Paris
February 1993
The gray dreariness of winter had broken, at least for one day, and a very happy Tessa Noel turned her face to the sky to bask in the sunlight. Mid-week in Paris, most people still at work, with only shoppers, students and an occasional lost tourist to crowd the sidewalks. She sat in her chair with coffee at hand, resisting the urge to smoke because Duncan so sincerely disapproved of the habit. She closed her eyes, content to listen to French conversation, French music, French automobiles – the sounds of her country, so dearly and sorely missed after years of living in America.
A plaintive teenage voice spoke in English. "Um, Tessa?"
"Yes?" she murmured.
"What exactly are we doing?"
"Sitting," she replied.
"Sitting. Got that part. I'm just wondering what else we're doing."
Tessa cracked one eye open and fixed it on Richie Ryan, who sat fidgeting in his chair on the other side of the wrought-iron table. He looked so . . . American. She had hoped, faintly, that the cultural watchdogs of her country would have impounded that dreadful green suede jacket at DeGaulle airport when they'd landed. She'd been sorely disappointed.
"We are sitting," Tessa told Richie. "It's what one does in Paris at a sidewalk café."
Richie scratched his head. "So we sit," he said, looking genuinely puzzled. "Now what?"
"We watch people."
Richie's gaze followed a tall, elderly woman walking two Pomeranians. The tiny dogs barked and pulled on their silver leashes. "We watch people do what?"
"Just watch them," Tessa said. "It's relaxing."
Richie sat back in his chair, looking unhappy. "When's Mac coming?"
"Soon."
He managed to stay quiet for all of thirty seconds. Then he said, "I'm failing to see the fun in this, Tessa."
She should have expected that. Richie Ryan was a study in contrasts – either charging around full of energy and misguided intentions, or lying lifelessly on the sofa watching music videos. She couldn't remember the idiom that described him in the latter state – a sack of potatoes? A sofa sack? Something like that. The very notion that one could sit still and watch the world pass by without a soundtrack was beyond him.
"Get a newspaper," she suggested.
"Most of them are in French. And the ones that are in English don't even have comics."
Tessa silently counted to ten before offering, "If you'd like, we could go visit a museum."
The threat silenced him for a total of four minutes, but in the absence of conversation he started redecorating their tabletop. Tessa tried ignoring him, but when he piled the saucer on top of the cup, added a salt shaker and then went for a straw, she reached over and stilled his hands.
"Can't you find some other way to amuse yourself?" she asked with a forced smile.
"Not really," he confessed. "Why can't we just go meet Mac at the barge?"
"Because he wants to get it moored properly before we see it." Tessa had her private doubts about living on a large, rusting barge on the river, but Duncan had promised that with her sense of decoration and his extensive furniture collection, anything was possible.
"But why this cafe?" Richie persisted. "There's like fifty more closer to the river."
Tessa drained the last of her coffee and signaled for more. "After Mac and I met, we used to spend many free afternoons sitting right here. I shared an apartment with some other women just around the corner."
"So this is where it all started, huh?" Richie asked, perking up now that personal details had been added to the background. "The great MacLeod-Noel romance."
"It didn't start out so great," Tessa said.
"It didn't? Why not?"
"He stood me up on our first date."
Richie grinned. "Our Mac? Stood you up? He just loves courting danger, doesn't he? Come on, tell me the whole story."
Tessa hesitated. She rarely had the luxury of confiding in anyone about her relationship with Duncan - certainly not her mother, who had always disapproved, or her friends in Seacouver, who knew nothing about Immortals. Since Richie had moved in with them - had it already been six months? - he'd grown closer than almost anyone else to both her and Mac. Sometimes his impulsiveness, brashness or rude American ways grated on her nerves, but in other instances Richie had proven to be courageous and trustworthy and a true friend.
"Come on," Richie wheedled, giving her his most charming smile. "Mac's always launching into stories about his past - let's hear your side of things."
"All right," Tessa agreed. "But no interrupting, understand me?"
"I'm all yours," Richie promised. "Let's hear it."
So she began to tell him, judiciously omitting details she didn't think an eighteen-year-old should hear.
***
Paris December 1980
“Tessa! Wake up! You're late!”
Twenty-two-year-old Tessa Noel turned away from the hand shaking her shoulder and burrowed as deeply as she could in her flannel sheets. If ignored long enough, perhaps the stern voice would fade away. She couldn’t possibly be late for anything. She'd just gone to bed, after all.
“Hugues just called. I told him you were on your way.”
Tessa buried her head in her pillow. The fabric smelled faintly of shampoo, perfume, cigarette smoke and spilled champagne. She wondered why housekeepers had not bothered to wash her sheets lately. Mama would be displeased if she found out.
“If you miss your boat, he’ll fire you for sure!” the voice warned.
Tessa groaned and opened her eyes. The cold gray light of a December day fell through the tall windows, sending shafts of pain straight to the back of her skull. The stern, thin face of her roommate Josiane loomed overhead. A bedroom that had never seen the services of a housekeeper spun at the edges of Tessa’s peripheral vision.
“What time is it?” she croaked out.
“Ten minutes before noon. You’re late!”
“Late,” Tessa repeated dully. Ten minutes to noon. Hugues. She turned her gaze to the bedside clock and, a second later, let out a little shriek.
“I'm late!” she shouted as she ripped back the sheets and lurched for the bathroom. “Why didn’t you wake me? I’m going to get fired!”
“Last time I checked, I was not the keeper of your schedule,” Josiane replied tartly. Tessa ignored the jibe. She shoved a toothbrush into her mouth and began scrubbing at the thick, fuzzy coating on her teeth and tongue. Seconds later she yanked her uniform down from the curtain rod where it had been left to dry and dragged the sailor top over her head. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed the suspicion that she looked positively awful.
“Coffee?” Josiane asked calmly from the doorway, a steaming mug in her hand.
