Caught Between The Spirit & The Dust

The name seemed woven through my memory even now. The man. The feelings. The longing. It had been one of those defining moments in my life. My Catholic upbringing condemned it. But not my heart-and never my soul.

The year had been 1943. War had ripped through England. It was still, in fact, raging, but Mr. Winston Churchill had shown us the way, and the Americans had come to assist us. It had been providence . . . but too late for my Philip.

I had come to the London Cemetery that late afternoon in November as I had countless times before to knee amongst the dead. On hard cold stone and gravel I knelt, mindless of the way the small stones cut into my knees and damaged my silk stockings. The physical pain seemed only an extension of the pain in my heart. Philip had been such a fine man. I had loved him so very much. I had defied my parents to marry him. But then the call of the war had come because of the madman, Hitler. Philip had joined the service for his England quickly. Almost as quickly as I had lost him. Oh damn the war! It had ravaged all of Europe! It had ravaged all of my heart. With the taking of that one simple life, the war had ended mine.

My grief had still not lessened and my tears flowed freely here, amongst the dead, where I could see his name carved next to mine on the gravestone. "Soon, my love," I thought, "if the heavenly father up above is merciful, I will join you there soon."

It was then that I felt it. A darkening shadow behind me. The heat, the warmth, and I turned believing in my grief and longing that Philip would be standing there, like an angel watching over me. My tear-filled eyes focused in on the dark shoes, moved up over the black trousers, the white cotton turtleneck shirt that was exposed through the opening of his calf length sienna brown coat. We were of the same age, this man and me. He was taller than Philip. He had a head of sweeping dark, chestnut brown hair. His features were hewn lean and clean, his jaw had a definite square and rugged angle to it. His eyes were a warm caramel color under brows that were sharply defined. His mouth was full and sensual and snagged my attention for not quite a full minute before my lashes shuttered my disappointment.

"Good day to you, sir," I murmured and felt the warmth of his fingers move to encircle my arm as I attempted to lift my self to my feet. How long I had been kneeling there on this day I could not say, but my legs were cramped and I was grateful for his assistance even while I cringed from the effect it had on my senses.

My eyes swayed to the stone he stood before. Chalk white in color with the name Diane Terrin carved in a large scrolling script above smaller dates November 26, 1908 - September 4, 1940. The lonely epitaph on the stone told me that this woman buried across from my husband had not been married to this man who visited her grave now.

"Good day to you, Debra," he greeted me. My surprise that he knew my name was quickly explained by the stray of his eyes which moved over the grave stone behind me, much as mine had moved over Diane Terrin's stone. My name, was carved in the stone, beside Philips . . . my need so great to join him I had insisted upon it as if in preparation.

I nodded even as my eyes moved to Diane Terrin's grave once again, then back to capture the pain reflected deep within the caramel depths of those remarkable eyes. I felt like we were kindred spirits, both here to vanquish the agony in our souls.

At the time I didn't think that such a question coming from a complete stranger was odd, or too inquisitive. From the moment my eyes had locked with his I had felt a closeness, a oneness that even to this day I am unable to explain nor break free of.

"The air raid alarms had sounded. I insisted we seek a shelter, rather than the rooftop as she had wanted. I was wrong." The firmness of his tone, the absolute condemnation in his voice startled me, but before I could insist he not blame himself, he continues, his voice taking on a very distinct Scottish burr. "The entrance to the shelter was blocked by debris and the bomb that dropped had also caused a natural gas leak. She died in my arms many hours later."

"And you did not die." It was a statement meant to relay my understanding not only of that guilt I had heard in his voice, but that I knew he would have gladly of forfeited his own life if it would have saved hers.

"Fate is not always kind to us," I added after a moment. "A lifetime can seem like ages when the one you love is no longer of this world." With one last glance at Philip's grave, I turned back to meet those penetrating caramel colored eyes. "Good day to you, Duncan."

We stayed standing together, our eyes locked, and the distance between us might not have been. I could feel him again. I knew he felt me! My imagination found it easy to picture a world in which we were just two people who could act upon the energy and feeling that had sprung up between us. In my mind's image he was free to draw me into his arms, ravage and explore my body with his mouth, send clothing scattering to the winds of time. We could sink down onto the dew-kissed November grass and explore sensuality, taste and fulfilment.

I had nearly reached the gate, nearly reached a place that would be safe. Outside the gate. Free of those eyes. It was just a gate, and yet, once I was on the other side of it, I knew those wildly unusual thoughts I had about this man would go away. Perhaps never to return!

The husky timbre in his voice brought me to a halt. I turned. He hadn't moved. He remained where he was, a slight breeze lifting the edges of his coat, playing at the length of his hair, his stance still and strong.

That he would take me into his arms and do all the erotic things I had imagined him doing just moments before? Or was it a plea that he would allow me to walk out of his life, to retain the sexual memories I had of my beloved Philip; allow me to continue to wallow in my pain and misery?

I walked and felt him again as I moved closer. I almost felt . . . Lord help me. I couldn't begin to understand all the emotions seething through me as I drew closer. There was such a longing.

While this stranger . . . this Duncan Macleod, was so very much alive! So very vibrant! And his look, the caress of his warm eyes filled me with heat and seduction. It reached out to grab me, snag me as he stood, not moving. Just his eyes touching me, and those, watching me.

I came to a halt before him, still trying to find a reason, fighting mental images of being intimate with this man! And still, he didn't move and had not spoken a word.

Despite the fantasies sweeping through my mind at a wicked pace to match the blustering wind that suddenly sprung up to lift my hair and blow it wildly about my face, I was startled when he finally did touch me. His finger lifted my chin, tilting my face back, then moved to stretched out over my jaw. His thumb brushed over my lower lip.

His mouth moved over mine, and it was no subtle, hesitant, brushing kiss, but a consuming assault that ravished me, relentlessly drawing a response from me. Stars cascaded within my mind as I felt the passionate sear of his tongue moving in my mouth. He ignited my passions to a fever's pitch. My heart thundered as his arms tightened around me. The pressure of his body was a torment that teased, and washed over me with sensuality. I had not felt so aroused since the last time I had been together with Philip. Duncan's hand, so large and capable, fell at the base of my spine, pressing me closer, and I melt into him, stealing his breath to make it mine.

