Chapter Six

        Duncan was staring quizzically at the slim, curved sword in his hand. Its hilt was made of ivory, carved into the form of a dragon's head.

        "Master?" he asked curiously. Hastily, the Scot corrected himself. "Er...I mean, Methos?"

        Seeing how the younger man was eyeing the blade, Methos said, "It's called a 'katana'. It's a Japanese sword. That blade you're holding in your hands was once owned by a samurai, a master swordsman, whose name was Hideo Koto."

        "But..." The Highlander tried a few test swings, amazed by its lightness.

        The ancient pulled his own Ivanhoe out of its scabbard. "Don't be deceived by its appearance. The katana is a deadly weapon, if wielded correctly."

        "Nay, tha's no' wha' I'm tryin' ta ask."

        "Then, what is it you want to know?" It was Methos' turn to be curious.

        "Why are ye givin' me this sword?" queried Duncan. "I'm yer servant. 'Tis no' right for me ta ain such a fine blade."

        "Oh, now I understand!" The Old Man approached the Scot. "You've been very sick for the past few days. You need the exercise to get your strength back." He gazed meaningfully at the younger man. "It's not my desire to see you spend your entire life as a slave. It's your destiny to be a fine warrior, and I intend to teach you a true warrior's way."

        "But I'm no' worthy," the Highlander argued with him.

        Methos smiled at him assuringly. "Let me be the judge of that."

        The ancient felt his wrist give a painful twist as his sword was wrenched out of his hand. The sharp blade's point was buried in the dirt, missing Tempest's hooves by a few inches. The horse gave a startled whinny.

        "I'm sarry!" Duncan exclaimed in shock. "I dinna mean ta lose ma temper like tha'! Are ye two all right?"

        Tempest let out a disgusted snort and trotted off to a safer distance.

        "I'm fine!" Methos reassured him, feeling his wrist heal. Damn! He's very good! Duncan's a lot better than I was when I was his age!

        He had been prolonging sword practice and the Scot was getting impatient, having left something baking in the oven. Methos loved watching Duncan. With a sword in hand, the Highlander was poetry in motion, moving with such grace and precision, that, without a doubt, his old master Hideo Koto would've been happy that his beloved blade has been bequeathed to such a talented young man.

        Methos tried to smile, but what he managed was a grimace. "Remind me to schedule sword practice AFTER breakfast."

        The Highlander's eyes widened. Sheathing his sword, with a groan, he hurried into the house. "MA BREAD!"

        Following the Scot inside, Methos saw Duncan take out four loaves of bread from the new oven Fitzcairn had given them.

        Seeing the burnt portions, Duncan made a face. Sheepishly, he told Methos, "'Tis a wee o'erdone."

        "That's all right," said Methos, sitting down at the table. "Not all of it is burnt anyway." Grinning, he added, "It smells good."

        The Highlander beamed as he set the table for both of them. He then scooped out a good helping of butter from the container and placed it in a dish.

        As Duncan sat before him, slicing a loaf, Methos couldn't help but ask, "Who taught you how to cook?"

        "Ma mither," the Scot replied, spreading butter on two slices of cornmeal bread and placed them on the ancient's plate. "Since I was spendin' tae much time in the kitchen back home, she taught me how ta cook. E'en how ta do the housework properly. Ma mither always tauld me, 'A guid clan laird sud also know how ta manage his keep.'"

        Hearing this, Methos wasn't at all surprised. Since he got well, the Highlander has been doing a marvelous job taking care of his home. It seemed like the slacker he had first brought with him had disappeared.

        Duncan apparently knew what was going through his mind. "Forgive me, Methos. I thought, if I cad get ye ta be tae infuriated wi' ma ineptness, ye'd let me gae."

        "Do you want to leave, MacLeod?" the Old Man asked him.

        The young man shrugged. "I dinna know. Ta be honest, I've grown ta like it here. But I do miss ma home, especially mither."

        "What about your father?"

        Duncan couldn't speak at first. "He does no' understand me. Ma faither thought ma mither was spoilin' me, tha' she was teachin' me the wrong things. I only wanted ta learn somethin' new, sa I cad be o' help ta her tae. I only did it because..." Lowering his gaze, he whispered, "I only wanted ta get his attention, sa he wad no'..."  He then looked at the Old Man. "Please, Methos. Let's no' talk abou' this anymore. Do ye want me ta gae with ye ta the smithy today?"

        Methos understood how uncomfortable the Scot was when it came to his father. It was obvious to him, especially during Duncan's fearful fever dreams.

        "Not today, Duncan. I might even sleep there tonight as well. I have a lot of work I need to finish." In his mind, Methos added, I could not take the distraction. Just seeing you there makes me want to do something else. "Besides, Fitzcairn will be coming over today."

        "Ye already finished his trinkets?" asked the Highlander, almost a bit too eagerly, it seemed to Methos.

        Cocking an eyebrow, the ancient queried in turn, "What did he tell you about the...things...made for him?"

        "Nothin' really. He was rather vague abou' it. He just kept on sayin' 'tis goin' ta be a hit wi' the ladies. I assumed they were trinkets women use ta pretty themselves wi'."

        Methos couldn't help but breath a sigh of relief, realizing that the Scot had absolutely no idea what those "trinkets" were going to be used for.

        Duncan continued, "I thought those two clips wi' the beads an' feathers wad look guid hangin' from yer nose."

        The Old Man sputtered in his cup of milk. "Why do you take perverse pleasure in insulting my nose, MacLeod?"  he declared in exasperation.

        "Well," the Highlander began teasingly, "ye 'ave ta admit yer nose is rather big."

        "Yes, and you've got a pair of nostrils that are as large as a gorilla's," he sneered in turn.

        There was a frown on the Scot's brow. Tilting his head to the side, he asked curiously, "Wha's a 'gorilla'?"'

        Methos slapped his hand to his face, shaking his head. "Forget it!" he said. Getting up, Methos went towards his chest and pulled out a small box. "Just give this to Fitzcairn, all right, Duncan? He already paid us with that nice, new oven. You need not concern yourself with what I made for him."

        That very afternoon, the Englishman showed up at their front door. Seeing the box containing his trinkets, Fitzcairn declared excitedly, "Ooh! The ladies are going to love these!"

        When Fitz tried to take the box from the young Scot, Duncan would not let it go. There was a rather strange, almost reluctant, expression on his handsome features as he gazed down at the box.

        "Duncan?" Fitzcairn asked him.

        Snapping out of his reverie, the Highlander loosened his grip on the box. "I'm sarry." Still, he could not get his eyes off it.

        At last, the Englishman realized what was bothering the Scot. "Let me guess! You're burning with curiosity about my little trinkets."

        Hesitantly, Duncan admitted, "Aye! I figured they're used for a girl's hair."

        "Oh, no, no, no! They're not hair trinkets!" Winking at the younger man, the lecherous Immortal queried, "Would you like to know what they're used for?"

        "No thank ye! Methos will get angry wi' me. I promised him I'd just give them ta ye."

        "Nonsense, my boy!" Fitzcairn declared. "He won't get mad. Come now! There are three sets here. You're going to love them!"
 
 

        "Master Fitzcairn! Wha' are ye... OWWW!"

        Tempest cocked his ears up, hearing strange sounds coming from inside the cottage.

        "They hurt, Master Fitzcairn!" he heard Duncan complain. "Please tak them off!"

        "Very well, Duncan!" Fitzcairn answered, rather reluctantly. "Let me loosen them up."

        The stallion raised his head at the soft clink of metal falling on wood.

        "OOPS!" the Englishman exclaimed.

        "Wha' do ye mean 'Oops'?" Duncan whimpered plaintively. "Tak them off, Master Fitz! They hurt tae much! Please!"

        As Tempest looked on, Fitzcairn emerged from the house, waving his hands to the man inside in panic. "Stay right there, Duncan! I'll go get help!" Saying this, the Englishman escaped into the forest.

        Inside the cottage, the Highlander wailed, "Come back, Master Fitzcairn! Please come back!"

        Night had fallen and Methos was still pounding away on his forge when, to his shock, Duncan MacLeod burst through the door, bawling his eyes out. He was wiping away the tears continuously flowing from his dark brown orbs with the back of his hand. To Methos, he looked like a lost little boy.

        "Duncan? What is it? What's wrong?" Methos was already close to panic. Various scenarios were whirling inside his mind. We must've been robbed! The robbers must've beaten Duncan up, because we don't have anything worthy to steal. He quickly looked the Scot over from head to toe. But there are no bruises! Gods, did they rape him instead? He doesn't look it! Something must have happened to Tempest!