Tessa took a gulp so hot it almost burned her throat. “Thanks,” she said before turning back to the mirror. She smeared on some foundation and mascara. “He’s going to kill me. This is the second time this week.”
“He can't kill you. You’re his best guide. Who else is willing to ride up and down the Seine in the freezing cold with a bunch of dumb tourists?”
Tessa pulled a brush through her long blonde hair. “Where are my boots? Have you seen my boots?”
“No. Where did you leave them?”
“You sound like my mother,” Tessa grimaced. A quick sweep of her bedroom produced no little black boots. She dashed to the living room and stopped in the doorway, momentarily stumped by the disarray. Overturned pretzel and popcorn bowls, crushed pizza boxes, empty liquor bottles, spilled glasses and overflowing ashtrays marked the aftermath of another night spent entertaining. The Christmas tree in the corner leaned heavily on its side, propped up by three sofa cushions and a pile of art magazines.
“I’m not cleaning up,” Josiane said. “You and Karine and your little friends did this. I’m tired of picking up after you all.”
Tessa spotted one black heel sticking out from under sofa. She bent for it, and the rush of blood to her brain made her headache spike. “So don’t clean it,” she said testily as she pulled on her boots. A quick return to the bathroom netted her two aspirin, which she swallowed dry. “Where’s Karine?”
“Sleeping, where else?”
“How much time do I have?”
"Twenty minutes.”
“Ahh!” Tessa exclaimed. She grabbed her purse and flew out the door. She nearly twisted her ankle on stairs, and the cold wind barreling down the sidewalk outside almost knocked her over. She struggled to maintain a grip on her coat, purse and sailor hat while at the same time flag down a cab. A string of them moving down Rue St. Jacques ignored her entirely. She checked her watch. Damn it! Just as she began to truly despair, a battered green Volvo whipped around the corner. She whistled and waved it to a stop.
“Frederic!” she exclaimed, leaning in through the open passenger window. A wave of intense heat slapped her face. His car always had something wrong with it – too much heat, or not enough, or grinding noises under the hood, or huge bursts of foul-smelling exhaust trailing behind like black parachutes. “Please – I’m late for work – can you drive me?”
“A favor for my nicest neighbor?” Frederic grinned. “Sure, hop in.”
Frederic and his roommates lived in the flat beneath Tessa’s. Three would-be writers living beneath three would-be artists, all six of them out to recreate the world through shape or form or words. During the summertime, Tessa would sit on her window bench and listen to the clack-clack-clack of typewriters rattling up through the hot city air. The boys would come up sometimes with wine and cheap blocks of cheese to watch Josiane paint, Karine sketch or Tessa sculpt. They all had dreadful jobs and not-so-secret dreams, and Tessa for one thought Frederic might be the most talented of them all.
“Where am I going?” Frederic swerved back into traffic.
“The boat dock at Pont de L'Archeveche. And quickly!”
“Your wish is my command, madam."
Tessa yanked down the passenger’s side mirror and scrubbed at the red stain on her cheek. Frederic took a sharp right, and she grabbed hold of the door handle to steady herself. The plastic grip rattled loosely beneath her fingers. He ran the next red light with a gun of the engine, and something beneath the hood began to grind.
“Don’t worry,” Frederic grinned. “It's probably nothing."
He barreled through the next intersection and just missed hitting a bus. Tessa squeezed her eyes shut and muttered a short prayer. She didn’t want to lose her life for the sake of the 12:15 tour, but she also had no desire to lose her job, either. She already owed Josiane a portion of the previous month’s rent, and she’d promised herself she wouldn’t ask her parents for a loan. Mama already had enough to say about Tessa’s lifestyle without adding more fuel to her sarcasm.
“Here we are!” Frederic announced triumphantly, as the Volvo ground to a stop with a horrific squeal.
“You’re a god among men,” Tessa said, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She grabbed her things, scrambled out of the car and sprinted across the parking lot to the ticket booth. Thirty shivering tourists had already started to board the first boat at the dock. Tessa slipped into the booth, grabbed her time card and slid it into the punch-clock. It came out stamped exactly 12:13 p.m.
"You're late," Hugues growled.
"Good day to you, too," Tessa said cheerfully, and squeezed his beefy arm. She beamed at the Japanese foursome buying tickets at the counter. "Right this way, ladies and gentlemen . . . "
"Next time - " Hugues growled, but the ringing phone cut off the rest of his warning. Tessa smiled and hurried off to her boat. Johanne, who had the 12:30 tour, gratefully turned over handfuls of ticket stubs and the passenger manifest.
"They're all yours," she said. "And just in time, too."
Tessa picked up her portable microphone and launched into her pre-tour safety and orientation spiel in both English and French. She could have recited it in her sleep. As she spoke she noticed the Japanese couples in the back, some Americans near the front, a group of Swedes already warming themselves with hot chocolate. Plenty of seats remained unfilled on the upper deck, while a dozen or so who hadn't dressed warmly enough lingered inside the glassed-in area. Tessa began to wish she'd remembered her gloves, or at least a scarf.
The deckhands cast off the lines and the boat pulled away from the quay. As they cleared the bridge, she wrapped up the first part of her speech with, "Once again, my name is Tessa. If you have any questions, please ask. Paris is a wonderful and magical city, one full of surprises, and I'm happy to be your guide this afternoon."
A dark-haired man raced down the river embankment and launched himself at her boat. He crossed the widening gap easily, climbed forward and vaulted over the boat rails as fluidly as a movie stuntman, or an athlete, or a crazy person.
"Hey!" Tessa demanded. "What are you doing?"
He landed on the deck in front of her and gave her the barest acknowledgment. "Sorry - I didn't want to miss the boat." Without a backward glance her unexpected customer sought out a seat in the second row and made himself at home. The rest of her group giggled and chattered at his antics.
