Chapter the third, wherein our heroine meets our hero. Still don't own anything except Molly and, hopefully, the plot.

Because Intro to History wasn't until Wednesday, I had ample time to dither about the fact I was actually going to be in the same room with Duncan Macleod for an extended amount of time. I was, in turns, excited and terrified about the prospect.

It occurred to me that my being at the same school as Duncan Macleod was less of an amazing coincidence then a deliberate machination on my grandfather's part. It was he, after all, who first suggested Seacouver as a college choice. He must have known Duncan was here, must have wanted to give me the opportunity to meet the immortal, or at the very least, watch him in action. I thought about trying to find Joe Dawson, as it was likely he was in town if Duncan Macleod was, to get his take on the situation, but then I remembered all the rules that had been laid down for me that day in New York, and knew Joe would discourage me from speaking the immortal. He might even tell me I have to drop the class. I didn't want to do that. I wanted the opportunity to meet Duncan Macleod, if for no other reason then for the sake of my grandfather's memory. Of course the fact I've pretty much worshiped the man since I was a little girl played some part in it as well. To me it was like meeting Santa Claus, or Superman, or the Dali Lama. I wasn't going to pass up this chance.

So Wednesday found me dressing with more than usual care while trying to hide my excitement from Anne and Maggie. They'd been teasing me pretty much constantly about being in "Professor Hottie's" class, and I didn't want them to think I was a typical fan girl, like Maggie's sister. I don't think I was very successful, though, because they kept offering me suggestions on what to wear and how to do my hair, so as to attract "Professor Hottie's attention," as Anne put it, which is why I wound up entering my first history class wearing my new, rather short, black skirt, Maggie's dark green blouse (that, owing to the fact she is smaller than me, fit rather snugly) and my hair neatly French-braided, courtesy of Anne. Being a 'jeans and tee-shirt' kind of a gal, I felt sort of embarrassed and even more nervous then I'd been all week. And the whole exercise wound up being pointless, as the class was so big the chance of Duncan Macleod even noticing me, let alone speaking to me, was practically nil.

After dithering once again on where I should sit (in front, where he'd possibly see me? In back where I could hide?) I compromised by sitting somewhere in the middle row, and left it to fate. The classroom slowly filled up around me, and finally, at 10am, Duncan Macleod came into the room, and into my life.

He looked exactly the same as he did when I'd seen him three years ago, the same dark hair pulled into a ponytail, the same deep brown eyes, and the same warm, rich voice that filled the room as he began to speak.

"Over the last 500 years," he said, "the world has become more and more influenced by the mass actions of ordinary people. In this course, we will discuss the issues of world history and the various ways in which the human story can be told. We will focus on various historical factors among varieties of people and among periods of time." He handed a stack of paper to the first person in the front row, instructing her to hand it out. "On this sheet is a brief list of the topics I hope to cover in this course. We'll start with Europe, since that's my specialty," he smiled slightly then, and I couldn't help but smile with him, secretly in on his own private joke, "but I plan on covering other areas of the world as well. Any questions?" There was no reply save a rustle of paper as the syllabus continued to be handed around and the inevitable cough that someone always seems to have in a quiet room. "Great. Then let's begin."

For the next hour Duncan discussed how Europe was slowly changing for the better in the wake of the Black Death that had, well, plagued the world in the 1300's. He taught as well as I thought he would, the enthusiasm in his voice bringing the images to life, adding funny stories to the usual facts and figures. I wondered if he'd ever met anyone who lived then, if that person had told him the stories he was now sharing with us. I wished I could think of a comment or question so I could have his attention, however briefly, maybe have him smile at me encouragingly and praise me for my insight and intelligence, but I couldn't, and he didn't, and before I knew it class was over, and I was caught in a press of bodies heading to the door. Thus my first day with Duncan Macleod passed without him even looking in my direction.

It was rather disappointing.

Still, I soldiered on and made it through the rest of my classes and by dinner time the jokes Maggie and Anne threw my way about Professor Hottie struck me as funny. I especially had to laugh at Maggie's suggestion that I paint the words "love you" on my eyelids like the girl in the beginning of the Indiana Jones movie. "It would be appropriate for you," she said, "being an archeological student and all."

I pretended to consider the idea. "Nah, it didn't work on Harrison Ford, so I'm pretty sure it won't work on Duncan Macleod." We spent an enjoyable hour thinking up more and more outlandish ways for me to cross his path, and by the time dinner was over, I decided I didn't really have to speak to him. It was enough to be there, to watch him, as my grandfather did, and enjoy the chance I have to learn from his experience.

