"Enough, David!" the man called out over the noise of his own hammer, the heaving bellows and the crackling of the fire. "Rest, or you'll wear yourself out. Drink some water," he advised, gesturing towards the bucket in the corner. Sweat was pouring off the big figure, even dripping from his long, dark hair as he used the great tongs to dip the hot metal into a trough of water, watching closely as the steam cleared to see the effect of his efforts. He held the length of folded and refolded metal up to the light, even taking it to the door to examine it in the light of a strong summer sun.

       "Is it okay?" David asked eagerly, crowding close, the ladle from the water bucket still in his hand. "Did it come out alright?"

       "It's fine," the man said, a look of satisfaction on his face. He was practicing the skill of swordmaking and passing what he knew on to the young slave, along with everything else he had learned about metalworking and blacksmithing. David was smart and ambitious. The blacksmith knew from personal experience that having a valuable skill would increase the chances that the boy would be treated with care, if not kindness or respect. For a slave, sometimes that was the best you could hope for.

       The big man stiffened, closed his eyes and the affection with which he had been regarding his twelve-year-old apprentice shifted, the dark eyes instantly switching from warm brown to coal black. "MacLeod! MacLeod, are you finished with those wheel rims yet?" A small, reedy man with narrow beady eyes was scurrying across the dusty quadrangle from the white clapboard overseer's house. "I swear, if you've been working on those blasted swords again when there's real work that needs doin' I'll strip the skin right off your back!" He slapped the loops of his whip against his booted calf for emphasis. "I know Miz Adams puts up with that crap, but she's too soft with you by half!"

       He stopped a distance away from the blacksmith who was a man of impressive height and bulk and had the irritating knack of carrying himself with greater dignity and authority than the Mistress herself, much less her overseer.

       "The work is done, Rankin," MacLeod replied coldly. "The carpenter is nay yet finished bendin' the wood, but when he is, there will nae be any delay from me."

       "Well," Rankin huffed, disappointed that he had no immediate cause to discipline the man. "I'm sure there's more useful work to be done than making weapons no one will ever use. It's a waste of time and materials. I can always put you in the fields, you know. That strong back must be good for something."

       "I work where work needs to be done," MacLeod replied evenly. "At least I do when not distracted by useless talk." He turned to go back to his forge, knowing even as he did that it would enrage the man.

       "I'm not finished with you, MacLeod!" the man struck out, lashing the whip across the bigger man's bare shoulders, but before the sharp whack of the blow had died the offending weapon had been yanked from it's owner's hand and was suddenly dangling threateningly in front of his hooked, bent nose.

       "Someday, Rankin, ye'll use this one too many times," MacLeod snarled, leaning over the smaller man until it looked like the overseer might topple backwards as he leaned away.

       But Rankin had sufficient arrogance to feel almost invulnerable, even from this formidable man. And what had drawn him back to the blacksmith over and over was powerful enough at that moment to nearly make him faint. He took a deep breath, taking in the aroma of the forge, of fire and sweat and masculine power, and placed his hand over MacLeod's, so that they both held the whip handle. "Perhaps you'd rather I use it on David here?" he asked softly. He was almost forced to step back at the wave of hatred that poured from the other man, but just as he knew would happen, MacLeod backed off.

       "The boy has done nothing to deserve punishment," MacLeod said coldly.

       "Maybe he wouldn't think of it as punishment, if t'were done…carefully," Rankin smiled, showing his yellowed, uneven teeth. The overseer turned and gestured to the young boy, who was tall for his age, his body lean and muscular, the skin smooth and dark. David's eyes grew large as his focus shifted from his teacher to the overseer. "Come 'ere, boy," Rankin called. David obediently walked forward, meeting the older man's eyes with a calm fearlessness he had learned from his upstart teacher, no doubt. Rankin cupped the boy's chin in his hand. "A handsome lad, isn't he, MacLeod? Perhaps there are better uses for him than working in that sweatbox of a blacksmith shop."

       "No!" David gasped in dismay, quickly adding a belated "Sir. Mr. MacLeod is teaching me so much! I'll be the best blacksmith you ever saw. Please, Mr. Rankin, sir!"

       "Leave the boy be," MacLeod whispered. "He's but a child and has no place in this." The two men had been adversaries for years, almost since the day Rankin had bought his indenture papers six years before. The only thing that kept Rankin from doing as he pleased with the dark-eyed, handsome Scot was that the Mistress had taken an instant fancy to the man. Treated him more like a son than the property he was, which offended and frustrated the overseer no end, especially since he had always had his own, more personal designs for the magnificent specimen.

       Rankin leaned close, letting his watery eyes travel up and down the golden body. "Then perhaps you'd like to take his place?" he whispered with an ugly leer.

       MacLeod froze. It was not the first time Rankin had made such suggestions, but they had grown more blatant recently as the plantation's elderly mistress, Elizabeth Adams, had grown ill and frail and was more and more confined to her bed.

       "Mr. Rankin! Mr. Rankin!" a squealing voice called in near-hysteria. They turned to see a young house servant hurtling down the hill from the main house, her kerchief dangling precariously from the back of her head, her skirts lifted up to her knees, bare feet pounding into the dust.

       "What is it, girl?" Rankin responded, irritated at the interruption.

       "It's Miz Adams, sir," she gasped. "She's taken real bad, sudden like," she stammered.

       Before the last words were out of her mouth, MacLeod was heading up the path towards the big house at a run.

       He was met at the base of the broad portico that surrounded three sides of the elegant three-story home by a tall, graceful woman with dark chocolate skin. Her hair was caught up in a colorful scarf that matched her apron and her black eyes were clouded with concern that was colored by relief at MacLeod's arrival.

       "This morning she was feeling a little better and was at her desk, working. Then when I went to bring her lunch, I found her on the floor," she told him, running to keep up as he rushed by her into the foyer, then took the broad curving stairway two steps at a time. A moment or two behind him came Rankin, puffing hard and sweating from the steep climb up the hill in the stifling heat of a southern midsummer's day.

       MacLeod paused just inside the door of the Mistress' inner sanctum. He had been to this combination study and bedroom many times and had always hesitated at the entrance until the woman graciously gestured for him to enter. He felt awkward and clumsy in her presence, but she always spoke to him with kindness and respect, almost as though he was an equal. Usually she found some pretext for him to be there, something to repair, some work needing to be done. He had never known why she had taken such an interest in him, but he had been deeply grateful, for she had opened up a whole new world to him.

       As he worked, she had sat at her desk, chattering about the business of the plantation, but also relating fascinating stories about the generations of her family that had cared for Whitecroft, its land and its workers. The most wondrous thing was that she had even surreptitiously provided him with primers on reading and writing. Initially, it was a struggle to work through the alphabet and piece together the symbols and sounds and meanings, but as she gradually provided him with more and more challenging material he found himself eagerly discussing the ideas they presented with her, the perspective on history and society the books and leaflets revealed. She had also been the one to engage a master swordmaker for almost a year, insisting that MacLeod learn those skills.

       The precious memories and images flashed through his mind in the few steps it took to carry him to the old oak desk. He bent over her small crumpled form, his broad callused hand brushing the white hair away from an ashen face. "Miz Adams?" he whispered. "Miz Adams, its MacLeod. Can you hear me?"

       The touch caused the pale blue eyes to flutter open, but their gaze was unfocused. "The letters," she rasped. "Tell Benjamin… tell him…" the voice drifted off as the eyes closed again.

       "It will be alright," MacLeod murmured, gathering the limp form into his arms and rising. "Just rest. You just need some rest." He continued a steady stream of reassurances as he carried the frail figure to the big four poster bed, tucking her in with a delicate touch that belied his stained leather work apron and meaty hands.

       "Has someone sent for the doctor?" he asked. Behind him Rankin frowned as the servants ignored his presence in preference to the innate authority of the blacksmith.

       "I sent Malcolm," the elegant black woman answered behind him.

       "You should have consulted me first, Eugenie," Rankin growled. He had taken a stance over by the mistress' desk, his eyes greedily traveling over the scattered papers there. "It's probably just a fainting spell."

       MacLeod shot him a look that shut the man up, at least for the moment. He had folded one thin, pale hand in his own large one and sat at the bed's edge. "The Mistress doesna faint," he stated flatly. "And I can barely feel her heart beat, its so fast and light, like a bird," he added softly.

       Rankin placed his palms on the desk, leaning over it to sneer malevolently. "It's probably been the shame from all the gossip," he snarled. "You up here, in her very bedroom! Look at you, MacLeod. You don't belong here!"

       MacLeod rose from the bed, his face a dark thundercloud ready to burst, but Eugenie stepped between them, shooting the Scot a warning look.

       "I'll get some cold compresses," she announced. "Could you help fetch the water, Duncan?" she asked, tugging on his arm. MacLeod's eyes drilled into Rankin's for a few long, tense seconds before he finally followed Eugenie out of the room after one last glance at the still figure lying motionless on the bed.

       "You're a stubborn fool, Duncan MacLeod, and that's no lie!" Eugenie muttered as she led the way back down the back steps and into the kitchen. "Why do you insist on butting heads with that devil? You know he enjoys getting you riled and knowing you can't do nothing about it."

       "He cares nothing for Miz Adams!" MacLeod growled, violently pumping the lever at the sink, filling the big porcelain bowl Eugenie had handed him while she pulled out some soft linen towels. "He cares nothing for anyone except himself! I'll never understand why she made him overseer. Such a sweet, gentle woman…" his voice died as his heart absorbed the certainty that she was slipping away.

       He felt a warm hand on his back and turned. Eugenie rested her palms on his chest and smiled gently. "You brought her real joy these last few years, Duncan. She looked at you with such a light in her eyes, like you were the son she never had."

       "Aye, but she never let me go," he murmured sadly, folding the woman into an embrace. "Six long years and she never even mentioned giving me my freedom."

       "Perhaps she wanted to keep you close," Eugenie offered, pushing back and looking up into the most soulful brown eyes she had ever known. "I know I'm glad you've stayed."

       "Oh, 'Genie," he sighed. "I would've stayed of my own free will if she'd but asked, but no man or woman should be treated like property by another. T'is wrong."

       "Well, Miz Adams just got so bitter after poor Mr. Adams went and got himself killed," Eugenie observed. "She ran this place with an iron hand. Hired that Mr. Rankin and let that snake do whatever he wanted. Until you came."

       She piled the towels on her arms, gestured with her head for the Scot to follow and they headed back upstairs. "It's no wonder he hates you like he does. You've been talking Miz Adams into a whole bucketful of things that he jus' can't stand. Lettin' most of us take Sundays off, lettin' the slaves marry, keepin' the families together when she can. He hardly dares even whip anybody anymore 'cause he knows you'll tell her." She cast a mischievous glance back over her shoulder. "I know you’re a real pleasure to look at, Duncan, but Miz Adams, she's an old lady and I sometimes think you worked some kinda magic spell on her."

