Chapter Text
ONE
"I tell you, Dotty, my dear, it's a lovely day for early spring. But so nippy." The older woman waiting for the train to arrive had had a captive audience. And since Mrs. Corkindale wasn`t about to let such an opportunity pass her by, she'd warmed right up to her subject. Herself. The old woman started in complaining about her arthritis. A subject on which she had no trouble expounding for the unexpected hour's wait.
Her daughter-in-law, the aforementioned Dotty, simply sighed and resigned herself. It was just her bad luck that her package was arriving on the same train as her mother-in-law's. She was thankful, though, that she wasn't expected to do more than nod once and again.
"…And they say we can expect rain again tonight." Mrs. Corkindale shook her head knowingly and tapped the wrist she had broken the summer before. "I might even say there could be a bit of a blow…"
"Wheeeeeeettttttttttttt!"
"The train," Dotty said thankfully. She turned away to watch the small engine and four cars pull into Glenfinnan Station. She hurried over to the station manager, Mr. Henry. With luck she could retrieve her package quickly. Get away before she was stuck having lunch with the old woman, too.
Carelessly, she stepped out right in front of a man getting off the train. "Sorry, sir," she said. Tried to push past him. Until she caught sight of him. "Oh, my," she breathed.
The tall, darkly handsome, impeccably dressed man smiled. "Are you from Glenfinnan? I'm looking for a place around here. A little farm…"
Mrs. Corkindale brushed Dotty out of the way. "There's many a farm around here," she said knowingly. "What is it, exactly, you're looking for, young sir? Sure, you're an American. But I don't see nary a camera." She seemed a bit puzzled.
Mr. Henry had come up with two of the baggage handlers. "The fishing's been spotty this year," the older man said. He looked over the cartload of luggage. Then shook his head. Not a rod or reel in sight. What kind of tourist was this man?
"I'm not here to take pictures or to fish," the stranger began.
"Well. It's not for the football," someone else said.
"Why you! You take that back…"
The dark man looked around the growing crowd. It seems he was forgotten in the zeal of team spirit. He backed away until he felt a touch on his arm. He turned to find a smaller man, with a wild mop of brown curls, had loaded his baggage on a station wagon. Was pushing his bags through the station.
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. "Glenfinnan this way." Went on when the stranger started to follow. He stopped outside, next to an old-fashioned horse-drawn cart.
The dark man realized he was going to be riding around in the horse cart. "Well, I'd heard some people were trying to get in touch with their roots. But isn't this a bit much?" The stranger's voice was light, but just a tad curious, too.
"Laddie, the roads being what they are. The cost of petrol. And there being a fair tax break for running a one-horse-power taxi service. What do you think?"
"I think I'd like you to take me to the inn."
"Good choice."
Soon enough the luggage was loaded, and the little man started his gelding off down the road. After a moment or two, he looked other man up and down.
"Six-two?" It was obvious he meant his height.
"Six even."
"Hm. Cincinnati?"
Now the stranger laughed. "Seacouver. Mostly."
TWO
The best inn in Glenfinnan wasn't in the town. But rather some distance away on Loch Shiel. The newcomer was quiet as he rode along. Content to simply look at a landscape he hadn't seen in decades. As they crossed an old stone bridge, the cart slowed and stopped. Tears started in his eyes and he let them fall. Even when he realized the driver was watching him.
"Ah, that's nothing but a wee, humble cottage," the driver said quietly. It was. A run down old farmhouse and outbuildings. Long neglected by the look of them.
One low story. Wide. With thick walls built of fieldstone. The thatched roof was in dismal shape. Stone shone through the whitewash. The gardens were overgrown. No trace of civilized growth could be seen. The outbuildings were in disrepair. Even the steppingstones across the stream were out of place.
All in all, it looked--like heaven.
"That little place across the brook. That humble cottage. Who owns it," the dark man asked.
"Madam Amanda. Widow MacBeth, that is. Not that she lives there." The smaller man had taken the opportunity to light his pipe and was sending up smoke rings.
"Think she'll sell?"
"Not in this lifetime. Laddie, what Amanda has, she holds with an iron grip," the man warned with a laugh. "White O'Morn belongs to her. Lock, stock and barrel. Besides, I think she likes the name. She'll not be selling," he stated emphatically.
