Disclaimer and Notes: Highlander characters and concepts belong to Panzer/Davis. However, Kelly Siobhan Pyron, Colonel John Pyron, Josh Stone, Alex Gregory, Robert Young, and Connie Mallory are mine. This is the second story in the Heart Series. Warning: this contains sex (m/f) and strong language.
Electronic hugs and castles full of thanks go to my beta readers:
Amanda Parsons, Molly McGowan, and Jessi Melann for their help with
this. Thanks also to Dana Woods for helping out with the concept.
Heart Without a Past
By Raine Wynd
i've been living in a world
of danger
knowing that death was no
stranger
never dreaming that life could
be so much more
not knowing what destiny had
in store
and i didn't know the power
of a touch
could ever come to mean so
much
I've been living on the edge
of balance
thinking that love was just
circumstance
never believing it would ever
last
for no heart is without a
past
and mine is full of shadows
and pain
still you smile and offer
shelter from the rain
Prologue
Somewhere in the Amazon
A ten-year-old girl with reddish-black hair sprawled comfortably on a field blanket shaded by camouflage netting. Her coltish body was clad in faded jeans and a brown T-shirt. Around her, the sounds of a long-established military camp could be heard: the low rumble of vehicles the distinctive cadence of voices in training, the report of weapons fire, the chatter of jungle animals who'd grown accustomed to the oddity in their midst.
For all the attention the girl paid to the cacophony, she might as well have been glued to a TV. The look of concentration on her heart-shaped face reflected her diligence as she stripped and cleaned the AK-47 that lay between her legs. An equally lethal combat knife lay on the blanket within easy access. She had just slipped the bolt of the AK-47 into its receiver when something — a premonition of danger perhaps, or a noise made distinct by its uniqueness — made her drop the machine gun. She winced slightly as the tip of the sight hit her right thigh, but nonetheless drew the knife. She cocked her head, trying to discern the location of what she'd sensed.
She resisted the temptation to speak. Whoever was out there either didn't have a gun or was trying for stealth. Asking for identification of her visitor would be like shining a flare over her head and asking to be shot. She was rewarded for her caution when a tall, black-haired man wearing jungle fatigues stepped under the netting. Combat gear crisscrossed his chest, and a rifle was cradled in one hand. He froze momentarily when he saw the knife poised to strike, then he grinned.
"Hi, Kelly," he greeted. "Get the cleaning done?"
Still holding the knife, Kelly rose to her feet. The man towered over her by a good two and a half feet, but her confidence revealed itself in her fighting stance. "I was nearly done, sir," she answered crisply.
He noted the stance, thought about testing her, then dismissed it. He was confident of her abilities; she'd proven them more than once. Right now, he had more important things on his mind. "Green flag. You can relax, sweetheart," Colonel John Pyron, ex-Marine and professional soldier of fortune, told the girl. "I just came by to check on you."
At the mention of the code phrase for "all clear," Kelly relaxed visibly, slipping the knife into the sheath she wore on her belt. With a touch of pride, John noted she left the retaining snap off, just in case he'd been lying.
"We've been here too long, Daddy," Kelly complained as they both sat down on the blanket. "Can we go back to France? Or to Ireland? I'm bored here."
Affectionately, he ruffled her hair. She squirmed and made a small noise of protest at the action. "You were bored in France and Ireland," he reminded her. "You're the one who wanted to see the Amazon."
"You made it sound exciting," she said glumly. "We've been here six months and there's no war." She spoke in the same tone of disappointment a more innocent girl of her age enthralled with horses would have spoken of missing an equestrian exhibition.
The battle-scarred soldier sighed tiredly. Not for the first time, he wondered about his decision to keep his daughter with him as he traveled the world in search of the next conflict, the next willing paymaster. She'd been a tiny thing, he remembered, all of two years old, when her Irish mother had died, killed in an IRA bomb blast. He'd been set to leave for a mission. In a hasty decision, he had taken her along, figuring the risk to leave her behind was too great of an unknown. There was no one he trusted to leave her with. He'd grown up in foster homes, and as a result, he hadn't wanted to thrust her on the tender mercies of the welfare system.
John was a proud man, and he'd been a soldier for more than half his life. He'd known that taking Kelly along was a risk of the highest magnitude, but he'd tried to compensate by teaching his daughter the skills to survive, the tricks of his profession. She'd rewarded him by soaking it all up like a sponge, and becoming fluent in several languages. He knew she probably ought to be in school somewhere, learning the things that other children her age learned, being innocent of death except for the occasional, ordinary passing of a beloved pet or relative. He knew, though, that just as she took for granted that her life comprised of weapons, battlefields, Cosmoline, fake identities and cash transactions, he couldn't live in a world that wasn't composed of the same. He'd found a home in being a Green Beret, and when the military had mustered him out in a wave of defense cutbacks, he'd kept right on being a soldier.
Still, it was times like this that he wished Kelly didn't know everything about his life. Well, not quite everything, he amended mentally, unconsciously rubbing his wrist where a fairly recent tattoo had been inked. She didn't know the real reason they'd been in France hadn't been solely so she could get a taste of normal life. He was growing concerned that she was becoming a battle junkie, living for the thrill of the fight, and he knew that wasn't right.
Still, she was far too grown up for her age, with wide green eyes that reflected that knowledge. He knew he'd made a serious error in judgment, and he hoped that being a Watcher would help pave the way to fixing it. He admitted to himself that being a soldier was what he knew best to be; being father to a little girl who worshipped him as her hero was even now a reality he didn't understand.
It was a good thing the Immortal John was Watching was leaving, headed for more exciting pastures. Kelly was right about the war John had been hired to fight; the fighting was so sporadic, weeks had gone by without a skirmish. His restlessness was growing, and to have that feeling echoed by his daughter only served to strengthen it.
"At least," he told her, "it's not Angola."
"But I got to help out with that one," Kelly replied petulantly. "I'm not doing anything here."
John sighed again. He used to try to shield her, to keep her out of the action, but she'd proved to wily for her own good. He'd resigned himself to finding ways to involve her, and Angola had nearly proven to be his undoing. She'd planted a mine, and a sentry had discovered her as she fled the scene. As John had been elsewhere preparing the assault, he hadn't known about it until he'd returned, victorious, to find her asleep in the medic's tent, a field dressing wrapped around her head where the sentry's bullet had nicked her. Needless to say, John hadn't been happy.
Kelly looked at him astutely, sensing his disapproval. "Is that why you picked this one? Because nothing's happening here and I'm safely out of the way?
"That's not fair, Kelly Siobhan Pyron," her father said quietly, "and you know that's not true. I told you I got hired to do this, and I didn't know it wasn't going to be this peaceful."
She sulked at the use of her full name. "Then can we go? You just got paid, and this war's going nowhere." She paused. Long familiar with her father's trigger points, she added, "I heard a rumor that they're going to let the mercs go soon anyway." She smiled a smile she knew her father couldn't resist.
Not for the first time, John was amazed at his daughter's ability to ferret out information. He'd already made plans to leave, and had intended to not only check on his daughter, but to let her know they were leaving. "Finish putting that rifle together," he ordered, "and we'll see about finding someplace more exciting than here."
Kelly cheered, and hugged her father. "So where are we going, Daddy?" she babbled excitedly as she competently reassembled the AK-47.
"How about Greece?" he suggested, taking the rifle from her.
She wrinkled her pert little nose at the suggestion, but then shrugged. Greece, Cambodia, Argentina, or South Yemen, it was all the same to her: a place where her daddy was the best damn soldier around and she got to play in his shadow. She couldn't wait to see what Greece had in store. "I'll pack our stuff," she told her father, going to the edge of the shelter formed by the camouflage netting. Then she paused.
"Daddy, about the people you said can't die, that's just a story, right? I always carry my knife, but I've never met anyone who can't die."
John sighed. Absently, he rubbed the tattoo on his wrist. "Yes, honey, that's just a story," he lied, "but I want you to carry your knife at all times, and do what I told you to do." His voice was firm as he lectured, "If you have to kill someone with your knife, try for their neck. Since you're small, though, just stick it in deep and run like hell, okay?"
She nodded soberly. "Yes, Daddy."
He smiled. "Go on, I'll meet you at the HQ tent in fifteen minutes."
She drew to her full height
and snapped off a neat salute before disappearing across the camp. John
watched her go a moment, then ducked under the netting to head in the
direction of the command post. He had a rifle to turn in, his severance
check to collect, and an Immortal to Watch.
The Balkans — 1995
"Hunting down her killer isn't going to bring her back, Charlie," the young woman in combat fatigues stated quietly, a faint Irish lilt in her voice. She watched as the half-Italian, half-black man stuffed clothes into a duffel bag.
Charlie DeSalvo paused in his packing and looked at the woman who lounged against the barracks wall. He mentally reviewed what he knew about her. Kelly Pyron was a professional soldier, and a damned good field commander, with an uncanny sense of strategy. Rumor held that she'd been raised to be a mercenary by her ex-Marine father, and Charlie didn't doubt the validity of that information. He'd seen her in action. He respected her judgment, was awed by her hand-to-hand combat skills, and believed she was one of the best all-around-soldiers he'd ever encountered. More importantly, Charlie considered her to be a friend. He'd only known her three months, but in the extreme conditions of the Balkans, friendships were intense and all too often brief.
She would never be the kind of woman other people would consider ordinary, he mused. Her hair color alone — an exotic shade of reddish-black — guaranteed that. Her presence filled the room, radiating confidence, competence, and compassion, three things Charlie had always found attractive in a woman. She was the kind of woman who turned a battle dress uniform into something fit for a fashion show, lethally accessorized by a sniper rifle slung over her left shoulder, an eight-inch knife in a holster sheath on one hip, a pistol on the other. Looking at her now, Charlie thought there was something sad about such a strikingly beautiful woman in the fields of war.
Thinking of Kelly's beauty brought to mind Mara's. Suddenly, Charlie's grief over his lover's senseless death washed over him again, and the rage he felt hardened once more.
"No, but it'll be justice," Charlie swore and finished packing. The bag full, he latched the lock in place. "Andrew Cord will pay for selling us weapons that didn't work. He'll pay for killing Mara. And to top it off, he tried to kill me. That makes it personal. I can't just let that go."
Kelly sighed in resignation and stepped forward. Skirting the bag that sat in front of Charlie, she pressed her body against Charlie's and wrapped her arms around him. He stood stiffly a moment before accepting the hug. She was perfectly proportioned in all the right places, and Charlie lost himself momentarily in the feel of her, so warm and alive, so unmistakably feminine despite the fatigues she wore and the corded strength in her arms.
"Mara won't know the difference," Kelly argued one last time. "It would mean more if you stayed and fought on, for her sake. You're good at planning, at negotiating. The raid would've worked, if it wasn't for the weapons. You're needed here."
Some part of Charlie, not blinded by grief, recognized the truth in Kelly's words, but his honor wouldn't let him be swayed. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a war zone like this?" he wondered aloud.
He could feel her smile against his shoulder. "Earning a living," she replied. She paused. "Are you sure you don't want someone to watch your back?" she asked quietly. "I was thinking about leaving soon anyway."
Her words reminded Charlie of his reason for packing. He stepped out of the embrace, as comforting and distracting as it was, and shook his head. "Thanks, Kelly, but I'll find the son of a bitch on my own. He may have skipped town, but I'll find him."
She smiled. "Thought you would feel that way, so I took the liberty of calling a few friends." From a pocket, she withdrew a small notebook and tore off a sheet of paper. She then handed the slip to Charlie.
The sheet held a few names and numbers, and Charlie stared at it in confusion. "What's this?" he asked.
She slipped the notebook back into her pocket and gestured with the other hand. "The first name is a friend who can help you locate Andrew Cord. Tell him I sent you. He'll be suspicious, of course, but he'll be expecting you. The second name is someone who can get you the weapons you need, no matter where you are. The rest of the information is in case the first two aren't available." She paused. "I hope you find him."
Stunned by her gift, Charlie could only gape stupidly at her. "Why are you doing this?"
"Charlie, you're upset, hurt, and you want vengeance," she explained gently. " You're so wrapped up in those emotions, you're not thinking things through. You just have this half-assed plan of going after him." She held up a hand to forestall the protest Charlie was about to lodge. "I know you're capable of doing it. That's not the question. Revenge isn't the answer, but since I can't stop you, the least I can do as your friend and as a fellow soldier is to make sure you have all the ammunition you need."
He looked at the names again before slipping the note into his pants pocket. "Thank you, Kelly," he said gratefully.
"Thank me by not getting killed," she responded, her voice thick with emotion. She stepped forward again to meet Charlie halfway in a brief, intense hug.
"Look me up if you ever get tired of war," he told her as he picked up his duffel. "Seacouver, Washington, DeSalvo's Martial Arts." He started for the door.
She smiled, but her eyes were
sad, knowing. "Will do," she promised as she watched him depart.
Chapter One
October 1999
Seacouver — Joe's Bar
"You know Mac," Joe admonished his companion after he poured a shot of scotch, "you missed Anne's wedding."
Duncan MacLeod rarely choked on scotch, but the liquor had just hit his throat when Joe's words registered. He swallowed painfully. "Anne's married?" How'd I miss that? Duncan wondered, knowing he sounded as shocked as he felt. "When? To whom?"
"July 17, to a guy named Josh Stone," Joe replied. "You didn't get the invitation?"
Duncan shook his head. "I haven't been back to Paris in a few months, and then I decided to come here. If she sent the invitation to the barge, it's probably still there."
Joe stared at his friend a moment. "No wonder Amanda said you probably wouldn't show," he muttered. "She even bet me fifty bucks you wouldn't."
"Amanda was there?" What else have I missed in my friends' lives? Duncan wondered. Joe's not my Watcher, he taught at the Watcher Academy for a while, Methos is God knows where and Anne's married. He was having trouble adjusting to that last fact, and it bothered him. It wasn't as if he'd never had an ex-lover find someone else, after all.
"Didn't I just say that?" Joe countered. "She was the maid of honor." He paused. "Seeing Amanda in formal wear was worth being there in itself," he added with a grin.
"I can imagine," Duncan said. "So, this guy Anne married, is he.?"
Joe shrugged, knowing that Duncan was asking if Josh was Immortal. "Not that I know," he answered honestly. "He's not in any of the Chronicles by name, and Amanda was too busy with helping with the wedding for me to ask her. Either way, Josh seems like a really nice guy. Anne's so happy." He paused. "Where the hell have you been anyway? I heard your Watcher caught hell for losing track of you."
"Not his fault," Duncan replied. "I lost him first. He really wasn't cut out for a trek through the Amazon."
Joe studied Duncan in stunned amazement. "I'm not even going to ask what you were doing there," Joe said finally. "Something tells me I'm better off not knowing."
Whatever Duncan would've said to that was interrupted by the opening of the front door.
Both men turned to see who had entered. It was mid-afternoon, and though the bar had been open for several hours already, the only occupants were Joe, Duncan, one waitress, and two guys playing a quietly heated game of poker in a corner of the blues club.
"Well, hello," Joe murmured appreciatively.
Duncan agreed quietly. The woman who stood in the entryway, framed by the afternoon sunlight, was stunningly beautiful. With the ease of long practice, he categorized the details that composed her. She had a lithe, dancer's body, dressed in faded blue jeans, an equally battered brown leather jacket, and knee-high boots. A bulging leather backpack was slung over one shoulder. He couldn't quite figure out the color of her hair — it was some dark shade, and he wasn't sure if he was seeing red highlights in black hair or not. As she moved towards where he sat at the bar, he could see she had a delicate, heart-shaped face, and that she walked with confident precision, each step calculated to some unconscious cadence. He found himself wondering if she'd just gotten out of the military.
She stepped up to the bar, slid onto the stool next to Duncan, and ordered a shot of Irish whiskey in a clipped, brusque voice. She smelled of stale sweat, road dust, and exhaust fumes, causing Duncan to wrinkle his nose a bit at the scent. As quickly as Joe delivered her drink, she drained the shot and ordered another. Then she turned to Duncan.
"Say whatever pathetic line you were planning to use or stop staring at me like I'm today's fresh catch," she demanded.
Whoa, this one's got claws, Duncan thought. Irish, too, if her accent's anything to go by. "Well," he drawled, not bothering to hide his irritation at her tone, "I was just going to start with a 'Hello', but if you rather I didn't, I won't."
She saluted him with the second shot, inclining her head slightly as she did so. "Hello, whoever you are," she said. "Now, unless you can tell me where I can find Charlie DeSalvo, go to hell." She finished the second shot as neatly as she had the first.
Duncan's gaze met Joe's in shared astonishment. "Charlie's dead," he told the woman gently.
