Chapter One

        Methos gazed blearily at the tempting sight that was suddenly slammed on top of the table. Jaw slack and ale dribbling from a corner of his mouth, the world's oldest living Immortal didn't even bother to pick up the dice and the gold coins that fell to the floor - although any greedy gambler who's not on a winning streak, like he was, would do just that. No, all his woozy attention was focused on the alluring golden ass that was laid before him.

        Niiiice! he thought lustfully. The candlelight caressed the tawny, smooth skin that, to Methos' eyes, it glowed like burnished gold. Absolutely purrr-fect! Damn, I wish I wasn't so drunk! I'd like to see his face!

        The owner of the shapely rotundities was being subjected to a most thorough examination by a number of men, who would like to win this prize. Xavier St. Cloud, the moor who took this young Celt during a raid, was smirking in his chair. He had placed this potential slave and his stallion as a wager, knowing full well that he would win them back. One man was testing his legs. To examine him better, the brigand had hitched the Celt's kilt around his waist, giving Methos, in turn, an intoxicating view of the perfect rump. The ties of his loin pouch caressed the crack of his ass. Another drunken fellow was examining the young man's teeth.

        The ancient couldn't help but groan, blowing a strand of hair off his forehead. I could never understand why they always have to check out the teeth! I could think of better things to examine than a slave's pearly whites...like these wonderful golden globes here. They look delicious enough to eat!

        Methos saw the muscles twitch. It was obvious to him that the Celt was trying desperately to control his temper. That sudden movement only made Methos want to carefully peruse those perfect mounds.

        Raising his hands, he formed a frame using his thumbs and index fingers. Because of the effect of the liquor, Methos was having trouble centering the objects of his attention. To his sheer delight, there were now three pairs of shapely buttocks weaving before his eyes.

        "Hold still, will you?" the ancient grumbled, not knowing which of the rotundities he should grab.

        Licking his upper lip, Methos squinted his left eye, keeping his right eye wide open. Cupping his hands, he reached out to the pair closest to him...and was successful in finding his targets, giving them a firm squeeze for good measure.

        "GET YER FILTHY HANDS OFF ME!"

        Before he knew what was happening, something hard struck his cheek, that Methos fell over backward in his chair, the back of his head hitting the dirty wooden floor.

        At once, all hell broke loose as the Celt began to fight back, hurling colorful Gaelic invectives at the same time.

        Methos picked himself up from the floor, his face still smarting from that vicious slap to his cheek. For awhile, he teetered on wobbly legs. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, the ancient carefully made his way across the tavern on slow, shuffling feet. Despite his inebriated state, he still managed to dodge fists, kicks, and both fighting and falling bodies, as he went towards the enraged Celt.

        When he was behind the young man, who had just caused the raider who was examining his teeth to lose a couple of his own choppers with a punch, Methos raised a hand and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

        "Excuuush me!" he slurred softly.

        But the Celt ignored him, intent on battering his way through the drunken throng that stood between him and the doorway to freedom.

        Methos cleared his throat noisily. Tapping harder, he shouted, "I shaidd, EXCUUUUSSSSHHHHH MEEEEEE!"

        The Celt swiftly turned, about to hit the ancient in the face a second time. Instincts honed by centuries of battles suddenly surfaced. Catching the clenched fist in his left hand, Methos buried the fingers of his right in the shocked Celt's throat. He then lifted him up and slammed him down on the table.

        Methos felt his breath catch in his throat, at last, seeing the prisoner's face.

        He's beautiful! the ancient thought. He's so damned beautiful!

        Indeed, the young Celt was a sight to behold. Lovely of face, he had high cheekbones, lush rosy lips and expressive doe eyes, reflecting defiance and fear at the same time. His long wavy hair spread like a fan on the tabletop. From what he could feel of the body beneath him, Methos could discern firm muscles under the man's clothing.

        As he gazed on those lips, Methos gave in to the urges that welled up inside him. Leaning down, he kissed that full mouth.

        At first, the young man struggled fiercely, but Methos wrapped his arms tightly around him, pulling him up to a sitting position, not once relinquishing his hold on those lush lips.

        The ancient was tender and demanding at the same time. Through the pressure of his lips, he radiated comfort as well as asking for the surrender he so desired.

        Do not be afraid! Methos let the thought traverse the link of their joined mouths. Give in to me!

        Sure enough, he slowly felt the young man weaken in his embrace, surrendering to his gentle caress. When the ancient pulled away, he smiled when the Celt whimpered in protest.

        Methos laughed softly, seeing the dazed expression on the other man's face. Caressing that full lower lip, turned ruby red from the kiss, with the tip of his finger, he whispered, "You liked that, didn't you?"

        At these words, the fog suddenly cleared from the Celt's eyes, to be replaced by shock and intense revulsion.

        "Ye bastard!" he exclaimed. "No one lays a hand or a filthy mouth on the son o' the laird o' the Clan MacLeod an' gets away wi' it!"

        As he raised a hand to slap Methos, the ancient grabbed it once more. Before the stunned Celt could pull away, Methos took his other hand and tied his wrists together before him with a long leather strap he had taken out of his pocket.

        "I think it's about time you learned your place," he muttered menacingly.

        To the young man's shock, the ancient stripped him of his garments, tearing off his shirt and his kilt, leaving him naked for all to see, except for the tiny piece of fabric that was his loin pouch. Ashamed, the Celt bent down to pick up a piece of his shirt to cover himself, but Methos jerked him to his feet. Placing his hand on top of the Celt's head, the ancient made the young man turn around several times. The brigands frowned at this bizarre behavior.

        When the dazed Celt was wrapped up in the strap, Methos turned to the raiders who were watching them.

        "Seen enough?" he asked. Before the brigands could reply in the negative, the Old Man declared, "Good!"

        The ancient then yanked hard on the leather strap, that the Celt spun around and around like a top. When he stopped spinning, Methos pulled the dizzy young man close to him and brought him to the moor.

        Methos slammed his hand down on the table, staring at Xavier St. Cloud, who remained seated in his chair throughout the melee, smirking at him.

        "Xavier," he said firmly, hoping he sounded convincing enough, though the liquor threatened to cloud his mind once more, "I am going to wager my home and my livelihood for this boy and his pony!"

        "I'm no' a boy, an' how dare ye call ma great steed a pony!" the Celt declared in outrage.

        "Shut your mouth!" the ancient ordered him. At this stern command, the young man fell silent.

        "And perhaps other services I may require from you?" asked St. Cloud.

        Methos gritted his teeth. He knew full well that Xavier St. Cloud was very much aware of his past as Death, the wily tactician of the infamous band of Immortal raiders, known as the Four Horsemen. With his brilliant mind among them, St. Cloud and his band would be unstoppable.

        The ancient thought for a moment. Returning to that kind of brutal life was not what he wanted - the running, the raids, most of all, the killings. But the allure of the Celt at his side fogged his mind, even more than a barrel of ale.

        The first time Methos glimpsed his face, he knew the young man was destined to become an Immortal, like a butterfly about to emerge from its cocoon. And, indeed, he was quite a beguiling creature.

        However, without a doubt, the Celt spelled trouble with a capital "T". Pampered son of a Scottish chieftain, he was obviously spoiled rotten. How Xavier St. Cloud managed to capture such a prize, Methos had no idea. But to see such a spirited youngling broken like a horse by St. Cloud and his men... It was a thought the ancient didn't even want to consider.

        There are too many evil Immortals wandering this earth, mused Methos. With conviction, he swore, I will not see this young man join their ranks, though the potential is inside him. No, I will tame him. I will see to it that he becomes more than a spoiled heir of a clan chieftain. But first, I must win him from Xavier.

        Taking a deep breath, Methos sat down in a chair. "I agree to your terms."

        "I will no' be ained by a mon such as ye!" the young Celt declared with absolute disdain.

        "You'd better pray that I be the one who wins you," Methos told him coldly. "If any of these louts win, you'll find yourself becoming the plaything of every filthy man in a raider's band. You won't even have the strength to stand once they're through with you. You'll just lie back inside a smelly tent on some worn rugs and spread your legs to the next ruffian who'd want to stick his iron brand into your nether parts."

        "An' wha' abou' ye?" the prisoner asked him. "Wad ye no' defile me yerself? Ye're no different from these...bastards...who 'ave taken me from ma home!"

        "There is a difference between me and men of Xavier St. Cloud's ilk. I do not have to rape you to break you. Did I not have you surrender in my arms earlier when I kissed you?"

        The Celt flushed a deep red. Then, pursing his lips together, he spat into the ancient's face, hitting his prominent nose. Methos casually pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the spittle off his face.

        "Ye will ne'er 'ave me!" the young man swore defiantly. "I wad rather die than be bedded by a mon wi' such a big ugly nose as yers!"

