Honor-bound,
a Highlander / Relic Hunter crossover by Glacis. Rated NC17, no copyright
infringement intended. The pub, dating from the fifteenth century, still exists,
but the name has been changed to protect the guilty.
Glenfinnan, Scotland, on the shores of Loch Shiel, 1995
Conal stared down at the hole in the
ground, hating the shudders that wracked his sturdy back. Grave-robbing was horrible
business, but bloody good money, and he'd put up with the bugger standing over
his shoulder if it would pay him enough to get him gone. A low shout from Kevin
took the robed priest away to another part of the graveyard as his shovel
lodged up against something solid with a muffled thud. He looked around.
The only thing watching was
a beady-eyed raven. He chucked a stone at it and it flew away, squawking. The
priest stiffened, but only glared at him over his shoulder before returning his
attention to Kevin's find. Just as well. He should get something out of this,
himself. No reason why the good Father should get all the pickings.
He heaved at the lid of the
coffin, wrinkling his nose at the dusty smell as it yielded. Digging
quickly through the detritus of death, his fingers wrapped around the haft of
an axe. His hand burned, and he quickly dropped it back beside the
skeleton. Footsteps behind him urged him to hurry, and his hand closed round a
brooch holding the rotting remnants of a plaid to a rag that had been a thin
cotton shirt. It came away easily in his hand, and he drew back from the box, letting the lid slide back into place.
"Conal,"
the priest said from behind him. "Anything?"
"No," he lied.
"Then come help Kevin.
Two will dig faster than one."
Conal grinned to himself. So they would. And this one
already had his night's wages from his work.
Three hours later, the
immortal known as Kanwulf stared down at the hanging
haunch of meat that had been in life the body of his hired laborer. Kevin's
blood had made a good sacrifice to Odin. He felt close, closer than he had in
almost four hundred years. As he lifted Conal's body
and dumped it into the grave the men had pillaged, a small item fell from the
corpse's pocket, landing in the dirt with a metallic clink. Kanwulf
tossed the body into the hole and leaned forward to pick the object up.
A brooch. Something a chieftain would wear.
He peered over his shoulder at the spot in the shadows where Conal had been digging, then shrugged. If the man had found
anything further of value, and the axe most certainly was that, he'd've tried to take it as well. Kanwulf
sighed. The trinket would fund further explorations. He would find his axe. Odin willing.
The adobe house was quiet.
It was one of the reasons
Which was
precisely what he wanted.
He flicked on his computer,
glancing through the day's headlines before cranking up his email. While he was
taking a vacation from the world, it didn't do to become complacent, and
keeping track of daily happenings was a deeply engrained habit. Blowing on his
coffee, scrolling down through the news items, his hand suddenly stalled on the
mouse.
It couldn't be. It wasn't
possible. Kanwulf's grave-robbers couldn't have taken
that, as well. But if they hadn't, how had it gotten to the
His hand was moving on the
mouse before the thought finished. The printer was humming and his eyes were
strained by the time he was through. Three hours of research later, he knew
where the brooch had been, and had a damned good idea of how it had gotten
there. What he didn't know was how to get it back from whomever had taken it.
All he knew was that it had to be done.
That brooch didn't belong
in a museum, any more than Debra's bracelet had belonged in a
art dealer's room in
Attempting to track down
Methos was useless, but Joe was happy to do some looking for him. Not that he
came up with much. "There's no sign from any of the Watchers in the field
that an Immortal did it, Mac. Looks like your garden variety jewel thief. You
know," his Watcher continued, "you do know somebody a whole helluva lot better suited to answer questions like this
than I am."
He sighed. "Yeah, she
was next on the list. Thanks, Joe."
"Any time." There was a click, and he hung
up the telephone, staring down at it. Then, grinning slightly at nothing in
particular, he picked it up again and rang a number from memory.
She picked up on the second
ring.
"Yes?" Giving
nothing away, in that bright way she had.
"Amanda, I need your
help." His mouth was running on auto-pilot as his eyes stared at the
picture of his father's brooch. "Someone's stolen something and I need to
get it back."
"Hello,
"'tis
important."
He waited, and she caved in as quickly as he'd hoped. She really was a good
friend.
"I'm not the best
person for the job, Mac." He started to interrupt and she shushed him.
"But I know someone who might be able to help. What is this
'something'?"
"It's a brooch. My
father wore it." The day I died. The last thought he kept to himself.
"Why don't you call
Rachel? Surely she's got contacts up in the back of beyond that can help
you."
He grinned a little at the hint
of jealousy he heard, then shook his head. "Wouldna do any good, Amanda. 'Twasn't stolen from home."
"Then where was it?" she asked suspiciously.
"It was on display at
the Celtic exhibit in
"How much was it
worth?"
"I don't know on the
open market," he explained wearily. "but
altogether nearly ninety thousand dollars worth of jewels were taken. I'm only
interested in the brooch. From what I can gather, it was added to the inventory
two years ago. I did some digging, and while the museum curator doesn't appear to've done anything wrong, the provenance trail dries up a
few owners before the museum obtained it. It came into the
He could hear her take a
deep breath on the other end of the line. He hadn't given her much detail about
his trip to
"Okay, I'll give you a
name. But you can't let her know that you're not returning the brooch to the
museum.
"
"Yeah, we've, uhm, crossed paths before. She's not one of us, but she's
smart, and tough. She's a relic hunter, the best I've ever seen. I'll give you
her number. Tell her what it is you're looking for, and if anyone can find it,
"Not a friend?"
he asked, smiling for the first time since seeing his father's brooch on the
screen.
"Not ...
exactly." There was mischief in her voice.
"Thanks, Amanda,"
he said softly.
"Any time,
stranger," she needled him gently. He waited for the dial tone, then hung up the telephone.
He stared into the distance
for a long moment, planning out the best way to approach an ancient history
professor who was an unlikely adversary for his Amanda, then picked up the
'phone again. Two hours later he was on an airplane to the East Coast.
Once settled in his seat,
unable to concentrate on anything else, he gave up his useless attempt at
damping down the memory of the last time he'd seen his father's brooch. The
ugly pattern of the fabric on the back of the seat in front of him swam before
his vision, and re-formed into a sea of tartan.
Glenfinnan, 1622
Duncan ducked beneath
the swing of a sword, rolling out of the way of the down-stroke barely in time
to escape being trampled by the hooves of the raider's horse. Swearing to himself at the waste of
horseflesh, he did the only thing he could do to keep from being skewered on
the blade as he found daylight at the other end of the roll. He plunged his
dirk upward through the strap of the saddle, into the belly of the horse, diving
away from the rush of blood, curling away from hooves, slicing the horseman
along the chest as his dying mount thrashed to the ground.
Fierce green eyes stared up
at him for a moment before glazing over. His own vision wavered. Wallace
Campbell had been a friend, a lifetime ago, when they were youths together. Now
he was an enemy. A dead enemy. A scream of warning
from behind him caused his body to react instinctively, and he scuttled to the
side as an axe came down where he had been crouched over Wallace's body. It
split the dead man's face in two. MacLeod screamed with rage and brought his
sword around in a two-handed swing that gutted his attacker. Not having the
breath or the attention for any further memories, he blanked his mind as best
he could and re-entered the fray.
The raid came from nowhere,
in the middle of a misty autumn day. The
Not for the first time in
the past four years,
He could hear the battle
cries of his kinsmen, his father's cutting through them all, and he fought to
make his way toward their strength. There were too many
The fourth moved too
quickly. He felt the bite of steel in his side, and struggled to untangle his
dirk from the dead man pinned on it. His fingers refused to do as he bade, and
he tried to curse, drawing in a gasping breath. Breathing
fire. Breathing blood.