She snorted, apparently not surprised. Her face reflected a simple acceptance of death that only one long accustomed to seeing it could have, and Duncan wondered where she'd gotten that knowledge. She looked like she was in her late twenties — young enough to have seen action in the Persian Gulf, and Duncan supposed that was the case.
She considered the news a moment longer, then shrugged. "Oh well." She paused. "Guess you're a friend of his, huh?"
"Yeah," Duncan replied, remembered pain tightening his voice. "Duncan MacLeod," he introduced himself. "And the man behind the bar is my friend, Joe Dawson."
She took the hand Duncan offered her, then Joe's in turn, before saying, "Kelly Pyron. Charlie was good friend. Guess I'll just have to look for help elsewhere." She didn't explain any more, and Duncan got the impression she wouldn't have said more if he asked. Still, he was intrigued by her. It wasn't often a woman resisted his advances.
Reaching into her jacket, she pulled out a battered leather wallet. She laid several bills on the bar as payment for the two shots. "Well, nice to meet you two, but I guess if Charlie's dead, then I've no reason to stay here." With that, she turned and walked out the door, leaving Duncan and Joe to stare in mutual bewilderment at the closed door.
Joe broke the silence. "A friend of Charlie's?" he asked, skepticism and regret lacing his tone. "More like trouble, Mac." He picked up the money she'd left behind and stuck it in the register.
Duncan rose to his feet. "Doesn't matter, Joe. She was looking for someone to help."
"Do you remember what happened the last time you got involved with something related to Charlie?"
"I haven't forgotten, Joe." Duncan's voice was hard. "But helping her is the least I can do, after what happened."
Joe held his friend's gaze a
moment, then sighed in resignation. He grabbed the empty shot glasses
off the bar and busied himself with cleaning up. As he did so, he watched
Duncan leave. "She's probably gone, Mac," he called out as Duncan walked
out the door. "Ah, hell," he muttered as he realized he was too late.
Chapter Two
Duncan sighed tiredly and rubbed his eyes, hearing the rain patter against the window of his office. Leaning back in his chair, he took a break from checking over the dojo's accounts. He thought about the woman who'd shown up at Joe's the other day and wondered what happened to her. When he'd stopped arguing with Joe and was finally able to check the parking lot for her, she'd disappeared. He'd wanted to let her know that if she needed anything, as a friend of Charlie's, he would be more than welcome to help, but he hadn't had the opportunity.
Just then, the dojo's assistant manager stuck his brown head in the doorway. Robert Young was a reed-thin caricature of a man in terms of physical appearance, with a nervous twitch in one eye whenever he spoke.
"I'm getting ready to close up, Mac," Robert announced. "Do you want me to lock up before I go?"
"No, thanks," Mac replied. "I'll do it."
Robert moved out of the doorway before stopping. "Mac?"
"Yes, Robert."
Robert's over-exaggerated features broke into a grin. "It's nice to have you around. Didn't think I was going to like having the owner nearby, but you're all right."
"Thanks." Duncan smiled and watched as Robert walked away, his footsteps echoing across the wooden floor of the dojo.
He was just about to close the program he was using to balance the dojo's accounts and call it a day himself when he heard a female voice call out.
"Anyone home?"
Duncan rose to his feet and stepped out of the office. He found a slender, athletically built woman standing just inside the main doorway. A black baseball cap rested on her head, not quite concealing the mass of reddish-black hair that hung to her shoulders. The jacket was splattered with raindrops. "Kelly?" he asked uncertainly.
She smiled and stepped further into the room. "Hello, MacLeod. Glad to see you remembered me."
"You made quite an impression the other day," Duncan told her.
She chuckled. "So I've been told." She gestured to the room at large. "Am I too late to get a workout in?"
"What did you have in mind?" Duncan wasn't sure how to react to Kelly. She was a mystery, and not his usual style of woman, but there was something about her that was calling to him.
"I just need some room to stretch. My motel room's a roach closet."
"Go ahead," Duncan invited her, wondering what she was going to do.
She sent him a quick grin of thanks, then set her backpack down on the floor along one wall. She took off the baseball cap, boots, and jacket. She wore a faded white T-shirt advertising the name of a bar in Hong Kong, which Duncan remembered as being extremely seedy. When she bent over to arrange her boots against the backpack, he saw that there was a ragged tear in the center of the T-shirt, its sides still faintly stained with blood. He swallowed convulsively.
"Kelly?" he began, wondering how to ask. He settled for, "That's an interesting shirt you have."
She straightened her posture and flashed a smile at Duncan before striding to the center of the floor. "This is my lucky T-shirt," she told him as she began a series of simple stretches. "If I'd been drunker, I'd be dead. Son of a bitch thought he could just have his way with me." Her tone held a hint of laughter at the last statement. "Oh, by the way, that's the *front* of the T-shirt that's ripped."
Duncan could only stare at her. She was so accepting of her brush with death, it made him wonder just how many times she'd faced it before. At last, he found his voice. "You ever think of buying a new T-shirt?"
Kelly shrugged. "Every time I do, something happens to it. I'd rather spend my money on other things."
Duncan wasn't prepared for what she did next. From somewhere on her body, she produced a pair of parkerized combat knives and began shadow-fighting with them. Duncan didn't dare speak, afraid to break her concentration as she turned, twisted, and thrusted. He found himself admiring her skill. It was obvious she was accustomed to this type of workout. She moved with a fluid grace that was as sensual as it was deadly. It was also apparent that whoever ripped her T-shirt had picked the wrong woman.
After about twenty minutes, she stopped and Duncan saw that one blade went into a sheath at the base of her spine, the other in one by her right hip.
"You're pretty good with those," he complimented her.
She was slightly breathless when she replied. "Thanks," she said, walking over to her belongings. Pulling on her boots, she added, "You're either good or you're dead. Anything less is just playacting."
She paused and looked directly at Duncan. "Now that you've seen what I can do," she told him bluntly, "are you interested in hiring me as an instructor here?"
"I don't teach combat martial arts here," Duncan told her. "Sorry," he said with genuine regret.
She considered his words a moment. "Fair enough." She shrugged and slipped on her jacket. "Guess I'll just have to find a job elsewhere." She set her cap over her flame-kissed black tresses, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and started for the door. "Thanks for the workout space."
"Wait." Duncan moved to intercept her. "I didn't realize you were looking for a job."
She stopped and turned to face him. Her chin lifted in an unmistakable sign of pride. "I'm used to having to prove my worth before I ask for one."
He stepped closer to her. "You said you knew Charlie."
She cocked her head at him. "Yeah, but I don't need a handout." She paused. Unexpectedly, she reached out to touch him. Her hand rested against Duncan's cheek a moment, and their eyes caught.
Suddenly, Duncan was vividly conscious of her slender, feminine form, the scent of her sweat, the desire he read in her wide green eyes. Her hand was callused and rough against his skin, her fingers oddly delicate in their size and shape in contrast. He barely knew anything about her, but she was turning him on.
A slow smile that spread across her lips as she seemed to recognize the attraction that was flaring to life between them. "You really think you're irresistible, don't you, MacLeod," she taunted.
He smiled, realizing the game she was playing. "You really think I won't kiss you, Kelly," he returned. His gaze was riveted on her face, then moved slowly, appraisingly over her body.
She didn't miss his obvious examination and approval. "I'm armed and dangerous," she warned him, her voice a throaty whisper.
She proceeded to press her body against his, and his hands automatically went to her waist to clasp her closer. His left hand brushed the sheath of her knife as he did so.
"So I see," he told her. Her nearness was making his head spin.
She thrust her hips against his, and he sucked in a breath as contact was made. "Feels like you are, too," she chuckled. She bent forward to brush her breasts against his chest.
Duncan shuddered. It had been so very long since he'd been with a woman, and Kelly's calculated movements would've made a monk reconsider his vow of celibacy. Duncan was no monk. The time for games was nearing its end.
She met his kiss halfway. It wasn't surrender she offered, or even seduction. She wanted, she took, and Duncan lost himself in the sheer simplicity of the primitive need she declared. The challenge she issued with her tongue, her mouth, her clever hands fired up his warrior's blood, and he was all too willing to answer. It no longer mattered that they were standing in the middle of the dojo. They were alone, and she wanted him as much as he now wanted her.
He slipped a hand around the strap of her backpack. It hit the floor with a heavy thud, and Duncan spared a half-second's thought to wonder what was in the bag to make it so, and to wince at the damage to the wooden floor. Her closeness was like a drug, lulling him to euphoria. Her hands moved to tug at his shirt, and he forgot about the backpack. He heard his shirt rip as she tore it from his body. He groaned as her deft fingers touched the waistband of his briefs, and heard her low, throaty, all-too-pleased laugh at his reaction.
"Oh no you don't," he told her, capturing those naughty hands. "Not yet." Careful to keep his eyes on her, he brought her fingers to his lips and gently nibbled on each one. He watched as her breathing became heavier and she quivered under his assault on her senses. Satisfied with the results, he let go of her hands.
She smiled, acknowledging his affect on her. "Is that the way you want to play?" she asked huskily. She shrugged off her jacket, then stripped off her T-shirt and bra in one fluid motion. Her breasts weren't large, but they were firm, and beautiful in Duncan's eyes. He spared a moment's attention about the scars he saw, but desire quickly overrode his questions.
He started to reach for her,
to touch the flesh she'd just exposed, but she placed a hand on his chest,
stopping his movement. Then she smiled at him and reached for the zipper
of his pants. As she removed his pants and underwear with practiced motions,
she dragged her body against his in a sensual caress. He tingled with
the contact, his eyes never leaving hers. She stopped only when her knees
hit the floor. He was drowning in the haze she was creating, lost in the
intoxication of skin against skin. Her hands grasped him just before he
felt her clever tongue, and all coherent thought was soon lost.
Kelly woke at first light, as was her habit. She stretched, careful not to disturb her new lover, and eased out of bed to examine her surroundings. She'd been too busy kissing Mac last night to notice much about the place, other than to get a quick impression of good defensibility, which had reassured her instincts regarding her personal safety.
Kelly explored the loft apartment in something close to shock. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting, but it hadn't been the wide, open space filled with a diverse mix of antiques and sleek modernity. She knew enough about expensive things to recognize quietly stated wealth, and she wondered just how loaded MacLeod was. Suddenly, the contrast between her worldly belongings — all of which could fit into the leather backpack she carried — and the obvious affluence in the room was a bit much. She fought to subdue the giggle the thought produced.
Telling herself she needed a shower and coffee, in that order, she pulled a diver's knife and a change of clothes from her backpack and sought out the bathroom. She was grateful that they'd had enough presence of mind to rescue the clothing they'd abandoned on the dojo floor before heading upstairs for a second session. She was enjoying the pounding of the spray on her back, her eyes closed against the flood of water, when she heard the shower curtain rustle.
Instinctively, she grabbed the knife.
"Well," Mac observed, deadpan, "I've heard of people bringing radios into the shower with them, but I must say, a knife's a very unusual choice."
She opened her eyes and saw him standing in the shower, eyeing her warily. Don't think I need that coffee, now, she thought. Nothing like an adrenaline rush to wake someone up in a hurry. "Sorry," she said, putting the knife on the ledge where she'd kept it ready. She leaned forward to kiss Mac, ensuring that the kiss was deep enough to distract him from asking any more questions. "I can make it up to you, if you like," she offered.
"I'm sure you can," he replied, desire in his eyes.
Kelly smiled, and proceeded to make him forget about the knife for quite some time.
Duncan studied Kelly as she lay cuddled against him in the early morning light, drowsy with the afterglow of spent passion. Her deeply tanned body was crisscrossed by faded scars, some even mute testimony to how close she'd come to death, and more than once at that.
"Why do you carry a knife with you into the shower, Kelly?" he asked quietly. "Why so many scars?"
She smiled, though the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Rough childhood," she said lightly. "I don't go anywhere without at least one knife."
"You're safe with me," he reassured her. "I won't hurt you or let anyone hurt you," he vowed.
"Doesn't matter, MacLeod," she responded, her voice flat. "The knives stay."
His fingers traced an irregular scar across the smooth plane of her stomach. Duncan had seen enough battle wounds in his life to know that the scar was a recent one, and that it had been made by a bladed weapon. "Because of this?" he asked quietly. "This isn't a childhood scar, Kelly."
She shrugged. "Sometimes I cut myself practicing." Wide awake now, she rolled out of bed and began to dress, taking clothes out of her backpack. She pulled on a faded blue T-shirt, not bothering with a bra, and then her jeans, followed by her boots and finally her knives. She picked up her jacket and backpack and was halfway to the door before Duncan realized her destination.
"Where are you going?" he asked, moving to intercept her.
Unable to go anywhere with his body blocking her path, she slipped on the jacket and slung her backpack onto one shoulder. Leaning in close, she kissed Duncan lightly. "I had a great time last night, lover, thanks." She ran a hand suggestively over his penis and he sucked in a breath. "But it's time for me to go."
"Stay. Please. I'd like to really get to know you better."
She chuckled. "Now that you know my body, you want to know my mind?"
"Something like that, yeah." He gave her his best charming smile, the one that had never failed him in four hundred some years of beguiling the opposite sex. He watched her mouth curve in appreciation of that power, and became utterly fascinated when she resisted it.
"I don't think so," she drawled.
Being turned down by a woman who'd just spent the night in his bed — a woman who had brazenly taken him on the floor of the dojo and then, later, dared him to seduce her — didn't happen very often to Duncan. He wondered if this was another challenge, and his lips arched into a smile. A very dangerous smile.
"Oh, is that a fact?"
The look she gave him was languorous. "Oh, most definitely," she agreed. "Now if you'll excuse me, I really do need to be going."
"You mentioned the other day something about needing help."
She smiled easily. "Oh, I got all the help I needed," she said suggestively. Then her voice grew cold. "Let me pass, MacLeod."
Duncan matched her tone. "Not until you tell me why I should."
"I do have a knife, and you're completely naked," she pointed out. She studied him, and a smile began to form on her lips. "Let me go now, and I promise I'll be back for dinner.and anything else you'd like."
Duncan considered her words,
then nodded slowly. As much as he wanted to spend all day with her, it
was unreasonable of him to expect that she felt like doing so. She struck
him as someone who didn't make promises lightly. He stepped aside, and
was rewarded with a brief, intense kiss.
She wasn't going to show.
He was almost sure of it. She was half an hour late, and Duncan was glad for the traffic jam that had caused him to start his dinner preparations fifteen minutes later than he'd wanted.
Duncan lit the candles and turned down the heat of the wine-braised chicken breasts and pasta dish he was baking. The wine he'd selected to go with the chicken and pasta was just at the right temperature. For a moment, he worried that he'd gone a bit overboard. He knew little about Kelly's preferences outside of the bedroom, and he wasn't sure how she'd react to the cozy scene he was setting. He sighed; he'd yet to completely understand women, but he reassured himself that at least he did know what generally worked with them.
At last, he heard the knock he'd been expecting. He opened the door to find Kelly, still dressed in the same clothes she'd left in earlier. She held a bottle of Irish whiskey and, to his surprise, a single red rose. She looked decidedly uncomfortable as she handed him the rose, and he hid a smile, kissing her instead.
He didn't hurry the kiss, taking his time to show her just how much he appreciated the simple gesture, how much he was glad she'd chosen to honor her promise. She quivered at the sweet tenderness he showed, and whimpered in protest when he ended the kiss to draw her inside the loft and shut the door.
"In a while, after dinner," he assured her, pleased with her reaction. "Hungry?" He moved to set the rose in a glass of water.
She blinked, recovering from the sensual reverie he'd woven with his kiss. "Starving," she admitted.
She followed Duncan into the kitchen and set the bottle of liquor on the counter. Her gaze caught sight of the wine he'd left open to breathe, and she swallowed nervously. "Guess this — " she pointed to the whiskey "— doesn't quite go with what you had planned for dinner."
He smiled as he drew out the entrée from the oven. "There's always later," he told her.
She inhaled the tantalizing scent of Merlot, chicken, herbs, and pasta as Duncan dished out the portions. "Smells wonderful," she said.
"Have a seat," Duncan invited her, gesturing to the small table off the side of the living room. He brought the filled plates of food over with a flourish as Kelly seated herself.
Kelly rarely had gourmet meals, though she'd been exposed to them enough in her life to know the difference. One bite convinced her that Duncan was a master chef, and she said as much to him.
He just smiled and accepted the compliment graciously.
"So, Kelly, where are you from?" Duncan asked.
"Ireland, but my father's American," she answered easily, taking a sip of wine. The wine complemented the flavor of the chicken perfectly. Though she wasn't a wine drinker, the blend of tastes caused Kelly to nearly moan in appreciation. "He considered Ireland home, though we didn't spend a lot of time there."
