Disclaimer: Happy holidays everyone. Methos finally contacted me and read me the riot act about repeating things he told me in confidence. Anyway, after I convinced him that I wasn't in this for the money, he relented and even helped me a little. Being the ultimate historian, he corrected me on the dates for the battle of Culloden. I bow to his first hand knowledge. Anyway, this is part 2 of Connor's Legacy. Methos suggested the title himself….A Woman Scorned. Enjoy and stay tuned for part 3. As always, feedback is gratefully appreciated.
* * * * * * *
It's been awhile since I visited Joe. In spite of the chill in the air, I feel the need for a nice cold draft beer. Besides, Joe can be counted on for stimulating conversation, if not a good verbal sparring match. I admit there have been times when I goad him into one. He is so easy that way; it doesn't take much for me to get him started.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in," teasing me as I shook Parisian rain from my hair and jacket, "long time, no see. The usual?"
"April in Paris, yuck. I don't care what the song says, I hate this time of year," sitting on my usual stool, "what's up? Any word from MacLeod these days?"
"Well, since you brought it up, yeah," Joe complained, "Mac asked if I'd heard from you. How's the search for Megan Fraser going? Any leads?"
"I have a hunch I'll be checking out soon," shrugging, downing a deep swallow of beer, "timing is everything."
"There you go again, getting all mysterious on me," Joe muttered, "if you ever give me a straight answer; I swear I'll have a heart attack."
"I'm heading to Scotland to check out Culloden. Somewhere in my memories, I seem to recall Connor saying he went to Culloden on the anniversary of the battle. I know for a fact that Megan sometimes went with him. I have a hunch she'll turn up."
"How in the hell do you know that?" Joe grumbled, "How well did you know her? And why would anyone want to visit the site of a battle that happened a couple hundred years ago?"
"Over two hundred fifty years ago," correcting him, "think about it. Not only was Culloden a definitive battle in Scots history, she became Immortal in the aftermath of the battle. A major turning point like that is not something you're likely to forget. And there is the fact she cared deeply for Connor. She'll be there to honor his memory."
"Why do I have the feeling you're hiding things from me?" Eyeing me, trying to gauge my reaction, "how well did you know her?"
"Better than anyone besides Connor," fudging a bit, finishing my beer and sliding the glass over for a refill.
"I'll be damned, you're blushing," Joe snorted his amazement, "C'mon, out with it. You had a thing for the lady, didn't you?"
"A gentleman never kisses and tells, Joe," evading his question.
"You don't believe in chivalry, remember?" withholding my refill, "if you really want this beer, you'll entertain me with the details."
"You're a bloody bastard, Joe Dawson," sighing, knowing I'd have to tell him something. "Let's grab a table. It's a long story."
It's rare I share my life story with anyone. Joe was an exception. Not only are we good friends, but we went through a lot working together in the Watchers. Joe saved my neck more times than he knows. We have a grudging admiration and deep down, I trust him with my life. I can't say that about many of my friends. Dawson and Duncan are the only ones.
Slouching into the nearest chair, I warned him, "Don't blame me if I bore you. You're the one who brought up the subject."
"Yeah, okay. Quit stalling and get on with it."
* * * * * * *
Glencoe, 1899. After raining for weeks, spring finally arrived in the highlands of Scotland. Angus MacGregor invited Connor, Megan and me to a Clan gathering to celebrate Beltane. He promised us good company and food, dancing and plenty of whiskey from his own private stock. Megan noticed me flinch at the mention of whiskey, but I brightened up considerably when she assured me ale would also be in plentiful supply. Connor borrowed a docile mare and sidesaddle from the livery for Megan. I gave her a foot up into the saddle, and then mounted my own horse to follow behind Connor and Megan until the path widened to become a decent road where we could ride three abreast.
"So, Ben," Megan piped up, "I'm waiting for you to ask what Beltane is."
"Megan," Connor interrupted a twinkle in his eye, "I've told you before, Ben is a very old Immortal. Not only does he know what Beltane is, he most likely invented it."
"Is he right? Are you that old?" her curiosity piqued.
"Nice try, Connor," I smiled, "getting a beautiful woman to pump me for information. It won't work. You should know by now I will never admit how old I am to you or anyone else."
"Heh, heh, heh. It figures," shrugging, Connor continued, "when someone does finally take your head, I hope he counts the rings to see how old you are. And I hope I'm there to see it."
