New fanfic: HIS BETTER HALF: An Elena Duran Story 6/8
Vi Moreau (vmoreau@ADELPHIA.NET)
Sun, 3 Jun 2001 05:16:50 -0400
HIS BETTER HALF: An Elena Duran Story 6/8
by Vi Moreau
vmoreau@adelphia.net
for thanks and disclaimers, see part 0
May 4, 1867, an empty field a few miles outside Atlanta, GA
Connor paces a little, just to keep himself loose, ready. He isn't nervous;
he simply does not want to be here. But the damned woman won't take no for
an answer. He'd killed her teacher during the war, and she will not--or
cannot--forgive him for it. Nor does she seem to realize--or believe--that
the man who'd killed her teacher will be more than a match for her.
She had met him earlier today, at a family party of all places: all colors,
wide gowns, and soft smiles. The Confederacy may have fallen, Connor
thinks, and most of the men died in the war, but the belles aren't any less
beautiful. Or any less proud. This one is both. She's also stubborn and
not very bright.
"There's no quarrel between us," he argues.
"Yes, there is," she replies, in her sultry Southern accent, "I'll see you
this evening, just before dark, at Cotter's field."
"Fine," Connor says regretfully. She is pretty, with fine pale skin
and dark hair and eyes. What a waste. As she starts to walk away, he calls
out, "What's your name?"
She turns back to him, one hundred percent Southern belle. "Lillian
Andrew," she says, as though she is announcing royalty.
Connor shrugs. She is nobody. And unless he can get her to turn
away, she's soon going to be a dead nobody.
The unique tingle signifying an Immortal speeds up his spine into his brain,
and he turns to face her, watching her climb up the hill, the breeze gently
blowing her hair. At least she's given up her very impractical wide
petticoats--Connor can't imagine anyone fighting successfully while
wearing billowing skirts--and is wearing a plain green skirt and a man's
coat. The skirt is tied up somehow at her right hip, and he can see her
shapely, stocking-clad legs underneath.
She notices him looking at her legs and smiles grimly. "As you can see, I'm
ready for you, Mr. MacLeod. Are you ready to die?" she asks, her dark eyes
sparking with anger and challenge.
"Are you?" he retorts, katana at the ready. "For the last time, we can both
just walk away."
For an answer, she simply rushes him, and he can immediately see her
inexperience, her awkwardness. She cannot have been at this for very long.
Effortlessly, he turns her blade aside, pushes her down to the ground, steps
back.
Growling low in her throat, she whirls back up to her feet, her elegant silk
skirt streaked with red clay and green grass, and rushes him again. She is
no challenge for him--why can't she see that she doesn't have a chance?
Once again, Connor turns her blade and this time sends her sprawling in the
other direction.
"Damn you, MacLeod! You're no gentleman!" she shouts as she flings herself
at him again, her sword held high, too high.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Connor replies, amused, simply
stepping out of her way this time. "This is The Game, not a ballroom." Her
skirt has come loose from where she tied it, and she gathers it up in her
hand, fighting one-handed now. She just keeps getting herself into more and
more trouble.
He shakes his head. "Lillian--" he begins.
"Mrs. Andrew to you, suh!" she replies, loftily and angrily.
"Mrs. Andrew, let's just walk away, shall we?"
"I am not going to walk away. I'm going to kill you!" She's panting now,
with anger and exertion.
"Not without a lot more practice or luck."
Her eyes gleam. "I've always been lucky."
Connor is exasperated. Does she think that he won't hurt her because she is
a woman? "Not this time."
She comes at him again. He disarms her, sends her pinwheeling into the
ground, and throws her sword in a graceful, end-over-end arc to the other
side of the hill.
"Go home, madam, before I change my mind and take your head," he snarls.
Disgusted, he sheaths his katana and turns to walk down the slope to his
waiting horse.
Behind him, she shrieks in frustrated fury.
A moment later he hears the definite sound of a gunshot. Instantly he drops
to the ground and rolls downhill. As he scrambles up to run, she fires
again and pain suddenly burns through his left leg. He drops to the ground
once more, crying out. Connor doesn't know if he's angrier at her for
cheating, or at himself for misjudging her so badly. Never again, he
swears! Assuming, of course, he survives.
Lillian stands at the peak of the little hill, grinning down at him, a
revolver in her hand.
Dammit! Where the hell had she hidden that revolver, and why hadn't he seen
it? Her skirt--no. Her coat, of course! Without a word, Connor once
more scrambles up, this time painfully, limping, to run. If he can just get
far enough away ....
"I told you I was lucky", she smiles, cocks her gun, and shoots at him
again.
Her third shot misses him, but as he desperately races for the copse where
he'd left his horse, her fourth shot hits a rib on the left, shattering it.
Ignoring the pain blossoming in his chest, Connor keeps running, limping,
zigzagging to avoid the shots. The next bullet misses him, and Connor
breathes a short prayer of thanksgiving that she's as bad a shot as she is a
fencer. At that point she stops firing and Connor can hear her coming after
him.
