Chapter Text
IV.
Rachel MacLeod was, by now, used to odd things happening around her. This didn't mean
she accepted them at face value. Some years ago, she would have called anyone who
would have told her she was about to meet a living legend crazy. Add to this the
suggestion that some months later, she would entrust the precious sword of the
MacLeods to a complete stranger and rush with him to the aid of said living legend,
and she would have called the next sanatorium. But ever since her kinsman Duncan had
entered her life - and he *was* her kinsman, that she knew now - she sometimes felt
the world had taken a slightly bizarre, strange colour her eyes had almost, but not
quite, become adjusted to.
The latest occurrences didn't look too strange, were it not for everything that had
happened before. Duncan's English friend, Mr. Persuasiveness who had somehow convinced
her to give him the sword, was back. Writing a book on "Viking Influences in early
Scotland," or so he said, adding with an wide-eyed, schoolboyish look that Duncan had
told him astonishing things of the Viking finds in this area. Well, she vaguely
remembered that the card he had given her on their first meeting had said,"Dr. Adam
Pierson, University of Paris." So far, so good, and she was even willing to admit
that his enthusiastic tales about his theory--that the historical MacBeth, otherwise
called Thorfinn, had, because of his half-Viking ancestry, introduced many Viking
elements into the Celtic culture--were not without charm. At least, he didn't presume
she knew nothing of her history, which was what most of the annoying Sassenach
tourists plaguing Glenfinnan now and then did. But it was soon obvious to her that
Adam Pierson had another, less scholarly agenda, and one didn't have to look very far
to figure out what it was, or so she believed.
Rachel knew Cathy Lester as a London freelance editor who had a cottage in the woods
around Glenfinnan she used for irregular intervals, and found her much less irritating
than the few other Southerners who thought a second home in Scotland would be somehow
romantic. As a matter of fact, she was somewhat fond of the woman. Cathy Lester didn't
snoop around, she respected people's privacy, and in return, they respected hers.
There was a bit of curiosity because no one could make a good guess as to where she
came from - not a born Londoner, was Cathy - and since she was, as old Mr. Ridenow put
it, "a real looker," one tended to notice her when she was in town. But it didn't go
beyond that.
A year ago, an unpleasant character had pumped the locals for gossip and information
about Cathy's whereabouts, and though Rachel couldn't see why, the townspeople had
been surprisingly willing to indulge him. Not her, though. It had caused her a
headache, and her ears had somehow rung, but she had given him short-shrift. Besides,
she really hadn't known where Cathy Lester was at the time. Now, Cathy was back, and
it seemed that not twenty-four hours after her arrival, she had found a beaten-up
child in the middle of the forest while being in the company of none other than that
earnest researcher of Scottish history, Adam Pierson.
Rachel's efforts to dismiss that intriguing bit of circumstance and keep to her own
business fell flat when Social Services made inquiries about Cathy's character. It
seemed that so far, no one had been able to find any clues as to where the poor lass
had come from, and Cathy had offered to care for her. Vouching for Cathy wasn't
difficult, but keeping her tongue and not bursting with questions when seeing Cathy
next was. Still, she managed to do so. The next thing you knew, Cathy and the girl
whom she had named Becky were seen walking through the town and the surrounding area,
Cathy trying to get the girl used to other people again. And, quite regularly, they
were accompanied by Adam Pierson, who had by now become Rachel's regular pensioner.
Seeing Cathy with Adam was something else again, because they were sort of treading
around each other, like two cats who both didn't much like to be touched.
First, Rachel thought Adam must be Cathy's former boyfriend or possibly even
ex-husband, because one could almost smell the bad blood between them. She still
hadn't abandoned that theory completely, but had grown more and more skeptical. Cathy
was a strong-willed woman, and if her ex were pestering her, she'd presumably tell him
to get lost, not tolerate him hanging around her and her new, hopefully
soon-to-be-adopted daughter. The lass, by the way, had grown quite fond of Adam,
behaving more open and playful with him than with any other of the townsfolk Cathy
presented her to. She even imitated his English accent, or maybe it came naturally,
Rachel couldn't tell. What she could tell was that Cathy rarely let Adam Pierson out
of her sight when he was around, but she certainly didn't watch him like a woman in
love, or even an annoyed ex-wife. Instead, there was something in her gaze which
reminded Rachel of the one time she had caught a rabbit in a snare. The rabbit had
looked at her that way while choking, and it cured her once and for all of that
particular habit. Granted, Cathy wasn't very rabbit-like otherwise. But one would
almost think she had cause to be wary or even afraid of Adam, which, since Cathy
wasn't given to hysteria, caused Rachel to adjust her assessment of the guy from "nice
and charming" to "deep water, possibly trouble."