        Then, the Scot spoke a name, and Methos realized that the WORST has indeed happened to Duncan.

        "FITZCAIRN!" the young man wailed. "He left me alone an' did no' come back! He tauld me he'd return wi' help, but he ne'er came back!"

        "What happened? Did he do something to you?"

        Sobbing, Duncan untied the laces of his shirt and opened it wide. Methos felt his jaw drop, seeing the tiny clamps he had made attached firmly to the Highlander's nipples. The pinched nubs were as red as cherries.

        In his surprise, all the ancient could utter was "Oh!" Shaking himself back to alertness, Methos said assuringly, "Don't worry, MacLeod! I'll get them off!"

        Then, Duncan gingerly raised his kilt, begging, "Cad ye get this off tae?"

        The Old Man found himself plopping down on a chair. He felt like he had been hit with a board.

        Waving before his eyes was the most magnificent erection he had ever seen. The veins in the Scot's cock were distended. The reddened tip was dripping semen. Gazing down the length towards the base, Methos discovered that the cause of the impressive tumescence was the golden ring coiled tightly around the base.

        "How in the world did Fitzcairn manage to put this on you? The ring was made to his measurements!" the Old Man exclaimed.

        When Duncan burst into more agonized weeping, Methos declared, "Forget I asked! I made a special key for this set. What happened to it?"

        "Fitzcairn dropped it," the Highlander sobbed pitifully. "It fell through the slats o' the floor."

        "That figures!" Groaning, Methos went to his tool chest and took out a small saw. "Duncan, listen! I'll be very careful, but this may hurt a bit. I'm going to get these things off."

        Sniffling, Duncan nodded his head.

        Gently, the ancient took the right nipple clamp between his fingers and began sawing through the joint. When his fingertip accidentally touched the sensitive nub, the Scot gasped.

        "Does it hurt?" Methos asked him.

        Duncan quickly shook his head, not uttering a word. That light touch had caused a quiver of pleasure to fill his body. Unfortunately, it aroused his erect cock even more that he felt himself getting harder.

        Patiently, the Old Man worked at the clamp. Succeeding in sawing through the screw, it just fell apart in his hand. He then turned to the other clamp and removed it just as easily. At once, the Highlander cupped his hands over his swollen nipples.

        "Now we come to the bigger problem." Shuddering, the ancient groaned inwardly, I can't believe I said that! Methos pulled the chair over. "Duncan, take off your kilt. I want you to sit down with your legs wide apart."

        "But..." the Scot said hesitantly.

        "This is not a good time to go modest on me. I need the space to work. It's going to be very difficult to remove the ring. If I can't take it off, the only option I have left is to..."

        Rather than say the word out loud, Methos raised his right middle finger and made a quick slashing motion at the base with his left hand.

        At once, Duncan's brown eyes widened like plates, shielding his genitals with both of his hands. Shaking his head, he cried, "Nay! Please, Methos! Dinna do tha'! I'll do e'erythin' ye say! I'll keep verra still! Promise!"

        Though he was burning with shame, the Highlander peeled off his kilt and sat down in the position Methos wanted him to.

       Gods! Give me strength! thought the ancient.

        Taking a thin strip of metal, Methos squeezed it under the ring.

        "Owww!" cried Duncan, feeling his skin pinched. "It hurts!"

        "Just try to relax!" the Old Man suggested. "I have to put this under the ring. I don't want to cut you by accident."

        Duncan fell silent at these words. Carefully, Methos squeezed the metal strip through the ring, pausing when the Scot whimpered in pain. Soon, he had the strip in place.

        Breathing in deeply, the Old Man proceeded to saw through the ring. Methos was sweating hard, finding it difficult to concentrate with such an impressive organ before his eyes.

        The Highlander, on the other hand, was greatly aroused by the sight of the ancient's face so close to his manhood. Methos' lips were even parted so he could breath. Already, Duncan was imagining what it would be like if the Old Man's mouth were on his...

       Wha's happenin' ta me? I sud no' be thinkin' this way! he thought in shock.

        In his confusion, the Scot didn't hear Methos sigh in relief when the ring opened, releasing its grip on the member.

        Looking down at himself, Duncan wailed in dismay, "Why is it still like this? Why winna it gae down?"

        "The blood vessels have been tightly constricted," Methos explained, also at a loss. "You have to get the blood flowing again."

        "How?" the Highlander asked in desperation.

        Methos was taken aback at this query. "How? You should..." Not knowing what to say, he gestured instead, flapping his hand up and down. "You know."

        "Know what?"

        "Duncan," the ancient began uneasily, "don't tell me you haven't..." He was already grimacing in frustration. "You know...Damn it! Surely you must know what I'm talking about!"

        The Scot thought for a moment. Then, those lovely doe eyes widened in shock, horror and revulsion.

        "Do ye mean..." In outrage, Duncan declared, "How dare ye e'en suggest tha' ta me!"

        "I'm sorry, but that's the only way you could make it go down."

        "Ye wad mak me an onanist? Ma faither wad cut off ma hand! Ma church wad excommunicate me! Nay! Ma soul shall burn in hell for eternity!"

        "Aren't we being a little melodramatic here?" Methos commented. "I mean, how did you get it up in the first place? I guess Fitzcairn must have had a hand in it!" The ancient slapped his hand to his forehead. Damn it! I did it again! Listen, MacLeod, do you want it to go down or not? The way I look at it, I think it's getting worse."

        Duncan glanced down at himself and saw that the Old Man was right. With their discussion about masturbation, he had become more aroused.

        "I'll tak a bath," the Scot muttered. "Tha's it! A verra cauld one! I'll gae ta the stream!"

        "MacLeod, the stream is very far from here."

        "Better tha' than 'ave ma eternal soul condemned in hell!"

        At these words, the Highlander ran off into the night, leaving Methos shaking his head in utter bewilderment.

        Duncan was panting for breath as he dashed through the trees. He was aroused to a fever pitch, his mind tormented by images of a dashing Immortal with green gold eyes, a big nose and hands that were gentling his...

       NO!

        The Highlander tripped on a root and almost fell on his rampaging erection if he didn't prop up his arms in time.

        Turning on his back, Duncan shuddered as the soft wool of his shirt brushed over his swollen nubs. His kilt was scraping his manhood.

        Desperate to be free from the sensations being elicited by the fabric upon his sensitive skin, the Scot swiftly removed his clothing. However, it only made it much worse, as the cool evening breeze caressed his bare form.

        Leaning against a shelf of rock, afraid to bring himself to the release he needed, Duncan buried his face in his hands and began to weep.

        "What do we have here?" a gruff, male voice suddenly declared in the darkness.

        Before the Highlander could run, a hand gripped his arm. He just found himself enfolded in a strong embrace.

        "Let me gae!" he cried out, struggling to break free. "Please!"

        "Are you nymph or faun come to seduce me?" the man queried as he laid the Scot on the rock.

        "No!" Duncan trembled, feeling a hand caress his face.

        "I think you're a succubus, or another type of forest demon perhaps," his captor chuckled. "Never mind! Whatever you are, it doesn't matter."

        "Dinna hurt me, sir! I beg ye! Please dinna kill me!" Duncan begged him.

        "I'm not here to hurt you. But you do look like you're in need of some assistance." He gave the Scot a gentle squeeze. "Randy young thing, aren't you?"

        At once, the Highlander knew what was going to happen to him. "Nay, please! Dinna do this ta me! I...I am chaste. I cannae pleasure ye."

        That last caused the man above him to laugh even harder. "My dear boy! I do not kill children and I do not sleep with virgins."

        At this declaration, the young man breathed in relief.

        "However..." That voice made Duncan's blood suddenly run cold. "...I cannot, in all honestly, leave you like this. Something must be done about the ferocious beast between your legs."

        "I dinna understand."

        Then, he felt that callused hand on his manhood again, stroking his erection eagerly.

        Duncan tried to pry the man's grip off him. "Stop it! Ye're makin' it much warse!"

        "Don't be afraid!" The Scot felt his captor straddle him.

        "Ooh!" Duncan cried out as his cock was devoured, sliding down a searing channel. He raised his hands, torn between pushing the man away and pulling him closer.

        "Yes, that's it!" the man gasped as he took in more of the Scot's length. "I've got a very good grip on it! My, my! But you are a big one!"

        As the man rode him, Duncan's mind was a maelstrom, totally giving in to the sensations. His manhood felt like a piece of hard iron, placed inside the inferno of a forge's furnace. The muscles of the man's channel were like hammers, pounding him, forcing the proud flesh to bend to his will.

