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May Day, 1630
Aberdeen, Scotland
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Cassandra dropped her comb and looked for her sword, as she sensed the first faint warning of an Immortal. Her sword was in its usual place, hanging on its hook next to the fireplace, only a few feet away. There was an identical hook next to the second fireplace on the other side of the room. She slid to the edge of the large four-poster bed, moving carefully so that she did not wake the kitten in its nest of pillows, and took the sword down.

She walked quickly and quietly around the carved chest at the foot of the bed, then flattened herself against the wall between the front door of the house and one of the four large windows on that wall. Her unbound hair clung to her arms and wrists, and she reached back with her left hand and quickly twisted her hair together at the nape of her neck. The sense of an Immortal grew stronger.

A figure passed by the window, and there was a knock on the door. Cassandra didn't move.

"Connor MacLeod," came the muffled words.

Cassandra closed her eyes in relief as she recognized the voice. She had received his message two days ago, telling her he would be in town today, but she knew better than to trust such a message completely. She loosened her hair and smoothed the lace at her throat, then brushed nervously at her garnet-colored skirt. Connor had always liked this color. She opened the door and looked out into the street, her sword raised and ready.

Connor stood on the doorstep, his sword in his hand. He wore the MacLeod plaid as his breacan, its blues and greens falling in elegant folds over a cream-colored sark. The breacan was pinned at the left shoulder with a silver brooch of a running stag and gathered at his narrow waist with a belt of fine leather. A finely tooled dirk hung at his belt, next to the badger-head sporran. His hair was combed back from his high brow, and two narrow braids framed his clean-shaven face. His gray eyes were calm and watchful. It was Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and he was magnificent.

She smiled and took a small step back.

Connor stepped to the doorway and brought his sword up smoothly, knocking hers aside. The point of his sword came to rest exactly between her breasts, not touching her, but much too close.

Cassandra carefully did not move. She had not seen him in over thirty years. There was a look in his eyes that had not been there before; it reminded her of the intent amber gaze of a wolf tracking its prey. Connor was a hunter now, a predator, a killer, and he was making no attempt to hide it. It was Connor, but he was different. She wondered how many heads he had taken.

She stood very still as he looked her up and down. His gaze was intense and unwavering, and she recognized that stare from their sparring days. It was the same look he gave to his opponents in battle. He was watching her, studying her, remembering what he knew about her, her strengths and her weaknesses, her moves and her tricks. She was glad that he was here as a lover and not as a killer. She did not ever want to face him in battle.

"Heh," he said, in a soft pleased voice, and then he smiled. He lowered his sword and strode past her into the room.

Cassandra stared at his back for a moment, debating the wisdom of taking the flat of her sword to his backside. She finally shrugged and shut the door.

Connor was examining the far wall. He glanced through the open door that led into the kitchen, then looked out the two windows that gave a view of the walled garden. He turned around, noting the four large windows that looked out onto the street, two on each side of the front door. Only after he had determined the possible exits did he look about the rest of the room.

Cassandra watched as he glanced quickly at the eating area to his left, well-lit now by the sunlight from the four windows that overlooked it. A square table and two chairs stood in front of the fireplace, and a narrow serving table was underneath the windows on the far wall. A corner cabinet held dishes, and her lap-harp was on a small table in the other corner. Bookshelves stood between the two large windows. He looked to his right, taking in the large bed with the carved chest at its foot and the wash-stand near its head. His gaze was not so quick to leave that side of the room.

"A fine house here," he commented, speaking in Gaelic, the language of his birth.

Cassandra came to stand beside him, her sword still in her hand. "It suits me," she said in the same language, recognizing his wish to feel at home again.

He turned to her and smiled again. "Yes. It does." He looked her up and down again, but his gaze was warmer now. "You live here alone?"

"There is a servant girl who sleeps in the kitchen, but I told her she might visit her mother."

Connor lifted his eyebrows. "How convenient. Does her mother live far away?"

"Not far. But the girl is not coming back for a week." The girl was only coming back to clean the house completely after Cassandra left Aberdeen for good.

"A week?" Connor smiled very slowly. "A week is good." His gaze went back to the lap-harp on the small table in the corner. "You still have your harp."

"Yes, I brought it with me from Donan Woods."

"I've missed the music. Perhaps later, you will play?" His gaze grew warmer still, and now the smile reached his eyes. "But nay the now."

Cassandra took a sudden breath, feeling an answering warmth growing deep within her at his look. "Nay the now," she agreed, smiling back at him. She wanted to know where Duncan was, but she did not want to ask. She forced down her impatience and kept the smile on her face, then walked over to the narrow table against the wall between the cabinet and the kitchen door. "Shall we get comfortable?" she asked, holding her sword level, but still ready, above the table. Having discussions with drawn swords about always made her nervous.

Connor smiled again and gave his dry brief chuckle. He walked over to her and bowed slightly, then they both laid their swords on the table.

Cassandra bowed back, then stepped closer to him, her face calm and unreadable. She could smell the scents she always associated with Connor, heather and horse and wool, overlaid with a faint whiff of soap. She unbuckled his sword belt and stared into his eyes as she slowly pulled the end of it down, so that the thin strip of leather snaked over his shoulder. She caught it as it fell, then placed it next to his sword. Next her hands went to the strap of his dorlach, the small bag used to carry provisions and other items. She lifted the strap from his shoulder and placed the bag on the table. "It's heavy," she commented.

"There's bread in it," Connor replied, "fresh-baked this morning."

Cassandra's eyebrows lifted. "Bread, is it? And fresh-baked." She smiled at him, pleased. "Are you hungry now?" she asked.

"Not for bread."

Cassandra's smile widened. "For oranges, perhaps?" She had bought the last two oranges in the market very early that morning.

"Oranges?" Connor returned her smile and shook his head. "No."

The look in his eyes left her no doubt as to what he was hungry for. She was hungry, too, but she could wait a little longer. And so could he. "A drink then?" At his nod, she poured raspberry wine for herself and whisky for him. She had bought several bottles of whisky for him from a bothy in one of the nearby villages.

"It's a fine day," she said, holding a glass in each hand. "Let's go into the garden." She started for the door which led through the kitchen into the garden and called over her shoulder, "Will you bring the swords?" She knew he was much more interested in her body than he was in her head.

Connor blinked at her show of trust, then grinned. He picked up both swords and followed her outside.

The garden was splendid in early spring, a walled courtyard fragrant with apple blossoms and bright with flowers. Connor joined her on a wooden bench near the garden wall and laid the two swords across his lap.  "A fine garden, too," he said, enjoying the pleasant scene.

She nodded and handed him his drink. "I was fortunate to find this place. I've been here over a year, and I was able to work on the garden last summer." She leaned over and gently touched a young thyme plant that grew next to the bench, then crumbled a clod of dirt between her fingers. "The herbs are coming along nicely." She would not be here to harvest them. She would leave as soon as Connor was gone; she had stayed too long in this place already.

"Still growing herbs, I see." He sipped at his drink.

She shrugged. "People will always need potions and simples to help ease their pains. I was a healer before I became an Immortal." Her hand was tight on her wine glass, and she forced it to relax. She was still a healer, but she had learned to be a killer, too. She wondered if he had heard the intensity of her voice, the quietness there. She knew he would not understand it.

Connor looked at her sharply. "You do not call yourself the Witch of Aberdeen, do you?"

"Indeed, no!" she laughed, then said more soberly, "That would be most unwise." Especially in this time and place. Witch hunts had started again, a more active form of the usual latent hate. Witch hunts and Roland were not the only reason to leave this place. King Charles was on the throne in London instead of Edinburgh now, and she knew that the religious and political unrest surging in the country would soon boil over into outright fighting. She had seen times such as these before.

"Who is the witch of Donan Woods now?" Connor asked. There had always been a witch in Donan Woods, since before his grandmother's time.

"Duncan's Aunt Aileen," Cassandra replied. "She came to the forest one day, and we talked. Her children and her husband were dead, and she agreed to stay at the cottage. That's how it's always been done, you know, one woman following another."

"Then the witch has not always been an Immortal?"

"Oh, no." Cassandra was surprised he should think that. "The witch has always come from the local people, except for me." She sipped at her wine. "But I am witch no longer. To my neighbors, I am plain Bess Lockley, a sailor's widow. My poor husband was lost at sea some years back."

Connor turned slowly to look at her. "I was a sailor."

"Were you?" she asked innocently. She knew that, of course.

He looked at her over his rim of his cup as he took another drink. "And I was lost at sea."

"But found again," she said lightly.

"Aye. It's hard to keep a good man down."

She knew this game, and she enjoyed it. "And are you a good man, Connor?"

He leaned a little closer to her and said softly, "I'm very good."

He had indeed changed. She had not expected him to be so ... sure of himself. He was confident to the point of arrogance, but she didn't mind. It was good to see him growing up. Apparently he had learned how to play this game, too. Cassandra smiled and sipped at her wine. She knew he was definitely interested in playing. Placing his sword between her breasts had been a deliberate provocation, a reminder to her of their meeting in Donan Woods when she had held a blade to his neck. She knew he was trying to establish his dominance over her, to make sure she realized that he was no longer her student, but her equal. Or maybe even her superior. Both in bed, and out of it.

She was willing to acknowledge him as her equal, although, she thought with another smile, he would have to prove his superiority. They could play that game this afternoon, and he could win. It was an important game for a man to win. Later tonight, and all through this week, there would be time enough for love.

She stood. "I think I'm hungry now," she said, looking into his eyes as she leaned over to pick up her sword from his lap.

Connor's eyes were intent and very warm. "Good." He tossed back the rest of his whisky and stood and stretched. "Is there a privy outside?"

She motioned to the far corner of the garden and watched him walk away, the sun shining on his hair. It was lighter now than it had been, bleached by many hours in the sun and wind. Before his hair had been the colors of the warm browns and tans of dried grasses in the fall. Now it was clover honey and amber and the deep dark gold of whisky, but it still looked as soft as she remembered. A fine game indeed.

She went into the house and placed her sword under the bed, then closed the shutters on the windows. She carefully scooped the gray and white kitten from its nest on the pillows and laid it in the basket next to the chest. The kitten stirred and stretched, then lay at full length, limply asleep. Cassandra stroked the soft fur gently, feeling the steady beat of the heart under the fragile ribs. The kitten was a young one, newly weaned. Cassandra had found it mewling in an alley just three days before. She would take the kitten with her when she left.

She took her comb off the bed and put it on the wash-stand, then pulled down the bed-covers and plumped the pillows. She looked at herself in the small glass mirror on the wall. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright, and she knew it wasn't just from the wine. It was good to see him again.

Connor walked into the room, and Cassandra turned quickly from the mirror. She looked at him for a moment, simply enjoying the sight of him, the splendor and strength of a magnificent male. He seemed to dominate the room, his energy and his confidence filling the space around him. She was suddenly very much aware of the beating of her heart.

Connor looked around the room again, quickly and thoroughly. Cassandra saw him smile slightly when his gaze went to the shuttered windows and the turned-down covers on the bed. Then his gaze went to her, and his smile of amusement changed to one of pleased satisfaction. He stood there, waiting for her to come to him.

That was the first move in this part of the game, and it was his. The second move was up to her. She walked toward him slowly. "Have you traveled far today?" she asked, standing very close.

"Not far. A few miles only."

"But perhaps your feet are tired?" she suggested. She motioned for him to sit down on the bed, then looked at the katana he still held in his hand. "Would you like to put that under the bed? Or should I do it for you?"

A slow grin touched Connor's eyes. "I'll take care of this sword." He leaned over and placed it under the bed. "And this." He carefully removed his sgian dubh, the needle-sharp knife tucked into his boot, and set it next to the sword, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

Cassandra nodded gravely, though her eyes were also amused. She knelt in front of him and took off his boots, muddy and dusty from the road. She slid her hands up his legs and unrolled his stockings, then pulled them off, leaving his feet bare. She rose smoothly and set the boots and stockings on the hearth, then went to the wash-stand that stood against the wall next to the head of the bed. She washed her hands in the basin there, using the lavender-scented soap she had made last winter.

She had just reached for a towel when his hands came to rest firmly on her shoulders, surprising her. She took a deep breath against the thudding of her heart, feeling the warmth of his body close behind her.

"All clean?" he asked, his voice against her ear.

"Yes," she managed. She quickly dried her hands, then turned to face him. "All clean." She laid her palm against his cheek. "Is my hand cold?" His skin was very smooth. He must have shaved recently.  He inclined his head slowly, moving his cheek against her hand, not bothering to answer.  She spread her fingers and traced the outline of his cheekbone, his ear, the line of his throat. She moved her hand slowly, her thumb moving gently across the fullness of his lower lip, then her hand slid down to his neck, the skin rougher there, not quite so clean-shaven. She could feel the faint prickles of his beard and the steady pulse of his blood. Her hand slid lower, under his sark, feeling the smooth muscles underneath the curling softness of his hair. "That's warmer," she said softly, as he shivered under her hand.

"Aye," agreed Connor huskily, "but it's only one hand." He caught her other hand in his and brought it to his lips, placing warm kisses on the back of her hand, following the lines of delicate bones there. He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then traced each finger with his teeth, while his fingers continued to caress the back of her hand.

Cassandra caught her breath. "Connor--," she began, then was abruptly silent as his lips came down upon hers swiftly, warming them, claiming them for his own. The whiff of soap had faded now, and she smelled his fresh scent instead.

Their hands were still touching, and he entwined his fingers in hers, gripping her tightly, holding her close. His other hand went to the nape of her neck, moving under the curtain of her hair. His fingers spread out and massaged the base of her skull, while he gently urged her lips apart with his tongue.

Cassandra opened her mouth to him willingly, eagerly, tasting the faint peat flavor of whisky on his breath and on his tongue. She moved her hand from his chest up over his shoulder to his back, pulling him closer to her.

He moved his fingers slowly through her hair, separating the shining strands. He pulled his head back from the kiss and raised a strand to his lips. He circled her slowly until he came to stand behind her, then nuzzled his way through her hair to the soft skin of her neck. "I love the feel of your hair," he said quietly.

Cassandra shivered at the deep tones of his voice so close to her. She closed her eyes as his lips moved to the tender spot below her ear, then bowed her head as he traced the softness of her neck with his kisses. His hands moved to cup her breasts, and she moaned deep in her throat and leaned back against him. "Connor," she gasped, as his thumbs gently coaxed the nipples to hardness. She placed her own hands over his, marveling at the strength and the gentleness there, and lifted one of his hands to her lips, kissing the palm and then tracing his long slender fingers with her teeth as he had done to her earlier.

