Data Annex (New Beginings)

Matthew Adamson, doctoral student, walked across the college campus. He taught two Ancient History courses alongside his doctoral work, but in spite of the erudite subject matter, the courses were really quite popular. His students enjoyed the way he made history come to life almost as much as they enjoyed his caustic wit—even when it was aimed at them, as it often was. At the moment, one of those students was hailing him.

"Dr. Adamson," called Delia Cullen, running toward him across campus. The lanky, young-looking man looked up at her. "Dr. Adamson, about this project . . ."

"It’s not ‘Doctor’ anything yet, Delia," he reminded her in his velvety Welsh accent. "Call me Matthew."

"Sorry . . . Matthew," she corrected herself, blushing lightly. "I guess I’m not quite used to this college stuff yet. Anyway, about this project, since I was already going to do Beowulf for my Lit class . . ."

Her professor cut her off. "Won’t work. You need to do something BC Try the Epic of Gilgamesh if you’re wanting to cross over to another class."

Delia made a face. "Did that in high school for AP Lit. Hated it."

Adamson shrugged lightly. "So do something else. But remember, I’ll need your project proposal no later than Wednesday."

The young woman sighed. "Okay."

Methos watched her go, grinning. Messing with young minds was so much fun. He was going to like being Matthew Adamson. Besides, teaching and studying was keeping him busy. Kept his brain sharp.

What he didn’t like was the walk to and from his car he inevitably ended up with. Being the lowest form of life on the food chain here, he always ended up parked somewhere in the boon docks. Today he was so far out that he was practically in the parking lot of the hospital that adjoined the campus.

As he approached his car, he suddenly felt something—a faint, whispery buzz in his mind. He froze. Who was nearby?

He thought he heard a cat, but it suddenly dawned on him that that was incorrect. The ancient followed the buzz in his head and the light sound . . .

. . . and discovered, laying in the shade of a nearby Bronco, a baby bearing the faint mental signature of a pre-Immortal. It was wrapped in a sky-blue cardigan.

Methos knelt next to the newborn and gently lifted it. The sun sparkled on the child’s barely-there hair.

"What have we here?" murmured the ancient.

Robin Wecks was having one of those days. She’d awakened that morning to find that her dryer was suffering another of its fits and the wash she’d put in it the night before was cold and clammy. After persuading it to stay on long enough to dry her underwear, she’d opened the paper to find a picture of her only high school boyfriend getting married . . . to Jenna Carlisle, the cheerleader and social leader who had always felt it was a kindness to remind Robin that she could have had more dates if only she’d lose weight. As if Robin needed yet another reminder that she was a twenty-seven year old, five-foot-four, size fourteen (sixteen in blue jeans) virgin. Then a traffic accident had made her late for work. Upon arrival at the hospital, her supervisor had informed her that a performance review was coming up. Thus warned that the day was going to be lousy, Robin gritted her teeth and prepared to ride out the storm.

Fortunately, her two favorite coworkers, Talya Davidman and Jayne Butler, were on duty with her in the neonatal ward. They were complete opposites—Talya was tall, willowy, Jewish, and highly practical, while Jayne was short, black, Baptist, decidedly plump, and had a ribald sense of humor—yet they were best friends, and spent equal time mothering and matchmaking for their younger coworker. Talya greeted Robin as she came on duty.

"We got a new arrival yesterday afternoon," she announced.

"Really?" Robin inquired. "Mrs. Kearns go into labor early?"

Talya shook her head a bit sadly. "No, in this case, it’s mother unknown. The baby was found abandoned in the university parking lot."

Robin sighed in disgust. "Can you believe some people? At least my mother found a couple to adopt me, and she was only fourteen. How’s the baby?"

"Surprisingly healthy. She probably hadn’t been there for very long when a doctoral student found her and brought her in. Good-looking guy, by the way." Talya’s eyes twinkled. Robin rolled her eyes and went to see the new arrival.

The baby was beautiful. She had a little bit of soft yellow fuzz on the crown of her head, and her eyes, when she opened them, were an indeterminate shade of green or hazel. Robin offered her a finger, which the baby gripped hard. Acting on impulse, the young nurse reached down and picked her up. "Hey, little one," she cooed gently.

A soft, warm voice intruded on her thoughts. She glanced over to the desk where Jayne was sitting and talking to the newcomer with the beautiful voice. He was tall—really tall, at least six foot—and had dark hair. Robin moved closer.

"I’m Matthew Adamson," he was saying. "I found the baby, and was just wondering how she was doing." His voice had a definite accent. British, Robin realized.