        Duncan placed his hands above his head, gripping the edge of the rock, as instinct took over, his hips thrusting at the man above him.

       God! the Highlander prayed. Help me! I want him ta stop, but I want him ta show me mair!

        The man, however, was only intent upon bringing the Scot release.

        Soon enough, Duncan reached the peak, spilling his fluids into the man above him with a soft whimper.

        When the man started to pull away, Duncan shook his head in protest, feeling gentle fingers caress his cheek.

        There was a soft rustle of clothes and then his savior asked cheerfully, "Feeling any better?"

        It took awhile for Duncan to speak. "Aye! Thank ye!"

        "The pleasure was all mine, I assure you!" The Highlander could see a dim figure bow before him and walked away.

        "Wait!" Duncan called out to the man. When the shadow paused, he queried, "Shall I see ye again?"

        "If you wish it," was his reply.

        The Scot thought for a moment, suddenly remembering Methos. "Nay! Forget I asked. Forgive me!"

        "If you should change your mind, I'll be here tomorrow night. I would love to see you again."

        "What is your name?" Duncan asked curiously.

        The Highlander saw the shadow move. "Eros," he answered after a brief silence. "Yes, that's my name! And yours?"

        "I'm Duncan."

        "Pleased to meet you, Duncan. I hope I can see you tomorrow night."

        At these words, the man disappeared into the forest.

        The Scot lay on the rock for a long time, brooding up a storm.

        "I hope I can see you again," Eros had told him.

        But Methos' smiling image filled his mind.

        Duncan closed his eyes. I'm sarry, Eros. But I cannae see ye again.

        The following evening, a dark figure was lounging against a shelf of rock in a small clearing in the forest.

        Suddenly, there was a rustle in the brush. Turning, he saw a shy form standing hesitantly at the edge of the clearing.

        Since it was a moonless night, the bright smile on his face could not be seen in the darkness. It could've put the timid young man at ease.

        Eros greeted the arrival. "So nice to see you again, Duncan!"

Chapter Seven
 

        "Hello, MacLeod!"

        "AAH!" Duncan cried out in surprise, dropping the plates and utensils he was about to place on the table.

        There was such bewilderment on the Highlander's face as he blinked at the dinnerware on the floor and then at Methos.

        Duncan was trembling visibly as he got down on his knees and began picking up the plates, forks and spoons. "Dinna sneak up on a person like tha'! Ye gave me quite a fright!"

        "I'm sorry," said Methos sincerely. "I just wanted to surprise you, that's all."

        "'Surprise'?" the Scot declared. "Ye scared the livin' daylight ou' o' me!"

        Bowing low, the Old Man repeated, "Again, I'm sorry!"

        There was a pout on Duncan's lips as he set the table angrily. "'Tis abou' time ye came home. For awhile, I thought ye've decided ta live in the smithy an' forgot all abou' me."

        "Too much work!" Methos answered simply, sitting in a chair. He looked at the Highlander curiously as he placed his elbows on the table, making a steeple with his hands. "We're not exactly well off, Duncan. In fact, I'm having a hard time making payments."

        "We dinna need sa many new things," argued the Scot. "I dinna need new clothes, na matter how pretty they are. 'Tis aneuch tha' we 'ave food on oor table an' for Tempest."

        "But I like you in finery," said Methos truthfully, gauging the Highlander's reaction. "You're quite a stunning young man, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

        A small, almost guilty, smile formed on Duncan's face. Sitting down beside the ancient, the Scot looked him straight in the eye.

        "Methos, I dinna want ta sound ungrateful, but the silk shirts, the clothes o' fine velvet. They're no' me. I want ta be like ye - a simple man, wi' a simple home an' life."

        "I just wanted to give you more, Duncan. I know the kind of life you're used to. You're the son of a clan laird."

        At this remark, the Highlander laughed. "Goes ta show how little ye know abou' me."

        Then, their eyes met, locked by a force that would not allow them to cast their gaze elsewhere. It seemed like a spell fell over them, a special kind of magic that captured their hearts.

        Methos moved first. Slowly, he leaned forward. Duncan closed his eyes as the ancient's lips pressed on his.

        It was a chaste kiss at first, a kiss between two good friends. However, as the heat between them began to build, it became more passionate, more demanding. Duncan flung his arms around the Old Man's neck. Methos pulled the Scot closer to him. Their tongues clashed, eagerly savoring the tastes of each other's mouths.

        His heart taking over, Methos spoke the words he couldn't find the courage to say to the younger man.

        "I love you, Duncan!" he murmured. "I love you so much!"

        Hearing those words, the Highlander felt like he had been drenched with cold water.

        "No!" he exclaimed, pulling away from the older man. The Scot ran towards the door.

        "Duncan, what is it?" asked Methos. "Did I do something wrong?"

        Shaking his head, Duncan declared, "No! Ye did no' do anythin' wrong. I'm sarry, Methos!"

        Before the ancient could stop him, the Highlander fled into the woods. He ran and ran, not pausing for breath, until he found himself in the clearing, the place where he had sinned so many times.

        As he sat down on the rock, the tears he held back burst forth.

        "God help me!" Duncan cried in despair. "Wha' shall I do? I am in love wi' two men! Who am I goin' ta choose?"

        That evening, after Methos had gone back to the smithy, Duncan went off into the forest for his secret tryst with Eros.

        The full moon shone brightly. But the thick canopy of leaves covering the clearing made it still too dark for the Scot to see what his lover looked like. One night, Duncan had brought a torch with him, but Eros had forbidden it, swearing that he would not return ever again. Despite his curiosity, Duncan could not bear the thought of losing him and agreed to this arrangement.

        Lying naked in each other's arms on the rock, Duncan snuggled up close to Eros' chest. But his mind was troubled.

        "Eros?" he began quietly. "May I ask ye a question?"

        "What is it, Duncan?" Eros asked in turn.

        "Why do ye no' kiss me?"

        The Scot felt, more than heard, the chuckle on his lover's chest. "Do you want me to kiss you?"

        "I dinna know." Duncan shrugged. "I think sa. Does it 'ave anythin' ta do wi' wha' ye tauld me? Tha' ye do no' sleep wi' virgins?"

        Eros fell silent at these words. Almost a whisper, he queried, "Why do you ask this, Duncan?"

        "I dinna know," the Highlander answered again. "Eros, am I still a virgin? I mean, wha' we've been doin'...Ye've given me sa much pleasure. But...ye've ne'er..."

        "You're asking why I never take my pleasure from you. Is that what you're trying to say?"

        "Aye."

        Eros pulled the Scot close to him, hugging him. "Duncan, for your first question, yes, you are still a virgin, in the way that matters to me the most. I cannot find it in my heart to take you, unless I am absolutely sure  that you are willing to give yourself to me because you love me."

        "But," Duncan said almost guiltily, "it seems sa unfair ta ye."

        "It is enough for me this way. I am happy to see you finding pleasure in my arms."

        "Does it hurt, when ye 'ave me inside ye?"

        "Honestly, no. I am accustomed to this kind of loving. However, this is the first time I've had a gentle and considerate lover like you."

        "If ye tak me, Eros," Duncan began timidly, "will it hurt?"

        Eros breathed in deeply. "Yes, Duncan. It will hurt. That first time is always the most painful. That is why, when you decide to make that important decision, you should give your virginity to the one person you love and trust with your whole heart and soul. Duncan, your innocence is precious. I would not see you lose it on a whim, or because you think you owe me."

        "If ye wad no' tak me, winna ye kiss me? I wad like ye ta kiss me."

        Eros kissed the crown of the Scot's head. "There! Do you like that?"

        "Nay!" Duncan countered, pouting. "I want ta feel yer lips on mine."

        After a moment's silence, Eros replied, "I have something better in mind."

       No! Duncan shook his head, tears trickling from his eyes, wetting his blindfold. This is no' wha' I had in mind! No' these kinds o' kisses!

        Eros had bound his wrists high above his head. The Highlander's ankles were similarly secured, his body stretched out on the rock, like a most delectable feast. Indeed, Eros' lips and tongue were consuming Duncan, roaming every inch of his bare skin, burning him with desire.

        The Scot gasped as his tender nipples were sucked and teased into hardened points. When Eros nipped the tips, Duncan twisted his body, wanting to inch away from those lips. That tempestuous mouth made its way down to his navel, licking the hollow of his belly. Eros rained butterfly kisses upon his abdomen, ending at the nest of curls.

        "No! Please!" Duncan whispered.

