Blinking back tears, he lifted his other hand to scratch beneath her chin. "Thanks, sweet lady."

Other horses stood in their stalls--sturdy little cobs and ponies Duncan remembered from his last trip to Glenfinnan. Patiently chewing hay and staring at him impassively, they awaited some tourist’s demand for their services--which probably wouldn’t come until end-of-May, if Duncan knew the Highlands.

"James?" he called into the gloom.

"Here," a voice answered instantly, and a friendly-looking young man stepped from one of the stalls.

"G’morning," said Duncan. "I’ve come for Rachel’s horse. She said I could borrow him for a morning ride."

Narrowing his eyes, James studied Duncan intently. "And ye can ride, aye? Ride well?"

"Well enough."

"Well enough will no do for this beast. Ye must be able to ride."

Duncan smiled slightly and nodded. "I can ride. Just show me where this horse might be, and point out his tack."

Before turning to head for the stall, James gave Duncan a look that said he feared the rider to be more than a little mad. "This one. I’ll bring the saddle."

The Highlander moved forward to peer into the stall. The large dark eye that returned his gaze was less than friendly. A snorting and a crash told him of a kick to the stall wall.

James reappeared, to slap a saddle across the stall door and disappear inside with the bridle. Sounds of a scuffle reached Duncan, as did a few muttered curses. A few moments later, and the groom pushed open the stall door, only to be towed out promptly by a large black horse. Chin bowed to his chest, mouth agape against the bit, the Irish Thoroughbred rushed toward the door and dragged James with him.

"Whoa there, y’daft beast! Wait for the saddle, aye?" Turning, he shot a quick look at Duncan. "Wantin’ a bit of exercise, he is. You’ll have a ride today. Bring the saddle?"

Between the two of them, they got the saddle in place and the girth snugged up, with James slowing the Demon to a fast circle, and Duncan dodging the near hind hoof that slapped at him for the indignity being done the gelding.

James slapped the reins into Duncan’s hands and stepped back. "There y’are. Good luck to ye."

The horse promptly bolted for the stable door. Setting himself, Duncan yanked hard on the inside rein, sending the horse spinning around him. James beat a hasty retreat into the nearest empty stall.

"Wait for me, beautiful thing," he whispered at the snorting beast. "Just a moment, then we’ll be free."

Guiding the dancing Demon out into the stable yard, Duncan wasted no time in swinging into the saddle and dealing with the fractious horse from a better vantage point. Demon promptly reared, and Duncan dropped his weight onto his hands, braced on the horse’s neck.

"None of that, m’lad. Let’s go forward, not up. Off with you, now." With that, Duncan and Demon headed down the road at a moderately controlled trot that would have rivalled a racing harness horse. James yelled something from behind them, which Duncan interpreted as something along the lines of, "Where are your next of kin?" or "We’ll send out a search party for you!" Duncan merely laughed in delight--feeling as strong and arrogant as the animal beneath him.

"They’ve fed you high, locked you away, and made you crazy with idleness, haven’t they?" he commiserated, stroking a hand down the neck that was bowed under his restraint. "You’re not so wicked, only frustrated. You need to run, don’t you? Well, wait a bit, ‘til we get to a safe spot, and then we’ll let you fly, m’boy. Then we’ll fly."

Two miles at a high trot had at least gotten Demon to see reason, and he was marginally more biddable, though not really any slower. But his ears were forward now, rather than pinned to his neck, and the threat of bucking was less. Duncan pulled the gelding toward a path through a field, one leading up to one of the better, less dangerous areas he remembered from his previous horseback tour of gravesites. This field was mostly flat, with gorse bushes and gullies and heather--rocky, but with no really trappy footings.

The field was reached, and Demon was pulled to a halt. Still blowing through his nostrils with anticipation, the horse didn’t appreciate his outing coming to such a rapid stop and said so, yanking at the reins and sidling in circles.

"You want to run?" Duncan asked the horse. "Then run!"

Clapping both heels against the horse’s ribs, Duncan urged the thoroughbred on with a fiendish clan war-cry that the Highlander hadn’t used in centuries. The horse gave a startled bounce, then lit off like a Formula 500 race car.

