Chapter 4

(The Present)

"One thing you said earlier I wondered about Deirdre."

"What was that Duncan?"

"You mentioned the Hunters. How did you know about them?"

A merry smile danced across the woman's impish face. "Because Fitz told me about them."

"Fitz? When did you see him?"

"A couple of years ago. I was participating in the annual Renaissance Faire. As usual I was a strolling singer accompanying myself on the lute, which is not exactly my favorite instrument. I was singing, of course, 'Greensleeves', a nice song but one I was really tired of by the time I had gone through it a dozen or more times. I sensed someone and turned just in time for him to give one of those deep bows, hat fluttering nearly against the ground and all." She laughed. "And then a burst of that charming flattery that he is so good at. He really should have been Irish," she added thoughtfully. "He has the gift of gab."

"Was this before or after you had married William?"

"After. He's the only other Immortal that William has met."

"I hope he didn't make too bad an impression."

"Now Duncan. I know that Fitz has made a masterful study of the art of seduction, especially of other men's wives, but he's well aware that when I'm married it's with a capital 'M' and his efforts are lost on me."

"Yes, but you are not always married," teased Duncan.

"True and during those other times he has been amazing successful with me," Deirdre admitted with a roughish smile.

"Well I'm glad he has been," Duncan smiled. "It did lead to our first meeting."

(Milan - 1639)

"Go away!" called an exasperated voice through the door.

The thunderous banging was repeated. The soft strains of a harp that had been drifting through the closed door stopped.

"Hugh Fitzcairn get up and open this door. You were the one who thought we should have caught that ship and you were right."

A lock rattled and the door opened enough of a crack for Fitz, an exasperated look on his face, to peek out."

"For heaven's sake MacLeod there's no need to make such noise. I already knew it was you. And what is it NOW?"

"Let me in."

Fitz looked back over his shoulder. "Not hardly Duncan. I have company."

Duncan groaned. "Now who? The Duke's daughter? Or some nobleman's wife?"

"You are the one who has been pursuing the Duke's nubile daughter my friend," replied Fitz, who was still blocking the door. "Not I."

"That's because you are probably still recovering from your wooing of the daughter of the Doge of Verona."

Fitz smiled. "Oh I would say I am completely recovered from that. Wouldn't you say so my dear?" he called.

Before an answer could come, if indeed one was going to come, Fitz's expression changed to that of alarm.

"Duncan, look out!"

"Death to the Duke!"

"Again? How many assasins are out there?" Duncan thought as he reacted to the chorus of angry voices behind him. He started to draw his sword and turn. He was only halfway around when bodies slammed against him. His abortive move did save him from being skewered by two swords as half a dozen adversaries piled against him. The door gave way and the entire group spilled into the room.

Fitz gave a yell of indignation and sprang across the room, seizing the sword by the bed. Wearing only the pants and boots he had donned to answer the door he engaged two of the attackers. As they untangled themselves the remaining four all attacked Duncan.

The Highlander was already a brilliant swordsman but the greatest swordsman of all time would have a hard time coping with that many adversaries. They pressed Duncan back until he was trapped in a corner of the room. Although the point was the favored way of attacking an opponent during that period an occasional swipe reminded Duncan he could still lose his head.

Suddenly the rearmost attacker's eyes opened wide and his sword fell from his hand. He goggled at the tip of a rapier that protruded from his chest before he fell lifelessly to the floor.

The three remaining opponents backed away enough to spare a glance behind them. Their eyes bugged out. Duncan's eyes followed suit as well once the rival swordsman had given him room to catch a glimpse of the new member of their duel.

After all, thought the part of Duncan's brain that somehow remained apart from the scene, it wasn't every day that you saw an attractive young woman with fiery red hair and green eyes whose entire costume was that of the sword in her right hand. A sword that she was obviously quite capable of wielding, as demonstrated not only by the way she had taken out one attacker but by the way she held her own when one of the trio turned to engage her. Then Duncan's attention returned to the pair who had resumed their attempt to impale him on their slender rapiers.

The killers' attempt failed. Duncan disposed of the one on the right in short order. The other exchanged a series of lightning fast thrusts and parries with the Highlander before Duncan's blade slipped past the other man's guard and he fell soundlessly to the floor.

Duncan's gaze followed his sword point around the room. Fitz stood over the pair of attackers who had charged him. The woman was wiping the bloody tip of her blade on the ruffled doublet of the man who had turned to deal with her.

"You always have to bring a crowd don't you Duncan? By the way," the Englishman waved his hand back and forth, indicating the pair still on their feet, "Duncan this is Deirdre and Deirdre this is Duncan."

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the Highlander acknowledged.

"I'm Deirdre O'Connor," replied the red haired woman.

"Pleased to meet you." A grin tugged at Duncan's lips. Fitz had started to quietly chuckle and the smile was spreading over Duncan's face when the woman realized that the sword in her right hand was the only thing she was wearing.

"Very funny!" She scrambled for the pile of clothes by the bed, shaking them out and sorting hers from Fitz's. She climbed into a loose fitting tunic and matching pants, along with soft boots. Turning around once she was dressed she attempted to maintain a scowl on her face, a scowl that kept slipping into a sheepish grin.

"The little jade isn't near as bashful as she appears," smiled Fitz.

Deirdre gave a very unlady-like snort. "I can speak for myself Hugh Fitzcairn." She sighed. "But you're right. False modesty is something I shed a few hundred years ago."