        Hearing the insult accorded to what he considered the best asset of his face, Methos threw his handkerchief  on the table and got to his feet, his chair falling over backward.

        "No one," he began, waving a menacing finger at him, "I do mean NO ONE insults my nose like that!"

        The Celt sneered at him. "Ye got a nose that's as big as tha' o' the wicked witch o' Donan Woods!"

        Furious, Methos pinched the prisoner's fine nose between his fingers. The man yelped in surprise and pain, tears trickling from a corner of his eyes.

        "Aneuch!" he cried, rather nasally.

        Releasing him, a furious Old Man made to sit down, only to find himself landing butt first on the floor. Laughter, at once, filled the air. The ringing peals of giggles caused his head to throb. To add to his further embarrassment, it was Xavier St. Cloud who even helped him up. Methos swept his fiercest glare all across the tavern, his green gold eyes flashing lightning bolts, that everyone fell silent...except for one.

        Gazing slowly up, the ancient saw that the Celt was giggling merrily, his cheeks flushed a lovely rose red. To Methos, it seemed the young man was about to bust his guts from laughing...at his expense.

        With a low growl, Methos raised his fingers threateningly before the Celt's face, opening and closing them like deadly pincers. Swiftly, the prisoner lapsed into silence, putting his bound hands protectively over his nose.

        "Let go of me!" Methos yanked his other arm out of Xavier's grasp. He was about to plop down on the floor again. Thankfully, St. Cloud pushed a chair under the ancient, probably wanting to spare the Immortal any further abashment.

        Taking his seat, Xavier asked the other men, "Would any of you like to place your bets?"

        Everyone quickly shook their heads, almost too eagerly, it seemed to Methos.

        "No," one man said. "That slave's trouble, if you ask me."

        "That horse of his nearly bashed my brains in," another brigand complained.

        "Serves ye right!" the Celt muttered smugly. A fierce glare from Methos silenced him.

        "Well, my friend," said Xavier, picking up the pair of dice, "it's just you and me." Throwing it onto the table, the moor crowed in glee. "ELEVEN! Let's see you top that, Methos!"

        This is bad! the ancient mused in dismay, knowing that his chances of rolling a "12" were very slim. Very bad indeed!

        Then, there was a strange expression on the Celt's face that was distracting him. The young man was trying to so hard to look as if the game did not interest him. But the mischievous gleam in his doe eyes betrayed his intentions. Methos had an inkling that a sinister plot was hatching inside that handsome head of his.

        Taking the dice, Methos shook them in his cupped hands, closing his eyes, praying to all the gods he had ever worshipped that they grant him good luck. As an afterthought, he even rolled the dice over the surprised Celt's firm belly, letting the small cubes tease the tiny navel.

        Seeing the outrage in the young man, Methos grinned. "For luck, you see."

        What happened next seemed to move in a blur. But in the ancient's mind, everything registered in a grotesque motion that was as slow as a snail.

        Methos was about to throw the dice when, suddenly, he felt his chair kicked from under him. As he keeled over backward, hands flailing in the air, seeking balance, the dice flew out of his hand. Just as he hit the floor, so did the dice fall on the table. Getting to his feet, Methos gripped the edge of the table to pull himself up. Gazing down at the dice that had settled on top, his green gold eyes widened.

        "TWELVE!" Methos exclaimed in glee. "I WON! I WON!"

        Turning to the stunned Celt, who was favoring his left foot that he had used to kick the ancient's chair, he pointed a knowing finger at him. "I told you you'll be mine! HA HA HA!"

        Grabbing the long end of the strap that bound the young man's wrists, Methos slung it over his shoulder and declared, "You're coming home with me, boy!"

        Saying this, he hustled the seething Celt out of the tavern, almost tripping down the few steps. Seeing all the horses tied in front, he paused. The ancient grimaced as he pointed to the horses one by one. He then straightened up and scratched his head quizzically. Spinning around on his heels, Methos turned to the brigands who had gathered outside to watch.

        "Almost forgot!"  The ancient then asked rather sheepishly, "Where's my horse?"

        As one, the men pointed to the seemingly placid black stallion that was tied to a sturdy oak. The fact that the horse was tied away from the rest of the other horses should have caused the ancient to become suspicious. But, no, he was intent on getting his winnings home. Besides, he was still very drunk.

        "Thank you!" Methos bowed low. In his drunkenness, he almost fell face first to the ground. Xavier grinned, seeing the slave pull back his foot that was about to kick the ancient.

        The moor quickly ran up to Methos, the Old Man's Ivanhoe in his hands. "You forgot your sword. I don't want to see you lose your head, my friend."

        Taking his blade, the ancient beamed, "That's so thoughtful of you!" He looked suspiciously at St. Cloud. "You're not planning to ambush me and take my winnings, are you, Xavier?"

        St. Cloud swiftly shook his head. "Now, why would I do something like that?"

        Though he had his doubts, Methos simply shrugged and turned his back to the moor, pulling his prize towards the handsome steed.

        "Here, horsey, horsey!" said the ancient cheerfully, still remembering what the brigand said in the tavern, something about the horse nearly bashing his brains in. Curses! This is not the way to placate a possibly bad-tempered stallion! This is an insult to my skills! But then again, I am drunk, so maybe I could be excused this time.

        The stallion glanced back at him, a baleful glower in his eye. Curling his lips, he bared his front teeth spitefully at the Old Man, shaking his head that his mane flew. He then returned to contemplating the termites that were crawling up the trunk of the oak. Methos groaned. I hate it when horses do that! So undignified!

        "Nice, horsey, horsey! You're a real good horsey, aren't you?" Cautiously, Methos hitched his blade to the harness on the saddle. Except for making ugly faces, he's a nice stallion! Those sods must have been pulling my leg. To his relief, even the Celt was very quiet, very obedient...or so he thought.

        "GAE, TEMPEST!"

        Poor Methos suddenly found himself caught between two handsome, but very stubborn, creatures, desperate for freedom. However, he was just as determined to not lose his winnings. He curled the stallion's reins around his left hand, trying to control the steed that was rearing high up on strong legs and snapping at his head. His right hand held on to the leather bonds of the Celt, who was frantically pulling at the strap. The ancient felt like he was being drawn and quartered.

        The same thought was going through the minds of the raiders. Already, bets were going around as to whether Methos will succeed in getting both his winnings under control or have his arms ripped off.

        "HELP!" Methos screeched in agony. "HELP ME!"

        But Xavier laughed, "Don't worry, Methos! You have everything under control!"

        The ancient was totally at a loss. Already, he could see that the Celt's right hand was free. He was straining on the ground to pull the strap that was still tied to his left wrist out of Methos' hand.

        "WHOA, BOY!" Methos yelled, jerking hard on the reins, hoping to calm the angry stallion. "WHOA!"

        "KICK HIM, TEMPEST!" the young man shouted, getting to his feet, tugging at his bonds.

        KICK? the ancient thought in shock, not believing what he had just heard. Did he say...

        "KICK HIM!" the Celt shrieked again.

        Methos' eyes widened, seeing the stallion put his whole weight on his forelegs, about to unleash the brain-bashing fury of his hind legs. He didn't know how he managed to do it, but Methos snapped his eyes shut and ducked as the hooves lashed out, flying above his head, missing it by inches. But he heard those hooves connect with something. To the ancient, it sounded like a falling coconut breaking open on hard ground. This was followed by silence. Then, the stallion let out a heartbreaking whinny.

        Opening his eyes, Methos saw the Celt lying on the ground. The poor stallion was nudging his master's bleeding face. There was a nasty gash on the side of his head.

        Oh my God! If he's dead....NO! The thought that formed inside the ancient's mind filled his heart with dread. I'll be saddled with a hotheaded Immortal for all eternity!

        Crawling towards the still form, Methos felt the pulse in the young man's throat. He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the artery throb beneath his fingers.

        Thank heavens! Methos thought gratefully.

        "Is he still alive?" Xavier suddenly asked behind him.

        Looking back, the ancient saw great concern in the moor's face...and something else, something that Methos could've sworn was guilt.

        Why should St. Cloud be so worried, or be guilty about this? thought the Old Man curiously.  This lad now belongs to me. He's my responsibility.

        "He is, but I must get him back home. I don't like the look of that wound." Methos carefully wrapped the Celt up in his red cloak, cradling his head. Turning to the stallion, he said gently, "Your master's unconscious. But I can help him. I have herbs in my cottage."

        The horse lowered his head guiltily, whickering softly. Methos was amazed with the stallion's intelligence. It was obvious to him that the Celt had trained him well.

        "It's not your fault...Tempest," the ancient remembered the horse's name. "It was an accident. Now, be a good boy! We have to bring him to my home, so I could take care of him."

        Hearing this, the stallion snapped to alertness.

        "Help me, will you?" Methos handed the unconscious young man to Xavier as he climbed into the saddle. Ready, he took the Celt from the moor.

