“That’s it!” Jamie moaned, shoving his half-eaten plate of breakfast aside and dropping his fork with a dramatic clatter. “Wedding’s off.”
Claire threw her head back, shaking with suppressed laughter, trying not to spit out her eggs. “Oh, come on!” she protested thickly. “What did you expect?” She managed, just barely, to swallow down her food, though her cheeks ached with the effort to hold back a grin. “I am a feckin’ sassenach, after all.”
“Aye,” he allowed, gripping his face with both hands, “but I thought ye were at least a lass wi’ taste.” Spreading his fingers, he peered out at her with an expression of utter despair. “Manchester United? Really? Can ye no’ root for Liverpool, at least?”
“Mmm, that would be a no.” She brandished another forkful of eggs, and popped it in her mouth with a flippant shrug. “Man U to the bitter end, love. Take me or leave me.”
Jamie dropped his hands with a long-suffering sigh, feigning deliberation for a moment before he reached over to snatch a piece of bacon off her plate. “It’s a verra good thing,” he murmured, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible register, “that ye’re a goddess in bed. That was almost a dealbreaker, ye ken.”
Claire nodded somberly, making a throaty sound of disdain. “First my lack of appreciation for The Lion King, now this?”
“Exactly.”
They both cracked then, their eyes crinkled with matching grins. Jamie leaned across the table to kiss her, lingering several beats longer than was strictly respectable in public before he settled back in his own seat.
“Now if ye were a Rangers fan…” He puffed out his cheeks, eyes round with horror, and she snorted a laugh.
“A Celtic boy, I take it?”
“Oh, aye.”
His face lit up like a child’s at Christmas, and Claire found herself basking in the glow, watching him with her head tilted in endearment. Jamie practically buzzed with enthusiasm when he was excited about a subject, gesticulating animatedly with his hands and taking on what she could only describe as his storytelling voice — gruff and dramatic, with rolling r’s and an exaggerated Highland accent. She didn’t have to pretend to be engaged when he spoke like this, even when the topic (Celtic football, for instance) would normally cause her eyes to glaze over and her mind to wander.
God, she was just so relieved to see him happy like this again.
Claire shook her head, trying to divest herself of the image in her mind.
Her hands were so bony, so pale when they reached out from the billowing green fabric that surrounded her. Claire could almost feel the traces of her touch on her neck, reaching out for the necklace around her throat. The B etched out of gold and the pearls that dangled from the symbol. It was a christening gift, one she always wore. And the apparition had seemed so absorbed by the minute curves of it. But what rattled her the most, was that the woman tucked her head on one hip, as if carrying around a small child, looking straight up at her with piercing eyes over the numerous quilts on Claire’s bed. She could see where the executioner had tried, and failed to hack through bone and leave a nice smooth swing. Claire reached her own hand up to rest on her neck, reassuring herself it was still intact.
It was twenty years ago to the day that it happened. It couldn’t have been a coincidence. Her whole body shivered no matter how hard she tried to relax each muscle. There was one place she could try to seek refuge at such an ungodly hour, and her legs moved before her mind could catch up with them. Her slippers slapped against the cool stone of the halls. She hugged her arms into herself for warmth. It was unusually cool for a spring day, or maybe it was just her reaction to the preternatural events which had just unfolded before her. Either way, maybe the sanctuary of God would ease her mind if only for a short amount of time. Maybe she could even find some comfort by praying for the late Queen. Though protestant and an adulteress, the queen surely wasn’t deserving of such suffering. For now though, Claire and her family were safe under the Catholic Queen. And if the worst came to worst, they would flee to their true home in France. Not the stuffy politics of the English Court.
Tori