Disclaimer: Bloody hell, I get Methos to open up a little and then he up and splits. Typical Methos. Anyway, please don't sue me. I appreciate any and all feedback; I have to report back to him somehow.
Did I happen to mention about all this coming to a bad end? Truer words were never spoken, even if I did say them myself.
Sometimes I long for the good old days when life was simpler, without the constant interruption of phones. There was a time you could find a quiet corner, but with the advent of the cell phone even a quiet moment isn't possible anymore. What I wouldn't give for a few days without a phone. Somewhere in the depths of my beauty sleep; a phone rang, jangling my nerves and putting me in a foul mood. Not my favorite way to wake up. Fighting my way out of tangled blankets, wearing only my shorts, I fumbled my way towards the phone.
"Whoever this is, you'd better have a damn good reason for rousting me out of a warm bed this early," rubbing my eyes.
"Mornin' sunshine," Dawson's rumble irritating me even more, "caught you before you had your coffee?"
"Bloody hell, Joe, it's barely five," cradling the phone while performing my one handed coffee brewing feat, "what's up with MacLeod that couldn't wait?"
"I'll tell you over breakfast," in a half hearted effort to pacify me, "I'm buying."
Abandoning the coffeepot, I shaved, showered and dressed in record time. It's not often that Joe Dawson springs for breakfast. I intend to take full advantage of it.
We met in a little café not too far from Joe's blues bar. I like Joe, in spite of his nasty habit of waking me up in the wee hours of the morning to sort out Duncan MacLeod's problems. He's a basic, down to earth guy. He's poured me countless beers since we first met as Watchers. He's a solid friend, bending the Watcher's code of honor nearly to the breaking point to keep his friendship with MacLeod intact.
Now that I have food in my belly, I'm more sociable, willing to sit patiently while Joe fills me in on what's been happening with our mutual friend. The last I heard, MacLeod had settled on Connor's land, taking himself out of the Game, hoping that returning to a simpler existence would restore his peace of mind. He still blames himself for Connor's death, even though Connor forced his hand. It's been nearly a year.
"C'mon, out with it," goading him, "why have you dragged me out of bed at this ungodly hour?"
"I just got back from visiting Mac in Glencoe," Joe sighed, "he's living in a cottage he built himself. Pretty nice place, small, not too much in the way of furniture. Just down the hill from the graves---"
"Quit stalling," my patience wearing thin.
"You're right, I'm just not sure where to start," Joe sighed, scrubbing his hair, "he looks like hell. I mean, you'd think living in a quiet corner of Scotland would relax him. But he says he hasn't been sleeping much."
"Any reason why?"
"I stayed a couple days. He's been having some really vivid nightmares about Culloden."
"Makes sense. He was there," I pointed out.
"Well, here's where it get weird. They aren't his nightmares. They aren't remotely connected to anything he was involved in at the time. They belong to Connor. They're his experiences, his nightmares. Since neither one of them ever spoke of Culloden, Mac's at a loss to explain why it's happening."
Shrugging, I threw my two cents in, "I've heard of Immortals picking up bits and pieces of memories after a Quickening, but they gradually fade. It's been a year---"
"You're preaching to the choir here, Methos."
If looks could kill, Dawson would have been a goner. He knows better than to use my real name in public. People have been searching for Methos, the world's oldest Immortal for centuries. I managed to keep my true identity secret for 5000 years. Then Duncan MacLeod came along. I have Mac to thank for Dawson knowing who I am. One more slip of his tongue, I may have to kill him.
"Sorry. Anyway, these memories are still giving him hell," Joe shivered, "he had one helluva nightmare the other night. Classic-cold sweat and screaming. Then he looked my way, not at me, more like through me. And---"
Dawson stopped cold. He couldn't make his mouth form the words.
"And?" prompting him.
"He told me to have the grave robber find an Immortal named Megan Fraser."
I started. Only one person had the gall to call me grave robber.
"Man, he spoke with Connor's voice," gulping his coffee for courage, then spoke quietly, "I've only heard it a couple times, but I know it was Connor. It was the creepiest thing I've ever heard."
"You're telling me that Duncan MacLeod is somehow channeling Connor," scoffing in disbelief.
