There are rumours of a travelling show. A circus, no less, is coming to town and there are excited whispers under every roof, wandering from ear to ear.
or,
what if the death eaters were a a freaky travelling circus !!!
happy happy happy birthday to my most beloved kara, my online turned real life friend & my fandom soulmate. i love you lots and forever and i hope you have the loveliest of birthdays, and im so happy to be your friend 🤍♥️🤍♥️ here’s this fucky weird little fic for you !!!!!
everyone go wish kara a happy birthday or experience my wrath !!!!!
Taggie O’Hara has felt stupid many times in her life.
When she was seven years old, hunched over a storybook — Cinderella, her favorite for Daddy to read at bedtime — and trying to make sense of the letters herself. Patrick had moved on to reading the morning paper, sounding out every word with ease to Mummy’s delight, and even Caitlin was managing to identify words in her Dr. Seuss books. Stupid girl, Mummy would say, shaking her head.
When she thought Mummy couldn’t possibly be having an affair with Malhar, even though she was out at all hours of the night and came back in the mornings smelling like Patrick’s godfather. Taggie convinced herself there was another explanation — a simpler explanation. They had to be working on a show together. But then the news came out, and she berated herself for weeks for not realizing, not warning Daddy.
Stupid girl.
When it seemed like Ralphie actually liked her, when he took her virginity and never wrote. Just showed up for Patrick’s birthday like nothing ever happened, new girlfriend in tow.
And now, most crushing of all: Cameron Cook waltzing through the door to Penscombe Court like she never left.
rating: E
words: 7,884
a/n: well.....here i am.....a month later.....oops! we've arrived at the dreaded dinner party — i hope you enjoy. 👀 special thanks to @popjunkie42 for beta reading, and to the whole @rutagdiscord for the encouragement.
read under the cut or on ao3!
Taggie O’Hara has felt stupid many times in her life.
When she was seven years old, hunched over a storybook — Cinderella, her favorite for Daddy to read at bedtime — and trying to make sense of the letters herself. Patrick had moved on to reading the morning paper, sounding out every word with ease to Mummy’s delight, and even Caitlin was managing to identify words in her Dr. Seuss books. Stupid girl, Mummy would say, shaking her head.
When she thought Mummy couldn’t possibly be having an affair with Malhar, even though she was out at all hours of the night and came back in the mornings smelling like Patrick’s godfather. Taggie convinced herself there was another explanation — a simpler explanation. They had to be working on a show together. But then the news came out, and she berated herself for weeks for not realizing, not warning Daddy.
Stupid girl.
When it seemed like Raphie actually liked her, when he took her virginity and never wrote. Just showed up for Patrick’s birthday like nothing ever happened, new girlfriend in tow.
And now, most crushing of all: Cameron Cook waltzing through the door to Penscombe Court like she never left.
At least she’s not crying this time — not yet.
She’d walked up the grand staircase calmly, but the second she was out of earshot, she ran. Like a shot, straight to Rupert’s bedroom. What she considered their bedroom before the knock on the door. It took at least five minutes to get her duffle packed again, to find all the clever little places that her things had been stored. Some in the dresser, some in the nightstand, some on the bathroom vanity. With everything back together, Taggie made the long walk back to Tabitha’s room.
It felt so much worse than making the reverse trip in the middle of the night.
Which is how Taggie finds herself sitting on Tabitha’s bed with the door firmly locked, feeling like an absolute idiot. Gertrude curls up beside her and whines, clearly feeling betrayed in her own right. Beaver had cosied up to Cameron so quickly — with all the commotion of the week, Taggie had honestly forgotten that she stayed at Penscombe first. The O’Hara temper that Daddy always has on display makes her want to scream, but what would be the use?
“What the fuck?” Taggie asks. “What the fuck?”
Footsteps come down the hall. She freezes. Then a knock on the door. “Taggie?”
Rupert’s voice usually soothes like a balm, but right now, she wishes she had earplugs. She hasn’t cried, but this — his sincere voice calling her name through the door — could change that.
“Taggie, can I talk to you? I want to explain.”
She bites her lip. Gertrude barks, and Taggie shushes her softly. Maybe if he doesn’t hear anything, he’ll just walk away.
“Darling, I didn’t invite her. I don’t want her here.”
Maybe not. Slowly, Taggie reaches over Gertrude to turn the lamp off.
“And I didn’t tell her about…about us. Please just let me explain.”
The mere thought of Rupert talking to Cameron about her, about them, has Taggie’s skin burning. How dare he let Cameron come in and do whatever she pleases? How dare he not turn her away and lock the door? Or change the locks, just to be safe. Taggie untucks the covers and slips underneath them, cool fabric doing nothing to alleviate her blazing anger. She thrashes under the weight of the duvet, and Gertrude cocks her head.
Taggie turns her face into the downy pillow. “Leave me alone.”
She doesn’t cry until she hears his footsteps again. The tears that fall aren’t from sadness — they’re from fury.
Stupid girl.
—
After a fitful night’s sleep, Taggie sneaks into the kitchen early in the morning. The sun peeks through the eastern windows, bathing the whole room in a pale pink light. She scrubs sleep from her eyes while the kettle boils on the hob, screeching whistle pulling her more fully into consciousness. It feels colder here than usual. Taggie rubs her hands up and down her arms, clad in a thin wool jumper. She dressed in a hurry, then darted down the stairs as quickly as possible to avoid everyone else in the house. Hopefully, they all stay asleep well into the morning.
And hopefully today goes by fast.
She pours her tea into a dainty cup with gold around the rim. Mrs. Bodkin had shown her the old collection of wedding china — that Helen hadn’t wanted in the divorce — a few days ago, but Taggie had been too afraid to break it at the time. Today’s her last chance. She fixes herself a plate of toast and sits at the breakfast table with a pot of salted butter and homemade marmalade. It tastes bitter on her tongue, and the tea doesn’t help.
“Pretty sorry spread for a caterer.”
Cameron.
Maybe she can get away with hiding out in Tabitha’s room until lunch, when the rest of the kitchen staff is set to arrive. Maybe she can just leave, Margaret Thatcher and Rupert Campbell-Black be damned.
“I was looking forward to a full English,” Cameron says, plucking a mug from the cupboard by the sink. She’s wrapped in a black silky robe, looking every bit the part of lady of the house. She frowns when she sees Taggie’s cup. “Where’d you get that?”
“I was just leaving.” It’s dizzying, how just 24 hours ago, she felt perfectly at home in this kitchen. In this estate. And now, the walls are closing in, threatening to chew her up and spit her out.
“Cinderella leaving before the ball even starts? How odd.” Mug in hand, Cameron leans on the kitchen island. “Declan didn’t seem to think anything could get you out of here.”
Taggie’s vision goes spotty. “Don’t,” she says sharply.