"Oh, really?" Duncan tasted his meal, and was glad that the chicken hadn't dried out too much.
Kelly's expression took on a faraway look as she remembered her father. "We did a lot of traveling," she said vaguely. "He was a specialist in international relations." She said the last phrase with a smile, as if she knew a private joke. Duncan was about to ask her to explain when she distracted him with, "MacLeod, that's Scottish, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," he answered her.
"I've been there," she told him. "I thought about moving there, actually, but.." She stopped herself abruptly, as if the decision was too personal. A shadow of — fear? disappointment? regret? — Duncan wasn't sure which — flickered across her heart-shaped face. Then she smiled. In perfect Gaelic, she declared, "A warrior's land, that is Scotland. Not my first choice for home, but I'd cherish her nonetheless." In English she added, "If I could live there, anyway."
Surprised by Kelly's knowledge of his native tongue, though her Irish dialect was distinct, Duncan answered her in kind. "If you intend to steal my heart, Kelly, you're doing a good job."
She chuckled, delighted at his response. In English, she said, "Oh, I don't want your *heart*, MacLeod." She held his gaze meaningfully before taking a bite of pasta in a sensual manner.
Chapter
Three
With a tired sigh, Kelly locked the door of the dojo behind the last customer. Duncan was out of town, spending the holiday with his kinsman, and she'd volunteered to fill in as manager so that Robert could also take Thanksgiving week off. Duncan had wanted to take her along to Scotland with him, but she'd resisted, telling him she didn't wanting to intrude on his family. It wasn't exactly the truth, but he'd accepted it without noticing the white lie. He was due back in the morning, but until then, she was on her own.
She was infinitely glad he'd decided to take her at her word, and that in the few weeks that they'd been lovers, Duncan had learned that Kelly wouldn't be swayed once she'd made a decision. She'd steadfastly refused his offer to have her teach a women's self-defense class, believing that it felt like a handout after becoming his lover. She'd even refused his generous attempt to buy her new clothes. If it wouldn't fit into her backpack, she wasn't going to bother getting it. Staying forever in one place was one commitment she wasn't ready to make. She had, however, agreed to move into the loft; the motel was a dive, and she'd been more than willing to leave.
She was even gladder that he hadn't been home to hear her scream. It wasn't often she got nightmares, but when she did, they were invariably filled with every possible image of death she'd faced over the years. She always woke from one of those black dreams bawling like a banshee. She hated that, especially when she was involved with someone. Explaining why she had over twenty years' worth of demons tormenting her subconscious was not on her list of favorite things to do.
Having locked up the dojo, she grabbed her jacket and headed for Joe's. She'd gotten to know Joe, and she liked him.
She was surprised to find the club had a "Closed" sign in the window, as it was only the day before Thanksgiving. Finding the door unlocked, she stepped inside and was immediately greeted with "Bar's closed tonight, sorry."
"Joe, it's me," she called back, walking further into the darkened club. "What's wrong?"
She could see Joe sitting on the stage, guitar in hand. "You'd be better asking me what's going right, Kelly," he told her. "The band I hired canceled, the waitresses I had scheduled are either sick or lazy, and my partner Mike got called out of town on a family emergency. I'd open the bar for business, except my beer guy never showed and I was expecting to get restocked."
Kelly shook her head sympathetically. "Life sucks, doesn't it?" she commented.
Joe studied her momentarily before his mouth widened in a reluctant smile. "Yeah," he agreed on a half-laugh, setting the guitar aside. "How are things going with you?"
"Not bad," she told him, taking a seat on the bar stool nearest Joe. "I'm managing the dojo for Duncan for the week." She paused. "Something tells me you don't really approve."
"Mac's a friend," Joe returned evenly. "You're full of secrets, Kelly. Secrets have a way of hurting people," he told her bluntly, remembering the fiasco with Charlie. He hadn't thought of Charlie DeSalvo in a long time, and Kelly's sudden relationship with Mac worried him. "Beginning with how you know Charlie and why you feel the need to carry a gun *and* a knife, when either one would be enough to hurt somebody."
She had to give him credit. The leather jacket she wore was specially tailored to allow room for the concealed holster, and only an experienced eye could discern the telltale bulge. "Congrats, not many people notice that."
Joe smiled. "It's amazing the things you learn while running a bar," he told her.
Kelly sighed, giving in to the quietly stated demand. Joe's eyes were too knowing to ignore. "Charlie and I fought together in the Balkans. Anyway, he said that if I ever got tired of war, to come here and see him." She paused, sensing Joe was waiting for the other part of her story, the part she wasn't willing to reveal. Caution made her wary; long practice had kept her alive, and there were many things Joe didn't need to know. "So here I am," she finished.
"Four years later," Joe observed, moving off the stage to stand before her.
Kelly shrugged. "Took me a while to work my way back to this side of the world."
"Doing what?"
She kept her voice casual, resenting the questioning. She was tired, and all she'd wanted was a drink, not the Inquisition. One part of her knew that Joe meant well, but she was quicker to anger when she was exhausted. "Oh, nothing extraordinary," she said, gesturing randomly with a hand. "Kill a few people in some forgotten country. Blow up a couple of buildings. Go find another war to fight in, hang out in a militia camp for a while, work on my tan hitchhiking across country, and fend off a couple of would-be rapists and murderers while I'm at it." She met Joe's gaze. "You know, the usual stuff."
Joe's laugh was short. "Most people wouldn't call that laundry list 'ordinary', Kelly."
She shrugged again. "It's what I know." She paused, and her tone was deadly quiet when she spoke again. "Now, if you have a problem with me, Joe, just come right out and tell me. Otherwise, what I do with my life is my business. I don't owe you any explanations." She rose to her feet, angry that she was getting the third degree. "MacLeod accepts me as I am. Why can't you?"
"I'm not MacLeod," Joe replied. "And right now, Kelly, you're trouble with a capital 'T'. I'm just trying to protect a friend."
"Why? Because I walk around armed?" Kelly challenged. "In case you haven't noticed, it's a dangerous world out there. Or maybe," she added, thinking aloud, "you're just jealous." She watched Joe's face, and smiled at the expression of guilt she read. "I know you want me, Joe. I can tell." Her voice dropped, became a predatory whisper. "It bothers you, doesn't it, to covet what MacLeod has?"
"I don't want what he has," Joe denied honestly.
"You lie," Kelly retorted. She circled the older man, taking in his measure, then stopped just in front of him. "You want me, and you don't trust me. That doesn't sit well, now, does it?" She leaned in closer and watched him unconsciously sway towards her. "You know what, Joe?" she questioned quietly. "That's not a problem for me. I've slept with people with less in common than that. Add *that* to your collection of things to dislike about me."
She paused. "I don't give a flying rat's ass if you ever like me, trust me, or fuck me. If there's some rule that I have to follow to get you to like me, to trust me, in order for me to be MacLeod's lover, then by God show the damn thing to me so I can get on with my life." She took his measure, and nodded slowly. "I thought not."
She executed a neat pivot and walked towards the door. Halfway there, she stopped, sighed heavily, and turned back.
Joe watched her return and braced himself for what she was going to say.
She stopped in front of him and closed her eyes. She was struggling for control. One fist was convulsively clenching, and a muscle twitched in her jaw as she fought to control her anger. When she opened her eyes again, Joe could see they were jade pools of emotion.
"I'm sorry, Joe. That was deliberately cruel." She paused, and took a deep breath. "As one old soldier to another, truce?" She offered a hand.
Joe looked at her. Why hadn't he noticed the shadows under her eyes? If he wasn't mistaken, she was holding herself together with sheer force of will. A stiff breeze would probably knock her over right now. She was worn out, and he supposed that running the dojo without Mac or Robert to guide her was probably more hassles than she'd bargained for. His attitude towards her softened.
"Friends," he corrected, shaking her hand.
She smiled ruefully. "Friends,"
she agreed.
The following day
The wind was bitterly cold and dead leaves littered the grounds of the cemetery. Kelly knelt in front of a simple marker and placed a memorial bouquet in the vase provided. The flowers made a vivid splash of color against the spread of brown and gold. She shivered as the wind bit through her unlined jacket and hunched her shoulders in a vain attempt to conserve warmth. It was a fruitless gesture, she knew; she was already more than half-frozen.
She exhaled tiredly and told herself that the cold suited the way she felt. "I was so hoping you'd be here," she told the grave, rising to her feet. "I could really, really use a friend right now.
"You should've listened, Charlie," she said, her words bitter with the regret she rarely let herself feel. "And I shouldn't have been so willing to help you. I knew better." She'd known the likely outcome of Charlie's quest was failure, and yet she'd wanted Mara's killer to pay for his actions. There was no changing the past. Kelly had learned that lesson a long time ago. "I hope you got the son of a bitch before you died."
"He didn't," a male voice informed her.
Kelly whirled, pulling a knife out and assuming a defensive posture even as her mind processed the identity of the man before her, leaning heavily on a cane. Recognizing him, she relaxed and put away the knife.
"Joe." She sighed with relief. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged and made his way to the grave. "After you stopped by earlier asking where Charlie was buried, I got to thinking I hadn't paid my respects in a long time." He stared at the marker a moment. "He was a good man."
Kelly nodded. "You knew him well?"
"Mainly through MacLeod," Joe affirmed. He paused and waited for Kelly to precede him before they made their way to Joe's car. "You and Mac...you're pretty serious about him, aren't you?"
She didn't answer right away. For the briefest of moments, Joe was certain she'd react with the same anger she'd shown him the previous night. "I miss him." She laughed hollowly. "I didn't expect to. I'm not used to this, Joe," she confessed finally. "I don't know how to deal with it or what to tell him about me."
Joe stopped just at the passenger side of his car. "You might be surprised what Mac will accept," he said encouragingly.
Kelly exhaled noisily. "I don't know about that," she stated. She turned to look at Charlie's grave one more time. "I can't change what happened," she said with such an odd tone Joe was sure she wasn't just talking about Charlie's death, "but I sure as hell can find somewhere else that I might be able to make a difference in what does happen."
She caught Joe's look of puzzlement and visibly pulled herself out of her dark mood. "Say, buster," she said in her best guaranteed-to-get-a-ride-hitchhiker's voice, "can you give me a ride to the best blues club in town? I walked here and my feet hurt."
Joe shook his head at her sudden mood change and surrendered to her charm.
Chapter Four
Three days later
For the third time in an hour, Duncan checked the street door to the loft, trying to see if he could spot Kelly. He knew it was a fruitless exercise, as the unexpected, heavy snow had turned the visibility to nearly nil. Kelly had said she was going to get some groceries, but that had been five hours ago. She'd borrowed his car, so he was stuck without transportation until she came back. He reminded himself that she was perfectly capable of handling a snowstorm without him coming to her rescue. She was a modern woman, and as such, didn't expect, want, or need a man to play hero.
The knowledge was small comfort compared to the expectations, wants, and needs that were an integral part of Duncan. He expected to be able to protect his woman. He wanted to protect her. He needed to protect her — from the Game, if nothing else, and he'd do anything within his power to ensure that.
Kelly was still a mystery to him in many ways. He knew her body intimately, could list her favorite foods like his own, and had been surprised to discover she loved French movies — in French, without subtitles. There were a hundred other little details he could name about Kelly — but he still didn't know why she'd chosen to show up now, four years after Charlie's death, much less how she'd come to know Charlie. He'd asked once, and she'd changed the subject. When pressed, Kelly simply refused to answer. The habit was as maddening as it was effective.
Duncan was also worried because he knew Kelly had left dressed only in her typical attire. The T-shirt d'jour had, to Duncan's relief, no holes or rips, but that was only because she'd taken one of the dojo's promotional shirts, and it hadn't had time to be as worn out as the other six she owned. Her jeans were so thin from constant wear, he'd been painfully reminded of how Richie's looked when Richie had moved in. Her leather jacket wasn't lined, nor were her boots. She hadn't taken Duncan's cell phone with her, either, and though he knew he'd put emergency supplies in the trunk of the car, he knew no one could survive a long period in the cold.
If it hadn't been snowing so badly, he'd be tempted to call Joe and enlist his aid, but Duncan didn't want to take that risk. That left pacing, and willing the phone to ring, neither of which did anything for Duncan's patience. He tried doing a kata, but gave up in frustration when his concentration kept straying to thoughts of Kelly.
Two hours passed. Then he heard the elevator motor rattle, and his hope rose with the grinding of the gears. Relief washed over him as he heard Kelly swearing, then saw her. Wet trails marked her clothes where snow had clung to her and melted.
"Goddamn fucking stupid everything," she swore as she threw the gate up and strode into the room, turning at the last second to dump the bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter. The groceries hit the counter with a resounding clunk. She pulled a half-gallon of milk out and threw open the refrigerator door. She swore again in Russian, a particularly vivid epithet about capitalistic Americans that raised Duncan's eyebrows. As if realizing her actions were violent, she took a shuddering, deep breath and gently set the milk onto the top rack of the refrigerator, then shut the door. More calmly, she put the few remaining groceries away before turning to Duncan.
"Sorry I'm late getting back," she apologized, stepping close to embrace and kiss him.
"Is it really that bad out there?" he asked. "I was really getting worried about you."
She stepped away from Duncan and stripped off her jacket and boots. With an exhausted sigh, she plopped onto the couch and closed her eyes. "It's bad," she informed him. "Though I could have handled the crush of people at the grocery store; you'd think someone declared famine effective tomorrow by the way they were acting. I could've even handled the goddamned road conditions. Your car needs new brakes, by the way."
Duncan groaned as her words impacted. "I'll take care of that as soon as the weather lets up," he promised. "I didn't realize they were that bad."
"Well," she noted wryly, "if they weren't bad before, they are now. I think I used the brake pedal more than I did the gas." She sighed heavily. "Of course, it's just my damn luck that I get stopped by a cop."
"You what?"
Kelly's eyes snapped open upon hearing the angry disbelief in his voice. "Yeah, can you believe it?" She rose to her feet and began to pace. "It's so goddamn fucking stupid. It's a blizzard out there, and this cop decides to stop me because he thinks I'm acting suspicious. I'm going slow, damn it, not speeding at all, and he thinks I'm some kind of crook."
She paused for breath, then continued, "He checks the car registration, and of course, the T-bird's registered to you, so he thinks I stole it, and proceeds to take me downtown. We get downtown, and they can't get a hold of you for some stupid reason — something about the address on the registration is incorrect, because they keep calling this antique shop and irritating the hell out of this poor Pakistani dude. So they decide to book me for false registration, and that's when they find my knives and my gun. That makes them decide they want to add carrying concealed weapons without a permit to the charge. I would've still been there, except someone recognized your name and convinced the sergeant in charge that the department owed you some favors. Thank God it's so cold out there. I would've killed someone if I had to go back into the grocery store to replace the milk."
Duncan absorbed the torrent of information in shock. "Wait a minute," he said slowly. "Let me get this straight. You were picked up by the cops."
Kelly stopped her pacing and nodded.
"And you had your knives, and a gun?" At Kelly's second nod, Duncan roared, "What the hell are you doing with a gun? Aren't three knives enough?" He glared at her.
She turned puzzled eyes at him. "No," she replied simply, as if the reasons for doing so were obvious. "And before you ask, the gun is mine, and I must thank you for whatever the hell it is you did to have a police department grateful to you because I don't have permits for it."
Duncan threw his hands in the air in frustration. "Well, I'm glad for that, but Kelly, I had no idea where you were or what happened to you."
"I wasn't allowed to make any fucking calls, MacLeod!" Kelly said in exasperation. "They were convinced I was a criminal," she muttered. "I'm not a criminal, I'm a mercenary. There's a difference."
Duncan stared at her. The words looped through his head like some CD he'd left on continuous play. Her paranoia suddenly made sense even as his image of her was indelibly changed.
"Oh, shit." She clasped her hands to cover her mouth. An embarrassed flush crept up her cheeks. "I was just kidding about the mercenary part," she tried to backpedal, but Duncan wasn't buying it.
"Kelly," her lover demanded, "I'm waiting." With exaggerated casualness, he took a seat on the couch.
She took a deep breath. "Okay, I wasn't kidding," she said quickly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get out of these wet clothes and take a shower." She hurried towards the bathroom.
"Kelly." Duncan's voice was full of fury.
She paused in mid-stride and winced at the emotion that vibrated from Duncan like a pager in silent mode. "Really, Mac, I need to get out of these clothes before I catch a cold."
Duncan heard the note of finality in her voice and knew she wasn't going to budge. "When you're finished changing, we'll talk," he told her. He leveled his most commanding stare at her.