Yes! How I wanted this! How wonderful to be in his arms. I felt so ridiculously familiar with his eyes, his voice, his male scent. The demanding sweep of his tongue aroused so much inside me. I had really believed myself immune to such feelings ever arising again, and yet these feelings were different somehow, more intense. I wasn't feeling this way because I missed Philips touch. These feelings and this need were all centered around one man. Duncan. I wanted him, his touch and what I sensed he would make me feel. I knew initiatively that it would be deep and shattering, It would assuage my physical and emotional longing . . . as well as this burning desire that was more than just hot and urgent . . . but explosive!

He was staying at a friend's townhouse, a single large dwelling, old, dating backs to the Tudor times, I was certain, and elegantly designed, as if it had been planned, perhaps, for the mistress of a king. I frowned at the thought, wondering why I had thought that, but then the sweeping drive leading up to the house caught and held my attention. Lush vegetation marked the landscape and beautiful yews flanked the back entry way, Duncan led me through. I paused in the empty kitchen where lights had been left burning low.

I frowned before remembering that I was after all completely soaked through, my dark hair a mangled mess, plastered to my skull. The furious wind that had picked up in the Cemetery had brought the torrid of rain, cold and bitter only moments after Duncan had given me a path changing kiss.

The whole of the house was darkened. I was certain this place had once housed servants, but now, in the year 1943, perhaps only a housekeeper remained. She did not live in this residence. I was sure. I had the distinct impression that Duncan had visited this house often, for he knew his way about it with ease. I saw little of the house, but found myself curious about it. I tried, as we hastily moved along, to see all that I could.

Up the stairs, Duncan showed me to a room he referred to as `the guest room.' Turning away, he pointed out a door at the end of the hallway. "I'll be in there. Whenever you are ready, I'll see you home."

He smiled and I noticed all over again the bow of his upper lip, the fullness of the bottom. I shivered inwardly as I watched him walk the distance down the hall to the door.

I opened the door he'd left me before. This room was quite nice. Was it really for guests? I sensed that this was not a daughter or sons room. I somehow knew whoever owned this townhouse must live alone. The bed was pleasantly large, the bedspread made of luxurious velvet. A wood wardrobe stood in one corner and a small secretary against the one of the walls. I moved toward the dressing room opening and spotted what appeared to be a newly remodeled bathroom.

I grimaced at my face in the mirror and reached inside my purse for my comb. I had been right, and my hair was natty and plastered against my head. I used the soft downy towel hanging above the commode to dry the strands, but this seem to only put more snarls into it. I worked them out of the front of my hair, but I was unable to reach the tangles and pins that knotted in the back. I saw no hope for it; I stepped into the hallway and hesitantly walked to the door he had indicated as his own.

He had shed his great coat and made himself a brandy. His room was both masculine and comfortable. His bed was massive, the color of the bedding, dark and masculine. The bedroom itself was in an alcove, just beyond the sitting area, where he now sat casually on a small sofa, sipping the brandy, staring into the hearth, where a fire burned warmly.

He set the brandy down on the small occasional table before him. I moved onto the little sofa before him and presented my back. I felt his fingers move into my hair and couldn't prevent the small shiver that rush through me.

"You've made a fine mess of it," he murmured. I did not reply, his nearness, the fresh assault to my senses of the combination of touch, voice and scent, taking my breath away momentarily. I strived to breathe, to inhale deeply.

Pins were plucked from my hair and cast upon the table near the brandy glass. He ignored the comb I tried to get him to notice and with his fingers, he began to work through the snarls, seeking more stray pins. I felt the brush of his fingers against my nape. I closed my eyes, but when I did, I envisioned in my mind's eye such visions of carnal lust that a flush began to creep up, coloring my skin and my breathing sounded labored even to my own ears.

He finished with the last of my snarls and moved to face me so he could look into my eyes. I lowered my head and the mass of freshly tended hair about my face fell forward. I felt the warmth of his hand tuck one side of my hair behind my ear.

Did I? I seriously doubted I did. It didn't really matter, because he had moved to the decanter on a table by a floor-length window that must have overlooked the rear gardens. He brought me a snifter of the rich amber liquor. My fingers wrapped around his briefly, before he picked up his own glass.

I tried a weak smile and swallowed down a sip. It was warm and smooth and burned my throat. And I took yet another sip, liking the taste. His smile took me off guard, but was I really surprised? Everything about this man had done that so far!

Uneasy, I started to move away from his intoxicating presence, but it was not to be. He reached down, catching my hand, drawing me up with him and taking me in his arms.

I guess I knew, even before he had reached for me, what was going to happen. I also knew this was what I truly wanted. What I truly needed. A word floated into my thoughts. Chemistry. Something I'd read about once and scoffed at. Chemistry. Was that why I felt as if he'd invaded and taken possession of me with the touch of his fingers? Chemistry. Was that why I responded to the coaxing timbre of his strange voice when he said, "I think we need each other, Debra . . . ?"

How did he know? And did it really matter, because what he said, at least for my part, was true. I needed him, I craved him, and when my head was bent back by the hard pressure of his mouth on mine, I couldn't turn off that low growl of desire that erupted from deep in my throat.

I felt my mind give way as my body took over. I had never really felt a gnawing, all consuming desire for a man, not even for Philip, but I felt it now, like a hard, grasping knot in my belly-a pain that had to be assuaged. And as my senses took over, my arms went around his neck, and I was pressing closer, wanting . . . needing . . .

The massive bed I had seen when I first entered this room beckoned and he carried me there, stripping off my clothing before he stripped off his own. Flickering fire light from the hearth played across the ceiling, danced across the lines on his firm, hard face, and for that brief hour in time the whole world was outside of this house, this room, and nothing but this mattered.

There was a split second when I questioned what I was doing. When I wondered how I had allowed him to possess me this way; when I wondered why I was doing this when it went against every grain of moral fiber that I had once thought I owned. And then the time for such thoughts was pushed firmly aside. I needed this. I wanted this! And I would never have this again.

Desire was a snake, gnawing at my vitals, slowly uncoiling inside me and filling me with sensations I hadn't known existed or could be achieved. All my reactions were purely instinctive, completely primitive. He was tender and I wanted it rough. He was rough and I wanted it tender. We were two strangers who were learning each other. And we did it by feeling, touching, tracing, with first our fingers and then with our lips.

And when I would have rushed onto that starburst of fulfilment he promised, he held back--teasing me, tormenting me until I cried out to him, torn between growing desire and frustration-hardly understanding these new needs he was making me feel until he made me throbbing and quiveringly aware of them. And even more aware of the feel and different textures of his body-roughness and smoothness, hardness pulsing in my hand, pulsing in my mouth and finally motion inside me.