“You want to talk about Rupert instead? Fine.” She sets the mug down and crosses her arms. “He didn’t end things with me.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Taggie says, heading for the doorway. Her stomach churns, betraying her indifference. Was she the dreaded other woman, leaving nothing but heartbreak in her wake? Has she turned into Mummy?
“Like you haven’t been fucking him this whole week?”
If Taggie’s worried she’s become her mother, it’s her father’s temper that rears its ugly head now. She whips around, hands balled in fists. “He didn’t miss you.”
“What?” Gertrude bounds into the kitchen at that exact moment, tail wagging and eyes bright. Cameron groans. “I still can’t believe you brought your fucking dog.”
“He didn’t talk about you at all,” Taggie presses. She can’t get a deep enough breath, and her pulse races. “Not until I brought you up, and he said it was over.”
Cameron’s eyes cut from Gertrude, pinning Taggie where she stands. “Really?” The word comes out low and sharp. “Did he say he broke up with me?”
Taggie bites her lip. “He said it fizzled.”
“Fizzled.”
By the bow window, Gertrude wines. Through the glass, the rest of the dogs roam the grounds with Mr. Bodkin, who has a metal broom and dustpan in one hand. Beaver squats, and his handler hurries over to sweep the mess off the freshly manicured grass. Right now, Taggie envies him.
“He said you two were on the same page.”
Cameron laughs, but there’s bite to it. “I don’t think we’re even in the same book.”
“Then why the hell did you have to come back?”
“What if I said I missed him?” Cameron asks, taking Taggie’s place at the breakfast table. “What if I missed this house and the dogs? All of it?”
“Did you miss him?” Taggie counters. “Or did you just miss the rest of it?”
“Seems like you grew a pair while I was gone.” Cameron sips her tea carefully. “Good for you.”
“Fat lot of good it’s done me.” Taggie ducks her head and leaves, Gertrude trotting behind her dutifully.
What a fucking mess.
—
Hours later, she’s pacing back and forth in the larder, trying to keep from throwing up. The nerves have finally caught up to her and the enormity of tonight’s situation. Cooking for the Prime Minister. It’s the job of a lifetime — and Taggie’s not even sure if she’s getting paid. Does she want to be paid? Is this just a favor? Was this whole thing just a way to get into her knickers?
Does Rupert have a backup plan if she bolts?
Her breaths come fast now, careening toward hyperventilation. She looks for a paper bag, but her heart’s racing too quickly to focus.
Oh, God. She’s going to pass out and die in the larder, and the whole night will be ruined before it’s even begun. Pressing a hand to her chest, Taggie wills herself to breathe slower. To inhale, count to five, then exhale. By the third round, it’s only sort of working.
“Taggie?”
Her blood runs cold. The hyperventilation picks back up. It’s Rupert. Of course he’d find her here. His tall masculine form pushes through the door, and she immediately wants to run. Or burrow into his chest. She’s stuck, frozen between the two options, and her skin feels tight over her bones.
“Taggie, I’ve been trying to talk to you all day.” There are purple half-moons under his eyes. It’s obvious that he didn’t sleep well last night, either.
She spins on her heels so she’s facing the long line of shelves against the wall instead of him. “I know,” Taggie says harshly, scanning the shelves for any excuse to leave. A critical ingredient that one of the girls in the kitchen needs, or a time bomb that only Mrs. Bodkin can diffuse. “But I’m r-really busy. So…” she trails, reaching for a tin of nuts.
He grabs her elbow before she can dash away and turns her slowly. “Looking for a snack?” he asks dryly.
“I have to — ”
“Tag, I didn’t know she was coming.”
Of all the moments to have it out. An hour before guests arrive? Is he bloody insane? It’s not until he’s answering that she realizes she said it all out loud.
“Well, when else was I supposed to corner you in the larder? You haven’t exactly been easy to track down.”
“I know!” Taggie fires back. “But…what are you thinking? You have to get ready to charm Margaret Thatcher, and I — I have to make sure you have dinner to serve her!”
“I’m thinking that I want to explain this all to you, but you won’t let me.”
Taggie pulls out of his grasp. “What is there to explain? You didn’t actually end things with Cameron Cook like you led me to believe, and Daddy invited her here. Am I missing anything?”
Rupert frowns. “I thought that I had sufficiently ended my relationship with Cameron. Clearly, I was wrong.”
His relationship with Cameron. Taggie could gag just thinking about the two of them in bed together. Cameron, who’s gorgeous without even trying. Legs up to there, and certainly more sexual experience. God, why had Taggie ever thought she could compete with Cameron Cook? “Look, I really have to — ”
Before she can finish, Rupert boxes her against the wall to her left, strong forearms on either side of her head. He towers over her, looking down with a mixture of exasperation, regret, and lust. It turns her tummy to molten lava. “I wanted you here. For your exceptional cooking skills, yes. And because I wanted…time. Just the two of us. I wanted you, Taggie.”
The ground shifts, and suddenly Rupert’s mouth covers hers, claiming her. Taggie melts. One of his hands tilts her jaw, and her mouth falls open, inviting his tongue to do all of those sinful, delectable things she’s missed in the past 24 hours. Has it only been 24 hours since they’ve done this? Feels longer. Feels like months.
Rupert groans into her mouth and presses closer, impossibly closer, until he’s practically on top of her. Their hips slot together, and fuck, if Taggie isn’t so pent up that she nearly throws caution to the wind and begs him to mount her right here, where any number of staff could interrupt. The thought alone strikes her cunt like a match; she whimpers and slants herself against the thick outline of his cock through his trousers.
The door swings open.
“My word,” Mrs. Bodkin says quietly. “I’m sorry, sir.” Taggie’s grateful that she can’t see the older woman’s face, blocked by the broad expanse of Rupert’s chest. Then footsteps retreat from the larder, and the door clicks shut again. Her cheeks burn.
“Well, that was…mortifying,” he says, closing his eyes and pulling back just a centimeter. “Are you okay, angel?”
Taggie stares up at him, acutely aware that his lips are swollen because of her. That his erection is because of her. That he wants her. So why the fuck is she still so mad? “I have to go.” Her voice cuts through the air like a knife, and she twists away from Rupert before he has a chance to say anything else.
On her way out into the kitchen, he calls, “You’re going to be brilliant tonight.”
She wishes she hadn’t agreed to this at all.
—
“Gerald, was this whole soiree a mistake?” Rupert Campbell-Black asks, leaning against the dilapidated orangery, cigarette in hand. “You would tell me if this was a bad idea, right?”
“It’s a little late for that,” Gerald answers, taking a drag. “But everything was going well up until yesterday, wasn’t it?”
Rupert groans. “Like I don’t fucking know that.”
“How is Taggie?”