       "She told me once I reminded her of her late husband," Duncan replied, his golden skin flushing at the woman's inference.

       "Well, I don' know 'bout that," she said. "He died when I was just a tadpole, but I seem to recall he was a thin man, graceful, but pale and hard around the edges. Nice lookin' though. That portrait in Miz Adams' room didn't really do him justice. My momma said he was a hard man to know, always readin' books and such. It was always Miz Adams that looked after Whitecroft since it had been in her family so long."

       They had reached the bedroom door and Eugenie moved in quickly, directing Duncan to set the bowl beside the bed. Rankin had stayed at the desk, standing quickly and moving away when the two servants entered.

       "This is no place for you, MacLeod," Rankin declared. "Never has been. Look at you! Dirty, sweaty and barely dressed. Get back to your forge."

       Eugenie glanced back at MacLeod, nodding slightly at him, signaling that she would take care of their Mistress and let him know how she was. He reluctantly left the woman in her expert care and returned to his work, but emerged from his shed when he heard the doctor's carriage arrive about an hour later, watching from the quadrangle below the big house as Eugenie met the physician at the door and escorted him in. She looked down the hill in his direction and while it was hard to tell from that distance, it seemed to him that she shook her head at him and his heart sank.

       "What do you think is gonna happen?" David's question startled him. He had been lost in his own thoughts. He looked down at the young slave, recognizing the fear and uncertainty in the boy's face. A dozen more of the workers had gathered in the yard, watching as well, all of them speaking together in low, fearful tones.

       "I don't know, David," he answered at last. He let his hand rest on the boy's shoulder. It felt so thin and frail. He didn't know why he felt so protective of these people, why it grated on him so when he saw them mistreated. "But I'll do what I can to keep you safe."

       David looked up at him. MacLeod was watching the house intently, his thoughts obviously far away. It always amazed him that this man with the face of an angel and gentle eyes of a doe, who could be as kind as anyone he had ever known, could also wield a hammer and swing a sword with more power than anyone he had ever seen, and whose eyes could burn bright with righteous anger when roused. David's father had been sold when he was still very young and he could hardly remember the man. But MacLeod had taught him a trade, had taught him about courage, had even started secretly teaching him to read and write. A lot of the plantation folk believed there was something magical about Duncan MacLeod, that he was a talisman against evil. If he said he would keep David safe, it was good enough for him. He took Duncan's hand, feeling the rough calluses there, and tugged.

       "Come on," he urged. "You gotta eat, sumthin, and Cook said they fixed ham and beans tonight."

       The Scot smiled down at his young companion. "And you got her to save an extra portion for you, no doubt, with a double slice of cornbread?"

       David's dark face lit up with a grin. "Well, I bet she saved some extra for you, too. You know she's sweet on you, just like every other woman at Whitecroft!" And he dragged his mentor off amid his sputtering protests.

       Dr. Benjamin M. Adams, II, physician to the moneyed matrons of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, wiped his hands on a fresh towel and tried to find appropriate words to communicate his concerns to his patient. Unfortunately, the ones that came to his mouth were, in retrospect, possibly not the most effective.

       "Well, Mrs. Caldwell, if you would ever get your carcass off that overstuffed parlor couch of yours and do something besides sit around with your friends and share the latest gossip, you might find that your indigestion would improve, and your 'vapors' would lessen considerably. At a minimum, a tiny bit of exercise each day would help with the constipation."

       "Excuse me?" Mrs. Caldwell asked. She was a formidable woman. Not tall, but her width compensated for any lack of stature. At the moment she looked rather stupidly startled, as though uncertain she had heard correctly.

       Dr. Adams leaned against the examining table for a minute, berating himself for his impatience and an all too sharply honed tongue. He swallowed and forced himself to paint a kindly smile on his face. "My dear Mrs. Caldwell, what I meant to say was that you need to take much better care of yourself. You really do. Let me write out a special diet for you, including a lot of fresh vegetables and fruits. I also highly recommend regular exercise, perhaps a daily constitutional in the park."

       "Oh," she replied. Her brow furrowed for a moment, trying to reconcile the two sets of instructions, then obviously decided to ignore the first. "Well, whatever you say, Dr. Ben. You know I always do what you tell me!" she rose and patted him lightly on the cheek before giving him a soft, squishy smooch. "A daily constitutional," she mused on the way out the door. "Well, I suppose it could become quite the fashionable thing to do." Her voice faded as she waddled down the hallway, and Dr. Ben closed the door to his office, grateful that she was the last patient of the day.

       The good Doctor wiped at his cheek distractedly to remove the moisture Mrs. Caldwell had left behind, then sank into his chair, thumbing listlessly through the mail his assistant had dropped off on his desk. Bills, an invitation to speak at a Boston medical conference, more bills. Then his hand paused and his expression hardened as he encountered a cream colored velum envelope with a return address of a lawyer in a town he had left behind many years before. Long, graceful fingers hesitated before they finally slipped delicately underneath the wax seal, taking his time about pulling out the letter within.

Dear Dr. Adams,

I regret to inform you that your esteemed aunt, Elizabeth Whitecroft Adams, has taken very ill. I have served as her legal advisor in recent years and know that you, as the son of her late husband's brother, are her sole relative and heir to her estate, known as the Whitecroft Plantation. I believe it would be appropriate for you to travel here as soon as possible if you wish to visit with your aunt one last time.

The running of the plantation and the ultimate disposition of her estate will require your presence, as well. Please advise of the timing of your arrival and I will do everything in my power to assist you.

I regret having to convey this sad news. Mrs. Adams is a pillar of the community and a fine Christian woman. Her passing will be a great loss to us all. My firm stands ready to provide whatever services you may require in this or any other matter.
 

Sincerely,
C. Porter "Bucky" Rowe, Esquire

Meridian, North Carolina

       MacLeod heard the familiar footsteps in the night before there came a light knock on the door of the small shack he inhabited. He was there in an instant, opening it to Eugenie, who carried a hooded lantern.

       "Miz Adams?" he asked, fear stabbing his chest at her midnight visit.

       She nodded and waited wordlessly for him to slip on a shirt and shoes and follow her through the pine forest along a path up to the big house. Once they were out of earshot of the rest of the ramshackle shacks built side by side to house the rest of the slaves, she felt free to at least whisper.

       "She's called for you several times, but Rankin wouldn't let me fetch you. But he's gone for the night, probably back in his cabin getting drunk, and I don't know when you might get another chance to see her. She's fading fast, Duncan. Sometimes she thinks she's a young girl again, and then she cries out for her husband, long dead. Tis a sad thing to watch," she sighed. "May God grant her peace soon."

       The lamplight cast a soft warm light on Elizabeth Adams' parchment skin, lending it misleading color and warmth. Her lips were slightly blue and her breath was fast and shallow. Hands bent and twisted with arthritis clutched restlessly at the covers and she started a little when she felt the bed shift. The light blue eyes opened and brightened and Duncan smiled at the clear reflection in her eyes of the beautiful woman she had once been.

       "Duncan!" she sighed. The trembling hand reached out and reverently touched his cheek. "I'm so glad you came."

       He took her hand and folded it between his own, again feeling awkward and clumsy next to her fragile grace. "I'm here, Miz Adams." He wanted to say more, to say something comforting, but all he could think of was to beg her to hang on, not to die. But that seemed so selfish and petty. He had seen that luminous expression before on the face of those who were ready to let go, eager for a release from life's heavy burden.

       "I have to tell you…" she gasped slightly for air.

       "Shh. You don't have to tell me anything, Miz Adams. You just rest. I'll be right here."

       "No!" she insisted, shaking her head in impatience. "I need to tell you…so many things. First," she waved a hand in the direction of her desk. "First, you need to know that I've written your emancipation papers." She smiled sadly at Duncan's small intake of breath. "I know it's taken me far too long, but I had my reasons. That's what…" she had to stop and rest for a moment, but then pushed on. "That's what I need to tell you. You must leave here, Duncan. Now." She pushed past his protest. "Take your papers and leave Whitecroft before Benjamin comes."

       MacLeod shared a concerned look with Eugenie, who pursed her lips and shook her head sadly. "Miz Adams, Mr. Benjamin is dead these many years," he whispered. "And I'll stay with you as long as you want me to."

       "No!" she gasped, then coughed and coughed again, finally closing her eyes in exhaustion. "He's…he's like you, Duncan. You remember when we talked about how you never got sick and you healed so fast it seemed like magic? I knew then you were one of them, like my Benjamin. The ones who don't die." Her voice trailed off a little. "My beautiful Benjamin." Her mouth tightened and she shifted uncomfortably in the thrall of an unpleasant memory. "Benjamin and his dark, dangerous horses. That's how he died, you know. Foolish, foolish man," she whispered, and she seemed to drift away into sleep or unconsciousness.

       Duncan rose from the bed, tiptoeing quietly over to Eugenie's side. She took one look at his sad face, tears glistening in dark brown eyes and folded him into her arms. "I don't want her to die," he whispered into her shoulder. "I remember when my clan was slaughtered and I had to leave Scotland. I thought I'd never have a family again, but she's been like a mother to me. And to see her like this…"

       "Shh, my sweet Duncan," Eugenie murmured, stroking her fingers through his long, silky hair. "She's just in her own world now. She's not suffering, really." She held him for awhile, until he marshaled his emotions and returned to the dying woman's bedside.

       He must have been dozing since the small movement of the Mistress' hand startled him upright in the chair he had brought close to her bedside. He looked up and her clear-eyed gaze met his.

       "He'll kill you," she stated flatly, out of the blue, as though she had never drifted off. "It's what they do. Kill each other. That's why I had you learn about swords and swordsmithing, so you would be prepared. I loved him with all my heart, but he…frightened me so." Her hand reached out to him, touching his hair, gently tucking a long strand behind his ear. "He could never give me any children, you know. And then you came to me, so beautiful and young and innocent. A pure, good heart and noble spirit. Don't lose that spirit, Duncan. It's the most precious thing you have."

       He caught her hand and kissed it gently. "Be easy, Elizabeth Whitecroft Adams," he said, his thickening Highland brogue lending a musical lilt to his words. "You've done your best. Lived and loved and been loved. No one can do more."

       She smiled and nodded and closed her eyes, falling asleep once more.

       Dawn had begun to paint vivid streaks of gold and pink across the sky when Duncan turned from the window where he had been standing for almost half an hour, and realized she was gone.