He moved inside me, and the slide of his body over mine, the brush of his lips at my breasts, teasing and stimulating my nipples seemed only to be geared toward making me experience that startling eruption that came from inside me. Then, while I was still gasping with reaction, he set his mouth against me like a seal, a brand of white-hot fire that took me beyond anything I had ever experienced before-his hard hands, holding my thighs apart while I went from one peak to another, and knew only feeling, wanting . . .

In the end when he released my thighs and moved up to slide inside of me again, I tasted myself against his rough demanding mouth as he kissed me, moved in me and made it all happen again for me so that the only reality I knew was his body over mine, filling me and taking me past naked desire to fulfilment, and all without wasted words!

My cheek was slightly chafed and my lips were swollen. My thighs were sore. There was a wetness on my face. I didn't know it was from tears until Duncan put his hand up and wiped them away gently with his fingers. I thought his fingers shook, but I couldn't be certain; my own body was shaken by tremors I couldn't control

I kept my eyes closed-against the flickering fire light, against any form of reality that might take me back to what I had been before-before this! I realized somewhere at that point that I should be feeling shame. I was taught that sex without marriage was wrong-a terrible carnal sin-a sin that fell under the commandment against adultery. But it didn't feel wrong-not what we had done, and not what he had made me feel.

He had been magnificent. I had thought that I could never want anyone again, and he had proven that there were different types of wanting-and the type he had made me feel was very special. Chemistry. For lack of a better excuse-that one would have to do! I had believed that I could never care about anyone again. But what he had made me feel and experience also made me care-care very deeply for him. And I knew suddenly that if I cared about him, I was stupid to the extreme.

Duncan's voice was an oddly harsh, forced out whisper-I could still feel that fast cadence of his breathing against mine, but he hadn't moved, and neither had I since that final explosion of physical sensation when all my senses gathered up into a tight, aching knot to finally become a star burst . . . No bells going off, but who needed bells?

Gently now, his fingers moved to touch my face, smoothing back strands of damp hair. I was surprised that so slight a contact could rouse sensations once again. When he moved as if to draw away from me, I realized suddenly that I was still clutching him tight, my arms locked around his body, my fingers like nerve ends that could feel every slight movement of his muscles rippling under the smooth sweat-slippery flesh of his back.

I did open my eyes then, and he was staring down at me-not smiling with self-satisfaction as I'd half-dreaded, not frowning with impatience like Philip had been rote to do. His look seemed to concentrate on me intently, as if he too didn't quite believe what had happened between us just now.

"It's okay . . . it's okay," he had said. Were those words to comfort himself, or me? My hand fell limply from around him and I could only watch him . . . I had never thought a picture of a male nude particularly entrancing, but now I found the sight of Duncan's naked body, the self-assured grace with which he moved, striding to snatch up a bottle of champagne, carried its own excitement.

"The bewitching hour." Was all I could think to say, for I had never been more acutely aware of a man's body, and its beauty, its `fearful symmetry,' as I was now? And the lines from Blake's poem -"Tyger, tyger, burning bright, in the forest of the night . . . never rang so true.

"And are you . . . bewitched?" He asked, handing me a filled glass of champagne. I had come up on one elbow to accept the glass and as I sipped the bubbly stuff I felt as if I was on some kind of a high-not satiated but strangely content.

And perhaps that was all he waited for, and perhaps he wasn't quite satiated either, because he set down his glass and reached for mine. Setting both glasses aside, he slipped into the bed beside me and drew me into his arms once again.

He made love to me again, the champagne warming me within while his lips and his hands made my flesh burn everywhere they touched. And it happened again, the starburst of ecstacy, starting deep inside to send its fire through every nerve in my body while the only reality was the piston-driving strength of his body possessing mine.

And sometime during the night we had exhausted ourselves in our greed for each other and had fallen asleep. But the night did not hold back the morning and the next thing I knew, he was urgently waking me. He was up, and it was over. Naked, supple, sleek he drew his fingers through the darkness of his hair as he headed for his bath.

I didn't want him to come back from his bath to still find me here, in this room, in this house. It was truly over. And I had no right to be here anymore. I sprang up from the bed, gathered my clothing, and made for the door. As I threw it open, I prayed suddenly that I would not come upon Duncan's friend, or anyone else that might be up at this early hour of the morning. I rushed down the hall to the guest room and quickly washed and combed out my hair. The back was even rattier than before, but there was no help for it. It would have to stay that way.

I rushed out into the hall, my heart thudding loudly in my ears. His door down the hall remained closed like I had left it. I stared at it a moment, not wanting to leave the beauty and wonder he had offered me beyond that door, but knowing I must. I must! And so I reached deep inside for the self control I had lost somehow yesterday and last evening. I turned from the door and made my way down the stairs, finally slipping out the kitchen door.

It wasn't a short walk home, nor was it a long one. But it was a walk I definitely needed that morning. If Duncan came to look for me, I have no way of knowing. I stopped regularly at Philip's grave, but the man of any woman's dreams never cast his warm, vibrant shadow over me there again.

What was happening? I was growing more and more confused as the days passed into weeks. Things were happening that didn't make sense and even my mentor, the Priest, had changed toward me. It was the Priest who had first cornered me at Philip's funeral, making the pain I already felt, more intense for many moments. He had told me a way to ease the pain. He had spoken of a path that would take me to heaven. But it meant giving up all earthy wants and needs. To live on hallowed ground with others like me, Sisters.

I continued to think of Philip and to remember. The horrible guilt I felt because I was alive and he was not, never seemed to abate. The fresh pain would wash over me, almost blinding in its intensity when I was in the church! Why was that feeling always present when I came into sight of the Priest? Father Terrence.

At the funeral I had felt the pain, but since that evening with Duncan, when I had compounded my guilt with my total physical abandonment with him, it seemed that pain had multiplied to a blinding intensity-and Father Terrence would only smile and say that it was one of the crosses that God wished me to bear! But then, Father Terrence didn't know about Duncan-and I refused to tell him-and it had nothing to do with a refusal to have my soul cleansed. It was for another reason-one that had caused my maternal instinct to kick into high gear! But why, I could not say! I never had a child. Philip and I were not blessed in that way! What did I know about maternal instincts, and why feel it toward a man as sure and powerful as Duncan?