        Then, the Highlander cried out as Eros took his entire length into his mouth. Duncan strained at his bonds, wanting to break free, to end this exquisite agony. A finger pressing on the base caused the Scot to thrust his hips into the mouth that was devouring him. Surrendering completely to the desires of his flesh, Duncan's orgasm was explosive as he came into the other's mouth.

        Duncan was sobbing softly, overcome by the intensity of the experience that he hardly felt Eros remove his bonds and the blindfold from his eyes. His lover must have seen something in his face.

        "What's wrong?" he asked in concern. "Did I hurt you?"

        Sitting up, the Scot wiped the tears from his eyes. His hands shook as he wrapped the long plaid of his kilt around his body.

        "Duncan, what is it?" Eros held his shoulders.

        There was such disappointment in the Highlander's voice. "All I wanted was a kiss, Eros."

        "But...but I kissed you, many times."

        Taking his lover's hand, Duncan pressed Eros' finger to his lips. "I wanted ye ta kiss me here."

        "I don't understand. Is there a difference?"

        Duncan groaned. "Oh, how can I explain this!"  He sighed. "There is a connection, a link tha' is formed during a kiss, bindin' heart ta heart, soul ta soul. True, in a coupling, there is a joinin' o' the flesh. But the pleasure is no' felt equally between two lovers. In a kiss, there is an equality in tha' we give an' take at the same time. Whan lips touch, there is no pain, just a sharing o' love. A kiss... 'tis a simple thing, but it matters a great deal."

        Eros pulled the young man into his embrace. Almost fearfully, he asked, "Did someone kiss you, Duncan?"

        "Aye, no' once, but twice!" When the Highlander faced his nighttime lover, a bright shaft of moonlight illuminated Duncan's face. There was such a lovely smile on his lips that could fill the hardest of hearts with joy. "Those two kisses were the best things I 'ave e'er received in ma life!"

        Methos was giddy with happiness as he strolled through the forest. Up to now, the Scot's words continued to ring in his ear like joyous church bells. He could still remember the gentle smile on his face.

        "A kiss," Duncan had said to him. "'Tis a simple thing, but it matters a great deal. Those two kisses were the best things I 'ave e'er received in ma life!"

       Could it be possible? wondered the ancient. Has Duncan learned to love me, and not my nighttime guise as Eros?

        In truth, the Old Man was sorely tempted to caress the Highlander's lush lips with his own. But if he were to kiss Duncan, he didn't have any doubts that the Scot would know immediately it was him. In a way, Methos felt guilty about deceiving the young man like this. There were dangers letting a beautiful creature like the Highlander wander alone in the woods at night. He was glad he followed Duncan that first time he stumbled into his smithy, crying. Any brigand who would have found him naked and vulnerable as he was in the forest, would not hesitate to ravish him right on the spot. Instead, it was he who helped the Scot douse the flames of the passions raging inside him.

        "Am I still a virgin?" the Highlander has asked him.

        Methos grimaced. "I do not kill children and I do not sleep with virgins." Where the hell did I get that stupid line? "Well," he said aloud to the hooting owl, "I wouldn't exactly call you a virgin still...after the things I've been doing to you. I haven't exactly taken you, but we've still been making love. Gods! Would you listen to me? I'm starting to sound like Fitzcairn!"

        In his quandary over the semantics of the term, Methos didn't see the figure that was heading his way, just as distracted and suffering more from a guilty conscience.

        There was a loud "Oof!" as two hard bodies collided right in the middle of the path, both falling on their rumps on the ground.

        "Why dinna ye watch where ye're goin', ye fool?" an angry, but very familiar, voice exclaimed.

        Methos was stunned, seeing the Scot before him. He thought Duncan had gone after he had left him in the clearing. The Highlander's lovely doe eyes were wide in shock at the sight of the ancient.

        "MacLeod, what are you doing here?" the question escaped Methos' lips.

        Duncan looked like a terrified rabbit caught by a pack of hunting dogs. "I...I..."

        "You're supposed to be in the cottage. What are you doing out in these woods, and in the middle of the night even? Didn't I tell you it was dangerous!" Jokingly, he added, "If I know better you'd just come from a little tryst. Have you been courting someone, MacLeod?"

        The ancient was thinking that the Scot would flare up at his jibe. The Highlander's reaction was not what he expected. Instead, Duncan burst into guilt-ridden tears.

        Picking himself up from the ground, the Scot cried "I'm sarry!" and fled into the woods, in the direction of the cottage.

        "Great, Methos!" the ancient slapped his hand to his forehead. "Just great! You handled that very well!"

Chapter Eight
 

        Methos was cradling his head pitifully. He always thought Immortals were immune from such mortal pains as headaches. But right now, he felt like his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets.

       When are these problems going to end? he thought in misery.

        Business has declined considerably because of the rainy weather. Except for Fitzcairn and his orders for more bizarre sex toys, only a few customers came with work for him.

        To make matters worse, James Horton, the local tax collector, came a-calling, demanding that he pay a humongous sum. It took a lot of cajoling, but the man agreed to give Methos a month's time to come up with the money. Sometimes, the Old Man wondered if the tax collector was not raising his taxes on purpose. He knew Horton was a Watcher of Immortals, and he hated Immortals like the plague.

       Damn if Horton isn't taxing Immortals for their longevity! Methos cursed the man, itching to wipe that smug smile off Horton's face.

        Then, there's the matter of Duncan MacLeod. Since that night in the forest, the Scot had confined himself to the cottage. No more midnight trysts for him.

        However, Duncan was now as skittish as a colt around Methos, his conscience wracking him with guilt over his believed infidelity. Many times, the ancient caught the Highlander looking at him with such deep longing in his eyes...and love, there was no mistaking it. But Methos never broached the topic about their accidental meeting in the forest. The Old Man was overcome by cowardice. He just couldn't bear the thought of Duncan hating him if he found out how Methos had been deceiving him.

        "Methos?"

        A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. Gazing up, he saw Duncan standing beside him, a steaming cup in his hands.

        "I made ye some mulled wine," offered the Scot, laying the cup on the table before him. "Ye look like ye might need it."

        Methos smiled wanly. "Thank you." He took a tentative sip and found it to his liking. The Highlander took a seat close to him.

        "Wha's troublin' ye, Methos?" Duncan asked worriedly. "Is it Horton?"

        Reluctantly, the Old Man nodded his head. "The month he gave me is almost up. I still don't have enough money to pay him."

        Hearing this, the Scot opened the sporran the ancient had made for him out of fox fur and pulled out a small pouch. Eagerly, he handed it to Methos. "Wad this mak it aneuch?"

        Opening the pouch, the ancient let the silver and copper coins fall on the table. There was even one gold coin in the pile.

        "Where did you get this money?" Methos asked him.

        "Please dinna get angry!" the Highlander declared. "I wanted ta help ye ou', sa I sold the nice clothes ye gave me. I tried ta sell the silk shirt an' the blue velvet breeches ta Fitzcairn..." His eyes fell on the glittering gold coin. "He must 'ave seen how much I liked them an' he made me swear no' ta sell them ta anyone an' he gave me tha' gold coin instead."

        Methos felt the tears fall from his eyes at the Scot's thoughtfulness. With great fondness, he caressed the young man's cheek.

        "How long has it been since I brought you to my home? Nearly a year?" Methos then said warmly, "You've changed so much!"

        Duncan took the ancient's hand, keeping it close to his face. "I owe ye sa much for tha'." He squeezed Methos' hand in his. "Please tell me! The coins? Are they aneuch ta pay Horton?"

        Methos bit his lower lip, not wanting to say the words that would disappoint the younger man. But he had no other choice. He shook his head instead.

        "Oh, Methos!" Duncan exclaimed worried. "Wha' are we goin' ta do? Do ye 'ave any valuables I cad sell?"

        "None, except selling the forge and the mine, maybe Tempest." Seeing the flash of fear in the Scot's eyes, Methos said assuringly, "No, Duncan. I have absolutely no intention of selling either of the three, especially Tempest. I've grown to love that horse as much as I've grown to love you."

        That last spilled out of his lips so fast, the Old Man didn't realize he had said them, until the Highlander whispered, "Ye love me?"

        Methos didn't know what to say. Instead, he stood up from his seat, turning his back to the Scot.

        Changing the subject, he said, "Don't worry about the money, Duncan. I've already spoken with Xavier St. Cloud and he would loan me the money."

        "St. Cloud? Why no' Fitzcairn?"

        "Because we already owe Fitz so much. I don't want to burden him anymore with our troubles, no matter how generous he is."