The trees sped by, the horses mane streamed back to join with Duncan’s dark, flying hair as he poised in perfect balance above Demon’s neck. Immortal and equine tore across the grass as a single unit--muscle and bone, sinew and heart. Demon reveled in his freedom, and so did Duncan, free at last of all the bonds of this century, pelting across the harsh, familiar landscape on the finest war-horse the Clan MacLeod had ever seen.

How long they galloped, Duncan didn’t know, but when--by common consent--they did pull up, both were breathing hard, and were completely happy.

"Aye, that’s the way it should be, isn’t it?" he told the horse, clapping the sweating neck in enthusiastic congratulations. "Let’s walk a bit, and then we’ll see just what you know."

They circled the field on a long rein, walking and contented just to be together. When finally Demon’s breathing slowed and his ears began to swivel to catch new sounds to spook at, Duncan gathered the reins.

"All right, y’great beast. Let’s try something a bit more complicated that a flat run."

Finding what he sought, Duncan remounted with stick in hand--much to the sidling dismay of the horse.

"It’s not for you," he murmured.

Demon rolled a dubious eye back at him.

"So, someone’s beaten you for your hard-headed ways?" Duncan ran a soothing hand down his mane and smiled in commiseration. "Aye. Me, too, over the centuries. Is no an easy thing to be so stubborn, is it? But now we’re going to put all those fancy ways they taught you to work. Hah!"

With that he urged Demon into a gallop, swinging his mock sword by the horse’s side. They leaped and galloped to stop and spin, attacking imaginary enemies, only to lunge forward, turn and gallop back again. By the end of the "battle," three hours later, both Duncan and Demon were panting and glowing with excitement.

"Would that I had such a horse as you four hundred years ago. Or three hundred," the Highlander mused. "Or even two hundred-odd, at Culloden. After that, they gave up on horses. Damn shame it is, too."

Still, no matter how much the world had changed, a Highlander on horseback hadn’t. For that matter, neither had the horses, or the Highlands themselves. Looking around, Duncan realized the land he rode was the same as it had been hundreds of years ago. No highrises stabbed from atop the stones, no sooty air pollution obscured the crags. At the top of the hill was a view to catch the heart--misty cold and harsh, but still as God had made it. The developers hadn’t come here. Would never come here. The Clearances had done their job too well after Drummossie; these rocks, these Highlands, thought Duncan, would always remain. And they would always be barren--at least to those who didn’t or couldn’t understand their wild freedom. And that is as it should be.

Let the years roll on, the Highlands he loved would still be there. No matter how lost Duncan MacLeod felt inside, he could always come home, to the craigs and the heather and the cold. Home, where he had been born and where he had died, again and again and again. And when I die for the last time, please, let it be here. And let me lie between or beneath these rocks--’tis all the same t’me.

He tossed aside his ‘sword’ and, with a final pat, swung the sweating, contented horse toward town. "T’was a good day, laddie. A damn fine day. I’ll do my best to see you get more of them. Shame to let such a one as you stand idle."

They traveled in companionable silence after that, reaching the town with a twinge of reluctance. They were heading toward the stable, with Duncan relaxed and enjoying the musical patter of Demon’s hooves on the tarmac, when a child leaped from behind a car and directly into their path.

Demon, predictably, went straight up and came down with a lunge that took them forty feet further down the road. Where the child ended up, Duncan had no idea as he struggled to reassure and contain the powerful horse.

The gelding came to a halt within yards, but ready to fight, knowing that a beating was the likely consequence of his actions.

"So they beat you for shying, too? Damn fools," Duncan muttered angrily. "I know you were scared, and it’s not your fault. I promise you, it’s all right. You’ll not be beaten again. Shhh, laddie...it’s all right."

The horse rolled a disbelieving eye back at Duncan, still waiting for the blow he knew had to be coming. But when nothing fiercer than a pat to the neck occurred, Demon sighed, and then headed for the stable of his own accord.

The Highlander took his time drying off the sweating horse and bedding him down. He even cleaned the stall himself, for the sheer joy of working with such an animal after being so long apart from them. He left Demon reluctantly--with a handful of grain as a parting thanks--and then headed for the pub. Chapter Three

"Look, it’s that guy you nearly killed," came a high, American-accented voice.

