jamie’s eyes softened as he looked at him. “No, lad. We will not.”

For a long moment, no one spoke. The fire popped, and a faint wind moved through the open window, carrying the scent of heather and earth — of life persisting.

Claire reached for Jamie’s hand under the table. “Whatever comes,” she said softly, “we’ll face it together.”

He turned to her, his expression gentling. “Aye, Sassenach. Together, always.”

Jenny smiled faintly, lifting her cup. “To Lallybroch,” she said. “And to what canna be broken.”

They drank to that — not in celebration, but in quiet defiance.

Chapter Text

By late August the heather had gone from violet to brown, and the air carried that faint coolness that hinted at autumn. The potatoes were ready. Their blossoms had faded, leaving heavy leaves that bowed toward the soil. When Claire stepped into the yard each morning, she could smell earth and ripeness, that scent of things ready to be lifted and stored.

She moved slower now. Six months along, her balance had changed, her back ached if she stood too long, and her shoes no longer fit as they once had.

None of this stopped Jamie from hovering.

“Ye shouldna be out here,” he said that morning, appearing beside her with a basket. “The ground’s soft as soup. Ye’ll slip.”

“I’m pregnant, Jamie, not made of glass,” she said, smiling despite herself.

He looked unconvinced. “Aye, well. Ye’ll humour me then.” He took the basket from her hand. “Go and rest. I’ll see to the lifting.”

“Jamie Fraser,” she said, folding her arms, “I’ve been on my feet since before sunrise. Resting now would only make me stiff.”

He sighed and shook his head but offered his arm all the same. “At least come as far as the bench by the wall. Ye can keep me company while I ruin my back in your place.”

She took the arm. The truth was that she didn’t mind his fussing; it was love, disguised as irritation. Still, as she settled on the bench and watched him stoop over the rows, she felt a flicker of unease. Six months. That had been as far as she’d carried Faith.

Her hands drifted to her belly. The child within shifted, a small, determined movement that made her catch her breath. “Stay with me,” she whispered.

Jamie straightened, hearing her tone. “Are ye all right?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, forcing a smile. “Just… the baby reminding me who’s in charge.”

He came to her then, crouching in front of her and setting a muddy hand against her knee. “We’ll see it through, Sassenach. Both of ye.”

“I know.” But the words trembled a little.

He pressed his forehead to her hand. “I dinna ken what I’d do if—”

She stopped him with a touch to his cheek. “Don’t finish that sentence. We’ve lost enough to ghosts.”

He nodded, swallowing hard, and after a moment returned to the work, striking his spade into the soil with renewed purpose.

By midday, the courtyard was alive with movement. Jenny directed the tenants, Ian hauled sacks, Fergus dashed between house and field carrying orders.

The children gathered fallen potatoes, their laughter bright against the clatter of tools.

Mrs. Crook appeared with pitchers of watered ale and thick bread. “Mind ye eat,” she scolded, thrusting a cup into Claire’s hand. “The wee one’ll want strength from ye.”

Claire smiled. “You sound like Jenny.”

“And she sounds like her mother,” Mrs. Crook said fondly. “That’s how families stay whole.”

Inside, the cool air of the cellar was heavy with the smell of peat and stored grain. Ian had built new bins for the potatoes — rough wood lined with straw.

“There now,” he said, brushing his hands. “If the Lord’s kind, they’ll last till spring.”

Jamie nodded, pride and worry warring on his face. “Aye. If the Redcoats leave us be.”

Jenny’s voice carried from the stair. “They won’t. Word came from the croft at Corrie Lochlan — soldiers took two men and burned their thatch. Said they’d harboured traitors.”

The air in the cellar seemed to tighten.

“How close?” Jamie asked.

“Too close,” Ian said quietly. “A day’s ride, no more.”

Jamie leaned on the edge of a bin, jaw clenched. “Then we’ll get the tenants ready. If they come this far, they’ll no take the land without a fight — but I’ll no have the folk caught in the middle.”

Ian nodded. “We’ll move the old and the bairns into the wood if we must. There’s shelter enough by the stream.”

Jenny met Claire’s eyes. “Keep a pack ready, just in case.”

Claire felt the chill run through her despite the heat. “I will.”

That night, the house was quieter than usual. The children had gone to bed early, worn out from the day. Jenny sat by the hearth sewing; Ian polished his musket. Fergus occupied himself by sharpening the small knife Jamie had given him, his movements careful and precise.

When Jamie came in from locking the barn, his face was set but calm. He stooped to kiss the top of Fergus’s head. “Time for bed, lad. Ye’ve done enough for one day.”

Fergus looked up, dark eyes earnest. “If the soldiers come again, I’ll fight.”

Jamie smiled faintly. “I ken ye would. But the bravest thing ye can do is keep the bairns safe.”

Fergus hesitated, then nodded solemnly and went up the stairs.

Jenny sighed, setting her needle aside. “They’re all half sick wi’ worry, Jamie.”

“I ken,” he said. “But fear’s no use to us. Work and prayer — those are the things that hold a house.”

He looked over at Claire, his expression softening. “And love.”

She rose, crossing to him. “You should rest,” she said.

He laughed quietly. “A fine thing, hearin’ that from you.”

The following morning broke heavy with fog. Claire woke to the sound of hooves — not the steady rhythm of tenants’ carts, but the sharp, ordered beat of soldiers.

Jamie was already up, pulling on his shirt. “They’re early,” he said grimly.

She moved to the window. Shapes emerged through the mist: red coats, gleaming bayonets, the Union flag dull in the grey light.

Jenny burst in without knocking. “They’re at the gate. Ian’s gone to meet them.”

Jamie turned to Claire. “Stay here.”

“No,” she said, already reaching for her cloak. “If they question anyone, it may be me. They trust a healer more than a rebel’s wife.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Stay close, then.”

The patrol was smaller than before — half a dozen men, led by a sergeant whose face Claire recognised. He’d been here once already, the day of the raid.

“Still keepin’ busy, Fraser?” the man said, glancing at the baskets stacked in the yard. “Fine harvest for traitors.”

Jamie met his eyes evenly. “A man’s work is no treason.”

The sergeant’s gaze slid to Claire, lingering on her rounded belly. “Seems the goodwife’s been busy as well.”

Claire’s chin lifted. “As you see.”

He smirked. “Pity if the baby grows up without a roof. The Crown doesn’t look kindly on Jacobite farmers.”

Jenny stepped forward, eyes like flint. “And the Crown’s soldiers dinna look kindly on hungry children either. Take your threats elsewhere.”

The sergeant’s jaw tightened, but after a moment he turned his horse. “We’ll be back,” he said. “Orders to check every farm in the valley. See you keep things honest here.”

When they were gone, the silence was louder than their boots had been.

Jamie let out a slow breath. “They’re watchin’ us now. Every move.”

Ian nodded grimly. “Then we’ll give them nothing to see.”

By evening, the mist had lifted. The family gathered again in the kitchen, exhaustion lining every face but spirits unbroken. The first sacks of potatoes stood by the door, ready for storage.

Claire leaned against the wall, one hand on her belly, feeling the faint, steady kicks only she could feel yet within. Jamie came to stand beside her, his palm covering hers.

“They’re alive out there,” he said quietly. “The folk, the land. That’s enough for me.”

“It has to be,” she whispered.

He turned to her, eyes bright in the firelight. “I’ll keep ye safe, Sassenach. You and the bairn. I swear it.”

She met his gaze, steady and sure. “We’ll keep each other safe.”

Outside, the fields rustled with the sound of wind through ripened grain, and the first stars pierced the darkening sky.

Chapter Text

By the first chill of September the nights had grown longer, the air heavy with peat smoke and the cry of curlews over the moor. The harvest was near finished, but the fear had not eased. Word drifted up the valley each week: a farm burned, a man taken, another hanged for harbouring Jacobites.

At Lallybroch the Frasers worked by day and watched by night. Jamie and Ian took turns walking the boundary walls after sunset, muskets slung across their backs. Jenny had the tenants bury grain in barrels near the burn, and Claire kept bandages, herbs, and the medical kit close at hand.

The house itself bore no sign of rebellion now—no plaid, no relics—but the soldiers did not need proof. They already knew Jamie Fraser’s name.

That afternoon a courier arrived with a letter bearing the Crown’s seal. Claire watched as Jamie broke it open at the table, the paper trembling slightly in his hands.

“It’s a summons,” he said at last. “They want me in Inverness. Questionin’ about men from my regiment who’ve gone missing.”

Jenny swore under her breath. “They mean to make an example.”

Ian’s jaw set. “Ye canna go. They’ll clap ye in irons before ye’ve spoken a word.”

Jamie folded the letter carefully. “If I dinna, they’ll come here and take the house instead. Either way, Lallybroch pays.”

Claire caught his sleeve. “There has to be another way. You know what they did after Culloden. Anyone connected to the Rising—”

“I ken,” he said softly. “But I’ll no have them march through these doors again with the bairns screamin’. If I go, maybe they’ll leave the rest of ye be.”

The room went still. Jenny stared at him a long moment, then turned to Claire. “We’ll think on it the night through,” she said. “No man makes such a choice in haste.”

That night the wind came hard from the north, rattling the shutters. The house slept uneasily. Claire lay awake beside Jamie, listening to the rise and fall of his breathing until she felt him stir.

“Ye’re no sleepin’ either,” he murmured.

“Too much noise in my head,” she said.

He shifted closer, his arm coming round her waist, hand resting over the curve of her stomach. The bairn moved beneath his palm, a small rolling motion that made him still.

“There,” he said softly, wonder in his voice. “He’s strong.”

“She,” Claire teased. “And you’ll have to mind your strength when you hold her.”

Jamie smiled in the dark. “We’ll see soon enough which of us is right. If it’s a lad, though… I’d name him for my father. Brian.”

Claire smiled faintly in the dark. “Brian Fraser. It’ll suit him.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “And if it’s a lass?”

Claire’s throat tightened. “I… don’t know.”

She hadn’t spoken their lost child’s name aloud in months. Faith was a ghost between them — cherished, untouchable. “There are some names,” she said finally, “that belong only to heaven.”

Jamie’s hand found hers. “Aye. Then we’ll wait till we see her face. She’ll tell us her own name.”

They lay still, the bairn’s faint movement between them. The wind sighed through the eaves like a distant song.

“I dinna fear death, Sassenach,” Jamie whispered. “But I fear leavin’ ye behind.”

“You won’t,” she said, voice steady. “Not while I have breath.”

Two days later, the Redcoats came again.

They rode up the lane without warning—fifteen men this time, led by a captain in a bright coat and polished boots. The tenants scattered to the barns as the soldiers dismounted.

“James Fraser!” the captain called. “By order of His Majesty’s Army, you’ll answer for your part in the late rebellion!”

Claire stood in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other pressed to her belly. Jamie stepped out to meet them, calm but straight-backed.

“I’ve answered already,” he said. “The Rising’s done.”

The captain’s smile was thin. “So are many of your comrades. You’ll march with us to Inverness tomorrow. If you’re innocent, you’ve naught to fear.”

Jenny’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “And who’ll keep his house while ye drag him away? His wife’s with child!”

The captain ignored her. “You’ll come quietly, Mr. Fraser—or I’ll have the place searched again.”

Jamie met his gaze. “You’ll find nothing here but hungry mouths and honest work.”

“Honesty doesn’t wash out treason,” the captain said coldly. He leaned closer, voice low. “They say you killed men at Culloden. I’ll see the truth of that myself.”

Jamie didn’t flinch. “I fought for my kin and king. I’ll answer to God for that, not to you.”

The captain’s jaw tightened, but after a long moment he turned his horse. “Tomorrow at dawn. Be ready.”

They rode off, hooves pounding down the track, leaving the yard silent and the air thick with dust.

Jenny swore again. “They mean to take him and never send him back.”

Claire looked at Jamie, her heart a knot of fear and defiance. “You can’t go.”

He touched her cheek, rough thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “If I run, they’ll come for ye instead. If I stay, they’ll burn the land. But if I walk in myself…” He exhaled slowly. “Maybe I can bargain somethin’. For the folk, at least.”

The tears came hot behind her eyes. “Jamie—”

“Hush now,” he said gently. “There’s still night ahead of us. We’ll face morning when it comes.”

That evening, the house worked like a single heart. Ian readied the horses, Jenny packed food and bandages, Fergus mended the strap on Jamie’s saddle with trembling hands. The children clung to their mother’s skirts, wide-eyed and silent.

When it was done, Jamie found Claire standing in the doorway, watching the sky fade from red to indigo. He drew her close, one hand again over her belly. “Brian,” he whispered. “If I dinna come back, tell him his father loved him before he saw the sun.”

She turned, tears glinting. “You will come back. Because this house, this land, this child—none of it stands without you.”

He kissed her forehead, lingering there as if memorising the feel of her skin. “Then I’ll come home, if there’s breath left in me.”

The wind rose, shaking the last of the summer leaves from the trees. Inside, the candles flickered. Beyond the gates, the road to Inverness waited, dark and uncertain.

Chapter Text

Dawn came grey and thin, mist hanging low over the fields. The yard was silent except for the muffled snort of the horses and the slow creak of leather.

Jamie stood by the gate, fastening his cloak. His breath clouded in the chill air.

Claire had not slept. She had dressed before first light, hands steady only because she willed them to be. The household hovered behind her — Jenny, Ian, Fergus, Mrs. Crook, and the children gathered in the doorway, all quiet.

Jamie reached to smooth the mare’s neck, then turned to her. “Ye should be in bed, Sassenach.”

“I’ll not have you leave without saying goodbye.”

He managed a smile. “Then I’ll count myself the luckiest man to go to war with a wife such as you.”

“Jamie—”

He lifted a hand, gentle. “Hush. I’ll be back. There’s work here still for me.”

Jenny pressed a small bundle into his saddlebag. “Bread, cheese, a flask of ale. You’ll eat, mind.”

Ian clasped his arm. “We’ll keep the land till you’re home.”

Fergus stepped forward, chin high. “Milord, if they touch you, I’ll follow to Inverness myself.”

Jamie bent and rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No, lad. Your fight’s here. Keep watch for me.”

Then his eyes met Claire’s. “Come walk wi’ me a bit?”

She nodded, taking his arm. They crossed the yard in silence, dew soaking her shoes. At the bend of the road he stopped and looked back at the house — the smoke rising thin and pale, the sound of a child crying faintly within.

“It’s a good sight,” he said softly. “A man could die easy knowin’ he’d built that.”

“You won’t die,” she said.

He smiled, eyes warm and sad. “Keep tellin’ me so.”

He kissed her once, quick and sure, then swung into the saddle. “I’ll send word when I can.”

Claire stood in the road long after he disappeared into the mist, one hand on her belly, the other clutching the shawl tight around her shoulders.

Inside Lallybroch the day began without pause. Jenny set the children to collect eggs from the chickens, Mrs. Crook to baking. Fergus rode into Broch Mordha for news. Claire forced herself into motion — tending a tenant’s sick child, counting stores, anything that kept her from listening for hoofbeats.

By afternoon the sky had cleared, sharp blue over the hills. Claire took a basket of herbs to the garden, kneeling carefully among the rows. Each weed pulled was a small prayer.

Jenny came out, wiping her hands. “No word yet?”

“Nothing.”

Jenny sank down beside her. “He’ll charm them, same as he’s always done.”

Claire gave a thin smile. “Charm isn’t much against soldiers.”

Jenny touched her arm. “Aye, but stubbornness is.”

They worked in silence awhile, the steady rhythm of their hands the only sound.

Far down the road, Jamie rode through the moorland mist toward Inverness. The heather brushed the horse’s legs, and every sound carried for miles.

Twice he saw patrols — once distant, once close enough that he had to steer into the trees and wait until the clatter of hooves faded.

By mid-day he reached the bridge over the Ness and the first guardpost. Two soldiers barred the way.

“Name,” one demanded.

“James Fraser of Lallybroch. I’ve been summoned.”

The man looked him over — the plain clothes, the broad shoulders, the healed limp. “Aye, I know the name,” he said. “Go on then. You’ll find the major at Fort George.”

Jamie passed through, heart hammering. Fort George loomed grey against the sea, a fortress of stone and silence. As he approached, he saw men drilling in the yard, the red of their coats like blood against the mist.

He dismounted and surrendered his sword at the gate. A guard led him inside.

Back at Lallybroch, the sun sank low. Claire stood on the steps, watching the road fade into gold and shadow. The day had passed without word. The air smelled of smoke from the kitchen fire and the sharp sweetness of drying hay.

Jenny came out with a shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Ye should rest.”

“I can’t.”

Jenny looked toward the hills. “Neither can I.”

Mrs. Crook appeared at the doorway, flour on her hands. “Supper’s near ready, Mistress.”

Claire nodded. “Thank you.” She didn’t move.

Fergus lingered behind the gate, scanning the distance. “He’ll send word,” he said firmly, as if belief could make it true.

In Inverness the fort gates closed behind Jamie with a heavy clang. A lieutenant led him through echoing corridors to a bare room. At a desk sat a man in full uniform, papers spread before him.

“James Fraser,” the officer said without looking up. “You’ve been a difficult man to find.”

“I’ve no been hiding,” Jamie answered.

The officer raised his eyes, cold and sharp. “No? We’ll see.”

He nodded to the guards. “Take him below.”

They seized Jamie by the arms. He didn’t resist. As they led him down the stone stair, he thought of the road behind him — of Claire’s hand on his cheek, of the bairn moving beneath her heart, of the fields turning gold in the last light of summer.

At Lallybroch, night came early. Claire sat by the window, mending a shirt that no longer needed mending. Each stitch was a heartbeat, each pull of thread a prayer. The candle burned low, and still she worked, waiting for the sound of hooves that did not come.

Somewhere beyond the dark hills, Jamie Fraser waited too — a man caught between duty and home, between loyalty and the noose.

The harvest moon rose over the valley, pale and unblinking. Lallybroch slept beneath it, holding its breath.

Chapter Text

The first frost came early that year. Ice crusted the edges of the troughs in the yard, and the mornings began in mist so thick that Lallybroch seemed to float in it. Claire woke before the sun, her body heavy and sore, her belly grown hard beneath her hands. Seven months.

Each day began the same way: a hand to her stomach to feel the faint roll of the bairn, a silent prayer for Jamie’s safety, and then work. Always work.

Jenny and Ian handled the tenants; Fergus took charge of messages from the nearby crofts. Mrs. Crook scolded her whenever she lifted anything heavier than a kettle. Still, Claire refused to stay abed. The house ran because she would not allow it to fall still.

When the wind came from the north, it carried the salt tang of the Moray Firth — and with it, Claire’s thoughts flew to Inverness and the stone walls of Fort George.

At Fort George, Jamie rose with the dawn bell and the sound of boots on stone. His cell was small but dry; a slit of window let in a finger of light. He marked the passing days with scratches on the wall until the mortar crumbled beneath his thumb.

The interrogations came every few days, always the same questions: names, orders, places. “Who commanded you at Culloden?” “Where are the surviving Jacobites hiding?” “What oaths did you swear to Charles Stuart?”

Jamie answered what he could — truth where truth would harm no one, silence where it would. The officers had learned that shouting was useless. They tried threats instead: confiscation of his land, imprisonment for life, the rope.

He met them all with the same quiet certainty. “I’ve told ye what I ken. There’s naught left to say.”

One of the younger officers, perhaps tired of the endless routine, had taken to speaking with him more kindly. Lieutenant John Williams — English, pale-haired, with the careful courtesy of a man who might one day regret his orders.

“You fought well, Mr. Fraser,” he said one afternoon as they walked the yard under guard. “I’ve seen the reports. You could have been an officer yourself, had you chosen the right side.”

Jamie gave a small smile. “A man fights for his own, Lieutenant. No side ever feels right when it’s lost.”

Williams studied him a moment, then nodded. “I’ll do what I can to keep them from sending you south. London’s prisons are death.”
Jamie inclined his head. “Then ye’ve my thanks. I ask no favour but time.”

“Time?”

“Aye. For my wife to bear our child.”

Williams looked away. “I’ll see what can be done.”

At Lallybroch, the autumn days shortened into blue-grey dusk before supper. Claire’s hands had grown clumsy; she dropped a bowl one evening and watched it shatter across the floor before realizing she’d started to weep.

Jenny came at once, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s the strain, piuthar. Ye’ve held this place together near half a year.”

Claire shook her head. “It’s the not knowing. If I had word — even bad word — I could bear it.”

Jenny wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “He’ll come home. He’s a Fraser; they always find their way back.”

Claire tried to smile. “That sounds like superstition.”

Jenny squeezed her tighter. “Aye, but it’s kept this house standing longer than reason ever did.”

Later that night, Claire sat by the fire, mending one of Jamie’s shirts. The fabric was worn thin at the elbows. Her stitches blurred, and she pressed the cloth to her face, breathing in the faint scent that still clung to it — woodsmoke, wool, the ghost of him.

She whispered, “Hold on.”

At Fort George, rain drummed against the slate roofs. Jamie sat on the stone floor, knees drawn up, the cold seeping through his bones. He thought of Claire’s hands — steady, capable, the way she’d press warmth into him after long rides in the snow.

He imagined her now, heavy with child, walking the halls of Lallybroch. He pictured Fergus carrying firewood and trying to cheer Claire up, Jenny laughing at the children, Ian limping through the fields. Life continued, as it must.

When the guard opened the door that evening, he expected another summons. Instead, Lieutenant Williams stood there, a folded letter in his hand.

“There’s news from Edinburgh,” he said quietly. “The Crown’s focus has shifted — new arrests farther south. It may buy you some time.”
Jamie’s heart eased a fraction. “Time’s all I ask.”

Williams hesitated, then added, “I wrote your wife, through a merchant I know in Beauly. She may get word that you’re alive.”

Jamie blinked, the tightness in his throat sudden and fierce. “You’d do that?”

The officer looked embarrassed. “A man should be allowed to keep hope alive, even here.”

At Lallybroch, a week later, a rider came up the lane. Fergus ran ahead shouting, “A letter! Milady, a letter!”

Claire nearly dropped her basket of apples. She tore the seal with shaking hands. The ink was smudged, the handwriting unfamiliar, but the words were clear enough:

Your husband lives. Held at Fort George. Condition fair. No sentence yet passed.

Her knees gave out, and Jenny caught her before she hit the floor.

“Alive,” Claire breathed. “He’s alive.”

Jenny smiled through tears. “Aye, he’ll come home yet.”

That night, Claire sat in bed, the letter beside her. The bairn shifted within, a firm, deliberate movement as if in answer. She rested her hands on the swell and whispered, “He’s waiting for you, too.”

Outside, frost silvered the fields, and the moon rose over the hills. The worst of winter still lay ahead, but hope — fragile and stubborn — had found its way back to Lallybroch.

Chapter Text

The first snow fell on the fifth of November, soft as ash over the fields. It did not stay long—just enough to paint the thatch white and hush the valley. Claire woke to the sound of it whispering against the shutters and the slow roll of the bairn beneath her ribs.

She sat up carefully, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. Each movement had grown deliberate now; even breathing took thought. The house was quiet except for the crackle of the kitchen fire below. Jenny was already awake, of course—Claire could hear her voice carrying through the floorboards, brisk and sure, keeping the household moving.

Claire smiled faintly. Life does not stop for fear, she thought. It had been Jenny’s unspoken law all these months.

On the table beside the bed lay Jamie’s last letter, edges worn from rereading. The ink had run in places from damp, but she knew every word by heart.

I am well enough. The guards have grown restless; talk of transports south grows louder. Yet I believe I will see the hills again. Tell our bairn I am waiting.

She traced the words with a finger, then folded the paper and tucked it close to her heart before dressing.

At Fort George, the days had shrunk to a handful of grey hours between dawn and dark. The sea beat against the walls below, and the wind came through the windows like a knife.

Jamie kept count of time by the chapel bell. Each toll meant another hour he had survived.

The guards had grown rougher; food came late, talk of new orders more frequent. One morning Lieutenant Williams appeared at the door again, face tight.

“They’re moving prisoners,” he said quietly. “South, to the ships at Leith.”

Jamie looked up. “And me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Williams hesitated, then slipped something small into his hand—a scrap of paper. “I can’t write openly anymore. But tell her you’re alive. I’ll see it sent.”

Jamie nodded, gripping the lieutenant’s hand briefly. “Ye’ve done more kindness than your duty demands.”

“Perhaps that’s why it still means something,” Williams said, and left.

Back at Lallybroch, Claire spent the morning in the kitchen helping Mrs Crook with the winter stores—sorting potatoes into bins, hanging dried herbs from the rafters. The smell of earth and rosemary filled the air.

Jenny came in dusted with snow. “Fergus says soldiers’ve been seen again near Beauly. Searching farms.”

Claire’s stomach tightened. “For what? There’s nothing left to take.”

Jenny shrugged. “Orders dinna need reason.”

They exchanged a look—fear and understanding both. Jenny set her hand briefly on Claire’s arm. “Whatever happens, the house’ll stand. Ye’ve my word.”

“I know,” Claire said softly. “And so does Jamie.”

That evening the wind rose fierce from the sea. The children huddled near the fire; Fergus read to them in French until the candles guttered. Upstairs, Claire tried to write, though her fingers shook from cold.

My dearest love, she began, the snow has come early, and the fields lie quiet. Our child moves strongly every night now. I think of you each time I feel him turn. We are waiting for you—for your voice at the door, for the sound of your boots in the yard.

She paused, then added,

If you are sent south, do not lose heart. We will be with you.

She sealed the letter and gave it to Fergus in the morning. “To the merchant in Beauly,” she said. “He’ll know where to send it.”

Fergus nodded solemnly. “I’ll see it safe, milady.”

At Fort George the snow fell thicker each day. The prisoners were herded to the yard to clear it, their chains clinking in the cold. Jamie worked silently, breath misting, his fingers raw. Every blow of the shovel was a prayer.

That night a guard came to his cell. “Orders from the Major,” he said. “You’ll be questioned again at dawn.”

Jamie nodded once. When the door closed, he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He pictured Lallybroch buried in snow, smoke curling from the chimney, the fields asleep beneath the white. He saw Claire’s face, pale and strong, her hands on the life growing within her.

“Hold fast, mo nighean donn,” he whispered. “I’ll come home.”

At Lallybroch, the storm broke two days later. The wind screamed through the glen, bending the trees until they groaned. Claire stood at the window, watching snow whirl past the panes. The bairn shifted again, slow and heavy, and she pressed her hands to her belly.

“You feel that, little one?” she murmured. “That’s winter arriving. Your father’s out there somewhere in it.”

Jenny entered with a candle, light flickering across her face. “The roof’s sound, and the beasts are in. We’ll weather it.”

Claire nodded, though her eyes stayed on the storm. “We always do.”

When dawn came at Fort George, Jamie was led to the officer’s hall once more. The Major sat waiting, the fire burning low. “James Fraser,” he said, “you are to be transferred to Edinburgh within the week for final judgment.”

Jamie bowed his head slightly. “Aye, sir.”

“Do you understand what that means?”

“I do.”

The Major studied him, perhaps expecting pleading. But Jamie’s gaze was steady, the calm of a man who had already given his life away once before.

When he was taken back to his cell, he looked toward the narrow window and whispered to the wind, “Tell her I’m still breathing.”

At Lallybroch, the same wind rattled the shutters. Claire sat by the fire, mending a tiny blanket Jenny had knit, pale blue and soft. The child moved again, stronger this time, as if answering.

She smiled faintly. “He’s still breathing,” she said aloud, and the words steadied her.

Outside, the snow eased, and for a moment the clouds parted. The moon shone down on Lallybroch, on the sleeping hills and the frozen burn, and on the woman who waited—unbowed, unbroken, and full of life.

Chapter Text

By the third week of November the frost no longer melted. The air tasted of iron, and every sound carried in the stillness. At Lallybroch, smoke rose thin from the chimneys as the household moved quietly through their days, conserving warmth, conserving strength.

Claire felt every hour of it. The bairn had settled low; her back ached constantly, her steps had slowed to a careful rhythm. Jenny fussed over her more than she’d ever admit.

“Ye’ve done enough,” Jenny said one morning as Claire tried to help stir the porridge. “Sit ye down, woman, before ye topple.”

Claire laughed despite herself. “If I sit, I may not get up again.”

Jenny arched an eyebrow. “Then ye’ll stay where ye fall, and I’ll feed ye there.”

The easy teasing helped. It reminded Claire of all the ordinary courage that kept Lallybroch alive: the rhythm of work, the sound of children laughing downstairs, the smell of peat and bread. Still, when she lay down at night, the ache of absence pressed hard against her ribs.

Each evening she took Jamie’s last letter from its folded cloth and read it again by candlelight.

I am to be moved soon. If fortune is kind, I’ll see the hills again. Remember, I am yours—alive, always yours.

She pressed the paper to her lips. “Come home,” she whispered.

In Edinburgh, Jamie Fraser stood before a desk scarred by years of army boots and spilled ink. The officer behind it barely looked at him. Parchments were stacked in tottering piles; a brazier smoked near the door. The smell of ink and damp wool hung heavy.

“James Fraser of Broch Tuarach,” the man read aloud, squinting. “Captured. Held since September. No confession, no conviction, no proof of active command.”

He set the paper down with a sigh. “God help us, we’ve a hundred like you. His Majesty’s army has no space left for ghosts of the rebellion.”

Jamie waited, saying nothing.

The man glanced up. “You’re free to go.”

Jamie blinked. “Free?”

The officer waved a hand. “You’re no use to us dead or fed. Go home, Mr. Fraser—if you can find it still standing.”

A guard cut the rope from Jamie’s wrists and handed him back his coat. He stepped into the bitter air, half disbelieving, half numb. Snow was falling thick over the city; the sound of carts and bells blurred together. He turned north without a word.

He did not run. He simply walked—out of the courtyard, past the grey stones of the city, into the open land beyond. Every breath burned cold in his chest, but each step felt more his own than any he’d taken since Culloden.

Free.

At Lallybroch, the next night, the fire burned low. Claire sat by it, her knitting abandoned on her lap. A tightness seized her belly, hard and low. She froze, breath catching, waiting. It eased, then came again—stronger.

Jenny was at her side in an instant. “Claire?”

On the road north, Jamie rode on a horse he’d found in the brush through snow so thick it swallowed the world. His horse stumbled on the frozen track, steam rising from its flanks. He’d found a mount outside the city—an old grey gelding, patient and slow—but it carried him homeward all the same.

The moon was a pale blur through the storm. Each mile felt longer than the one before. Yet with every turn of the hooves, he could almost hear her voice: calm, clear, calling him home.

“Hold fast, Sassenach,” he murmured into the wind. “I’m comin’.”

Chapter Text

The pains began just after midnight.

At first they came slow and far apart — a dull pressure deep in her back, then a sharper tightening that made her grip the sheets. Claire tried to breathe through them quietly, but by the third she was trembling, one hand pressed to her belly.

The bairn had waited long enough.

Jenny came in moments later, drawn by instinct more than sound. “Is it time?”

Claire nodded once, teeth clenched. “Since just after midnight.”

Jenny was already shouting for Mrs Crook and the midwife, her voice firm and sure. Within the hour, the whole house was awake — fires stoked, water boiling, the rhythm of birth echoing through Lallybroch once again.

At dawn, the wind came howling down from the north, rattling the shutters. Snow swept through the glen, cold light spilling across the hills.

Jamie Fraser rode straight into it.

He had been released from Edinburgh the day before, dismissed with a weary wave from a clerk who hadn’t bothered to look up from his papers. “Go home, Fraser. You’ve done enough fighting.”

So he had gone.

No food. No rest. Just north, through sleet and snow and the ache of every remembered mile. His horse labored beneath him, breath steaming in the air.

“Come on, lad,” Jamie murmured. “We’ve both someone waitin’.”

By midmorning, Claire was in agony.

The contractions came faster now, each one tearing through her like a wave that would not end. Her face was pale, her hair damp with sweat. Jenny sat beside her, steady as ever, dabbing her brow with a cool cloth.

“You’re near halfway,” the midwife said, voice tight. “He’s sittin’ high still, but he’ll come.”

Claire forced a breath. “He’s stubborn. Like his father.”

Jenny smiled faintly. “A Fraser, then.”

But when she turned to change the sheets, her jaw was set. The cloth beneath her hands was streaked with blood.

By late afternoon, the house had gone silent but for the low murmur of prayer and the sound of wind outside. Fergus waited at the bottom of the stairs, pale and motionless. Ian sent the children to the far rooms, though they crept back now and again to listen.

Inside the bedchamber, time had lost its shape.

Claire’s cries had grown hoarse. Her strength was fading; her skin was cold to the touch.

“Jenny,” she whispered, eyes unfocused. “I can’t—”

Jenny gripped her hand, fierce and sure. “Ye can. Ye always can. D’ye hear me?”

But Claire was slipping somewhere far away — to a quiet place, where the pain dulled and the world narrowed to the sound of her own heart.

Jamie. Please, Jamie.

The words barely left her lips.

The wind cut hard as blades across the moor.

Jamie hunched low over his horse, cloak soaked through, fingers numb. The road wound between black pines and white drifts, the snow deep enough to hide the path. Every few miles he whispered her name aloud, just to keep his voice from freezing in his throat.

“Claire. I’m comin’, mo ghraidh.”

The mare stumbled; he steadied her, pressing his forehead to her neck. “Not long now.”

The sky had gone dark by the time he reached the edge of the Lallybroch glen. Lights flickered faint and golden through the storm — home.

Sixteen hours.

The candles had burned low. The midwife moved briskly, murmuring prayers under her breath. Jenny’s eyes were red, her sleeves soaked with sweat and blood.

Claire barely stirred. Her breathing came shallow now, lips pale, hair matted to her face. The midwife’s voice dropped low. “She’s losin’ too much. If she gives out now—”

“She won’t,” Jenny said sharply. “She won’t.”

But even she could feel it — the weight of silence creeping closer.

“Jamie,” Claire breathed, so faintly Jenny almost missed it. “Please... I can't do this without him again… I need him.”

And then, through the storm outside, came the unmistakable sound of hooves on stone.

The door burst open, wind and snow sweeping in behind him.

“Claire!”

Her head turned weakly toward the sound, her eyes dull with pain. For an instant she thought she was dreaming — until she saw him, his face drawn and pale from the cold, eyes wide with fear.

He crossed the room in three strides. The sight hit him like a musket ball. The sheets were stained dark, the air thick with sweat and blood. Claire’s skin was pale as milk; her breath came shallow, her eyes unfocused. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t breathe

Memory struck like a blow: his mother, the whispered stories of her dying the same way. Blood. Too much blood.

Jenny caught the look in his eyes and stepped forward quickly. “She’s fightin’, Jamie. But she needs ye.”

He dropped to his knees beside the bed, taking Claire’s hand in both of his. Her fingers were cold, her pulse thready beneath his thumb.

“Sassenach,” he said, voice breaking on the word. “I’m here.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Jamie.” Her lips trembled. “You came.”

“Aye,” he whispered, though his throat burned. “Always.”

When the next pain tore through her, she screamed, her body arching. He caught her, holding her upright, feeling how cold she was — how light. His fingers brushed her damp hair back, and for one terrifying instant he saw his mother as she’d been described to him — the stillness, the silence, the blood.

Not her. God, not her too.

“Ye hold on, mo ghraidh,” he murmured, voice breaking. “Ye dinna leave me, do ye hear?”

She shook her head weakly, tears sliding down her face. “I can’t—”

“Aye, ye can.” He cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet his eyes. “You’re the bravest soul I’ve ever known. Breathe for me now, love. For the bairn.”

She sobbed once, but she nodded, finding his rhythm, gripping his hand as if the world depended on it.

“Tha mi leat,” he whispered. “I’m wi’ ye.”

Her next cry rose fierce and full, the sound of life refusing to let go.

Outside, the storm eased, and the first light of dawn began to creep over the hills.

Chapter Text

The dawn had barely broken when the last wave came.

Claire leaned forward against the pillows, trembling, her hands locked around Jamie’s. He sat behind her on the bed, his arms braced around her shoulders, his breath steady against her ear.

“That’s it, Sassenach,” he whispered. “Ye’re doin’ fine. One more, aye? Just one more.”

Her body shook with exhaustion, her hair clung to her damp skin, her voice rough with pain. “I can’t—”

“Aye, ye can.” His voice was low but fierce. “Look at me, Sassenach.”

