Her attention shifted to the young couple seated at the next table, engrossed in a lively discussion, and without trying she remembered that last dinner with Stephen. Her throat tightened; it still hurt, even after a few years.

        She picked up her rain-soaked coat and headed for the cash register. The perky blond barista’s smile was all professional friendliness. “Something else for you?”

        She asked for a pound of fresh ground French Roast. The barista handed back her credit card and purchase. “Here you are, Ms. MacDonald, enjoy –“ Her smile faded as their hands brushed. She pressed a palm to her forehead, her eyes out of focus, whispering, “Ohhh . . no . . . ”

        “Are you all right -- Greta?” Ceirdwyn looked pointedly from the name badge to her face, which had drained of color.

        “Oh, yeah. Just a little dizzy there for a minute. Not to worry, thanks.” She forced an embarrassed smile, not meeting Ceirdwyn’s keen azure eyes.

        The other woman nodded thoughtfully and left, wetness still glistening on her long dark hair like diamond drops. Greta, shivering in the rain-scented draft as the door closed, deliberately didn’t watch her leave.

        In the instant their fingers had touched, it had burst into her mind. The clash and cries of battle, the plaid of tartans and the flash of broadswords. And the blood, all the blood . . . . The last time images that vivid had come to her, unbidden, had been nearly four years before. Well, whatever it was, she had to put it out of her mind, what with this murder case. *I must be nuts, to get involved in that,* she thought with a shudder, wishing not for the first time that her talent, insight, whatever, had never come to fruition.

        Mists swirled up from the riverbank, soft and stealthy as the tartan-clad figures that swarmed down the rocky hillside. She watched, wrapped in her well-worn plaid cloak, safely esconced out of sight high in the crotch of a tree. Sunlight penetrated the veil of fog and gleamed off steel brilliantly enough to hurt the eyes. She shifted in her perch, gripping a sturdy branch and damning this modern tradition that kept her from joining the fray. But in this day and age, the women of Scotland were not warriors.

        Startled cries filled the pass as the English soldiers were caught unaware by the wave of big-shouldered, wild-haired men swooping down on them. The soldiers rushed frantically to defend themselves, but they were no match for unleashed fury of their attackers. Metal met metal, cleft leather and flesh, and splintered bone as the inexorable claymores rose and fell. Above the hellish din of fighting, one word – “Claddeah-mor!” - rang out over and over, driving the Highlanders even further into frenzy.

        She could not have said later whether the battle lasted for hours or only minutes. But somehow, suddenly it was over. The English had been overcome to the last man and the valley below was strewn with bodies, dismembered limbs, even severed heads. The Highlanders, gore-smeared and drunk with triumph, had drawn away to nurse wounds and speak of their leader, who had urged them to victory but not lived to see it. Except for moans from the luckless English wounded, the valley was eerily still. But not peaceful – everywhere, the grays, browns and greens of rocks, trees and earth were splattered with the darkening crimson of blood.

        Above, carrion fowl, drawn by the smell of blood and death, had begun to circle, but they could wait their turn. Soundlessly as a cat, she dropped to the ground, stretched lightly and began to pick her way among the carnage. Other figures, bent on the same task as she, slipped out of the rocks and trees to join her. She adjusted the large basket on her arm, drew her dirk and bent over a hacked and lifeless body probably no longer recognizable even to his own family. But the brass buttons on his uniform had survived the slaughter; she slit them free and dropped them into her basket. A buckle nearby caught her eye next; then a ring with a noble’s crest. It refused to respond to her tugging, so she severed the finger and dropped it, ring and all, into her basket.

        The moans had been nearly extinguished as the scavengers continued their macabre harvest. But the choked sound of a man trying frantically to smother sobs seized her attention. She crept around a large boulder and came face to face with a soldier still very much alive.

        She froze. His wounds were surprisingly not serious for the most part, but the boulder had been shifted somehow during the fighting and both his legs were pinned. Sweat pearled on his chalky face and left his thick blond hair sodden and muddy at the edges from dust; his ribs strained against the fabric of his coat as he gasped in terror, his pale ice-gray eyes fixed on hers. He couldn’t be more than sixteen years old, just a boy.