<Five shots. She must be saving the sixth for the coup de grace.> He's
gasping; his chest hurts too much for him to breathe properly and his left
leg is still buckling under him, especially as he's going downhill. But
he'll be damned if he's going to let this little rule-breaking bitch kill
him, gun or no gun.
Even going to pick up her sword, she still catches up with him quickly.
He turns to face her, lopsided and leaning to his right, snarling as he
raises his katana, and she shoots him again in the chest, this time at
point-blank range. Then she throws her revolver away and screams once more,
this time in triumph.
Connor falls to the ground onto his "good" right side, swallowing a whimper
of pain. He feels his left lung collapse. All she has to do is wait; but
he needs her to come closer. He gasps, forcing himself to ... keep ... his
... blade ... up .... "Come on, you cheating little Scalawag bitch! Time
to get your hands dirty," he pants, "if you have the stomach for it!"
"I am not a Scalawag! Now my teacher, whom you murdered, was a man of
honor, Mr. MacLeod," she says. "But I am just a woman," she says. But he's
angered her, and she now has her sword in hand. She steps in, eager for the
kill.
<Concentrate, MacLeod!> Rolling swiftly, agonizingly, onto his wounded left
side, he kicks out with his good right leg, sweeping her legs from beneath
her. Then he quickly pulls himself up into a kneeling stance above her
supine body and swings his katana down in a short, powerful, vicious arc.
There is no mercy in him now, and he stares at her open, surprised eyes as
she dies.
As her Quickening fills him, he collapses on top of her.
//////////
Sunday morning, the Highlands
Simon put the cellphone in his pocket. Well, Elena thought, it would be
over in a hour, one way or another. In spite of the coat tucked around her,
she felt she'd never get warm again, and sitting immobile wasn't helping.
Her muscles ached for action, and she shifted her weight again, pulling her
legs to the right side this time.
But she wasn't completely helpless. She had discovered that if she pushed
against the beam she was tied to, it squeaked, and she was now amusing
herself by putting her weight back against it, over and over.
There was an ulterior motive, of course. She was driving at least one of
her captors insane, thereby hopefully making life difficult for Simon.
"What the hell are we waiting for?" Jake growled at his boss.
Simon glanced at Elena, smiling slightly in comprehension, before addressing
his henchman. "Connor MacLeod is a cool character. He doesn't spook
easily. We have to get under his skin if we can, prepare him for the kill,
so to speak. We're waiting for MacLeod to sweat a little, wondering what
we're doing to his woman."
"But we're not doing anything to his woman!" Jake answered, obviously
frustrated.
Squeak, squeak. Elena continued, saying nothing, a small smile on her
face. Squeak, squeak.
"But he doesn't know that, right, mate?" Thomas asked.
Simon smiled at Thomas, proudly. "Exactly."
Elena glanced at her third captor. Thomas was obviously smarter than Jake.
Of course, that wouldn't take much effort. She continued squeaking
rhythmically.
But after only a minute, Jake couldn't take it any longer. He rushed
towards Elena, pushed her back against the beam, stopping her motion, then
leaned into her until their faces were only a few centimeters apart. Elena
could see the pores in his nose, and the fury in his eyes. Jake was not a
small man, and he'd obviously had some skill intimidating people. But not
almost four hundred years' worth.
"Stop it, you bitch!" he growled, spraying saliva on her face. "Stop making
that damn noise or I'll ...." He didn't finish his sentence; just glared at
her for a moment longer and moved away with a curse.
"Really, Jake, for a criminal you are awfully touchy," she commented
smoothly.
"And for a kidnap victim you're awfully stupid," he countered, heading
towards her again.
But Simon stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Don't let her get to you,
Jake," he suggested, smiling. "Actually, this reminds me of the story of
the old Spaniard who was on his deathbed. I'm sure the senorita knows the
story."
Elena said nothing, just stared at Simon. She was pretty sure which story
he was referring to.
"The old patriarch calls his whole family together and says, 'I have a
deathbed wish.' And they all say, 'Of course, padre, anything you want.'
Then he says, in a weak voice, 'If I die in Madrid, bury me in Seville. If
I die in Seville, bury me in Madrid.' His family looked at each other, and
finally the eldest son said, 'We'll do anything you wish, padre. But may I
ask ... why?'"
At this point Simon turned to Elena and waited for her to give the punch
line.
She smiled grimly. "[Pa' jode', hijo. Pa' jode'.]"
"And what the hell does that mean?" Jake asked.
Simon explained, "To fuck you, my son."
"Yeah?" He looked Elena up and down and said, "Well, I'd like to fuck her."
Elena was not happy with the way the conversation was headed, but she had
been playing with fire, stirring things up. Besides, she was pretty sure
that Simon would not allow Jake ....
Simon held Jake's gaze for a moment. "Listen, Jake. This woman is my
prisoner. If you so much as touch her without my orders, I'll fuck *you*.