There was blood on his
lips, but he knew he hadn't bitten them. The air felt strange, liquid, as if he
was standing to his shoulders in the loch, and his sword arm gradually fell, so
slowly, as if everything in the world had fallen back a pace. Blue plaid
converged on the green and red, and he looked up into his father's eyes,
wondering when the man had grown so tall again. Was he a boy again, then? He
tried to say his father's name, but only a soft gurgling sound came out. His
hand was wet.
He looked down and saw the
bright crimson flooding his fingers, but his mind couldn't connect it with the
gash in his side or the pain in his chest. The world shifted again, still in
that strange slow motion, and he was moving. His eyes never left his father's
face.
Off the
field of battle, into a hut, smoke and an old woman chanting. His fingers were wrapped in his
father's shirt, and
Sydney Fox stared down at
the dull sheen of the ivory earring nestled in her palm. Dating from the reign
of Asoka over the Mauryan empire, almost twenty three hundred years old, it spoke to
her of peace following carnage. Of radical ideas of
governance based on morality and compassion, of the teachings of Buddha and the
practicality of maintaining the first crown over almost all of
A throat cleared at her
door, and she looked up to see the department secretary standing there as if
she'd been poleaxed. Her eyes were shining, her hands
were fluttering, even her bright blonde curls were
bouncing. Syd raised an eyebrow at her and looked
past her, since Claudia, for all her gaping mouth, couldn't seem to force a
word out. Syd's eyes widened.
No wonder. He was a babe.
There was a man standing
behind Claudia, not very tall, but broad and extremely well-built. He moved
with the grace of a dancer, or an assassin. Long, muscular legs in black jeans,
broad chest outlined by a white sweater, and a long black duster sweeping
around him all added to the aura of dangerous competence. Dark hair, close cut,
framed wide dark eyes with ridiculously long lashes. He stepped around Claudia,
giving her a smile that nearly caused her to faint, and held a strong, wide
hand out in Syd's direction.
It took her a second before
she could coordinate her muscles and stand. He really was a babe. And
that grin was lethal. She was on her feet with her hand caught in his before
her brain caught up with the fact that he was speaking.
"Duncan MacLeod,"
he said smoothly. He had a voice like expensive whiskey, soothing and deep,
with the faintest hint of the
"Hi," she
blurted, then winced. "Sydney Fox. How can I help
you?" It took her another second to realize he wasn't clasping her hand
anymore, and was in fact waiting for her to let go. She did, with a slight
blush, thankful once again for her tanned complexion that camouflaged most
flushes. She hated making an ass of herself. Either he didn't notice, or he was
too much of a gentleman to make an issue of it. She had a feeling it was the
latter.
She waved vaguely at a
chair, and he took it as the invitation she'd meant to issue. She glared at
Claudia, and shooed her away. Supreme indignation was written in every line of
her secretary's back, and Syd knew she'd hear all
about it later. Much later, if she was lucky. Big brown eyes were appraising
her in a surprisingly subtle manner, and he was liking
what he saw, a fact that notched the heat in her face up a few degrees. Or
perhaps it just seemed subtle after the attitude of the men she was used to
hanging out with. Men like this guy made her tongue tie in knots. As if aware
of how his regard was affecting her, the appreciation dimmed to a more
professional level. She breathed again, not having realized until that moment
that she'd stopped. No wonder she was light-headed.
"I was hoping you
could help me find a lost relic."
"What were you looking
for?" She forced her mind onto more professional subjects than just how well
he filled out those black jeans.
"It's a family
heirloom. A silver Celtic brooch. It disappeared five
years ago. Grave robbers." His jaw clenched, and
she winced in sympathy.
"Unfortunately, that
happens a lot. D'you have
any leads on where it might have gotten to?" She wanted to trust him, big
puppy-dog eyes and all, but she'd been doing this for a long time. Paranoia
came naturally.
"All I've got is
this." He handed her a folded piece of newsprint.
Flattening it out on the
desk, she whistled under her breath. It was a report of a Celtic jewelry
collection, stolen from a small museum in
"
"A
brooch, stolen along with some other jewelry from the
She glanced between the
men, but MacLeod was staring at Nigel as the young man came further into the
room and perched on a chair beside the desk. Seeing a poleaxed
look similar to the one Claudia'd worn plastered
across the swarthy features, she mentally shrugged. Made
sense, of course. That age, that pretty, no wedding ring, bound to be
gay. She sighed. At least she'd be able to talk to him now, not worry about
what he might be thinking of her. There was something a little liberating about
gay men. She refused to consider that idea past the surface and concentrated on
bringing Nigel up to speed.
Automatically slipping into
lecturer mode, she said, "The brooch in question is a ring or annular
brooch. They were worn in
"This brooch is called
a plaid brooch, used to keep the large rectangle of tartan material pinned to
the shirt at the shoulder. The pin passed through the fabric then rested on the
opposite side of the circle. Sixteenth century examples, like the missing
brooch, were often set with crystals or river pearls. In this case, the entire
center of the brooch is filled with a single amber-colored citrine, or
cairngorm. The ring itself is worked silver, with finely engraved knot work
around the stone."
Nigel was nodding, and
glancing over at MacLeod, who finally rejoined the party. This time, he was the
one doing the blushing. Syd grinned, but declined to
explain the reason for her expression to Nigel, who was, not unnaturally,
looking rather confused.
Not that that was
anything new, either. She liked to think that their relic hunts were more than just
a way to bring history alive and restore the relics to their rightful places.
They were a way to infect young historians with a real passion for the past,
too. Nigel was coming along well. She had high hopes for him.
"You claim this is a
family heirloom?"
He nodded.
"I hope you have the
documents to prove it. There'll be a provenance fight,"
she had to warn him.
MacLeod finally ripped his
eyes away from Nigel and looked vaguely back at her. She smiled encouragingly.
He blinked, then shook his head and swallowed before speaking.
"I'm an antiques
dealer, Professor Fox," he said quietly. "For many years, I lived
with an artist who ran her own gallery. It belongs to my family. I know what
I'm up against, and I'm more than ready to face it. But first we have to find
it."
She nodded. It sounded like
fun. "We'll see what we can do for you, Mr. MacLeod."
"I'll go with you." The words sounded more like pronouncement of judgement than a suggestion, and she stared hard at him. He
looked stunningly rock-like in his determination. She shrugged.
"Your
call. Just stay
out of the way, and do what I tell you to when I say so, and we'll get along
fine." They could always ditch him if they had to. He smiled at her.
She forgot what else she
had to say, and had little memory of the rest of the meeting. The man had that
effect on people. Sex on two feet. He gave Nigel a
very intense look on the way out the door and she sighed.
A girl could dream.
"Reading about
what?"
A light tenor voice
interrupted the professor, and she smiled past MacLeod at the doorway. Mac
turned, and the world stood still.
"A
brooch, stolen along with some other jewelry from the
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
Not only was he a dead ringer, he was a Bailey.
Of course he was.
The light caught in the
warm brown of his hair. Vision wavered, and time slipped away.
The King's Head, six
miles outside
He didn't get down to
Not that it had been a
hardship. MacLeod would have followed without the pay. No matter the fact that
the family had come from Lothian before he was born; they were Highlanders now,
and even if they weren't Catholics, it wasn't a good time to be a Highlander in
If it
ever was.
He'd urged caution. Jamie'd humored him. They left the immediate environs of
the university town, and headed along the road a fair bit. When the lights in
the pub windows were seen, they both breathed a sigh of relief.
