Every time, he thought it would be different. Removed, caught up in the boredom and intermittent terror of a soldier’s life, apart from simple daily things, the normal intercourse of humanity - it was understandable that in these circumstances, he would think of Jamie Fraser as something remarkable; use the image of the man as a talisman, a touchstone for his own emotions.
But surely the effect should lessen, should disappear entirely, when he actually saw the man? Fraser was a Scot, a Jacobite, a paroled prisoner, a groom - no one that he would normally take notice of, let alone regard especially.
And yet, every time, it was the same, the bloody same. How? Why?
He would ride up the winding drive at Helwater, and his pulse would already be beating in his ears. He would greet Dunsany and his family, talking cordially of this and that, accepting refreshment, admiring the women’s gowns, Lady Dunsany’s latest painting. All in an increasing agony of impatience, wanting - needing - to go out to the stables, to look, to see.
And then to spot him at a distance - exercising a horse, working at the pasture fences - or to come upon him unexpectedly face to face, emerging from the tack room or coming down the ladder from the loft where he slept. Each time, Grey’s heart leapt in his chest.
The lines of neck and spine, the solid curve of buttock and columned thigh, the sun-darkened flesh of his throat, sun-bleached hair of his arms - even the small imperfections, the scars that marred one hand, the pockmark at the corner of his mouth - and the slanted eyes, dark with hostility and wariness. It was perhaps no surprise that he should feel physical arousal; the man was beautiful, and dangerous in his beauty.
And yet his excitement quieted at once when he was actually in Fraser’s presence. A calm descended upon him, a strange content.
Once he had looked into those eyes, been acknowledged by them - then he could return to the house, go about his business, make conversation with other people. It was as though he was anxious, lest the world have changed in his absence, then reassured that it had not; Jamie Fraser still stood at its center.
Would it be that way again? It shouldn’t be. After all, there was Percy Wainwright now, to divert his attention, engage his interest. And yet…he nodded to Tom, and turned his horse’s head into the winding road that led upward to Helwater, feeling an aching in his chest, as though the cold air pressed upon it.
It shouldn’t be, he repeated silently to himself. And yet…
‘Lord John and the Brotherhood of the Blade’ by D Gabaldon