"I did not," replied a sullen male voice, equally young.

"Aww, gee. Then Mom coulda seen a real Scottish funeral, too. Something else to drag us to."

The voices belonged to three adolescent tourists, standing frozen and shivering, like little American popsicles, in the wind. One of the boys looked up at Duncan.

"You’re Scottish, aren’t you?"

"Aye," he replied. "And you’re American. Probably from the mid-west. California, maybe?"

"Yeah!" The boy was startled, then narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "How’d you know that?"

Duncan grinned. "How’d you know I was Scottish?"

"By your accent--Oh! I get it. But if you’re Scottish, how come you don’t wear a kilt?"

"We don’t wear them every day anymore. Just for special occasions."

"‘Cause they’d freeze their balls off if they wore a skirt out here, stupid," came the bored answer from his brother.

"Mom says you shouldn’t talk about your balls in public," said the lone girl. "It’s rude."

"Well, it’s true," glowered her brother. "They’re cold cause it’s cold. And I’ve got pants on!"

"Why don’t you go inside, if you’re so cold?"

"‘Cause Mom wants me to try on one of those skirt-things, and I’m not gonna do it. I’d rather freeze than watch her paw through that stuff again. I’m tired of watching her shop, but it’s better than her dragging us around to look at stupid tarters again--"

"Tartans," his sister corrected.

The boy shrugged. "Whatever. Tatters, tarters, what’s the diff? It’s all stupid stuff. We had to come when it was so cold ‘cause it was cheaper, so why’s she spending all that money on dumb tourist stuff?"

"You wouldn’t have liked summer any better," said Duncan. "The flies are bad." He glanced around, then sat down on the bench they’d been using. "What stupid stuff have you seen?"

"This morning we went to Glass Cow. Before that it was Collie Den."

"Collie Den?" the Highlander repeated, unable to control the grin that was trying to escape.

"No, it’s called Call-a-den," his sister corrected with some asperity. She was a pretty little thing, with dark hair and bright blue eyes, perhaps all of eleven years old. Her thirteen-year-old brother sneered at her.

"Who cares what it was called? It’s a dumb field with some dumb boulders on it. Boooring. Totally bogus."

"Culloden," Duncan corrected gently. "It’s pronounced cull-oh-den. And it’s not a dumb field. It’s likely where your ancestors died, and why you’re not living here in the Highlands, today."

"Live here?" gagged the boy. "No way, man. Like, not in any lifetime! There’s nothing here! No MTV, no music that doesn’t sound like somebody’s squeezing a goose, no movies, no malls, not even anything to eat! I’m gonna starve to death before I get home to a real hamburger. With fries!"

"Oh. And what’s that they serve in the pub I saw you in this morning?" snided his sister.

"Guts. They feed you guts. Kidney pie. Liver stuff. Even something in a sheep’s stomach! I mean, that is like gag-a-maggot time. That is too gross, even for these weirdos. If Mom makes me eat that, I’m gonna puke in my plate." The boy folded his arms in sullen preparation for battle and glared at Duncan."With all these Mac this and Mac that’s, how come they don’t got a McDonald’s somewhere around here?"

"Oh, not here," Duncan advised with a smile. "In London or on Skye, sure. But not here. The Clan MacDonald wasna real popular with Clan MacLeod. What’s your name?"

"Bryan. Bryan Campbell. That’s Jason," he added, pointing at the quiet ten-year-old who had first hailed Duncan. "And that’s Jennifer."

"I’m Duncan. Duncan MacLeod--"

"See, I toldja." Bryan gigged his sister in the ribs. "I toldja he was one of these guys."

"So are you," Duncan interrupted. "The Clan Campbell lived just over there a ways. In fact, we married into each other’s clans, to strengthen ties. So y’might be part MacLeod."

"Naw, I’m from San Rafael."

"Yes, but your grandparents weren’t. Nor your great-grandparents, or their parents. You see, more of your family is from here, more than from there. And don’t worry about the sheep’s stomach. It’s called haggis, and it’s only served in the fall. You’re too late."

Bryan snorted. "Good thing."

Jason edged closer to Duncan’s knee. "Why would we be from here?"

A quick glance told Duncan that the boy was sincere in his question.