       C. Porter "Bucky" Rowe, Esquire, graduate of the College of William and Mary and legal luminary of Meridian, North Carolina, awaited the arrival of Benjamin M. Adams, II with some trepidation. The man was a physician, educated overseas. A sophisticated, city-bred man who might very well have his own ideas about the rather weighty legal issues with which he would be confronted. However, as far as Lawyer Rowe knew, the man had never even been on a plantation and had never met his aunt. Hopefully, he might be amenable to leaving the matters of the estate in the hands of a local, trusted agent. An agent who would be amply compensated from the considerable wealth of the Whitecroft estate.

       He had calculated that it would take a couple of weeks from the time he sent the letter for the man to arrive, given the state of the roads and the general unreliability of public carriage traffic. That was assuming, of course, that he made all due haste. But then who wouldn't, given the size of the inheritance he was about to acquire.

       "Uncle Bucky!" his clerk could be heard thumping noisily up the stairs. "Uncle Bucky, he's here!"

       "How many times do I have to tell you to call me Mr. Rowe!" the lawyer berated his sister's eldest son, Fred. "When we're in the office, I'm not your Uncle Bucky!" He had hated that nickname since it was originally bestowed on him as a youngster for the obvious reasons. "Now calm down. Who is here?"

       "Mr., uh, Dr. Adams! You know! Miz Adams' Dr. Adams? I mean Dr. Adams, the other one. I mean, the second one. The nephew," Fred added redundantly.

       "Impossible!" Rowe sputtered, buttoning his vest and grabbing for his jacket. Damn, he hadn't worn his best suit today. His shirt cuffs were frayed and he had old food stains on his lapels. The boy was probably wrong, anyway. He was a dunce, like his father. He maneuvered his bulk around from behind his desk and down the narrow stairs, only to find his nephew attempting to play stable boy to a tall, rangy man on the biggest, blackest horse he had ever seen.

       The man's dark cloak swirled around him as he dismounted from the prancing, sweating stallion, throwing the reins to Fred, who held them as though they were snakes that might bite. "He'll be fine. Just do whatever he wants," the man instructed with an amused, dangerous look. The cultured accent and smooth baritone were a stark contrast to the dusty boots and long, dark hair that had a tendency to fall across his right eye.

       "How is she?" he demanded without preamble. When the stocky buck-toothed business-suited man standing in front of the two story brick building labeled "C. Porter Rowe, Esquire" just stared at him, dumbfounded, Adams' general view of the average intelligence of the legal profession was confirmed once again. He took a deep breath and stated the obvious.

       "I assume you are Mr. Rowe?" He continued when the man nodded, his soft, wet mouth slightly open. "My name is Benjamin Adams. You wrote me." Another nod. "About Elizabeth Adams?" Another nod. "How is she!?" he finally raised his voice as though the man were either slightly deaf or completely stupid.

       "Uh, uh, I'm so sorry, Mr…Dr. Adams. Mrs. Adams passed on day before yesterday. I must say I wasn't expecting you so soon. You must've ridden, well I can't imagine the carriages,…well obviously you didn't take a carriage. I'm sorry," he finally sputtered, turning to go inside. "You must be exhausted and thirsty. Please come into my office." He turned and gestured, but Adams had turned away and walked a few steps down the sidewalk. Tapered, elegant fingers of one hand were pressed to each temple.

       "Dr. Adams? Oh, Dr. Adams, I'm so sorry. I didn't know you even knew Mrs. Adams," Rowe felt like a magnificent opportunity was slipping out of his grasp when he realized he was badly mishandling the situation. He needed for Adams to rely on him, to turn to him for counseling and advice. He patted the grieving young man solicitously on the arm. "I'm sure she passed peacefully. She lived a long, useful life."

       "Not long enough," Adams growled, moving his arm away from Rowe's grasp. There was nothing at Whitecroft now, Benjamin knew. No reason for him to go there at all. "Sell it," he instructed tersely, swinging around so quickly that Rowe stumbled backwards.

       "Uh, sell it?" Rowe repeated stupidly.

       "You heard me. Sell it! She was the last Whitecroft and I certainly don't want the damned place." He stepped off the sidewalk and snatched his horse's reins from Fred's trembling hands.

       "But…but the funeral, Dr. Adams! Don't you think it should wait until after the funeral?"

       He paused before putting his foot in the stirrup. "When is that?" he asked.

       "Tomorrow morning. I'm sure the entire town will be there, along with all the plantation folk. I believe you will be expected, sir," Rowe hinted. "And afterwards I will need to you to sign some documents to facilitate the sale."

       He sighed, leaning his forearm briefly against the dark hide of the nervous horse that quieted at his touch. "I suppose I owe her at least that," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Does this town still have just one hotel?" he asked.

       "Yes. The Imperial Grand, on Main Street," Rowe answered helpfully.

       "The Imperial Grand. Of course."

       Rowe couldn't be certain if the comment was one of recognition or derision as Adams swung gracefully into the saddle and rode off towards the middle of town.

       The church service was as grim and interminable as he had feared. His suit and tie were hot and itchy in the summer sun, his good shoes were beginning to hurt and it seemed like the entire population of Meridian, North Carolina had turned out, all of them wanting to personally console the new heir to the largest plantation in the area. And it seemed most of them had daughters of marriageable age. But none of the words of remembrance seemed to be about the woman he had known and loved and married almost forty years before. Nothing about her beauty, her intelligence, her independent spirit, her love for her land and her people.

       At last the final hymn had been sung, the final psalm was read and the crowd thinned as only the hardy few wished to make the five-mile trek to follow the black-draped wagon carrying the casket to the Whitecroft family cemetery. As they neared the estate, work-clad, dusty figures began to line the road, hats off, heads bowed in respect. The closer they got, the larger the crowd became, until there was an unbroken line of dark faces, quiet and solemn. It was the most moving tribute Benjamin had seen and somehow made coming back here to this beautiful place so full of memories less heartbreaking, as though his sorrow were shared and, in the sharing, lessened.

       "Bucky" Rowe watched the young Dr. Adams as he rode in the carriage with him and Reverend Thomas to the cemetery. An interesting face. Uncanny family resemblance to his uncle, if the portrait in Elizabeth's parlor was any indication. Pale, refined features. Sharp angled face with a nose that bordered on too large, but somehow blended pleasantly with the rest of the aquiline countenance. The eyes were really interesting, though. Sort of green, but sometimes glittering a hard, almost molten gold color. They could be as open and innocent as a summer sky one minute and the next command an authority one rarely saw in one so young. Right now they looked sad and tired and…old, as though the weight of many years was dragging him down. Suddenly, Adams stiffened, glancing nervously around at the large crowd of plantation folk that had lined the road.

       "Something wrong, Dr. Adams?" he asked. It was awfully hot, especially for a Yankee. Perhaps he was feeling ill.

       But it appeared the young man hadn't heard as those golden eyes intently scanned the faces on both sides of the road as though he expected to recognize someone.

       "Dr. Adams?" Rowe asked again.

       "What? Oh, nothing. It's nothing," Adams snapped. As the carriage moved on, he relaxed slightly, but Benjamin, known in previous ages as Methos, the Oldest Immortal, still seemed on the alert, as though expecting trouble.

       Eugenie, MacLeod, David and the rest of the house staff watched from a rise above the road as the flower-draped casket slowly rolled by. There was an open carriage right behind carrying the preacher, Miz Adam's lawyer and a tall young man that, rumor had it, was heir to the estate.

       As they got a little closer, Eugenie elbowed Duncan. "Look at that! He's the spittin' image of old Mr. Adams. You know," she answered Duncan's questioning look. "That old portrait in the parlor." Then she grabbed Duncan's thick, hard bicep. "Duncan! What's wrong?" Duncan had wavered and his face had gone white as his hands flew to his temples.

       "I…I don't know. That's so strange. It's like what I told you about when I can tell Rankin's coming, but much stronger. I feel funny. Dizzy. Like there's such a noise in my head," he gasped.

       "Dammit, Duncan MacLeod, when was the last time you ate or slept, anyway?" Eugenie scolded. "You been trying to do all the things that no good rascal Rankin has neglected since Miz Adams passed as well as doin' your own chores. And you know what Miz Adams tol' you to do. You got to get those emancipation papers and get outta here."

       After a moment, with Eugenie making him sit on the grass and stroking his forehead, he breathed deeply and the odd spell seemed to pass. He forced himself to his feet, shaking off the sudden battering of his heart in his ribcage.

       "You need to look in that desk tonight and get those papers," Eugenie turned him and forced him to look into her dark, serious eyes. "I'm going to miss you, Duncan," she added softly, letting her finger play over his generous, soft lips. "But we always knew this day would come."

       "But who's going to look after you and David and the rest of the people here, 'Genie? We know nothing about this new owner. He could be as bad or worse than Rankin."

       "And what do you honestly think you can do about that, Duncan MacLeod? You're an indentured servant with almost four years left on your contract unless Miz Adams really did write up them papers she talked about. Until then you're a slave just like me. Just like David. You think this new master will give a fine hoot what you think or do? And now that Miz Adams is gone, what do you think Rankin has in store for you? No, you get those papers and you high tail it outta here as fast as those strong legs will carry you!"

       "Genie, I need to know you and David will be okay! I canna just walk away!"

       "You listen to me, Duncan MacLeod," she snapped, her eyes lighting up like dark embers. "You have a chance to get away from here. To have a real life! You think I could live with myself, or that David would be happy to know that he was the reason you stayed, knowing what is bound to happen between you and Rankin? He'll eventually kill you, Duncan! You know that! But before then he'll just make you wish you were dead." Her brown fingers gripped both sides of his head. "Go! For me. For David. So we will know that one of us has tasted freedom at last!"

       He closed his eyes, letting the warmth of her body and the soft touch of her fingers comfort him, perhaps for the last time. "I know, 'Genie." He held her quietly for a long time before he finally pulled away with a sigh, his gaze looking after the now barely visible funeral cortege.

       Duncan slipped soundlessly off of the straw mattress, then paused, watching in the dim light as Eugenie sighed and settled into the space he had vacated, slipping further into sleep. They had made love for the last time, desperate, passionate love. He hoped he had given her a child. It was something they had both wished for over the past several years, but especially now. She had come to him, whispering, begging that he leave her with something of himself and he had given to her everything he had, everything he was. She lay in exhausted sleep, sweat still beading her high, smooth brow. He had loved her, in his own way. Not like the romantic passion for Debra Campbell, who would always occupy a special place in his heart. But Debra, along with the rest of his clan, was dead, all slaughtered by the English. He had awakened amid the carnage, ashamed that he had survived when everyone else had perished, and left, never looking back.

       Now he would leave again, but as he had in the Highlands, he would leave a part of himself behind. He had never mastered the knack of walking away, of letting go entirely of those he loved. He carried them with him wherever he went, it seemed. Like ghosts, haunting his dreams and memory. He gathered his few things, leaving the rest for Eugenie and David. He had made himself a sword and scabbard in secret, hiding it from Rankin, who had taken all of his other efforts at weapons making, and hid it away in his blacksmith shed. He would pick it up before he left for good.

