Highlander: The Measure of a Man

by Nancy Holder

  “Then I’ll reread it.” Rising, he left the fiche sheets beside the reader and walked her toward the book checkout desk. He handed the book to the librarian, who raised her brows as she stamped the due date in the book.

  “How nice,” she said. “No one reads the classics anymore.”

  “Here’s another one.” MacLeod smiled politely and handed her another book, which he had kept under his arm. The Art of War, by Sun Tzu.

  Samantha looked at it, looked at him, said nothing.

  As they left the library, he gripped her arm. She tensed as if he had hit her, and he was sorry for it. “Be careful,” he said, indicating a sparkling patch of ice.

  “Thanks.” She allowed him to help her across it, his right hand under her forearm, the left clasping her hand. A surge of warmth crept through his body, shielding him against the cold.

  He said, “We’ll have to begin training together. If you don’t keep working, you’re going to forget whatever you’ve learned.”

  “You’ll be my teacher?”

  “For the time being.” For as long as it took to figure out what she was really doing here, and how and if she was connected to Machiavelli’s plans.

  If? Was he so naive that he didn’t believe that she was?

  The happiness on her face was undeniable. Confusing, but undeniable. It would be easy to begin to care for her. And possibly fatal, he reminded himself. Probably fatal.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Good,” she replied earnestly. “Let me know if I can help.”

  He regarded her. “I will.”

  “Good,” she said again.

  “Guri,” Samantha said, and Duncan smacked her thigh with his wooden practice staff. “Gori. Gari. Stop it!”

  They were working in his dojo, doors locked, phones unplugged. He wore a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, and the sight of so much bare skin was distracting her.

  “Giri.” Duncan shook his head in frustration.

  She rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, I was remarkedly close.”

  He gave her a funny look and smacked her again. Welts rose beneath her exercise shorts. Slowly they receded. Her fingers were itching to raise welts on his thighs. Anywhere on him. Or take this stick and…

  “Shiki,” she said.

  “Good.” He nodded approvingly. She wanted to slap his smug face.

  “Ansha. Fudo. Doryo. Nangyo.”

  Smack.

  “What!” she shouted. And suddenly she could take no more. They had been practicing for hours, and she was exhausted and sore. She rushed him, circling her sword above her head like a madwoman. Slamming it down in an arc, she shrieked as he jumped easily back, shrieked again as he deflected her thrust and grabbed her wrist.

  Ineffectually she jerked her arm. Then, whipping her leg forward, she hooked him behind the calf and sent him tumbling backward on the mat. He was surprised, and pleased. Then he began to laugh as she launched herself at him, pinning him with her body.

  “You… are… driving… me… crazy!” she heaved.

  He wrapped his legs around hers and grabbed her arms, pulling her flat on top of him all at once, as if she were a jumping jack and he had pulled the string. “What’s the correct pronunciation?”

  “Of what? Bully?”

  “Of what you called nangyo. We’re speaking of the six virtues of bushido. Duty, Resolution, Generosity, Firmness of Soul, Magnanimity, and Humanity. You’ve forgotten how to say Humanity.”

  He laughed in her face as she struggled to free herself. “Do it the right way,” he insisted. “Get free.”

  She braced herself against his shoulders and pulled upward, straining until she had no more energy, and flopped on top of him. Sweaty and grimy in a sleeveless T-shirt, jog bra, and Spandex exercise shorts she had purchased at a sporting goods store, she huffed as her breasts flattened against his broad chest.

  They lay still, panting.

  “Samantha,” he whispered.

  His hands splayed over the small of her back and the swell of her buttocks, fighting to keep from holding her. Her body responded to his nearness; she closed her eyes, dizzy with the sensation of his body arching beneath her own. They had been alone for two days. She had called Japan innumerable times, and each time Aaron had told her that everything was fine, and that the group had agreed she should wait to come clean with MacLeod until she knew why he’d been in Washington with her contact, Woodrich.

  “Things are more complicated now,” Aaron had said, to which she’d replied, “No kidding.”

  But now, her mind was on other complexities.

  She kissed his mouth, urging his lips apart.