He lets his cigarette drop onto a patch of dry dirt, stubs it out with his shoe. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
Tony Baddingham is first to arrive, hobbling up the steps to Penscombe Court with a cane Rupert is certain he doesn’t actually need. He’s sported it since his release from hospital, and it’s been annoyingly effective at eliciting public sympathy. And if he’s heard through the grapevine that Cameron Cook will be in attendance tonight, he certainly wouldn’t be seen without it.
Rupert’s half-shocked that Tony’s not wearing an oversized bandage around his head.
Still, Rupert smiles and shakes his hand. Thanks him for coming, and only thinks about kicking his cane out from under him. Then Paul Stratton arrives, and Rupert barely waves him in the door before he turns his attention to Freddie, whose car has just pulled up.
“Rupe, good to see you,” Freddie bellows, climbing the steps to the front door. “I hear dinner’s going to be phenomenal.”
“You talked to Lizzie, didn’t you?” Rupert asks, showing Freddie inside. Mr. Bodkin takes his coat and ushers the two men toward the sitting room, where a young man passes a tray of champagne flutes around. Freddie takes one happily, then nods.
“She may have filled me in on what’s going on.”
“Great.” Rupert takes a crystal glass from the tray and tips it back, downing the whole thing in one gulp. He sets the empty flute on the polished silver and nods at the boy. “Keep them coming, please.”
Freddie just laughs.
Cameron choses that moment to descend the staircase. She’s in a black floor-length gown, slightly fitted at the waist, with puffed sleeves that give her shoulders more real estate than usual. Her hair is wrapped into a low chignon, which shows off her diamond teardrop earrings. They sparkle in the low candlelight, and all Rupert can think of is how they’d look on Taggie.
Spying Tony across the room, Cameron makes a beeline to Rupert and Freddie. She holds her chin high, but her eyes keep darting to the side like she’s trying to keep tabs on Lord Baddingham without anyone noticing. Rupert flags down a server to get her a drink.
“Whiskey,” she says curtly. “None of that sparkling shit for me tonight.”
And then there’s Tony beside them, clutching his cane like an old friend. “Cameron, good to see you.”
Her eyes widen a millimetre, but she blinks, and a mask slides down her face. Suddenly, she’s Cameron Cook, Venturer Controller of Programmes, not Tony Baddingham’s ex-lover and attempted murderer. It’s clear that nobody intends on talking about it — not when polite society is satisfied with the slip-and-fall story.
Cameron nods. “Tony. You look…well.”
“Couldn’t be better. Not when I’m in such stimulating company.” He claps his hands around the top of his cane, and Cameron takes a sharp breath. “Although your motley crew seems to be missing someone. Oh, I hope he isn’t too sloshed to join us.”
“Declan will be here,” Freddie says. “You know how he is. Probably just writing a list of questions for the Iron Lady, is all.”
It’s 6:30. According to the painstakingly detailed schedule Gerald developed, the PM should be here at 6:45, with dinner starting at 7 sharp. If Declan O’Hara ruins this — for his daughter and for Venturer — Rupert’s going to throttle him. He should anyway, for goading Cameron into reappearing.
God, he misses the dogs, all corralled upstairs with one of the staff. If Rupert could switch places, it’s possible he would.
The server from earlier comes back with another champagne flute. This time, Rupert takes his time, finishing it in two sips. Paul Stratton has joined them now, but the conversation dims to a low roar as Taggie takes over his mind. She’s only a few rooms away, but after that kiss in the larder, he has no idea what she wants.
All he did was show her that he can’t fucking control himself, couldn’t give her the space she wanted. The real kicker is that he hadn’t gone in there to do anything but talk. But there she was, staring up at him like a wounded animal — how else was he meant to convince her that this was all a misunderstanding? That there’s only one woman he wants in his bed?
That he’s terrified of her leaving tonight and never coming back?
Freddie nudges his shoulder. “Paul was asking what’s on the menu tonight. You know?”
Of course he knows. Taggie’s been talking about it all week. “Beef Wellington is the main course. There’s a smoked salmon mousse, nicoise salad, and prawn cocktail to start. For dessert, spiced, poached pears.” It’ll all be delicious, if Rupert can make himself eat.
“That sounds splendid,” Paul says. Tony nods.
Cameron’s eyes narrow. “Have you been in the kitchen this week, Rupert?”
“Aye, he certainly has.”
Declan. Rupert checks his watch. 6:42 — in the nick of time.
“Tony, Paul.” Declan nods at them, then sticks out his hand to greet Freddie. He shakes Cameron’s hand, too, and for a moment, Rupert thinks he might be afforded the same courtesy. Given that it’s his house they’re hosting in. But Declan just stares at him, looks with such disdain and disappointment that Rupert wants to deck him across the jaw.
“For the sake of the franchise, I’m going to be civil,” Declan says, low enough that the others would have to crane their necks to hear. Freddie herds them all away and shoots Rupert a wink. “But don’t think that we’re back on good terms.”
“This is what you call civil?”
“I’m not throwing punches, am I?”
Rupert smirks. It’s the smirk he knows from time and experience that all husbands hate. The I know what your wife tastes like smirk. When it comes to Maud, he doesn’t — not for her lack of trying, of course. But they both know what it means. And part of him hates that he’s resorting to this when what he feels for Taggie is so much more, but Declan made her cry. Declan is the reason she’s barely speaking to him.
So when Declan counters with a quiet fuck you, Rupert doesn’t feel all that bad.
“The Prime Minister’s car just pulled up, sir,” Gerald says, breaking the two men apart. Everyone in the sitting room stands a little straighter. A chill works down his spine, and he shudders. In just a few hours, Taggie could be leaving Penscombe for good.
Rupert draws in a deep breath. “Okay, friends, colleagues, and nemeses: Everyone on their best behavior for the lady of the evening.”
In walks Margaret Thatcher.
—
“I see your Venture group joined after all,” the Prime Minister says.
“Yes, madam.” Rupert nods at her from across the large mahogany dining table. He’s seated at one end, with Declan, Freddie, and Tony to his left, and Cameron and Paul on his right. They were able to rustle up another chair after all, though Gerald and Mrs. Bodkin bemoaned the uneven arrangement all afternoon. But it’s fine, really. “And it’s Venturer.”
“I see.”
Silence stretches on like the silk table runner beneath their plates.
“Why?” she asks.
“Why what?”
“Why is it called Venturer?”
“It’s named after a horse,” Freddie supplies. Tony rolls his eyes.
It’s going well so far. Declan has kept to himself, and to nobody’s surprise, the salad and prawn cocktail were delicious. They’re just about to the main course, and if they can keep it up, everyone might make it out alive.
As if on cue, four servers appear from the kitchen, a plate in each hand. The Prime Minister is served first, then they go around the table clockwise. Declan hums in approval when his plate is set in front of him — no doubt Taggie’s cooked this for him before. It’s absolutely stunning: a thick slice of Beef Wellington on a bed of potato and parsnip mash, with roasted asparagus on the side, and a little pot of Bordelaise on the side.