        "But at wha' price?" Duncan demanded. "Ye tauld me wha' kind o' man St. Cloud is. Wha' did he ask for in return?"

        "To join his band, to pick up my sword once more." Hearing the Highlander give a mournful cry, Methos knelt before him, holding his hands. "It will only be for a little while. I'll be home soon before you know it."

        "Why, Methos? Ye said ye hated tha' kind o' life. I wad no' see ye doin' somethin' ye dinna like." Duncan gazed at him meaningfully. "Tell me the truth. Wha' did he really ask for?"

        The anguish in the ancient's eyes told him what he wanted to know.

        "Oh!" Duncan said softly. "I see."

        Methos gripped the young man's hands tightly. "The matter has been settled, Duncan. It is finished. Swear to me you will not go to Xavier St. Cloud."

        "But Methos..."

        "SWEAR TO ME!" The Old Man pulled the Scot into his desperate embrace. "This is more important to me than life itself. You have broken your promises to me before. I will not have you break this one. It would kill me, more than a sword through my neck would!"

        Tears welled up in Duncan's eyes. "I promise," he whispered in Methos' ear.

        In his heart, however, the Highlander knew this was a promise he could not keep. He was not deserving of Methos' sacrifice and, especially, his love.

        "It looks like you are not in Lady Luck's favor today, Xavier," laughed Fitzcairn as he swept the pile of silver and gold coins to his side. "Why don't you quit now while you're still wearing your trousers?"

        "Fitzcairn, the night is still young!" St. Cloud declared. "Who knows what fortunes might suddenly fall in my lap!"

        Then, someone cleared his throat and a soft voice interrupted, "Guid evenin', Master Xavier. Hello, Master Fitzcairn."

        Fitz was stunned seeing the young Highlander before him them. "Duncan, what are you doing here? Does Methos know about this?"

        "I came ta talk ta Master Xavier abou' ma master's loan..." Before the Englishman could interrupt, Duncan quickly said, "...in private, please."

        "We keep no secrets here," stated Xavier. "You may speak freely."

        At once, Duncan fell to his knees before St. Cloud. "I beg ye, sir! Though ma master greatly needs the money, dinna force him to join yer band o' raiders!"

        Fitzcairn gazed at the moor in shock. "You did what?"

        Xavier simply ignored him. "But what do I get in return?" he queried. "It is a big sum. I need a guarantee that I will be paid."

        There was a glimmer of tears in the Scot's brown eyes. "Tak me instead! I cad be o' great help ta ye an' yer men. I can cook, clean, mend an' wash yer clothes. I'll do anythin' ye ask."

        The moor's brow cocked up at the last. "Anything?"

        "Aye, sir! Anything!"

        "St. Cloud!" Fitzcairn declared in outrage. "Surely you're not considering..."

        "I don't know," mused Xavier doubtfully.

        "Ye're a gamblin' man, I see." The Scot pulled out his sword. "Wha' if I challenge ye ta duel? If I win, ye cannae tak ma master."

        "But if I win, which I'm sure I will," St. Cloud began in amusement, "I'll take your head." The moor shook his head. "No. I'm afraid I am not in a fighting mood today. Besides, I do not sleep with virgins and I do not kill children."

        Fitzcairn saw how the Scot blanched at that remark. There was such shock in his doe eyes. Giving in to his tears, the young man prostrated himself at the moor's feet.

        "Wha' cad I do ta mak ye change yer mind?" Duncan pleaded with him.

        For awhile, Xavier stared at the Highlander. "You've been with Methos...for how long?"

        Duncan was surprised at this question. "Nearly a year, sir."

        "You have changed so much in a short period of time," the moor echoed Methos' earlier thought. "Who'd ever thought you'd become like this - obedient, thoughtful, so gentle. I bet Methos has taught you quite a few things."

        As he rose from his chair, Xavier grabbed Duncan's arm, pulling him up. "You're right! We do need to discuss this in private."

        Before Fitzcairn could stop him, St. Cloud hustled the young man up the stairs and into one of the rooms on the second floor.

        The Englishman was confused, totally at a loss on what to do. Then, he remembered Methos' ferocious mien, when the ancient confronted him about what he did to the Highlander.

        "If any harm should befall Duncan," Methos had snarled in his face, brandishing his sword before Fitz's eyes, "I'll take your head and your miserable Quickening."

        Fearing the loss of his head more than anything else, Fitz got his courage up and took a long swig of ale. "Don't worry, Duncan! I'll rescue you!"

        Just as he got to his feet, he suddenly found himself surrounded by Xavier's men.

        "Where do you think you're going, little man?" one brigand with broken teeth sneered at him. Fitz almost retched at his fetid breath.

        The rest had similar looks on their faces, waving their weapons threateningly before the Englishman.

        Fitzcairn felt like he had shrunk to the size of a tiny mouse. With a terrified smile, he squeaked, "Mother!"

        As the raiders made to grab him, like a mouse, Fitz scurried out of their grasp. Desperate to get away, he overturned tables and chairs behind him, blocking their path. Swiftly, he ran up the stairs. Pausing at the room where St. Cloud had taken the Highlander, the Englishman raised his foot, gave the door a mighty kick...and jumped up and down in pain, holding his aching foot, the door still intact.

        Seeing that his puny strength was no match for the hardwood door, Fitz picked at the lock with his sword. At once, the door flew wide open.

        "My God!" the Englishman exclaimed in shock at the sight he beheld.

        Xavier St. Cloud was seated on a chair, with Duncan on hiss lap. His shirt was open, hanging loosely from his arms. The moor's face was slightly turned in Fitz's direction, his jaw slack, a tiny nipple in his mouth. His hands gripped the Scot's hips tightly, the kilt pushed up. The Englishman had obviously interrupted St. Cloud's reverent lingual and tactile homage to the Highlander's finer assets.

        "GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF HIM, YOU PIG!"

        Furious, Fitzcairn rammed his sword's hilt into Xavier's face, knocking him out. The force of the blow caused the moor and the Scot to topple to the floor. Taking Duncan's hand, Fitz helped the young man up.

        "Pull your clothes together," Fitzcairn declared. "You're a bloody temptation to everyone in this tavern!"

        While Duncan was fumbling with the laces of his shirt, they heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. Quickly, the Englishman bolted the door.

        "The window!" Fitzcairn pointed out.

        "But I cannae leave! I made a deal with St Cloud."

        "Yes, without Methos' knowledge. Go, MacLeod! I'll hold them off!"

        "What abou' ye?"

        "I'll be fine! Now, go on!"

        Duncan let out a shrill whistle. Tempest galloped from the forest and took his place beneath the window.

        As the Scot was climbing through, Xavier regained consciousness. Punching Fitz in the face, he grabbed Duncan's ankle. Slipping from his already precarious position on the windowsill, the Highlander found himself hanging upside down, his kilt turned inside out that his shapely rump was exposed for all to see. The prostitutes, who were coming over to fetch Fitzcairn and bring him back to the brothel a few blocks down, paused in the middle of the street, shrieking in delight.

        "Your bonny backside is mine, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!" Xavier St. Cloud roared at the poor Scot, refusing to let go.

        "Not if I can help it!" Fitzcairn cried.

        Gripping his sword's hilt with both hands, the Englishman raised his blade high. Bringing it down, the sharp edge severed St. Cloud's right hand. The moor screamed in agony.

        Plummeting to the ground, Duncan did a graceful mid-air somersault and landed safely on Tempest's saddle. As the Highlander rode out of town, he heard Xavier St. Cloud shouting, "I'll come for you, MacLeod! Mark my words! You're mine now!"

        Riding into the forest, Duncan's mind, however, was on poor Fitzcairn.

       Please, God! he prayed earnestly. Please keep Fitzcairn safe!

        Totally unaware of what had happened at the tavern, Methos was surprised the following morning when Xavier St. Cloud appeared at his doorstep, riding his white Arabian. The moor was sans a right hand. Instead, a hook was attached to his stump.

        Tempest emerged from the barn and was eyeing St. Cloud with a baleful glare.

        "Xavier, what are you doing here?" asked Methos. "Aren't you a bit too early? I thought we weren't to ride until spring. And what happened to your hand?"

        "Change in plans," St. Cloud answered curtly. Hurling a pouch of coins to the ground, he stated, "I've come for your slave."

        The ancient shook his head. "I don't understand. We made a deal."

        "Well, I made a new one yesterday. Lost my bloody hand in the process, thanks to that meddling Englishman. Don't tell me you don't know what happened at the tavern?"

        "What the hell are you blabbing on about? The tavern?"