I had stopped at the church that morning, the morning after being with Duncan. It had only been 6:30, but Father Terrence had been at the Altar, arranging his Chalice and the tall silver Candlesticks. That surge of pain rushed over me only briefly. It surprised me, because from the moment Duncan had looked into my eyes in the Cemetery that pain had eased, been washed away by his energy, his vibrance, the intensity of his presence.

I had been surprised and relieved. I had thought in death only would I feel no more pain! Yet, my pain had faded! It had disappeared completely, for just those hours! Father Terrence had been wrong! Was seeking my own death wrong as well? Father Terrence had `not' said that killing myself was a sin! Why? Did he really think I would prefer to be a Sister living on hallowed ground?

Dear God! Yes, I love You! But a nun-a bride of Christ-I could never be! I have too many failings-especially of the carnal variety-and that was only too evident by my complete surrender to a total stranger!

Because I felt a connection with him? My betraying thoughts dwelled on the wondrous hours spent with Duncan. Pain free and ecstacy-ridden! Whom could possible want to be a nun, when with him? How could one think of death, when he was so very much alive? I longed for Duncan. Desire him again, and that need inside me was a horrible betrayal of the love I had shared with Philip. My God! If I could not die as I wanted, why must I feel alive? Why had I allowed Duncan to awaken the hunger for life in me?

My visit to the Priest had washed away the glow of life left by Duncan's touch! As I stood there in the back of the church, looking up at the Altar where Father Terrence stood, I felt that seethe of pain, and fled, long before he turned. Somehow I knew he had turned. I knew that he knew I had been there. I ran from the church and that feeling. I ran, wishing as I did so that I had stayed this morning in that large Tudor house where Duncan was enjoying his bath.

Instead, like a glutton for punishment, I had sought out the Priest and the ache had returned. The guilt, and the need to end it-for good this time! I had purchased the gun. Just a simple pistol. It should have been easy to use. The walk home from the gunsmith had been a blur. I kept thinking of Duncan-in his bath. Asking myself why I had to be so damn noble. Why couldn't I have joined him? I would have been welcomed. I could have starved off this pain just a little while longer. When I was with him, I did not want to die. I only wanted to live!

I lived! I continued to live! It had been several weeks since my evening with Duncan and I still lived. I lived, even though I had contemplated killing myself. I just had not succeeded.

I awoke the next morning in a state of misery, gasping for breath as if awakening from a nightmare. The world was foggy-as if I had taken a dose of laudanum. I was totally bewildered. I sat up in the chair I had been sprawled in and my eyes fell on the gun. It lay on the floor between my feet.

I started to laugh then, to laugh hysterically, and I wasn't sure if I would ever stop! I felt relief! Oh, thank you God for saving me! I did not take my life! And I learned something new about myself that morning. I learned that despite the pain of loss and guilt, I wanted to live!

Perhaps I was a horrible human being, wanting to live while my dear sweet Philip lay cold in the grave. Perhaps Father Terrence had been right when he said that death was one way I could join Philip in heaven. He had said in heaven you did not age, you did not grow old. In heaven, Philip and I could live for eternity!

Yet that morning I felt I could wait just a little while longer for something so wonderful as heaven! My eyes fell upon the two bottles of Champagne setting on the occasional table beside me. One bottle was empty, the other half full. I smiled ruefully. I had not drank the liquor to celebrate. I had needed fortification to raise that gun to my temple and pull the trigger. And I had fortified myself all that afternoon and into the evening. The champagne had made me sleepy, however, and I must have fallen into a drunken stupor. The gun had dropped from my hand. And I was still very much alive!

Father Terrence knew things. I do not know how he knew these things, but upon coming into the church a week after my flopped attempt at sniffing out my life, he had paused upon seeing me as if stunned. I had been stunned, too! Stunned by the wave of physical pain that had assaulted my temples. It rushed over me, like a warning, and then was gone, leaving me staring into the Priest's narrowed, seemly calculated eyes.

“What have you done?” He cried, rushing toward me and actually placing his hands upon my arms and shaking me. “You must join the sisters on hallowed ground now!”

I was never quite sure whether I shook myself free of his hand or if his hands had simply fallen away. I do remember that I was outraged, and I had thought that perhaps I didn't need any spiritual guidance from this man anymore.

I turned to flee then, rushing to the heavy oaken church door. He was shouting insane things after me. Crazy and impossible things! The door gave against my insistent push and the bright light of day blinded me as I rush out into the icy air. I was trembling. I was afraid. I needed my world to make sense!

A hack for hire came around the corner and I flagged it down, giving directions to the large Tudor house just off of Mayfair. Why I thought to run to Duncan, a man I knew next to nothing about, yet knew as if he was my soul mate, I couldn't say? I simply knew I needed him.

The splendor of the Tudor house greeted my eyes as I turned away from the hired hack and heard it drive away. I took a deep, encompassing breath, a breath that expressed something of ultimate wonder, something to savor with wild abandonment, something to not ever feel guilt or pain over again. As I moved up the pathway to the door, I felt love.

I was in love. As I had never thought that I could be again. The world was a place where so much right now seemed to be horrid, and ugly. The War raged in my backyard, in Europe's backyard. The tragedy of War had taken one man I loved, but fate had brought me another. And even though the world seemed to be tumbling down around me, I knew that Duncan would be my anchor. Perhaps he was my salvation!

I felt my heart beat, racing wildly as I knocked at the door. And then it paused, seeming to stop in dismay, when I learned that Duncan Macleod had left the house with it's owner, Hugh Fitzcairn only an hour earlier. And no, the housekeeper, did not expect either to return for a several weeks.

What to do? How to find a man you barely knew. That Scottish burr I heard in his voice directed me to Scotland. Scotland Yard, to be exact. I took a train that very evening up into the wilds of Scotland. Yet, I learned nothing the next morning, for the three inspectors I spoke to didn't know just one Duncan Macleod, they knew many by that name. It seemed Duncan was not that unusual of a name for a Highlander. It was, in fact, ridiculously common among the Clan Macleod listed in their directory.

Disenchanted and weary, a guard at the door suggested I contact the British Intelligence Agency. The guard had heard of a man by the name of Duncan Macleod who had worked for them three years earlier. Could it be the same man? I did not know, but I was going to take a train back to London this evening and find out.

I could check out Duncan's friend as well. Hugh Fitzcairn. A good old Irish name, if I had ever heard one. If the British Intelligence agency had no leads on Duncan, perhaps they could tell me something of Fitzcairn. If I found Fitzcairn, I might also find Duncan, and if not, surely the man could be convinced to tell `little old me,' with my sweet smile and adoring eyes the information I was after.