There’s quiet for a moment as everyone digs in. The first bite is heaven, and Rupert nearly moans. Good God, Taggie can cook. Paul does moan, and Tony shoots a glare at him.
And then the questions set in.
“Rupert, would you care to enlighten me as to why I keep seeing Venturer and Corinium in the news? And furthermore, can you explain why it never seems to be in service of crown and country?”
He nearly chokes on a bit of mash. In layman’s terms, she’s asking why they keep embarrassing her. “It’s fairly complicated, madam. You see, there are various personal relationships that predate our franchise bid that make things contentious.”
“What he means,” Tony starts, setting his knife and fork primly on his plate, “is that people on their side are harboring personal grudges and making things contentious.”
“Oh, that’s a load of shite if I’ve ever heard it.”
“Excuse me?” the Prime Minister asks. Fucking Declan.
“What Tony — sorry, Lord Baddingham — is conveniently leaving out is the way he stalked Corinium employees accused of being sympathetic to our bid, harassed members of our team, and physically attacked one of our own.”
“Those are completely baseless accusations, madam. You can ask anyone at Corinium.” Tony gives her a thin smile. “There’s been absolutely zero stalking, harassment, or physical violence.”
“And what if I asked some of the employees at Venturer?” she presses. “What if I asked Miss Cook?”
Rupert shoots a look at the clock on the buffet, like he hasn’t been mentally counting down the minutes since Tony arrived. It’s only just past 8 o’clock, but he’s ready to call it a night. He needs a good night’s sleep and another — better — conversation with Taggie. And another fucking drink.
“Well,” Cameron starts, pointedly avoiding looking anywhere near Tony, “the only physical violence I can speak to is the fall Tony had in his office the night I quit. As for the rest of it, Declan’s right.”
Like she’s ever said that before. Declan pounds his hand on the table, sending the silverware and china rattling. “See? I’m not making this up.”
Rupert curls his mouth into a smirk. “Declan O’Hara may be many things, but a liar is seldom one of them.”
Freddie raises his glass in a mock toast. “Here, here.”
Only Paul raises his in answer, and quickly sets it back down when Tony presumably kicks him under the table.
“And how does Agatha O’Hara fit into all of this?” the Prime Minister asks after considering for a moment. “I find it all quite fascinating — when I asked my staff who would be preparing our meal tonight, I didn’t expect such a young thing. And then I remembered a conversation with your wife, Lord Baddingham. Miss O’Hara has catered a few things for her, yes?”
Tony nods slowly.
“Daughter of a Venturer founder, yet friendly with the Baddinghams. Interesting, is it not?”
Rupert goes totally still. Friendly with the Baddinghams, like she’s a regular for tea. Taggie’s catering business has got nothing to do with —
“I’d be curious to hear her take on the bad blood between your bids, given her position near both Venturer and Corinium,” the Prime Minister continues. “Please bring her out here.”
Rupert shoots a look at Declan, who looks as confused as he is. What the fuck is the play here?
“I’d also like to pay my compliments to her cooking. Quite lovely.”
“I’ll fetch her,” Rupert says quickly. It’s clear there’s no getting out of this, so it’s best to face it head on. “Just a moment.”
In the kitchen, he finds Taggie spooning a decadent brown sauce over plates of poached pears. She looks up when the door thuds shut behind him, and her blue eyes go wide. There’s damp hair clinging to her neck that’s fallen out of her braid, and she’s got food splattered all over her white apron like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Beautiful, he wants to say.
“What do you want?” Taggie asks in a rush. “I’m sort of busy here, so unless it’s an emergency — ”
“Margaret Thatcher would like to speak with you,” Rupert says. “So take a breath, give your apron to Mrs. Bodkin, and don’t panic.”
“What?” The spoon hits the counter with a clatter.
“She’s going to ask you about Venturer and Corinium. Just be honest, and don’t picture her naked.”
Taggie stares, dumbfounded. “What the hell does that mean?” She undoes the knot on her apron and passes it to Mrs. Bodkin, who frowns at him.
“It’s bad advice I got my first term as an MP. You know, if you’re nervous, you’re supposed to picture the crowd or person you’re speaking to naked.” He shrugs. “I just suggest you don’t do that out there.”
“Oh my God,” she breathes. “I’m a mess. I-I’ve been back here sweating with the rest of the staff all night, and I probably smell, and — oh no, my hair.” She catches her reflection in a glass cabinet front and grimaces. Her hands work furiously to try and tame the flyaways and sweat-slicked strands.
“You look,” Rupert starts, considering how honest to be, “wonderful, Taggie.”
She shoots him a glare. “Right.”
So much for that olive branch.
He clears his throat. “Well, shall we?”
Taggie crosses her arms. “After you.”
“Please, darling, after you.” He pulls the door open, sounds of fork and knife scraping against fine china slowing, and then stopping altogether, and waits.
She frowns again, then wipes her hands on her jeans and takes a deep breath. Watching her walk into the lion’s den makes Rupert’s blood pressure spike. If only he could have arranged for a private meeting between the two women, after the others were gone. And with Declan out there — he knows his business partner hasn’t said a thing to Taggie since their row.
But she goes in with her head held high, back straight. This is what it would be like to attend a gala with Taggie on his arm: her with a soft smile on her face, radiating beauty and kindness and everything good in the world while he looks on in awe. The real kicker is that his future isn’t a given, especially not after yesterday. The thought worms its way down his spine like an ice cube caught in his shirt, slowly melting and leaving a wet chill in its wake. Rupert walks back to his seat at the end of the table with slow, methodical steps, knowing full well that the faster this goes, the closer Taggie could be to leaving.
He suddenly wants to keep her out here with the Prime Minister forever.
“You must be Agatha,” she says from her spot at the head of the table. “It’s wonderful to meet the chef behind tonight’s dinner.”
“Yes, m-madam. Thank you.” Taggie stands awkwardly, halfway between Cameron and the PM. Cameron rolls her eyes and goes back to her plate.
“You’ve put together an exceptional meal.” She smiles, clasping her hands together. “Now I’d like to ask what you make of this franchise war.”
Taggie goes pale. If he weren’t in front of the Prime Minister, he’d offer her a glass of water and a wet compress. He’s tempted to anyway. “M-me?”
The Prime Minister nods. “Your father is the founder of Venturer, yes?”
“He’s, erm, he’s one of them.”
“As his daughter, you must be privy to what kind of man he is. Everyone saw what happened at Corinium — the way he imploded on live television. Is he the kind of leader we want running the franchise?”
The room goes completely silent. Tony wears a deep frown, and Declan looks like he might pass out. Freddie and Paul both stare at their plates, and Cameron watches like a hawk ready to capture a field mouse. Rupert feels like he’s just swallowed a rock.