        In her mind’s eye, she saw herself not as she was but as he saw her – the plaid cloak muffling her body, long strands of dark hair blowing across her face in the clammy breeze, her eyes, like a bottomless loch reflecting the summer sky. A flicker of hope sprang up in the boy’s eyes; his lips parted –

        The dirk’s razor edge sliced across his throat. He gurgled, reached out for her convulsively – and was still, scarlet pooling into his bright blond hair and drenching the trousers of the corpse lying next to him. Methodically, his killer wiped her blade on his coat and then cut off the buttons before turning away. Her face was as coldly resolute as granite. But his eyes . . . they had penetrated somehow to the heart she’d so carefully hidden. As she started to climb the rocks, painted with drying blood, she turned back toward the boulder once more.

        And felt certainty in what she had always believed crumble.

        Ceirdwyn sat bolt upright in the darkness as the dream unraveled, clutching the blankets and sheets around her. She could still smell the coppery stench of blood, see those terrified gray eyes. The images of Killiecrankie Pass and the fateful battle that had taken place in 1689 were just as clear as if it had all happened yesterday. As was her memory of the role she had played in it.

        Willing her heart to slow and her breathing to return to normal, Ceirdwyn let herself drop back onto the comforting softness of her pillows. Gray and black overlay the room, but the streetlight shone through the window sheers, casting an amber square on the floor below. Sleep stayed out of reach, and she pondered the dream as she gazed unseeingly at the dark glass of her window, still speckled with drops from the day’s rain.

        A warrior all her life, as the centuries had slipped by, she had been forced to conform to society in order to preserve her anonymity. Eventually, there had been no more battles for her except that of the secret Game. It had rankled her, as she had watched the Scottish struggle under the yoke of English rule, that she couldn’t always openly lend her sword to their cause. So she had had no qualms about robbing the bodies of the dead and dying on the battlefield; those spoils would keep a few more children from starving in the cold winter.

        She’d never robbed the dying again after that, though. In spite of all her rationalization, the gray eyes of that boy had haunted her for some time.

        But it had literally been more than a lifetime since she had given the events of her dream much thought. Why now? Ceirdwyn wondered.

        Wearily, she rose, switched on the bedside lamp, and wrapped herself in a thick terry robe. She drew a business card out of her purse and rubbed her thumb over the embossed print which read, “De Salvo’s Martial Arts.”

        Under a different roof in the same city, Greta, also sleepless and wracked by the same dream, huddled shivering under a quilt staring at a late-night cable broadcast.

        Duncan Macleod stood at the elevator door, beholding a face he’d never expected or hoped to see again. Greta smiled hesitantly. “Thanks for seeing me.” She hadn’t been sure, when she’d finally gotten the nerve to call, that he’d even agree to meet with her.

        It was true, her presence did renew the anguish of losing Tessa, numbed as it was by the passage of four years. But that was hardly her fault, Duncan reminded himself. He shook back his forelock and stepped aside to let Greta in.

        “You’ve changed,” he commented, looking her over. Greta twitched an eyebrow. It was an understatement. Gone were the long, drooping blond tresses, the ropes of beads and crosses and the quasi-gypsy skirts. She now sported a short, trendy bowl cut. A long-sleeved white henley shirt and neat but well-worn jeans completed the picture. He couldn’t help noticing the pleasantly homey odor of fresh roasted coffee that clung to her.

        He offered Greta one of the leather chairs and she sat, watching as he fetched them both drinks. Funny, she thought, deliberately looking everywhere but at Duncan’s back where he stood at the kitchen bar, I’ve never been to this place and yet, it seems so familiar. Her eyes rested on an object laid at the foot of the bed – the ivory-colored hilt of a sword, carved into the likeness of a dragon. The sword . . . she remembered, then, asking Richie about Duncan, and Richie’s telling her he was a martial-arts enthusiast. It made sense, but she’d always been sure it was only part of the answer.

        Duncan put a heavy glass in her hand and she studied the amber fluid, debating how to come to the point. Duncan waited patiently, sipping his own drink.