  “No,” he said. But he returned her kiss, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, groaning with pleasure as she moved with him, parting her legs. He raised her up and cupped her breasts, pushing up her T-shirt, fumbling with the hooks on her bra.

  “Duncan, take me,” she whispered, as her blood roared in her ears. “Duncan, please.”

  He took deep breaths and pulled away. “No.”

  She grabbed his hand and led it to her lower abdomen. “I want this. I have wanted this ever since I knew of you. I have dreamed of this.” She breathed warm air into his ear, tantalizing him. “Don’t you want me?”

  His heart pounded. She kissed his neck, drawing her tongue from beneath his jaw to the hollow of his throat. He was salty.

  He grabbed her hands, and said, “Stop.”

  She fell into his dark, deep-set eyes. This was it, then, the last moment of choice. Or the illusion of it. Had this been inevitable? Was this her destiny, as she had once believed Machiavelli to be?

  She said, “I don’t want to stop.”

  “Then,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I won’t, either.”

  He rolled her onto her back and straddled her, kissing her everywhere, running his tongue along the soft swells of her breasts, her flat stomach, catching her hips between his hands and holding her as he rolled off her exercise shorts.

  She curved her back. He held her, suspended, as he moved with her. Her lids were half-closed, her lips pulled taut with desire as she breathed heavily through her mouth.

  “I have wanted you, I have wanted you.” She threaded her hands through his hair, gripped his shoulders, couldn’t seem to touch him enough, explore him enough. Her voice was filled with triumph. “I have wanted you.”

  “But who are you?” he murmured. “Are you my death?”

  She meant to answer, but all words, all thoughts left her as he increased his rhythm, allowing himself to be carried away by the deep, primitive urges that consume men and women, even Immortals. All sense of herself vanished. Pushing and joining, meeting, melding, faster, faster still,

  moving, moving moving

  with a cry, she found release, exploding in a cascade she thought must be like a Quickening, for it was alive and filled with infinite pleasure; it was a revelation, it was a victory. She reveled in the power of her body, and of his, tamed by her. They clung to one another, riding the tide, transforming the drive to ecstasy; meeting one another in a place where names and secrets had no meaning. Where everything shimmered; where they were one, only one.

  He fell against her, his lips finding the space between her neck and shoulder for one last kiss. She was drained, utterly. If someone came after her now, she would have no ability to fight, no need, no wish.

  A tear ran down the side of her face and onto the crown of his hair. He caught her chin and made her look at him. “Don’t lie to me anymore. Tell me the truth.”

  “All right.” Brushing his hair from his forehead, she took a breath. “I’ll tell you everything.” She dropped her hand to her side and closed her eyes. “But I’m frightened, Duncan. Very, very frightened.”

  “No need to be, of me. I swear it.”

  Tenderly he folded his hand over hers. If this was part of a trap, she would mourn the loss of this moment, but s
he would harbor no regrets. No man had ever treated her like this. Not Dale, not Machiavelli. Perhaps, as one Immortal senses the presence of another, so one loving heart seeks out another.

  “Don’t judge me too harshly. I was so young.”

  “Were you sent here to kill me?”

  She put down her hands. “Pardon me?”

  “Did he want you to kill me?”

  She managed a wry laugh. “Duncan, he probably doesn’t even know I’m here.”

  A beat. Then, “Go on.”

  And then she was afraid, because it was clear he believed that Machiavelli did know she was here. Or perhaps he was sure of it. She reminded herself that she’d seen Duncan with Woodrich, and still didn’t know why. She froze, almost hearing Machiavelli’s laughter in her ears. What had she just done?

  “Samantha, go on.”

  In his arms, her body still pulsing, she could feel the blade against her throat. She didn’t know him. She might believe she was in love with him, but thus far she had been a terrible judge of men.

  Panicking, she struggled to get away. “No. Challenge me in a fair fight.”

  “Challenge? Samantha, I have no desire ever to challenge you.”

  “But someday you will, if I live long enough.”

  “That day is not here. And I will never, ever challenge you.” He cupped her face. “I swear it.”