Taggie chews her bottom lip. “Oh, well, I…I know that he works very h-hard, and he’s very g-good at his job. Whatever it is. When he puts his mind to something, he gets it done.”
“Do you think he might need reigning in?”
“That’s what the others are for,” Taggie says simply. “Freddie and, erm, Rupert. They won’t let him make a fool out of himself, or out of Venturer.”
“And why is that?”
Taggie pauses, tilting her head. “Well, you see, it’s — it’s why they work so well together. Freddie pushes forward, s-since he’s got all the business experience, but he’s also quite…reasonable. My father has the, ah, spark, but also the integrity. That comes from his journalism career. Then there’s…Rupert.”
“And what does Mr. Campbell-Black add to the group?”
Rupert sits still as a statue. Taggie could cut him down right now — she’s got all of the ammunition, and he’s not sure he could even blame her after how he’s acted. The things he’s done wrong, out of order.
“Rupert keeps us all grounded, madam.” She turns just an inch, not quite facing him, but enough to glance over her shoulder. Her blue eyes look clear as the ocean after a storm. “Despite the r-reputation, he’s got a…kind heart.”
What the hell has he done to deserve Taggie O’Hara? What have any of them done to deserve her?
For a long moment, the Prime Minister considers Taggie, and then the rest of the group. Her discerning eyes move from one person to another slowly, making the whole table shrink back in their seats like clockwork. Her eyes snap back to Tony, and then she asks, “And what do you think of Lord Baddingham and Corinium?”
The speed of Taggie’s reply has Rupert on the edge of his seat. “I don’t have anything nice to say, so I w-won’t say anything at all.”
Freddie snickers, and Cameron relaxes in her seat.
“Very well. I appreciate your insight, Agatha. You’re welcome to head back to the kitchen — I’m sure I’ve kept you long enough.”
Taggie nods, thanking her, and makes a beeline back to the kitchen, head ducked down and staring at the floor the whole way.
When Rupert looks up again, the whole table is standing. He jumps to his feet and gives the Prime Minister a winning smile, but she waves him off. “Keep your seat, Rupert. I’m just off to powder my nose.”
The atmosphere relaxes as soon as she’s out of earshot.
“Taggie did very well,” Rupert says, leaning back in his chair. It’s perhaps the understatement of the century. Freddie nods.
“Aye, of course she did. She’s an O’Hara.”
“Have you talked to her since…?” Rupert trails.
Declan glares. “None of your fucking business.”
“Right.”
“The food really has been fantastic.” Paul says — the first time he’s talked in an hour by Rupert’s estimation.
“Oh, yes. Taggie’s an excellent chef. It’s a shame she’s whoring herself out to Rupert, though.” The room goes dead silent, save a dry, choked laugh from Paul. Cameron’s eyebrows shoot up. Freddie nearly drops his fork. Declan clenches his fist.
The rest of the faces around the table fade. Before he can convince himself not to — to think of the damn franchise and the reason this bloody dinner is happening in the first place — Rupert stands, eerily calm, and looks Tony right in the eye. “Get the hell out of my house before I throw you out.” “Oh, fuck,” Freddie says. Nobody else moves.
After what feels like an eternity but must only be a few seconds, Tony tries to play it off. “Come on, I’m only playing around, Rupert.” He smiles, but sweat beads at his brow.
“And I’m not,” Rupert says. His voice rings out cool and clear despite the rage simmering just beneath his skin. He doesn’t care if they talk about him — he’s earned his reputation, after all. But Taggie? Off limits. No exceptions. And given the fact that he didn’t throw Cameron out yesterday, this is all the more necessary. “Get the fuck out, or I’ll fucking make you.”
“Rupert,” Declan starts, raising both hands, “just calm down — the Prime Minister is in your bloody loo. Let’s all relax until she’s gone.”
He turns to face Declan, jaw clenching. “Not even going to stand up for your own daughter?” Suddenly the dam breaks, and his calm exterior burns away. Rupert’s voice rises, and his lips curl into a snarl. “The daughter who’s done everything for you, kept you from completely imploding — you’re not going to say a damn thing because of…Margaret Thatcher? You fucking hate her!”
Freddie opens his mouth to say something, but Rupert throws a shut the fuck up his way like a grenade. Beside him, Paul’s eyes are wide, his body frozen. Like one move might cause Rupert to tear into him next.
“This is no way for a potential franchise owner to act,” Tony says slowly.
In just a few steps, Rupert’s around the table and staring directly down at Lord Baddingham. “If you don’t get up and leave this house now, I will make sure you actually need that cane the next time you crawl out of hell.” He fits a hand on Tony’s shoulder and squeezes — hard. “Get the fuck out.”
“Are you really threatening me right now?”
Rupert hoists a yelping Tony out of the dining chair and drags him toward the doorway. Freddie and Declan are up in an instant, and he only gets halfway there before he’s being caged in by his business partners.
“Let him go, Rupe,” Freddie says as Declan tries to uncurl Rupert’s fist around Tony’s shoulder. It’s not working.
Across the room, Cameron stands, eyebrows knit together. She shakes her head. “Oh my God. You love her, don’t you?”
Rupert drops Tony like a scalding pan fresh out of the oven. “What?” all four men ask at the same time.
“You’re in love with Taggie,” Cameron answers simply.
All hell breaks loose.
—
Taggie O’Hara is supposed to be plating the pears for dessert — which is meant to be served any minute now — but she can’t breathe. Gerald waved her over as soon as he heard Tony make that crude joke about her, obviously in retaliation for what she’d said to the PM. It stung, but that’s not why she can’t catch her breath.
Rupert loves her.
Or at least that’s what Cameron thinks.
Right now, he’s not correcting her. There’s shouting, the scrape of furniture across the floor, but no refusal. No you’re out of your bloody mind.
“Are you okay?” Gerald asks. His face is pale, no doubt due to the stress of hosting the Prime Minister, Cameron’s reappearance, and now whatever’s going on in the dining room. He’s been pacing since before the first course went out.
Taggie nods, though she’s really not sure. What the fuck is she supposed to do now? Just serve dessert like normal and pretend that none of this happened? There’s no way. She’d surely spill a poached pear all over someone, and it wouldn’t even take Rupert’s hand up her skirt this time.
“What do we do?”
Gerald turns toward the rest of the kitchen, where the staff have plates ready to go out and are trying desperately not to look like they’re eavesdropping. Mrs. Bodkin walks over with two glasses of whiskey, gives Taggie a pointed look, and walks back to the sink — all without a word.
“Oh, God,” she says, eyeing the drink. “Should I —?”
But Gerald’s already downing his. “Yeah,” he says, empty glass in hand. “You definitely should.”
