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Chapter Text

Connor's telephone call came at eight o'clock the next morning. Duncan snatched the receiver from the kitchen wall. "Hello?" he said urgently, then leaned against the table with a grin. "That's great! That's wonderful! How's Alex?" Cassandra stood silent, waiting, as Duncan nodded and finished, "Yeah, we'll come over this morning, right away. Congratulations, Connor! See you and Alex—and Sara and Colin!—soon."

Duncan hung up the telephone, still grinning. "Sara Heather was born at four in the morning, then Colin Duncan followed a little later. Both babies are just about six pounds; both babies are doing fine. So is Alex."

"And Connor?" Cassandra asked.

"Tired, but still alive," Duncan said, heading for the door to the stables. "I'd better go get John, then we can all go in my car."

"You go," Cassandra said, not wanting to intrude. "I'll wait here."

Duncan paused in the doorway. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said. "It's a time for the MacLeods, all six of you now. I'll go see the babies this afternoon. Go on," she said, with a wave of her hand. "Get John. Go see your family." Duncan nodded and left, and Cassandra watched through the window as he and John drove away, then she sat at the table and listened to the ticking of the clock.

"Alex?" Cassandra called softly, pausing at the door of the hospital room.

"Cass!" Alex exclaimed, looking up from the dark-haired baby sleeping in her arms. Dark smudges of fatigue lay underneath her eyes, and her hair flared in a wild halo of wisps. She smiled with radiant exhaustion and called, "Come on in," as she slowly and carefully eased herself to a more upright position, gripping the bed-rail with one hand.

"Hard to move, isn't it?" Cassandra asked sympathetically, walking around the two empty bassinets to reach the chair near the bed.

Alex grimaced as she leaned back against the pillows, then she nestled the baby closer. "You should see me walk. Now I know why they call them baby steps."

"Yes," Cassandra agreed with a smile, remembering the delicate shuffling of new mothers. "Any stitches?"

"Just a few. That's one good thing about having the babies early; they weren't that big." She went back to looking at her child with amazed adoration. "But they're healthy and strong."

"Is that Colin or Sara?" Cassandra asked, stretching to see better.

"Colin," Alex said, tilting him up a little, revealing an ancient, infant face with a snub nose and tightly closed eyes. "Do you want to hold him?"

"Oh, no," Cassandra said quickly, though her arms ached with emptiness. "He's happy where he is, with you." And so was Connor, and that was as it should be. Cassandra asked brightly, "How do you tell the babies apart?"

"Aside from the obvious difference?" Alex said with a grin. "Sara has more hair, and Colin's a little bigger. They wanted to weigh Sara again, so she's down the hall in the nursery with Connor."

"And how's Connor doing?"

The radiant smile softened into amused fondness and pride. "He's in love. I took a nap for a couple of hours this morning after John and Duncan left, but Connor hasn't slept at all. He just sits there, holding them, watching them, like he's never seen a baby before."

"Not two of his own."

"No," Alex agreed and added with justifiable pride, "I think he likes the birthday presents I gave him, even if his birthday isn't until next week."

"I'm sure he does," Cassandra said, knowing that to be true, even though she hadn't seen Connor at all. "He's always wanted to be a father. Heather told me how much he liked children, how much they wanted their own."

"Did you tell her? That there wouldn't be any children?"

"No, it wasn't my place to speak," Cassandra said. "Though it was hard to say nothing while I listened to her dreams."

"Poor Heather," Alex murmured and caressed her son's cheek with a wondering hand.

"She did say Connor was very enthusiastic about trying," Cassandra said, hoping to lighten the mood. "Always."

"Oh, I'm sure," Alex answered with a grin. "Anywhere, anytime."

"And those plaids the men wore are much easier to remove than pants," Cassandra confided. "One brooch, one belt buckle and — whoosh! — off it all falls."

"If you even bother to take it off."

"Mmm-hmm," Cassandra agreed, remembering a certain afternoon on a brisk autumn day. "Though the plaid does make a blanket big enough for two."

"Maybe I'll buy Connor a plaid," Alex mused.

"Another birthday present?" Cassandra asked.

"Yes. Mine."

They were still laughing when Connor came in, his daughter Sara asleep in his arms. His face was unshaven, his hair uncombed, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. Cassandra had never seen him so look so content. "Congratulations, Connor," she said, going over to look at the other twin. "Your children are beautiful."

"Yeah," he agreed, with a tender smile for his wife and son and then a besotted stare for his daughter. "They are."

"Well, I'm off," Cassandra announced, heading for the door over Alex's protest and Connor's glance of surprise. "You two need some sleep before the twins wake up," she explained and then promised, "I'll visit tomorrow." Connor nodded, and Cassandra left the family alone.

"When are we going to open the presents, Dad?" John asked the next evening at dinner. "Tomorrow's Christmas, and Alex isn't home yet."

"I'll be bringing Alex and the twins home tomorrow morning," Connor said, finishing off the last of his second helping of mashed potatoes. Cassandra and Duncan had spent most of the day cooking, and there was enough food on the table and in the kitchen to last them a week.

"That's the idea," Cassandra had said that afternoon when Connor had returned from the hospital. She had pushed the hair back from her eyes, then begun to roll out the pie crust. "Your housekeeper, Mrs. MacNabb, won't be back until next Monday, and Alex's mother isn't going to get here until Sunday. I'm leaving the day after Christmas."

"And John and I leave the day after that, to meet Richie in the Swiss Alps to go skiing," Duncan had put in, busy peeling apples at the kitchen sink. "So, it'll be just you and Alex and the twins for three days, and this way you won't have to cook. We'll all be back for New Year's Eve." Duncan had grinned. "We'll cook then, too."

Connor had nodded and reached for a biscuit, hiding his ... well, uneasiness at the thought of being solely responsible for the twins. Cassandra and Duncan were being considerate, leaving to give the new family some time alone, but still...

That uneasiness had followed him all day, but Connor shook it off and said to John, "We can open presents after lunch tomorrow."

"Can we open just one tonight?" John asked, as bright-eyed and eager as he had been as a four-year-old. Duncan's eyes were bright, too. "Just one?"

"Just one," Connor agreed, giving in cheerfully. "After we decorate the Christmas tree." He turned to Cassandra. "Did I see apple pie for dessert?"

The tinsel on the Christmas tree sparkled and spun in the firelight, and Cassandra carefully hung a single strand on a branch, a final touch on the decorated tree.

"I like to throw it on," John said, pointing to his earlier effort. "Like snowballs."

Connor had never had the patience to hang tinsel strand by strand, either, and he and John used to lob handfuls of the stuff at the tree. Alex preferred the more artistic approach, and apparently so did Cassandra. It must be a feminist issue. Connor stepped back to examine the effect. Well, maybe ... as long as someone else did it.

"You might get the chance to throw real snowballs tomorrow," Duncan said. "It's supposed to snow tonight, so we'll have a white Christmas."

"Can I open my present now, Dad?" John asked, kneeling by the pile under the tree, and at Connor's nod, he pulled out the biggest box there. "This one's from Aunt Rachel," John said, expertly slicing open the wrapping paper with his pocket knife.

"Is Rachel coming for New Years, Connor?" Duncan asked, and Connor nodded again. "The whole family," Duncan said, smiling, and Connor smiled, too. Rachel Ellenstein wasn't really John's aunt; she was his foster sister, Connor's adopted daughter. Connor had found the young girl over half a century ago during World War II, and they had stayed close ever since.

"Wow!" John said, pulling out the four-foot long fuselage for a model airplane. "It has a motor and everything. It really flies."

Duncan was already on the floor beside him. "After we put on the wings. Let me see the directions." The two dark heads bent together, already intent on the details of ailerons and wing angle and propeller.