"Well, yeah. I guess."
"I believe you."
"Oh great, we're both nuts. Why on earth do you believe me?"
"Because grave robber was Connor's nickname for me."
"Figures. Any ideas what we can do to help Mac?"
"Right now, all I can think of is having a heart to heart with him."
"That's all I ask," breathing a huge sigh of relief, "thanks, Adam"
I may be a sucker for Duncan MacLeod and his problems, nevertheless, I feel duty bound to help him out, offer any piece of advice I can. You don't live 5000 years without gaining some insight on life. So here I am, flying to Scotland, shamelessly flirting with the flight attendants to pass the time. I never miss a chance of flirting with a pretty lady; flight attendants are a captive audience. It gives us all a warm fuzzy feeling, what's the harm in that?
* * * * * * *
MacLeod's cottage is a good hike up from the village of Glencoe. I understand his reasons for being here. Connor is buried here, finally reunited with his beloved Heather. That's where I found Mac, tending the grave, paying his respects to the man he once knew as mentor and friend. When all is said and done, the two MacLeods were closer than any Immortals I knew. Connor forced Duncan's hand, challenging him to combat. Connor knew Duncan wouldn't be able to take on Kell alone, he sacrificed himself, giving his Quickening to Duncan so he had a better chance of defeating Kell. It was the hardest thing for Duncan to accept, deep down in his heart, he knew it had to be done, but a year later, he was still carrying the guilt.
Cresting the hill, the familiar 'buzz' of another Immortal raises the hair on the back of my neck. We were on Holy Ground, a place where Immortals do not fight, a place for conversation, not confrontation.
"I've been expecting you," grinning, "I take it Joe sent you."
"We talked, but coming here was my idea," shaking his hand, "you know me and my curiosity. I had to come see for myself."
"Damn Dawson, he takes his Watcher duties a little too seriously sometimes," draping an arm over my shoulder, "but it's good to see you. Come on, I'll buy you a beer and show you around."
"Let me pay my respects first," relaxing a bit, now that I knew he was glad to see me, "our paths crossed many times. He was a good man and a friend."
Joe was right. This is not the Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod I met in Paris. The spark is gone, the light in his eyes fading. I've seen that look once before, the night Richie died. I swear if he offers me his head as he did back then, I'll have to challenge him. He'll have to fight for right to die; I won't let him off so easily.
Back at his place, we share an uncomfortable silence, Mac staring off into space, occasionally sipping his whiskey, while I nurse a beer. I figure if he wants to talk, he will. The best thing for me to do is let him.
"What did Dawson tell you?" his voice barely audible.
"He said you scared the hell out of him. Speaking and acting like Connor," smirking, I add, "you're becoming quite the psychic."
"Very funny. This scares the hell out of me, too. I have no memory or self control when it happens," running fingers through his thick dark hair, "after it happens, I find things moved around, you know, keys and wallet not where I usually keep them. One minute I'm sound asleep, the next, I find Joe trying to pour himself a drink. But he couldn't, his hands were shaking so badly. I just want it to stop. Can you help, is that why you're here?"
"He asked Joe to tell the grave robber to find an Immortal named Megan Fraser."
"Oh great. Who the hell is this grave robber---"
"That's me," interrupting him, "he pinned that nickname on me a long time ago, when we first met. I was a doctor in Egypt back then. We ended up working on an archeological dig together."
"Sounds like Connor's warped sense of humor," actually smiling, "did he say what he wants with her?"
"No, just that I find her," answering him, "I'm thinking of staying here. Maybe when you sleep tonight, Connor will pay me a visit and fill me in."
"Doesn't this bother you?"
"Not really. I've seen some things in my life that defy explanation. This is just another one of those things. Granted, as Immortals, we've both seen and done plenty."
"What do you do when you feel things closing in on you?"
"Take off. Drop out of sight. Reinvent myself." Shrugging, "I'm really good at keeping a low profile, I've had lots of practice. With many Immortals out there looking for the legendary Methos, I've had to watch my back. I like my life, believe me, I'm in no hurry to leave it behind just yet."
"I don't know how you do it, Methos," Mac sighed, "I feel like I'm losing it here. You're welcome to stay. Guest room is right through there, bathroom next door."