Tessa shared none of their mirth. In nearly two years of conducting tours she had never seen a tourist do such a foolhardy thing, and she wasn't about to let chaos reign free now. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded again.
"Uh - I didn't want to miss the tour," he offered earnestly.
"Is this the way you always make an entrance?"
"It's a way to make an impression," he offered, with a charming smile. He looked around for support and found it. His fellow passengers found him amusing and entertaining.
She did not.
"You have," she replied scornfully. "Bravo!"
He looked entirely unaffected by her tone. Instead he started pilfering popcorn from the woman beside him. Exasperated, Tessa again tried to scold him. "You could have been hurt! There's another boat in fifteen minutes!"
"I wanted this one," he replied simply. His deep brown eyes fixed on her with a puppy-dog-look that radiated sincerity. Damn it! Now he was openly flirting with her! Against every sensible instinct in her head she found herself smiling back. She felt suddenly warm all over, as if summertime had descended miraculously on the entire city. But that was ridiculous. So what if he was handsome, and charming, and so obviously spontaneous? She had no time in her life - or on her tour - for crazy men.
Tessa decided to ignore him as much as possible. She fell back on her memorized speeches and pointed out Notre Dame, reciting the dates of construction. The crazy man tried to correct her, insisting the cathedral had been finished in 1343 instead of 1345, but Tessa knew the completion date as thoroughly as she knew her own birthday. Further downriver he tried to convince her Henri IV had never bathed in the river where Quai St. Bernard now stood; in fact, the king had suffered from a definite aversion to cleanliness.
"And how do you know that?" Tessa asked, grateful for the fact she had a microphone and he did not.
"Everyone in Paris knew at the time," he replied with a grin. "Henri received more gifts of cologne than any other monarch in French history."
She couldn't win against silly answers like that. Thankfully he shut up for the next hour, although he kept those puppy-dog eyes fixed mainly on her and rarely at the sights. She didn't think he was a tourist - he looked more like a longshoreman than anything else, with that wool cap and heavy shirt - and he obviously considered himself some kind of expert about Paris. Tessa took her break before they reached Notre Dame and went inside for a steaming cup of coffee. She wrapped her numb fingers around the cup and sipped at it gratefully.
"Tessa," a voice said behind her. The crazy man's voice. Although her heart leapt a little at the sound of her name from his throat - silly girl, she chided herself - she turned wearing her most neutral expression, resolved that two could play at his games.
"I didn't tell you my name," she said.
"I asked someone."
"Are you here to say goodbye? Time to jump ship the way you boarded?"
He at least had the good grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry if I disrupted your tour."
"On the contrary, I think the others enjoyed it. But you still could have been hurt or killed."
"Doubtful," he answered, those puppy-dog eyes on her again. He really was quite handsome. Just standing near him made Tessa feel glowing. She mentally kicked herself again. Good looks did not a good man make.
"My name is Henri," he continued. "Henri Louchard. I wanted you to know you're a great tour guide. One of the best I've ever seen."
"You mean to say you make it a habit of jumping on tours and evaluating their guides?" Tessa asked, teasing. "And here I thought today was a special occasion."
"Today is special." He gently pried her left hand away from her coffee cup and kissed it. "Today's the day we met. Will you allow me to take you to dinner tonight, to apologize for my behavior?"
For all of five seconds, she considered saying no. But those damn brown eyes and sweet expression made her relent. They agreed to meet for dinner at a brasserie near the Sorbonne at seven. Henri gave her money for the tour and asked her to pay for his ticket. Tessa wondered why he just didn't pay it himself but discovered why at the Eiffel Tower, when he jumped ship and disappeared up the embankment with a cheerful wave. The rest of her group applauded while Tessa squeezed the bridge of her nose between two fingers and shook her head in disbelief.
A police car and a sour-faced inspector met her boat when they returned to Port L'Archeveche. "Where is the man who jumped on your boat?" asked the inspector.
"I don't know," Tessa answered truthfully. She headed for Hugues' office, longing for the cozy comfort of his space heater while she sorted her ticket receipts. "He jumped off again."
The inspector followed her into the office. "Did you learn his name? Anything about him?"
Tessa shook her head. Mama would not approve of her lying, but as charming and irritating as Henri had been, Tessa saw no reason to turn him into the police. At least not without good reason. "No, nothing. What has he done that interests you?"
"If you hear from him, call me," the inspector said coldly, and forced his card into her hand. He left another one with Hugues, and then zoomed off in his police car.
"Tessa, I think you know more than you're saying," Hugues said. "When you lie the tips of your ears turn pink."
Tessa gave him her most charming smile. "My ears are pink because it's cold outside."
By the time she returned from the three o'clock tour, glad to be rid of a boatful of rowdy Germans, Hugues had already closed the ticket office. Tessa took the Metro home and stopped to buy groceries and panty hose at the corner store. She dragged armfuls of dirty clothing from the bathroom, set up candles and music for herself, and filled the tub as high as it would go with hot bubbly water. A girl deserved a bit of pampering before a date with a mysterious stranger.
Karine came home just as Tessa agonized over wearing her red dress with the gold buttons or the blue dress with just a touch of silver in the color. She had earrings that went with the red dress, but the shoes that matched hurt her feet. She could sprint for miles in the shoes to the blue dress, but none of her earrings looked good with it.
"Wear the red shoes," Karine said. "You can always kick them off under the table. If your earrings look stupid, he'll be distracted all night long."
Her roommate went to pour them each a glass of wine. "Who is this man, anyway?" Karine called from the kitchen. "Have I met him?"
"No, you haven't met him." Tessa tore through three disorganized drawers, looking for her lace camisole. "He's someone new."
Karine reappeared with the wine. Red-headed and gaunt, she stood two inches taller than Tessa. "His name?"
"Henri Louchard."
"His occupation?"
Tessa went on her hands and knees to search under her bed. "Mischief-maker."
