Without love and laughter there is no joy.
Live amid love and laughter.

--Horace, Epistles

TO: Tessa

FROM: Charlotte Cannon

RE: Medieval Reproductions - Portland, Oregon

I hope all is well with you, Tess, because it’s sure not well with me. You’re a wonderful friend, have I told you that? Just wonderful. And you know everyone.

So, my dear and wonderful and generous friend, I have a great favor to ask you. Do you happen to know anyone who willing to play a knight? A real knight, not a Monty Python knight?

For a solid month, I’ve been looking for two men who can ride heavy horses, fight on horseback with lances and on the ground with swords, and who know Renaissance lingo well enough to entertain the goers at King Richard’s Faire outside Portland on next month.

The local Society for Creative Anachronism can only help so far, and I’ve exhausted all of the realistic possibilities in the area. All I can find are stand-up comedians in armor that don’t even know which side of the horse to climb up on.

Help! Please Tessa, recommend someone? Two someones? Let them know that, in exchange for helping me out, I’m willing to pay $50 a day and free room and board. (Warn them that they’ll be sleeping in a tent or on the second floor of one of the booths at the faire. Okay, so it’s not great. So sue me. At least it’s free).

I’ll also arrange a free booth for you. I’m quite certain that your art will sell fabulously here. Oh, can you try to keep your artistic wares kind of medievalish, though? Gotta be authentic.

Let me know, okay? If I don’t hear from you inside a week, I’ll assume that you can’t help. (Please call. I really do need you and yours!)

Love,
Charlotte

CHAPTER ONE

"This is important to you, isn’t it?" Duncan commented, looking not the least convinced.

"Charlotte is an old friend. I’d like to help her. I’d like to see her again. I’d like to get out of this city for awhile. And I’d like to have some fun with you."

Richie looked dubious, while Duncan offered a grin.

"Far be it from me to ever do anything that’s not fun." Bending down, he braced his chin against Tessa’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzled her ear. "I like to have fun."

"Yes, you do." She shivered. "But I have to get this done." She gestured at the placard she was painting. "It’s the last one. And I have to call Charlotte with your answer tonight. Richie’s already agreed to do his part. What about you?"

Releasing Tessa, Duncan nabbed a raw carrot from Tessa’s stash on the table. "Why not."

"Does that mean yes?"

"Sure."

"Fantastic." Grabbing the remote phone where it perched haphazardly atop a stack of boards, Tessa punched a series of numbers.

"Hello, Charlotte, it’s Tessa. I have some good news for you. I have the men you need," she spoke to the woman’s answering machine. "As for costumes..."

She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, then wandered away from the work area and into the shop proper, where the remote phone’s reception was better.

"...I don’t think we’ll need any. I have one from a costuming class I took years ago in Paris. Duncan will be able to locate a kilt. I think I can find some tights and a tunic for Richie."

Richie’s frightened eyes met Duncan’s.

"Say what?" He spun about as Tessa completed the call and came back into the room. "I’m not wearing tights."

"Who said you were wearing tights?"

Richie glowered at her. "You did. On the phone. Just now."

"You were eavesdropping!" Tessa pointed an accusing finger at him, affronted by his rudeness.

"No I wasn’t. I just have good hearing. And it’s a good thing, too. You call her back and tell her that Richie Ryan doesn’t do tights."

Arms folded in finality, Richie leaned back against the wall and waited for Tessa to dial the phone.

She didn’t dial anything, but returned his angry stare neutrally. "Yes, you are wearing the tights. I’ve already told Charlotte that you agreed. And you did."

"You didn’t warn me that I’d be wearing tights." He was practically spitting the words in panic. "I won’t wear tights. Tights aren’t for guys. Tell her, Duncan."

"Tights aren’t for guys," he mumbled obediently, trying hard not to laugh. "At least, not in the last few hundred years. Why does he have to wear tights?"

"I asked him to play Julian."

Duncan’s eyes widened into Tessa’s. A moment later, he was grinning. "And does Richie know what Romeo and Julian do?"

"He knows enough. He agreed to do it," she repeated, casting another sour look in Richie’s direction.

Richie looked from an obstinate-looking Tessa to a delighted Duncan. "She said they were a comedic troupe of players doing Shakespeare. I’ve always thought I had some talent for acting, so what they hey, right? Now I can learn lines as well as the next guy can, but nobody said anything about tights."

Coming around the table, Duncan slid his arm across the young man’s shoulders. "It’s all right, Richie. You won’t have to wear the tights for long."

"Why not?"

"Because Romeo and Julian do ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ Do I really have to tell you who dons the dress to play Juliet?"

"Oh holy hell!" Wrenching away from Mac, Richie backed up. Holding his hands before him, he spluttered, "Oh, no-no-no-no-no. I’m not playing a girl, not for a million bucks, and your friend isn’t offering anywhere near that amount."

"It’s Julian or the mud beggar," said Tessa sullenly.

"What’s a mud beggar?"

"Head to toe, he’s covered in mud. Dry mud. All day long, he goes from person to person and picks on them. He solicits money for charity, has his picture taken with endless teenagers and little kids--"

"He makes faces and scares little babies in strollers." Duncan nabbed another carrot. "Kisses toes and the like. It’s fun. You’d like it. I did."

"You were a mud beggar?"

"In another life." Duncan looked so innocent, Richie couldn’t tell if he was serious.

"Okay, I’ll do it," Richie said abruptly.

"You have to ad-lib all day," warned Tessa, "and roll in wet mud a lot, to keep your costume intact."

"Do I have to wear tights?"

She shook her head. "Draw-string knickers, probably. But no shirt. No shoes, either. Just mud from head to foot. Between your toes, too. Is mud safe enough for your masculinity?"

"Fine. I can handle mud. Tell your friend that I’ll do that."

"Fine," she echoed.

Sounding annoyed, she turned her attention back to painting the cracked-pine sign with Tessa’s Treasures sketched on it. Many fine pieces of art and ceramics would be displayed for sale under that sign.

Richie growled at Duncan on the way out the door. "She was going to make me be a girl. What if some of my old friends showed up? No way would I ever make it back in the old neighborhood. It’s impossible."

"It’s in Oregon, Richie. I don’t think there will be that many tourists from your old neighborhood."

"It could happen. It would, just because it’s me."

"If you’re covered in mud, I doubt they’ll recognize you." Tessa commented in peeved tones.

"Exactly." He cast a dark look Tessa’s way, but she didn’t even look up. "See you two tomorrow."

"Yes." Duncan looked at Tessa expectantly after Richie had gone. "All right, Tess. ‘Fess."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Confess. You never intended for Richie to wear those tights. Or to play Juliet. You made the whole thing up."

"It worked, didn’t it? He’s playing the beggar, which is exactly what I wanted him to do." Smiling angelically, she picked up the sign to hang it where it would safe drying.

Duncan shivered, wondering what psychology she’d used on him lately. And what she hadn’t told him about this faire. He made a mental note--and not for the first time--not to underestimate this woman.

* * *

Pausing in the middle of the storage room, with wooden crates and boxes surrounding her, Tessa sighed. "We’re never going to find it. Could Connor have it in storage for you back in New York?"

Duncan shook his head. "I’ve never left it behind when I’ve moved. It’s here somewhere."

Applying his crowbar, he opened the next crate.

"How old is it?"

"Not that old. Not even a hundred years yet. It was made for me by a tailor in Edinburgh, in honor of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897." He looked up with a smile. "I liked the old girl."