Now it was Connor's turn to gasp, and his hand tightened on hers. She leaned back against him, and felt Connor shudder as she pressed the softness of her backside against the hardness in his loins. His grip tightened unconsciously on her breast, and she arched against him again, moving her hips in slow small circles that turned the pressure into delicious agony, both for him and for her.

He turned her to face him then, quickly, urgently, and kissed her again, one hand in the glorious length of her hair, the other hand sliding down the curve of her back to pull her closer to him.

Cassandra opened her mouth to him again, and reached up to pull his head closer. His hair was soft, and it curled around her fingers. She remembered the feel of it on her bare skin from many years ago, and wanted to feel it again. As the kiss ended, she whispered against his mouth, "Take my clothes off, Connor."

He pulled back to look at her, his eyes dark with desire.

She continued in a low voice, "I want to be naked in your arms." She saw his eyes narrow slightly, and she felt an answering flush in her own cheeks. It had been a long time since Connor had undressed her.

He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around, and then his hands went to the front of her bodice. He untied the bow, then slowly loosened the laces which went down to her waist. His hands followed them, loosening them, opening them, spreading apart the fabric. His hands moved up, under the warm, heavy cloak of her hair, and slid the loosened bodice back from her shoulders and down her arms, letting it fall to the floor.

Cassandra closed her eyes as she felt his hands moving on her. The heel of his hand settled on her navel and his fingers splayed downward, underneath the waistband of her skirt. As his fingertips moved in slow delicate circles, she leaned back against him and drew a shuddering breath.

But he hadn't finished undressing her yet. His hands busied themselves at her waist, untying the strings of skirt and underskirts. They fell to the floor as well, and she stood clad in only her shift and corset and her stockings. There were more laces to be loosened, and now as his hands made their way downward, his long fingers slipped under her corset between the laces and caressed her warm skin through the thin material of her shift. The corset followed the bodice to the floor, and he untied the bow at the neck of her shift, pulling the thin fabric wide until both her shoulders were bared.

He turned her to face him again, then lowered his head to side of her neck, kissing his way down the soft skin there to the harder planes of her shoulder. Connor grasped the shift in his teeth and pulled it down even farther, then did the same on the other side. He straightened, his eyes very intent, then hooked the cloth around his thumbs and slowly slid his hands down her arms, pulling the cloth down to her waist, revealing her breasts. Cassandra caught her breath as the touch of cool air was replaced by heat when Connor bent his head and suckled briefly at each rosy tip, teasing them round with teeth and tongue.

Cassandra swayed on her feet as the heat from her breasts moved deeper within her. She placed her hands on his shoulders, then closed her eyes again as he gave a final, demanding tug on each breast. She heard the soft whisper of cloth as her shift fell to the floor. His hands did not touch her, but Cassandra could feel the heat of his body close to her. She tightened her grip on his shoulders as he sank to his knees before her.

A gentle touch, the barest brushing of his fingertips behind her knee, as he untied her garter. Then more ghostly touches as he slowly rolled down the woolen hose. She lifted her foot and he pulled her stocking off, his hands sliding firmly along her feet, but touching her only through the cloth. She felt him turn slightly under her hands, then he removed her other stocking in the same way. Finally, she was naked before him, and finally, he touched her.

His hands started at her feet, then moved up to her calves, following the long curve of muscle there. His fingertips brushed again on the tender spots behind her knees, just firm enough not to tickle, just gentle enough to tease. Then above her knees, as he straightened his back to kneel before her, his hands encircling her legs, his thumbs tracing delicate lines up the inside of her thighs while his fingertips pressed more firmly on the outer curves. His  hands moved still higher, his thumbs moved closer together, until finally they touched at her core.

Cassandra gave a sudden sharp gasp, and she tightened her grip on his shoulders again. Still gentle, still teasing, his thumbs touched and caressed, stroking her, opening her, reaching inside her to kindle the fire within. Then his thumbs moved apart and away, and his hands slid to the backs of her thighs.

"Connor," she pleaded as she opened her eyes, aching for him to touch her once more.

He smiled up at her, then laughed softly, and she felt his breath warm upon the softness just under her ribs. Then the warmth changed to heat as he touched his lips to her, kissing her gently, blazing a path of fire upon her skin as he moved ever lower. He paused at her navel, his tongue flicking out in a flash of moistness, while his hands urged her legs apart. Then the kisses started to move lower again.

As Connor settled back on his heels, Cassandra's hands moved from his shoulders to his head, and she twined the softness of his hair around her fingers. Connor's hands were moving once more, his thumbs resuming their gentle caresses, and she trembled at his touch. Her arms and her breasts felt cold, but she welcomed the contrast to the heat she felt deep within her. Then Connor leaned forward, and Cassandra didn't feel cold anywhere anymore.

"Connor!" she gasped, as he gave her the sweetest kiss of all. She moaned deep in her throat and swayed on her feet, pulling his head closer to her. She closed her eyes again, surrendering herself to the sensations sweeping over her, through her, in her. The fierce liquid fire spread from her center and danced along her veins, spreading to her arms and legs, making her shake with desire.

Connor's hands moved to her hips and held her firmly, then he slowly kissed his way back up to her mouth. "Maybe you shouldn't be standing," he suggested, a small smile playing about his mouth.

"Perhaps not," Cassandra answered breathlessly. "But first I want to be naked in your arms." She stepped close to him, relishing the rough feel of his wool breacan against her skin, the warmth from his body, the strength of his arms about her, the strands of his hair mingling with her own on her breasts. She slid her hand to the back of his neck and pulled him closer for a kiss. The smoky tang of whisky mingled with a newer taste, faintly salty, faintly sweet.

Connor bent his head and kissed her again, his hands moving unhindered now up and down her body, feeling the resiliency of silken skin over smooth muscle. His hands went to her rounded backside and gripped her there, lifted her slightly and held her close against him, wanting to join with her now, to lose himself within her once again.

Cassandra sensed his impatience and felt it herself. She stepped back a little, then her hands went to his belt and swiftly undid the buckle. She laid the belt with its dirk and sporran on the wash-stand, then came back to him and unpinned the brooch at his left shoulder. "I hope you're not cold," she said, as she pushed his breacan off, leaving him clad only in his sark.

"No," said Connor, "but maybe we should both lie down now."

"We should," she agreed, "right here." She placed both hands on his chest and pushed him backwards hard.

He sat down abruptly on the bed, then reached forward and caught the end of her long tresses in each hand. He leaned back a little on the bed and looked at her as she stood before him. His gaze moved slowly down her body, and Cassandra felt the heat in her body follow the path of his stare. Then he returned his gaze to her face and started to wind her hair around each of his hands, slowly, gently, pulling her ever closer to him.

She came willingly and stood between his legs, trapped by his hands in her hair and the intensity of his expression. She laid her hands on the tops of his thighs and looked into his eyes while she very slowly eased her hands under the hem of his sark. Her hands disappeared completely under the cloth, and Connor closed his eyes as her fingertips met at the soft line of hair on his belly.

"Cassandra," he growled, as her fingers moved apart again.

She laughed softly and tugged at the bottom of his sark. "I want you to be naked in my arms, too."

Connor drew in a sudden breath, then unwound his hands from her hair. He obligingly stood up so that she could tug his sark higher. When he sat back down she moved closer to him and pressed her thighs against the inside of his own.

She smiled at him, a slow lazy smile, and slid her hands up along his hips, his sides, his ribs, pulling the sark higher. The game was going quite well.

Connor lifted his arms and let her pull the sark over his head. She dropped it on the floor, then went to her knees before him. His hands went to her hair again, and he wound his fingers in it tightly.

Cassandra closed her eyes as she knelt between his legs, relying on touch and taste and smell and heat. It was not at all difficult to find what she wanted. His shaft quivered as she traced her way up its length with the pointed tip of her tongue. She swirled her tongue slowly over its head; Connor's sharp gasp allowed her to rely on sound as well as she slowly drew him into her mouth. She had told him she was hungry.

But she was hungry for more than that, and after a few moments she lifted her head and kissed her way up to his chest.

Connor was hungry, too. He pulled her up by the arms until she was standing in front of him again. Then he grasped her by the waist and lifted her up onto the bed and pulled her with him as he lay back.

She knelt above him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands resting on the bed above his shoulders. Her hair hung down around them, and brushed his face and chest. She lowered her head to kiss him, inhaling his sweet musky smell as the tips of her breasts barely touched the softness of the hair on his chest. She moved her hips in that same slow, small circle she had used when he was standing behind her.

Connor groaned and arched upward, but she moved upward, too, and whispered to him teasingly, "Tell me what you want."

He did not speak, but the heat in his narrowed gaze was answer enough.

Cassandra smiled again, and her own eyes narrowed as she ran her tongue over her lips and her gaze traveled downward. He was magnificent. She lowered her head to kiss him again, this time lowering her hips as well. "Tell me what you want," she repeated, feeling the heat from him very close indeed to the heat within her.

He surged upward again, seeking to join with her, but she lifted her hips again and shook her head, smiling.

"Tell me," she whispered. "I want to hear you say it."

"You." Connor placed his hands on her hips, holding her firmly. "I want you."

She felt a sudden spike of desire at his words and at his touch, but she took in a slow breath, not wanting to give in to the passion between them just yet. "Do you want me to kiss you?" she asked playfully, and did so, a swift and passionate kiss.

"Do you want me to sing to you?" She smiled when she saw him catch his breath at that suggestion, and she kissed him again, lingering now at the sweetness of his mouth. "Later," she promised, then moved her hips under his hands until she felt the warm tip of his manhood against her. "What do you want now?" she asked softly, as she moved back and forth, up and down, very slowly, very carefully.

Connor stared at her between slitted lids. "I want to bury myself in you," he whispered, his voice rasping.

She smiled in triumph and started to move downward, but he tightened his grip on her hips and held her still.

"What do you want, Cassandra?" he asked and shifted upward just a little, her warmth and her moistness around him, then retreated, holding her off when she tried to follow him down.

"I want you," she said breathlessly, pleased that he was joining in the game.

Connor's mouth curved upward in a slow satisfied smile, and he asked, "Do you want me to kiss you?" He lifted his head to reach her lips with his own, and as he did so he moved his hips upward again, a little higher this time, but still he held her motionless above him. Her sharp gasp as he entered her and then retreated was muffled against his mouth. "What do you want now?" he demanded, lying back on the bed.

"You," she admitted, and tried to move downward again, prevented again by his hands on her hips. She wet her lips and said huskily, "I want all of you, inside of me."

"Good," he said simply, and surged upward at the same time as he pulled her onto him. She saw him smile with great satisfaction at her sharp cry as he buried himself inside her.

The long separation was over, and they moved together, but Connor kept his hands on her, controlling her movements, holding her where he wanted her. First close against him, then higher, barely touching, moving only slightly, then close again, his eyes intent upon her face while he moved inside of her, where she had said she wanted him to be.

He moved her higher again, away from him, torturing her with just the barest connection between them, and certainly torturing himself as well. She knew he was determined not to let her control him; he was determined to win this game.

"What do you want now, Cassandra?" he asked, not moving at all.

"Please," she whispered as she writhed against his hands. She didn't want to play anymore.

"Tell me." He started to move again, carefully, exquisitely, barely inside her.

"I want you." She was panting in short shallow gasps. "You, Connor. I need you," she demanded hoarsely. He always liked to hear his name.

He let go of her then, let her control her own movements, let her choose the rhythm of the ride. They moved together now, adapting and responding to each other, finding once again the ways to merge the two of them into one.

The tempo increased and the rhythm intensified, and Cassandra grasped his shoulders while his arms went about her and held her close. "I need you, Connor," she repeated urgently.

She felt his hands slide down to her flanks and grip her tightly once again, but this time his hands moved with her, urging her on as she moved with him in short quick bursts. "All of you," she whispered fiercely, "all of you, inside of me."

Connor cried out and slammed her hard against him, while he surged upward inside of her, burying himself, losing himself, finding himself within her, over and over again.

Cassandra cried out, too, and closed her eyes as the waves from him started the waves deep inside her, spreading in ever-growing ripples from the center of her being. She held on to him tightly, the only solid thing in a universe of shifting waves and ebbing tides.

Her eyes still closed, she surrendered to the delicious lassitude that followed love-making and relaxed bonelessly on top of him, her hands lying limply on his chest, laying her head next to his, their hair mingling on the pillow.

Connor wrapped his arms about her and held her close. She could feel the beat of his heart against her own. After a long silence, he recovered enough to run his fingers idly through her hair. They lay quietly, luxuriating in the feel and the touch and the smell of each other, the warmth and the smoothness of skin against skin.

"I've missed you," she said, her voice muffled against his hair, hoping he would say the same. She had missed him very much.  He was the only Immortal friend she had. He was the only friend she had. She never stayed in one place long enough to make friends.

Connor moved his hand slowly through her hair and kissed her gently. "It's been a long time."

"Long indeed," Cassandra agreed, accepting his words with resignation. He had not missed her. Of course, he had been busy: traveling, learning, seeing new places, meeting new people. New women. She knew Connor had not been celibate these last thirty years.

She did not begrudge Connor his life, his travels, his adventures. Not at all. She had had her chance at that once, long ago; he deserved his. And besides, what could she offer him? A lifetime, many lifetimes, of running and hiding, always in fear. She could not ask Connor to stay with her; Roland would find out eventually. She did not want anything to happen to Connor. She needed him, too, in a very different way than she needed Duncan. This time in Aberdeen was dangerous enough; she did not want to endanger him further. This would be a pleasant week between friends; she would speak of nothing more.

But she could let him know how pleased she was that he was here. She kissed him quickly and caressed the line of his jaw. "It's good to see you again." She smiled at him tenderly. "You make me feel ... so alive." He made her feel like a woman again.

"Alive?" he questioned.

"As you said, it's been a long time." Longer for her than for him. She had not been with another man since she had said good-bye to him in the birch grove. She did not trust other Immortals, and she did not dare become intimate with mortals. Roland had hurt too many people she cared about for her to take that chance again.

"Too long," he said, slipping his hand under her hair and tracing his fingers down her back. "What have you been doing?"

Running. Hiding. "Traveling," she said lightly, "seeing how the world has changed since I went to the Highlands. And you?"

"Traveling," he replied, "seeing the world for the first time."

"And what have you seen?" She propped her head up on her hand to look at him.

"London, Araby, the Indies, the Cape of Africa. The sea."

"You love the sea," she said, seeing the far-off look in his eyes.

