Chapter Text
Roger MacKenzie had learned, over the years, how to make himself small. Castle Leoch demanded it. The past demanded it. He had parted with Buck Mackenzie ever since Buck found out who his real parents were. Since there was no way for either of the men to return to Craigh na Dunn with no gemstones left after they had been robbed, Roger decided to stay at Crainsmuire.
Roger, though not born to this century, had adapted well enough. He kept his head down, his hands busy, and his thoughts carefully guarded. To the clan MacKenzie, he was no more than a peat cutter. Quiet. Reliable. Forgettable. It kept him alive if only to survive.
It had been almost four years since Roger MacKenzie had last seen his family.
Four years since Brianna’s steady gaze had met his across a room that no longer existed for him. Since Jemmy’s small hand had clutched his fingers. Since Amanda’s soft breaths had filled the quiet spaces of a life that now felt impossibly distant.
And longer still since he had seen his parents-in-law. He swallowed at the thought, forcing it down as he always did. Because here, at present day, that man was not his father.
Here, in 1743, at Castle Leoch, James Fraser was simply a younger son of the clan. A man not yet shaped by the years Roger knew. A man who had never met him, never fought beside him, never entrusted him with anything more than a passing glance.
He had lived at Leoch for over a year now.
Jamie would never recognize him. How could he? To Jamie, Roger MacKenzie was a man who did not yet exist in his life. A man he would only meet decades from now. Thirty years, give or take. Time enough for everything to change. Time enough for bonds to form that did not yet exist. So he kept his distance. To meddle with time was a risk too big to take.
~
The hall was louder than usual that evening. Roger noticed it the moment he stepped inside. The hum of voices raised above their usual pitch, the restless shifting of bodies, the unmistakable ripple of excitement moving through the gathered clan. It wasn’t fear. Not quite. Something sharper. Curiousity.
He paused briefly near the entrance, scanning the room with a habit he’d never quite unlearned, then slipped along the wall toward the far end of the table. Murtagh sat there already, hunched over his drink, as if the noise around him made little difference. Roger slid onto the bench beside him, earning only the briefest flicker of acknowledgment.
“What’s happened?” Roger asked under his breath, reaching for a piece of bread.
Murtagh grunted.
“We brought someone back,” he said.
“Who?”
Another pause. Then, with mild irritation, “A Sassenach.”
Roger chewed slowly, frowning.
That wasn’t unusual. Travelers strayed. Redcoats wandered too far from their lines. English men and women alike found themselves dragged into Highland halls with varying degrees of welcome.
Still… the mood felt different.
“What’s so interesting about her?” Roger pressed quietly.
Murtagh gave a small, dismissive shrug. “The lass, well… she’s no what I expected, sharp tongued.” That was all he offered.
Roger glanced toward the front of the hall, trying to catch a better look, but the view was poor. Men clustered thickly, shifting and leaning, blocking the line of sight. He caught only fragments, a flash of unfamiliar clothing, the movement of guards, the suggestion of a figure being ushered forward. A woman, suspected. But nothing clear.
With a quiet exhale, Roger leaned back. It doesn’t matter, he told himself. It shouldn’t matter. He had spent too long learning not to chase every odd thing that crossed his path. Curiosity was dangerous here. Attention was worse. He could not be seen. He faded away into the familiar rhythm of the hall.
The shift came gradually. Voices lowered. Not all at once, but enough to draw attention. Like wind dropping before a storm.
At the high table, Colum MacKenzie rose.
The room followed suit, conversation thinning into a strained quiet as all eyes turned forward. Roger straightened automatically, though he kept his gaze lowered at first.
He had heard these speeches before. Formal words. Introductions. Warnings, sometimes. Nothing that concerned him. He had been given the same treatment when he first came here.
“My kinsmen,” Colum began, his voice carrying cleanly through the hall, “we have among us a guest this night.”
Roger barely listened. Not at first. His attention drifted, his focus dulled by repetition, until movement at the front caught his eye again. This time, the crowd shifted just enough. Just enough. He saw her. It wasn’t recognition at first. Not fully.
She stood near the high table, guarded but composed, her posture too steady for someone dragged unwilling into a room like this. There was no shrinking in her, no visible fear. Only a sharp awareness, as though she were taking in every detail at once. Dark hair, pulled back. A face turned slightly toward Colum, then toward the hall. Something about it struck Roger, deep and immediate, like a half-remembered dream pressing suddenly into waking.
Roger’s brow furrowed. ‘No. It couldn’t be.’ He leaned forward without realizing it, eyes narrowing as if that might bring the image into focus, might make it resolve into something sensible. But the more he looked, the worse it became. The familiarity sharpened.
Not imagined.
Not mistaken.
Known.
A strange, hollow feeling opened in his chest. Because he knew that face. Roger knew it with a certainty that made no sense in this place, in this time, in the life he had carved out so carefully for himself. A life where the future no longer reached. A life where he had believed (had needed to believe) that he was alone in the knowing.
Beside him, Murtagh shifted again. “You see her now,” he muttered, still not caring much. “All tall and braw.”
Roger didn’t answer. Because as the noise of the hall faded into something distant and unreal, as Colum’s voice continued on without meaning, Roger MacKenzie felt the past and future collide in a way he had not thought possible. And in that moment, staring across the crowded hall at a woman who did not belong in this century any more than he did.
Glasses clinked, the sound sharp and sudden, cutting cleanly through the haze and Colum’s voice rang out, clear and formal: “I welcome you as Laird of Castle Leoch… Mistress Beauchamp.”