he first full day at Connor’s croft dawned bright and clear, the world washed clean from the driving rain of the previous day.  Connor woke and stood and stretched, letting the wind blow away the last of the tendrils of sleep from his mind.  He wrapped his kilt around his waist, not bothering with a shirt on what promised to be, for Scotland at least, a warm day.  During his search for Duncan, he had finally shed the obsessive and, in this land, futile search for that real warmth he had enjoyed during his travels in Italy, Spain and France, and now hardly noticed that even in high summer, his homeland’s mornings and evenings were brisk.   He tied his hair back in a few braids to keep it out of his face, and strode to the top of the rise and watched the sun break the horizon in sharp shards of light, and smiled.  Sometime in the night, he had found his peace with this place.  It was, after all, home, and always would be.

He turned in a circle, scanning the landscape.  Across, on a hilltop on the other side of the glen, was Heather’s grave.  He would visit there later and sometime during his stay here put a more permanent marker at the site.  Their old house was just a tumble of rocks, now, a burned-out shell, long since overgrown with moss and low shrubs.  It would take some work to make it habitable, but he was having thatch delivered in a fortnight.  Between his efforts and Duncan’s strong back, they ought to be able to get the necessary work done in time.

Duncan was still asleep in the shadows of the ruins of the tower, huddled in his cloak.  No doubt he had not gotten much rest last night after their shared, painful revelations about their past lost loves.  Well, it was time to get busy, to think about the future instead of the past. 

“Duncan!” he bellowed across the glen, and was pleased to see the dark head immediately jerk up and look around.  Connor loped down the hill. “Get your lazy arse out of bed, and get the fire started,” he called.  “I’m going for some breakfast.

Actually, he was going for a run along the loch.  It had a long, sandy beach perfect for stretching his legs and he had been sitting in a saddle for too many days.  He had always loved to run, the feel of wind moving against his skin, the burn of muscles, the rush of air into his chest.  When he was a lad, he was frequently used to run messages between the villages because he was fast and tireless, his lean frame built to cut the wind. 

He grabbed a short spear from his pack and followed the valley around the knobby hill towards the water, trotting along for a half a mile or so until he reached a flat rock that jutted out over the dark, still lake.  Unlike many lochs, this one fed from the mountains directly into the sea, and was teaming with fish.  He lay flat on the cold stone, stretched out, his upper body hanging over the still, smooth water.  He could see his reflection, and the wavering face that looked back at him was an anachronism – that of someone just on the verge of full manhood, light brown hair dangling to his shoulders, his fair skin barely touched with the kind of coarse fuzz that decorated Duncan’s broader chest, and he would never be able to grow a respectable beard.  He had long ago reconciled himself to his perpetual youth, but he could not but envy that Duncan had been allowed to mature to his physical peak before his first death.

Ah, well, there were many things he could not change, and his lanky 18-year-old body was the least on the list.  Now, unless the habits of the local trout population had changed, there was usually one or more hiding in the shadows just…ah…breakfast.

Connor deliberately drove Duncan from dawn to dusk, piling stones, clearing brush, hauling water, gathering wood.  When he wasn’t laboring to ready the stone house for occupancy, or building a pen and a shelter for the horse, Connor had him doing drills with his sword over and over and over again, or running long distances over steep terrain to build up his endurance and wind.  Of course, all that effort required food, and Connor was hard pressed to provide enough for his ever-hungry student.  They had brought lots of grain, but maintaining and monitoring the snares and doing the necessary hunting and fishing to keep them fed kept Connor almost as occupied as he tried to keep his student.

Connor had expected resentment and reluctance from Duncan, but the lad seemed to relish every assignment, then challenged Connor to come up with another.  It was as though Duncan had something to prove, to himself or to his teacher – that he could endure anything, overcome any obstacle, achieve any goal his teacher set, although he clearly resented the more humble, menial tasks Connor always delegated to his student – caring for the horse, mucking out the pen they had built for him, cleaning Connor’s saddlebags, mending both their clothes, gathering herbs and edible greens for their meals, then hours of boring, repetitive drills with the sword as dusk closed in. 

Towards the end of the first month, Connor arrived back at their camp at sunset with enough meat to last them at least a few days.  He could see Duncan at the top of the far rise, near Heather’s gravesite.  His feet were braced far apart and he had on just his kilt.  Even from so far away, his body gleamed with sweat as he swung and parried and thrust the heavy claymore again and again and again.  Connor urged his stallion forward, across the glen, and Duncan’s concentration broke briefly as he felt Connor’s presence and then he returned to his task.  Connor drew near and watched for a moment.  It was time for Duncan to move to his next level of training.

“You display great strength, cousin,” Connor said.  “But sword work is not just about strength.  It is about flexibility and quickness, about defense as well as offense, about the mind at least as much as about the body.”

The blade whipped through the air and landed, point down, in the earth between Duncan’s feet.  “So you have said, but you’ve yet to prove it, cousin,” his student answered breathlessly.  His eyes were gleaming with a blatant challenge.  “I’ve told you I’ve been taking care of myself for awhile.  Perhaps it is time I proved it.”