"Good to meet you!" Jayne exclaimed with her usual enthusiasm, jumping up and giving his hand a good, hard shake. "The little angel’s fine. She was a little dehydrated at first, but seems to be recovering nicely. Robin, baby, why don’t you bring her over."

Robin felt a little shy as she approached the man. His features might not have been magazine-model perfection, but they were fine and clean-cut, features Robin could imagine on a Roman Emperor. And his eyes were absolutely beautiful.

Jayne felt compelled to introduce them. "Robin, this is Matthew Adamson, the young man who found the baby. This is Robin Wecks." Here, Jayne leaned conspiratorially closer to the newcomer. "She’s not just young and cute, she’s an excellent nurse."

Robin groaned inwardly, but shifted the baby’s weight so she could offer a hand to Matthew Adamson. "Hi," was the best comment she could come up with. Matthew took her hand and his mouth quirked as if to tell her he understood exactly what Jayne was doing.

"Pleased to meet you," he said in that rich voice. Robin was melting.

"Would you like to hold the baby?" she heard herself asking.

The doctoral student seemed a little chagrined. "I’m not sure . . ."

"Oh, go ahead," Jayne interjected. "She won’t break. Now, just use one hand to support her head . . ."

Robin suddenly found herself uncomfortably close to this attractive man as Jayne maneuvered the baby into his arms. The younger nurse was surprised at how easily he seemed to catch on to how to hold her. Methos, meanwhile, was thinking about how many of these tiny creatures he’d helped to bring into the world during his various stints as a doctor.

The child’s gaze locked onto his face. He found himself thinking about the lives she might lead, how that little hand would eventually hold a sword . . .

When he looked up, the older nurse had disappeared and he was left with the pleasingly plump, brown-eyed blond. She was watching his face.

"What are you seeing?" The question, in Robin’s soft, pleasant alto, startled him in its directness and its insight.

"Myself," he heard his own voice say in reply. Robin looked at him questioningly, and he realized he had to explain something. He opted for a half-truth. "I was abandoned as a baby, too." The ancient suddenly felt a need to get away from those guileless brown eyes, and moved close to shift the baby back into Robin’s arms.

"Is there a men’s room nearby?" he asked in as normal a tone as possible. She was lovely, he realized.

Robin shook herself. "Uh, yeah, down the hall to your left. If you hit Radiology, you’ve gone too far."

Methos nodded, then turned and left. Robin went to return the baby to her isolette. Talya and Jayne were nearby, grinning. "I swear you two will be the death of me someday," Robin scolded.

Talya looked incredibly innocent. "What did we do?"

"Look, just because he’s male and tall doesn’t mean I’ll be interested." Robin busied herself straightening the baby’s blanket.

"Yeah," agreed Jayne quickly. "So what if he’s got pretty eyes and a gorgeous voice?"

"Or if he takes time out of his day to visit a baby he rescued?" chimed in Talya.

"Even if," bit out Robin, "even if I’m interested, what makes you think he would be?"

"There was chemistry there, babe," declared Jayne. "Don’t you think so, Tal?"

"Definite chemistry," nodded Talya.

"Come on," Robin moaned.

"You could do worse," pointed out the Jewish woman. "He’s cultured, educated, has a great nose . . ."

"Not to mention he’s a great lover," interjected Jayne.

Robin gave her the hairy eyeball. "And just how would you know?"

"It’s in the handshake, baby." Jayne was gearing up for a lecture. "Limp fish handshake—no stamina, no nothing. Crusher grip—thinks he’s a great lover, but he’s not. Strong but gentle, though—that’s the right mix. This guy had a great handshake. Just like Mr. Butler." She shimmied her hips.

"I can’t believe I’m listening to this," muttered Robin. She started making her way to the door, grabbing a clipboard along the way. "I’m going to make rounds and try to forget what you two are saying behind my back." Talya was trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle. Robin pushed the door open, calling back over her shoulder, "I mean, really, just because I’m the world’s oldest virgin . . ." She bumped into someone.

Robin looked up to meet Matthew Adamson’s eyes, an amused half-grin touching his mouth. "How’s that again?" he queried.

The young nurse closed her eyes, humiliation complete. I should never have gotten out of bed this morning, she told herself.

At his home that evening, Methos laid on his couch in a position Duncan MacLeod had once dubbed "The Methosian Sprawl." He was thinking about the pre-Immortal baby. Strange, he thought. He couldn’t even remember his pre-Immortal life. Who had he been? Who were his parents? Had he had any siblings? A dog?