"Well, don't be so sure of yourself this time, Hugh Fitzcairn. White O'Morn belongs to the MacLeods. And I intend to get it back, Fitz!"
"MacLeod? MacLeod?" It was clear Fitzcairn was confused. How did this man know him? "Wait. Who? Who are you?"
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I was born here in Glenfinnan. But I left when I was very young. You knew my cousin, Connor. He told me all about you. And this place."
"Duncan? Is it really you, laddie?" Fitz peered up into the handsome face of the man he'd supposed was an American.
"Aye, Fitz." MacLeod laughed, and clapped his new friend on the shoulder.
"Well, what do ye know! I need a drink." Fitz shook out the reins and the horse obediently headed down the road.
THREE
They were still some way out from the inn when Fitz again slowed the cart. Bringing it to stop next to an ancient car. The bonnet was up, and there was a stream of colorful profanity coming from that direction. And some serious metal-banging.
"Ahem," Fitz said loudly. When it became apparent their arrival had gone unnoticed.
"Jesus Christ! Just shoot me. That'd have to be less painful than a heart attack," a gravelly tenor voice declared frostily. A bearded, silver-haired man stepped into view. His blue eyes flicked over the stranger with Fitz.
"Dawson, if you'd get a decent car, you wouldn't be stuck on the side of the road all the time."
"Fitzcairn, if I wanted your advice, I'd ask for it." The man nodded, then crossed over to the cart. He leaned on his cane, and offered his hand. "Joe Dawson. I own The Blue Moon. You going out my way?"
MacLeod jumped from the cart and shook the graybeard's hand. "Duncan MacLeod. If you've got a room," he said with a smile. "I didn't make a reservation."
"No need this early in the season," Joe assured him. "Plenty of room. Besides, I always have room for Connor`s kin." He frowned. "I was sorry to hear about that. Terrible," he added softly.
"Thanks," MacLeod said quietly. It still hurt, the loss of his only kinsman. That was part of the reason he had come home.
"Come on, Fitz, see if you can coddle Baby for me. Get her started."
"I can…"
Both the men turned to MacLeod. "Best if you stay away," Joe warned. He looked the well-dressed man over. Pointedly. "Don't want to mess your clothes."
"Laddie," Fitz nodded knowingly. "Baby's a spitter. Go over there." Fitz waved the other man off.
MacLeod knew when to give up. Walking down the road, he caught sight of a flock of sheep. He stopped. It had been such a long, long time since he done anything so simple. He found a fallen tree trunk and sat down to watch. He laughed aloud at the antics of the lambs.
Then laughed even more as the car sputtered into life. Backfired. And the startled sheep fled across the fields.
Hearing a bark, he turned again. And found himself looking at… He blinked, and there was no one there.
"What is it, laddie," Fitz asked curiously. He had been calling to the other man, but not getting a reaction.
"Hey, was that real?"
"What?"
"Didn't you see?"
Fitz looked at MacLeod. The man sounded awestruck. He shook his head. "Ah, nonsense man. It's only a mirage. Brought on by your terrible thirst."
"Maybe so," MacLeod said with a shrug. But he really didn't think so.
FOUR
It was barely sunrise when Duncan MacLeod dressed in a warm up suit and left the inn for his run. The mist hung heavy over the land. Obscuring hills, fields, houses, forest alike. So the man stayed on the roads. And ran. Simply. Quietly. Just for the pleasure of moving. Something he hadn't done in a long while.
He was just about to head back when the mist suddenly dissipated. Just like someone had lifted a gauzy gray shawl. The sun shone down, sparking dew droplets to white fire. MacLeod stopped to watch the little miracle.
A moment later he stiffened. Turned to stare up the road. Directly into the sun. At a running figure that slowed as it approached. Stopped.
Without realizing it, MacLeod smiled. A smile nearly as glorious as the sunrise. All for the strange man--immortal--standing before him. "Good morning."
There was a five-second eternity before the other immortal nodded. Sweat-dampened sable hair flopped into his eyes and he negligently pushed it back. Threadbare gray sweats were stained with sweat.
"It was you, yesterday, wasn't it? With the sheep, I mean."
Eyes the color of fine cognac brightened. The mobile lips almost smiled. He nodded by way of answer.
"Why did you run away?"
The man shrugged. A moment later the alarm on his watch beeped. He dashed off without having spoken a word.
"Wait!" MacLeod was about to go after the other immortal, but Fitz and his cart were suddenly blocking the way.