Taggie shoots it back, and it burns. There’s no time for sipping, not with the Prime Minister on her way back from the loo and the muffled arguing on the other side of the door. She wants another.
“This is how you behave when I leave the room?”
Gerald swears.
She’s back.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Taggie breathes.
“Right now, I don’t know if either group should be allowed to bid for the franchise. Rupert, we’ll be speaking Monday morning — bright and early.”
There’s more mumbling, probably apologies, and then —
“Do have your staff fax me the information for your caterer. Lovely girl, and best Wellington I’ve ever had. I’ve got no idea why she’d surround herself with the likes of you all.”
If she thought she couldn’t breathe before, now she’s on the brink of going catatonic. Margaret Thatcher wants her information. Best Beef Wellington she’s ever had. A soft breeze would tip her facedown onto the tile floor.
“Lord Baddingham, we’re all grateful for your speedy recovery, but don’t push your luck. Good night.”
“Taggie,” Gerald says slowly. “Oh my God. Taggie.”
But she doesn’t hear him. Only watches as her hand reaches out to open the door to the dining room, feels herself move forward without meaning to. Past Cameron Cook, past Paul Stratton, past Tony Baddingham. She might as well be a ghost.
Rupert loves her.
The whole evening was a disaster.
Her food was delicious.
It’s too many things to consider, too many realities to grapple with. Taggie needs another drink — the good stuff that Rupert keeps in his office.
Daddy tries to grab her elbow as she glides by, but she pulls loose and keeps going, eyes trained on the ground in front of her. The just-polished wood reflects her father’s look of horror. “Tag, stop. Just — come back here and talk to me.” It sounds an awful lot like something he’d say to Mummy.
She keeps walking, not even pausing when Rupert breathes her name in a plea in the foyer. Walks until she’s in the study, the door pulled shut behind her. Floats toward the cabinet where he keeps the liquor. Then she pours herself a glass of whiskey — aged and Irish, she notes, taking a gulp. Her nose wrinkles.
There’s a reason she doesn’t typically drink the stuff. Down one glass already, and this one is completely unappealing. But she drinks anyway, letting the amber liquid lap at the edges of her brain, the ebb and flow calming her racing mind.
Taggie’s just setting the empty glass on Rupert’s desk when the door opens behind her. Who else? When he comes up behind her, it reminds her again of the kitchen in the Priory, what feels like a lifetime ago. It’s Cameron, and the franchise, he’d said then, and it still is now, isn’t it?
Now there’s love to deal with, and Taggie’s still not asking for anything, but —
“Think I’ll have a glass, too,” Rupert says stiffly.
Taggie turns, and, despite all the anger and sadness and annoyance, her heart nearly cracks in two at the sight of him. Bow tie undone, top two buttons on his starched white shirt open. Hair a little wild, like he’s been raking his fingers through with stress. Dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced than they were earlier. Rupert looks sick. Desperate. He pours more whiskey into her glass and takes a hearty drink, draining half. “You picked a good bottle, angel.”
She has no idea what to say, where to even start with him. Is Cameron still outside, trying to wedge herself back into Rupert’s life? Is Tony Baddingham about to brand her with a scarlet letter? Is Margaret Thatcher going to call her up to cater tea with foreign governments?
Her head spins. “It was a wreck,” she finally says, going around the large desk to sit in Rupert’s leather wingback chair.
“Yes, it was a complete and utter disaster.”
She blinks.
“The meal was a delight, though. We may have you cooking on Downing Street yet.”
So maybe Cameron was wrong. Maybe they’re not going to talk about it. Maybe Taggie really was an idiot to think Rupert might care at all. She should leave. Right now, just…fetch Gertrude and walk home. She could send Daddy for her things tomorrow. He’d surely be thrilled to have her out of Rupert’s clutches.
“Tag?” Rupert asks. She’s been staring off in space.
“Pour me another.”
Rupert frowns. “Pardon?”
“You heard me.”
His eyes soften. “Darling, I really don’t think it’s the best idea. You’re such a little thing — did you eat at all?”
Tears prick her eyes, and she scrunches them shut. “Just pour me another drink.”
“No.”
Her eyes shoot open. “What?”
Rupert exhales harshly. “I said no.”
Taggie stands, wobbling a little. “Why the hell not?”
He just shakes his head.
“Rupert, tell me.” She comes around the desk to where he’s standing, wishing she had a step stool or something to put them on equal footing. The idea cracks into her head like lighting, and then she’s pushing papers and a fountain pen out of the way so she can sit on the desk. Oh, but he’s still a little far — so she reaches out and fists his white dress shirt, dragging him closer. “Why?”
He steps even closer, and her thighs part on instinct, welcoming him into the cradle of her hips. The air between them is thicker, hotter, than it was before. “You really want to know why, Agatha?”
Taggie nods, blood humming.
“Because I love you.”
It’s an entirely different experience, hearing it from his mouth. For better or worse, the anger, the fear — it melts away, replaced with something shining and new. At once, she’s completely sobered and high as a kite. She blinks rapidly, and it’s only when Rupert’s thumb glides over her cheekbone that she realizes she’s crying. “I’m s-sorry,” Taggie whispers, trying to curl away from him.
A firm hand on the nape of her neck stops her. “Don’t,” he chides softly. “I’m sorry. About all of it: that tonight went sideways, that you had to hear Baddingham say” — his jaw tightens — “what he said about you. That Cameron showed up yesterday. That I didn’t make her leave.”
“I know.” Taggie scoots closer to the edge of the desk. “But I’m sorry, too. For not giving you the b-benefit of the doubt. And for maybe making things worse with Tony.”
“As if you could possibly make things worse with Tony Baddingham.”
“You don’t think so?”
“He’s a wanker no matter what,” Rupert says. “But do you want to know what did worry me?”
She nods.
“The idea of you leaving Penscombe tonight and never coming back.” His brow furrows, eyes going a little glassy. “I saw how you walked into that room with the Prime Minister and thought you should get to walk into more rooms like that. Meet more people like her — important people. With me.” Rupert clears his throat. “I couldn’t bear losing that.”
For a moment, Taggie just looks at him. Gorgeous, frustrating, incorrigible man. But sweet, honest, and dependable — all of it put together.
Hers.
“You really love me?”
Rupert’s hand slides from her neck to her jaw. “I’m afraid so.”
“I…I love you,” Taggie murmurs, feeling a flush creep from her chest to her hairline. Whether she’s warm from the whiskey, adrenaline, or just this conversation, she isn’t sure.
Above her, Rupert’s eyes shine like the crown jewels. “I was rather hoping you’d say that.”
His mouth covers hers softly at first, working over her in another apology. But then his tongue sweeps into her mouth and all bets are off — Taggie groans and pulls at his belt loops, pressing their bodies as close together as humanly possible. This is everything. It’s the beginning and end, and the map for the rest of her life. Then whisper of a worry starts to creep into her head — where is everyone?