Over confidence had always been my downfall! How had I forgotten? Why did my enthusiasm blind me to reality and temper my patience to the point I forgot to use some? Philip had loved my impulsiveness. He found it refreshing, challenging and I'm sure on more than one occasion, eye opening. In a state of such over confidence and zeal, I had been known to do some extremely bold and madcap things. I wondered now as I boarded the small craft that would take me across the channel to Le Havre, France, whether what I had embarked upon was not yet another harum-scarum adventure?

Of course, I had not begun to wonder at my reasoning until I took a comfortable chair on the top deck and had time to relax in the heat of the April sun which warmed my face and the top of my head. Four long months it had taken me to get this far. I had underestimated the British Intelligence Agency. My head had defiantly been in the clouds! I had really believed I could waltz into the headquarters and start bantering around Duncan Macleod's name, and that of his Friend's, Hugh Fitzcairn, and everyone I spoke with would develop diarrhea of the tongue! Huh! Constipation of the tongue was more like it!

I had learned nothing, but that it was entirely possible to make the BIA suspicious! Yeah, they were suspicious to the point they had a man or two follow me about as if I was some kind of Mata Hari. It made me wonder exactly what type of work Duncan had done back in 1940. And what he was doing now, four years later.

The War was so widespread. In the last year and a half the air raid sirens had rarely sounded because the German's no longer threatened the sky over Britain. They had been much to busy invading France, Belgium, Norway, Russia, Italy, Spain. Had there been a country safe from them?

The American General, George Patton, lead a most brilliant campaign in the Brittany peninsula of France that had driven back four German divisions. General Bernard Montgomery, the Commander of the British forces had given chase, forcing even more German divisions to desert the land they had invaded and held for over two years. The only organized German troops that remained in France, where located on the border of Switzerland. And that was where I was headed. To Lyons, France.

And I was being followed. I could sense it. And not just by the BIA. I was being followed by other immortals. Some of them were good, like Duncan. Others, were bad, like Father Terrence. I knew things now, just as Father Terrence had known things. Some of this had been explained to me by Father Terrence. Of course, he didn't say that he was a bad person. This I just sensed. I could feel it in his quickening, the warning, that feeling of pain I always felt upon seeing him.

Father Terrence had continued to insist I join a nunnery-or at least that is what I thought he meant when he spoke of my joining the sisters on hallowed ground. I had since learned that he had a place where other immortal women such as myself hid themselves away. I was taken to this place by him. It was why I knew that some of the women hid in that place in fear, fear of losing their heads. Others just wanted a rest from being the hunted. And still others were part of Father Terrence's sick little harem. For Father Terrence wasn't a Catholic Priest at all! And the reason he had filled my head with the wonders of Heaven and my need for loyalty to Philip was so that I would kill myself, violently, and thus become one of "his" women.

Father Terrence didn't believe in teaching a newborn immortal to defend herself. He spoke of a thing called "The Game" and how immortal males sought out their female counterparts to kill by beheading. He spoke of how the males killed each other for dominance. He spoke of there being "only one" in the end. But he said the end was very far off. The "Gathering," he had called it! He said it was to happen in the future, many, many years from now! I sensed his words were spoken to instill fear. He wanted us defenseless and dependent on him. He tried to build fear in us so that he could use it to keep us in that place built on hallowed ground.

I had escaped the place. I picked up his sword that he had so confidently laid down and stabbed him straight through the heart. Perhaps I should have taken his head, too, but the idea of doing so disgusted me. I really didn't trust everything Father Terrence said and wasn't at all sure what might happen to me if I took a male's head. He had always said female's were to be beheaded. I didn't really want to kill anyone, anyway. I just wanted to get away. This I did. I had rejected the cross he said God wanted me to bear. It was not pain over Philip's death that I felt when around him, it was his quickening, warning me, and from it I sensed his evilness!

Being around thirty immortals, I learned much about a quickening. I knew by feel, which was good, and which was evil. I learned when an immortal was on the hunt and when they were the hunted. Most of the women on hallowed ground felt hunted. It wasn't until after I escaped that I encountered other immortals, males, who were hunting. I could feel it in the warning I felt upon sensing them. None attacked me.

There was an immortal aboard the ship right now. I felt his quickening, as I had Duncan's as a pre-immortal. Only with Duncan it had felt like a glow. Was that because I wasn't immortal yet? I wondered because on first meeting Father Terrence I had only felt a slight ache that I had believed was agony over Philip's loss. It wasn't until after I shot myself-oh, yes, I knew now that I had in fact succeeded at killing myself- that I felt true pain upon seeing him. I still had many unanswered questions. I had simply learned to trust my instincts, and the feel of the warning I always received from another immortal's quickening.

I jerked my head in the direction of that feeling now. My eyes snapped open and narrowed in on the tall, lithely built man who stood at the end of the passageway. I saw the tote he carried, slung around his shoulder and knew that hilt exposed above his shoulder was the hilt of a sword. He had very light, almost blond hair with a reddish tint that revealed itself in the sunlight. His eyes were deep set in his head and a disturbing blue. I felt a glow from him, but it was searing, arresting, and undeniable.

"I heard through the grapevine that you are hunting for a Macleod." Ah, the Scottish accent. Barely discernable, but definitely there. He moved toward me, not really menacingly, but I knew that if I chose to run, he would catch me. His approach was determined and unescapable.

"I am only looking for someone. Someone I care about." I noticed the flash of something reflected briefly in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly I was unable to grasp what it truly was. I had his attention.

"Yes! Oh, yes!" I mocked lightly. "The big bad males must decapitated the females! How utterly disgusting! Can we not all live in harmony? And what of love? Can there be none of it between a male and female immortal?

He laughed, throwing his head back, exposing his throat. It was a hardy laugh and a husky one. He stopped laughing abruptly and those strange blue eyes pinned me where I sat. "You are a remarkable mixture of knowledge and myth. Do you have a teacher? Has another shown you what you need to survive?"

Cocky of him to say so! I know I should have been afraid of this man. He was a male immortal, and Father Terrence had said that my head was as good as his. Yet...

He gave that husky laugh again, but this time it resembled a snicker. "If you take my head-any immortal's head, you will gain his strength and knowledge! I don't think you have had a good teacher," he commented quietly, his gaze studying me.

"And would you be a good teacher?" I smiled for the first time. This man was no threat to me and what he said made sense. Decapitating wasn't only the means of death for the female immortals, it meant the death for any immortal.

