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As his feet pounded down the darkened Parisian streets, he thought of his child in Claire’s womb and tried to calm himself.
Jamie had been glad of the bairn since Claire told him she was pregnant. Even in his darkest moments he had seen their unborn child as a small source of light, pushing him forward with the promise of better times to come. When he could not reach Claire through his hurt and rage, he could at least think of the wee lad or lass she carried and know that there was a small part of him, safe and untouched by the events of Wentworth.
Yet he had never been as glad of the babe as he was when Claire begged for Randall’s life, for if it was not for the bairn inside her, Jamie did not know that he would have been able to keep himself from striking her.
What she asked for came from a place of love and of loyalty, two qualities Claire had in abundance, but on this occasion the love and loyalty she was showing was not for him and he hated it. He hated sharing her heart with another; he hated that her love for Frank was worth more to her than his pride; he hated that she had such a grip on his heart that he had no power to deny her.
The feel of her delicate hands beneath his own huge paws as he had forced the blade of his own dirk towards his throat…he had wanted to crush her into submission and force her to bleed the life from him, to make her feel some of the helpless anguish that he felt.
But … even as he hated her, he loved her more than ever. She was so brave and stubborn and she had refused to shrink from the force of his anger when most would have. Claire, his Sassenach, his white witch, his wife! Nothing was too much for her, no amount of force could crush her and he adored that strength but he still wanted to be the one to finally rein her in, to make her change her heart for him.
He paused in his stride, that final thought leaving an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Randall had wanted to change Jamie’s heart, he had tried to change him at his very core and it was Claire who had pulled him back and held him steady whilst he found himself again. Could he really be so callous as to want to change her, even as she saved him?
He peered down at his hands, one wrapped in a cast by Claire to keep him whole; the other cut and bleeding from his own violent reaction to her trying to keep another man whole. Both hands ruined due to his choices made in service to her, saving her from Randall and saving Randall for her.
Yet did she not patch him back together every time? Would she not, when he eventually went home, take his cut hand into her lap and clean and dress it for him as best she could?
And what of Claire’s hands? Had she not altered them in service to him? Did he not watch her scrub them raw with soap and a finely bristled brush before she tended him? Had she not stained those miraculous healing hands with the blood of violence, killing that deserter whilst Jamie had stood helpless?
It began to rain, a fine mist of water that clung to his clothes and hair, cooling his flushed skin and his temper with it. Drops of water, turned pink with his blood, rolled off of his fingertips and splashed onto his boots. He needed to go home to Claire. There would be words between them that would wound, and there would be reparations to be made on both sides but all of that could wait until the morning. He wanted to be with his wife. Jamie turned on his heel and began walking back towards the house.