        "Don't play the innocent with me, Methos! Now, hand over your slave!"

        "Duncan is not going anywhere with you!"

        Tempest positioned himself between the moor and Methos, rearing up, whinnying a challenge.

        Then, the ancient saw Xavier look at the cottage. Both horse and Immortal turned to find the Highlander standing at the doorway, a small bundle in his hands.

        "Methos, I'm sa sarry, but he's right," Duncan affirmed St. Cloud's words. "I must gae wi' him."

        "What?"  The Old Man went towards the Scot. "Duncan, please explain this. I'm confused."

        The young man breathed in deeply, trying to calm his nerves. Still, his voice trembled as he spoke. "Like he said, I made a new deal with him. I told Xavier tha' I'd gae wi' him, as full payment for yer loan. I gave him ma word."

        "But what about your word to me?" In despair, tears began to fall from Methos' eyes, dulling the green gold gleam in them. Duncan felt his heart breaking at the sight of the ancient's weeping. "You swore to me you wouldn't see St. Cloud. Now, you're going away with him?"

        "Methos," the Scot said patiently, "this is for the best."

        "HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW WHAT'S BEST FOR ME?" Methos roared in anger.

        "BECAUSE, IN MA HEART, I KNOW I'M NOT RIGHT FOR YE!" Duncan cried in turn.

        The ancient was taken aback by the strength in the Highlander's words.

        As his body shook with his weeping, the Scot began, "I once tauld ye tha' ye know little abou' me. True, I am the adopted son o' Ian MacLeod, laird o' the Clan MacLeod. But ma faither didna like me. He thought ma mither was steerin' me away from ma true destiny as a warrior by teachin' me women's things. I only wanted ta be o' help ta her as well. Ma faither did no' understand. He was always makin' ma mither cry. Sa I rebelled against him. I acted like a spoiled, silken fop, sa I cad turn his anger away from her. I ne'er knew he wad hate me, aneuch ta want ta get rid o' me."

        "One day," the Scot continued, "the raiders came. Xavier threatened ta destroy ma village an ma home if ma faither didna give him one o' his closest kin ta be his personal slave, his whore." Burying his face in his hands, Duncan wept, "Ma faither gave me ta Xavier St. Cloud!"

        Methos was shocked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

        "Ma mither tried ta stop him. She was cryin' sa hard. But ma faither dragged me ou' o' the keep. He brought me afore Xavier an' practically pushed me into his arms. 'Here! Tak ma no guid son, an' guid riddance!' ma faither said. He e'en threw Tempest into the bargain as well, sayin' tha' the horse was as troublesome as his son."

        Looking up at St. Cloud, the ancient asked, "Is all of this true?"

        "I'm afraid so," Xavier confirmed. "He was trouble, just like his father said. That's why I placed him and his horse on the gambling table. He's totally uncontrollable."

        "You say that because you don't know him the way I do. You're both wrong about Duncan," Methos defended the Highlander. "Duncan's a kind and loving young man!"

        "But tha' was after I made yer life a livin' hell tae," the Scot pointed out to him. "Remember how I poisoned ye? Destroyed yer property an' yer home? The reason why ye're sa poor now is because I drove ye deeper into poverty."

        "I've completely forgotten what you've done. I've forgiven you."

        "But cad ye forgive me now, Methos," the Highlander queried, "if ye find ou' wha' I've been doin' behind yer back?"

        "What do you mean?"

        Duncan bit his lower lip. "Tha' night we bumped into each other in the forest, ye were right. I was meetin' someone - ma lover."

        "Duncan..." the Old Man began, wanting to speak the truth, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth.

        "We've been seein' each other in the clearin' e'ery night, an we wad mak love." Fresh tears trickled down the young man's cheeks. "At first, I thought 'twas ye. I was hopin' it wad be ye. But I was wrong. By the time I found ou' I was no' in love wi' him, 'twas tae late. I finally discovered who he was."

        Methos felt his blood run cold. "Who...who was he?"

        "Ma nighttime lover was Xavier St. Cloud."

       No! The thought  screamed inside Methos' mind. That's not true!

        Even Xavier St. Cloud was struck speechless by the Scot's words.

        "I knew 'twas him when he tauld me 'I do no' sleep wi' virgins an' I do no kill children.' Those were the words ma lover said tha' night we first met."

        Methos was shaking his head. My God! I used St. Cloud's favorite line. True, I didn't say it in that order, but it's still the same thing! What have I done?

        Duncan took the ancient's silence as a sign of his anger and disappointment. He bent down and picked up the money pouch. He went towards the Old Man.

        "This money will help ye find a new servant." The Scot pressed the pouch into Methos' hand, shaking him out of his stupor.

        "Duncan?" Methos asked.

        There was a sad smile on the Highlander's face. "'Tis hard ta find decent help wi'ou' a full purse. But 'tis mair difficult ta find a guid friend." He raised a hand and scratched the back of his horse's ear. "I am leavin' Tempest wi' ye. He is no' part o' the deal. Ye cannae find a truer friend than in Tempest. Tak care o' him, Methos, an' he'll tak care o' ye."

        The Highlander was about to walk away, but Methos held on to his hand. "But I do not need 'decent help.' Duncan, Tempest needs you. I need you!"

        "Oh, Methos!" Duncan declared. "Ye've been sa kind ta me. Ye deserve someone better, someone who wad no' hurt ye, who will always keep his promises ta ye, who will no' betray ye...as I 'ave done. Someday, ye'll find someone who'll bring ye sa much happiness an' ye'll forget abou' me."

        Unable to control himself, Duncan embraced Methos tightly. "Whan I lie wi' Xavier St. Cloud, it will be ye I'll be thinkin' of. I'll ne'er forget ye. Ye'll always be here, in ma heart."

        Tearing himself away from the ancient, the Scot hurried towards St. Cloud. Xavier helped the young man up onto his saddle, seating Duncan before him.

        "Farewell, my friend!" the moor waved goodbye, urging his horse to a full gallop. "I apologize that things didn't work out for you."

        The two men had long disappeared into the forest, but Methos was frozen where he stood. His hand squeezed the pouch tightly.

        Slowly, the ancient sank to his knees, weeping in anguish. Tempest lowered his head, nuzzling the Old Man's face with his nose. The horse, too, was crying.

        "Duncan, come back!" Methos sobbed, clinging hard to Tempest. "I am your lover, not Xavier! I am Eros! Please, Duncan! Come back! DUNCAN!"

        Deep in the forest, the Highlander had heard the ancient call out his name.

       Live, Methos! thought Duncan in sorrow. Grow stronger! Love another day! I am no' the one for ye!

Chapter Nine

        In a tiny cottage in the forest, a pathetic, drunken figure sat on his bed, leaning against the open window, crying. Clenched in his right hand was a wet handkerchief. In his left, he held a fine silk shirt. Sniffling, he pressed his handkerchief to his face and blew his nose.

        A teasing voice whispered in his head, "Ye 'ave ta admit yer nose is rather big. But they wad look guid wi' those clips ye made, the ones wi' the beads an' the feathers."

        The memory of the Highlander set Methos off into another crying fit. In his misery, he was totally oblivious to the fact that Tempest has been, for quite some time now, laying his chin on his head, weeping as well and dripping snot on the Old Man's hair.

        Pulling the silk shirt close to his face, Methos breathed in the fresh apple and heather blossom scent of the Scot.

        "Come back to me, Duncan!" he recited over and over again. "You can insult my nose any way you like! Just return to me! I'd die if you don't come back!"

        Suddenly, the door burst open with a loud bang and a clearly masculine form was silhouetted in the doorway.

        "Duncan?" Methos said hopefully.

        However, his hopes were dashed as Fitzcairn stepped inside.

        "What happened here?" the Englishman demanded. "Where's MacLeod?"

        "He's gone!" Methos sobbed miserably. In his drunken state, he didn't realize that he was blowing his nose on the silk shirt instead of the handkerchief. "He left with Xavier!"

        "And you let him?" Fitz plopped down on the bed beside his friend. "Damn it! I'm too late!"

        It was then that Methos got a good look at the Englishman. Fitzcairn's clothes were in tatters. His entire form was covered with dried mud. An earthworm was peeking out from under the collar of his ruined waistcoat.

        "You look terrible!"  the ancient commented.

        "Wouldn't you be if you were buried alive for three days?" retorted Fitzcairn.

        "Who did this to you?"

        "That snake who calls himself Xavier St. Cloud!" the Englishman hissed in fury. "I thought I had saved Duncan from his evil clutches! I have failed miserably!"