He looked at her in surprise, then nodded slowly. "Aye, I do," he said, "The wind, the endless sky ... 'Tis freedom."

She could not begin to imagine what that felt like.

He shook his head a little. "'Twas strange to come back to the Highlands."

"Yes." She knew it would become stranger still, as the tide ebbed further. "How long have you been back?" When did he find Duncan?

"I received your letter about six years ago. It took me almost a year to get back to the Highlands, and I didn't find Duncan until the next spring, in '25."

Cassandra nodded and looked interested, hiding her displeasure. Duncan had spent two and a half years wandering on his own, banished, alone, unaware of what he was. If she had been where she should have been, waiting for him in Donan Woods, he could have spent some of that time with her. She knew she could not be Duncan's teacher, but she could have at least explained his Immortality to him, and Connor would have known where to find him. But she had not been there.

Connor asked, "You received my letter, did you not?"

"Yes, indeed." Cassandra smiled at him. After traveling for five years and looking for Connor, leaving letters in the different ports, she had returned to Edinburgh. There she had found Connor's letter waiting for her, telling her that he was going to the Highlands to look for Duncan. She had followed, wanting to see Connor, needing to see Duncan. She had to know how the training was going.

It had taken her several months to find them. She had gone to the Highlands, then finally found them living in the remains of Connor and Heather's home at the forge outside the village of Glencoe.  She had watched from a distance, catching occasional glimpses of the  two of them sparring and talking. It was not enough, but she did not dare get any closer. She knew Connor would not like being watched, and she did not want Duncan to see her and Connor together. She wanted Duncan to know her as the mysterious witch, not his teacher's lover.

Connor moved his hands up and down her back, massaging gently. "I was glad to get your letter, too. Did you send the letter from Aberdeen?"

"Yes," Cassandra said, arching up against his hands and making small contented noises deep in her throat. She had not sent the letter from Aberdeen. She had left the letter for Connor at the  village church after she had finished watching them. She knew he had business interests in Aberdeen; it was a good place to wait for him. She had not thought it would take him so long to come visit; it had been over a year since she left the letter. Her hand followed a circular pattern on his chest, her fingers running through the soft hair. "I thought it would be good to see each other again."

"Very good." Connor pulled her closer for a quick kiss. "It's been a long five years with Duncan at the forge, though we've been traveling about in the Highlands this last year."

So that was why it had taken him so long to come to Aberdeen. She asked lightly, "And you've been five years alone with Duncan?" If it had really been five years, then he had indeed been torturing himself earlier. He had also learned a great deal about control. She smiled fondly and ran her hand up and down his ribs, relishing the solid strength of him.

"Aye." Connor grimaced. "Those country lasses are all too respectable." He looked at her and smiled contentedly. "But I'm not with a country lass now."

"No," Cassandra agreed, smiling, "that you are not."

His smile became a grin, and he stretched, lifting his arms high above his head and flexing his legs and his feet.

Cassandra watched him, her gaze traveling over the sculpted muscles, the long graceful line of him, the strength in him. Goddess, what a beautiful man he was.

Connor finished stretching and saw her looking at him intently. "What?" he asked.

Cassandra blinked, brought out of her reverie. She traced a fingertip delicately down the center line of his chest. "I was just enjoying watching you," she said. She looked into his eyes then and saw the slight embarrassment. She had forgotten how shy he was about this. She leaned over and kissed him thoroughly. "You are a beautiful man," she said, her voice full of conviction and certainty. "I could look at you forever."

Connor chuckled, his embarrassment melted away in the warmth of her regard. "Well, we are Immortal. You might get a chance at it."

Cassandra smiled, and for once when she was thinking of the future, it was a real smile. She might have a chance at it after all. Duncan was here now; it should not be much longer. She shook herself mentally. She didn't want to think of Duncan now; she wanted only to enjoy this time with Connor.

Connor yawned and closed his eyes as he stretched again. He was not expecting the sudden attack on his toes. "What in the name of ...?" His eyes flew open, and he jerked his legs out of the way, sitting bolt upright and shoving Cassandra off the edge of the bed.

At the foot of the bed crouched a ferociously intent kitten, ears pricked forward and whiskers quivering, hindquarters tensed and tail up as it stared at the object of the hunt: Connor's toes. His big toe was nearly as long as the kitten's head.

"What's this?" Connor leaned forward and picked up the kitten with a quick grasp of the skin at the back of its neck. The kitten batted at him with its front paws. It fit neatly into the palm of his hand. "A monstrous beastie here." He moved his thumb slightly and the kitten pounced, sinking its needle-like teeth into his flesh, extending its claws. "A most ferocious monstrous beastie."

Cassandra looked up from where she sat on the floor. "Most ferocious," she agreed dryly, rubbing her hip.

Connor did not spare her a glance. "What do you call it?" he asked, rubbing his thumb on the kitten's neck.

"I haven't named it yet," Cassandra said, as she stood up and took out a robe from the chest at the foot of the bed. "I found it a few days ago."

Connor stroked the soft white fur on its paws, then rubbed behind its ears. "Beastie, then. A wee beastie."

Cassandra shook her head at the sight of him, a naked Highland barbarian playing with a kitten. She pulled on her robe and tied the belt, then threw Connor's sark at him. It hit him in the back. "Are you ready to eat now?" she asked.

Connor nodded without looking at her. The kitten had started purring very loudly under his hand as he rubbed its belly.

Cassandra had to smile at that. She had purred under his hand earlier. She went to the kitchen to slice the bread that Connor had brought, then carried a tray of food back to the room. The bread and cold chicken went on the table, the bottle of whisky near Connor's glass. She brought over two bowls and two plates from the corner cabinet and set the oranges in the bowls.

Connor pulled on his sark and joined her at the table. The kitten purred loudly on his lap. He picked up the white and blue porcelain plate in front of him. "You were in Amsterdam."

"Yes," Cassandra said, surprised. "How did you know?"

"We carried a shipment of these dishes from Batavia to Holland." He smiled contentedly. "I made a fair profit on that voyage; the porcelain is from the Japans and is very rare. And very expensive."

"I know," Cassandra said dryly. She had learned to make porcelain many centuries ago when she had traveled in the Orient. She had been so pleased to see it again that she had bought the four pieces, no matter the cost.

He grinned at her across the table, then examined the plate more closely. "It's an Imari, still in the old style. We heard that the next shipment would have more colors." He grinned at Cassandra again. "Those will cost even more."

She had to smile at that, too. He had indeed changed. She had never thought to see Connor interested in dishes. He set the plate down and served himself, then leaned his chair back against the wall. The kitten decided to perch on Connor's shoulder and peered out from behind strands of Connor's hair.

Cassandra regarded the kitten with amusement. She liked getting tangled in Connor's hair, too. "And how is your student?" she asked as she put a piece of bread and some chicken on her plate. It was not an unreasonable question to ask now, and she needed to know more about Duncan.

"Pig-headed." Connor glanced about at the table set with linen napkins, elegant glassware, and porcelain, and shook his head. "His manners are rough."

Cassandra looked down at her plate quickly, but not quickly enough to escape Connor's notice.

"What?" he demanded.

She had forgotten his mannerism of narrowing his eyes slightly and tilting his head when he was annoyed. It was reassuring to see that not everything about him had changed. She said lightly, "I seem to recall Ramirez saying much the same of you."

Connor snorted in remembrance. "Aye, he told me I had the manners of a goat."

Cassandra could hear Ramirez saying exactly that. She was very careful not to smile. "You learned. And Duncan will, too."

He shrugged. "I suppose." He leaned forward and poured himself a glass of whisky, wincing as the kitten dug its claws in to keep its balance as he moved. "Duncan's good enough. Strong. And brave." Then he shook his head again. "But too damned stubborn."

Cassandra managed to say gravely, "Ramirez said that about you, too," and then she could contain her amusement no longer.

This time when Connor looked up he saw Cassandra's full smile. He grunted and looked away, then looked back at her with an answering glint of humor in his eyes. "Aye." He took a drink and a bite of chicken. His expression grew serious again. "Duncan has nightmares."

Don't we all? thought Cassandra bitterly. Still, Duncan was very young for that. She put an expression of polite concern on her face. "Nightmares?"

Connor nodded and reached for a chicken leg. "About being banished. About where he came from."

"Ah." The age-old question. "You were the one who found him," she pointed out.

"Aye, I know." He started to pull the skin off the chicken. "But I do not know where he came from, either."

"Then there is no reason to tell him, is there?" Cassandra said smoothly. "It would not answer what he really wants to know." She definitely did not want Connor and Duncan to discuss her. There was also Roland. She did not wish to mention him, but she had to remind Connor of the danger. "And, Connor ..."

He looked up from his task of picking off the meat.

"You could not explain how you found him unless you mentioned me." At his nod, she continued slowly, "You remember, do you not, that I asked you not to mention my name to Duncan, because of the Immortal who hunts me and my students?"

"Yes," Connor answered immediately. "Roland."

Cassandra did not answer immediately. She could not say that name so easily. "Yes. Duncan will be safer if he does not know of me."

Connor thought about it, then nodded. "Aye," he agreed, "I'll keep the silence on this." Connor placed the kitten on the table and fed it scraps of the chicken, smiling as it pounced upon the meat.

Cassandra couldn't stop herself from asking any longer. "Where is Duncan now?"

Connor shrugged and said shortly, "He met a girl. A trip to Aberdeen wasn't very interesting to him."

Cassandra paused with her hand on her glass. "You left him alone?"

"Why not?" Connor looked at her curiously. "He's not likely to meet many Immortals in the Highlands."

"It only takes one, Connor," she said acerbically. "And there can be only one." She spoke those words clearly and distinctly.

Connor had been about to take a drink, but he stopped and set his glass down on the table and looked at her closely. "He was on his own before I met him," he reminded her with some asperity.

Cassandra blinked and looked away, then lifted her glass for a drink. Too much. Too fast. "You're right, Connor," she said, trying to hide her worry and her anger. Nothing must happen to Duncan. "He'll be fine." She hoped. She had seen him in her visions, and she thought he would survive to fulfill the prophecy, but she had to be absolutely sure.

Connor leaned back in his chair and regarded her evenly for a long quiet moment. "Why are you so worried about Duncan?"

Cassandra lowered her lashes and sipped at her wine, thinking quickly. The truth was best; Connor was good at reading her. Some of the truth anyway. "I think it's because of how you brought him to me, perhaps. I've never met an Immortal so young before, or held one in my arms as a baby." She smiled at him across the table, reminding him of that night, of that bond between them. "I saw him from time to time as he was growing up." Then she looked away, acting a little embarrassed. "I think I feel ... almost like a mother to him." She glanced at him quickly, wondering how that had worked. Connor was nodding slightly, and the coldness was gone from his face. Cassandra breathed out quietly in relief. Good. He believed her.

"He's thirty-eight years old, Cassandra," he said dryly, but she could tell he was pleased at her answer. He set his chair back down with a thump and put the kitten on the floor. He reached for his knife and an orange, then laughed as the kitten started to assault his feet again. "A most ferocious beastie, is it not?"

Cassandra laughed, too, then stood and scooped up the kitten and put it in the kitchen, closing the door. She sat down again and reached for the other orange. She split the skin open with her fingernails, then pulled the orange apart. Juice squirted out across the table and hit Connor on the cheek.

Connor reached for a napkin and wiped his cheek, looking at Cassandra in annoyance.

"Sorry," she said, sucking on her orange section.

Connor nodded, then devoted himself to his own orange.

He was eating the last orange section when Cassandra squirted him again, this time across the nose. When he looked over at her, she smiled mischievously. He started chewing slowly and thoroughly, looking both irritated and amused.

Cassandra stood and came over to him. This should take his mind off Duncan. She reached out her hand and carefully traced the line of the orange juice on his nose, then licked the stickiness from her finger. She bent her head and used the tip of her tongue to clean him, like a cat cleaning its fur. "Did I miss any?" she asked.

Connor pointed to his cheek where the first juice had landed, and Cassandra slowly licked him clean. "Here," he said and pointed to his mouth.

Cassandra smiled and moved to his mouth. She could taste the juice of oranges on his lips as she licked them, slightly sticky and bitter-sweet, mixed with the tang of whisky. She smiled at him, a slow, knowing smile, then knelt beside him. "And we can't forget here," she said and reached for his hand.

She brought his hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, using her senses of taste and smell to find the juice. There was some on his palm and some on the webbing between his thumb and his forefinger, but most of the juice was on his fingertips. She drew each finger into her mouth in turn, using her tongue to clean him, then sucking as she pulled her head back. Then she cleaned the other hand.

"Anywhere else?" she asked.

"You could squirt me again," he offered.

"I could," she agreed, "but we ate all the oranges." She moved to kneel between his legs. "But perhaps I might have missed something?" she asked innocently as she placed her hands on his thighs.

"I think you did," Connor said, and he closed his eyes as her hands moved higher.

Cassandra lifted his sark up out of the way and ran her hands up the inside of his thighs, gently pushing them apart. She bent her head and touched her tongue very lightly to the tip of his shaft, pleased to hear his harsh intake of breath. The taste of oranges was still in her mouth.

She left her hands on Connor's bare thighs to help balance herself and used only her tongue. She licked her way up and then down the shaft, then went back to the head, moving her tongue in an ever growing circle that eventually swirled completely around him. Then she stopped.

She waited until she felt the muscles in Connor's thighs begin to flex, and then she started to breathe, very softly, very warmly, moving her mouth down to the base of his shaft. She pursed her lips and blew, very gently, a cool draft of air immediately followed by the warmth of her tongue, and she moved back up to the head. Now the cool breaths of air moved in a circle, small at first, then spiraling outward. She did not use just her tongue to warm him now, but drew him into her mouth, holding him there for a long delicious moment. She slowly pulled her head back and let go. Then she stopped again.

Cassandra waited several very long moments for Connor to open his eyes. She looked up at him, smiling, waiting. "What do you want, Connor?" she asked.

Connor did not answer her. Not with words, anyway. He leaned forward a little and grasped her around the waist, then lifted her to her feet as he stood up. He did not let go of her, but pushed her back against the wall. He untied her robe and parted it swiftly, leaving her naked before him.

Cassandra had not been expecting him to stand up, and when he pulled her robe open she said in surprise, "Connor--!"

But Connor wasn't listening, and he obviously wasn't going to wait. He pulled his sark up out of the way and leaned against her, nudging her legs apart with his knee.

He grasped her by the waist again and lifted her, holding her just above him, her back against the wall. He looked into her eyes and asked, "What do you want, Cassandra?" He didn't wait for her answer, but lowered her onto him, settling himself between her legs, pressing her tight between him and the wall.