Connor shook his head in amusement, then went through the dining room to the study and called Alex. She sounded tired, and they didn't talk long. "I'll bring you home tomorrow," he told her. "I'll be at the hospital at nine."

"Good," Alex said. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too," Connor said, for the bed upstairs was lonely and cold, and the house seemed empty somehow. "Merry Christmas, Alex."

"Merry Christmas, my love."

Connor leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk, staring at the wall, thinking of his wife, his children, the joy of being alive. A soft knock sounded at the door, and Connor stood to let Cassandra in.

She handed him a large, flat package wrapped in silver paper, tied with a green bow. "Merry Christmas, Connor."

Connor took it from her, feeling the edges, for it looked like a book, an atlas perhaps, but his fingers encountered the sharp corners of a box. It was too heavy for a shirt, a sweater, perhaps? "Am I supposed to open this now?" he asked.

"Your one present on Christmas Eve," she said, smiling, then headed for the door.

"Not going to watch?" Connor asked.

"No. You should be alone." Cassandra shut the door gently behind her, and he listened to her footsteps recede.

Definitely not a sweater, then. Connor picked up the letter opener from his desk and slit open the wrapping, then quickly opened the box. More paper there, blue tissue, and Connor pulled it away. The back of a picture frame greeted him, a hanging wire stark against white paper. He lifted the picture and turned it over, then he slowly sat down and carefully placed the oil portrait on his lap.

Heather looked back at him, her eyes bright blue and merry, her golden curls whipped by the wind. Her head was half-tilted, half-turned to look back over one shoulder, with that saucy look about her that said, "Come follow me." White butterflies floated behind her, and silver embroidery gleamed on her tight crimson bodice, over the soft flowing white of her gown.

"Heather," Connor said softly, glad to be seeing her again, glad that Cassandra had left him alone, glad that she knew him so well.

"My bonny Heather."

Cassandra watched Duncan and John discussing the airplane for a bit, then she went to the sitting room of the guest suite to finish the work on her drawing. After about half-an-hour she heard hammering on the wall that stood between the study and the sitting room. Five minutes later, Connor knocked on her door. "Hey," he said softly, coming in to perch on the arm of one of the floral-print chairs.

"Hey," she answered, setting her pencil down on the coffee table.

He cleared his throat, his eyes curiously bright. "It looks just like her."

"I'm glad," Cassandra said. She couldn't remember the faces of her own mortal husbands; it had been too long, over three thousand years. She knew that Connor would want to remember, and Alex would want to see.

He nodded. "You did a good job."

"Thank you."

That brought a half-smile as Connor slid into the chair. "Thank you."

That was all he said, but it was enough for Cassandra. The long silence before he hung the picture on the wall had been what she had really wanted to hear.

He motioned toward the drawing tablet on her lap. "Is that another picture?"

"A Christmas present for Duncan," she said and turned it around so he could see. "It's a pencil drawing, since I don't have any paints here." The montage of four sketches showed Duncan as a child, and as a man—Duncan as an infant, held in Connor's arms; Duncan as a young boy of six, running with the wind near the village of Glenfinnan; Duncan at about the age John was now, examining a chess game in Cassandra's cottage; and finally, Duncan in the largest central sketch as a man, clad in full Highland garb.

"He'll like that," Connor said, after a silence which told her that Connor liked it, too. Cassandra decided to do another one, with Connor and Duncan sparring in the Highlands long ago, and perhaps a companion picture of them as they looked today. And maybe one of Ramirez, to keep for herself.

"I'm glad you're drawing again," Connor told her after a moment, and she knew he was remembering the picture she had drawn of him nearly four centuries ago, the picture he had ripped into shreds and burned.

"I'm doing a lot of things again," Cassandra said, and she was determined to do more. Time to put the past behind her. Time to live.

"Good." Connor lounged back in his chair and studied her, and she lounged back in her chair and studied him. His mouth twisted in amusement, and he sat up again. "We're going to have a party on New Year's Day, partly for the new year, partly for my birthday, but mostly to welcome Sara and Colin. Would you do a naming ceremony for them, and would you be one of their godmothers?"

Cassandra stood and went to the window, staring through the slits in the blinds, seeing her reflection in splintered strips. She wasn't qualified to do that, to take responsibility for a child again, not in any fashion. She hadn't even dared to hold the twins. And she wasn't ready to perform the duties of a priestess, not yet.

"Alex told me about the blessing you did for her, and she suggested you do the naming as well," Connor said from behind her.

A blessing, a naming ... a prayer. Cassandra closed her eyes and prayed, and accepted the burden and the blessing of yes. It was time. She turned back to Connor and sat down. "I can do a naming ceremony," she told him, "but it won't be a Christian baptism."

"Since Rachel is Jewish, Duncan is not a strict Catholic, and Hideyo and Yuki are Shinto, I think that's for the best." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "And will you be a godmother? Or should I say, a goddessmother?"

Cassandra smiled a little, but not with joy. "You know me well."

"No," Connor said. "But I'd like to know who you could be."

Cassandra closed her eyes again, this time in pain. "So would I," she whispered. "I feel ... fractured, Connor, shattered. Some of the pieces don't fit anymore; some I don't even have yet."

"But you will," he said. "In time."

"I think so," she agreed. "I hope so. But I don't know how long it will take. I've been ... insane this last year, Connor, maybe for centuries before that. I can't even tell. I tried to be a mother to Roland, I tried to be a teacher for you, and I failed you both. I almost hit Duncan when he was six years old, and I've never trusted myself to take care of a child again."

"When Duncan was six?" Connor repeated sharply. "You told me you saw Duncan at the village fair in Glenfinnan that year."

"Yes," she admitted, wishing she'd never opened her mouth, "but I didn't tell you everything."

"Tell me now," he ordered, his gray eyes intent upon her.

Cassandra kept a pleasant expression on her face as she silently debated telling Connor he ought to enroll in a charm school. The man had no tact. But she owed him this story, and she owed him the truth. Best to get it over with. "I went to the fair, as I told you, but I didn't only go there for supplies. I was going to take Duncan with me to live in my cottage, so I could teach him about the Voice."

"You were going to take a six-year-old boy away from his family?" Connor asked, cold-voiced and cold-eyed.

"Yes," she admitted again and explained, "I thought a year or two with me would be better than leaving Duncan easy prey for Roland, and the Voice is best learned young." Connor's jaw was flexing rhythmically, a steady grinding of his teeth, and Cassandra hurriedly finished her tale. "But Duncan refused to come with me. Even when I used the Voice on him once, he said no." She could still see him clearly, his feet planted firmly apart, his arms folded across his chest, that same stubborn set to his mouth she'd seen just the other day. "His hair was long, covering one eye, you know the way it gets sometimes?" she asked, and Connor nodded, a little less forbidding now.

"I reached out to smooth back his hair," Cassandra said, her hand reaching now, meeting only emptiness, "but he knocked my hand aside and said, 'You're not my mother.'" Roland had said the same thing to her once, long ago, and she had let him walk away. "He was right, of course," Cassandra said slowly, "but I got angry, and I lifted my hand to strike." Her hand was lifted now, half-raised at the memory, and she slowly curled her fingers into a fist. Her nails sliced into her palm, and she let her hand fall to her lap, still holding tight to the pain.

"When I looked into Duncan's eyes, I saw that he was ... afraid of me." Just as she had been afraid of Methos and Roland. Cassandra faced Connor and admitted her most shameful secret of all. "That's when I knew that I could never be a mother again. I'm not fit to raise a child." She stared at her fingers as she straightened them, watched while the crescent cuts in her palm healed. "So, I told Duncan to forget he ever saw me, and I told him to go home, where he belonged." She shook her head. "Thank you for asking me, Connor, but I can't possibly accept."

"Cassandra," Connor began, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, "all parents get the urge to smack their kids sometimes. That doesn't mean—"

"You've seen me get angry, Connor," she broke in. "I can't control it. I almost took your head this summer, remember?"