At six-forty-five she twirled one last time before her full-length mirror, double-checking her dress, the uncomfortable shoes, the pretty earrings, her hair and her make-up. She examined her nylons for any snags or runs, spritzed on her favorite perfume, tucked her money and driver's license into a clutch bag, and kissed Karine goodbye.
"Don't wait up," Tessa told her, her laughter ringing in the stairwell.
She reached the brasserie at just a few minutes after seven. Henri was not there yet. Tessa took a seat at the bar and ordered white wine. Couples and groups filled the room with laughter and conversation. Two men, both in their forties, tried to chat her up, but Tessa politely told them she was waiting for someone. By seven-twenty Henri had still not arrived, and she went to the restroom to check her make-up.
At seven-thirty she ordered another drink.
At seven-forty-five she paid her bill and left, cursing Henri Louchard with every single step in those painful shoes.
***
Paris February, 1993
Duncan waved farewell to the men who'd brought the barge downriver and turned, with a satisfied air, to his new home. The Nobile might not be the prettiest thing on the Seine, but her sturdy construction and excellent condition would hold up well for several more years to come. The inside was large enough for living and dining space, with a small galley and even smaller work area for Tessa. For larger projects, she had studio space over her offices. Richie could bunk under the pilothouse temporarily, but Duncan was hoping to find him an inexpensive, safe room for rent nearby so the teenager could fully enjoy his freedom in Paris.
His daydreams of private interludes with Tessa were disrupted by the sound of a man's voice from the shore.
"Ahoy, sailor! I can't believe the great Duncan MacLeod has been reduced to living in a rust-bucket on the Seine. Oh, what cruel days these are."
Duncan turned and smiled at the thin, distinguished-looking mortal standing in the sunlight. "Benjamin! You're the last person I expected to see today!"
"Why?" his old friend teased. "Do I look that bad? My friends tell me I'm as dashing as ever."
"You are as dashing as ever," Duncan returned, and went down the gangplank to give Benjamin Ehrlich a warm hug. His hair had turned silver-gray but he still wore the best-cut suits in Paris. Five years of living with AIDS had stripped him of some but not all of his vitality, and although he felt frail in Duncan's grip he had a healthy tan and sparkling eyes.
"St. Tropez," Benjamin said about the tan when Duncan asked. "The boys there are so lovely this time of year."
Duncan invited him onboard the Nobile to take a look at the interior. The inside was spartan and industrial-looking, in dire need of a good paint job and a few renovations.
"And you're going to live in this by yourself?" Benjamin asked dubiously, peering out a porthole. "Jonah in the stomach of the whale?"
"Not by myself. Tessa's going to live here, too."
"Tessa," Benjamin murmured, his eyebrows drawing together. "The musician?"
"No, she's an artist. You remember her. I've written about her time and time again."
"Duncan, your letters are full of details about Seacouver, America, antiques, politics, art - anything and everything but personal details. In twelve years of correspondence, I think just once you mentioned that you'd had a birthday."
"Tessa Noel," Duncan persisted, ignoring the criticism of his correspondence style. "Blonde, beautiful, smart, sexy – "
Benjamin sighed. "And when haven't you ever dated a woman who is beautiful and sexy?"
"I met her the day we first met Anton," Duncan said.
The Immortal immediately regretted the words. He didn't want to remind Benjamin of sadness and loss. But Benjamin smiled gently, a smile that knew far too much about the death of friends, and touched Duncan's arms.
"It's all right to talk about him," Benjamin said fondly. "That big ape. You say you met this Tessa woman the day he practically wrecked the gallery?"
"The very same day," Duncan said.
***
Paris December, 1980
Duncan MacLeod - primarily known in France these days as Jacques Lanier, but sometimes also as Henri Louchard - flagged down a cab at the Eiffel Tower and jumped in the back seat, quite pleased with himself. Not only had he survived an encounter with his old nemesis Kuyler, but he'd also escaped from the police and made a dinner date with a pretty girl. Not bad for a morning's work.
"Where to?" the cab driver asked, squinting through a thick haze of cigarette smoke.
Duncan gave him the address of the gallery he owned with a partner near the Ministry of the Interior. The driver grunted his understanding and steered the cab into traffic. Hot air rattled out of the dashboard, warming Duncan from the chill he'd picked up during his ride on the tour boat. The mellow, tinny strains of an American song called "Sailing" carried out of the radio, and Duncan relaxed back against the cracked vinyl seat as the city rolled by outside the windows.
Tessa. Tes-sa. A pretty name for a pretty girl. Too young for him, obviously. She couldn't have been a day over twenty. Still, it was hard to find dates with women his own age, and the memory of her smile made him feel warm inside. They would have dinner and drinks. She would be sweet and naive. Well, perhaps not sweet - she had certainly given him a tongue-lashing on the boat - but at least she would be interesting. Afterward they might go to her place, some cramped apartment with a lumpy bed, and he would kiss her, and put his hand on her thigh, and nature would take its course. Even she had felt the attraction between them - he had seen it in her eyes. He secretly believed that French women were trained from birth onward to look for that spark of attraction and embrace it whenever it came their way.
Tessa. In the afternoon he would send an errand boy with a bouquet of fresh flowers. She would tell all her friends about her date with a charming older man. Depending on how the night had gone, he might even see her again. He had no intentions of casually using and discarding her - he would ensure she enjoyed herself during their time together, and leave her with a pleasing memory.
Satisfied with his plan, Duncan picked up the folded copy of the "International Herald" a previous passenger had left behind. He idly scanned the headlines. American hostages in Iran, death squads in El Salvador, Margaret Thatcher's holiday speech. Jean-Paul Sartre and John Lennon were both still dead, and the passing years were all a blur. In two weeks, Duncan MacLeod would be 388 years old.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Birthdays meant nothing to him anymore. Each new notch in the calendar only drove home the aimlessness that had overtaken his life, the frivolity and emptiness he'd embraced ever since Siem Reap. Knowing what he'd allowed himself to fall into did not in any way give him the courage or will to climb out again, and so he found it easier to ignore birthdays and the passing of years. To ignore the images of nine small crosses that sometimes rose in the middle of long, sleepless nights when he lay beside women kept at an emotional arms-length.