"Is this far enough
for ye, or would you rather we rode straight to the border?" Jamie's light
tenor voice teased at his ear, the laughter in it setting his nerves a-twitch
and aggravating the slow-burning arousal that had been kindling all day. He
mock-growled at the boy, and bright eyes laughed back at him.
"This'll do us, I s'pose," he gave in grudgingly. Jamie was off his
horse first, and MacLeod knew he hadn't imagined the light touch along the seat
of his trousers as he swung off his own mount. "You wait," he
breathed, just loudly enough for Jamie to hear. "You'll get yours!"
"Promises!" Jamie teased him back.
Nothing more was said as
the stable boy ran out to greet them. Their eyes met several times as they
arranged for their horses to be cared for and entered the pub, hungry and eager
to sample the hospitality. Jamie stopped dead just over the threshold and
MacLeod nearly bowled him over running into him from behind.
"Oh, my God,"
Jamie whispered. He sounded strangled, and MacLeod looked over his shoulder to
see the boy's face completely alight with laughter. There were times when he
looked closer to twelve than five and twenty; this was one of them. MacLeod
looked from that merry face to the nearly deserted interior of the pub and
peered about, confused.
"What?" he grumped. Jamie chuckled.
"The
tables, man, the tables."
MacLeod took another look.
The tables were suspended from heavy chains hooked into the ceiling. Not
common, but not unheard of; from the look of it, they'd been there for some
time. Sturdy, flat wooden tables swayed gently above benches, candles burning
low in the rings of glass bulbs between the hooks from which the tables were
suspended.
"Wha' about 'em?" He didn't like feeling slow, but
there was something important here he was missing. Jamie shot him a fulminating
glance over his shoulder that went like a bolt straight to MacLeod's crotch.
"Possibilities." Then he stalked over to the bar and
began to speak to the pub keeper.
MacLeod watched the neat
little arse marching away from him with appreciation, then glanced at the
tables again. He wasn't making the connection. He caught up with Jamie and,
waiting until the pub keeper was out of earshot, asked, "What
possibilities, lad?"
In answer, Jamie stretched.
With his hands over his head. Crossed
at the wrist. His head thrown back, arching his neck. He froze that way
for an instant, then relaxed into his normal posture.
MacLeod couldn't've moved to save his soul.
"I like candle
wax," Jamie told him very, very quietly, then grinned at him like the
devil incarnate. MacLeod swallowed.
"Aye," he
managed. "Can we not wait 'til we're back at Doch
Four?" Jamie didn't answer. He'd no need. MacLeod knew it would be 'of
course not, are ye daft?' There were times when he was sure he was. This looked
to be one of them.
Later that night, when the
fire was damped down and everyone had gone home or gone upstairs to sleep, he
gathered up his tormentor, four long strips of linen that had originally been a
sheet, and a soft woven stocking. They were smothering laughter and sneaking
kisses all the way across the darkened room, taking care to choose a table far
from the door, hidden from the window, secluded as they could be and still be
in the middle of a pub in the middle of the night.
"'Tis
insane, Jamie," he protested even as he was stripping the lad of his
breeches and shirt, knotting the linen around his wrists and ankles, kissing
him all the way supine on the table top. The chains were as sturdy as they
looked, thank God.
"'Tis
wondrous,
"What d'ye want?" he managed to ask.
"Ye ken fine what I
want," Jamie hissed. "You! Now!"
"'S nivver a bad that couldna be waur," he mumbled as he finally got Jamie's breeches
off. As he climbed atop the table beside the lad, the chains
rocked, and the wax from a cup, still hot from the flame so shortly
extinguished, slopped over the edge of the globe. It landed a bare inch
from Jamie's erection, and MacLeod stifled the ensuing cry with his mouth.
"More," Jamie
begged hoarsely when his lips were free again. MacLeod groaned under his
breath.
"Y're
goin' to be the death of us, lad," he whispered
as he raised his stubby candle over their entwined bodies, then
very carefully tilted it.
The first drops landed on
Jamie's nipple, raising a welt, and MacLeod kissed away that cry as well. The
next ran further down his torso, and it took a heavy thigh clamped over both
knees to keep Jamie in place, even with his wrists and ankles tied down. All
the while, his hands twisted in their bonds, and his erection grew firmer.
Another stream traced over his prick, and MacLeod held his hand steady, drawing
out the sizzling wax until a thin line had hardened from Jamie's foreskin to
his balls. Those cries, Jamie himself muffled against MacLeod's hip.
MacLeod painted the
reddened flesh with yellow wax, his own heat rising at Jamie's obvious
enjoyment of the slow torment. "Ye're a strange
one, Jamie-lad," he growled, finally setting the candle aside to follow
the trail of wax with his tongue.
"Ye'd
have me no other way, Duncan," Jamie rasped out. Then he moaned behind
clenched teeth as MacLeod sucked his balls into his mouth, rolling them from
side to side, breaking the wax, the cooled lacery
pulling at the delicate skin as they flaked away.
Hearing the helpless cry,
MacLeod raised his head from his work and took the time out to fasten the
stocking firmly in place between Jamie's teeth, stealing a kiss before knotting
the fabric. Then he returned to the torment, licking, biting and sucking his
Jamie from stem to stern. By the time he unfastened his own breeches and parted
Jamie's thighs, it was very late, and he could feel time running out.
Rising above Jamie's
splayed body, firm thighs pressing down atop his, pulled tight by the binding
at his ankles, he clenched his fingers around Jamie's arse-cheeks and plunged
in. He was thankful for the improvised gag as Jamie's scream was completely
muffled.
"Dinna
hurt ye, did I, lad?" he gasped out, holding
himself still with supreme self-control. Jamie glared at him, then shifted his arse demandingly. Taking his cue, MacLeod
thrust furiously, one hand leaving his grip on the slim hips to take the raging
prick in his hand and pump it in time to his movements. The table swayed with
them, taking him deeper with each stroke, slamming them closer together each
time them shifted. The chains creaked but the hooks held.
The candle burned down to
its end; the light gave out just as he felt Jamie convulse around him. He
pushed in as far as he could and held his place as Jamie came, concentrating on
his hand moving over Jamie's prick and the squeeze of the lad's arse around his
own flesh. When the storm had passed, he thrust in again, loving the relaxed
sprawl of warmth beneath him, until he came to his own climax. He lowered
himself over Jamie's body, pulling the gag down and kissing him, kissing him,
kissing him ...
" -- The ring itself is worked silver,
with finely engraved knot work around the stone."
Professor Fox had finished
her lecture, and MacLeod dragged himself away from the past and back into the
present. The boy's resemblance to Jamie was incredible. Right
down to the half-teasing, half-innocent look in his eyes. He didn't pay
much attention to the rest of the meeting, desperate now to escape and try to
regain his composure. He told her he'd be going with them.
"Your
call. Just stay
out of the way, and do what I tell you to when I say so, and we'll get along
fine."
He smiled at her. "Of course, Ms. Fox. You are the expert." He could
always ditch her if he had to. He turned his head to smile at Nigel, unable to
help himself, then walked briskly out the door. The
little blonde in the mini-skirt fluttered at him, and he smiled absently her
way before making a break for the stairs.
His feet were on
auto-pilot, returning him to his hotel, and he could only thank the Fates later
that he hadn't been challenged on the way. His mind was dawdling two hundred
and fifty years in the past, and he had no time for it, not if he was going to
find his father's brooch and return it home, where it belonged.
Once back in his room, he
powered up his laptop and did some more digging.