"A hundred years? Duncan, we’re hunting for scraps that the moths left!" Tessa wailed. "We’re wasting our time. And what are we going to do for a costume? I said that you could bring your own, and it takes weeks to make a proper kilt--"

He interrupted her with a kiss on the nose. "You fret over the strangest things. Don’t worry. Properly kept, wool lasts forever. And if there’s one thing I know it’s wool. Kilts age well."

She smiled. "Like you?"

"Like me." He leaned away from the box to kiss her. "Beware of dirty old men."

"Very old, dirty old men?" she teased.

"Very."

"What about antiques?"

"Oh, they’re the most dangerous of all. Had more time to practice."

Removing the top of the crate, he revealed a leatherbound box nestled inside. Unlatching it, Duncan peeled back the tissue paper to reveal a beautiful blue tartan kilt of the Clan MacLeod. Tessa peered in to see silver buckles gleaming at her; they looked only slightly tarnished with age. The box must be air-tight, she thought.

"It’s beautiful," she said aloud, stretching her fingers toward it, only to stop. "Is it all right to touch?"

"It had better be all right. I’m planning to wear this, and I don’t want it crumbling away as I walk. Could be very embarrassing."

"Embarrassing?"

"Do you know what a Scot wears under his kilt?"

"As of now, bicycle shorts," Tessa announced emphatically. "Some shows need to stay private."

Duncan grinned, then lifted the kilt and held it out toward her. "Go on. The leather of the buckles is a bit stuff, but it shouldn’t dissolve under your fingers."

She smoothed her hand over the rich tartan. Rough and heavy, it was nothing like the kilts she’d seen for sale in a few Scottish tourist shops scattered among the States.

"It feels like you," she announced, wondering if Duncan would understand what she meant by that remark.

Gently, he draped the kilt across Tessa’s outstretched arms, then turned his attention to the endless yards of material making up the sash. The tartan pin nestled at the bottom of the box was tarnished black, residing beside a pair of cracked leather boots that would never be worn again.

"The pin and boots are much older than the tartan," he explained.

Tessa retrieved the boots once Duncan had set them aside, turning first one then the other in her hands, marveling at the footwear from another century. "These have outlived their usefulness."

"I have others."

She peered into the depths of the box as Duncan brought out a broadsword and swung it experimentally, away from her. "Do you happen to have some bagpipes in there?"

"Nae," he said, pouring on the accent. "Never could stand learnin’ t’play them that sounds f’r all th’ world like you’re molestin’ a goose. But when twenty men played t’gether in th’ fog...Well, the English seemed willin’ t’take notice o’ that. Made the horses dance and brave men pee their drawers."

She laughed at his gleeful, bloodthirsty grin. Draping the kilt over the crate, she stroked Duncan’s cheek, reached up on tiptoe to kiss him.

"Will you use your accent at the faire?"

"All day?" He raised an eyebrow. "You’d get awfully tired of listening to that. Not to mention that I’m not certain anyone could understand me if I did use the accent."

"I can understand you."

"I’ve tormented you with it for years." He touched the tip of her nose. "You’re used to it."

Repacking the sash and the other items, he set aside the sword and left the kilt to Tessa.

"Do you want anything else out of here?"

"Not right now." Fingering the warm wool beneath her fingers, Tessa carried the kilt from the storage chamber.

I can’t wait to see Duncan in this, she thought. Nor Richie in his mud.

* * *

Entering through the back door of the antique shop, Tessa paraded Duncan’s kilt past an older man standing at one of the locked jewelry cabinets, and draped the tartan over a suit of armor. The man turned, his eye drawn by the bright colors. Jaw sagging, he headed toward the kilt with speed unbecoming a skilled negotiator of antiques.

"Did that just come in?" he demanded, "May I touch it?"

"Yes," said Duncan, "but it’s not for sale."

"It’s Scottish. Old Scottish."

"It is." Duncan nodded, once again the professional antique dealer.

"From the Highlands," the man added, rubbing the tartan between his fingers and looking as though he were likely to start drooling at any moment.

Duncan carefully pulled the material from the covetous grasp, off of the armor. Rolling up the kilt, he tucked it beneath his arm protectively.

"I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for it."

"Sorry." Collecting the sash, Duncan draped it carelessly over the kilt.

The soft moan behind him told that his guest disapproved of Duncan’s cavalier handling of the treasure.

"I’ll make it fifteen," the man offered. "In cash. I’ll have a cashier’s check issued to you this afternoon."

"No, thanks."

"Eighteen. No higher."

"It’s not for sale," Duncan repeated, slowly this time so that each word might be understood.

"Do you have another buyer? Is that what’s wrong?"

"No. It’s mine, and I’m planning to wear it next month. If I sell it, I’ll have nothing else to wear."

"W-wear?" the man stammered, shocked to his very wingtips. "Wear? That bit of antiquity? Are you mad?"

"No, but I do like to look m’best." Whistling, Duncan turned and walked away, taking with him the abused Highland finery.

Come by the hills to the land where fancy is free... The lyrics to Duncan’s song wafted through Tessa’s mind. Stand where the peaks meet the sky and the rocks reach the sea, Where the rivers run clear and the bracken is gold in the sun, And cares of tomorrow must wait ‘til this day is done.

Stifling a giggle, Tessa turned and headed for the back of the store. Duncan had tossed the kilt on the table, and was rummaging about in a closet. Tessa bent to study Duncan’s kilt a bit more closely. The tarnished silver buckles on hung drunkenly from their tattered leather tabs, winking at her as though to say, Haven’t you a mannequin somewhere? One more suitable to house these colors than an English suit of armor?

As a matter of fact, I do, she decided, and went in search of it.

CHAPTER TWO

Only twelve more hours work, Tessa estimated. I think I’m on schedule, with three days to finish these and complete the goblets. I can do it, if Richie and Duncan keep handling the store by themselves.

Duncan wandered out of the bedroom and into the work area just as Tessa was selecting colors for the medieval-styled goblets.

"Are you planning on stopping for breakfast anytime soon?" he asked.

"When I’m finished with these," she replied.

"Do you want to go find a croissant with me when you’re done?"

"Sure."

He watched her for a moment more, then began circling the work area. Locating a stack of boards in the back corner, Duncan began sorting through them.

"Do you have any sitka spruce or cherry left over from those chess tables you made?"

"I think so," said Tessa. "You’re in the right place to find it."

A moment later, Duncan found a sizeable piece of spruce. Laying it atop the worktable, he paced to the roll of brown wrapping paper used to package fragile purchases. Tearing off a hugh piece of paper, he nabbed a pencil and ruler from Tessa’s drafting table.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You’ll see." He shrugged and gave her a rueful grin. "That’s if it works."

Duncan spent the next fifteen minutes sketching patterns of something Tessa couldn’t identify. Transferring the patterns to the wood carefully, he seemed to forget all about breakfast. Finishing her ceramic painting, Tessa noted the intensity with which her immortal lover was working and decided not to disturb him.

Slipping out the side entrance, she went after the croissants herself, visiting a small French bakery nearby and bringing home a generous selection of plain and stuffed ones, as well as some cappacino. Duncan didn’t even look up as the tantalizing scent wafted past. Tessa noted that he’d borrowed her lathe and power tools to begin construction of whatever he’d taken a fit to construct. Determined that Duncan wouldn’t go hungry, she brought him a blueberry-filled croissant.

"Open up," she ordered, as his arms were covered with wood dust.

He opened obediently, took two sips of his favorite cappacino, and went right back to work. An hour later, when Tessa checked the kiln, she saw what appeared to be a long, slender box of some sort was taking shape beneath Duncan’s capable hands. She still hadn’t a clue what it was supposed to be. Neatly glued together, the box rested a set of carpenter’s vises and had been left to dry.