Firing up my laptop, and hacking into the Watchers site, I search for any current information on Megan Fraser. Her file appears onscreen a few minutes later along with a recent picture. She is still the fierce Scots beauty I remembered. Long copper hair, flowing over her shoulders and down her back. Sea green eyes that darkened to emerald green whenever she was angry. Full lips that begged to be kissed. A curvaceous body ending in long lovely legs. Unfortunately, she had a temper to match all that fiery hair. I should know, I was stupid enough to make her angry a thousand times over.
Her first death occurred in 1745, at Culloden. Not during the battle itself, but in the blood bath that followed. She was killed fleeing British soldiers following Lord Cumberland's standing orders to wipe all Jacobite sympathizers from the face of the earth. But before they killed her, they were intent on having their fun first. She fought like a banshee to keep her virginity, but they overpowered her. It took five men to hold her and they all took their turn raping her.
Connor MacLeod discovered her body lying battered and bleeding in a ravine. He took her to the ruins of his old homestead near Glencoe and taught her how to cope with her Immortality, becoming her mentor as well as life long friend. When I visited Connor in Scotland for the first time, she was there. She was a bright, well read woman who spoke her mind, which intrigued me. We would have lively discussions on various subjects, which usually ended in heated debates. I still wonder if she disagreed with me just out of principle.
Like most Immortals, she's moved around a lot in the 250 years since. She took on different identities every 30 years or so, working at all sorts of jobs, making friends-mortal and Immortal alike. She loved and lost many times over the years.
Her file ended abruptly over ten years ago. Apparently, she discovered the Watchers and their mission in life, ditching her own Watcher and making herself scarce. Her chronicle ended about the same time Connor sought Sanctuary. Shutting down my laptop, I headed for the guestroom. Stripping to my shorts, I fell into a welcome sleep.
* * * * * * *
I must have been exhausted. Thanks to Joe's early morning wake up call, it had been a long day. Anyway, it's the only excuse I have for letting my guard down. Waking with a start, I barely register the presence of another Immortal a split second before feeling cold steel at my throat. It's Mac, but different. His 'buzz' seems stronger somehow, resonating with a harmonic that's new yet very familiar. It's a MacLeod all right, just not the one I would expect.
"You're losing your touch, grave robber," his whisper raising hairs on the back of my neck. Connor's voice coming from Duncan MacLeod's throat; "I wouldn't swallow if I were you."
"Connor," gulping, my own sword under the bed, just out of reach. Not knowing his state of mind, I quickly decide discretion is the better part of valor and force myself to calm down. "What can I do for you?"
"Heh, heh, heh," hearing that distinctive laugh coming from the wrong MacLeod was spooky, "I take it you got my message? Will you help me find Megan?"
"I've already started. I just spent the last few hours poring over her Watcher files. It seems she disappeared about the same time you sought Sanctuary."
"She finally took my advice. I did it for her own good, you know," shaking his head, "I must have asked her a thousand times to leave. Even back then, things were happening to people I cared about. I couldn't bear to see her hurt, so I sent her away. Then, to minimize the risk to her and Duncan, I presented myself to the Watchers and took their offer of Sanctuary. I mistakenly thought I would be safe."
"Things don't always work out the way we hope they will."
"Still have that weird sense of humor, huh?" the pressure on my neck easing off, his blade lowering to his side, "any luck locating her?"
"Not yet. I've only just started."
"History repeats itself, my friend," he murmured, "remember that."
"As if I could forget. Stop talking in riddles. Where do you think she is?"
"This is just like old times," sitting on the bed, "the two of us, talking into the wee hours of the morning. Do you remember our first meeting?"
"You're kidding, right? One never forgets being rousted out of bed and forced to dance to the whims of a half pint emperor."
* * * * * * *
Egypt. Hot, dusty, mysterious. A land that has strange holds on me. Every so often, I hear it calling my name, drawing me back into its intrigue. We go back a long way, Egypt and I, but that's another story. It has nothing to do with this chapter of my life.
1799. Napoleon "discovers" Egypt and its mysteries. Caught up in its history, he orders his men to dig up Egypt's past, crate it and ship it off to France. He puts a young officer named Martin de Lancie in charge of the operation. Hearing rumors of a European doctor living in Egypt, Napoleon orders deLancie to find him and persuade him to join his campaign.
