seventeenfortythree | ♥️ a way to stay

Jamie doesn't want Claire to go, is the thing. He never wants her to go. What was she going back to, in any case? A dead husband's family she hardly knew?

Then again, what could he offer her? And Column would never let him marry a Sassenach, no matter how pretty. Not if he was to be the Laird. If he became Laird, then he could leave Leoch to Letitia and Hamish, go back to Lallybroch. Then, he could marry whomever he wanted, but by then, Mistress Beauchamp would be gone. Perhaps he could go to her, when he could.

For all of his planning, and knowing Dougal would rather see him dead than Laird, Jamie hadn't counted on his uncle truly trying to kill him. It isn't him who tries, no, but a large man with an axe who gets a good enough hit in, that even Jamie thinks he's dead for a moment. He's left to it in any case, but stunned eyes open to find himself alone in the stables, bleeding from the side of his neck.

He's pretty sure that had the axe been sharp, he would be dead. Holding his hand over the wound, Jamie makes his way quietly to the kitchen entrance and then down to Claire's surgery. It's late, nearly one in the morning, and Jamie knocks lightly at the door, whispering.

"Mistress Beauchamp?"

He can't return to his own room, and no one would think to look for him here, as far as he knows.

She's found a rhythm here, in this strange time and place, but that doesn't mean Claire is comfortable. No, hardly from it. She can consider perhaps three people her friend, and the rest are not. It means she sleeps fully dressed, and jumps to her feet when she hears a knock at her door. A true assailant would have barged in, and not whispered in Jamie's voice. It's concerning, and Claire lights a candle to bring to the door as she opens it a crack.

"Mr--" She can't even get his name out before she realizes he's injured. A head wound. Her heart nearly jumps out of her chest as she holds the candle higher as she opens the door wider, the blood glistening red against his skin.

"What on earth happened?" She asks, and now she reaches forward to drag him in by the arm.

His head is throbbing, but he goes inside and closes the door behind him.

"Someone tried to kill me, I reckon," he grunts. 'I'm sorry to bother ye so late, but as the man left me, I think he assumed me dead. No one will look for me here, and I have the added good fortune of yer occupation."

Jamie blinks, a little dazed, trying to clear his vision.

"Jesus Christ, only you would say it so casually," he mutters, guiding him to the hearth and having him sit in the chair before it, near warmth and light.

"Let me see you, Jamie," she says, mostly talking to herself aloud as she moves his hand away from his wound.

He'll need stitching, just behind his ear and down the side of his neck, but it isn't so deep that it won't heal. Jamie lets her see, closing his eyes for a moment.

"My head feels as though it's on fire, Sassenach."

Someone really did try to kill him. A sharper blade or a stronger hit, and they would have succeeded. Claire has a hundred questions, but she doubts Jamie could answer them.

"It's a nasty wound, but you'll be all right. I promise," she says, putting a finger until his chin so that he looks at her, and she can make sure his eyes are clear. "I'm going to have to cut some of your hair to clean the wound, and none of it is going to feel nice, but you'll be good to go with some rest."

She's only glad she's here to take care of him.

"You'll feel better soon."

Jamie looks at her, glad to have the excuse to not move his eyes away from her face while she speaks. But he nods slowly, understanding.

"Could ye do one more kindness for me, Mistress, and allow me to pass the night here? I'll stay here, by the door," he promises, not wanting her to think anything untoward.

"You'll have the bed. You have a head wound, Jamie. I'm going to have to stitch it." He'll need to sleep well, and comfortably. Claire steps aside to dig through the tools she's gathered, finding a blade small enough so that she can cut away Jamie's lovely red curls.

Red, and bloody, but it's shame all the same.

"I couldna take yer bed," he says with worry, not caring about his hair. "And ye can cut it all away, so I dinnae look the fool," he says with a soft smirk.

"It's your bed, now. No arguing, or I'll finish this botched job."

She does have to cut quite a bit of wet, matted hair, but he'll likely be wearing bandages long enough for it to grow back decently.

Jamie keeps his mouth shut, too busy now, trying not to stare at her breasts that are right in his line of sight.

"So, ye think I'll live, then?" he finally asks.

Hair cut away, she can see how deep the wound is behind his ear. The breasts move out of his face as she goes to grab the alcohol she keeps for disinfecting, and a clean cloth.

"It's about to hurt like hell, but you'll live. Might have another scar."

She tips the bottle onto the cloth.

"Breathe out for me, Jamie."

"What's another?" he asks, believing that at this point as he looks up at her and exhales. Then, he nods.

He's had worse without making a sound, and he tightens his jaw in anticipation.

Claire, given her nature, never takes joy in seeing people in pain. But Jamie? It does something terrible to her heart, and she apologizes in her head before beginning to clean. She keeps the cloth damp, wiping away blood.

"You're going to need a lot of stitches," she murmurs. The bleeding won't stop until she's got him back together, but he's at least going to be disinfected.

He's breathing hard through the pain, though to his credit, he doesn't make much other noise. "I ken ye'll do what ye must," he says, already imagining the look on Dougal's face come morning.

"Suppose ye never thought ye'd have to see so much of me."

He's talking to keep himself distracted.

Once more she steps away to prepare her needle for the many, many passes it'll have to do through his skin.

"Oh, there are worse faces around here," she says. As much as she wants to be snippy with him, she can't. This isn't his fault. It can't be. And he's probably frightened.

"I have laudanum. Would you like some, for the pain?"

"No," he says quickly, "about to confirm her suspicion.

"No, in case they do find me here. I dinna want to be unable to at least try to fight." Jamie looks at her apologetically. "And I'm sorry if they do come here, mistress."

How foolish was he to think he could be a good husband to her? His own family is trying to kill him.

"Who, Jamie? Who would be coming here?" She asks, pausing beside him and resting a hand on his shoulder. "People are going to see that you're injured. Colum," she adds.

"Can't he help you? Whatever this is."

Jamie looks over at her, an eyebrow raised.

"It's Dougal MacKenzie wants me dead, so I reckon Column willna encourage him, but...he willna stop him, either."

"Christ. Are you serious?" But the moment the words are out of her mouth, she knows they ring true for what she knows of both men.

She shakes her head, putting a hand on his in preparation to begin stitching.

"Jamie. You can't stay here."

"Dougal would rather his sister's son dead than me take over as Lard one day. So, aye, 'tis serious. But there's also nowhere else for me. Save for a monastery, I suppose."

He's a virgin, at least, so he he has that going for him still. Jamie squeezes her hand.

"I'll be alright, Sassenach.

She takes her hand away, disapproving.

"Or a casket," she mutters, and with that begins to sew his scalp back together. "Next time, they won't fail."

Jamie eyes close tightly. She doesn't know the truth of him, and the entire time she's stitching, he tries to think on if he should tell her in between tight curses of pain.

"I told ye I'm a wanted man, aye? It would be a miracle to get out of Scotland unseen. For that's what would have to become of me if I fled."

"Maybe I should take all your hair. It'd be a decent disguise," she says, focused more on the task at hand than the conversation.

"I won't be here to do this the next time."

"Ah," Jamie says, clearing his throat.

"Ye'll be leaving, then. Still. Do ye ken, will there be anyone to help keep the wound from festering?"

In the few days she's been in his company, he already knows what her concerns are. That's how he knows she isn't a spy - she cares too much.

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