Hi sorry to be a pain but will the be more HRH ? Thank You

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations|Part VII: Magnolias| Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle | Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market | Part XVII: Stables

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)
Part XVIII: Alarms

In the bounded sanctity of dreams, Fraser had free rein.

With his eyes closed and separated from the world, he could touch Claire freely. He could carefully catalog each reaction that his fingertips drew from her at his leisure, drawing each exquisite noise and breath and prickle of goosebumps into full relief.  

(The diamond-shaped parting of her bee-stung lips, dry from sleep, posed in an invitation.  

The catch of her breath, one that was always accompanied by her head tilting and her lashes pulsing together like they had a main line to her heartbeat.)

With his hand low on his belly and creeping lower (alone in the dark of his flat consisting of square rooms and artificial light), Jamie could taste her (the sea-salt spray of sweat and clean linen tang of a single dusky nipple as it hardened under his lips and a humid bath of his breath).  He could envision her (the almost invisible tenting of the bed sheet that just barely covered the other nipple as it beseeched him for a fair and equal treatment).  

Inhaling and then holding his breath, Jamie found that he could recreate for himself the improbable way Claire resituated herself onto her side when she was spent, her cheek pressed against her forearm.  He could feel the wisp of her breath as delicate as dangling wisteria as she grumbled quietly, somnolently, insinuating a single ankle between his legs.

“Ye look beautiful in the mornin’ sun,” he whispered in his mind’s eye as he traced a finger up her arm. Pulsing beneath his hand and led by imagination alone, he found that his fingertips followed an aimless road (a hearty green vein at the sweat-tacky inner crease of her elbow). His curiosity led him off a marked path and over the culvert between her arm and body to test the curving munros of her buttocks.

“What is that you think you are doing, Fraser?” she asked into the pillow, those well-trained lips heavy in a pout (sated and sleepy, but somehow still aroused).

“Nothing,” he said truthfully.

He had never felt so content to have not a thing to guide him, to limit him.

They had no curfew.

They had no prying eyes to find them.

They had no fear that loose lips would sink ships.

He found himself mesmerized by the silly bits of her – the pulsating, soft heat of her armpit, the mole at the base of her spine (one he suspected she barely knew was there) that grew a single jet-black hair, the almost invisible sliver of toenail on her strangely fat small toe.  

He scaled the soft curve of her breast and rappelled its opposing slope like a reckless mountaineer, and carefully walked his fingers across the stable bridge of her well-formed sternum.

“Are ye awake, my Sassenach?” he inquired vaguely, hand slipping beneath the sheet. He hated that she slept in this dizzy waking dream of his.  And so he ghosted across the gentle curve of her belly to the thatch of trimmed hair between her thighs and the heat that resided there like a siren song.  To wake her, to rouse her further.

“I am not even here, Fraser,” she said sleepily, “but you can touch me properly.”

Outside of the dream where his fantasy resided, he wrapped a careful hand around himself. He licked his lips as he tried to transform his calloused fingers and broad palm into her small, delicate touch.  Fingers sinking into bed sheets, he could not recreate the sensation of touching her “properly,” the bits as slick as waterweed and thrumming and begging to roar beneath his attentions.

But some things he could recreate with near one hundred percent fidelity.

Her breath.

Her smell.

Her intonation as her pupils went fathomless.

Her femoral pulse hammering away beneath his lips as he kissed her carefully with his chin clumsily (on purpose) brushing the heat of her.

Those were things that he had memorized.

Those were things that he could call to mind with the easiness of breathing or blinking, reaching to scratch an itch or drifting off to sleep.

He did not pause to entertain the threat that someday all he would have was the imitation of her.  (A memory as fine as could be, but ultimately only the forgery of a masterpiece.)  Instead, he gripped, tugged, let his mouth fall open as he set a rhythm, knowing that his wanting would always be just this way.

His alarm, though (the bloody thing), had a mind of its own.  The twin brass bells chattered and shook. The clock danced across his nightstand and clipped the edge of his water glass with a disconcerting ping, begging to be slapped into silence by his palm.  At the jangling announcement of another day, he groaned, fisted the bed sheets, and tilted his head back.  His fingers (the poor substitute for any lover, let alone one as perfect as Claire) released his cock, and he willed himself to think of something (anything) to make the bobbing, throbbing ache of arousal subside.

Friday.  It was Friday.  

Inhaling, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.  He wondered what kind of pressure it would take to make his eyeballs burst as he expelled the granules of his dream from the pinched pink corners of his eyes.

In ten hours they would be together.  In ten hours they could drift away together.

He rose from bed with a back that ached in the sweet way that brought a river’s torrent of recollection of the previous evening (Claire glowing on the hay in the stables, her cheeks pinked and glistening, her fingers trembling as she pressed them over what he knew was a hammering heart).  Colonel James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser smiled as he parted his curtains and looked out into the gray of early morning.

Another day.

Those ten hours passed like a century, and when they were reunited and riding north for his cabin from the city, she squeezed his side (quick, pulsing, seeking).  She may have screeched her request (stop!) into his ear, but it was unheard over the mechanical grumble of the motorcycle’s engine and the fierce whipping of the wind past their helmets.  He didn’t need her to say it, though.  From her touch, he knew to stop, and so they pulled into a dusty lay-by dotted with oily puddles and the orange butts of cigarettes.

“Ye okay then, Sassenach?” he asked once they were at a full stop.