Nigel watched the man
leave, the impression of flight not supported by his calm stride. What was he
running from? Or was it his over-active imagination, as usual? The silence
caught his attention, and he realized that Syd had
been talking and now wasn't. He cleared his throat.
"I'm sorry, what was
that? I was distracted."
She grinned at him in much too knowing a manner, then
gave him a concerned look. "You okay, Nigel?"
He shrugged one shoulder.
"Of course, just fine,
She leaned forward, all her
attention on him. At one time it would have made him shy and flustered; after a
year as her assistant, he knew there wasn't a hope on Earth of it being sexual,
so he ignored it.
"I know it hasn't been
a typical teaching fellowship, Nigel. But it's what I do, and I think you're
doing very well." She looked unsure. He nodded and smiled reassuringly at
her. For such a competent and confident woman, she could be surprisingly
vulnerable around people for whom she cared. He counted himself fortunate to be
included in that category.
"I'm learning a great
deal, and I'm enjoying myself immensely,
Most of his mind listened
intently as she described the beginning of the trail. It was always exciting,
the start of the hunt. Usually it was heralded by airplane tickets and rushing
for the bag he now kept packed at all times, with background on the new relic
being relayed to him in spurts during travel. Anything could, and usually did,
happen along the way.
This wasn't their usual
adventure, however. The fraction of his mind that wasn't concentrating on his
mentor was cataloguing physical reactions he hadn't felt in years, and never on
such short acquaintance. For all his limited life experience, he wasn't a
newborn, regardless of Claudia's belief that he still needed help drying behind
his ears. He'd had a good education in public schools, at which he'd been both athletic and scholarly, easy to get on with and passingly popular. Given the limited choice, he'd also been
sexually active in a discreet way. He knew what his body was shouting at him
even if it had been a few years since it had last taken up that particular
interest.
From the look Mr. MacLeod
had given him, it wasn't one-sided. He shivered. The man was handsome, yes. There
was an undefined aura of power and strength about him that drew Nigel as a moth
to flame. His eyes were gentle, and gave the impression of great age for a
relatively young man; his body was simply magnificent.
The shiver grew into a
slight tremble.
"Are you sure you're
okay, Nigel?"
Damn, the concern was back.
He smiled at her, a bright grin that hid the tremors of lust shaking him. He
attempted to hop off her desk, turning his back to her to hide the bulge in his
trousers.
He tripped over his own feet
and went sprawling on the floor.
"Ow!
Ow, ow, ow,"
he grumbled, rubbing his chin and his right knee, making use of his curled up
position to coax the last of his erection to fade. Pain was good for that sort
of thing. He preferred cold showers and wading through history books to hurting
himself; Thapar's Asoka
and the Decline of the Mauryas came to mind, it
being the latest of his background readings, but pain would do in a pinch. Syd's hand on his back finally stopped his mind from
skittering about like a mad dormouse.
"Uhm,"
she was trying very hard not to laugh, he could hear it. "I asked if you
were sure you were okay?"
He gave her a mock-glare, grateful at last to feel his unruly flesh flattening
down where it belonged. "Broken bones aside, simply peachy,
"Go ahead and catch up
with the last of the grade sheets for the class on Buddha's legacy. They have
to be in before we head out on this hunt. I'll do some digging and get us a
starting point."
Her glasses were on and her
computer was humming before he got to the door. He tossed an affectionate look
over his shoulder at her, peering intently at the screen, fingers flying over
the keyboard. Sydney Fox in full hunter mode was impressive, even before they
got out of the office.
Settling in at his
book-strewn, paper-infested desk, he did his best to ignore Claudia giggling on
the telephone and dug for the class paperwork. Best tie up as many loose ends
as possible before they were off. God only knew when he'd have the chance
again. Not that he'd have it any other way.
Especially
when the hunt came with side benefits. If he played his cards right, that could include one
Mr. Duncan MacLeod. Ignoring, with the ease of long practice, the little voice
at the back of his mind that was laughing hysterically at the odds of him
actually getting up the nerve to even approach the man, much less ask him for a
date, he plopped his reading glasses on his face and began transferring marks.
Dreaming would wait. He had
work to do.
For once, Syd was thankful for the early rising habits of some of her
fellow historians. In very short order, she found the person she was looking for.
Frank was an archaeologist working on-site at the Uxmal
Ruins outside
Frank was a fence.
Since
She shook off the thought
of Stewie, determined to punch the hell out of her electronic
boxing dummy as soon as she had the chance, and read through his message again.
It was short and to the point.
'heard
from a professional acquaintance about items in question traveling through
She grimaced at the
signature, and typed a quick positive response with a restrained note of
thanks. Time was of the essence. Their best bet would be to have Frank stall
the buyers until she and Nigel, oh, and MacLeod, could
get there. A little persuasion, a little haggling, a little judicious
butt-kicking, and the Stokes collection would be on its way home. And Mr.
MacLeod would have the pleasure of sorting out ownership of his family's brooch
with the curator.
She wished him luck. Her
eyes unfocused for a second in wistful daydreaming, and she sighed. She wished
him naked, in bed, preferably tied down, and interested in the proceedings. But
she'd content herself with luck.
The way their little
adventures usually went, the more luck, the better. And the better
the luck, the better.
"Nigel?" she
called. His answer was muffled by a wall of paper. "Tickets.
Three."
"Where?" He sounded resigned. He usually
did.
"Me'rida,"
she answered. "And arrange for a rental car, preferably a Jeep, to
There was an appreciable
pause before he answered again. "I'm on it." This time, his voice
sounded strained.
You wish, she thought,
grinning silently.
MacLeod closed his eyes,
listening to Nigel Bailey chatter over the whine of the engines. The boy was
nervous, there was no doubt, although he wasn't sure why. He'd made no moves,
and since they'd met at the airport, he'd done his best not to stare at the lad
like he was a side of prime
It wasn't working.
With his eyes closed, young
Nigel's voice sounded uncannily like young Jamie's. Memory blurred the accent
and all that lay behind was the timbre and tone. The likeness between the two
was uncanny, and it extended beyond looks. They moved alike. They sounded
alike.
They even flirted alike.
He opened his eyes when
Nigel, probably desperate for response by this point, asked awkwardly,
"You mentioned being an antiques dealer. What sort of antiques do you
handle? It must be fascinating."
Bright eyes looked into
his, saying something completely different than the words. Light gleamed from
the unshuttered window across the aisle, slanting
silver off the tip of the wing, echoing in those bright eyes, and he was caught
up in memory of the last time he had seen Jamie Bailey's eyes.
Doch Four, on the shores of Loch Ness,
late October, 1745
"Please,
Jamie."
"You'll not have me go against me family, Duncan? I cannae do it."
"Then promise me
you'll not stand in the way."
Sad eyes stared back at
him, dark hair falling across a pale face, framed by the white linen of the
pillow casing. "I'll do what I must,
Wishing no more to argue,
Jamie pulled MacLeod down to meet his kiss. MacLeod was gone before first
light; a Hanoverian household was not the place for a Jacobite
rebel to be found, no matter how the son of the house might love him.
Silver flashed again, a
sliver of wing slicing through a cloud in the sky, white as smoke from a
cannon's muzzle, but so much cleaner. Closing in on the
aircraft. Closing in on him.
An hour of waiting,
dodging cannon-fire and stray shells, wondering what the bloody hell was
keeping them, wondering yet again why the Bonnie Prince hadn't had the sense to
go back to Italy when he'd been told to, feeling with all his heart the absence
of Warren Cochran at his back. This was his fight, aye, the freedom of
He heard no order, but the
mid-lines broke, and to his left along the Jacobite
front he heard the rumbling belch of cannon-fire. The men beside him screamed
and ran forward, finally breaking loose in a wild
A first.