As he thought about the baby, an image of the young nurse came to mind. There was something about her he couldn’t quite pinpoint. He liked her. In fact, he could only think of a few cases in his life in which he’d so immediately and completely liked a person. One of those people had been Duncan MacLeod. Another had been Alexa. He found himself wanting to visit her again.

Why not? he thought. She was attractive enough. And a virgin. He chuckled a little. After today, she probably wasn’t eager to see him again. But then, that had never stopped him before.

At her home that evening, Robin lay as if melted on the couch. Over and over in her mind she replayed bumping into Matthew Adamson while yelling over her shoulder that she was the world’s oldest virgin.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" she reprimanded herself, bouncing her head against the armrest for emphasis. Why did she always have to embarrass herself in front of men? Especially good-looking ones she might well be interested in. Her only comfort was that she’d never see him again.

And a shallow comfort that was.

At work the next few days, Robin kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting (and maybe even hoping) to see Matthew Adamson, and having no idea what to do if she did. In the meantime, she took special care of the infant. The young nurse rationalized it by telling herself that little Claire, as she’d taken to calling her, didn’t have a mother and father to cuddle her, and everyone knew that babies who weren’t held didn’t thrive.

Thursday, Robin and Talya were updating some charts and chatting when the intriguing Mr. Adamson knocked on the door. The younger nurse silently thanked God that she’d never been much of a blusher.

"How’s the baby today?" he asked in that wonderful voice of his. The baby in question chose that moment to start squalling. Robin, thankful for the excuse to leave, made her way over to pick the infant up.

Talya grinned. "Hungry, by the sound of it," she answered, moving over to a large cooler. She removed a small white bag and began warming it in an obliging microwave.

"Baby formula?" inquired Methos. Talya snorted

"Please. What century are you from?" Methos wisely decided to let that one pass.

"This" Talya indicated the mysterious package in the microwave "is banked human breast milk."

Methos wasn’t sure what he thought of that. "Sort of a twenty-first century wet nurse," he commented. Talya smiled approvingly as Robin brought the baby over. The older nurse poured the warmed milk into a bottle and passed it to her friend, who began feeding the baby. Then Talya made herself disappear.

Robin took note of this and spent a few moments cussing to herself. Somehow, though, she couldn’t stay upset or mad at anyone with a baby in her arms. Especially not this one. She smiled softly into the little face.

"What are you seeing?" Matthew’s question, echoing her own from the last time they met, came as a bit of a surprise. Robin looked up at him and saw no mockery in his face. She answered as honestly as she could.

"Myself." She shrugged, then went on. "My birth mother was only fourteen. She gave me up for adoption. I-I’m just glad she didn’t abandon me the way someone did Claire." The young nurse blinked back tears.

"Claire?"

Robin smiled guiltily. "That’s what I’ve been calling the baby. Claire was my mom’s name. My adoptive mother’s name, that is. She died two years ago of Hodgkin’s Disease."

Methos nodded. "That’s strange. I’ve been thinking of her as Alexa."

Robin considered this, cocking her head. "Alexa. That’s pretty. How did you come up with that name?"

The beautiful hazel eyes looked away for a moment, then met Robin’s brown ones again. "Alexa was someone I loved who died far too young."

The nurse nodded, absorbing this. Of course, Alexa could be a sister. Or a friend. Or . . . or maybe Robin could stop kidding herself. She felt an irrational surge of jealousy.

"Well then!" she exclaimed a bit too brightly. "I guess she’ll be Claire Alexa for the duration of her stay here." The baby squeaked and squirmed.

"How long will that be?" asked Methos.

Robin shrugged, belying the sudden pain in her heart at mention of the child leaving her care. "Who knows? The social workers here handle that, and they’re understaffed and overworked. In the meantime, she’s charming the whole nursing staff." And, Robin noted, stealing a glance at Matthew Adamson, certain doctoral students as well.

Methos ran.

It was his form of meditation, running. Duncan MacLeod had his katas and forms, but Methos preferred running. He could easily have qualified for a marathon, but he never had cared for competition. Instead, he just ran, allowing his mind to drift. Of course, wearing sweat shorts and a gray tee didn’t allow for carrying a sword. Therefore, he kept a gun tucked into his (slightly modified) waistband. Any Immortal who challenged him would find a bullet through his or her heart.

He found his mind settling on Robin and baby Claire Alexa. He knew he should stay out of the pre-Immortal’s life, but somehow, he couldn’t stay away. Maybe it was Robin. The nurse definitely appealed to him. How, he couldn’t say. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted her as a friend or a lover, but he did want her.