"I remember," he muttered, his fingers moving to his throat. "But you can control it. You have. You stopped yourself four hundred years ago, and you didn't try for Duncan's head the other night. And you let Methos live."

She had let Elena live, too, but Cassandra could still remember the other woman's terror. "Stopping isn't good enough, Connor," Cassandra said, shaking her head again. "I should never even start. No child should have to live with that kind of fear."

"You think Duncan's father never smacked him?"

No doubt he had. That didn't make it right, and Cassandra would not—would not!—hit a child and then tell him that he deserved it, that it was his fault she was angry, that if he promised to behave, then she wouldn't have to hurt him again. She started massaging her right hand, one finger at a time, one after the other, over and over again.

"Alex and I have already talked about this, Cassandra," Connor said, breaking into those memories, and she stilled her hands. "We know this has been a bad year for you. You lost control. So did Duncan after the Battle of Culloden; so have I. But we came out of it, and so can you, if that's what you want."

"You think it's that simple?"

"No," he admitted. "But it's a start, and so is this. You can visit the twins only when either Alex or I am in the room. Or you can just mail them presents once a year and never see them at all. But Alex and I are inviting you to be a part of this family."

A part of the family, a member of the clan. Cassandra blinked back tears and went to the window again, unwilling to face him just now. She'd been alone so long. But not always. She'd raised hundreds of children through the years, taught thousands of mortal students, and a handful of Immortal ones. She hadn't hurt or ruined them. Maybe—eventually—she would be able to trust herself again, and this could be a way to start.

"Yes," she said, turning to Connor. "Yes."

"Merry Christmas, Alex," Cassandra said, bringing over a large, flat box wrapped in silver, a twin to the one she had given Connor the night before. She sat down on the couch next to Alex, being careful not to disturb Colin, who was enjoying his early afternoon nursing. His sister Sara had already eaten, and their uncle Duncan was gently patting her back, trying to get her to burp.

"My hands are full," Alex said, looking down at her son. "Can you open it for me?"

Cassandra almost offered Connor the chance, he was staring at the box so intently, but decided to let Alex see the picture first. Cassandra unwrapped the painting, then held it so that only Alex could see.

"Oh, my!" Alex exclaimed, leaning forward, tilting her head. "I'd always wondered ... oh, but this is wonderful!" She laughed aloud as she and Cassandra shared a grin. "I hadn't realized it was quite so ... long," she said, and she shot Connor a measuring glance before she went back to looking at the painting. "Oh, my."

"Let me see," John said, getting up from his pile of opened and already half-assembled presents.

"And me," Duncan chimed in, stepping over the case of assorted whiskies Connor had given him for Christmas. "Oh, yeah," Duncan said and started to laugh, which caused Sara to emit a satisfying burp. Duncan patted her gently and said of the picture and the burp, "That's perfect, isn't it, sweetheart?"

John joined him. "Wow. That's my dad?"

"That's your dad," Duncan said with pride and amusement. "In all his native glory."

Connor was still sitting in the chair by the fire, and he showed absolutely no signs of getting up at all. Only his eyes moved, from Cassandra to the picture and back again, narrowed slits of gray. Cassandra turned the picture around for him, and his eyes narrowed even more.

"I've always wondered what you looked like with long hair and wearing a plaid," Alex said, smiling at him. "And you refuse to wear a kilt."

"Never have, never will," Connor said, finally getting up to come look at the picture of himself, clad in MacLeod plaid and wolf skins, his hair long and braided, his sword in his hand. "A real man doesn't need a pre-sewn skirt. He knows how to wrap his own plaid."

"One-handed," Duncan added, straight-faced. "And with no help."

"Of course," Connor agreed. "In the dark. And in the rain."

"Maybe we should have a contest," Cassandra suggested to Alex. "Have Connor and Duncan strip naked and then go outside on a dark, rainy night with nothing but a length of cloth, a belt, and a brooch. We'll time them to see which one can get dressed the fastest."

"And the neatest," Alex said. "Points deducted for not getting the pleats all the same size."

"And for less than graceful folds," Cassandra added. She glanced up at Connor, who was staring down at her from only a few feet away. "Interested, Connor?"

"Depends what the winner gets," he said, and then he looked at his wife.

Alex's eyes were dancing as she smiled up at her husband, and Cassandra suspected that Connor might decide to wear a plaid again, after all. All he needed was the proper encouragement, and Alex would give him plenty of that, perhaps in another month or two when she had recovered from the birth.

"It's a wonderful picture, Cass. Thank you," Alex said, leaning over to give her an awkward one-handed hug. Colin squawked in protest, and Alex settled him at the breast again. "And now it's your turn. Connor?"

Connor brought over a small jewelry box and handed it to Cassandra with a smile. "We were in Strathpeffer a few weeks ago," Alex was saying, "in the tiniest little store."

Cassandra opened the box and stared at the pendant there, an intricate Celtic knot of three crescents carved in white stone, hung on a silver chain. "Oh, Alex," she whispered, for it was the sign of the Sisterhood of the Temple, and Cassandra had not worn such a pendant in over three thousand years. She traced the edge of the stone with one finger, but did not dare to pick it up.

"Why don't you put it on?" Connor suggested, but Cassandra shook her head and took her hand away.

"I will," she promised, both to Alex and Connor and to herself, "but not right now." Cassandra gave Alex a careful hug, avoiding Colin, then she smiled up at Connor. "Thank you. It's exquisite. And it's truly special to me."

"I'm glad," Alex said. "Connor got you a present, too."

"He did?" Cassandra said in surprise, for she had thought the necklace was from them both.

"I did," Connor announced with an almost-affronted stare, then disappeared up the stairs. "Close your eyes," came his command from beyond the doorway a few moments later, and Cassandra complied. There came a gentle thump and a twang, and then Connor's voice again, from not too far away. "You can open them now."

Cassandra did so and then stood slowly, not quite trusting her legs to work. Once again, she was afraid to touch, afraid to believe this was hers. But the curve of the dark wood was solid under her fingertips, the brass wires gleamed in an ordered row. A frozen structure of grace and beauty stood before her, an instrument of song. Cassandra blinked back sudden, fierce tears. A harp. Connor had given her a harp. She traced the pillar and the soundboard, and then she dared to touch the strings. Clear bells echoed, chiming in the air, and then she plucked more gently, to bring a whispered waterfall of sound.

"I think she likes it," she heard Duncan observe, and Cassandra looked up, startled, only to meet Connor's steady gaze.

"I think you're right," Connor agreed, smiling now, and Cassandra smiled back and agreed.

"It's...," she started. "I didn't really..." She went back to caressing the satin smooth wood and whispered, "It's beautiful. I—" She hadn't played in centuries; she hadn't sung a note, yet in times past music had sometimes been the only solace in her life. She and Connor had often sung together in the evenings by the fire, when he had stayed with her in the cottage in Donan Wood over four hundred years ago.

"Play it!" John urged. "Dad's been tuning it every day for the last three weeks, but I've never heard it make any music."

"I'd love to hear the harp, Cass," Alex added. Duncan nodded, but Connor just waited, as he had waited for her so many times before.

Roland had told her to play, in her house in Aberdeen in 1630, ordered her to entertain him, demanded she perform. She had refused, unwilling to sully her memories of Connor, of the love and the music they had shared. Roland had made her pay for that defiance, pay in blood and pain, in a smashed harp and broken dreams. She hadn't made music since that day, for it had hurt too much, to remember.

There was no pain now, only joy, and her friends were waiting. Cassandra settled the harp on her lap and began to play.

"Well, both Colin and Sara are asleep in their bassinets," Alex announced as she came into the living room later that afternoon and then slowly and carefully sat on the couch. "I'm glad we have that guest suite downstairs, so I can lie down and nurse and don't have to climb up and down the stairs to get to the nursery all the time."