  “Don’t. You can’t swear that.” She pushed at him. “Please, Duncan, let me go.”

  He released her instantly, shocking her. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “I’m not what you’re used to,” he replied, and looked regretful that he’d spoken aloud. “I’m a man of honor.”

  “Are you?”

  There was no hesitation in his voice. “Yes.”

  His cell phone rang. Duncan sighed, and said wryly, “We forgot that one.”

  He stood and crossed to an exercise bar, where he had hung two towels. He pulled up the phone antenna and made the connection as he wiped his chest and shoulders. “Yes?” He smiled. “Joe. Hi. Yes. On my way.”

  MacLeod was waiting for Joe at the gate with a striking redhead in tow. Joe’s mouth fell open. He knew exactly who she was.

  “Dawson.” MacLeod shook hands with him. “How’d it go?”

  “Good.”

  MacLeod nodded, understanding Joe’s shorthand: he had what Mac wanted.

  “This is Samantha August,” MacLeod said, and looked at Joe expectantly.

  Machiavelli’s girlfriend. Joe stared at Mac, who clearly wanted him to tread carefully.

  “Hello.” He held out his hand. “Joe Dawson.”

  “Oh. Hi.” She blinked and looked at MacLeod, back to him.

  “How do you do?” She had a slight Southern accent Joe found appealing. That had not been in the Chronicle.

  “We need to go to baggage claim,” he told MacLeod. He shifted his carry-on, heavy with copies of files on Machiavelli.

  MacLeod nodded and turned on his heel. Samantha August trailed slightly after him.

  Man, was this strange.

  In Mac’s loft, Samantha August walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. MacLeod seemed to take her actions as a matter of course and walked Joe into the living room area, far enough so that she wouldn’t be able to hear them.

  “Playing some chess, Mac?” Joe asked ironically, as he surveyed not one but five chessboards in various configurations of play.

  “Yeah.” As he began to build a fire, he asked quietly, “Did you hear about Beauchard?”

  Joe frowned. “Yeah. The death of an American senator plays big in Europe, too. What do you think about our chances of finding Alan alive?”

  MacLeod’s dark eyes were sad. “Not good.”

  “That’s what I think, too. Well.” He sighed. “Let’s move on.”

  “What did you get?”

  “Lots.” Joe opened up his carryon and flashed him a look at a thick file. “What’s with Ms. August?”

  MacLeod tensed. “You tell me. Is she with him?”

  “Has been for thirty years. I think her Watcher’s dirty, Mac. Her file’s full of bogus information. I wouldn’t be surprised if Machiavelli himself has been writing the reports. And speaking of that—”

  He stopped. MacLeod looked stricken. Obviously, he hadn’t known she was Machiavelli’s longtime lover.

  “Mind if I intrude?” Samantha approached with a tray containing a teapot, three cups, sugar, and cream. She set it on an inlaid table from India and began pouring, putting nothing in MacLeod’s, some cream in her own, and paused at the third, smiling questioningly at Joe.

  “Nothing, thanks.” He glanced at MacLeod, who was lifting his cup off the tray.

  “You’re Duncan’s Watcher,” she said.

  MacLeod almost dropped his cup. Had the Highlander told her? How much did she know about what he knew?

  “I’d like to know who my Watcher is.”

  “Oh, ah,” he fumbled.

  “What about Nathan?” MacLeod asked savagely. “Samantha, what’s his last name?” The Immortal set his jaw and balled his fists, as he did when he was angry.

  Samantha flushed to her red roots. “I suppose you know that was just a story.”

  Everyone fell silent.

  “You two have a lot to discuss,” Samantha said, standing up. “I think I’ll go soak in the tub.”

  MacLeod followed her with his gaze as she crossed the loft.

  When she was gone, he sighed. “You remember Venice? Maria Angelina? She and Machiavelli concocted a scheme to lure me to him by making me think she was in danger.” His voice grew soft.