"Keep trying to find out my age," winking at him, I smirked, "I just may have to relieve you of your head."
Spotting Angus riding with his family, we rode hard to catch up with them. Megan settled in with Angus' four daughters. From the giggling and whispering, and the occasional shy glances, I could tell they were all curious about me. Connor and I hung back; I wanted a quick word with my old friend.
"Do you think its wise bringing Megan to a Beltane celebration?" questioning his sanity, "she has a fear of men. She's used to you and barely tolerating my presence. Bringing her to a pagan celebration of spring won't help her get over it."
"You and I are going to watch over her. If worse comes to worse and someone sets his sights on her, one of us will claim her, doing whatever it takes to keep her safe."
"You are daft, Connor," I countered, "Whatever it takes, huh?"
"Yes, whatever it takes," nodding, "even if it means whisking her away to a secluded corner of the forest for a bit of privacy. You understand?"
"I understand," I assured him, "you were right. I do know what goes on at these things. Hell, I've even done my turn as God of the Harvest."
"I knew it," Connor chortled, riding off to join the others, leaving me seriously doubting his judgement.
Angus was true to his word, tables groaned under the weight of the food, barrels of whiskey and kegs of ale lined the pathways; there was more than enough for everyone. Connor introduced me to so many people, my head was spinning. I dispensed more medical advice that evening than I ever did in a whole year of practicing. Once everyone seemed to be satisfied, pipers and drums roused the crowd onto its feet for dancing. Megan dragged me out despite my protests I had no clue where to begin. Patiently leading me through the intricate steps of a reel, she'd laugh whenever I would trip up. It was a musical laugh, pure and clear.
"A song, a song," Angus begged Megan, pulling her away from me. The crowd chimed in, obviously her talents were appreciated. There was no question why; she had a lovely voice, singing ballads and folk songs of Celtic legends and love.
Connor sidled over to me, "so what do you think of her now?"
"She's a fine singer," I agreed, "She should be singing in London or Edinburgh. She'd be a huge success."
"I've been telling her that for decades," Connor laughed, "she ignores me. Maybe if you said something, she'll finally believe it herself."
"You have a lovely voice," I complimented her as she joined us, "have you ever thought about going to London or Edinburgh to sing?"
"You're daft," brushing me off, "but I thank you for your kind words. I sing for the pure joy of it. It helps make my chores or whatever else I'm doing more bearable."
"How about another dance, then," I suggested, "that is, if your feet have recovered from my last try?"
"I'd like that," taking my hand and leading me out to where other couples were gathering for another reel, "we'll make a dancer out of you yet."
Connor smiled a huge devilish grin. After the dance was over, I spied Ian MacGregor, Angus' eldest son making a beeline towards us. He had one thing on his mind. Megan realized his intentions, too. She drew me close, squeezing my hand.
"Help me. I don't want to go off with Ian," whispering in my ear, "he scares me."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked, "He seems very determ----"
Megan pounced on me, catching me unaware, stifling my surprised gasp with her mouth on mine. I recovered quickly, threading my hands through her hair to kiss her even more thoroughly. Once we came up for air, Ian was making a run for cover. I bent over for one more taste of her and then reluctantly eased out of her embrace.
"Um, Th-thank you for your help," Megan stammered, "I-I rather enjoyed it."
"My sentiments exactly," I grinned, "would you like to try again?"
Nodding, she blushed and moved towards me. Opening my arms in invitation, I welcomed her into my arms, taking it slowly, savoring the kiss. Not wanting to scare her off, I brushed my lips against hers, tasting the honeyed mead on her lips. Her fingers in my hair, I thumbed her mouth open, delving deep, reveling in the sweetness of the kiss. I moved slowly, as gently as I could, mindful of her feelings. Connor worked for decades, erasing her memory of rape, coaxing her to accept his affections, teaching her intimacy between a man and a woman was the most beautiful gift they could share. I was determined to reinforce Connor's lessons.
"Just say the word and I'll stop," murmuring into the softness of her hair, "know that I would never do anything you don't want. I would never take advantage of you."
"Silly man, I know that," her fingers feather soft on my face, drifting to my lips. I kissed her palm. She stood on tiptoe to kiss my nose, her hand splayed on my throat. The throat is a very sensual spot for anyone, but especially Immortals. It is our most vulnerable spot, our Achilles' heel. Our lives can only be snuffed out by a sword stroke aimed at the throat. I shuddered as she caressed mine, her hand dipping inside my shirt, massaging my shoulder.