She sighed and nodded, acknowledging his words. Then she turned and headed into the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, she emerged and walked resolutely to where Duncan sat on the couch. She seated herself on the side chair across from him and waited for him to speak, like a condemned, but nonetheless unbroken, prisoner awaiting sentence.
"You're a professional soldier," he stated. Now that he'd had some time to adjust to the concept, he wasn't angry. He'd been one himself a time or two. It hurt more that she'd successfully avoided all discussion of her past — until now. He'd shared more about himself to her than he'd had with anyone in a long time. He conveniently forgot he still held the biggest secret of all. "I assume that's how you met Charlie."
She nodded. "We fought together. I tried to get him not to go after Cord, but when it became clear he wasn't going to listen, I decided to help him."
Duncan's blood ran cold at her words. "Help him?" he asked in a dangerous tone.
Kelly blinked a bit at that. "He had no idea where Cord went to — Charlie jumped out a window to escape, and then we had to patch up all those glass cuts he suffered. By the time Charlie was ready to take off, Cord was long gone." She shrugged. "Least I could do is make sure he had the weapons to get the bastard that killed Mara."
The sheer enormity of her action was causing havoc in Duncan. He forced himself to breathe calmly and remind himself she had no idea what the results of her actions were. "Cord killed Charlie before he could finish it."
She was quiet a moment, then she shrugged again. "Too bad."
"That's all you can say about it?" Duncan couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was she really that unemotional? The Kelly who sat across from him was a stranger. Or were the passionate lover, the considerate friend, the lie? Either way, he did not like to be taken for a fool.
"What do you want me to say about it?" she countered calmly. "I grew up in war zones. My father was a mercenary, and he took me with him everywhere. I've seen more death than you can possibly imagine. Hell, I've caused more than a few myself. I can't change what happened anymore than I can stop feeling that Charlie's death was a waste of a good man." She paused. "I've learned to deal with grief, MacLeod. You remember people best when you go on living, not wallow in regret."
The quiet truth of her words struck home. How many times had he thought, said, or done something similar? Duncan wondered. Too many, he thought. In a way, what Kelly did for Charlie wasn't all that different than what he'd done for other friends. Where was the shame in that?
"Aye," he agreed at last. "How long have you been fighting other people's wars?"
She smiled, relief at his acceptance evident in her face. "You'd be better off asking when I haven't been." Realizing he wanted details, she gave them freely, aware that he'd merely persist in asking questions until she was sick of them. "My mother died when I was two years old. We were in Northern Ireland then, and my father fought for the wrong side in someone's eyes. They killed my mother, but spared me in an act of Christian charity."
She shook her head. Even after all that she'd experienced, she still didn't understand the logic behind that maneuver.
"All I remember is wandering the streets of Belfast, trying to find my parents. My father told me it took three days before he found me. After that, he made sure I was with him. Nearly got us killed a couple of times, but he did his best to make sure I didn't grow up thinking war was the only answer to solving problems."
Without asking, Duncan knew her father was dead. His heart ached for the child she'd been, the things she'd learned to accept as normal. He reached out for her, and she rose from her position on the side chair to snuggle into his comforting embrace.
"Why'd you come here, Kelly?" he asked quietly.
"I had a friend here, someone who understood me, and I had nowhere else I wanted to go," she stated simply. She laughed softly, not quite certain how to deal with the odd sense of security Duncan's arms gave her. It had been so long since she'd felt this safe, and the thought reminded her just how precarious her haven was. "Actually, since Interpol wants my head, there really isn't anywhere I can go."
"For what?"
"I killed one of their agents in Scotland about a year ago," she told him. Feeling his jerk of surprise, she explained, "He was trying to rape me. I was just playing tourist, you know, see a castle or two, and maybe see if I could get a job there because I'm persona non grata in Ireland." She didn't explain that last comment, and Duncan wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer. He kept silent and allowed her to continue. "His partner only saw me pull my knife out of the creep, and she arrested me for the murder of her partner. I've never been fond of jails, so I escaped."
"You honestly believe that they aren't looking for you?"
"Oh, I'm sure they are," she disagreed. "It's my word against a cop's, and the cop's dead. Besides, I'm wanted anyway, just because I blew up a building in Ireland someone thinks I shouldn't have. I didn't kill anybody then, so I don't understand what all the fuss about losing a mayor's office is about."
"You blew up a mayor's office?" Duncan asked incredulously. His grip tightened on her slightly, as if he could somehow deny her yesterdays by just holding her more firmly.
"Got paid a couple grand to do it, why not? It was a favor for a friend. Looked like a plain old run-down office building in need of demolition to me."
Duncan rubbed his face tiredly. He suspected there was a lot that Kelly had done he wasn't going to agree with, but he knew for certain that whatever it was, he was determined to see that she stayed with him. His heart ached at the thought of watching her trying to escape her past. He knew she could never really be free until she faced it. "How long are you going to run?"
She shrugged. "I'm not running, I'm retreating," she corrected, and felt Duncan shake his head at the semantic twist. "I was kinda hoping Charlie might be able to help me figure that part out. Ordinarily, I'd just lose myself in someone else's war, but I'm tired of fighting."
"You'll need a good lawyer." Duncan's mind raced.
Kelly turned in his arms and smiled. "I don't think that's such a good idea. I'll be fine, Mac. They haven't found me yet." To distract him, and to banish the nerves that were tying her stomach in knots, she buried her face in his neck to breathe a series of slow feather kisses there.
Wise to her methods, he resisted, even though her touch was sending shivers of delight coursing through him. "Kelly," he growled warningly.
She stopped. Sighed. It was clear she wasn't going to win this battle, but she had to make one last attempt. "No," she told him firmly. "I didn't ask for your help, and I'm not expecting it. If they get close, I'll just go."
"At least let me see what can be done to clear your name," Duncan insisted.
"Okay," she acquiesced reluctantly, wanting to drop the topic. Changing the subject, she grinned wickedly and asked, "So, now that we're pretty much snowed in, what do you want to do to pass the time?"
Chapter
Five
December
Kelly lay sprawled in the middle of the bed. A pillow was propped in front of her, acting as a support for the mystery novel she'd found on one of the bookshelves. She'd already figured out who committed the murder, even started a halfhearted attempt to plot out a better strategy for the murderer, but she didn't feel like doing anything else. She decided there was something sinfully decadent about being able to do absolutely nothing without worrying about someone trying to shoot at her or otherwise interrupting her solitude. MacLeod was at the university, and she didn't expect him to be home for several hours.
She laughed softly at herself, remembering a time when she'd complained of not having enough to do. She and her father had been living in Paris, playing civilian after a close call in Angola. One day, she'd declared that Paris was boring, therefore, she wanted to go to the Amazon. She'd been so disappointed to discover that the Amazon was no more exciting or action-filled than the city she'd just left. She'd hated being excluded from the battlefield, she remembered fondly. Now, she couldn't seem to get enough of being away from it.
It was a strange experience, she thought, to wake up every morning beside someone. She hadn't had a lover in years, and most of her experience was limited to encounters of convenience. She'd gotten used to going after what she wanted and leaving in the morning. It was even more novel to wake up to someone who accepted her completely. Well, she amended, there had been that small argument about her choice of profession, but Mac had gotten used to the idea, once he'd finished shouting at her about it. That had been a little over two weeks ago.
Home. Funny how quickly she'd come to think of MacLeod's apartment as home. She'd been living out of her backpack for so long, she hadn't realized just how nice it was to have a permanent place of residence. She sighed contentedly and rolled over on her back to stare at the ceiling. And to have a roof over my head that isn't leaking, camouflage-colored, or brought to me courtesy of nature..
She laughed at herself and rolled back over. When was the last time she'd felt this happy? she wondered, trying to remember. It had been while her father was still alive, she knew. Idly, she combed her hair with her fingers and tried to think. She quickly gave up; it had been a long time, and she was far too comfortable to go digging deeply into the recesses of her memories.
She heard the elevator start up, and wondered who it could be. Robert, Mac's operating partner, was running the dojo, and rarely came up during business hours, though he had a key to the elevator. She'd learned that Joe also had a key, and so she checked her watch. It's after noon, she thought. The bar's open now. Automatically, she reached for the military-issue combat knife that lay underneath the pillow, but did not draw it from its hiding place.
The individual who sauntered off the lift wasn't Joe. In fact, it wasn't anyone she recognized — though she knew a fellow survivor when she saw one. He reminded her of a jungle cat — comfortable as he entered familiar territory, yet alert for danger, with dark eyes that missed little. He froze when he noticed her defensive posture.
"Do you greet all of Macs' friends with a defensive posture or just the ones you haven't met yet?" he asked in a deceptively easy tone.
She matched his voice. "For all I know, you could've murdered Mac and stolen his key."
Her lanky visitor considered the idea a moment. "No, I don't think so," he said. "Too many questions, and I like having the Boy Scout around."
The nickname made Kelly chuckle, and she relaxed. Releasing her grip on the knife, she smiled. "You must know him well, then, to call him that. I'm Kelly Pyron." She extended the hand that had held the knife in clear invitation.
He eyed her warily, but nonetheless moved to complete the handshake. "Adam Pierson, and yes, I know him well." He paused. "Something happen lately or do you really just greet everyone you don't know with a — what was that, anyway?"
She pulled away the pillow to reveal a parkerized combat knife with blood groove and rot resistant handle. The blade itself from tang to tip was a good seven inches long. Against the white of the pillowcase, it was a blue-black instrument of deadly beauty. Her smile widened as she noted Adam's reaction. "I really do greet everyone I don't know with a weapon. I've stayed alive a long time that way."
"Isn't that a bit paranoid?"
She shrugged. "Better paranoid than dead." She paused, contemplating whether or not to ask why Adam had showed up. Then she remembered that it was the holiday season, not to forget MacLeod's birthday was fast approaching. It would only be logical for an old friend to put in an appearance. "Mac's at the university. He won't be back for another three hours."
Having decided to trust that she wasn't going to use the knife on him, Adam headed for the kitchen and pulled out a beer from the refrigerator. As he did so, he told Kelly, "That's okay, I'll just make myself at home."
She shook her head at his familiarity with the living space. "It looks like you already are," she responded dryly, watching him twist open the beer bottle and flip the cap behind the fridge.
"How long have you known Mac?" he asked casually, taking a swallow of the alcoholic beverage.
Kelly smiled. "Since mid-October," she told him. Without being aware of it, her demeanor lost some of its hard edge as she added, "He's really special."
"Yeah, he's really something, all right," Adam agreed, his expression deadpan.
Kelly didn't catch the subtle irony of his comment. "Well, if you're comfortable, I'm going downstairs to see if there's anything interesting going on in the dojo." She set the book aside and slipped off the bed. She was just about to close the gate on the elevator when Adam's words stopped her.
"I thought you said you never went anywhere without a knife?" he asked in puzzlement, gesturing to the weapon she'd left on the bed.
She smiled at him. "I don't. I just don't feel like carrying another one right now."
Not waiting for his reaction, she closed the gate and started the elevator.
And here I was hoping Mac's life had finally settled into the realm of 'boring', the new arrival thought with a chuckle. Damned if I don't like her already. She's definitely a looker, and she's smart enough to protect herself.. As he had nothing else to do, Adam whiled away a good hour speculating on Mac's relationship with Kelly.
He had just decided on the best way to tease Mac about it when Kelly burst into the room from the street-side door. He observed, completely baffled, as she hastily stuffed clothes and various personal accessories into a leather rucksack. As she packed, she swore — in Swahili, if his ears weren't mistaken — before adding Russian, French, Spanish, Gaelic, and finally English curses to the litany. Having understood every word, Adam decided that he was glad that he wasn't the poor soul whose family heritage, along with any current and future descendants, had been dissected, hexed, drawn, quartered, and offered to the gods of darkness for all eternity.
"Problem?" he asked mildly.
Her packing complete, she took one last look around the loft. "You could say that."
He wasn't going to get involved. The woman was clearly trouble. To top things off, she was obviously Mac's lover; if he'd had any doubts before she'd started packing, the arrangement of her clothes in Mac's bureau was the final nail in the coffin. That meant, in Adam's case, that she was the kind of trouble that could possibly result in his death. Hell of a time to decide to wish the Highlander a happy birthday in person, old man, he chided himself.
He watched as she slipped on a leather jacket. She proceeded to sling the backpack over one shoulder, then the other. Next, she picked up the combat knife she'd abandoned earlier and slid it into an inside pocket of the leather jacket.
"You know," he noted, "whatever it is, I'm sure Mac would be more than happy to help you."
She laughed humorlessly. "I told him the lawyer wasn't a good idea," she said without explanation. "Listen, it was nice to meet you, Adam. Hope I see you again sometime."
With that, she sprinted out of the side door, leaving Adam to stare, bewildered, in the direction which she'd disappeared.
He didn't have much time to contemplate the reasons for her abrupt departure. He'd just taken up a comfortable position on the couch facing the elevator when he felt the Presence of another Immortal. The persona of Adam Pierson vanished as Methos, the world's oldest Immortal and the survivor of a thousand battles, emerged and calculated the odds. He knew instinctively it wasn't Mac. Ever since the shared Quickening in Bordeaux, he'd been able to tell Mac apart from other Immortals.
Methos debated the wisdom of following Kelly's example. He could always come back later. Tahiti was beginning to look more inviting by the minute.
Matters were taken out of his hands, however, when Robert stepped off the elevator, accompanied by a woman with short blonde hair. Instantly, Methos relaxed into "Adam Pierson," world-traveler, former graduate student, and recent Immortal.
The woman was dressed in a knee-length burgundy-hued overcoat, black slacks, and sensible shoes. She was of average build and height. When she turned to face Adam, he saw that her face resembled an alligator's — long nose; protruding, beady eyes, cruel mouth, and leathery skin Immortality hadn't fixed. She looked to be in her late thirties, but he knew looks were deceiving.
"Sorry to bother you, Adam," Robert apologized, "but Inspector Mallory wanted to talk to Kelly, and I thought she was still up here."
The woman stepped forward at the mention of her name. "Connie Mallory, Interpol," she stated challengingly. She flashed an identification card as if it was a playing card she was tossing onto a table.
As if he wasn't aware of the undercurrents in her voice, Adam stayed on the couch. He leaned more comfortably into the soft leather and gave her his best puzzled-but-helpful expression. "What can I do for you, Inspector?"
"Do you know where Kelly Pyron went?" Unspoken was the suggestion that he'd had something to do with her leaving.
Adam shrugged. The problem with honesty, he'd long ago determined, was that no one ever believed you when you told them the precise facts. He suspected that whatever he told the other Immortal would be taken as a lie. Therefore, he told her the truth. "Not a clue. Is there a problem?"
"She's a murderer, a thief, and a terrorist," Mallory stated flatly, ignoring Robert's gasp of surprise. Her gaze took in the loft, calculating its contents and finding them lacking. "I've traced her here. And when I find out where she's hiding, someone's going to pay."
And you've selected me as that "someone," Adam translated silently. I don't think so. To Mallory, he said innocently, "Are you sure there's not some mistake? She seems like such a nice woman."
Mallory held Adam's gaze a moment, clearly disbelieving. "I'll find her," she declared, and stalked to the elevator.
Robert shot Adam a confused look before stepping back into the elevator, closing the gate, and sending the machinery downwards.
I knew there was a good reason to stay in Tahiti, the loft's lone occupant thought sourly. Mac's not going to like this development, and he'll probably think I'm responsible. Great, just great.
Two hours later
"What do you mean, she just took off?" Duncan thundered. "What did you do to scare her off, Methos?" He glared at the other man reproachfully.
Methos lifted his shoulders in a gesture that conveyed his innocence. It gave him no pleasure to think that he'd been right that Mac would blame him for Kelly's disappearance. "I didn't do anything, Mac." With grudging admiration for Kelly's preparedness, he added, "She pulled a knife on me when I walked in, do you think I'm going to be stupid enough to piss her off?"
"She what?" Duncan was so angry, it took him a few seconds to remember that Kelly didn't know Methos, and therefore *would* greet him with one of her blades. "Never mind, I know why." He forced himself to breathe calmly. "Did she say shed' be back?"
The other man shook his head. "She did say something about the lawyer being a bad idea, though."
"Damn it."
Methos hesitated, certain that Mac wouldn't like the next bit of information he had to impart. Withholding it, though, served no purpose. Mentally, he braced himself for the storm to follow his words. "After she left, an Interpol agent showed up, looking for her. A Connie Mallory, one of us." He paused again. "Does Kelly know?"
Duncan swore again and shook his head. "I haven't told her." His gaze narrowed as a thought occurred to him. "Though she does carry at least three knives....no, that's just Kelly. She's a professional soldier."