"None of that now, none of that. It's a bold man you are, Duncan MacLeod. And who taught you to be flirting in the road."
"Hey, you're not going to tell me you didn't see him this time!"
"Oh, I saw all right." Fitz smirked at the man. "Here I thought you'd be going after the Widow." Then he shook his unruly curls.
Fitz snorted. "And there was Adam Pierson letting you do it!"
"What did you say his name was," the Scot asked quietly. He still stared down the road where the man had vanished.
"Adam Pierson." Fitz looked at the other man sharply. "Now, don't be getting any notions into your head."
"Adam," Duncan said quietly.
"Forget it, Mac. Forget it. Put it out of your mind entirely, laddie."
"Why? What's the matter? He's not taken already, or anything, is he?"
"Oh, nothing like that," Fitz said with a little laugh. "Not likely. That one has a fine temper, though. And that's no lie. But that one's not for you, laddie." He looked rueful, though, before he went on. "No, Adam Pierson's not for the likes of you."
"What do you mean? Not for the likes of me, then?"
Fitz sighed. "It's far too early to be thinking about anything like that, Duncan, my lad. Come along. The Widow can see you this morning."
At that news, MacLeod brightened. Once he had White O'Morn, he would concentrate on the next thing he wanted.
FIVE
The Widow was a beautiful, vibrant, sexy woman in her early thirties. Not a bit the doughty matron he`d been expecting. MacLeod piqued her interest. She leaned back in the ornate chair behind her equally ornate desk and studied him. He was *so* her type. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Well-dressed. No doubt he was rich, too.
"So, it`s your ancestral home, is that it?"
"Yes, as long as there have been MacLeods they've owned that land."
"Well, Mr. MacLeod, I see. Now, what exactly do you plan to do with the place? Are you going to turn it into one of those reenactment sites? Run tours? I can assure you there's not enough tourist trade for it. Or are you some kind of celebrity?" Her tone was light. Amanda was teasing.
"No, not exactly," the man replied carefully.
The Widow sighed. "My own family has been here for over a thousand years. But we haven't any monuments or memorials…"
The Scot sighed. "Look, it's MacLeod land. It's been MacLeod land since long before either of us was born. I want to live here. What else…"
The butler cut off MacLeod's words. He came in behind a man who had stopped just inside the room's door.
"Mrs. MacBeth! I tried to stop Mr. Koren, Madam."
Koren. MacLeod knew the name. An immortal. Another immortal. What were the chances of that happening in such a small place as Glenfinnan? Melvin Koren, here.
"Mrs. MacBeth," he said, as he looked the dark immortal over. Suspicion evident in his body language.
"Mr. MacLeod," Amanda introduced the newcomer. "From America."
"It's him I'm here about, Mrs. MacBeth. Is it true?"
MacLeod stayed quiet. The small, light brown-haired man had fiercely burning blue eyes. And a horrendous scar across his right eye. Dislike for the other immortal resonated from him. MacLeod had to admit the feeling was mutual.
"Is what true," the woman asked silkily. She knew what he was going on about.
"That behind my back he's trying to steal the White O'Morn right from under my nose?
Amanda leaned back in her chair and studied Koren through narrowly slit eyes. "And what concern of yours is this, Melvin Koren?"
"Concern? Concern enough! Haven't I made you a good, fair offer for that same piece of land? And mine lying right next to yours."
The Highlander looked over at Fitz. It suddenly dawned on him that there was more going on here than a simple land sale. He had stepped squarely into the middle of--something. He almost groaned when Fitz gave him a tiny nod.
"You may keep your offer."
"Oh. So, it's true, you have sold it?" One could almost see storm clouds gathering in the intense blue eyes.
The woman frowned. "No. I have not."
"Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Oh, I knew it was a dirty lie the very minute I heard it." Koren rounded on the other immortal. "Sure. I said to him, `Joe Dawson, you'll never make me believe that Amanda MacBeth will be selling White O'Morn.' Why, it'd be like building a fence between your land and mine. ' And for a stranger to move in,' said I. 'And what would she be doing that for?' And us so close to an understanding, you might say." Koren looked very pleased with himself.
Unfortunately, the Widow wasn't nearly so happy.