        “Yeah, well, after Jeff split – he was the guy I was living with back when – I last saw you, I figured it was time to get my act together. I sure couldn’t make it on a fortuneteller’s salary, anyway. So I found a decent job and started school.” She tried not to fidget in the chair. There was something about this compellingly handsome man that disturbed her, and it wasn’t just because of the images that had flashed into her mind when he’d asked her to read his palm one desperate afternoon four years before.

        Duncan smiled, that startlingly white-toothed flash she remembered, although, before, it had been meant for someone else. “Good for you.” The dark brows lifted inquiringly.

        The best approach with this man was the direct one. Greta’s eyes met his thick-lashed dark ones from under the silky fringe of her bangs.

        “I still have the visions. Since – well, since I met you, it’s happened several times. Not about you, I mean,” she added hastily, seeing his expression. “But other things – like, a couple of summers ago. I started having these dreams, about being yanked off the sidewalk and thrown into the back seat of a car. Then about a dark, tight place – like a closet. I could even see the make of the car and a slit of light under the closet door. Around this same time, a 15-year-old girl was kidnapped – you probably remember.”

        Duncan nodded. The kidnapping had been all over the news.

        “Well, anyway,” Greta continued, “the police didn’t have a clue, and I thought, who knows? There might be something there. So I called them.”

        “And they found her,” finished Duncan. Greta nodded. “Yeah – alive, at least.” She bit her lip – stupid thing to say! and sneaked a look at Duncan out of the corner of her eye. His face was carefully neutral, but he kept his eyes lowered for a moment. She pretended not to notice, taking a deep drink and then trying not to make a face as the liquor, stronger than she was accustomed to these days, burned all the way down. The effort not to choke forced tears into her eyes; she grabbed up a napkin and caught Duncan looking back at her.

        “You – don’t blame yourself, do you?”

        She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I did,” she gulped. “For awhile, anyway. Even though I –“ She froze as he reached over and gently took her hand. Electrified at the touch, she held her breath, but no new visions invaded her mind.

        “You did everything you could have done.”

        Greta nodded. “I know, but – it still wasn’t enough,” she replied softly, unwillingly remembering Duncan’s fiancee, her elegantly lovely face and wide, startled eyes. And the shock and despair she’d felt when Richie, not Duncan, had called to tell her that Tessa had been killed.

        She dabbed at her eyes with the napkin. “I guess that’s why – when that girl was kidnapped, I just had to do something to help. Since then, the police have called me every so often, on different cases. They’ve asked me to help them with a Jane Doe murder that happened last Friday.”

        The Jane Doe murder. The decapitated body of a dark-haired young woman had been found. Four other such grisly murders had taken place in East Coast and Midwestern states a couple of months before, and headlines were shrieking “SERIAL KILLER’S TERROR SPREADS!” All of the victims had been young, attractive, brunette, blue-eyed women.

        The murders had caught his attention, because the victims had been decapitated, and he’d mentioned it to Joe Dawson. But, according to Joe, none of the victims had been Immortal.

        Duncan drained the last of his drink. “The police seem to think it’s some kind of Son of Sam thing. Have you been able to help them?”

        Greta swallowed. “No – not yet. The police gave me things that had belonged to the victim to handle, but there was absolutely nothing. Until yesterday.”

        She told Duncan about the woman she’d seen in the coffeehouse, and about the visions she’d had since she’d accidentally touched her.

        “Killiecrankie Pass,” he murmured, and Greta’s eyes flew open. “You know what it was then?”

        “What you saw sounds like a battle scene from late 17th century Scotland,” he remarked. “But any historian could probably have told you that.” She flushed under his pointed look.

        “It’s not that – I don’t really think it has anything to do with you. But this vision was so much like the one I had when I met you, I thought you might tell me something, I –“

        The words tumbled out, but she saw nothing in his face that told her not to continue. “The swords, the plaids – and it was so real. Like watching a videotape, only I almost feel as if I’d been there myself. I don’t – I can’t tell if it has anything to do with the murders, but --”

        Duncan, still listening intently and finding it harder to conceal his growing excitement, prompted, “But?”