The cab driver fought traffic all the way up Avenue Montaigne before crossing the Champs Elysees. Duncan remembered when that, perhaps the most famous street in the world, had been nothing but wild and uncharted forestland. Drizzle began to fall outside and he leaned his forehead against the glass window. He looked past the garish, depressing Christmas decorations that adorned the street posts and doors, past the pedestrians who had no concept of the history buried beneath the asphalt under their feet. He had returned to Paris after the tragedy of Cambodia because the familiarity of the city comforted his tired Immortal soul. But perhaps he knew Paris too well. History could wound as well as soothe. He might be better off if he left the jeweled city to young, pretty tour guides and moved away to some remote corner of the globe away from all the memories.
The sight of his art gallery pulled into view, and Duncan pushed aside his gloomy thoughts. Although he was sure the police had not recognized him after his fight with Kuyler, he carefully scanned the area anyway. Nothing. No suspicious observers of any kind. He paid the driver, hurried through the slanting rain to the front door, and let two German tourists squeeze out past him before slipping inside.
The shop was empty of customers. Benjamin Ehrlich, Duncan's partner, stood near the back of the gallery in somber contemplation of a large gilded mirror. With a frown he reached forward and fractionally adjusted the corner so that the reflecting glass hung straight and true. Then, with deft, light fingers, he tugged at the cuffs of his white shirt and dark blue jacket. A follow-up adjustment took care of his silk tie.
"You have never looked more devilishly handsome," Duncan said with a grin.
"True," Benjamin answered smoothly, without turning around.
"The men of Paris are lining up outside the door for your picking."
"Probably even more true." Benjamin turned around. Forty years old, of slim build and brown hair, he very capably mustered a stern expression. "But compliments, my dear Duncan, will not get you out of trouble."
"Am I in trouble?"
"You missed our appointment this morning with the revenue inspector."
"That was this morning?" Duncan asked, genuinely surprised. "I thought it was tomorrow."
"If you'd actually come home last night, you would have seen my reminder on your refrigerator door."
"Oh." Duncan sat on Benjamin's antique desk and plucked an apple from a silver bowl. He polished it against his thigh. "Sorry. Solange and I went to the theatre."
"You went to the theatre dressed like that?"
"No. My tuxedo was . . . damaged, afterward."
"Another Immortal," Benjamin said gravely.
"No. Solange. She was very enthusiastic."
Benjamin frowned at him.
"There was another Immortal, later," Duncan added, hoping to score at least a few sympathy points. "This morning."
"I see." Benjamin fingered a small slice in Duncan's sleeve. "I didn't hear any radio reports of unexpected lightning strikes in Paris this morning."
"It didn't come to that." But it would, Duncan promised himself, the next time he met up with Kuyler. He slid off the desk and started for the stairs. "Anyway, I'm sorry about the revenue inspector. Tell him to contact the accountants, that's what we pay them for."
"Where are you going?"
"Take a shower, take a nap, and get ready for my date tonight."
"Solange, again? Be sure to wear sturdier clothes."
"Not Solange," Duncan grinned, and left before Benjamin could quiz him further.
He took the stairs up past the gallery's mezzanine into the suite of apartments on the third floor. The high, pale cream walls and grand windows gave the space a distinct architectural feel, and he'd allowed his Immortal friend Rebecca Horne to decorate it in country Renaissance fashion. Benjamin's note, in small and precise handwriting, decorated the refrigerator. The message light blinked rapidly on his answering machine. The first message was from Sean Burns, who invited him and a guest out to the countryside for a weekend. Solange had left the second message, and her low, throaty voice followed Duncan around the apartment as he stripped off his clothes.
"My dearest Jacques," she purred, "you forgot your tuxedo. You'll have to come back and retrieve it. And when you do, I'll - "
She went on with an erotic promise, a description of delights to come. Duncan smiled at the idea and let her vivid description warm him in the bathroom as he waited for the hot water to come up. Solange was nothing if not creative. Her grandmother, whom he'd known in a similar fashion before World War I, had been equally creative. Duncan couldn't help but compare the two women as he stepped into the tub and soaped himself up.
He was in the middle of a personal indulgence when the toilet downstairs flushed, sending cold water cascading over him. Duncan gritted his teeth and endured the discomfort. The plumbing in his building was old, but at least he had plumbing. He remembered all too well when men and women had been forced to lug water up from wells or away from rivers in buckets, and when heating enough water to bathe in had been a luxury.
Benjamin, ever fastidious and meticulous about his appearance, sometimes complained about odoriferous customers. Duncan told him that he'd never even smelled the worst of it. Duncan had stepped out of the Highlands of Scotland reeking of sheep, dirt, dung and woods. He'd plunged into societies of wigs, gowns and salons, all drenched with perfume. The smells had been normal if abominable - the sludge of excrement in sewers, the stench of rotten bodies from potter's fields, the fetid breath and rotting teeth of beautiful women and handsome men -
The hot water returned. Duncan finished showering and wrapped himself in a thick white robe. Hunger pains shot up through his belly, and he padded into the kitchen in search of something to eat for lunch. He turned up only half a baguette and a can of minestrone soup. Definitely time to go grocery shopping. Just as he reached for the can opener, a strong and cold tingling bolted down his back from skull to waist.
Another Immortal nearby.
Kuyler?
Duncan grabbed his sword from its hook on the wall and silently unlatched his front door. A look through the peephole prepared him for the empty corridor. Still in his bare feet, he moved without sound over the hardwood floor to the stairs and down, just as silently, to the mezzanine. The shop looked empty, but he could still feel the presence of another of his kind. Every nerve stretched tight, he listened intently and heard voices from the workshop.