        "I don't understand! St. Cloud did mention something about the tavern. What happened?"

        Fitzcairn told the Old Man about the events that took place at the tavern, how he had helped the Scot escape, but ended up being buried six feet under by Xavier's men.

        "Curses! I tried to claw my way out of the ground as fast as I could. But I kept on dying from suffocation," said Fitz in despair.

        "There's nothing you could have done," Methos tried to soothe him. "It was Duncan's decision to go with Xavier."

        "If he knew the truth," the Englishman began, "I don't think the Highlander would have gone with that bastard."

        Methos suddenly roused to alertness. "'Truth'? What 'truth'?"

        "That he was tricked by his father and St. Cloud. I found out about it from one of Xavier's men who just doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut." Fitzcairn then told the whole sordid tale to a stunned Methos. "It seems Duncan was a mama's boy. At least, that's what his father thought, and he was afraid that his adopted son and heir to the Clan MacLeod would become a...." The Englishman made an exaggerated swishing motion with his hand. "Apparently, the chieftain began picking on the boy's mother, and Duncan rebelled against him. Anyway, the laird thought that he'd hammer some sense into the young man by having him taken in by a band of the fiercest type of men he knew existed."

        "You mean raiders?" queried the ancient.

        Fitzcairn nodded his head. "Just like Xavier St. Cloud. He met with St. Cloud and they had an arrangement. They set up this fake raid on the village of Glenfinnan. Xavier would demand the chieftain's closest kin for his slave, and MacLeod would give up his own son. They succeeded in that part of the plan. But the laird forgot to tell St. Cloud just how stubborn his heir was, and that he had an equally stubborn stallion to boot."

        At this comment, Tempest whinnied his assent.

        Methos looked dubiously at the Englishman. "Are you sure you're not pulling my leg?"

        "Of course not! Why would I do a thing like that?" Fitz placed a hand over his heart. "On my honor as a gentleman, I swear this is true. And I haven't even come to the best part."

        "What do you mean?"

        "If St. Cloud is successful in taming the Scot, the laird swore that he would handfast them."

        "Now I'm certain you ARE pulling my leg. If the laird doesn't want his son becoming a..." It was Methos' turn to make an exaggerated swish of his hand. "...then, why is he marrying Duncan off to St. Cloud?"

        "How should I know?" Fitzcairn exclaimed. "Who could understand the crazy notions going through a father's head? Even I didn't understand my own adoptive father when I was still a boy!"

        There was a mischievous grin on the Old Man's face. "Is that the reason why you're rather mixed up in the head?"

        Fitz stared at the ancient, gravely offended. "If it were not for the fact that this matter is of utmost importance, I would not condone this insult. I would challenge you to a duel."

        Bowing his head slightly, the ancient said sincerely, "I apologize, my friend. So, the chieftain promised to handfast Duncan to Xavier if St. Cloud were able to tame the Highlander. Then what?"

        Fitz continued, "This means, not only does Xavier have a gorgeous consort, he owns half of the young man's inheritance."

        Methos' eyes flew wide open in sudden realization. "But Xavier..."

        "...wasn't the one who tamed Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You did," Fitz pointed it out to him. "You love  Duncan, and Duncan is obviously very much in love with you. Admit it, you even feasted on that delightful boy's flesh already." The Englishman snorted in disgust. "'Eros' my ass! You don't even look remotely like Cupid!" Seeing the glower in the Old Man's eye, he went on, "So, if Duncan is to be handfasted to anyone, it should not be to Xavier St. Cloud, but..."

        "TO ME!" As he hurriedly got to his feet, Methos' head hit Tempest's jaw. "Owww!"

        Even the stallion let out a pained cry, moving his aching mouth.

        "How far is Glenfinnan from here?" the ancient asked, stroking his head and, to his disgust, found it wet and slimy. "What did you do to my hair, Tempest?"

        Tempest sniffed back the snot that was forming on his nose.

        "It's a five days ride," answered Fitzcairn. "But you won't make it. I received word that the handfasting ceremony will take place three days from today. Trust Xavier not to waste any more time."

        Methos winked at the Englishman. "We'll make it! Won't we, Tempest?" he urged the Highlander's trusty steed.

        Tempest whinnied eagerly, nodding his head.

        "Keep your head up, Duncan!" St. Cloud told the reluctant and sorrowful young Scot walking at his side. "This is supposed to be a happy day!"

        "For ye perhaps, but no' for me," Duncan retorted.

        The two men were walking through an aisle of wild flowers, strewn by the Highlander's joyous kinsmen. Standing on the high platform was Ian MacLeod, chieftain of the Clan MacLeod, ready to perform the handfasting ceremony. His wife Mary sat sobbing in her seat, saddened by her son's fate.

        "Forget, Methos!" whispered Xavier, urging Duncan to move faster. "You're mine now! I'll take better care of you!"

        "O' me, or ma inheritance? Ye do no' fool me one bit, Xavier!"

        "My dear, Duncan! I would be a fool not to take advantage of your fine assets!"

        St. Cloud perused the Highlander from head to toe. As Duncan went up the steps, the breathtaking beauty of his consort-to-be awed Xavier. The Scot looked every inch like a chieftain's son. He was dressed in a sky blue shirt. The kilt around his waist were the deep blue and green colors of the Clan MacLeod, the tail pinned to his left shoulder with a golden clasp. Knee high boots accentuated his long, graceful legs.

        "I think ye've taken tae many liberties on ma person back in the forest," said the Scot angrily, a scowl on his face.

        "Are we back to that again?" asked Xavier in exasperation, as they stepped on the platform. "Believe me, MacLeod! I have no idea what you're talking about. With the notable exception of that very brief, and frustrating, tryst at the tavern, I swear I never laid a finger on you."

        At these words, Duncan paused, slowly turning to look at the moor, a shocked expression on his face.

        "Ye mean..."he stammered. "Ye're no'...Then who was..."

        "I don't know and I don't care. After we're handfasted, I intend to lay the rest of my body parts, other than my finger, upon your lovely person." Wrapping his arms possessively around the Scot's waist, Xavier lifted Duncan up quickly, avoiding the loose floorboard. "Watch your step, my sweet! Now come on! Our father is waiting!"

        Duncan lowered his head, not wanting his parents to see the tears that were forming in his eyes. Ma God! Wha' ave I done? I've betrayed Methos twice! No' only 'ave I lain wi' a total stranger, now I'm gettin' mairrit ta St. Cloud! Sweet Jesus! Wha' is ta become o' me now?

        In his despair, the Highlander barely heard his father's opening words to the ceremony.

        "If anyone has any reason for these two men no' ta be handfasted," Ian MacLeod declared, "speak now or fore'er haud yer peace."

        Suddenly, a clear voice answered the chieftain's call. "If I may have a word, my lord!"

        Everyone turned to look at the speaker. A bright smile formed on Duncan's face, seeing who it was.

        Methos sat astride Tempest, clad in his pristine white Horseman's garments, the scarlet cloak draped over his shoulders. His Ivanhoe was sheathed at his hip. With a flick of the reins, he urged the stallion into an easy canter. Awed by the warrior in their presence, the people cleared a way for them. They halted before the platform, a pleasant smile on Methos' face.

        "Who are ye?"  the clan laird demanded. "An' why 'ave ye come ta disrupt this ceremony?"

        "My name is Methos," the ancient introduced himself, bowing graciously. "Forgive me if I am interrupting this momentous occasion. But there is something important that I must bring to your attention."

        "An' wha' is tha'?"

        "First things first, my lord." Methos got down from Tempest. "I came to return this horse to your son.  A boy should not be separated from his pet."

       Pet? BOY? thought Duncan, infuriated. Why, I ought ta...

        "How did ye come by ma son's stallion? No man cad ride Tempest other than Duncan."

        "You see, my lord, I won Tempest AND your son in a dice game from Xavier St. Cloud."

        At once, there were murmurs among the kinsmen, but Ian silenced them with a wave of his hand.

        "You won ma son in a dice game?" he muttered in disbelief, eyeing St. Cloud darkly. The moor was loosening his collar nervously.

        "That is correct, sir," Methos confirmed. "Your son has been my servant for about a year."

        This caused a new round of mumbles to be heard from the crowd. This time, Ian did not bother to hush them up.

        "Ma son, the future laird ta the Clan MacLeod, was yer servant? Yer slave?"

        "Yes, sir. And that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

        "Wha' do ye mean?" There was a frown in Ian's brow.

        "If I may approach." Given permission, the Old Man practically slinked up the dais and handed a lengthy sheet of paper to the surprised laird.