        “The woman yesterday. She had long dark-brown hair and blue eyes.”

        Duncan was silent for a long moment. He had drawn his own conclusions after hearing Greta’s story. It could be coincidence, of course, but in the course of his long life, he’d come to believe that there seldom was any such thing as coincidence. Greta broke into his thoughts.

        “What do you think I should do? I mean, this doesn’t seem like anything that would really help the police much.”

        Duncan met Greta’s worried eyes. “You didn’t happen to catch this woman’s name yesterday?”

        She frowned, remembering the credit card. “It was – um – MacDonald. That’s it. Nora MacDonald.”

        Greta had left and dusk had fallen, plunging the loft into shadows, but Duncan sat unmindful of the gloom, absently drawing a worn scrap of tartan between his fingers. The battle of Killiecrankie Pass had been one he’d missed, having been out of the country at the time. Warren Cochran had been only too happy to fill him in on his return to Scotland, having witnessed the victory firsthand. Cochran had hinted that Ceirdwyn had been there, too, but she had never chosen to say much about it, and something in her eyes had always stopped Duncan from asking. And, as time had gone on and events had hurled them all into the Risings and their aftermath, he hadn’t given it further thought.

        Since they had last seen each other in France, Duncan had had little contact with Ceirdwyn, but the infrequent letters she’d sent indicated she’d managed to pull it together after the death of her mortal husband. She’d sold the house they had shared and traveled a bit, hinting the last time he’d heard from her that she was planning a trip back to Scotland and might even consider visiting the States. The fact that she’d suddenly surfaced in this city – without a word to him that she was coming – was surprising, to say the least. There was no reason he could think of that she would pick this particular city to visit, other than to see him.

        Ceirdwyn. He conjured her image in his mind. Her silky veil of long, dark hair falling around skin like fresh cream, shading eyes the blue of the sky at zenith. Celtic to the core of her soul, loyal, strong, determined and unerringly sensible, she was a friend he knew would always be there for him, no matter how much time and distance would separate them. They could have ended up together, once, but he had ached to travel, and at the time, Ceirdwyn hadn’t wanted to leave Scotland.
 

Chapter 2

        He stopped dead, hand on his sword hilt. It was there, that undeniable, unnerving sensation of a presence, subtle yet noticeable as a half-heard strain of music. Duncan scanned the dense shadows under the trees and squared his shoulders under the thick coarse fur of the animal pelts he wore. A surge of excitement charged his blood at the thought of meeting this adversary, one of his own kind. Kanwulf, he thought, clenching his teeth and pulling steel. Let it be Kanwulf – so he could finish the job properly, now that he knew how.

        But it wasn’t the Immortal Viking barbarian with the sly smile, Ian Macleod’s killer, who crashed down on him from a sturdy bough. Duncan dropped like a stone, the breath knocked out of him, and blinked up at his attacker in disbelief.

        The filtered sunlight surrounded her slender, plaid-swathed form, as she stood over him, one boot planted firmly on his blade. Her own blade, point at his throat, shone with a merciless gleam despite the murk of the forest. He let his gaze travel up that blade to her face and was startled at what he saw. It was a face that would have made her the toast of several clans, despite its forbidding expression. Fair skinned, full lipped, and those eyes . . . like looking into Loch Shiel on a clear day.

        Suddenly, as if a thread had snapped, her face softened and her eyes glittered with a wicked sparkle of amusement. Still keeping her foot on his blade, she withdrew her own and straightened. “Well, are ye just going to lie there staring, or are ye going to get up and tell me your name?”

        “Sweet blessed . . . .” Duncan managed, still lying prostrate on the loamy forest floor.

        The woman clucked her tongue in irritation, nudged his sword back toward him with her foot and backed off. “Och, if I’d wanted your heid, I’d have it already!” She sheathed her own blade somewhere under a fold of her voluminous earth-toned plaid and watched, her mouth still twitching in an effort not to laugh, as he clambered warily to his feet. In spite of the smears of dirt on his face and clothes, and the bits of sticks and leaves caught in his nearly waist-length snarled dark hair, he made quite a picture, she thought. Unusual coloring, the tawny skin, dark eyes and hair. Perhaps a healthy dose of Roman ancestry.