That's a promise."
Now that was a threat to take seriously, Elena knew, and if it had been
addressed to her, she'd be very eager to do whatever Simon wanted. But she
wondered if Jake was smart enough to realize it. This could cause some
problems
between them. Good.
"Yeah, well ...," Jake murmured, and reluctantly moved back to his post
staring out the window.
So, Jake had a healthy respect for Simon. <Even dumb animals can be
tamed.>
But Simon wasn't satisfied. "Get out!" he suddenly ordered his men. He
waved his hand impatiently. "Both of you get out, and watch for MacLeod.
If he arrives, don't shoot him. Yet. And don't come back inside until I
call you, understand?"
Thomas shrugged, clutched his coat around himself, and went out the front
door that was still, surprisingly, hanging on one hinge. Jake glared at
Elena and followed.
Simon came to sit on the floor in front of her, abruptly, and he put his
sword on his lap. She stared at it. It was a flamberge--Elena had never
before met an Immortal who used this wavy, wicked-looking weapon. A stray
ray of sun had made it through the clouds and crept into the ruined
farmhouse, glinting off the undulations on the blade, and she swallowed,
looking up through the mostly-missing roof. For the first time since she'd
arrived in these cursed freezing hills, the sun was shining, and she
wondered if this was the last time she'd see it.
Then she met his eyes. He was going to behead her. Right now.
"Do you know why I'm after Connor MacLeod?" he asked in a silky voice, thick
with menace.
"No," she answered. She knew she should stop there, but couldn't help
adding, "He's kind of a quiet man."
"Taciturn," Simon mumbled.
She leaned forward, trying to catch the word. It was important, everything
was suddenly important, the cold in her bones, the damp smell of rain, the
muted color of the fallen leaves, because it might be the last thing she
felt, smelled, did, saw. "What?"
"The word you're looking for is taciturn."
Elena didn't know what that meant. "Yeah," she agreed.
"Still, one would think he'd confide in his wife, the woman he loves. My
wife Lillian and I loved each other. We shared everything."
Elena waited. His wife--
"Connor MacLeod killed my wife."
<[!Madre de Dios!]> She could hear the pain and anger in his voice. This
explained everything, and Elena had made a bad choice. Quickly, she
considered what she knew about Connor and made an educated guess. "It was
a challenge." She remembered Connor's machismo. "Your wife challenged
him,"
she ventured.
Simon's look pinned her to the beam. "He killed her teacher! And she had
no chance against him!" he growled.
"More of a chance than you're giving me!" she snarled back, leaping forward
against the rope, pulling her handcuffed hands apart impotently. The metal
cut into her wrists; she ignored the pain. She could feel the sweat running
in her armpits, in spite of the cold. "Don't kill me like this, Simon! It's
not right! You're a gentleman, a [caballero] of the old school," she
appealed to him, not mentioning that he'd brought gunmen with him, that he'd
broken the rules of the Game, that he'd cheated. "Let me fight for my life,
or let me go! Don't butcher me like a steer!" She was afraid, and wanted
to say more, but shut up instead. This was her best and last try. She
wasn't going to beg, even if she thought it would do any good.
Simon stood smoothly and glared down at her for a full minute, his hand
squeezing the hilt of his sword, while she held his gaze and her breath.
Then he suddenly turned and walked outside.
Elena put her head back against the beam, closed her eyes, and exhaled one
short, soft sob.
````````````
Alex MacLeod didn't sob with fear and frustration because it was not what
she did, not because she didn't feel like doing it. Besides, she couldn't
lose control like this in front of Yukari Osato, who was watching her
closely, concerned. Fortunately, Yukari's husband had taken John into the
dojo to "practice." Elena was grateful not to have to answer John's
questions for the moment.
"Would you like some tea?" Yukari offered.
"No, thank you," Alex replied. "Maybe some water," she relented, and the
[sensei] immediately rose to serve her guest.
For the twentieth time Alex looked out the window, and for the hundredth
time she looked at the telephone. She got nothing from either one, again.
When Yukari brought the water, Alex murmured, "Thank you," then drank it
automatically and put the glass down.
Too long, it was too long, something had gone wrong. Maybe Elena was dead,
and Connor had gone off after Simon Andrew. Or Duncan had, and Connor had
gone with him. Or maybe something had happened to Connor. Maybe Andrew
had shot Connor--why not, he had gunmen. Maybe ....
<Calm down!> she said to herself firmly. Connor will call. He'll be fine,
Elena will be fine, Duncan will be fine, and Connor will call. He'd better,
she thought grimly, running her hand nervously over her mouth.
She looked across at the woman, at the worry etched on her face. Duncan had
asked the two [sensei,] for Connor's sake, to protect her and John, and she
knew they would do just that, no matter what the cost. She hadn't told the
Japanese couple very much, only that there was trouble; and being Japanese,
they were too well-bred to pry.
"Do you think I could have another drink of water?" she asked.