“Really?” Connor studied the horizon thoughtfully.  “You have a very high opinion of yourself, Duncan MacLeod.”

“I was given a blade as soon as my hand was large enough to hold one,” Duncan announced.  Connor had to hide his smile.  In the last weeks, his clansman had shed the morose distrust and bitterness he had shown in their initial confrontations.  Eager for acceptance, and reveling in having a purpose and an identity that included even the small “clan” the two of them had formed, Duncan MacLeod’s true nature was quickly revealing itself:  Proud, stubborn, embarrassingly affectionate, sometimes even exuberant, the lad was like a great overgrown puppy who didn’t yet realized his own strength and size.

Connor curled his right leg up over the saddle and slipped down to the ground, then pulled his katana from its sheath.  “All right, oh great chieftain’s son,” Connor smiled and bowed elaborately, “overwhelm me with the brilliance of your technique.”

Duncan’s eyes gleamed and he readied himself as Connor slapped the stallion’s rump to send it back to the comfort of the pen they had built for him and the fresh oats awaiting him there.

Without preamble, Duncan’s heavy sword swung, and Connor dodged, then deflected the next blow, angling his lighter blade to slide the claymore away from his body.  Again the huge claymore chopped at him, and he easily moved out of its path, backpedaling across the stony ground at the top of the hill.  As he dodged and weaved, and his opponent’s sword kept meeting air, Duncan began to frown with frustration, and the strength of the blows increased.  The few times Connor blocked the blade, his arm stung with the power of his student’s swing.

Connor danced away again, watching how Duncan moved.  He had agility and strength, but he was not anticipating, not thinking ahead, and was letting his frustration affect his actions, wasting enormous energy on attack, and not even really considering his defense.  Well, Connor decided, the lesson would have to be learned eventually, and it was best done without an audience.

As Duncan was raising his blade for another hard blow, Connor darted in and nicked his student in the thigh, drawing blood in a bright red gash against pale skin.  Duncan jerked and stumbled, and Connor leapt, shoving the larger man back with a hard kick to the chest.  Duncan swirled his arms, his blade flying away into the grass, then tumbled down the hill, landing in a heap at the bottom of the slope.

Connor took his time getting down the hill, letting Duncan struggle to his feet and brush the grass off his kilt and out of his beard, although a few thistles were still incongruously stuck in his hair.  Connor reached out and plucked them away, to his student’s annoyance.  “I slipped!” Duncan snapped, pushing Connor’s hand away.

“Oh, aye,” Connor agreed.  “I could see that.”

Duncan’s face blushed a ruddy hue, and he stomped over to find his blade.  Connor decided to say nothing, and waited to find out whether Duncan’s pride was going to be such an obstacle that it would have to be deliberately and painfully broken.  Duncan picked up his sword, still in the grass halfway up the hill, then stood there a minute, staring off at the horizon before he came back down.  His face was a thundercloud of tension and anger and Connor feared the worst.  “I would normally have used wooden blades for a spar, but nothing helps the correction of error like a little loss of blood,” Connor explained, but his student did not appear to be mollified.

“Show me,” Duncan growled.

“Show you?” Connor repeated, uncertain exactly what his student was asking.

“What I did wrong.  Show me, dammit!”

The two men stood in silence for a moment, while Connor thought about his response.  Duncan’s outrage was at himself, and while that was a better response than being angry at his teacher, it still carried with it the seeds of a problem.

“You are young, yet, Duncan,” Connor said gently.  “You have much to learn. Knowing how much you don’t know is perhaps one of the most important lessons I can teach you.  Now…” and he began, talking about how to stand, how to defend, how to observe an opponent.  Duncan’s attitude was hostile at first, but after a while the anger faded, replaced by intense concentration, and before either of them realized it, the sun was all the way down and nothing had been done about their dinner.

Duncan shifted uneasily throughout their late meal, clearly still suffering from his countless falls, direct hits and hard bruises, despite his remarkable healing capacities. 

“Sore?” Connor finally asked.

“Aye,” Duncan admitted ruefully.  “I never knew there was so much to know and remember all at the same time.”

“Oh, we have only touched on what you will eventually need to know.  Whole books have been written about the art of sword fighting,” Connor observed.

“Books? You mean someone actually sat down and copied all of that out?  Why would they do that?  If it were all written out, what need would there be of a teacher?  They could just teach them to read, and hand them a book.”

“There are many reasons to write it down, but mostly so their knowledge could be known beyond the sound of their voice, and into the next generations.  There will always be a need for teachers,” Connor added.  “After all, it is hard to spar with a book.” He judged the  moment right, and went to the chest he had built to hold his things, pulling out a parcel wrapped in oilcloth.  He reverently unfolded it, and inside were several leather-bound volumes.  He started to hand one to Duncan, but stopped and admonished him to wipe his hands.  Once he was satisfied that his student’s hands were relatively clean he passed it over.