“Never better, just seems a shame to let it all pass by at fifty-five miles per hour.”  She inhaled, wetting her lips (it was an unguarded instinct so easily obliged by her that he felt a tightening in his wame like a fist holding on for dear life). “It is truly a beautiful part of our country.”

She stepped over one of the puddles and hoisted herself up onto a great moss-covered rock, brought herself over a gap to another, and then another until she towered over him.

“I am sure you agree.”

“About?”

“That it is beautiful,” she sighed, a hint of faux exasperation shining through as she unfastened her helmet, tossed it to him without warning, and spread her arms out.  He fastened the helmet carefully to the handlebars, watching her tip her head backwards and inhale.  “It is exhilarating to think of land that no man, no woman has touched.  Where no feet have tread.  Where it is just open except for nature. Our kingdom is untouched.”

His voice was light as he teased, “It’s most certainly yer kingdom, ma’am.”

Humming, Claire tented her eyes with the palm of her hand and looked out at the landscape.  “It is yours, too, Fraser.  Maybe we could live here.”

This time (knowing that it was an impossibility - the idea of living here - and knowing that she knew it all the same), his lips released some combination of vowels, and he rose off of the motorbike.  He raked a hand through his hair as he approached her.  “My mam was a fierce nationalist. Didna want a thing to do with the commonwealth.  England was her main problem, no’ so much Wales.  Northern Ireland, weel, that was enough of a mess when she died that I dinna ken what she thought about that. But ye’ll see a white rose bush at the cabin.”

A poem rattled about in her swimming head –

The rose of all the world is not for me.

I want for my part

Only the little white rose of Scotland.

That smells sharp and sweet - and

Breaks the heart.

– and she inhaled, unsteady.

“That’s her doin’, her way of putting a middle finger up to… weel… yer family I’d suppose.”

Claire turned on the rock, the toes of her camel-colored oxfords collecting moss and smudging with grit in the process.  He was smiling at her, his eyes glowing under impossibly long lashes.  She fisted her small hands on her hips and gave him a smile that threatened to steal his breath. ‘Christ ye’re beautiful,’ he thought to say, his lips poised to set the compliment free. But she laughed, interrupting the sentiment, and said, “I am flattered she thought of us with such frequency.”

“Ye’re no’ concerned that she’d likely no’ approve of ye then?” he asked, voice full of mock reproach.  With a mind of their own, his hands fastened to her hips with his thumbs searching out the soft skin of her belly and fingers gripping her waistband.

“I have made a decision where it comes to all things involving you, Fraser,” she said plainly as she cupped one hand along his jaw and laid the other to rest loosely on his shoulder. “And it is that no one will stand in judgment of us.”

“No one?”

No one,” her echo confirmed as she drew him close. His face was level with her sternum, and she sensed his reaction to the broadness of her statement in the marrow of her bones when his grip tightened.  And with a stunning amount of naieveté for someone so savvy (she was no fool, after all), she concluded, “We have some things to figure out, of course, but time is ours right now, Fraser.”

He kissed the center of her chest (a wayward kiss that was not symbolic as it did not land over her heart and one not meant to arouse; it was undesigned and merely the outlet of his affection for her). He sighed when she brought her fingertips to his hairline.

“We’ve an entire kingdom, Claire.”

Aye,” she whispered, the affirmation coming from her like slanted cursive.  “That we do.”

After a not insubstantial bit of time there soaking in the pure silence of the place (of each other), they returned to the motorcycle and rode another twenty miles, slowing only for a wayward pair lambs unaccustomed to moving at the pleasure of a human (even for a queen).  At the front of the cabin, Claire took the key from Jamie as he juggled her small bag along and a larger one of his own (she had teased him mercilessly about the size of it before they departed, resulting in a pinch to her arse that made her squeak).

The interior smelled like their previous weekend.

Her perfume.  His aftershave.  Burnt sausage and tattie scones.

She stepped inside and turned to Fraser. She looked at him through the open door and quickly shed her clothes.  He dropped their bags on the front stoop and stuttered a step as he made it up the stairs with his trousers slipping to his knees. Freed of clothes, he lifted her, made a perch on the table behind the sofa where a week earlier their bodies had been joined again and again.  

“Take your kingdom, Fraser,” she whispered.  

And then her mouth absorbed his growls, his body joined her fully, and his lips procured unendangered moans that rolled from her belly and through her lips.  

Sixteen miles away Jenny Murray (wife of Ian Alistair Murray, mother of three - James Fraser Murray and Margaret Ellen Murray and Katherine Mary Murray – and sister of her son’s namesake – in that order, thank ye verra kindly) was sitting down for the first uninterrupted portion of her Friday afternoon.  Her lower body ached from carrying an angry, teething Kitty around on her hip all afternoon, and her eyes burned from the ceaseless exhaustion of merely having three children.  Her finger carefully holding the lid on her teapot as she poured, she let herself indulge in the almost-foreign quiet of her home and the lavender that rose in the steam.

And then the phone.

It rang once.

She cursed and considered not answering.

It rang again.

“Fuck,” she hissed, remembering her reluctantly slumbering and teething bairn only separated by twenty-two stairs and a half-closed door from the jangling phone.

It rang a third time.

She leapt up then, hissing a curse as her knee knocked into the side table and sloshed her tea onto its saucer.  

“Murray residence,” she said, her voice still slicing with its curtness despite her low tone.  Her brow furrowed, her fingers curling into the spiral of the cord. She swallowed, knowing the news conveyed to her by the primary school’s headmaster was true even as she asked for clarification. “Maggie brought what to school?”

The answer did not change.

But the world would.

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