"I told you not to lie to me," said a man in a low snarl. "He's here, I can feel him!"
Duncan did not hear Benjamin's reply, but he did hear the scurrying of feet and loud curses that didn't come from Benjamin. Something clattered to the floor, an easel tipping over.
"Come back here, you little worm!"
"Come over here and catch me, you ape!"
Duncan eased his way down the stairs and approached the workshop. He edged around the doorframe and saw his partner and the unknown Immortal on opposite ends of a large bench. Benjamin looked uninjured, if a little winded from running and dodging the intruder. The Immortal trying to catch him was one of the largest sons-of-bitches Duncan had seen in a long, long time. A warrior, no doubt, someone who'd pillaged and ripped his way out of medieval Asia or Serbia and had the scars, the muscles and the power to prove it.
"I'm going to snap you over my knee like a dry twig," the Immortal promised.
Benjamin lifted his nose. "You can try."
"Tell me where MacLeod is and I'll make your death quick!"
"I don't know who you're talking about," Benjamin answered. "My partner's name is Jacques Lanier and he's gone to London on business."
"His name is MacLeod, and he's around here somewhere. You can't protect him, worm."
Duncan stepped into the back, sword raised. "I don't need him to protect me."
The huge Immortal spun around. "You're MacLeod?" He had an ugly, broad face, with a crooked nose and an eyebrow that seemed to run unbroken from one eye to the other. "But you're tiny!"
To be fair, his opponent had at least twelve inches and a hundred pounds to his advantage, but Duncan still bristled at the idea of being "tiny." "You'll find I'm large enough to take your head."
"I don't see how you even have enough strength to lift that little sword!"
"Tell me your name, so I'll know whose Quickening I took."
"Anton Eskandarian." The Immortal took two steps toward Duncan. "I'm going to swallow you whole, Highlander."
"Not in here!" Benjamin said. "You'll damage the paintings."
Duncan shot his partner an exasperated look. Warriors fought on the battlefield that presented itself at hand. But Eskandarian grinned in agreement and jerked his head toward the back door.
"Outside," he ordered. "I want your blood to run in the gutters to the Seine."
Duncan followed Eskandarian out the door. The cold wind whistling through the alley lifted his bathrobe, chilling his private parts. He expected Eskandarian to be strong but not fast. Unfortunately he was both strong and fast. Duncan blocked the man's first slash, but the sheer strength of it made his arm immediately ache. For all his might, though, Eskandarian's swordwork lacked finesse. Duncan very quickly found an opening under the man's left arm. He thrust his katana into the unprotected area, stabbing through flesh and fat and muscle as deeply as he could.
Eskandarian fell to his knees, his eyes already glazing over. His sword slipped to the ground. His head dipped, his breath wheezed, and he muttered, "They promised you'd be good."
"I am good," Duncan agreed dispassionately. "I'm very good."
He lifted the katana for the killing stroke, intent on a clean separation of head from neck, but stopped at the top of the arc.
"Who promised?" he asked.
Eskandarian's limp, open hands twitched. "I asked around," he answered, and he pitched forward with a bone-crunching thump. Duncan watched him die and turned his thoughts toward practical matters. He debated the merits of wrapping the body in a tarpaulin and bringing it somewhere a Quickening wouldn't attract attention. He'd probably need a forklift to get Eskandarian into the car boot. As the Highlander considered other options, Benjamin's head poked out of the gallery's back door.
"Is it done?" he asked.
"No," Duncan said. "Not yet. Are you all right?"
"Of course," his partner answered. "Although I don't appreciate being called a 'worm.'"
Duncan didn't know how long Eskandarian would remain dead, or how dangerous he would be upon revival. He seized upon a plan and said, "Help me get him inside."
"Inside? That brute? I won't have him anywhere near here! You're the walking guillotine - do what you do best."
After several minutes of debate and objection, topped by a threat and a bribe, Duncan persuaded Benjamin to help him drag Eskandarian into the back of the shop. They propped the huge Immortal up against a sturdy workbench. The job of chaining him to the bench with several loops of galvanized steel fell to Benjamin, who did so with glee.
"If you put a twinkling light on his head," Duncan observed dryly, "he'd look like a Christmas tree."
"Not that I'm the ruthless, bloodthirsty type, but why don't you kill him now and get this over with?"
Duncan scratched his chin. "Because I'm curious. And I'm hungry. Give me a yell when he wakes up, won't you?"
***
Paris February 1993
"So what happened after Mac stood you up? " Richie asked, leaning across the table. "Did he send you flowers or chocolates, or beg on his knees, or serenade you from the street like a bandoleer?"
"Like a what?" Tessa asked.
"The guys who sing Mexican songs in the restaurant. You know – with the big hats and little guitars and stuff. They sing to you."
Tessa had no idea what he meant. When Richie stood up with the clear intention of launching into song, she quickly grasped his hand and pulled him down again. "Maybe you could just draw me a picture," she suggested.
"He means mariachi singers," Duncan said, from just a few feet away. By the amused look on his face, Tessa knew he'd witnessed the entire exchange.
"Then what's a bandoleer?" Richie asked.
"It's a belt you wear across your chest to carry ammunition," said the thin, gray-haired man beside Duncan.
Richie shrugged. "I never did pay much attention in Spanish class."
Duncan gave Tessa a kiss and introduced his companion as his 'old, but not that old, friend'Benjamin Ehrlich. The men pulled chairs up to the table. Benjamin raised his hand to signal a waiter and Richie said, "Tessa was telling me how you stood her up on your first date, Mac."
"I didn't mean to stand her up," Duncan protested. He sat down and took one of Tessa's hands, warming her hands against the chill. "It was an accident."
Tessa smiled. "As I remember, you claimed your sick aunt had to be taken to the hospital."