“It’s all right,” he assured his student.  “Just open it carefully and try to keep your fingers off the ink.  It is by Camillo Agrippa, one of the great masters from Italy.  I studied with him before I went to the Orient.”

Duncan didn’t react to his words, just scooted closer to the fire, his eyes wide with wonder at the pages and pages of writing and the many illustrations.  “Do they fight naked in Italy?” he asked in amazement.  “No wonder their language is all high and chattery.”

Connor laughed aloud, both amused and amazed that Duncan had remembered that he had been speaking Italian to the soldiers on the day they had first met.  The boy was much smarter than his barbarian manners and upbringing would indicate.

“No, the illustrations are done that way so you can see exactly how to stand, and understand the way the blade is moved and used most effectively,” he answered at last.

“Well, I’m not sure it wouldn’t be a good thing,” Duncan’s eyes gleamed at him mischievously. “It might make battles in Scotland much shorter.  Sometimes we just fight in our shirts, but with no clothes at all, everyone would want to finish fast before they freeze their balls off.”

Spring eased into summer, and the house had been rebuilt and thatched, securing it against the rain.  Rough furniture was constructed, making it habitable, if not overly comfortable.  A plank table, two stools and their pallets spread on the floor seemed entirely sufficient for their needs.  Connor was glad neither man showed any interest in anything other than the minimal necessities of protection against the weather and a place for warmth and food.  To attempt to make the space into a real home would have reminded him too much of Heather, who always had garlands of dried herbs and flowers scenting the air, and who gathered pretty stones, feathers and greenery to make the space distinctively her own.

It was an odd life, instructing this young lion who soaked up whatever he told him like desert sand absorbing water, all in a place that had intense memories associated with every rock, every vista, every turn of the weather.  He constantly found himself caught in the midst of reminiscence, and Duncan took to teasing him about his age and the tendency to daydream.  But Connor’s thoughts were fairly welcome musings of a lifetime of shared love, memories he would not trade for anything; while his student would sometimes retreat behind a dark wall of stony silence, usually triggered by nightmares that had him twisting and mumbling in his sleep.  Connor had been unable to get Duncan to tell him what was disturbing his rest and causing his dark broods, but it was only a matter of time, and time was something they had in abundance.

They were getting low on grain, and it was time to replenish their supplies, as well as long past time for them to see and talk to someone besides each other.  Connor had been celibate for months, now, and it was not a state he had any wish to sustain.  As for Duncan, he suspected the youngster’s early morning disappearances and strenuous workouts were at least partially caused by the lack of other outlets for natural male needs.  Other than the one night when Duncan disclosed the tragedy of his first love, the youngster had been unrevealing about his sexual experiences or sophistication.  For all Connor knew, Duncan was completely virginal.  Perhaps that was a state that needed some education, as well, but broaching the topic seemed rather awkward.

They both rose early, as usual, and began what had become a routine early morning run down to the loch, where they frequently caught a breakfast of fresh fish, but this morning was warm and comfortable, and Duncan seemed to be feeling particularly frisky, and the run had become a race, especially once they reached the long stretch of sandy beach.  Duncan wasn’t a bad sprinter, but few had ever been able to beat Connor MacLeod in a distance race. 

But Duncan, as usual, never conceded defeat and as Connor picked up the pace, the younger man stayed with him.  As they approached the loch, Duncan suddenly stretched out, shouting “Last one to the rock catches and cooks breakfast!” as he pulled slightly ahead. 

Connor felt a grin pull on his lips and he stretched his stride, still breathing easily as they reached a long, level area.  He pulled even and they ran side by side for a moment, but he could hear Duncan begin to labor, the breaths more harsh, the vibrations of his student’s steps much heavier than his own.  He pulled on his reserves and put on a last, long burst of speed, and leapt lightly over the rocky outcroppings and up to the flat rock overhang where they usually finished their run.  He turned, and Duncan was a half dozen steps behind him, his face flushed and sweaty with effort, a grin of wild exuberance lighting his face.  But instead of stopping, his student let out a yell and ducked, grabbing him around the waist, the momentum carrying them both into the cold waters of Loch Leven.

They sank like stones, and it was a moment before Connor figured out up from down and kicked towards the surface, only to have a hand grab his ankle and try to pull him down again.  This time he grabbed a chest full of air and dove deep.  His first grab for his clansman missed and a hard calf slipped out of his grasp, but a few more strokes and he caught the edge of Duncan’s kilt and kicked up, his prize in his hand.  Duncan broke the surface with a yell, grabbing for the cloth, but Connor wadded it up and dove deep, swimming towards the shore.  He got close, only to have a hard hand clasp his ankle and he was pulled under.  In the darkness, his fist was pried open, and they both tumbled up against the rough rocks and sand, foam bubbling up around them.  The watery wrestling match quickly exhausted them both, and  soon they stumbled out of the water onto the sand, collapsing in laughter.

“I still beat you,” Connor finally managed to gasp, wiping the water off his face and the hair out of his eyes.  Duncan’s soggy kilt was thrown, and slapped across his chest, making him jerk from the cold.