       Crickets sang a constant chorus, and the warm summer night caressed his skin as he slipped silently through the woods towards the big house. The light in the overseer's cottage was still on, but that didn't mean anything. Rankin had been in a constant drunken stupor since the night Miz Adams had died. As expected, the back door to the big house was unlocked and he padded carefully up the back stairs, avoiding the spots that had a tendency to creak noisily. The hallways were empty and silent but Duncan could almost feel Miz Adams' presence amid the elegant silk wallpaper and damask drapes she loved so well. He slipped inside her bedroom and silently closed the door behind him. It took only a moment to light a lamp and carry it over to the desk, which had various stacks of paper in neat rows across the back.

       He went at it methodically, pile by pile. Bills, correspondence, her will. He stopped to read it, finding that the entire estate had been left to Benjamin M. Adams, II. A relative then, but not a Whitecroft. That must have made her sad. Then a chill washed across his shoulders. She had insisted that he leave before "Benjamin" arrived. That he would kill him. Perhaps she was referring to this other Benjamin, and not her late husband? Perhaps he was, indeed, in some kind of danger? But why would the man want to kill him? They had never even met.

       He shook off the vague misgiving and moved on, opening the desk drawers. Spare quills and ink, a dictionary, a ledger. He opened the ledger and found his own name on the lists of property along with carriages, horses, tools and such: Duncan MacLeod, Scotsman, blacksmith, indentured for ten years. He had had no real idea what becoming an indentured servant meant when he signed up. It seemed the only answer at the time, a way to escape the cruelty and persecution of the English, a way to get to the New World.

       But it was merely another form of slavery, he now knew. That thought pressed him on, opening more drawers, until an ugly chill washed over his shoulders. He carefully closed the desk drawers and stood, waiting expectantly.

       "Looking for something?" an ugly voice snarled from the doorway. The overseer had three days worth of beard growth and looked and smelled like he hadn't changed his clothes in all that time. Rankin smiled, showing his teeth and motioned with the pistol he was carrying to get the other man away from behind the desk. "I always knew you were a thief, Highlander. Now I've got proof!"

       "Miz Adams told me she wrote my emancipation papers, Rankin," MacLeod insisted. "I'm a free man!"

       "Oh? And when did she tell you this fairy tale?" Rankin asked with a snarl.

       "The night she died. I was at her side."

       "Right. A mistress of the largest plantation in North Carolina had a blacksmith at her side in her final hour. And she told you she freed you from your indenture. Well, isn't that convenient? Certainly sounds believable to me," Rankin sneered. "I'm sure the new master will be very understanding as well, when he finds out you were trying to steal her things before you ran away."

       "I wasna running away, you bastard, and you know it!" MacLeod suddenly remembered that Rankin had been left alone at the desk the night Elizabeth Adams had collapsed. He stalked toward the nasty little man, only stopping when the pistol was raised to point threateningly at his chest. "You took the papers, didn't you!? Damn you, Rankin, you had no right!"

       "I’m the overseer and right now I'm the master here! And it seems to me that you just violated the terms of your indenture, didn't you? A thief has no rights!"

       MacLeod lunged, knocking the pistol aside, but Rankin spun, aiming wildly and the sound of the shot echoed through the whole house, but MacLeod was only aware of a blinding flash of light and pain, and then utter, absolute darkness.

       Benjamin Adams awoke suddenly in the middle of the night thinking some loud noise had sounded but all he could hear was the snoring of his next door neighbor through the thin walls of the Imperial Grand hotel. Not very imperial and certainly not very grand, he thought, stirring restlessly among the sweat-dampened covers. The trip to the cemetery had brought back so many memories of how much Elizabeth had loved the graceful old plantation, how hard she worked to keep it afloat and self-sufficient. When he had been forced to leave after suffering a very messy and very public death under the hoofs of a rampaging horse in the middle of town, he begged her to come with him. Had told her what he was and what his life was like. But she had been horrified, both at the terrifying price of being Immortal, and at the thought of leaving her beloved Whitecroft in the hands of strangers.

       He rose from the bed and went to the window to feel a little of the breeze that stirred the sluggish night air. His leaving had left her embittered and lonely and betrayed, he knew. It wasn't the first time in his long life such a thing had happened, but it weighed on his soul. He at least owed her the courtesy of seeing that Whitecroft was left in decent hands, he decided.

       Mid-morning the following day, Adams felt a multitude of eyes watching him as he rode Diablo Negro into the quadrangle in front of the main house. A nervous, solemn youngster came out to take Diablo's reins but, unlike Lawyer Rowe's clerk, the boy actually seemed to have a feel for how to handle a spirited horse. He murmured gently to the stallion, letting the horse sniff his hand before he touched the soft nose. Benjamin smiled as the boy led the horse away, chattering to the big stallion like an old friend.

       By the time he got to the top of the steps of the white porticoed building, five people had self-consciously lined up in a row headed by a tall black woman whose expression was well-nigh unreadable. But over the five millennia of his life, Methos had become expert in seeing what no one else saw. In these people, and especially in this woman he sensed intelligence, confidence, but with an underlying tension and uncertainty, all natural and expected. But there was something else. There was fear and worry and a distraction about something other than the normal discomfort at meeting a new master.

       The tall woman dropped a brief curtsy.

       "Welcome to Whitecroft, Mr. Adams," she said. Her lips formed a smile that didn't reach her eyes.

       "And you are?" he asked.

       She looked at him oddly, a little surprised he would be interested in her name. "Eugenie, Master Adams. I'm the housekeeper." She introduced Malcolm, the valet, Sarah, the cook, and two maids that normally worked in the main house.

       He turned and surveyed the main yard. It looked much as when he had left almost thirty years before. A stable with a working pen for the horses. The blacksmith shed. The overseer's small house. The big eating hall where the slaves usually ate and behind that a long row of sheds hidden behind a grove of southern pine trees where the slaves slept. The dusty road leading up to the main house was bordered by elaborate flower and herb gardens, tended and kept pristine and lovely by a whole phalanx of gardeners even as he watched. Behind the house, acre upon acre, were fields of cotton, of corn, of any number of crops that were the plantation's life's blood. If only it didn't require slave labor to maintain it, he thought with a sad, resigned sigh. Slavery had been a fact of life as long as he could remember, and he had a long, long, long memory. He had been a slave, had owned slaves, and fought and died in slave rebellions, and yet the practice persisted. But the tide of history was turning, he thought. In another century or so, perhaps the scourge would be almost eradicated, at least on this continent. That is, his cynical internal voice added, until the next collapse of civilization, when it would start all over again.

       "It's lovely, isn't it?" Eugenie observed behind him. "Miz Adams loved it so," she added wistfully.

       "Yes, she did, Eugenie. She did indeed," he said softly. He didn't see the curious look she gave him as he turned and went inside.

       "Where's the overseer?" he asked as he entered the wide foyer and turned right, heading directly into the library.

       Eugenie scurried along behind, marveling at how the young man seemed to know instinctively where to go. "Well, Mr. Rankin, he's…he's probably out in the fields, Master Adams. I ain't seen him since early this morning and I'm sure he wasn't expecting you or he would have been here to greet you."

       Something in her voice once again bothered him. There was something going on here. Some event that no one wanted to talk about. Mayhap someone had tried to make off with the family silver and they were trying to cover it up. Perchance there had been some kind of slave incident and they didn't want him to know. Well, he'd find out in due course. And then there was that ominous brush of Immortal presence he had felt during the funeral to be dealt with. That incident had almost prevented him from coming back. For centuries he had avoided the deadly battles that inevitably occurred among his own kind, but Elizabeth's memory would not let him go.

       "Send someone to find him, please, Eugenie," he instructed softly. She dipped a quick curtsy and left the room.

       Eugenie left the room confused and heartsick and hopeful all at once. The last she had seen of Rankin, he had been hauling a barely-conscious MacLeod into the back of a wagon and heading out towards the river. The sharp sound of a gunshot had drawn half the people at the plantation. Rankin had come to the porch and shouted some nonsense about Duncan stealing something, then instructed that the limp body be bound and brought downstairs. Eugenie had been sorely tempted to go after the overseer with her bare hands when she thought at first Duncan must be dead. There was blood all in his hair and staining his forehead, but there didn't appear to be a wound. She had only been able to touch him briefly, her knees going weak with relief as he stirred and moaned. Then Rankin had driven away with his prize bound and gagged, those dark eyes she loved burning with pain and confusion and anger.

       No one had dared speak of it since in more than a whisper. David was ready to denounce the overseer in front of the new master, and as the tall, elegant man rode in on the magnificent black horse it was all Eugenie could do to convince the boy to just take the master's horse and get out of sight before he put himself and everyone else in jeopardy from Rankin's vengeance.

       But perhaps this Mr. Adams would see past Rankin's lies. Anyone with a whit of sense would know that Duncan would never steal.

       Rankin stood for a long time in the cabin doorway, just looking, feeling more powerful than at any moment in a whole lifetime of feeling powerless. This was his. This incredible being now existed solely at his pleasure. For his pleasure. And MacLeod had thought he was so superior. Learning to read. Yeah, he had seen it. Had rifled through the Scotsman's things while he was busy at the forge. Touched his clothes, lay down on his mat, daydreaming. Well, it was time for the daydream to become real.

       He had brought him to this private place, an isolated hunting cabin close to the river, which he had prepared in anticipation of fulfillment of his fantasy, someday. A place where there was no one else to see, no one to tell him what he could or could not do. No master to lord it over him, no prying eyes casting judgment on him. He had brought a straw mat in, bolted shackles to the wall, brought candles and dried fruit. Many a night he had come here, lying on the pallet, stroking himself, letting his mind fill with images of the Highlander's magnificent bronze body. And now it was here.

       He knelt down next to the straw mat. He hadn't expected dragging the man out of the wagon and into the shed to be quite so difficult. Even bound and semi-conscious, the Scot kicked like a mule and would have gotten away except that Rankin finally smacked him with his gun butt hard enough to send him slumping to the ground. He had dragged him in, shackled his wrists to the wall, carefully wiped away some of the blood, and waited, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the new injury healed, leaving his prize flawlessly beautiful.

       He gently pushed the long, silky hair away from MacLeod's face, letting his fingers trail over the golden skin, the classic features more beautiful than any picture he had ever seen. More beautiful even than the angels, all color and light, captured in the stained glass windows of the church.