  For an instant, MacLeod looked shockingly old, worn down by cares and worries. Joe had often wondered how he withstood the stresses and strains imposed upon him by his way of life. On occasion he had watched Richie Ryan lose his cool, storming around the loft, shouting, “I didn’t ask for this! Good God, how am I supposed to have any life at all? Guys looking to whack me, I have to hint to every girl I get serious about that I have, uh, reproductive problems, plus that I’ve got great genes and I’ll never age even when we’re both ninety-eight. This is too weird, man!”

  MacLeod rarely, if ever, lost his cool. And when he did, it was generally because someone else had lost their head, or a mortal had been mistreated. Maybe that was what kept him going, worrying about other people so he wouldn’t have to worry about himself.

  MacLeod hesitated. “I don’t know how to explain what it’s like, Dawson. One day you’re the son of a Highland chieftain. You assume you’ll live your life, marry, father children, die, and go to the afterlife. The next, you’re playing chess with control freaks hundreds of years old.”

  That made Joe laugh. “Yeah, well, I never figured on losing my legs in ‘Nam, either.”

  “Life’s full of surprises.”

  “No matter how long it is.” Joe took a breath. “Is she in danger, Mac?” he asked gently.

  “Yes. Anyone involved with Machiavelli is, whether they realize it or not.” He put down his teacup. “Now that she’s politely taken herself out of range, show me what you have.”

  “Machiavelli has a big group of Immortals in Japan.”

  “His Beauties,” MacLeod said grimly.

  Joe nodded. “They have Watchers, but their reports tend to lack a certain veracity. We think they’ve been identified and bought off.”

  “Or killed.” MacLeod swirled his tea. “Your secret organization isn’t very secret these days.”

  Joe held out his hands. “It’s all this modern technology. Secrets are hard to keep.” He reached over and unzipped his carry-on bag, extracting not one but five files thick as phone books. There were leather-bound books in the bag, too. Original Watcher Chronicles. MacLeod looked impressed. “Here’s the most recent one. He’s been a busy boy.”

  Setting up feuds between Immortals, cutting corners in his manufacturing businesses. Tremendous numbers of meetings with Iwasawa and known figures of the yakuza, the Italian mob, and t
he American Mafia. The Chinese. Russian reactionaries who wanted to bring back the good old days. Trysts with dozens of women, including Samantha.

  MacLeod studied the pictures of her with Machiavelli with a hard, dark expression on his face. Joe wished he was in another room.

  On another planet.

  “Umeko Takahashi,” MacLeod said, glancing at a photograph of a thin, muscled Japanese woman.

  “An Immortal. You didn’t know her? Yeah. The real one, not your card-carrying trollop.” He used the word wryly. “It was some bogus feud with a French Immortal. She was caught completely by surprise. According to Umeko’s Watcher at the time, Machiavelli engineered the entire thing.”

  “Who was her Watcher?”

  “Mari Iwasawa, who got transferred to Machiavelli.” He made a face. “Machiavelli’s business partner is her brother. This sounds like a colossal conflict of interest. I don’t know how we kept her on the case.”

  MacLeod put down the photograph and picked up another. It was a photo of Machiavelli with Samantha and a Japanese man in a suit and a pair of sunglasses. They stood before an immense wooden Japanese building with a thatched roof. Large red paper lanterns with Japanese writing on them hung from the eaves. Blossoming cherry blossoms and pine trees grew in charming profusion on either side. They looked very happy, her two hands gripping one of his. She was laughing.

  Joe said, “That’s his villa, about a hundred miles outside Tokyo. It used to be a wedding park, you know how they spend tens of thousands on their kids’ weddings? Then he set it up as a dojo. Guys make pilgrimages out there. That guy in the photograph works for him. Satoshi Miyamoto.” He frowned. “Wait a minute. Let me see that.”

  He leaned close into the picture. “Mac,” he said, “that’s one of the guys who jumped me at Alan’s place.”

  “Miyamoto? You’re sure?”

  Joe nodded. They both looked at each other.

  “Well,” MacLeod said quietly, “it’s getting harder to deny she’s involved, too.” He cleared his throat. “How old is Machiavelli? How long has he been Watched?”

  “We believe he’s a couple of hundred years older than you.”

  “He told me he was a thousand years old. I think he must be a pathological liar.”