Cassandra laid her harp down and dragged over a footstool for Alex to use.

Alex gave her a weary smile of thanks as she propped up her feet. "Where is everybody?"

"John couldn't wait to try out his new horse, so the three of them went riding," Cassandra answered, now bringing Alex a glass of water from the liquor cabinet. "But I saw them coming back a few minutes ago, so they're in the stables now."

Alex accepted the glass, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes. "I'm starting to feel like a chicken on a spit," she said. "Nurse on this side, roll over, nurse on the other side. Roll over, and do it all again." She drank half the water in the glass. "And they're only three days old. How did women manage a long time ago, when they had to keep the fire going and pluck chickens and haul the water and take care of babies?"

"Twins were rare, but usually women didn't nurse even single babies all by themselves," Cassandra said, taking the chair nearby. "The other mothers would help with the nursing."

"Wet nurses," Alex said.

"Yes, but in tribes the nursing was shared. You didn't hire another woman to take care of your baby. Sisters usually nursed each other's children, and I know Duncan's aunt nursed him. And as they get older, babies don't nurse so often," Cassandra tried to reassure her. "It's only the first few months."

"Oh, I know," Alex said. "And once they start solids, Connor can be in charge of feeding them strained carrots and mashed bananas, and then cleaning up afterward."

"And changing the diapers," Cassandra suggested, completely sincere.

"Right," Alex agreed with a grin. "So, I guess I can handle nursing them all the time for a few months."

"You're the only one who can do that for your children, and right now that's the most important thing you have to do," Cassandra encouraged her. "Let Connor and John and Mr. and Mrs. MacNabb take care of the house, and also take care of you."

"It sounds good," Alex said wistfully. "But—"

"It's the way it's supposed to be," Cassandra said firmly. "It's the way it used to be. All the women of the tribe would help a new mother with her daily chores. In some cultures, new mothers weren't even supposed to leave their beds for a month."

"That doesn't sound so bad right now," Alex observed. "I think I could use another nap."

"Why don't you?" Cassandra suggested.

"Oh, in awhile," Alex said, stretching her legs and wiggling her toes. "I just woke up, and it's nice to sit and look at the Christmas tree and the fire." She did precisely that for a moment, and then she commented, "Connor knew exactly what he wanted to get you for Christmas. He had the harp picked out ahead of time."

"Did he?" Cassandra said, surprised and touched yet again, her gaze and her hand going back to the harp by her side. "It's ... very special to me."

"To both of you," Alex said, watching her.

"Alex...," Cassandra began, now hoping to reassure Alex in a totally different area, "he and I aren't ... we don't..."

"He's already told me how he feels about you," Alex told her then asked bluntly, "How do you feel about him?"

Cassandra couldn't answer that one easily, but Alex could.

"You still love him," Alex stated.

Cassandra stood and went to the window, looking out at the snow-covered fields. "I don't even know how to love, Alex. Not anymore."

"But you're trying to remember."

"Yes," Cassandra admitted, "but not—" She came back to sit near Alex, leaning forward earnestly. "But not with him. Not that way. He's ... a friend."

"A brother?"

Cassandra nodded slowly, trying out the feel of the word. Over the centuries, she had had sons and daughters, lovers and husbands, masters and slaves, teachers and students, sisters and friends, but she had never had a brother before. The Horsemen had been brothers, and she had no place in that world, no right to lay such a claim on any man.

But that was over. "Yes," Cassandra agreed, "a brother." And maybe Duncan could be a brother to her, too.

"That's what Connor said about you."

"Ah. Thank you. I was wondering."

"But you didn't want to ask."

"Oh, no. I wanted to ask," Cassandra said, grinning. "I just didn't quite dare." Alex grinned back, and Cassandra continued, "Connor's my friend, Alex, and I want him to be happy, the way he's happy with you." She added softly, nervously, "I hope that you and I are friends, too."

"We are," Alex said, "and I value our friendship. That's why I'm asking you this now."

Cassandra nodded, understanding Alex's vulnerability at this time, her need to mark out her territory and lay claim to her man, the father of her newborn children. "I promise you, Alex, I will never come between you and Connor. I also don't want him to come between us."

"Good," Alex said. "As long as we understand each other, and as long as we're honest with each other."

"Always," Cassandra pledged. She knew too well the poison of lies. "I'm sorry, Alex. I guess this visit has been ... awkward."

"Awkward?" Alex repeated. "To have my husband get in the middle of a fight between his ex-lover and her current lover, who also happens to be my husband's best friend, right in the middle of Christmas and my giving birth to twins?" She smiled warmly at Cassandra, taking most of the sting out of those words. "Yes, you could say it's been awkward."

"I would never have come if I'd known Duncan was going to be here," Cassandra protested. "I knew I wasn't ready to face him. And I asked if I should leave."

"Did you?" Alex asked, and Cassandra suddenly realized she had asked only Connor, not Alex.

"I'm sorry, Alex," Cassandra said again, more quietly now. "I haven't exactly been a good house-guest."

"Cass," Alex said, reaching over to her and laying a hand on her arm, "it's all right. Now," she added with a slow smile. "Those first two days were tense, but they're over. And you and Duncan needed to talk, and I think he and Connor did, too, so that's for the best. And I've needed to talk to you, too, about being in labor and about being a mother. I'm glad you're here."

Cassandra smiled back through the beginnings of tears and laid her hand on top of Alex's. "So am I," she said. "This has been the happiest Christmas I've ever had." She blinked a few times as she leaned back in her chair, then decided to make sure Alex knew the truth. No more lies. "Duncan and I aren't lovers, Alex."

"No?" Alex asked, her voice and her eyebrows raised in surprise.

"We did spend a night together, back in June right after Duncan killed Roland," Cassandra admitted, "but then I found out my old enemies were alive, and I wasn't in the mood, and after—" She stopped, having no wish to think about the Horsemen ever again. "I don't want any man to touch me," she concluded. "Ever."

After a moment, Alex said, "You need to see a rape counselor, Cass. Or go to a therapist who's dealt with battered women. Or both."

"I've dealt with rape all my life, Alex," Cassandra retorted sharply, "and—"

"And you're obviously not dealing with it well," Alex cut in. "At least not now. Being terrified of men and hating the idea of sex is not normal or healthy. You need help," she repeated, "and you need more help than I—or Connor or Duncan—can ever give you."

"How can I talk to a therapist, Alex?" she demanded. "What do I say? 'Hi! I'm Immortal, and I've got over three thousand years of bad memories to deal with. Should we start with the Bronze Age or the Fall of Troy?'" Cassandra snorted in mingled disgust and despair.

"Therapists are like doctors or priests," Alex said calmly. "They have rules of confidentiality. Find one you like, and use the Voice to convince her you're telling the truth and to make her keep quiet if you have to, but find one. Don't keep thinking up reasons why things won't work for you." Alex leaned toward her and said firmly, "Make things work."

Cassandra didn't get up and go to the window this time, didn't look away from those determined blue eyes. This was how Alex lived her life, and how Connor and Duncan dealt with things, too. Make things work. No more whining. Find a way. Cassandra nodded slowly. "All right," she promised her friend and herself. "I will."

"Good," Alex said approvingly and then turned her head to the sounds coming from the kitchen, even as Cassandra felt the mind-churning presence of Immortals nearby. Connor and Duncan came into the room, bringing with them the sharpness of cold air and the muskiness of horses.

"Where's John?" Alex asked, as Connor leaned over to give her a kiss.

"Still in the stable admiring his Christmas present," Connor told her. "He's trying to come up with a name for the horse."

"Drink, Connor?" Duncan asked from the liquor cabinet. "Cassandra? More water, Alex?" The men settled in front of the fire with glasses of whisky and satisfied sighs, Connor on the couch next to Alex, Duncan in the chair across from Cassandra. The four of them chatted of this and of that, until a soft noise came from the guest suite and Connor headed for the door.