MacLeod's heart sank, but
his will carried him on, loyalty and love for his fellow Highlanders leading
him where lack of faith in his King would have him fall. Rank after rank of red
coats met their attack solidly, muskets discharging, bayonets slashing, cannons
booming. He lowered his head and charged forward, meeting the enemy head-on.
The basket hilt of his
broadsword burned against his knuckles as he swung left and right, using his
studded targe to turn away those who would cut him in
return. The spike embedded in the center of the shield did its work as well, a
deadly offensive weapon mated with his defense. Gripped tightly in his left
hand, his dirk angled up from below the bottom edge of the targe,
catching the unwary, stabbing those who got too close.
The field was smoke and
blood, the cries of the wounded and dying echoing in his ears. He saw a soldier
take his bayonet to the back of a downed Highlander, a Graham from the cockade,
and realized that the rumors he'd heard where true. There would be no mercy
from the enemy.
Enraged by the cowardice of
the act, he felt the last restraints snap from his mind, leaving him in a
berserker frenzy that would've done his Norse ancestors proud. "Hold
fast!" he screamed, the cry of his Clan blending with the war cries of
hundreds of men, the bellows of the guns, the sobs of the dying.
Wrenching away from a
bloodied plaid, the kilt of a Royalist Scot, unseeing of the death he was
visiting on his countryman in the maelstrom of death they were dealing to his,
he swung into a new enemy. A body impacted against his targe,
the spike burying itself deep in the man's breast as the dirk followed up,
thrusting clean into his heart below his ribs. MacLeod turned to face the new
threat, shake the corpse from his shield, and looked into the wide, horrified
eyes of Jamie Bailey.
He stopped in his tracks.
The brightness was fading
from those eyes as he watched, and his mouth opened to scream again, he knew
not what. Jamie's mouth moved, a whisper of sound,
"
Then fire sliced through
his back, into his own chest, and the world spiraled into a haze of pain as his
heart was cut by the blade of a broadsword. He fell, bearing Jamie's body
beneath his. Sound faded, sensation followed, until he was caught in a silent world
with nothing but Jamie's eyes to lead him into death.
He blinked, rapidly,
turning away from Nigel to hide the tears in his eyes.
"Nae
much," he said softly. "It's just what's left after the people have
moved on."
To his great relief, Nigel
didn't press. To his unexpressed disappointment, the boy stopped talking
altogether, eventually moving to the empty seat next to Sydney in the row in
front of MacLeod, with the murmured excuse of asking her for further
instructions. The silence left him with too much time to think.
It was a very long flight
to
Syd stared out her own window and
listened with half an ear to Nigel trying desperately to make some headway with
their moody Highlander client. It was heavy going. She almost turned and joined
the conversation, if nothing else to give poor Nige a
break. The wry reminder of her own inability to flirt worth a damn kept her
facing forward in her seat.
Looking out over the wing, wondering
what part of the States they were flying over, she checked her watch. Another hour before touch-down. She sighed. It had been
awhile since she'd last been to
The woman simply
wouldn't give up. Syd glared at her. This shouldn't be beyond her ability to
cope. She'd grown up all over the world; gotten her Ph.D. in History in less
than three years at the ridiculously young age of 22; been hunting relics for
over a year. No two-bit cheesy over-made-up busty excuse for a thief was going
to keep her from that wreath of golden oak leaves. Phillip the Second's wreath
was going back in the museum where it belonged.
Besides, if Amanda
Covington got her greedy mitts on it, the idiot would probably melt it down for
the gold. The woman had no sense of history.
She leaned against the
hotel room door, closing it as silently as possible. It had to be here. This
was the only place left she hadn't been able to check, and it was proof of the
thief's hubris that she'd keep it close. Syd snuck
over to the bed, eyes as wide as possible, ears straining to hear an alarm.
Bending over the bed, she
tossed up the dust ruffle and peered around beneath the frame. Nothing. Ditto between the mattress and
box springs, not that she expected much. The wreath would be flatter
than a pancake under all that weight. Crawling onto the massive mattress, she
shuffled through the boxes and books on the shelves in the headboard. Still, nothing. Backing off to the edge, she froze at feel
of metal at her back.
Very slowly turning her
head, she stared in disbelief at the rapier pointed at her spine. "A sword?" she half-hissed, half-screeched.
"Are you out of your mind?"
"Might be
overkill," the dark-haired, smiling woman admitted. "But, hey, use
the one you know, that's my motto." The smile widened further, showing
teeth. "Turn over."
Trying hard not to scrape
or skewer herself on the disconcertingly steady blade now pointed at her belly
button, Syd glared. "Now what are you going to
do? Turn me into a shish kebab? Add murder to stealing?"
The wide eyes narrowed,
considering it seriously, to all appearances. Syd
gulped. Seeming to come to a conclusion, the woman said perkily, "Call me
Amanda."
"Why?" Syd asked suspiciously.
The sword flicked up, and
the thongs tying her leather vest together over her breasts parted like butter
before a hot knife. She gulped again, harder this time. Amanda's eyes followed
the movement of her ribcage rapaciously.
"I always like to be
on a first-name basis with the people in my bed," she answered in a
friendly fashion.
The sword flicked again,
bisecting her shirt and catching her bra with it. Syd
moved instinctively to cover her now naked bosom. The sword-tip waved at her
fingers. She froze.
"I'm not in your
bed," Syd blatantly lied.
"Looks like it to
me," Amanda purred. Then she made a move that twelve years later
Syd's mind took one look down and
promptly shut off.
Events were moving much too
quickly for Syd's muscles to respond, but that was
okay, since her nerve endings were more than happy to take over. Several
mind-bending kisses later, from her mouth down her torso to her crotch, her
jeans were tangled around her boots, her hands were wrapped up in Amanda's
hair, and her thighs were clamped around Amanda's skull. The woman was more
than just a talented thief. She was doing things with her tongue and teeth that
had to be illegal.
There were noises echoing
around the room, but she wasn't really listening, even though they were coming
from her own throat. She was too busy thrashing around on the bed, feeling her
hair curl along with her toes as Amanda's busy tongue burrowed over her clit
and deep into her, out and in, over and around, tugging and pushing and
generally driving her insane. The first orgasm made her scream. The second one
started a series of shock waves that just wouldn't quit.
Somewhere in all the
mayhem, she'd kicked off one boot, and her jeans were hanging from the other
one. Amanda had flipped position, and for the first time in her life,
It tasted even better.
Amanda was busy again down
between her thighs, and Syd returned the favor,
enthusiasm taking up the slack when inexperience threatened to paralyze her.
She licked and kissed in an fumbling but hungry
mirroring of what Amanda was doing to her, and felt ridiculously pleased with
herself when Amanda screamed against her clit and came in her mouth. Fingers
took over for tongue down below and she bucked against the hand stretching
inside her, moaning and crying as she came again.
The last coherent memory
she had of that night was being wrapped in surprisingly strong arms, a tongue
moving over hers, hands playing in her hair. When she woke up the next morning,
Amanda was gone. So were the rest of the jewels from the Macedonian collection.
The
wreath of golden oak leaves lay on the pillow beside her own, in the
indentation left by Amanda's head.
A weight settling beside
her brought her back to the present with a thump, and she snatched her hand
away from her lap where it had been absently kneading. She stared hard at
Nigel, willing him to look at her face. To her surprise, the mental command
succeeded. He didn't appear to notice her fiery blush.
"Hi," he said
grumpily. She smiled. It wavered, but with a little effort, it stayed.