        "Please take care of him, my friend," St. Cloud begged him earnestly.

        "Don't worry, Xavier," Methos assured him. "I will."

        At these words, the ancient urged the stallion into an easy canter out of town and headed off for his home, deep in the heart of the forest.
 
 

Chapter Two

        Three days had gone by in the tiny farm in the forest and still the Celt hasn't regained consciousness. Already, Methos was getting worried. He had done everything he could. The ancient had sewed up the gash with small, even stitches. He applied strong herbs to the wound and replaced the bloodstained bandages with new ones. In fact, the cut was healing rather well. But the young man hasn't opened his eyes yet.

        Tempest was beside himself with worry and guilt. Although Methos kept the horse inside the stable, he would later find Tempest outside his cottage, head bowed low. At one point, the ancient saw a glimmer of tears in the steed's dark eyes.

        Feeling sorry for the stallion, Methos positioned the Celt's cot under the window, allowing Tempest to push his head through the shutters so he could peek at his sleeping master. The sight of the horse caressing the Celt's cheek with his nose tugged at Methos' heart.

        Somehow, a kind of understanding was reached between the Old Man and the stallion. That kicking incident was never repeated. Methos allowed the horse to wander around his small demesne freely. To his credit, not once did Tempest consider escaping. He even enjoyed the warm attention showered upon him by the ancient, who always had fresh hay and water for him, as well as a juicy red apple or a sugar cube as extra treats. More than anything else, it was Methos' loving care towards his master that made the horse believe that the Old Man could be trusted.

        On the morn of the fourth day, Methos was pouring fresh water into Tempest's trough when an ear-piercing shriek filled the air. Horse and Immortal looked at each other.

        In affirmation, Methos said, "He's awake!"

        The ancient took his time going towards the cottage. Opening the door, he saw the Celt was sitting up on the bed, blanket held over his naked form. There was such anger on his face, though his expressive dark brown eyes betrayed his fear.

        "Wha' did ye do ta me?" the Celt demanded. "Wha' in God's name did ye do?"

        Methos knew immediately what he was talking about. "Don't flatter yourself! You're not worthy of my time!" With a snort, he added, "I prefer my lovers to be awake and willing, so they'd experience the ultimate in sensual pleasures in my arms."

        "Then, why am I like this? Where are ma clothes?"

        The ancient raised the skimpy loin pouch, holding the string tie between his fingers. "You mean this?" He then threw it into the fireplace.

        At once, the young man remembered the tavern and the dice game, the memory bringing a sharp ache to his head. Then, he recalled that particular bawdy segment of the conversation - something about spreading his legs and rape. Imaginary hurts suddenly flared up in places where there were no injuries.

        "Ye raped me!" accused the Celt. "Ye teuk advantage o' me!"

        Methos stared at him aghast. "I did no such thing! Besides, you smell terrible! Don't you barbarians ever bathe?"

        "How dare ye speak ta me this way! I bathe once a month!"

        The Old Man grimaced, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "You smell like it!"

        "I winna be insulted by the likes o' ye!" the Celt said indignantly.

        "In case you've forgotten," Methos reminded him, "you're my slave now. And I prefer my slaves to be smelling nice, in case I need to..." He winked at the young man. "You know what I mean."

        "I'll ne'er be yer whore!"

        "Believe me, I would never dream of having a smelly barbarian like you in my bed!"

        Outraged, the Celt clambered off the bed, wanting to get his hands on the ancient. But he felt a sudden wave of dizziness that he fell face first on the floor. Picking himself up, he felt his head spin even more as blood began to trickle from his nose.

        Feeling Methos' hands on his arm, the young man yanked it back. "Tak yer hands off me! I will no' be helped by the likes o' ye!"

        The ancient made a disgusted face, seeing the Celt wipe his bloody nose on his favorite blanket.

        "What's your name, boy?" asked Methos.

        "I am Duncan MacLeod o' the Clan MacLeod," the Celt answered proudly. "Ma faither's a great chieftain. He will 'ave yer head for this!"

        "I didn't take you from your village, Duncan. Xavier St. Cloud did. You should consider yourself lucky that I won you. I know St. Cloud's tastes for pleasure run towards the...perverse."

        "Sud I be thankful tha' ye now ain me?" asked Duncan bitterly. "Dinna yer tastes also run towards the perverse?Ye made it plain wha' ye want to do wi' me whan ye kissed me!"

        "Didn't you like it? Your body betrayed you, young man."

        "I did no' like it!"

        "And I say again, you did!"

        "I did no'!"

        "Did too!"

        "Did no'!"

        "DID TOO!"

        "DID NO'!"

        Methos shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself. Thank the gods I wouldn't ask that particular service of you, anyway."

        "Wha' do ye mean?" the Scot asked him suspiciously.

        "I never needed a bedmate. Bedmates are trouble, if you ask me. What I need is someone to take care of my house for me. Clean the place up. Cook my food. Wash my clothes. That sort of thing. I'm a blacksmith, you see, and I spend most of my time in my smithy in the woods. It's not far from here. It's near a cave with a rich iron deposit. Everything I need is right there."

        Duncan's jaw dropped. "Ye expect me, the son o' the chieftain o' the Clan MacLeod, ta be yer servant? I will no'!"

        "It's either you work for me or lie in my bed. What am I saying? Forget about the 'bed' part. I could sell your horse. One could get decent help with a full purse."

        "Tempest?" Methos saw the genuine concern in those doe eyes. There wasn't any doubt how much this youngling loved his horse.  "Is he here? Is he all right?"

        "He'll be just fine...if you'll be a good boy and do what I say."

        "Sir, " the Celt begged him meekly, "cad I see him? Please?"

        "So you're being nice to me all of a sudden, because you want something." The ancient shook his head. "No, I will not allow you to see Tempest until I see that you have done your chores well."

        "But..."

        "No buts. There's the tub and a piece of soap." Methos pointed to the big brass tub in the corner. "Bathe, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You're a disgrace to your family with the way you stink. When you're through, I want you to drain the tub and get to work."

        After changing the Scot's bandages and laying some clothes on the chair for him, Methos left Duncan alone to his bath. But rather than go to the smithy, the Old Man chose to stay for the day and clean up the stable instead. Tempest followed him like an obedient dog.

        "Why don't you run along, boy?" Methos suggested to him. "There's a nice patch of grass not far from here."

        Tempest snorted, shaking his head, his mane flowing.

        "You're worried about Duncan, aren't you? He's fine now, Tempest. I wish I could say that knock on his head did wonders for his demeanor. But it's enough for now that he's conscious." He then asked the stallion, "Is he always like this?"

        The horse whickered in confirmation.

        Methos smiled, caressing his forehead. The stallion's tail happily wagged back and forth. "I wish you could talk. Maybe you could put a good word in for me to your hard-headed master."

        When he was through cleaning up the stable, the ancient headed back to the cottage and opened the door...to a disaster area.

        There were puddles of water all over the floor. The tub was out of place, skid marks on the wood. It was obvious to Methos that the Scot had tried to haul the tub out the door to dump out the water. As for the Highlander himself, he stood in the middle of the room. He would have made quite a tantalizing sight, with his loose beige shirt and the faded blue kilt around his waist. Those long legs alone would have made Methos' mouth water. But the ancient was too shocked, seeing what the Scot was doing. Duncan was lazily sweeping the floor, swinging the broom back and forth in wide arches like a pendulum, unmindful of the fact that he was sloshing water all over the place.

        "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Methos demanded in anger. "This place is a mess!"

        He snatched the broom out of Duncan's hands. Furious, the Old Man picked up a new rag and hurled it right at the young man's face. He then laid a bucket at his feet.

        "I want you to take that rag and wipe the water off the floor. If the rag gets wet, squeeze the water out and into that bucket!"

        Stubbornly, Duncan threw the rag down. "Why sud I be doin' this menial labor? Clean it yerself! I'm a warrior! A warrior does no' do woman's work!"

        "Is that so?" Taking the broom, Methos whacked the Scot's shapely rump hard that Duncan fell to his hands and knees on the floor. "Clean this place up or I'm getting rid of your horse!"

        "You winna dare!" the Highlander glanced up at the angry Immortal.

        "Just watch me!"  the ancient taunted him.

        Duncan paused for a moment. Gritting his teeth, he began wiping the floor with furious strokes.

        "Not too fast!" Methos chided him.

        The Scot grudgingly slowed his pace. As the ancient watched the young man, he saw that tears were flowing from those lovely doe eyes. It tugged at his heart to see Duncan crying. But Methos had to be firm if he wanted to tame the Highlander.