Fortunately, she seemed to have gotten over the embarrassment of their first meeting. There was a concert on campus this weekend. Maybe . . .

He gave a mental shrug. The worst she could do was say no.

When he arrived at the maternity ward, he ran almost immediately into Jayne Butler, who took great delight in escorting him to the nursery. Inside, Robin sat in a rocking chair feeding Claire and singing softly. The two made for a lovely sight. It took Methos a moment to pick out the song—"What a Wonderful World."

As he approached, Robin looked up and gave him an excited smile.

"I’m taking her home," the nurse told him.

Methos’ eyebrows leaped up. "You are?"

Robin looked back at the baby. "Yes. One of the social workers is a friend of mine, and she vouched for me when I said I was interested in fostering Claire. I think it was actually a relief to them when I volunteered, they’re so backed up." She chuckled.

Methos knelt by the rocking chair, gently touched Claire’s blond fuzz. His eyes fixed on Robin’s face.

"Robin," he began, "would you be interested in going to a concert with me this weekend?"

Robin stared at him for ten whole seconds before she could reply. "Ah, I, uhh," she stammered, then cleared her throat. "Um, I don’t know. Who’s playing?"

"A jazz/big band group called The Ellingtons. I’ve heard them before, and they’re quite good." His eyes never left her face.

"I didn’t see you as being a jazz person," she hedged, purposely changing the subject.

He caught on, but decided to play the game. "Oh, my tastes are very eclectic. Except I never could stand opera."

"Too bad," she commented. "Some of my favorite memories are of going to the opera. See, my dad didn’t like going to operas, but my mom did. So whenever she wanted to go, she’d take me as her date. I must’ve seen a dozen between seventh grade and graduation." Am I babbling? I’m babbling, she thought.

Methos nodded, then segued back to the subject at hand. "Maybe you’ll change my mind about opera. In the meantime, will you go to a jazz concert with me? And perhaps dinner?"

Robin forced herself to meet his eyes. "You really want to go out with me?" she queried, sounding plaintive to her own ears. "Why?"

Methos met her eyes steadily. "Because you have disrupted your life for a child you just met, and because you strike me as a thoroughly decent human being, and furthermore you have honey blond hair and sweet brown eyes, and I would very much like to know you better."

It took Robin another ten seconds to recover from this enough to answer him. "Okay," she squeaked.

She gave him her address and phone number, and he said he’d pick her up on Friday at five-thirty to give them enough time for dinner before the concert.

After he left, Jayne walked over. "I expect full details on Saturday, girl."

Friday night arrived, and Robin spent over an hour fussing about her wardrobe alone. Her hair, fortunately, was well behaved. Its color and texture were something she’d always taken pride in. Matthew had told her to go casual, and she knew he would be, but she couldn’t decide what to wear. She finally settled on a new pair of khaki slacks and a coral silk shirt. To this she added a coral pendant in the shape of a butterfly and matching earrings. She’d just put on her watch when the doorbell sounded.

It was Amber, the baby-sitter she’d hired. The teen had come well recommended, but Robin still felt nervous about leaving Claire. She was still giving Amber instructions when Matthew made his appearance.

He looked great. He was wearing blue jeans and a charcoal gray sweater under his black duster, and he gave her his most charming smile. Strangely enough, he looked nervous. About me? Robin wondered. He looked in on Claire, and then they left. Matthew offered her his hand. She took it. Strong, but gentle.

"Dinner was lovely, the concert was great, Matthew was charming, we talked about almost everything from the Roman Empire to modern day America, and he kissed me on the cheek when we said goodnight." Robin breezed past her older friends into the locker room.

Talya looked at Jayne, shoulders sagging. "Don’t you just hate it when they deprive you of being able to interrogate them?"

Matthew Adamson became a frequent and welcome visitor at Robin’s apartment over the following month and a half. Robin mentioned him on the phone to her sister, who felt it was suspect that any man would be so interested in a woman with a baby. The nurse, though, knew that she could trust him. Besides, it was nice to have him to pass Claire off on at the end of a long day. Motherhood, Robin decided, was not for wimps.

He was also quickly becoming her steady date. He made it a point to take her to some event at the college or elsewhere at least once a week, and she enjoyed calling him on any Saturday or Sunday she had free, and they’d spend the day running errands or sightseeing like a couple of tourists. So far, though, their relationship hadn’t gone past friendship. Robin was grateful for that. She was the kind of person who needed time to make up her mind about things, and Matthew seemed to be willing to give her that time.