She did, through tears. His face was pale, his eyes bright with fear he tried to hide. He pressed a kiss to her temple, whispering in Gaelic, the words tumbling soft and steady: “Tha thu sàbhailte. Tha thu làidir. Tha mi leat.”
(You’re safe. You’re strong. I’m with you.)

The next contraction rose from deep within her, sharp and unstoppable. She cried out, gripping his forearm, and Jamie tightened his hold, his cheek against her hair.

“That’s it. Let go now, mo ghraidh. Let it come.”

The midwife leaned forward, hands steady. “Again, Mistress. Just one more push.”

Claire drew a ragged breath and bore down with the last of her strength.

For a heartbeat, the world held still. Then came a rush of sound — a gasp, a cry, and the high, thin wail of a newborn.

The midwife caught the child in her arms, laughter breaking through her fatigue.

“A lass!” Jenny said, voice trembling. “A bonnie wee lass!”

Jamie’s breath caught. Claire sagged against him, laughing through tears, their chests heaving together. He pressed his face to Claire’s shoulder. “A lass,” he whispered. “Thank the Lord.”

Jenny stepped forward, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Strong lungs on her. She’s her mother’s child.”

The midwife cleaned and wrapped the babe, her hands sure though her own voice shook. She laid the bundle into Claire’s arms with reverence.

Claire stared down, dazed, awestruck. The little one was pink and fierce, fists clenched tight — and even under the linen, she was long and strong for a newborn. A soft fuzz of bright copper hair gleamed in the candlelight, brighter than firelight itself.

“Oh,” Claire whispered, eyes widening. “Jamie… look at her hair.”

He leaned forward, half laughing, half choking on the sound. “Saints above,” he said softly. “A Fraser’s bairn, no doubt of it.”

Her cry was strong and indignant, a proper Highland announcement. When she turned her head toward his voice, her eyes caught the light — clear grey-blue, like sea glass, the shade of his own before they’d deepened with time.

Jenny laughed through tears. “A big lass, too. Long in the leg already. She’ll be runnin’ rings round ye before long.”

Jamie brushed a hand down the child’s back, wonder etched in every line of his face. “She’s perfect,” he whispered. “Strong as any lad born this day.”

Claire smiled faintly. “She fights the swaddling already. Stubborn girl.”

Jamie bent close, voice breaking. “She’s a Fraser through and through — fierce from the first breath.”

The bairn quieted in Claire’s arms, one tiny hand gripping the edge of Jamie’s sleeve. He went still, staring at the small fingers curled around his wrist.

“She knows ye,” Jenny said softly.

Jamie swallowed hard, his voice low. “Aye. She does.”

Claire smiled faintly. “She’s been listening to him for months.”

Jamie met her gaze, the exhaustion and terror of the night still raw in his face. “Ye frightened me near to death, Sassenach.”

Claire’s voice wavered. “You took your time getting here.”

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob. “Aye. But I made it.”

He met Claire’s gaze — pride, love, and the memory of fear still raw in his eyes. “Ye’ve given me another miracle, mo ghraidh.”

For a long while, no one spoke. The wind outside had gone still; the first light of dawn crept across the floorboards, pale and gold.

The midwife cleared the bloodied linens and stepped back quietly, leaving them in a hush that felt sacred.

Claire traced the tiny fingers curled around her thumb, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. “She’s so small.”

Jamie rested his chin on her shoulder, looking down at both of them. “Aye, but fierce. Like her mam.”

Jenny’s voice came from the corner, softer now. “What will ye call her?”

Jamie looked to Claire, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Our wee lassie will tell us.”

Outside, the yard was stirring. Ian and Fergus were already spreading word to the tenants. A new cry had joined the morning sounds of the glen — the cry of a Fraser bairn, alive and strong.

Inside, the fire crackled, casting warm light across the bed. Claire’s eyes fluttered shut at last, the weight of the night giving way to peace. The babe slept against her chest, a soft bundle of warmth.

Jamie watched them both, his hand resting lightly over Claire’s heart.

“Rest, mo ghraidh,” he whispered. “You’ve done enough.”

He looked down at the child again — his daughter — and the wonder of her settled deep in his bones.

Outside, the snow had stopped. The world was still, as if even heaven was listening.

Chapter Text

Morning light crept slowly across the floorboards, turning the room from gold to soft grey.

Claire woke to the weight of blankets and the ache of her body, a reminder of the night before. Her head felt light, her limbs heavy — but then she heard it, that small, breathy sound beside her.

The bairn stirred against her shoulder, a little fist pressing at her gown.

Claire smiled faintly. “Hungry, are you?”

She shifted carefully, wincing at the pull in her abdomen, and guided the baby to nurse. The little one found her without hesitation — strong, determined, a soft sound escaping her as she began to feed.

Claire’s throat tightened. She traced a finger along the bright copper hair catching the morning light.

The door opened quietly.

Jamie stepped in, eyes tired but clear, the lines of worry on his face eased now into something gentler.

He crossed the room and knelt beside the bed, his voice rough with awe. “She’s beautiful. You both are.”

Claire smiled. “She’s loud.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “She’s ours.”

He sat beside her then, one arm around her shoulders as they both watched the child nurse — that steady, fragile rhythm of life after the long night.

Jamie shifted his arm slightly, his gaze still fixed on the nursing baby in Claire’s arms.

“Have ye thought what we’ll call her?” he asked quietly.

Claire smiled faintly. “We had a name before,” she said. “If she’d been a boy.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “Brian.”

“For your father,” she said softly. “I still think she should have his name — she’s his grandchild too.”

Jamie’s brows lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Sassenach,” he said gently, “I ken ye’ve lost a fair bit of blood and no had much sleep, but if ye think we’re about to name our wee lass Brian…”

She gave a weak laugh, shaking her head. “No, not Brian,” she corrected. “Brianna. It’s close enough to honor him — and still her own.”

Jamie looked down at their daughter again, trying the name on his tongue. “Bree-AH-na” he repeated with his Scottish accent highlighting the name in a different place, the word slow and careful, as though he were shaping something holy.

“Aye,” he said finally, a smile spreading. “That suits her.”

She was quiet for a long moment before adding, softer, “She should have your mother’s name as well — Ellen.”

Jamie nodded, emotion thick in his throat. “Brianna Ellen,” he whispered.

Jamie traced a finger over the baby’s small hand. “And one more.”

Claire glanced up at him, wary. “Oh?”

He smiled, eyes still on the bairn. “Claire.”

She blinked. “Jamie, that’s—”

“It’s right,” he said firmly, though his voice trembled. “She should have her mother’s name. The one who brought her safely through the dark.”

Claire’s lips parted in protest, but the look in his eyes silenced her.

“Brianna Ellen Claire Fraser,” he said softly, tasting every word.

Claire leaned back against him, the baby warm against her chest. “It’s perfect.”

Jamie kissed her temple, his voice barely a whisper. “Aye. It is.”

A soft knock came at the door not long after.
Jamie turned his head. “Come.”

Jenny slipped in, smiling through weary eyes. “The house is stirrin’. Everyone’s waitin’ to see her.”

Claire smiled faintly. “Not everyone at once.”

Jenny nodded. “No, just us—and the lad. Fergus is pesterin’ me like a fly. Says he’s her protector now and must be allowed a look.”

Jamie’s mouth quirked. “Then bring him.”

Moments later, Fergus appeared in the doorway, unsure whether to step forward. His dark hair was damp from snow, his eyes wide.

“Come, lad,” Jamie said, beckoning him closer. “There’s someone ye must meet.”

Fergus approached the bed slowly, glancing from Claire to the small bundle in her arms.
Jamie smiled and gestured toward the bairn. “Lad, meet your wee sister.”

Fergus blinked, startled. “My… sister, milord?”

“Aye,” Jamie said simply. “Our mistake, that it’s taken us this long to say it plain. You’ve been our son from the first, whether we spoke the words or no.”

Fergus’s lips parted, his eyes glistening. “Truly, milord?”

Jamie nodded, voice low. “Truly. And I’d have it made right, here and now.”

He looked at Claire, who watched him with quiet surprise. Jamie reached out, resting a hand on Fergus’s shoulder. “If it pleases ye, lad, I’d give ye the name ye should have carried all along—Fergus Claudel James Fraser.”

Fergus swallowed hard, shaking his head. “Milord, I… I am honoured, but—may I ask one more name? For him who saved me, once.”

Jamie’s eyes softened. “Murtagh?”

Fergus nodded quickly. “Oui, milord. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Jamie smiled, his voice thick. “It pleases me fine. Then so it is — Fergus Claudel James Murtagh Fraser.”

Fergus bowed his head, overcome, before Jamie pulled him into a rough embrace. “Welcome home, son.”

Claire’s vision blurred as she watched them. She hadn’t known Jamie meant to do it, hadn’t known he’d carried that intent in his heart — but she knew, in that moment, that it was right.

When they drew apart, Fergus glanced back at Claire, suddenly uncertain again. “Milady?”

Claire smiled gently. “You mustn’t call us that anymore, Fergus. We’re family.”

Jamie’s mouth curved. “Aye. No more milord and milady. If ye like, ye can call us Da and Ma.”

Fergus tilted his head, considering, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Or perhaps…” — he grinned shyly — “Maman and Da.”

Jamie chuckled. “That’ll do fine.”

Claire laughed softly through her tears. “It’s just right”

Jamie met her gaze, warmth and pride shining through his exhaustion. “Aye, Sassenach. It is.”

Fergus bent over the bundle in her arms once more. “She is verra small,” he said tenderly, “but she has all she needs.”

Jamie reached down to Claire, where Brianna stirred, and lifted her carefully. “Here, lad. Hold her.”

Fergus froze. “Me?”

“Aye. You’ll need the practice if ye mean to be her brother.”

Gently, Jamie set the bairn in Fergus’s arms. The boy looked down at her, eyes wide with wonder. Brianna made a soft sound, her tiny mouth forming a perfect “O,” before settling again.

“She’s so small,” Fergus whispered. Then, grinning faintly, “But she looks exactly like you, mil—Da.”

Jamie laughed, shaking his head. “God help us all, then.”

Claire smiled, her heart aching with affection. “Her name is Brianna Ellen Claire Fraser,” she said softly.

Fergus repeated it carefully, reverently. “Brianna,” he murmured. “Mon petit.”

He looked up at them both, his eyes bright. “She is lucky, this one — to be born in this house, to belong to you.”

Jamie’s voice gentled. “To us, lad. She belongs to us all.”

He laid a hand on Fergus’s shoulder. “Go on, then. Tell the house there’s a new Fraser to toast — two of them, in truth.”

Fergus grinned through the tears in his eyes. “Oui, Da.”

When he was gone, the room fell quiet again — the fire crackling low, the bairn sighing in her cradle.

Claire turned her head toward Jamie. “You didn’t tell me you meant to do that.”

Jamie looked down at the child, then back at her. “Some things dinna need speakin’ of, Sassenach. Ye just ken when it’s time.”

She reached for his hand. “It was right.”

He smiled, eyes soft. “Aye. It was.”

Outside, the snow glowed pale under the new winter sun. Inside, the house was full of life once more.

Chapter Text

The sun had climbed higher by the time the door creaked open again. Jamie looked up from the cradle, where Brianna lay sleeping, one small hand curved by her cheek.

Jenny and Ian stood hesitantly at the threshold, as though stepping into a chapel.

“Can we?” Jenny asked softly.

Claire smiled and gestured toward them. “Of course.”

Jenny came forward first, quiet and careful, her hands twisting in her apron. She stopped at the cradle and stared down at the bairn — the red hair glinting in the light, the faint rise and fall of her chest.

“Oh,” she breathed, her voice breaking. “Jamie.”

He looked up at her, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Aye?”

“She’s you,” Jenny said simply, her eyes wet. “Right down to the set of her chin.”

Claire laughed softly, and even Jamie’s mouth curved wider. “She’s her own self,” he said gently. “But aye — she’ll have to live wi’ my face, thank God she got Claire's nose.”

Jenny reached down and brushed one finger along Brianna’s hair. “Bright as copper, just like Ma’s was. I havena seen that color on a wee lassie since she died.”

Her voice trembled on the last word.

Claire hesitated, then said softly, “That’s why we gave her her name. Brianna, for Brian. And Ellen, for your mother.”

Jenny looked up sharply, eyes filling again. “Brian Ellen…”

“Brianna Ellen Claire Fraser,” Jamie finished quietly.

Jenny let out a soft sound — part laugh, part sob — and pressed her hands to her mouth.

“Ellen,” she whispered again. “Our mother’s name, carried on.”

Ian laid a hand on her shoulder, his expression warm and full. “It suits her fine,” he said. “Strong names for a strong lass.”

Jenny nodded, blinking back tears. “Aye. And she’s got a fine start, born into a house that loves her already.”

She looked at Jamie then, long and searching. “I’ve seen ye do many things, brother. Fight, bleed, rise again. But this—” she gestured to the cradle—“this fits ye best of all.”

Jamie swallowed, his eyes lowered. “I dinna ken that I’m worthy of it. But I’ll try.”

Jenny smiled, though tears still glistened on her cheeks. “That’s what Da used to say, when he’d hold one of us as bairns. ‘I’ll try.’”

She looked down again at Brianna, tracing the edge of her blanket. “Ye’ve made him proud today.”

Claire felt her throat tighten. She looked at Jamie — the set of his jaw, the tenderness in his gaze as he watched his sister cradle his daughter — and something in her settled deep and sure.

This, she thought, was what they had fought for. This peace. This family.

Jenny passed the baby carefully into Ian’s arms. He held her with quiet reverence, his large hands gentle, his smile wide and easy.

“Welcome home, wee one,” he murmured in his soft Scots. “Ye’ll have no lack of love here.”

Claire watched as Brianna stirred, one tiny fist curling around Ian’s finger. Jenny pressed close to his side, her head resting briefly on his shoulder.

Then she looked back at her brother, eyes still shining. “It does my heart good to see ye like this, Jamie. A da.”

Jamie’s face softened, his voice rough. “Aye,” he said quietly. “It does mine, too.”

The air outside was sharp and clear, the last of the morning frost melting on the stone steps. The sound of hens clucking in the yard mixed with the steady thud of someone chopping wood near the byre.

Jamie stood at the edge of the yard, the hills rolling out before him, his breath clouding faint in the cold. Ian joined him, leaning slightly on his stick.

“She’s a bonnie lass,” Ian said, squinting toward the hills. “Never thought I’d see your hair on a wee one.”

Jamie smiled faintly. “Aye. It’s strange, seein’ her and thinkin’ she’ll grow in a world where the name Fraser can be spoken aloud again.”

Ian nodded. “Aye. It’s been a hard few years.”

They stood in silence a moment — two men who had survived what so many had not. The wind carried the faint sound of Claire’s voice through the open window above, a lullaby soft and lilting, followed by the small cry of the bairn.

Jamie’s shoulders eased at the sound.

“She’s strong,” Ian said quietly. “Like her mother.”

Jamie nodded. “And her aunt.”

Ian smiled. “And her da.”

Jamie huffed a breath of laughter, though his eyes were damp. “Maybe so. God willing, I’ll be half the father mine was.”

Ian’s expression softened. “Ye already are, Jamie.”

For a long while they stood there, the wind tugging gently at their plaids, the smell of peat smoke curling from the chimney.

Finally, Jamie said softly, “Lallybroch’s seen too much grief, Ian. Maybe it’s time she saw more laughter.”

Ian nodded. “Then we’ll see to it.”

They turned back toward the house, the sound of the baby’s cry drifting through the open window again — small, certain, alive.

And for the first time in a long while, Jamie smiled without a trace of sorrow.

Chapter Text

The frost came early that year.

By mid-December, the glen lay under a pale silver light, the ground hard as iron beneath the hooves of the cattle. Smoke rose steady from the chimneys of Lallybroch, curling into a sky the color of pewter.

Inside, the air was warm and full — of peat smoke, baking bread, and the faint cry of a newborn.

Claire sat near the hearth, her feet tucked under a wool blanket. Brianna slept against her chest, her copper hair shining like fire in the glow of the flames. Each breath that rose and fell beneath Claire’s hand was a small miracle she never tired of feeling.

Her body had healed enough to walk the stairs again, though Jamie still scolded her when she tried to do too much.

“I’m not an invalid,” she said one morning as he caught her attempting to carry a basket of laundry.

“Aye,” he replied, plucking it easily from her hands, “but I’ve seen what comes of ye ‘not bein’ an invalid.’ Sit yourself down, Sassenach.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real protest left in her. His protectiveness, once suffocating, had become something steadier — a quiet rhythm between them, built on gratitude more than fear.

Jenny bustled in, red-cheeked from the cold, brushing snow from her cloak. “The tenants are fair restless,” she said, unfastening her shawl. “There’s talk of another patrol ridin’ through before year’s end.”

Jamie looked up sharply from the table, where he was cutting slices of oatcake. “Here? What for?”

Jenny shrugged. “Same as ever. Lookin’ for Jacobite stragglers — or for food. There’s word they’re takin’ what they please from farms in the low glens.”

Ian frowned. “The folk have little enough to spare.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened. “Then they’ll find naught here but cold looks and empty hands. I’ll see the stores hidden again before they come.”

Claire glanced up, worry flickering in her chest. “We can’t risk another search like the last one.”

“Aye,” Jamie said quietly. “But we’ll not risk hunger either.”

He rose and crossed to the hearth, his gaze falling on Brianna. The firelight caught the gold in her hair. For a moment, the anger left him, replaced by something gentler — determination mingled with fierce love.

“We’ll keep her safe,” he said. “All of them.”

Jenny nodded, her face softening. “Aye. That’s what Lallybroch’s always done.”

Later that evening, Claire found Jamie outside by the byre, his breath ghosting white in the cold. The moon was bright, washing the fields in pale blue light.

He didn’t turn as she came up behind him. “I used to think peace would feel different,” he said quietly. “That when it came, I’d stop lookin’ over my shoulder.”

Claire slipped her arm through his. “You’ve spent too long at war, Jamie. It takes time to learn stillness again.”

He nodded, eyes on the hills. “Aye. But she helps.”

Claire smiled, knowing who he meant. “Brianna.”

He looked down at her then, the faintest smile on his lips. “Ye both do.”

The wind stirred the last of the autumn leaves at their feet. Beyond the rise of the hills, a fox barked once, sharp and brief.

Jamie exhaled slowly. “Whatever comes, we’ll face it. Together.”

Claire leaned against him, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath.

“We always do,” she said.

Above them, the stars shone cold and clear, and inside, the sound of their daughter’s cry rose — soft, strong, and alive — a reminder that even in the shadow of war, there was still light to hold onto.

Chapter Text

By mid-December, winter had settled in fully across the Highlands.

The hills around Lallybroch lay soft under snow, the burn frozen in places where the ice shone blue in the morning light. The air smelled of peat smoke and pine resin, and every sound — a horse’s hoof, a child’s laugh — carried clear and bright.

Inside the house, life carried on with a steady rhythm.

The great hearth in the main room never went cold. Mrs. Crook and the maids kept pots of broth and bannocks always at hand, while Jenny oversaw the work of preserving and rationing through the lean months. The younger children — Young Jamie, Maggie, and Kitty — raced through the halls until someone caught them and made them sit by the fire to thaw their red noses and wet boots.

Fergus helped Ian mend tack and tools in the stable, humming bits of French songs as he worked. At night, when the younger ones were in bed, he’d sneak up to the nursery to check on Brianna, his brotherly pride still fresh and fierce.

“She dreams loud, Maman,” he whispered once to Claire, grinning. “Just like Da — talks even in his sleep.”

Claire laughed softly, brushing a strand of copper hair from the baby’s brow.

The days were short, but busy. Claire found herself walking again, tending to tenants who came to Lallybroch seeking medicine or warmth. She made simples from dried herbs gathered in autumn — willow bark for fevers, comfrey for bruises, and valerian for sleep.

Word of the English patrols still carried through the glen, but for now, they stayed far to the south. Lallybroch, wrapped in its quiet valley, felt almost untouchable.

In the evenings, the family gathered close by the fire. Jamie told stories from his childhood, the children wide-eyed and whispering, while Claire rocked Brianna and listened to the cadence of his voice.

Sometimes he spoke of his father — not the warrior’s tales, but the small things: how Brian had whittled wooden toys for them, how he’d sung low when the nights were cold.

“He wasna loud,” Jamie said one night, gazing into the flames. “But when he spoke, ye listened. There’s a strength in quiet hearts.”

Claire smiled. “I think she’ll have that.”

He looked at the bairn asleep in her cradle. “God grant it.”

Christmas came with little fanfare but much warmth.

There were candles in every window, and a feast of roasted goose and bannocks baked with honey. The children had strung dried berries and pine boughs over the hearth, and Fergus had somehow found a ribbon to tie round Brianna’s cradle.

Jenny led the house in prayer, her voice strong and sure. When she finished, the silence that followed was full of more than words — gratitude, remembrance, and the faint ache of all they’d lost to reach this peace.

Later, Ian, Jenny, and Jamie sang one of the old carols, their voices low and rough, carrying through the rafters. Claire joined them softly, her English vowels blending with the Scots, and the house seemed to hold its breath — two worlds meeting in harmony.

The days that followed blurred into that quiet rhythm of winter: feeding livestock, mending, gathering by the fire.

But as the year waned, the mood shifted.

Hogmanay was coming — the turning of the year. Jenny began preparing in earnest: cleaning, baking, and airing the good linens. The children buzzed with excitement, whispering about the first-footer, the tradition that the first guest through the door after midnight brought luck for the year to come.

“We’ll hope it’s no one wi’ red hair,” Ian teased one evening, poking at the fire.

Jenny laughed. “Aye, that’d be bad luck. So you stay inside, Jamie Fraser.”

Jamie snorted. “I’ve had worse omens than my own head.”

Claire smiled from her chair, Brianna in her arms. “I can’t imagine anyone calling you bad luck.”

He turned toward her with that slow, crooked grin. “Ye’ve a poor memory, Sassenach.”

The room burst into laughter, the kind that comes easily after too much fear.

That night, when the house had gone quiet and the fire burned low, Claire stood by the window. Snow fell soft against the panes, and the air outside was still and bright. Jamie came behind her, slipping an arm around her waist.

“Ye’re thinkin’,” he murmured.

“I was just remembering,” she said softly. “All the winters before this one. The ones we almost didn’t reach.”

He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Aye. But we did.”

Below, in the cradle, Brianna stirred and sighed, her breath even and sure.

Jamie kissed the side of Claire’s neck. “And we’ll see many more, God willin’.”

Claire turned to him, her voice quiet but certain. “We will.”

Outside, the snow kept falling — quiet, steady, endless — blanketing the hills in peace.

Chapter Text

The last day of the year dawned clear and biting cold. Frost glittered on the bare branches, and the burn sang beneath its skin of ice. From the ridge, Lallybroch looked like something carved of light — every roof wreathed in smoke, every window glowing gold against the snow.

Inside, the house pulsed with life.

Jenny had been up since before dawn, directing the kitchen with military precision. The long table groaned under the weight of oat bannocks, roasted hens, and the great haunch of venison Jamie and Ian had brought down from the hills. The children darted in and out, laughing, flour streaking their faces as they “helped.” Fergus minded the youngest, keeping them clear of the fire with the patience of an older brother who had learned gentleness by necessity.

Claire stood by the window, Brianna in her arms, watching flakes drift past the glass. The bairn blinked up at the brightness, fist curling around her mother’s gown.

“She’s starin’ at the snow as if she means to remember it,” Jamie said behind her, sliding his arms around her waist.

“She’s her father’s daughter,” Claire murmured. “Always wanting to see everything for herself.”

Jamie chuckled. “Aye, and argue with it too.”

By afternoon the house smelled of spice and smoke. Neighbors and tenants began to arrive, stamping snow from their boots, shaking out cloaks dusted white. Laughter and Gaelic greetings filled the hall; the sharp cold of the glen gave way to warmth and noise and life.

Mrs. Crook carried in the shortbread, Jenny poured whisky, and the air turned bright with voices. Even the children, scrubbed clean and wide-eyed, sensed the significance of the day — the closing of one year, the beginning of another.

When the sun dropped behind the western ridge, the fiddles came out. Ian played first, his bow sure and quick; Jamie followed with the pipes. The sound filled every corner of the house, echoing against the stone walls. Claire couldn’t help but smile — there was joy here again, hard-won but real.

She looked around the firelit room — Jenny laughing, Fergus spinning Maggie in a clumsy reel, the tenants clapping in rhythm — and felt something ease deep in her chest. For the first time in years, she wasn’t looking over her shoulder.

Near midnight, the house grew quiet, tenants made their way home, the children were since long gone to bed. The candles burned low, and everyone gathered near the door for the Hogmanay custom. The hearth had been swept clean; the last embers of the old year glowed faint and red.

“Time to see who’ll bring luck for the year,” Jenny said, tying her shawl tighter.

Tradition held that the first-footer — the first person to cross the threshold after the stroke of twelve — must be a dark-haired man, bearing gifts of coal, salt, and whisky. It was a superstition as old as the hills, but none in Lallybroch dared break it.

Ian held out the small bundle — coal wrapped in linen, a pinch of salt, a flask of whisky. “Best be you, Fergus,” he said. “Ye fit the part.”

Fergus grinned, sweeping a mock bow. “If I must carry the weight of good fortune for all of Scotland, I shall do so bravely.”

Laughter rippled through the room. The clock struck twelve, the final bell echoing up the stairwell. The door swung open, and the night rushed in — cold, bright, and full of stars.

Fergus stepped out into it, went out to all the surrounding tenants’ homes then a short while later returned.

“Luck and plenty to this house,” he declared grandly in his lilting French-Scots. “And love enough to fill it.”

Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, that’ll do.”

The whisky passed from hand to hand; glasses clinked. Jenny kissed Ian, the children cheered, and Jamie turned to Claire.

“To new beginnings, Sassenach,” he said softly.

She lifted her glass. “To peace — for as long as it will stay.”

They drank, and the year turned.

Later, when the house had gone quiet again and only the embers glowed, Jamie stood in the doorway, looking out at the snow-lit yard. Claire came behind him, a shawl around her shoulders, Brianna asleep in her arms.

The world was still. Only the wind moved, carrying the faintest sound — distant voices on the road below, soldiers perhaps, or travelers. Jamie’s expression shifted, the peace on his face tightening slightly.

He looked back at Claire and the child and forced a smile. “We’ll keep the door barred tonight.”

Claire nodded. “Good.”

He reached out, brushed a fingertip along Brianna’s copper hair, and exhaled. “Let them pass. This house has seen enough of war.”

The snow fell harder, muffling the world, until only the crackle of the fire and the steady sound of their daughter’s breathing remained.

Chapter Text

Winter had drawn deep into the glen, and the air outside the windows carried the stillness of snow that had forgotten how to fall. The hills around Lallybroch lay white and sleeping, the burn under a crust of ice.

Inside, the world was warm: peat smoke, wool, and the quiet pulse of a house at rest. The only sound came from the hearth, where a log cracked softly in the half-light.

Claire stood by the cradle. Brianna slept beneath the wool blanket Jenny had spun, her tiny mouth curved in what might have been a smile. Each breath rose and fell against the hush of the room, and Claire felt the same quiet swell of wonder that came each time she looked at her.

How small she was, and yet how much space she filled.

It had been weeks since the birth, enough time for the bruises to fade, the stitches to heal, for her body to feel once more like her own. Yet something in her still trembled when she remembered the long night — not fear, exactly, but awe.

Behind her the door opened.

Jamie entered silently, his steps careful on the old boards. He had been in the yard, checking the byre before the cold deepened again. Snow dusted his shoulders, the faintest trace of night air clinging to him.

“She’s out?” he asked softly, nodding toward the cradle.

“Yes,” Claire whispered. “Finally, it took a while tonight.”

Jamie came to stand beside her, looking down. The candlelight touched the copper of Brianna’s hair, setting it aflame. He smiled — that unguarded, boyish smile that still startled her after all these years.

“She sleeps like you,” he said. “Peaceful, till she’s not.”

Claire laughed under her breath. “You’ve seen me sleep under cannon fire. I doubt I was peaceful.”

“I’ve seen ye sleep in my arms,” he murmured. “That’s the only peace I ken.”

Something shifted between them then, quiet as a breath drawn after too long held.

Claire eased away from the cradle, drawing the shawl closer round her shoulders. Jamie followed her to the hearth, where the low fire cast its amber light across the room. The house was silent but for the tick of the clock in the hall.

He watched her for a long moment. “Ye’ve lines I don’t remember, Sassenach.”

She touched her face, smiling faintly. “So do you.”

“Aye, but I earned mine wrestling beasts and Englishmen.”

“And I earned mine bringing your daughter into the world,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.

That coaxed a low laugh from him, the sound soft as the settling of snow. He stepped closer, reaching to brush his knuckles along her jaw. “Ye nearly slipped from me again, that night.”

She met his gaze evenly. “I didn’t.”

“No,” he said quietly. “Ye never do.”

His hand lingered against her cheek, the warmth of his palm familiar and steady. She leaned into it without thinking. It was strange, she realized — how something so simple could still undo her completely.

“You’ve been afraid,” she said.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Aye. When I saw ye lying there… I thought of my mother. Of my da, alone with the lost bairn in his arms. I swore it wouldna be me.”

She reached for him, her fingers curling around his wrist. “You’re not your father, Jamie.”

He gave a small, broken laugh. “God grant I’m half the man he was.”

“You’re more than that,” she said softly. “You’re the man he hoped you’d become.”

For a moment he couldn’t speak. The silence between them was full of things long left unsaid — all the nights apart, the fears they’d swallowed, the quiet gratitude of simply breathing the same air again.

Jamie drew her gently against him, her forehead resting beneath his chin. His heartbeat steady under her ear, the rhythm slow and certain.

“I’ve missed this,” she whispered.

He bent his head until his breath stirred her hair. “Aye. So have I.”

The fire popped, a single spark leaping up and dying again.

Claire’s eyes closed. It wasn’t passion that rose between them now — not the wild hunger of youth — but something deeper, slower, made of trust and memory. His hands moved over her back, steady as the tide. The heat of the hearth crept into her bones, and she let herself rest there, unguarded.

Jamie’s voice was low. “Ye ken, when I held her for the first time, I thought — this is the piece of my soul I never knew was missing.”

Claire smiled against his chest. “And now you’ve two of them.”

He laughed quietly. “Aye. God help me.”

They stayed like that, side by side, until the last log in the fire collapsed to ash.

Later, they sat together at the hearth. Jamie mended one of Brianna’s little gowns, his big hands surprisingly deft with the needle. Claire watched him, amusement warming her exhaustion.

“You’d make a fine nurse,” she teased.

He glanced up with mock offense. “I’ll leave the healin’ to you, Sassenach. I’m but patchin’ what she tore.”

“She’s growing faster than we can keep up,” Claire said, smiling. “You’d think she were twice her age.”

“She’s a Fraser,” he said proudly. “Stubborn enough to grow even when the world’s against her.”

They shared a quiet laugh, and the rhythm of the needle through cloth filled the comfortable silence. Outside, the wind moaned low across the eaves — the song of winter.

After a while Claire spoke again. “Do you ever think about what comes next?”

Jamie’s hands paused. “Aye. More often than I’d like. There’s still danger enough in Scotland to keep a man wakeful.”

She studied him — the slope of his shoulders, the tired strength in his eyes. “But not tonight.”

He smiled faintly. “No. Not tonight.”

He set aside the mending and reached for her hand. “There’s naught I can promise, Sassenach, save this: I’ll always find my way back to ye.”

She felt the truth of it in her bones. “I know,” she whispered.

When the candles burned low, they went upstairs together. The nursery door stood ajar, the faint sound of Brianna’s soft breathing carrying into the hall. Jamie glanced in, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“She’s dreamin’.”

“About what, do you think?”

He shrugged, that familiar glint in his eye. “Milk, most like. Or conquest.”

Claire laughed softly, shaking her head. “You do realize she’s an infant?”

“Aye. And she’ll rule us both before she can walk.”

They paused a moment longer, watching their daughter sleep. The moonlight spilled across the cradle, touching the copper in her hair until it gleamed like a flame. Jamie reached out and laid a hand lightly on the wood.

“Sleep well, lass,” he murmured. “Ye’ve the world waitin’ for ye.”

He closed the door gently, and they went down the hall.

In their room, the air was cool and faintly scented with cedar. Jamie stirred the coals to life while Claire loosened her hair. It fell past her shoulders, darker now than when he’d first seen it. He turned, caught by it, and stopped moving altogether.

“What?” she asked, smiling.

“Ye’re beautiful,” he said simply. “More than ever.”

She rolled her eyes, though her heart stumbled. “You’ve gone soft, Fraser.”

He grinned. “Aye. Happily so.”

When he came to her, he touched her as though learning her anew — tracing the curve of her hand, the line of her face. The years between them folded away until there was only this: two souls who had weathered too much to take each other lightly.

They spoke little. His fingers brushed the scar at her wrist again, then the curl of her hair. Her hands framed his face, the stubble rasping under her palms.

“Do you ever regret it?” she asked quietly.

He looked at her, puzzled. “What’s that?”

“Coming back here. Staying, after Culloden.”

He shook his head once. “Never. Even when it hurts. This—” he gestured to the cradle beyond the door, to her, to the quiet house — “this is what it was all for.”

She smiled, tears pricking her eyes. “I know.”

He leaned his forehead against hers. “We’ve both come through the fire, Sassenach. Maybe now it’s time to rest a while.”

“Together,” she said.

“Aye,” he whispered. “Always.”

The candle guttered low. The wind sighed at the window, and the snow outside caught the moonlight until it shone like glass.

Inside, they lay close, the world beyond their walls forgotten for a little while — just the steady beat of his heart, the soft warmth of her breath, and the faint sound of their daughter dreaming down the hall.

Chapter Text

By early February, the glen was waking slowly from its deep winter sleep.

The snow still clung to the hills in drifts, but the days had lengthened by a sliver, and the light through the windows of Lallybroch carried the faintest promise of spring. The air smelled of woodsmoke, wool, and the damp earth beginning to stir beneath the frost.

Inside, the household hummed with its own quiet rhythm — nearly a dozen lives woven together by work, laughter, and the steady heartbeat of the land.

Brianna was nearly three months old now, bright-eyed and strong. Her copper hair had begun to curl at the edges, and when she smiled — a rare, sudden thing — it lit the room like a new fire.

Claire spent the mornings near the hearth, the cradle beside her as she brewed simples and poultices for the tenants. The small stillroom off the kitchen had become her domain again: shelves lined with jars of dried herbs — willow bark, tansy, rosemary, yarrow — all harvested and hung the summer before.

Fergus helped grind powders or weigh herbs, his nimble hands deft with the mortar. “You’ve the makings of an apothecary,” Claire told him once.

He’d laughed. “I prefer the smell of horses, Maman. But I’ll help you with the work that keeps everyone alive.”

Outside, the men had their own labors. The winter barley in the storehouse was checked daily, and the livestock driven to the lower field to graze on what grass they could find. Jamie and Ian worked with the tenants to repair fences, thaw frozen troughs, and cut peat for the months ahead.

Each breath of the day was a small act of survival — but one shared together.

Jamie often rose before first light, his breath clouding in the dark kitchen as he pulled on his boots. He’d leave quietly, not to wake the bairn, and Claire would listen for the sound of the door closing, followed by the muted thud of his steps across the yard.

When he returned hours later, cheeks red from cold, he brought the scent of winter with him. Sometimes he’d carry a basket of kindling or a pail of fresh milk from the byre; other mornings, nothing but frost in his hair and the easy peace of a man who’d worked his land with his own hands.

“You should sleep longer,” Claire told him one morning, when she caught him stoking the fire before dawn.

He only smiled, leaning down to kiss her temple. “Can’t sleep while there’s work to be done. Besides,” he nodded toward the cradle, “she’s the one that wakes me now.”

Claire laughed softly. “She’ll be running the place by next winter.”

“She already does,” he said, grinning.

The children — Maggie, Michael, Kitty, and wee Jamie — were not idle either. Each morning they were bundled into cloaks and sent to help where they could.

Maggie learned spinning from Jenny, her small fingers clumsy but eager. Fergus fetched wood and watched Ian mend tools, asking endless questions. Wee Jamie followed his uncle to the barn, solemn as a laird, carrying handfuls of oats for the horses.