Consumed with curiosity, Tessa went to look at the semi-completed object again the next evening, after Duncan had spent the entire afternoon fussing and carving and gluing.

"Oh, it’s a harp!" Tessa exclaimed, seeing it set on its side and still confined. Spinning about, she confronted Duncan, who was sweeping the work area. "Where in the world did you learn to make a harp?"

He shrugged. "Here and there."

"Oh, come on. Tell me."

"Oh, all right." He winked at her. "But not just yet. Wait until you see the finished product. I might have forgotten everything I learned. And I did do things a bit differently. Never done it with power tools before. "

Sighing, Tessa stroked the graceful cherry neck. "I don’t know if I can wait that long. But if I must, I must."

*

The thought occurred while he was carving the front pillar. Where am I going to get the hardware and strings?

Going to the computer, he logged onto the Internet. Two hours later, he was blessing Connor MacLeod’s name for the suggestion that Duncan get onto the Net, and had found several harp stores that might help. Reassured that what he was attempting wouldn’t be stymied by a lack of levers or strings, Duncan returned to his work.

Over the next few days, Tessa watched as her lover constructed the rest of his harp, then proceeded to carve it. Wood chips flew, with Duncan plying wood carving tools with intense concentration. The nicks on his fingers when the blade slipped were ignored completely, and healed quickly, even before he could bleed on his project. Still, it was quite an undertaking.

When he was finished, delicate ivy wound its way up the pillar, tiny fairy faces peeked out from between the leaves. The strings came the day he finished the instrument, sanding it to perfection and coating it lightly with oil.

"You’re not going to stain it?"

He shook his head and unpacked the strings. Within two hours, Duncan placed the finished harp before Tessa. The soundboard was spruce, the rest was cherry. Tall and graceful, it glowed in all its new promise before her.

"It’s too green to hold a tuning," he announced, "but it’s ready for its new home."

Tentatively, she plucked a few strings and winced at the fractured scale. He’s right about the tuning. But, oh, it’s a beautiful work of art.

"I’ve never seen anything like this, except in museums," Tessa ran her fingers over the wood, enjoying the sensuous feel of it. "You know they don’t make harps like this now, don’t you?"

"I know." He massaged her shoulders.

"They don’t carve them like this," she continued, "and they don’t sound like this...like something magical. Like Druids or minstrels." She arched an eyebrow at him. "Do you have enough time left to make another?"

He looked startled. "I thought you’d want to sell this one."

"I want to keep this one. Can you make another?"

He smiled. "Certainly. But I probably don’t have time to carve it." He ran a hand down the ivy. "How much do you think you’ll get for it?"

"Two thousand, easy. Maybe three."

"Two thousand dollars?" He laughed outright at her prediction. "We’re in the wrong business. We should be making harps, not selling antiques."

"Maybe we should do both. Now tell me: where did you learn to make harps?"

His eyes went distant. "I spent part of 1645 in Ireland with a girl half-gypsy, half-Irish and perhaps all fairy. Her name was Muirne, and she was...."

*

Beautiful, Duncan thought, watching Muirne’s braided hair sway in time with her horse’s walk. Eighteen or a hundred and eighteen...just how old is she? he wondered after the immortal he’d come across in a forest meadow many long weeks before.

"I’m Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he’d said, coming up on the edge of her clearing and eyeing the single ring rapier held ready in her hands. "Are you wantin’ t’ fight me then?"

Lowering the rapier slowly, she had considered him, his sword, his musculature and his horse.

"I’m Muirne O’Connor of nowhere in particular. And no, I don’t want to fight you." I’d lose, said her eyes.

He studied her face, her streaming auburn hair, her figure, and her harp. "Are you a minstrel, then?"

She nodded.

"A lady such as yourself shouldn’t be alone in these wilds. Any amount of harm could come to you."

"Mmm," she agreed. "Do you happen to know of anyone willing to protect someone like me?"

"Aye. Myself."

She’d laughed at his boldness. "Then come down off of your horse, Duncan MacLeod. Share the fire and some bread with me."

That day, they had begun sharing the road, the misty summer rains, the ever-changing moon, and their beds on peat moss and fern.

Bringing his gelding up beside her, Duncan patted the neck of his pony and found himself wishing it was her thigh beneath his hands, rather than horsehair and mane.

"We’ll reach Farnaght before dark," he observed. "Will you want to be singin’ then?"

"If it’s food we want, it’s music we have to give."

She began singing the moment they reached the outskirts of town, with Duncan flanking her like a bodyguard. He did not sing with her. He never sang with her. Long days before, he had grown drunk on the mead her singing had bought, had favored her and the howling wolves of the forest with beloved clansong.

"Don’t!" She’d giggled at him, scarcely able to gasp out the words. "Sweet Duncan, you’re a man of many talents and many uses. But singing--"

"Isn’t one of them?" He took another swig of mead and staggered toward her. "Aye, so I’ve been told, and I believe. But you like my other talents, don’t you?"

Falling beside her--and very nearly on her--he let his fingers sing over her breast. "Don’t you, my bonny lady?"

Moaning, she arched beneath his fingers. "I’m no lady, Duncan."

"No? Then you’re a fairy, bewitchin’ to me. Now hold still, and let me get your bodice undone...."

*

"Other uses," he mumbled to himself as Muirne sang on. Half amused, half irritated, Duncan reflected that, more than anything, those uses seemed to involve tending the horses and making love.

He didn’t mind. Listening to her, how could he mind? Her crystal voice and story-songs could charm angels from the clouds, as they now charmed villagers from their tasks. The blacksmith’s anvil stopped its ringing: smithy and client looked around to see whose voice was floating on the sweet air of a warm summer’s afternoon.

"Come all ye lads and lassies, and listen to my tale
Of fairies, rogues and princes, their secrets will I tell,
Of dragonflies and eagles--the messages they bring.
Tales told before the moon flies--of this and more I’ll sing."

CHAPTER THREE

"Okay, so what do we do once we get there?" asked Richie, who was crammed in the back of the van along with Tessa’s crafts, booth supplies, and a harp whose protective wrappings had expanded its size one-half again as much as it had been originally.

"We look for Charlotte, we find our booth, and we set up," said Tessa.

"Oh. So, after working our asses off loading this van and driving for hours without air conditioning, we get to work our butts off unloading the van and entertain some friend of yours? What about food?"

"What about food?" said Duncan, who was driving.

"I’d like some. I’m feeling faint back here."

"I have a Snickers bar in my purse."

"Not exactly what I had in mind." Richie wrinkled his nose at Duncan, who was peering at him through the rear view mirror. Richie knew he was being peered at, because there was no way Duncan could see anything else in that mirror. The view behind them was definitely blocked by piles of artistic stuff. "Come on, guys. I’ve been patient. Real patient. Especially for me,

real patient. Can’t we get something to eat before going out in the medieval wilderness?"

"He may have a point, Tess," Duncan murmured. "The fairgrounds are outside Portland. There might not be much to eat beyond pine needles and wild hickory nuts until the concession stands get up and rolling."

"I thought you knew how to live off the land?" Tessa gibed. "I thought you wanted this to be a genuine medieval experience?"

"Yeah, but along with starvation came the plague back then, and--"

"Count me out, guys," Richie broke in. "This is a twentieth century stomach on a three-meal-a-day clock. My stomach’s in rebellion and my muscles will be, too, if you drag me off to the Oregon wilderness without some sustenance in my bones. What do you say, Tess? Even a mud-beggar deserves some sustenance."

Crumpling the map in her lap, Tessa twisted around in the seat and smiled at Richie. "Oh, all right. You’ve been so good today, I suppose we can feed you. Duncan?"

"I’ve been good, too."