Well, that certainly explains a lot, Methos thought. "Even so, Kelly might already know, Mac. Don't you find it a bit strange that she'll pull out a knife over a gun?"
"Either way, we have to find her before Mallory does."
"How the hell do you propose to do that, Mac? Seacouver's not exactly a small town. You just said she's a pro, and we've both know how well an expert can disappear." He allowed himself a satisfied smile when the point registered. "She's not a child you have to protect because she's defenseless," Methos argued. "Kelly's armed. She knows how to defend herself. Face it, Mac, she's not your typical helpless female."
"I cannae just sit by and wait for her to come home," Mac stated.
Methos took a look at his friend and knew he wouldn't be swayed from the decision. Honor will get you killed every time, Highlander. I definitely should have stayed in Tahiti. Beautiful women, sandy beaches, no Boy Scouts in sight.. Most professional soldiers who didn't want to be found had a habit of remaining incognito, Methos knew. He suspected Mac wouldn't appreciate being reminded of that. He hunched his shoulders and attempted to muster some enthusiasm for Mac's cause.
"Joy, and happy birthday to you too, Highlander."
Chapter Six
Joe's, after closing
"Mallory's only been Immortal sixty years," Joe informed the two men who occupied his club. Both, Joe knew, had spent the last six hours turning Seacouver upside down trying to locate Kelly, without success. Wherever Kelly had run to, it was a damn good hiding place. No one wanted to think about the alternative.
"Her teacher was a Alex Gregory, presumed dead; he hasn't been seen since then and it's thought that she might have killed him. She's not a headhunter, but she is very ruthless. She's been cited for brutality by Interpol on numerous occasions."
"Any word on where Mallory is now?" Duncan asked.
Joe shook his head. "We're still looking. I won't even mention the incompetence of her Watcher."
Duncan swore and resumed pacing. Methos leaned, with studied casualness, against the bar and facing the door, but his eyes were on the Highlander.
"Kelly's lived this long without our help," Methos said into the silence that had fallen. "She'll be all right, Mac."
Duncan didn't reply. Both men could see his torment; it was written all over his face and exuded from his body with every step he took. Both understood his desire to protect those he cared about, and right now, Kelly was highest on the list.
Without warning, something heavy thudded against the locked door of the bar. Duncan stopped pacing, whirled, and instinctively grabbed his sword. He looked questioningly over at Methos.
"It's not one of us," the older Immortal confirmed.
The thud sounded again. As one, three minds jumped to a single conclusion. Duncan was across the floor in a heartbeat, while Methos hung back in typical fashion. Joe started towards the door, but ended up halfway between Duncan and Methos. Locks were thrown and the door swung open.
Joe's view of the portal was blocked by Duncan, but he knew he'd recognize that voice, with its faint Irish lilt, anywhere.
"Goddamn it, MacLeod, don't you know when a lady is knocking, you're supposed to open the fucking door?"
Duncan turned slightly, and Joe saw his suspicion confirmed. Relief started to wash over him. He had just enough time to register Kelly's torn and bloodied jacket before she sagged into Duncan's arms. Instantly, Joe's apprehension returned.
Duncan half-carried Kelly, half-dragged her limp form into the bar before shutting the door. He stretched her out on the floor, and shoved the remnants of her jacket aside. What he saw sent shivers down his spine.
Her shirt was in tatters, and blood caked. So much for her lucky T-shirt, he thought with bitter humor. The hip sheath where she kept a knife was missing, and the spot where it had been had obviously bled at some point. Wounds, of the kind inflicted by a sharp metal weapon, marked her. If she didn't get professional help soon, she would die from the loss of her life's fluids. He swallowed past the dread that formed in his throat. For one long, agonizing moment, all he could do was stare at her.
"What's wrong?" Joe asked. The question snapped Duncan out of his shock.
"Joe, call 911," Duncan ordered, his voice betraying his fear. God, please don't let Kelly die. "Methos, give me a hand. I need to stop the bleeding."
Joe had rarely seen Methos move quickly, and it always surprised him when Methos did so. This was one of those times, and Joe shook his head to clear the amazement. He had a job to do, a phone call to make.
Methos's hands flew over Kelly's body, long fingers inventorying injuries and wounds like the practiced physician he once was. Methos disappeared, and Joe vaguely realized that he was witnessing the person of Benjamin Adams, MD, working in tandem with Duncan MacLeod, Red Cross medic.
They'd just started administering first aid when the unmistakable stirrings of Presence washed over them. Duncan reached for his sword, but Methos shook his head.
"You're not thinking clearly right now, Highlander," he argued, his voice low enough so that only Duncan heard him. "Go off halfcocked now, and you'll lose."
Duncan closed his eyes momentarily, knowing Methos was right. All his thoughts were on Kelly, bleeding to death on the floor of the bar. He knew he could take Mallory's head without a problem, but all it would take would be one second's loss of concentration for him to lose his instead. His honor was divided between the need to keep Kelly alive and the desire for vengeance. "Mallory needs to pay for hurting Kelly."
"She will," Methos promised, holding the younger Immortal's gaze. "You just keep your head and make sure Kelly lives." Duncan started to protest, but Methos just shook his head. "Kelly needs you now, Highlander," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.
"Ambulance is on its way," Joe informed them, hanging up the phone. He read the looks on his friends' faces. "Damn it, not now."
"Now," Methos confirmed, rising to his feet. "I'll take care of this."
"You?" Joe questioned skeptically. "Chivalry's not your style."
Methos smiled without humor. "This isn't chivalry, Joe," he replied. "It's pest control."
Outside of Joe's
"You again," Mallory hissed when she saw who stepped out of the bar into the alley.
"Oh, hello," Methos said casually, walking as if to his car. "Bar's closed. I was just headed for the one down the street. Care to join me?"
"No," the other Immortal growled, holding a rapier in her left hand. Dark splotches marred the wine-colored trench coat she wore, and the blouse she wore underneath was torn, proof that Kelly had scored some hits.
Nice to know the knives weren't just for show, Methos nodded in silent approval. With any luck, Mallory would be weakened from having to heal so many stab and gunshot wounds in a short period of time. It would make his job easier, Methos knew, but he didn't make the mistake of counting on that assumption. In any case, he'd have no real way of telling just how much weaker she was. He brushed the thought aside and concentrated on the task at hand.
"Give me the woman and you can walk away."
"I don't think so," Methos said, drawing his single-hand broadsword and attacking.
Mallory hadn't been expecting a sudden move like that and was forced to go immediately on the defensive. It quickly became apparent she was accustomed to fighting only right-handed opponents, and relied heavily on the natural holes in a right-handed swordman's defense. As he was ambidextrous, Methos was able to parry her moves easily. In desperation, she pulled out her backup weapon —
But it was too late. She'd telegraphed the action, and Methos was already there with a countermove. He feinted a simple parry, a deception she went for like a rookie. The gun fell from her fingertips, knocked loose by Methos's own hideout, a main gauche. She stared at the dropped gun in shocked horror, forgetting for the instant it took her to process the impact of that failed maneuver that her opponent was now armed with two weapons, not one. Nor did she process the fact that he was now inside her line of defense. She looked up just in time to lose her head in one decisive stroke of Methos's blade.
The Quickening was brief. All that was Mallory became one with all that was Methos. He screamed with the horrible agony and sweet ecstasy of the joining. Lightning lit the sky and then dissipated. He recovered quickly, hearing the sound of sirens coming closer.
Chapter Seven
Three weeks later
"You're leaving." Duncan's voice startled Kelly from her packing, and she froze.
Cursing the stiffness from her injuries that caused her to move more slowly than she'd anticipated, Kelly turned to face her lover. She was tired; her nightmares had intensified, and she'd woken Duncan up the last three nights in a row. She couldn't believe she hadn't heard the elevator, and realized that he'd actually entered the loft from the street-side door. She cursed herself again for not hearing the door open; if it had been anyone other than a friend, she would have been dead.
"I have a job to do in Singapore, and I can't stay here with you forever."
"Why not?" He stepped closer.
"You deserve a heart without a past, someone who doesn't have old enemies coming out of the woodwork. Someone who doesn't wake up at three a.m. screaming horrors she can't name."
"I thought I told you, the charges Interpol has against you have been dropped? And I told you last night, I understand about the nightmares, even if you don't really want or can't talk about them. It's only natural you'd have those kinds of dreams after what Mallory did to you. We can get through this together."
She sighed. Mallory was just one fragment in her night terrors, and Kelly didn't feel like trying to explain the rest. Somehow, despite his acceptance of her profession, she didn't think MacLeod would really appreciate discovering the things she'd done as a child. Unconsciously, she flinched, remembering just how she'd stumbled across Mallory and found herself fighting for her life.
Duncan saw her shudder and moved to hold her, but she dodged his embrace and returned her focus on her meager possessions.
"It doesn't matter, MacLeod," she said resolutely and resumed packing. She'd lost what few possessions she'd had when Mallory had caught her, and Duncan had replaced nearly everything — including her knives. She was grateful for that, but she missed her lucky T-shirt. She ignored the voice that told her that shirt had nearly been the shirt in which she'd died, not once, but twice, and the second time had nearly been the final one. She also missed her gun, which Duncan hadn't replaced for reasons of his own. She suspected it had to do with her not having the permits to carry one, and she sighed again. Adam was right to call him a Boy Scout, she thought.
"So you're just going to pack up and leave? Are you crazy? You nearly died a few weeks ago, or did you not notice?"
She zipped up the rucksack and faced Duncan. "I noticed, MacLeod," she said flatly. Her eyes were blazing, but her words were chillingly calm. "I also noticed that when I killed Mallory, she didn't stay dead. I emptied a full clip of ammo into her, and she kept coming. I stuck a knife in her. She pulled out a goddamn sword and laughed at me. So yeah, I'm leaving. I'm going where the world I know makes sense and people die when you shoot at them."
"Kelly, you don't have to worry about Mallory."
"No?" she asked, arching a brow. "How do you know?" she asked. Then, a memory surfaced. "Oh, I get it. You have such influence and power in not only the local police department, but Interpol as well, that you know everything."
"I don't know everything, Kelly," Duncan said roughly. "But I do know that Mallory's dead."
"Really?" She crossed her arms. "What did you do, cut off her head?" she scoffed. Her sarcasm died as she read the expression on Duncan's face. "No," she denied. "You didn't."
"I didn't, but...that's the only way to kill someone like Mallory." Duncan took a deep breath. "Someone who's Immortal. Someone.like me."
Kelly stared at him, a fragment of a half-forgotten lesson her father had taught drifting through her mind.
"If you have to kill someone with your knife, try for their neck."
"My father told me stories about immortals," she said slowly. "He used to tell me he knew about them because he'd watched one. I always thought they were stories, but he taught me to kill with knives. Said I should try for the neck, if I could." She narrowed her gaze. "You mean he wasn't just making up bedtime stories."
"No," Duncan said, shaking his head. She was taking this information a lot better than he thought she would. "Not stories."
She turned away then, her mind reeling. Then she half-laughed and collapsed onto the bed. Duncan hesitated for a second before he moved to sit beside her. She was muttering in Gaelic about Irish storytellers and something about how she'd never believed her father to be one since he'd been American of French descent.
The oddball comment relaxed Duncan. In the same language, he told her gently, "Doesn't matter where your father came from, you know. What matters is if you believe him."
She smiled at Duncan's use of Gaelic. She sat up and faced Duncan. In English, she answered, "I believe you." She drew her knife, and looked at him questioningly.
Duncan took the weapon, knowing that despite her words, she wanted proof. He reversed his grip on the weapon, placing her hand on the hilt. She inhaled raggedly, then nodded her understanding. She plunged the knife into his heart, then pulled it out quickly.
Kelly stared as Duncan dropped to the bed, dead. She was too inured by death to go into hysterics. Idly, she thought that if she was so inclined to go into a shrieking fit, now would be a good time to do so. She'd really gotten used to MacLeod, she mused, and she was going to miss him terribly if he'd been lying. Of course, if he truly was dead, he wasn't going to get mad at her for withholding the real reason why she was going to Singapore.
She was scared. As the minutes ticked by, she knew regardless of what happened next, she had to go to Singapore. She had no choice. If she wanted her freedom, the chance to explore what she truly felt about MacLeod, she had to leave. It was terrifying enough to realize that he held her heart. For that alone, she would run, find somewhere she could think her feelings through.had planned on it, but the trip offered a convenient excuse. She hadn't counted on this.
Without warning, Duncan gasped for breath. Automatically, she reached for him and grasped his hand.
His eyes were dark as he sat up. In a thick brogue, he declared, "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and I cannot die unless you take my head."
She smiled, and was surprised to discover her eyes were moist. "I know," she said unsteadily. She swallowed her tears. "I saw." She absorbed the concept a moment longer before she became angry. "Damn it, MacLeod, why didn't you tell me before? I went up against a woman I thought could die, and nearly lost my life?"
Duncan was speechless. Finally, he said tentatively, "I didn't know she was one until after you'd left. I didn't even know she was here until Adam told me."
Her anger subsided. "Oh. Guess I should've stayed around longer." Realization struck and she made a leap of faith. Then she stated, "Adam's Immortal, too. He took Mallory's head."
She saw the answer in Duncan's face and nodded tightly. "Where is he, anyway? I'd like to thank him."
Duncan sighed in relief. Kelly was handling the reality of Immortality in her life much, much better than he'd expected. "Probably down at Joe's, unless he's disappeared again. He does that sometimes." Duncan paused. "You're taking this very calmly."
Kelly grinned, then leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. "Hysterics have never been practical, in my book."
"I love you, Kelly."
"I know," she told him, still smiling. "You wouldn't have told me your secrets otherwise." She kissed him again. "But I'm still leaving." She rose to her feet.
"You what?" Duncan's voice rose.
She laughed at his thunderous expression. "To go to Joe's, silly." She prayed silently that he would handle her departure without the same anger. Sheer will kept her voice light, flirtatious. "I need to ask Joe about something I just remembered my father had, and to thank Adam if he's there. Are you coming, or do I have to walk?"
Duncan shot her an exasperated look. "You," he sputtered as he stood.
She laughed again, and Duncan could see mischief in her expression right before she leaned in for a wickedly sensual kiss that smothered the curse he was about to make. He retaliated by deepening the kiss, and was gratified by the almost liquid yielding of her body as she curved herself against him.
At last she tore her mouth from his. Her eyes were dark emerald pools of passion and her breath was heavy. "Maybe we'll just go to Joe's later," she told Duncan.
"Later," Duncan agreed, and
they tumbled onto the bed.
Chapter Eight
Joe's Bar
"So your father was a Watcher, Kelly," Joe informed her. Kelly sat, snuggled against MacLeod, his arm draped possessively around her. Methos sat across the pair, his expression neutral, but Joe wasn't fooled. The old guy was enjoying every moment of seeing his younger friend in love with a woman who kept MacLeod on his toes.
"Racked up a pretty impressive list of Immortals he Watched, too," Joe added. "Nearly every Immortal who ever fought in every forgotten war in the late 1970's and 1980's was someone John Pyron observed. He wasn't assigned anyone specific — Headquarters didn't want to risk tipping their hand — but he was told to keep an eye for certain ones and make reports." The Watcher paused, remembering what he'd read in her father's Watcher files. "You were in some pretty nasty hell zones, Kelly. Some of those places were so bad, it's any wonder anyone survived."
She shrugged. "They were the places that my father made the most money in," she said dismissively. "It was playtime for me." Ignoring Joe's disbelieving expression at her casual attitude, she mulled over the information she'd been given — Watchers, Immortals, and her father's involvement with it all. "Does it say how he got involved?"
Joe checked the printout he held in his hand. "Says here that he was recruited because he was chosen as being the best candidate for the job. 'Fits requirements for field observer in battle situations.'"
Kelly thought for a moment. "That must've been that job my dad took in France when I was almost ten years old. He told me he was going to try being a civilian a while so I could go to school like normal little girls." She chuckled, remembering. "I hated those months. I was forever getting in trouble."
"Let me guess," Methos surmised, "for swearing, carrying knives, and being a general disruption to others."
Kelly grinned unrepentantly. "What gave you a clue?" she asked, mildly surprised by his accuracy.
"Oh, I don't know," he returned, "maybe because I know you?'
She laughed, then raised her glass of whiskey in a toast. "Thank you for saving my life."
Methos acknowledged the toast with his beer and the traditional Irish salute. After drinking, he asked her, "So, are you going to stick around a while?"
She winked at him, knowing Mac couldn't see her expression. "Oh," she drawled, "I have this job offer in Singapore.."
She yelped when Mac's grip on her waist tightened. "Don't you dare," he growled.
"Oh, why don't you." Joe couldn't resist encouraging.
"Stay out of this, Joe."