"Where do we go from here, Megan Fraser?" easing away from her, holding her hand.
"Take me home," her head on my chest, "it's been a long day and I'm suddenly very tired."
"Alright, let's go find our host and Connor to bid them goodnight," I agreed, "then I'll escort you home."
Angus was disappointed with our decision to leave early, but Connor looked at my slightly tousled state and smiled. I helped Megan up onto her mare, and then turned to mount my gelding, only to find Connor's hand on my shoulder.
"Heh, heh, heh," his bark of a laugh against my ear, "you hurt her, I'll take your head and count those rings myself."
"It isn't me you should be worried about," I whispered back, "when Ian ambled over to us, she all but jumped me to escape his affections."
"You didn't put up much of a fight," smacking my back in a friendly gesture, "all the same, be gentle with her."
"You have my word, Connor," swinging myself into the saddle, I followed Megan and her more sure-footed, Highland bred mare back to Connor's homestead.
* * * * * * *
I saw to the horses while Megan lit lamps and banked the fire. I stopped at the well to wash the scent of horse and sweat away before turning in for the night. Megan already went upstairs, leaving a lamp for me. I climbed the stairs, yawning. Entering my room, I set the lamp on the armoire, shucking my coat and waistcoat, untying my cravat and unbuttoning my shirt.
"Let me," Megan's soft whisper drifting up to me from the bed.
My throat dry, I was speechless. Megan lay on my bed, fully clothed, her hair loose and flowing like molten lava over the pillows. Rising to her knees, she beckoned me over. Mesmerized by her, I stumbled to the bed. Kissing her, I felt her warm hands on my shoulders, easing my shirt down my arms. Her tongue sought out mine, deepening the kiss.
"We should stop before we do something we'll regret," I murmured into her fiery hair, surprised to hear my voice calm and reasonable. I felt anything but calm and reasonable.
"I won't regret this," her burr deepening, "I have a feeling you won't regret it either."
"Must be getting rusty after all these years," unlacing her bodice, "I'm usually more attentive to a woman's heart."
"And here I thought you were just being a gentleman."
"I was born before the age of chivalry," dragging her down with me, "I was never a gentleman."
"Good," she nibbled my ear, "Because I don't feel ladylike just now."
My fingers twined in her long auburn tresses, I kissed Megan's forehead, her eyelids, her nose, lips and cheeks, savoring the taste of her skin. She mussed my shoulder length dark hair, her fingers grazing over my face, tracing the line of my cheekbone and jaw. She seemed fascinated by my nose. Little wonder, since I've always thought it was a little too large for my face.
"You have an amazing nose, it works with your face," kissing me, cuddling deeper into my arms.
I laughed, giving her my full attention. Struggling out of my shirt, I eased Megan's chemise down her arms, freeing her voluptuous body to my touch. Megan moaned, her mouth finding mine, our tongues meeting in a mating ritual older than I am. I bent to her bosom, tasting salty sweet perspiration, savoring her, caressing her.
"Don't stop, Ben," whispering into my ear, laving it with her tongue, "it feels good, it feels right."
Ben. The name froze me in my tracks. I was living a lie, a lie forced on me by my earlier notoriety. It couldn't be helped. I want to keep my head and the best way I know how is by playing my cards close to my chest.
"Ben, are you having second thoughts?" Megan smiled, encouraging me.
"I want to give you a chance to reconsider," smiling my best grin, tickling her ribcage before returning to her breast.
"Make love with me, Ben," squirming underneath me, "don't torment me anymore."
Primal instinct took over; I gratefully accepted the shelter and comfort of her body. It never ceases to amaze me, this joining of body and soul. It truly is a miracle, different with every partner I've ever had. Megan was willing to accept me as I am which was the greatest gift she would ever give me. Sighing I sink into her arms, increasing our rhythm, driving us both over the edge, settling into blissful oblivion
I drifted into sleep, Megan tucked under my arm, a smile on my lips. For the first time in a very long time, I was content. My last thought as sleep caught up with me was how long could it last.
* * * * * * *
"Damn, sometimes I'd give anything to be Immortal," Joe grinned, shaking his head, "not only would I be whole and probably younger, I'd have as many women as you and Mac."
I flashed a look of disbelief, "no one can have as many women as I've had."
"Leaving so soon?" Joe asked, "where you heading?"