        Methos kept at Duncan all day, making certain that his cottage was thoroughly cleaned. He totally lost all track of time. The ancient knew it was dusk when the cottage began to dim. He then lighted the lamp. A couple of hours later, Tempest's head pushed through the window, curious to see what was happening inside. The Old Man saw the moon and the twinkling stars behind the stallion. Not wanting the troublesome Scot to see his beloved pet just yet, Methos pressed a hushing finger to his lips, motioning for the horse to depart. With a slight nod, Tempest withdrew quickly but silently.

        The Old Man took a loaf of bread from the larder, two plates and two cups, filling them with water.

        "That's enough, MacLeod," he said. "Come and eat!"

        Putting down his rag, Duncan grimaced, seeing the meager meal. "Is tha' all?"

        "If you didn't make a mess of my home," Methos began patiently, "you would have had time to cook. This is enough to fill our bellies."

        "I'm no' hungry," he replied, though his stomach was growling. The Highlander placed his hand on his aching back. "I'm tired. I'm goin' ta bed."

        "Oh no you're not!"

        Duncan stared at him quizzically.

        "You've been using my bed long enough. I'll take the bed. You'll sleep on the floor."

        The Scot eyed the mat that was laid out before the fireplace.

        "But..." he was about to argue.

        "Objections?" Methos cocked an eyebrow up at him.

        Biting his lower lip, Duncan shook his head. "Nay! This will be fine."

        Saying this, the Highlander curled up on the mat and faced the flickering flames.

        As Methos chewed slowly on his bread, he thought in triumph, I win the first round!

        When he was finished, the ancient covered one half of the bread with a plate, thinking that the young man would want to eat during the night. Methos then peeled off his clothes and settled down on his cot to sleep.

        It was close to midnight when the Old Man heard a soft sound. Turning, he saw that the fire in the fireplace had died down. The Scot was curled up even tighter, shivering from the cold. Duncan was sobbing pitifully in his sleep.

        Methos carefully got out of bed, taking his blanket. Going towards the weeping figure, he placed the comforter around Duncan. At once, the Highlander wrapped himself up tightly in it. In the lamplight, Methos could see the tear tracks on his cheeks.

        Donning his cloak, Methos lay back in his bed. However, it took a long time before sleep returned to the Old Man. Methos remembered his earlier thought.

        I may have won the first round, he mused sadly, but why does it seem like a hollow victory?

Chapter Three

        Methos' day off stretched to a week. Already a number of his customers had dropped by to complain about jobs he hasn't finished. Thankfully, they accepted his excuse that he had been ill and that he would have their things repaired by the following week. He was actually stretching the truth a little bit. In fact, Methos WAS sick...well, at least, sick and tired of the Highlander.

        Having practically no knowledge of common housework or, more importantly, the inclination to learn, Duncan MacLeod was a walking disaster. Anything he held in his hands, whether it be a broom, a bucket or a simple rag, became a deadly weapon of destruction. Lord only knew he had broken every single piece of fine china the ancient had stashed inside his cupboard for use only on very special occasions, when he tried to clean the top, without using a stool. Of course, Methos had the fright of his life when he thought the Scot had been crushed to death when the cupboard itself fell over him. Duncan even managed to break a few plates and cups while washing them that the Old Man had to replace all their dinnerware with wooden plates, bowls and cups.

        The Highlander was no better at cooking. Everything he cooked was burned to cinders. Just slicing vegetables and chopping meat caused Duncan to have several cuts on his fingers. He tried to boil water once. However, the bottom of the teakettle suddenly gave way that the Scot suffered a minor burn on his right leg. Investigating the incident, Methos discovered that Duncan had scrubbed "the black stain o' the pot" too hard that the metal had thinned. Thank heavens Duncan was too scared to light the oven, saying "It's makin' funny rattlin' noises." He could've blown the whole house up.

        Methos figured he had found the perfect chore for the Scot, namely washing clothes. Completely forgetting the "Scrubbed Tea Kettle Incident", he was shocked to find all his clothes worn thin. Some even had tears from Duncan's scrubbing them too hard. Of course, there's the Highlander's total lack of personal hygiene. Too pigheaded to use the bucket, Duncan had been lugging Methos' clothes from the stream to the house in his arms. To the ancient, his clothes smelled just as bad as the Scot.

        When the week was over, Methos was close to banging his head on the table in frustration. He had to get out of the house. Somehow, the Highlander had lost his appeal to him.

        "Duncan," he motioned to the Scot to approach.

        Duncan limped towards him, broom in hand. He had earlier tripped on an exposed tree root after a clothes-washing expedition to the stream. He had to go back and wash Methos' dirt-covered clothes all over again.

        For awhile, the Old Man couldn't speak. He looks terrible!

        Indeed, Duncan was in such sorry shape. His handsome face was smudged with soot. His clothes were all askew, torn in several places. There were scrapes and cuts on his hands and knees. The burn on his right leg was still red. And there's that sad, yet stubborn, little pout on his lips. For a moment, Methos wanted to caress that soft mouth. But he shrugged the thought away.

        "MacLeod, I'm going to the smithy," he told the young man. "I've been neglecting my work, and we do need the money to buy food and some...no, a lot...of new things. I can't take you with me, for obvious reasons. I can't have you destroying my place of livelihood. This means, you'll be on your own today."

        At once, Duncan's face brightened.

        "I knew you'd be happy." Methos then became serious. "Duncan, this is very hard for me, but I'm going to put my trust in you. Don't escape! You're bound to get into trouble out in those woods, from wild animals and men alike. I don't want to see you get hurt. I trust you will take care of my home until I get back tonight and that you won't do anything stupid like trying to runaway. Do you promise?"

        "Aye, I do!" the Scot said eagerly.

        "I know you Highlanders never break your word," Methos quickly reminded him. "I consider this promise you made to me sacred. If you break my trust by running away, I swear I will find you, and I won't hesitate to demand that other service from you. Do I make myself clear?"

        Duncan knew immediately what he meant. Grudgingly, he muttered, ""Aye! I swear I will no' run."

        The ancient stood up, eyeing the young man before him. "Don't look so glum, Duncan." Grinning, he said, "Tempest is in the stable. You could go see him once you're through with your chores."

        There was such happiness in the Highlander's eyes, hearing his horse's name. "Do ye mean it? I cad see Tempest?"

        Methos nodded. "But after you finish your chores!"

        "Oh, thank ye! Thank ye sa much! I'll tak care o' e'erythin' for ye! I promise!"

        "I'll see you later then." At these words, the Old Man headed off to the smithy,  totally convinced that the Scot would keep his word.

        It was unfortunate that he didn't bother to look back at his reluctant servant, who was standing at the doorway, watching him depart.

        With a wicked gleam in his eye, Duncan muttered, "Aye! I'll tak care o' e'erythin' all right...especially ye!"

        Things went very well for Methos at the smithy, finishing most of the holdover work from the previous week. Turning off the fire in his forge, the ancient decided to head home earlier.

        Reaching the cottage, he was immediately greeted by the burnt remains of a bonfire. Although he figured the Scot decided to build a fire outside to cook food rather than use the oven, for some strange reason, the sight of those charred pieces of firewood bothered him.

        In Methos' mind, he had a very disturbing vision of a handsome, but demented, Highlander, dancing the Highland fling around a huge cauldron, cackling wickedly, "Double, double, toil an' trouble, fire burn an' cauldron bubble!"

        The Old Man shuddered. Damn! I've been reading too much Shakespeare!

        "Guid afternoon!" a cheery voice greeted from the doorway. "Ye're home early!"

        Methos looked up to find Duncan, dressed in clean clothes, a warm smile on his face. Judging from his glossy sable mane and clean face, the Scot had obviously taken a bath.

        "Hello, Duncan!" Methos greeted him. He was suddenly suspicious of the young Highlander's congenial behavior. And there was someone notably missing. "Did things go well here?"

        "Aye! I cooked a delicious supper for ye. Come in an' eat, while 'tis still warm."

        It was then that the ancient realized who was absent. "Where's Tempest?"

        "He's runnin' aroond somewhere," Duncan replied. With a gracious bow, he added, "I thank ye for lettin' him walk freely. The open spaces are doin' him guid."

        What "open spaces"? Methos pondered curiously. We're in the middle of a forest!

        "Aren't ye goin' ta come in?" the Scot asked him. "Yer supper's gettin' cauld. Ye can eat first afore ye refresh yerself. Ye look famished."

        The Old Man's belly growled. Smiling, he went inside. "Very well! Let's eat!"

        Laid out on the table was a small kettle. Steaming inside was delicious soup.

        "That smells wonderful!" Methos praised the Highlander. He scooped a large helping for himself, pouring it into his bowl. "Why don't you join me, Duncan?"

        "Nay, sir!" the Scot quickly countered. "The master always eats first."

        Motioning to the chair opposite him, the ancient declared, "I insist!" Hungry as he was, Methos didn't see the grimace on Duncan's face. He even filled up the Highlander's bowl for him.