She stroked his arm. "Yes, you have. Okay, your choice. Just don’t take me to McDonald’s."

Capturing her hand, Duncan kissed her fingers. "Never."

"What’s wrong with McDonald’s?" Richie demanded. "I like McDonald’s. Don’t tell me you’re going to take me to some been sprout place that has hummas and...and...what was that stuff? It stank, and it was green, and--"

Duncan hid a smile as Tessa began glowering at his insulting her beloved vegetarian fare. The start of yet another wonderful argumentative weekend with Richie Ryan. "Hey, Richie?"

"--Yeah, Mac?"

"If you want to eat, shut up."

"No problem. Shutting up right now. I can take a hint, and you won’t hear another word outta me. Just gotta--"

"Richie!"

"What!"

"Shut up!" the yelled in unison.

He shut up.

"Why don’t you head for the nearest health food store, Duncan?" purred Tessa.

She wasn’t disappointed by the moan from the back seat. Only Duncan could tell that she wasn’t serious. As it was, Richie sweated bullets for ten minutes while Duncan searched utopian Portland for a suitable restaurant--Italian, as it turned out. Not even Richie could complain about a menu that offered spaghetti.

* * *

Pulling into the fairgrounds, Duncan parked the van close to the entrance and shut off the engine. "Do you know where to find your friend?"

"She’s somewhere close. Her bike is here."

Sliding on his bum out of the van, Richie stretched the kinks out of his back.

"Bike? What bike?" he asked, seeing a big, black Harley Davidson that was to die for, but no bicycle. Wandering over to the machine, Richie let his mouth drop open. "Would you look at this? Death on wheels, but ain’t she grand?"

"Grand," echoed Tessa. "She also belongs to Charlotte, so be careful about the fingerprints. She’s rather protective of that thing."

Richie blinked at her a moment, not quite certain he understood. Glancing from Tessa to the bike and back again, he leaned across the shiny black leather seat.

"This is no ‘thing,’ Tessa. This is a classic. A work of art." He looked up from the mass of chrome and steel to meet Tessa’s eyes. "Your friend rides this bike?"

Tessa nodded.

"Oh, boy." The weekend just got better, his grin said. Running his fingers through his hair, Richie turned in place. "Look, um...When we meet your friend, could you kind of...Well, could you mention that I like bikes? Could you please tell her that I’ve always dreamed of riding a hog like this? I mean, I know that I could never afford one, but, like...Do you think she’d let me drive it? Just around the lot here?"

"I don’t know--"

"Sit on it, then. Just sit. I promise, I won’t even fiddle with the gears. Please ask her, Tessa. Pleeeeeeze?"

"I don’t know." Tessa smiled. "But you can ask her. She’s standing right behind you."

Whirling, Richie stared at Tessa’s friend. And stared.

He wasn’t the only one. Duncan and Charlotte Marlowe seemed locked in time. He stared at her, she stared back, and Tessa stood grinning at both of them. As for Richie, realizing that he was in danger of drooling on the bike to the point of rusting it, he stepped back and joined Tessa. Looking from Charlotte to Duncan, he almost moaned aloud.

Aw...geez, not another one.

Slinking forward with what could only be called predatory grace, Charlotte slipped her hand into Duncan’s. At 5’1", the woman was small, brunette, and lethal in black leather. The jumpsuit she wore was so tight, Richie was certain she had to have been poured into it that evening, and would have to be peeled out of it that night.

Or maybe she just sleeps in it...like Catwoman. Come to think of it, she could give Michelle Pfeiffer a run for her money.

"I’m really happy to meet you, Mr. MacLeod," she purred. "And I can’t wait to see you in your kilt. Is it a short kilt?"

Duncan captured her fingers and held on before they crawled their way any further up his arm. "Call me Duncan."

Why doesn’t his voice ever crack? Richie wondered.

Tessa stepped forward. "Charlotte, this is Duncan. Duncan, this is Charlotte. My stockbroker, financial advisor, and friend." At least, for now, her eyes twinkled.

"Tessa tells me that you make harps," Charlotte breathed up at Duncan. "I play the flute. But that could change."

The fingers of one hand walked up Duncan’s wrist. The fingers of her other hand closed over his deltoid muscle. "You’re so strong," she cooed. "And...big." Her eyes dropped lower. "Aren’t you?"

For the first time since he’d met Mac, Richie saw the immortal blush. Extricating his hand, Duncan stepped closer to Tessa and wrapped an arm around her waist.

"He works out a lot," Tessa rescued him, sliding her own, proprietary arm around her man. "And I’m going to need those muscles to help me set up, Charlotte."

"All of them?"

"Every one," Tessa replied firmly. "Can you show us where the booth is?"

"How remiss of me." Holding Duncan’s gaze, she widened her eyes. "You can drive the van right in. But be out by two, because that’s when they’re spreading the hay throughout the byways of our little village."

"Have you met Richie Ryan?" Duncan nearly yanked the young man up beside him as Charlotte’s eyes began undressing him. Beside him, Tessa tried to stifle a giggle.

Charlotte’s dark eyes grew sultry. She undulated her way toward the younger man. "Richard...."

Oh, no, Richie moaned to himself as certain things in his anatomy responded. Not now. Not here. "Uh, hi. Duncan, you want to drive in now?"

"Sure."

Harley Davidson forgotten, Richie practically bolted into the van he’d been so eager to vacate only minutes earlier. Striding easily around to the driver’s side, Duncan watched through the open door as Charlotte insinuated herself in beside Richie.

"Oh, it’s a tight fit in here, isn’t it? If you can’t move over a little more, I’m going to have to sit in your lap, Richard."

Climbing into the van, Duncan exchanged a look with Tessa.

"Do you think he’ll survive the contact?" she murmured, for Duncan’s ears only.

"Hope so."

"Go around the back of all the little buildings, darling Duncan," Charlotte’s voice purred in his ear. Her fingers played with his hair. "How long did it take for your hair to grow so long?"

"Four hundred years," came the innocent reply, "give or take a decade."

Tessa was proud of him: his fingers didn’t shake on the steering wheel, not even when those exploring fingers grazed his sensitive ears. As they rolled through the service entrance to the fair, Duncan captured Tessa’s fingers and didn’t let go.

"Turn right," Charlotte breathed into his ear.

Duncan turned.

"First booth on your right. Best seat in the house."

Duncan had the feeling she wasn’t referring to the booth, but to his own rear end.

When did she see that? he wondered.

"Tessa’s told me so much about you," Charlotte continued. "I’m sorry, Richard, am I crowding you?"

"Uh, no," came the strangled answer. "Not at all. You’re just fine. I’m okay."

A quick glance in the rear-view mirror told him that Charlotte’s own rear end was snuggled up against Richie’s thigh. The view in tight leather had to be a torment to the nineteen year old. A quick glance at Tessa told Duncan that not only had she been confiding things in Charlotte during their long-distance conversations, but she knew exactly what the woman was attempting to do to both of the men in Tessa’s life.

"So, how long have you and Tessa known each other?" Duncan asked.

"We met when I was an exchange student in France," said Charlotte. "Tessa told me all of the good places to go and meet rich men."

That earned Tessa a raised eyebrow. "Did she find you some likely possibilities?"

"Yes, but all I got was bad lines and...offers. Good food, though. They did buy dinner." She grinned. "So Tessa owes me one rich, gorgeous guy."

Duncan leaned forward, away from the hand caressing the nap of his neck, beneath his hair. "Well, I don’t qualify, then. I’m neither rich or French."

"Close enough," Charlotte murmured, watching appreciatively as Duncan slid out of the van.

Tessa followed quickly, using her front-seat placement to full advantage as Charlotte had to unfold herself from the back seat.