She pulls back an inch. “Have they gone?”
“I — ah, I’m not sure,” Rupert breathes. “Shall I check?”
What if he gets pulled into Venturer damage control? What if Cameron’s out there, waiting? What if Daddy’s still there, hearing all of this and plotting ways to pull them apart? She frowns.
“Taggie?”
She tightens her grip on his belt loops. “You know what? No. It’s fine. I’m sure they’re gone. And if they’re not…”
“If they’re not?” Rupert asks, pressing closer to her again.
Their bodies slot together again, and Taggie hums in approval. “If they’re not,” she starts, “then they’ll just have to see us. Together.”
A wolfish grin appears on Rupert’s face. “You’re sure?”
Taggie leans up and kisses him, hungry and claiming and almost issuing a challenge. “Take me to bed,” she says against his lips, feeling a little drunk again.
Rupert pulls back, laughs a little. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Taggie grins, hopping off the desk and smoothing down her jumper where it’s ridden up a little.
He takes a full, deep breath. She catches the way he adjusts himself and bites the inside of her cheek to keep from giggling. “But I think we ought to make sure you have a proper dinner first,” he adds, backing away ever so slowly.
“Now?”
Rupert nods, face suddenly serious.
“B-but…why now?” Taggie crosses her arms and considers stomping her foot. Is he crazy?
“You’re going to need your energy for what I’ve got planned for you.”
In an instant, Taggie pictures the two of them in bed. In the bath. On the floor. Panting, sweating, screaming. “Oh,” she squeaks, feeling her flush deepen to crimson. “Right, of course.”
The solemn facade cracks, and Rupert laughs. “So, what do you say to dinner? I hear the Beef Wellington here is to die for.”
Her stomach rumbles at the mention. She really hasn’t eaten much all day — too nervous. “But what if I want your famous cheese toastie again?”
“For you,” Rupert says, “anything.”
As they push the door open, into the unknown, she believes him.
I know you’re a very famous author now but I will literally never be over it. I walked into a somewhat unfamiliar Barnes and Noble to pick up your book, wondered in what part of the store I would find it, and saw a sign beckoning me forward. (I wanted to preorder but my spring went up in actual smoke because time is fake.)
Other things!
Last year I was in the (terrible) security line at the airport, and the woman in front of me had a copy of One For My Enemy! I pointed and made a sound—quite possibly a word or two but who can say—and we both agreed we were happy to meet another fan. Masters of Death, which is what I had with me at the time, obviously holds a special place in my heart but One For My Enemy makes an argument for my favorite.
When I went into the bookstore to order The Atlas Complex the woman I spoke to said she loved the series and that you meant a lot to her.
Grow Your Own Optimist! got me out of a reading slump.
I guess I’m just throwing my thoughts at you, sorry. But! Thank you for continually being a source of joy in my life.
💙💙💙💙💙💙💙
omg 😭 this really tickled me, first of all ("I pointed and made a sound" was really good narratively, what worldbuilding, what a stage!) and also I don't consider myself "very famous" in any meaningful way, but then again it's true that this is all statistically unlikely and probably a simulation I'll wake from at any moment
in any case, I'm really happy you told me these other thoughts as well; I really appreciate hearing about that interaction with the bookseller (🥹 the sentiment of my writing being meaningful to someone is sometimes less believable to me than the "fame," because one is a real emotional connection and the other is honestly just marketing resources and publisher money; yes, the latter was extremely difficult to get, such that I often forget how little I believed it would happen, but the former seems somehow even MORE impossible...?) (and now I'm just throwing my thoughts at you) and I'm really happy you enjoyed optimist! (! exclamation point)
it is really an honor to be a source of anything in your life. for the thing to be joy is a very real highlight in mine. here's to lots more joy together 🖤
honey........ Thank you SO MUCH for posting those links for unreleased songs. whenever I ask someone, they tell me to just search online and find them but I've never been able to. you're the ONLY ONE who has ever given links. bless you.
omg you’re welcome!!!! why would anyone withhold the magic of taylor’s unreleased/rare songs? those links have sooooooooooo many songs to download, it’s magnificent :)
alright so earlier i said “i may or may not be posting the next chapter of something today” so here it is my friends. (tbh i wasn’t even sure i was going to have this done and posted today.) i just want to thank all of you who’ve asked for more of this fic bc it is very near and dear to my heart and probably one of the only things i’ve done that i’m actually proud of. thank you to all my ladies over at tss who have helped me edit and much needed validation.
HAPPY PRINTSHOP DAY Y’ALL
prologue, one, two, three, four, five
Sauve Mon Coeur
Sussex, Virginia
30th March 1858
If you found me, would you save me?
If you touched me, would it break me?
Will I come back from this?
Come down, rescue my heart
I'll drown, without you
The sun slowly began its ascent into the sky, kissing it with hues of pink and orange and blue. Streaks of gold radiated from the sun, breaking through the clouds and bathing the world in light. The frosted tips of grass and leaves melted away, an icy dormancy relenting into soft morning dew. A fog had rolled out from between the trees, briefly obscuring everything until it faded into a fine mist.
A doe emerged from the hazy treeline before stopping dead in her tracks. I suspected that she saw me and spooked, ready to make a run for it—but she didn’t. She was staring directly at me, our eyes locked onto one another’s. I don’t know how long it lasted, whether it was only a moment or twenty, but when I blinked, she was gone.
I was so lost in the world around me, I hadn’t heard him coming.
“Mind if I sit wi’ ye?” He spoke softly, as if I were a small child who’d just woken up from a nightmare.
I was still angry--upset. But I knew that he meant no harm,that he was only trying to comfort me and let me know that he was there. That he would listen without judgement or pity and just listen.
I nodded silently and moved over on the bench so that he could sit beside me. Immediately, I could feel the warmth that radiated off him, even through the cold and the layers of clothing between us.
I felt my anger melt away into something more somber that made my heart feel heavy, like something was squeezing it inside of my chest and the only way to get rid of it was to talk about it. Only I had already told him everything. Well, almost everything.
“Sassena--Claire. I just wanted to apologize for earlier… I ken what ye said about it, I just--”
“Stop, Jamie,” I cut him off, already knowing what he was going to say. I was upset and I blew up at him. In all my life, he was one of the only people who believed in me and cared and listened. Actually listened.
“You didn’t do anything wrong I-- I overreacted and you didn’t deserve that. You don’t need to apologize... it’s alright.”
The corner of his mouth turned up into a smile, and in that moment I could see the small red-haired boy he used to be whose grin lit up the entire room. “Aye, well.” He chuckled.
“It’s no’ just that…” He trailed off, his tone turned serious and his smile disappearing entirely.
I sat up a bit, intrigued. “What is it?”