"Not
a lot of luck, huh?"
He grimaced at her. "I
know when I'm not wanted."
She had to shake her head.
"I dunno, Nigel. That's not the impression I
got." His eyes dropped, and she reached out to pat his hand. Remembering
where her hand had just been, even through layers of leather and silk, she drew
it back again and cleared her throat. "He's got a lot on his mind. Talk to
him later, okay? Don't give up." She had. She'd made no attempt to find
Amanda. Maybe she should. Maybe there was a reason her efforts with guys left
her ending up with dorks like Stewie. She shook her
head to clear it. "How much do you know about
Banishing memories of the
past and possibilities for the future to think about another time,
A man in a white shirt and
tan chinos sat down in a dusty office, casually brushing aside a six hundred year
old carving. He powered up the computer and typed in a password he'd memorized
weeks before, specifically in the event that the betrayal he expected would
come to pass.
It had.
Scrolling through the email
was time-consuming and boring, but it was to the man's advantage that the owner
of the computer never deleted anything. Three pages into the past week's mail,
the man leaned forward and read intently.
"Oh, Francisco, pobrecito, that was not a very smart thing to do."
He closed out the program,
powered down the computer, and moved to lean against the wall in the shadows,
to wait.
Half an hour later, the
archaeologist in question came into the room and sat at the desk. Turned on his computer. Froze when the man
placed the barrel of a gun against the base of his skull.
"Get greedy?" the
man asked.
Frank began to babble, a
mixture of Spanish and English, pleading for his life. The man let him run
down. Finally, with ill-advised bravado, Frank sputtered, "I told you
you'd pay for not cutting me in on the deal!"
The man sighed.
"Somebody will pay, but it won't be me."
He pulled the trigger.
Fired a
second bullet into the hard drive.
He gathered up his coat and
walked out of the office without bothering to look at the reddish mess sliding
down the front of the monitor.
"Estu'pido,"
he muttered softly.
Normally Nigel enjoyed
research. Until he'd come to
Even as
he was living it.
Tonight, however, was
different. The air was warm and, well, quite sultry, really. Strange bird calls
drifted through his window, overlaying the normal sounds of badly-driven
automobiles hurtling at one another and those same poor drivers threatening to
disembowel one another. The fact that they were in Spanish, a language he
didn't speak well, made no difference. The tone was universal.
He flipped on the
television set, then shook his head at himself and turned it off again. Overly
made-up young women and men old enough to be their grandfathers in romantic
clinches were not his cup of tea, regardless of the language they moaned
dramatically at one another. He considered turning on the radio, then shrugged
off that thought as well. His tastes ran more toward Mozart and Rossini, with
the occasional guilty pleasure of Smashmouth or
Cream. He strongly doubted he'd find either on the local channels.
Sighing, he stared out into
the night, gazing idly at the local men who were nearly coming to blows in the
street. A woman pulled herself out of one of the automobiles currently wrapped
around the other at the intersection and stomped over to the battling men. She
put her face between theirs and said something in a piercing tone that froze
both men in their tracks. The battle quickly calmed into a relatively rational
discussion, and he smiled. Women. Peacekeepers,
all, no matter the language.
Then he remembered the last
time he'd been tossed on his arse while
Bored out of his skull, an
unusual situation on a relic hunt, he left his room, pocketed his key, and
sought out his mentor.
She was in her room. Staring at the computer. He stood in the doorway for nine
minutes. Cleared his throat. Knocked.
Said, timidly, "
Wandering down to the bar,
remembering the first bar he ever went into on a relic hunt and the ignominious
fate from which
A body blocked his view.
His eyes slid up an immense
man in a cream colored shirt with crimson piping. They widened. Before he had
the chance to panic, a mellow voice beside him said, "Dos cervezas, por favor, with two
shots of whiskey."
Ah! The bartender! He
blinked rapidly, and looked askance at Duncan MacLeod, sitting beside him at
the bar, looking much more relaxed than he had on the flight down.
"Hi," Nigel said,
feeling a little overwhelmed. This close, the man was almost too beautiful.
"Hi," MacLeod
replied, a teasing note in his voice.
Nigel looked at the bar. Looked at the bottles behind it. Stared at the bottle and
the small glass plunked down in front of him. Glanced at the money MacLeod
handed the bartender, and belatedly realized he should at least offer.
"Uhm,
I, er, well, it's -- "
His tongue was tied in a square knot.
"My pleasure,"
MacLeod answered before Nigel could tie himself into further verbal knots.
"I was wondering ... d' I make ye nervous?"
His throat went dry at the
hint of Scots burr in the melodious voice. "Yes," he answered
truthfully before his brain caught up with his suddenly functioning mouth.
"I mean, no, of course not. Why should you make me nervous? I'm not the
least nervous."
MacLeod's laugh was low and
sexy, rather like the purr of a very large cat. Nigel had the uncanny notion
that he was being stalked.
He rather liked it.
"Calm down, lad, it's
just a friendly drink. So, has Professor Fox come up with anything further that
might help us on our search?"
Yes, this he could handle.
Nigel took a deep breath, then nodded as casually as
possible while holding his body tilted away from MacLeod so the other man
couldn't see that he was fiercely aroused. It was ridiculous! He was a grown
man! He shouldn't be reacting like a fifteen year old boy on his first date
with a girl.
He re-ran that last thought
and shook his head. None of the three applied. This couldn't even be called a
date.
"Yes
or no?"
MacLeod sounded as if he was about to laugh. Nigel looked at him, perplexed.
"First you shook your head yes, then no. Which is it, then?"
"Oh," Nigel
answered intelligently. "She's still, that is, she was on the computer
when I came downstairs. Still looking, I believe."
This had to stop. He was
often out of his depth on these trips anyway, and could get into unbelievable
amounts of trouble simply attempting to keep up with
"So. How do you like being an antiques
dealer?" He groaned silently. MacLeod looked down at his beer, then smiled over at him.
"It's nae so bad. Meet some interesting people."
Nigel got caught in wide,
deep eyes and completely lost track of the conversation. Which
promptly lagged, since MacLeod wasn't the easiest of conversationalists
himself. They sat there, drinking and not saying much, looking at one
another then glancing away, making small talk for almost an hour. Nigel kept
trying to figure out a way to ask what he really wanted to ask. He'd finally
gotten up the courage to simply say, flat out, 'would you like to come up to my
room?' when
Timing. His, as usual, was a beat behind
the band.
"Something's
wrong." She had that little worry line between her eyebrows that she only
got right before something did, indeed, go spectacularly wrong. "Frank's
not responding to email, and when I called his private number, it rang off the
wall."
"Perhaps he's not there?" MacLeod asked reasonably.
"No," she shook
her head. "This man's attached to his cell phone like green on grass. If
he's breathing he'd be answering it. I'm worried."
Nigel shut his mouth,
biting back the invitation and tagging along as
He was certainly worth the
watching.
"Where are we going?"
MacLeod asked.
MacLeod seemed to know what
she was talking about. Nigel tuned it out and slipped into a daydream, if such
a dream could be called that in the late evening. When it became both explicit
and embarrassing, he clamped down on his wayward thoughts and composed himself
as best he could to face whatever would come at them next. On a relic hunt, one
never knew.
By the time they reached
the field offices of
"Er,
thanks," he mumbled, every cell in his body straining toward the Scot like
iron filings lining up for a magnet. Cursing his wayward libido, he pulled
himself upright, smiled sickly at the other man, and set out determinedly to
follow
"Nigel!" she
called impatiently. He swung about. Oh. He'd been heading out toward the ruins.