I was that doctor, using the alias Benjamin Adams. I had made it my life's work to provide medical care for the poor and suffering wherever I happened to settle. It had been a typically long and trying day for me and I was looking forward to a good night's sleep. Just as I lay down on my cot, the hairs on the back on my neck prickled. Another Immortal was close by; I silently slid my sword out from under my bed. A French officer barged through the door, sword in hand. He was Immortal, a fairly new one, not more than a couple hundred years old by my reckoning. He made an imposing sight strutting around in his uniform. Tall, slim build, sandy hair, cut close to his head and steel blue eyes that could pierce your soul with a single glance. Not a man to fool with, he was all business.
"You're Dr. Benjamin Adams?" his French, though impeccable, was not one of a native speaker, "I have a proposition for you."
"I am, but as you can see, I'm fairly busy right now just dealing with my patients to take on anything else."
"You would be well advised to listen to what I have to say, doctor. This comes from Napoleon himself."
"Then it isn't a proposition," I shot back, "but an order."
"Call it what you will," shrugging, "I suggest you listen. If you don't, you could be arrested. Napoleon doesn't take refusals very well. He tends to execute people for the least little thing. By guillotine, not a good or honorable way to die, especially for you and me."
Faced with those choices, I lit a lamp and decided to hear him out. Motioning for him to sit, I waited patiently for his next move. He nosed around for awhile, picking up my books and generally taking in his surroundings.
"You've heard about the discoveries we have been making in the desert? The archeological digs?"
"I've heard soldiers are looting the tombs," I answered, "disturbing the dead, robbing their graves. What's that got to do with me?"
"We need a doctor. I was told you speak Egyptian and could act as a translator. Also, you've lived here long enough to know the local illnesses that have been plaguing this campaign. You would be well compensated for your efforts."
"Can I think it over? After all, I can't just drop everything here. I need time to arrange for the care of people who depend on me."
"Heh, heh, heh," smiling, "an honorable man. You have two days to decide and put your affairs in order. I like you already. Honesty is an admirable quality."
"Since you appreciate honesty so much, I have to know something about yourself before I agree to anything."
"And that would be?"
"Well, it's obvious you're not French and I doubt that Martin de Lancie is your real name."
Another short burst of laughter, "you are good. My name is Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. And you?"
"Benjamin Adams," the name Methos was already legendary. I wasn't about to give him any ideas.
"Suit yourself," speaking in English. With that, he turned and left me to my patients.
* * * * * * *
Two weeks traveling by camel caravan can literally be a royal pain. And bloody boring, if truth were told. During that time, MacLeod and I formed an uneasy friendship. Not only was the ever-present issue of Immortality between us, a shaky start for any friendship, there were also our political differences. I couldn't see how anyone in his right mind could be a part of Napoleon's conquests. The French soldiers viewed our Egyptian workers as animals, undeserving of medical attention and scoffed at my efforts to keep them healthy. Our fearless leader shared that view, or so I thought.
During the day, I was at the beck and call of the French soldiers, treating everything from cuts and abrasions to raging diarrhea and heat exhaustion. After supper, I would see to the workers, often working late into the night to keep them healthy. A worker would be punished if they didn't work hard. Illness was no excuse, so I did what I could to help head off any punishment.
"Your dedication is amazing," he began, speaking English with a slight Scots burr, "you'd better be careful not to wear yourself out. I'd hate having to find another doctor in the middle of the desert."
"Your concern is touching," mocking him, "but I swore an oath to provide medical attention to those who need it. I'll be damned if I'm going to stand and watch someone be whipped because they were sick and I refused to treat them."
"Were you always this noble?"
"No, not always," bristling under his questioning.
"Ah, a reformed sinner, perhaps?"
"Perhaps," I grudgingly admitted. I've kept my head five millennia by not revealing too much of my past and I wasn't about to start, "do you need medical attention, or is something else on your mind?"
"I need some sword training, to keep my skills sharp," he offered, "I thought you might be interested in a little friendly duel, for practice."
"Why not ask your men? They all carry swords. They must be able to use them."