Cassandra gasped as he entered her, then put her hands on his  shoulders. "You, Connor." She gasped again as he placed his hands underneath her and shifted her, and her feet touched the floor once more. "You." It was what he wanted to hear, and it was true.

Connor began to move then, urgently, quickly, giving in to the driving need to bury himself in her once again.

Cassandra held on to him, feeling the flexing of muscles in his arms and shoulders under her hands as he helped to support her weight, as he moved her with him, moved within her. The wall was hard against her back, and she tried to catch her breath as he slammed her against it again and again. Connor drove himself into her, harder and faster, until at last she felt him convulse inside of her, his hands digging into her thighs.

He stood there for another moment, breathing hard against her hair, pressing her against the wall, then he lifted her up and off him, still holding her close.

Cassandra carefully eased her legs to stand rather unsteadily on her own feet. She reached up and brushed his hair from his eyes, then said breathlessly, "I don't think you missed anything there." He seemed very pleased with himself. Good. She didn't mind letting him win at this game. She didn't mind at all.

"No," Connor agreed, still breathing hard, "I didn't." He moved back a little and adjusted his clothing, then tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.

She smiled at him. "I think," she said, taking another deep breath, "I would like something to drink."

"That sounds good," he said. He kissed her quickly and walked back to the table, picking up his whisky.

Cassandra pulled her robe together and went down the hall to the kitchen, feeling the dampness between her thighs. She used the privy in the kitchen, then washed her hands. Some people kept the chamber pot behind a screen in the main room of the house and emptied it only infrequently, but Cassandra had lived in houses with running water. She was more fastidious.

Cassandra put the stew she had prepared earlier that day into the cooking pot. She fastened the lid tightly and lowered the pot into the large iron cauldron of water that hung above the kitchen fire. The heat from the water would simmer the stew in the pot for several hours. She added another log to the kitchen fire and rearranged the logs so that the fire would burn properly.

When she came back to the main room Connor was standing near the bookshelves, looking at the painting on the wall and smoking a pipe. It was yet another thing that was different about Connor. She had seen only a few people smoking pipes in Scotland, though they were becoming popular in other countries. She had seen more and more people smoking during her travels these last eight years.

"This is Loch Shiel," he said in surprise, having recognized the sweep of sand and the peaks in the distance. "Where did you get it?"

"I painted it." She had enjoyed using the oil paints that had been developed lately. They were a great improvement over the vegetable dyes she had used in centuries past.

"Hmm." He continued studying the painting.

"Have you and Duncan been there?" she asked. "During this last year while you were traveling?"

"No."

The answer was swift, and Cassandra knew that they had deliberately avoided Loch Shiel. Duncan would not have wanted to return to the place of his banishment. It had been nearly forty years since Connor had seen the place of his birth. She knew he missed his homeland; she would give him the picture before he left. "I would like to draw you," she said. A quick sketch now, then later she could paint his portrait.

He looked at her in surprise. "Me?"

"You." She stepped closer to him and laid her hand on his arm. "I don't see you very often. I would like to have a picture of you." She would have to find someplace safe to store it; she could not keep it with her. Roland might find it.

Connor was taken aback, though pleased. "What do I have to do?" he asked warily.

"Nothing," Cassandra said, amused. "Just sit at the table."

He sat down, smoking his pipe and wiggling a leather thong for the kitten to attack, while Cassandra fetched her drawing paper and charcoal stick. She sat down across from him and poured herself another glass of wine, then started to draw. A quick sketch of him as he had looked on her doorstep used up one half of the page. She did three studies of his face, one above the other, on the other half. His face in profile, another as he looked now, partly turned from her, and the third as he had looked just before he kissed her for the first time that day.

He sat quietly as she drew, glancing over at her from time to time, watching the kitten as it charged and wrestled with the thong.

Cassandra took a drink of her wine and examined the drawing. It would need work; the eyes weren't quite right. She would try again later. "Do you want to see?" She held out the paper, knowing how curious he probably was.

Connor let go of his end of the leather thong, and the kitten retreated with its prize, shaking it vigorously. He took the paper from Cassandra and tilted his head back and forth as he studied the sketches. "Hmph," he grunted and handed the drawing back to her.

It was a pleased grunt, and she knew that was all the comment she was likely to get from him about it. She set the drawing on the table and sat down again, sipping at her wine and smiling to herself as she thought of his reaction to the drawing.

Connor knocked the ashes out of his pipe and set it down.

She realized he was looking at her intently, and she set down her glass, her smile fading a little. "Is something wrong?"

He shrugged and shook his head, but after a moment he commented, "You're a tease, Cassandra."

She looked at him carefully. There was no anger in Connor's voice or his face; it was merely an observation. "Sometimes," she agreed, knowing exactly what he was talking about. "But waiting can make it more enjoyable, don't you think?"

"It's been thirty years," Connor said dryly. "I didn't feel the need to wait more."

Waiting thirty years was nothing. Waiting three hundred years was nothing. Of course, Connor was just over a century old; he had no idea what it was to wait. He had no idea at all. "You made me wait earlier," she pointed out, a trifle more sharply than she had intended, then she smiled quickly.

Connor looked at her curiously, but she made certain her smile was soft and inviting, and he smiled back lazily. "And did it make it more enjoyable?" he asked.

"Yes," Cassandra said, "very enjoyable." As if he didn't know. "You're rather a tease yourself."

"I don't tease," Connor said flatly. "I always do exactly what I set out to do."

She smiled again, a more challenging smile. "You could tease me," she offered. She would enjoy it, and she knew Connor would take great satisfaction in it as well, especially after what she had just done to him. It would give him the chance to impress her, though she was already impressed. She would tell him so soon.

Connor looked at her intently. "Could I?"

"Yes," she said softly.

He met the challenge of her smile with a slow confident smile of his own, and he set out to do exactly that.

~~~~~

A long, delicious, and exquisite time later, when Cassandra had lost all awareness of time, Connor's hands suddenly stopped moving, and his voice sounded softly in her ear. "Tell me what you want, Cassandra."

"Connor ..." She tossed her head from side to side, her eyes still closed. She had known he was going to do this to her, but not now! "Please."

His hands still weren't moving, but he pressed his fingers down slightly, leaving distinct circles of warmth on her skin.

Her skin had become incredibly sensitive; she could feel each callus on his hand, the slight roughness at the base of each of his fingers. She moved toward him, desperate for his touch, but he lifted his hands from her completely.

His voice was gentle, but inflexible. "Tell me."

He knew what she wanted! But she had asked him to do this, and he did indeed know how to play this game. It was a fine game. She opened her eyes and said softly, her voice breathless, "I want you to touch me."

"Touch you?" He sounded amused, and his hands started to rove, sliding under the robe she still wore, moving down the outside curve of her hips. "Touch you where?" His hands moved upward to cup her breasts. "Touch you here?"

"Yes," Cassandra gasped, as the gentleness of his hands turned to firmness.

His hands slid lower. "Here?"

"Yes."

His hands moved lower still. "Or here?"

"Yes!"

Connor laughed softly and removed his hands from her completely again. "You don't seem to know what you want, Cassandra." He was smiling at her, a satisfied smile, a self-satisfied smile. "You just keep saying 'yes.'"

He was the one teasing her in this game, but that didn't mean she couldn't play. She smiled back at him and repeated, "Yes." She took his hand in hers and brought it to her lips for a kiss, then nestled it between her breasts. "Yes, Connor. Yes, to wherever and however you touch me. I want you to touch me, Connor." Her voice became softer. "I need you to touch me."

She touched him now, letting go of his hand to delicately follow the curves of the muscles in his shoulder and arm. "I love the strength of you, Connor." Her fingers moved down his arm to his hand, and she brought it to her lips for another kiss. "The gentleness." She looked up into his eyes. "I love the way you touch me. So, yes, Connor. Yes."

He kissed her then, gentle and sweet at first, then deepening to hunger and need, his hands moving over her, following the curves and planes of her body.

"Yes, Connor," she murmured, and arched against him, pressing closer.

"Yes," he agreed, smiling again, and twined his fingers in her hair.

His eyes were dark now, almost black, and she was suddenly reminded of the very first time they had ever made love, of the way he had looked at her then. There had been such an openness about him, back in Donan Woods. It was gone from him now, the trust and the innocence destroyed. She knew she had done that; she had taught him those lessons. She closed her eyes briefly in bitter regret, then forced herself to look at him. "I'm sorry, Connor," she whispered.

"Sorry?" He was bewildered at the sudden change in her.

Cassandra hadn't planned on this, but she couldn't leave it here. "I wish that ... I wish I hadn't..." She blinked rapidly and said, "I wish things could be different between us, that they could be the way they were ... the first time."

Connor still looked confused.

She couldn't leave it here, either. "You asked me what I wanted," she began, and at his nod, she said haltingly, "I want ... I want you..."

"Tell me," he urged quietly.

"I do love it when you touch me, Connor, but ... what I really want ... " What she really wanted was to tell him how much he meant to her. What she really wanted was to stop lying to him, to stop using him. She wanted to be able to love him, freely and openly, and to be able to tell him and show him just how much she cared. But she couldn't. She couldn't tell him the truth about Roland, about Duncan; she didn't want him to despise her for being a coward. And she couldn't ask him to be with her; she knew Roland would find out and kill him.

She was with him now, and that was all she could hope for. Or perhaps not quite all. Perhaps she could dare to ask for one thing. "Connor ... I ... I don't want you to tease me anymore."

Connor blinked once, then his eyebrows went up in surprise. He had an odd expression on his face, partly triumphant, partly disappointed, with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

She added quickly, before she lost her courage, "I want you to make love to me." It had been so long since she had loved anyone, even longer since anyone had loved her. All those empty wasted lonely years surrounded her, engulfed her, and Cassandra knew she would drown in them if she didn't have something solid to cling to, someplace to feel safe, at least for now. She could not bear to be alone anymore. And she wanted Connor. She swallowed hard and asked softly, "Could you make love to me, Connor? Please? I want ... to love you, and I want you to love me, just for now, just for little while."

The look on his face changed to sudden careful blankness. "Cassandra ..."

"I'm sorry," she whispered again, embarrassment and regret flooding through her, staining her face. "I have no right to ask." She turned her face away, wishing she had never said anything, wishing she had left it as a game between them, wishing she had never seen that look of withdrawal in his eyes. The waves of emptiness washed over her and drowned her, and left her alone once more.

As she turned her face away, Connor felt the subtle changes in her body. They were still lying side by side, still touching, but she was retreating from him, hiding behind her walls again. She was no longer soft against him. He had not realized she was this lonely, and he was surprised to see how much she wanted him.

She had never shown him her feelings this way before. There had been passion between them, and friendship, even tenderness, but never this openness, this vulnerability. Not since the first time in Donan Woods. Now he understood what she had meant about things being different between them, and he realized that he wanted it, too. "Cassandra."

She did not answer, but kept her eyes closed and her face turned from him, then repeated, "I'm sorry."

He placed a gentle hand on the side of her face and turned her to him, surprised again when he realized that his fingers were wet where they had touched her cheek. "Cassandra," he said softly, but she still did not open her eyes. He leaned over and kissed her lightly. "Cassandra, look at me."

She opened her eyes slowly, and he saw in the depths of her eyes an immense and aching loneliness, that same loneliness he was just beginning to understand. "No more games, Cassandra."

She shook her head slightly. "Connor, I shouldn't have asked. You don't need to--"

He kissed her again, not so gently this time. "I want to."

"Do you? Do you really?"

Connor was taken aback by the surprised hopefulness and longing in her voice, and he felt an unexpected wave of tenderness sweep him. She had given him much pleasure over the years; she had also made him feel cherished and, yes, even loved. He wanted to do the same for her. He took her hands in his, then kissed away the tracks of her tears. "Yes, Cassandra. I want to make love to you."

Her eyes darkened to a deeper green at his words, and suddenly her body was soft against him again. Her voice was quiet, but no longer hesitant. "I want there to be love between us, Connor, at least for the now."

"Aye, Cassandra," Connor answered, his voice low. "Love, for the now."

And so he made love to her, with his hands and his mouth and his body, with touches and whispered words and gentleness. Then they made love together, and they fell asleep in each other's arms.

~~~~~

Connor woke slowly from his short nap, enjoying Cassandra's warmth as she snuggled against him. The air was chill, and a slow steady rain was falling, while the dim light of late afternoon filtered in through the shutters. Connor tightened his arm about her, and they lay quietly for a time, curled together and lying on their sides, simply luxuriating in the feel and the touch of each other, the softness of skin, the rhythms of the breath and of the heart.

Cassandra stirred against him and took his hand in her own and brought it to her lips for a kiss, then nestled it between her breasts.

Connor squeezed her hands in response, then moved closer to her, feeling again that unexpected sense of caring for her. When he had taken her to bed earlier, he had thought to tease her as she had teased him, to teach her a lesson in patience with sweet torment, to win the challenge she had laid before him. The game had started that way, but then Cassandra had raised the stakes when she had asked him to make love to her. Connor smiled to himself; it was a game both of them had won.

"Mmmm," Cassandra murmured after several long silent moments. "You're good to wake up with." She intertwined her fingers with his and said softly, almost shyly, "I've missed you."

Connor laughed a little at that, pleased to hear her say it again. "I've missed you, too."

She stirred under his arm and turned over, then snuggled up against him and kissed him sweetly. "You missed me?" she repeated, her voice light and playful, but with a hint of the hopefulness and longing he had heard earlier.

"Aye," he agreed. He grinned a little. "I've often thought of you on those long nights at the forge, with nothing but the soft calls of the owls and Duncan's snores to listen to." It had been a very long five years, although he and Duncan had not spent all their time in the country. They had visited Aberdeen and other towns from time to time; he could have gone to a brothel. He preferred a less businesslike bed-partner, but during his years as a sailor he had become accustomed to paying for that sort of companionship. He and his ship-mate Carmichael had visited many an exotic brothel during their years on the ship *Jugleor.* But he had felt--odd--about visiting a brothel with Duncan in tow, so he had done without.

Connor continued, "And I thought of you while I was standing watch at sea. The stars and the waves are cold company." His gaze traveled up and down her, and his hand moved to caress the curve of her waist and hip. It was very good to see Cassandra again, and not just as a bed-partner. Connor realized now just how much he had missed her, how much he had missed feeling this way about a woman, and knowing the woman felt the same way about him. "Aye," he repeated, "I missed you."

Cassandra smiled then, a smile of contentment and joy that reached all the way to her eyes, the fear and the wariness gone from them now.