"Culloden, on Drummossie Moor, was the battle with the English that destroyed the clans. D’ye ken who King James was?"

Blank expressions told him that the history lesson would have to back up a bit.

"All right. Let me see. James was the king on the throne of England in 1742. He had rights to the throne, was on the throne and that was that. But there was another guy who had equal claim to the throne. His name was Charlach, and he was the son of Mary, who was Queen of Scotland and James’s Mom. Well, Charlie--James’s grandson or cousin or such--should have had the throne, and the Scots wanted him on the throne so that England would leave them alone. So all of the great Scottish warriors lined up behind him to march for the throne."

"You mean our guys went to war against England?"

"That, they did. Not that they really cared that much about it, but their prince came to them, and said ‘We’re going to take the throne.’ And the chieftain of the MacLeods said to Charlie, ‘Go home. You were raised in exile, you don’t speak Gaelic, and we don’t know you. So get lost.’ But Bonnie Prince Charlie said, ‘I am home, and you promised my Daddy you’d fight--’ so he went off raising troups and getting everyone all wired about defending his father and their homeland. Now I’m sure you know that Scots are verra loyal. They’ll do stupid things to prove they’re honorable, and they’ll never, never break their word. So, when the prince said fight, they went. Even the MacLeods and the Campbells."

"That was dumb," commented Bryan. "If they didn’t want to go, why’d they go?"

"Because their honor made them. They promised to defend their king, and their prince after him. So, even if the promise was old, it was still a promise, and off they went. Now a Scot is the finest fighter you’ll ever see. They can run all day, keep up with a horse trotting through the woods, and out-fight anything out there with only a sword and shield. In fact, the sword of the MacLeods is in that pub, right over there. It was the chieftain’s sword for six hundred years, and it went to Culloden. That was probably the last, true battle it saw."

"Can we see it?"

"I’ll show it to you when we go in. Now these Scots were out-numbered at every turn, but they fought so well that they won. They marched through the British defenses until they were only about a hundred miles outside of London. Poor King was so scared he was packing his bags, ready to run. But Charlie was told that charging into London was not such a great idea without more fighters, so the fool turned around and marched four hundred miles back here! Through the ice and snow, through the glens, with the poor soldiers starving and freezing. But they went. And even when the British came after them, they still won. But Charlie took everyone to Inverness, and sat down in the winter weather to wait for the British. And he waited, with exhausted troops, while the British gathered a huge army and came after them."

"That was stupid."

"Tell me about it." Duncan grimaced. "On a cold winter’s morning, with the sleet coming down, the British attacked our thousand men with five thousand of their own. We had a lot of swords and twelve cannons, and about a hundred horses. They had a lot of muskets, forty cannons, about five hundred horses, and fresh, strong, well-fed men. We died. Even then, the clans fought like madmen and could have won, but Prince Charlie directed everything the wrong way. And so, everyone died. Within two hours, most of the clansmen were dead. And that’s when the real problems started. The English killed everyone that wasn’t already dead. They killed the wounded, they killed those who escaped. They killed men in houses who hadn’t anything to do with the battle. And it went on and on, until almost every clansmen was dead. Those that weren’t dead were imprisoned and starved--along with their entire family, left behind on the burned-out, barren Highlands. Many of the surviving men were sold as slaves to the Colonies, or deported to Australia."

"And that’s how we got to California?"

"Perhaps. But along with the deportations came the clearances. The English took the widows and the children, told them they had two days or maybe two hours to get out. Then they’d burn the house and turn the land to sheep grazing. The Highlands were emptied of people. That’s why it’s so empty today. All that’s left of the clans are buried under those boulders you saw at Culloden."

"Why were the English so mean?" asked Jennifer.

"Because we scared them. We could outfight them, could live in places no on else could, could travel quick and quiet and weren’t afraid to fight. D’ye know that Scots sleep in snow when they’re on the move?"

"Sleep IN the snow? No tents or anything? That’s awful!"

Duncan shook his head. "No tent, no blankets even. Just the plaid. Do you know how to tell a wimpy Scot?"

"How?" the three chorused.

"He makes a pillow out of the snow before he goes to sleep."

"Like, for real?"