Alex sighed and looked at the clock over the fireplace. "They should sleep for another hour, I think. I hope. I'd thought I'd get some work done on my book by staying home with them, but now I'm not so sure."

Duncan asked, "How's your book coming, Alex?"

"It's about half-done," she answered. "I just printed out the latest chapter, the one on Angle and Saxon settlements in Scotland and Northern England. Want to see it? It's by the computer."

Duncan brought it to her and sat down on the couch by her side. As they started reading over the manuscript, Cassandra went back to her harp, playing soft arpeggios and scales. Connor returned, poured himself another drink, and sat down in the chair. "Still asleep," he announced, and Alex looked up from her book with a grateful nod.

"What language is this?" Duncan asked her, pointing to a line.

"Angle," Alex said. "About seventh century. That name means 'village of the huge, lame pig'."

Duncan started laughing, and Alex joined in. Cassandra glanced up from her harp at the two of them, but Duncan wasn't laughing anymore. He was staring across the room at Connor, and Connor wasn't laughing or even smiling. Alex went silent, looking between the pair, until Connor stood abruptly and left the room and then the house.

Duncan shot to his feet and followed with a slamming of the kitchen door.

A baby wailed at the sound, and Alex turned on Cassandra. "What is it with you people?" Alex demanded, her eyes gone dark with fury, blinking back tears. "What the hell is it with you?"

Cassandra froze at this attack from her friend. "I don't know what—"

The baby's crying grew louder, and Alex didn't bother to answer, just gave her one final glare before she walked away.

Cassandra sat there, in numb surprise and pain, as the baby hushed and then the kitchen door slammed again. Connor's footsteps sounded rapidly on the stairs, and a moment later, Duncan came back into the room and poured himself a drink.

"I don't think this visit from us is turning out well," Cassandra said quietly, watching Duncan from her chair.

Duncan didn't bother to answer, just snorted in agreement and downed half his whisky.

"What happened, Duncan?" Cassandra asked carefully. "Is everything all right?"

"No," Duncan said sourly.

"Can I help?"

"No." Duncan finished off his drink, staring at her the entire time, then he came over and sat on the arm of her chair.

Cassandra breathed out slowly. Duncan wouldn't hurt her. She knew that. She still brought her knees up to her chest and huddled on the chair.

"How long was Connor your student?" Duncan asked.

"Just a few months," Cassandra answered, choosing her words with care. "Ramirez had been dead for fifty years, and Connor hadn't had much of a chance to practice with swords. He and I worked on that a bit. But, I think he also came to Donan Wood so he could say goodbye to the Highlands, to Glenfinnan. Leaving everything he'd known ... it was hard for him."

Duncan nodded. "Has he changed much, since you knew him then?"

"Yes. Of course, he's older now, but he's much ... harder. More sarcastic, less open." Less trusting, too, and she knew exactly why and how that had happened. "And he seems ... angry." She had seen some of that anger for herself, and Alex had mentioned other occasions.

"He's been like that ever since I've known him," Duncan said, but then he stopped and thought. "What kind of 'old-fashioned' training did you want him to use on me, Cassandra?" Duncan asked in a soft and dangerous tone, and Cassandra did not want to answer. "You wanted him to kill me, didn't you?" Duncan asked. "To teach me a lesson in trust?"

Cassandra nodded, relieved that Duncan understood at least some of her reasons. She had killed Connor, just as her teachers had killed her, and it was a lesson no Immortal ever forgot.

Duncan shook his head and got off the chair, then started to pace in front of the fireplace. "You said he refused to follow the 'old-fashioned way,' that he refused to kill me," Duncan said after a moment.

"Yes," Cassandra said as she got off the chair and went to stand behind it, in case Duncan got too close to her again.

"Then why did he?" Duncan demanded.

Connor had actually killed Duncan? Cassandra closed her eyes in dismay, for she knew precisely how much that type of betrayal cost, on both sides. "Connor killed you, too?" she asked sadly.

"Too?" Duncan repeated in confusion, then his eyes narrowed and he took off running for the stairs.

From the hallway, Cassandra heard the banging of Connor's bedroom door against the wall, and quiet, angry voices followed, too far away to be understood. Another baby wailed, and Cassandra forced herself to go to the infant, to face Alex once again. The harried mother was sitting on the floor of the guest bedroom. Colin was crying in her lap, Sara was crying in a bassinet, and Alex was crying, too.

Cassandra hesitated, then lifted Sara from the bassinet, to pat her and soothe her and carry her around. Sara stopped fussing, and Cassandra swayed gently back and forth, rubbing the curve of the baby's back as the soft warmth nestled against her neck. She had forgotten how tiny babies were, how achingly vulnerable. She hadn't held an infant in over four hundred years, not since Connor had placed Duncan in her arms. She had given Duncan to another woman, but she hadn't wanted to let him go. She didn't want to let Sara go, either.

"Oh, damn," Alex swore softly, still crying. "Damn, damn, damn."

Cassandra wanted to swear as well, for she was crying, too.

Alex wiped at her face with her hand, then helped Colin latch on to her breast. Colin whimpered and wailed, then went back to eager nursing, and Alex leaned back against the bed and closed her eyes. "Damn," she muttered one more time, the tears still flowing. "I hate to cry."

"It's good for us," Cassandra reminded them both as she sat on the floor, still cuddling Sara close. "Especially for new mothers. Our bodies need to cry. Some of the hormones and chemicals produced by stress, lack of sleep, and physical trauma are excreted in tears."

"I still hate it," Alex muttered and wiped off the tears again.

"Me, too," Cassandra admitted, brushing at her own cheeks. "Should we cry about it?" Cassandra suggested, and Alex finally smiled a little and opened her eyes, just as the voices from upstairs got louder. The women listened intently, but couldn't make out the words. They heard the noises, though, a crash and a thump, and then a sudden shuddering of the house, as if from a body being slammed against a wall.

"Damn," Alex said again, as the noises continued. "I wonder who that was." She sighed and said, "I hope John's still outside. He doesn't need to see this."

"No," Cassandra agreed, but there came a final crash, and then only silence. The two women waited and listened for a moment, then Sara started to fuss. "I don't think she wants to wait anymore," Cassandra said and reluctantly traded babies with Alex. But Colin was just as soft and just as sweet. She changed his diaper then rocked him until he fell asleep. Cassandra laid the baby in his bassinet next to Alex, afraid to hold onto him too long. "Connor and Duncan are still talking, I guess," Cassandra said as she sat down again and looked up at the ceiling.

"And they're probably talking about you," Alex said, with another sharp flash of anger.

"Me?" Cassandra asked in bewilderment. Why should they talk about her?

"How blind can you be, Cassandra?" Alex demanded. "After what you did—" She broke off as footsteps came pounding down the stairs, and this time it was the front door that slammed. "That was Connor," Alex said grimly, and a few moments later there came a knock on the door.

"Cassandra?" Duncan filled the doorway, the air about him humming with anger. "I want to talk to you."

Cassandra slowly got to her feet to go to him, but Alex ordered, "Then you can talk right here."

"Alex—," Duncan protested.

"I already know everything that happened between Cassandra and Connor," she said bluntly. "I know they were lovers. I know she killed him, and I know why—and how—he killed her. And I know what happened after that."

Cassandra stared at the floor, her back against the wall, unable to face two of the people she wanted to call friends.

Alex concluded, "And I have a right to know what's going on now."

Cassandra looked up in time to see Duncan give Alex a brief nod, and then he turned on her. "I've known Connor nearly all my life," Duncan began, outwardly calm, his voice quiet, a prelude to rage. "I've known that he would kill for me, that he would die for me. I've known that he loved me."

She had known that, too, from the beginning. And she had used that love between them, just as she had used Connor and Duncan themselves.