Connor could not help but smile back. He did not think he had ever seen that look on her face before, and he liked it. He liked seeing the happiness on her face, knowing that he had been the one to put it there. It was good to see the real Cassandra, without the walls she usually hid behind. Perhaps he would stay for more than a week. Perhaps she would consider moving to the Highlands for a time, renting a cottage. They could see each other more often then. After he was done teaching Duncan, perhaps they could travel together. He would like to see different places with her, to hear the stories she could tell.

"I've missed talking with you," he said. "It is good to be able to talk of being Immortal, not to have to pretend all the time." He spoke slowly, realizing now what else he had missed. "It is good to speak honestly again, not to have to worry what other people will think of your words." He saw that her smile had disappeared. "You know of that, do you not?"

"Yes," she said slowly. "Yes, I do." She blinked once, then asked, "But, you can talk with Duncan that way, can you not?"

"Aye," he agreed, "but it's different. He asks more than he talks." He smiled ruefully. "I get weary of answering Duncan sometimes. He seems a fountain of questions."

Cassandra nodded in understanding. "All of my students were the same, full of questions at the beginning."

"I was not, was I?" he asked in sudden consternation.

"Not with me, no." She lifted one eyebrow. "But I suspect Ramirez might have answered that differently."

Connor snorted and nodded, then said slowly. "I've been thinking a lot of Ramirez lately, what he said, how he taught me." His hand wandered down to her backside. "I've thought of you, too, and how we used to spar, and some of the stories you told me." He had never been a teacher of an Immortal before. He didn't like asking for advice, but he needed to know more. "I'm not sure it's.... It's hard to know how to teach him sometimes!" he finished in frustration.

Cassandra smiled at his outburst. "Ramirez and I used to talk of this," she said, looking a little sad as she sometimes did at the mention of his name. "It is ... hard, sometimes, to know how to teach, to know what will work with a student and what will not. Some respond best when the teacher talks, others do better when the teacher listens. And it depends on the teacher." She gave him a conspiratorial grin. "Ramirez talked a great deal, did he not?"

Connor grinned back. "Aye, that he did." He said more seriously, "But he knew how to listen as well."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed, her voice quiet, "yes, he did."

Connor watched as the touch of sadness in her eyes flared briefly into grief, then subsided.

She looked at him then and smiled. "And you know how to listen, too," she observed. "Does that work well for Duncan?"

"Aye," Connor said dubiously, "sometimes." Duncan was like a son to him, a son he took great pride in, a son he cherished, but often a very frustrating son nonetheless.

Cassandra said earnestly, "You are just the right person to teach Duncan, Connor. You've learned many things on your travels, but you are still a Highlander. Duncan will be able to learn a great deal from you, and you and he are clansmen. There is no other Immortal in the world who knows better than you how he thinks, how best to talk to him, how best to listen." Her gaze was admiring. "I was very impressed with you when you were my student; I know Duncan must be very impressed with you as his teacher."

Connor made a noise in his throat and looked away, a little uncomfortable but pleased. He had sometimes wondered what she thought of him; she always seemed to be watching and thinking. He knew from her words now that she truly no longer considered him her student. He turned to her, and said in mild irritation, one teacher to another, "It's not just that he has so many questions; he always wants answers to go with them!"

Cassandra laughed out loud at that. "Well, Connor, you can always tell him that he'll have to find some of the answers for himself."

Connor laughed and gave her a kiss. "I've missed laughing with you," he said, the corners of his eyes still crinkled with amusement. "And I've missed your music, too, and singing together." He shook his head sadly. "Duncan can carry a tune, but only if he has a bucket to tote it in."

"That is unfortunate," Cassandra agreed seriously. "Later, perhaps, you and I will sing?"

Connor nodded as he caressed her back. "Later," he agreed, then added, smiling, "but nay the now."

"Nay the now," she repeated, as she had once before, then smiled back at him. "You were right, Connor. You are a good man." She kissed him quickly. "You're good to wake up with, and good to go to sleep with." Her smile grew more suggestive. "You're good to go to bed with." She traced the outline of her lips with the tip of her tongue. "And good to stand up with."

Connor grinned openly and smoothed the hair away from her face. "You liked that then, did you?"

"Oh, yes. I liked that." Her smile became more gentle. "And I really liked what you did earlier, before we fell asleep. It was ... beautiful." She lowered her head to his for another kiss, a slow and thorough one this time. "You made me feel wonderful. You made me feel--like I was glowing all over, like I was floating. I've never felt that ... cherished before."

Connor was pleased to hear her say that. She had given him much pleasure over the years; it was good to know that he could do the same for her. It was good to know that he could make her tremble and cry out with desire, that he could make her want him to touch her, beg him to touch her, that he could touch her heart as well as her body. He very much liked knowing that she wanted him.

Her smile faded, but the happiness shone clear in her eyes. "And what we did together after..." She took his hand in hers and brought it to her lips for a kiss. "It was magical, Connor. You were magical, the way you touched me, the way you spoke to me, the way you looked at me." She caught her breath as she stared into his eyes, and her voice fell to a whisper. "The way you're looking at me now."

Connor kissed her hand, but did not look away. He spoke softly, "It's the same way you're looking at me."

"Is it?" She sounded breathless. "I'm glad of that, Connor, because I want to make you feel the same way you make me feel."

Connor smiled a little at that. "And just how do I make you feel, Cassandra?"

She smiled back. "Admired, safe, protected, cherished, desired, wanted, needed, even..." She paused, and the wariness was in her eyes again, but she continued in careful wonder, "Even ... loved."

He nodded. "Good. For that is what I see in your eyes as well."

"Good," she agreed firmly. "I'm glad of it." Her next words came slow, but certain. "You are--so very important to me, Connor. I do care about you."

Connor pulled her to him and kissed her the same way, slow and certain, then looked deep into her eyes. "I care about you, too, Cassandra."

She ran her finger down his nose, and laid it lightly on his lips. "I've missed you. And I've missed singing to you."

Connor gave her finger a gentle kiss, and he traced the outline of her cheek with the back of his fingers. "Aye," he said huskily. "I've missed that as well." His fingers wandered downward to the softness of her neck, then back up to her cheek. "And I've missed touching you."

Cassandra closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his hand, much as the kitten had done earlier when he had been petting it. She kissed each knuckle and then opened her eyes, looking deep into his. "I've missed your touch, Connor." She smiled again, that same brilliant smile that lit up her face. "And I've missed touching you." Her face grew serious as her gaze followed the path of her fingertips. She trailed her hand along his collarbone, touching lightly on his chest and throat. She looked into his eyes again. "I love to touch you."

"And I love it when you touch me." He caught her hand and held it within his own, then turned it over gently. His thumb traced circles on her palm. "I love the feel of your hands." He ran his thumb along each of her fingers, noting the way she inhaled quickly as he started at the base of each finger, the slight shivers that came over her as he reached the fingertip, the way her eyes darkened at his touch. He remembered how important words were to her, how much she liked to hear him speak, how much she liked to talk. "What else have you missed, Cassandra?" he said softly, coaxingly. He turned his head so he could whisper in her ear. "Tell me."

Cassandra did not answer.

Connor could not feel any movement from her as she lay next to him. For an instant there was a sudden stillness about her, a frozen sense of waiting, then she was soft against him again. He pulled his head back sharply. "Cassandra?"

She smiled at him, that same happy smile, but the joy had disappeared from her eyes and the fear was back again. "Yes, Connor?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Her tone was deliberately light, determinedly cheerful.

He knew better. He had not imagined her sudden withdrawal or the look in her eyes. He clasped her hand more tightly and repeated the question, "What's wrong, Cassandra?" She did not answer, and he reached up to touch her cheek gently, then said reassuringly, "You can tell me."

There was the barest twitch of movement from her fingers clasped inside his own, but still she did not speak.

"Was it one of your visions?" he prompted, knowing how difficult it was for her to speak of them.

"Yes," she said, sounding relieved. Then, "No." She shook her head slightly. "Both."

Connor snorted in amusement and skepticism. He was pleased to see the flicker of a smile from her at the sound; she had once listed fifteen different snorting sounds he used.

"I'm sorry," she said, smiling more, "that was ... not clear." She took a deep breath and tried to explain. "It was a memory, but it was also ... like a vision. I've never had one like that before."

"Not a pleasant memory." Connor did not make it a question.

Her smile disappeared, and the tenseness came back to her body. "No."

"What happened, Cassandra?" he asked, making his voice as reassuring and as gentle as he could. When she lifted her eyes to his, he touched her cheek once more, hoping to erase the fear he saw there, and to bring back the happiness. "I'd like to listen, if you'd like to talk."

A fleeting expression of pain crossed her face, followed by resignation. "Connor," she began, "it was a long time ago. There's nothing to be done about it now." She gave a minute shrug. "It's over."

He could tell it wasn't over for her. "How long ago?" he asked, knowing she really did want to talk, knowing she needed him to ask.

"About two thousand years."

Connor blinked. He kept forgetting just how old she was. What could have happened that long ago that still made her freeze at the thought of it? "Where did it happen?"

"A little town near Athens." She would not look at him. "There was a war going on, and I was captured by the enemy."

Connor's knowledge of history was poor, but at least he had heard of Athens. "What war? What enemy?"

Cassandra said quickly, bitterly, "Does it matter? There are always wars, always enemies." She shrugged. "All wars are the same. I was captured, and they thought I had information they could use."

"Why would they think that?"

"Because I did. I had volunteered to carry the information from one group to another. I thought that even if I were wounded or killed, I could keep going, and the message would get through." She shook her head. "I was so stupid, so arrogant. They caught me, and then they started asking me questions."

Connor waited, but she was silent again. Finally he asked, "What happened?" She shook her head, and he added, "Cassandra, we don't have to talk anymore, if you don't--"

"No," she broke in, and finally met his gaze. "I do ... I just ... it's hard." She blinked rapidly and looked away again. "I've never told anyone. Not in over two thousand years. But ..." She smiled at him then, a brave smile that did not reach her eyes, "I think ... I think I'd like to tell you. If you really want to listen."

Connor nodded, waiting.

Cassandra drew a deep breath and said in an even voice, "There was a man, in a tent. He would sit behind me, so I couldn't see him, and hold my hand and ask me questions. His voice was ... soft and gentle, even kind. If I didn't answer, or didn't answer so that he believed me, then he would break one of my fingers. Or work on the fingernails."

Connor was still holding her hand, and he felt the smallest twitch in her fingers as she said those words.

She took another deep breath. "And when he had finished with one hand, he would move to the other. And then back again." She curled her fingers slightly within his grasp. "And when you whispered in my ear 'Tell me,' and you were holding my hand gently ... " Her fingers straightened again. "He used to ... to be very gentle while he was asking questions, stroking each finger, caressing the broken bones... It was only when I was answering, or not answering, that he ..."

Connor had heard of worse tortures, but it certainly didn't sound pleasant. But something didn't make sense. "Didn't he notice that you healed?"

She glanced at him, startled. "Oh, yes, he noticed. But he was one of us. That's how they caught me. He sensed me, and told the soldiers where I was hiding." She added judiciously, "I think it was better that he was an Immortal. A mortal might have wondered just what I was, and decided to find out, to see if I could regrow fingers as well as heal them."

Connor hadn't really considered that possibility. He decided to be very careful never to get captured himself. But there was something else about this that didn't make sense. "Why didn't he take your head?"

Another glance, bitterly sardonic this time. "The Game isn't the only game Immortals play, Connor. And Immortals can be interested in more than just heads."

Indeed they could, Connor realized, remembering his thoughts about that when she asked him to carry both swords out to the garden. He hadn't been interested in her head at all. He wondered what else had happened inside that tent, but he didn't want to ask. He could see this story was hard enough for her.

Cassandra clasped Connor's hand tightly for a moment, then asked, her voice detached and calm, "Do you remember getting bruises, Connor? How they used to be tender for days afterward, until the healing was finished?" At his nod, she continued, still not looking at him. "We Immortals heal quickly, and so, of course, there are no bruises, but after the first ten times or so, there seems to be a ... memory of pain, so it hurts like a bruise. And it keeps hurting, even after the healing is done." She shrugged. "Or maybe I was just imagining it. I don't remember it very clearly after the first two days."

Connor swallowed hard and very carefully loosened his grip on her hand, as he felt the separate line of warmth from each of Cassandra's fingers against his palm. He knew the gentleness of her hands, the delicacy of her touch. He had seen her hands knead bread and suture wounds, seen them sew embroidery and wield a sword. She held such strength in her hands, such knowledge and power, and now he saw that those hands also contained the memory of pain. "How long were you there?" he asked.

"Six days." Her voice was still even, still flat and calm.

Holy Mother of God. Six days of that? No wonder she didn't remember it very clearly.

"But he didn't spend all his time on me," Cassandra continued. "There were other people to be questioned. He was good at questioning people." She closed her eyes and shook her head, trying not to see.

Connor tried to keep his own voice as calm as hers. "How did you get out of the tent?"

Her eyes were still closed. "He put me with the other prisoners after ... after I..." She shook her head again and buried her face in Connor's shoulder.

Connor put his arms tightly around her and held her as she wept silently. He could feel the warmth from each tear on his skin, small individual dots of heat and damp, until they smeared together and cooled.

Her voice was muffled against him, but he heard the anguish clearly. "I told him, Connor. I told him everything he wanted to know."

"Cassandra--"

"I told him! And I would have told him more. I would have told him anything. I would have done anything, just to get him to stop hurting me." She laughed, a slightly hysterical sound. "Saying 'I'll die before I tell you that,' doesn't work when you're an Immortal. And they don't have to be careful about how much they hurt you, because they know you'll just come back."

Sweet Jesus, what a nightmare! He had never thought of that, either. Being Immortal wasn't always an advantage.

She shuddered, and he could feel the tremors go all the way to her feet. "He killed me over and over and over again, and I would have done anything to make him stop. Anything." She whispered brokenly, "And I did."

"Cassandra, nobody could have held out--"

"You don't understand, Connor," she broke in, anger and anguish mixed in her voice as she lifted head to look at him. "I *told* him. I was a coward. I betrayed my people." Her voice became much softer and the anger disappeared, leaving only the anguish behind. "And they died." She buried her face against his shoulder again. Her next words were almost inaudible. "They all died." And the tears started once again.

This time Connor could not feel individual drops from the tears. He held her until the trembling ceased, and her breathing slowed, while he gently stroked her hair. When she finally  sniffled, he said softly, "I don't think you were a coward, Cassandra."

"I betrayed them," she whispered, her head still down.