"I have. I've taken on most of the decent ones and won. I intimidate them now, they're afraid of me. I have a feeling you'd give me a good fight."
"Look, just because I'm an Immortal, doesn't mean I look for a fight," trying to back out gracefully, "I've lived this long by staying out of harm's way."
"Just how long is that?"
"Nice try," grinning, an idea suddenly forming in my mind, "if I agree to fight you and win, will you give me any spare medical supplies so I can properly treat these workers?"
"And if I win? What will you give me?"
"Something that will put you in the little corporal's good graces for a long time to come."
"I suppose it won't do me any good to ask what it is."
"Do we have a deal?"
"Why not?" he agreed, shaking hands, "this could be interesting. Tomorrow night, at sunset?"
"Agreed."
As he left, I wondered what I got myself into. Fumbling under my cot, I pulled out my trusty sword and began honing the blade.
True to his word, he showed up at sunset, waiting patiently while I tended to the last of my patients. We strolled away from camp, to a secluded area surrounded by dunes. Just as I was wondering if I was walking into a trap, he stopped. Removing our jackets and baring our blades, we faced off. Circling each other, sizing each other up, both waiting for the first move. Finally, he thrust to my left, I parried and the duel began in earnest. He was good, moving with feline grace and agility, looking for any weakness. He looked for a long time, I don't have many weaknesses.
I hardly ever duel just for practice. Two reasons; the first, I don't need much practice these days. All my moves are second nature to me now. Secondly, I have a nasty habit of getting carried away when I fight. In the heat of battle, the line between practice and a duel blurs. I practiced swordplay as a gladiator in the Coliseum where every fight was to the death. Connor bit off more than he could chew when he asked for this duel. I found his weaknesses early on and I ruthlessly exploited them as any good master at arms would.
An hour later, we were still at it, though we were both tiring. Dodging his blade, I slipped in the shifting sand giving Connor the opening he desperately needed. He took advantage of my mishap, slicing my sword arm to the bone. Lifting my left hand, I conceded. Grinning, he offered me a hand up and gave me his cravat to stop the bleeding. We sat companionably on the dune, sharing a canteen between us. I took one swig, made a face and handed it back to him. It wasn't water, but whiskey.
"Next time, I'll bring the canteen," joking with him.
"What? You don't like good Uisque baugh?"
"I prefer beer."
"Cretin."
"Dumb Scot," I retorted, leaning back on my elbows. The bleeding was slowing, the wound would be completely healed before we headed back to camp, "Ramirez taught you well."
"You knew Ramirez?"
"Our paths crossed once or twice before he left to explore the world," I reminisced, "he was a good man."
"You're not too bad yourself," smirking, "you fight to win. Who trained you?"
"I've picked things up here and there, "shrugging, "no formal training. Just trying to keep my head."
"When are you going to trust me?" he asked, "you should know by now I won't betray your secrets."
"Sorry MacLeod, I like being mysterious," I wanted to trust him, but I had been burned before, "let's just say I'm old enough to know Ramirez before he called myself Ramirez."
"Cynical, aren't you?" changing the subject, "when do I get my reward for beating you?"
"When we reach Raschid." He looked puzzled, so I explained; "Westerners call it Rosette. I understand Napoleon is planning to build a fort there."
"No one's supposed to have that information. How did you find out?" suddenly suspicious, "are you sure you're not a spy?"
"No, just a good listener." Smirking, I got up to return to camp. My arm had completely healed, "come on, I'll buy you dinner."
"That swill is not dinner," he laughed, "let's go."
* * * * * * *
Another month of hard travel brought us to the outskirts of the tiny village of Raschid, which the Westerners called Rosette. The advance force began to dig at the site of the proposed fort. Surveying the land, I recalled the last time I was here. Somewhere out in this desolate land was a treasure known only to me and some friends who died centuries ago.
Connor came to my tent later in the day, to pump me for more information on his promised reward. I finally relented, to get him off my back.
"Have the workers concentrate on the southwest corner of the fort," I began, "with a day or two's digging, you'll discover the biggest scientific find of this century."
"Science? Bloody hell, what good will finding something scientific bring me? I had something else in mind."