"And I've known, almost from the beginning," Duncan said, "that he was ... envious of me, but I never understood why, until today."

Cassandra hadn't known that, and she didn't understand why.

"I lied to you exactly once, by mistake, and you damn near took my head off for it," Duncan was saying, his feet pacing out a restless rhythm. "You said I made you feel worthless, like you were nothing, and I felt guilty about that. I actually felt sorry for you."

Duncan came closer, his eyes black with fury, the quietness swelling into sound. "But you lied to Connor for forty years! Day in, day out, over and over again." He flung her own words into her face. "You lied every time you listened to him, every time you pretended that you cared, every time you took him to your bed!"

"No," Cassandra protested in a silent whisper, but of course Duncan couldn't hear.

"You—bitch," he swore at her, softly venomous.

She had nowhere to go and no way of moving, for centuries of training—of taming—pinned her defenseless against that wall, left her waiting hopelessly for Duncan's blow.

"How could you do that to him?" Duncan demanded. "How could you use him that way?"

"It wasn't like that," Cassandra said, finally finding her voice and her courage, still unable to move. "And Connor knows it. We talked about it this summer."

"Three and a half centuries later," Duncan snapped.

"I couldn't go to him earlier; he would have killed me!"

"I'm not surprised," Duncan shot back. "You ripped his heart out, Cassandra."

"I know," she whispered then put it behind her and moved on. Connor had forgiven her. It was over, and so were her centuries of silence. "What's between me and Connor is none of your business, Duncan."

"No. It isn't," he admitted, his jaw tight. "But you've been playing games with my life since before I was born, and now I find out you've been between me and Connor, too. Do you know what that did to him, to think that he was just some ... fucking toy for you to play with, until you finally got to me?"

She knew. She knew exactly what it was to be worthless, to be used and then laughed at and discarded on a whim. She hadn't used Connor that way, but for three and half centuries he had believed she had, and the effect was the same.

"And do you have any idea what that did between us?" Duncan asked her. "All the jealousy, the insecurity, the competition ... all his jokes that weren't really funny, all the little games he's played, all the contests to prove who was 'better,' all those goddamned lies between us..." Duncan slammed his hand against the wall right beside her head, and Cassandra did not move. She had no right to try to escape his anger. This, she deserved.

He stepped back from her, breathing carefully, his hands clenched by his sides, and looked her up and down in disgust. "And it was all because of you."

Cassandra had no excuse for that, no justification. She looked away, but met only Alex's hard, unwavering stare, yet another friend she never wanted to hurt, and had. "You're right," Cassandra admitted. "I'm sorry, Duncan. I never meant to come between you and Connor like that."

"Just like you never meant for my father to banish the midwife? Just like you never meant to hurt Connor?"

"Just like that."

Duncan folded his arms across his chest. "Seems like there've been a lot of things you 'never meant' to happen."

"At least I try to fix them!" she flared. "At least I didn't make Connor think I cared about him, only to hand him over to somebody else to be raped and beaten and killed, while I stood by and watched!""

"Methos has nothing to do with what you did to Connor," Duncan declared.

"No," she agreed, "that fault is mine alone. But Methos has a lot to do with you." Cassandra stepped away from that wall. "You asked me if I knew what it feels like to be a 'fucking toy.' Oh yes, Duncan. I know. Your friend Methos taught me. He told you about that, didn't he?" she asked, viciously sweet, and barely waited for Duncan's nod. "You've accepted what Methos did to me, and to countless others, but you're furious at me because I lied and hid things from Connor, and from you. I was trying to protect both of you from Roland, and I did the best I could."

"Your best wasn't very good."

"I know that," she gritted out, her palm itching to slap him. "Methos isn't the only one to have regrets. But at least my regrets don't include the rape and torture and murder of thousands of people." Cassandra headed for the door, for Connor, hoping to fix this regret and let them both move on.

"Where are you going?" Duncan demanded, reaching for her arm.

She knocked his hand aside as she turned to Alex for permission. "I need to talk to Connor."

"Go," Alex told her. "And make things work this time."

Cassandra found Connor walking beside the pasture fence, his coat collar turned up against the wind, his boots crunching in the snow. She walked with him for a time, as the sun settled behind the hills and heavy gray clouds lowered above, and finally she spoke. "When did you kill Duncan?"

A few more steps, a few more heartbeats of silence, and Connor answered. "Two days after I got back from my trip to see you."

"You hadn't been planning on doing that."

His reply came quick and sharp and stinging. "Not like you planned to kill me."

She had planned that on the very first day, when she had pledged herself to him as teacher, when she had first seduced him into trust. Another regret, another mistake that could never be changed. "Is that what you were arguing about upstairs?" Cassandra asked.

Connor gave a swift tilt of his head, a grudging acknowledgment. "Duncan decided we needed to talk about it."

Cassandra knew they probably hadn't talked about it all, not since the day it had happened. Connor wasn't exactly the talkative type. "How did it happen?"

Connor sighed softly. "We were sparring. We said some things. I lost my temper. I ran him through."

"You were angry with me, and you took it out on him."

"Oh, brava, Cassandra," Connor said with utter disdain, swinging around to face her. "Anybody ever tell you that you're brilliant?"

"Let me think," Cassandra said, counting on her fingers, curling them inwards with each name. "Methos said I was stupidly stubborn, and Alex just said I was blind. You've called me a liar and a coward, among other things. The friend I was visiting a few weeks ago called me a whore, and Duncan just told me I was a bitch."

Cassandra opened her fist and let her hand fall. "And all of you were right. But no, no one's ever told me I was brilliant before." Connor snorted in exasperated amusement, and they walked on in the cold. "Are you still angry with me?" she asked cautiously.

"No."

"Why are you angry with Duncan?"

"I'm not angry."

"Envious, then," she persisted, but Connor said nothing, gave no indication that he had heard her at all. "Connor, all those years when I had to wait for the Prophecy to be fulfilled, I didn't have a choice. I needed Duncan." He didn't respond to that either, and Cassandra kept going, determined to make him understand. "I wanted you."

"Cassandra," he said with a tired sigh, dry and remote. "Stop. We've been over this before. You cared about me. You didn't mean to hurt me. You're sorry for what you did. OK, I believe you. But don't pretend, not any more. Not with me."

"Pretend?" she repeated, bewildered.

"That you liked the sex," he said simply, and Cassandra stopped walking, trying to make sense of what she had heard.

Connor shrugged. "I know it wasn't ... pleasant for you, and now that I know what you've been through, I understand why. It was just something else you thought you had to do, one more way to convince me."

"One more way to lie," she added softly, hearing the unspoken words, and Connor shrugged again and walked on.

If he had thought she had been pretending when they were in bed, then ... oh, Great Mother, no! How could he ever have forgiven her, if he had believed that she hadn't wanted him to touch her at all? She caught up to him under a large oak tree. "Connor, you didn't ... you couldn't have thought that everything between us was a lie, could you?"

"Why shouldn't I think that?" he demanded, then repeated what she had told him that summer. "Being in bed with me reminded you of Roland. You can't stand to have me touch you, even now."

Oh no, that wasn't true, not anymore, not at all! Not sex, of course, not with anyone, but she felt safe with Connor, and she had wanted the comfort of his arms about her so many times this last year. But he was married, married to her best friend, and she had promised—

"And I'm a stupid, arrogant man, remember?" Connor continued, before she could find the words to tell him he was wrong. "I'm stupid enough to believe whores when they smile at me and tell me they've had a good time. God knows you've had more practice at lying and pretending than any whore ever had. Of course, when you get paid for it, or get something for it, it's not just practice, is it?" His gaze swept over her, a chilling, bitter wind. "That was your job, to make a whore of yourself—body and soul."