"This is wonderful!" Tessa surveyed the small space that would be home for the next few days. "The booth is marvelous. Oh, I already know exactly how I want to set up. Richie, would you bring the box from the van?"

"Which box?" he said testily, half in and half out of the torture chamber. "There’s at least twenty thousand boxes back here."

"The one marked ‘drapes’ of course. It’s in there somewhere. Bring that one and the tools. Duncan, would you sweep the cobwebs out of the corners for me?"

Duncan and Richie exchanged glances and knew all too well that the day had just deteriorated even further as Tessa slipped into what Duncan affectionately called "Artist Mode". Boxes were hauled forth, booth backing and appropriately medieval-looking buntings were hung. The booth was decorated to Tessa’s liking, and next came the unpacking and placing of the art.

"This goes there, that over there. No, not like that, turn it so the light catches on that side of it...."

The two men endured it with good grace, and slowly waning patience. By the time the last box was unpacked, both Duncan and Richie had had enough of Faire Retail.

"Tessa?" Duncan asked softly.

"Hmmm?" came the absent-minded reply. "Should the goblets go on the tapestry drape, or over here against the rabbit fur?"

"You know best. Can you handle the finishing touches by yourself? Richie and I need to get into costume. We’re supposed to be ready by three."

"Of course I can handle it. Go and get dressed," she ordered with a quick kiss to his cheek. "Or, as the case may be for you, undressed," she added, grinning at Richie.

Richie heaved a sigh of relief and began backing away from the booth. "Right. No problem. Coming, Mac?"

Mac paused to collect his carryall from the van, then strode after Richie toward what was known as the "green area."

No green rooms here, he noted. Back to living with nature and no walls.

CHAPTER FOUR

Tessa was still fussing over her wares, trying to get each one positioned just so before the first guests of the day flooded in--too late. A young man with a video camera was cheerfully taping her as she flew back and forth across the tiny booth, muttering in French and English as she poked and turned and waved away the dust now floating in the sunlight.

"Excuse me," Duncan asked of the cameraman in his best accent. "Does she know you’re doin’ that?"

"It’s a faire. Does it matter?"

"Doing what?" Tessa’s voice demanded. "Oh, you’re Scottish," she commented, standing at his back and seeing only the cloak, hearing the accent. "Have you seen another...." Tessa’s voice trailed away as Duncan turned toward her.

Standing in a pool of sunlight where the sunshine managed to filter through the trees, Duncan stood framed in gold. His flowing brown hair framed stern, piercing eyes. The brilliant blue of the MacLeod tartan fell in worn folds across his broad shoulder. His narrow waist was wrapped in a broad, heavy leather belt studded with old, heavy bronzework studs and shields, while the Victorian kilt reached his knees, displaying calves that were strongly muscled and disappearing into perfectly fitting boots. Strong hands held the hilt of a familiar dragon’s head katana with familiar ease.

He seems bigger, somehow, than he was a moment ago, in jeans and a t-shirt....Tessa’s gaze drifted down, recording details her stunned brain tried to assimilate into a whole. The eye-tour was repeated once she’d met his boots and the ground, this time traveling upward until her gaze came to rest on his face.

Duncan. It was Duncan. Correction: this is Duncan.

Duncan gave her an evil glare, then bent to kiss her hand. "Only for you, fair lady."

*

Duncan took his place in the arena, warming up with a few practice swings of the katana, and ran a quick kata to ground himself and focus. He’d need all his skill not to wound one of these idiots.

The first battle was long and ridiculous, with two armored ninnies bashing at each other’s shields with great clumsy blades. One eventually staggered and fell, ceremoniously collapsing under his "mortal" wound. The victim was dragged away by the heels, and the combat director beckoned to Duncan.

"You, in the kilt. You fight next."

"Me?" Duncan raised his eyebrows. "I get to fight the victor?"

"Yeah, you. Where’s your armor?"

"Don’t use any."

"Your shield? Nothing but a skirt?"

"I’m a Scot. A Highlander. It’s how we fight. We don’t use armor. We don’t need it." The smile that followed that declaration had very little of mirth in it, and the ring director decided maybe he ought to back up a step.

"What about that thing? That’s no decent blade."

"Oh, I think it’ll do," Duncan replied mildly.

"Well, I don’t have time to argue with you. Get in there, die gracefully, and get out fast."

"Die?" Duncan grinned at him unexpectedly. "I can’t die. I’m immortal," he called over his shoulder as he strode into the ring.

The first opponent took his place before him, lunging with wild, uncontrolled swings of a mock broadsword. It was so heavy, so poorly balanced, that it kept tugging him off stride and into Duncan’s path.

Duncan manoeuvered carefully to avoid being gouged by the uncontrollable sword and swordsman, and neatly disarmed him with all haste; the fellow simply wasn’t safe to be near.

The crowd roared its approval. Duncan glanced toward the ringmaster with an almost apologetic shrug.

"No! Stay there! You’re the victor, you have to keep fighting ‘til you lose! Don’t you understand? Oh, where do they get these amateurs!" he wailed. "Just fight, okay?"

Another victim was herded in, displaying a fighting style that seemed to be made up of the worst moves from old Errol Flynn movies. Duncan had a difficult time with him--trying not to laugh, and not to hurt him in his clumsy, flourish-filled capering. Duncan’s elbow got inside the man’s sword-reach, to tip him easily onto his butt.

New opponent, same problems. Duncan wasn’t the least weary, and the crowd--and the crown, seated at the end of the arena--approved more with each victory. Each of the "dead" or "wounded" knights was hauled away, with a living body replacing it. Nothing was really unique about them, other than the shouting and the quality of their blades. It was rapidly getting boring, Duncan decided as the sun sank lower.

Yet another opponent appeared, faster and more agile than the first, though hampered with twentieth-century chain mail. Duncan grinned at the armor and moved lightly, inviting this young man to display whatever skills he had.

He’s not too bad, Duncan conceded, giving the young man several openings that were promptly accepted in lunges and swings. They put on a fairly decent exhibition before Duncan decided to retire him. The poor kid was beginning to pant inside his protective gear.

And that’s why we didna’ wear such things, Duncan reminded himself. Best to give the kid a break before he collapses from very real exhaustion.

A quick move entrapped the longsword and sent it spinning through the air. The crowd cheered, and Duncan heard the name MacLean being repeated.

That’s enough of that. Turning toward his audience, he strode the length of the battlefield, sword held at ready.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, Chieftain’s son and defender of clan honor. I will battle any challenger among you, but at least get my name right!"

The crowd roared its approval of his bellowing, with mass enthusiasm abruptly rising to feverpitched surprise and anticipation. Glancing behind him to see what was happening, Duncan froze as he felt the buzz.

Another Immortal is here. Duncan’s heart sped up. He tightened his grip on his katana. Thank God they hadn’t gotten it away from him--facing another Immortal with a poorly-made, mock claymore would have been nearly suicide.

But we’re in public. With quite an audience. What can he do here? He--or she--can’t be that stupid. Can they? Beyond that, another question screamed in his mind: Who is it?

A black horse picked its way into the arena, bearing toward him a knight in full armor, helm and all. Even the horse wore barding. And this knight--hidden beneath the metal, superior in height, reach and speed--was an Immortal.

Booting the horse into a canter, the new knight circled the arena before pulling his mount to a halt by the King’s box.

Duncan narrowed his eyes. What does he want? Is he hunting? Playing? He must know I’m here, if I know who he is. What is he doing?

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod--foul barbarian of the Firth of Forth--stand and meet they doom!" The voice was muffled behind the helm, but the brandished sword left little doubt as to the wielder’s intent.