        Seeing the hesitation in the young man, the Old Man invited, "Go on!"

        "Nay, ye gae first!" Duncan insisted. "I already tasted it. I want ta know wha' ye think o' it."

        Just as Methos was about to put a spoonful inside his mouth, Tempest appeared at the window. The horse was shaking his head, whinnying frantically. Glowering, the Highlander was secretly gesturing to the stallion to leave.

        "Oh, there you are, Tempest!" the ancient greeted the horse. "Had a good time with your master?"

        Tempest gave Duncan an evil glare. In reply, he shook his head even harder, snorting for good measure.

        "I bet both of you made this wonderful soup." Before the horse could even whicker, Methos placed a steaming spoonful inside his mouth. Tasting it, he smiled.

        "This is excellent!" he exclaimed, shoveling more soup inside his mouth. "My compliments to the cook!"

        Duncan grinned smugly at Tempest. With a furious snort, the stallion left in a huff.

        Poking at the unrecognizable slices in the broth, the Old Man queried, "What are these brown things?"

        "Mushrooms," the Scot answered simply. He placed his elbow on the table, laying his chin on his open palm. "I foond a whole bunch o' 'em by the stream."

        That last stopped Methos cold. "Where did you say you got these mushrooms?"

        "They were growin' under an oak. There were two kinds actually. Some were big an' fat wi' large brown caps. But most o' them were white."

        "But...but...those are..." Methos didn't finish what he was going to say, feeling a sudden constriction in his throat. He could hardly breath.

        "I think the fat ones were toadstools," Duncan said innocently. "I do know the white ones are called death cup mushrooms." In mock surprise, he pressed his hand to his lips, declaring, "Oh, I'm sarry! Are they poisonous? 'Tis no wonder Tempest trampled o'er them wi' his hooves. I was sa angry wi' him. I thought I was lucky I foond mair in the forest."

        "I'll get you for this, MacLeod!" the ancient gasped out his last breath.

        As he fell down to the floor, Methos heard the Highlander whisper, "I dinna think sa!"

        A few minutes later, the Old Man woke up, the cold air searing his lungs. At first, he didn't know where he was...until he saw the fallen bowl, its contents spilled on the floor.

        "Wait till I get my hands on that Scot!" Methos mumbled furiously as he picked himself up. "I'm going to cut off his head, so the world would be rid of his menace once and for all."

        The ancient was already thinking about borrowing a fast horse from brothel proprietor and good friend, Hugh Fitzcairn. In his haste to sling his Ivanhoe behind his back, his arm got caught on the scabbard's strap. Struggling with the strap, he strode out of the cottage...and stopped at once, his jaw dropping.

        "Tempest, stop foolin' aroond! We 'ave ta get away from here!"

        Methos didn't know whether or not he was going to laugh at the ridiculous sight before him. The Highlander had been successful in putting the reins on Tempest. But getting on him was a problem. The horse was walking around and around in circles, dragging poor Duncan behind him, who was holding on tightly to his reins, trying to get him to stop. The Scot had even dug his heels into the ground, but to no avail. At the next turn, it was then that Duncan saw the ancient.

        "So nice to see you still here, MacLeod!" said Methos sarcastically.

        "It cannae be!" Duncan exclaimed in disbelief, his face turning ghastly white. "Ye're dead!"

        "It would take a lot more than death cup mushroom soup to kill me, MacLeod. I'm Immortal!"

        With a cry of terror, the Highlander made to run away. Tempest, however, blocked his path. Before he knew it, Methos trapped him in his embrace, hauling him back towards the cottage.

        "Let me gae!" cried Duncan as he struggled to break free. "Ye're a demon!"

        "No, I'm not! But I turn into one because of you and your mischief!"

        Sitting down on the steps, Methos laid the Scot over his knee, raising his kilt to reveal that golden ass he so admired.

        Knowing what the Old Man was about to do, the Highlander warned, "Lay yer hand on me an' I swear ma faither will 'ave ye drawn an' quartered for this!"

        "I don't see your father here, boy! Who's going to stop me?"

        Seeing the Old Man was right, Duncan tried begging. "I swear I'll be guid! Dinna hurt me!"

        "Believe me, Duncan," Methos began, removing his belt, "this is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you."

        Saying this, the ancient whacked the belt down hard on the Scot's rump. Duncan yelped in pain. As Methos spanked him, the Highlander cried out for mercy. Soon, the only sounds that could be heard were his sobs.

        Thinking he's had enough, Methos made Duncan stand up. He yanked the young man's kilt down, not wanting to see the fiery red mark his punishment had inflicted upon those perfect globes.

        "Get in the house!" he ordered sternly.

        Weeping, Duncan limped inside the cottage slowly, favoring his aching rump.

        Methos then turned to the stallion, who was eyeing him carefully. Fearful that he had angered Tempest, the ancient went towards him.

        "I'm so sorry about this," Methos apologized, rubbing the horse's nose. "I just feel so angry. I was a fool to trust him."

        Tempest snorted, shaking his head.

        "Yes, I know. I shouldn't have hurt him like that. Gods, Tempest! What am I going to do with him?"

        But the stallion had no answer.

        The ancient talked to Tempest for over an hour, before leading him into the stable. He then steeled himself for a confrontation with the Scot.

        Inside the cottage, Duncan was standing at the table. The Scot had set a place for him, a loaf of bread laid on the Old Man's plate.

        Hesitantly, the Highlander began, "I...I thought ye might be hungry. The bread...'tis no' poisoned. Ye 'ave ma word on tha'."

        "Do you expect me to believe 'your word'?" Methos asked him bitterly. "I trusted you, MacLeod. You made a promise to me!"

        Duncan bowed his head in shame. "I'm sarry!"

        "Well, 'sorry' is not good enough." He then went to his tool chest and pulled out a long chain with manacles on both ends. Methos secured one end on the leg of the heavy oven. The other end he locked around the Scot's ankle.

        "Wha' are ye doin'?" the Highlander asked in despair.

        "I tried to be nice to you, MacLeod," the ancient began menacingly. "But since you abused my kindness, I will treat you like the slave that you truly are! I am so stupid not to have done this before!"

        Tears were streaming down Duncan's cheeks. "If tha' is yer wish..." he said meekly, quickly adding "...Master." The Scot went towards his mat before the fireplace. He got down to his knees, about to lie down. When his sore behind touched the floor, he winced in pain. Carefully, he lay on his side, facing the fireplace.

        "Master, I'm truly sarry!" he whispered softly.

        In reply, Methos furiously hurled the piece of bread the Highlander had served for him into the fire. Sparks flew that the Scot had to shield his face lest he get burned. He heard the ancient storm towards the bed. There was a loud rustle of the blanket and then silence.

        Closing his eyes, Duncan sobbed miserably, "Wha' 'ave I done? Sweet Jesus, wha' 'ave I done?"

Chapter Four

        "GET YOUR HANDS OFF THE STEW!"

        Hugh Fitzcairn gave Methos a disapproving glare. The ancient had snatched the serving bowl and the ladle out of the young Scot's hands, promptly dumping its contents in the garbage bin. Fitzcairn could see that Duncan was close to tears as Methos took a new bowl and dipper, pouring a fresh batch of stew for himself. In silence, Duncan went to his small corner behind the oven and tried to make himself invisible.

        Sitting down at the table, the Old Man looked back at the plans for the intricate work his good friend wanted him to do.

        "These are fiendish-looking devices," he commented as if nothing happened. The ancient was grimacing at the plans Fitz had laid out on the table. "Are you really serious about using these things?"

        "My friend," Fitcairn began, "these are the raves in Paris. Guaranteed to titillate the ladies." It didn't escape Methos' notice how the lecherous Englishman placed great emphasis on the first three letters of the word "titillate."

        "I don't think any self-respecting lady would even dream of wearing these things. And what about this one? You're not seriously considering..."

        Fitzcairn cocked his head up. "That particular trinket will keep me ready for the next buxom lass."

        Methos smirked. "I didn't think you had a problem...you know..." He pointed upward with his middle finger.

        "Of course I don't have a problem like that!" Fitz declared in offense. The Old Man was amused by the way the Englishman's mustache would curl up when he's mad. "But I want to keep the ladies satisfied, you see. I don't want to leave one or two unhappy."

        Holding a hand over his chest, Methos jibed, "Your kindness to women of low repute bleeds my heart!"

        There was a pout on Fitz's lips. "HA HA HA! Very funny!"

        The trembling figure behind the oven caught Fitzcairn's eye. Feeling sorry for the young man, he raised his cup. "Oh, Duncan! If you would be so kind as to pour me a cup of ale!"

        "Are you crazy?" Methos hissed in his face. "He'll poison you!"

        With a grimace, Fitz pushed the Old Man's head back, just as tearful doe eyes peered at him from behind the oven.