        “So, ye’ve never met a woman of us then? Never seen a woman wield a sword, aye?”

        “It isna that,” he replied, gathering up the shards of his dignity and his own sense of humor. “I just havena ever thought that someone could climb up into a tree like that, wearing so many plaids.” He nodded up at the massive oak towering above them, its bark roughened and dark with age. The lowest branch was a good eight feet up.

        She laughed out loud at that, and he added, “So if you dinna want to fight me, why did ye pounce on me then?” Her crystalline blue eyes danced merrily.

        “Purely for the look on your face! Well worth the effort to climb that auld montrosity!” She held out a hand. “I’m called Ceirdwyn. Havena seen you about before.”

        “Duncan Macleod – of the Clan Macleod.” She didn’t miss the slight hesitation as he dipped his head over her hand. “I – ah, have been on the road awhile.” He kept his eyes on her hand; it was sturdy and square, bare of rings, roughened by work and callused by the sword. A warrior’s hand.

        “I see. Well, Duncan, there’s a pot of lamb stew waiting in my kitchen. Might make a welcome change from wild game and uncooked oats.”

        “Oh, aye?” The little warning voice telling him he was a fool to trust her sounded in his head, but his instinct – and appetite – quickly took over. He followed her into the wood with alacrity.

        Ceirdwyn, as it turned out, was the widow of an elderly minor laird of the Chisholm clan. She and the small household had stayed on after his death, working to restore the half-ruined crumble of stones that was the estate and coax enough crops and livestock from the soil to feed the few remaining tenants. He’d noticed, with interest, the tiny stone chapel near the main house as they approached, and wondered if Ceirdwyn had ever had cause to seek sanctuary there.

        The kitchen itself was a sanctuary after his weeks of wandering, smoke-stained and comfortable, with coals glowing in the hearth under a simmering kettle. Duncan’s stomach betrayed him with a rumble; it was true he hadn’t eaten since the morning before.

        A wide-eyed, pimply-faced girl of fourteen or so dished up a steaming bowl of stew, placed it and a plate of fresh bread on the heavy plank table, and left at a nod from her mistress. Ceirdwyn, eating nothing herself but observing the way Duncan fell upon the food, made up her mind.

        “If ye like, Duncan, ye may bide here awhile. I’ve no’ much to offer, but I daresay enough, and plenty of work to occupy your time.”

        Duncan didn’t answer her at first, dabbing a bite of the bread in his stew, and washing it down with a deep draught of ale. He wasn’t afraid of her, but the cool blue eyes saw too much. As if confirming this, she put a hand on his arm and said softly, “Not long away from your teacher, are ye? It’ll get better – at least, some of it will.” To his surprise, her eyes had gone sad and distant. Almost without realizing it, he asked, “How long – has it been for you?”

        She rose from the table then and said with some asperity, “A deal longer than it’s been for you, I’ll warrant! Did no one ever tell ye it’s rude to ask a lady her age?” He looked down at his empty bowl, abashed, and she laughed. “Never mind, Duncan, I’m only chaffing ye. To be honest –“ her face tightened thoughtfully “I dinna know for sure how long it’s been. It was during the time of the Romans, so – you’re knowing how to cipher? Maybe a thousand six hundred years, about.”

        Duncan’s mouth had dropped open. “Connor said there were others aulder than he, but – a thousand years!” He’d never been sure he’d believed all of Connor’s stories about Ramirez, his teacher, who purported to have been an ancient Egyptian in another life.

        “Oh, aye.” She took his bowl and ladled more stew. “And others even aulder than me. And trickier. You’ll be using that wicked-looking blade of yours, if ye want to grow aulder yourself, Duncan Macleod.”