"Well," Duncan offered, "there's nothing quite like a fictitious relative when you need one."
"Tell us what really happened, Mac," Richie prompted.
"Yes, Mac," Tessa said, kissing his cheek. "Tell us what was more important than your first date with me."
***
Paris December, 1980
Duncan had just finished the last of his soup when he heard a loud bellowing echoing in the building's ductwork. Having already abandoned his bathrobe in favor of slacks and a sweater, he grabbed his sword and hurried downstairs.
"The beast awakens," Benjamin reported from the workshop doorway, gesturing to where Eskandarian shook and struggled against his chains. The curses streaming from his mouth were from a language Duncan didn't understand, but there was no mistaking the glare of hatred directed his way.
"Why have you chained me like an animal?" Eskandarian demanded, switching to English.
"What do you care?" Duncan asked casually. "Your life is already forfeit. You died and I didn't."
The other Immortal spat on the floor. "You were lucky."
"No, I'm just good," Duncan said. "The question is, why do you want me to take your head?"
Eskandarian's glare turned murderous. "I have no idea what you mean."
"You asked around about me. You wanted someone with a good reputation. And you left an opening in your defense that a five-year-old could penetrate."
Benjamin said, "You mean he wanted to be killed?"
Eskandarian only glowered.
"You're not the first Immortal to deliberately lose a fight," Duncan continued, leaning on a bench out of kicking and spitting range. "But it gives me no satisfaction to be part of your suicide plan."
Eskandarian pulled at the chains and growled, "I am not tired of the Game. Free me and I'll prove it."
"I don't think that's a good idea," Duncan said frankly. "Maybe I should just go ahead and take your Quickening anyway."
Silence.
Duncan said, "Or perhaps I'll just leave you here a few days on your own. That might loosen your tongue."
Benjamin made a small noise of dissatisfaction. "That could be very messy. Who's going to clean up after him?"
"I am not tired of the Game," Eskandarian snapped. "I am tired of this wretched century."
Duncan gazed at him speculatively. Hadn't he been thinking along the same lines earlier that day? "What's wrong with this century?"
Eskandarian's tight, bitter words echoed in the workshop. "I hate it! It's too strange. It moves too fast. Electric candles that burn all hours of the day. Mechanical beasts that should fall out of the sky but don't. Radio and television and all the other noise! It hurts my goddamned head."
"How old are you?" Benjamin asked softly.
"It doesn't matter," Eskandarian replied. "I am lost in time and I hate this world."
Bit by bit, the large Immortal revealed he had been born on the island of Saaremaa in the Baltic Sea in 1749. Duncan had visited that part of Estonia once, and he remembered a flat but scenic island with a mild climate and a great many sheep. Eskandarian had been a sheep-herder for lifetime after lifetime, a loner who kept to himself and was rumored by villagers to be immensely old. When Estonia fell into the hands of the U.S.S.R., the bureaucratic Communists had ruined the Immortal's privacy and secrecy.
"They made me get papers," he said with remembered outrage. "Papers! I had to be a registered sheep-herder. I had to give them the date of my birth and the names of my parents. They wanted to collect more and more taxes every year, and then they wanted me to serve in the Army!"
Eskandarian had finally left the island for the mainland, but he quickly discovered he hated cities. He had no money, no education, no resources. He drifted from country to country, bewildered by the strangeness of new societies, drawn again and again into fights with other Immortals. From them and their Quickenings he learned about the Game, the Gathering and the Prize.
"And now you're just going to throw your life away?" Benjamin asked distastefully. "Get yourself killed because you don't understand how electricity works or how planes fly? Heavens, I don't even know how electricity works, but I know how to turn on a lamp."
"I didn't ask you," Eskandarian said.
"But he's right," Duncan said. Darkness had fallen outside the shop, leaving the workshop in layers of shadows. The furnace in the basement kicked on, sending warm puffs of air through the brass registers. "You said yourself that you're lost in time. You've got the worst case of culture shock I've ever seen."
Eskandarian tilted his head. "Culture shock?"
Duncan nodded. "The good news for you is that it's curable . . . if you want it to be. You don't have to die just because you don't understand the world around you."
"It might be less trouble that way," Eskandarian said glumly.
Benjamin wagged a finger at him. "Now you're just feeling sorry for yourself."
"If I set you free," Duncan said, "will you promise to behave? I can help you - but if you'd truly rather be dead, let me know now and I'll make that happen."
Eskandarian considered his options and agreed to the first condition. Once loose, he apologized to Benjamin for his previous unflattering language and hostile threats. Benjamin accepted the apology begrudgingly, then went upstairs to his apartment to make himself "pretty for dinner."
"Dinner!" Duncan exclaimed, looking at the clock. In the long hours that Eskandarian had reminisced about life with his goats on Saaremaa, the Highlander had entirely forgotten about his date with Tessa Noel. Already it was eight o'clock - he should have met her an hour earlier. "Oh, hell," he said, and went upstairs to grab his car keys. When he came back down he told Eskandarian to be back at the shop the next morning. "Then we'll begin your twentieth-century education," he promised. "It may not be easy, but it's better than getting your head chopped off."
By the time he reached the brasserie it was already eight-thirty, with no sign of Tessa Noel. The bartender remembered a pretty young blonde, but he could not say when she had left or if she had gone with anyone. Duncan wished he had taken her home phone number or address. He tried calling the operator, but she told him there was no listing in Paris for a Tessa Noel.
"Damn, damn, damn," Duncan said, hanging up the phone. He didn't think Tessa Noel was a woman who would be easily appeased by roses or chocolates. No, if he wanted to be forgiven for his lapse and obtain another date with her, he would have to make a very grandiose play for forgiveness.