"So, you told him all that, did you? Down at the pub I suppose. In front of all of those big ears. With pints in their fists and pipes in their mouths." Amanda sat behind her desk and silently fumed. For a moment. Then she smiled. Sweetly. She turned to MacLeod.
"You may have the land, Duncan. For two hundred and fifty."
"Two hundred and fifty!"
"I believe the offer was three hundred," the dark immortal said quietly in response to Koren's shout.
"Three hundred and ten," Koren countered. He was furious now. His face was suffused with anger.
Not wanting to drag things out any longer, MacLeod shrugged and pulled out his checkbook. "Four hundred," he said as he wrote.
SIX
"He's just like all the MacLeods," one of Koren's hired men was saying to the other three. "Great fighters. Why, there are legends going back near five hundred years."
None of the four noticed the look on Adam Pierson's face as he served their lunch. By all that was holy, he'd never expected the Highlander to come back to Glenfinnan. Not after everything that had been going on lately. Certainly not after what had happened with Connor.
He wondered what the man was here for. Maybe some kind of pilgrimage? Methos had moved to stand where he could look out of the kitchen window. He leaned his aching head against the cool pane.
I don't need this, he thought. Kronos is volatile enough. I can barely keep him under control now. Adding Duncan to the situation is like adding butane to a petrol fire. Their eruption would have nothing on Vesuvius.
Methos stiffened and turned to the back door. Warily, he waited for Kronos to appear.
"Get out," the immortal shouted as soon as he saw his employees. He glared happily as they fled. Then grabbed the whiskey bottle. Flung himself into his chair before the fire.
"Brother, bring me a glass," he commanded.
"Isn't it a bit early in the day for whiskey? Even for you?"
The tall immortal studied the smaller as he went to the cabinet. "So, you went over there in a snit and said something to Amanda." Methos practically tossed the other man the glass. "Pissed her off, didn't you? She sold White O`Morn to the American?"
A snarl was the only answer. Kronos poured a full glass of liquor and drank it down.
His brother nodded, and folded his arms around his chest. "Well, good for her. Good for him."
"What do you mean? How dare you take his side!" Kronos jumped up, spilling his drink. Attempting to grab Methos. He tripped and sprawled on the floor.
Methos nimbly sidestepped and danced out of reach. "I dare anything, brother. You'd better just remember who needs whom." Then the ancient man was gone. The door slamming behind him.
SEVEN
Joe Dawson watched the patrons in his bar. There had been quite a bit of revelry earlier. When Fitz had introduced his quiet, peace-loving friend, Duncan MacLeod, to everyone. Celebrating the return of one of their own. He grinned and shook his head as he pulled several more pints. Too bad Adam hadn't been here, he thought.
Well, not really. Not if Koren was as homicidal as he'd heard. Poor Adam. He wondered what it must be like for the kid to be that particular lunatic's Watcher. Of course, Koren didn't know that. He thought Adam was just his adopted brother. And business manager.
It was one of the many ploys the Watchers used to keep tabs on some of their immortals.
And that thought brought him back to his regard of Duncan MacLeod.
There had been *much* rejoicing when the man resurfaced. After the debacle with Kell and his kinsman, Connor MacLeod, there had been wild speculation. That the best hope to win the Prize might have given up. Joe was determined not to let the Highlander get away again.
He hoped things would settle down. He didn't think he wanted another confrontation in his bar like the one earlier. Koren had come in and accused MacLeod of everything from theft to trying to seduce both Mrs. MacBeth and Adam.
Koren had even tried to pick a fight. Fortunately, MacLeod had refused. And left not long after that to take some of his things to the cottage.
The graybeard wasn't really paying attention when Fitz came to the bar for another pint. He drew it, passed it down the bar, and went back to his private thoughts.
"…I've never seen Adam taken with anyone like that. Female. Much less male," Fitz said bemusedly. "And the looks MacLeod was giving our Mr. Pierson…"
"What?"
Fitz looked over at the innkeeper and shrugged. "I said, Adam and Duncan fancy one another."
EIGHT
MacLeod had insisted that Fitz drop him off away from White O'Morn. Despite the chilly, damp wind, he was going to spend the night in his ancestral home for the first time in centuries. In the dying evening light, he stopped beside the stream and carefully placed the stepping-stones. Stood, and looked over the cottage.
It would take time, money, and hard work to bring it back. "Well, you've got plenty of the first two, and you don't mind the third, Duncan," he said to himself. He was about to cross the stream when he noticed the smoke. Someone had started a fire in the fireplace.