       His hand trailed down onto the deep chest, his breath quickening as he felt the thrumming of a heartbeat underneath the man's shirt. Too many clothes, he decided. He took his knife out of his belt and gently fit it into the cloth vee that ended tantalizingly just at the Scot's sternum. With only a little pressure the fabric gave way against the sharp edge. The knife slid smoothly down over the rippling belly, through the hem of the garment and Rankin meticulously folded the fabric away, leaving the whole gleaming torso exposed. He wanted more, suddenly hungry to see everything he had previously only viewed in his fantasies. The knife moved again and he cut through the sleeves, pulling the shirt away in pieces until there was nothing left.

       His whole body started to shake with excitement and need as the knifepoint began again at the top of MacLeod's trousers, ripping harshly now as his impatience grew. Finally, he threw the knife aside and grabbed with both hands, tearing away the cloth. He panted, now so aroused he could no longer think, could no longer do anything but answer his body's urgent demands. His hand closed at last around the object of his desire, the Scot's cock, a beautiful, impressive organ, even when the man was unconscious. He couldn't help it, the very feel of it, the smell of it, the look of it, sent him over the edge and he gasped, pulling his stiff penis out of his pants and jerking frantically, his eyes glazing over at last as he grunted harshly and came, spilling pale semen onto his hands and clothes. He lay dazed and gasping on top of that big hard body, wallowing in the sensation that this was his. This belonged to him, to do with as he pleased. Then the body moved.

       With a cry, MacLeod heaved upward throwing him off, thrashing against the manacles, kicking out, vocalizing something unintelligible behind the gag.

       Rankin fell back, laughing delightedly. "Careful, MacLeod. You wouldn't want to hurt yourself." He picked up the knife, letting it hover over the other man's groin and the Scot went very still. It was more intoxicating than the potent whiskey he had imbibed steadily all the way on the ride here. There was a heady sense of near god-hood as he watched this figure straight out of some heroic myth flinch at his touch, remaining absolutely still as he delicately traced the blade through the curls around the Scot's cock.

       The little man could hardly breathe he was so excited. This was even better than he had imagined and he was dizzy with the thrill of the fulfillment of his fantasy. And it would go on, and on, and on. He could do whatever he wanted and this ignorant, marvelous slave would always come back, would always heal whatever damage was inflicted.

       Rankin had only been Immortal for about twenty years and had never found a way to exploit this bizarre gift he had been given. His first encounter with another of his kind had consisted of a lot of lectures about rules and a couple of years of sword fighting lessons, but he had never really liked his teacher, who wavered between stoic nobility and debauched abandon. He had learned a few things, though, about drinking, about whoring, about other ways to find pleasure.

       One drunken, drug-heightened night he felt he was ready. He desperately lusted after the taste of a Quickening so he had shot his 'teacher', but his nerve had faltered when it came to actually cutting the man's head off until it was too late. Brian Cullen had risen, easily stripped him of his weapon and put a blade to his neck, then just shook his head a stalked away, taking both swords and leaving him defenseless. Since then he had hidden from his kind in heart-pounding fear. But MacLeod had, all unknowing, made him a new weapon and now Rankin was the teacher. And he had been thinking about the lessons he wanted to teach this man for six long, hungry years.

       He drew back, trembling so hard the knife slipped out of his hands. Never taking his eyes off the body on the mat, he scooted back, snatching up the satchel he had brought and groping for its most important contents, his corn whiskey. He pulled out the cork and took several long swallows, wiping away sweat, spittle and booze from his mouth with the back of his hand.

       He took another long swallow, emptying the bottle and let it drop and roll away noisily on the uneven wooden floor before he crawled to the pallet on hands and knees so he could be close, so he could touch. As he did, the Scot flinched, and the dark eyes burned with hate and disgust. "You're mine now, you know," Rankin said softly. "There's no one to come for you. No one to care. But I don't want to hurt you, Duncan. Really, I don't. I have all kinds of things to teach you. You have no idea what you are, do you?" He giggled as his grimy hand moved across the chest, brushing through soft curls there until he found a nipple to pinch. "Ah, a little sensitive?" he asked. "I like that. You like it, too, I think."

       MacLeod said something behind the gag, but his words were ignored.

       Then Rankin's hand crept lower, his breath now coming in shallow gasps, almost whimpers. This was even more fun when the Scot was conscious. Rankin's watery gray eyes were wide and staring as his trembling hand closed over the Scot's cock, giggling almost hysterically when the organ twitched involuntarily and MacLeod roared an insult whose meaning, while muffled behind the gag, was clear. Strong legs kicked out and caught the overseer's chest, propelling him the entire width of the shack and slamming him against the wall. The pale eyes glazed over for a second or two before the body sagged to the dirty floor like a sack of grain.

       Getting out of the shackles had been ugly. His wrists and hands still ached, but the initial agony had faded to a dull throb and he could almost use them, which was a surprise. He figured he had risked permanent injury from what he had done, but he would not be chained. He would not be used for that disgusting maggot's perverted pleasures. He had yanked and heaved for what seemed like hours to no avail. The shackles were firmly fixed to the wall. Finally, fearful Rankin would waken soon, he simply pulled as hard as he possibly could, blanking his mind to the agony and the ugly tearing sounds of his own flesh and the crunch and snap of broken bones…exulting for a brief second when he at last pulled free just before he passed out from the pain.

       He had come to as dawn's light began to define the trees and fields near the river, grateful that his jailer's state had evolved from unconscious to a drunken, sonorous stupor. Being accused of Rankin's murder was not a complication he needed on top of an accusation of theft. He clumsily grabbed Rankin's knife and the few larger pieces of cloth he could scavenge from the remnants of his clothes, not knowing where he would go or what he would do, only that he had to get away.

       A mile or so down river he found a small pool out of the main current and waded in, washing the blood and sweat and dirt away, along with the sense of violation from Rankin's obscene gropings. He busied himself fashioning something to cover his loins from the scraps of his shirt, then stopped, examining his hands in fascination. The blood had floated away into the swift current of the cold water, and there was not a bruise, not a cut, not a single mark on his arms. His fingers went to his head where Rankin had first grazed him with a bullet, then slammed him with a pistol butt. He was certain he had felt warm blood trickle through his hair and down his face, and sure enough, his hair was matted and sticky with the stuff. He dunked, rinsing his long hair thoroughly, and probed again. No bruise could be felt, no cut. It wasn't even sensitive.

       His knees gave way and he ended up sitting chest deep in the cold water, his mind blanking on what to think or believe or do. Eugenie had always said he healed like magic, even called him her 'angel,' implying some spiritual power at work, but the truth of her observation had never been so vividly demonstrated before. Was this why he had always felt so different, so separated from others? What was he? The sun crawled up the horizon and still he sat, stunned and disbelieving. Finally he started to shiver and realized he had to move, had to get out of the water, at least.

       He was sorely tempted to just find a shady spot, park his carcass and figure out whether there was some reason, some meaning behind what had happened, what he was, but the urgency of finding clothes and shelter and refuge from Rankin's revenge had to take precedence. If he headed back toward the main house, he could find aide there, no doubt. Eugenie would hide him, find him clothes and give him time to formulate a plan. But that put her and David and the others in jeopardy because that is exactly what Rankin would expect him to do. And the man had complete, unfettered power now. Power to hurt the people he cared about.

       And that's exactly what Rankin would do. The man would scour the countryside for him, abusing anyone and everyone to get what he wanted, taking out his frustration on those most dear to him, those he had a duty to protect. He looked down once more at the unblemished, smooth skin of his hands and arms, resolving that if this…this gift he had been given had any purpose at all, it must be to ensure the safety of those who were less able to protect themselves.

       There was only one thing, then, that he could do. Only one choice to make. He had to face Rankin and deal with whatever that brought, deflecting the wretched man's attention from doing any damage to innocents like Eugenie or Malcolm or, most especially, David. An ugly prospect, but unavoidable in a world where absolute power over the lives of others could be held by such a man.

       Rankin's eyes gradually focused on the odd patterns on the dusty floor formed by the bright sunlight leaking through the knotholes and cracks in the walls of the shed. For several minutes he was preoccupied with the sharp pain stabbing behind his eyes with each erratic beat of his heart. His hands found their way to his temples where some instinct prompted him to believe that if he just held on there tightly enough, his head wouldn't fly apart. Finally, he dared shift his focus and looked up, prompting a wordless curse to explode from his lips. Blood spattered the wall behind the shackles and stained the mattress. The bed was empty.

       Rankin staggered to his feet, trying to force his bruised, pickled brain to function. His prize, his joy, his fantasy, his property…was gone! The outrage made his heart pound and face flush, and also helped clear his thoughts. MacLeod was on the run, naked and penniless. How far could he possibly go without help? Rankin peered cautiously out the door. The draft horse and wagon were still there. MacLeod probably thought he had a better chance of getting away undetected on foot. He would undoubtedly head back to the plantation for help, but Rankin would make sure the Whitecroft slaves knew there was a heavy price to be paid if they did anything but turn him over to the overseer for the proper 'punishment'. Anyone watching would have been chilled at the feral twist to the man's thin lips as he mounted the wagon and headed back towards the main house.

       The planting crews were careful not to meet his eyes as he passed them in the fields, but the small trap Miz Adams used to use to travel around Whitecroft was creating a long dust trail as it circled the long hill towards him at a quick trot. Malcolm, the house valet, pulled up sharply as he drew abreast. He was a very tall black man and always seemed impeccably dressed no matter the occasion or circumstance, even after a long, dusty ride in the summer heat.

       "The new master be lookin' for you, Mr. Rankin," Malcolm reported.

       "The new master?" Rankin almost squeaked, then swallowed nervously, suddenly aware of his disreputable appearance. "That boy from up north?" he asked incredulously. Lawyer Rowe's clerk had sworn to him that the man wasn't the least interested in the property.

       "That 'boy' has been waitin' for you up at the House for an hour now. He didn't really strike me as the patient type," Malcolm added solemnly.

       If Rankin hadn't known that the man had good reason to fear irritating the overseer, he could have sworn Malcolm was enjoying the message he had been sent to deliver.

       Methos felt the disturbing wash of sensation that signaled the presence of one of his own Race, and heard the heavy tread of boots. He had been expecting such an encounter and his reaction was hardly noticeable. He slowly shifted his odd multi-colored eyes away from the ledger spread on the heavy mahogany desk he had originally brought from England thirty years before. Standing about ten feet in front of him was a thin, restless man, breathing a little too fast, sweating a little too much.

       The man could not hold his stare, his face going from too flushed to alarmingly pale, almost visibly shaking.

       "Mr. Rankin, I presume?" Methos asked.

       Rankin's hair was still damp from an attempt at clean up. His haggard, sagging face was freshly shaved and his clothes still had the careful creases of having come fresh from the wardrobe. But the old Immortal didn't miss the trembling hands, the watery eyes, the broken blood vessels scattered over a pasty complexion. The man had been dissolute long before he had become Immortal.