***
"Tessa, wake up!" This time the annoying voice in her ear was not Josianne, but Karine. Tessa groaned and tried to burrow herself deeper into her blankets. After being stood up by that creep Henri Louchard she had returned to the apartment and gotten exceedingly drunk with Karine, Frederic and some of their friends. They had listened again and again to the strange American song "Stairway to Heaven" until the upstairs neighbors pounded angrily on their floor. Tessa couldn't remember what time she had finally stumbled to bed, but she knew it couldn't have been very long ago.
"Hugues called," Karine said, shaking her at the shoulder.
"I have today off," Tessa muttered. "Tell him to go to hell."
"He said the one o'clock cruise is completely sold out, and Johanne had to go home because she has the stomach flu."
Tessa groaned and sulked and tried to go back to sleep, but finally she dragged herself into the bathroom and considered the wreck of a girl looking blearily out of the mirror back at her. A hot shower, two aspirin and a large cup of coffee barely improved the situation. She had no money for a cab and Frederic wasn't around, so she trudged to the train station in the cold drizzle. The weather reflected her foul mood perfectly, and the rattle and roar of the subway did nothing to improve her headache.
If the tour was indeed sold out, as Hugues claimed, then he must have sold the tickets to some large group. Japanese if she was lucky, Americans if she'd already died and gone to hell. But when she got off the subway near Port L'Archeveche she saw no buses idling in the parking lot. Just Hugues' beat-up old Volvo and the car that belonged to the boat captain. No hordes of tourists waited pierside, either. The door to the office was locked, although the ticket window was open.
"Hugues," she called, banging on the door. "What's going on?"
He appeared at the plexiglass window, and seemed uncommonly cheerful. "Hello, Tessa!"
"What's going on?" she demanded. "You told Karine the tour was sold out."
"It is, it is!" Hugues rubbed his hands together. "He's already on board."
"He? He who?" Tessa asked. She turned to the boat. Aside from the crew, she saw no one. But curiosity and a growing suspicion took her to the gangplank. A familiar man appeared in front of her, his long coat flapping in the breeze. At least he no longer looked like a longshoreman.
"Mademoiselle," he said grandly, with a sweep of his arm. "Welcome aboard. Please watch your step."
Tessa didn't move from where she stood. "Do you think it's that easy?" she asked testily. "I waited an hour for you last night."
"I'm sorry," Henri said, and he looked quite sincere. "My aunt took very ill. I had to take her to the hospital. I didn't have your phone number to call you, and by the time I got to the brasserie you'd already left."
A sick aunt. Tessa considered that excuse for a moment, but it sounded suspiciously well-intended and she was in no mood to be forgiving. "What did you do? Bribe Hugues to tell me this cruise was sold out so I would be stuck with you?"
Henri looked perplexed. "No. I bought every ticket."
Tessa laughed. "Every ticket? There are one hundred and ten seats, and each seat is forty francs."
"I know," he said simply. "Won't you come aboard?"
After a moment's consideration - her mother had always stressed that she should never be too eager - Tessa accepted Henri's hand and stepped aboard. He led her to the enclosed area, which was much warmer than the open deck, and she saw a pretty red blanket spread across the floor. The picnic basket sitting on top of it was full of wine, cheese, chicken, bread and cake. When the boat pulled away from the pier Henri stood and said, quite formally, "My name is Henri, and I'm going to be your tour guide today. We're going to see the best parts of Paris from right here on the Seine. I'm going to tell you things about this city that you'll never find in any history book - but trust me, they're all true."
Tessa didn't trust him. There was still the matter of why the police had been chasing him the previous day, and she would have to physically meet the supposedly sick aunt before believing in her existence. He obviously had a great deal of money, perhaps not all of which came from legal sources, and whether he could deliver on his claim to be a stellar tour guide remained to be seen.
No, she didn't trust him at all.
But maybe she could learn.
***
Paris February, 1993
"You rented the entire boat," Richie said, obviously impressed. "Now that's something I probably wouldn't have thought of."
Duncan said, modestly, "It worked."
"It got your foot in the door," Tessa corrected. "Money isn't everything."
The afternoon had turned cloudy and gray, and most of the other sidewalk patrons had already departed. The wind carried a discarded newspaper down the sidewalk and into the gutter. Richie and Tessa looked cold, and Duncan was beginning to get hungry.
"Perhaps we should get going," he suggested. "We'll have to hurry if you want to see the barge before dark."
"Wait," Richie said as they stood up. "What happened to that Eskandarian guy? Did he learn to adjust to the twentieth century, or did you . . . you know, do what you have to do?"
Benjamin answered before Duncan could. Fondly he said, "Oh, Anton learned to adjust. It took some time, and was not without its ups and downs, but he was really quite lovely underneath his bluff exterior. All those years of herding sheep and being alone had to be stripped away to reveal the finer man."
Duncan clasped Benjamin on the shoulder. "And Benjamin here was the just the man to do that stripping."
Richie looked from Duncan to Benjamin and back again, a dozen questions written in his expression.
"We lived together for eight years before he lost his head to another Immortal," Benjamin said softly. "He had a good life, and he made mine a hundred times better."
Duncan kissed Tessa. "Ours was not the only courtship that began that winter. Now, come on, let's go before we all turn into ice cubes just standing here."
"It's not that cold," Richie protested, following the others inside and toward the cashier. "Besides, I want to know more - about what happened after the boat ride, and how Anton learned to love electricity - what about the roommate with the red hair, what happened to her? She sounded cute - "
Tessa gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Those are all stories for another day," she promised.
THE END
Author's Notes: Is that it? Of course that's not it! One day, when I have all the free time in the world, I might write "Romance," a sequel, in which Tessa teaches Duncan a thing or two, and Duncan teaches Tessa a thing or two, and we learn who Frederic the neighbor really is, and more fun things about Duncan and Tessa's early years. This story could have easily gone to 12 parts; forgive me for truncating it, but real life intrudes. Thank you to Angela Gabriel and Cindy Hudson for their beta-reading - they are wonderful, and any remaining mistakes are entirely mine.