"For real. Your ancestors were brave. They were strong. They fought for the right causes, and they never broke a promise. They were honorable--"

"And brave and true and helped old ladies cross streets. Yeah, right." Bryan rolled his eyes.

"They fought like demons, howling and swinging a sword. They never forgot anything, and never forgave a grudge or a wrong. They would rather have died than to have lost their honor. They could bear cold and pain and keep right on going. Like the Piper of Duntroon."

"Piper? Like, in bagpipes?"

"Exactly. The Campbells--your family--made a raid on the MacDonald castle on the Isle of Skye. They killed nearly everyone, and left only a few men and their piper to hold the castle until they came back."

"Where’d they go?"

"Off to chase the MacDonald, probably. So they kept the castle nice and safe, until the MacDonald came back. They were rather pissed off that somebody took their castle and killed their mates, so they snuck in and recaptured the castle and killed all the Campbells. Except for the piper. Pipers were exempt from violence under the clan law, because they were very well-educated and brave, and good pipers were hard to come by. Bad ones-- aye, they’re everywhere."

Duncan grimaced and put his fingers in his ears, and the children giggled, the cold forgotten in the presence of this teller of fairy tales.

"Now the Piper of Duntroon was a good one, and he was loyal to his clan. He knew they’d be coming back, and when they did, those MacDonalds would kill everyone, including his clan chief. So every day the piper would climb up to the wall and scan the horizon for a ship. And every day, there’d be no ship, so the piper would sigh in relief, practice his pipes, and then go back inside. But finally came the day that he sighted a sail on the horizon. His clansmen were coming back, and they were sailing into an ambush. So the piper tuned up his pipes, and began to play. The MacDonalds didn’t think much about it. Pipers play pipes and, besides, the MacDonalds of that day were just a wee bit stupid." Duncan smiled at their giggles, and went on.

"But this piper was no so stupid, aye? He played and he played, and at first the chief thought it was really nice of his piper to welcome them to their new home. But as they got closer, he recognized the music the piper was playing."

"What was it?" begged Jennifer.

Duncan paused for the right effect. "It was an dirge. A funeral song. Not the sort of tune to welcome home victorious warriors. So the chief knew they were in danger and likely to die if they went on to the castle. So he turned the ship right around and sailed away, safe and sound."

"And he just left that poor piper?" Jennifer sounded horrified. A quick glance revealed shock on the faces of the boys, as well.

"Aye. The MacDonald’s realized what the piper had done when they saw the ship they’d been waiting for, sailing fast away from them. They were so angry, they took it out on the one Campbell they could reach."

"They killed the piper?"

"They thought the punishment should fit the crime. So they cut off his hands with an axe."

"Eeeeewww! That’s gross. That is so absolutely horrible! So he couldn’t play ever again? That’s just so sad!" exclaimed Jennifer.

"Play?" scoffed her brother. "He couldn’t even pee!"

"Aye. You’re right. But they let him bleed to death, and that only took a few minutes, so he didn’t miss the playing or the peeing much. They buried him under the flagstones in the courtyard. But right away, the piper took up playing his pipes again."

"But he was dead!"

Duncan watched with satisfaction as the realization as to the pipers health hit home. "Aye." Duncan nodded soberly. "He was dead. In fact, he’s still dead. And to this day, he still pipes from the castle walls. He’s heard near every night."

"Wow."

"And that’s the kind of family you come from. They’re big, just like you’ll be. They’re brave. They’re strong. And they hold honor dearest above all, just like that piper. And they never, ever whine," he added, poking Bryan in the belly with a forefinger. "You’re part of Clan Campbell--what’s left of it--scattered around the way it is. But though you were born in America, you’re Scots. Never forget that. Listen and learn what your mother is trying to show you. It’s a fine heritage. Be proud you’re Scottish. And don’t eat the haggis."

The three kids exchanged silence, wide-eyed glances.

"Think Mom is still in the kilt shop?" asked Bryan.

"Yeah. I can see her through the window," answered Jason, standing on his toes to peer up the hill.

Duncan gigged Bryan. "Go see what your clan tartan looks like. Only the Highland men of Clan Campbell were allowed to wear it. Why don’t you try it on. They’re verra comfy."

"Yeah!" exclaimed Bryan, genuinely interested, now. "C’mon, guys. Let’s go."