        As the days slipped by, the other members of the household, initially suspicious and curious by turns, came to look on Duncan as one of their number. Few questions were asked, and he guessed that Ceirdwyn had cautioned them all, or perhaps, from living with her, the others had become schooled in accepting a few mysteries. None of them knew, he was sure, that he was Immortal, or their mistress, either. And none, to his great relief, appeared to have heard anything about the miraculous return to life of the clan Macleod chieftain’s son.

        He threw himself into the never-ending rounds of chores with gusto, telling himself it was payment for Ceirdwyn’s generosity, while knowing in his heart he was really trying to impress her. But she treated him with the same offhand friendliness as she did the rest of the household.

        He lay awake nights, watching as the last lamplight was extinguished, and thought of other women he’d known. Of his mother, Mary Macleod, steadfast to the end, who had been the only one to see him as he truly was, not blinded by the extraordinary event of his awakening from death. Of Debra Campbell, sweet, beautiful and passionate, lost to him forever at the lip of that cliff. And he thought of Cassandra.

        Duncan had never told anyone about meeting Cassandra, the witch of Donan Wood, and there had been times when he’d decided that it had all been the imagination of a thirteen-year-old. A hallucination, born of his swoon after the wolf had attacked him in Donan Wood. But – the vision of her bathing in the moonlight, and the sensation of her mouth on his, had seemed real enough. He supposed he’d never really know.

        Now – there was Ceirdwyn.

        The afternoon sun was fading away into the sullen mist of approaching rain, but Duncan didn’t notice the growing chill. He hefted the axe one last time, slammed the blade neatly into its groove in the stump by the newly stacked woodpile, and stepped back to admire his handiwork, blotting the perspiration from his forehead with his discarded homespun shirt.

        He flexed his sword arm experimentally, remembering Connor’s teachings and more recently, what Ceirdwyn had said. About others, older and more treacherous. After he’d parted with Connor, he’d been careful to spend time every day practicing, increasing his skill, although it hadn’t been the same without a partner. But here, there’d been little privacy for such endeavors. It had been close to two weeks since he’d last trained.

        There was a small hollow just below the chapel. He squinted up at the thickening gray curtain of drizzle; surely no one would be about in this weather, this late in the day.

        Duncan slipped into the house quietly enough, but didn’t escape the notice of Martha, the young kitchen girl. She had a tremendous crush on him, blushing and stammering whenever he complimented her cooking. Now her eyes lit up as he made for his room.

        “Oh, sir-“ she always called him that, despite his efforts to dissuade her “ye’re just in time! There’s a fresh roasted joint of venison I’ve just put on the platter – sit and I’ll carve ye the juiciest parts.”

        Duncan’s smile nearly melted Martha at the knees. “Thank ye – it does smell heavenly. Happens, though, I forgot something down at the woodpile.” At the disappointment on her face – clearly she was looking forward to not having to share the company of this darkly handsome man with the rest of the household just yet – he added, “I’ll be back in a bit.” She nodded confidentially. “I’ll just save ye a plate, aye?”

        His sword, its oiled, well-wrapped length concealed under the straw of his mattress, felt like a sorely missed friend as he retrieved it. Its familiar weight hidden under his plaid, he opened the shutters and heaved himself out of the window, not wanting to pass Martha a second time.

        Night was fast falling, and the mist was thicker at the foot of the hollow. Duncan shed one of his plaids, thinking perhaps it would have been a good idea to have brought a lantern, after all. When, seconds later, the Immortal presence thrummed in his awareness, irritation warred with relief as a glow bobbed toward him in the gathering darkness.

        Ceirdwyn, lantern held high, smiled at him from under the shelter of her own heavy plaid. She nodded at his blade. “Care for a partner?” At his surprise, she added ruefully, “I canna say when I last practiced with a partner – and here I was cautioning you.”

        “Well, I –“ He hesitated, testing his grip on the sword hilt, and her eyes blazed. “Och, too good to cross swords with a woman, is that it? Afraid I’ll best ye in fair combat, aye?” Lightning-quick, her blade was in her hand and a wolfish smile on her face.

        He sighed. “Verra well, then.”