"What? Another tomb filled with ancient treasure?" reminding him, "Napoleon won't be impressed by that. He's already sent boatloads of booty back to France. He doesn't have a clue what it means. What's buried here will shed a light on the ancient Egyptians better than gold trinkets or pottery shards."
"You're a shrewd one, grave robber," grudgingly admitting defeat, "tomorrow the workers dig at the southwest corner. This better be worth all the hard work."
"It will be."
At the crack of dawn, Connor's crew dug diligently at the southwest corner of the fort site. Whenever I had time, I wandered over to check on their progress. By nightfall, they were still a meter short of the treasure. I forgot we buried it so far down. Connor sauntered over, dust clinging to his face and uniform.
"I swear doctor, if we don't find it soon," threatening me, "I'll take your head just to wipe that smirk off your face."
"Patience is a virtue, MacLeod," goading him a bit, "you're not a virtuous man in that regard."
"Just tell me when I'll lay eyes on your little secret," drawing his blade from its scabbard.
The glint in his steel blue eyes warned me to back off, "probably midday tomorrow. It's not much further down."
"It better not be," easing off; "Napoleon has less patience than me."
"You told him?"
"I may have hinted a bit," grinning.
Shaking my head in disbelief, I returned to my practice, such as it was, to do what I could for the sick.
When I woke the next morning, Connor and his crew were already digging. I showed up just as one of the shovels hit something solid, the sound ringing through the camp. MacLeod jumped into the hole, using his hands to sweep sand away from the top of a stone. Carefully digging around it, he exposed the stone tablet my friends and I buried nearly two thousand years before. A tablet inscribed with three different styles of writing that would be the key to unraveling the mysteries of ancient Egypt. A stone the world today knows as the Rosetta stone.
* * * * * * *
Dawn was breaking when we finally quit reminiscing about our sordid past. Connor's control over Duncan's body was taking its toll. He looked like hell, worse than I've ever seen him.
"Have you taken a good look at yourself in a mirror lately? You've got to give Duncan a break. If you insist on these nightly possessions, you may kill him. I'm the doctor here and I'm prescribing bed rest, before you damage his health permanently."
Squinting into the mirror, he cringed, "you're right, grave robber. These nightly wanderings haven't been fair to him. I'll drag his body off to bed right now for a long nap."
"I'll fix brunch when we're both conscious." I promised
"You've got a deal," shuffling sleepily down the hall, "'night, Methos."
Now how in the hell did Connor figure that out?
* * * * * * *
Normally, when I'm not flirting outrageously with flight attendants, I try to sleep when I fly. It keeps my mind off the fact I'm sitting in a long metal tube held up by aerodynamics I still have trouble accepting. I said it to DaVinci before when he first told me about them way back when and I'll say it now. If God had intended man to fly, he would have given us all wings. Look what happened to Icarus.
Sleep is eluding me this time. I keep coming back to the mission Connor gave me. Find Megan Fraser, bring her to Glencoe and introduce her to Duncan MacLeod. Since hitting a dead end on the Watcher's network, I'll have to search my own memories for any clue to her whereabouts. Fortunately, (or maybe unfortunately, depending on your point of view) Immortals develop eidetic memories after becoming Immortal. My memory goes back to when I took my first head 5000 years ago. Everything before that is either long gone or fuzzy at best. Reclining my seat and closing my eyes, I let my mind drift back to the day when I first arrived at Connor's place in Glencoe and he introduced me to his protégé, Megan Fraser.
* * * * * * *
1889. Springtime in the Highlands qualifies as winter everywhere else. It's bloody cold, miserably wet and a brisk breeze only makes matters worse. I rode into the Valley of Glencoe, soaked to the bone, praying that I would make it to Connor's place before the weather got any worse. It would be dark soon; I wasn't looking forward to finding his place in the dark. He warned me about walking the last mile or so, but I had no idea it would be this horrendous. Coming into the village, I turned my horse over to a stable boy and headed to the inn where Connor promised to meet me.
True to his word, he sat in the public room, oblivious to the travelers taking shelter from the storm. It was only as I felt his presence that he acknowledged me with his lopsided grin. Embracing like long lost brothers, I felt I was coming home. He had that way about him, his charm putting everyone he met at ease.