"I taught Duncan Macleod," he offered and must have saw the way my eyes lit up. He must have known all along that the Macleod I searched for was Duncan. Had he hunted me down to help me find his kinsman, or to protect his kinsman from me?

And so suddenly I had a traveling companion. An attractive, intelligent and immortal traveling companion. He explained much to me. He confirmed that Father Terrence had used Religion, false doctrine, and guilt to encourage me to join my dearest Philip. Conner had not known about the hallowed ground where the sisters hid, but he said he had heard of other places of safety and refuge that immortals sought in order to rest from the "Game."

The question brought to mind something that had been bothering me every since I learned that an immortal must use a sword for protection. If an immortal must use a sword to fight, would they not carried the weapon as Conner did, on their person and available? That day in the cemetery, Duncan had been weaponless. I know, I would have felt a weapon on him if he had been carrying one. Even later, in the bedroom of that large Tudor house, I had seen no sword.

"Oh, I don't know if that is what I sensed so much as a warmth, a vibrant. It reached out to me and I embraced it. I thought it was desire. I thought it was love..."

"Wasn't it?" He smiled and put his arm around me, his hand squeezing my shoulder. "Duncan has a very good soul. I feel that when I sense him. That you felt it before your first death is surprising, but I don't think your feelings of desire or love was from his quickening. Duncan's essence is good, but it still warns."

I sighed a little, still trying to take it all in. What Conner said made sense again. I remembered feeling Conner's presence on board the water craft even before he came to speak to me. I remember the rush of feeling, the warning that told me he was approaching me. It was similar to what he said about Duncan. The feeling had told me he was good, but it had also told me to beware.

"Where were you planning to spend the night?" he asked me now and I turned away from the street where I had been signaling for a hack, and met his direct gaze. "Were you planning to seek lodging or are you so impatient to move on?"

I was a little surprised by how well this man understood me. Yes. I had thought to take the hack to a train station and continue my journey to Lyons. It was just a little disconcerting to have him guess this, and tell me that taking a train to Lyons was a luxury from the past. Most of the railways had been bombed in France. There were no direct train routes to Lyons, nor was it a good place to be since it was still occupied by German troops.

I frowned at him darkly. He was a cocky man! Very arrogant in an endearing way. Rather like a big brother. In the end I did things his way. He had an old townhouse, not four blocks from the dock. I lodged there with him, in a spacious, separate bedroom. It was there, in that townhouse in Le Havre, France, that I learned to defend myself. I learn how to use a sword. I learned from the same man who had trained the man I loved. And as the weeks moved into months, he finally told me that I was ready. That he could teach me no more.

I was both relieved and saddened. I had become very close to his Macleod. I did, in fact, look upon him as a brother. He had taught me much and had guided me well. I still thought cutting off someone's head was revolting. I still had my doubts on whether I would ever be able to do it.

Conner did not doubt. He told me when the time came, I would do it. He also spoke of how the decapitated immortal's essence would flow into me. I was so very curious about what that would mean and how that would feel. And yet, I didn't want to kill anyone. I would not seek another's quickening. I would not be the hunter.

Conner learned that I had never been to Paris and insisted that something had to be done about that! Paris was romance! Paris was lights! Paris was not a place to be forgotten. This I hardily agreed with for I found that I loved Paris. It had a special quality no other city had, an indefinable charm that was part beauty, part sophistication. Its jumbled streets could be incredibly narrow and twisted. They were quaint and old, while others were broad boulevards with wide strips of grass. The framework of trees that ran up and down the boulevards were alive and sweet with late summer blooms.

We took a hack to George V, driving through the Left Bank and across the Prince Alexander III Bridge, lined with turn-of-the-century wrought-iron street lamps, then onto the Champs Elysees, where our hotel was located. Tall stone arches led into the hotel, each set with a gold and black wrought-iron gateway.

I paused just passed the entrance of the gateway and waited for Conner to finish paying the hackman. I noticed immediately as he turned away from the hack that he saw me watching him. I also noticed that he couldn't meet my eyes. This did not promise to be a good thing. I had not wondered earlier why Conner had suddenly mention Paris, then insisted we leave the very next day for the city, but I wondered now.

“Debra, hurry in. It had begun to rain,” His arm encircled my shoulder and I allowed him to move me passed the entry doors and into the hotel lobby. Check-in was remarkably fast, just a matter of him taking the two keys for the two rooms from the maitre'd. We took the lift up to the top floor of the hotel.

The lift came to a stop and Conner opened the door and led the way down the hall. At one of the doors he handed me the key. “This is your room. I was promised that everything would be ready, just as I asked.”

He was gone then, leaving me standing with the key in hand, staring down the hallway. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. He was a man of few words! A man of many secrets! And too damn strong and dominant! He would have his way, and for some reason I didn't feel at all threatened by him. Perhaps because he never tried to change who I was.

The first thing I saw upon moving into the hotel room was the vase. It was made of cut crystal and must have held at least two dozen roses. The crimson color of the buds were accented by greenery and baby's breath. I frowned uneasily, and moved forward to take the card from amongst the blooms. The next moment, the purse I had been holding in my hand fell to the floor and I swayed briefly on my feet, finally making my way over to the cushioned chair beside the small secretary desk.

I set the card on the edge of the desk with trembling fingers. I wanted to jump for joy. I wanted to fling open the door, run down the hall, find Conner, and insist he tell me why he had kept this from me. I could do none of these things. I was too stunned at the moment to do more than gaze about the room with what must have been the silliest grin I was capable of on my face.

Many, many moments later, I finally stood up and walked over to the windows flanking the wall to look out. My eyes scanned the boulevard below and I recognized with a start that I was looking for Duncan. I shook my head at my own foolishness. Why would he be standing outside my hotel? The flowers had been from him. He knew I was here. Conner must have written him, called him. With those thoughts, came the realization that Conner must have known where Duncan was all this time.

I enjoyed the meal. The food was delicious. I was a little surprised to find that I had an appetite. I was anxious to see Duncan. I was so sure that he was going to be at this table tonight instead of Conner. I think some of my disappointment must have shown on my face, for Conner was especially kind to me tonight. Not that I noticed enough to thank him, or even pay particular attention to his conversation. Conner was a great conversationalist. He could speak of such a broad range of historical topics. He could make each and every one of his stories sound marvelous. I wondered at times if that was because he had first hand knowledge of these stories. Were they memories from his past?