He blushed, cleared his throat, carefully didn't look at MacLeod, and walked the
other direction, into the offices.
Two feet into the building,
MacLeod froze, his head going up like a hunting dog when it scents prey. Nigel
glanced over at him, then back to where
Stopped
dead in the doorway. Threw his hand up to cover his mouth. Reeled back out of the room, calling
She was at his side in an
instant. "Oh, damn," she groaned.
Nigel could sympathize, or
would, as soon as he finished losing his beer, his dinner, and the pretzels from
the flight. His eyes watered and his stomach lurched again. There went
breakfast.
He barely had time to swipe
ineffectually at his face with his handkerchief before
"
He drew his sword from his
light brown overcoat and followed the Quickening that was causing his skin to
tingle. He had no objection to the Game; on the contrary, he was a skilled
fighter and enjoyed taking heads. But he hadn't come tonight to fight. He'd
come to plug a leak and pack some very hot jewels under a load of ancient Mayan
pottery pieces. Smuggling was so much easier under an official seal.
Near the front of the
building he saw three figures. Two were moving fast. One wasn't. He grinned. He
knew which one was his. "Eduardo! Humberto! Jesu's! Pablo!" he called out to his men. They would
take care of the mortals. The immortal who had screwed
up his evening's work? That one was Acevido's.
His prey circled back as
his men surrounded the mortals. The man was stocky, not fat, but strong. The
other immortal nodded toward the back of the offices, where the trash the
dirt-diggers had brought out of the ruins was collected. Acevido
had been with the Conquistador army when the Aztecs fell. The Maya held no
wonder for him, and his only use for artifacts was to sell them.
He nodded at the other
immortal's invitation and glanced over his shoulder. He saw the mortal man go down
under Pablo's fists, as the mortal woman began kicking and punching her way
through the rest of his men. Ah, well, if she did beat them, he'd simply kill
her when he was finished taking the Quickening. The night was shot for work, anyway, he might as well have some fun.
"I am Duncan MacLeod
of the Clan MacLeod," the stranger pronounced, pulling a long slender
sword from his coat. Acevido nodded. A katana. He might call himself a Scotsman, but he fought
with a Japanese weapon. This would indeed be fun.
"I am Herna'n Acevido. You are in my
land now. There can be only one. It won't be you." Bare courtesies over,
he swung into the fight, confidence in his stroke.
Several minutes into what
had turned into the fight of his life, he began to believe that his confidence
was misplaced.
He was tiring, rolling and
jumping and flinging himself out of the way of the devil's sword. MacLeod
seemed to be everywhere, flowing like water around him, always an inch out of
his reach. It was damned frustrating, and worse, was becoming deadly.
Determined to put a quick
end to it while he still could, Acevido feinted to
the left and ducked low to the right, bringing his sword up in a highly illegal
and very effective move to gut his opponent.
Except his opponent wasn't
where he was supposed to be.
He didn't actually feel the
slide of the blade. It was too sharp, and too fast, for that. His eyes lived
for a split second after his torso was sliced in two and his head was taken
from his body, long enough to see the first bare mist of his Quickening rising
past his face and report the unthinkable to his brain, barely long enough for a
final thought.
Nothing was ever easy.
Then a shrieking drew his
consciousness outward, and his essence rode the wind building around his
corpse. His memories, his wants and needs, his anger and his fatalism, the
impressions of all he was, swirled into lightning and struck home, deep into
the one who had killed him.
One lout grabbed her by the
upper arms, making a nice platform for her to kick up with both feet and catch
the second one under the chin, sending him reeling. The back-swing from that
kick took her captor directly in the kneecaps, and he screamed like a girl and let
go of her arms. She swung around with her right arm and caught him in the nose
with her elbow as he was coming down. The resulting gout of blood and gurgling
cry he gave as he fell over was heartening. The fact that he didn't get up
again was even moreso.
A third giant got her in a
headlock, and she went with the grip, bringing her legs up around him and
bearing them both down to the ground. She twisted as they fell and ended up on
top of him, with both hands free. She quickly brought them down, as hard as she
could, boxing his ears soundly and taking both hearing and balance away from
him. He flinched away like a kicked puppy and she scrambled to retain her
footing as he curled up in a whimpering ball.
Nigel was flailing blindly
in the grip of another overgrown thug, but she didn't have time for more than a
quick kick to the forehead of the creep before the one she'd kicked originally
was back in the fight. Several blows with fists, chops with hands and
roundabout kicks finally put that one down. By this time, the one
holding on to Nigel had recovered from the kick she'd given him and was trying
to pin Nigel down to punch him into oblivion. Nigel, smart boy that he was, was
wriggling like a fish in a net avoiding the ham-like fists.
To the surprise of all, the
blow actually put the giant's lights out. It also resulted in Nigel hopping
around shaking his entire arm and yelping, "Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!" but
since by then no one was trying to kill them, that was okay.
She was reaching out to
check his hand for broken bones when all hell broke loose. Lightning arched in
the weirdest, most localized and fiercest dry storm she'd ever seen. She
grabbed Nigel and dragged him with her into one of the offices, not the one with
Frank's brains sprayed all over the computer. They put their heads down and hid
behind a large crate labeled SHERDS.
After several minutes of
waiting to be fried and feeling bruises come out all over her body, she heard
Nigel say, pathetically, "Would you happen to have any chewing gum? My
mouth tastes foul."
Syd patted him sympathetically, tried
very hard not to think of Frank, and handed him a pack of Doublemint.
He ate every piece.
By the time he was finished,
so was the lightning. Never one to allow gangs of attackers, missing clients or
freak acts of nature stand in the way of a relic hunt,
The third door they opened
led them to the shipping room, where artifacts were packed in crates, after
being measured and written up. From there they'd either go to a lab for further
analysis or on to a museum to be archived and displayed. The large room was a
mess, with shattered lights, splintered furniture, broken windows and scorch
marks decorating the walls.
"D'you
really think he hid it in here,
Her fingers closed around
the bulbous end of something hard, semi-circular, and braided. She pulled, and
a worked-gold arm band came free in her hand. She blew the straw dust off it,
and he blinked at her.
"Or not," he
conceded.
She grinned at him, and
they explored further, unpacking the rest of the jewelry from the crate. Near
the bottom, Nigel pulled out a ring brooch with a cairngorm set in the center
of it.
A hand reached over his
shoulder and plucked it from his grip.
"Are you
alright?" Nigel asked. Syd nodded.
"You don't look so
good," she added.
He didn't appear to hear
either of them. "Father," he whispered, staring at the brooch lying
in his palm.
Syd waved, catching Nigel's attention.
"C'mon, Nigel, let's get the rest of the Stokes collection unpacked before
anybody comes checking on us. Or that weird thunder storm. Between it and the
fight, we weren't exactly quiet."
At her words, MacLeod
seemed to come back to himself. "Good point," he said, and nudged
Nigel over to join them in sorting through the straw.
Nigel didn't move much.
MacLeod was shoulder to shoulder with him, and neither man seemed to mind.
She grinned, and turned
back to the hunt. They'd nearly emptied the crate, and were pawing through the
loose straw, when they heard the approach of sirens. MacLeod reacted like a
seasoned criminal, jumping back, sweeping the jewelry into a handy box, shoving
it into Nigel's arms then hustling toward the door, Nigel's shoulder in a firm
hold.
Nigel leaned into the grip.
Syd came around the table and MacLeod
caught hold of her hand, drawing her up even with them. A tingle went through
her at his touch, and she shivered. It felt vaguely familiar. They were back in
the Jeep and halfway back to town before she figured out why.