Still, it was hard not to like him. When not out in the woods, doing his research, or
visiting Cathy, he sprawled all over her furniture, kept his tab ever growing while
emptying her beer supply, and entertained her with pointed observations on American
tourists he encountered now and then, wicked little anecdotes of Duncan which didn't
disguise his fondness for the man, and tales about his research which never grew dry
enough to bore her. He was a good listener, too, and she found herself recounting the
local legends, which she rarely did with strangers.
Dour Andrew Lanart, who owned a holiday cottage here, too, and otherwise worked at the
University of Edinburgh, once all but warned her not to fall for Adam Pierson, but
there was no danger of that. For one thing, Adam never made a pass at her, being
obviously fixated on Cathy, and for another, he wasn't her type. Too boyish, in a way,
still too adolescent. When it came to love, she preferred more mature men; what she
had started to feel for Adam was instead the sometimes exasperated fondness for a
younger brother. Interesting about Andrew Lanart, though. Apart from Cathy, he was the
only one who showed something like hostility towards Adam. And wasn't it a coincidence
that, he, too, had been in the forest with Cathy and Adam when little Becky was found?
"So, Adam," Rachel said one evening, after finding him slouched over his accustomed
bar stool, "what's between you and Andrew Lanart?"
"Hot air?" he tried, and after seeing her smile, added: "It's professional rivalry, to
be frank. There's a historical society we both used to belong to, and some years ago I
got a research project he desperately wanted. Now, with him being older, more
experienced et cetera, he was of course infuriated they gave it to me. Didn't help
that I quit, either."
Something in her brain clicked. She remembered the middle-aged gentleman with the
double amputations who had stayed here with Duncan, remembered noticing the blue
tattoo on his wrist. That one had called himself a historian, too. Come to think of
it, Andrew Lanart had the self-same tattoo. Adam's wrists, though, both clearly
visible since he had pushed the sleeves of his sweater back, were unmarked, and the
pale, almost translucent skin showed no sign of scars.
"Must be some historical foundation," she commented, "if it can afford high-class skin
operations for quitters."
He knew at once what she was referring to, and his eyebrows rose. "You're too quick
for me, Rachel MacLeod," he said, and took the beer she held out to him.
"Oh, I don't think so. Otherwise I wouldn't have to ask you what you're up to with
Cathy Lester."
He made a noncommittal sound and drank. Then, he said: "You wouldn't believe me if I
told you it's just a professional interest as well, would you? After all, I need
someone to proofread my book about the Vikings, and while a University publication
gets you a good name, it's hardy profitable. With her connections, she could get me in
touch with a first-class London publisher."
"Tell me another."
He sighed. "Okay. Can you keep a secret? Especially from her?"
"Cross my heart."
"Wish I could. Well, winning Cathy as an editor is just half of it. The other half is
more complicated. See, she had this sweet, slowly enfolding romance with Duncan, and
here I was, coming between them. To put it mildly, I fell for her, was jealous and did
some not very nice things to ruin their relationship. Now they've broken up, Duncan's
travelling the world, Cathy has withdrawn to tend to her wounds and I feel guilty as
hell. So I figured the only way I can live with myself is to somehow make it up to
her. Get her to accept my help and then, when Duncan comes back, reconcile them."
This made more sense of things than anything she had thought of. Still, she suspected
he hadn't told her everything. She looked at him. He had such odd eyes, Adam had; not
quite green, not quite gold, mostly hazel, mirror eyes, letting no one in, and, at the
moment, strangely out of place in his young, open face.
"Reconcile them?" Rachel asked slowly. "Or reconcile the two of you... haven't given
her up yet, have you?"
"Maybe. I'm trying my best, though. It's not always easy to keep to the straight and
narrow path, Rachel. But I wish her only the best, and Duncan *is* my friend."
She recalled the two of them entering the barge while she was cleaning up. Duncan had
been nothing like the strong, self-assured man she had first encountered, looking like
a patient after a long illness, and regarding both Adam Pierson and her as if they
were something between apparitions and doctors. When Adam had excused himself and
left, going to the mortally ill young woman Duncan had later told her about, her
kinsman had stared after him with an intensity and gratitude which had caused her to
comment: "A good friend."
"One of the best," Duncan had said.
Even if she had not grown to like Adam by now, she would have given him the benefit of
the doubt for that alone. She couldn't resist a final dig, though.
"If you say so. So which one exactly were you jealous of, Duncan or Cathy?"
The look he gave her was genuinely amused. "As I said," he answered, "you're too quick
for me, Rachel."
End Part 4