V
Later, with Emmett resting, Rachel came out of the office, expecting
Michael to come by soon. She knew at once that something was wrong. Her
father stood with his dearest brother, not in easy camaraderie, but poised
around the desk, wiry frame to broad shoulder, warriors at council. The
intent expressions they both fixed on her as she came in gave her pause.
She had the sudden feeling that women were not welcome in the council.
Then Duncan smiled his warm smile and relaxed.
Rachel dismissed him. His was the "Let's not alarm the womenfolk" face.
She looked to her father, who never lied to her.
"Rachel," he greeted, his face grave. "Come see this." He tapped a piece
of paper.
Rachel came forward to stand beside the men and read the paper.
*I've found you now. You're a dead man. L.*
"Someone put it through the mail slot," Connor reported.
"Who is it?" Rachel, asked, calm, as if asking who might want her father's
head was a casual inquiry about his old fraternity buddies. Sometimes it
sort of seemed that way.
Connor stared at her, but she knew he wasn't seeing her. "It could be
anyone," he concluded.
"It could be for me," Duncan put in. "I've just arrived."
"Duncan, I need you to stay with Rachel and Emmett." Connor turned to
Rachel. "Where is Emmett?"
"In his room."
"I don't want him to know about this."
Rachel nodded, a sick feeling growing in her stomach. "What will you . .
. " Rachel gasped, as, suddenly, both men were holding swords. She
retreated, without thinking, to where she didn't block an exit.
Moving in tandem, the two Highlanders glided to stand ready on either side
of the door, out of sight. Rachel tried to blend in with a shadow and
prayed that Emmett stayed out of the store.
A long minute passed, and the two MacLeods cast furtive glances around the
store. Rachel moved slightly, to where she could see out the front window.
An uncertain figure hesitated on the street, just within her view. Rachel
couldn't be certain, until she saw his profile and recognized the patrician
nose. She gasped, and felt Connor drill her with his gaze.
"It's Michael!" she cried.
Faster than thought, Connor had the door open. "Stay with Rachel," was his
parting order to his kinsman.
"No," Rachel breathed, rushing to the window.
Michael darted through traffic, Connor in pursuit.
She stared down the street, the familiar shock leaving her hollow. Rachel
hated how the Game could destroy her world. She hated it with a stark
passion.
For once, she had someone to lean on. Duncan joined her at the window, put
an arm around her and held her to his side. He didn't try any empty
comfort; there was none to give. Her father had gone to kill her date.
VI
After some length of time which Rachel couldn't judge, Duncan left her to
close the store and lock the doors. If he took any other defensive
precautions, Rachel didn't notice, for his actions reminded her that she
had instructions to follow. She left the window and began securing the
inventory for possible storage - unplugging, covering, and packing. Duncan
watched her, wordless, for a while, then he joined her at the jewelry case
and captured her hands in his own.
"Rachel, Rachel . . ." His voice sounded very far away at first. Then she
focused on him, irritated.
"Duncan, I have to pack up the jewelry."
He didn't release her hands. "Rachel," he soothed, "you've already packed
and unpacked them twice."
She had? Oh. She smiled ruefully, but she couldn't seem to move. Duncan
gently relocked the display case, and raised her to her feet.
"Let's get something," he suggested, leading her to the small break room
which held the coffee pot.
There in the brightly-lit, gleaming chromeness of the kitchenette, Rachel
struggled to recapture her sense of normalcy. She sipped the coffee, and
her world shifted.
"Oh! That's awful!"
Duncan grinned. "I'm better at tea."
"I'll take tea, then."
So she sipped tea as Duncan questioned her quietly. Rachel grew more and
more dismayed by how little she knew about Michael. She knew he'd done his
class project on Dutch rescuers; did that help? Did she know where he
lived? No, they'd generally gone out after class, or else he'd come to her
place. Did she know where he was from? No, she'd assumed Britain, though,
by his accent. Could she identify what kind of British accent? No, she
didn't know British accents that well. Did she know where he worked? Yes,
the VA, or, at least, he'd said he did.
Guilt crashed down on her, and Rachel dissolved into tears. She'd been
suspicious enough of Emmett to check his story out, but she hadn't even
asked Michael where he was from.
"Maybe I was just jealous," she choked.
Duncan, of course, looked confused as well as concerned. Looked *at her*.
Her makeup . . . Oh, God, she couldn't stand it. She couldn't.
Now she was crying on a big shoulder with someone's long black hair
tangling with her own.
She heard the elevator. "Duncan," she mumbled against his sweater, still
not willing to have him see her streaked face, "I can't . . ."
"It's all right," Duncan assured her. "I'll deal with it."
But he didn't leave her right away, letting Emmett have the run of the
store uninterrupted. Rachel struggled to stop crying. Then Duncan
stiffened as they both heard the tinkling of the front door.
Concern for her looks fled as Rachel looked into Duncan's face with hope.
He'd locked the door, and only Connor had a key. But Duncan gave a little
shake of his head. Not an immortal, then. But who?
Of course, they both realized at the same time, it was a fire door. You
could always go *out* . . .
Duncan gave her forehead a kiss and stood. Rachel found a cloth and
hastily cleaned her face, then joined him in the store.
The sun was sinking behind New York City's man-made horizons and the store
was growing dark. Rachel switched on a Tiffany lamp, but it failed to
illuminate. She'd unplugged it. Stupid, stupid.
"Emmett?" Duncan called.
"Emmett?" Rachel echoed as she set about plugging lights back in. The desk
lamp . . . was already plugged in. Rachel switched it on thoughtfully,
sure that she'd unplugged it, as well.
Emmett clearly was not there. And something else was gone, too.
"Duncan, do you have the note?"
The Highlander was at her side in an instant. "Isn't it there?" He raked
the treacherously clean desk with his dark-eyed gaze.
"Could Dad have it?"
"I don't think so," Duncan almost groaned.
She studied his worried face and saw the indecision there. He'd been
tasked to guard Connor's "clan". Her stomach tightened with fear, and she
felt the blood drain from her face. He couldn't leave her, too! Others
had left her and they'd all been killed . . .
"Duncan . . ." How could she ask him not to protect Connor's other family
member? For a moment she knew a furious, childish jealousy. *They* were
Connor's family, not Emmett!
The decision was an agonizing one for him, she could see, but Duncan made
it and announced it swiftly.
He grasped her hand. "Rachel, I'm not going anywhere. Connor probably has
the note. And Emmett . . . he's probably gone back to the Hallmark Store."
He forced a smile. "Did he show you the plaque?"
She coughed a relieved laugh and tried not to sag against him. "Duncan,
don't tell Connor about this?" She indicated her own tearful face.
Duncan's smile grew more genuine. "All right, but you'd better go redo
your makeup."