The last time she'd felt a
shock like that, Amanda Covington was pinning her to a bed and going to town
between her thighs. She smirked into the darkness. Maybe it was time to look up
her old adversary. After all, with Frank gone, she needed a contact on the
shady side of the fence.
Besides, she'd missed that
spark.
By the time they got back
to the hotel, dawn had broken. MacLeod's head was swimming from a combination
of fatigue and Quickening hangover. He wanted nothing more than to fall into
bed for a good three day nap, but knew this would be the only chance he'd have
to gain possession of the brooch.
After all, he knew
it was his father's. He didn't have a hope in hell of proving it. And he
certainly would never be able to win a provenance battle with the Stokes
museum.
So he'd do what he had to
do in order to honor his Clan; lie, steal, and cheat. The thought didn't
comfort him.
An hour later, standing
next to the bed in Nigel Bailey's room, staring down at the sleeping face that
reminded him so strongly of Jamie, he fingered the brooch now in his pocket and
said a silent goodbye to a dream. Nigel was a good man, and MacLeod liked him.
But he wasn't his ancestor; Jamie was dead, and MacLeod had a choice now.
Either take the brooch while he had the chance, and
never see Nigel again, or allow
There really was no
contest. He sighed again, still as silent as the shadows, and turned to leave.
"Don't go."
The words, spoken from the depths of the bed linens, froze him where he stood.
"I thought you were
asleep."
The sheets rustled, and Nigel squirmed up against the pillows. The sound was so
provocative MacLeod had to turn back to see if he looked as good as he sounded.
He did.
The moonlight limned his
chest and arms, turning him into a creature of quicksilver, stuff of dreams.
His face was in shadow, but MacLeod moved closer, and caught the gleam of
bright eyes in the darkness.
"You came for the
brooch."
MacLeod nodded, not sure
what to say.
"Were you going to say
good-bye?" No remonstration in the hushed voice, just resigned sadness. As
if too many people had left, and too few had cared enough to say good-bye
before they did.
"Ye're
too young to sound so worn," he was moved to protest.
"I never get far
enough to get worn," Nigel retorted, a hint of humor in his voice.
The light tone disappeared with the next question. "Is it really a family
heirloom? Can you not prove it?"
"Yes," MacLeod
said, moving closer to the bed, "and yes. It was my father's. But I have
no papers to prove my claim. I'll not let it go back to the museum. 'Tis not where it belongs."
"Where does it belong, then?" Nigel asked softly.
MacLeod settled himself on
the edge of the mattress, close enough to make out the expression on the lad's
face, but not near enough to be tempted into laying hands on him. If they
touched, he'd not get away that night. Forcing his mind back to the
conversation, he replied, "In his grave, with his body." His voice
shook. "Too much has been taken from him. This ... this shall no'
be."
Nigel leaned forward,
staring up into his face. "Then take it. I'll take care of explaining it
to
He leaned toward that
earnest face, fingers rising to trace along one rounded cheek. Nigel's eyes
widened, and his lips parted. Memory painted another face over his, and
MacLeod's hand stilled against his skin.
One to
honor, one to mourn.
Twisting away from
temptation, turning away from the memory as well as the man, he reached into
his duffel beside the bed and drew out another weapon, one he'd not used in
centuries. He turned back to Nigel and placed the cloth-wrapped object in his
hands.
"Here," he
offered. "To replace the brooch, so the collection doesna
suffer, and my father's honor can be restored as well." Nigel looked down
at the bundle, then back up at MacLeod. "Go on," he urged. "Open
it." That I might see that face, and that weapon, while life remains
behind those eyes, he silently begged.
Nigel carefully unwrapped the heavy packet, and a dirk gleamed up at him
from within the folds of cloth. The blade looked to have been made from a
cut-down sword, about fourteen inches long and pierced with roundels. The
handle was intricately carved wood. It was very well-cared for. Nigel lifted it
to the light.
MacLeod caught his breath.
That weapon hadn't been used in over two hundred and fifty years; not since
he'd killed Jamie with it. To see it, in Nigel's hand, alight with interest and
alive with curiosity, went a long way to stanching the blood he hadn't realized
was still seeping from that wound so long ago given his heart.
"Are you sure?"
Nigel asked. He stared intently from the blade to MacLeod's face.
"Aye," MacLeod
answered. "Ta'e it awa'
and be done wi' it." He
stopped to clear his throat, enunciating clearly when he started again.
"Have you ever been to the King's Head, on the outskirts of
At the abrupt change of
subject, Nigel dropped the dirk back into its nest of cloth and stared at
MacLeod. "I did go to
MacLeod smiled, forcing
himself to see past the memory and into the future. "I'd like to take you
there someday."
"Take me?" Nigel asked, his voice dropping.
MacLeod leaned near,
cupping that sharp chin in his hand and kissing the lad, briefly but
thoroughly. When he was finished, his mouth was tingling, and Nigel was looking
at him as if he'd lost the capacity for speech along with thought.
"Take ye," he promised.
Nigel was still staring
after him as he closed the door behind him and walked away.
He knew the precise moment
when
Until she
pulled it out of his hands.
He affected great surprise
at her action. "
"So that's why he
disappeared in the middle of the night! You let him take the brooch?" she
demanded. Oddly enough, she didn't appear particularly surprised.
"I had a choice?"
he asked defensively. The way she was looking at him made him feel rather
naked. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and tried to look affronted.
"There are always
choices," she told him.
He nodded. "I
know." He left it at that. She stared at him for a long moment, then gave him a tiny smile and a questioning look.
"Do you know what
you're doing?" she asked him, after a silence that seemed to drag on for
eons. He shrugged, uncomfortable, but helpless to do anything about it.
"No," he said
promptly, "but that won't stop me." He hadn't realized he'd made the
decision until he said it aloud. He didn't know when Duncan MacLeod would come
back, but he had a strong feeling he would. And when he did, Nigel wasn't going
to be the least backward about pressing his affections.
"Never did me,
either," she admitted, startling a laugh out of him. "You'll be
okay."
As she went back to her
office, dirk in hand, to finish packing the Stokes collection to send back to
the museum, he picked up his book and slumped back in his chair. He had a
sneaking suspicion she was right.
She usually was.
FIN
Notes : this story and my recent Methos
story The Wolf were inspired by a visit to the
At James Thin Booksellers
and in a book store now residing in the building that used to be the Gaelic
Church I found new and used books that were of great help: Richard Oram's Scottish Prehistory (Birlinn,
1997, ISBN 1-874744-69-6); Duncan Jones' Wee Guide to the Picts (Pocket Scottish History Series, Goblinshead Press, 1998, ISBN 1-899874-12-7); Terence Wise's European Edged Weapons (Almark
Publications, 1974, out of print); and Dorling Kindersley's excellent Eyewitness
Travel Guide to Scotland (DK, 1999, ISBN 0-7513-1155-3). I highly recommend
the Eyewitness guides for fanfic writers, because of
the good descriptions, excellent maps, photos of everything from landscape to
buildings to musical instruments, and handy descriptions. They're a great way
to describe places you've not yet seen, or to bring to vivid life memories of
places you have been.
In addition, my friends
(who took me on a diet Coke pub crawl outside Cambridge that led to the King's
Head in this story), the wonderful librarians at the Inverness Public Library,
the friendly tour guides from Puffin Express who shared their experience and
their books with me, and the various helpful people at Inverness Museum, James
Pringle Weavers, Lindsay the Targemaker and the
Scottish National Trust properties including the museum and display at Culloden
Moor, on the Orkney Islands and at Clava Cairns are
responsible for a lot of the detail in these stories. The beauty of
Glacis,