"Singapore?" Adam questioned, as if Kelly had been discussing the weather and Duncan wasn't growing more irritated by the second. "What's in Singapore?"
"Your head if you don't shut up," Duncan threatened.
Methos smothered a grin, catching Kelly's smile and Joe's bemused look. He knew when to retreat, though. "Say, Joe, you were saying something about checking the stock in the back room?"
Joe took the hint and together he and Methos left the room. As soon as they left, Duncan turned to Kelly, moving so that she faced him.
"I know you aren't serious about Singapore," Duncan told her. "So what do you mean by thinking about going there?"
Her lips curved upward. "Oh, MacLeod, you're so easy to tease, you know that, don't you?" she asked gently, hating herself for the lie she was about to tell. "I'm not going to leave you for a while."
Duncan searched her expression, seeing the love she felt for him reflected in her eyes. He smiled, accepting her pledge. "I love you, Kelly," he told her just before he kissed her.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Kelly slipped out of the bar and heaved a relieved sigh. Her breath puffed in wispy clouds and she pulled her new leather jacket closer to her. At MacLeod's insistence, she wasn't wearing any weapons tonight. He hadn't wanted to feel her knives when he wrapped his arms around her, and she'd only agreed after seeing the katana he carried. She felt positively naked without at least one knife, preferably two.
Mentally, she shrugged. She wasn't going to go very far, and the parking lot in front of the bar was well lit. There wasn't anyone after her now, anyway. She was taking a breather from being with MacLeod; he and Joe had gotten into a discussion about people she had either not yet met or would never meet. She wasn't sure where Adam had gone; he'd vanished about a half hour previously, without a word to anyone.
She leaned against the hood of MacLeod's Thunderbird and stared up at the stars. The intensity of her feelings for MacLeod scared her, as little did in her life. Right now, she would rather face an Argentinean firing squad than admit what it was she felt. She needed time to figure out how to deal with the new emotions. They went beyond just simple caring, beyond friendship, beyond even the contentment of a frequent lover. Instinctively, she wanted to retreat to some place neutral, like Ireland, where she'd buried her father.
She sighed tiredly. Ireland would be hard to sneak into, she thought, but not difficult. It wasn't really running, anyway, if she decided to visit her father's grave... but it still didn't resolve her current problem.
She hadn't been lying when she said she wasn't going to leave for a while...but she really did have a job to do in Singapore. With a half-laugh, she wondered if she could swing past Hong Kong and pick up a new T-shirt to replace the one she'd sacrificed. She didn't consider herself superstitious, but she didn't think it would hurt to have a lucky charm of sorts with her.
Four days. It wasn't enough time.
She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud until a male voice answered, "Never is."
Damn, if my reaction time is this slow, I'm in trouble even before I start, Kelly swore silently. I've become soft. Her gaze turned to find the black trench coat-clad figure standing before her. "Adam. I'd thought you'd left."
He stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "What, no knife this time?" he asked with a smile.
She snorted. "None to pull out," she told him. "No thanks to MacLeod. He made me promise not to bring them tonight."
"Mac's a regular Boy Scout, all right," he agreed blandly. "You're not."
"Don't qualify, you know," she shot back, wondering what the other man's intentions were. "I'd fail the gender test."
He chuckled at that. After a pause, he said, "You're still headed for Singapore."
Kelly held Adam's gaze, seeing in the shadowed light a kindred soul. "I made a deal with Interpol MacLeod doesn't know about. In exchange for dropping the charges against me, I have to make this courier run."
"You almost died not too long ago," he reminded her mildly.
Somehow the gentle tone, so at odds with the carefully blank expression of his face, was more effective than MacLeod's shouting. She choked back the tears that threatened to fall and tried to laugh. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time I've done that. I'm not afraid of dying."
Adam studied her a long moment. She withstood the examination without flinching, wondering what it was that he saw. With a breath that could have been mistaken for a sigh, he said finally, "Your reflexes need work." Then he turned and started to walk away.
Kelly stared at him, not sure how to take his last comment. "Oh, hell," she swore, giving up on the deliberation. She followed his steps back into the bar.
Chapter Nine
Four days later
The first gray fringes of dawn were just streaking the sky when Kelly slipped out of the door of the loft and made her way down the steps. She didn't look back, and her motions were hurried, as if she was late.
I don't want to do this, she thought. I just want to go back upstairs and make love again. But it's a simple job, nothing to be afraid of, and then I'll be a free woman. I can really leave my old life behind once this is done, and maybe I can figure out what it is I feel about MacLeod while I'm gone.
A cold knot had formed in her stomach and she swallowed nervously as she halted at the curb, where a blue four-door sedan with government plates waited. She took a deep breath. It was time. The rear passenger door popped open and Kelly took a seat inside, pausing only to pull off her backpack and place it in her lap. She shut the door and the car moved sedately down the street.
I'll be back, MacLeod, I promise.
Three hours later, Duncan woke. His arm brushed the space where Kelly had slept, and found it neatly made. Her backpack was missing, which wasn't really unusual; she rarely left to go anywhere without it. His first thought was that she'd gone out for breakfast, as they'd planned to grocery-shop later in the day, but his car keys were still on the kitchen counter where he'd tossed them last. He shrugged, thinking that maybe she'd gone out for an early morning run, as she'd been doing for the past three days.
Still not thinking too deeply about Kelly's absence, Duncan went to take a shower.
He'd just finished when something out of place caught his eye.
The ledge where Kelly kept her diver's knife was bare. She'd taken to leaving that particular knife there, Duncan remembered. A sign of trust that had reassured Duncan immensely, though he hadn't been able to convince her to just put the weapon away. The fact that it was gone... .
Dread crawled up his spine as the implications of that injected their way into his brain. The realization was worse than if he'd blasted cold water down his body. He drew in a breath and hoped his instinct was wrong, that she hadn't left him entirely. Maybe she'd finally decided to take that last step of trust, he told himself, but even as he thought it, he knew it was useless.
Have I scared her off somehow? he wondered. She'd been so much more open with him, ever since she'd revealed her past to him, and he thought things were going well. She seemed to be perfectly content to spend her days helping with the dojo and her nights with him. The revelation of his Immortality and of her father's involvement with the Watchers hadn't seemed to faze her either; if anything, she was far more accepting than Duncan ever remembered anyone being.
Was she just having a delayed reaction to everything? Some people were like that, Duncan knew. Maybe in a few days, she'd come back, and everything would be okay. He just had to be patient, but that didn't reassure him either, didn't silence the instinct that screamed otherwise.
Numbly, Duncan got dressed. One part of his brain acknowledged that her clothes — indeed, everything he'd bought her — were missing from his bureau while the other tried desperately to deny Kelly was gone. His hopes rose when he found her wallet, her driver's license still intact. They fell when he recalled that the lack of a driver's license was no hindrance to Kelly. A mere legality like that wouldn't stop her from going where she wanted to go; certainly, the lack of a permit for the gun she'd carried hadn't discouraged her from carrying one.
She'd left no note, no explanation. For the first time in his life that he could remember, a woman had left him without an explanation or without a clue as to where she'd gone. It wasn't a feeling he was accustomed to having. He tried to reassure himself that Kelly had just gone out and would be back.
Maybe she just took the car for a drive, he told himself, even though a voice in his head whispered, But she took the diver's knife. She always left that here.
His mind was reaching for any possibility that Kelly was safe, that she was coming back.
Joe's wasn't yet open for the day, Duncan knew, and a quick phone call to Joe confirmed that Kelly wasn't with him. Methos had left town the night before and Duncan had dropped him off at the airport, so that eliminated the possibility that Kelly had left with the other Immortal. Kelly didn't know Anne Lindsey-Stone, but Duncan called his former lover anyway, just on the off chance. He struck out there as well. With every failed attempt, his heart broke a little more, became a raw, bleeding wound.
Finally, Duncan was forced to accept that Kelly had left him. She'd walked into his life without warning, and walked out the same way. He didn't even know where in the world to begin searching for her. He had a feeling, though, she'd be back.
The thought was small comfort compared to how absolutely empty his life suddenly felt without her.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
"You gonna drink that scotch or just look for the meaning of life?" Joe's drawl interrupted Duncan's reverie. "What's up with you anyway? Shouldn't you be with Kelly? You've been just sitting here all night."
Duncan shook his head and set the glass down without drinking. "Kelly left," he told Joe, emotion making a flat tone impossible.
Joe stared at his friend, disbelief clearly on his features. "Left? I thought I told you this morning I hadn't seen her, but I can't see her leaving. Hell, anyone can see she loves you." Remembering the argument they'd had during Thanksgiving, Joe half-laughed. "Hell, I didn't know what to think of her, and I told her so. She sure made it clear to me where my opinion of her stood."
Imagining how Kelly had probably reacted brought a faint grin to Duncan's mouth. "Yeah, she definitely let you know if you annoyed her."
Suddenly, Joe recalled the last conversation he'd had with Kelly. "You don't think she went to Singapore, do you?"
Duncan stared at Joe in numb realization. "She told me she wasn't going to," Duncan said inanely. A voice in his head whispered, Yeah, but she didn't promise you.
Joe knew what Duncan was going to ask even before he got the look he'd come to know so well. "I'll do some checking with the Watchers, Mac," he agreed to the silent request. "Might be a while."
"I'm not going anywhere," Duncan
declared.
Chapter Ten
Late February 2000
Paris
The inside of the club, Methos thought as he stepped through the scarred wooden door, had better atmosphere inside than its hole-in-the-wall location had first suggested. That still wasn't saying much; the ample lighting only served to show that the place was a well-lit dive. For a moment, he considered walking out, but then he remembered he'd paid dearly for the information that had led him here. After weeks of searching, he'd grown weary of looking for a woman who didn't want to be found, especially since he'd discovered she had a penchant for frequenting some of the seediest taverns in the world.
The things I do to keep the Highlander from going crazy and losing his head, he thought sourly for the umpteenth time. He'd made it clear to Duncan that he wasn't a detective, and in fact had never been one. Duncan had just brooded some more until Methos surrendered to the request, just to get away from the moody Scot. He conveniently ignored the fact that he held a more than a grudging admiration for Kelly. He also disregarded the fact that he'd taken a head for her, when he rarely risked his life for anyone.
Then he saw her. She sat at a table near the back, or more accurately, slumped over it. As he moved closer, he noticed an empty bottle of Irish whiskey had been knocked over on the table. A three-quarters-empty bottle was clutched in one hand. Reddish-black hair obscured her face as it rested against the table. She snored lightly. Her clothes were ragged, and she reeked.
Swearing, glad he'd found her and not MacLeod, Methos motioned to the bartender. "She owe anything?"
The grossly overweight man shook his head. "Paid up front, like I make everybody do. Never seen a woman hold her liquor like that, but she's good."
Methos swore again at the barkeep's attitude. Carefully, he extracted the woman from her position at the table. She was thinner than he remembered, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. A jagged knife scar now marred the left side of her face. She didn't stir the entire time it took for him to relocate her from the bar to his apartment. For a half-second, Methos thought he was too late, that she'd slipped into an alcohol-induced coma.
"Kelly, wake up," he commanded.
"No," she protested in a slurred little girl's voice. "Daddy, don' wanna go."
"Open your eyes, Kelly."
She blinked at the authority in Methos's voice. Then she yawned. "Oh, it's you," she said distinctly, then belched. "Sorry," she apologized, and promptly fell asleep.
Knowing that the only thing he could do for her was to let her sleep the alcohol off, Methos did exactly that. He debated the wisdom of calling a certain brooding Scot, then decided that whatever demons had driven Kelly to drink probably didn't need the added insult of MacLeod's assured inquisition.
Sixteen hours later, Kelly surfaced. After a shower and a change of clothes courtesy of Methos's closet, she at least looked a bit more like the woman Methos remembered. Judging from the way she handled herself after the shower, she was one of those people for whom a bad hangover was measured by the amount of time spent sleeping and little else.
"Why?" she asked as they sat in the living room of Methos's apartment. "You don't strike me as the white knight kind of guy."
"I'm not," Methos acknowledged, and left it at that. "Why didn't you come back?"
She was quiet a long time. When she spoke, her voice was distant. Without being aware of it, she drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her calves. "All I was supposed to do was deliver a suitcase full of cash to someone in Singapore. An easy job, they told me. Everything's fine, I deliver the suitcase, and then they hand me the merchandise." She closed her eyes and shuddered. "It's a crate, but my instructions say I have to inspect what the contents are. The guy hands me a dead baby someone stuffed full of heroin. I helped break a drug smuggling ring, but..." Her voice trailed off and her gaze focused on Methos. "I wasn't sleeping well before I left Seacouver, and now I have that little girl's corpse to add to a lifetime of nightmares." She paused. "I don't want to put MacLeod through that anymore."
"Kelly, he's over four hundred years old. What makes you think he doesn't have a few of his own?"
She half-laughed. "And I suppose you're going to tell me you're even older than that."
"You could say that."
She rose to her feet and walked a few steps away. Then she turned. "Guess that means you've met a hundred women like me."
"If you're looking for reassurances about how Mac feels about you, or for advice on how to cope with his love for you, Kelly, I'm afraid you're knocking on the wrong door."
She searched his face for some indication he was kidding, and saw only his carefully blank expression instead. "And here I was thinking that you're a friend."
He shrugged and said nothing.
She stared at him momentarily, taken aback by his lack of response. Then her gaze narrowed speculatively. "Only when it suits you to be a friend, right?" she asked, not expecting a reply.
Unexpectedly, she smiled. "I can live with that. Just don't ask me to go back to Seacouver. I'm not ready yet."
"Fair enough," Methos agreed.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
"Oh, come on, Adam," Kelly coaxed with a smile, "surely you can say more about that — " she gestured to the abstract painting displayed before them "— than, 'Interesting.'"
They were at the Louvre. Kelly had revealed to Methos that she had never been to the famed landmark, and he'd reluctantly agreed to accompany her. Kelly could be quite — convincing — when she wanted something. After three weeks of living with Methos, she'd figured out what leverage to use. Afraid she'd drink herself into a stupor again, he'd chosen to get rid of any alcohol in his apartment, and she knew he was craving a beer. She'd promised to buy him a six pack of his favorite brand if he took her to the museum.
He pretended to study the painting again, but he was thinking about Kelly. It was easy for him to understand what MacLeod loved about Kelly. She was a puzzle, an intriguing combination of experience and innocence, and a man could spend years just trying to figure her out. Methos suspected that she'd revealed more to him than she had to the Highlander, but after being awakened multiple nights by her nightmares, Methos hadn't given her a choice. He was grateful that the past few nights had been peaceful. Some of the things she'd seen as a child reminded him too much of his own history.
He chuckled silently. Leave it to Kelly to demand the truth about him in exchange for the retelling of her past. He still wasn't quite sure why he'd given in or how she'd charmed him so completely, but her casual acceptance of everything he'd been had been worth the risk. He'd cautioned her to call him Adam in public, and she'd complied willingly.
Knowing that she was waiting on his response, Methos replied finally, "What do you want me to say? It looks like a couple of cans of paint were splattered on canvas, that's all."
Kelly giggled. "Nice to know I wasn't the only one who thought that." She paused and studied Methos a moment. "You hate museums, don't you?"
"Actually, no," Methos admitted. "Just not particularly interested in seeing anything that's in them."
She laughed quietly. "No, I don't suppose you would be." She took another look at the painting and shook her head. "Ready to go, old man?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
"You know," she admonished him as they strolled out of the museum, "you really are pathetic."
Surprised by her comment, Methos stopped on the sidewalk and turned face her. She halted her movement as well, a half smile on her lips. "What do you mean?"
"The things you do for beer. Why, it's positively criminal."
Methos looked at her. It didn't take him long to figure out her game. Amused, he asked, "Are you flirting with me, Kelly, or are you just fishing for compliments again?"
"Oh, you're no fun," she pouted. "I only wanted to tease you, that's all."
"You," he said pointedly, "are a brat." With that, he resumed walking, forcing Kelly to catch up with him.
"How can I be a brat?" she debated as they reached Methos's car. She stopped his movement towards the driver's side with her body. "I'm not an unpleasant child." To prove it, she stepped nearer and leaned suggestively into his body.
How does she do that? Methos wondered even as his mind catalogued details about Kelly. One minute she's three feet away. The next, she's as close as a kiss and twice as tempting. Her green eyes were full of merriment as she stared at him. She wore no bra underneath the Singapore bar souvenir T-shirt she wore, and he could feel her nipples through the thin, mostly white fabric. He breathed in her scent, a simple fragrance of soap, shampoo, and Kelly. For one unguarded moment, he allowed himself to savor the sensation of a willing woman near his body. It had been a long time since he'd let anyone come this close. The air hummed with possibility. She was seducing him with proximity, and she knew it. Oh, you're good at this, aren't you?