"I’ve no horse!" he shouted back. "Come down and fight."

The knight did not dismount, but instead signaled his horse, who crouched momentarily before launching itself into a gallop and heading straight toward Duncan.

Duncan stood watching the horse thunder toward him and stepped aside only at the last possible moment, letting the horse pound past him, and neatly evading the swing of the sword. Once horse and rider reached the far end of the arena, the rider pulled the gelding around and sent it back toward him.

This time, Duncan was prepared to take action. Stepping aside as he did before, the Highlander reached up under the arc of the blade to catch the rider’s ankle and heave upward. The momentum of the horse finished the job.

The rider dismounted summarily from the off side of the horse, landing on his back with a crashing of armor, only to thrash momentarily in a struggle for leverage, like a turtle on its back. It managed to turn over and heave itself up onto its feet, as the horse continued on to watch the rest of the confrontation from the King’s vantage point.

Duncan moved in cautiously, his katana held at a most unmedieval ready position. The stranger knight did likewise, edging crab-like around Duncan. At an unseen signal, they closed for the first pass, blades ringing against each other. Drawing back, they paused for a moment before Duncan launched this attack, driving the stranger back several steps.

The dark knight moved sideways and launched a different assault, one that had Duncan struggling to cover himself against its unexpected speed.

The knight laughed and tried a different move--one that Duncan knew well, and could deflect easily.

"Wait a minute!" Duncan bellowed. "Just hold it."

"No," replied the not-so-strange knight, managing to draw blood on Duncan’s sword arm.

"Hey!" he protested, startled by the very real wound. "This isn’t supposed to be real."

"Defend or die. Or both, if you wish."

Duncan could almost see the grin inside that helm. Launching himself at the armored opponent in earnest, he treated the crowd to a full-speed, intense display of swordsmanship that only seasoned Immortals could manage.

The fight waged back and forth, across the rough grass, hoof-torn from the earlier jousting demonstration. The two Immortals slipped and struggled, swung and parried, their blades ringing and flashing at speeds almost too fast for the eye as they fought in what looked like a duel to the death. Blood was drawn, and the wounds certainly looked very real. And still it didn’t end. Pass after pass was completed, only to begin again. The audience was cheering at a wild pitch of enthusiasm, growing louder with each wound and blow.

The fight finally slowed as the two combatants panted and bled, driven to the end of their endurance.

"I’ve had enough," panted Duncan.

"So ‘ve I."

"I’m goin’t die now."

"Me, too."

Both knights staggered about, let their legs fold beneath them, and collapsed--bleeding and apparently dying--to the tattered grass and mud beneath them.

The crowd roared and then stilled as neither knight rose to claim victory. The director stared in stunned horror, and the Queen herself rose in her box.

"A stunning display. We are most impressed," she announced in regal tones, waving a hand at the field. "Will someone kindly remove those brave knights? Their presence is disturbing."

"Yeah. Sure...Uh, as Your Majesty wishes," stammered the director, waving several of the previously vanquished and dead into the ring to survey, firsthand, just how real the carnage was.

"Hey, this guy’s really bleeding!"

"Mine, too! We better call the paramedics."

"Nay, have y’ some ale? Ale will fix almost anything." The men surrounding the fallen knight leaped back. "I’m not dead, not even dying. Just get us off the grass and get us out of here."

"S-sure, dude. No sweat."

Duncan and his opponent were hauled gracelessly from Her Majesty’s presence, bumping across the grass without the least bit of dignity and honor.

"What do we do with ‘em?" gasped the one dragging Duncan.

"Ready tent," panted the director. "Over there."

The two brave combatants were deposited within the canvas walls and abandoned with a thump on a new patch of dirt.

"Ow," moaned the armored knight, sitting up to pull off the annoying helmet. "That wasn’t very gentle."

Duncan sat up and slapped at his much-abused, grass-laden katana. "Now see what you’ve done--gotten my one good set of clothes dirty. What the hell are you doing here, Connor?"

"That kilt’s seen dirt before. And will again. And I was invited."

"Invited?" Duncan’s voice carried tones of great suspicion. "Invited by who? Just who’s idea was this?"

"Mine, of course. I thought of it right after I got Tessa’s fax." Connor grinned, wiping sweat from his chin. "It was a good one, wasn’t it? When was the last time you worked out with a partner, Duncan? You’re getting soft to the left."

"Three minutes ago." Duncan heaved himself up off the ground, and picked up his sword. "With you." He grinned, then reached down to offer his clansman an arm up off the ground. "Where did you get that lot of tin?"

"Front gate." Connor grimaced. "They think it’s authentic."

"They think all of this is authentic. Except me."

"Help get me out of this. It pinches in every tender place a man can have."

Duncan stood back and studied his friend as he struggled to reach buckles awkwardly placed on the breastplate. "You look bloody awful in that."

"Yeah? Well, it’s good to see you, too."

A quick hug managed to baffle the young SCA knight-wanna-be in the tent doorway. "You guys know each other?"

They exchanged glances and grinned.

"Oh, for about three hundred years." Connor shrugged. "Give or take fifty."

"Yeah, right. I was supposed to win, y’know?" the wanna-be challenged. "You guys really screwed it up for me."

Duncan shrugged, while Connor glanced down at his feet.

"Sorry. Nobody told me. Besides, it was his fault," Connor added, pointing at Duncan.

"My fault? Why it is my fault?"

"Because you beat him."

"Oh. Right." Duncan met the aggrieved stare and offered an apologetic grin. "Sorry."

"Sure. But you gotta see the pageant ‘n stuff through, now, ‘cause I’m not the stinkin’ Queen’s favorite anymore. You are. One of you guys."

"Hey, you’re still the favorite. We’re dead, remember? You’re not. And we’re about to go find some ale."

"Dressed like an Englishman," Duncan observed drily as Connor retrieved a carryall containing clean clothes.

"And carrying that sword?" the former favorite put in. "That’s Japanese. Why would an English noble be carrying a Japanese sword?"

"Katana."

"What?"

"It’s called a katana." Connor shrugged, then thrust the sword into a scabbard hanging from his belt. "I get around."

The tent flap was peeled back, and the sunlight flooded the small canvas chamber as Tessa stepped inside.

"That was wonderful. Simply wonderful. And you--" she added, moving to hug Connor fiercely. "I’ve never seen you with long hair before, Old Thing. You look terrific. Of course you’d look good even if you were bald," she added playfully.

"Heh. You have such a way with a compliment." Returning Tessa’s hug, he bent to kiss her on the cheek. "It’s good to see you, Tessa. Thanks for inviting me."

"Thanks for coming."

CHAPTER FIVE

Female! Duncan shouted at his startled reflexes, who wanted to defend and push and fight free. Female. Not Immortal. Harmless.

His eyes widened into Charlotte’s, who was accompanied by a young woman laced into a gown with a bodice so low, she should have been arrested for indecent exposure. While Charlotte’s eyes twinkled and her fingers danced, the other girl didn’t look so certain of herself as she slipped a slender arm around Duncan’s waist, entwined herself closer and blushed slightly.

"All knights are rewarded by the wenches of the realm," Charlotte purred. "Are you ready for your reward?"

Not giving him the chance to reply, she wove her fingers through his hair, yanked down his head, and glued her lips to his.

Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, Duncan tugged, and then yanked when Charlotte’s stranglehold didn’t lessen.

"Mmmf!" was all he could manage beneath her ministrations. Anything more, and he sensed that her tongue would have ventured where her lips could not.

Huh. Make that mostly harmless. That’s why God gave me teeth, he reflected. She’s not the first to offer such rewards, but I’m not interested anymore.