        An hour later, she was no longer smiling, and Duncan had revised his opinion of warrior women several notches upward. They dropped, spent, onto a fallen log and she uncorked a flask of whiskey, offering it to him. After a pause to regain her breath, Ceirdwyn said, “Well, if I’m any judge, I’d say your chances are better than average with the rest of the lot.” He smiled and she said, “Meaning, you clot, that ye’re a damn good swordsman.”

        He laughed. “Aye? Well, I was about to say the same of ye, only in more polite terms. But – I thank ye.” He saw, then, as she gathered up her cloak to shake the moisture off, that there was a long, thin scarlet slash on her sleeve. His eyes darkened with dismay. “Och, did I do that?”

        “You did.” She gave her blade a final wipe with a rag and added, “Right after I caught ye along the ribs – or do ye no’ remember?” He did then, and put a hand on the spot. There was a bloodstained tear in his shirt, but the wound underneath had healed. He’d emerged cut up from sparring with Connor more times than he could count, and it still amazed him that the damage disappeared within minutes.

        The rain was falling in earnest now, hissing against the lantern’s hot metal, and steam rose from their woolen wraps, but Ceirdwyn appeared to be in no hurry to go back to the house. She sat, arms wrapped about her knees, lost in thought. Duncan swallowed, his pulse accelerating at her nearness.

        “I’ve been lonely, ye know,” she said suddenly. “Oh, I’ve a place here, and enough people around for company, but – I canna ever really be myself.” Her eyes met his and his heart jolted anew. “Since you came, I’ve felt – not like I’d felt in a verra long time. That, at least, you were someone I could trust to know me.”

        “Ceirdwyn?” Her gaze didn’t waver. “Why – did ye jump on me, that day in the forest, if no’ to challenge me?”

        “I’d sensed ye, been following ye, and decided to see for myself what sort of man you were. Because – because of what I just told ye.” Without a word, Duncan drew her gently to her feet then, and into his arms.

        Curled close in the drowsy wake of their lovemaking, Ceirdwyn burrowed into the smooth muscle of Duncan’s shoulder, kissing his neck softly, almost as a mother would a sleeping child. She carefully raised herself on an elbow and studied Duncan’s face as he dozed, the long lashes lying like black fans on his cheeks. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she traced one full black eyebrow with her forefinger, and felt her throat ache. He was so beautiful, she thought, so young. Entire lifetimes were in store for him yet, and the entire universe at his fingertips.

        But she didn’t want to think of that, not just now. Her blood still resounding from their spent passion, she smoothed the damp almost-black hair away from his cheek, inhaling his musky male scent. Sweet Mother, it had been so long, so unbearably long.

        The rain had persisted through the night, and the day was about to dawn raw and chilly. Ceirdwyn had no wish for the rest of the household to discover that she and Duncan had become lovers, and considered rising, but the warmth of his relaxed body next to hers made leaving the bed unthinkable. Just a little while longer . . . .

        Ceirdwyn rested her head again on the pillow, avoiding the wrack of his hair; oddly, she was thinking of her last husband, the old laird. She’d come to nurse him over a painful bout of arthritis, knowing something about herbs, and he’d become taken with her. When he’d asked her to be his bride, he’d admitted that it was unlikely he’d be able to perform all his husbandly duties, given his advanced age and health, but he could offer her companionship and a place to call her own, once he’d died. She smiled fondly; he’d been a good man, true to his word, and had treasured her until the day he’d died. But she had missed the passion, more than she’d realized.

        The mattress crackled as Duncan shifted, smiled and opened his eyes. God, she was a vision in the dove-colored light, with her eyes as blue as the heart of a flame and her dusky cascade of curls. She put up a hand to caress his darkly stubbled cheek. “What – what were ye dreaming of?”

        He lifted the hand to his lips, and then slipped her fingers into his mouth, his tongue circling them, making her gasp and close her eyes. “Of your eyes,” he murmured. “So beautiful – like the waters of Loch Shiel . . . .” He gathered her close once more and she decided that she wasn’t spent, after all.