        "Are ye talkin' ta me, sir?" Duncan asked timidly, not believing that someone would actually ask something of him.

        "Yes," the Englishman answered with an assuring smile. "Some ale, please."

        There was such happiness on the Highlander's face as he picked himself up from the floor. Taking the cask, he eagerly went towards Fitzcairn, dragging his shackles behind him. Duncan filled his cup to brimming.

        "Thank you," said Fitz with a gracious bow.

        Duncan looked questioningly at Methos. "Sir? Wad ye like some ale tae?"

        "No!" Methos answered curtly. A swift, painful kick to his shin courtesy of the Englishman, caused the Old Man to quickly add, "But thank you anyway."

        Knowing that Methos' gratitude was forced, Duncan let out a sorrowful sigh. Putting the cask back where he had taken it, he returned to his place in the corner, pulling his chains along.

        "Why are you being so cruel to that beguiling young man?" Fitzcairn finally asked him. "It's been two months!"

        "How would you feel if your slave tried to poison you?" Methos countered.

        "Don't tell me you don't know how it feels to be in his place, taken from home and family. It's only natural for him to do anything and everything to regain his freedom."

        "That's not the point, Fitz. I tried to be patient with him, to be nice to him, even though he's as stubborn as a mule. I even placed my trust in him. But look what he did! He poisoned me!"

        "Well," the Englishman began, "you're still alive."

        "One of the perks of being Immortal," Methos muttered. "Maybe I should give him back to Xavier St. Cloud."

        Fitzcairn frowned. "Are you serious? Do you know what Xavier could do to him?"

        "I know, but he's so much trouble!"

        "Then, why were you so determined to win him in the first place?"

        The ancient lapsed into silence, playing with the bits of rabbit meat in his stew.

        "Methos?" Fitzcairn asked impatiently. "Are you going to answer me or not?"

        Grudgingly, Methos muttered under his breath, "I was impressed with his behind."

        The inquisitive Englishman barely heard what he said. "What? What did you say?"

        Still softly, the Old Man answered, "I said I was attracted to his derriere."

        "Damn it, man! Speak up! I can't hear you!"

        Exasperated, Methos shouted, "I SAID I LIKED HIS BUTT!"

        Duncan's ears perked up at that comment. There was a frown on his brow as he looked curiously at the two Immortals.

        Noting the Highlander's scrutiny, Methos stood up abruptly from his chair. "Let's take a walk!" He then strode out of the cottage, Fitzcairn following after him.

        They were halfway to the smithy when Fitz commented, "So...you liked his butt, huh?" He then burst into gales of laughter.

        "It's not funny!" said Methos defensively. "Even though I was drunk, I still remember how hard he slapped me when I...touched...his rump."

        "'Touched'?"

        "All right! I grabbed them! Are you satisfied?"

        "They must have been a sight to behold," the Englishman mused aloud.

        Dreamily, the Old Man answered, "Yes, as round as melons." Realizing what he just said, Methos groaned pitifully.

        Fitzcairn clucked his tongue. "My poor friend! A victim of unrequited sexual tension!"

        "What?" Methos' head snapped up.

        "Come on, Methos! I've known you for a very long time! It's not like you to wait this long to get someone you wanted. I figured you would have bedded the Highlander the minute you took him home with you."

        "Fitz, believe me! I'm not interested in him that way."

        "Then, what is your real interest in the Scot?"

        "He's Pre-Immortal." Methos said the words as if they were self-explanatory.

        "He's Pre-Immortal. So?"

        "He's also the son of a Highland chieftain."

        "I ask again. So?"

        "Fitz," the ancient sputtered in exasperation, "he's spoiled rotten. Duncan MacLeod is stubborn, arrogant..."

        "Incredibly beautiful," Fitzcairn interrupted.

        Methos glowered at his friend. "Can you just imagine what he would be like if he experienced First Death now and joined our ranks? He's likely to end up like Xavier St. Cloud or, worse, like Kronos. I was thinking I could tame him a bit, make him lose that arrogance, teach him that the entire world doesn't revolve around him. But after he poisoned me, I just want to give up. He's a hopeless case!"

        "Do you really want to do that, give up?" asked Fitzcairn. "Duncan MacLeod is a diamond in the rough. It takes time, determination and patience to smoothen his rough edges." He looked meaningfully at the Old Man. "Besides, whether you want to admit it or not, YOUR whole world now revolves around him. The way I figure it, Duncan's world also revolves around YOU. I see no reason why you should make things difficult for yourself when Duncan is obviously trying to make amends."

        "But it's so hard to trust him, after what he had done."

        "Look who's being stubborn!" The Englishman patted his friend's shoulder. "You have to resolve this thing very soon. You two are like loaded cannons waiting to explode. I'd really hate to see it when that happens. Someone is bound to get hurt. Promise me you'll think about this."

        Methos shrugged. "I'll try. I can't guarantee the outcome, however."

        "Well," Fitzcairn began mischievously, "if push comes to shove, why don't you make a set of those trinkets for yourself? I'm sure they'd work wonders on Duncan MacLeod."

        "Hah!" exclaimed Methos. "I'm not that desperate!"

        Duncan was washing the dishes, but his mind was not in his chore. He gasped as Methos' bowl dropped out of his hand and fell to the floor. He breathed a sigh of relief, remembering it was wood. Nevertheless, he picked it up and looked for cracks.

        Closing his eyes wearily, he remembered what Methos said.

        "I LIKED HIS BUTT!"

        The Highlander shuddered as he recalled the tavern, the brigands who were examining him like he was a piece of meat. Then, those strong, callused hands that hand grabbed his rump, squeezing his asscheeks. He remembered slapping the man so hard that he had retaliated. But when he finally beheld Methos' face...

        Unconsciously, Duncan wrapped his arms tightly around the ancient's bowl, pressing it close to his heart. His right hand went up, fingers tracing the Cupid's bow of his lips. Remembering the feel of Methos' mouth upon his own, a delicious tingle filled his whole being.

        At once, the Scot's eyes snapped open, the bowl falling out of his hand and into the wash bucket with a plop.

        Wha's happenin' ta me? Duncan thought in dismay. This thin' I'm feelin'...'tis no' right, 'tis unnatural!

        Still, the touch of ghostly fingers on his rump caused a delicious stirring in his own member.

        "Nay!" gasped Duncan as his cock began to rise.

        Remembering that Methos had filled the bathtub with water for him, the Highlander quickly went towards it and jumped inside, still clothed, his chain dangling on the edge. To his relief, the cold water deflated his erection.

        Duncan buried his face in his hands. I sud no' be feelin' this way! Why sud I feel hurt tha' he hates me now? I'm just his servant, his slave! Maybe, when tha' time comes, I'll be his whore tae. But why do I want him ta like me? Why?

        Slowly, the Highlander stood up from the tub. He shrugged out of his wet shirt and removed his kilt, letting them fall to the floor. For a long while, Duncan just stood there, letting the cold breeze caress his bare skin. Gathering his long locks from his shoulders, he let them tumble down his back, the ends teasing his shoulder blades. Coyly, he crossed his right arm over his chest, shielding the tiny rubies that were his nipples. His left hand ran over his rounded buttocks, before settling above his now flaccid sex.

        Unknown to him, a pair of green gold eyes were watching him. Feeling himself greatly aroused by the tantalizing display of male perfection, Methos withdrew from the window and started back to the smithy.

        The two men had the same thought whirling inside their minds.

        Sa, Duncan mused in determination, ye liked ma butt, did ye? Well, it'll be a cauld day in hell afore I let ye touch ma bonny backside again!

        Flustered by the fierce desire the Scot had ignited in him, Methos swore under his breath, "It'll be a cold day in hell before I allow myself to be seduced by a sensuous, but pigheaded, Celt!"

        Somehow though, to their own ears, their words lacked conviction.

Chapter Five

        Fitzcairn's predicted "Big Bang" happened a week later...literally.

        Exhausted from a hard day's work at the smithy, plus the fact that he had extreme difficulty with Fitzcairn's intricate order, Methos was very irritable, and the last thing he wanted to see was a Highlander with woeful doe eyes and an attractive behind.

        BOOOOOOMMMMMM!

        An explosion shattered the silence of the forest that the birds and other forest animals took flight.

        "Damn it! What now?" Methos cursed out loud as he dashed through the trees, unmindful of the rain that began to pour. All he could think about was getting home fast.

        When he reached his farm, the ancient heard a strange whistling sound coming from the sky. Gazing up, his jaw dropped, seeing what was about to fall on him. Methos leaped to the side as the base of the heavy oven landed right on the spot where he had been standing. It was while he was picking himself up that he, at last, beheld his cottage.

        Methos' eyes widened in shock, both hands on top of his head.

        "MY HOUSE!" he wailed hysterically. "MY LOVELY HOUSE!"