"Scotland, remember?" reminding him, "I have an early flight tomorrow morning. The anniversary of the Battle of Culloden is in three days. I want to get a good seat down front to track down Megan."
"Well, good luck man," Joe clasped my hand and slapped my shoulder, "don't lose your head."
"Guess I'll have to skip Culloden, then," ruefully admitting past history, "If anyone takes my head there, it'll be Megan."
"What did you do to her?"
"I really ticked her off, a long time ago. Hell hath no fury…..that sort of thing."
Leaving Joe hanging, I step into the rainy night in Paris and walk back to my flat. The next few days would be rough. I'm not sure what kind of reception Megan Fraser will give me.
* * * * * * *
Culloden Scotland. April 16, 1746, the loyal supporters of Bonnie Prince Charlie were soundly defeated on the moors near Culloden Manor in one of the bloodiest battles in Scots history. But that was only the beginning. A British general took it upon himself to systematically hunt down the remaining Jacobites through the highlands of Scotland, slaughtering innocent men, women and children in their path. Neither Connor nor Duncan could speak of the atrocities committed without intense emotion. As a doctor conscripted into the British army, witnessing the horror first hand, it was the first time I was ashamed of my part in any war.
256 years later, I stand on the battlefield I swore I would never stand on again, honoring those who had fallen, honoring Connor's memory and his last request. Find Megan Fraser; bring her to Glencoe and Duncan. It was the least I could do. So I join the crowd of Scots proudly wearing their tartans and kilts, following a guide over the grounds. As I draw near, the 'buzz' we Immortals get whenever we near each other grows stronger. Scanning the crowd, I home in on a lock of copper colored hair wafting in the breeze. Megan is leading our little group of tourists, braving the cold April breeze in traditional Scots gear. Her kilt is Fraser crimson, but she wears the blue MacLeod plaid over her left shoulder. She spots me, her voice faltering in her spiel as she zooms in on me in the crowd. If looks could kill, my five thousand years on this earth would have been over then and there. Shrugging, I flash my best smile; she stumbles over her words again. It inflates my male ego enormously, realizing that I still could leave her grasping for words.
She finishes her guided tour without pulling her dirk and plunging it into my throat. I have to admit, she has every right to do it. About a hundred years ago, I behaved like a cad, refusing to make an honest woman of her by marrying her. I've been married 68 times in five thousand years, had many liaisons with countless women, but marrying another Immortal, 'til death us do part, that's way too much commitment for me. You have to love someone a hell of a lot to be with them a couple hundred years.
Megan marches right past me, determined not to acknowledge my presence. Acting impulsively, I grab her arm only to feel a sharp pain and the hot gush of blood down my arm. Her dirk quivers in my bicep. Steeling myself against the pain, I yank it free, wipe the blade on my sleeve and hand it back to her.
"Naughty girl, carrying a weapon on Holy Ground, or did you conveniently forget that this Battlefield is consecrated to the memory of those who fell here? I bloody well didn't, I came here in good faith and unarmed."
"I have nothing to say to you," her tone cold as ice, "you ceased to exist for me the day you showed your true colors."
"You're still angry? Come on, Meg, think," defending myself, "do you honestly think our marriage would have lasted a year? We fought like cats and dogs whenever we got together. Hell, I'm standing here bleeding to death because of your bloody temper. And it's not the first time I might add."
"Damn, where's a good sword when you need one? If that's what it takes to shut you up, I'll find one and do the honors myself;" her red headed anger boiling over, "then maybe I'll be free of you at last."
"Will you just listen for a second? I'm trying to fulfill Connor's last request," that stops her cold.
"What did you say?" her voice shaking, her face pale.
Force of habit makes me reach out to comfort her, giving her a big hug seems to be the right thing to do under the circumstances. She and Connor were close, living long lives together tends to bind people much more deeply. Their relationship went through many changes, Connor not only saved her life, he was her teacher and mentor, her friend, her lover and her brother in Immortality. They were together nearly 150 years, long enough for her to be shattered by news of his death.
"You okay?" wiping a tear from her cheek, I pull her closer, "let's go find a place to talk."
"If you insist, you can buy me lunch. It's the least you can do for your cowardice," Meg manages a weak smile, "I'm starved and we could both use a drink."
"I'd like that," draping my arm over her shoulder, pleased she doesn't pull away, "I don't suppose they serve beer here."
"You would insist on beer," she giggles, "in a country known for its whiskey."