Toward the end of the meal, I felt it. The warmth of his “quickening.” It surged through me in a startling manner, singeing my consciousness, wrapping itself about my very soul. I knew my eyes must have widened and all my facial features must have become frozen. I saw that Conner had interpreted the quickening of another as well. His mouth formed into a pleased smile.

“Duncan.” I wanted to reach across the table and shake him. He was being purposely obtuse. And was that laughter I spied in his arresting blue eyes? “He sent me Roses.”

I glared at Conner and subsided into silence. After three months in his company I had come to read him quite well, if not perfectly, and he was defiantly up to something, and he wasn't about to tell me what. I thought I knew, but the suspense was killing me!

The waiter came to clear away our plates. Conner uncorked a bottle of Chardonnay and poured two glasses. I wrinkled my nose at the glass. He knew I hated Chardonnay. The first time I tasted it, I embarrassed myself by spitting it out on the floor, and just missing his shoe.

I frowned at him even as my fingers closed over the stem of the glass. There was time? Did that mean Duncan was not here yet? It seemed unlikely since I had sensed him, felt him. Yet, perhaps he had just stuck his head into the dining room to see us here and had gone to register into the hotel before joining us. I sighed. I wasn't convincing myself, for I could feel someone watching me. I tried to ignore it, refusing to look around the restaurant for Duncan. But now and then I would sneak a little peek, trying my best to appear casual.

I must not have succeeded. I knew this because every time I took a peek, I would also glance at Conner to see if he noticed me peeking and his tightening grin or smile told me he had noticed. I felt like a school girl, awaiting her first date and it irritated me. I scowled darkly at my thoughts, and glanced up straight into a pair of caramel colored eyes.

I smiled slowly just before my enthusiasm, over-confidence, and pure unadulterated joy caused me to damn the consequences and spring to my feet, Chardonnay flying-all over Conner, by the way- and across the arms-length of space separating us. My arms wrapped around his neck and I hugged him as I sniffled away like some possessed, half frantic mad woman, about missing him and being sorry I left him.

His fingers were long and strong around my own as they eased my arms from around his neck. I think I might have been choking him. His mouth brushed the skin of my forehead with soft warmth. His caramel colored eyes were penetrating and intense when I stepped back to look into his face. He smiled and my heart must have done a triple somersault inside my breast.

I stared at him and I think my mouth must have dropped open, because he placed a finger under my chin as if to close it. I was just a little confused. I was disappointed as well. I didn't really expect fireworks upon meeting him again. But I did sense the heat of his passion and that it lay waiting like some impassioned, predatory animal under his iron control. The oneness, the connection I had felt with him that day in the Cemetery, was it gone?

I stepped back, suddenly not knowing where to put my hands, where to look. And so I looked to Conner, my teacher. The blue of his eyes burned across the distance between he and Duncan, probing and hard. Unwillingly I looked and saw that a similar expression was glimmering in the depth of Duncan's eyes.

“Come and sit, Duncan,” Conner invited, his tone, clipped, and just shy of being an order. That barely distinguishable Scottish accent was back, underlining the words.

Conner grunted his displeasure and reached for the linen napkin. I watched him pat at the wet stains left from the Chardonnay and wished feverishly that the floor might open up and swallow me whole! I took another step back, away from Duncan, and felt his strong fingers close around my wrist. I checked my foot from taking another step away. Now I was really confused.

My eyes widened, then narrowed as my gaze turned accusingly upon Conner Macleod of the Clan Macleod. The man who told me he could not die! Ha! My fingers itched for the feel of the hilt of a sword to wrap around. In that moment, feeling betrayed, I longed to take his head.

stare on Duncan, but after only a moment the sharpness of it had turned dull. I still loved this man, but I also discovered that perhaps I needed to take the blind fold off that love.

Conner laughed again, this time it was with that obnoxious snicker. My glare joined Duncan's and under them, Conner must have decided a hasty retreat was in order.

“Please.” Duncan had turned to me with those big puppy dog eyes. Ah, but the man could state his case and win with but a word, I thought crossly as I felt my resolve slipping away and my insides melt at the warmth I saw reflected there in the depths of his eyes. “This is too public for our discussion.”

I sighed agreeably and reached for my purse. Duncan stood back politely to let me pass out of the dining room before him. The back of my dress was cut fashionably low, and a silk Rose was nestled seductively at the base of my spine. I cast a glance at Duncan to see if he had noticed and was pleased that his eye appeared to be drawn, or was it glued, to my derriere.

We had paused outside of the hotel, just inside one of the archways and before one of the wrought-iron gates. His fingers moved up to my shoulder where they caught a few strands of my hair. He rubbed the strands between his fingers as if he liked the feel. Those fingers moved onto the back of my shoulder, and his hand ran down the smooth creamy flesh of my exposed back, then crushed the saucy flower at the base of my spine and paused to caress the swell of my hip.

I felt the hand at my hip move to cup my buttock at about the same time he started to run his thumb across my bare shoulder and up my neck, beneath the curtain my hair. “In the hotel room I'm not going to want to talk.”

His thumb continued to caress me. It was faintly rough against my skin, searing with heat. I bit my lip, desire, fiery hot and too long unappeased washed over me with a spreading warmth that sprang up from deep inside my abdomen. I almost shivered. I wanted to toss back my head and stretch like a cat, offering my throat to his stroking touch.

Duncan smiled was lazy as he brought his thumb back down my neck and along the hard ring of my collarbone, stopping at the soft hollow of my throat. I suddenly became aware that my body seemed to have a will of its own when it came to his man, for I became conscious of the fact that I had started to push back against the hand cupping my butt, almost as if silently asking that large hand to squeeze my flesh.

Abruptly I twisted away from him, managing a little laugh as I did so. It was difficult. I wanted his hands on me. I wanted his touch. I also needed a clear head. “I am sorry, Duncan. But I am quite suspicious of immortal Priests in churches.”

“Father Darius is truly a Priest.” He leaned closer, until his head was almost touching mind. “I'll not let anything happen to you, Debra Henderson. You have my word on it.”

My pulse was beating much too rapidly, and there was an iron band around my chest, tightening. I felt scared, yet, strangely enough, it was this man I knew I could run to for shelter. I also knew instinctively, that if I did not run to him for shelter, he would find a way to shelter me anyway.