"Will we see you again?" asked Jason quietly. "I’d like to talk to you some more, if you don’t mind."

Earnest blue eyes regarded him, and Duncan smiled, feeling a stirring of happiness inside that had been dormant for some time.

"I’d like that, too, Jason. And I’ll show you that sword if you still want to see it."

"It’s really six hundred years old?"

"Maybe older. I’m staying in the pub, right there. Ask for Duncan MacLeod."

Jason gave him a smile that settled instantly into his heart. "Cool. Thanks a lot. See ya," he added with a wave before pelting off after his brother and sister.

* * *

Duncan’s face was red with the cold as he shrugged out of his coat, but his dark eyes were alight and his smile was warm.

"Whiskey," he gravel-whispered at her, hunching on an uncomfortable bar stool and rubbing his hands together briskly even as he glanced, with longing, toward the fire. There wasn’t a wraith’s chance of the Highlander’s getting closer to the warmth: Seamus and his cronies were camped out less than a foot from the hearth, leaving scant room for a collie to fit between them and the embers, much less a man of Duncan’s breadth.

Rachel poured the Glenmorangie and noted that Duncan’s sheer presence was enough to not only fill the pub, but to make a few patrons ignore their weekly installment of Spitting Image on the telly. Bringing Duncan his drink, Rachel touched his fisted fingers and wasn’t surprised to find them freezing cold.

"The drink should warm your cockles."

He cocked an eyebrow at her. "D’you think they need warming? ’Tis not but an early spring evening."

"Mmphmm. And did you come back on foot, alone, or with the Demon h’self?"

"Dinna fash." Duncan winked at her. "Your black beauty’s tucked away safe and warm in the stable." Tipping back his head, Duncan drained the contents of the glass. "More."

"Most certainly not," Rachel muttered, her grin belying her grouchy tones. Ach, he’ll know me for a paper tiger for sure, now. Moving away as she felt herself blush, she went to tend safer, less demanding patrons. Her circuit around the room brought her right back to Himself, though, in what seemed to be far too few steps.

She returned the smile he gave her. "You look like a Scottish warrior, blown in from Killicrankie."

"Didna we win that one?" He saluted her with his whiskey. "Here’s to McIlroy and MacIntyre, who knew what t’do against the bloody English." Refilling his glass, Duncan observed conversationally, "My cockles are thawing."

"I’m so glad."

"Have you had your dinner, lass?"

Emptying her tray of dirty glasses, stray napkins and snack crumbles leftover from the Glenfinnan equivalent of happy hour, she shook her head. "Haven’t gotten round to it. Everybody’s makin’ up for the time I cheated them out of last night." She tilted her head toward the regular patrons, who showed no inclination to depart tonight.

Slipping off the bar stool, Duncan relieved Rachel of the tray, caught her fingers to lead her toward the kitchen. "Then let me cook you an omelette, the likes of which you’ve never seen."

"Oh-ho, so the Scottish warrior cooks?"

"How else do you think we fed ourselves?"

She’d never seen him playful, never imagined he could be this playful. And is it him, or the Glenmorangie?

If was her he was playing with, it could easily be her emotions and her heart that he was playing with, and not just her sense of humor. Aye, but it’s a wise lass who never takes a MacLeod too seriously. Go with him, Rachel. Saint Bridget herself knows when you’ll ever get the chance to play with this Legend again.

Her heart twisted with pain at the reminder that he wouldn’t be with her forever on the shores of Loch Shiel. He’s a man who lives forever, and I’ve less time with him than anyone else I’ve known. Another of life’s cruel little ironies, she acknowledged, bitter. That, more than anything, made her take the hand he offered, summon a huge grin, and ignore the stares at her back from the always-gossipy pubgoers.

"Watch the place for me, Seamus?"

The old man nodded without looking up from his chess game beside the fire.

Satisfied that everyone would know who to bother for their next drink, Rachel ordered, "Lay on, MacDuff."

Duncan stopped so abruptly that she almost blundered into his broad chest. Frowning down at her, he proclaimed, in the broadest Scottish accent she’d ever heard--and in strange-accented Gaelic, too, "I’m no’ a MacDuff. I’m a MacLeod. I’d rather die than be a MacDuff."