“You always do,” his clansman acknowledged genially.  “But someday, Connor MacLeod, I’ll knock you on your arse, just like you dump me on mine time and again.” Connor turned to see Duncan grinning at him, white teeth shining behind his dark beard, his bare skin glowing almost gold in the warm light of the rising sun.  Duncan had filled out in the last several weeks of heavy exercise and steady meals.  He was still lean, but his big frame was beginning to sport some impressive musculature.  It was no wonder the man preferred the heft and weight of his big claymore over the lighter katana Connor had allowed him to practice with from time to time.  It would take decades for the young warrior to develop the deft touch required to effectively wield a blade like the ancient Japanese sword he carried.

Connor yelled in protest when Duncan rose up and grabbed his wet kilt off Connor’s chest, wringing it out so the cold water dribbled over Connor’s head.

“Enough, student!” Connor finally slapped his playful clansman hard on his bare backside and pushed him towards the rock.  “Before you knock anyone on their arse, you have a fish or two to catch and cook.”  Connor watched as Duncan expertly folded and tucked his wet kilt around himself and went to find the spear they kept stored in the niche of a rock nearby.  He lay back on the warm sand, realizing he was truly content for the first time since Heather’s death.

It had been a long, long time since he had felt young, but Duncan made him see the world through fresh eyes.  Teaching his clansman had evolved from a frightening obligation into a real pleasure, and had helped him hone his own skills, as well as figure out how to articulate what he was doing, and why.  He now had even greater respect for Ramirez and Nakano and the other teachers he had importuned in the last century, and was humbled by the gifts of knowledge and skill they had been willing to give so freely.  He hoped he could do them justice with Duncan.  He sat up on his elbows and watched as his clansman stretched out, his upper torso over the water, watching patiently for any trout seeking shelter in the shade of the rock.

“I think its time we went back into town,” Connor stated.  “You go through shirts like a water bucket with a hole in the bottom.” 

“Shhh,” Duncan shushed him.  “You’ll scare away the fish.”

Connor laughed.  “You’re daft if you think there are still any fish around that rock after all that splashing and kicking we did.”

“Well, they’ll nay come back if you keep shouting, now will they?  Besides, if you wouldn’t cut me so much, my shirts would no’ get so torn, now would they?”

“If you defended yourself a little better, you wouldn’t get cut so much, now would you?”

Duncan raised his head and cast a dark glare in Connor’s direction, then returned to his futile task.  “I don’t need to go into town.  It’s still warm and I dinna need to even wear a shirt.”

Connor lay back, his fingers laced behind him to cushion his head, his eyes closed against the glare of the bright morning sun.  “Well, I also had some other activities in mind.  There’s probably a lady or two there willing to share her favors, and I don’t know about you, but if I’m going to wrestle, I’d prefer to do it with someone whose bottom is a little softer and rounder than your hairy arse.  No offence intended, cousin.”

Duncan gave up on his fish spearing attempts, and sat up with a chuckle.  “None taken, cousin.  My dreams are hardly about raining kisses on your bony cheek, either.”

Connor rolled over onto his stomach, facing his student.  “Then let’s head to town.  We can leave first thing in the morning.  We can get you some new shirts and maybe some breeches, and perhaps you can even get that damnable beard trimmed off.  You might not be so ugly with…” Duncan had stood abruptly, and put the spear carefully back onto the ledge where they kept it stored.  “What is it?”

“You know what it is, Connor.  I can’t…I don’t wish to go.”  Duncan headed back down the sandy beach towards the glen.

“Nothing terrible happened last time, and you can’t hide out here forever,” Connor called.

“I stayed in the stable last time,” Duncan snapped back.  “I’ll fix us some porridge for breakfast.”  He trotted off back towards the glen, his wet kilt slapping around his thighs.

“Duncan!” Connor called, but his student just kept going, and Connor flopped over onto his back again, and just lay there for awhile, letting the sun dry his clothes and his body, and thinking.  For someone who seemed to bask in the warmth of community and family, Duncan’s unwillingness to be among people was the most telling sign of the unhealed wound of his banishment.  Perhaps he felt he was only doing what his father had decreed, or perhaps he still found the ‘demon’ the ignorant villagers believed him to be to be too close to his own fears of what he had become.

And Connor had no solid reassurances to offer about the villagers’ reactions if they recognized him.  There very well might be an incident, but withdrawing from the world was no way to deal with it, and the longer they isolated themselves, the more difficult it would be to overcome Duncan’s reluctance to confront those who might revile him.  Immortals had to learn to live with their difference, to walk among mortals as one of them, to live as one of them.  Otherwise, they’d all end up as hermits, living in caves for centuries without end.  The thought made Connor shudder.

By the time the warm sun had dried his skin and his kilt, and he walked back to the house, Duncan had prepared some porridge.  They ate in comfortable silence, then spent the rest of the morning on the never ending chores required to maintain even the smallest croft, then Duncan disappeared to do his usual drills before Connor tracked him down for lessons in swordsmanship. 