        The corner of the cottage where the oven had stood had collapsed from the force of the blast. Part of the roof and the chimney now lay in many pieces on the ground when the oven shot up into the sky like a rocket.

        Then, the ancient turned his murderous gaze to the figure who emerged from the doorway.

        Poor Duncan was a sorry sight. His hair and his clothes were singed and covered with ashes. His face would have been even darker than Xavier St. Cloud's from the soot, but the rain steadily washed the dirt away. The Highlander was favoring his twisted right ankle, the manacle still wrapped around it, along with the length of chain. It was a miracle the Scot hadn't taken off into the heavens along with the oven. Somehow, the other manacle must have slipped off the oven's leg.

        But Duncan was unmindful of his appearance or his injury. He was protective of the pretty basket he held tightly in his arms. The Scot had placed a dented pot lid over the contents, to keep them from getting wet.

        "Master?" the Highlander said softly. Painfully, he made his way towards Methos, dragging the chain along. There was a small smile on his face. "Ye're home!"

        The Old Man was practically tearing his hair out in rage and frustration.

        "What the hell did you do, MacLeod?" he demanded furiously. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY HOUSE?" That query crescendoed to a shriek.

        "I..." Duncan began hesitantly. "I wanted ta mak somethin' special, a nice meal for ye ta eat whan ye came home. I...I used the oven." Sheepishly, he continued, "I guess I must 'ave used tae much firewood. Tempest tried ta warn me, but I was tae engrossed wi' the cookin' ta listen ta him."

        "'Engrossed wi' tha' cookin''?"  Methos aped the Scot's accent. "Why don't you just admit that the horse has more sense than you?"

        "I'm sarry." He then raised the basket eagerly to him. "But I did save the food for ye."

        Instead of taking it, Methos slapped the basket out of Duncan's hands that it fell to the sodden ground, over half of its contents spilling out. The Highlander let out a mewling cry, seeing pieces of haggis, muffins and the whole canister of steaming soup sink into the mud.

        "I DON'T WANT ANY OF YOUR FOOD, MACLEOD!" Methos rounded on the poor Highlander. "Ever since you came here, my life has been a living hell. You've destroyed most of my belongings, you tried to poison me. Now, you've succeeded in blowing up my house!"

        "I'm sarry!" Duncan's voice was barely a squeak, as he cringed from the Old Man.

        "For a son  of a clan laird, you're worthless! You're not good for anything! I tried to teach you responsibility! I tried to show you that you're NOT the center of the universe, that there are people you're hurting with your pigheadedness and your indifference to their plight. I was hoping you'd look beyond your present station as a servant and see the good I've been doing to you. Tempest was more grateful than you are, and he's a horse!"

        Duncan's body shook with his sobs, the rain washing away the tears leaking from his eyes.

        Methos pointed to the forest. "MacLeod, I want you to leave, before you cause further damage. You can even take Tempest with you, if that's what's stopping you. I just want you to go!"

        "But...but..."

        "Are you stupid?" the ancient snarled at him. "I'm giving you your freedom! Now go!"

        Weary in body and at heart, Methos turned his back on the weeping Scot and trudged towards the shelter of the stable.

        Duncan gazed sorrowfully at the ancient, a hand raised pleadingly to him.

        "But..." he whispered sadly, "...I 'ave no place ta gae."

        Methos woke up to the scent of fresh hay and a wet nose rubbing against his cheek. With a yawn, he opened his eyes to find himself staring into Tempest's dark orbs.

        "Tempest?" he asked in surprise as he sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "What are you still doing here? I figured you and that idiot you consider your master would be long gone by now."

        The horse let out a disgusted snort.

        "So you chose not to go with him. I couldn't blame you, but..." Methos had to admit he was worried. "You know, you shouldn't have left him alone like that."

        Holding on to Tempest's neck, Methos allowed the horse to help him get to his feet.

        "Come on, Tempest!" he invited the stallion. "We have a very busy day ahead of us!"

        Walking out of the stable, the basket on the ground caught the ancient's eye. Despite his reluctance, he bent down and removed the lid. Three muffins and a piece of haggis escaped the rain.

        Taking the haggis, Methos took a small bite, tasting it. He was surprised to find it very delicious. For awhile, he waited for the effects of poison to set in, but there were none. With gusto, Methos devoured the remainder of the haggis and the three muffins as well.

        I never knew Duncan had it in him to cook like this, the Old Man mused. He's an excellent cook!

        Seeing the rest of the meal the Scot had cooked for him soaked in the mud, Methos felt a twinge of guilt.

        I was wrong, he thought in remorse. He WAS trying to do me some good. Curses! Duncan could've been killed in the blast. All I thought about was the destruction to my house.

        Sighing, the ancient shook his head. "But it's too late now," he said aloud.

        Tempest whickered at him questioningly.

        Methos patted the stallion on the back as he stood up. "It's nothing, boy. I was just wool-gathering."

        The Old Man then headed for his cottage, steeling his mind for the devastation he would encounter inside. But when he opened the door, he failed to notice the collapsed wall and ceiling, or his belongings strewn all over the place. All his attention was focused on the pitiful figure lying on the floor before the remains of the fireplace.

        "Duncan?' Methos exclaimed in disbelief. "DUNCAN!" he quickly picked his way through the debris, going towards the hunched form.

        The Highlander was drenched to the bone, shivering violently from the cold. Rather than seek shelter in a dry part of the house, he chose to lie in the spot Methos had allotted for him, though the rain poured on him. His cheeks were flushed, lips blue, teeth chattering. In his hands, Duncan held his shackles like it was a vital lifeline.

        Putting a hand over the Scot's forehead, Methos cried, "Gods! You're burning up!"

        Taking out his key, the ancient quickly removed the Highlander's chains. When the Old Man picked him up, Duncan seemed as light as a feather. The guilt in his heart was a heavier burden to bear.

        As if sensing him, the Scot twisted his body to the side and wrapped his arms around Methos' neck, pressing close to the ancient's shoulder, seeking warmth. At once, the Highlander's tears wet his shirt.

        "Dinna send me away!" Duncan sobbed, delirious from the fever. "I 'ave nowhere ta gae!"

        Methos felt a tear trickle down his cheek as he laid the Scot on his bed. The Highlander whimpered in protest when the ancient let him go.

        "Hush, now!" whispered Methos in his ear. "I'm here! I won't leave you!"

        Then, abiding an irresistible urge, the Old Man pressed his lips to the Scot's brow. At once, Duncan breathed a sigh of relief and settled down to restless slumber.

        The next few days saw Methos dividing his time between repairing his house and taking care of the sick Highlander. He was thankful for Tempest's assistance. With the smart stallion's help, they were able to repair the cottage in no time. The fireplace, however, proved to be a problem without a chimney. Rather than purchase bricks, using the remains of the oven, Methos devised a system of pipes that carried the smoke out the window. The ancient, though, wished the Scot was coming along just as well.

        Duncan's fever swung up and down, up and down. Methos had been giving him the strongest herbs he could find, but the Highlander, more often than not,  retched it out, tasting its bitterness. Instead, the Old Man mixed the herbs along with his food, which he ate little of, and sweetened milk.

        The fever caused Duncan to say things in his sleep, things Methos never expected to hear from him. Mostly, it was about his father.

        "Faither, why? Why are ye doin' this?" the Scot would cry out. "Dinna mak me gae! I dinna want ta gae!"

        Why is he dreaming about his father? the ancient pondered. "Go" where? Must be a repressed childhood memory.

        Later, it was his name that was constantly on Duncan's lips.

        "Master Methos, I'm sarry!" Duncan sobbed in misery. "Please give me another chance! I swear I'll be guid!"

        Hearing those cries, Methos often ended up weeping himself.

        What the ancient found most distressing was the fact that, during the Highlander's illness, Tempest never peeked through the window to see how his master was faring. Not once! Whatever happened between the Scot and the horse on that fateful day must have sorely angered the stallion.

        It was midday and Methos was tending to Tempest's needs when he heard the door squeak open. Turning, he saw Duncan standing at the doorway. The ancient's red cloak was draped over his shoulders. His face was still flushed and he wobbled as he slowly went towards them.

        Seeing him, Methos' resentment towards the younger man resurfaced. Though his conscience urged him to, he stamped down on the desire to help him.

        Still, he managed to say curtly, "You should be in bed."

        Duncan let out a ragged cough. "Please, sir!" he begged the ancient. "I just want ta see ma horse. I want ta see Tempest."

        "Well, you've seen him. Now, get back in the house."

        "Master, I beg ye," Duncan pleaded with him. "Just for a few minutes."

        Within the folds of the cloak, the Highlander pulled out a juicy red apple, the same apple Methos was going to feed him later on. Judging from the shiny peel, Duncan took great pains to clean it for the stallion.