Cassandra's heart hammered in her chest, and her hands curled into claws. Connor just watched her with cold, amused eyes—that smug, self-righteous, arrogant...! He had no right!

But he did.

She had given him the reason and the right to call her a whore, and all of his words had been true. And the best defense was a good offense, and Connor was defending himself right now. "Yes," she agreed, opening her hands and letting go of her anger, hoping to help him let go of his, "I've been a whore. That was my job."

Connor leaned on the fence, one foot on the bottom rail, his head turned to watch the horses run. Snow started falling, white flakes driven across the fields. Cassandra joined him at the fence, speaking out into the wind, for some things were too difficult to face. "At first, I was sold into it. Later ... it didn't seem to matter. What's one more man, after so many thousands? So, I sold myself. Sometimes for money, sometimes for other things: a place to sleep, food, protection. A drink of water. A child's life." She turned to him now, hoping he would eventually turn to her.

"I had sex with those men, Connor, but I never made love to them—or with them—the way I did with you. And I never asked any of them to make love to me, the way I asked you, that last day we were together in Aberdeen. You're right; sex is difficult for me. It's been so ugly, so many times. But with you, it was—you were wonderful. I'd never felt so alive, so cherished—so loved—not in over three thousand years."

"And recently?" Connor asked.

Recently? But she hadn't wanted anyone to touch her, not for centuries, not since—

"Duncan's a good man, Cassandra," Connor said, breaking into her thoughts. "He'll help you heal." He gave her a half a smile. "Better than I ever could." He started walking again, his shoulders hunched against the cold, heading for his home.

Cassandra stood frozen by the fence, hearing Duncan's accusation once more: "Do you have any idea what that did between us?" And she hadn't, not at all.

To Connor, Duncan had been the shining son to be loved, the younger brother to be proud of, the friend of his heart. But Duncan—handsome, smiling, charming Duncan—was the man every woman wanted, the man she herself had chosen, the one man with whom Connor could never even hope to compare. "You want Duncan," Connor had said to her, on that long ago day in Aberdeen. "I'm just something for you to use."

Not true—not true!—but she hadn't been able to convince Connor, for she had lied to him too many times before.

"You lied to me," Connor had continued, his pain crystallizing into diamond-sharp hate and lacerating self-doubt, "and you fucked me, and even your fucking was a lie."

"No," she had whispered, for the love between them had been good and true, but what she had said didn't matter. Connor had left her, believing he had indeed been her "fucking toy," and a completely inadequate one at that.

She hadn't just ripped Connor's heart out; she had castrated him, too, and he still bore the scars. Connor's anger with her had spilled over into undeserved resentment and unbidden envy of Duncan, shameful and hidden but there, a silent, creeping poison. Over the years, over "all the little games, all the contests to prove who was better," Connor's resentment had become resignation, a bitter acknowledgment of what he saw as the truth: where women were concerned, Duncan was by far the better man. She knew Connor trusted Duncan with his life; she knew Connor trusted Alex, too, but still that nagging doubt remained. Connor couldn't even watch his wife and his best friend laugh together without wondering—maybe only for an instant, maybe only a little—but still wondering if Alex wouldn't be happier with Duncan than she was with him.

"How blind can you be?" Cassandra muttered to herself in disgust and shame, repeating Alex's words. But Alex had said something else, too, and Cassandra was determined to make it work this time.

Connor walked quickly through the falling snow of a twilight winter day, eager to put all this behind him and forget the entire afternoon. But Cassandra was running after him; he heard her footsteps in the snow.

"What?" he asked wearily when she reached him, for he was tired, he was cold, and he wanted to go home. Cassandra didn't answer, but sank to the ground before him, kneeling in the snow. "Get up, Cassandra," he ordered, in no mood for theatrical displays.

She stayed where she was, her head bowed, her bronze hair spangled with white snow. "I'm sorry, Connor."

"Yeah, fine. Now get up." She didn't move, and he sighed in disgust and moved to walk on.

Cassandra stood and blocked his path, her cheeks reddened with the cold, her eyes bright with determination. "Connor, I went to bed with you because I wanted to, not because I thought I had to. I didn't want Duncan as a lover four hundred years ago, and I don't want him as a lover now."

With two quick steps and a vicious oath, Connor reached out and took her by the throat. God damn it, enough! He'd been patient and understanding with her for months, generous even, but no way in hell would he let her get away with this! "Don't ever lie to me, Cassandra," he snarled, her pulse beating high and steady beneath his hand, a flare of panic in her eyes. "I saw you."

"I'm not lying," she said, careful and clear. "I will never lie to you again. Duncan and I are not lovers." She made no move to defend herself, no move to escape. "Ask him, if you want to."

Connor loosened his grip, seeing only a cool challenge in her eyes. He could never ask Duncan, but she would never have suggested that unless... With a muttered apology, Connor let her go. "I saw you," he repeated, flexing his fingers, turning away to face the wind. "In his arms that first night you were here. Together the next morning."

"Yes, of course," she said to herself. "You came back outside, and you were watching when Duncan and I talked by the barn, in case I lost control." Connor nodded, and Cassandra said lightly, "I only slapped him once."

"I know. I counted."

She tucked her hands deep into her pockets, traced a pattern in the snow with the toe of her boot. "How many times did I slap you this summer?"

"I lost count."

They managed small smiles at that, then Cassandra explained, "Duncan started to hug me that night, Connor, but I couldn't stand to have him touch me. The next morning was Duncan's birthday, and when he and I met in the hall, I had to force myself to reach out to him. It's been only six weeks since the Horsemen, Connor. I don't—" She tossed her hair back from her face with a shake of her head, then went back to drawing lines in the snow with her foot.

Connor rubbed his hand across his mouth. He'd been so sure. "So, you and he...?"

She stood straight and met his eyes again. "No."

"Not while you were hunting the Horsemen?"

"No."

"Never?"

She glanced down and then up, her standard tell-tale pause before she lied, but then she took a deep breath and told him the truth. "Once. The night after Roland died."

"And that doesn't count?"

"Count?" she said sharply. "Count for what? Points on a scoreboard, notches on a bedpost? One night six months ago doesn't mean we're lovers now, and that's what I told you, and I told you the truth."

And he had damn near strangled her for it.

"Connor," she began, her sharpness gone, "I know what it looked like to you. But Duncan and I aren't lovers, not now, not then. The night after Roland died, it just happened. I hadn't willingly been with anyone, not lately, and I'd been ... so dead. I wanted—I needed—to feel alive again."

"Lately?" he repeated sharply, for he knew what that word meant to her. "You mean, since Aberdeen?"

Cassandra nodded and said simply. "Since you."

"God, Cassandra," he muttered, shocked and disbelieving. "Three hundred sixty-six years?"

"I told you that you were important to me," she said with a quiet smile, but Connor was still shaking his head. Over three centuries with no sex?

"Because of what Roland did?" he asked, for he knew recovering from brutal rape and torture couldn't be easy.

"Partly," she said, looking out to the fields, "but I've gotten over that before, and it usually only takes a few decades or so. But after you left me, I ... I just gave up. But I remembered what we had shared." Her smile mingled joy and pain, and she blinked back tears as the wind gusted cold. "Those memories were so precious to me, Connor, my memories of you."

And yet sometimes they had hurt too much to remember. Connor knew.

Cassandra drew yet another pattern in the snow then wiped it out with her foot. "You healed me, Connor," she said, lifting her gaze from the snow, "in a way that no one else ever has. Or could. Not Ramirez. Oh, he was quite the ladies' man, very accomplished in bed, but with him it was ... fun. He liked women, enjoyed them, cherished them even, but he never permitted himself to love them, not after his wife Shakiko died."

Connor knew why. "When my wife Shakiko died," Ramirez had told him one day, his voice quiet, his dark eyes intent, "I was shattered. But I had to go on, never again to hear the sound of her voice, her laughter." His gaze had wandered away from Connor, off into some emptiness only he could see. "She left behind such a silence."