The next morning Connor rose well before dawn, and busied himself packing his saddlebags.  His movement woke his student, whose tousled dark head peered at him through the darkness.  “What are you doing?” Duncan asked, his voice slurred with sleep.

“I told you we needed supplies.” Connor carefully wiped the katana with a soft cloth, then slipped it into its scabbard.  Duncan was silent, but he sat up on his pallet, watching.

“How long will you be gone?”

Connor paused in his movements and met Duncan’s eyes.  “We’ll be gone a few days, maybe a week.”

“Connor, I told you…”

The katana slipped out of the scabbard with a near-silent hiss and the edge of the blade met Duncan’s neck even as he scrabbled back against the wall.  “Your opinion was not solicited, student.  I don’t care if you don’t wish to go.  I don’t care if the villagers pelt you with rotten vegetables, hang you by your heels, strip you naked and drag you through the market square.  You are going.”

Duncan’s eyes narrowed, his lips thinned and he lifted his chin.  “I’m not your slave, Connor MacLeod.  I go where I will, when I will, and no man tells me different.”

Connor let a smile touch his lips.  The tip of the katana pressed into the base of Duncan’s neck and a small drip of blood slid down his chest.

“You wouldn’t kill me just to force me to…”

The blade pressed in a little further and Duncan hissed and pressed back to the wall, his eyes wide.  “What makes you think I wouldn’t?” Connor asked softly.  “I’ve done it before.”

“Dammit, Connor!  Why are you doing this?  And don’t give me that blather about watching your back.  You don’t need me or anyone else for that.”

“But you do.  The last time I left an Immortal friend alone here in this glen, I returned to find them dead.  I don’t intend to let that happen again.  Now get your things together.”

Connor pulled the katana back, wiping it again, inspecting the tip to make certain he had not left any traces of blood on the blade.  Duncan just sat there, but when his teacher cast a hard, uncompromising look at him, the youngster mumbled something in Gaelic under his breath and turned and snatched up his kilt to fold it around himself.

“What was that?” Connor demanded, but he had to work to keep the smile off his face.

“Nothing!” Duncan snapped, grabbing his footwear and slamming out of the house.

Their trip to Glencoe was made in hostile silence, which was fine with Connor.  As they reached their destination at last in mid-afternoon, and paused to look down onto the village, he heard Duncan muttering to himself once again as they viewed a bustling, crowded market square below.  There were camps spread widely to the west of town, tents and wagons dotted the landscape and the smoke from numerous campfires left a haze hanging over the valley.

“You didn’t tell me it was market day,” Duncan grumbled.

“You didn’t ask,” Connor replied, and urged his stallion forward, glancing back only once to make sure Duncan was following, which he was, albeit reluctantly.

The noise and color of the vendors and buyers was disconcerting after a few months of isolation.  Connor circulated among the various wagons and carts, speculating what the press of so many people might be like for Duncan, who had been living with little human contact for three years.  He did his best to keep a careful eye on his student, while giving no appearance of doing so.  His efforts apparently went for naught, however.  Duncan moved close as Connor fingered the fabric of shirts and breeches offered for sale.

“I’m not going to bite anyone, cousin,” Duncan murmured grimly.  “You needn’t watch me like an ill-trained dog who might accidentally piss on the clan chief.”

“Really?” Connor replied.  “You look enough like a mangy old cur to pass for one,”  he observed. 

Duncan just snorted.  “It won’t work, Connor.”  He scratched at his unkempt beard.  “You’re just jealous because you couldn’t grow a serious whisker if your life depended on it.”

“If it looked like that, I am grateful for it.”

But Duncan’s attention had been caught elsewhere, and he ignored the insult.  They had wandered towards the edge of the market, where animals were for sale.  Chickens and pigs were in small, temporary pens, and a few sheep were being kept under control by several small black and white dogs whose periodic yapping added considerably to the general cacophony.  Duncan wandered over to a string of horses tethered to a stout rope strung between two posts, his eyes lighting on a bay gelding.  The horse was on the thin side, and at first glance didn’t make much of an impression, but Connor watched as Duncan’s hands slid over a broad chest and a smooth, straight back.  The gelding held his head high, and the dark eyes had a gleam of spirit in them.  Duncan pulled a lip back to look at the teeth, then lifted a back leg to examine the animal’s hoof, scraping the mud away with his dirk. His actions attracted the seller, who wandered over and leaned casually on the horse’s rump. 

“Tis a nice animal, aye?” the man observed.  He was short and bandy-legged, wearing a non-descript kilt of no notable pattern, not uncommon for a traveling merchant who wished to offend no one.  His round face was made even rounder by a curly beard whose luxurious fullness was accented by the total lack of hair on his head.

Duncan shrugged.  “A mite spindly,” he answered.  “One would think the animal might not be sound.”  He felt carefully along the joints of the animal’s front legs.

“Oh, he’s sound all right,” the seller assured him.  “Strong and fast.  It’s just with traveling and all, he’s not had time to fatten up.”