"It's good to see you, grave robber," helping me out of my soggy cloak, "let me get you a whiskey."
"An ale," reminding him, "the last time you gave me whiskey, I thought I'd never recover. I still remember that hangover."
"C'mon," he chuckled, "that was eighty years ago."
"Ninety. But who's counting?" Shivering, my teeth chattering, "any chance of moving closer to the fire?"
"Ach, a wee bairn bawls less than you," his burr thicker than porridge, "elbow your way in there. If you show them who's boss, they'll let you in."
Steeling myself, I fought my way through a mob of men wearing kilts. No wonder Scots are so cranky, wearing skirts in this weather. Even Connor, funny thing, he didn't seem to be the least bit cold. In the meantime, I was slowing turning blue.
"Breaking a few laws aren't you," needling him a bit, "wearing a kilt and your plaid?"
"Who's going to whisper in the English king's ear?" challenging me, "You?"
"Never," taking a deep draw on my pint, "ah, elixir of the Gods. I've been wanting this all day."
"Beer, we wean our children on beer," throwing back his single malt in one gulp, "Uisque baugh, they don't call it the water of life for nothing."
Rolling my eyes, I laughed, "still an arrogant son of a bi---"
"Hold your tongue, laddie," a huge Scot intervened, "no one calls Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod that in my presence."
"It's all right Angus. Believe it or not, we're old friends," introducing us, "Angus MacGregor, Doctor Benjamin Adams."
"Doctor, is it?" His eyes lighting up, "I hope you're staying, we could use a doctor around here."
"Just here for a visit," apologizing, "we go back a long way."
"Think about it, laddie," nudging me, almost cracking a rib in the process. We could make it worth your trouble."
Gasping for breath, I nodded. Connor laughed, clapping Angus on the back as he left us.
"Are all your friends like that?"
"Only the Scots," still laughing, "so how have you been? Still mysterious as ever?"
"Have to be. Self preservation, you know."
"Here we go again. As soon as the rain lets up, we'll head for home. Megan will have supper waiting."
"Who's Megan?"
"You'll see."
"One of the strays you're always taking in, I suppose."
* * * * * * *
Megan did have supper waiting, but she wasn't too happy with us for being late. We had our share of beer and whiskey while waiting out the storm. We were greeted by cold stares as we staggered into the cottage, I could see she was barely keeping her temper in check.
"Where in bloody hell have you been, Connor MacLeod?" scolding him, "I was imagining all sorts of horrible things happening to you."
"Such language for a lady," taking her in his arms and pecking her cheek, "we have company. Dr. Benjamin Adams, meet Megan Fraser. Be nice to him, he's a very old Immortal and deserves our respect."
"Do I get a kiss?" slurring my words, winking (was I really that drunk?) "That would be a nice treat for a really old guy."
Visibly shaken by my suggestion, she warily approached me, giving me a slight peck on my nose. Something deep down warned me not to force her. I got the feeling she was uncomfortable around men, except for Connor. That one brief peck warmed me better than sitting all day in front of a fire. I suddenly felt I should change into dry clothing.
"Where's your spare room, Connor?" trying not to sound as drunk as I was, "I really should get out of these damp clothes."
"Top of the stairs to the right, Doctor," Megan directing me, "I'll have a hot bowl of stew waiting for you when you're done."
"Thank you. I appreciate that," smiling at her, "it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Fraser."
"It's good to meet you, too," gracing me with her smile. I was feeling that warm feeling again. The one I always feel when meeting a beautiful woman.
Witnessing the heated gazes between us, Connor laughed. I beat a hasty retreat before embarrassing myself further in my current drunken state. Dressing quickly, I used the wash basin full of cold water to sober up a bit and make myself more presentable to the lady.
"What do you think of Doctor Adams?" Connor asked her.
"How much whiskey did you pour into him at the pub?" she berated him, "I think he'll be very nice when he's sober."
"Not one drop of whiskey went down his throat," Connor told her, "he prefers beer of all things."
"Actually, he's a handsome lad," she had to admit.
"Handsome?" answering incredulously, "what are you talking about?
"Tall, fine lean body. Lovely hazel eyes, good bone structure, great lips---"
"What about his nose? I noticed you kissed his largest feature."