Fergus even found himself pressed into teaching. “You’ll show the bairns their letters,” Jenny declared one day. “If ye can read in two tongues, they can manage their own.”

He’d groaned, but obeyed — though Claire once caught him teaching them French curses instead of grammar.

The laughter that followed that discovery carried all the way to the yard.

By late afternoon, the whole household would gather near the fire. Jenny mended, Ian carved small wooden toys for the children, and Jamie sat with Brianna in his lap, one big hand cradling her head as though it were made of glass.

“She’s a strong one,” Ian said once, watching her kick against her blanket. “She’ll no’ be held long.”

Jamie smiled. “Aye, she’s a Fraser. There’s no holdin’ her even now.”

Claire watched them both — husband and brother, heads bent together in quiet pride — and felt the soft ache of belonging. For the first time since Culloden, the house felt full again.

After supper came the small rituals of winter life: the older children reading by candlelight, Fergus playing with wee Jamie’s carved soldiers, Jenny keeping her careful accounts at the table.

Sometimes, when the house fell quiet, Jamie would pull out his father’s old psalter and hum under his breath. The sound filled the room, low and steady, like a prayer not meant for words.

Outside, February’s work was harder.

The men cleared drainage ditches and turned the manure heaps to ready the spring fields. It was cold, filthy work, and Jamie came home each evening with his hands raw from it, his cloak stiff with frost.

Yet he never complained. “The land needs tending even when it sleeps,” he told Claire. “If we care for it now, it’ll care for us come harvest.”

The tenants followed his lead, their loyalty plain in their quiet obedience. In a world still uncertain, Jamie’s steadiness anchored them all.

Once, Claire stood by the window and watched him working with Ian, the two of them hauling peat and laughing at something lost to distance. There was strength in that sight — a kind of hope that no proclamation or king could undo.

On the coldest evenings, when the snow pressed hard against the walls, the family gathered close. Fergus and wee Jamie told the younger children told stories of Paris and the Highlands, half-truths woven into adventure.

Jenny baked bannocks on the griddle; Ian passed the whisky; Jamie played the pipes until the Brianna stirred, frowning at the sound.

“She’s already got opinions,” Claire said, rocking her gently.

“Aye,” Jamie said, smiling. “She’s yours, then.”

Claire laughed, too tired to argue.

On the last night of February, the fire burned high and the air inside smelled of pine and wool. Outside, the stars were bright and close — so close Claire thought she might touch them if she stepped into the yard.

Jamie came up behind her, his arms sliding round her waist. “Spring’ll come soon,” he said, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“It feels far away,” she murmured.

He smiled. “Everything worth waiting for does.”

She turned to him, eyes warm. “We’ve come far, haven’t we?”

“Aye,” he said quietly. “And we’re still here.”

Lallybroch slept on under the winter stars — a house alive again, full of laughter, work, and love. The ground outside was frozen, but beneath it, life waited — small roots readying to rise when the thaw came.

And inside, the Frasers waited, too — for spring, for peace, for whatever the Lord would send next.

Chapter Text

By the first week of March 1747, winter’s grip had begun to ease its hold on the glen. The snow that had blanketed the hills since Yule melted into narrow rivulets that cut through the fields like veins of glass. Each morning the burn ran louder, fed by the thaw, its rush echoing up the valley as though the land itself were waking after a long sleep.

The air still held the bite of frost, but by midday, warmth stirred in the light. The smell of wet earth rose from the furrows, rich and heavy; the hillsides darkened from white to brown to green again, the color of life returning.

Inside Lallybroch, the rhythm of the household shifted with the season.

The long, slow days of winter had been replaced by motion — boots clattering on the steps, voices calling across the yard, hens scattering from the doorway. Smoke curled from the kitchen chimney before dawn and didn’t cease till nightfall.

Claire rose early now, the bairn still dozing in her cradle. Brianna was nearly four months old — sturdy, red-haired, a good sleeper and loud-voiced. When she laughed, it startled the chickens in the yard; when she cried, even Mrs. Crook claimed she could hear her from the dairy.

Claire smiled every time she heard it. The noise meant life, health, and a future.

The first lambing began in the lower pasture, and with it came sleepless nights for the men.

Jamie and Ian took turns watching the ewes, their cloaks drawn tight against the cold. Claire joined them each morning, bringing hot broth and clean linens for the birthing pens. The smell there was sharp — straw, damp wool, and the faint metallic scent of new life.

Jamie knelt beside one ewe struggling with her first lamb, his hands steady as he eased the small creature into the world. Claire stood beside him, the steam of their breath mingling in the cold.

“There ye are, lass,” he murmured, clearing the tiny mouth, rubbing the slick body briskly with straw.

The lamb gave a weak bleat, legs flailing.

Claire crouched and smiled. “She’s so sweet.”

Jamie grinned, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Aye. And loud. Like another wee lass I ken.”

She nudged his shoulder with her own. “You’re insufferable.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound mingling with the wind outside the byre.

The children were no less busy.

Maggie and Wee Jamie fetched water from the well and took turns chasing Kitty away from the hearth where she liked to poke her fingers into anything that sizzled. Wee Jamie, now six, followed his uncle into the fields with solemn pride, carrying small bundles of feed and trying to imitate the way Jamie called to the horses.

Jenny kept the household turning like clockwork. “There’s work enough for every hand that’s grown,” she said briskly, doling out chores like a general assigning ranks.

Even Fergus found himself enlisted. He’d been helping Ian with repairs to the toolshed and returned to the kitchen each evening with hay in his hair and mud on his boots.

“Paris wasn’t like this,” he complained, shaking straw from his sleeve.

Jenny snorted. “Nor so honest, I’d wager. Off with ye — wash afore ye sit at my table.”

Fergus grinned and obeyed, the charm in his grin softening even Jenny’s scolding tone.

By mid-month, the roads cleared enough for tenants to visit again.

The kitchen became a place of gathering — men stamping snow from their boots, women with baskets of eggs, wool, and gossip. Claire tended to small ailments at the long table: chilblains, coughs, a cut thumb. The shelves in her stillroom had grown thin through the winter, and she rationed what she had carefully.

One afternoon she treated a shepherd with a badly sprained wrist. As she wrapped the bandage, the man glanced nervously toward the door.

“They’re sayin’ there’s soldiers again,” he muttered. “Down Inverness way. Searchin’ the farms for weapons.”

Jamie, who’d been mending a bridle near the hearth, stilled his hands. “Ye hear that from a man or a whisper?”

“From a drover, Laird. Said they took two lads off Broch Mordha way. Questioned them three days.”

The room went quiet for a moment. The only sound was Brianna’s coo from her cradle.

Jamie nodded once, slow and measured. “My thanks to ye. We’ll see the barns kept in order and naught left lyin’ that shouldna be.”

The man nodded, touched his cap, and left.

Jenny’s eyes followed him out before she turned to her brother. “Ye think they’ll come here?”

Jamie rubbed the back of his neck. “I think they’ll come anywhere there’s life still stirrin’. But they’ll find nothing to hang us by.”

He met Claire’s gaze across the room — and she saw that flash of weariness there, the scar that no wound had made.

The work went on.

Jamie and Ian oversaw the clearing of the fields, guiding the men as they broke the soil for spring oats. Claire spent her days between the stillroom and the cradle, the smell of rosemary and milk mingling in the air. The days grew longer, though the evenings were still cold enough to make her fingers ache.

Sometimes she found Jamie outside after dusk, standing in the yard with his hands on the gate, looking toward the hills. She’d join him without a word, wrapping her shawl tighter, both of them watching the last of the light slip away.

One night he said quietly, “There’s a peace in this I can hardly ken, Sassenach.”

She turned her face toward him. “You’ve earned it.”

He smiled faintly. “Aye. But I keep waitin’ for someone to come take it back.”

“Then they’ll have to come through me first,” she said, and he laughed softly, that small, proud sound that always undid her.

The evenings at Lallybroch were full again.

After supper, the whole household gathered near the fire. Ian carved bits of wood into animals for the children, Maggie braided rushes into small mats, and Fergus told outrageous tales of Paris until Jenny threw a towel at his head.

Wee Jamie practiced his letters on a slate while Kitty chased the cat around the table. Brianna, propped on Claire’s lap, reached for her father’s hair every time he came near enough.

“Ye’ve got her spoiled already,” Jenny teased.

Jamie only smiled, letting the bairn grab his finger. “She’s a Fraser. There’s no such thing as spoiled.”

The laughter that followed filled the room and, for a little while, pushed back the ghosts of winter.

As the month waned, the first true rain came — warm and soft. The earth drank it greedily. Shoots of green broke through the mud behind the house, and the air filled with the smell of new grass.

Claire stood at the window one afternoon, watching the rain fall in silver threads over the yard. Jenny came up beside her, wiping her hands on her apron.

“It’ll be a good year,” Jenny said. “I can feel it in the soil.”

Claire smiled. “I hope so.”

Jenny studied her for a moment, then nodded toward the cradle. “And she’ll have another bairn at her side before long, if I’m no mistaken.”

Claire laughed. “It’s a bit soon for that.”

Jenny shrugged, amused. “Life doesna always wait for the right season.”

Brianna slept deeply, her tiny breaths a metronome in the quiet. The house was still. Jamie had banked the fire and come to bed smelling faintly of rain and wool.

They lay together beneath the thick quilt, the silence between them easy and warm. His hand traced idle circles along her arm.

“She’s sleepin’ sound,” he whispered.

“She always does after you sing,” Claire murmured. “I think she knows your voice even in her dreams.”

He smiled against her hair. “Then she’s wiser than most.”

For a while they said nothing, the sound of the rain the only witness.

Claire turned toward him at last, her fingers resting lightly on his chest. The lines at the corners of his eyes had softened; his face was peaceful, the way it rarely was in daylight.

She thought of everything they had endured — war, loss, separation — and of how fragile this quiet life was, balanced on faith and will.

“I love you,” she said simply.

He opened his eyes, that deep blue catching the firelight. “I ken it, Sassenach. And I thank God for it every day.”

He kissed her then — slow, unhurried — and the world narrowed to the sound of their breathing and the soft rain against the window. There was no urgency in it, no plan or thought beyond the moment, only the sure knowing of two lives that had found each other again and meant to hold fast.

When Claire woke the next morning, dawn had come pale and silver. Jamie was already gone, the space beside her cool, but she could hear his voice outside, calling to Wee Jamie and Ian across the yard.

Outside, the burn ran high with melted snow, the fields alive with the sound of lambs calling for their mothers. The year was turning again, and life — persistent, untidy, beautiful — went on.

Chapter Text

The land woke early that April.

By the first week, the snow on the hilltops had melted into the burns, and the fields below gleamed dark and wet, waiting for seed. The air smelled of peat smoke and thawing earth — that sharp, clean scent that only comes after months of frost. Birds were nesting in the eaves again, their song loud enough to wake even the deepest sleeper.

It was the season of beginnings.

Jamie stood at the edge of the lower field with Ian, sleeves rolled high, his boots sunk to the ankles in mud. The men had been turning the soil since dawn, the rhythmic swing of spades and the low murmur of voices carrying across the glen. The tenants worked in pairs, their movements practiced and sure; every strike into the dark earth was an act of faith.

“Good ground this year,” Ian said, wiping his brow.

Jamie nodded. “Aye. She’s rested well. We’ll sow the oats today, barley tomorrow if the weather holds.”

Ian grinned. “We’ll be sleepin’ in the byre if the weather doesna hold.”

Jamie laughed quietly. “Jenny’ll lock the door either way.”

They shared that easy humor that comes from years of hardship shared — brothers in everything but blood. Around them, the men bent to their work, the steady scrape and thud of spades marking time.

At the house, Claire oversaw her own kind of planting.

The kitchen garden behind Lallybroch had been turned and raked, and she and Jenny spent the mornings with the tenants’ wives setting new seed — leeks, carrots, onions, cabbage. Fergus fetched water from the well while Maggie and Wee Jamie chased Kitty away from trampling the neat furrows.

“Mind ye don’t drown the cabbages!” Jenny called.

Fergus, wielding a bucket twice the size of his head, gave a dramatic bow. “Oui, madame! I shall water them with precision and grace.”

Jamie’s sister rolled her eyes. “Grace won’t save ye if ye spill it on my feet, laddie.”

Claire smiled as she straightened, brushing dirt from her skirts. The sun had warmed her shoulders; her hands were sore but satisfied. She could feel life humming all around her — the steady beat of work and growth that kept the Highlands alive.

Brianna gurgled happily nearby in her basket, the breeze tugging at her red curls. Fergus had rigged a shade cloth for her with an old plaid, and she blinked up at it, cooing as though it were the grandest thing in the world.

“She’s thriving,” Jenny said quietly, crouching beside her.

Claire followed her gaze, her heart softening. “She is.”

Jenny smiled. “She’ll have another bairn for company soon enough.”

Claire looked up laughing. “You and your prophecies again.”

Jenny shrugged, amusement tugging at her lips.

The days passed in that rhythm — labor and laughter, sunrise to dusk.

At night, the house glowed with the kind of tired contentment that only honest work can bring. The men came in covered in earth, the smell of sweat and peat heavy on their clothes. Supper was loud and full of talk — of crops, of lambs, of weather and luck.

Fergus told a story of Paris that made the children roar with laughter and Jenny shake her head in mock dismay. Even Claire found herself laughing, a sound she hadn’t realized she’d been missing.

Jamie watched her across the table, the corners of his mouth turned up in that quiet, private way. She felt the weight of his gaze like warmth against her skin.

Later, when the house had gone still, they lay together in that small peace. The scent of turned earth drifted through the open window, and his hand rested lightly on her hip as they talked of nothing and everything — the crops, the baby, the promise of spring.

There was love there — steady, lived-in, patient — like the land itself.

The first sign of trouble came a week later.

A tenant from the outer edge of the estate rode in before dawn, mud splattered to his knees, his face gray with fear.

“Redcoats, my Laird,” he said breathlessly. “Two dozen or more, ridin’ north from Inverness. They stopped at Broch Mordha yester evenin’ — took food and coin both. Said they’re comin’ this way.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened. “Did they say why?”

The man shook his head. “Only that they were searchin’ for arms. Said any man found harborin’ Jacobite goods or traitors’d be hanged.”

Jenny crossed herself. “Sweet Lord.”

Jamie turned to Ian. “We’ll hide what muskets we’ve left. Potatoes and grain, too. They’ll take whatever they can carry.”

Claire caught his arm. “How soon?”

“By nightfall, maybe sooner.”

The hours that followed were a blur of motion.

Men hauled sacks of oats and barley to the root cellar, covering the entrance with planks and straw. Fergus and Wee Jamie carried smaller bundles of dried meat and herbs into the loft above the kitchen, tucking them behind barrels of salt.

Jenny packed what she could of the finer goods — linens, silver spoons, her mother’s candlesticks — hiding them beneath the false floorboards in the pantry.

“God forgive them if they touch my bannocks,” she muttered grimly.

By midday the house looked deceptively calm. The hearth burned low; the table was cleared. Only the tension in every face betrayed what they expected.

Claire carried Brianna upstairs, her pulse loud in her ears. She set the cradle beside the bed and tucked the blanket around her daughter’s small body, whispering softly, “Shh now, my darling. Whatever comes, we’ll weather it.”

They heard the horses before they saw them — the dull thunder of hooves on the track, the jangle of bridles. A shout carried across the yard, followed by the heavy slam of the gate.

“Open up in the name of His Majesty!”

Jamie went first, his shoulders squared. Claire followed him to the door but stayed back, heart pounding.

The officer in charge was young, barely twenty, his red coat bright as blood against the gray day. “We’ve orders to search these premises for contraband weapons and goods belonging to traitors of the Crown,” he announced.

“This is an honest farm,” Jamie said evenly. “There’s naught here but folk trying to live.”

The officer’s smile was sharp. “That’s for me to decide.”

He waved a hand, and half a dozen soldiers dismounted, spreading toward the barns. The rest pushed past into the house.

Jenny met them in the entryway, arms folded. “Mind where ye step,” she said coldly. “There’s bairns in this house.”

They ignored her. One swept through the kitchen, knocking a pitcher from the table; another began prying open barrels.

Fergus moved to block the pantry, but a soldier shoved him aside. “Out of the way, boy.”

“Don’t you touch him!” Claire snapped, stepping forward before she could think. “He’s a child!”

The soldier looked her up and down, a sneer curling his lip. “A mouthy one, aren’t you?”

Jamie was there in an instant, his voice low but dangerous. “Ye’ll speak respectful under this roof, aye?”

For a moment, the air crackled between them — then the officer stepped in. “Enough of this. We’re not here to bicker with farmers. Search the place and be quick about it.”

The raid lasted less than an hour but felt endless.

They overturned barrels, rifled through cupboards, tore open sacks of grain. They found a small store of hunting rifles — old, unpowdered — and took them. They seized two wheels of cheese, a cask of ale, and half the bread cooling on the table.

One soldier kicked over the cradle in the corner; Claire’s heart stopped until she saw it was empty — she’d carried Brianna upstairs moments before.

When they finally mounted their horses again, the officer paused at the gate. “If we find you’re hiding Jacobite arms, Mr. Fraser,” he said, voice flat, “we’ll be back — and less politely.”

Jamie’s hands were fists at his sides. “Ye’ll find no traitors here.”

The officer smirked. “That remains to be seen.”

Then they were gone — a blur of scarlet and mud vanishing down the road.

Silence fell like dust after their departure.

The kitchen was a wreck — flour scattered, crockery shattered, chairs overturned. Jenny stood in the middle of it, her face pale with fury.

“Savages,” she hissed. “They took the food meant for bairns.”

Ian laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll manage. We always do.”

Jamie turned slowly, his eyes finding Claire’s. She was standing in the doorway, Brianna in her arms, the child quiet but wide-eyed.

He crossed to them, touching the bairn’s cheek gently. “She’s unharmed?”

“Fine. Just frightened.”

He exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders all at once. “Like us all.”

She smiled faintly, though her heart still raced. “Then we’ll comfort each other.”

That night, after the mess was cleared and the house restored to a semblance of order, they sat together by the fire. The others had gone to bed, leaving the room quiet but for the pop of the peat and the soft rustle of rain against the shutters.

Jamie stared into the flames. “It’ll never end, will it? The watchin’, the waitin’.”

Claire reached for his hand. “You said once the land was patient. Maybe we have to be, too.”

He looked at her, the firelight flickering across his face. “Aye. Patience. And faith.”

She rested her head against his shoulder. “We’ve survived worse.”

He smiled, a weary, grateful thing. “That we have.”

Outside, the rain deepened. In the cradle by the hearth, Brianna slept, her small hands curled like petals.

And above the roof, the sound of rain carried through the night — soft, steady, and alive.

Chapter Text

The air in the first week of May was soft — not the sharp edge of early spring but the gentle warmth of a season settling in. The hills were green to their highest slopes, the burn running clear and full.

It had been nearly a month since the soldiers came and went. The memory of red coats and broken crockery had begun to fade, replaced by the sound of work — the clatter of tools, the rhythm of life returning.

The planting was done. The oat fields shimmered faintly in the morning light, the soil still damp from last night’s rain. It was the kind of day that smelled of promise: peat smoke, wet earth, the faint sweetness of blossoms along the stone walls.

Claire bent over the herb garden, the sun warm on her back. The rosemary had survived the winter well, and the mint was spreading wildly — a small miracle after such a cold season. She reached for her basket, the simple satisfaction of harvest steadying her hands.

“Ye’ve been out here since dawn, Sassenach,” Jamie’s voice called from behind her.

She turned, squinting up at him. He stood with his hands on his hips, hair shining copper in the sun.

“I wanted to get the herbs cut before the heat comes,” she said. “Besides, someone has to keep your tenants from using my comfrey for stew greens.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Ye canna blame them — it looks tastier than it smells.”

Claire straightened, brushing soil from her palms. “So says the man who once mistook foxglove for spinach.”

Jamie chuckled, closing the distance between them. “Ye’ll no’ let me forget that, will ye?”

“Not until you stop pulling up my medicinals like weeds.”

He leaned down and kissed her briefly, his lips warm from the sun. “I’ll take that as my punishment, then.”

Brianna, now six months old, was sitting on a blanket nearby, propped between Maggie and Kitty. She squealed with delight every time they clapped, her tiny hands batting at the air as if she could catch sound itself.

Jenny stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching the scene with a soft smile. “Ye’d think none of us had ever seen a bairn before.”

Claire laughed. “You’ve had three.”

“Aye,” Jenny said. “And none of them had hair like that. She looks as if she’s stolen the sun.”

Jamie bent to scoop up his daughter, who shrieked with joy at being lifted. “Aye, she’ll have half of Scotland starin’ when she’s grown, I’ve no doubt.”

Claire shook her head, smiling despite herself. “If she’s half as stubborn as her father, God help us all.”

The peace of the day was the kind that felt fragile — the sort you held your breath not to disturb. Work went on, children laughed, and the land stretched under the slow hand of spring.

But Claire was tired.

It wasn’t the sharp exhaustion of sleepless nights with a newborn, but something deeper, heavier. Her steps felt slower, her stomach unsettled, her back aching in ways that made her feel older than her years. She blamed the season, the long hours bent in the garden, the aftermath of fear that still clung to her bones.

When she dropped a small clay jar that afternoon — her fingers suddenly unsteady — she sighed, shaking her head. “Damn it.”

Jamie looked up from repairing a bridle at the table. “Ye all right, mo nighean donn?”

“Fine,” she said too quickly. “Just clumsy.”

He studied her a moment, saying nothing. Then he rose and crossed the room, his hand gentle on her arm.

“Ye’ve been pale all week,” he said softly. “And eatin’ less than the bairn.”

Claire frowned. “It’s the heat. I’ve been busy.”

Jamie’s eyes searched hers, quiet, knowing. “Busy, aye. But there’s more to it than that.”

She opened her mouth to retort, but he only smiled faintly — the kind of smile that meant he’d already reached his conclusion.

That evening, when the house had gone still and Brianna slept, Jamie found her again by the hearth. She was mending a torn sleeve, the candlelight soft on her face.

“Ye’ll wear yourself to threads if ye keep goin’ like this,” he said.

“I’m not made of glass, Jamie,” she said without looking up.

He crouched beside her, his big hands dwarfing hers as he took the fabric from her lap and set it aside. “No,” he said gently. “Ye’re made of stronger stuff than that. But I ken the signs.”

“The signs?” she echoed, half amused.

He tilted his head, eyes warm but steady. “I ken them well, Sassenach. Ye’re with child.”

The words hung between them like the moment before a storm breaks.

Claire blinked, a laugh caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder. “Jamie, that’s— no, I’m just— tired.”

He smiled, slow and sure. “Aye. That’s what ye said last time, too.”

She stared at him, the denial fading on her lips. In truth, she had felt it — that subtle change she knew too well as a physician, the rhythm of her body shifting without her consent. But she hadn’t dared name it. Not yet.

“How could you possibly know?” she asked softly.

Jamie shrugged, his smile deepening. “Ye’ve the same look ye had wi’ Brianna. And Faith before her. Ye move different. Breathe different. Ye’re tired but ye’re glowin’, all the same.”

She laughed then, quiet and unsteady, though her throat felt tight. “You’re impossible.”

“Aye,” he said. “And right, most times.”

She sank slowly into the chair beside the fire, her hands folded in her lap. The warmth of the hearth pressed close, but a chill of disbelief threaded through her.

“I didn’t expect this,” she said at last, the words barely above a whisper. “It’s so soon, Jamie. Brianna’s barely six months old. I thought—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I thought my body would need more time. That I would.”

Jamie knelt before her, his hand finding hers. “Ye’ve every right to be startled, Sassenach. It’s been a long year.”

Claire looked at him then, eyes bright with a complicated mix of fear and tenderness. “I am happy,” she said slowly, truth rising even through her uncertainty. “I just— I feel like I’ve only just found my footing again. It’s frightening, to begin it all over so soon.”

He nodded, thumb brushing her knuckles. “I ken that. But we’ll face it together, same as before. Ye’ve strength enough for this and more, though ye doubt it now.”

Her eyes softened. “I don’t doubt us,” she said quietly. “Only myself.”

“Then let me hold faith for the both of us,” he said simply.

Something in her eased then. She exhaled slowly and pressed a hand to her abdomen — flat still, but not unchanged. Beneath her palm, the truth was waiting, unspoken but alive.

Later, they lay side by side, the candle flickering low. Claire stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts tumbling like loose leaves in wind.

Another child. Another beginning.

The idea filled her with both warmth and fear — not of motherhood, but of daring to hope in a world still raw from loss. Yet beside her, Jamie’s hand found hers, his thumb brushing the small circle of her ring finger.

“We’ve been given another chance,” he said quietly, as if reading her thoughts. “Aye, the world’s a harsh place, but it’s no’ without mercy.”

She turned to him, her throat tight. “You’re certain?”

He smiled. “As certain as I am that the sun’ll rise.”

Claire exhaled slowly, the weight and wonder of it settling in her bones. “Then God help us, Jamie. We’ll need both strength and patience for another baby.”

He chuckled softly, drawing her close. “We’ve both, Sassenach. And love enough besides.”

Outside, the night stretched quiet over the hills, the first fireflies of the season glimmering faintly at the edges of the dark. Inside, the house slept — every life within it safe, for now.

And in that stillness, new life had already begun — unseen, fragile, but certain as dawn.

Chapter Text

The days lengthened into May, and the light lingered late across the glen. By evening, the air stayed soft and gold long after the sun dipped below the ridge, the sky still painted with streaks of amber and rose.

Lallybroch had settled again into its rhythm — the quiet hum of life rebuilt after fear. The wheat fields rippled pale green in the wind, the barley already stretching toward the light.

Claire rose early most mornings, the old habit of tending still stronger than sleep. She moved carefully these days; her hands were steady, but her energy was not. The first sickness had returned, gentler than before but no less insistent.

They had told no one yet — though Jenny’s glances had grown knowing and Jamie’s patience more tender than ever.

She knew the signs as well as he did. She had helped deliver dozens of children, seen tons of expectant women, but still she found herself startled by her own body’s rhythm.

To be carrying life again — so soon — was both wonder and burden.

The morning she began to believe it for certain, she was kneeling in the garden, pruning mint for drying. The scent rose sharp around her, and the world tilted slightly at the edge of her vision.

“Claire?”

Jamie was there before she’d fully steadied herself, his hand braced at her elbow.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly.

He smiled faintly. “Aye. I’ve heard that before.”

She laughed breathlessly and leaned into him for a moment, letting his warmth steady her.

“Just the heat,” she said.

He bent slightly, his lips brushing the top of her hair. “Or the bairn,” he murmured, so quietly she almost missed it.

She drew back and met his eyes — that familiar, infuriating certainty already there.

“Jamie,” she began.

He only smiled, a soft, unshakable thing. “Ye forget, Sassenach, I ken ye better than ye ken yourself.”

By the third week of May, she could no longer deny it. Her body had told her what her heart already knew.

It was different this time — not the same sharp edge of fear that had come with Faith or the fragile hope of Brianna. This was steadier, like the slow pulse of the land beneath her feet.

Still, when she sat by the fire one evening, her hands resting over her belly, she whispered, “It’s too soon,” to the empty room.

Jamie’s voice came from the doorway. “Maybe. But the Lord’s timing seldom waits for ours.”

She smiled faintly. “You sound like your sister.”

He grinned. “God preserve me.”

That same night, after Brianna had drifted to sleep, they spoke of what came next.

Jenny and Ian deserved to know — both about the bairn, and about the other secret they had carried alone for too long.

It had been four years since Claire had come through the stones, three since she had chosen to stay. The truth had rested like a stone in her chest all that time: not heavy enough to crush, but never light enough to forget.

Jamie had never pressed her to share it. “It’s your tale to tell, Sassenach,” he’d said more than once. “When you’re ready.”

Now, as they sat in the quiet of their room, the cradle beside the bed holding Brianna’s soft breathing, Claire finally said, “I think I am.”

Jamie reached for her hand. “Aye. They’ve earned the truth. And we’ve carried it long enough.”

They told them two nights later.

The fire burned low in the hall; supper had been cleared, the children put to bed. Only the grown folk remained — Jenny, Ian, Jamie, and Claire, and Fergus – he had as much right to know as anyone.

It was Claire who began.

She spoke slowly, the words careful and quiet, her voice steady even as her heart beat fast. She told them about the stones, about Craigh na Dun, about the year 1945 — and the war, and the world she’d left behind.

She told them about finding herself in 1743, about Dougal and the MacKenzies, about marrying Jamie to survive and then learning what love truly was.

She spoke of Faith, of Paris, of Culloden, of choosing to stay after the witch trial.

When she finished, the room was silent but for the crackle of the fire.

Jenny was the first to speak. “Ye’re tellin’ me,” she said slowly, “that ye came from… another time?”

Claire met her gaze. “Yes.”

Jenny blinked. Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “And ye just… walked through stones?”

“Something like that.”

There was another pause. Then, to Claire’s surprise, Jenny laughed — a short, disbelieving sound. “Saints preserve us. I’d say ye’d gone mad if I hadn’t seen stranger things myself.”

Ian reached across the table, his one hand resting over Claire’s. “I believe ye,” he said simply. “God’s ways are not ours. I’ve seen enough of this world to ken that.”

Fergus, who had been silent all the while, spoke next. “So… you are from the future, Maman?”

Claire smiled faintly. “Yes, from two hundred years ahead.”

His eyes widened. “Then you’ve seen what becomes of us?”

Her throat tightened. “No, Fergus. History doesn’t remember the Frasers of Lallybroch by name. But the Highlands endure. The people endure. That much I know.”

Jamie’s hand found hers under the table, a quiet reassurance.

Jenny leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity despite herself. “Then tell me — what’s it like? The world ye came from?”

Claire hesitated, unsure how to make it real. “Different,” she said softly. “Loud. Fast. We have ways of traveling that make crossing the sea seem like walking to the next field.”

Ian’s brow furrowed. “Horses faster than ours?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “No horses at all. Machines that move on wheels, powered by fire and water and metal. Hundreds of them, running on long roads from one end of the country to the other.”

Jenny stared. “Ye mean wagons without horses?”

“Sort of.”

Fergus let out a low whistle. “The world must be very strange.”

“It is,” Claire admitted. “But also beautiful — and dangerous in its own ways.”

Jamie watched her with quiet pride. “Ye could tell them tales for a lifetime, Sassenach, and they’d still no’ believe half.”

Jenny laughed again, shaking her head. “I dinna ken what to make of it. But I ken ye, Claire. Ye’ve never lied to me yet. If ye say it’s true, then I’ll take it as such.”

Her tone softened. “And it does explain a fair bit.”

Claire blinked. “It does?”

Jenny grinned. “Aye. The words ye use. The medicines ye make. The way ye look at a thing as if ye already ken how it’ll end.”

The conversation turned, as all things did at Lallybroch, from shock to curiosity.

“What else do ye ken of the future?” Ian asked. “Will there be peace in Scotland?”

Claire hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Not for some time. The English will stay — their hold will tighten before it loosens. The Highlands will suffer for years after Culloden. But the people survive. The language dies out, but the hand, the heart of Scotland as a whole — none of that dies.”

Jenny frowned. “And after? What becomes of us?”

Claire smiled faintly. “Your children’s children will live in peace again one day. Not in our lifetime, but theirs.”

Jenny crossed herself, eyes bright. “Then that’s hope enough.”

Fergus leaned forward. “Do we ever find a way to stop the hunger? Or the sickness?”

Claire’s heart ached at the earnestness in his voice. “In time,” she said softly. “We learn to heal more, to feed more. But we also find new ways to hurt. Every age has its battles, Fergus.”

He nodded solemnly. “Then perhaps it’s not so different.”

“No,” Claire said quietly. “It never is.”

By the time the fire had burned to embers, the mood in the room had shifted. The shock had faded to something gentler — a shared awe, a sense of closeness forged by truth.

Jenny rose first, pressing a hand to Claire’s shoulder. “Ye should’ve told us sooner,” she said, though her tone was fond. “I’d have spared ye all my talk of remedies and ghosts.”

Claire laughed softly. “You’d have thought me mad.”

Jenny grinned. “Aye. But I think I’d still have liked ye.”

A few weeks later, in early June, they told the rest of the family about the bairn.

They waited until the whole house was gathered — the children tumbling about, Fergus hovering proudly, Mrs. Crook wiping her hands on her apron as she listened.

Jamie made the announcement simply, one arm around Claire.

“There’ll be another wee Fraser come winter,” he said, smiling.

A cheer went up at once — laughter, clapping, Jenny wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron.

“Ye waste no time, brother,” she teased.

He grinned. “Blame the rain and long nights, sister.”

Claire blushed, but her laughter joined theirs, full and light.

Fergus bowed dramatically. “Then we must prepare the house for another miracle, ma chère famille.”

Wee Jamie clapped his hands. “Another cousin! Will it have red hair too?”

Claire smiled. “Most likely.”

Jenny winked. “Then we’ll never lose it in the snow.”

Later that night, when the house was quiet, Claire stood at the window, watching the moon rise over the fields. The barley shimmered silver under its light, the hills breathing in slow rhythm.

Jamie came up behind her, his arms circling her waist.

“They took it well,” he said softly.

“They always do,” she murmured. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved this family more.”

He smiled against her hair. “Aye. They’re rare folk. I’m proud to call them mine.”

She turned in his arms, resting her forehead against his chest. “Do you ever wonder what your mother would think, seeing all this? Your sister with her brood, you with another on the way?”

He was quiet a moment. “I think she’d be proud. And I think she’d tell us to stop worryin’ so much about tomorrow.”

Claire smiled. “Wise woman.”

He kissed her brow. “Aye. But no wiser than the one in my arms.”

Outside, the summer wind moved gently through the fields, carrying the faintest scent of rain. The world beyond their valley still simmered with unrest — armies shifting, governments hardening — but here, life went on.

And in the quiet of the night, with her husband’s arms around her and the soft pulse of new life within her, Claire Fraser felt — for the first time in years — that she had told the truth of herself, and been loved all the more for it.

Chapter Text

The summer came hard and dry.

By July, the air above the fields shimmered like heat from a forge, and the soil cracked along the furrows where the last spring rain had sunk deep and never risen again. The men worked from dawn until dark, shirts damp and feet black with dust. The women kept to shade where they could, tending milk and bairns and the few hens that still laid.

It was the kind of season that tested everything — patience, strength, faith.

Claire felt it more keenly than most.

At nearly four months gone, the weight of her pregnancy settled differently this time — lower, heavier, as if her body remembered too well what it meant to grow life. She rose each morning with the others, but by midday her back ached and the heat pressed on her like a hand.

Jamie never said a word, but she caught him watching her often, his brow drawn tight.

“I’m fine,” she said more than once.

“Aye,” he’d answer softly. “Ye always say that.”

And yet she kept on — because that was what life required. There were herbs to dry, wounds to tend, meals to stretch, tenants to steady. Lallybroch’s rhythm depended on her just as it did on him.

The potatoes had done well that year — small but sound. Jamie and Ian had overseen the harvest with almost religious care, carting the best of the crop into storage and keeping what they dared above ground. The memory of last winter’s scarcity hung over them all like smoke.

Jenny managed the kitchen with ruthless precision. Nothing spoiled, nothing wasted. “Every peel feeds a pig or a man,” she said grimly.

Claire smiled wryly. “Or both, if need be.”

Jenny snorted. “If it comes to that, I’ll fight the pigs myself.”

The first trouble came in late July.

Word reached them through a tenant’s son that soldiers had been seen again near Broch Mordha, taking what food they found. Jamie said nothing at first, but the lines in his face deepened.

“They’re lookin’ to starve us out,” Ian said one evening, his crutch propped beside him. “If they canna hang us, they’ll bleed us dry.”

“They’ll not touch this land again,” Jamie said quietly. “We’ve naught left they can claim.”

But he was wrong.

It happened a week later — in the fields above the mill.

Claire was in the yard when the shouts reached her. The sound was sharp, panicked — men’s voices, the crack of a musket butt against wood.

By the time she reached the rise, the air smelled of dust and fear.

Two Redcoat patrols had ridden down on the tenants working the potato carts — six men against unarmed farmers. The soldiers tore open the carts, spilling the harvest into the dirt, shouting that the Crown would not feed rebels.

