He looked out over the fields and buildings, the crofts and the roads, then looked down, a smile suddenly curving the wide mouth.
"And you, my Sassenach? What were you born for? To be a lady of a manor, or to sleep in the fields like a gypsy? To be a healer, or a don’s wife, or an outlaw’s lady?
"I was born for you," I said simply, and held out my arms to him.
"I do know that," I said, and my voice shook. "That’s why I’m so afraid."
He thumbed a lock of hair off my wet cheek, and pulled me into his arms, so close that I could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He was so solid, so alive, ruddy hair curling gold against bare skin. His hand touched my cheek, warm despite the dampness of my skin.
"But do ye not see how verra small a thing is the notion of death, between us two, Claire?" he whispered.