* * * * * * *
Once we settled in a booth and had ordered our food, Megan cut right to the chase.
"What was Connor's last request?" she asks earnestly, "he's still looking out for me?"
"I wouldn't be surprised," I smirk over my beer, "anyone I've ever met named MacLeod has an honorable streak a mile wide."
"Have you ever met Duncan MacLeod?" Megan asks her eyes fearful.
"You could call us close friends," gazing at her from under hooded eyes, "why?"
"I've been getting crank calls," she begins, "someone, one of us, keeps calling and threatening me and Duncan MacLeod. I've never met Duncan, why are we being threatened? Has he had any crank calls?"
"Not that I know of," I murmur, hoping to calm her down, "I haven't seen him for awhile, but he's a big boy, he can take care of himself. Tell me about these calls."
"It's a man, strange voice, muffled by something," she sighs, "short calls, telling me how hard it was to find us…...Duncan and I…..he wants to take our heads."
"The only connection you and Duncan have is Connor," I point out, "why anyone would want to kill you, God only knows."
"So Connor asked you to track me down and introduce me to Duncan MacLeod." She smiles, "What's he like?"
"Well, you can see for yourself. He lives in Glencoe at your old homestead. Connor is buried there, next to Heather," I inform her, "Duncan's taken himself out of the loop for awhile, to get his head straight. Losing Connor hit him pretty hard, too."
I'll leave it up to MacLeod to tell her the circumstances of Connor's death. She won't hear it from me that she's about to meet the man who took Connor's head.
"This meeting could be interesting," smiling; she digs through her tote bag and pulls out legal documents, "check this out."
The documents were from Connor's attorney, dated eleven years ago, just before he disappeared into Watcher sanctuary. Scanning them, I'm flabbergasted. Megan's right, her meeting with Duncan will be very interesting, to say the least. I can't help myself, I laugh out loud.
"Would it be okay if I'm in the room when you break this to Mac? The look on his face when he finds out he's been living on your property for over a year will be worth it."
"You always did have a warped sense of humor," she laughs, a musical sound that makes my heart glad.
"So I take it you're willing to go with me to Glencoe to meet Duncan?"
"Yeah, I guess I could bury the hatchet and tolerate your company for a couple days," she agrees, "but, no funny business."
"Who me?" feigning innocence, "never."
* * * * * * *
We catch up on the drive up from Culloden to Glencoe. I drive, letting Megan drive would be courting death, and she is addicted to speed. She lives in Dublin, makes a decent living as a studio musician and backup singer. She sings with people like Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Eric Clapton, and Chris de Burgh. We have another thing in common; we both shared a stage with the Rolling Stones.
As she talks, I glance over at her. Her beauty has only deepened with time, her long red hair escaping the confines of a loose bun thingy at the nape of her neck, her flawless skin and deep green eyes are timeless. My eyes glide over her lovely long legs. My thoughts are quickly sliding into wild fantasies. Since I gave my word to try to act the gentleman, I say very little and concentrate on the road.
"So what have you been up to, Ben?"
"It's Adam Pierson now," fighting my usual urge to keep my own counsel, "I am, I mean I was, a researcher for the Watchers---"
"Traitor---"
"Hear me out; I'm in between jobs right now as they say," sheepishly admitting my failure, "I've been bumming around, doing a bit of this and that, bartending for a friend---"
"Still maintaining the mystery I see," kidding me a bit, "Ben Adams, Adam Pierson, there has to be a clue to your age in there somewhere."
"My lips are sealed."
"Let's see. You can tell a lot about a person by looking at their music collection," rifling through my CDs. Finding a Queen Greatest Hits CD, she pops it into my CD player and cranks up the volume. "Bohemian Rhapsody, my favorite Queen Song. Freddie was the best."
"You knew him?"
"I met him a couple times in the halls of record studios," her eyes misting over, "a sweet man. We lost a great voice there."
"What's your latest project?"
"I just wrapped up a recording session with Chris," she smiles a secret smile, "de Burgh. Played keyboards, sang a little backup. Another good voice, a funny guy. You'd like him."
"Sounds like there's more to that story than you're telling right now."
"There is," flashing her mysterious grin, "it's my turn to be close mouthed."
"Ah, I see. Be that way."
"You wash my back, I'll wash yours." Not quite flirting with me.
"Don't tempt me." I shoot back.