       "Yes, Mr. Adams. I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you arrived, sir. I was out in the fields. It … it seems we have one of our people gone missing. A thief. I…" he paused for a long, hesitating moment. "You aren't here for me, are you?" he rushed on. "I mean you no harm. I'm just here to help run the plantation." He sounded desperate, pathetic.

       Rankin licked his lips nervously. He had thought and schemed all the way back and while he rushed to clean up before meeting the new master believing the youngster had absolutely no knowledge or experience at running a plantation, and probably little interest. There was no reason to think he wouldn't rely completely on the overseer's guidance.

       But the moment he had felt the presence of another Immortal, he almost turned and ran, but had no where to go. He had no idea how old Adams was, but he was probably not young. Maybe it was the melodic upper-class English accent or the long, tapered fingers drumming on the desk, but the man seemed to have total command of himself and everything in his world.

       "And who is this…thief you were looking for?" the soft voice asked evenly, ignoring the reference to their shared Immortality.

       "MacLeod, sir. Indentured for ten years with another three or four years to serve. He's one of us, sir. I caught him here in the house last night, tryin' to steal somethin' but the bastard got away from me as I was takin' him into the sheriff. Then I realized that his breakin' the rules of his indenture means he becomes your property permanently, sir. I knew he was too valuable to lose, so I thought I'd see to his capture personally."

       Adams examined the ledger for a moment. "Ah, yes, I see it here. Duncan MacLeod, a Scot. Blacksmith." He sat back, folding his hands over his stomach, propping booted feet up on the desk. Two Immortals. One of them an indentured servant. What a bizarre coincidence. "And why would the plantation blacksmith without a mark on his ledger against him, with less than four years of indenture left to serve suddenly decide to steal?" he asked.

       "Oh, you could never tell what that man was gonna do, sir!" Rankin spun his story carefully. "He is a strange one, he is. Thinks he's better than most folks. Strong as an ox. Even learned himself to read and write. Puttin' on airs almost like a gentleman, sir!" Rankin figured that last would do the trick. Most gentry couldn't stand it when common folk took on airs. Rankin's face relaxed into a nasty leer. "And the boy don't even know what he is, for all of that."

       The man stood, startling Rankin with his height. "Have my horse brought around. I would like for you to show me where you last saw this Duncan MacLeod," he instructed, and Rankin moved quickly to comply, glad to get out of range of those intense, commanding golden eyes.

       Rankin marched quickly into the foyer, calling for Malcolm, who appeared as if by magic.

       "Get the master's horse ready and call the hands together to search between here and the river for a runaway," he ordered. When Malcolm just looked at him with those implacable dark eyes, Rankin's anger almost overcame him. "Move, you lazy bastard!" he growled, shoving the man back, hard. Malcolm said nothing, but the cold hatred in his eyes made his feelings plain as he finally turned to obey.

       "Duncan is no runaway!" Eugenie spat.

       Rankin turned to find her standing in the doorway to the kitchen. In two steps he was within striking distance and he backhanded her, almost spinning her around with the force of the blow. "Don't backtalk me, woman!" he snapped. "If he comes within a mile of you or this house and I don't hear about it instantly, you'll be lashed so hard you'll never be able to straighten up again, you hear me?!"

       She wiped away the blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, eyes glittering with disgust and hatred. "I hear you," she said, soft and low and watched as Rankin spun on his heel and slammed out the front door.

       "Something wrong, Eugenie?"

       She turned.

       Adams was watching her speculatively.

       "No, Master Adams. Ain't nothin' wrong, sir," she moved her blood-smeared hand behind her skirt and eyed him evenly.

       There was a moment's pause before he nodded and turned toward the front door.

       "Mister Adams," she called, causing him to turn. "Sir…," she hesitated.

       "What is it, Eugenie?"

       "Duncan MacLeod is a good man," she said, raising her head defiantly.

       "A man who runs away from his obligations?" Adams' smile was not friendly. "A man who steals from a dead mistress?" She started to speak again, but he stopped her with a gesture. "He's my property, Eugenie, and I'll judge such things for myself." He turned, was outlined briefly against the summer sunshine in the doorway, then was gone.

       "God keep you safe, Duncan MacLeod," Eugenie whispered to herself before she turned back to the kitchen.

       Methos would have preferred that he and Rankin go after the missing Immortal slave alone but, to his annoyance, Rankin had gathered a dozen slaves to accompany them.

       Rankin drove the cart full of their hastily organized, tense little posse of house slaves and the young stable hand who seemed to have a knack with horses, while Diablo danced alongside, eager to be given his head. Methos took the time to enjoy the morning and remember all the times he and Elizabeth had ridden these lush, green hills, sometimes racing wildly along the dusty roads, across the rolling pastures. They had only had six years together, but they had been good days, happy days. But just as so many relationships ended badly for Immortals, Elizabeth could not deal with what he was and once again he had sworn off losing his heart, to anyone. His own kind were inevitably violent, ruthless and heartless. But even worse, mortals were…mortal. They were not only so very temporary, but they could never really understand, just as Elizabeth could not understand what it meant to live as they were forced to live.

       They were headed towards the river, and while there were new fields planted and the road had been widened a little, the landscape was relatively unchanged in his thirty-year absence. They came to a fork in the road, with the right side leading off to a small shed and the left inclining down towards the river.

       "I suspect the bastard is headed down towards the river, just in case we decide to use the dogs," Rankin offered, taking the left fork.

       "What's in that building?" Methos gestured toward the small, wooden shed almost hidden in the trees ahead. He had instantly picked up on a subtle tension in the overseer's body language as he carefully avoided looking in that direction.

       "Oh, nothing sir," Rankin responded a little too casually. "It's an old hunting shed. Been vacant for years."

       "Seems like a good place to hide," Methos offered, turning Diablo in that direction. "I'll take a look."

       "No! Uh, I mean, you shouldn't go there by yourself sir!" Rankin quickly turned the wagon. "This MacLeod, he's a big, nasty fellow. It's my responsibility, sir. Let me look." Rankin urged the lumbering draft horses to a slightly faster pace, trying to catch up.

       Methos, however, had given Diablo his head and the stallion eagerly shot forward, cantering smoothly the quarter-mile to the small clearing. The wooden edifice was old, but appeared sturdy, with a small porch and two front windows. It overlooked the river and provided an ideal outlook for either duck or deer hunting. He dismounted, but kept the highly-strung horse's reins in his hand. He stepped onto the tiny porch and reached for the shed's door, knowing, of course, that if MacLeod were indeed an immortal, he was not in the immediate vicinity…although…Methos closed his eyes. There was…something. A tickling, just out of sensing range.

       He opened the door and stared inside, carefully marshalling his thoughts as he heard the wagon enter the clearing behind him.

       "Mr. Rankin," he called quietly over his shoulder, then turned to face the overseer. "I'd like to speak to you in private." All color had disappeared from the overseer's face. Nonetheless he tried to maintain a good front as he scrambled down from the wagon and followed the plantation's new master a few steps away to the edge of the clearing. The wagon's occupants jumped out, milling around the clearing, surreptitiously watching the new master and the overseer converse.

       "Mr. Rankin, can you explain what happened in that shed?" Methos asked very quietly. For some reason his utter lack of expression was more chilling than any concern or anger he might have expressed.

       "Sir? I have no idea what you're talking about. What is in there!?"

       The smile on the taller man's face sent ripples of fear down Rankin's back. "I think you know what is in there, Mr. Rankin. Now, please explain…"

       Just then a dark figure came flying out of the shadows and tackled Rankin with a scream of anger, followed by an incoherent babble of curses and shouts and grunts as the young stable boy pummeled the overseer with his fists. At a signal from their new master, the other men standing around intervened at last and pulled the boy off a sputtering Rankin, who struggled to his feet, wiping blood and dirt from his eyes and face.

       "Goddamn you, boy!" he snarled. "How dare you!" He reached for the ever-present lash curled and tied at his belt, loosening it with a flourish.

       A rushing shot of adrenaline made Methos almost gasp, and his attention was torn from the small drama being played out in front of him, his sharp hazel eyes swept the clearing, searching the paths and trees and brush for the source of Immortal presence. His search was interrupted by a sharp crack of a whip and a cry that startled Diablo and sent the horse skittering and tugging at the reins, forcing his focus back to Rankin, who had expertly laid the stinging leather over the boy's shoulders.

       The mood from the other men, quickly turned from resentful and reluctant to angry. They were looking inside the shed, whispering among each other. Voices were raised and the men moved in, murmuring, then shouting curses at the overseer. Forced to deal with the near riot developing right in front of him, Methos snatched the whip from Rankin's hand and with an easy, expert flick of his wrist, cracked it once over the heads of the crowd, startling some of them into stepping back. But the boy was snarling and sobbing, on his hands and knees in the dust, still defiant.

       "You bastard!" the boy screamed. "You killed him! You killed him!" and once again he launched his slim body at the overseer, who quickly backed away towards the new master, seeking protection.

       As the boy darted forward, Methos was left with no choice. The lash came alive once more in his hand, it's deadly tip aimed straight for the boy's chest.

       A flash of movement filled his vision and sent Diablo dancing and rearing, and the whip was suddenly stiff and rigid in his hand, its deadly end wrapped around a thick wrist and held in the grip of an iron hand. Absolute silence marked the passage of several breathless seconds, and Methos thought for a moment that even his heart had stopped.

       This, then was Duncan MacLeod. In five thousand years, the oldest Immortal had long since believed he had seen enough outlandish, bizarre, beautiful, strange and inexplicable sights that he was utterly incapable of being surprised, but his ancient mind blanked when it searched for comparisons. The man was…astonishingly beautiful, every clean line and plane of his burnished, golden skin in perfect proportion, deeply muscled frame exuding life and strength, long mahogany hair a silken cascade brushing shoulders that looked like they could carry the world. And a face that surpassed even that remarkable standard, with full, sensuous lips, strong jaw, high cheekbones and eyes. Oh, my. Magnificent sable eyes as deep and complex as the midnight sky. Methos realized he had forgotten to breathe.

       "Well," the new master raised an expressive eyebrow. "You are the errant blacksmith, I presume?"

       MacLeod raised himself to his full height, unfazed by the fact that he was virtually naked. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, former indentured blacksmith to the Whitecroft Plantation," he stated formally. Methos could hear the slightly softened brogue still in his speech.

       Methos tugged lightly on the whip still linking them, but MacLeod's jaw clenched. "Tis not right to whip the boy!" he growled.

       Methos was working very hard to keep his eyes from wandering over that entire, and almost completely revealed, body. "That's not your concern, MacLeod!" Methos yanked the lash with a twisting motion, unwinding it expertly from the Scot's wrist and coiling it in his hands.

       "David only reacted to what he thought had happened," MacLeod insisted, his jaw squaring with determination and defiance. "He's my friend and my student."