Duncan patted the gelding on the rump.  “Well, then perhaps if you fed him decently, you might be able to sell him,” Duncan answered, his expression carefully neutral.

“Och, ye shouldna’ let a little lack of meat on sound bones detract you from the fact that he is a real quality animal, only four years old, with many years of work ahead of him,” the merchant asserted.  “Surely a fine judge of horseflesh like yourself can see tha’.  I’d give ye a good price for him.  What do you have in trade?”

“How about English pounds?” Connor inserted himself into the conversation, ignoring his clansman’s dark look. 

The horse seller’s eyes widened at the prospect of real coinage, but Duncan stepped up to force Connor out of the conversation, his back to the trader, but Connor held his ground. “Well, Duncan, you know we could use another animal, and if you think…”

“Nay!” Duncan, said over his shoulder for the horseman’s benefit, then privately whispered, “Let it go, Connor.” He cocked a smile at Connor and gave him a private wink.  “The man’s a thief,” he said loudly enough to be overheard.  “Trying to fob off some sickly beast who’ll have to be put down within the year.”  He walked away, leaving the horse seller mumbling curses after them.

Connor followed, eventually catching up to Duncan, who had retreated to the edge of the marketplace and was leaning against a barrel, his arms crossed, watching the busy crowd.  “You should have let me continue.  I could have gotten a bargain price, especially after you paved the way,” he observed.  “It was a good looking animal.”

Duncan nodded and smiled.  “Aye, I know, but I wouldn’t want to admit that in front of the man selling him.”

The two men stood in silence for a minute, and Connor took the time to form his words carefully.  “You need a horse, Duncan, and…”

“Don’t say it, Connor,” Duncan interrupted.  “I was just looking.  I have no money, and I’ll take no more charity,”

“I’ve already told you this isn’t about charity,” Connor snapped, “and you didn’t let me finish what I was going to say.”  Duncan started to respond, but then kept his silence.  “I’ll buy the horse, which will make both our lives easier, but only if you will go to the barber over there,” he pointed to a wagon where a “surgeon” was selling poultices, pulling teeth and giving shaves, “and get that fur shaved off your face, and keep it off.”

“Connor, why do you care whether or not…”

“Because it is time you stopped hiding, damn it!” Connor spat. 

Duncan stared at the ground in sullen silence.

“Well?” Connor insisted.  “You want the gelding, or do you want to carry all our supplies back to the glen on your back?”

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Connor.”  It was said so quietly, Connor barely heard it above the noise of the crowd.

“Oh, I think I do.  You fear being recognized.  You fear being rejected and rebuked for things you don’t understand and have no control over.  But aren’t you tired of being afraid?”

“Oh, aye,” Duncan breathed.  “That I am.  When my father was killed, I went back to Glenfinnan.  The villagers…well, they didn’t want me there.  I was not of their blood and had no right to lay claim to kinship, or my father’s sword.  But my mother insisted that, no matter who bore me, I was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and to let no man tell me different.  I’ve thought about that so many times.  It would be so much easier if I could pretend to be someone else, to take some other name, but for her sake, I canno’.  I will not.  But still…”

“It’s been over three years, Duncan.  People will forget, or discount it, or simply not believe it.  Now, do I get the horse, or do you really enjoy walking everywhere?”

Duncan pushed off the barrel, still staring at the ground.  Finally, he met Connor’s gaze.  “I’ll pay you back, Connor.  On my honor.  Whatever I have is yours, and if you ever need someone to watch your back, I don’t care if it happens tomorrow or a century from now, I am your man – your clansman.”  He held out his hand, and Connor clasped it, but that wasn’t enough for Duncan, who pulled him into a hard hug.  “I mean it, Connor,” he whispered roughly.

“I know you do,” Connor answered gently.  A wave of protective warmth washed over him and he answered Duncan’s hug with one of his own, surprising himself in the process, but then pushed away in sudden discomfort.  “All right, then.  Here,” he pulled several coins out of his sporran.  “You go get yourself a new shirt and a shave and meet me later at the inn.  I’ll go take care of getting your horse.”

After Connor had managed to down three pints of ale, and proposition one of the bar maids, who blushed and ducked her head, but did not exactly say ‘no’, he realized he ought to be concerned about his absent student.  The inn was doing a lively business, and the tavern was filling up quickly now that sunset had sent all the traders back to their wagons and campfires.  Connor was hard pressed to keep a seat open beside him, but so far, the hard glare he turned on any usurpers had sent them slouching away.  There were a few advantages to being over a hundred years old, other than compound interest.  The art of intimidation took years to hone, and he had been working on it for longer than most.

The noisy clatter and boisterous conversations died down for a small moment, then rose again, and Connor glanced at the door to see who had caused the stir. 

Well, well, well. 

If he had been a less disciplined man, he would have laughed aloud.  As it was, he only avoided it by hiding his face in his mug and taking a drink as he watched his student and fellow clansman blush a ruddy hue at the attention his entrance drew, the high color now clearly visible on smooth, bare cheeks.  His hair had also been washed and brushed, and he was wearing a freshly purchased shirt, presenting the very picture of a Highlander in his prime.  Connor waved his hand to catch Duncan’s attention.