"No," Connor said firmly. "Betrayal is when you deliberately decide to turn your back on people who trust you. You were forced to tell, Cassandra. You didn't want to."

"It doesn't matter," she said hopelessly. "They still died. I still failed them."

"It does matter," he insisted. "It wasn't your fault."

She raised her tear-streaked face to his and asked him, hopefully and desperately, "Do you really think so?"

"Yes." He was sure of that. He had seen some torture, and heard of more. He knew there were limits to what anyone could endure. Anyone. He hoped he would never have to find out what his own limits were. "It wasn't your fault, Cassandra," he said gently, brushing away some of the tears. She started to shake her head, and he repeated more firmly, "It wasn't your fault."

The tears started again, but now they were tears of relief. He held her close against him and stroked her hair. Cassandra finally stopped crying, and when she lifted her head, Connor tenderly wiped her face and brushed away her tears.

She said softly, "Thank you, Connor. For listening. For understanding. I haven't been able to..."

Connor wrapped both his arms tight around her, then silenced her with a kiss, a soft and gentle one. "Cassandra," he said soothingly, "let it go."

She clung to him for a few more minutes, then smiled at him, a brave smile once again, a smile which this time reached her eyes. The fear was gone, and the joy was back, but some of the sadness remained. "You were right, Connor. You are a good man. A very good man." She laid her hand on his cheek and said softly once again, "Thank you." Her fingers lingered on the side of his face, and her voice became certain. "I want to make love to you, Connor, to do for you what you did for me. I want to sing to you tonight."

"Tonight?" he asked, surprised, yet very willing to agree. Usually she waited until the last night of their visits before she would sing to him.

"Tonight," she repeated. "I think I know you better now than I ever have before." She kissed him again. "Tonight. I promise."

And he knew her better than he ever had before. "Good."

"Good," she agreed, and smiled brightly at him. "Are you hungry?" she asked.

Connor knew she didn't want to talk about it anymore, so he grinned at her and said, "Very hungry."

"Very hungry?" Her tone was teasing now. "That's odd. So am I." She kissed him quickly, then got out of bed and picked up her shift from where it lay on the floor in the pile of clothes. The air was cold, and she pulled the shift over her head hurriedly, then picked up her underskirts.

Connor moved to sit on the edge of the bed and took hold of them. At her startled glance, he grinned and said, "I took them off. Let me put them back on."

Her eyes widened in surprise, and she opened her mouth to speak, then simply smiled. He had often watched her dress, but he had never helped her put her clothes on before. She handed him her skirts.

Connor selected the first underskirt and held it open for her to step into, enjoying the glimpse of shapely calves, feeling the warmth of her hand on his back as she leaned on him for balance. He tied the drawstring neatly at her waist, then helped her into her second skirt. He took his time ensuring both skirts hung freely and were not bound up in each other.

He got out of bed and picked up the rest of the clothes from the floor, his own included, and set them on the bed. He selected her corset from the pile and stood behind her, spreading it open for her.

Cassandra gathered her hair in her hand and lifted it out of the way. "Aren't you cold?" she asked, for he was still naked.

"Not so cold as you," he answered, his thumbs lightly brushing her puckered nipples. He laughed softly when she jumped, then busied himself with the laces, leaning over her shoulder to see better. "Your skirt, m'lady?" he asked, moving to kneel in front of her, holding the garnet-colored garment open for her. This time she placed a hand on each of his shoulders as she stepped in, and Connor enjoyed the feel of the rich fabric moving over her legs as he slowly drew the skirt up to her waist. She looked good in this color.

"I think you make a fine lady's maid," Cassandra said, as he rose to his feet and tied the skirt's waistband. Her gaze moved up and down him in frank appreciation, lingering here and there, and she nodded judiciously. "Very fine."

Connor grinned again and bowed. "At your service, m'lady." He had often helped Heather dress, especially near the end, when moving about became difficult for her. He had helped Anne dress, too. Taking a woman's clothes off was certainly enjoyable, but putting them back on seemed somehow even more intimate.

Her bodice was next, and this time Connor was the one to move Cassandra's hair. He would comb her hair for her after they ate, he decided, as he let the silken strands slip through his fingers to cascade down her back. Then there were more laces, and more careful adjustment of clothing. He knelt in front of her again and put on her stockings and tied her garters, then ran his hands up her legs to make sure there were no wrinkles in the woolen hose.

Cassandra swayed slightly on her feet.

He stopped and looked up at her. "Cassandra?"

"I'm fine," she answered breathlessly, "but unless you want to take all these clothes off again, you had better stop that." She smiled brilliantly, that smile that lit up her face. "For the now."

"For the now," Connor agreed, smiling in return. He stood and caressed her cheek with the tips of his fingers, remembering when they had said that before. Her smile faded somewhat, but the happiness was still in her eyes. "Connor ...," she began, reaching out to touch him, to trace the side of his face, "thank you."

He pulled her to him in a swift embrace and hugged her, not with passion this time, but with simple and profound caring. He relished the feel of her against him, her softness and her strength.

She hugged him back tightly, then gave him a final squeeze and looked at him, her eyes alight with mischief. "Now you are the one who is naked in my arms."

He quirked his eyebrows in invitation, but she shook her head and smiled.

"We're both hungry," she reminded him. "For food." She kissed him quickly. "Later," she said, "I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," Connor replied. Another kiss, another brilliant smile, then she stepped away from his arms. Connor pulled on his sark, then sat back down on the bed and watched as she went to other side of the room. He enjoyed looking at her, seeing the graceful swing of her skirts, her curves both outlined and hidden by her clothes as she moved. She leaned across the dining table to pick up the whisky bottle and then set it on the narrow side-table, and he watched in simple appreciation.

She finished setting the dishes and the remains of their earlier meal on a tray, then carried the tray into the kitchen.

He lay back down with his hands behind his head, thinking of what she had told him, thinking of what had happened to her, so long ago. He had known parts of her life had been hard, but he had not imagined anything like that. Though he understood her reluctance to speak of it, he knew how devastating it could be to keep silent, to keep shame and guilt and pain locked deep within where they could fester and grow. For a time, he had blamed himself for not being at his home when the Kurgan had come, blamed himself for Ramirez's death. But he had had Heather to talk to, and she had helped him to see that it had not been his fault, that if he had been there he would have been killed, too, and then Heather would have been left alone.

Cassandra had kept silent for over two thousand years, and she had thought herself a coward, a failure, all that time. To have resisted for six days, to have been killed over and over again until she finally broke ... how could she think herself a coward? Connor shook his head. He knew she needed more reassurance about that. He would tell her later that he respected her, that he was impressed with her, that he admired her. And he would ask her who that Immortal had been, ask her if he was still alive. He wanted to find that Immortal.

Later tonight, there would be time to talk; now it was time to get out of bed. Connor started to stretch, then paused, quickly looking down to the end of the bed. The kitten was not there. Good. He flexed his feet and arched his back as he stretched out his arms and legs, then got out of bed. He started to whistle, a happy tune often sung at weddings. He picked up his breacan and folded the pleats, then wrapped it around himself, securing it at his waist with his belt. The silver pin held the cloth at his shoulder. He smiled, then, for he could hear Cassandra singing the words to the same song in the kitchen. He pulled his stockings on, but there was no need for boots; they would be going back to bed soon enough. He retrieved his sword and sgian dubh from under the bed and placed them next to the whisky bottle on the narrow table, where they would be close to him while he ate.

