I’d spent the balance of my formative years traipsing through dusty ruins, and various excavations throughout the world. I had learned to dig latrines and boil water, and do a number of other things not suitable for a young lady of gentle birth.
I've always wondered who the "Daddy" is Brianna calls for when giving birth in DOA. Logic says Jamie who is by her side at her insistence the whole time, but she's always reserved that name for Frank.
“Daddy!” Brianna reached out blindly, flailing as a contraction took her unaware. Jamie lunged forward and caught her hand, squeezing tight.
“I’m here, a bheanachd, I’m here.”
She breathed heavily, face bright red, then relaxed, and swallowed.
– Drums of Autumn
I’d like to think she’s calling out to both of her fathers. Why wouldn’t she want both of them with her, in that moment? Jamie knows she refers to Frank as “Daddy,” and yet he responds to her in this passage. Because he’s right there with her. And his presence - his response - soothes her.
Let me add that I think it is absolutely beautiful how Jamie is present with Brianna and Claire in this moment. He couldn’t be there for Faith - or for Brianna - but I so, so love how he was there for Jem. And how Brianna didn’t mind one bit.
How about Bree and Roger making up after a fight? Thank you ❤️
Sure! <3 Those of you who have followed my writing for a while know that I am not hugely confident with Bree and Roger - I find Bree’s voice quite hard to capture as a character — luckily there isn’t much talking in this make up scene! ;-) Thanks for reading guys! xxx
The argument had been lingering for a while. Small pointed
comments and charged stares had filled their evenings for the last three days.
The matter had started simply as a disagreement and escalated in a way that
neither of them had been able to anticipate nor catch before they became too
entrenched in it, and too full of pride to back down.
Brianna’s nostrils flared as Roger re-arranged the glass she
had set before him, just slightly. Not enough to suggest he genuinely wanted it
in a different position but enough to let her know that her placement had not
been, to his mind, correct.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, I just moved a glass Bree. I dinna see that there needs
to be a problem.”
“I didn’t ask if you thought there needed to be a problem, I
asked if we already have one.”
Roger’s jaw hardened and Bree’s eyes narrowed. They were
locked into a stupid argument about whether or not she could make a bike safe
enough for Jem to ride but it was now so far removed from the original point,
Bree could hardly remember what set it off.
“Maybe I should stop answering your questions, seeing as the
answer I give is so verra seldom…”
“Shut up, Roger.”
Brianna snapped and stomped toward the kitchen. She braced
herself against the counter top, her head resting lightly on the cool wood of
the window frame.
She heard him a moment before his hands settled on her
waist, his footstep lighter than she remembered. When had he developed the
instincts of a tracker?
“I hate this.”
His breath was hot against the helix of her ear, the stubble
of his beard gently catching a few strands of copper hair that had escaped her
She whispered and with the admission, a great weight of
tension left her shoulders.
“How do I fix it, Bree?”
Roger’s chest was pressing against her back, the solid
comfort of his presence a reassuring buffer against the upset in their home.
She reached back and ran her hand from his thigh to his hip, digging her nails
into the toned flesh of his leg. Always a slim man, he was now lithe with
muscle from hard work and long days and the flesh beneath his breeks quivered with
anticipation of her touch each time she lifted her hand away. Roger’s own hand
was working the thong which laced her breeks and as the knot came loose; his
teeth grazed the pale skin of her neck.
Bree closed her eyes and pictured the smooth dark hair of
his legs rising to greet her fingers as they moved, silky and damp with perspiration
from them being pressed so close together, so very, very close…
Roger stilled his fingers and grinned as Brianna arched her
back, pressing her backside into him, a small, impatient noise escaping her
lips. She tried to turn to face him but he reapplied the exquisite pressure of
his fingertip and she froze, obediently.
“Will ye have me now?”
His voice was deeper, thicker than normal. He made a small
circular motion and Bree nodded against his shoulder, her nails digging into
his thigh hard enough to make his breath hiss through his teeth. Roger had once
heard his mother-in-law say that the best way to deal with the Fraser temper
was to either fight them, feed them or … take them to bed. He didn’t want to
fight with Bree anymore, her silences pierced his heart more than her sharp
words and his own callousness was nothing more than a source of shame. He had
not tried feeding her but the third option was becoming far more apparent as
the right one with every second.
“Will we still be in a quarrel afterwards?”
“That depends on … ah!”
Roger’s palm stung with the impact and the thought of how it
might look on her – a single pink mark across an expanse of white – made his
knees weak but he forced himself to remain still as his fingers moved in small
“You’ll regret that.”
Bree said levelly but with something close to humour in her
voice and Roger grinned despite himself.
“Aye, you’ll no doubt see to it that I have a few marks of
my own but I don’t mind that as long as we are agreed that our argument is
over. I don’t want to continue it Brianna.”
He felt her relax against him, slowly, carefully, unpicking
the thread of her stubborn nature from the necessity of co-existing with him.
She didn’t want to fight any more than he did, if she did then he would never
have got this far. She was letting him talk her down, allowing him to woo her. Roger
was learning a lot about what it meant to be a man in these times but some
things were not historical, they were eternal.
“I’m sorry for any insult I caused, Bree.”
It was like turning a key in a worn but perfect lock. She
turned to him and their lips met.
“I’m sorry too.”
Roger smiled against her as her arms twined around his neck.
“I like what the mountain air seems to be doing to you.”
She teased, eyes light and playful
“Mountain air? You don’t think I had it in me all along?”
Roger raised his eyebrows as he walked her backwards toward
the counter, lifting her beneath the thighs and seating her before him as he
began to work the buckskin down her legs.
Bree grinned, wiggling her feet free and locking them around
her husband, drawing him to her and sealing the lid on their fight.
His extreme gentleness was in no way tentative; rather it was a promise of power known and held in leash; a challenge and a provocation the more remarkable for its lack of demand. I am yours, it said. And if you will have me, then…
For I have lied, and killed, and stolen; betrayed and broken trust. But there is one thing that shall lie in the balance. When I shall stand before God, I shall have one thing to say, to weigh against the rest.