One particular Friday afternoon she had free, she went over to the campus to visit him. He was in what passed for his office (shared with two assistant professors and one adjunct), talking with some students about their test scores.

"You can’t throw two eras together, Gina," he was saying to a small, dark-haired young woman. "Where are you getting your history, reruns of Xena: Warrior Princess?"

"Well, I just thought . . ." The girl shrugged, then sighed in resignation. "Can I redo that essay for late credit?"

"Of course. I can’t let it be said that I’m meaner that Dr. Halstrom, can I?" He grinned mischievously, passing back the paper.

The other student, a fiery redhead, laughed. "That would be hard even for you."

Matthew noticed Robin in the doorway. "Come on in, Robin," he told her. "Robin, this is Delia Cullen" he indicated the redhead "and Gina Cardones" he indicated the brunette. "This is Robin Wecks and her foster daughter Claire." The two young women smiled at Robin, who moved into the room and greeted them as they gathered their stuff and made their way to the door. Matthew suddenly looked distracted, worried.

Robin was about to ask him what was wrong when she heard Gina’s voice behind her.

"Whoa. The future Mr. Gina Cardones comin’ this way, Delia," she murmured to her friend, who responded with a quiet "Yow!" Matthew’s face cleared and an amused smile tugged at his mouth.

A new voice came from outside the door, apparently addressing Gina and Delia. "Excuse me, but do you know if Matthew Adamson is in?" The voice was deeper than Matthew’s and the accent, though still British, was subtly different.

"I believe I hear Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Matthew commented to Robin. In another moment, the hunkiest man Robin had ever seen poked his head into the room. Gina and Delia were staring in blind adoration.

The head came into the room, attached to a body that looked equally impressive under a coat quite similar to Matthew’s. The doctoral student rose to greet the newcomer, both smiling widely.

"Just what have I done to make you reappear?" Matthew asked in an almost affectionate tone.

"I thought I might invade your house, crash on your couch, and steal your beer. If that’s okay with you, of course," replied the apparent Duncan MacLeod.

"Well, mi casa es su casa." Matthew suddenly reached over and, surprisingly enough, drew the larger man into a firm hug. "It’s good to see you again, Boy Scout."

"Good to see you, too, Old Man," said MacLeod, returning the hug.

Robin was delighted. Was she finally meeting the "Boy Scout" Matthew so often alluded to?

"Duncan, meet Robin Wecks and her foster daughter, Claire," Matthew was saying. "Robin, this is Duncan MacLeod, an old friend."

Duncan’s huge hand seemed to swallow Robin’s, and his grip had an even greater sense of controlled power than Matthew’s. One naughty corner of her mind wondered what Jayne would say. His smile was open and friendly, which paradoxically seemed to take the edge off his incredible looks.

"Glad to meet you," he said, and this time she identified the Scot in his voice.

"Same here," she returned.

Duncan hunched down to Claire’s eye level in the stroller. "And you must be Claire." The baby favored him with one of her blinding smiles and gurgled with delight.

"I don’t believe it," Matthew remarked disgustedly. "There’s not a female on Earth who doesn’t fall for him."

Robin laughed at that. She had to admit—Duncan MacLeod looked like a lady-killer. Nonetheless, she felt an almost instinctive trust for him. Besides, anyone who looked that distracted by a baby couldn’t be all bad. A look passed between him and Matthew Robin couldn’t quite understand.

"Robin, do you have any plans for the night?" asked Matthew suddenly.

The nurse shrugged. "Not at the moment, no."

"How about the four of us go to dinner at Borelli’s tonight?" he suggested.

"The four of us? Including Claire?" Robin wasn’t quite sure of the idea.

"Why not? Besides, MacLeod’s paying." He gave his friend an impish grin.

"Hey!" protested Duncan. "See if I ever come to see you again!"

"Oh, but if you didn’t, you’d break my heart."

Robin rolled her eyes. "Not sure I want to get into this."

Matthew gave her his most winning smile. "Pick you up at six?"

The nurse chewed her lip, not realizing how endearing Methos found the gesture. "Um, the problem is, Claire’s car seat is in my car, and those things are a pain to remove. How about I drop by your place?"

"You pick me up?" The erstwhile doctoral student raised his eyebrows. "Oh, dear, I’m not sure I can let you do that. I’m a very old-fashioned guy."

"Yeah," interjected Duncan. "You know—chivalry."