"Dinner," she said crossly and shoved against his chest, regardless he moved him not a muscle. "It’s too cold to be discussing clan affiliations, and you promised dinner. I’m hungry, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Dinna tell me you lured me in here under false pretenses."

His brown eyes danced. "At least y’got m’name right. Now, I’ll not be tempted to poison you."

*

"You have a fine, beautiful animal out there." The Highlander nodded in the direction of the stable. "Any warrior would have been happy on Demon; he’s strong and smart and fast, brave and brilliant. Knows his job better than many horses I’ve been forced to fight with. We hadn’t a moment’s trouble together."

Rachel stared at him incredulously.

"No trouble..." she repeated in disbelief.

Duncan glanced up, then returned his attention to his plate. "No. No trouble."

"He didn’t throw you?"

"Well, aye, of course he tried. But that means nothing. He was just testing. If you want a warhorse, Rachel, you need to be prepared for a few wars."

He was finished eating, yet it seemed she had barely begun.

She spared him an evil glance. "I bought a hunter, not a warhorse. I’m afraid I had slightly different objectives in mind for that fellow."

"Sorry," Duncan answered, with a raised eyebrow that said sorry he definitely was not. "But y’got the better of the deal, whether you believe me or no."

"Demon’s that good?"

"Aye, he’s more than good."

"Everyone’s been telling me that he’s a hot idiot--and me, as well, for takin’ the beast."

Duncan swung his attention back to her, the smile now gone. "If there’s an idiot in this, it’s not you. Nor the horse. Now, Seamus might fit the description."

"I’ve thought so m’self a time or two." Rachel laughed. "But Demon’s not much of a joy if I canna stay on top of him. Will you help me with him while you’re here?" she asked shyly, as Duncan delivered his plate to the sink and began loading mugs and shot glasses into the dishwasher. "Show me how you handled him?"

The Highlander grinned over his shoulder. "Dumped you off, has he?"

She sighed in exasperation. ""More than once. Look, I’m not inexperienced--I can ride to hounds with the best of them--but not with him. I thought I knew how to manage a horse, but Demon’s something else entirely." She picked at the omelette that had seemed so satisfying before. "I think I’m overmounted. No, I know that I am."

She sighed in exasperation, then rose from the table. "I’ll tell you true, Duncan. I’m getting fair tired of hunting with my backside in the dirt, watchin’ the field goin’ away and my horse with it."

Duncan considered for a moment. "Let me see what Demon does with you, then I’ll tell you if I can help. Right now, though, I think I need a shower."

Closing the dishwasher and turning it on, Duncan turned and gathered Rachel in a hug. Leaning down, he pressed his lips to her cheek in a gesture entirely unexpected and very welcome.

"Will I see you later?" he asked.

She was pinned where she stood, as he had one hand braced on the counter and the other around the back of her neck. His face was so close that she could see the eyelashes dusting beneath his eye.

"Ummm--sure. Of course. I’ll ask Seamus to lock up for me, and be right up the hill. After I hide the expensive stuff, so they don’t drink it all."

Kissing her again--this time on the forehead, Duncan left. For a moment, Rachel sat stunned at the small table.

"Wow," she whispered to herself, noticing for the first time that her hands were shaking. "Let a Scottish warrior borrow your horse, and he warms right up."

Chapter Four

Entering the cottage, she found it in darkness except for the soft light of a candle lit in Duncan’s room.

"What’s this?" she asked the long-legged man perched on the side of the bed, trying to rip through the tangles in his fresh-washed hair.

He glanced at the flame. "Candlelight seemed kinder, tonight. Gentler."

"Here, now. Stop that." Crossing the floor, Rachel took the wide-toothed comb from him. Peering at the instrument of torture, she removed a handful of hair from its teeth. "You’ll hurt yourself with this."

"My hair’s too long," he proclaimed, pouting and looking as though he were ten years old. "I should cut it."

"Keep up with this comb and you won’t have to. You’ll have snatched yourself bald. You didn’t use conditioner, did you?"

He shook his head. "Didna think t’bring any."

"You could have used mine."

"Seemed an awful liberty to take at the time."

She sighed. "Turn about, and let me have at it."