Jamie and Ian were already there, running from the lower field. Fergus, too — though Claire’s heart seized at the sight of him darting in front of a horse to drag a boy clear.

“Leave them be!” Jamie shouted, voice carrying across the wind.

The nearest soldier turned, eyes sharp beneath his brim. “Step back, Fraser.”

“These folk are no soldiers,” Jamie said, his tone low but deadly calm. “They’ve done naught but till their land.”

The man sneered. “Then they can till it for His Majesty’s army.”

He swung his musket toward Jamie. Ian moved first, grabbing the barrel, shoving it aside — and was struck hard across the shoulder with the butt. He went down to his one knee, breath knocked from him.

Jamie lunged before Claire could cry out. The two men crashed together, fists and fury. Another soldier struck him from behind with a rifle stock; Jamie staggered, blood already slick at his temple.

“Enough!” Claire screamed, but her voice was lost in the chaos.

The soldiers took what they could carry — sacks of potatoes, two hens, a barrel of meal — and left them with the wreckage.

When they finally rode off, the air was thick with dust and silence. Jamie was on his knees beside Ian, his chest heaving, blood running into his collar.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” Claire whispered, dropping beside them. “Hold still.”

Her hands moved automatically — cloth, pressure, breath. Ian’s arm was bruised but whole; Jamie’s scalp bled freely but not deep. The rage in him was worse than the wound.

“They took the food,” he said hoarsely. “Food meant for bairns.”

“I know,” Claire said softly, pressing a cloth to his head. “We’ll hide the rest deeper.”

He looked up at her then, his eyes raw. “How many times, Sassenach? How many times must we survive before we can live?”

She had no answer. Only the sound of wind through broken stalks.

That night, Lallybroch was quiet.

The tenants stayed close to home, fear heavy in the air. Claire and Jenny worked by candlelight, salving bruises and binding wounds. Fergus helped scrub the blood from the floor.

“C’est injuste,” he muttered, jaw tight. “They take from us what they could never earn.”

Claire touched his shoulder gently. “yes, but we endure. That’s our victory.”

Jenny, standing at the hearth, looked over her shoulder. “And we’ll make damn sure they dinna get another chance.”

By early August, what little peace remained had turned wary.

Jamie and Ian spent their days guarding the fields in turns, sleeping little, eating less. Claire’s hands were constantly stained with herbs and blood — the small cuts and fevers of men pushed beyond exhaustion.

The bairns, too, felt it. Kitty cried at night; Wee Jamie had started walking the corridors with a wooden stick, saying he was on “guard duty.”

Only Brianna seemed untouched — bright, laughing, chasing Fergus through the yard. Her laughter was a kind of defiance.

One afternoon, Claire sat on the bench by the well, resting her aching back while Jenny churned butter beside her.

They worked in silence for a while, the steady slosh and creak of the churn blending with birdsong. Then Jenny said softly, “I’ve news.”

Claire looked up. “Good news, I hope.”

Jenny smiled — small, secret, a little weary. “Aye. I’m wi’ child again.”

Claire’s breath caught. “Jenny—”

She laughed at the look on Claire’s face. “Aye, I ken what ye’re thinkin’. Another mouth to feed. But the Lord gives as He wills.”

Claire’s eyes softened, and smile widened. “Congratulations, truly. You’re braver than I am.”

Jenny snorted. “Och, dinna mistake it for bravery. It’s just life. Comes whether ye’re ready or no.”

They sat together a moment longer, the air thick with unspoken fear and affection.

“You’re five months along now, aye?” Jenny said.

Claire nodded. “Nearly six.”

Jenny smiled faintly. “Then our bairns’ll grow up together. God willing, the world will be gentler by then.”

Claire looked out over the fields, where Jamie and Ian were walking the rows, their figures dark against the sunlit earth. “It has to be,” she murmured. “It has to be.”

That night, the family gathered around the hearth again. Ian’s arm still ached, Jamie’s temple still bore its thin scar, but the laughter had returned in small pieces.

Jenny teased Fergus about courting; Fergus retaliated by teaching the children a French song about stubborn mules that made everyone blush halfway through.

When the laughter finally faded, Claire caught Jamie’s eye across the fire.

There was weariness there — but also something stronger. The kind of faith that’s forged in hunger and fear and still doesn’t break.

She reached for his hand and held it, the firelight warm between them.

Outside, the wind shifted — carrying the scent of rain, and the faint, stubborn promise of another harvest.

Chapter Text

The rains came at last.

After months of hard, airless heat, the sky broke open in September with a fury that felt almost merciful. The first drops fell like pebbles against the windows, then sheets of water poured over the hills, flooding the burns until they sang again.

From the kitchen doorway, Claire watched the land drink — brown furrows turning black with moisture, dust turning to mud. The smell was heady and alive, that rich mix of peat and rain that spoke of renewal.

Jenny stood beside her, arms folded, a half-smile ghosting her lips. “It’s late, but I’ll no’ complain. The earth’ll take what she’s given.”

Claire nodded, pulling her shawl closer. “We all will.”

Behind them, Brianna shrieked with laughter as Fergus chased her across the floor, her wobbling steps more certain each day. Her curls gleamed like new copper in the firelight, her joy loud and unapologetic — a sound that made even weary hearts lighter.

By morning, the burns had overrun their banks. The men waded knee-deep through the yard to reach the byre, the water cold and fast around their boots. Ian laughed good-naturedly, Fergus steadying him with a hand to his elbow.

“Careful, lad,” Ian said. “If I go down, ye’re comin’ with me.”

Fergus grinned. “Then I’ll hold on.”

“Hold on tight,” Ian corrected laughing.

Fergus paused, before nodding. “Oui. Uncle Ian.”

From the window, Jenny watched them, her face soft. “They make a fine pair, those two,” she said quietly.

Claire smiled. “They do.”

Jenny’s hand rested absently over her belly, the gesture almost unconscious. The swell beneath her bodice was still small but unmistakable — and rounder, somehow, than Claire remembered from her own first months. Claire said nothing, only felt the faintest pang of recognition — and sympathy.

Harvest came late that year.

The fields, still heavy from the rain, yielded less than they should have — smaller barley heads, softer oats, potatoes misshapen but sound. Still, it was food, and after what they’d lost, food was grace enough.

The whole household turned out for the work. Jenny and Mrs. Crook managed the kitchen, turning whatever could be spared into broth for the field hands. The older bairns carried baskets, their hands and knees muddy but proud. Fergus oversaw the younger ones with the solemnity of a general.

Jamie and Ian led the men, bending their backs until the day was gone, their shirts dark with rain and sweat. Claire, unable to manage the heavier work, tended to those who came to her with blisters, cuts, or chills.

By late afternoon, her skirts were soaked through, her hands raw, and her lower back throbbed with dull, rhythmic pain. Still, she kept on. There was satisfaction in the work — in the knowledge that, however meager the harvest, it was theirs.

When the last sheaf was brought in, the courtyard filled with laughter and smoke from the cook fires. Someone started a song — an old Jacobite tune, soft and slow — and even the tired faces around the flames seemed to brighten.

Claire sat on a stool by the fire, Brianna asleep in her arms, and let the sound wash over her. The ache in her back, the damp of her clothes, the chill creeping into her bones — it all faded beneath the simple joy of being alive in that moment.

October’s edge came early that year.

The air grew sharp again, the hills turning bronze and purple under the low sun. The stubble fields steamed in the mornings, and the scent of peat smoke lingered in every breath.

The family settled into the rhythm of preparation — salting meat, drying grain, stacking firewood. Fergus and Wee Jamie worked side by side, the boy determined to prove he could lift as much as his cousin. Claire heard Fergus muttering gentle encouragement in French, his patience infinite.

Jenny moved slower these days, her steps more careful as her middle grew. She said little of it — and no one commented — but Claire saw the quiet pride in her sister-in-law’s face each time she paused to rest, hands on her hips, watching her brood tumble through the courtyard.

It was a different pregnancy than before — harder, perhaps, more visible. But Jenny carried it with the same fierce, silent determination she gave to everything.

The rains stayed on, turning the fields to slick patches of green and brown. Jamie and Ian worked long days mending the stone walls and clearing drains, returning soaked and filthy each night.

Claire scolded them both for it, of course — their clothes dripping on the clean floors, their boots leaving prints like sheep tracks.

Jamie only grinned. “Aye, Sassenach, but ye canna mend a wall from the fire.”

“You can if you’re alive long enough to try,” she retorted, pressing a dry cloth into his hands.

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “Aye. I’ll do my best to survive your wrath.”

As the weeks went on, the house grew full again — not just with food and fuel, but with laughter, small and cautious though it was. The children played at soldiering in the barn loft; Fergus carved little wooden horses for Brianna; Mrs. Crook scolded everyone in turn for tracking mud into her kitchen.

One evening, after supper, Jamie sat before the fire with Brianna on his knee, her small hands reaching for his hair. He let her tug at it, feigning great pain to make her laugh.

“She’ll be as stubborn as her uncle,” Ian said with a grin.

“As her aunt, more like,” Jamie countered, glancing toward Jenny.

Jenny snorted. “If she’s lucky, aye.”

Claire smiled from her chair beside the hearth, her sewing forgotten in her lap. The warmth of the fire, the murmur of voices, the sight of her family whole — it all settled deep in her bones. For the first time in months, the world felt wide enough for peace.

Later, when the house had gone quiet and the last embers glowed low, Claire stepped outside.

The air was damp, cool, heavy with the smell of wet earth and heather. The rain had eased to a mist that clung to her skin. Beyond the yard, the hills rose like ghosts in the dark.

Jamie found her there, his plaid wrapped over his shoulders. He came without a word, standing close enough that their breaths mingled in the cool air.

“The fields’ll rest easy now,” he said softly. “The earth’s had her fill of water.”

Claire nodded. “And you? Have you?”

He smiled faintly. “Not yet. But I’ve hope of it.”

She leaned against him, her hand resting where his child grew inside her. “Do you think it will ever be enough?” she asked quietly.

He was silent for a moment, then said, “Aye. One day. Maybe no’ for us, but for those who come after.”

Claire looked out at the land — dark, glistening, alive. “That’s enough for me,” she said.

Jamie’s arm tightened around her. “And for me, Sassenach. For me.”

They stood that way for a long while — the two of them, the rain, the breathing hills — until the mist turned to silver under the moon and the world felt, for a moment, still.

Chapter Text

The first snow came early that year.

By the final days of October, frost silvered the fields, and the breath of every man and beast rose white in the morning air. The burn had frozen thin at the edges, the rush of water beneath it sharp as glass.

The last of the potatoes were dug that week — small, firm, and precious. Everyone turned out for it, bundled in cloaks and scarves. The air was bright and brittle, laughter carrying far across the empty fields. Even Brianna toddled along between Fergus and Wee Jamie, her mittened hands reaching for the baskets as if she meant to help.

Jamie watched her from the cart, a grin tugging at his mouth. “She’s got your stubbornness, Sassenach.”

Claire glanced up, her breath clouding the air. “Yours, more like.”

He chuckled, hopping down beside her. “Aye, then she’s doubly doomed.”

The day passed in steady work, the cold biting at fingers and toes but spirits high. By the time they’d stowed the last baskets in the cellar and covered the entrance with planks, the sky had turned the color of pewter.

Jamie closed the hatch and straightened, his breath visible in the gathering dusk. “That’s it then. The last of the earth’s gifts for the year.”

Claire smiled faintly. “We’ll make them last.”

He turned to her, his eyes soft and sure. “We’ll make do.”

The house smelled of woodsmoke and baking bread that night — Jenny’s gift to the weary. Brianna fell asleep on Claire’s lap by the fire, a half-chewed crust still clutched in her hand. Jamie scooped her up gently and carried her to the cradle, brushing a kiss to her curls before returning to Claire’s side.

She’d leaned back, one hand absently resting on the swell of her belly. It was a quiet moment, the kind that felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of them and the small flame between.

Jamie knelt beside her chair, pressing his ear to the round curve beneath her gown. “Ye’ve been quiet tonight, wee one,” he murmured. “Are ye listenin’ to your mam instead?”

Claire smiled, fingers sliding into his hair. “He or she is probably as tired as I am.”

Jamie looked up, eyes crinkling. “And what would make the bairn tired, then? Growin’ bones and dreams?”

She laughed softly. “And enduring its father’s endless talking.”

He grinned, shifting lower until his cheek rested fully against her. “Aye, best get used to it early, mo chridhe.”

Brianna stirred in her cradle then, a faint sound of protest. Jamie turned his head toward her, still pressed against Claire’s stomach. “D’ye hear that, lass? Your sister’s tellin’ ye to sleep, same as her.”

“Or brother,” Claire murmured.

He nodded, smiling. “Aye, or brother. Either way, they’ll ken their Da’s voice when they come.”

He stayed there for a long moment, murmuring low Gaelic endearments, his breath warm against her skin. Claire felt the faintest movement inside — a soft flutter that made her eyes sting with sudden tenderness.

The next weeks fell into the rhythm of winter.

Snow deepened along the hedgerows, icicles forming on the eaves. The mornings were slow, filled with the scrape of shovels and the crack of kindling. Life moved indoors now — the women spinning, mending, and baking; the men tending livestock and cutting wood; the children racing through the corridors like bright birds in the dim.

Claire moved slower these days. Her belly had grown heavy, her steps deliberate. Even Brianna, once jealous of the bump that stole her place on her mother’s lap, had grown fascinated by it.

She would toddle up, pat the curve with both hands, and declare, “Baby.”

Jamie always laughed at that, scooping her into his arms. “Aye, a baby, my wee hen. Another like you, God help us all.”

Claire would roll her eyes, though her heart swelled every time she saw him kneel with Brianna on his knee, both of them talking earnestly to the unborn child as though it could already understand.

“Tell the bairn to mind their manners,” Jamie would say, and Brianna would nod solemnly, pressing her ear to Claire’s belly and whispering secrets only a child could invent.

It was absurd and beautiful and more healing than she could have imagined after all they’d survived.

By mid-November, though several months apart, Jenny’s belly had grown nearly as round as Claire’s.

They sat together one gray afternoon by the fire, mending old baby gowns and sorting swaddling cloths. Jenny’s needle moved swiftly despite her size, her cheeks flushed with heat from the hearth.

Claire watched her out of the corner of her eye — the ease of her movements, the fullness of her figure, the steady calm she carried. She was larger than she should be at four months — noticeably so.

“Ye’re staring,” Jenny said without looking up.

Claire smiled faintly. “I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“That you’re… growing beautifully.”

Jenny snorted. “Beautifully? Saints, ye sound like a midwife tryin’ to flatter a heifer.”

Claire laughed. “It’s true, though. You’re showing early this time.”

Jenny’s brows lifted. “Aye, well, I’ve had my share of bairns. The body kens its work.”

Claire hesitated. “Maybe so. But… it might also mean you’re carrying more than one.”

Jenny’s hands stilled. “Twins?”

“It’s too soon to be certain,” Claire said quickly. “But your size, the way you tire — I’ve seen it before.”

Jenny leaned back, one hand resting on her middle. “Two bairns at once.” She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Ian’ll faint dead away.”

“Not before you,” Claire said dryly.

They both laughed then — a sound that cut through the heaviness of the day.

Jenny shook her head. “If it is twins, I’ll no’ say a word until they’re born. I’ll not have the whole house hoverin’ like hens.”

Claire smiled. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

But secrets were hard to keep when worry began to grow again.

By late November, word spread from the tenants that Redcoats had been seen in Inverness once more — a supply patrol, searching for those who’d withheld tax or grain. They were moving south.

Jamie said little when the news reached him, only set his jaw and began moving through the household quietly, checking stores, counting what could be hidden if need be. The memory of the summer raid hung over them all.

Ian argued that soldiers would be fools to ride into the high passes before the snows deepened, but neither man believed it entirely.

Claire could feel it too — the air tightening, as if the whole glen held its breath. Each morning she woke with the sense of waiting, each night she felt the baby press and turn inside her as if even it sensed the strain.

The first days of December arrived sharp and clean.

The frost on the windows came in patterns like feathers, and the days began and ended in darkness. Claire was nearly full term now, 38 weeks Jamie figured, her belly taut and high, her movements slowed to the rhythm of waiting.

Brianna followed her everywhere, curious and watchful. She’d begun stringing together more words now — “Da,” “Mam,” “cold,” and, most recently, “soon,” which she repeated whenever she pointed at Claire’s stomach.

“She kens more than we do, I think,” Jamie said one night as they sat before the fire. “She’s waitin’ for her brother or sister same as us.”

Claire smiled tiredly. “She’s impatient, then.”

“Aye, she comes by it honest.”

He shifted closer, one arm around her shoulders, his other hand resting over her belly. The baby moved beneath his palm, strong and steady.

Jamie’s face softened, awe and tenderness mingling. “They’re restless tonight.”

“She,” Claire corrected automatically, though she smiled as she said it.

He laughed quietly. “Ye always think it’s a lass.”

“Perhaps because I know how stubborn they are.”

He bent, pressing his lips to her skin. “Aye, then she’ll rule us both.”

For a while they stayed like that — his head on her belly, his breath warm against her, his voice low and steady as he murmured in Gaelic. She didn’t know all the words, but she knew their meaning: blessing, strength, love.

When Brianna toddled in half-asleep, clutching her blanket, Jamie drew her onto his knee. “Come, wee lass. Say goodnight to your mam — and your sister.”

Brianna blinked at the mound under Claire’s gown, then pressed her cheek to it solemnly. “Night, baby.”

Claire’s heart ached, full and fragile all at once.

That night she couldn’t sleep. The baby shifted endlessly inside her, as if testing the boundaries of its small world. The wind howled against the shutters, and the house creaked with the weight of snow.

Jamie stirred beside her, then opened his eyes. “Can’t rest?”

“No. She’s… active tonight.”

He smiled, sleep-heavy. “She takes after her mam.”

Claire sighed, shifting as another ripple moved through her abdomen. “She’ll be here soon.”

Jamie propped himself on one elbow, his gaze tracing her belly. “Aye. I can feel it in my bones. Another week, maybe less.”

“Or more,” she said, half-smiling. “Babies rarely consult their fathers about schedules.”

He chuckled, but his hand found hers, squeezing gently. “When the time comes, I’ll be ready.”

Claire met his eyes in the dim light — that endless, steady blue that had seen her through everything. “We both will.”

Outside, snow fell thick and silent, blanketing the glen in white. Inside, the hearth burned low, the cradle stood waiting, and the world seemed to hold its breath once more.

Chapter Text

The morning began in peace.

Snow had fallen through the night — soft, silent, relentless — and the world lay wrapped in white when Claire woke. The light from the window was gray-blue, filtered through frost. Beside her, Jamie was already gone; she could hear the rhythmic thud of his axe somewhere outside, splitting wood for the fires.

The air smelled faintly of smoke and pine. Brianna’s small breaths came steady from her cradle, her curls wild against the pillow. For a brief, perfect moment, all felt still.

Claire stretched carefully, her belly a great, round weight before her. Thirty-eight weeks, by her reckoning. The baby was restless these days — pressing and shifting, her ribs aching from its strength.

Downstairs, the house had already come alive: the scrape of chairs, the hiss of the hearth, Jenny’s sharp voice scolding someone for tracking snow through her kitchen. Life, as it was meant to be.

When Jamie came in, his shoulders dusted white, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Cold as sin out there,” he said softly. “Ye’ll no’ be steppin’ outside today, I hope.”

“Not unless the house catches fire,” she said.

He smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Then I’ll keep it well-snowed.”

He knelt to touch her belly, his palm warm through the wool. “Ye’re nearly ready, aye?”

“I’ve been ready for weeks,” she sighed.

Jamie grinned, his eyes full of light. “Takes after you, then. Has its own plan.”

She swatted him lightly, but her smile lingered. He bent lower, pressing a kiss just above her navel. “Soon, mo chridhe. Before the next week is out, I think.”

“Optimist,” she murmured.

“Realist,” he said, then kissed her again. “I’ll fetch more wood before the storm worsens.”

He went back out, his boots crunching through the snow. Claire watched him from the window, the tall shape of him moving steady and sure through the white. She thought then, fleetingly, We’ve made it through another year.

The horses came before noon.

At first, the sound was faint — a dull rhythm beneath the wind. Then clearer. More than one. A dozen at least.

Jenny froze where she stood by the hearth, her hand tightening on the spoon she held. Fergus, who’d been helping her salt meat, went pale.

Jamie was already at the door. “Inside, the both of ye,” he said sharply to the children. “Now.”

Claire’s heart had started to pound. She rose too quickly, one hand braced against her belly, the other on the wall for balance. “Jamie—”

He turned to her, eyes calm but fierce. “Stay inside, Sassenach. Whatever happens, stay.”

The words chilled her more than the wind when he opened the door.

The yard filled with the smell of horses and iron. Red coats against the white snow — a color that seemed obscene in its brightness.

Claire stood just inside the doorway, one hand gripping the frame. Jamie and Ian had stepped forward into the yard, snow crunching under their boots.

An officer dismounted — young, sharp-faced, his uniform too clean for a man who’d traveled this far. “James Fraser,” he said briskly. “We’re here under warrant to search the premises. Reports of hidden arms.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened. “Ye’ll find naught here but farm tools and bairns’ toys.”

The man smiled thinly. “We’ll see about that.”

He gestured, and half a dozen soldiers moved toward the house. Fergus stepped in front of them, shoulders squared.

“You’ve no right,” Jenny snapped. “There’s a woman near her time here, and—”

The officer ignored her. “Search everything.”

They poured through the door — boots pounding, voices sharp. Claire followed, helpless fury burning through her. They tore through cupboards, kicked open chests, upended baskets. Jenny shouted at one to mind the bread oven and was shoved aside.

Then came the shout. “Sir! Here!”

Under the stair — where the hunting rifle had been kept, wrapped in oiled cloth. It hadn’t been used in months.

The officer lifted it as though it were a trophy. “An unregistered weapon,” he said smoothly. “Under Act of Disarmament, this property is in violation.”

“It’s a hunting gun,” Jamie said evenly. “For deer. Nothing more.”

The officer’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve a history, Mr. Fraser. The Crown can’t afford to be generous.”

Jenny stepped forward, voice shaking with anger. “He’s no soldier now! He’s done nothing but work this land—”

A soldier shoved her back roughly. Ian lunged forward, grabbing the man’s arm. “Touch her again, and I’ll—”

The blow came fast. The musket butt struck Ian across the ribs; he crumpled, gasping.

Jamie moved before the sound had faded. He caught the soldier’s collar, spun him, but stopped short of striking. His hands trembled with restraint.

“Enough,” the officer said coldly. “You’ll come with us, Mr. Fraser. You can explain yourself at Fort William.”

Claire’s voice and heart shattered on hearing the name Fort William. “No. Please — he hasn’t done anything.”

The officer didn’t look at her. “The law will decide that.”

Jamie turned to her then, snow clinging to his hair. His face was calm — too calm — but she saw the fear flicker beneath it.

“Claire,” he said softly. “Dinna cry, mo nighean donn.”

But she was already crying. “Jamie, please—”

He stepped closer, cupping her face in his hands. “It’ll be all right. D’ye hear me? Ye’ll keep the bairns safe — Brianna, Fergus, and the one to come.”

“I can’t—”

He kissed her, hard and sudden, snow melting on his lips. When he pulled back, his voice was rough. “Ye can. Ye must.”

“Jamie—”

He looked past her, to where Brianna stood clutching Jenny’s skirts, eyes wide. “Good lass,” he said softly, his smile breaking. “Mind your mam.”

Then the soldiers seized him.

They bound his wrists, though he didn’t resist. Claire followed them into the yard, bare feet in the snow, her breath coming in broken gasps.

“Please,” she begged the officer, her voice raw. “He’s no danger to anyone. He’s my husband — I’m near my time—”

The officer hesitated, just for a heartbeat. Then he turned away.

Jamie met her eyes one last time. “I’ll come back to ye, Sassenach. I swear it.”

Then they were gone — the red coats vanishing into the white, the sound of hooves fading into nothing.

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting.

Claire sank to her knees in the snow, the cold biting through her skirts. Her breath came ragged, her hands pressed to the ground as though the earth itself might steady her. Fergus was at her side in an instant, his face pale. “Maman,” he whispered.

Jenny came too, one arm around her shoulders, her own eyes wet and furious. “He’ll be back,” she said fiercely. “We’ll see him home again.”

Claire couldn’t answer. The world had narrowed to the sound of her own heartbeat — heavy, echoing, endless.

At last, she lifted her head. The yard was torn with footprints, the snow churned to slush. Ian leaned against the doorway, clutching his side, pale but upright. Brianna began to cry — a thin, wailing sound that cut straight through the quiet.

Claire forced herself to rise, every muscle trembling. She went to her daughter, gathered her close over her growing belly. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” she whispered, though her voice shook. “I’ll keep you safe. We’ll keep Lallybroch safe.”

She pressed her cheek to Brianna’s hair, closing her eyes. Snow drifted soft around them, falling into her open hands — cold, fleeting, real.

Inside her, the baby moved — a small, fierce kick, as if answering its father’s promise.

Chapter Text

They bound his wrists with coarse rope and led him from the yard while the snow still fell thick around them.

Jamie kept his head high. It was easier, somehow, to let the cold bite his face than to look back. If he did, he feared he might run — and that would bring ruin on all of them.

The soldiers moved in a loose line, the crunch of hooves and boots muffled by snow. Their voices were low, careless, as if hauling a man away from his home was no more to them than carting wood.

The rope dug deep, rough against skin already rubbed raw. He could have broken free if he’d tried — the strength was still in him — but the thought of Claire standing in that doorway held him still.

Her face haunted him: pale against the gray morning, hair loose from its pins, one hand clutching her belly as though she could hold him there by will alone. He’d seen her mouth his name as they turned him away. He hadn’t dared to look longer than that.

He breathed slow, steady. For her. For them.

By midday the wind rose, driving snow sideways. The men cursed, pulling cloaks tighter. One threw a blanket roughly across Jamie’s shoulders — not kindness, only practicality. Dead prisoners slowed the march.

He counted hoofbeats to keep his mind still. Four steps for each breath. Six for each prayer.

The last time he’d ridden this road, he’d been half-dead already — bleeding from the lashes, his mind unstrung by pain and fever. The fort had been hell itself, and he’d left a part of himself in its walls. To go back was unthinkable. Yet here he was.

He flexed his bound hands, feeling the burn of rope. The soldiers spoke of supper, of cards, of a warm bed in the barracks. Jamie said nothing. Every word he held back was a defense.

He focused instead on memory — not the bad ones, but the anchors. The weight of Brianna’s head against his shoulder. The sound of Claire’s laughter when the bairn kicked. Seeing Fergus read to Brianna. The feel of the unborn child beneath his palm, a heartbeat he’d felt as sure as his own.

Ye’ll keep them safe, he’d told her. He repeated it now, silently. And I’ll come back to ye.

They stopped at dusk near a small bothy. Smoke from its chimney stained the snow black. The soldiers forced him inside, leaving one guard with him while the others warmed themselves at the fire.

The place smelled of damp peat and horse. He sat against the far wall, ropes biting, his back to the stones.

The guard — a young one, barely older than Fergus — watched him with wary eyes. “You were at Culloden?” he asked after a while.

Jamie’s voice was hoarse from silence. “Aye.”

“My father was too. Other side.”

Jamie nodded. “Then we’ve both buried ghosts.”

The boy didn’t answer. When he finally slept, Jamie didn’t. He watched the fire burn low and thought of the road still ahead — and the stone walls waiting at its end.

By morning, the wind had calmed. They rode again, slower now, the path narrowing between frozen hills. Every turn of the road brought him closer to the smell of iron and the memory of screams.

He tried not to think of it — the echo of Randall’s voice, the sound of his own name spat like a curse. But memory has its own will.

He saw flashes: the torchlight flickering on the walls, the feel of chains biting into skin, the taste of blood in his mouth. He remembered begging — not for mercy, but for death.

His stomach turned. He clenched his jaw, forcing the images back. Not now. Not ever again.

He fixed his mind on Claire instead — on her eyes the color of whisky, the scent of her skin, the way her hands had trembled when she’d touched his face that morning. She’d been near her time. He knew that look — the way her breathing changed, the subtle set of her shoulders.

God, he’d missed Faith’s birth as horrific as it was. The memory struck like a blow. He’d come too late then too — only to find death waiting where life should’ve been.

He closed his eyes, the pain sharp as frost. “Not again,” he whispered under his breath. “Christ, not again.”

They reached the fort by nightfall.

It rose black against the white hills — the same shape he saw in dreams. Smoke curled from the chimneys, faint orange light glimmering through the slits in the walls. Fort William.

Jamie’s breath came shallow. His body knew the place before his mind did — his chest tightening, muscles locking. His heart hammered so hard he thought he might be sick.

“Move along,” a soldier barked. He did. Step by step, through the open gate and into the courtyard.

It looked unchanged. The same rough stones, the same smell of wet earth and rust. He could see, even now, the post where they’d tied him, where pools of his blood hit the ground. The stain in the snow might have been memory, but he felt it all the same.

His vision swam. For a moment, he wasn’t here but then — back there — the lash cracking, the jeers, the voice saying his name with delight. James Fraser.

He stumbled. The soldier beside him swore and shoved him forward. The pain of the rope cutting into his wrists brought him back.

He straightened, breathing through his teeth. Ye’re no’ that man anymore, he told himself fiercely. Ye’ve a wife. A child. Another on the way. Ye’ll live for them.

The commandant — a different man now, older, bored — looked him over and gave orders to hold him overnight. Questioning tomorrow. It was too cold to march further.

They shoved him into a cell beneath the main block. The door slammed. The sound echoed like thunder.

The cell was small, stone, and colder than the grave. A trickle of water ran down one wall. He sat on the floor, back to the corner, and drew his knees up to his chest.

The air smelled of mold and iron. He could feel the weight of the place pressing on him — not just the stone, but the memory inside it. The ghost of pain, humiliation, fear.

His hands shook. He clenched them until his nails bit skin. He would not break. Not here. Not again.

Still, the panic came — fast and merciless. The walls seemed to close in, the air thinning. He heard phantom footsteps in the hall, the scrape of boots, the jingle of keys.

He pressed his forehead to the stone, trying to breathe. It’s gone. He’s gone.

But his body didn’t believe it. It remembered everything — the way the light had looked through the bars, the weight of Randall’s hand, the endless nights that followed.

He bit down hard, the taste of iron sharp on his tongue. “No,” he said aloud. “No more ghosts.”

He forced his thoughts back to Lallybroch. To Claire. To the bairn turning inside her, waiting to be born.

He saw her in his mind — the way she’d smiled that last night before the raid, lying in their bed with her hand on his chest. He’d felt the bairn move under his palm. The life they’d made, pulsing strong and sure.

If he let himself, he could almost hear her voice now. Ye’ll come back to me, Jamie. Promise me that.

“I promise,” he whispered to the dark. “I’ll come home.”

He didn’t know how long he sat there. Time didn’t exist in places like this. Only breath, and heartbeat, and the will to keep both going.

At some point, he began to murmur the old prayers — half in Latin, half in Gaelic — not for forgiveness, but to keep his mind whole.

Bless the house, bless the hearth, bless the hands that feed and heal.

He thought of Claire’s hands, steady even when she was afraid. The feel of her fingers laced through his. The way she’d looked at him when he first saw her again after Culloden — as if love itself had found a body.

He pressed his bound hands to his mouth. “Christ,” he said softly. “Keep her safe. Keep the bairns safe.”

Outside, wind moaned through the stone, sounding like a voice. He listened, eyes closed, until the sound became the rhythm of her breathing beside him, the small noise Brianna made in her sleep.

That was how he survived the night — by pretending he was home.

Toward dawn, he woke with a start. For a moment, he didn’t know what had roused him — then he realized he’d heard something. Not outside. Inside.

A heartbeat.

He smiled faintly, realizing it was his own — fast but steady, echoing against the stone. Proof he was still here.

He drew a breath, slow and deep. “Aye,” he said softly. “Still here.”

He thought of Claire again — of her belly, round and full beneath his hands; of her breath catching as the bairn kicked; of her smile through tears when Brianna said “Da.”

The image steadied him. He laid his head back against the wall, eyes half closed.

He could see it clearly: the hearthlight at Lallybroch, the sound of rain, Claire’s hand reaching for his. He held that vision tight, refusing to let the cold have it.

When the door finally opened and light flooded in, he didn’t flinch. He stood, back straight, and met their eyes.

The fear was still there — deep and old — but it didn’t own him anymore.

He was James Fraser of Lallybroch. Husband. Father. Free man, in all but chains.

And he would live. For them.

Chapter Text

The snow never seemed to stop.

By the middle of December, it lay halfway up the stone walls, thick enough that the world beyond Lallybroch might as well not have existed. The air inside the house was always scented faintly of smoke and wool, the fires kept burning from dawn till dark. Still, the cold crept in through every crack, a living thing that could not be driven out.

Claire felt it in her bones, in her swollen feet, in the ache of her back. At forty weeks, she was tired of every breath and motion. The baby pressed hard against her ribs now, heavy and insistent. Sleep had become a stranger.

She’d taken to lying on her side by the fire most days, wrapped in blankets, Brianna playing at her feet. Fergus would sit on the floor beside them, carving small wooden toys — quiet, careful work that kept his hands busy and his mind still.

Sometimes he’d hum under his breath, the French lullabies he half-remembered from childhood in the brothel. Brianna would stop what she was doing to listen, her copper curls falling into her eyes. She didn’t speak much yet, but she knew that sound meant comfort.

It was the only peace the house had left.

Jenny ran Lallybroch now with quiet authority, her strength a wall against the fear that crept through the corridors. She never said Jamie’s name aloud, not in front of the bairns, but it hung in every silence, every unfinished sentence.

Claire watched her from her bed one morning as Jenny stirred the fire and muttered about draughts. Her belly was rounding steadily, the swell very obvious now even beneath her layers. She moved slower these days, though she’d never admit it.

“You’ll make yourself ill fussing over me,” Claire said softly.

Jenny snorted. “Ill? I’ve had half as many bairns as years I’ve been wed. I’ll no’ break from keepin’ ye warm.”

Claire smiled faintly. “I didn’t mean that. I meant—thank you.”

Jenny stopped, met her eyes, and the humor in her face softened. “Ye dinna need to thank me. We’re family.”

Claire nodded, her throat tight. “I know.”

For a while, neither spoke. The snow hissed softly against the windows. Then Claire said, quietly, “I keep thinking… if I go into labor before he’s home—”

Jenny turned at once. “Claire.”

“I know,” Claire said quickly, but her voice trembled. “I know he’ll come back at some point, but I can’t help it. I’m scared, I’m full term. What if something goes wrong again? What if he’s not there?”

Jenny crossed to her without a word, sat on the edge of the bed, and took her hand. “Listen to me,” she said firmly. “Ye’re no’ alone, ken? I’ll be here. Ian will be here. We’ll see ye through, same as before.”

For a long moment, they just sat — the sound of the fire crackling, the faint creak of the house around them. Then Jenny added, softer, “He’ll find his way home, Claire. Ye ken Jamie Fraser — there’s no’ a chain strong enough to keep him from his family.”

Claire gave a small, watery laugh. “No, there isn’t.”

Jenny smiled faintly, stood, and straightened her skirts. “Good. Then ye’ll eat what I’ve brought, and rest. I’ll no’ have him come home to find ye half-starved.”

Claire obeyed, though the food turned to ash in her mouth.

Fergus took it harder than anyone.

He didn’t say much, but there was guilt in the way he moved — too quiet, too careful. He’d been there, had seen Jamie taken. He hadn’t spoken a word about it since.

One evening, as the wind howled against the house, Claire found him sitting alone in the kitchen, whittling a bit of wood into shavings. His hands moved without purpose, his eyes unfocused.

“Fergus,” she said softly.

He startled, then smiled quickly. “Maman—”

She sat beside him, lowering herself slowly onto the bench. “You’ve hardly eaten all day.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She studied him for a moment. “You think it’s your fault.”

He looked down, his jaw tightening. “I should have done something.”

“What could you have done?”

“I could have fought,” he said fiercely. “Or shouted, or—”

“They had guns,” she interrupted. “And there were ten of them. Fergus, if you’d tried to stop them, they might have killed you.”

He looked away, blinking hard. “Da would have fought for me.”