Connor had lived in that same silence for centuries, until first Brenda and then John and Alex had broken it for him, enticed him back into life with laughter and song.

"You give that part of yourself that Ramirez never would," Cassandra said softly, moving closer and reaching for his hand.

Connor pulled away, knowing that for her to touch him—or, even worse, for him to touch her—made her cringe inside. "Don't force yourself, Cassandra."

"Force myself?" she repeated, her hand hesitating in midair, then she shook her head and moved closer still. Snowflakes lay on her eyelashes, frosted her hair. "Connor, don't you see? You're the one man I don't have to force myself to touch, the one man I feel safe with." She reached out to him, slowly, to lay her hand briefly on his sleeve, and Connor wondered at her show of trust. Maybe...

She added, "I know you won't ever expect me, or ask me, to—"

"Alex would kill me," Connor interrupted dryly.

"Probably," Cassandra answered with a smile. "But even if you weren't married, Connor, you wouldn't ... push. You wouldn't watch me, the way most men do, the way Duncan does sometimes."

Connor nodded slowly as he realized that Cassandra felt safe with him precisely because he was married, because there could be no hint of sexuality between them.

"In a way, Duncan reminds me of Ramirez," she said. Connor hadn't been going to ask, and he didn't think he wanted to know, but Cassandra continued, "They both appreciate women. A lot. But a woman wants to feel special, and I think Duncan has had many 'special' women in his life. He and I don't—and never will—mean that much to each other. For me, I need more."

She reached for his hand, and this time Connor let her take it, a simple handclasp that tightened to a fierce grip between them. "And you gave me more, Connor. So much more. You make love. You create it, with your hands, your voice, just the way you look at a woman, the way you hold her in your arms. Even the way you reach out to touch her hair. You give a woman everything you have, everything you are."

A flurry of wind and snow blew her hair across her face, and Cassandra pushed the strands away with her left hand, her gaze never leaving his face. "The way you touched me made me feel alive again, like a woman, never like a ... thing to be used." She traced her thumb along his own, then brought his hand to her lips and kissed it, held it tight within her grasp. "Do you remember in the evenings," she asked brightly, "how you used to sit cross-legged on the bed, sharpening your sword or unbraiding your hair?"

Connor nodded. "You sewed by the fire."

"Not really," she admitted with a smile. "I was too busy watching you, because I knew we wouldn't have much time together. I still remember the way you used to toss your head to shake the hair from your eyes. After you left Donan Woods, I slept with your pillow for weeks, until your scent disappeared." She reached up and touched his hair, then followed the line of his cheek and jaw, her fingers lingering there. "Being with you was wonderful, Connor, going for walks, sparring, taking care of the garden and the animals, cooking—all the little things that make up a life. But making love to you—and having you make love to me—that was the best of all."

Her eyes were clear and honest, and Connor wanted to believe. He used the Gaelic to ask, as he had once asked her long ago, during an afternoon spent in bed—and standing up against a wall— "You liked that then, did you?"

Her answer was the same, as was the sparkle in her eyes and the brilliant smile on her face, and she used the same language to reply. "Oh, yes. I liked that. I liked it a lot." She stepped back, but did not let go of his hand. "Alex is blessed to have you as her husband, Connor," she said, in English now, "and I'm blessed to have you as a friend. I just wish I'd been a better teacher. A better lover. I never meant to hurt you, Connor. I had no idea you ever thought—it never even occurred to me you could think—that I didn't want you."

Connor snorted to himself. All those years, all those lies and misunderstandings, all that rage and hate and pain—all a goddamned waste. "Like you said, we don't communicate well."

"Are we communicating now?"

"Yeah." He breathed deeply of the cold air and covered her right hand with his own. "We are."

"Good." Cassandra hesitated then said softly, "I'd like to feel your arms around me, Connor. I've wanted that so much."

And he had thought she couldn't stand to have him touch her at all. He pulled her closer, held her tight within his arms. They stood there silent, her head on his shoulder, his cheek against her hair, while the wind blew the snow across the fields and he listened to the beating of her heart next to his own.

She tilted her head back to look at him, her arms still wrapped around his back. "Duncan was often in my thoughts, Connor, but you were always in my heart." She kissed him gently on the lips, a quick touch of warmth that lingered in the cold. "You still are."

He kissed her forehead, a kiss of forgiveness, of understanding. "Been a long road for us, hasn't it, Cassandra?" he asked. She nodded and let go of him, but he gave her a smile as he took her hand in his. "Let's go home," he told her, and they walked hand in hand as the darkness gave way before the brilliance of the moon, rising full above the hills.

Later that evening, Alex and Cassandra stood by the living room window, each holding a baby in her arms as they watched the raging snowball fight outside. "Ooh, good one," Alex commented when John's missile smacked Connor in the back of the head. "I bet Connor's wishing he hadn't spent so much time playing baseball with John this summer." Connor had already packed his next snowball and was taking aim. "John's going to pay for that."

"Looks like John knows it," Cassandra said, for John had taken cover behind one of the snowmen she and John had built before dinner. "And it looks like he has help." Duncan was sneaking up behind Connor, a snowball in each hand.

"That'll never work," Alex predicted, and indeed it didn't, for Connor whirled and caught Duncan full in the face with his snowball. But that left Connor unarmed, and both John and Duncan took the opportunity to attack. They charged him from each side, and the three of them ended up on the ground, rolling in the snow.

"Good thing I came inside before it got that rough," Cassandra said, shivering at the memory of Duncan dumping snow down her back.

"Oh, you had a pretty good aim," Alex said. "You got Connor once or twice."

"And I paid for it," Cassandra said, then gave Alex a rueful smile as she remembered all the fights that hadn't been with snow. "We both have."

"But that's over," Alex said. "Connor told me what you said to him. It'll help a lot."

"I'm glad. And I'm glad he's got you to help him, too. I know I wouldn't have survived these last six months without Connor, and I'm not sure how he would have managed without you." Cassandra turned to look out the window again. The three MacLeods had given up taking the time to pack snowballs, and now they were just throwing handfuls of snow. "I've thought of men as enemies for so long that I had forgotten how vulnerable they can be."

"Like frozen candy bars," Alex observed. "Hard and cold on the outside, soft and sweet when you warm them up."

"But not too soft," Cassandra said with a knowing smile.

"No, not too soft," Alex agreed. "And they have chewy caramel parts you can sink your teeth into."

"And nuts," Cassandra added.

"Absolutely. Of course, sometimes they're like defective M&Ms. They can melt in your mouth ..."

"... or in your hands," Cassandra completed, and she and Alex both laughed aloud. The noise disturbed the babies, and Cassandra shifted Sara to her other arm. The infant yawned and stretched, her tiny fists barely reaching past her ears. "Your father's a wonderful man," she confided to Sara, and Sara yawned again and sneezed.

"I'm going to miss having you here," Alex said, smiling at her daughter, "and not just because of the twins."

"I'll miss you, too," Cassandra said, for she was leaving in the morning to spend a week at a bed-and-breakfast not far away. "But I'll be back on New Years for Connor's birthday and the twins' naming ceremony, and after these last few days I think all of us could use some time by ourselves."

"It's been a good Christmas, but I think you're right," Alex agreed, looking down at her son. "Although my time isn't likely to be either peaceful or quiet." Colin was gnawing on his fist, making little sucking noises. "Feeding time!" Alex announced and headed for the couch.

Cassandra watched the MacLeods as they wrestled in the snow, then she turned to the baby in her arms. "Merry Christmas, little one," Cassandra said softly, and she went to sit with her friend.

For the children and the flowers
are my sisters and my brothers,
Their laughter and their loveliness
will clear a cloudy day.

Cassandra's story is continued in

Hope Remembered V
PRIESTESS