       "The boy attacked me for no reason!" Rankin snapped. "He deserves far more than a whippin' Mr. Adams! I swear he would've attacked you next!"

       "Quiet, Rankin," Methos ordered. "I think this would all be better discussed in private, don't you?" the master's eyes had shifted across the spectrum from gold to an icy green as he fixed the overseer in his sites. "As for our runaway," he turned to MacLeod. "Bind his hands and tie him to the back of the wagon," he ordered sharply, then had to wait a moment while the other slaves looked hesitantly at each other, then at MacLeod. It was not lost on the new master that they didn't move to follow his order until the Scot had given them an almost invisible nod.

       Methos had to turn away on the pretense of soothing Diablo to keep his smile from showing. This was going to be interesting.

       Eugenie watched along with the rest of the house staff and a large number of other plantation slaves as the odd parade made its way up the hill from the main road. Mr. Adams led the way on his big, black stallion, followed by Rankin driving the wagon filled with a dozen sullen, silent men, and last came Duncan MacLeod, being pulled along behind by a rope around his wrists, barefoot and clad only in a crude loincloth.

       She was almost breathlessly relieved. He was alive, evidently unhurt, from what you could see of him. And you could see quite a lot, actually, she thought with a smile. Duncan in a loincloth was quite a spectacle. But her relief was dampened by a cold fear of what might happen next. Runaways were frequently beaten, sometimes worse, and some even hung as an example to the others. What manner of man was this Benjamin Adams, she wondered. Having Duncan's fate in the hands of the new master with the odd, intense eyes gave her no reassurance at all.

       The relative cool of the library interior was a welcome relief from the midday sun. Methos ordered that a basin of water and a towel be brought, along with a cool drink. He pulled off his long, leather sleeveless vest, the one that hid the blade he was never without, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. He stood at the window a moment, watching the slaves in the yard. They were tense, unhappy. Rankin was shouting orders and gesturing, but the response was slow and begrudging, with comments and murmuring complaints passing through the crowd.

       "Your water, Master Adams," Eugenie's musical voice sounded softly in the quiet room.

       He turned, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

       "Call me, Mr. Adams or Dr. Adams, or Benjamin, or anything but Master Adams, Eugenie."

       "Whatever you want, Mr. Ben," she said, smiling tentatively when their eyes met. She dipped a quick curtsy as the maid brought in a pitcher of cool tea and left it on a small side table.

       As soon as both women had left, Methos unlaced his shirt, dipped the towel in the water and cleaned his arms and neck, relishing the coolness against his hot, sweaty skin. He felt as much as saw the presence of the Scot standing motionless in front of his desk. How much did the man know? Rankin said he didn't even even know what he was. If he was that young, how did he manage to exude as much presence and power as Immortals who had lived for centuries?

       MacLeod stood silent sentry, his hands still bound. He could have wrenched them lose, but did not see the point. Either the man would believe him and set him free, or he would believe Rankin, and by the terms of his indenture he would become a slave for life. Would he be slave to this man? To any man? It was an unthinkable alternative, so he waited and watched. The man was unlike any other he had met. There was a sense of power and control and depth there that fascinated. When their eyes had first met at the cabin, it was like falling into a well, and made him almost lightheaded, accompanied as it was by that strange wash of sensation he had felt the first time he had seen the young heir to the plantation the day before. As Adams pulled his shirt away from his shoulders to wash away the sweat and dust, he revealed a long, lean torso, finely muscled under pale, smooth flesh. There was a subtle, graceful strength there, totally unlike his own heavy musculature.

       "So, Duncan MacLeod," the man finally spoke, "Why did you come back?"

       The question was a surprise. Not why did you run away, or what were you trying to steal, or any number of other expected questions.

       "I couldn'a let others suffer for my actions. The boy only attacked because he thought Rankin had hurt me."

       "Loyalty? From a fellow slave?" Methos lip curled in an amused smile. "How…quaint."

       The Scot's large, dark eyes hardened. "Loyalty and friendship can come from anywhere. And it deserves reciprocation."

       "Reciprocation?" Methos poured himself a glass of tea from a pitcher whose sides were dripping slow rivulets of condensation, watching in sly amusement when the other man's throat worked in sympathy and need. "Are you an educated man, MacLeod?"

       "Nay. I read a little is all."

       Methos walked slowly around the big man, letting his gaze travel appreciatively all the way from the strong calves and tightly muscled thighs to the smooth curve of a perfect ass and narrow waste that quickly widened to broad wings of golden shoulders and strong arms. And then there was that face. Dark, soft intelligent eyes, high forehead, and a mouth that…

       Methos shook himself, forcing his errant imagination back under control.

       He finally circled back in front and hitched one hip onto the desk, crossed his arms and cocked his head at this fascinating man. "Do you know what you are?" he asked curiously.

       MacLeod's expressive face struggled for a moment, moving from surprise, quickly covered up, then to suspicion, then the eyes became hard and dark, closing down. He knew…something, Methos was sure. Just not everything.

       "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, son of Ian MacLeod, Clan Chief of Glinfinnan, Scotland," he stated, his chin lifting as he proudly detailed his lineage. "Do you know who you are?" he challenged.

       "I didn't ask if you knew who you were," Methos smiled. "That much is obvious." He rose and went to a window and looked, not wanting to be distracted by the play of light and shadow over the Scot's handsome face. "I asked if you knew what you were. You and I are more alike than you know, I think. And we are different, very different, from everyone else."

       There was a long silence behind him. Methos waited for MacLeod to ask the obvious question, but when the silence remained unbroken, his respect for the man grew. The Scot was going to wait for additional knowledge and not reveal anything in the meantime.

       So, in his quiet, mellifluous voice, Methos told MacLeod the story of Immortals, about the Game, about the Gathering, about the Quickening. Finally, he reached a logical stopping place, and he turned, curious about the Scot's reaction to this fanciful recitation of improbable fact. The man was staring at the floor, his face slightly flushed, his breath a little too fast.

       "Sit, MacLeod," Methos instructed quickly, guiding the man to one of the heavy wingback damask chairs near the empty fireplace. He looked so incongruous. A wild, beautiful, near naked barbarian with haunted, fearful, confused eyes seated amidst the ponderous trappings of conventional high society and wealth. Methos knelt in front of him, his long, strong fingers working at the knots binding the Scot's hands until the ropes fell away at last, then brought him a glass of the tea with a twinge of guilt that he had kept the man standing, exhausted, hot and thirsty for so long.

       "I knew…something," MacLeod whispered. "Eugenie always said I healed too quickly for it to be natural, but I thought she was just exaggerating. But last night…"

       "What happened last night?" Methos prompted.

       "Rankin…" MacLeod stopped. "Is he…like you? Like…me?

       Methos nodded. "What did he do?" the oldest Immortal asked, his mouth tightening into a thin line.

       MacLeod shook his head, flushing. "It's not important. But he had me shackled to the wall and…after he passed out I knew I had to get away. I pulled out of the shackles, knowing I might even lose my hands, but…anyway when I went to the river and washed away the blood…there was nothing. No bruises, no broken bones." His big, wondering eyes rose to meet the other man's stare. "I knew then for certain that I had to come back. That I had this, this ability, this gift, and that it meant I could protect David and Eugenie and the others. That Rankin could hurt me, could…but that I would heal, and that no one else would have to suffer his wrath if he could take it out on me."

       Methos stood, his face twisting with irritation and disdain. MacLeod couldn't seriously expect that even young Dr. Benjamin Adams was so naive that he would take that unlikely story seriously. But the youngster was good. Just the right touch of determined pride in the strong jaw. It was quite an impressive package. He had almost allowed himself to be taken in and that made him angry.

       "Well, that's very…noble of you, MacLeod. I'm sure your fellow slaves will appreciate the sacrifice." He turned on his heel. "Eugenie!" he called into the hallway, waiting only a matter of seconds before she appeared. "Have Mr. Rankin take custody of this man…and get him some clothes, for God's sake!"

       Eugenie watched, wide-eyed, as the new young master disappeared up the long staircase without a backward glance.

       Rankin was nervous, but snidely triumphant as he made a show of making the Scot his prisoner once again. The first thing Rankin made him do was forge a heavy set of iron shackles. One for his shed, so he could be locked in at night, and one for the blacksmith shop, just long enough to let him do his work. Even so, he was watched constantly, with dire punishment promised for the guard who allowed him to escape. Duncan stayed, more because of the harm his leaving would bring to others than because of an unwillingness or inability to break free. And the new master? He was not to be seen. Duncan would periodically get that strange wash of dizziness that he now associated with the man's nearness, and he would spot him over the next week out riding that huge black stallion he preferred, but beyond those distant glimpses, this…Immortal…the concept still made his heart flutter and skip…seemed to have forgotten his existence.

       He didn't know what he had said to anger the man, or cause him to disbelieve him. Somehow it felt like a betrayal, but he didn't even know Adams, so his feelings didn't make any sense. He had so many questions he had been too stunned to ask before. How many of their kind were there? If they were all determined to kill each other, why hadn't Adams killed him? Did living forever really mean…living forever? Never aging? How old was Benjamin Adams anyway? It was obvious now that he was the same Benjamin Adams that Elizabeth had loved and lost so many years before.

       His head spun with the possibilities and contradictions, and he was suddenly aware of the extraordinary difference this…immortality…had wrought. And this terrible Game Adams had described. Taking another man's head. The thought sent chills over his shoulders every time he thought about it. All the same, it made him consider the swords he had made in a new light. Rankin had taken the first couple he had made, until he had begun to work mostly in secret. He had forged, honed and sharpened his finest effort until it gleamed as though it shone with an inner light. He meticulously cleaned and oiled the blade, feeling its balanced weight, the hilt made especially to fit into his broad palm. It had felt so right, as though his whole body was made for such a blade.

       As for slavery, he would escape this bondage. It was only a matter of time, and evidently he had a great deal of that. But he needed to know more about who and what he was before he did and Adams was his only source. Elizabeth had warned him that 'Benjamin' would kill him. But he did not feel fear in the man's presence. Curiosity. Fascination. An intensity of emotion he didn't really understand or even identify, but felt compelled to explore further. No. He would wait. Adams would come to him…eventually.

       Methos paid marginal attention to the overseer's daily report on plantation activities. He had done such administrative tasks himself many, many times over the centuries and found the details of planting, seeding, stocking and maintaining the vast acreage occupied very little of his intellect. Vastly more interesting were the relationships, the people involved. This man was a petty tyrant, mean and selfish and, Methos suspected, with a real sadistic streak. While MacLeod had not been specific about what had happened in that little shed with the blood-streaked walls, the Oldest Immortal could make a good guess. The Scot's physical presence and beauty was positively surreal and had probably been an irresistible lure for this nasty little man.