He took a deep breath before continuing, “Do you remember when ye told me about what happened to ye?” His voice was deep and thick with emotion, and I felt my heart drop into my stomach as I realized what he was about to say.
I froze. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t speak, I felt like I falling and I was powerless to stop it.
He looked away, his eyes pinned to the ground. “I told ye that I knew Randall, an’ that something happened to me as well.”
He swallowed, and I noticed a tear roll down his cheek.
I wanted him to stop; I didn’t want to picture whatever it was that Randall had done to him. But at the same time I knew it was something he had to do--needed to.
I squeezed my eyes shut and nodded, allowing him to continue.
“When I left Scotland, I was also leaving Randall and wha’ happened behind. I promised myself that I wouldna think about it ever again, that I would leave the past in the past.” A breath. “ I’d been able to keep that promise, for the most part. But when ye told me what he did to ye…” I could almost see the anger and rage building in him as he spoke through gritted teeth.
“Not only did I remember wha’ happened to me, but I was seein’ you as well. Everythin’ ye said he did to ye--I can see it. Playin’ over an’ over again in my head-” He paused, squeezing his eyes shut as if to force the image out of his mind.
“It’s tearin’ me apart, Claire.” His voice broke, the emotions running through him too much for one person to bear.
I saw another tear roll down his cheek, and I felt my heart split in two.
“Oh Jamie…” I breathed, and felt a tear roll down my own cheek. Suddenly I was crushing him to me, wrapping myself around him as if to absorb some of the pain so he wouldn’t have to bear it alone.
“I’m so sorry…” I whispered into the fabric of his shirt, my heart breaking along with his.
I felt him wrap his arms around me and hold me tight against him.
“You don’t have to say it I-” I was unable to say anything more as Jamie kissed me hard on the mouth, stealing the breath from my body.
I melted into him, my mind immediately going back to my dream from the night before.
I had kissed him yesterday, in the heat of the moment and immediately regretted it. I hardly knew Jamie and he was there for me, made me feel safe. I had no idea if my feelings for him were reciprocated, but apparently, they were.
I sighed and made a noise of contentment as the rest of the world faded away, until I was only able to feel Jamie’s lips and body against mine.
My hands came up to rest on either side of his face, and I pulled away a little so that I could look at him. Really look at him. There were so many things I hadn’t noticed before: freckles speckled across his face like the stars in the night sky, his red lashes that were blond at the root and dark on the ends, the blue of his eyes that seemed to shine like crystals; flawless and perfect in every way. I could still see the silver trails of tears that ran down his face, shining in the sun. And then I remembered.
What if he was only doing this so he could forget?
What if he’s only doing this to distract himself?
What if he was only using me because I was there?
What did this mean?
Do I mean more to him than a friend?
What if he hurts me like everyone else?
What if he leaves?
But the way he looked at me… It wasn’t like anyone had ever looked at me before, and I could feel my heart reaching out to his. Could feel myself begin to heal and be okay again.
No, this was right.
I leaned in to kiss him again, my pulse starting to race. One of his hands came up and tucked a stray curl behind my ear, then moved to the nape of my neck and tangled in the hair that was there.
He kissed his way down to my chin and then my neck, giving my head a gentle tug to expose it.
“Jamie…” I sighed into the air trying to form some semblance of a thought.
I quickly pulled away, even though it took every ounce of strength to do so. “I have to get things ready for today.” I was winded, my body already missing his touch.
A faint blush crept up his neck and settled in the apples of his cheeks as he looked away briefly and smiled, though I could tell something was still bothering him.
“Aye, I’ll walk ye in.”
The day wore on, one minute seemingly longer than the last. There was a steady stream of patrons throughout the day, the nice weather bringing them in flocks. The sun had begun to set and soon I’d finally be able to have some time to myself again.
“‘Scuse me mistress!” The man had come in hours ago and had been drinking practically all day. “Scould you be sooooo kind n’ gi’ me an… anotherer…?” The man slurred in his inebriated state, leaning over the counter with his empty mug outstretched towards me.
I put down the mug I was drying and crossed my arms over my chest as I glared at the man. “I think you’ve had enough, sir.” I reached out to take his mug, but he jerked it out of my hand and slammed it onto the counter, anger coloring his features.
“I wasnae askin…” He hissed, his Irish brogue prominent.
I was taken aback by the drastic change in his behavior. I reached out again for his mug, this time me being the one to yank it away. “Neither was I.”
The man was furious, even more so than before, if that were even possible.
He dove over the counter and pinned me against the wall, causing me to drop the mug which subsequently shattered onto the floor around me. But I couldn’t focus on anything else except the man in front of me with his hand wrapped tight around my neck. Everyone was looking now, but no one moved.
Memories raced through my mind at an alarmingly fast pace, my entire life condensed into a few seconds.
Is this it? Is this how I’m going to die? After all I’ve been through, after all I’ve survived, I’m going to die at the hands of some drunken idiot?
His grip was tightening and it was getting increasingly harder to breathe. “I said, I wasn’t asking.” He hissed, his words clear and filled with venom.
I was frantic, my heart racing inside of my chest and my eyes flitting about the room at everyone standing by and just watching.
Why aren’t they doing anything?!
His face was only a few inches away from mine, threatening. “Now, I suggest ye ge-” He was cut off as the front door slammed open, revealing a very angry Jamie.
My heart soared at the sight of him.
Jamie stormed over and punched the Irishman square in the face, knocking him to the floor. Jamie stood tall, intimidating. “I suggest,” Jamie growled, repeating the same words that the man had just said to me. “That ye leave here afore ye have much more than a broken nose to worry about.”
Blood was streaming from his nose, and you could see that he was absolutely livid, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He ran out after everyone else like a scared little dog, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
Once everyone was out of sight, Jamie turned to me with nothing but worry and concern. “Sassenach, are ye alright?Are ye hurt?” His hands rested gently on my shoulders as he frantically searched for any sign of damage.
“I am now.” I smiled, and he crushed me to his chest, his right hand cradling my head as he pressed me against him.
“God, Claire, I’m so sorry.” He sighed as he pulled away to look at me once again.
I know that I should’ve been in distress over what had just happened, and it’s not that I wasn’t, but the utter joy and relief that I felt at the sight of Jamie was overwhelming.
“Thank God you were here.” I whispered, mostly to myself, as I took in every detail of his face and burned it into my memory.
His wide smile returned and he hugged me again, both of us succumbing to the relief of the moment and the presence of each other.
Jamie had started to laugh, shaking his head before looking back up at me. “Sassenach, I swear… Ye’ll be the death of me.”
I smiled, reached up and pulled his head down to mine and kissed him, long and hard and sweet.
I knew that we should talk about this morning and what Jamie was saying, but it could wait. After all, what difference would an hour or two make?