        Duncan sat impatiently as Ceirdwyn fussed around him, eyeing his unkempt dark mane critically. She’d finally persuaded him to let her cut several inches off, with Martha’s enthusiastic assistance. Now they had cornered him in the great room and he scowled as Ceirdwyn industriously brushed his hair. Finished, she held up the brush for him to see; it was matted with tangles as well as various foreign objects that had become caught in his hair. “No wee beasties, at least,” she said, and he glowered. Standing opposite him, plainly wishing she could do the brushing herself, Martha muffled a giggle. “Here, lassie, take this and see to those pies, would ye?” Reluctantly, Martha took the brush and disappeared back into the kitchen.

        “Oh – and best be fetching some more fresh water from the well, Martha. And would ye mind checking on the cow – she was acting sickly this morning.” There was no reply from the kitchen, but the bang of the door told them both that Martha was not well pleased at this request.

        Once they were alone, Duncan pulled Ceirdwyn down onto his lap and claimed her mouth with his. She pulled away with an effort after a few minutes. “Oh, no, laddie, ye’ll no’ be getting off that easy! No’ that you dinna tempt me,” she said, getting to her feet and reaching for a length of thread. Duncan held up his hands.

        “Verra well; I’m at your mercy,” he said, in such a pained tone that Ceirdwyn laughed. Her strong, slim fingers parted a sidelock from the now shining, well-groomed curtain of his hair and began plaiting a narrow braid. Duncan sat without further protest, enjoying the knowledge that his caresses on the backs of her hands and arms were not making the task easy for her.

        For her part, Ceirdwyn knew that she could no longer postpone what she had to say to him, heartsick as it made her. “Duncan, why do ye stay on here? When ye know ye must go?”

        The peat-dark eyes widened. “Ye ask, ye wee witch, when ye sit here with your fingers tangled in my hair?” He started to kiss her again but she stopped him gently.

        “Ye ken well enough what I mean,” she said. “You were on your way somewhere, to learn about yourself, about life – when I found you. I’ve thought, since, that I shouldna have done it – it was selfish of me, and wrong. But I couldna help myself.”

        “Ceirdwyn” – He caught her hands, stilling them in the act of tying his plait.

        “No, Duncan. We both know, it isna right for ye to stay here with me. The whole world’s out there, waiting for ye. And besides –“ she tried to smile. “Bide here longer, and sooner or later, ye’ll be breaking wee Martha’s heart.”

        “What about your heart?”

        “Och – well, you’ll have a piece of it with ye, wherever ye go. And there’s a place for ye here, if ye ever need it.” She’d turned her face away, not wanting him to see her brimming eyes, but he caught her chin and forced her to look at him.

        “Come with me, then. You can show me – teach me – we’ll travel together. Ceirdwyn! I canna leave ye.” He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but the past few weeks, while they had been lovers, he had started to grow restive with life on the estate, remembering his original plan to go to France. But the thought of abandoning Ceirdwyn had prevented him, and so he had lingered.

        She pressed his hands to her face, letting him feel her warm tears. When she trusted herself to answer, she whispered, “I canna. I canna go with you. These people – they need a protector. They need me. And there are bad times coming, Duncan, I’ve sensed it. Scotland will be asking all the strong folks there are to stand by her.”

        “Ye believe this, and still ye tell me to go?” he half shouted, not caring that Martha or the stable lad might hear. She shook her head. “Not for ye to stay, Duncan. One day, ye’ll be back, I think, but for now – ye mun go on.”

        She was right; he silently damned her for it, but couldn’t deny it. He searched her face one last time, seeing only Ceirdwyn, lonely and brave, freeing him to take his own path. “Ye’ve made me verra happy, ye ken; ye were there at a time when I needed ye. I do love ye, Ceirdwyn.” They kissed, then, sadly and longingly, knowing it was the last time. “And I love you, Duncan Macleod,” she murmured into hollow of his neck and shoulder, as the kiss broke apart. On impulse, she twisted around and reached into the basket that had held the thread she’d used to bind his hair. He watched as she drew out a bit of wool; it was piece of tartan, he saw, woven in the Chisholm colors. “You’ll remember me, aye?”

        He took the strip of cloth, tucked it into his shirt next to his heart and pressed her hand over it. “Always.”