I realized as we walked through the cool spring evening, hand in hand, that I had become self reliant since Philip joined the service three years ago. I had become independent even before he died. I wondered briefly if Duncan's need to protect would clash with that independence. Would it become a bone of contention between us? It was an endearing quality and yet how did one explain to a man that you wanted the assurance that he would protect -but only if you asked for that protection?

It was only 7:30 in the evening. Candles lit the Altar of the church. A soft light glowed from beneath a door leading to the right of the tiered row of chairs. I had felt the Priest's “quickening” even before we had entered the church. I knew from it that he was a strong immortal. A good man, and strangely enough, he was neither hunter nor hunted. As we came to the end of the chairs, the door opened. The tall, thin men who walked out, his mouth wreathed in a warm smile, wore a brown, flowing woolen robe with a hemp rope tied about his waist. His attire, while being that of a monk, surprised me, for in this day and age, even the monks had taken to wearing civilian clothes when not preforming a service.

Duncan and Darius embraced, and I sensed the deep companionship felt between them. I felt their love. When Darius moved back to greet me, I was already smiling. He moved easily between us, placing an arm around both of our shoulders as if gathering two children together. We moved as one through the door I had watched him open earlier.

He provided wine for us to drink, and I occupied my time looking at the rare and costly collection of antiques that seemed sprinkled about this room. Knowing he was an immortal and realizing he could be hundreds of years old, I did not doubt this man's humility, I simply knew that what was of monetary value to the outside world, was of a personal, and nostalgic value to Father Darius.

After a half hour, Father Darius left us, closing the heavy wooden door behind himself as he departed. I turned a questioning frown upon Duncan where he sat in his chair, his long legs stretch out before him as he sipped at his wine. Over the brim of his glass, those caramel eyes never left mine.

I moved to take the chair across from him. Duncan refilled my glass of wine and leaned back again in his chair. We looked at each other, neither of us appearing to be willing to restarted the discussion that had started in the hotel's restaurant/dinning room.

I knew suddenly, that I could not lay all the blame for our lack of closeness upon meeting again, at Duncan's feet. I had only my own self to blame for my feelings. I had learned as a very young child, who did not know her parents, who lived with a couple that were well into their eighties and often unable to understand me, that fantasy could make anything I might want happen. Somewhere along the way, I never quite gave up imaging things to be the way I wanted. I blindly refused to see reality at times, insisting instead, that the way I wanted things were actually the way things were.

I had done that with Philip. And I had done it was Duncan. Life could not always be a bed of roses, and just because I was happy in my imaginary bliss did not mean others associated with me were, too. Case in point, I had run out on Duncan. I had run out without a word. Was there any great need to stretch my imagination in order to understand that upon meeting me again he was holding himself back? It wasn't as if I was the same, untouched, like I had been back in November when we met and made love. I had experienced my first death! I was an immortal, with all the implications that went with it!

“An old friend.” He smiled and I wasn't quite sure how to interpret his expression. I knew instinctively that this Amanda was someone of importance in his life. I knew also, that she must be an immortal like me.

“Was she part of the sisters on hallowed ground? Was she taking a rest from the “Game?” I wanted to ask if she had been part of Father Terrence's sick little harem, but knew the thought as being a bitchy one. It would not help us come to an understanding.

“Terrence killed her student.” His voice thickened and I sensed that what was truly bothering him, irritating, and infuriating him was about to be revealed to me at last. “Why did you leave?”

“What difference does it make, Duncan?” I spread my hands, palms open, in an imploring gesture. “I am, what I am! I would have experienced my “first death” sooner or later. At least I am only 32 years old, not 60!”

I sprang up from the chair, glaring at him. Reaching for the glass of wine, I tossed the contents down my throat, and placed the glass back on the desk with a firm click. In aggravation, I paced before the large fireplace. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, but it didn't warm me. I felt cold.

“I was given the choice,” I told him bitterly. “I decided to end my life with a bullet in my temple! Thank God, I am immortal, because I did it all on the words of a man who wasn't even a Priest!”

I shrugged. “If I had known I was immortal I wouldn't have tried to kill myself because I would have known what Father Terrence preached was not true.” I moved toward Duncan then, having spied the wash of guilt in his eyes. “Oh, no, you don't! You are not to blame for my death! You told me to live! I do remember that, Duncan!”

“I would not have believed you! I would have still killed myself. Father Terrence had me so totally convinced that my death would be the only way I could be with Philip again.”

I looked away from him, actually turned away from him, so he could not see the flush that brightened my skin. Yes, I had loved Philip. I knew now, however, that I hadn't really loved him enough to take my own life. If not for Father Terrence's influence and the bottle and a half of Champagne, I did not really believe I ever would have ended my life. Of course, that was only speculation now, and perhaps I was allowing fantasy to shade my thoughts once again.

Duncan came to his feet and moved toward me. He took my hand and pulled me toward him, and I stepped against him, feeling his arm encircle my waist. Our fingers entangled. Were we going to dance? In Father Darius's private refuge? This church, on holy ground!

It felt intensely pleasurable to feel my hand on his shoulder, my arm against his, the flat of his palm against the bare skin of my back. I tingled as I felt his hand move teasingly over my lower back, exploring the ridge of my spinal column and the soft flesh to either side of it. I longed for his hand to move beneath the material of my dress, to slide up and around to the soft swell of my breast. I shook myself mentally, shocked a little at myself for having such carnal thoughts inside a church.

What a thing to talk about when I had another type of quickening rushing through my mind. The type I knew would build inside me as he touched more of me, stroked me with the wetness of his tongue, thrilled me with the warmth of his breath and the taste of his kiss.

Duncan smiled, perhaps he found my description amusing. Pausing in the dance, his hand left my back and his thumb brushed my lower lip. “I may have wished you to be spared this life. Being an immortal is not easy. We live violent lives. We lose those we love. We reinvent ourselves out of necessity. I believe you will survive.”

I chuckled and eased my fingers free of his. Placing my arms around his neck, I leaned back to look up into his face. “Do you say that because you don't believe I'm suicidal anymore?”

I shivered with disgust. “What an atrocious individual he turned out to be. Before I died, I didn't sense his evilness. And I confused the ache I did feel with Philip's loss.”

He pulled me closer and leaned his cheek against my hair, and I wondered if he could smell the subtle, enticing scent of my perfume. My breasts were soft against his chest, and I could feel his desire, hard and swollen, against the soft cup of my pelvis.

He leaned in and attempted to capture my lips again and I laughed at him, angling my head away. The warmth of his breath caressed my ear, followed moments later by the feel of his lips and the moisture of his tongue, stroking.