Dinner that night was the most fun Robin could remember having. The barbs flew fast and furious between Matthew and Duncan. It was obvious to the nurse that they went back quite a ways. In spite of her fears about bringing Claire along, the baby was perfectly behaved. Their waiter, a slim, pretty young man, fawned over Claire nearly as much as he did over Duncan.

"You know, MacLeod, if you play your cards right, you could have a date for tomorrow night," suggested Matthew, earning yet another dirty look from his friend. Robin’s sides already ached from laughing.

A few minutes later, Matthew excused himself to the men’s room. Robin leaped at the opportunity to pry a little information out of the Scotsman.

"So how long have you known Matthew?" she asked.

The question seemed to catch Duncan off guard. "Ah, let me think . . . close to ten years now. Feels like forever, though."

"Really? How did you meet?"

Again, Duncan didn’t seem sure of how to answer. "We’re both kind of . . . history buffs. At one point we were both researching the same thing and kind of ran into each other."

"College, then?"

"Something like that."

"I’m sorry," Robin apologized, feeling bad. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"No. It's okay." Duncan smiled at her, and she relaxed.

"Good. It just seems like I don’t know all that much about him, and I’d really like to."

"He’s not an easy man to know." Understatement of the millennium, thought Duncan. "But I can tell that he’s very much interested in you."

"I hope so." The words slipped out before Robin could stop them. She felt her ears heat and wondered if a cuss word would be inappropriate. "I can’t believe I said that," she mumbled.

Duncan chuckled, not unkindly. "It’s okay. You could do worse, and he could do a lot worse." He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. She laughed with him, and Methos chose that moment to return to the table.

This can’t be good, he decided.

After dinner, they all went back to the Adamson place with its eclectic furnishings for a little more talk. Robin elected to have a cup of tea rather than a beer (which she never had learned to like—besides, she was driving with baby on board). Matthew spread himself all over the couch in a way that she found painfully sexy. As if that wasn’t enough, Claire decided she wanted to be held by Duncan. The sight of such a big, powerful, gorgeous man with a baby in his arms was almost too much for Robin’s hormones.

Fortunately for her, it wasn’t too long before Claire announced that it was her bedtime. Robin gathered her up, bade Duncan farewell, and Matthew walked her out to her car.

"Thanks for inviting me, Matthew," she told him as she buckled Claire into her car seat. "It was fun, and I really like Duncan."

"I’m sure," he muttered.

She regarded him curiously. "What was that tone?"

"Nothing."

"It sounded like jealousy to me," she suggested, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Nothing of the sort," he insisted.

Robin sighed a little melodramatically. "A girl can always hope."

He caught her smile, then walked over to her and wrapped a strong arm around her shoulders. A moment later, the two were sharing their first kiss. Robin thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

A few minutes later, Methos reentered the house to find that Duncan had taken over the sofa.

"She’s cute," the Scotsman observed.

"She’s a good deal more than that." Methos tossed him another beer from the fridge. "Why are you in town, by the way?"

"Seacouver’s only about three hours away by car, you know. I thought I’d look in on an old friend." Methos snorted, and Duncan headed back around to the subject that most interested him. "So where is this all headed?"

Methos sat in a high-backed chair, and, to Duncan’s amazement, actually seemed to sprawl even in it. The man had talent.

"I think," mused Methos, "that Robin is well on her way to being wife number sixty-nine."

That pronouncement shut Duncan up. For a few moments, anyway. "Does she know this?"

"Of course not."

"Does she know you’re Immortal?"

"Nope."

"Have you two . . ?"

"Strike three."

"Well, you seem to be taking things slow enough."

Methos sighed in exasperation. "You know, for your amount of experience with the fair sex, MacLeod, you’re surprisingly thick." Duncan narrowed his eyes. Methos made an impatient gesture. "Come on. You can’t get a woman into bed in less than a week, you expect to be ‘just friends’ forever. Take it from a five thousand year-old—the really good ones are worth the wait. Robin needs time."

Duncan wrinkled his brow. "How much time?"

The older man made a negligent gesture. "At least eight months to a year."

"That long." Duncan shook his head, then suddenly pinned Methos with a look. "Is she a . . ."

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

Methos grinned enigmatically. "That would be an embarrassing story for her, I’m afraid. Can’t tell you."

"How gallant." Duncan’s tone was sarcastic.

"Not at all." Methos regarded his friend lazily. "Considering the fact that she and I are going to be married one of these days, I’ll need some blackmail material."

Duncan’s brow wrinkled, and his posture became a little less casual. "Methos, what about Claire?"