"What about it? It fits his face somehow," smirking; "I may ask him to sit for a portrait."
"You're daft," he pointed out, "I should never have sent you to that fancy school."
"Now Connor, you were the one who insisted I read and write to make my way in this world. Besides, you never would have learned if I hadn't taught you," smugly lording it over him, "if you'll excuse me, I'm going to clean up before supper. You should get out of your wet clothes as well."
* * * * * * * *
It was a marvelous dinner. The hearty stew, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and plenty of hot, sweet tea thawed me out and improved my mood. Megan was a perfect hostess, making sure I had my share of the delicious dinner and good company as well. Connor saw that she had an excellent education and she was obviously proud of it. She was hungry for any news I could give her. Not just lady like topics such as fashion and ton gossip. She asked my opinion on politics, medicine and financial concerns as well. I was duly impressed. We didn't always agree and she had a short temper, but those little clashes just fueled my interest in her.
After dinner was finished and the washing up done, she sat and mended Connor's clothes for awhile, listening to us reminisce about younger days. Every so often, she would offer her own opinions. I was enjoying her sharp observations and could barely contain myself when Connor would disagree with her just to goad her. Finally, the hour grew late and she couldn't stop yawning, so she excused herself.
"Miss Fraser, thank you so much for dinner, your kind hospitality and your shrewd observations," kissing her hand, "I haven't had such a relaxing and entertaining evening in a long time."
"You're quite welcome, Dr. Adams," flushing from my gallantry, "It's been a pleasure for me tool."
"Please, call me Benjamin," I begged, "or better yet, Ben."
"Only if you call me Megan." Her blush deepening, "sleep well."
After she climbed the stairs to her room, Connor and I continued our conversation.
"She's a lovely girl, Connor," I sighed, "you're a lucky man."
"It's not like that, not now," he informed me, "don't get me wrong. It was once. Only because she needed to be taught that not all men are animals."
"Someone hurt her?"
"In the aftermath of Culloden, she was hunted down and raped by British soldiers. Five of them took turns, the ringleader taking her a second time before putting a bullet through her heart. It took her years to accept any affection from me without flinching."
"Bloody hell," unconsciously fisting my hands, "I would have tracked them down and castrated them." I was a murdering bastard when I rode with the Horsemen, but I never forced myself on a woman. Give me credit for some shred of decency.
"I did." Connor smiled. A wicked, self-satisfied grin. "Needless to say, it gave me great pleasure to deprive them of their manhood."
"I always knew you hid a nasty streak," kidding him, "so you're not involved with her?"
"Not at the moment, no. We sometimes share our bodies when we need comforting, but not recently," he admitted, "she needs someone to take care of her. I was hoping you'd be interested."
"Damn you Connor," glaring at him, "I don't need matchmaking, I can find my own women, thank you very much."
"So you've told me," laughing, "what's the latest count now?"
"I've been married 64 times," I snapped at him, "but never to one of us. Forever with one woman, not my style."
"Yeah, the words, 'til death us do part' take on new meaning with us," testing the limits of my patience. "Heather was and always will be the love of my life."
"As I said before, you're a lucky man."
"Did you love them?"
"Of course I did, they will always have a place in my heart. When I was married, I was a one woman man," I told him, "I gave them my heart and soul for as long as they lived."
"I'm too tired to argue with you right now. I have this feeling if you start talking about all the loves of your life, we could be here awhile," rising to go to bed, "think about it. She's interested in you. Who knows? It might work out."
"You're incorrigible," heading to my room, "as much as I appreciate your hospitality, I won't need your matchmaking skills any time soon."
* * * * * * *
A flight attendant stands over me, shaking me awake, announcing we are about to land. I flash my best, most charming sleepy smile. She smiles back, helping me get my seat upright for landing.
Sometimes napping pays off; I have a pretty good idea where to find Megan Fraser. I'll just have to bide my time until spring. If my hunch is right, I won't go far to find her. The hard part will be convincing her to listen to me. The last time I saw her, I shattered her trust. It wouldn't surprise me if she refused to talk to me. I'm hoping our mutual feelings for Connor and his memory will be enough to make her listen to what I have to say.