* * * * * * *
MacLeod finally cleared a decent road up to the old homestead. At least you could drive a car to the front gate now. He isn't home; I can't feel his 'buzz.' But I have a pretty good idea where he is. With Megan in tow, I head up the hill to the gravesite; halfway up, we both feel it. He's up there, kneeling at Connor's grave, half a bottle of Glenlivet gone, just enough to make him more talkative than usual. He knows he has company, but he ignores us, talking instead to Connor's headstone.
"Here we are, another year gone, another anniversary of Culloden over. Over a year of living with the guilt you forced on me," sinking to his knees, the bottle of whiskey to his lips, "what I want to know is, Connor---when will I stop hurting? First Richie, now you. Some friend I turn out to be. You shouldn't have forced me---I loved you like a brother; damn it, Connor, I miss you."
Megan moves towards him. I'm afraid she'll put two and two together and realize Duncan killed Connor. I reach out for her, but she brushes me aside. Putting her hand on his head, stroking his shoulder length dark wavy hair, she comforts him.
"I miss him, too," kneeling next to him, "today of all days. He saved my life. My name is Megan, Megan Fraser."
"Duncan," he murmurs, straightening up and staring down at her, "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Same clan---"
"---different vintage." Megan finishes the phrase, "Connor always said that when introducing me to another MacLeod. I'm glad to meet you, Duncan."
"Enchante, Megan," gallantly kisses her hand, "you'll have to excuse my appearance. I wasn't expecting any company today. I usually spend this particular day alone."
"I was honoring Connor's memory by being at Culloden," helping her to her feet, "a mutual friend found me there and told me you wanted to meet me."
Glancing over my way, he smiles. I wondered when they'd notice me standing here. For some odd reason, MacLeod kissing Megan's hand bothers me.
"Adam, long time, no see," shaking my hand, and then embracing me, whispering in my ear, "Does she know who you really are?"
I shake my head. Nodding his understanding, he turns, becoming the perfect host. "I have green tea steeping back at the cottage. If you want something stronger, I'd be glad to share this bottle."
"I'd be honored, Duncan," Megan links arms with both of us, "but I know Adam would be happiest with a cold beer."
"You're slipping, Adam," he teases, "someone else knows you pretty well."
"So he still plays his little mind games," Megan joins in, "good to know some things never change."
"He wouldn't be Adam without them," winking at me, "but I won't have it any other way."
"Very funny, MacLeod," glad to see my little mission is successful. Now maybe I can get on with my life.
* * * * * * *
Ha. Get on with my life, famous last words. I'm quite pleased with myself for honoring Connor's last wishes. It does my heart good to see Duncan and Megan hitting it off so well. Of course, the night is still young; sooner or later Duncan's honesty will take over. He'll tell Megan he took Connor's head and all hell will break loose. I won't be surprised if I have to keep them from dueling. Actually, I'm not worried about MacLeod, he's fairly level-headed; but Megan and her hot temper could be a problem.
After a hearty meal (MacLeod does love his Italian food), we sit companionably in his parlor with beer and wine, talking and reminiscing. Megan seems nervous; I realize she has Connor's legal documents on her mind.
"Are you okay, Meg?" I ask, giving her a chance to show MacLeod the paperwork, "you seem preoccupied."
"Ben, I mean Adam," she blushes sweetly, "this is not the time to bring up those papers."
"Now you've done it," MacLeod smiles the smile guaranteed to leave women weak kneed and breathless, "you've piqued my curiosity, what papers?"
Pulling them from her tote bag, she hands them over. He reads silently, and then sits in his wing chair, not saying anything. Megan and I look at each other, waiting for his reaction. He sits and stares for a minute, then paces the room, running his hands through shoulder length, wavy dark hair.
"I can have my things out by the end of the week," he sighs, "I'll contact Maurice in Paris and have him get the barge ready for me."
"Whoa, wait," she stops to reassure him, "I didn't come here to throw you out. I came because I'm curious about Connor's first student. I want to be your friend, I have a feeling we could both use a new friend."
"What am I, chopped liver?" I chime in.
"I said new friend," dismissing me, "you still have a lot of groveling to do before I consider you a friend again."
"God, you leave a woman a hundred years ago," moaning, "and she lords it over you forever."
"No wonder she's mad at you," MacLeod going into Boy Scout mode, "I would never leave a lovely lady like her."
"Would you like me to tell her the story of your wedding night?" I remind him, "Talk about spoiling the romantic mood."