Duncan glared at him as he sat down.  “Don’t say it, Connor,” he snapped.  “I told you, you didn’t know what you were asking.”

A snort of laughter escaped despite Connor’s best attempts to keep a straight face.  “Oh, aye,” Connor smiled into his mug.  “All this time I thought you were hiding some terrible scar.  You didn’t tell me you had the prettiest face in all of Scotland.” 

Duncan elbowed him hard, making him slosh his drink, but by that time Connor couldn’t stop his chuckles, mostly at his student’s radiating embarrassment.  It wasn’t that Duncan wasn’t manly, no one would ever dare accuse him of that and live to tell the tale, Connor snorted again to himself.  But the lad was too handsome by half, with a face few would forget, and that any lass would likely swoon over.  That thought sobered Connor.  Well, almost sobered him, especially when the bar maid returned, bringing a new mug of ale without being asked, and leaned over to refill Connor’s in a fashion certain to bring her ample bosom into Duncan’s close view as she smiled flirtatiously into the lad’s eyes.

“Is there anything I can bring ye’?” she asked Duncan sweetly, and Connor’s dreams of a night of passion faded. 

Duncan was still hunched over, but he looked up at the sound of a feminine voice and his eyes were drawn inexorably to the soft, abundant flesh presented for his viewing.  Connor watched in amazement as his blushing, stuttering, embarrassed student straightened up, the back stretched, and the head cocked so that silky chestnut hair cascaded over a shoulder.  Dark eyes widened and the generous mouth curved into a sweet, seductive smile.  Duncan met the maid’s awestruck stare.  “A bit of food would not be amiss, especially if it will bring you back to our table,” he said softly.

“Oh,” she breathed.  “Oh, aye, sir.  Right away.”  She backed away, not taking her eyes off of Duncan until she bumped into a patron at the next table.  Then, ignoring calls for refills at other tables, she scurried off to the kitchen.

Connor looked his clansman hard in the eye.  “Especially if it will bring you back to our table?” he repeated mockingly.

Duncan smiled at him, but there was nothing sweet about it this time.  “I am not a child, Connor.  Sometimes you seem to forget that.”

Indeed.  All consideration of Duncan’s possible virginity evaporated, and Connor was glad he had never attempted to inquire.  Keeping his thoughts to himself, Connor just looked at the youngster.  “It is all a matter of comparison.  To me, you are still a child,” he stopped and smiled at his clansman, who frowned back.  “Though not an entirely innocent child, apparently.”

The ale flowed and they had a hearty meal, and Connor watched as Duncan relaxed when no one challenged their presence or questioned their identity.  He laughed easily, flirting outrageously, and finally coaxing Bridget, the young barmaid, to sit on his lap and feed him bits of sweetmeats.  A piper was persuaded to play a tune, someone pulled out a drum, and soon tables were moved and space was cleared.  In a heartbeat, Duncan had pulled Bridget to her feet and the two of them were dancing, the girl’s cap flying off as Duncan twirled her around the floor.

They were quickly joined by more dancers, and the inn’s owner, a big-boned, handsome woman with intense green eyes and a long auburn braid halfway down her back, pulled Connor to his feet and he reluctantly joined the festivities.  When the woman finally let him rest, he staggered back to his bench, breathless and sweaty, to find Duncan sitting on the table, his feet on the bench, clapping in time to the music and watching the happy crowd as young Bridget danced with another man.  He was flushed with drink and with exertion, but his eyes were bright with a real happiness that Connor had never seen before.

“Glad you came?” Connor leaned close to make himself heard over the music, shouts and clapping.

“Aye,” Duncan answered with a grin.  “I had forgotten…”  But he was interrupted as Bridget stumbled laughing into his arms, still breathless from the last dance.  In a moment of impetuous inspiration, she leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth.  After a startled heartbeat, Duncan pulled her in, leaned her back over his arm and lustfully returned the kiss as the crowd cheered him on.

“Just watching him is enough to stir the blood, aye?” a warm, low voice murmured in Connor’s ear, and he turned to see the innkeeper’s deep green eyes inches from his own.

“My blood was already warm,” he replied.  “And it was not from watching my cousin.”  Connor heard a little bit more of his old burr creep back into his speech as he leaned closer to the softness of feminine flesh. 

“It is not often we get visited by two such bra’ warriors,” she sidled even closer.  “I saw you come in a few months ago, and wondered…or hoped…that you might be back.”

“And here I am,” he acknowledged, letting his arm slip around her waist.  Oh, yes.  It had been far too long since he had listened to the soft music of a woman’s voice, felt the silky, unique warmth of a female form.  “I was hoping to get a room for the night for me and my clansman.”  He glanced back as the music started again, and Bridget was pulled out of Duncan’s arms and back onto the dance floor.  “But he might be looking for more privacy,” he added.  “But then, so might I.”  Connor pulled the woman’s long braid forward of her shoulder, liking the heavy feel of the silky hair in his hand.