        "Wha' is this?" queried Ian as he looked at the paper.

        "That, my lord, is a list of the damages your son has caused in my home," Methos answered simply.

        Duncan's jaw dropped as the ancient began to enumerate the items on his list.

        "He destroyed my set of fine dinnerware from China. The cupboard too." Methos counted on his fingers. "He scraped a large hole in my tea kettle. Not to forget the holes and tears he made in all my clothes while he was washing them. There's my oven, which he blew up. Oh, yes! When the oven exploded, it destroyed a large corner of my home, including the chimney and the fireplace."

        "Ma son did all tha'?"

        "But tha's impossible!" Mary interrupted in shock, unable to hold herself. "Duncan is verra guid whan it comes ta housework an' cookin'!"

        Ian glowered at his wife, effectively silencing her.

         "Oh, and speaking of cooking," Methos suddenly remembered, "your son also tried to poison me!"

        Everyone gasped in shock. Even Mary had pressed a hand to her heart, her mouth a perfect "O". It looked like the poor woman was about to faint.

        "Not to worry, folks," the ancient assured the crowd, raising both of his hands to placate them. "I had an antidote. No permanent damage done."

        Ian glared at Duncan, who felt like he had shrunk to the size of a mouse. "Did ye do all this damage an' mayhem?"

        Wringing his hands guiltily, Duncan stammered, "Aye, faither! But...but...I tried ta mak amends. Truly, I did!"

        "Forgive me, my lord, but your son was a terrible servant," commented Methos, shaking his head. "I had a hard time disciplining him. I pity the poor fool who's going to be handfasted to him." It was then that the ancient faced St. Cloud. In mock surprise, he declared, "Xavier? You? You're going to be handfasted to this mule?" Methos burst out laughing. Catching his breath, he patted the moor's back, clucking his tongue. "I feel so sorry for you, my friend."

        With a clap of his hand, Methos announced, "Well, my lord! I really must depart! I have written the directions to my home in that list. I would appreciate it if you could settle the damages as soon as possible." Grinning sheepishly, he added, "I'm a little short of money right now."

        The ancient went towards the dismayed Scot. "Don't look so gloomy, Duncan!" He pinched the Highlander's chin. "You should be happy! After all, this is your wedding day!" Conspiratorially, he whispered, "Don't worry! I didn't include the soap I used in bathing you in my list. Consider it an act of charity on my part. Besides, once you're married to Xavier, you don't have to take a bath anymore, not even once a month. You're going to be travelling with St. Cloud, and there's no water in the desert."

        "Why are ye bein' sa mean ta me?" Duncan sobbed, no longer able to hold back his tears. "Do ye no' like me anymore?"

        Methos thought for a moment. Then, he shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not!"

        Saying this, the Old Man skipped down the stairs, his cloak flying behind his back, whistling a merry tune.

        "Methos?" Duncan whispered, raising a hand to the happy figure. He refused to believe what had just happened.

        Ian MacLeod looked at his son, wondering what his reaction would be. Given Duncan's rebelliousness the last time he was home, he expected his son to fly into a fury, run after the warrior and hit him. Or, judging from the tears in his dark brown eyes, to go to Methos, hold him tight and never let him go.

        But Duncan did neither of those things. Though it was obvious to the chieftain that his son's heart was breaking, the young man swiftly turned his back on the departure figure, head bowed low, his body shaking with sobs. Without a doubt, Ian MacLeod knew who had tamed his wayward son and captured his heart.

        Pointing to the skipping ancient, Ian declared, "Haud it right there, warrior!"

        Methos stopped at once. Spinning on his heels, he looked at the laird in surprise. "Are you talking to me, my lord?"

        "Aye!" Waving his finger, he motioned to the Old Man to come closer.

        Curious, Methos approached the platform, but did not go up the stairs.

        "Sa," the laird began, "ma son here has caused damage in yer home."

        "That is a fact, my lord."

        "I believe we're talkin' abou' considerable damage here."

        "Aye! He has practically driven me to poverty." The ancient was practically sniveling at that remark.

        After a moment's pause, Ian announced, "I cad pay ye for the damages ma son caused..."

        Methos beamed, hearing this. "Really, my lord? Why thank you! Thank you very much!"

        Then the laird continued, "...but I will no'."

        The ancient quirked an eyebrow up. "Huh?"

        "Since 'tis ma son who, as ye say, has driven ye ta poverty," Ian started to say, "then, he will be the one ta pay ye."

        Duncan stared at his father in shock, thinking the man had gone mad. "But faither, how cad I pay him? I 'ave no money!"

        "Ye 'ave yer inheritance," the chieftain interrupted him. "The way I see it, given this...list...I 'ave in ma hands, the damages wad be covered by half o' yer inheritance."

        "I dinna understand," the Highlander shook his head, utterly bewildered.

        "Forgive me, my lord," said Methos. "I find this very confusing myself."

        "'Tis quite simple. E'en a fool cad understand it." Ian then patiently explained, "Ye want ta be paid for the damages. Am I correct?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "An' like I said, ma son will pay ye by givin' ye half o' his inheritance."

        "Yes."

        "Well," the laird began, a broad grin on his face, "the only way ye can get half o' Duncan's inheritance is by..."

        A happy Mary continued, "...bein' handfasted ta him."

        For a moment, there was silence. Then, Methos shook his head furiously. "No, no, no, my lord, my lady! Surely you cannot do this to me!"

        "Aye, faither!" Duncan exclaimed, though there was such a hopeful twinkle in his doe eyes. "Are ye serious abou' givin' me ta him, for the rest o' ma life?"

        "Uhm hmm!" the clan laird nodded firmly. He turned to the ancient. "Well, warrior. Wha' is yer answer?"

        In mock resignation, Methos flopped his arms to his sides, a broad smile on his face, "What can I say, my lord? Very well then, I will marry your son!"

        Duncan's heart leaped for joy at this reply. Still, he gazed questioningly at his father.

        Ian's reply to his son's unspoken question was "An' ye two 'ave ma blessing tae!"

        With a happy cry, Duncan turned around to face his one true love and made to run down the stairs and into Methos' welcoming arms.

        However, in his haste to be reunited with the ancient, the Scot forgot one tiny detail - the loose floorboard.

        As he took two steps forward, Duncan stepped on the board. The wood gave way slightly and he tripped. Before Methos and everyone else knew what was happening, the Scot flew through the air and landed on the stairs. As he rolled down the steps, the Highlander broke his neck...and died.

Chapter Ten

        Tempest's ears were cocked up, listening in amusement to the ancient's lamentations to his weeping young master seated before him on the saddle.

        "I cannot believe what has just happened to me!" Methos exclaimed for the umpteenth time. "I thought I had Lady Luck's favor. Imagine me, Methos, the great Horseman known as Death, to be the consort of the future laird of the Clan MacLeod, with the loving parents' approval, of course. I should've been sitting in the lap of luxury by now, sipping wine with lords, ladies and courtiers. But no. You had to trip on a loose board, fall down a flight of stairs and break your neck. Look where I am now! Sitting on a horse, with a penniless new Immortal! And what do you have to say for yourself, MacLeod?"

        "I'm sarry?" Duncan sobbed questioningly.

        Methos blew the loose strand of hair from his face in exasperation. "I knew you'd say that!"

        "If ye do no' want me anymore, then let me gae!" the Scot bawled wretchedly. "An' get these things off me! They hurt tae much!"

        "You know what your problem is, MacLeod?" the ancient snorted. "You complain too much. To think I made those trinkets especially for you, using the jewels Fitz's whores, the ardent admirers of your voluptuous derriere, gave me."

        "Well, I dinna want them!" Duncan said stubbornly. "Do ye 'ave no respect for the dead! Why did ye put these damned things on me? Ma tits hurt an' ma cock feels like 'tis as big as Tempest's!"

        "In that case," Methos began, a grin on his face as they reached the clearing. "I think we'd better do something about it."

        Reining Tempest to a halt, Methos jumped down. Carefully, he hauled the distraught Scot off the saddle, carrying him in his arms.

        "Get lost, horse!" the ancient ordered the stallion. "This is private!"

        But Tempest whinnied in protest, shaking his head.

        "Tempest," Methos growled in impatience. "I won't repeat myself! Now go!"

        The horse snorted in disapproval, baring his front teeth at him, before trotting off into the woods.

        Methos groaned. "I really hate it when he does that!"

        "Put me doon, ye fool!" the Highlander cried in anger.

        "All right!" Methos laid him down on the shelf of rock.

        "Wha' are ye goin' ta do ta me?"

  &nb