"Now," she asked huskily, "am I still a brat?"
Almost of its own volition, his mouth moved to meet to hers. She smiled, satisfied at his response to her unspoken demand, and prepared to receive his kiss. Her arms rose to encircle his neck, to bring his head closer. She was so warm, so inviting, so wholly female..
"No," he stated, stepping out of her embrace.
Disappointment at his rejection flashed briefly across her face. Then she shrugged, accepting the situation. "Well, are you going to open the car doors or are we going to walk home?"
Whew, that was close. Damn, if she wasn't already involved..
Methos sighed mentally. In another time, another place, he might have taken Kelly up on her invitation, turned the not-so-innocent flirtation into something to remember. He was attracted to her, he knew, more so than was probably wise. Still, the last thing Methos wanted was to have MacLeod mad at him. He'd had that katana against his neck before, and didn't care to repeat the experience. Belatedly, Methos realized he owed Mac a phone call.
Chapter Eleven
Seacouver
One week later
Late March, 2000
"You," Methos informed Kelly smugly as they walked through the airport to the baggage claim carousels, "are a horrible passenger."
"I am not," she denied hotly. "I just think I could fly the damned plane better than that zombie in the cockpit. What the hell was he thinking, riding out a storm by just going straight through it? Why didn't he change altitude or something?"
Having heard a variation on this theme ever since they'd debarked, Methos just shook his head. He knew she was working off her nervousness over coming back to Seacouver, and facing MacLeod. "You ride on a first class ticket, and you act like they stuck you back in coach."
Kelly rolled her eyes and continued to vent. She'd switched to Russian, he noted with mild amusement. By the time they reached the right baggage claim, she'd gone through half her range of languages.
"You done yet?" he asked her when she finally stopped. "Or would you like me to be really annoyed with you?"
She laughed at the implied threat. "Yes, my lord," she said playfully. "But I could start again in another language if you like."
"I don't," he growled, causing her to laugh again.
Within a few minutes, he plucked his sword case off the conveyer belt and together they headed for the hotel suite Methos had reserved.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
Later that day
The dojo
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — -
"Mac, what are we going to do about Mark Cavallo?" Robert asked without looking away from the computer screen where the dojo's accounts were displayed. "You know the guy's behind three months in his dues."
"Well, if it was up to me," a female voice drawled, "I'd kick him out."
Startled, Robert spun around in his chair. His face broke into a grin as he recognized his visitor. "Kelly! Where the hell have you been?" He rose to his feet and stepped around the desk.
She smiled and accepted the hug Robert offered. "Most recently, Paris," she replied. "MacLeod around?"
"He should be back in about — " Robert glanced at the clock on the wall "— fifteen, twenty minutes. He's teaching a class at the university. You might find him at Joe's, though — he usually stops there first."
Kelly sighed, obviously relieved. "Good, that gives me a little time." She smiled charmingly. "Thanks, Robert." She turned and walked out the door without giving the dojo manager a chance to comment.
Duncan was tired. He missed Kelly. Though he'd known that throwing himself into work wasn't going to change the fact that no one had been able to find her since she'd left Singapore, he'd done so anyway. He hadn't heard from Methos since the older Immortal had mentioned something about following a lead in Ireland, but that had been in early January. Out of habit, Duncan stopped by Joe's on the way home from the university, just on the off chance the Watcher might have some information.
The closer he got to the club, the stronger the Presence became. Hope flared brightly and his movements quickened. There was only one Immortal whose silent signature was as familiar as Duncan's own.
Duncan found Methos sitting at the bar, conversing with Joe. It sounded as if they were having a rather heated argument, but they broke it off as soon as Joe noticed Duncan approaching. He spared a moment's consideration to wonder what the debate had been about, but then shrugged it off; there was quite a bit upon which Joe and Methos didn't agree. Duncan knew Methos had been aware of him for several minutes, and thus wasn't surprised when Methos's reaction consisted of the barest of nods.
Duncan leaned on the bar next to Methos, his gaze landing on the man behind it. Even before he could ask the question, Joe shook his head.
"Haven't found her yet," Joe said. He looked pointedly at Methos.
"Didn't find her in Ireland," Methos informed them with a shrug.
Duncan sighed, resigned. He really hadn't been expecting a different answer, and he turned to leave.
Silhouetted in the doorway was the one person he'd been longing to see.
For the longest moment, Duncan thought he was hallucinating. The late afternoon sunlight caused the red highlights in her hair to shine, and he was reminded of the first time he'd cast eyes upon her. Automatically, Duncan rubbed his eyes.
A half-smile played on her lips as she sauntered towards him and stopped just within an arm's reach of him. "Say whatever pathetic line you were planning to use or stop staring at me like I'm the special d'jour," she demanded in an soft echo of her first words to him.
He barely heard her. His eyes were too busy noticing the way the hollows in her cheeks were more prominent, the new scar only serving to add character to a face that already haunted his dreams. She wore — no, it couldn't be, that T-shirt had been destroyed when Mallory nearly killed her — so she must've gotten another one. Her jeans looked new, as did the leather backpack that was slung over her right shoulder.
"Kelly," Duncan breathed, disbelieving. Happiness became the helium for his soul as he realized that it was, indeed, her.
Then he was kissing her. All the emotions he'd felt since she'd left were poured into the kiss. He couldn't believe she was here at last. She was alive, safe, and responding to his unspoken pleas with equal fervor. His heart pounded madly in his chest as excitement burned fire through his veins. Duncan forgot they were standing in the bar, forgot about the other patrons watching them with undisguised interest, forgot everything except Kelly.
Sweet, Duncan thought hazily. I'd forgotten how sweet she tastes.
Sensation swept over him as Kelly returned the pressure of his mouth, welcomed the thrust of his tongue with hers. He breathed the scent of her shampoo, relished the feel of her lithe body against his, heard the low moan that vibrated against his lips, and knew a thrill that heated his blood.
Breathlessly, she stepped back from the kiss. "Guess that means you missed me, huh?" she drawled, smiling. She strolled past him to greet Joe, who'd moved from behind the bar, with a hug.
Her easy tone and attitude struck the wrong chord in Duncan. Instantly, he was angry. "Where the hell have you been?"
Kelly seated herself on a stool next to Methos. "Um, let's see. I was in Singapore, then Hong Kong, and I'm not sure from there." She glanced over at Methos, who gave her a look Duncan didn't understand. "Somehow I ended up in Paris." She changed her mind about sitting, and rose to her feet.
She smiled charmingly at Duncan. "I don't suppose I could entice you to cook dinner for me?" Her tone made it clear what would be for dessert.
Duncan sighed and let go of his anger for the moment. He'd missed her, and he wasn't entirely sure she wasn't just passing through again. Explanations could wait until later, after all. "I suppose dinner could be arranged," he told Kelly.
"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" Kelly asked.
Shortly thereafter, Duncan and Kelly left. Methos waited until he could no longer feel MacLeod's Presence before he continued the debate MacLeod had interrupted earlier.
"Kelly is just a friend," Methos insisted.
Joe shook his head. "You walk in with her. She has an arm wrapped around you, when you rarely let anyone come that close. Then, within my hearing, you both decide to not tell Mac she stayed with you in Paris? What kind of conclusion do you think I'm going to draw?
"Joe, it's not what you think."
The other man grunted, clearly not satisfied with that answer. "It's not what I think that matters," he pronounced finally, in a tone that said the matter was closed. "What are you going to do when Mac makes that same assumption?"
"I'll deal with the Highlander
then."
Chapter Twelve
As the elevator rose to the loft apartment, Duncan looked at Kelly, his hunger for her clear. She smiled at him, but Duncan thought he read nervousness in the smile.
"I love you, Kelly," he declared. "I've missed you."
She ducked her head and chuckled uncertainly.
The uncharacteristic shyness surprised Duncan. The furious passion he would have indulged in was set aside. "I won't hurt you, you know that," he told her right before he kissed her tenderly.
The elevator stopped with a slight jolt and Duncan broke the kiss to deal with the mechanics of the gate. Once the gate was clear, he took Kelly's hand and led her to the bed.
She stood at the foot, hesitating. Duncan shook his head, wondering when the self-confident, aggressive woman he'd fallen in love with would show.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked, drawing her into an embrace.
"You," she confessed with a shaky laugh.
"Me?" He kissed a path down her new facial scar, half-wondering how she'd gotten it, half-wishing his touch would erase it.
She trembled under the gentle assault. "Oh, yes," she answered. His mouth trailed down to her neck. "Oh, yes," she said again, and Duncan knew it wasn't in response to his question.
Her hands grasped his pullover shirt, tugging it free of his pants. For a moment, she seemed to content to just slide her fingers underneath the stretchy fabric.
"Take it off," Duncan invited her.
She wavered only briefly, then rolled up the bottom of the shirt and, with his cooperation, did as he bid. She stared at the exposed skin as if she'd forgotten just what it looked like. Then, she placed her hands over his nipples, and felt them tighten in response. She smiled then, a wild, giddy, disbelieving smile, as if she'd never seen him react this way to her touch. The apparent innocence turned him on more than Duncan had thought possible.
Slowly, he undressed her, then discarded what remained of his clothing, taking care to kiss her as he went. His tongue blazed a path down her ribs to her stomach, then lower still. She was shaking visibly and glowing with the heat of desire by the time he was through. He laid her down on the bed just as her knees gave way.
"I love you," he told her again. "You have nothing to fear."
She reached for him, her expression pleading. "I know," she said breathlessly. Her eyes were dark, her face flushed, as she looked at him. "Please," she begged, and spread her legs wide in clear invitation.
Duncan took his cue. He closed his eyes briefly as her wet warmth closed around him, then began the age-old dance.
Kelly responded enthusiastically, her earlier hesitation gone. Instinctively, her lithe body arched up against him, bringing him closer. Her hands grasped his buttocks, urging him on. Passion pounded the blood through his heart, chest, and head, narrowing the world to just the two of them. Nothing else mattered except the feel of skin on skin, bodies locked intimately.
All too soon, Duncan felt the particular tightening that signaled his orgasm was imminent. Kelly moaned, shuddered, and lifted her hips to take him deeper, her head tossing wildly from side to side as her own pleasure became too much to bear. Duncan lost it then, tumbling over the edge, his own groans mingling with Kelly's as she climaxed.
Kelly ran, but it wasn't far enough. Instinctively, she knew she wasn't going to make it, that the alley was a dead end. She cursed herself for trying to hot-wire such a flashy car, but she'd wanted something with speed. Just her dumb luck the Corvette had an alarm she hadn't been familiar with, and that the Ford turning the corner had been her enemy's. She was going to be caught, and somehow she knew she wasn't going to survive this one.
Damn it, Kelly Siobhan Pyron, her father's voice admonished her from some memory, don't give up.
Oh, but Daddy, she wanted to cry, I'm so tired.
She wasn't sure what she was running from, but she knew she'd been running for miles. Images filled her mind, a thousand faces from too many years, far too many to identify. She was left with an aching sense of loss.
Abruptly, she was running in the Angolan rain forest. She was laughing, happy about doing her father's requested task, but she couldn't see where she was going. There was blood in her eyes and her head hurt. She tripped over a vine and fell, losing consciousness.
That's not how that happened, she thought. Something's not right here.
As soon as the thought formed, the scene changed. She was still running, still bleeding profusely, but now she was even more certain she was going to die. The knife felt heavy in her hands, as she'd been holding it forever, and she couldn't remember how to use it. She glanced down to check her grip, to reassure herself she knew—
She slammed into a wall of rotting, putrid flesh, and the knife slid into the only living thing in that sea of corpses.
Her father.
He was laughing at her, belittling her, telling her she had to sell her body because she wasn't good enough as a soldier.
"No, Daddy, you promised.." she pleaded. "I'll be a good girl, I swear," she mumbled, her words tumbling out in Gaelic, the first language she'd ever learned. "I didn't mean to stab you, I didn't, I'm so sorry, I'll do better next time...."
She drew the knife out but he wouldn't fall, just kept laughing, and she knew it wasn't really her father at all, but someone else. It was Mallory's face she saw, Mallory's arms holding up the dead baby, accusing her of murdering the child so she could deal drugs. Somehow Mallory mutated into Mallory's partner, raping Kelly again and again and again and she didn't have the knife anymore to kill him....
"Noooo," she screamed, wanting to stop the nightmare.
"Kelly," a commanding male voice said.
"You're dead, you're dead," she chanted in English.
"Kelly," he said again, more firmly.
"I killed you, you're dead," she moaned. Then something shook her body.
Startled, she awoke in darkness. "Methos?" she asked, her voice hoarse.
Silence reigned for a long minute.
"No," came the choked, Scottish-accented reply.
Numbly, Kelly realized just whom she was lying in bed with. She colored fiercely, glad that the darkness concealed the extent of her shame.
Duncan rose and switched on the lights. He stalked to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water, and Kelly's heart ached to watch him. She resisted the urge to draw the sheets tighter around herself, though some part of her longed to do so.
Quietly, she slipped out of bed and went to him.
"I can explain," she offered gently, her voice raspy from screaming.
Duncan didn't turn from his position at the kitchen sink. He set the glass, now filled with water, down on the counter with controlled precision. It still hit the counter with a resounding thump. Kelly watched in detached fascination as he fought to remain calm.
"Drink."
Kelly took the glass and sipped, grateful for the cold liquid on her raw throat. Not for the first time, she considered how much she hated her nightmares.
Duncan turned, and his eyes were dark. "When you're done, I want you to leave."
Damn it, I just came back, Kelly thought furiously. "I thought you were happy I'd returned."
"Not if I'm just substituting for him. You don't really want me. You just want him."
"I don't," Kelly denied. "I love you."
"So you say," Duncan lashed out, jealousy burning away reason. "Why would you be calling his name?"
"I was having a fucking nightmare, you stupid idiotic Scot!"
But Duncan wasn't listening. "Get out. I refuse to be second to him."
Carefully, Kelly set the glass of water down on the counter. She could see her lover wasn't going to be reasonable. Great, I finally tell him I love him, and he orders me to leave.
She walked back to the sleeping area. Her backpack rested against her side of the bed, and she pulled clothes from it. She didn't even bother strapping on her knives. What was the point of weapons when words were so much more cutting? Consequently, she just threw on a T-shirt, her jeans, and her boots. Her whole body was numb, like the time when she was seven years old and the field medic had given her morphine for the arm she'd broken falling from a tree.
Duncan didn't say a word the entire time she got dressed. He turned his back to her, as if he'd said everything he'd meant to say, and waited for her to leave. She didn't see the tears that dripped, unheeded, down his cheeks.
After leaving the loft, Kelly walked for hours. She didn't dare go to Methos right away; she'd interrupted his sleep enough. She thought about going to Joe, but then she imagined MacLeod would accuse her of sleeping with Joe as well.
She was exhausted, and she needed to talk to someone who'd understand. She sighed. That would be Methos, she knew, but if she went over to his hotel suite, MacLeod would conclude that she had really left him for Methos.
Kelly swore. She needed sleep,
and her head hurt from trying to deal with the myriad of emotions of
the past twenty-four hours. She tried to remember where the motel she'd
walked past some fifteen minutes before was located, and swore again
when she couldn't. She sighed again, and walked on. There was bound
to be another one in a few blocks. If nothing else, she could sleep
outdoors; it certainly wouldn't be the first time in her life she'd
done that.
Chapter Thirteen
"You wanted to see me?" Methos asked as he walked into the loft. He stopped when he saw Duncan had his katana in hand. In itself, it wasn't unusual, just an automatic, defensive reaction born of sensing another Immortal. Methos knew, however, that he and Duncan were able to tell each other apart from other Immortals, and therefore Duncan would be less inclined to be defensive. That thought held sway until Methos noticed the anger radiating from the Highlander.
Warily, he walked closer. "If you wanted to spar, Highlander, why didn't you just say so? I thought we were friends."
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just forget that," Duncan growled, stepping as if to attack.
Halting, Methos narrowed his gaze. "Go ahead," he invited. "Do it. Take my head. Then I won't ever have to worry about whatever moral judgment you've pronounced on me today."
For a brief instant, Methos wondered if he'd miscalculated, if the strength of their friendship wasn't strong enough to overcome MacLeod's misgivings, whatever they were. He tensed, ready to defend himself, but outwardly, he was calm.
Then the Highlander relaxed and put his blade away. That told Methos Duncan wasn't mad enough to take his head, but Methos didn't let down his guard entirely. Whatever angered his younger friend was enough that Duncan would threaten to take Methos's head over it.