“He did fight for you,” she said quietly. “He’s fought for all of us, more times than I can count. But do you know what he’d say now?”

Fergus didn’t answer.

“He’d tell you to look after the family. To look after Brianna. That’s what he’d want from you.”

His shoulders trembled. “And if he doesn’t come back?”

Claire swallowed hard. “Then we’ll go and get him. Somehow.”

For the first time, he looked at her fully. There was something fierce and fragile in his young face. “I’ll hold to that,” he said.

She smiled faintly. “So will I.”

Brianna didn’t understand, not really.

She toddled through the house each day calling, “Da!” — her small voice echoing down the halls. Sometimes she’d stand at the door, pressing her nose against the cold glass, waiting.

Each time Claire heard it, her heart broke a little more. She’d scoop her up slowly, whispering, “He’ll be home soon, love. Da’s coming.”

Brianna would rest her head on Claire’s shoulder then, fingers tangled in her mother’s hair. It was both comfort and torment — the nearness of what she still had, the ache of what she’d lost.

That night, Brianna refused to sleep in her cradle. Claire let her lie beside her instead, curled against her stomach. Fergus sat by the fire with a book, reading aloud in quiet French, his voice steady and soothing.

The firelight flickered over them — Fergus’s profile sharp and thoughtful, Brianna’s lashes red against her cheeks, Claire’s hand resting over the restless swell of her belly.

For the first time in days, the air in the room felt almost warm.

Later, when everyone slept, Claire lay awake.

The baby moved constantly now — rolling, pressing, testing its world. Her back ached, her feet burned, her whole body heavy with waiting.

She stared into the fire, half-dreaming, her thoughts drifting between memory and prayer.

Jamie’s face came to her as it always did — the snow in his hair, the rough warmth of his hands, the sound of his voice when he said, Keep them safe for me.

She touched her belly, tracing slow circles with her thumb. “We’re trying, love,” she whispered. “We’re holding on.”

Outside, the wind moaned through the chimneys like a living thing. Inside, the fire burned low, throwing long shadows across the walls.

When the last ember fell to ash, she closed her eyes at last — not in rest, but in the fragile stillness of a woman waiting for the world to turn again.

Chapter Text

They woke him before dawn.

The door opened with the same shriek of hinges that had followed him through nightmares for years, and the torchlight bled against the stone. Two soldiers came in, boots striking hard. “Up, Fraser,” one said. “The commandant wants words.”

Jamie rose. The iron on his wrists bit deep; his shoulders ached from a night spent half upright. The air smelled of mold and rust, old blood and piss — Fort William had not changed. Only the names of the men who filled it.

They led him up the narrow stair, past the corridor where he’d once been dragged half-dead. He kept his eyes on the wall; it was easier than remembering. His breath smoked in the air. He counted the steps.

One for Claire.
One for Brianna.

One for Fergus.
One for the bairn he’d never seen.

The commandant waited in the officers’ room, a fire low behind him. He was middle-aged, his red coat neat, his mouth thin. A man who’d never fought at Culloden, Jamie thought, but had likely built his pride on it nonetheless.

“James Fraser,” the man said. “Of Lallybroch. Former rebel and traitor to His Majesty’s crown.”

Jamie said nothing.

The man steepled his fingers. “You were found with an illegal firearm. You refuse to declare loyalty to the Crown. Why?”

Jamie met his eyes. “Because it would be a lie.”

“You’d prefer the rope?”

Jamie smiled faintly. “I’ve met worse company.”

The blow came fast — a fist across his mouth. He tasted blood, copper and salt. A second came to his ribs. He did not fall. The pain steadied him; it reminded him he was still here.

“You’ll sign the oath,” the officer said coldly. “A simple signature, and you go home to your wife.”

Jamie froze.

Home.
Claire.

He pictured her at once — the swell of her belly under his hand, the soft sound of her breath when she slept. She would be due by now. Perhaps she’d already given birth. The thought should have comforted him; instead it hollowed him out.

“Where is she now?” the officer asked suddenly, watching him.

Jamie said nothing.

A third blow, this one to the stomach. He doubled, gasping. The world went white for a moment. He heard the officer say, “He’ll come around,” as if from far away.

They took him back to the cell and left him there. The chains on his wrists had rubbed the skin raw, and blood slicked the floor beneath him. He sat with his back to the wall, breathing through the ache.

He tried to pray, but the words broke apart. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Claire — her face in the snow, her hand reaching for him as the soldiers pulled him away. He could hear her cry his name.

She’s due any day, he thought. Christ, she may already have delivered.

The memory of Faith rose unbidden: the silence after her birth, the weight of the tiny body he’d never held. He saw Claire’s face then, gray with grief, the stillness and sharpness in her movements for months afterward.

He pressed his fists to his temples. “No,” he muttered. “Not again. Please, God, not again.”

But the thought had taken root. He imagined riding home only to find the house quiet, the cradle empty. Their shared bed empty. He imagined Jenny’s voice, low and steady — They didna make it, Jamie. I’m so sorry.

He doubled over, shaking. The pain in his side was nothing to the one in his chest.

The next day they called him up again.

This time they didn’t bother with questions. Two men held him against the wall while a third struck him with a leather strap, deliberate, measured. Each crack echoed like gunfire. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached, refusing them the sound of a cry.

Between blows he saw flashes — Randall’s face, white and smiling. The same walls, the same smell. He fought the memory with everything he had. This is not then. Ye’re not that man anymore.

But the body doesn’t forget. The lash across his back tore through old scars. The air filled with dust and heat and ghosts. He heard his own voice, years younger, begging for mercy that never came.

When they left him, he was shaking so hard he could barely stay upright. He sank to the floor, blood slick beneath his palms.

Somewhere far away, he thought he heard Claire calling his name — not as she had in pain, but in love, the way she’d said it the first time in that heather field. He clung to it, teeth gritted.

I’m still here, Sassenach. I’ll come back to ye.

Later, an officer came with paper and ink. “Sign it,” he said simply. “Swear your loyalty and this ends.”

Jamie looked at the parchment. The words blurred through swollen eyes: I do solemnly pledge fealty to King George of Great Britain, forsaking all former allegiances.

He thought of Claire again, standing barefoot in the snow, heavy with their child. She’d crossed centuries for him once. To sign this would make that sacrifice a lie.

He shook his head.

The officer sighed. “You Highlanders never learn.” He left the paper on the table. “For when you’re ready.”

Jamie waited until the door shut, then spat blood onto the floor.

He leaned his head against the wall. The stone was cold and wet. He closed his eyes and tried to see something beyond it — the firelight on Claire’s hair, the sound of Brianna’s laughter.

He’d give anything to hear that sound again.

Time lost meaning. Morning, night, hunger, pain — it all blended into a dull roar. He spoke aloud sometimes just to remember his own voice.

He listed names, the way a drowning man might cling to driftwood. “Claire. Brianna. Fergus. The bairn. Jenny. Ian. Wee Jamie. Maggie. Kitty.”

His family. Each name a heartbeat. Each heartbeat a reason.

He imagined Claire lying in bed, her breath coming hard. He imagined Jenny wiping her brow, Ian pacing the floor below. He imagined the scream, the silence, the cry.

The visions twisted. Blood on the floorboards, the cradle empty, the priest’s prayers murmured over two graves. He saw himself kneeling beside them, unable to speak.

He struck the wall with his fist until the skin split. “No!” he shouted, his voice raw. “Ye’ll no’ take them from me again!”

The echo came back hollow, but it steadied him somehow. The walls could keep his body, but not his will.

That night the nightmares came.

He drifted in and out, each one crueler than the last. In one, Claire stood before him, her gown stained dark, her hair wet with sweat. “You weren’t there,” she said, voice soft as a knife. “You never are.”

He woke screaming, his throat torn. There was no one to hear.

He crawled toward the small window, the iron bars slick with frost. Outside, snow fell in silence. He pressed his forehead to the metal until it burned.

“Claire,” he whispered, “I swear by the blood in me — ye’ll live. Ye’ll bring the bairn safe. And I’ll find my way home.”

He didn’t know if it was prayer or madness. It might have been over already. It didn’t matter.

He said it again and again until the words lost shape, until the first faint light of morning crept across the stones.

When the guards came for him, he stood without help.

His body was wrecked, his back raw, his lip split. But his eyes were clear.

The officer glanced at him. “Ready to sign?”

Jamie looked past him, toward the door that led to the open air. “No,” he said simply. “Not now. Not ever.”

The man sighed and gestured. “Then you’ll rot here.”

Jamie smiled faintly. “I’ve done worse.”

They shoved him back into the cell. He went down hard, then rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

The pain throbbed in rhythm with his pulse, but he welcomed it. Pain meant breath. Breath meant life.

He closed his eyes. In the darkness behind them he saw Claire again — her hand on her belly, her hair catching firelight, her eyes fierce and kind all at once.

He reached toward that image as if it were a light.

Chapter Text

Days had no names in the fort.

The light came gray and went black, and between the two, there was only hunger, pain, and the endless sound of boots. Jamie no longer marked time by dawn or dusk but by the rhythm of footsteps outside his door, the scrape of the key, the clatter of tin against stone.

He’d stopped trying to count how long he’d been here. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he was still alive -- The longer he was here, the longer Lallybroch would be untouched — he was alive, though he could no longer say why.

He’d prayed at first. Then cursed. Then prayed again, until both felt the same. God had gone as silent as the walls.

They came for him on a morning when the air in the cell felt colder than breath.

Two guards. Wordless. They pulled him upright by his arms, the rope burning fresh welts into his skin, and marched him through the corridor.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t even ask where they were taking him. He already knew.

The commandant waited in the same room as before, though now the fire was larger, the air thick with smoke. A desk stood between them, parchment and quill set neatly upon it.

“Fraser,” the man said, voice even. “I’ve received word from Inverness.”

Jamie said nothing.

The officer picked up a folded paper, tapped it once against his palm, then held it out as though offering mercy. “Your property known as Broch Tuarach is to be seized. The tenants evicted. Your wife and family charged with harboring a known traitor — unless, of course, you cooperate.”

Jamie’s body went still.

“What did ye say?”

“I said the Crown grows impatient. The Act is clear. The families of rebels are liable for their crimes.” The man’s gaze flicked over him, cool and assessing. “Sign the Oath of Allegiance, and the charges will be withdrawn. Refuse, and your kin will bear the cost.”

Jamie’s mouth went dry. His thoughts stumbled — first to Claire, holding the new child, then to Brianna’s small hand in hers, Fergus holding Brianna’s other. Jenny and Ian and their children with nowhere to go. He saw them cast into the snow, the roof stripped from above them, soldiers in the house again.

The image tore something loose inside him.

“You’d threaten women and bairns?” he asked hoarsely.

The officer shrugged. “The law threatens all who defy it. But you could spare them that, Mr. Fraser. One signature.”

He slid the parchment across the desk.

Jamie stared at it. The words were simple, neatly written in ink dark as blood.

I, James Fraser of Lallybroch, do solemnly pledge fealty to His Majesty King George of Great Britain and renounce all former loyalties.

The letters blurred. He could almost hear his father’s voice — A man’s word is his bond, lad. Never give it falsely, not even to save your skin.

But this wasn’t about his skin. It was about theirs.

He saw Claire again — the last time, snow in her hair, her hand clutching her belly. He’d promised he’d come back. What good was a promise if she and the bairns starved because of it?

He shook his head once, hard. “You’ve no need to harm them,” he said. “They’ve done nothing.”

The commandant’s expression didn’t change. “Then prove your loyalty.”

Jamie’s hands trembled. He looked down at the quill, the parchment, the inkpot.

He thought of Faith — small, perfect, gone before she’d breathed. He thought of Brianna, her laugh bright as bells. Of Fergus, the wee thief he’d found in Paris, but loves him as his son, his own flesh and blood. He thought of Claire, her strength, her fire, her love that had crossed time itself to find him.

He closed his eyes.

Forgive me, mo nighean donn. I’ll live, for ye. I’ll live, though it kills me.

When he opened them, he reached for the quill. His fingers were stiff, the joints swollen from cold and blows. The nib scraped the parchment as he wrote. The first letter blurred. Blood from a split knuckle smeared into the ink.

J.
James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser.

He stopped when it was done. The officer took the paper without a word. Folded it once. Sealed it.

Jamie sat staring at his hand, the ink drying like a bruise across his skin.

The commandant spoke again, almost kindly. “You’ve done the sensible thing. You’ll be released when the paperwork’s processed.”

Jamie didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

He’d thought he’d feel relief. He felt nothing.

Back in his cell, the silence pressed against him like a tide.

He sank to his knees in the corner and bowed his head. His throat burned; the tears came hot and soundless.

“I’m sorry Da,” he whispered to the air. “Christ, I’m sorry.”

He imagined Claire again — not the vision of her he clung to for strength, but as she might’ve been a few weeks ago: pale, sweating, her body breaking itself open to bring life into the world. Alone. Because he’d failed her again.

He pictured the worst — the cradle empty, the sheets stained, Jenny’s face when she came to tell him.

Both of them gone.

He pressed his fists to his eyes until stars flared behind them. “No,” he gasped. “Please, no.”

But the thought wouldn’t leave him. It looped again and again — her scream, the silence after. The blood.

He’d buried too many ghosts to count, but hers would be the one that undid him.

Sometime later — hours, or days — he woke to the sound of wind in the chimney. The storm outside was raging; snow hurled itself against the walls.

He sat up slowly, his body aching. His back bled where the wounds had cracked open again.

He reached for the parchment in his memory — his own name written beneath a king’s. The shame of it coiled in his gut. But then he thought of Lallybroch, of Jenny’s laughter, Ian’s steady hand, Fergus’s voice calling Maman from the kitchen. He saw Brianna toddling across the floor toward her mother.

He’d signed for them. Not for the Crown. Never for the Crown.

“If my word saves ye,” he whispered, “then let it damn me.”

He sank back against the wall. His body shuddered with exhaustion, but his mind was strangely clear. He could almost smell heather on the air, could almost hear Claire’s voice saying his name.

“Soon, Sassenach,” he murmured. “Soon.”

And for the first time in weeks, he slept.

Chapter Text

The world had shrunk to her own body.

By the end week of December, Claire felt as if there were no part of her left untouched by the weight of pregnancy. Her back throbbed, her hips ached, and every rib seemed to bow beneath the bairn that had refused to leave her. Forty-one weeks … then forty-two. The days slid past like fog through the glen, each one a copy of the last.

She couldn’t bend to lace her shoes anymore—if she could even see them. Her gowns had long since stopped fitting; even Jenny’s larger dresses strained at the seams in addition to being much too short. She’d taken to wearing one of Jamie’s shirts under a shawl, which smelled faintly of woodsmoke and him. It was the only thing that made her feel remotely herself.

Her ankles were swollen, her fingers stiff. Every time she rose from a chair she groaned, and every time she lowered herself into one, she groaned again. The baby sat so low she felt as though it might tumble out with the next breath. But it never did.

Any day now, Jenny kept saying. Any day.

Claire had started to think “any day” meant never.

Snow pressed hard against the windows. The yard lay buried; even the hens had given up scratching through it. Inside, the fires burned bright, and the air hung thick with peat and stew and the damp wool of drying clothes.

Claire spent most mornings by the kitchen hearth, half-propped on a stool with her feet on the fender while Mrs. Crook clattered pots and muttered that bairns born in midwinter always took their time.

Jenny came and went like a small storm—checking on tenants, counting stores, scolding Fergus for tracking snow through the hall. She was almost eight months gone now, round and radiant in a way Claire could not manage. Claire loved her fiercely and wanted to strangle her in equal measure.

“You’re glowing,” Jenny said one afternoon, grinning.

“I’m sweating,” Claire answered flatly. “I think that’s different.”

Jenny laughed until she had to sit down. “Aye, well. You’ve always done things the hard way, sister.”

Claire rolled her eyes, though she smiled despite herself. Hard way or not, the days stretched long and thin. Each night she went to bed convinced the next would bring labor; each morning she woke to find herself still waiting, heavier than before.

Fergus tried his best to keep Brianna entertained. He’d turned the hallway into a makeshift playground, building towers from kindling and letting her knock them down. Her laughter filled the house like bells, bright and reckless.

“Maman,” Fergus said one morning, coming into the kitchen with Brianna perched on his hip. “She’s asking for Da again.”

Claire’s heart gave a sharp twist. Brianna held up her arms toward her. “Da?”

“Not yet, love,” Claire murmured, taking her daughter carefully. “Da’s away for a little while longer.”

Brianna frowned, clearly unimpressed by the delay. She pressed a small hand to Claire’s belly instead. “Baby.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Claire whispered. “The baby’s still there.”

Fergus hesitated in the doorway, watching them. He looked older these days—still only twelve, but his eyes held too much knowing.

“He’ll come home,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Da always keeps his word.”

Claire nodded, afraid to speak. If she opened her mouth, she might break.

That night, like all the others without Jamie, she couldn’t sleep. The baby moved endlessly, rolling from one side to the other as if searching for escape. Her skin felt too tight, her breath shallow. Every time she shifted, pain flared through her hips.

She rose at last and padded to the window. Outside, the moonlight glinted on the snow, making the world look forged from glass. Lallybroch lay silent under it, beautiful and indifferent.

She pressed a hand to the cold pane. “Where are you?” she whispered.

Some nights she imagined she could feel him—some echo of him moving through her, the way she had once felt him across time. It was foolish, but she clung to it anyway. If she didn’t believe he still breathed the same air somewhere, she wasn’t sure she could keep breathing herself.

The days crawled. By the second week, every hour seemed a small eternity. Even the household had grown restless; no one dared mention the possibility of bad news, but it hung in the corners like shadow.

Ian tried to lift her spirits, bringing in small comforts—a sprig of dried heather, a cup of hot milk laced with honey.

“Ye ken, Jenny’s own mam carried Jamie nearly three weeks over,” he said cheerfully. “Stubbornness runs in the family.”

“Then I’m doomed,” Claire muttered.

He chuckled, his kind eyes soft. “Ye’ll manage. The bairn’ll come when it’s ready, same as the dawn.”

She smiled faintly. “I’d rather have the dawn first.”

By now, truly nothing fit. She’d long since abandoned stays or petticoats; she wore Jamie’s shirt under a shawl and one of Jenny’s old skirts pinned with a bit of twine. Her reflection in the glass made her laugh out loud one afternoon—round as a barrel, hair wild, eyes dark with sleeplessness.

If Jamie could see her now … He’d grin, she thought, and call her mo chridhe, tell her she’d never been bonnier. She wanted to believe it. Mostly she wanted to hear his voice again.

She’d tried writing, but the words faltered after the first line. What could she say that he didn’t already know? That she missed him? That she needed him? That she was afraid? How would it even get to him?

Instead, she folded the blank paper and tucked it into the drawer of his desk. She’d tell him when he came home. He always came home.

The baby’s movements had grown slower now, deeper, pressing low enough that walking became an act of will. Even standing too long sent lightning down her thighs. Jenny caught her grimacing one afternoon and shooed her upstairs.

“Off with ye. To bed.”

“Jenny, I can’t spend another day lying down. My back—”

“Then sit, but rest ye shall.” Jenny followed her to the laird’s room, fussing with the pillows until Claire laughed.

“You’re worse than a nursemaid.”

“I’ve been one often enough,” Jenny said, grinning. “Now, do as ye’re told.”

When she left, the room fell quiet again except for the crackle of the fire. Brianna stirred in her cradle, murmuring softly. Claire reached over, brushing a curl from her forehead.

“I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered. “Mama’s not much fun these days.”

Brianna blinked awake, yawned, and reached for her. “Up?”

Claire smiled, her body protesting as she lifted her. “Just for a bit, then.”

She settled into Jamie’s old chair by the hearth, the one carved with the stag and thistle on its arms. The wood had worn smooth where his hands had rested. She ran her thumb over the groove absently, feeling the ghost of him there.

Brianna tucked herself into her mother’s side, warm and solid. She smelled of soap and wool and milk. Outside, the wind sighed against the shutters.

“Story?” she said sleepily.

“All right,” Claire murmured. “What story shall it be tonight?”

Brianna pointed toward the small shelf by the bed where Jamie kept his few books. “Da’s.”

Of course.

Claire reached for the one she knew he’d choose—the worn volume of Aesop’s Fables he’d once read aloud by candlelight, translating each tale into soft Scots until Brianna laughed herself to sleep.

She opened it and began to read, her voice low and steady. The words drifted through the quiet room, weaving around the crackle of the fire.

Brianna’s head grew heavy against her arm. Claire’s throat tightened as she looked down at her—so alive, so beautiful, so his.

She closed the book halfway through the story, unable to finish. The page blurred.

“Your Da would’ve told it better,” she whispered. Brianna made a small noise of contentment, half-asleep.

Claire kissed the top of her daughter’s head, then leaned back, eyes on the fire. The bairn within her shifted, slow and heavy. She laid a hand over it.

“Soon,” she said softly. “Please … soon.”

The flames flickered lower, the wind eased, and the house around her settled into the long hush of winter night.

She stayed there in the chair, Brianna warm against her, until the fire burned down to embers—two heartbeats moving together in the dark, waiting for the third to join them.

Chapter Text

Claire

The morning came dim and wet, a dull pewter light that barely reached across the windows. The snow had softened overnight into a heavy slush, the kind that turned every step into a small battle. Claire woke to the familiar discomfort of her own body—sore back, cramped fingers, the ache that seemed to settle in her very bones. Forty-two weeks. She had ceased to feel like a woman and more like a creature of burden, trapped inside her own skin.

Every inch of her felt stretched and swollen. Her hands tingled, her ankles disappeared into puffed softness, and the baby sat so low she could hardly take a full breath without wincing. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers during the night, but she hadn’t the strength to rise and tend it. She lay still, one hand over the mound of her belly, feeling the occasional roll of life beneath.

When the house stirred to waking, she did her best to do the same. Mrs. Crook’s footsteps padded through the hall, the faint sound of water sloshing as she filled the basins. The smell of porridge drifted upward. Downstairs, someone—likely Ian—was splitting wood, the thud of the axe steady as a heartbeat. All of it ordinary, blessedly so.

Still, the quiet inside her chest would not lift. The days had become shapeless, endless waiting, and beneath every thought lived the same question: Where are you, Jamie?

By mid-afternoon, Brianna toddled in, her curls bright against the gloom. “Mama, story?” she said, holding out the same battered book with both hands.

Claire smiled faintly. “Again? Didn’t we read this one yesterday?”

“Story,” Brianna insisted, climbing up onto her mother’s lap with the determination of a small general. Claire’s laugh turned into a groan as she adjusted her position, trying to find a place for both child and belly.

“All right,” she said, settling into Jamie’s chair by the hearth. “A story it is.”

The house was still around them; even the wind had died down. Claire began to read, her voice low and even, the words forming a rhythm that eased the restless pulse of her thoughts. Brianna leaned against her, thumb in mouth, wide eyes fixed on the page.

She didn’t hear the noise in the yard. She didn’t hear Jenny’s shout or the sudden scramble of boots across the frozen ground. The world, for that moment, was only her daughter’s warmth and the small weight pressing outward beneath her ribs.

Jamie

He had forgotten what quiet felt like.

Two days on the road from Fort William, and the sound of iron had finally left his ears. His back ached from the saddle; his wrists still bore the bruises of rope. He was thinner than he remembered being, the hollows under his eyes dark as the bruises. But he was alive—and free—and terrified.

Every mile closer to Lallybroch had been another turn of the knife. He’d imagined this ride a thousand times in the dark, every version ending the same: the house silent, the snow too clean, the cradle empty. He’d rehearsed the words he’d say when Jenny met him at the gate, how he’d ask, voice breaking, Was she safe? But no rehearsal could steady the pounding in his chest now.

The land unfolded before him, familiar and strange—the bare birches along the burn, the low stone walls, the smoke rising thin and blue against the winter sky. The scent of peat reached him first, and then the ache came, sharp and sudden. Home.

He crested the rise and saw the roofline, the glint of frost along the eaves. He reined in hard, staring, his breath catching.

“Lallybroch,” he whispered. “Christ Almighty.”

The yard was alive with movement—Jenny and Ian bent over the washing trough, steam rising in clouds; hens scratching at the slush. For one wild moment he thought he’d imagined it, that it was some fevered dream. Then Jenny straightened, saw him, and froze.

“Jamie?” she called, her voice carrying across the courtyard.

He slid from the horse before he could answer. The ground tilted beneath him; his legs felt boneless. Then she was running—skirts lifted under her belly, hair flying, her laugh breaking into a sob.

She hit him hard enough to knock the breath from his chest. He caught her, barely, arms closing around her as she wept into his shoulder.

“God’s mercy, it’s you,” she cried. “I thought—”

“Aye,” he said roughly. “So did I.”

Ian reached them then, limping but quick, his face split in a grin. “Ye look half-dead, man.”

Jamie gave a rasping laugh. “That’s generous.”

Jenny pulled back to study him. The dirt, the cuts, the eyes too hollow. Then she saw it—the fear that still clung to him like shadow. She cupped his cheek. “She’s inside.”

His throat tightened. “Claire?” he croaked. “Is she— Is the bairn–?” He couldn’t finish.

Jenny’s eyes softened, a small smile trembling at her mouth. “Go see your wee family, brother.”

Jenny

She stood rooted for a moment after he went, her heart hammering. Ian’s hand found hers, rough and warm.

“I’ll never forget the look on his face,” she murmured. “He thought they were gone.”

Ian nodded, eyes glistening. “Aye. But he’s home now. That’s what matters.”

Jenny watched him stumble toward the house, his stride uneven, his shoulders bent with exhaustion and hope. For a heartbeat she saw the lad he’d been, her baby brother —wild, laughing, so full of life he’d near burst. That boy was gone, but the man who’d replaced him still carried the same fierce heart.

Then she turned back to the washing, tears mixing with the cold water as she worked.

Claire

Brianna had laid her head down on Claire’s belly through the story, thumb still tucked in her mouth, the book sliding from Claire’s hand. Claire let her eyes drift shut, the warmth of the fire lulling her toward rest.

The creak of the door startled her. She turned, expecting Jenny—but the figure that filled the doorway made her heart stop.

He was gaunt, filthy, his clothes hanging loose, his hair unkempt. But she’d have known him anywhere.
She gasped, low and guttural.

“Jamie?” Her voice cracked on the name.

He stared at her as if she were a ghost. Then his gaze dropped—to her belly, round and full—and something in him broke. His mouth opened, but no sound came.

Brianna stirred, blinking sleepily. “Da?”

The word tore the air open. Jamie went to his knees so fast it startled them both. Brianna squealed and ran to him, and he caught her up, clutching her as if afraid she’d vanish.

“Da’s here, mo chridhe,” he whispered, his voice shaking. He buried his face in her curls, his body trembling with silent sobs.

When he looked up again, his eyes found Claire’s—and she saw everything in them: disbelief, grief, joy, and something rawer still. He set Brianna gently down and crossed the floor on unsteady legs until he reached her chair.

He dropped before her, hands reaching for hers. She was already crying.

“I thought ye were gone,” he managed. “God, Claire—I thought I’d lost ye. All of ye.”

She cupped his face, thumb tracing the dirt-streaked line of his jaw. “You’re home,” she whispered. “You’re home, Jamie.”

Still kneeling before her, Jamie caught her face between his hands. The kiss was desperate, shattering—the kind born of too many nights spent believing he’d never taste her again. She clutched at his shoulders, pulling him closer, salt and tears and breath all mingled until neither could tell whose heartbeat belonged to whom.

They slowly broke apart, Jamie shook his head as if to clear it, looking at her massive middle, tears falling freely. “I didna miss it? I canna believe it.”

“No.” She laughed through her tears. “You didn’t miss it.”

He gave a shuddering breath, pressing both hands against her belly. The bairn moved under his palms, slow and strong. His lips parted, eyes closing as he bent his forehead to her knees.

“Thank God,” he breathed. “Thank God, thank God.”

Jamie

He couldn’t seem to stop shaking. The warmth of her, the smell of smoke and milk and home—it was too much. He’d spent four weeks imagining nothing but death; now here she was, alive, her skin warm under his hands, the bairn still inside her.

“I signed the oath,” he said hoarsely, the confession spilling out. “They said they’d harm ye, take Lallybroch—so I signed. I’m sorry.”

Her fingers tightened around his. “You did what you had to.”

Jamies mouth opened like he was going to argue.

“No.” She caught his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Not again, Jamie. You protected us. You came home. That’s what matters.”

He let out a broken laugh. “Ye’re still so bloody stubborn.”

“So are you.”

Brianna crawled back into his lap, patting his beard. “Da,” she said again, as if tasting the word. He smiled through tears.

“Aye, lass. Da.”

He looked back at Claire, one hand still resting on her belly. “Ye’ve been waitin’ all this time?”

She smiled wearily. “I think we both did. I’ve come to the conclusion that we have another very stubborn Fraser on our hands.”

He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it, then pressed his forehead against her palm. “I love ye,” he whispered. “I never stopped.”

When they finally broke apart, Brianna wriggled between them with a delighted squeal. Jamie laughed through tears and gathered them both in, one arm around Claire’s waist, the other cradling their daughter. He pressed his face to the curve of Claire’s belly, his voice a broken whisper. “My lasses. My heart. All of ye.” Claire’s hands sank into his hair, and for the first time in weeks, the house held joy again.

Jenny

From the landing, Jenny watched them through the half-open door. Ian stood beside her, silent.

Jamie knelt before Claire, their bairn curled against him, the firelight wrapping them all in gold.

Jenny pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from sobbing outright. “He’s back,” she whispered.

Ian nodded. “And just in time, thank God.”

Jenny leaned against him, her own belly taut beneath her apron. “I’ll no forget this sight as long as I live.”

Ian drew back quietly, closing the door enough to give them privacy. “Come on,” he said softly. “Let them have their peace.”

Claire

Later, after the reunion with Fergus, after the rush of tears and laughter had quieted, she helped Jamie to the hearth. He moved stiffly, his body a map of bruises. She guided him to the chair next to hers, and for a long while they simply looked at one another—the silence full of everything they couldn’t yet say.

“Eat,” she said at last, pressing bread and broth into his hands.

He obeyed like a man in a dream, eyes never leaving her. “Sassenach, ye look bonnie,” he said suddenly, voice rough and adoration in his eyes.

She laughed. “You’re delirious. I look like a whale.”

He smiled faintly. “A beautiful whale, then. Truly, mo chridhe t’is the best sight I’ve ever seen.”

When Brianna woke and clambered sleepily into his lap again, he held her as though afraid to let go. Claire watched them, heart too full for words.

At length, he rose, went to her, and knelt again, resting his head against her stomach. The bairn shifted, a slow roll under his cheek. He closed his eyes and smiled.

“She’s waitin’,” he murmured.

“He or she,” Claire corrected.

“Aye. Waitin’ either way.”

He looked up, eyes shining. “Thank ye, Sassenach. For waitin’, for livin’, for bringin’ me back.”

Claire’s throat ached. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to his brow. “Always.”

Jamie

That night, after the house had gone quiet, Fergus to sleep, Jamie sat by the fire in the laird’s room, Brianna asleep against his chest, Claire dozing beside them. He studied the room—the familiar scars in the wood, the smell of peat and herbs, the faint sound of Jenny’s laughter somewhere below.

He’d thought he’d lost it all. He’d thought God had turned His face away. But here, in the soft rhythm of his daughter’s breath and the rise and fall of Claire’s shoulders, he found mercy again.

He reached out and took Claire’s hand. Her fingers curled around his, sleepy but sure.

“We’re whole,” he whispered.

She stirred, eyes half-open. “For now,” she said, smiling.

He kissed her hand. “Forever, if I can help it.”

The snow fell again outside, gentle against the window. In the dim glow of the fire, husband, wife, and child slept—together at last, the waiting done.

Chapter Text

The house had gone quiet by the time they reached the nursery.
The air still smelled faintly of stew and peat smoke, the fire downstairs banked low. The day’s noise—the laughter, the tears, the rush of reunion—had softened into something gentler, quieter.

Claire moved slowly, one hand braced at the small of her back. The weight of her belly pulled at every joint, and each step felt deliberate. Jamie walked beside her, close enough that their hands brushed with every pace.

Brianna was already drooping, thumb tucked in her mouth, her red curls a halo in the candlelight. Jamie bent to lift her from Claire’s arms, the motion careful, reverent. She stirred only faintly, her head falling against his shoulder.

“Ye’ve grown, mo nighean bheag,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to her temple. “I near forgot how small ye were, and how much of my heart ye take up.”

Claire leaned against the doorframe, watching them—father and daughter framed in firelight. The ache that filled her chest was a strange mix of love and exhaustion, the kind that made her knees weak.

They laid Brianna in her bed, tucked beneath the quilt Jenny had sewn. Claire smoothed the blanket over her with trembling hands, and Jamie stood behind her, his hand finding the curve of her hip.

“She’s peaceful,” he murmured.

Claire smiled faintly. “She gets that from you.”

“Aye, and everything else from you, I reckon, minus her face o’course.”

She laughed softly, turning her face up to him. “That seems fair.”

They stayed a moment longer, simply watching the rise and fall of Brianna’s chest, the small sighs of her dreaming. Then Claire turned toward their room, fatigue dragging at her bones.

By the time they reached the laird’s room, her body was screaming in protest. Her back, her feet, her ribs—every inch of her felt stretched to breaking. Jamie shut the door behind them and crossed to help her out of her shawl, his fingers brushing her shoulders with care.

“Sit,” he said gently. “Let me.”

“I’m quite capable—” she began, but the protest faltered when she tried to unfasten her stays and found her hands shaking too much to manage the ties.

Jamie’s hands replaced hers. “Aye, I ken ye are,” he said softly. “But ye’ve done enough alone these weeks.”

She stilled. His voice carried no pity, only quiet truth. The laces loosened under his fingers, and the pressure eased from her ribs. When he helped her slip free of the heavy skirt, she sighed, the relief almost dizzying.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s better.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, clad now in her shift, her hair a tangled halo around her face. Jamie knelt before her, his calloused hands resting lightly on her knees.

“Ye’ve done this all alone?” he asked quietly.

“Jenny helped,” she said, trying for nonchalance. “And Mrs. Crook, when she could. But—yes. Mostly.”

His jaw tightened. “I should’ve been here.”

She reached for him, touching his cheek. “You are now.”

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. For a long moment, they said nothing. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the soft patter of rain on the windowpanes.

At last he stood and began to undress, his movements slow from stiffness. She watched him, seeing the shadows of the prison still on him—the bruises fading to yellow, the lean hunger in his frame. He caught her looking and smiled faintly.

“Ye dinna look much happier to see me naked, Sassenach.”

“Don’t start,” she said, half laughing. “I’ve barely the strength to sit upright, let alone appreciate you.”

He crossed to the bed, the humor in his eyes gentling into something softer. “Then I’ll appreciate you, instead.”

“Jamie—”

He took her hand, pressing a kiss into her palm. “Ye’re beautiful,” he said simply. “Round with life, tired, fierce, and mine.”

She tried to protest, but the warmth in his gaze stole her words. He eased her back against the pillows, helping her swing her swollen legs up onto the bed. Every motion was careful, tender, as though she were made of something precious.

When he lay beside her, she felt his body tremble—not from desire, but from the sheer relief of being there, skin to skin after so long apart.

“I can’t even roll over anymore,” she said wryly. “I feel like a cow.”

He laughed kissing the back of her neck, the sound low and rough. “A bonnie cow, then.”

“Jamie.”

“Aye?”

She sighed, shifting slightly to find a comfortable spot against him. “Do you know how long were you gone?”

He was silent for a while, counting. “I lost track in that place,” he said at last. “Four weeks, maybe a bit more. It could be longer. It all ran together.”

“It’s been six weeks since the raid,” she murmured. “You’ve been gone four.”

He frowned. “Then—how far along are ye, truly? I canna tell if it’s forty-one or forty-two weeks ye’ve been saying.”

She gave a small, exasperated laugh. “Forty-two. At least. Maybe a bit more. Don’t you start counting again.”

He chuckled, though his hand rubbed soothing circles over her belly. “Ye mean the bairn’s had an extra fortnight to grow? Christ, no wonder ye look miserable.”

“I am miserable,” she said flatly. “I feel like I’ve been pregnant for years.”

He leaned close, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Then let me make it a wee bit easier tonight.”