"Don't go there," MacLeod growls, warning me off that subject, "I have no qualms about throwing you out."
Megan, out of bravery or stupidity, steps between us, her hands on our chests, keeping us from doing bodily harm. Warmth radiates into my chest where her hand gently rests. It's been a long time since she touched me tenderly, I miss it. I don't like the idea her other hand is warming MacLeod's chest.
"Boys, while I'd really like to see him get what he deserves for leaving me," she grins wickedly, "I'd rather not watch. If you have to satisfy your male egos, I suggest you go outside. Wear warm coats, it's chilly out there."
Gazing at each other over her head, we make a mutual silent truce. Backing off I shrug, "ah well, if it's cold out there, I certainly don't want to freeze body parts off dueling with you."
"Neither do I," MacLeod smiles, "how about a hot drink before bed?"
We share whiskey and beer and then MacLeod escorts Megan to her room while I make myself comfortable on his couch. I don't mind, this couch and I are old friends. MacLeod tosses blankets and a pillow down from the landing. I strip to my skivvies and try to sleep.
* * * * * * *
It's a weird feeling waking up in the middle of the night to a 'buzz' only you and other Immortals can zero in on. Not just the normal 'buzz' either, that weird double harmonic I felt when Connor decided to walk Duncan's body through the house. Realizing he was heading for Megan's room, I slide my sword out from under the couch and tiptoe up the stairs. Luckily for me, he focused on waking Megan.
"Jesus, Duncan, you scared the hell of out me," lowering her sword as he stepped into the room, "are you okay?"
"Heh, heh, heh," once again, hearing Connor's distinctive laugh coming from Duncan's throat creeps me out, "I'm glad you're here Meggie. We need to talk."
I stay out of sight, just outside the room eavesdropping with sword in hand, just in case I'm needed.
"Connor? Oh sweet Jesus, how is this possible?" her voice trembles, colored by fear, "oh my God, Duncan took your head, didn't he? I'll kill the sonofa----"
"He had no choice, I forced his hand," Connor interrupts her; "he couldn't take on a bastard named Kell without my help. The only way to defeat him was to combine our strength. The only way to combine our strength was to give Duncan my Quickening."
"It wasn't the only way, Connor, you could have taken his----"
"No, I couldn't. Think Meg, I was in Sanctuary ten years, vegetating under the watchful eyes of the Watchers. I was rusty; Duncan fought the good fight for all those years, honing his skills. Besides, deep down in my heart, I believe that Duncan will be the One. He's been through a lot, much more than he deserves. I asked Pierson to find you so you could be here for Duncan the same way you were here for me. He'll need all the help he can get."
"Connor, I can't just forget he took your head, taking the best man I've ever known with one fell swoop of a sword," she's crying, I want to rush in and comfort her, "I can't ignore the vengeful thoughts I'm thinking right now."
"He needs the comfort only a woman can give him right now."
"Isn't he married? To one of us?"
"Kate left him on their wedding night," Connor begins, "Kell used her as an instrument of his revenge. They're estranged, until she learns to cope with her Immortality."
"I can't Connor. I have a life you know," she composes herself; "I just accepted a gig playing keyboards. I go to Ireland for rehearsals next week."
"Think about it, Meg," Connor begs, "beneath this manly exterior beats the heart of a man who could use a little tender loving care. TLC is your specialty, Meggie."
"Please, Connor, don't ask me to do this," she pleads, "I'm not sure how I'll face Duncan over breakfast tomorrow, let alone help him get over his grief."
"I understand, you've made your point," he sighs, turning to leave. I scuttle back down the stairs, diving to the couch just as MacLeod reaches the landing. He stops, leaning over the rail, knowing full well I'm wide awake.
"Talk to her, Methos," running hands through unruly dark hair, "maybe you can convince her to stay."
"She's still ticked at me, remember?" shaking my head, "by the way, how did you figure out who I am?"
"What Duncan knows, I know."
"Bloody hell."
* * * * * * *
The lights in the cottage finally blinked out. It was about time, the young man using the night vision glasses was nearing the limits of his patience. With his quarry so close at hand, he was out for revenge. He was a new Immortal, barely 50 years along in his immortality, left to his own devices after Duncan killed his mentor, Kell. Now he had MacLeod right where he wanted him. He thought seriously about killing the woman first, to torment MacLeod. That's what happens when someone is in the wrong place at the wrong time, killing MacLeod's woman would be icing on the cake.
* * * * * * *