The woman laughed.  It was a full, rich sound of a woman who knew what she wanted and had every intention of getting it.  “You are a brash young man,” she teased.

“Oh, I’m rather older than I look,” he assured her.  “For instance, I’m quite a bit older than my cousin there, and there are some things where experience can make such a difference, don’t you think?”

“Oh, aye,” she agreed with a smile as she ran a finger along the vee of his shirt, brushing against the bare flesh of his chest.  Her hand was cool next to his hot, sweaty skin, and she smelled of the kitchen, of spices and warm bread.  He dared lean close and press his lips to that soft, sweet spot just behind her ear, delighted when her head went back a little at his touch, and she sighed.

A resounding crash made both of them start.  Connor looked up to find a bench overturned, and Duncan with one hand firmly grasping Bridget’s wrist, the other wrapped around the shirt collar of a man whose face had gone almost purple as he was lifted until his feet barely touched the floor.  In two steps Connor had hold of Duncan’s hair and used it to yank his head back.  “Let him go,” he ordered.

“But…”

“I said let him go, Duncan.”  Connor could feel Duncan’s body trembling with anger, but after a second, he dropped the man, who stumbled drunkenly, coughing and grabbing his neck.

“What the hell was that for!” the man sputtered in between his gasps and coughs.

“The lady said ‘no’,” Duncan said coldly.

“A lady? Oh, fer chrissake, she kissed you, didn’t she?  Why shouldn’t I get a kiss, too?  It wasn’t like I was going to rape her or nothing.”

It was the wrong thing to say.  With a broad sweep of his arm, Duncan backhanded the man, who spun and fell into the arms of several bystanders.

“Enough!  Stop it, Duncan,” Connor shouted, throwing himself between his clansman and what was becoming a hostile crowd.  “He’s drunk.  For that matter, you’re drunk.”

Duncan’s jaw was set into a firm square, his teeth were clenched and his lips drawn back in a snarl.  For a moment the two men stared at each other, and Connor hoped his own powers of intimidation were up to the task since, for a youngster, Duncan was doing rather well.  At last Duncan stepped back, and he broke eye contact.  “I’m nay drunk!” he snarled.

“It’s only Fergus,” the landlady stepped in, trying to appease the crowd before things got any uglier.  “He gets a little carried away sometimes.”

“I think he got a little carried away!” Fergus growled, pointing at Duncan.  “Coming in here, acting like a young laird.  Don’t know what a MacLeod is doing here anyways.  They’re all cursed, with so many demons among the lot of you.”

With a growl, Duncan swirled back to the table and grabbed his claymore, drawing it with an ominous sing of steel, and the crowd backed away.  But Connor deliberately put his hand on his student’s blade, pushing it down.  “Oh, aye,” he smiled.  “Demons all, at least that’s what our women say in the bedroom.”

The crowd tittered, and some of the tension eased.  “Why, I’m Connor MacLeod.  The same man who lived here fifty years ago, aye?  And I’m still in my prime and can bed any three woman here in one night.”  He turned and grabbed the green-eyed innkeeper around the waist and swirled her around, making her laugh.  “And Duncan, here, why haven’t you heard?  He rose from the dead!”  By now the whole room was laughing and shouting insults, and Connor turned to his student.  “Isn’t that right, Duncan?”

Duncan had stood, still as a stone and white as a shroud, his fist clenched tight around his claymore.

“Isn’t that right?” Connor insisted, letting his student see the cold steel in his eyes.

The grimace on Duncan’s face altered at last as his lips were forced into a grim smile.  “Oh, aye, cousin,” Duncan finally ground out.  “I rise from the dead on a regular basis.”  His eyes glittered as he straightened from a battle-ready crouch and let his sword tip lower to the floor.  He scanned the crowd, his chin held high.  “I understand the French call it ‘le petit mort’, eh?”

The room erupted in laughter and bawdy catcalls, and Connor grabbed his student by the scruff of the neck, steering him back to their table to right the overturned bench and sit him down.  Connor was just about to launch into a whispered lecture on his student’s utter foolishness when Bridget melted into Duncan’s lap, stroking his face and prattling on about how heroic the idiot was.

“Nicely done,” the innkeeper’s voice interrupted his murderous thoughts.

He turned to find her filling his mug once again.  “Why do you say that?” he asked.  Then caught her free hand to pull her down beside him.  “And I don’t even know your name.”

“Getting the crowd under control like that,” she explained.  “The name is Miriam,” she told him.  “And are you really Connor MacLeod?”

“That is my name,” he acknowledged, then smiled into his ale.  “Although I’ve been called other things.”

“Connor and Duncan MacLeod,” she mused, looking back and forth between the two men.  “Are you really demons?”

“Do we look like demons?”

“No,” she whispered.  “But then I would hardly know what a demon looked like, would I?” she added as she brushed back a stray lock of his hair.

Connor decided his lecture to his student could wait until the morrow.  He had far more interesting things to do tonight.