He adjusted the blankets, settled her back, and tucked himself around her, one arm beneath her shoulders, the other curved protectively over her belly. The bairn shifted beneath his palm, slow and heavy.

“She’s still in there,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Claire said wearily. “Still in there.” Claire paused, “She?”

He smiled faintly. “Call it a hunch.”

She chuckled softly. “She’s stubborn. Like her da.”

“Like her mam,” Jamie said with a smile in his voice.

Claire closed her eyes, exhaustion tugging at her. “If you call me stubborn again, I’ll make you sleep in the nursery.”

Jamie laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Aye, Sassenach. Whatever ye say.”

They lay in silence for a while, the rhythm of their breathing matching. Outside, the wind rose again, rattling the shutters. Jamie’s thumb traced lazy circles on her skin, a small, wordless promise that he was there, that he’d stay.

At last, her voice came soft and thick with sleep. “Don’t leave me again.”

“Never,” he said. “Ye’ve my word.”

Her hand found his and held it against her belly. “She’ll come soon.”

“Aye,” he whispered. “When she’s ready.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair, breathed in the scent of her—herbs and smoke and something that was only her. For the first time in weeks, he let his eyes close, the weight of the world easing as she drifted against him.

She slept soundly but fitfully, the bairn shifting, her body restless. Each time she stirred, Jamie murmured something—half in English, half in Gaelic—soft words of comfort. He’d move his hands to wherever seemed like she was hurting, and Claire would drift off to sleep. When the dawn came pale and cold, they were still wrapped together, her hand over his heart, his breath stirring the curls at her temple.

And for a few fragile hours, the world was only peace.

Chapter Text

Jamie woke to movement.

One heartbeat he was dreaming — the soft weight of Claire against him, the warmth of her skin under his arm — and the next she was sitting bolt upright, gasping.
The blankets shifted; everything came into focus with the feel of liquid spilling across the sheets.

“Jamie,” she said, voice low, startled, “my waters have broken.”

For a blink he only stared, still half-lost in the fog of sleep, then he was up, hands on her shoulders.
“What? Christ— are ye sure?”

She gave him a look so purely Claire that it made him laugh even as his stomach dropped.
“I think I’d know the difference between that and a spilled cup of water,” she said through a tight breath, already pushing her hair back.

The wet sheets steamed faintly in the chill of the room. Jamie fumbled for the candle on the table, his hands clumsy with sudden urgency. Flame caught, throwing light over the bed, over her — the curve of her belly, the damp hem of her shift, her face pale but steady.

“Are ye in pain?” he asked, voice gone hoarse.

“A little,” she admitted. “The contractions have started.”

“How far apart are they?” he asked.

“They’ve only just started,” she said, wincing as another ripple passed through her. “But they’re strong.”

He was already moving — He swore softly in Gaelic throwing on his shirt, stoking the fire, grabbing the wool blanket from the chest.
“I’ll fetch the midwife.”

“No. One of the tenants told Ian this week that she’s broken her leg and can’t travel.” Claire rambled out.

Jamies eyes expanded, “I’ll get Jenny then”, Jamie suggested, desperate to find a solution to Claire’s pain.

“Not yet,” she said quickly. “Let her sleep a bit longer. It may still be a while.”

Jamie turned back to her, incredulous. “Ye’re tellin’ me to wait? Sassenach, ye’re— you’re— forty-two bloody weeks gone!”

She smiled faintly despite the contraction. “Yes, well, the baby’s got your sense of timing. And if I’ve waited this long, another hour won’t kill me.”

“Christ preserve me,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You women are all the same — mad as hares, every one.”

“Go put more wood on the fire,” she said serenely. “And stop hovering.”

He did as he was told — or tried to. Every movement felt too slow, too loud. He added peat to the hearth, then found himself pacing the room, glancing toward her every few seconds as though she might vanish if he looked away.

She watched him, half amused, half touched. “Jamie, sit down before you wear a hole in the floor.”

“I canna sit,” he said helplessly. “How can ye expect me to sit when— when—”

“When I’m in early labor,” she supplied dryly. “It’s hardly the end of the world.”

He stared at her for a moment, then gave a strangled laugh. “You’re remarkable, ye ken that?”

“I’m enormous,” she said, grimacing as another contraction rippled through her. “And if you say anything poetic about it, I’ll hit you.”

He managed to wait nearly an hour before waking Jenny.

By then the contractions had grown sharper, closer. Claire had stopped pretending to be calm. When the next one came, she gripped the bedpost so hard her knuckles went white, her breath coming quick through clenched teeth.

Jamie was beside her in an instant, one hand on her back. “Breathe, mo chridhe. Just breathe.”

“I am breathing,” she snapped. “You’re the one holding your breath.”

He let out a nervous laugh that sounded more like a cough. “Maybe I am.”

When the wave passed, she sank back onto the bed, hair plastered to her forehead. “All right,” she said between breaths. “Now you can wake...”

He was gone before she finished the sentence.

Jenny was already stirring when he burst through the door. She took one look at him — hair wild, shirt half-buttoned, face pale as milk — and was out of bed before he spoke.

“Claire?” she asked, pulling on her gown.

“Aye,” he said. “Her waters broke.”

Jenny tied her apron, already moving. “How far apart?”

“Five minutes. Maybe less. I dinna ken.”

She nodded briskly, gathering linen towels, the kettle, the small box of herbs Claire had prepared weeks ago. “We’ll need boiling water, clean sheets, and ye to stop lookin’ like a spooked horse.”

“I canna—” He swallowed hard. “I canna lose her, Jenny.”

She stopped and looked at him, her expression softening. “Ye won’t.”

He nodded once, hard, and followed her back to his room.

The laird’s room was warm and bright when they entered, the fire blazing. Claire was pacing — or trying to — one hand pressed to her back. She looked up as they came in, relief flooding her face.

“Morning,” she said through clenched teeth.

Jenny grinned. “So it is, and high time too. Ye’ve carried that bairn longer than a Highland winter.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Jenny set her things down and felt Claire’s belly with practiced hands. “Head’s low. She’s ready enough. Jamie, fetch the kit from the cupboard.”

He moved before she finished speaking, thrusting the bundle into her hands. Jenny looked at him. “And you—out.”

He blinked. “Out?”

“Aye, out. Ye’re in the way.”

“I’ll no leave her.”

Jenny huffed. “Men. Ye’ll only faint when the blood comes.”

“I wilna,” he said flatly.

Claire, caught between a laugh and a moan, reached for him. “He stays.”

Jenny rolled her eyes but said nothing more. “Fine, then. Keep to the head end and do as I tell ye.”

Later, Claire rose from the chair by the hearth, trying to walk through the tightening ache in her back.
“Maybe if I keep moving, it’ll—”

Her sentence broke off in a gasp. The room tilted; her knees buckled.

Jamie was there in a flash, catching her under the arms before she could fall. “Easy, mo nighean donn,” he murmured, holding her upright. “I’ve got ye.”

“I’m fine,” she managed, though her voice trembled. “Just dizzy—oh.”

Her weight sagged against him, and without thinking he swept her into his arms. “Aye, ye’re no fine. Come here.”

“Jamie!” she protested, breathless and laughing weakly. “Stop, you’ll put your back out.”

He grinned, carrying her toward the bed as though she weighed nothing. “Ye could be the size of a house, and I’d still carry ye, Sassenach. It’s my penance for what got ye here.”

Despite the pain, she laughed, clutching at his shoulders. “If you make one more joke like that, I really will strangle you.”

He laid her gently on the bed, smoothing her hair from her damp forehead. “Aye, but ye smiled. That’s worth the risk.”

She looked down at herself—her belly high and hard under her shift—and shook her head. “I’ve never been this big in my life. If she doesn’t come soon, I think I’ll burst.”

Jamie bent and kissed the curve of her stomach. “Then let her hear me tell her it’s time. Come along, wee one. Yer ma is ready to meet ye.”

Hours blurred into one another. The room grew hot with fire and steam, smelling of herbs and sweat. Jamie fetched water, wiped her brow, held her through every pain. He spoke to her softly in Gaelic, old words of comfort he barely remembered learning.

When she trembled, he steadied her; when she swore, he smiled; when she wept, he kissed the tears from her face.

Jenny moved briskly around them, cool and capable, her sleeves rolled up. “Ye’re near there, Claire,” she said each time she checked. “The bairn’s workin’ her way down.”

Claire’s hair was plastered to her temples, her hands white-knuckled around Jamie’s. “I can’t do this again,” she whispered once.

“Aye, ye can,” he said fiercely. “Ye already are.”

She gave him a look full of fire and pain and love all at once and bore down again.

By late morning, the house had fully woken. Fergus had been sent for fresh towels; Ian paced the hall, muttering prayers; the children were kept busy below with bread and honey. In the laird’s room the world had narrowed to breath and heartbeat, the slow rhythm of labour.

Jamie refused to leave her side. Even when Jenny snapped at him to give them space, he stayed kneeling at Claire’s shoulder, one hand braced behind her, the other gripping hers.

“I said out!” Jenny barked when another contraction hit, and Claire cried out.

“I can hear fine from here,” he answered without looking up. “She needs me.”

Jenny’s glare could have melted iron. “Then keep out of my light, at least.”

He obeyed, ducking his head, whispering to Claire, “She’s only mean because she loves ye.”

“I know,” Claire gasped. “And because I’m shouting at her.”

Jamie laughed, a strangled sound that broke into something like a sob. “Aye, that too.”

Between contractions she leaned against him, her breath warm on his throat. “How long has it been?” she murmured.

He glanced toward the window. “Since dawn.”

“So hours, then.”

“Aye.” He brushed a curl from her damp forehead. “Ye’re doing grand, Sassenach. Brave as ever.”

She smiled weakly. “You always say that when I look a fright.”

“Then it’s true twice over.”

The next contraction tore through her like a wave. She cried out, clutching his hand so tightly he felt bones grind. Jenny crouched low, voice calm but urgent. “That’s it, love. Bear down now. Again. Good lass.”

Claire obeyed, teeth clenched, the sound half-snarl, half-cry. Jamie whispered her name again and again, as though it might carry her through.

Between pushes, she sagged back, trembling. “How much longer?”

Jenny’s smile was fierce. “Not long now. The bairn’s near ready to greet her da.”

Jamie’s heart leapt. “She’s coming?”

“Aye, she’s comin’. Now hush and let your wife work.”

He bent his head to Claire’s ear. “Hear that, mo chridhe? She’s nearly here.”

Claire’s laugh broke on a sob. “About bloody time.”

The next pain gathered fast, a rising storm. Claire cried out, bearing down with every ounce of strength left. Jamie held her, murmuring words he couldn’t remember later—Gaelic prayers, English pleas, her name like a chant.

Jenny’s voice cut through the noise. “Again, Claire. Now!”

A final cry, raw and wordless—then silence.

Then the small, sharp wail that shattered the air.

For a moment no one moved. Then Jenny was laughing, weeping, wrapping the slick, red-faced bairn in linen.

“She’s here!” Jenny said, breathless. “A bonnie lass indeed.”

Jamie’s vision blurred. He looked down at Claire, her head fallen back, eyes closed, tears streaking her cheeks. “Ye did it,” he whispered.

Her lips curved into a wide smile, “Finally.”

Jenny placed the newborn in Claire’s arms, and Jamie sank beside them, shaking. The bairn’s cries softened as Claire guided her to nurse, small hands flailing until she found what she sought.

Jamie stared, unable to speak. The weight of it—the sound, the smell, the miracle—filled him to the brim.

“She’s perfect,” Claire whispered.

He nodded, unable to look away. “Aye. Just like her mother.”

Jenny wiped her hands and straightened, smiling through tears. “I’ll leave ye to it, then. There’s broth on the fire when ye’re ready.”

As she left, Jamie caught her arm. “Thank ye, Jenny.”

She squeezed his hand. “Ye owe me nothing, brother. Go on. Spend time wi’ your daughter.”

When the door closed, he turned back to them—Claire pale but radiant, the bairn cradled against her. He reached out, brushing a finger along the soft curve of his daughter’s cheek.

“Welcome home, wee one,” he whispered.

Claire looked up, eyes full of love and exhaustion. “We did it,” she said softly.

He bent to kiss her, slow and reverent. “Ye did it.”

Outside, the winter sun broke through the clouds, spilling light across the floorboards. Inside, the world had narrowed once more to three hearts beating in rhythm—the beginning of everything again.

Chapter Text

The house had finally gone still.
Downstairs, Jenny’s voice murmured to the children; a door closed, the floorboards creaked, and then all was quiet but the faint hiss of the hearth.

Jamie sat beside the bed, elbows on his knees, watching his wife sleep. The light from the fire caught her hair, turning it to gold where it spilled across the pillow. She was pale, utterly spent, but her breathing was steady, her face peaceful. After the storm of this morning, the quiet felt almost unreal.

He looked down at the bundle in his arms and felt his throat close.

The bairn slept soundly, her small lips pursed, her tiny hand curled around his thumb. Her skin was soft as milk, her hair—fine, copper-dark—shone in the firelight. The weight of her was astonishing: hardly more than a loaf of bread, yet she seemed to anchor him to the earth.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

He hadn’t known what to expect. Every time he’d let himself imagine it during the long weeks in prison, it had ended in grief—Claire’s face gone still, the cradle empty. To sit here now, with both of them safe, was more than he could hold. He bent his head and kissed the bairn’s soft temple, his tears soaking into her hair.

It had been a long, hard morning, but nothing like the first time. Brianna’s birth had stretched into nearly eighteen hours of pain and fear—this one, though fierce, had been mercifully swift, less than half the time, as if Claire’s body had remembered the way and hurried to meet it. He thanked God for that, too.

“You waited for me,” he whispered. “God bless ye for that.”

Claire stirred then, her lashes fluttering. “Jamie?”

He looked up at once, smiling through the wetness on his cheeks. “Aye, love. We’re both here.”

She pushed herself up slightly, wincing. “Let me see her.”

He rose carefully, crossing to her side and easing the bundle into her arms. Claire exhaled, a soft, reverent sound, and brushed a finger along the baby’s chubby cheek.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Look at her.”

Jamie sat beside her, their shoulders touching. “She’s got your mouth,” he said softly. “And that wee crease between your brows when she frowns.”

Claire smiled, tears slipping down her face. “And your eyes.”

He looked closer. Aye—Fraser eyes indeed, slanted, clear and blue as a June sky, the same as his father’s, his sister’s, Brianna’s. “She’s a Fraser, right enough,” he murmured.

“And her hair,” Claire said, brushing the tiny curls. “A few shades darker than Brianna’s. I think she’ll keep the red.”

Jamie’s heart twisted with pride and awe. “Two fiery-headed lasses. God help me.”

“She has my chin, I think,” Claire added, smiling faintly.

He laughed, low and tender, and kissed her temple. “Aye, she’s perfect, a combination o’ the two of us.”

For a long while they said nothing more. The fire burned low, the wind sighing against the shutters. Claire traced the baby’s fingers, marveling at their tiny perfection. Jamie’s hand rested over hers, rough palm against her smooth skin.

“She’s so small,” Claire whispered. “I forget how small they are at first.”

Jamie bent closer, eyes soft. “Aye… though she’s a fair sight bigger than Bree was. That one could fit in the crook of my arm like a sparrow.”

Claire gave a tired laugh. “And this one?”

He smiled, pride and wonder flickering together. “This one’s got weight to her. Feels like she’s already decided she belongs here.”

Claire looked down at the baby, heart twisting. “She has.”

Jamie brushed his thumb along her tiny hand. “Then she’s wiser than most.”

Claire nodded, watching the rise and fall of the bairn’s chest. “She looks like you when she sleeps.”

“Poor lass,” he said again, and she laughed weakly, leaning against him.

After a moment she said quietly, “I couldn’t sleep while you were gone.”

He turned to her, brow furrowing. “Not at all?”

“Barely, a few hours here and there.” Her fingers smoothed the edge of the blanket, eyes distant. “Every time I closed my eyes, I’d see you—cold, hungry, bleeding. I think… my body just wouldn’t rest while you were away.”

Jamie’s throat tightened. “And last night?”

She smiled faintly, still watching the baby. “Last night, you were home. My heart stopped waiting—and so did she.”

He stared at her, the truth of it sinking deep. “So she waited for me.”

Claire looked up, eyes glimmering. “We both did.”

He bent and kissed her softly, tasting salt and peace. “I thank God ye did, mo chridhe.”

They fell quiet again, the kind of silence that felt whole rather than empty.
The bairn stirred, a small, restless movement, her lips parting in a tiny sigh. Claire smiled down at her. “She’ll be hungry soon.”

“Let her take her time,” Jamie said gently. “She’s had a long journey.”

“She certainly has.” Claire traced the baby’s cheek with her finger. “I never thought I’d carry her so long. Forty-two weeks. She must’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

Jamie chuckled softly. “A Fraser to the bone, then—never hasty, always sure.”

She gave him a look.

“Ye ken I’m right.”

When the baby began to stir again, Claire guided her close to nurse. The small, instinctive tug steadied her. Jamie leaned closer, his arm wrapping around both of them.

“She knows ye already,” he whispered.

“She’s known me for months,” Claire murmured. “Known the both of us.”

He smiled, full of warmth, “I’ll certainly no forget our first meeting.”

The bairn nursed softly, her tiny hand resting against Claire’s breast. Jamie watched her with open wonder. “She’s fierce for such a wee thing.”

Claire laughed softly. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“Aye, well, she’s your daughter, after all.”

When the baby had settled again, Jamie brushed his thumb across her downy head. “Have ye thought what we’ll call her, Sassenach?”

Claire looked up, thoughtful. “I have a few ideas. I thought about names while you were gone—something to make her part of both our families.”

Jamie’s expression gentled. “Tell me.”

She hesitated, smiling faintly. “Julia—for my mother. She died when I was young. I don’t remember her much, but I want our daughter to carry her name.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “I’ve not heard a name like that before, it’s beautiful.”

“And Janet—for Jenny,” Claire continued. “I couldn’t have gotten through this pregnancy without her, especially these last weeks.”

Jamie grinned with adoration and appreciation for his sister. “She’ll be pleased to hear it.”

Jamie’s fingers brushed over the baby’s tiny hand. “And Elizabeth—yer middle name. To tie it all together.”

“Julia Janet Elizabeth Fraser,” Jamie repeated, slow and reverent, tasting every word. “It’s beautiful, mo nighean donn.”

Claire smiled, weary and luminous. “I think it suits her.”

He leaned in and kissed her brow. “Aye. It does.”

As evening set in, the fire crackled low, and snow began to fall outside. The baby slept between them, her breath steady and small.
Jamie reached out and rested his hand on both of them — wife and daughter, warmth and heartbeat and home.

“My girls,” he whispered, voice breaking. “My life.”

Claire’s eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep. “We can rest now.”

“Aye,” he said softly. “At last.”

And with that, the last of the night settled into peace — the kind that comes only after the longest waiting, and the deepest love.

Chapter Text

The next morning sun had slipped low, spilling gold across the floorboards. The fire whispered in the grate; somewhere downstairs came the faint thud of children’s feet and the muffled bark of a dog. For the first time since dawn, Claire felt strong enough to sit upright without Jamie’s arm behind her.

He stood near the cradle, straightening the blanket on it for the hundredth time.
“She’s fine,” Claire teased softly.

He turned, smiling sheepishly. “Aye, I ken that. I just—”
“You just need to do something with your hands,” she finished for him. “Go on, then. Bring them in.”

Jamie hesitated. “Ye’re sure ye’re ready?”

Claire glanced down at Julia, still nursing drowsily. “They’ve waited long enough.”

Fergus and Brianna

Jamie went first to fetch them. He found Fergus pacing outside the door, one hand clasping Brianna’s to keep her still. The boy looked taller than Jamie remembered—nervous, proud, his dark eyes bright with curiosity.

“Is Maman well?” Fergus asked immediately.

“Aye,” Jamie said, grinning. “She’s tired, but strong as ever. And the bairn’s a bonnie lass.”

Brianna tugged at his sleeve. “Baby?”

Jamie scooped her up, kissing her curls. “Aye, mo chridhe. Come meet your sister.”

Inside, the firelight wrapped the room in a gentle glow. Claire looked up as they entered, her smile faint but radiant.

“Maman!” Fergus breathed, rushing to the bedside. “You’re all right.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she assured him, reaching to touch his cheek. “Better now that you’re here.”

His gaze dropped to the bundle in her arms. “She’s so small,” he whispered.

“Smaller than you were Fergus,” Jamie said, easing Brianna onto the bed beside Claire.

Brianna leaned forward at once, eyes wide. “Baby?” she said again.

“Careful,” Claire murmured, guiding her daughter’s hand. “Gentle touches, love.”

Brianna’s tiny fingers brushed Julia’s blanket. “She’s soft,” she announced solemnly.

Jamie laughed. “Aye, she is that.”

Fergus leaned closer, wonder plain on his face. “She has da’s eyes,” he said softly.

Jamie smiled, hearing the old title and feeling its affection rather than formality. “Aye, lad. But I think she’s got her mother’s face.”

Claire nodded, her gaze tender. “And your heart, Fergus. She’ll need her big brother to teach her about mischief and manners both.”

He blushed, ducking his head. “Oui, Maman.”

Jamie ruffled his hair. “Another wee sister, what do think of that lad?”

Fergus grinned shyly. “Another sister is a gift, I will protect her.”

Brianna reached toward him as if approving the vow. “Fer’us hold?” she asked.

Claire smiled, shifting the baby carefully into Fergus’s arms. He froze at first, then cradled her as though she were made of glass. Julia stirred, opening her eyes briefly—deep blue, unfocused, the color of the sea.

“She looks like you, da,” Fergus murmured, awe in every syllable.

Jamie swallowed hard. “Aye, lad. So she does.”

Quiet Between Parents

After Fergus and Brianna had been coaxed away—Fergus carrying the story of meeting their sister to Jenny, Brianna skipping beside him—Jamie closed the door again and turned back to the bed. The sudden silence rang sweet and strange.

Claire was watching him. “You look like you’ve run ten miles.”

He smiled, sinking into the chair beside her. “I feel as though I have. God, Sassenach, did ye see Brianna’s face? She looked ready to climb into the cradle wi’ the bairn.”

Claire laughed softly. “I did. I think she’ll be a marvelous sister—if a bit possessive.”

Jamie brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “And Fergus—he held her as though she were holy. I near wept.”

“You nearly did,” she said, amused.

He chuckled, then grew quiet, his eyes lingering on Julia. “She’s perfect. Every bit of her.”

“She really is.” Claire’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t think my heart could stretch any farther, and yet it has.”

Jamie reached for her hand. “We’ve more love than sense between us, I think.”

“That’s never been a secret,” she said, smiling through tears.

The Family Gathers

A soft knock interrupted them. Jenny’s voice came through the door. “Are ye ready for visitors, or shall I chase them back downstairs?”

“Come in,” Claire called.

The door opened to reveal a full procession—Jenny and Ian first, then Wee Jamie peeking from behind his father’s leg, Maggie clutching a doll, and Kitty toddling after them with Fergus and Brianna bringing up the rear. The air seemed to brighten with the sound of so many feet and whispers.

“Well, then,” Jenny said, beaming. “Let’s see this wee miracle.”

Jamie took the baby from Claire and held her out carefully for inspection. Jenny gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Claire,” she whispered. “She’s beautiful.”

Ian peered over her shoulder, grinning. “She’s got the Fraser eyes and Jamies hair.”

Jamie laughed, passing Julia into Jenny’s arms. “Aye, but her mother’s claimin’ the rest of her.”

Jenny cooed at the baby, tears bright in her eyes. “And what do ye call this bonnie creature?”

Claire and Jamie exchanged a glance. “Julia,” Claire said softly. “Julia Janet Elizabeth Fraser.”

Jenny blinked hard. “Janet?”

“Aye,” Jamie said. “For you, sister.”

She looked up sharply, eyes wet, then laughed through them. “I’ll no say I’m speechless, but it’s close enough. Thank ye.”

Wee Jamie tugged her sleeve. “Is she the new cousin?”

“She is,” Jenny told him. “Be gentle now.”

The children crowded close, Maggie whispering that the baby smelled like biscuits, Kitty trying to pat her blanket until Fergus caught her small hand. The laughter that followed filled every corner of the room.

For a while it was all movement and noise—questions, blessings, small hands reaching and retreating. Then one by one they drifted back downstairs, leaving only Jenny behind to tidy a corner of the bedclothes.

Before she left, she bent and kissed Claire’s cheek. “She’s perfect, sister,” she said softly. “Rest now. Ye’ve earned it.”

Evening Quiet

When the door closed again, Claire sank back against the pillows, eyes heavy. Jamie watched her a moment longer, then leaned to kiss her hand.

“The house feels full again,” he said.

“It does,” she murmured. “Full of noise and love and far too many small feet.”

He smiled, lowering himself beside her. “Would ye have it any other way?”

She shook her head. “Never.”

They lay together in the hush that followed. Julia stirred once, a small sound, then settled again between them. Outside, the last light of day faded into snow, and the hearth glowed steady and warm.

Jamie brushed a finger over the baby’s hair. “Welcome home, Julia Janet Elizabeth Fraser,” he whispered. “Ye’ve made us whole.”

Claire smiled faintly, her eyes closing. “You already did that,” she murmured.

He drew her close, their daughter nestled safely between them. The wind moaned softly through the eaves, but inside Lallybroch there was only peace, love, and the gentle breathing of the new life they’d waited so long to meet.

Chapter Text

The days slipped past in a blur of firelight and footsteps, the rhythm of life reshaping itself around the newest Fraser.

Julia was a beautiful child, but she was not an easy one. She slept in fits and starts, her cries carrying through every beam and corridor of Lallybroch. Nothing soothed her for long—except Jamie.

When he lifted her from the cradle, the fussing would still at once, her tiny head nestling under his chin, her hand clutching his shirt. He would pace the room with her, humming old Highland airs under his breath, until her breathing steadied again.

Claire would lie back against the pillows, torn between amusement and exhaustion. “You do realize,” she told him one bleary morning, “you’ve created a monster.”

Jamie smiled faintly, rocking the baby as she drifted into half-sleep. “If she’s a monster, she’s mine. And I’ll gladly be devoured.”

Recovery

It was nearly a week before Claire was able to stand without the world spinning. The first bath came as both blessing and trial.

Jamie carried the kettle from the hearth, steam curling in the cold air, and poured it gently into the copper tub. Claire sat nearby, swaddled in her robe, the fatigue still heavy in her bones.

“Ye should let Jenny help,” Jamie said quietly, testing the water with his hand.

“She has her hands full as it is,” Claire replied, tugging at her braid. “Besides, I’d rather you did.”

He smiled at that, eyes warm. “Then I’ll be careful.”

The warmth of the water was almost unbearable at first, her skin too sensitive, her muscles too weak. But when he eased her down and began to pour water over her shoulders with a small pitcher, she let out a sigh that bordered on a sob.

Jamie knelt beside the tub, his hands gentle. “You’ve done enough battles for one lifetime, Sassenach,” he murmured.

“It’s part of the cost,” she said softly. “But I’d pay it twice over for her.”

He looked at her a long time, then leaned forward to kiss her temple. “Aye. I ken that well.”

When she stood again, his hands steadying her, she saw her reflection in the rippled surface—pale, lined with exhaustion, but alive.

Alive, and whole.

The Sound of Winter

Outside, December deepened into cold and silence. The Redcoat ban on Scottish celebrations still held, the echoes of rebellion too near for comfort. But the people of Lallybroch were Highlanders to their bones; though they would not dance or light great fires for Hogmanay, there were still small acts of defiance—a hidden dram here, a loaf shared there, a quiet song hummed under one’s breath.

The bannock dough rose in secret on hearthstones, and Jenny muttered blessings under her breath as she kneaded. “If they think they can take our new year, they’re daft,” she said, wiping flour on her apron. “We’ll celebrate in the marrow, if nowhere else.”

Claire smiled, watching her from the chair by the fire, Julia drowsing against her shoulder. “And the baby?”

Jenny paused, one hand on her back. “He’s growin’. Fast.”

Claire glanced down at the swell of her sister-in-law’s belly—larger, rounder than it should have been, even for eight months. The skin stretched tight beneath Jenny’s gown, the shape of it wide rather than high.

“Jenny,” she said softly. “May I?”

Jenny nodded, lowering herself carefully into a chair. Claire knelt, pressing her hands lightly over the curve. The warmth pulsed under her palms; beneath it, movement—steady and strong, but not in one place.

Another flutter. Then another.

Claire’s brows lifted. “I really think it may be twins.”

Jenny’s eyes widened. “Ye’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be without a proper examination,” Claire said. “But the size, the movement… I’d wager it’s two.”

Jenny leaned back, half laughing, half exclaiming under her breath. “Lord help me. Two more. Ian wilna ken what to do.”

Claire smiled. “He’ll be delighted. Once he’s recovered from the shock.”

The Men

That same evening, downstairs in the study, Ian poured two small glasses of whisky. The fire burned low, casting light over the maps and ledgers spread across the desk.

“Ye’ve the look of a man who hasna slept in days,” he said, passing one glass to Jamie.

Jamie chuckled wearily. “That’s because I havena. Julia’s lungs would rouse the dead.”

Ian grinned. “Aye, I’ve heard. The bairn’s strong, that’s sure.”

Jamie stared into his glass. “She’ll no take milk from Claire half the time. She cries if I leave the room. God help me, I’m proud and half-mad both.”

Ian laughed softly. “Ye’ve the mark of a true father.”

For a moment, they drank in silence. Then Ian said, almost hesitant, “Jenny’s gettin’ big.”

Jamie looked up. “Aye, she’s far along now, is she no?”

“She is. But it’s more than that.” Ian frowned. “She’s bigger than she was wi’ Kitty at this stage. I keep tellin’ her to rest, but she just laughs and says she’s fine.”

Jamie smiled faintly. “She’ll do as she pleases. She always has.”

Ian sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Aye, but it’s strange. It’s as though she’s carryin’ the whole of Lallybroch in there.”

Jamie chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Then may God grant ye the strength for what’s to come. I’ve one that screams to shake the rafters, and ye’ve another on the way—perhaps two, if the Lord’s got a sense of humor.”

Ian groaned. “Dinna say such things, man.”

Jamie grinned. “I said if.”

But as the fire crackled between them, both men fell quiet again—thinking of their wives, their children, and the fragile peace they were all clinging to in the heart of winter.

Upstairs, Julia whimpered in her cradle, and Claire stirred. Jamie rose from his chair with a sigh, setting aside the empty glass.

“She wants ye again?” Ian asked, amused.

Jamie smiled tiredly. “Aye. I’m doomed, but it’s a sweet sort o’ doom.”

He left the room, his footsteps soft on the stairs, and when he reached the laird’s chamber, the crying had already softened at the sound of his voice.

He lifted the bairn and held her close, humming an old song of his mother’s until her tiny breaths came steady again. Claire watched from the bed, her heart swelling at the sight of him—tall, weary, strong, and utterly undone by love.

And when she finally drifted back to sleep, it was to the rhythm of Jamie’s quiet singing, the lullaby carrying through the winter night.

Chapter Text

Snow lay deep around Lallybroch by the time the old year gave way to the new. The hills were white to their roots, the burns frozen under glass. The government’s ban on Hogmanay hung over the Highlands like a shroud, but no decree could strip the rhythm of time itself from the people. At Lallybroch, there would be no fiddles, no dancing, no whisky shared in the open air. Still, when the night came, the fire burned brighter, and supper stretched a little longer.

Jenny and Ian had saved a bit of butter and oatcake from the autumn stores, and a small joint of salted pork that had escaped the Redcoats’ last raid. Claire helped where she could, though her strength had yet to return. She moved carefully between the kitchen and the hearth, Julia strapped against her chest, Brianna clutching her skirts, offering more direction than labor.

Jenny scolded her half-heartedly. “Ye’re no fit for work yet, woman. Sit before ye fall over.”

Claire smiled tiredly, lowering herself into the chair by the hearth. “I’ve been sitting for nearly a month, Jenny. I’ll go mad if I don’t do something useful.”

Jenny’s laughter softened the edge of her words. “Useful’s overrated. Look at your wee lass there—she’s doing enough to keep the whole house awake.”

Julia whimpered at that, as if on cue. Brianna leaned over to peek at her, whispering, “Shh, baby,” with all the authority of a big sister. Fergus looked up from peeling turnips, grinning. “She only listens to da, I think. No one else has the magic voice.”

Claire rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Unfortunately, you’re right.”

Jamie entered then, snow on his shoulders, cheeks flushed from the cold. He brushed off his coat and bent to kiss Claire’s hair. “Ye’ve disobeyed orders again,” he murmured.

“She threatened me,” she whispered back, tilting her head toward Jenny, who was pretending not to listen.

Jamie laughed quietly, and for a moment the room felt full—warm and ordinary and alive. They ate together that night by candlelight, saying little of what they’d lost and more of what they still had. Fergus carved slivers of the pork, handing a portion to each child before himself. The bairns whispered and giggled, their voices a balm against the howling wind.

After supper, Claire sat near the fire, Julia in her arms. Brianna climbed into her lap too, tangling her legs around her mother and pressing close to the baby. Fergus joined them on the rug, tracing patterns in the ashes with a stick.

“Will she always cry so much, Maman?” he asked.

“I hope not,” Claire said softly. “But it means her lungs are strong, and strong is good.”

Brianna looked up. “Bairn strong?”

Jamie crouched beside them, resting a hand on her head. “Aye, mo nighean ruadh. Strong as the heather that grows on the hills.”

Brianna seemed satisfied, turning back to her doll. Fergus smiled faintly, humming under his breath. For a moment, it was peace itself.

That night, after the house had gone quiet, the peace shattered.

The dream came on without warning. One moment Jamie was standing in the heather, wind in his hair, and the next the air was thick with smoke.

He heard the crack of muskets before he saw them—saw the line of redcoats shimmering through the fog, the clang of steel, the smell of blood and iron. His sword was already in his hand.

“Murtagh!” he shouted, but his godfather was ahead of him, cutting down a soldier, shouting something Jamie couldn’t hear. Then Murtagh was gone from view.

The field rippled with bodies. He turned, searching for Claire—he knew she shouldn’t be there, knew it was madness—but in dreams the past never listened. She was running toward him, her skirts heavy with mud, her face streaked with soot and tears. He reached for her, but when their fingers touched, she vanished, and the smoke swallowed her whole.

Then came Randall. Not alive, not dead—just there, the face pale as bone, eyes like coals. He smiled the way he had in the cell at Wentworth, soft and terrible.

“Still fighting ghosts, Fraser?”

Jamie swung his sword, but it passed through air. His feet slipped in the blood-slick mud, the world narrowing to the pounding in his chest. The smell was wrong now—damp stone, rot, the stench of the prison. Chains bit his wrists; the cold seeped into his bones. A voice somewhere shouted his name, another screamed in pain.

He saw Claire again—lying pale on the floor, blood blooming beneath her—and Brianna, small and red-haired, crying in the corner. He tried to crawl to them, but his body wouldn’t move. Someone laughed, low and cruel. “Too late, Jamie lad. Always too late.”

He roared, struggling against the chains until his throat tore. Then the world broke apart, sound and light collapsing into blackness.

Claire woke to the sound of Jamie’s breathing—ragged, uneven. The moonlight spilled faintly across the bed, catching the sweat on his skin. His hands gripped the sheets, his body rigid.

“Jamie,” she whispered, touching his arm. He didn’t stir. His lips moved soundlessly, a low groan caught in his throat.

“Jamie,” she said more firmly, shaking him.

He woke with a gasp, sitting upright, eyes wild. For a heartbeat he didn’t seem to know where he was. Then his gaze found her face, the firelight, the cradle beside the bed. The fight drained from him all at once, and he clutched her to him.

“God,” he whispered, pressing both hands to his face. “It was Culloden again.”

Claire’s heart clenched. “Tell me.”

He drew a shuddering breath. “It’s always the same—Randall, the smoke, the mud. I hear Murtagh shouting behind me, then nothing. Then… the prison. The dark.” He turned to her, eyes raw. “I thought I’d left it behind, Claire, but it followed me home.”

She moved closer, pulling his head to her shoulder. “You did leave it behind. You came home to us.”

He shook his head slightly. “I can still hear them. The men dying. Murtagh’s voice. Sometimes I think I hear yours too.”