A moment later, Duncan smelled Tessa’s familiar rose perfume as she leaned against his back. Reaching around Duncan, she gouged Charlotte in the ribs.

Yelping, the woman leaped back. "That hurt!"

"Good," purred Tessa, resting her chin on Duncan’s shoulder. "Why don’t you be a good little wench now, and go reward someone else?"

"I was just--"

"I know what you were doing." Tessa didn’t smile. "I suggest you do it elsewhere."

"The kitten has claws," murmured Connor. Stepping around Tessa, he lifted the younger wench out of harm’s reach. Grey eyes raked her briefly, and he grinned. "Aren’t you a little young for a seductress?"

Without a word, the woman backed away shyly and melted into the crowd. Staring after her, Connor sighed.

"They don’t make wenches like they used to. I remember a time when the women didn’t run," he remarked conversationally to Charlotte, who was still exchanging glowers with Tessa. "I miss the Middle Ages." Grinning, he ran a suggestive finger over her breast. "When do I get my reward?"

Before Charlotte could reply, Connor pulled her against him, thigh to thigh, and kissed her long and hard. The woman struggled briefly, only to surrender when strong arms did not release her but began gently stroking the small of her back. The Immortal knight ventured beyond Charlotte’s lips to brush her ears, her throat, and lower.

"Wha...What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Claiming my reward," Connor murmured, nibbling down her bare shoulder. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Uh...Yes. Er, no. That is...Hell, I don’t know!"

"When you make up your mind, you will let me know?" Kissing the tips of her fingers, Connor dropped her hand. The next moment, he was tucking a twenty-dollar bill down her cleavage.

Slinging an arm around Duncan’s shoulders, he summoned Tessa with a grin. "Anybody but me hungry? What do you say, we find some good ale and something to eat?"

"What an excellent idea." Tessa wrenched her eyes away from a wide-eyed Charlotte and marched off with Duncan and Connor on either side. "I’ve smelled that the turkey drumsticks are marvelous."

"Then marvelous turkey, it shall be. Duncan’s paying, right?"

"You lost the fight, Connor. You pay."

"I did not lose the fight. You died first."

"I unseated you. That means that you fell first."

"Doesn’t count."

"Does."

"Doesn’t."

"I’ll pay!" yelled Tessa, wanting to shut them up.

"Such a gracious lady," said Connor. "Are you buying for her, too?" He cocked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the lost waif trailing after them.

Tessa spared a look over her shoulder. Charlotte waggled her fingers at her friend, offered a--for her--shy smile.

"I’m not buying anything for her," proclaimed Tessa. "She’s in the dog house. Of course, considering her trespassing on my property, perhaps she should be in the cat house."

"I’m sorry, Tessa," Charlotte called on the breeze. "I was only playing. It’s a part, remember? I’m acting. Hell, I’m your accountant. How dangerous could I be?"

Tessa rolled an eye in her direction, but declined to answer. They walked on several paces as Charlotte considered her options.

"Are you really very angry with me, Tessa?" she called meekly.

"Maybe," Tessa called over her shoulder, but didn’t stop walking. "Are you going to do it again?"

"Of course she’s not," said Connor. "She’s found someone much better. Haven’t you?" Pausing, he offered his hand. "You’re welcome to join us, if you like. I’ll pay for your supper, sweet wench."

All smiles, Charlotte tucked her hand into his and went gently with the immortal.

"See? It’s not always all the good women," Connor remarked with cryptic cheer.

"I won’t argue," replied Duncan, leaving his audience to decide whether it was Connor’s declaration or his date that he was referring to.

"He’s never seen her in her leathers," Tessa muttered darkly, for Duncan’s ears only. "Connor hasn’t a clue what he’s getting into."

Duncan threw her a sideways glance. "Are you going to warn him?"

"No. Are you?"

Duncan shook his head. "He can figure things out for himself. He’s a big boy; after four hundred years, he should know how to handle himself. Now, where are they hiding those turkey sticks?"

* * *

"It’s about time you got back here!" Richie called, when they were still some distance away from the booth. "I’ve got peasants to pick on, and instead I’m selling pottery."

"Sounds like a child’s nursery rhyme," remarked Connor, picking up a honey jar and peering closely at the cracks in the lid. "Peasants to pick on, pottery to sell...Peasants to pick on...."

"Witches to kill!" Charlotte completed the doggerel and ran a finger up the back of Connor’s neck.

He shivered. Whether from her touch, or her words that surely brought back bad memories of Connor’s first death, Duncan wasn’t certain. Connor found the pottery to be quite absorbing for a few moments.

"We’re back now," Duncan said to Richie. "Have you sold much?"

"The odd ceramic. Some very odd ceramics, in fact," he added, wrinkling his nose at the creator of said pots. A bit of dried mud flaked off, drifting down onto the wares. "And I sold lots of raffle tickets. Want one?" He riffled the tickets at Connor.

"For what?"

"Tessa’s raffling off the harp." Richie nodded at the graceful thing standing atop the table, which made people slow down and stare as they passed. "Twenty dollars a shot."

Reaching up, Charlotte ran her fingers over the strings. "Oh wow, this is gorgeous. Tessa, did you make this? I’m deeply impressed."

"I’ll take one," a girl behind her said.

"No, Duncan made it," she replied proudly. "He’s a man of many talents."

"I want a ticket, too," said Charlotte. "Give me a good ticket, Richie." Drawing out the twenty dollar bill Connor had given her, she handed it over to Richie, who had her scribble her name on one side of the ticket and keep the other.

"It’s all in a good cause," Richie continued his patter on Connor. "For charity."

Behind him Tessa stiffened, and whirled to face him. "What charity?" she demanded.

"A really good cause, milady. It’s The Richie Ryan College Fund." Grinning, the muddy beggar threw down the raffle tickets and held out his very dirty hat to Connor. "Buy a ticket, Gov’nor?" came the very bad Cockney.

Connor shuddered. "Where did you learn to talk like that?""

"Duncan taught me."

"I did not," Duncan protested instantly.

Connor sighed. "I never would have guessed. Don’t teach him anything else. Please."

"Oh come on," Richie protested. "It’s not that bad."

"If I buy a ticket, will you stop that?"

"For you, guv, anything."

"Deal." Ignoring Richie’s hat, Connor handed twenty dollars to Tessa. "Good deal. He’s cheap."

"That’s what you think," Richie grinned. "You just paid me twenty to do nothing. Good deal."

"You don’t want the harp, Connor?" asked Tessa.

"Heh. What will I do with a harp if I win it?"

"Harp on, milord." Doffing his empty hat, Richie skidded off into the crowd before the immortal could retaliate.

"Russell Nash could give it to Rachel," said Duncan.

Connor considered that for a moment. "Rachel would love it. Never learn to play it, but she’d love to have it around. But how would I get it onto the plane?"

"We could ship it to you," Tessa pointed out. "UPS trucks leave every day. Some even go to New York. Or so I’ve heard. Could just be a myth, though."

"Really?" Connor was all wide-eyed innocence.

"Really."

*

The crowd gathered for the raffle drawing two days later was hot and tired and impatient. Bringing out the fishbowl full of tickets, Tessa lost no time in introducing Duncan as the craftsman who had made the harp, and then announced that he would be the one to draw the winning ticket.

"Well, damn," said Connor under his breath when his kinsman called out a number that wasn’t anything close to the one held by the Highlander.

"I’ve got it! I’ve got it!" squeaked Charlotte, waving the ticket in the air and bouncing so hard that Connor was certain, before she was done, the fragile material covering her bosom was going to split and spill forth two of her talents.

Squeezing past Connor, she possessively hauled the four-foot harp off of the counter, only to nearly let it drop in the dust before Duncan caught and carefully lowered it to the ground.