The room was chilly, and he knew it would get colder tonight. He built a fire in the fireplace near the table, whistling all the while. The kitten, released from the kitchen, came over to attack his feet. He picked the kitten up and tucked it under his arm, then went singing into the kitchen.

~~~~~

Cassandra had started singing when she heard the whistling coming from the other room. Connor certainly knew how to whistle. He knew how to do a lot more than that, she thought as she washed the dishes, and she smiled at the memories. At first, they had been playing games, testing each other, relieving some of the urgent need and tension they both felt. Then he had taken her to bed, and they had stopped playing games. It had been so good to have him make love to her, and then to make love with him. She was eager to make love to him next, to express the tenderness and caring she felt for him. And now she knew that he cared about her, too. She hugged that feeling to herself and held it close against her heart.

And he had listened to her story. She hadn't planned on telling him that. She hadn't planned on asking him to make love to her, either, but she hadn't been able to stop herself. She wasn't sure what had happened to her control, why she didn't seem able to hide her feelings and her reactions from him. But Connor had understood and he hadn't condemned her; she didn't have to worry about hiding everything from him. Maybe she could tell him the rest of the story. Maybe she could stop lying. She didn't want to hide from him anymore.

But what if he didn't understand? What if he turned from her? He hadn't condemned her for failing her people that time, but it had  happened more than once. And she hadn't told him everything. She didn't want to take the chance of losing him now, not after feeling so close to him.

But her lies still lay between them, and she knew that, even if he didn't. She had almost started to tell him when he had spoken of being honest, of not having to pretend with each other, but she had not been able to bring herself to say the words. And then later, when she was telling him about the time in the tent; she hadn't wanted to mention anything more. That story was hard enough to tell.

Yet, it was hard, too, to keep lying. She was so tired of lying, of pretending. She would tell him, she decided firmly, but not just yet. The story was too long, and too painful, to tell all at once. Maybe she would tell him a little bit more later tonight, after she had had a chance to make love to him. It would not be easy to talk about it; she had never told anyone. But she would tell him, she repeated to herself. She would tell him everything. She owed him the truth.

She dried the dishes and placed them on the tray, then ladled some of the stew into a wooden serving bowl. There was still bread left from earlier; she cut more slices and laid them neatly on a platter. Connor was singing now as they reached the end of the last verse, and she heard his voice coming closer. She looked up as he came into the kitchen and sang the final line of the song with him, their voices harmonizing now as easily as their bodies had done earlier, "That's our toast for Mari!" She smiled at him, fully, completely, pleased to have him here, pleased with her decision to tell him the truth. She knew she had not smiled that way for centuries. "Oh, I have missed you, Connor."

The kitten scrambled up on Connor's shoulder again, and its dark blue eyes peered out curiously from his hair as Connor smiled back and kissed her sweetly. "Aye," he agreed. "It's good to be together again." He picked up the bowl of stew and went into the other room.

Cassandra followed him, carrying the tray of freshly washed dishes and the platter of bread. The room had warmed only slightly, and Connor set the stew down on the narrow table and moved the dining table closer to the fire.

Cassandra set out the dishes and moved the stew to the dining table, while Connor got the drinks. They sat down together. As she dished out the stew, Cassandra asked, "So, what have you seen on your travels to many different lands?"

"More than I knew existed," Connor replied, reaching for his bowl as she handed it to him, exchanging a small quiet smile with her when their fingers touched. "I saw some of the things you had told me about." Connor fed the kitten more scraps from his bowl.

Cassandra nodded, giving him her full attention, listening closely as he spoke of the heat and the bugs, the amazing animals, the many different kinds of foods and clothes and houses he had seen. She looked at him intently when he talked of learning many new things, of mathematics and history, of navigating by the stars and the sun, of using the compass and the traverse board. She nodded when he told her of fighting off pirates, of trading for goods, of being hungry and thirsty on a long voyage.

She refilled his bowl with stew and stood to pour him another cup of whisky, then sat down and asked carefully, watching him, "Have you met other Immortals?" She saw the way he nodded slowly, the way his hand lingered on his cup as he set it down, and she knew by the look in his eyes that he was remembering a Quickening. Probably more than one.

She reached across the table and touched his hand. "It is a hard life, Connor."

His jaw tightened for a moment, then he clasped her hand in his tightly and met her eyes. "Hard," he agreed, "to live by killing, to take another's soul, to be changed so by it ..."

She looked away at that. They had to kill to live, and they had to accept the Quickenings of those they killed. She did not like being a killer; she did not like what she had become, but they had no choice. It was a lonely enough life already, watching all the mortals die over the years, yet Immortal friendship was very difficult.

Connor had apparently been thinking the same thing. "I did meet an Immortal who I think, perhaps, might be--a friend."

"Perhaps," Cassandra repeated without conviction, remembering Liang, the woman she had once called friend. She had no more appetite for the rest of the stew in her bowl. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze and let go, then sipped at her wine. "Can you tell me his name, what he looks like?"

Connor looked at her, surprised she had asked.

She explained, "I have no wish to take your friend's head. If I know who he is, then we are less likely to make--an unfortunate mistake."

Connor considered that for a moment, then answered, "He uses the name Sunda Kastagir. He's a Moor, dark-skinned, about my height." He considered her. "Do you have any friends I should know about?"

She had no friends. "No." She smiled quickly to distract him, then added, "When you see him again, you might mention me." Though, of course, she would never trust Connor's "friend" not to try for her head. "Connor ...," she began, waiting for him to look at her, " ... friendships change." She looked at him soberly. "You must always be careful." As Duncan needs to be careful, she thought. She couldn't forget about Duncan completely, no matter how much she might wish to. She must find out how the training was going.

"Always," he agreed, looking serious. Connor set the kitten on the floor and finished off the rest of his stew.

Cassandra rose and went into the kitchen. She returned with a large cake, flavored with honey and spices. Cassandra set the cake on the side table and cut them each a slice. Connor's slice was much larger. She served Connor first, then herself.

Connor smiled at the size of the piece she had cut him. "I like this kind of cake," he said as he picked up his slice.

Cassandra gave him a lovely smile. "I know. I made it yesterday." She was pleased to see Connor smile at that, too. She took only a few bites before she asked casually, "So what about Duncan?"

"What about him?" Connor asked blankly.

"He must learn, Connor, about the need to be careful."

Connor set down his cake. "I am teaching him that," he said, with a definite emphasis on the word "I."

"Good," Cassandra said. She heard the irritation in his voice, but she knew how important this was. She waited a moment, then asked, "How?"

"We talk of it, and--"

"Talk isn't enough, Connor," she said, cutting him off, her concern for Duncan's safety crowding out all other considerations. She had waited over twenty-eight centuries; she couldn't lose Duncan now. He must survive. He had to survive. "He's been your student for over five years. He must be almost ready."

Connor shoved his chair back and stood up, walking away from the table.

Cassandra stood and followed him. "He has to learn," she said softly.

Connor shook his head and turned away from her. "Not that way. I will not kill him."

"Why?" she challenged him. "Because it's too hard on you?" It had been hard on her, too. She strove to keep her voice calm. "It's a hard life, Connor," she reminded him. "It requires hard lessons."

He shook his head again. "I'll not do that to him. I'll not betray his trust. He's the only clan I have in the world." His mouth took on the stubborn set she knew very well. "I could not live with myself after."

Cassandra stared at him a moment, sudden fury rising within her. How did he think she lived with herself? Did he think he was that much better than she was? Did he think she had liked killing him? Did he think she liked what she was, what she had become? She had no choice. It was something that needed to be done. It had been done to her. Several times. By several different people. Connor deserved no special treatment, and neither did Duncan. She could not escape her responsibilities, and neither would he. She would make certain of that. "You must do it!"

Connor turned to glare at her. "He's my clansman! He's kin!"

How could he be so blind? So stupid? She shook her head and said in derision, "Immortals can have no kin."

Connor stepped back, confused. "That is not what you said in Donan Woods. You said that Duncan would be like a son to me at first." He spoke slowly. "And he is. And when the training is over, then we will be brothers as well."

Cassandra's eyes narrowed. She knew Connor and Duncan were not father and son; she knew they were not brothers. She knew there could be only one. Connor needed to realize it, too. "Have you forgotten about the Game, Connor? There is no room in our lives for brothers. Or sons."

Connor stared at her with growing suspicion. "That is not what you said earlier today. You said you felt like a mother to Duncan."

She would never be a mother, and they both knew it. "Immortals can have no families," she said flatly. Connor and Duncan both needed to learn this lesson. She had to make certain they learned it now, before someone else taught them much more brutally.

"I had a family," Connor protested. "I had a wife."

"Yes, you had a wife," Cassandra agreed. "And where is she now?" she challenged him. When he did not answer, she said it for him. "She's dead."

Connor went white.

"And you had a lover," Cassandra continued, ignoring his reaction, "and she is dead as well."

Connor glared at her. "You will not speak of them so!"

"Why not?" she asked, her voice cool and certain. "It is the truth, and you know it." This was another lesson he needed to learn. This was a lesson that had been beaten into her over and  over again, and Connor was going to learn it, too. She was going to make sure he learned it. "They all die. Every single one of them. No matter what you do, no matter how you try to hide them, no matter how hard you try to protect them from other ..." She stopped, her anger subsiding as she became aware of what she had just said.

Connor's anger hadn't subsided at all. "From other what?" he demanded.

Cassandra looked away, fighting for calmness. She had not meant to speak of this. Not yet. It was not what she had wanted to say.

"From other what?" he repeated. "Other Immortals? Is that what you mean?"

Cassandra turned away from him, cursing her lack of control. This had no place here.

Connor grabbed her by the arms and turned her to face him. "Cassandra?" he demanded, his voice hard and angry.

Cassandra took refuge from a man's anger in silence, as she always did, as Roland had taught her to do.

He shook her, snapping her head back and forth, his anger coming forth now. His words came out with each shake. "Is that what you mean?"

"Yes," she finally admitted, glaring at him. "Other Immortals." He stopped shaking her then, and the anger eased a little.

Cassandra said bitterly, "It's not enough that mortals can die from disease, or old age, or starvation, or war. It's not enough that they always--always!--die. If you have a mortal family, if you have people who you love, then they are hunted." She was  staring straight ahead, but she wasn't looking at Connor. "Hunted and captured, and then tortured in front of you, killed in front of you, made to ..." She clamped her lips together. She would not speak of that.

"That happened to you?" he asked, shaken.

"Oh, yes. It happened to me." She nodded slowly and continued, her voice low and hard, "And it happened to them." He looked worried now, obviously thinking of Heather and the Kurgan. Good. She wanted him to understand what she was saying.

He loosened his grip on her arms as he said cautiously, carefully, "Heather wasn't.... The Kurgan never touched her. She told me she ran away and hid."

Cassandra's lips tightened. She was not sure she believed that. Ramirez had told her of the Kurgan. But she knew better than to suggest to Connor that his wife had lied to him, that families lied to you, too. He would not like to hear that from her.

Cassandra looked straight into Connor's eyes. She spoke softly and seriously. "Then she was very, very lucky. Because it does happen." She looked away from him then. "It happens over and over again. Family after family. Century after century. Immortal feuds can last a very long time." She looked at Connor again, and shook her head. "We can't escape from the Game, and neither can those around us." He had been fortunate, very fortunate, to have had a wife and a lover who cared for him, who loved him, but she knew such good fortune couldn't last. It hadn't lasted for her. The fury mounted again, and she forgot about what Connor would not like to hear. "We bring death with us wherever we go, and then," she said slowly, dropping the words from her lips like small dark pebbles into a black and bottomless well, "and then we--watch--them--die."

Connor let go of her and stepped back.

Cassandra wasn't finished. She hated being Immortal; she hated the so-called Game and the imaginary Prize. She hated the blood and the endless pointless years. She hated her life. She hated what she was, what she had become. Connor needed to know what his life would be like. And she was going to tell him. "And don't think, for even a moment, that you can have an Immortal family. Because, Connor," she said his name sweetly and viciously, "there can be--only--one." Now the pebbled words were dropped from a great height, but they sank without a ripple.

Connor swallowed and moved farther back, confusion and even fear on his face. He looked at her carefully. "Who are you?"

"Don't you know, Connor?" She laughed in painful scorn. "I am an Immortal, just like you."

The confusion on his face changed to revulsion as he stepped back again and shook his head.

She saw the abhorrence on his face and realized that she gone too far. Again. She took a deep breath and smoothed her expression to polite concern, trying to control her anger. What was the matter with her? She never lost control. Not like this. Another deep breath, then she continued calmly and reasonably, "Just as Duncan is an Immortal. Just as Duncan needs to learn. He needs to learn to survive. Just as you did, just as I did."

Connor shook his head. "No." His voice was flat and determined.

How could he be so blind? Why did he not see it? Either Connor taught him now, or someone else would teach him later. And that would, indeed, be the final lesson. She had seen the trust and the openness in Duncan's eyes when he was a boy. He had to grow up; he had to learn that he could trust no one. Or he would die. She knew that Duncan was probably still foolish enough and trusting enough to get drunk with an Immortal he had just met. Or to get into bed with one, she thought darkly, remembering some of the female Immortals she had met, the tricks they used to compensate for their lack of physical strength.

Duncan had to survive. And Connor had to teach him. Her voice was just as determined as Connor's had been. "You must. Else Duncan may not live past his first half century."

"And if I kill him?" Connor demanded. "When he comes to me after, and asks me why? I can't apologize to him on my back the way you apologized to me!"

Cassandra did not flinch at his words. She walked toward him slowly and purposefully, deliberately reminding Connor of the time she had stalked him in the cottage, right before she had killed him.

Cassandra smiled, a truly terrifying smile. "No," she said sweetly, "you can't. You're a man." He would never be treated as a slave or a child or a thing simply because of his sex. He would never have men assume that his body was theirs for the asking. Or for the taking. He would never be expected to spread his legs for anyone who walked in the door, never be expected to sell himself for food, for protection, for safety. It might happen to him, but it would not always be expected of him. He was a man. A young, strong, confident man. A man who was free to go wherever he wanted, free to travel without concern, free to choose the life he would lead. It was a freedom she had never had, would never have. No woman would ever have that kind of freedom. Cassandra could not even begin to imagine such freedom.

"You are a man," she repeated, "and you can't apologize to him on your back." Her anger was still there, that overflowing black well of anger she had hidden throughout the centuries. She dipped deep. "But he's not going to tell you to open your legs for him, either." She had not flinched earlier, but she saw Connor flinch now. She did not care. She kept going, her anger low and vicious. "And he will never strangle you in bed."

Connor's face went white, and his eyes were suddenly haunted.

She saw how her words cut into him, and she suddenly realized what she had said. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly. She had lost her control again. How had she gotten here? She had not known she was still so angry at him; she had not realized how much she resented his youth, his life, his freedom. He had not created the world they lived in. He had not created the hell she lived in. It was not his fault he was a man.

"I'm sorry, Connor." She shook her head and blinked back tears. "I didn't ... Connor, I ..." She reached out to touch him, but he turned and walked away from her. She followed and stood in front of him, a few paces away. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "That was not fair of me."

He did not answer.

She took another deep breath and tried again. "Connor, we have both done things we wished we had not." She had done many things she had not wished to do. And she knew she would do more. She swallowed her anger again and spoke smoothly. "And I know you do not wish to do this to Duncan. But the lesson is very important; one day it will help save his life, his head." She said reassuringly, "He'll learn to understand. You did."

Connor was not reassured. He was looking at her with the intent and unwavering stare he gave to his opponents in battle, and she felt her heart go cold.

He demanded, "Why are you so interested in Duncan?"

Cassandra paused. "I told you," she said, wetting suddenly dry lips.

"No." Connor's voice was hard. "You told me that you felt like a mother to Duncan. And I actually believed you," he said in wonderment. His voice hardened again. "But you just told me now that Immortals can never have families." He stepped closer to her. "So, why are you so interested in Duncan?" he repeated.

Cassandra glanced at him, then down, hiding all her thoughts and emotions again behind her customary mask of composure. She did not want to lose control again. She could not afford to lose control again. She thought quickly, wondering how to explain Roland and the prophecy to him. She had been planning to tell him, but this was not the way to do it. This was not the time. Connor meant so much to her; and she knew he was a man of honor, a man of pride. She was afraid that if she did not explain her story well, he would turn from her in disgust and revulsion when he learned what she had done, when she told him how she had broken her vows, how she had betrayed her sisters and failed all of her families. She knew she would have to tell him some of the story now, and she wondered where to begin.
 
 

As Connor watched her, he saw for the first time what she was doing. He had seen her do it before. Many times. He had simply not realized what she had been doing. But now he knew. He could see it. She was preparing to lie. And after she told him the lie, she would watch him in silence to see if he believed it. As he had believed her before. Every time. And every time she had been lying. He took another step toward her and grabbed her by the arms again. He was almost afraid to ask, but he had to know. "And why are you so interested in me?" he demanded.

Cassandra merely looked him, her face calm and composed, with no trace of her earlier anger. And no trace at all of her earlier joy.

Connor swallowed hard, feeling something cold and dreadful coiling deep within him as he watched her impassive face. He had asked her the wrong question. She wasn't interested in him. She wasn't interested in him at all. She had never been interested in him.

Connor let go of her arms and turned away from her. He could not stand to look at her, to watch her think up another lie. He hated her silences, but he hated her lies more. She had lied to him from the very beginning, and she was getting ready to lie to him again--to convince him that he meant something to her--so she could use him again.

He had known she could be ruthless and cruel; he had seen the cold, detached satisfaction in her eyes when she had killed him. But today he had seen that she could be vicious as well. There was a depth of anger and hate in her that shocked him. He realized he did not know what else she was capable of. He realized he did not know her at all, and that frightened him.

Yet, it was all so very plain now. She had known somehow, through her visions, that Duncan was coming. He remembered the look on her face as she held the infant in her arms. He had thought it had been tenderness and protectiveness, but he had been wrong. It had been possessiveness. She had been waiting for Duncan, waiting for him to be born, and then she had waited for him to grow to be a man. She could afford to wait. She enjoyed waiting.

It was only after Duncan was born that she had suggested seeing him again. All those meetings, all those years, when Connor had thought she was happy to be with him, she was just strengthening her hold on him. She had only taken him as her student so that she could convince him to teach Duncan. She had only taken him as her lover so that she could convince him more easily. And she had convinced him. She had fooled him so completely. She had used him so well.

Christ's blood, what a fool he had been! She had been lying to him ever since the beginning. And he had never seen it. That cold dreadful feeling within him tightened into a sickening knot, and he breathed in a great shallow gasp of air. Of course, he had not seen her lies. He had been too stupid to see them. He had always been stupid. He remembered what she had said to him twice before, once in front of her cottage and once in her bed. She hadn't said it to him today, but then, she didn't need to. He could hear it plainly enough: "Connor, you are such a fool."

Such a blind, stupid, trusting fool. To think that she had liked him, that she had wanted him, that she had ever cared for him. Why should she care for him? Why should any woman care for him? Had Heather cared? Had Anne? Or had they been pretending, too? How could they have cared for him? How could any woman ever care for him? How could any man ever respect him? He was a stupid, ignorant, arrogant, overconfident fool.

She had called him a fool, and she should know. She had been his teacher, his lover, his confidante. She *knew* him. He had told her things he had never told another living soul, things he had never even told Heather, had never told Duncan. He had told her his dreams and his fears, his loves and his hates. She had taken him to her bed, held him in her arms, seen inside his heart, and she despised him.

He could hear her mocking laughter. And her words. "Such a fool." Her words scalded him, seared their way into his brain, branded themselves on his heart. The frozen knot within him loosened in the fiery heat of humiliation and shame. Its tendrils uncoiled, reached out and spread like some monstrous clinging vine, a vine whose seed he had swallowed long ago. The tendrils grew, encircling his heart, crawling up his throat, winding their way though his stomach, his guts, and his balls. He shriveled at the feel of the clinging softness, its touch like a bloodsucking leech, but he could not peel it away, for it was deep inside of him. It was a part of him, and it would be a part of him forever.

Because he would always be a fool. He would always be stupid. No matter how much he studied, no matter how much he learned, no matter how many fine clothes he wore or elegant houses he owned, he would always be a great clumsy clod of a barbarian.

No wonder she had smiled when he had told her he was "very good." All this time she had been using him, laughing at him. He meant nothing to her. He was just a tool to her, something to use and then discard. Worse than a tool--a toy. Oh, she had enjoyed playing with him for a time, having him pleasure her, having him service her, but it had all been just a game.

Or had she enjoyed it? Holy Mother of God, had that been a lie, too? All those sweet whispered words, all those smiles and touches and sighs. Connor saw with sudden shattering clarity that she had merely been pretending whenever he touched her, merely put up with his inept advances, merely endured him to get what she really wanted. Because he knew--he knew!--she didn't want him. She wanted Duncan. She had waited for Duncan to be born, then she had waited for Duncan to become a man. And Duncan was a man now. She wouldn't need to wait anymore.

Of course she wanted Duncan. Every woman wanted Duncan. Connor remembered for an instant--one blindly jealous instant--the expression on women's faces as they looked right past him to gaze at Duncan: tall, handsome, smiling, sweet-spoken Duncan. And just for that one brief instant, Connor hated Duncan. But he hated himself more.

He breathed in short shallow pants as those soft clinging tendrils slowly crushed his heart and left him nothing but an empty bleeding husk. He gagged at the pain and took in another gasping breath. His face was stiff with burning, and he strangled at the thickness in his throat. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to crawl away and hide. He wanted to lie weeping in the blackness of a cave, and he wanted to stay there until he died.

But she would see that, wouldn't she? That lying, deceitful, vicious, arrogant bitch was watching him right now. He would not let her see that. She would never see that, because he was not going to do it. He knew he was a fool, and he knew he was stupid, but he was not a coward. He held on to that thought grimly, clung to it desperately. He was not a coward, and he was not going to cry. She would never see him cry. No one was ever going to see him cry, because he was never going to cry again.

He was never going to let anyone get so close to him again. Anyone. He would build walls around himself, walls to protect himself, walls where he could hide. He built the walls now, hurriedly, desperately, throwing up the barricades. Later, he would build them higher and stronger, but for now he was safe. There was no need for doors in these walls, because no one was ever going to come in. No one. Ever.

He stood up straighter and flexed his shoulders, then took in a deep shuddering breath. He was surprised that it did not hurt. He felt no more pain, no more heat. He felt nothing, only coldness. Good. The coldness would kill that soft clinging vine within him, would leave it blackened and withered and dead. Another deep breath, and the beginnings of a feeling, a feeling of rage, coiled deep within him. Even better. Rage was good. Rage was safe.

He could feel Cassandra's gaze on him as she stood behind him silently, watching. She was always watching, always waiting, always playing her vicious little games, always playing him for a fool. No more. Never again. He didn't know exactly what she was trying to do or why she was doing it, but he wasn't going to be a part of it. He kept his back to her and said smoothly, almost calmly, "I never want to see you again, Cassandra."

"You don't mean that!" Her voice came from behind him, sounding shocked.

He turned to her, and his was the face of a killer, the face of an Immortal, an Immortal just like her. How dare this lying deceitful bitch tell him he did not mean what he said? "I know I am a fool, Cassandra, but I am not a liar." His words were evenly spaced. "I am not like you."

Cassandra stepped back and said slowly, "I don't know what--"

"Don't try that innocent act with me, Cassandra," he snarled at her. He had no patience with her lies. "Not again." He stepped closer to her. "You are a liar."

Connor saw the flicker in her eyes, the way she did not even attempt to defend herself against his accusation, and the coldness within him became a frozen rock of certainty. He knew what one of her lies had been. "That story you told me about being tortured was a lie."

"No!" she protested immediately.

But he had seen the barest dropping of her eyelids, the way she had looked down and then back up at him with earnest, innocent eyes, the way she was watching him now. He shook his head in disgust, both at himself and at her. "And that's another lie."

"No." This time her word came out in a whisper.

"And there's another." The bitch just couldn't stop lying, could she? Ever since the beginning, she had lied. When she had praised him as a student. When she had told him in Donan Woods about her student who had strangled her, so that he would forgive her for what she had done to him. When she had taken him to her bed all those years ago and spoken those words of love and friendship, when she had sung to him, when she had told him he was beautiful. They had all been lies.

And they were lies now. Everything she had said to him today had been a lie. When she told him that she had missed him, when she said she admired him, when she told him how impressed she was, when she told him that she cared, when she pretended to be open and vulnerable, begging him to love her, just for a little while, just for the now... And that story about being tortured--she told him that just to make him feel sorry for her, to make him feel protective, to dig her claws deeper into him. All lies. Every damn word. Even her smiles were lies.

And he knew why she had told him those lies. He breathed in carefully, then said, "You've been using me."

She did not answer this time, did not even try to deny it.

Connor nodded to himself as he saw her eyes flicker in acknowledgment once again. He had indeed been a fool. Her motive was obvious. "You want Duncan."

She did not deny that, either.

Connor watched her closely, seeing her absolute stillness and the total calm on her face. Now that he thought about it, he was not exactly sure why she wanted Duncan; she certainly wouldn't need to use him if all she wanted was to get Duncan in her bed. Duncan would be easy enough to seduce. But Connor was absolutely sure that she was using him to get to Duncan somehow, and he was not going to let her. He was not going to let her use Duncan the way she had used him.

Connor spoke slowly now, putting into words what he knew to be true. "You've never been interested in me at all." He knew she cared nothing for him, and he wished desperately he cared nothing for her. The walls were there; he would not allow himself to care. His gaze swept over her in disgust and revulsion. "I'm just something for you to use."

Cassandra stared at him, her face finally changing to show shock and horror. "No!" she cried desperately. "It's not like that! I didn't--!"

"You've lied to me from the beginning," Connor cut her off, his voice low and furious. He didn't care what she made her face show, what she said. He knew what a liar she was. He stepped towards her, his hands carefully by his sides. "And you're lying to me now."

"No!" she protested. "I'm not lying. I do care for you!" She glanced from side to side, searching for something to say, then raised her eyes to his. "I told you I cared about you!" she said earnestly, reaching her hand out to him. "I told you I missed you!"

Connor slapped her hand down. "Lies," he said flatly. His eyes were very cold, as cold as hers had been when she had watched him bleed to death in front of her cottage many years before. "You were the one who taught me not to trust you, Cassandra." His voice thickened with self-loathing. "I am a very poor student; I admit that. I am stupid. It took me a long time to learn it, but I have learned it now. You are a liar."

Cassandra shook her head wordlessly. Then she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She looked at him again, pleadingly. "Connor," she began, her voice hesitant, "I can explain ..."

"Explain?" he snarled at her. "Explain what? That you are a bitch?" The words came out very slowly now, breathed out in rage and unacknowledged pain. "A lying--fucking--bitch? You lied to me, and you fucked me, and even your fucking was a lie."

"No," she whispered, her face white and her eyes stricken.

"Yes." His voice was flat and completely certain. "All lies. All fucking lies. But you were telling the truth about one thing, Cassandra," he said bitterly. "I was a fool then, and I am a fool now." He could feel his hands clenching and unclenching, and he knew that he wanted to strangle her. He recognized the feeling. But that was another of her games, wasn't it? He had played that game before, and he had lost. He swallowed hard and backed away. "I am a fool," he repeated. "I trusted you."

"Connor," she pleaded, reaching out a trembling hand to touch him, once again.

He didn't trust himself to stop at simply slapping her hand away. "Stay away from me," he said, each word clear and distinct and very cold, and he turned from her.

She went after him and touched him hesitantly on the arm, trying to make him look at her. "Connor," she said, pretending to be desperate, "I do care for you. You're very important to me. If  you would just let me tell you--"

Connor couldn't stand to hear any more of her lies. He couldn't stand to have her touch him. He whirled and lifted his hand to strike her, his teeth bared in a feral snarl.

Cassandra froze, not even flinching as his hand moved toward her face.

Connor froze, too, as he looked into her impassive face. There was great fear in the depth of her eyes, but there was a knowing acceptance in them, too. She was waiting for him to hit her, daring him to hit her. He knew this game of hers, too, and he knew he would lose. His arm shook as he lowered it slowly. He wasn't going to play her games anymore. He didn't care what she did anymore. She meant nothing to him. He stalked to the fireplace and put on his boots.

Cassandra stood very still. When he walked past her she did not cringe, did not move. He did not touch her.

As Connor walked by the table he saw the remains of their meal: the very rare and very expensive porcelain dishes, the elegant glassware, the linen napkins, the bowl of stew. His piece of cake still lay half-eaten on his plate. He leaned forward and swept his arm deliberately across the table. The porcelain dishes and the glassware shattered as they crashed to the floor.

Cassandra flinched now.

When he saw that small movement, Connor felt some of the cold rage within him grow even colder, freeze into jagged cutting shards of hate. She cared more about the dishes than she did about him. He walked to the narrow table against the wall. The cake sat there, the cake she had made for him. He picked it up with both hands and smashed it to the floor.

Cassandra closed her eyes briefly as he destroyed what she had made, but she did not speak or move.

Connor picked up his sgian dubh, then paused, hefting the deadly knife in his hand, feeling the balance of it, the smooth coolness of the handle. It would be easy. Too easy. And he didn't care enough about her even to try. He slid the knife inside his stocking, then put on his sword-belt and sheathed his sword. The picture she had drawn of him was lying between the whisky bottle and his dorlach. He lifted his gaze slowly to Cassandra. She was watching him. Good. Keeping his eyes on her, he picked the drawing up and ripped it in half, then ripped it in half again. He wanted nothing from her, and she would have nothing of him. He crumpled the pieces into a ball and threw the paper on the fire. The flames flared brightly, then died.

Connor flung his dorlach over his shoulder and decided he was going to wash. He would scrub away--scrape away--the scent and the feel and the touch of her. And he would get drunk. In fact, he would start getting drunk right now. He picked up the whisky and took a long pull on the bottle, welcoming the painful jolt of fire in his belly. After he washed, he was going to find a brothel and take one of the whores to bed. He would take two of the whores to bed. He would fuck every woman in the place until he wiped the memory of her face and her hands and her mouth and her body and her voice completely from his mind. From his body. From his soul. He strode to the door, the bottle of whisky in his hand. He was stopped by the sound of his name.

"Connor!"

Her voice sounded heart-wrenchingly lonely, desperate and afraid. Oh, she was good. She was very good. He could almost believe that she meant it, but he knew just how good at lying she was. He didn't know what her real game was, but he would not let her get her claws into Duncan, too. Duncan was his kinsman, his student, his brother, his son, and he would protect him. She wasn't going to get Duncan, no matter how much she wanted him, no matter what it was she wanted him for. Connor walked over to her and stood very close, but he did not touch her.

Cassandra was petrified by his rage. She did not move.

Connor was glad to see her fear. He had seen that fear in her eyes when he had strangled her, and he was glad to see it now. There were at least some things he could control. "Stay away from me," he repeated, "and stay away from Duncan, too."

She started to speak, to tell him another lie.

He grabbed her by the throat, right under the chin, in precisely the manner he knew she hated. "Stay away from both of us," he said softly, "or I'll kill you."

He squeezed, pressing painfully on the sensitive places under her jaw. Then he smiled, his cold predatory smile, and he was very pleased to see the absolute terror in her eyes.

"And after I kill you," he said, with great relish, "I'll take your head."

Connor dropped his hand from her and wiped it on his clothes as he walked to the door. He slammed it shut behind him and walked out into the rain.