“Then hear this,” she whispered into his ear. “You’re home. You’re safe. You kept your promise.”

He was quiet for a long time, the only sound their breathing. At last, his hand came to rest on her knee. “Ye shouldna have to carry me through the dark as well.”

Claire smiled faintly, brushing the hair from his brow. “You’ve carried me through worse. We take turns, remember?”

He huffed a small, broken laugh, and that was enough. They lay together afterward, her hand tracing idle circles on his back until his breathing steadied again.

In the mornings, life returned to its practical rhythm. Fergus and Ian rose before dawn to check the livestock, their boots crunching on frozen ground. Jamie joined them when the baby allowed, mending tools, clearing snow from the byre roof, cutting wood for the kitchen fire. Claire heard their voices through the frost—low, steady, familiar—and it was oddly comforting.

Jenny’s steps had slowed, her belly grown vast beneath her winter shawl. She moved with stubborn grace, one hand always braced against her back. “It feels like I’m carrying the whole of the Scotland army,” she muttered one morning, lowering herself beside Claire.

“Possibly two small Scots,” Claire said dryly.

Jenny laughed. “Dinna remind me. Ian still thinks it’s one bairn. I’ll no spoil the surprise until they’re here.”

Claire grinned. “He’ll find out soon enough.”

Jenny rested a hand on Julia’s blanket, the baby asleep at last after a long morning’s fuss. “She’s a strong one. Ye can see it already. Like her da.”

Claire smiled softly. “And her sister.”

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, the fire burned steady, the smell of peat and wool and new life hanging in the air. The world beyond Lallybroch remained uncertain—laws, soldiers, hunger—but within those walls, time felt tender again, held together by small acts of love and the stubborn will to endure.

Chapter Text

Snow had been falling since before dawn, the kind that muted every sound and made the hills disappear into a blur of white. The air inside Lallybroch was thick with peat smoke and the smell of baking bread.

Claire was tending the fire when Jenny appeared in the doorway, shawl pulled tight and expression utterly calm.

“I think it’s started,” she said.

Claire turned, startled. “Started? Now?”

Jenny shrugged. “Och, I’ve had pains since the first light. They’re no’ that close yet.”

“Since dawn?” Claire put the poker down with a sigh. “Jenny!”

“It’s nothing urgent.” Jenny moved toward the table, scooping flour from the bowl as though they were discussing the weather. “I wanted to finish the loaf before I went up.”

“You’re not finishing anything,” Claire said firmly. “Upstairs. Now.”

Jenny only smirked. “You’ve gone native Claire. Ye sound just like me.”

“Then you know I mean it,” Claire said, steering her toward the stairs. “Go on.”

By the time Jamie and Fergus came in from the yard, stamping snow from their boots, Ian was out helping one of the tenants with a project, Jenny had already settled herself upstairs. Claire met them halfway down the stairwell, sleeves rolled, eyes sharp.

“She’s in labor,” she said.

Jamie blinked. “Truly? She was bakin’ bread an hour ago.”

“She’s entirely too calm for someone in labor,” Claire said. “Which worries me more than if she were screaming.”

Jamie gave a short laugh. “Aye, that sounds like my sister.”

“Tell Ian he’s to stay out.” Claire’s tone left no room for argument. “She doesn’t want him underfoot.”

Jamie’s brows rose. “Aye,  I suppose after three he’s used to it.”

“He can come in quickly to wish her luck when she asks, but then he’ll need to go.”

Upstairs, the room was warm and bright with firelight. Mrs. Crook was there already, sleeves rolled, boiling water in the corner. Jenny sat propped against the pillows, hair pinned back neatly, hands folded over the round rise of her belly.

“Ye look far too composed for what’s happening,” Claire said, setting down her bag.

Jenny grinned through the next contraction. “After so many bairns, it’s no more frightenin’ than milkin’ a stubborn cow. Ye ken it’ll hurt, but it passes.”

Claire smiled despite herself. “Well, the cow analogy is certainly new.”

“Aye, but it’s apt.” Jenny grunted softly, breathing through the next wave. “Go on, then. Do yer doctoring.”

Claire checked her pulse, the position of the babies, the rhythm of her breathing. Everything was steady. The twins were strong—Claire could feel them shift and roll beneath her palms.

“It may be a bit longer,” she said. “You’re doing beautifully.”

Jenny gave her a look. “Last time ye said that when I was about to start screamin’.”

Claire laughed. “Maybe I did.”

The day dragged on in slow, heavy breaths. The snow outside showed no sign of stopping; it fell thick and soundless against the windows, a curtain between the world and the women upstairs. Jenny’s contractions strengthened until the rhythm of her breathing filled the room, steady and low like the pulse of the house itself.

By mid-afternoon she was flushed and sweating, hair coming loose from its pins. When another pain took her, she braced against the bedpost with both hands, teeth gritted. Claire wiped her brow, checking her pulse, timing each wave against the clock on the mantle. It had been hours—too many—and still the bairns were in no hurry.

Downstairs, the sound of boots and muffled voices drifted up. Ian had been pacing since noon. Finally, when Jenny asked for him, Claire went to fetch him.

He entered quietly, hat in hand, eyes wide with fear and love. For a moment he just stood there, frozen in the doorway. Then Jenny laughed—short, breathless, defiant.

“Ye look like a man off to the gallows,” she said between gasps. “Come here, Ian. I’ll no bite ye.”

He crossed to her side, kneeling. His rough hand found hers, trembling. “Ye’ve been at it all day. Tell me what I can do.”

“Ye can kiss me, then get out before ye faint.”

He leaned in, pressed his lips to her forehead, whispered something Claire couldn’t hear—something that made Jenny’s mouth soften—and then she shooed him away with a weak swat. “Go on, before I change my mind.”

Ian went, pale and shaken. Jenny watched the door close and let out a shaky breath. “Men,” she muttered. “Strong as oxen till the real work starts.”

Evening came and went. The candles burned low. Jenny’s strength began to ebb, her humor flickering like the firelight. She moved restlessly, trying to find a position that didn’t tear her in two. Claire supported her through each contraction, murmuring soft, steady words, her palms firm on Jenny’s back.

At times Jenny cursed, in Gaelic and English both. At others she fell silent, her eyes fixed on the ceiling beams.

“How long has it been?” she rasped once.

“Since the first pain? Nearly twelve hours,” Claire said quietly.

Jenny laughed, the sound breaking into a groan. “Twelve hours an’ still no bairns. Saints preserve me.”

“They will,” Claire said. “But it’ll take every ounce of you, Jenny.”

“Aye. It always does.”

There were stretches when Jenny dozed between contractions, and the house above and below fell still. During those quiet minutes, Claire’s thoughts kept drifting to the cradle in the room down the hall.

Julia had not taken well to the change in rhythm. She woke often, wailing as if she could sense the distance between her mother’s arms and her own. More than once, Claire slipped away while Jenny rested—handing duties to Mrs. Crook for a few precious minutes—to nurse her daughter.

The babe latched greedily, half-asleep, her small fingers curling tight against Claire’s shift. The milk came with a sharp ache that made her wince, the old tenderness still raw, but the rhythm steadied her. In those brief intervals she could breathe, heart easing against the storm of labor upstairs.

When Julia finally drifted back to sleep, Claire would tuck her close under the blanket, brush the copper strands from her tiny brow, and whisper, “Be patient, little one. Your aunt’s bringing more cousins into the world tonight.”

Then she would rise, gather her skirts, and return to the birthing room, where Jenny’s quiet strength still filled the air.

The night deepened. Wind battered the shutters; the snow hissed in the chimney. Claire felt the weight of exhaustion in her own bones but didn’t let it show. She brewed a small cup of water with honey and coaxed it between Jenny’s lips.

Jenny drank, then sank back, voice hoarse. “Tell me somethin’, Claire.”

Claire looked up. “What?”

“What’s it like—childbirth—in that world ye came from?”

Claire hesitated. The question felt almost sacred in the dark. “In my time,” she said slowly, “it’s safer. We have medicines—tools to stop the bleeding, ways to ease the pain.”

Jenny’s eyes flickered open. “Ye mean it doesna hurt?”

Claire smiled faintly. “It still hurts. But it’s different. Women have doctors, hospitals… sometimes husbands are there too.”

Jenny huffed a breath between contractions. “Men in the birthing room? Lord save us. There’d be faintin’ enough to fill a kirk.”

Claire laughed softly. “That’s what I said once.”

Jenny turned her head, eyes glistening with sweat and tears. “Still, it sounds a mercy. All this—” she grimaced as another pain rippled through her—“it feels older than sin.”

“It is,” Claire said, brushing her hair back. “But it’s also the oldest kind of strength there is.”

Jenny’s hand found hers and squeezed hard. “Aye. Then let’s see how much strength I’ve left.”

Downstairs, the house had fallen into uneasy quiet. Jamie sat in the study with Ian and the children. Fergus kept the fire fed while Brianna drowsed against her father’s knee, thumb in her mouth. Wee Jamie had fallen asleep on Ian’s lap. Every now and then, a muffled sound from above—a cry, a command, a groan—made both men flinch.

“God bless her,” Ian murmured for the hundredth time.

“She’s tougher than the both of us together,” Jamie said, though his hands were clenched white.

Hours crept by. The snow stopped just before dawn, leaving the world ghost-still. When the first pale light broke across the hills, the sounds upstairs changed—deeper, louder, closer.

Jamie rose to his feet. Ian did too. Neither spoke. They stood listening to the rhythm of women’s work and prayer, that eternal battle between life and death being fought just a floor above.

The next contraction tore through Jenny like fire. She gritted her teeth, sweat streaming down her temples. Claire braced her, voice low and calm. “You’re close now. I can feel the first coming down.”

Jenny shook her head, sobbing out a laugh. “Ye said that hours ago, woman.”

“This time I mean it.”

Jenny squeezed her hand so tightly Claire felt her bones grind. “Then tell them tae hurry.”

“They’re doing their best.”

Jenny cursed again, then gasped, body arching with the next pain. Claire steadied her, whispering nonsense, anything to keep her breathing through it. When it passed, Jenny sagged forward, trembling.

“Nearly there,” Claire murmured. “Just hold on a bit longer.”

Jenny nodded, jaw set, eyes burning with determination. “Let’s finish what we started.”

And as the hour crept toward dawn, the cries from the birthing room rose once more—raw, fierce, defiant against the silence of winter—until Lallybroch itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the first thin wail of new life to break the dark.

Chapter Text

The cries began just as the world outside shifted from black to grey, dawn pressing faintly through frost-laced glass. The sound was small at first—a sharp gasp, then a wail that gathered strength until it filled the room. It was the sound of life clawing its way into the cold morning.

Claire’s breath shuddered out. Her arms ached from hours of bracing Jenny through the night. Sweat slicked Jenny’s temples; her lips were pale and trembling, but her eyes—those fierce, unyielding Fraser eyes—never left Claire’s face.

“There,” Claire whispered, voice rough. “There he is.”

Jenny sagged back against the pillows, half laughing, half sobbing. “A lad?”

“Yes,” Claire said, smiling through her tears. “A fine, healthy boy.”

The cry rose again, indignant and strong. Mrs. Crook brought a clean blanket, and Claire worked quickly, rubbing the bairn’s back until his color deepened to a warm rose. Then she laid him in Jenny’s waiting arms.

The instant Jenny’s hand touched his downy cheek, the crying softened. She traced a finger down his jaw, marveling at the tiny perfection of him. “He’s got Ian’s chin,” she murmured, her voice shaking.

“Perhaps,” Claire said, “but your yell.”

Jenny gave a weak laugh that dissolved into another contraction. “Oh, Lord… it’s no done.”

Claire leaned forward again, calm returning like muscle memory. “It won’t be long now. The second is turning.”

Jenny closed her eyes, sweat shining at her hairline. “Of course the wee devils would make me work twice.”

Another hour passed. The fire burned low, throwing shadows against the walls. Jenny’s breath came in ragged bursts. Claire held her hand through the last crushing pain, counting each beat, whispering steady nonsense just to keep her anchored.

Then—another cry, higher and brighter, slicing through the heavy air like light through stormcloud.

Claire almost laughed from sheer relief. “A lass,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. “She’s perfect.”

Jenny collapsed back, laughing and weeping all at once. “A boy and a girl,” she gasped. “God’s mercy, Claire.”

Claire wrapped the second baby quickly and laid her beside her brother. The tiny limbs flailed, the two newborns already seeking each other in their sleep. Jenny gazed at them as if she couldn’t quite believe they were real.

“A boy and a girl,” she repeated, voice barely a whisper. “My heart’s near to burstin’.”

Claire brushed a hand over her hair. “You did beautifully, Jenny. They’re strong. You’re all right.”

Jenny’s eyes fluttered shut, tears tracking down her cheeks. “All right,” she echoed faintly, then opened them again. “Fetch Ian.”

Claire squeezed her hand once, then rose, wiping her brow with the back of her sleeve.
“I will,” she said gently. “Rest for a moment—you’ve done enough fighting for one night.”

She moved to the door, pausing only to glance at the two bairns, small and impossibly alive against their mother’s chest. “They’re perfect, Jenny” she murmured, and slipped out into the dim stairwell.

Downstairs, the fire had burned low. Ian sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his rosary clutched tight in his hands. Jamie looked up the instant he heard Claire’s step; hope flickered in his eyes, sharp as a spark.

Claire’s voice caught before she could speak, the fatigue and relief tangling in her throat.
“They’re safe,” she said at last. “A boy first—strong lungs—and then a lass, an hour later. Both healthy. Jenny’s tired, but she’s well.”

Ian shot to his feet so fast the chair skidded backward.
“Saints be praised,” he whispered, and then louder, “Both of them? Twins?”

“Twins,” Claire said, smiling through exhaustion. “Go on—she wants you.”

He didn’t wait for another word, already halfway up the stairs. Claire watched him go, the weight of the long night finally lifting from her shoulders. Jamie reached for her hand as she passed, pressing it once in quiet gratitude before she followed the sound of Ian’s hurried steps back toward the room where the new day had begun.

Jenny was sitting upright when he entered, pale as linen, eyes shining with exhaustion and pride. Two bundles lay nestled against her, one still squirming, the other asleep.

Ian stopped dead in the doorway. For a heartbeat, he looked ten years younger—utter wonder softening every line of his face.

“Sweet Heaven,” he whispered.

Jenny smiled, weak but radiant. “Come meet your bairns, Ian Murray.”

He came forward slowly, as though afraid they might vanish if he moved too fast. Kneeling at her side, he reached out and brushed a thumb along the boy’s tiny fist. “He’s perfect.”

“And the lass?” Jenny asked, grinning faintly.

Ian’s eyes moved to the sleeping girl, dark lashes brushing her pink cheek. “She’s the bonniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jenny laughed, a low, hoarse sound. “That’s because she’s quiet.”

Ian kissed her brow, his voice breaking. “You’ve done it again, a nighean. Twice in one night.”

She exhaled shakily. “Aye, and I hope that’s the last time I manage two in one go.”

Claire smiled faintly from across the room, washing her hands at the basin. “You both have strong hearts. They’ll have the same.”

Jenny looked down at her children again. “They need names,” she said softly.

Ian nodded, still staring. “Aye.”

“The lad—” Jenny paused, touching his dark curl. “Michael John Brian Fraser Murray. John for your da.”

Ian swallowed hard. “Aye, that’s his name.”

“And the lass—” Jenny turned to the sleeping girl—“Janet Ellen Isabel Murray. For my mam, and for your sister.”

Claire laughed softly. “They’re beautiful names.”

Jenny smiled, weary but certain. “They’ll do.”

The sun climbed higher, spilling gold across the snow-laden fields. The house stirred; the smell of broth filled the kitchen again. Claire carried fresh water upstairs, heart thrumming with relief. Jenny had drifted into a light sleep, both twins nestled against her chest, their tiny breaths rising and falling in rhythm. Ian sat nearby, utterly still, as if afraid to wake them.

Claire lingered a moment, watching the three of them—the strength of the woman, the gentleness of the man, the fragile miracle of two new lives between them. The sight pulled something deep in her chest, a memory of Faith’s stillness, of Brianna’s first cry, of Julia’s warm weight against her skin.

Life and loss were never far apart. But this morning, life had won.

When Claire went downstairs, Jamie was by the hearth again, holding Julia in one arm while Brianna toddled circles around his legs. He looked up as she entered, eyes bright with the kind of joy that carried its own ache.

“They’re safe,” she said simply.

He exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief. “Two of them, aye?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “A boy and a girl.”

Fergus exhaled. “Dieu merci.” He grinned then, that flash of boyish pride that never left him even now. “She has the courage of three women, aunty Jenny.”

Jamie laughed under his breath. “Lallybroch will overflow at this rate.”

“Would you rather silence?”

He shook his head quickly. “Never again.”

Claire crossed to him, pressed a kiss to Julia’s copper hair. “Do you remember when Brianna was this small?”

Jamie’s gaze softened. “Aye. I remember thinkin’ I’d never sleep again for watchin’ her breathe.”

Claire smiled, slipping her hand into his. “We’ve been through worse.”

“Aye,” he said quietly. “But this—this is what it was all for.”

By afternoon, Ian came down to fetch the children. Wee Jamie and Maggie barreled up the stairs before he could stop them, Kitty chasing close behind, tiny skirts flying.

“Mind yourselves!” he called after them, but his voice was more laughter than warning.

In the bedchamber, Jenny opened her eyes at the sound of little boots thudding across the floor. “Come see, then,” she said, voice rough but happy. “Meet your brother and sister.”

Wee Jamie peered over the edge of the bed, mouth forming a silent O. “They’re wee,” he whispered.

“That’s how ye started,” Jenny teased.

Maggie reached out to touch her sister’s hand, eyes wide. “She’s bonnie.”

Kitty climbed up beside her mother, curling close against Jenny’s side. “Can I hold her?”

Jenny smiled. “Aye, if ye sit still and dinna sneeze.”

Jenny guided the little girl’s arms, setting the baby carefully into them. Kitty’s face transformed, awed silence replacing her usual chatter. “She smells like bread,” she said finally.

“Aye,” Ian laughed, “fresh from the oven.”

The room filled with gentle laughter. Even the newborns stirred, sensing the noise, their small sounds weaving into the chorus of their family’s voices.

Later, when the bustle had quieted and the children were shepherded downstairs for supper, Jenny leaned her head back against the pillows, utterly spent. Ian sat beside her again, tracing idle circles over the blanket.

“They’ll grow fast,” she murmured.

“They always do,” he said. “But we’ll remember this.”

Jenny looked at him sideways. “Ye always say that.”

“And I always mean it.”

Claire smiled faintly as she tidied the basin. “You’ll both be saying it again when they’re off to school and you’ve barely slept for ten years.”

Jenny snorted. “Then ye’ll come deliver the next one, aye?”

Claire laughed. “If you’re daft enough to do this again, I’ll be daft enough to help.”

Jenny grinned, eyes half-closed. “Deal.”

That evening, as dusk fell, Claire and Jamie stood at the window of their own room. The snow had stopped, leaving the hills glittering beneath a sky of deep indigo. From somewhere below, a faint lullaby carried—the tune Ian hummed whenever he rocked a bairn to sleep.

Jamie slipped an arm around her waist, drawing her close. Julia stirred in her cradle, sighing softly. Brianna’s laughter echoed faintly from the kitchen where Fergus entertained her with wooden spoons.

Claire rested her head against Jamie’s shoulder. “It feels like peace,” she whispered.

He kissed her hair. “For now,” he said softly. “But that’s enough.”

They stood in silence, the warmth of the hearth mingling with the cold air seeping through the panes, listening to the muffled heartbeat of the house—the steady breathing of sleeping children, the faint crackle of fire, the whisper of new snow outside.

And when the first stars broke through the dark, Jamie’s voice came low, almost reverent. “Lallybroch lives, Sassenach.”

Claire smiled, eyes glistening. “And so do we.”

Chapter Text

By the next morning the house smelled of broth and fresh linens again, as though Lallybroch itself were taking a deep breath. The wind had eased overnight, leaving the world still and white, frost clinging to every branch.

Claire found Jenny half out of bed, one leg tangled in the blanket, scowling fiercely at her own weakness.

“For heaven’s sake,” Claire said, marching to the bedside. “Lie down before you open a stitch.”

Jenny froze mid-swing, caught like a child raiding a pantry. “I’m fine,” she said briskly. “There’s bread to be seen to, and—”

“And nothing,” Claire cut in. “You gave birth to two babies 12 hours ago. You’ll stay in bed for a week, and that’s an order.”

Jenny huffed, but the brief flash of pain on her face betrayed her. “A week, she says, as if the world willna crumble without me.”

“It won’t,” Claire said, softening. “Mrs. Crook and I can manage the house. Ian’s more than capable of tending to you—and you’ve two baby’s and 3 additional children who need their mother resting.”

Jenny’s mouth twitched, a reluctant smile creeping through the stubbornness. “You’d make a fair matron, sister.”

“I already am,” Claire said, folding her arms. “Now lie back.”

Mrs. Crook moved about like a quiet storm, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, commandeering kitchen and corridors alike. Claire took to her duties beside her, minding the stillroom and the fires, baking bread, sending Fergus up and down the stairs with messages.

Ian, gentle and tireless, divided his days between the twins and his wife. Whenever Claire went to check on Jenny, he was there: wiping her brow, warming her broth, his rough hands unbelievably tender. Jenny teased him for fussing but never once told him to stop.

Down the hall, Jamie was just as relentless. Claire found herself shooed toward bed as soon as she so much as wavered. He’d learned the signs—the tilt of her shoulders, the far-away look that meant she was fading.

“Sit, Sassenach,” he would murmur, guiding her down. “I’ll see to the fire.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I do,” he’d say simply, and she’d let him. There was something in the way he moved about their room now—quiet, sure, protective—that steadied her more than any rest.

The days settled into rhythm. The house echoed with the sounds of children and livestock, of laughter layered over the whimpering of newborns. Brianna ran like a flame through the corridors, her curls catching the light. Julia, fussier and slower to soothe, demanded nearly every moment of Claire’s day. When she would only calm in Jamie’s arms, Claire could not even be jealous; watching him sway by the hearth, murmuring Gaelic nonsense until the tiny fists unclenched, filled her with something beyond peace.

Fergus was everywhere at once—fetching water, doing his chores, minding Brianna when Claire’s arms were full. He carried Julia as if she were glass, and she, impossibly, adored him. The sight of her bright head against his dark curls made Claire’s throat ache.

One evening, as the snow turned the windows silver, Claire came upon the three of them in the parlor: Jamie seated with Julia asleep on his chest, Brianna tucked beside him humming, Fergus on the floor whittling a scrap of wood into a tiny horse. It was so ordinary—and so extraordinary—that she had to pause in the doorway just to watch.

Jamie looked up and smiled that quiet smile that still undid her. “Come sit, mo nighean donn.”

She did, settling against him, breathing in the warmth and the smell of smoke and wood and milk. For a while none of them spoke. The fire crackled, Fergus’s knife rasped softly, and the children breathed in perfect rhythm.

“These are the moments,” Jamie said at last, voice low. “The ones ye dinna forget.”

Claire nodded. “I think they’re the ones that keep us alive.”

By the second week Jenny was stronger. The twins fed well, and the color returned to her cheeks, though she still muttered about being confined to the bed. Claire let her sit up by the fire, but not a step farther. Ian built a cradle himself, carving the initials M.J.B.F.M. and J.E.I.M. into the wood with clumsy pride.

“Ye’d think he’d built a ship,” Jenny said, watching him smooth the final edge.

“He has,” Claire replied, smiling. “Only this one carries two souls instead of one.”

Jenny’s laughter filled the room, bright and free. It had been too long since Lallybroch heard that sound.

The christening came two weeks later, on a Sunday so cold the breath froze in the air. They held it in the kirk, the stone walls hung with evergreen to keep away the smell of winter.

Claire and Jenny stood side by side, one pale-haired babe in each arm. Jamie cradled Julia, Fergus behind him with Brianna perched on his hip, solemn and wide-eyed. The air was thick with candle smoke and the faint sweetness of peat.

“Michael John Brian Fraser Murray,” the priest intoned first, sprinkling water over the boy’s crown. He howled his protest to the rafters. “Janet Ellen Isabel Murray,” came next, the water glinting like glass as it slid down her small brow. She blinked once and fell back asleep.

Then Julia—Jamie’s arm tightening around her, his thumb tracing her hairline as the priest spoke her name: “Julia Janet Elizabeth Fraser.” She gave a startled cry and then quieted, staring up at the priest as though unimpressed by the ceremony.

Brianna clapped delightedly.

When it was done, they all stood together at the chapel door, the snow beginning again outside. Jenny leaned on Ian’s arm; Claire tucked Julia in a wrap against her chest. For a moment the whole clan—Murrays, Frasers stood in that narrow doorway between cold and warmth, silence and song, past and future.

Back at the house, the celebration was modest but full. There was broth and bannocks, laughter echoing off the beams, the smell of whisky mingling with smoke. Jenny sat by the fire with her twins, Fergus dancing Brianna in slow circles until she shrieked with glee. Jamie lifted his cup to Claire, eyes bright.

“To what we have,” he said simply.

Claire met his gaze, heart full. “To what’s been given back.”

Outside, snow swept across the hills, soft as breath. Inside, Lallybroch pulsed with life—voices and music, the low murmur of love and exhaustion woven together into the simple, holy sound of home.

Chapter Text

The thaw came slow that year.

By March the snow had turned to mud, the air to mist. The hills still wore their winter colors—grey, brown, the dull green of stubborn grass—but the burn behind the house ran full again, swollen with meltwater. The whole world seemed to drip, thaw, and groan its way back to life.

Inside Lallybroch, life already roared on.

The days began and ended in cries—one, then another, then all three at once until the walls themselves seemed to hum with it. There was no silence anymore, only the rhythm of breath and hunger, the soft shuffle of feet at all hours.

Claire had stopped counting the nights she’d gone without proper sleep. She moved by instinct now, her body attuned to Julia’s whimpers, to Brianna’s calls for “Mama,” to the hiss of the kettle on the hearth. There was no such thing as rest—only pauses between needs.

Still, there were moments of grace.

One morning, before dawn, she stood by the window with Julia pressed against her chest. She had finally fallen asleep, cheek warm and damp against her skin. Outside, the first light touched the ridge of the hills, painting them in rose and silver. Claire could hear Jamie’s boots on the stones below as he and Ian set off toward the fields, voices low and steady.

The thaw meant planting—and planting meant hope.

By midmorning, the smell of turned soil drifted through the open shutters.

Jamie bent to his work, back aching from the cold that clung even through the sun. The spade cut through the wet earth with a dull thud, each lift revealing more of the black, rich soil beneath. The air smelled of peat and rot and promise.

Ian worked beside him, sleeves rolled, face already streaked with mud. Fergus trotted between them and the house, carrying baskets of seed potatoes, shouting cheerful nonsense in half-French, half-Gaelic. Wee Jamie trailed after him with great seriousness, his small hands gripping a spade far too big for him.

“Mind ye dinna plant your own feet, lad,” Jamie called.

The boy grinned. “They’d grow tall as the trees!”

“Aye, and as stubborn,” Ian muttered, but his smile gave him away.

They worked through the morning in near silence, the steady rhythm of tools and breathing filling the air. The earth gave easily, damp but ready. When Fergus stopped to rest, Jamie clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good work, lad.”

Fergus nodded, panting a little. “It feels good, milord.” He caught himself, then corrected gently, “Da.”

Jamie’s throat tightened at the word— still precious every time it passed the boy’s lips. “Aye,” he said softly. “It does.”

In the house, Claire kept the fires going and the milk warm. Brianna sat at her feet, humming tunelessly as she fed herself pieces of bannock. Jenny, seated nearby with her legs wrapped in a shawl, tried to pretend she wasn’t watching every move everyone made.

“I can take her,” she said for the third time.

“You can sit,” Claire replied, not even looking up.

Jenny huffed, folding her arms. “Ye enjoy bossin’ me about far too much.”

“I learned from the best.”

That earned a laugh. Jenny leaned her head back, closing her eyes. “I dinna like feelin’ useless.”

“You’re not,” Claire said gently. “You made half of what’s keeping this place alive.”

Jenny cracked one eye open. “Only half?”

Claire smiled. “Maybe a bit more.”

By afternoon, the fields stretched in dark furrows across the slope. Jamie straightened, rubbing at his lower back, and looked toward the house. Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney, the scent of peat and bread faint on the breeze.

Fergus and Ian were laughing at something—Fergus’s quick wit paired with Ian’s dry patience always made a fine comedy. Jamie let himself rest a moment, leaning on the spade, eyes half-closed.

For a heartbeat, the world was still: the sound of birds returning, the earth breathing beneath his boots, the memory of war far enough away to fade.

“Ye’re thinkin’ again,” Ian said beside him.

Jamie smiled faintly. “Aye. Dangerous habit.”

“Stop it, then. We’ve enough to fret about without ye gettin’ poetic.”

Jamie chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Aye, ye’re right. Best get on with it.”

And so they did—row after row, hour after hour, the ache in their backs a kind of prayer.

That evening, the kitchen glowed with lamplight. The table was cluttered with half-eaten bread, spades drying by the hearth, and children everywhere. Brianna sat on Fergus’s knee, chattering while he repaired a toy. Wee Jamie balanced a potato on his palm, declaring it a dragon’s egg. Julia and the twins slept in their baskets near the fire, wrapped tight in blankets Claire had mended that morning.

Jamie came in, hair damp from washing, mud still clinging to his boots. Claire met him with a bowl of stew and a weary smile.

“Any left for me?” he asked.

“Barely,” she said. “The household eats like an army.”

“It is an army,” he replied, sitting beside her. “An unruly one.”

She laughed, leaning against his shoulder. “You wouldn’t trade it, though.”

He looked around the room—the glow, the noise, the messy, living abundance of it—and shook his head. “Not for all the quiet in the world.”

Later, after the children were finally down and the house had settled into something resembling peace, Claire found Jenny at the window of her room, the twins sleeping in the cradle beside her.

The night outside was clear, stars scattered like frost. The furrows gleamed faintly in the moonlight—rows of dark promise.

“Ye can smell the earth,” Jenny murmured. “It’s like it’s wakin’ up again.”

Claire nodded. “It is.”

Jenny’s reflection in the glass looked older, softer. “I dinna ken how we manage it, year after year. But we do.”

Claire smiled faintly. “That’s what survival is. You just… keep going.”

Jenny turned, eyes bright. “Aye. Till we canna anymore.”

There was no sorrow in it, only truth. Claire reached out, squeezed her hand, and left her to the quiet.

Downstairs, Jamie sat by the dying fire, head tipped back against the chair. The house breathed around him—the faint rustle of blankets, the distant sigh of a child turning in sleep. Claire came to sit beside him, curling her legs beneath her.

He opened one eye. “They’re all down?”

“For now,” she said, laughing softly. “I give it an hour before someone wakes.”

He reached for her hand. “And ye?”

“Exhausted.”

“Aye. Me too.”

They sat in silence a while, the only light the faint red glow from the hearth. Fergus’s small whittled horse sat on the mantel, unfinished, waiting. Claire’s head drooped against his shoulder; his hand found its way to her hair, tracing slow, absent circles.

“It’s never easy,” she murmured, half-asleep.

“No,” he said quietly. “But it’s ours.”

She smiled without opening her eyes. “It is.”

Jamie looked toward the stairs, where their daughters slept, where Fergus and the Murrays lay in their rooms, where the smell of peat and milk lingered thick as comfort. Outside, the first frogs had begun to sing by the burn—a thin, tentative sound, fragile but full of life.

That night, for the first time since winter began, all three bairns slept through till dawn. The house lay still, wrapped in its own breath, the air soft with the promise of spring.

Chapter Text

The thaw that year came earlier than anyone expected.

By the middle of March 1748, the air carried the faintest promise of warmth. It drifted down from the hills with the scent of damp peat and thawed grass, whispering through the courtyards of Lallybroch like a cautious guest testing the door. The burn behind the house swelled again, and for the first time in months the sound of water over stone replaced the sharp crack of ice.

Claire stood at the kitchen door with Julia tied to her front, the bairn’s fingers tangled in the wool of her shawl. Outside, Jamie and Ian moved through the yard with that steady rhythm of men who had learned to work without speaking. The ground was soft enough now for them to turn the earth, to begin again.

Jenny’s voice carried from somewhere behind her. “If ye stand there any longer, ye’ll catch yer death in that draught.”

“I’m only watching,” Claire called back. “The sun’s out. It feels like a miracle.”

Jenny appeared with one of the twins on her shoulder, hair escaping her cap, sleeves rolled. “Miracle or no, there’s bread to knead, and I’ve a mind to get the washing out before the next storm rolls through.”

Claire smiled faintly. “Ever the optimist.”

Jenny snorted. “Nay, just a woman who kens the weather better than any man.”

Julia gave a small grunt in agreement, and Jenny laughed. “Aye, listen to her. That’s the Fraser tongue right there.”

The kitchen was warm again that morning—real warmth, the kind that came from both hearth and hope. The babies had survived their first winter, all three of them now crawling or nearly so, leaving a trail of overturned baskets and chewed spoons in their wake. Brianna followed them about like a small commander, announcing each of their discoveries in a jumble of Gaelic, French, and English.

“Non, Julia! That’s Maman’s spoon!”

Fergus grinned from his spot by the hearth, whittling a piece of pine into what might become a horse. “She takes after you, ma chère petite sœur,” he said, the French rolling off his tongue with easy affection.

Brianna glared at him with a seriousness that made Jenny laugh aloud. “She takes after her father,” she declared. “Bossy.”

Jamie’s voice came from the doorway, deep and amused. “Aye, and what does that make you, then?”

“Helpful!” Brianna cried, running to him.

Jamie scooped her up, kissing her hair, the smell of woodsmoke and cold air clinging to his clothes. “That ye are, lass. The most helpful wee general in Scotland.”

By midday, the fields were awake again. The frost had loosened its grip on the soil, and the smell of wet earth rose thick and rich. Jamie stood at the edge of the upper field with Fergus beside him, the boy’s dark curls falling into his eyes. He was nearly a man now, tall for his years, with the same stubborn pride Jamie saw every morning in the mirror.

“Hold the plough steady,” Jamie said. “Ye’re lettin’ it wander.”

Fergus scowled, adjusting the handle. “The ground is uneven, Da.”

“Aye, so’s life. Keep your line.”

Fergus shot him a look that would have made any other man laugh outright. Jamie only smiled. “You’ll thank me later.”

“I doubt it.”

“Ye will. I ken because I once said the same to my own father.”

That earned a reluctant grin, and they worked in silence a while longer, the air filled with the sound of creaking wood and the steady breath of the horses. Beyond them, the tenants moved along their own rows—men and women who had lost sons at Culloden, land to taxes, but never the will to go on.

Fergus paused after a time, wiping sweat from his brow. “Will the redcoats come again this season?”

Jamie’s jaw tightened. “Aye, they always do. But we’ve little left worth takin’.”

The boy hesitated, then nodded. “If they come, I’ll help ye.”

Jamie looked at him then—really looked. The lad who’d once been a scrappy pickpocket in Paris now stood straight and sure, calloused hands steady on the plough handle. “Ye already do, Fergus. Every day.”

The afternoon light slanted gold through the windows, painting the kitchen in warmth. Claire sat at the table beside Jenny, mending a torn shirt. The twins were asleep in a basket near the hearth; Julia lay on a blanket beside them, one tiny foot sticking out from her wrap.

Jenny’s needle flashed in the light. “Ye ken, I thought after the last lot I’d seen the worst of sleepless nights.”

Claire laughed under her breath. “And yet here we are.”

“Aye.” Jenny glanced at her with affection. “Ye’ve the look of a woman who’s lived three lives in one.”

“Feels like it some days.”

They worked in companionable silence for a while, the sound of the fire and distant voices from the yard filling the space between words. Jenny was the first to speak again. “Tell me true—what was it like, birthing in the future?”

Claire hesitated, smiling a little. “Different. Safer, mostly. There are tools and medicines we don’t have here. Fewer women die.”

Jenny’s gaze softened. “A blessing, that.”

“It is,” Claire said quietly. “Though sometimes I think women were stronger then—here, I mean. You learn to bear what comes.”

Jenny gave a small, knowing smile. “Aye. But it doesna mean it should always be borne alone.”

Claire met her eyes and nodded, a silent promise passing between them.