Fate, however, had other plans. After dinner I decided I needed to go for a run. I hadn't done any exercise since I came to school, and I really wanted to keep in shape. I'd already checked out the school's gym, and it was all free weights and treadmills, things I was not interested in. I needed to find a nearby Dojo or something, so I could keep up with my martial arts, but meanwhile, running helped me stay in shape.

This is why I was out on campus in the early evening, running in that kind of trance you get when you're alone with your thoughts, when Duncan Macleod jogged past me. I will admit I'd imagined many different ways of meeting him, all of them showing me off in some kind of flattering way. I'd imagined besting some sexist jerk in a dojo as Duncan looked on, or leaping in to the fray to help him fight off a bunch of karate chopping bad-guys, or maybe helping him rescue some person in distress. More recently, of course, I imagined impressing him with my wit and knowledge, and having him ask me to join him in some kind of intellectual discourse.

What I didn't imagine is me being so surprised at seeing him I would not be looking where I was going and consequently run, full force, into a tree.

The impact pushed me off balance and I stumbled backwards, teetered for a moment then fell unceremoniously to the ground. As I sat there, dazed and more than a little chagrined, a gently accented voice tinged with amusement and concern said, "Are you hurt?"

I looked up into the handsome face of Duncan Macleod, my childhood hero and current history professor, who I could tell at the moment was trying very hard not to laugh. "Just my pride." He held out his hand to help me up and even in the midst of embarrassment I tried to savor the feel of his calloused hand on mine. "Thanks," I said, gingerly touching the part of my head that had made contact with the tree. It felt tender, and I knew there was going to be a bruise. Great.

He must have noticed my wince of pain or something because he was instantly all concern, and led me to a nearby bench to check over my injuries. He looked into my eyes, checking for concussion, I assume, and examined the bruise that was already forming on my temple. It turns out I also scraped my cheek, and he kindly ran off to a nearby water fountain to wet his handkerchief so he could clean the wound. As I watched him go, I thought how much I wanted to call my grandfather, to tell him that Duncan Macleod carried a real handkerchief. I knew he'd get a kick out of that. I imagined him nodding in approval at the idea of a real, cloth handkerchief, as well as Duncan's gentlemanly care over my accident, and laughing at the idea of me slamming into a tree. So strong were these images I felt the loss of my grandfather more keenly than I had since the days after his funeral, and I couldn't help the tears that were welling in my eyes. I tried to wipe them away before Duncan returned, but he noticed. "Are you alright?" he asked me gently, which for some horrible reason made me want to cry even more.

"I'm fine," I managed to say. "Just embarrassed, I think, and feeling a little far from home."

"Ah, you're a new student, then?"

"Yes. Um. I'm in your Intro to History class, actually."

"Really? What's your name?" I told him, and he looked up at the sky, searching his memory, "Ah, yes. I remember your name on the roster. Your given name is Flora, isn't it?"

I just stared at him. Aside from the fact because no one ever calls me Flora I forget it's on all my official documents, couldn't believe he remembered it, and I told him so.

"Well," he said, thickening his accent into a strong Scottish brogue, "It's not every day a good Scot name like Flora appears, ye ken?" and he flashed me that smile I remember from that restaurant long ago, "so it bides in the memory a bit."

Remarkably, I didn't melt into a heap at his feet, but managed to smile back. "Aye," I said, in my own, much poorer, accent, "I was named for my grandmother, who was named for the famous Flora MacDonald."

"And a fine woman was Flora MacDonald," he said, "ye should be proud of the name."

"Oh, I am." I knew for a fact Duncan Macleod was part of the group that led Bonnie Prince Charlie to Flora MacDonald, who then helped the Prince escape. I really wanted to ask him about that but instead I added, rather stupidly, "I go by Molly, though. It's a little less old-fashioned."

"Well, Molly, if you're okay, I'd really be getting back home."

"Yes, I'm fine. Thank you for your help."

He smiled again. "Any time. Just don't go running into any more trees."

"I'll try."

He flashed me one more killer smile, then jogged back down the path. I watched him until he was out of sight then sat on the bench as the night closed in around me, replaying the incident over and over in my head. It wasn't exactly how I imagined meeting him, but at least I did meet him, and now the door was opened. To what, I didn't quite know, but it was opened, and I was determined to walk through.