Chapter 12: The Garrison Commander

In this chapter, more rape threats! Also beatings!

Alas, there are a few more chapters to slog through before any bodices get ripped.

The MacKenzie party is approaching Fort William and Claire is still trying to figure out some things. For instance:

What was I meant to be spying on? Well, unpatriotic activities, I supposed; of which, collecting money for the support of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, pretender to the throne, was definitely one. But, in that case, why had Dougal allowed me to see him do it?

That's what I said.

They stop at an inn, where Claire is given a private room. Gregarious creature that she is, she finds herself missing the company of all the hairy, sweating, snoring men:

It was the first time I had been left alone so completely alone since my arrival at the castle, and I was not at all sure I liked it.

Not alone for long, though.

There was a soft scratching at the door, as of someone groping for the latch . . . The door squeaked slightly on its hinges as it gave . . . I could just make out the dim outline of the door as it opened. The outline grew, then to my surprise, it shrank and disappeared as the door shut again.

Yikes. Do not like.

Claire goes out into the hall to investigate and trips over Jamie, who is lying on the floor outside of her room. So he was the one who opened the door? Not cool, Jamie. What the hell were you thinking?

"Ye nearly crushed my liver," he answered, gingerly prodding the affected area. "Not to mention scaring living hell out of me."

Sorry, no. Opening her door is incredibly creepy and you would have no reason to complain even if she had brained you.

"Serves you right," I said nastily. "What were you doing, sneaking about outside my door?"

Good for you, Claire. Do not stand for that bullshit.

Jamie explains that he was sleeping outside her door to guard against drunken would-be rapists. Which is fine, as far as it goes. Still does not excuse the door-opening.

"You can't sleep out here," I said. "Come in; at least the floor in the room isn't quite this bad."

Jamie froze, hand on the doorframe.

"Sleep in your room with ye?" He sounded truly shocked. "I couldna do that! Your reputation would be ruined!"

Never have the cultural differences between our plucky heroine and her barbarian warrior-poet been so adorable.

Claire is both amused and bemused by the contours of 18th-century sexual ethics. Everyone lives higgledy-piggledy with no privacy to speak of, but even the suggestion of an unmarried woman being alone with a man is enough to shock Jamie. Claire, who, we are led to believe, fucked her way across the globe as a teenager, finds this all terribly funny. Note: Starz, I would watch that prequel/spinoff.

In the morning, Claire and Dougal ride off on a side mission. They travel to an inn, where Dougal brings Claire before . . . Captain Jonathan Randall of His Majesty's Eighth Dragoons. Dun dun dun.

But the face was the same — Frank's face.

Frank who? According to the search function on my Kindle edition, we are currently on page 151 and Frank was last mentioned by name on page 63.

My breath caught in my throat. This time, though, I noticed the small lines of ruthlessness around his mouth, and the touch of arrogance in the set of his shoulders. Still, he smiled affably enough, and invited me to sit down.

I refer you to the TV Tropes page on Wicked Cultured.

Dougal leaves Claire alone with Black Jack. Thanks for that, Dougal. Especially after we've just been reminded of all the connotations attached to unchaperoned privacy in this time and place. Claire manages to unsettle Black Jack a bit by knowing non-obvious things about him, such as the fact that he is from Sussex. But he is not deterred. He questions her and clearly does not buy any of her story (as well he shouldn't). Get a better story, Claire.

Side note: One of Randall's men is asked to recite a short verse here so that Randall can quiz Claire on his accent. His poem of choice is, of course, super rape-y.

"What I don't know is who the devil you are! But I mean to find out, Madam, have no doubts as to that. I am the commander of this garrison. As such, I am empowered to take certain steps in order to secure the safety of this area against traitors, spies, and any other persons whose behavior I consider suspicious. And those steps, Madam, I am fully prepared to take."

Then he has his lackey hold her still while he punches Claire in the gut. Thanks again, Dougal, for arranging this meeting.

In a fairly eventful life, no one had ever purposefully struck me before.

I imagine that keeping a count of "people who have hit Claire on purpose" as these books progress will not bring me any joy.

This is notably gross:

"I trust you are not with child, Madam," he said in a conversational tone, "because if you are, you won't be for long."

Yeesh.

"Have you anything to say to me now, Madam?" he demanded.

"Your wig is crooked," I said, and closed my eyes again.

Bless you, Claire. You're going to die, but you'll go out with a barb.

Body Count:

Jamie: 3 + assorted redcoats