The knock came just before dusk.

Jamie opened the door to find a redcoat captain standing in the courtyard, his uniform damp from the ride, his expression politely grim. The man was young—perhaps thirty—with the tired eyes of someone who’d seen too much war. His name was Captain Andrews, and Jamie had met him once before, when the Crown had come for grain.

“Mr. Fraser,” the captain said, bowing slightly. “You have my apologies for the intrusion.”

Jamie nodded. “Captain. What brings ye to my door this time?”

The man’s mouth tightened. “An inventory. Provisions for the garrison are short. Orders are to requisition what can be spared.”

Jamie’s tone remained even. “Ye’ve taken what could be spared. There’s naught left but seed for the spring.”

Andrews shifted, uneasy. “I understand, sir. Still, I have my orders.”

Claire appeared behind Jamie then, Julia in her arms. The captain’s gaze flicked to her, and his posture softened. “I’ve no wish to cause hardship, Mrs. Fraser. Perhaps… a portion only. A few sacks.”

Jamie’s jaw worked, but he inclined his head. “We’ll send them by cart in the morn.”

The captain hesitated. “Thank you. And Mr. Fraser—if I may—keep your people close. Not all officers are so inclined to courtesy.”

Claire met his eyes. “That’s kind of you, Captain.”

He nodded once, almost apologetically, and turned back toward the gate. When he was gone, Jamie exhaled slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders in a wave.

“They’ll strip the land bare before summer,” he muttered.

Claire laid a hand on his arm. “We’ll plant again.”

Later that night, Jenny stood at the upstairs window with a candle, watching the fields shimmer under the moon. Ian slept in the chair by the cradle, his hand still resting on one of the twins’ blankets. Downstairs, she could hear faint laughter—Jamie and Claire, the rare sound of peace.

She smiled to herself. “We’re still here,” she whispered to the sleeping bairns. “And that’s enough.”

Supper that night was noisy and full, the kind of chaos that only love could hold together. Fergus kept the younger ones entertained with exaggerated tales of dragons in the Highlands; Brianna insisted on feeding herself, despite more porridge ending up on the floor than in the child. Ian and Jamie argued amicably about the right way to brace a fence post, while Jenny and Claire exchanged looks that were equal parts exhaustion and amusement.

When the table was cleared and the house finally quiet, Claire lingered by the hearth, the soft crackle of the fire easing her bones. Jamie joined her, his face shadowed and tender in the glow.

“They grow so fast,” she murmured.

“Aye,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist. “I blink, and there’s another one runnin’ underfoot.”

Claire laughed softly, resting her head against him. “And yet you’d have more if you could.”

He smiled into her hair. “Aye. But no’ for a while Sassenach.”

The night outside was gentle, the first truly mild evening of spring. They walked out together into the courtyard, the air smelling of grass and peat smoke, the burn murmuring softly beyond the walls. The moon hung low, casting silver across the fields where green shoots already showed through the soil.

Jamie stopped at the edge of the yard, looking out over the land that had nearly been taken from them so many times. “It’s strange,” he said quietly. “I used to think peace would feel grand—like a victory. But it’s quiet. Ordinary.”

Claire’s hand found his. “Ordinary is a gift.”

He nodded slowly. “Aye. Hard won, but worth it.”

They stood there a long while, the house warm behind them, the night alive with small sounds—an owl in the trees, the faint rustle of cattle, the steady breath of their home.

Jamie drew her close. “Whatever comes next, Sassenach…”

“I know,” she whispered. “We’ll face it together.”

He smiled, kissed her brow, and for that brief, still moment, the world felt whole again.

Inside, three bairns slept through the night, and in the cradle room down the hall, Jenny stirred, whispered a prayer, and drifted back to sleep. Outside, the first shoots of the new year reached for the light.

Chapter Text

The month of May came soft and green.

The hills around Lallybroch seemed to exhale at last — the damp chill of March giving way to a gentler air that smelled of new grass and sheep’s wool. The burn ran clear again, swollen but steady, and the trees along its bank wore the first trembling leaves of spring.

Inside the house, every window stood open to the breeze. The sound of children’s laughter floated in from the courtyard — a music of its own, rising and falling with the rustle of hens and the clatter of buckets.

Claire knelt in the garden, hands sunk in dark soil. The herb beds she’d coaxed back from neglect were thick with life now — feverfew and comfrey, mint creeping in from the edge. The scent of thyme clung to her palms. Beside her, Brianna crouched solemnly, her curls catching the sunlight.

“Mama,” she said, poking at a leaf. “This one smells like the soup.”

“That’s sage,” Claire said, smiling. “And you’re right.”

Brianna wrinkled her nose. “I like it better in soup.”

“So does everyone.”

Julia gurgled from the blanket spread behind them, kicking one plump leg free of her wrap. Fergus sat cross-legged nearby, carving something from a bit of birch. He looked up at her laughter and grinned. “She will be the loud one, I think.”

Claire brushed a stray curl from her forehead. “She already is.”

“Like her mother, then.”

She gave him a look that made him laugh aloud. “Mind your tongue, Monsieur Fraser.”

He bowed with mock formality, the knife flashing in his hand. “Oui, Maman.”

The word still made her heart twist a little — warm, startled, proud. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind now that Fergus was theirs. He moved through the house like a son, with an easy belonging that no law could give or take away.

By midday, the sun had burned off the morning mist, leaving the fields gold at their edges. Jamie walked the ridge above the lower pasture, the air full of the scent of turned soil and damp wool. The tenants worked in the distance, their movements steady, purposeful. Fergus trailed at his side, carrying the ledger and trying not to look bored.

“Ye’ve written that the MacNabs sowed all their fields?” Jamie asked.

“Aye,” Fergus said, flipping the page. “Two acres of potatoes, one of oats.”

“And they’ll need seed next week for the turnips. Remind me to send word.”

Fergus nodded, making a neat note. His script, once a scrawl, had grown tidy and elegant. Jamie watched him for a moment — the way he squared his shoulders, the concentration in his brow.

“Ye do well, lad.”

Fergus glanced up, smiling. “Because you taught me.”

Jamie shook his head. “No. Because ye wanted to learn.”

They paused by the fence at the far edge of the field. Below, the new shoots shimmered in rows — fragile, yes, but alive. The sight still filled him with quiet awe every spring: the stubborn courage of the earth to keep rising.

That evening, the house hummed with the contentment of a long day’s work. Jenny moved through the kitchen with a basket of laundry, humming a hymn under her breath. The twins toddled at her heels, sticky-faced and smiling. Ian sat mending a harness by the hearth, his voice low as he spoke to Wee Jamie about the proper care of leather.

Claire carried Julia on her hip, feeling the solid weight of her — far heavier than a few months before. The child was all bright eyes and curious hands now, her hair the deep copper of her father’s. In the cradle room, Brianna played with scraps of fabric, humming softly.

Jenny looked up as Claire passed. “Ye’ve the weary look, lass.”

“Don’t we all?”

Jenny laughed. “Aye, but it’s a good sort of weary. The bairns sleep, the fields grow, the house stands. That’s all a body can ask.”

Claire smiled. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Ye suppose?” Jenny raised a brow. “What more would ye have?”

Claire hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing, really. I think I’m just… learning how to be still again.”

Jenny’s expression softened. “Aye. That takes time.”

At market that week, the air was thick with smoke and chatter. The stalls overflowed with wool and barley, the first baskets of leeks and greens. Jamie moved through the crowd with practiced ease, nodding to familiar faces. But the mood was cautious — the war had left deep marks that a single good season could not erase.

He was weighing a sack of grain when a familiar voice called his name.

“Mr. Fraser.”

Captain Andrews stood a few paces away, his red coat faded from weather. He greeted Jamie with the same strained politeness as before.

“Captain.”

The man inclined his head. “Your cart arrived last month — I appreciate your compliance.”

Jamie said nothing.

Andrews hesitated. “I’ve been ordered to conduct another survey. There are shortages in the southern parishes. We may need to draw again from the northern estates.”

Jamie’s fingers tightened on the grain sack. “There’s little enough to draw from.”

“I know,” the captain said quietly. “Believe me, I’d sooner see these orders burned. But refusal now brings the King’s men, and they’re not of my temperament.”

Jamie studied him for a long moment. There was no malice in the man — only weariness. “Ye’ll find us as we were, then. Honest, if near empty.”

Andrews nodded. “I’ll do what I can to see you left in peace.”

The afternoon sun slanted across the courtyard, catching the pale green of new leaves. Claire sat on the bench by the wall, Julia cradled against her breast beneath a shawl. The child suckled noisily, one small hand kneading against her skin. It was a sound that had come to mean peace — the most ordinary, vital rhythm in the world.

Jamie sat beside her, his arms resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the fields below. The light turned his hair to bronze.

“She’s greedy,” he said softly, a smile tugging at his mouth.

“She’s hungry,” Claire corrected. “There’s a difference.”

He laughed under his breath. “Ye’ve an answer for everything, Sassenach.”

“Someone has to.”

They sat in easy silence for a while. From the yard came the shouts of children — Fergus chasing Brianna, the twins shrieking in delight. The air smelled of peat smoke and warm bread. Claire shifted Julia slightly, adjusting the shawl. Jamie’s hand came to rest on her knee, steady and sure.

“Ye look content,” he murmured.

“I am,” she said. “For the first time in a long while.”

He turned his head to look at her, his eyes soft. “Then so am I.”

The next morning dawned bright and still. Jenny stood at the upper window, a sleeping twin on each arm. Below, Ian and Jamie were already in the yard, arguing amiably over a cartwheel. Fergus and Wee Jamie were gathering kindling, Brianna toddling after them. Claire moved through the doorway with Julia on her hip, sunlight glinting off her hair.

Jenny smiled, her heart full to bursting. It wasn’t a perfect life — never would be — but it was theirs, hard-won and fiercely kept. The sound of laughter rose through the air like a hymn.

By afternoon the house smelled of baking bread and wool drying in the sun. The redcoat patrol had passed without trouble; the fields were greening fast. Jamie stood with Ian at the edge of the paddock, watching the cattle move slow and drowsy.

“Think the land’ll forgive us for all we’ve taken?” Ian asked.

Jamie considered the hills — scarred, yes, but still alive. “Aye,” he said quietly. “It does, in its own time.”

He thought then of Claire nursing the bairn, of Fergus’ laughter, of the sound of his children in the courtyard. Forgiveness, he realized, wasn’t always something granted by heaven. Sometimes it grew out of the soil itself, seed by stubborn seed.

That evening, after the house was quiet and the sky had gone the deep blue of late spring, Claire sat by the open window, Julia sleeping in her arms. Jamie leaned against the wall beside her, his head tilted back, eyes closed.

“Do you think it will last?” she asked softly.

“What?”

“This peace. This… calm.”

He opened his eyes, met hers in the dim light. “I think it’ll last as long as we guard it. And when it breaks, we’ll mend it again.”

Claire looked down at the sleeping child, her chest rising and falling with that steady, perfect rhythm. Outside, the frogs had begun their song by the burn, and somewhere in the dark a nightjar called.

Jamie reached out, brushing a curl from her face. “Ye’ve given me more than I ever hoped for, Sassenach.”

She smiled faintly. “We’ve given it to each other.”

He leaned forward, kissed her brow. “Aye. And may it never end.”

The night deepened around them, soft and full of life. In the fields beyond the walls, the first tender leaves of the potato plants lifted toward the moonlight — green, fragile, enduring.

The world outside might yet be uncertain, but within the stone walls of Lallybroch, the Frasers endured — stubborn as the land, and just as alive

Chapter Text

The days were long now — the kind that began before dawn and stretched until the sky went pink and gold over the western hills.

The potatoes were ready to lift. Every hand at Lallybroch was needed, from Fergus down to Wee Jamie, who followed his father about the fields with solemn purpose and a stick he insisted was a spade. The air hung heavy with heat and midges, the smell of turned soil thick enough to taste.

Claire stood in the courtyard with Julia on her hip, watching the men in the lower fields. From this distance they looked like figures from an old tapestry — bent, steady, moving with a rhythm that was older than memory itself. Each motion was familiar: the plunge of the graip, the twist of the wrist, the dull thud of potatoes striking the basket. Survival, muscle-deep.

She’d never understood before how much of life here depended on the earth doing what it was meant to do — and the people doing the same. No rebellion or king could change that.

Behind her, the kitchen was chaos. Jenny and Mrs. Crook were elbow-deep in dough, the air filled with flour and the shriek of children. Brianna, red curls wild, had declared herself “helper of the bread,” which meant there was now a perfect trail of white handprints across the table, the floor, and Fergus’ sleeve.

“Brianna!” Claire called, but her daughter was already darting out the door, giggling like a sprite.

Fergus laughed. “She is quick, Maman! Like a fox.”

“Yes, and just as destructive,” Claire muttered, shifting Julia to her other arm. The baby whimpered, her face red and damp with heat. Teething, most likely. Nothing soothed her for long — not milk, not walking, not song.

Jenny caught Claire’s look and smiled wryly. “They dinna stay wee for long. Best enjoy it while ye can.”

Claire snorted softly. “I’m trying.”

Jenny slid a tray into the hearth. “Ye look fair done in, lass. Go take a breath.”

But rest was a luxury the day didn’t allow. There were mouths to feed and baskets to empty, bread to bake and bairns to keep alive. Claire brushed a curl from her temple with her wrist and went back to stirring the soup, praying Julia might sleep long enough for her to finish.

In the fields, the rhythm never stopped. Jamie’s back ached, his palms raw from the graip’s handle, but he wouldn’t quit while daylight held. He and Ian moved side by side, the soil breaking open in rich black ridges. Fergus ferried full baskets to the cart, his shirt clinging to his back.

The sun burned low over the hills before they stopped. Ian straightened, groaning. “If I dinna see another potato till next year, it’ll be too soon.”

Jamie laughed, the sound hoarse. “Ye’ll be sayin’ the same next year, and the next after that.”

Ian grinned. “Aye, likely.”

They loaded the last of the baskets into the cart. The day’s haul was good — better than they’d hoped. Jamie wiped his brow, satisfaction warring with fatigue. For all the toil, it meant one more winter they might not starve. One more year of keeping what the world seemed determined to take.

By the time the men returned, the sun had gone, the yard awash in the pink-grey light of evening. The smell of bread and broth met them at the door. Brianna came barreling toward Jamie, shrieking with delight.

“Da! Da, I helped!”

He caught her easily, swinging her into the air, laughing. “Aye, did ye now? And what did ye do?”

“I made bread!”

“Did ye, then?” He eyed the streaks of flour on her cheeks. “I can see that. Ye wear it well.”

Brianna beamed. Julia began crying the moment she heard her father’s voice. Claire shifted her in her arms, exhaustion pressing down on her shoulders. Jamie crossed the room and kissed her forehead, the scent of earth and sweat clinging to him.

“Ye look done in, Sassenach.”

“I am,” she said flatly.

He smiled faintly. “The harvest’s good.”

“I’m glad something is.”

Jamie’s brow furrowed, but before he could answer, Jenny called them all to table. The meal passed in a haze of noise and chatter. Brianna knocked over her cup twice; the three oldest Murray’s fought over a crust; Julia wailed through most of it. Claire barely tasted the soup. When the others rose, she stayed behind, stacking bowls with shaking hands.

The house was quiet when Jamie came up later. Claire sat by the fire, hair loose, Julia finally asleep on her shoulder. The glow of the embers made her face look fragile, almost translucent with fatigue.

“Ye should come to bed,” he said gently.

“I will.”

He hesitated. “Something’s wrong.”

She looked up at him then, eyes rimmed red. “Everything’s wrong, Jamie. I’m tired all the time. The baby cries for hours. Brianna won’t listen. I feel like I’m holding this whole house together with my hands, and they’re slipping.”

Jamie’s expression softened. “Ye’re no alone, Sassenach.”

“Aren’t I?” Her voice cracked. “You’re in the fields from dawn to dusk. I know it’s necessary, but sometimes it feels like we live in different worlds. I can’t even remember the last time we spoke about something that wasn’t work or children or food.”

Jamie stepped closer, crouching beside her chair. “I ken I haven’t been here as much as I’d like. But the land—”

“I know,” she interrupted, voice sharp. “The land, the tenants, the crops — I know. But what about us?”

The words hung heavy between them. Julia stirred, whimpering, and Claire rocked her gently. Jamie rested a hand on her knee, rough palm warm through the thin fabric.

“I think of ye every hour I’m away,” he said quietly. “Ye and the bairns both. But I canna be in two places at once.”

Her anger broke like a wave against his steadiness. “I know,” she whispered. “I just— I miss you. I miss us.”

Jamie swallowed hard. “I miss us, too.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. For a long moment neither of them moved. Julia’s breathing evened out again, her small body warm between them.

After a while Claire whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For shouting. For being tired. For not handling it better.”

Jamie smiled faintly. “If exhaustion were a sin, half of Scotland would be damned. Ye’ve naught to be sorry for.”

He kissed her then, slow and sure, the kind of kiss that tasted of dust and forgiveness.

When they finally stood, he lifted the sleeping bairn from her arms, cradling Julia with reverent care. “I’ll put her down,” he said softly. “Then come to bed.”

Claire watched him go, the firelight glinting off his hair. Her chest ached with something that wasn’t quite sorrow anymore. They were both too worn to mend much tonight — but the mending had begun.

Later, after the house had fallen still, she woke to find him sitting at the window. The moon spilled silver across the floor, washing the room in peace. His head turned at her movement, and he smiled, weary but tender.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she murmured.

He shook his head. “Just… thinkin’.”

She padded across the room, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, and sank beside him. The fields glowed pale in the distance, rows upon rows of gathered earth waiting for the next season. From the barn came the faint lowing of cattle, and somewhere down by the burn, frogs sang into the night.

“They’ll keep,” he said softly. “The crops. The house. Us.”

Claire laid her head against his shoulder. “I know.”

For a long while they sat in silence, the kind that didn’t need mending. When he reached for her hand, she let him take it. His thumb traced slow circles against her palm — the same rhythm he’d used to calm the babies, the same rhythm that had steadied her through war and grief and all the years between.

“I’ll do better,” he murmured.

“So will I.”

Outside, a breeze rustled through the fields, stirring the scent of soil and new beginnings. It slipped through the open window, cool against their skin, carrying the sound of home — laughter lingering in the walls, children’s dreams soft upstairs, the heartbeat of a life built from nothing but faith and sheer will.

For the first time in weeks, Claire felt the tightness ease from her chest. Love was work, yes — hard and endless — but it was also the only thing that had ever lasted.

Jamie pressed a kiss to her hair, his whisper rough against her ear. “We’ll manage, Sassenach. We always do.”

And in the quiet that followed, she believed him.

Outside, the harvest moon climbed higher over the hills, bathing Lallybroch in light. The fields lay still, the baskets full, the earth at rest — and within the stone walls, so were they.

Chapter Text

Dawn came quietly to Lallybroch.

The mist still lay over the fields, pale and silver, and the air through the open window smelled of damp soil and hearth smoke. The world was hushed in that first fragile light — no sound yet from the courtyard, only the faint creak of the house settling and the rhythmic breath of someone sleeping beside her.

Claire lay still for a moment, watching the ceiling blur into day. Her body ached in the old familiar ways — the deep pull of muscles that hadn’t truly rested in months — but there was something different now, a peace that had nothing to do with sleep.

Jamie’s arm was heavy around her waist, his warmth solid against her back. His breath stirred the curls at her neck. The fight of the night before — the raised voices, the sharpness — had dissolved into the kind of closeness that mended without words. She could feel the apology in his stillness, the promise in the way his hand curved over her hip.

She turned slightly, careful not to wake him. His hair was a tangle of red and gold in the early light, his face unguarded in sleep. The lines that so often carved deep around his mouth had softened. He looked younger, almost like the boy she’d first met.

A small sound came from the cradle by the window — Julia stirring. Claire slipped free of the bed and crossed the floor barefoot, the boards cool beneath her feet. The baby blinked up at her, round face creased with sleep. She made a soft, impatient sound.

“I know,” Claire whispered, lifting her. “You’re hungry.”

She sat back on the edge of the bed, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders, and brought the child to nurse. The small mouth latched eagerly. Julia’s hand rested against her chest, her tiny fingers curling and uncurling in the rhythm of feeding. Jamie stirred, turning toward the sound, and opened his eyes.

“Ye’re up early,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“She’s been awake half the night.”

He smiled faintly. “Like her sister before her.”

Claire glanced down at Julia’s face — pink, intent, content. “She’s her father’s daughter. Stubborn.”

Jamie laughed quietly, sitting up. “Aye, that she is.” He leaned forward, brushing a kiss to the bairn’s head, then another to Claire’s temple. “And ye, Sassenach — how do ye fare this morning?”

“Better,” she said softly. “Tired, but better.”

Jamie’s hand rested at the back of her neck. “Good. I’m sorry, Claire.”

“I know,” she said, meeting his eyes. “So am I.”

There was no need for more. The air between them was clear again.

Just then, the door burst open.

“Da!”

Brianna barreled into the room, curls flying, a shriek of delight announcing her arrival. She scrambled up onto the bed with the uncoordinated determination of a toddler and flung herself at Jamie.

“Da! Up!”

Jamie laughed and caught her mid-leap, swinging her high until she squealed. “Easy, wee beastie! Ye’ll wake the whole house.”

“I’m awake!” she announced proudly, kicking her legs.

Claire smiled, shaking her head. “I noticed.”

Julia, having finished nursing, blinked wide-eyed at her sister, then hiccuped. Brianna peered at her solemnly. “She’s still small.”

“Aye,” Jamie said, grinning. “But she’ll grow. Like you, eh?”

Brianna puffed up her chest. “I’m big now.”

Claire snorted softly. “Big enough to help set the table, maybe.”

Brianna considered this gravely, then nodded. “Okay. But Da comes too.”

Jamie groaned, pretending great weariness. “Aye, aye. The mighty general commands.”

He rose from the bed, lifting both girls — one on each arm — while Claire laughed. “You look absurdly pleased with yourself,” she said.

Jamie turned, eyes twinkling. “I am. Look at them, Sassenach. There’s my army.”

By the time they made it downstairs, the house was alive. Jenny was already in the kitchen, hair pinned up, skirts tucked back, her movements quick and efficient. The smell of porridge and bannocks filled the air. Mrs. Crook moved between the hearth and the table with her usual muttered commentary on how “weans multiplied faster than rabbits.”

Fergus stood by the door, tying a bundle of rope, his sleeves rolled. “Bonjour, sleepyheads,” he said cheerfully. “Maman, Da — breakfast waits.”

Claire arched a brow. “You sound far too awake.”

“Because I was not up with Julia,” he replied, with a grin that was pure mischief.

“Watch your tongue, lad,” Jamie warned, though there was laughter in his voice. “Ye’ll find yourself on pig-slop duty yet.”

Fergus executed a dramatic bow. “Oui, mon capitaine.”

Brianna giggled, already tugging on his sleeve. “Fergus, come see my dolly!”

He allowed himself to be led away, shooting Claire a conspiratorial look. “Commanded by all the women, as usual.”

Jenny laughed from across the room. “It’s the proper order of things.”

The morning passed in a rush of noise and warmth. The men loaded baskets of potatoes onto the wagons for the tenants who had worked the fields. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and wheels echoed through the yard. From the window, Claire watched Jamie and Ian shoulder sacks together, their laughter carrying faintly through the open shutters. Fergus darted between them like a young colt, all limbs and enthusiasm.

She turned back to the table where Jenny was scouring bowls. The light from the hearth flickered across her sister-in-law’s face, catching the faint lines at her eyes — marks of both laughter and worry.

“You two made peace then,” Jenny said casually, without looking up.

Claire felt her cheeks warm. “We did.”

Jenny smiled to herself. “Good. It’s a poor marriage that canna bear a quarrel or two. Love’s not in the never fightin’, it’s in the mendin’ after.”

Claire chuckled softly. “You should have that stitched on a pillow.”

Jenny wrung out a cloth, laughter low in her throat. “Maybe I will, once the bairns stop usin’ my thread for cat’s cradle.”

They fell quiet for a while, the steady sounds of work filling the silence. The peace of it felt earned.

Outside, the sun had climbed higher, spilling gold across the hills. Claire went out into the courtyard with Julia balanced on her hip. Brianna was sitting on the step beside Fergus, both of them intent on a small wooden toy he was carving.

“What’s that?” Claire asked, lowering herself beside them.

“A horse,” Fergus said, holding it up proudly. “For Brianna.”

“It’s got no legs,” Brianna observed critically.

“Ah, but patience, ma petite,” Fergus said with mock solemnity. “Even horses must begin somewhere.”

Jamie’s laugh rang out from the yard. “Aye, and some of us take longer to grow legs than others!”

Fergus threw a clump of grass at him in reply, and Jamie dodged easily, still laughing. It was the kind of laughter that carried — deep, full, the sound of home itself.

By afternoon, the air had turned heavy and sweet. The smell of grass mingled with the faint tang of smoke from the peat fire. Claire sat in the shade with the babies, sewing a tear in Julia’s blanket. Brianna chased chickens through the yard, shrieking with joy. Fergus tried valiantly to keep her from falling into the trough, his protests half in French, half in Scots.

Jenny appeared beside Claire, wiping her hands on her apron. “I remember when mine were that age,” she said, smiling. “The noise of it near drove me mad.”

Claire laughed softly. “Still does.”

Jenny sat down beside her. “Aye, but it’s a fine kind of madness.”

They watched the children for a while — Fergus scooping Bree up and spinning her until she shrieked with delight, Julia babbling in Claire’s lap, the twins tumbling over each other in the doorway. Lallybroch had never felt more alive.

That evening, the men came in from the fields late, their clothes caked with dust. The table was set simply — bread, stew, fresh milk. Conversation flowed easily, tired laughter threading between bites. The sharp edges of the day before were gone, worn smooth by the rhythm of work and care.

After the meal, Claire carried the children upstairs, the lamplight flickering along the walls. Brianna fought sleep with the stubbornness of her bloodline, whispering questions long after her eyes began to close. Julia drifted off quickly, small hand resting against her mother’s wrist.

Downstairs, Jamie’s voice carried softly through the open door — low and sure, telling Fergus and Ian a story about the old Jacobite days. The tone was lighter now, the sadness buried deep under humor. When he finally came up, the house had gone quiet.

Claire was standing by the window, brushing her hair. The moonlight caught the light in it. Jamie came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Tired?” he asked softly.

“Always.”

He kissed her shoulder. “Ye’ve done well, Sassenach.”

“So have you.”

They stood that way for a long time, the world outside wrapped in the hush of late summer. The moon hung low over the fields, the air full of the scent of earth and harvest.

“Do you ever think,” Claire murmured, “that this is what peace really is? Not quiet, or ease — just… this. The day after the storm.”

Jamie rested his chin atop her head. “Aye,” he said quietly. “The mendin’ after.”

She turned in his arms, smiling faintly. “Jenny said the same thing.”

“She’s right. She usually is.”

Claire laughed softly, leaning into him. “Don’t tell her that.”

He smiled. “Our secret, then.”

Outside, the first crickets began to sing, their chorus rising and falling like breath. The house behind them was full of sleeping children, the walls thick with warmth. Jamie tightened his hold on her, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Whatever comes, we’ll face it side by side.”

She nodded, her eyes closing against his chest. “Always.”

The night settled around them like a promise — fragile, but enough.

And in the morning light that followed, the house would wake again to laughter and work and the scent of fresh bread, the kind of life that endures because love demands it.

Chapter Text

The mist still clung to the hollows when Claire stepped into the yard that morning. The air had that clean sharpness that comes after several days of rain, every stone and thatch glistening faintly in the early light. She drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders, her breath a pale cloud. Somewhere beyond the barn, she could hear the rhythmic scrape of spades — Jamie and Ian finishing the last of the post-harvest tilling before the ground hardened again.

From the kitchen came the familiar clatter of pots and Jenny’s firm voice telling someone — likely Brianna and Kitty — not to feed crumbs to the hens. There was something reassuring about it, the sheer ordinariness of noise, even when her bones ached from sleeplessness.

Inside, Mrs. Crook was already kneading dough with her usual vigor. Fergus darted past carrying a bucket, muttering in French under his breath, and nearly collided with Claire at the doorway.

“Careful,” she warned.

He grinned. “Oui, Maman. I’m careful as a cat.”

“Cats don’t slosh water all over the floor.”

“Ah, but cats don’t work before sunrise.” He winked, dodging away before she could reply.

Jenny laughed from the hearth. “He’s right enough. We’re all workin’ like beasts before the day’s half done.”

Claire poured water into a basin and began washing the herbs she’d gathered the day before. “That’s Scotland I suppose — no rest between seasons.”

Jenny sniffed. “Aye, and little profit either.”

For a while, the two women worked in companionable silence. The sound of the fire, the scrape of the wooden spoon, the muffled laughter of children in the next room — it was the kind of peace that didn’t announce itself, just lived quietly in the walls.

It was broken by the creak of the outer door and the heavy step of boots across the threshold. Ewan Cameron — one of the younger tenants — stood there, cap in hand, his face drawn. He looked as though he’d ridden hard from the ridge.

Jamie and Ian came in behind him, wiping mud from their boots. Claire turned, a chill settling in her stomach before he’d even spoken.

“Captain Andrews,” Ewan said without preamble. “He’s been sent to Broch Morda.”

Jenny froze mid-motion. “The same one who came here last spring?”

“Aye, mistress. The very one.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened. “What does he want there?”

“They say he’s charged with takin’ account of all grain and livestock north o’ the Tay. The army’s orders are to see no family starves — but to see no house hoards, either.”

Claire exchanged a glance with Jamie. It was an old story in a new uniform. She could almost feel the weight of the hidden cellars beneath their feet — the potatoes, the onions, the sacks of oats and dried beans. The thin line between survival and treason.

Ian took off his cap, running a hand through his hair. “So it’ll start again. They’ll take a share ‘for the crown.’”

Ewan nodded. “Aye, and he’s no cruel man, from what I heard. Fair, even. But fair’s no friend to hungry folk.”

“Aye, he’s no cruel like the others. Thank you, Ewan,” Jamie said quietly. “Ye’ve done right to bring word.”

The lad hesitated, shifting on his feet. “There’s talk, too — that he’ll ride farther east come Quarter Day. That’d bring him near our valley.”

The silence that followed was heavy, unspoken understanding moving through the room like a draught.

Jenny was the first to move. She untied her apron with sharp, decisive fingers. “We’ll be ready,” she said simply. “We’ve done it before.”

Jamie nodded. “Aye. Ian, we’ll see to the lower storage tonight.”

By afternoon, the house hummed with purposeful tension. The women packed the less visible stores — extra bread, jars of broth — while the men checked the small passage hidden behind the hearth that led to the deeper cellars and the priests’ hole. Fergus, solemn now, carried small sacks one by one, his movements careful.

Brianna followed him, dragging her doll by the arm. “What are you doing?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Hiding treasure,” Fergus said gravely.

Her face lit with mischief. “Can I help?”

Jamie, carrying a basket of turnips, paused at the doorway. “Aye, lass. Bring your treasure to guard ours, eh?”

She toddled away, muttering to herself about where the treasure might sleep best. For a brief moment, laughter fluttered at the edges of worry.

Claire knelt beside the open cellar hatch, lantern in hand, the smell of earth rising cool and damp around her. “There’s not much left to hide,” she murmured.

Jamie handed her the next sack. “There’s enough. If we’re clever.”

“Clever won’t keep them from coming.”

He gave her a look — not anger, but something steadier. “No. But it might keep us from starvin’.”

They worked until the light began to fail. When the last of the sacks were lowered, Jamie replaced the wooden boards and dusted them with ash so they looked long untouched. The illusion of poverty.

Claire sat back on her heels, brushing dirt from her palms. “It feels wrong, hiding food like this. Like we’re admitting we have too much.”

Jamie crouched beside her, his hand resting over hers. “We’re admitting we have bairns to keep alive. That’s no sin.”

The sun sank low, staining the yard with copper light. Fergus and Brianna sat together on the step outside the kitchen, a small heap of potato peels between them. He was showing her how to shape them into pretend “boats” and float them in a tin basin filled with water.

“See? You set them soft, not splash. Gentle, comme ça,” he said, his accent lilting like a tune.

Brianna copied him, tongue between her teeth, managing to balance one peel before it tipped and sank. She frowned fiercely. “It fell!”

“Then we try again, petite capitaine.” He grinned. “The sea is never kind to new sailors.”

Jamie stopped beside them, watching, hands on hips. “Are ye teachin’ my daughter mutiny?”

Fergus looked up, eyes sparkling. “Non, da — leadership.”

“Same thing, most days,” Jamie muttered, but his smile betrayed him.

Inside, the smell of stew drifted through the open door. Voices rose — Jenny’s sharp and fond, Mrs. Crook’s grumbling in rhythm with her spoon. For a moment, the world outside the walls seemed far away.

At dusk, Claire joined Jenny in lighting the lanterns through the hall. The tiny flames flared and settled, throwing soft pools of light across the stone. Jenny’s movements were efficient, her face drawn with fatigue, but her eyes still burned bright.

“Do you ever think,” Claire said quietly, “that we’ll tire of always preparing for what’s coming?”

Jenny paused, trimming a wick. “Aye. Every day. But what’s the other choice? Wait for it blind?”

Claire smiled faintly. “I suppose not.”

Jenny straightened, meeting her gaze. “There’s courage in the doin’, Claire. Even when ye dinna feel it. We keep the fires lit — that’s all the world needs of us sometimes.”

Claire nodded. It wasn’t comfort, exactly, but it was truth, and that was better.

That night, the house was dim and still. The fire burned low, its glow flickering against the stone. Fergus sat cross-legged by the hearth, Brianna leaning against his shoulder, Julia asleep in Claire’s arms. He was telling a story — something half in French, half in Scots — about a brave mouse who stole cheese from the king’s own kitchen. Brianna’s giggles rose high and bright; even Jenny, rocking one of the twins in the corner, smiled.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Laughter, a story, the sound of small children still believing in magic. It filled the empty corners that fear left behind.

Later, when the children were asleep, Jamie and Ian stepped outside into the cool dark. The moon hung low over the ridge, pale as milk. The fields below glimmered faintly, rows of cut stalks stretching into shadow.

“They’ll come soon enough,” Ian said quietly.

“Aye,” Jamie replied. “But we’ll be ready. We always are.”

Ian nodded, his breath clouding in the chill. “Ye ken, sometimes I think the Lord keeps us alive just to see if we’ll manage one more season.”

Jamie gave a small, humorless smile. “Then we’ll not disappoint Him.”

They stood in silence for a while — two men bound by earth and blood, both stubborn enough to outlast what the world demanded.

Inside, Claire set the lantern on the table. The quiet pressed close now that the day was done. Her hands ached from work, her mind from worry. She leaned against the wall, watching the shadows dance.

Jamie came in a few minutes later, closing the door behind him. His shirt was damp at the collar, his hair curling slightly from the mist. He didn’t speak at first, only poured a cup of water and handed it to her.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I keep thinkin’ about the lad at Broch Morda. That captain. If he’s takin’ what he must, he’ll have reason to come here soon enough.”

“I know.”

“I dinna think he’s like Randall or the others. But good men have duties too.”

Claire sighed. “That’s what frightens me.”

Jamie looked down at his hands. They were rough and scarred, bits of dirt still clinging beneath his nails. “I’ll speak with the tenants tomorrow. If we plan now, they’ll have less chance to take us unawares.”

“Always planning,” she said softly.

He glanced at her, a wry smile ghosting across his lips. “Aye. It’s the only way I ken to keep ye safe.”

Claire stepped closer, her hand brushing his sleeve. “You’ve kept us all safe, Jamie. That’s more than most could say.”

He didn’t answer, just reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The fire popped in the hearth; the smell of smoke and earth filled the air between them.

Later, she found herself standing at the window, watching the mist gather again over the fields. The world beyond Lallybroch was still changing — men with ledgers deciding what others could eat. But inside these walls, there was still something untouched: warmth, breath, a heartbeat against her own.

Behind her, Jamie banked the fire and crossed to stand beside her. They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said a hundred times in a hundred different ways.

After a while, he reached for her hand. She took it without looking away from the dark.

The world was uncertain, and the seasons cruel — but for tonight, the walls stood firm, the fire still burned, and that was enough.