"Have you seen Kelly today?" Duncan asked as he stepped back, an odd tone in his voice.
Methos stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shrugged as he moved into the living room, intent on seating himself. "Haven't seen her since you two left Joe's yesterday afternoon, why? Don't tell me she left you again."
The information seemed to startle Duncan. "She's not with you?"
"No." Methos paused, managing genuine surprise even as his mind calculated the impact of Duncan's question. "What makes you think she would be?"
"She had a nightmare last night." Duncan paused, watching Methos for his reaction.
Not surprisingly, his friend merely gave Duncan his best bland expression and said nothing.
Duncan stepped closer, deliberately invading Methos's personal space. As if he was commenting on the weather, he continued, "When I woke her, she spoke your name instead of mine. Your real name, not 'Adam.' Why would that be?"
Casually, Methos dropped onto the side chair across from his friend, gaining some of his space back with the maneuver. He knew from the tone of Duncan's voice that his friend was far from feeling indifferent about what Kelly had said.
"Maybe," he suggested, "because I told her?"
He sighed, knowing that wasn't sufficient explanation. Judging from the hostile glare he received from Duncan, what he said definitely wasn't enough. "I trust her."
Duncan mulled over the information for a moment and came to a single conclusion. "You were with her in Paris." His tone was thick with insinuation.
"Last time I checked, that wasn't a crime." Methos knew what Duncan was really asking, but he wasn't going to make it easy for him.
"How long?" Duncan's heartbreak was audible in his voice, and there was a wounded look in his eyes as he dropped into the sofa.
Methos pursed his lips and contemplated how long he was going to make Duncan suffer. "How long what?"
"How long have you and Kelly been lovers? Did you convince her she could do better with you?"
"You're jealous?" Methos said incredulously, unable to hide his amazement. "What if we were? What would it matter?"
"You're not denying it then."
"She was with me for a month, MacLeod." Methos watched as Duncan's face fell. "But we weren't lovers."
Duncan's face flashed unreadable and dark, like storm tossed seas. Methos knew the look. The Highlander wasn't sure what to say or do. And why not? he thought bitterly. He only has your word for it. "I wouldn't cross that line, MacLeod," he said aloud. "I like Kelly a lot, and she's an attractive woman, but she's your girlfriend."
"Why didn't she call? Why didn't you call?" Duncan demanded, rising to his feet and pacing angrily. "You know I love her, and you kept her whereabouts secret for a month? What the hell were you trying to do?"
"She wasn't ready to see you."
"Who do you think you are to decide that?" the other man fumed. "I asked you to find her for me, and call me when you did. Then you do, and the first I know about it is weeks later, when she walks into Joe's?" Duncan asked disbelievingly. He took a deep breath, knowing his temper was raging. As upset with Methos as he was now, he needed to know what happened to Kelly. Fighting for calm, he asked, "What was she doing with you all that time?"
"Drying out and trying desperately not to go crazy because of her nightmares."
Duncan halted his pacing and looked at Methos, completely shocked. Methos didn't wait for the reply he could see sputtering to be spoken.
"Can you even comprehend what it's like for her? You and me, we have lifetimes to draw upon for the things we've seen and done. She has only one, and by God, she's lived through hell since she was two years old. She's a strong woman, Mac, but this last trip was the final straw." Methos was on a roll now.
"What do you mean?" Duncan asked cautiously.
"You'll have to ask her about what she did," Methos told him, refusing to give more than he thought was necessary. "I picked her up in a Parisian excuse for a bar. She was so drunk I thought for sure I was too late, that she'd drunk herself to death. When she finally recovered, she told me she had no idea how she ended up in Paris. All she remembered was getting into a bar fight in Hong Kong and getting her face sliced. She's not sure how she got from Singapore to Hong Kong, either. Do you know why she left?"
"No," Duncan was forced to admit.
Methos rose to his feet. "Then
maybe Kelly trusts me more than you." He turned to leave and was in halfway
out the door when he stopped. "Funny thing about that, you know. She's
in love with you." With a firm click, he shut the door behind himself.
Chapter Fourteen
Joe's
"Didn't we have a discussion about the evils of drinking alone?" Methos asked Kelly as he seated himself beside her.
She stared at the tumbler of whiskey, rolling the glass around in her hand, apparently fascinated with the way the amber liquid within the tumbler caught the light. With a heavy breath, she set the still-full glass down on the bar. "I seem to recall something like that, yeah," she admitted.
"When Mac mentioned you'd left, I thought for sure you'd taken off like you did the last time," Methos told her.
"I thought about it. I really didn't want to come here." She picked up the glass again and rolled it between her hands.
He narrowed his gaze at her. Crossing his arms, he leaned more into the high-backed stool. "Oh, no you don't. Don't blame me for coming back here. I merely stated I was going to leave Paris and come here. You were the one who bought your own damned ticket. I am not here to play matchmaker for the Highlander or for you. I nearly lost my head the last time I did that, and I nearly lost it again this morning over you. Just in case you didn't understand the first time, Kelly Siobhan Pyron, I happen to like my head where it is."
"So go ahead and disappear like you want to," Kelly invited crossly. "If you care about no one but yourself, then what the hell are you still doing here?"
"Leave my reasons out of this," Methos hissed.
She made a sound of disgust and shook her head. "Don't you ever get tired of being an observer of life and not a participant?"
"I've stayed alive a long time that way, thank you very much."
"Hell of a way to live, old man." She took a sip of whiskey as Joe made his way behind the bar to where she and Methos sat. Without being told, Joe handed Methos a beer.
"Thought you'd be halfway to Ireland by now," Joe commented to Kelly. "I heard on the news that there was another IRA bombing."
Kelly laughed dryly. "There will always be another one. That's one place where it's not worth fighting. I rarely go back there anymore."
"We traced you there after you left Hong Kong," Joe said with a glance at Methos.
Kelly shrugged. "If you say so; I don't remember. Look, I appreciate the concern, but I can take care of myself." She took a sip of whiskey.
"Is that why I found you in Paris, trying to drink yourself to death?" Methos asked quietly, leaving his beer untouched.
Joe hadn't heard this information before, and he looked surprised, both at the information and the sight of Methos not drinking. "What the hell were you trying to do that for?"
Kelly held Joe's gaze a moment. "You ever dream of war, Joe?"
With a sound that could've been mistaken for a half-laugh, Joe acknowledged his understanding. "Yeah. How's Mac handling it?"
"He's not." Hurt and angry, Kelly did what she knew best to do when faced with pain: she reached for the glass of whiskey, intending to knock it back.
Faster than she'd expected, Joe snatched the glass out of her reach and dumped the contents down the sink behind the bar.
She swore. "Some bartender you are."
"You want to get that drunk, go someplace else," Joe told her.
She sighed tiredly. "Not really," she admitted. "I just don't know what else to do. I'm a mercenary, damn it. I'm not used to being in love. Doesn't really come with the territory I'm used to being in, you know?" She gave Joe and Methos a wry smile. "Scares me to death."
"Mac was pretty upset when you left," Joe noted. "Judging from what I saw yesterday, you both seemed pretty happy to see each other. What happened?"
Kelly jerked a thumb towards Methos. "It's his fault."
"I wasn't the one who was dreaming of me," Methos returned.
"Oh very funny, Methos," Kelly shot back, her tone indicating her use of his real name to be a deliberate choice. "You're the one whose bright idea it was to be there for me every time I woke up screaming." Uncomfortably, she added, "I got used to having you there when I was having a nightmare."
Joe turned interested eyes upon the Immortal. "She knows?" he asked. At the nod, Joe said, "This I gotta hear."
"It.slipped out, okay?" Methos said defensively.
Joe grunted disbelievingly, but let it ride. "So Mac jumped to the conclusion that you two are involved," he surmised. "I thought the same thing myself when I saw you two walk in the other day."
"He wouldn't even let me explain," Kelly muttered. Left without a glass to toy with, the fingers of her right hand drummed out an angry rhythm on the bar. Annoyed by the noise, Methos caught her hand and stilled it.
She merely switched hands and quirked an eyebrow. "It's either this or I start carving 'I'm going to kill MacLeod' into the bar," she warned.
"Let go, Adam," Joe ordered. To Kelly, he warned, "No knives, please."
"You're absolutely no fun tonight, Joe," she complained as Methos let go of her hand. "No whiskey, no knives. I'm already fucking pissed off at MacLeod, wanna be next on the list?"
Remembering the last time he'd made the mistake of getting her angry, Joe shook his head. "No. But I'm not going to let a friend of mine do something stupid, either."
"Great," Kelly moaned. "How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?" Her expression conveyed her distress.
"You could try talking to him," Joe suggested.
"He kicked me out," she informed him, her voice suddenly flat. "Somehow, I don't think he's going to listen to me." She stared longingly at the bottle of beer Methos had left untouched.
Catching the direction of her eyes, Methos grinned wickedly and took a languid drink.
If looks could kill, Joe thought, Methos was a dead man.
Abruptly, Methos stiffened, and swore.
"What?" Kelly asked, recognizing the wariness that had flared to life.
"MacLeod's here."
"How do you know?" she demanded, careful to keep her voice low; the bar was far from deserted. Her gaze automatically went to the as-yet-unoccupied doorway.
"I just do, just as he knows I'm here."
"You know it's him and no one else?" Joe inquired keenly. "Mac didn't mention this after Bordeaux."
The ancient Immortal shot the Watcher a telling glance. "Some things are best left out of the Chronicles, don't you think?"
There wasn't anything Joe could say to that.
"I'm leaving," Kelly announced a heartbeat later, rising to her feet.
"You're leaving?" Methos said, disbelieving. "That's my line."
Joe hid a grin. "Too late for either of you," he informed them in a low voice, cocking his head towards the entryway.
Twin curses in two different languages, neither of which were English, met Joe's pronouncement.
"Well," Kelly said brightly, "my father always said, when you can't retreat, the best way to fight is standing up." She took a deep breath, as if gathering her mental armor.
With that, Joe and Methos watched as she stalked across the room and met Duncan halfway.
"You," she declared, punctuating her words with brittle vehemence, "are a fucking idiot, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. A goddamned Boy Scout with blinders on where it comes to the woman who loves you."
Of all the things Duncan had been expecting when he'd walked into Joe's, he hadn't been expecting this.
She was, if he wasn't mistaken, royally pissed. He glanced around, and realized they were rapidly becoming the evening's entertainment. "Kelly, calm down."
"No," she emphatically refused. "I tell you how I feel about you and you tell me to fucking leave?"
Quickly, and under much protest from Kelly, Duncan hustled her into Joe's office and shut the door.
"You said you weren't going to leave me." The words spilled out like water from an overturned glass.
"I had no choice." Kelly stood defiant, shielding her hurt in a cloak of anger. "I had to go."
"You had to go?" Duncan asked incredulously. "What, was there a war going on that you absolutely couldn't miss trying to die in?"
"I made you no fucking promises," she replied coldly. "I've been a soldier all my life. What's one more goddamned battle?"
"You said you'd come here because you were tired of fighting."
"I was!" she ground out. "Aren't I allowed to change my mind?"
He threw his hands up in the air, frustrated, half-tempted to grab her and shake some sense into her. "I told you everything about me," Duncan said, quietly furious. "I trusted you with my heart, my deepest secrets, and you simply walked out the door with no explanations. The next thing I know, you waltz right back in and expect me to accept that nothing's changed. I was so glad to have you back, I figured I could wait for you to tell me what happened." He paced angrily, then turned to face her.
"Then you wake up screaming in the night. I ask you if you're okay, and it's not my name on your lips. I expected more from you. I thought you loved me. I thought you weren't going to be a soldier anymore, that you were going to stay with me."
"Weren't you paying attention at all, MacLeod?" she retorted. "I do love you, but you're not letting me explain anything!" She gestured emphatically.
"I don't need any explanations," Duncan informed her. In his heartbreak, he forgot everything Methos had said to him earlier. "You left me for Methos, and when he got tired of you, you came running back to me."
"That's a crock of bullshit. Methos said he talked with you." She shook her head, not believing Duncan could be so blind. His mistrust of her burned in her stomach worse than any whiskey she'd ever drunk.
Memory of what Methos had said returned with the force of a blow with her reminder. Still, Duncan knew Methos was prone to not telling the entire truth. "He said a lot of things. I don't know what to believe." He moved closer, but she stepped back. "Please, tell me what happened."
"I can't believe I was actually afraid to love you. I needed time away to think, MacLeod. I've never loved anyone like I love you." She snorted. "More than anything, though, I needed my freedom. I made a deal with Interpol, you idiot, so I could get the charges dropped against me, not because of anything you did. That's why I had a job in Singapore to do."
She closed her eyes against the horror of the memory, missing Duncan's reaction completely as she said, "Ever held a dead baby that's been stuffed full of heroin?" She laughed hollowly. "I turned over a million dollars for a crate full of 'em, and I wouldn't have known what was in that fucking box had my instructions not said to get confirmation. The agent said I did a great job in busting the smuggling ring, and that as long as I stayed out of trouble, I was a free woman. It didn't matter. I had to drown the memories somewhere, and I couldn't face you."
Still not understanding, but slowly realizing his anger was misplaced, Duncan asked, "Why not?"
She opened her eyes. Everything she'd seen in her short, all-too-violent life was reflected in her face. All traces of the easygoing, flirtatious, and independent woman was gone. Even Kelly's anger seemed to have dissipated. In their place was the child who'd thought a war zone was her playground, the teenager who'd fought alongside her father, the adult who'd chosen to continue being a soldier because it was what she knew best to do. Here was the old, battle-scarred soul who'd seen one nightmare too many and lost herself in a drunken trip around the world. The sheer power of Kelly's vulnerability humbled Duncan.
She hugged herself tightly as softly, she spoke. "You gave me so much without asking for anything but myself in return. All my life, I've known to deal, when to fight, how to make love, when to retreat. What you make me feel — " she gestured vaguely " — it's not a deal, it's not a war, it's not just sex, and it's not something I can run away from. You asked me to stay, and I needed someplace to go. Someplace where the memories of everything I've seen and done wouldn't be so vivid." She choked back the tears, lifting her chin proudly. "You gave me that shelter, Duncan, gave me your love, your trust. I'm so used to having to make my own, to take what I can get and be content. If you can't trust me to love you, then I'll just walk away now and get on with my life." She paused, and took a shuddering breath. "I don't have forever like you do, but I'll love you for as long as I live. I can't fight what I feel for you, or force you to change your mind. I don't know how to."
She turned to walk out the door, shoulders slumped.
Duncan didn't know what to say. Words failed him as his emotions tumbled wildly, like a ship on a storm-tossed sea. The enormity of his error in judgment was fathoms deep. He'd cast doubt on Kelly and ordered her to walk the plank without giving her a fair trial.and he was acting incredibly stupid for a man hundreds of years old. Methos had given Duncan sufficient explanation.but he hadn't wanted to believe. Now his heart ached even more with the added knowledge Kelly shared. Duncan's anger plummeted like a stone in water, regret rising proportionally like ballast.
She was going to leave him again, and this time, it would be his fault. She was retreating, but not out of fear or a need to avoid the law. From the way she looked, she was simply giving up and moving on, a broken woman, most likely to lose herself in another war zone, possibly to die. He couldn't let that happen. Kelly was far too precious to him. He'd been a fool to judge her so harshly.
How could he been so quick to jump to conclusions? The answers he sought had been in her eyes, in her voice, long before she'd left. He'd trusted that, had known she didn't offer explanations easily, letting her actions speak for her emotions. Maybe that was why he'd seen her slip of the tongue so drastically. It still didn't take away the grievous hurt he'd caused.
He knew there was only one thing he could do.
Her hand was on the doorknob when he spoke her name.
"I'm sorry, my love," he said thickly, closing the distance between them to hold her. "I love you, and I've missed you. I should've let you explain sooner. Can you forgive me?"
She stood stiffly in the embrace a moment before slipping around to face him. "I don't know," she told him honestly. "I'm not going to apologize for leaving," she warned him through tearstained eyes, her voice returning to a glimmer of the hard-edged woman Duncan had first known. "I'm not going to make promises I can't keep, either."
Duncan quirked his lips in a half-smile as he heard her words. "I dinna ask that, did I?" he teased her gently before he kissed her. She tasted of whiskey, as bittersweet as the second chance he now had.
"No," she sighed against his mouth before returning the kiss. After a few moments, she reluctantly ended it. "Just what are you asking of me, MacLeod?"
"Stay with me," he pleaded quietly. "Love me as much as I love you."
She pretended to consider the offer for a few minutes, then she laughed softly. "I already do love you, and I will stay," she agreed just before kissing Duncan again.
***Finis***
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©11.14.98 Raine Wynd