"I’ve never won anything before and I’ve wanted one of these for ever so long. Thank you!" Tears filled her eyes as she pumped Duncan’s hand. "The fact that you made it makes it doubly special."

There’s really a nice person in there, reflected Duncan, once she drops the femme fatale act. On impulse, he stroked her cheek. "I know it’s found a good home with you."

Slipping through the crowd, Connor laid a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder. "Would you like some help getting the harp to your car?"

"That would be wonderful...Oh, no. I don’t have a car. I have a motorcycle." With that, she let out a wail. "How am I going to get it home?"

"It’s all right," Connor soothed. "I have a car. I can follow you home with the harp."

She eyed the fragile instrument as would have eyed a new bridegroom who had just suggested that he and the bride take separate honeymoons.

She’s not letting it out of her sight, predicted Duncan. Not if she has to strap the Harley Davidson to the roof.

"Not so cold as the Highlands in mid-winter."

"Yeah, well, I’m a city kid, and I’ve never b-been to the highlands. D-don’t wan-na go, either. And I b-b-bet you didn’t stand in some icy waterfall somewhere and do this. Quick dip in the l-l-loch, right?"

"As a matter of fact, I didn’t. Nobody did. Bathing in cold water kills people. Take off your jeans."

Richie stared at him, blinking as water poured into his eyes. "No way! Get naked? Here? You’re nuts. I’m not taking off anything. It’s too cold. The mud was all on the outside, anyway."

"I don’t think so. If you don’t take off those jeans, you’ll wish you had in a couple of hours."

Richie scowled. "I’ll suffer, thanks."

"No, you’ll itch. You won’t be able to sit still. And then you’ll start squirming. And if you’re with Connor, he’ll want to know why. He’ll keep at you until you tell him. And then he’ll laugh. You’ll be with Charlotte. too, maybe, and she’ll laugh too. And you’ll still itch. You won’t be able to stop, because there are some places mud shouldn’t go, and between your legs is one of them. Trust me, Richie. For once, trust me, do as I say, and don’t argue. You’ll thank me for it."

Richie laughed. "It’s not that bad."

"No, it’s worse."

"How do you know?"

Duncan gave him a look--one the young man was familiar with--the one that said, I’m not telling. Just do what I tell you and don’t ask.

Duncan shrugged. "Have it your way." Tossing the hose on the ground, he went to turn it off.

"That’s it?" protested Richie. "You’re not going to argue about it?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Why should I? It’s your crotch, your problem. Your body will teach you soon enough."

Richie thought about that a moment. Picking up the hose, he stared at it a moment. "Really uncomfortable, huh?"

"Yes."

Richie sighed. "Okay. Turn on the water."

Duncan did. Richie applied the hose where hoses should never be applied. A couple of soprano yelps quickly soared above the sound range audible to human ears as Richie hosed himself in abject misery. By the time he was finished, he was gritting his teeth so tightly, Duncan feared that he’d crack a molar.

"Feel better?" Duncan asked after he’d turned off the hose a second time.

"N-n-no!" said Richie, through chattering teeth. "Are you certain you didn’t make me do that just to pay me back for that broken window I stuck you with all those months ago?"

"You think I might be sadistic?" Duncan laughed. "First you doubt me, and now you insult me. That’s the thanks I get for helping you."

"Yeah, help me a little more, okay?" Standing naked in the muck, Richie held up his dripping wet jeans. "What do I do now? I can’t get back into these to drive Charlotte’s hog."

"You’ve got other clothes, don’t you?"

He shook his head. "Not with me. Not right here."

Two strides, and Duncan ripped down the shower curtain, thrust it at a startled Richie. "Take this."

Duncan stalked away. Having no choice, Richie wrapped up in the plastic, wincing as it scraped against his cold tender bits.

Fairgoers on their way home straggled by. One woman carried a ferret. The woman with her stopped and stared at Richie as he dipped his toes in a nearby bucket, trying to rinse off mud and other suspicious substances found near the stable, then sought the grass to wipe off his toes.

"Marina, what are you doing?" demanded her companion, who just kept walking. The ferret climbed up to her shoulder, stared back at Marina with little red eyes.

You’re cute, said Marina’s eyes, meeting Richie’s after they’d taken in his bare chest and well-formed shoulders. But why are you wearing that?

He and his shower curtain fled in the opposite direction.

* * *

"We won’t be seeing them again tonight," predicted Duncan after Connor and Richie had left with Charlotte and her harp. "Connor will take Charlotte to dinner, and by the end of the evening he’ll end up staying the night at her house, giving her music lessons."

"Does he know how to play?" asked Tessa.

"Well enough." Duncan’s smirk said that the harp wouldn’t be all that Connor played.

"And what of Richie?"

Duncan finished wrapping the few wares Tessa hadn’t sold. "Richie will be having a loving one-night-stand with Charlotte’s bike. He’ll probably sleep with it, in the garage. They should all have a very good time. Eventually, Connor will return Richie to Seacouver. Once Charlotte can pry his fingers off the handlebars."

"So we get to go home alone?"

"It looks that way." Duncan heaved a box into the van and turned for another.

"We get to be alone?"

Duncan paused to consider this thought. "Seems likely."

"It’ll be just the two of us? For the first time in six months?"

"It would seem so." Duncan actually smiled as he shoved that box into the van.

Tessa liked the sound of that.

"You know," she commented as she folded a dusty tapestry, "I’m really glad that we did this. I’ve enjoyed learning new things about you."

He laughed. "After twelve years, you didn’t know everything about me already?"

She shook her head. "I don’t think I could ever know everything about you. But I’ve learned a few more things."

"Like what?"

"I’ve never seen you and Connor play swords before, or seen you enjoying yourself so completely and having such a good time being...Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod." She imitated his baritone and watched him grin. "Something happens to you when you become...him. It’s neat to watch. Really neat."

"Could you be more specific?"

"It’s neat enough to make my toes curl," she explained. "Powerful. Strong. Male."

"Yeah? You liked that?" His expression changed in the late sunlight, and she danced out of the way when he would have made her toes curl in other ways.

"Duncan, we have to load the van."

"Yes, we do," he agreed solemnly. But his hands said that he didn’t always have things in his hands...And sometimes he could have her in his hands. Her buns beneath his hands. His lips on her neck. His fingers in her hair. His thigh molded against hers. And his lips....

Tessa had to concentrate very hard to ignore the fact that Duncan wanted her now as much as she wanted him and they would probably have to wait until they had returned home to do something about that.

How long will we have alone? her heart was singing. How often can the two of us make love in the next few days? Duncan is an Immortal, and he recovers fast. But I’m a puny little mortal, and I need my sleep...Oh, the hell with sleep. Duncan is more important than sleep. And so is the fun I have with him when he’s not asleep. When he’s awake. Very awake.

"I want to name it after Richie. We’ll call it ‘Mortal with Mud.’"

"Tessa...."

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OBIGATORY DISCLAIMER: The Highlander stories here are entertainment only, and no money is earned from them. They are not intended to infringe upon the rights held by Davis/Panzer Productions Inc., Peter Davis and/or William Panzer, Christian Charret and/or Marla Ginsburg, Gregory Widen, Thorn EMI Screen Entertainment, Hemdale Home Video, Lamb Bear Entertainment, Transfilm-Lumiere-Fallingcloud Productions, Dimension Films, Miramax, Republic Pictures, Lumiere Pictures, Thorn EMI Screen Entertainment or any of their affiliates, associates, distributors, or subsidiaries. The stories are Copyright © 1995, 1997, 2008 for the authors. All Rights Reserved.