        Methos nodded slightly as he proceeded grooming the horse.

        Slowly, Duncan trudged towards Tempest, the apple held in his open palms.

        "I know ye are angry wi' me, Tempest," he began softly. "I'm truly sarry I hurt yer feelings! I sud 'ave heeded yer warnin'." With a hopeful smile, Duncan said, "I 'ave a nice apple for ye, boy! I know how much ye like apples!"

        Tempest gazed at the Highlander balefully. With an angry snort, he shook his head.

        "Tempest, please." Duncan was close to tears. "I said I was sarry. Are we no' friends anymore?"

        In reply, the stallion knocked the apple out of his hands. Duncan was too stunned to pick it up.

        "MacLeod," Methos said gently, suddenly feeling sorry for the young man, "go back inside the house. You're not well yet."

        But the Scot refused to heed his words.

        A tear trickling from his right eye, Duncan raised a trembling hand, wanting to touch his beloved horse.

        "Please, Tempest!" he begged the stallion earnestly. "Dinna be angry wi' me! I love ye! Dinna ye love me anymore? Do ye hate me tha' much?"

        What Tempest did next totally shocked the ancient. Just as the Highlander was about to touch his ear, the stallion whirled around and snapped at the Scot viciously. He nearly bit off Duncan's fingers if the Highlander hadn't pulled his hand back in time.

        "TEMPEST!" Methos exclaimed in anger. "That was so rude of you!" Turning to the Scot, he began, "Duncan, I'm really sorry about..."

        However, the Highlander was moving away from them, shaking his head. His face was scrunched up as tears began to flow from his eyes. He was favoring his right hand.

        "Ye 'ave turned him against me," Duncan wept bitterly. "Ye 'ave turned the only friend I 'ave left in the world against me!"

        "No, MacLeod! I didn't..."

        "I 'ave no one now!"  the Scot sobbed in anguish. "No one loves me anymore!"

        Weeping, Duncan made his way back to the house. But before he even reached half the distance, he fell to the ground in a dead faint.

        "DUNCAN!"

        Horse and Immortal ran towards the unconscious young man. Methos felt his heart stop, seeing that Duncan's lips were turning blue.

        Pressing his cheek close to the Highlander's face, the ancient cried out, "No! Gods, he's not breathing!" Feeling his neck, Methos detected a very faint pulse, and then nothing.

        "Duncan, no!" muttered the Old Man as he began pressing hard over the Scot's chest. "Don't do this to me! Don't you dare die on me! You're not ready to become Immortal yet!"

        After five compressions, he pressed his lips to Duncan's, breathing air into his lungs.

        Tempest was beside himself with fear. The horse was pacing back and forth, whinnying in despair.

        "He's not going to die, Tempest! I swear he's not going to die!"

        It seemed hours passed though it was only a matter of minutes.

        "I've never known you to be a quitter, MacLeod!" Methos hoped the Scot would hear him. "Duncan, live! Grow stronger! Fight another day! Damn it, Highlander! Don't do this to me!" In frustration, he raised his fist, screaming the word "LIVE!"

        As his fist connected with the Scot's sternum, Duncan took a deep breath and went into a coughing fit.

        In his relief, Methos embraced Duncan, kissing his cheeks. "You're alive! Thank God you're alive!"

        Night saw Methos in the stable with Tempest and the Highlander. When the ancient, earlier, tried to bring Duncan back into the house, the stallion blocked his path, motioning emphatically to the stable. The Old Man could not deny such an earnest request.

        Methos fixed a nice bed of hay for the Scot, laying a blanket over it. He then got Duncan out of his sweat-drenched clothes and wrapped him up comfortably in a warm quilt. Tempest settled down at his master's side. Instinctively, Duncan turned to his horse, snuggling up closer to him, and placed his arms around Tempest's neck. It was a very poignant sight that brought tears to the Old Man's eyes.

        Curling up in a bedroll, the ancient kept a silent vigil over the Scot. But, exhausted as he was, Methos found it difficult to stay awake. He dozed off for a moment and, when he awoke, a most enchanting sight greeted him.

        Duncan had kicked off the quilt and lay totally naked.

        He's so beautiful! thought Methos, letting his eyes roam appreciatively over the Highlander's form - admiring his lovely face, the long, graceful neck, his dark brown mane, the broad expanse of his chest with its tiny button nipples, the lean belly, the long legs, and the limp, but magnificent sex, that lay between them. Methos couldn't help but feel a deep sense of longing inside his heart. Getting to his feet, he laid the blanket over that beautiful body.

        "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the Old Man whispered. "I wish...I wish you could..." Unable to voice out exactly what he wanted to say, Methos smiled wistfully. "I wish I were Tempest."

        It was past midnight when Methos woke up with a start, to find gentle doe eyes staring at him.

        "Master?" Duncan asked him, his voice barely a whisper. "Why did ye save me? Ye sud've let me die."

        Crawling towards the Scot, the ancient cradled his head on his lap, his fingers brushing away the strands of hair from his face.

        "MacLeod," the Old Man started to say, "if you die, Tempest would probably kill me."

        "I...I thought..."

        "That he hates you?" Methos gestured to the horse snoring beside the Highlander. "Just look at him. Tempest won't leave your side."

        Smiling weakly, Duncan played with the stallion's ear. "I love him sa much!"

        Oh, Tempest, you lucky son of a bitch! Methos thought enviously. I wish I were in your place!

        "Whan I'm strong aneuch..." The Highlander's voice reached his hearing. "Whan I'm well, I'll gae away, as ye tauld me to. I 'ave caused ye aneuch trouble. I dinna want ta be a burden ta ye anymore."

        "You're not going anywhere, Duncan."

        The Scot frowned at these words. "I dinna understand."

        "It may not seem like it, but you're very important to me," the ancient admitted. "You're destined to become someone special. However, there's a...darkness... inside you, a potential for evil. I see so much of myself in you. Duncan, I don't want you to make the same mistakes I did."

        "Am I really tha' important ta ye?"

        Methos nodded his head. "You're too important to lose."

        The Highlander thought for a moment. He then looked the Old Man straight in the eye. "I cannae promise tha' I'll be guid. I dinna want ta hurt yer feelings again. But I'll try. I swear I'll try."

        "That's good enough," Methos assured him.

        Shyly, Duncan asked, "Wad ye haud me? 'Tis rather chilly this eve."

        "I don't think I should."

        "Please, Master? I've been watchin' ye for quite some time now. I know ye're feelin' verra cauld, wi' the way ye've been rubbin' yer arms ta keep warm. This blanket is big aneuch for both o' us."

        Despite his reluctance, Methos did what the Scot told him to do, pulling the quilt over their bodies. Duncan gasped as the ancient pressed his body close to his. Swiftly, the Highlander pulled away.

        "I'm sarry, Master," he said sheepishly. "Ye're a lot chillier than I thought."

        "Would you please stop calling me that?" Methos exclaimed. "I don't like to be called 'Master.'"

        "Wad ye like 'Milord' instead?" the Scot queried.

        The Old Man groaned. "That's even worse! Why don't you just call me 'Methos'?"

        "I dinna think 'tis right," Duncan said dubiously, remembering his lowly station.

        "When you were sick with the fever, you've been calling me by my real name."

        "I did?"

        "Uh huh! I'll tell you what, if you call me 'Methos,' I'll hug you."

        Duncan complained, "But yer body's tae cauld!"

        "Suit yourself!" Methos turned to the other side.

        For a moment, there was silence. Then, a small voice asked, "Wad ye please haud me... Methos?"

        A smile formed on the Old Man's lips. Facing the Scot, he embraced Duncan tightly, pressing their bodies closer to Tempest's larger frame. With a satisfied sigh, the Highlander settled down to sleep.

        Methos, on the other hand, couldn't believe what had just happened, thinking he was only dreaming this. But having Duncan slumbering in his arms convinced him he was awake.

        Why did I ever think he smelled so bad? thought the ancient. Duncan smells just as sweet as heather blossoms and apples!

        "Methos?" Duncan suddenly queried, his eyes still closed. "I can't sleep."

        "So what do you want me to do about it?"

        "Could we just talk for a few minutes?" Sweet doe eyes looked up at him. "You told me before you were Immortal. Maybe...maybe we could talk about that."

        "Yes," Methos replied in sarcasm. "And then you'll just fall asleep."

        "No, I won't!" Duncan said firmly. "Promise."

        "Oh, all right!" The Old Man began, "My name is Methos, at least, that's the name I remembered. I've been around for over..."

        So Methos talked and talked and talked...until he heard the sound of light snoring.

        Gazing down, Duncan was sleeping soundly.

        "I knew you'd fall asleep," he muttered, a loving smile on his face. Breathing in the scents of the Highlander in his embrace, Methos drifted off to peaceful sleep.
 

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