Moving stealthily, he went to the door. It was nearly full dark now. The storm clouds covered the moon. Inside, only faint firelight illuminated the main room. He didn't see or feel anyone. He went in. Nothing.
Wait. Presence. Whoever it was, he had to know. MacLeod moved to the back of the cottage and waited. A moment later he felt tingling. He jumped from his hiding place and grabbed.
Snatched sweater. Yanked a sleeve. An arm. Pulled.
Then a long, lean body was pressed against his, thigh to chest. MacLeod groaned at the exquisite contact. All he had to do was tilt his head the slightest bit to touch the soft, warm lips. There was no awkwardness over height. No moment of indecision about where noses should go.
They kissed.
It was perfection. MacLeod almost hummed in delight as his arms went around Adam. He had no idea how long it lasted. But it wasn't long enough.
He was being shoved away. Rudely. Roughly. "Hey!"
Methos fell back against the wall. He was panting, and his color was high. The other man reached for him again, and he slapped his hand away. "Don't. Touch. Me. What gives you the right?"
"So you can talk?" The Scot had begun to wonder if his mirage was mute.
"Yes I can, I will, and I do!" Methos moved farther away. "And it's more than talk you'll get if you take a step closer."
"Sure. Okay. Fine." MacLeod took several steps back and held up his hands in surrender. "You pack a wallop. Sorry. I just thought…"
"What?" Methos was shaking. He wasn't exactly sure why. Oh, he knew it was because of the unexpected depth of his emotional reaction. But which one?
The one where he wanted to throw Duncan down and have his very wicked way with him? Or the one where he wanted to run away. Far, far away. Maybe New Zealand was far enough?
"I thought it was nice of you to come over here. You know. I don't think your brother would approve."
Methos lifted his chin. "I do what I please." But then he sagged. "And no, he won't. And that's why it won't happen again. So, good night, Mr. MacLeod. Welcome to Glenfinnan. Welcome home."
The old immortal gathered his tattered dignity and backed out of the cottage. He shut the door carefully. Then turned and ran as if the very hounds of hell were on his heels.
NINE
Joe had driven out to White O'Morn with mail for MacLeod. He couldn't get over the fact that the man was doing without phone, cable, Internet or gas. His only concessions to modernity were indoor plumbing and a windmill to generate electricity. The Watcher thought he was nuts.
Now, in just a few short weeks, the property looked completely different. The cottage was freshly whitewashed a gleaming white. The roof thatched in golden straw. The doors and shutters painted a deep, emerald green. MacLeod had insisted. Even though he'd been told often enough that red was more durable.
There were chickens in a coop. Geese on the stream banks. Sheep in the pastures. Two fine thoroughbreds in the barn. Joe was surprised there wasn't a cow or two on the place.
"I gotta tell you, Mac, this is pretty impressive. It looks like all these cottages should. But usually don`t." The mortal handed over the packet of mail, fax, and email. "Oh, and here's a little housewarming present." He got a rose bush out of the back seat. "I, ah, heard you were putting these in."
"Thanks, Joe." The Scot smiled. He was taking flack from the locals about the roses, too. But he didn't care. Not at all. "Come on in and have some coffee."
"Coffee?"
"Would you rather tea?"
"Nah, coffee's great." Joe grinned. He went to sit on the bench set beside the front door. "Mac, delivery truck is coming," he called out a few minutes later.
"Oh, great, my furniture." He handed the mortal a large mug of coffee, and went over to the van.
The Highlander and the movers were having a discussion, when Dawson noticed there was another visitor. This one was practically hiding behind a hedgerow. He limped over to Adam. "Hello. Come here often?"
"Arse."
Dawson laughed. "Yeah," he said agreeably. He needlessly pointed at the van where they were just bringing out a dresser. "Mac's new furniture."
"Yes."
The two men watched silently for a while. Methos thought he approved of most of the choices. What there was of it.
Joe whistled suddenly. "Would you look at that?"
The 'that' was a bed. One of the largest beds he'd ever seen outside of a museum. "It's big as a parade ground. You'd have to be a sprinter to catch your wife in a bed like that." He looked over at Adam. "Or your--whatever."
Methos glared at his friend. Then he turned and walked stiffly towards the road. He could hear Dawson's sniggering for quite a way.
Continued...