       Methos had to smile to himself. He had felt that lure, had almost been taken in by it. During the past week he had constantly had the Highland barbarian in the back of his mind. Why had the man's obvious lies made him so angry? Of course he had lied. Virtually all Immortals lie and cheat and murder without conscience. Perhaps he had reacted hastily in sending the man away. He was the plantation's master, after all. He owned the man. That thought made him smile. Even if he was a lying, manipulative weasel, there was no reason not to enjoy that ownership a little. But he didn't want his prize soiled by this disgusting creature.

       "How's that blacksmith doing?" he interrupted Rankin's recitation of the expected cotton crop, and the man reacted with surprise and confusion.

       "Uh, MacLeod? Well," Rankin licked his lips. "I've got him well secured, sir. No need to fear his running away or getting violent again."

       Methos pulled his legs down from where they had been propped up on the desk and stood, crossing to stare out the window, his hands clasped behind him. "I haven't asked what happened between you, Rankin, and I won't, but I'm telling you now. Keep your hands off of the Scot." He turned, his odd eyes taking on a metallic gold hardness. "Do we understand each other?"

       "Sir, I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Rankin stammered, his face flushing pale, then scarlet. "The man is a thief, tried to run away…" his rush of words tapered off under the unremitting hard stare of Benjamin Adams. Then a mean, feral gleam found its way to his pale eyes. "But I understand, sir. MacLeod is an...unusual man. If you ever..."

       "As long as you obey, Rankin, that's all I require. Otherwise, it might be necessary to test your sword skills," Methos interrupted the man's speculations in a voice that brooked no further response.

       "Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir," Rankin sputtered, bowing himself towards the door. "Will there be anything else?"

       Methos waved his hand dismissively and the man turned and darted away, obviously relieved the interview was over.

       MacLeod felt that now-familiar but still uneasy sensation in the back of his head, washing down his spine and sending his heart rate soaring. A moment later, the long, angular outline of Benjamin Adams appeared in the doorway to the blacksmith shed. Each man paused, waiting for the other to speak, to react.

       Adams stared. He had begun to believe that his memory must have deceived him, that his visceral reaction to the new Immortal's presence was a product of momentary distraction. He had been wrong.

       "I need you to check Diablo's shoes," Methos stated a little more harshly than he had intended.

       MacLeod nodded. "You'll have to bring the animal here, I'm afraid," he replied. "But the smell of the forge might make such a spirited animal nervous."

       "You've seen Diablo?" Methos asked, strolling casually around the work area. Every tool was carefully lined up, clean and shining, the forge and hammer and anvil placed just so. Fuel for the fire stacked neatly, within easy reach.

       "Aye. A fine animal." MacLeod stood, his big arms crossed over his chest, watching the man who purported to own him stroll around his work area, touching his tools. Finally the man's piercing hazel eyes traveled the length of the heavy chain that led to his ankle. Bloodstains, both old and new, colored the edges of the iron ring bound around the Highlander's leg.

       Adams toed the chain, moving it a little. "This seems a little…harsh," he said quietly. "Especially since you have the very tools required to break it." He looked up, meeting the Scot's hard gaze. "Why don't you?"

       MacLeod nodded towards a dark corner, and Methos turned. A thin, dark figure moved slowly out of the shadows, leaning heavily on a beautifully carved walking stick. His face was ageless but the fringe of hair around his pate was pure white. "Samson, I would like you to meet the new master, Dr. Adams," MacLeod said politely, as though they were standing in the formal drawing room in the main house.

       The old man nodded his head, a small, indulgent smile warming his face. "You be the spittin' image of old Mr. Adams, sir, and that's the truth. You even sound like him."

       "Samson is here to keep me from running," MacLeod explained.

       "Right," Methos answered. "I suppose Samson has the strength of his namesake, then?" he asked with a smile.

       MacLeod shook his head, "Nay, but he has enough strength to stop me from going anywhere."

       "Does Samson have the key to these bonds?" Methos asked.

       "No, sir," Samson spoke. His voice was a deep, mellifluous roll of sound. "Only Mr. Rankin has the key, sir." The bent back straightened with visible effort. "If I had the key, Master Adams, them chains wouldn't be there."

       "Hush, Samson," MacLeod hissed, then quickly added, "He's an old man and making him sit in this hot shed all day makes him a little confused.

       "I ain't confused about nothin'!" Samson spat.

       "And what are your usual duties, Samson?" Methos asked.

       The man's dark eyes studied the master for a moment, as though trying to decide whether this youngster was worth the effort of a reply. "These days I helps out in the kitchen or watches the youngin's. My back ain't what it used to be, but my mind is as sharp as it ever was and the children, they likes my stories."

       "Samson knows more about the history of this area than any man alive," Duncan said. "He's the eldest here and is David's great grandfather."

       Methos offered out his hand and had to wait several long seconds before the slave took it in his own rough palm, the fingers gnarled and twisted with arthritis. "Nice to meet you, Samson. I'd love to hear some of your stories someday. I'm something of an historian, myself."

       "Are you, now? Well, sir, anytime you wants to hear my stories, you can find me of an evenin' out back next to that big old oak tree, snappin' peas or peeling taters." A warm smile lit up the dark, wrinkled face. Evidently Samson had decided the new master was someone worth knowing. "I jest can't get over how much you look like Mr. Ben."

       Methos turned back to the Scot. "I assume you can remove those things without a key?" he asked sharply.

       MacLeod nodded slowly.

       "Then do it. You can't tend to Diablo in here." There was a pause as a look passed from Duncan to Samson and back to Methos. "Well?" Methos demanded.

       Methos was fascinated, but kept his face expressionless as MacLeod, in a few graceful, economic moves, found a chisel and hammer, knelt down and with one stroke slammed through the bolt holding the shackle in place. He didn't even acknowledge the pain of the blow that forced the sharp iron edge into his skin, soaking his pants leg with newer, darker stains.

       MacLeod carefully put his tools back as though nothing had happened, then pulled on a heavy leather apron, and picked up a tool carrier filled with the tools of his trade before stepping out into the sunshine. He stopped, blinking against the sudden glare, before he turned. "Coming?" he asked.

       "Samson," Methos turned to instruct the old slave to report to Eugenie, but the old man had silently disappeared again into the shadows.

       "Easy, boy," MacLeod approached Diablo slowly, letting the animal take his scent for a few minutes, then gently stroking the long, velvet-soft nose. The big black stallion tossed his head nervously, his eyes rolling as he backed away.

       Methos strolled into the stall, patting the horse's flank. "That's okay, Diablo. Mr. MacLeod here won't harm you. Will you, Mr. MacLeod?" The horse quieted at his master's touch, and MacLeod carefully lifted a front hoof, resting its weight expertly on his thigh.

       He carefully cleaned, examined, filed and measured each hoof, working silently, carefully. Eventually Methos stepped away as the horse seemed to accept the blacksmith's sure and gentle touch. At last MacLeod stood, patting the stallion on a broad, sleek flank, then knelt to put his tools away.

       "He seems sound and well. Well cared for, but there's a small crack in his right front hoof. I'll need to make a special shoe to keep it from getting worse and to help it heal."

       The late afternoon sun fell in long streaks through the stall door, catching floating dust motes in its spotlight and capturing MacLeod in a soft, eerie halo. Methos found himself standing behind the kneeling figure, unable to resist touching that long fall of gleaming dark hair captured in a leather tie at the back of his neck. MacLeod went very still, turning his head slightly.

       "You are surprisingly gentle, for a big man, MacLeod."

       "Who are you, really?" MacLeod asked quietly as he stood and turned. "And what do you want from me?"

       "I am your most deadly enemy," he sighed, his focus centered on his finger as it ran along the worn, smooth leather shoulder strap of MacLeod's work apron. "And your savior."

       "My savior?" MacLeod's smile was tense. "Because you own me, Adams? I don't think so. No man can truly own another so long as he keeps his own soul."

       "You'd be surprised. Souls can be owned, as well as bodies." He turned to go, although his gaze lingered on the blacksmith. "There are things you need to know, MacLeod. Come." He turned on his booted heel and walked away, leaving the other man to pick up his tools and reluctantly follow.

       "Eugenie!" Methos called, his voice echoing against the wooden paneling and rich oak floors of the mansion's foyer.

       Eugenie appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Yes, Mr. Ben?" then she stopped and stared at the familiar shadow framed in the doorway.

       Methos turned to follow her gaze, his face warming in amusement as MacLeod paused at the threshold, uncertain of what was expected of him. "You've been nagging me about my eating habits, now is your chance. Dinner for two, please. Mr. MacLeod will be joining me." He turned and his long legs took him up the curving staircase two at a time, until he paused and spoke back over his shoulder. "And find him something decent to wear," he instructed, then disappeared up the stairs.

       "Ow!" Duncan complained as Eugenie brushed tangles out of his freshly washed hair. "Is all this really necessary?" The woman had insisted that he bathe as she set out the clothes she had rescued the night Rankin had accused him of theft. Now he was dressed in soft, snug tan breeches, his best calf-high boots and a cream-colored shirt she had pulled from "old" Mr. Adams' clothes. It was too snug at the shoulders, but long in the arms, except for the cuffs, which she could barely button around his big wrists. Then she brought out the waistcoat she had made for him the previous Christmas. It was in the tartan he had brought from his Highland home, and she remembered the night she had given it with great fondness and not a little longing.

       Eugenie started to pull his hair back into a tie, then stopped, worrying her lip for a moment. "No, let's leave it loose," she murmured, spreading the thick, silky tresses across his back and shoulders, combing it with her fingers so it lay just so.

       Duncan yanked away from her grasp and stood, pacing impatiently. "Enough, woman! I don't know why all this fussing is necessary anyway, it's just Adams, for God's sake!"

       "Now see here, Duncan, you listen to me!" Eugenie grabbed his arm and held him still, her gaze fierce and hard. "This man has your fate…your very life in his hands! I've seen the way he looks at you." She grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "You do what is necessary to win your freedom, Duncan MacLeod!"

       He pulled away. "You're mad, woman! I'll not bow to any man, not be owned by any force except my own will!"

       "Ah, Duncan, Duncan," Eugenie sighed, shaking her head. "Don't let your pride stand in the way of your freedom. And he's a man of great power, I can feel it. There's something about him, just like there's something about you. I've known that since the moment we met. The two of you…there's a connection there. You both feel it. Use it! Use whatever you have to!" She moved in front of him and placed her hands gently on his broad chest. She could feel his heart pound beneath the soft linen. "I may never be free, but I can dream, Duncan MacLeod. I can dream of all the wonderful things you can do to help people because that's the essence of who and what you are. I can dream that you will love and be loved and happy. Don't spoil that dream…please!"

       He looked down into her dark, intense eyes and saw the wisdom of one who, while a slave, had never been enslaved in her heart or her mind, and he folded h