The ancient was silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke, he sounded tentative. "I don’t think Robin’s going to give her up, so if I marry Robin . . . Claire will grow up as my daughter."

"Have you thought this through?" Duncan knew that it was no small thing to raise a pre-Immortal child.

Methos took a long drink of his beer. "Actually, I was planning to play it by ear."

Later, after Duncan left, Methos reflected back on their conversation. He knew MacLeod had kept tabs on several pre-Immortals over the years—Richie Ryan, for instance—and, for that matter, so had Methos. He’d watched them grow, trained a few when they’d gained Immortality . . . and he’d watched them die. A few of Methos’s students still lived, but not many. As for Claire, she was being born into the most violent phase of the Game Methos had ever seen. How would she survive?

His thoughts turned back to Robin. Try as he might, he could not get her out of his mind. Not during the day, and most certainly not at night. Every time he slept, she was in his dreams. I’m falling in love, he realized, and closed his eyes. What he’d told MacLeod was true: he couldn’t let go of Robin, and Robin wouldn’t let go of Claire. Like it or not, Old Man, he told himself, you’re about to become a father again.

A few days later, after Duncan had breezed back out of town, Robin had an especially tough day at work. She was lying on her couch after work trying to get up the strength to make dinner when the doorbell rang. Slowly, she hauled herself over to the door, and it opened to reveal Matthew Adamson. She leaned forward. Her forehead pressed against his shoulder, and she moaned.

"You, too?" he murmured, wrapping his arms around her.

"I had a bad day," she groaned.

"That would make two of us. I found a menu for an Italian restaurant on your doorknob—would you like to order pizza?"

"Uh-huh." She didn’t move, and he practically had to carry her to her couch, where she promptly collapsed again. It registered to her that he was calling the pizza place and making an order for a large, half Hawaiian (her favorite), and half pepperoni with black olives. A few moments later, he was lifting her into a sitting position. She protested at this until he sat behind her and started giving her the best back rub she’d ever imagined.

"Ohhh," she moaned. This was heaven. One of his hands moved to her very sore neck, and he paused briefly, feeling her spine.

"Do you trust me?" he asked. She nodded. "All right, then. Relax and lean back against my hand."

She did so, and he wrapped one arm around her shoulders while gripping the back of her neck. There was a sudden jerk, a popping sound, and the crick in her neck that had been dogging her all day was gone.

"Wow!" she exclaimed. "You’re incredible! A history professor and a chiropractor all in one."

"I’ve learned a few things in my time," he murmured. She was still leaning back against him. His other arm wrapped around her, and she found herself being securely held. Talk about heaven, she thought. One arm unwrapped, and his hand found the remote for her stereo. In another moment, soft music was drifting out of her speakers.

"Nat King Cole," Matthew observed.

"Yeah. And Louis Armstrong, too." She craned her neck to look at her friend. "I like Satchmo. I don’t know why. The man can’t sing, really."

Their noses were practically touching. "No, but he was an exceptionally nice man," Matthew told her.

Robin’s brow wrinkled. "How would you know?"

He hedged. "I am a history professor, you know." He wrapped his arm back around her, and their lips were almost touching . . .

Claire chose that moment to announce that she’d awakened from her nap and wanted dinner. Robin pulled away very reluctantly.

A little while later, they were eating hot pizza while Robin fed Claire a bottle and groused about her day.

" . . . and then, to top it all off, I had to do report with Paige. All she wanted to do was complain about her so-called boyfriend who she picked up at a bar. Seems he’s not the commitment type. I told her, ‘Paige, you meet the guy and sleep with him the same night, you shouldn’t be surprised he turned out to be a jerk.’ Honestly, she’s always coming up with these guys who ‘forget’ to tell her they have wives, or ten children, or are on the lam--! You’d think she’d get the picture." She took another bite of pizza and washed it down with diet cola. "Anyway, that was my day. Fun, huh?"

"Sounds like it." Matthew finished his slice and sucked a little sauce off his thumb. Robin found that incredibly sexy. Of course, she found almost everything about Matthew Adamson incredibly sexy. "Mind if I complain about the college administration a bit?"

He ranted about the bureaucrats, then they played with Claire awhile, and the evening deepened. Matthew gave Claire her final bottle of the day. After the baby was put to bed, Matthew sat down beside Robin on the couch, looking pensive and nervous.

"What’s wrong?" Robin asked gently.

Methos had come to a decision. Generally, he felt his gut was the best judge of what he should do, and it was urging him to tell Robin what he was now, before things went any further. Still, he hesitated, his ingrained habit of self-protection warring with his instincts.