~~~~~

Cassandra stood there a moment more, amidst the ruin of the room and the ruin of her life. The kitten came out of hiding and picked its way delicately across the broken dishes, then sniffed at the food on the floor.

She could not follow him. He had told her he would kill her. She would not mind that so much, to have Connor kill her and then take her head. She had wanted to die many times before. But she could not bear to see the hate in his eyes when he did it.

When Connor had first turned away from her, she had started to step forward, to reach out to him. But then she had remembered the way he had knocked her to the floor in Donan Woods when he had been standing at the window, the way he had turned away from her earlier today, and she had stopped, unable to face his anger, terrified to risk his violence again. She had been waiting for him to turn around so she could tell him how much he meant to her, so she could explain about the prophecy.

But when he had turned around a few moments later, his face had been etched raw with hate. Hate, and pain. There had been such pain in his voice when he had accused her of lying to him, of using him.

And he had been right. She could not deny his words, not when he looked at her like that, not when she cared so much about him. She had lied to him, many times and in many ways. She lied to everyone. She could not bear to tell anyone about the prophecy, about Roland, or about what she had done, but she had to make them help her. She had to lie. And even though she had been going to tell him the truth, still she had lied to him.

And she could not deny that she had used him. He was right about that, too. She had used him. She had to use him. But she hated doing it; she hated herself for doing it. She hated what it did to her, what it did to him, and she had simply not been able to bring herself to lie to him about it again.

He did not know why, of course. He could not possibly know why she wanted Duncan, why she wanted him to teach Duncan. And he wouldn't listen when she had tried to explain it to him. She knew he thought she cared nothing for him. She knew he wouldn't believe anything she said. He had, indeed, finally learned that lesson.

She wished he had hit her. It wouldn't have hurt nearly as much as the things he had said to her, the way he had looked at her. Others had looked at her with hate: Roland, Kereis, Ould Margaret, her student Celia, her friend Liang. Her families had hated her, too, hated her for watching them die in agony, hated her for not helping them, for doing nothing. She had seen the beginnings of hate in Duncan's eyes when he was only six years old. She brought hatred and death to everyone she met.

Now Connor hated her, too. The one friend she had in the world, the one man she trusted and admired, hated her. The one man she loved. And she did love him. Even though she had known there was no place for love in her life, even though she had known Roland would eventually destroy whatever love she had, she had grown to love Connor. But Roland didn't need to destroy this love now; she had destroyed it herself. She had hurt and betrayed the one person she cared most about in all the world.

Connor had told her he never wanted to see her again. Connor MacLeod was a man of honor; he would never lie to her. Certainly not the way she had lied to him. She remembered the raw pain on his face and in his voice when he had said, "I'm just something for you to use." She knew the scalding sense of stupidity and worthlessness such betrayal brought. She knew how angry he was. She knew exactly how he felt, and she knew he would never forgive her for making him feel that way. It had been almost three thousand years ago that Death had betrayed her like that, and she still remembered how much it had hurt. She had never forgiven Death, and Connor would never forgive her.

She closed her eyes in bleak and hopeless acceptance as Ould Margaret's words came back to her: "May all your friends desert you! May your enemies come back again and again to haunt you! May you be alone all your days!" Cassandra knew she did not deserve to see Connor again. She did not deserve his love. She did not deserve anyone's love. He was right. She was a lying fucking bitch.

She slowly made her way over to the bed. The indentation of his head showed clearly in the pillow. Her hand reached out to it, tracing the outline cautiously and gently with one finger, afraid to touch it, as she had been afraid to touch him. She picked up the pillow and cradled it gently in her arms as she sank to the floor. She could still smell his scent, mingled faintly with her own. She bent her head over the pillow and rocked slowly back and forth, like a mother holding her child. Except, of course, she could never be a mother. She could never have a child. Her tears left patterns of dark stars on the pillowcase.

She could have nothing. Connor was gone, taking everything she cared about with him. He had taken Duncan from her, too. The prophecy would never be fulfilled, and everything she had waited for, suffered for, lived for, died for, was wasted. An empty blasted worthless wasted life. It was, she knew, all that she deserved.

She did not know how long she sat there on the floor, but the fire had burned down, and the dim light from the shuttered windows had faded to darkness, when she sensed the approach of an Immortal.

"Connor?" she whispered, rising to her feet. He hadn't left her, not really. He couldn't leave her forever alone. She wiped the tears from her face and set the pillow on the bed. There were no traces of Connor left. She took her sword out from under the bed and went to the door, desperate hope singing in her veins. As she reached for the latch, the door swung open suddenly, and she saw a man with a naked blade in his hand. But it was not Connor.

It was Roland.