"Robin," he began finally, "there’s something I want you to know—something about myself that I think you should hear now, before we go any further."

The nurse’s brow wrinkled. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this. "What is it?"

Matthew hesitated again. "I’m not sure quite how to tell you." He was avoiding her eyes.

This was driving Robin nuts. "Okay, let me guess. You have a wife."

"Not at present."

"Ten children?"

He laughed. "No."

"Are you on the lam?"

"Not this century. I guess I’ll have to tell you." He smiled at her, then got up and went over to his coat and retrieved two items from it. As he came back, Robin could see he was holding a leather pouch in one hand and what looked for all the world like a dagger in the other. He sat down, setting the dagger on the coffee table. It looked lethally functional.

"I have a gift for you, and a secret." He took her hand and spilled the contents of the pouch in it.

It was a necklace, intricately worked in gold, with a large, inky black onyx as its centerpiece. The weight of it told her immediately told her that the gold was pure. She was stunned.

"Matthew, I—I can’t accept this," Robin protested.

"I want you to have it," he told her firmly. "No matter what your decision is after you hear what I have to tell you."

As he said this, he seemed to change in front of her eyes. Robin had never been sure of his age, and that uncertainty was suddenly at the forefront of her mind. He looked both older and younger than she’d imagined. His eyes connected with hers and they looked almost golden in the soft light. His voice, when he spoke, was at once light and gentle and filled with power.

"That necklace, Robin, is over two thousand years old. It was created by an Egyptian goldsmith for the lady he wished to marry. Unfortunately, she died of an illness before they could be wed. The smith gave the necklace to a friend and told him to give it to his lady someday."

He paused in his narrative, as if gathering his courage. "That friend, Robin . . . was me."

Robin stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Run that by me again?"

Matthew reached over to the coffee table and picked up the dagger. "What I’m trying to tell you," he said slowly, "is that I’m Immortal." With that, he placed the tip of the dagger against his hand and cut deeply into his palm. Blood welled up.

Robin was shocked into immobility. What was he doing? One corner of her mind watched absently as he casually pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood away. For a moment, there was a long slit in his hand, and she watched as it sealed, then healed over without a scar.

The mortal mind isn’t equipped to deal quickly or easily with such things. Robin stared at his hand, disbelief, nausea, and a strange, tingling suspicion that everything she’d ever been told was wrong warring within her. His voice intruded on her thoughts, and it took her a moment to identify the fact that he was saying her name.

"Robin?" he asked tentatively. "What are you thinking?"

She shook her head, tried to make a coherent thought. Finally, she pointed at his hand. "How?"

"I’m Immortal, Robin," he explained again patiently. "I don’t age, and all wounds will heal on me. Even mortal wounds. Death itself isn’t permanent, unless I get my head cut off."

"This can’t be for real," she muttered. She shook her head again, as if to drive away a hallucination.

"Robin, look at me." It was an order. "This is real. I teach ancient history because I was there." He waited, only to be met with a blank stare. Stronger measures, he decided, were in order.

"Very well, then," he said. With that, he took the dagger in his right hand and pointed it at his chest. "Please don’t scream."

And he stabbed himself through the heart. Robin gave a short shriek as he fell back against the sofa and pulled the dagger out of his chest with the last of his strength. It fell to the floor.

Her medical training took over her body, and she literally ripped his shirt open to examine the wound. As she did so, it registered to her that he was, in fact, dead. She didn’t know that he knew exactly where to put the dagger in order to kill himself almost instantly.

"Matthew?" she called frantically. "Matthew!" Tears welled up in her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. She pressed her hand against the hole in his chest.

He gasped. She screamed. He started coughing. She jerked away, unbalanced herself on the sofa, and fell to the floor with a thud. He looked at her. She looked at him.

"Wh-what are you?" she whispered.

"That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you," he rasped. "I’m Immortal." He indicated the bloody patch on his chest. "Look."

Tentatively, Robin got up on the couch beside him, then reached out and touched the place where there had been a mortal wound only a moment before. She still had his blood on her hand. On his chest was blood, but the injury was gone. Vanished.

Her eyes met his, and his strange sense of agelessness hit her once again. There were a few possibilities, a detached portion of her brain told her. Number one, she was dreaming. But it didn’t feel like a dream, even if it looked like one. Number two, this was some sort of elaborate con. But she’d seen the wound; it was real. Besides, what did she have that he would want to con her out of?

Number three, he was telling the truth. She could barely comprehend it, but it was the only possible explanation.

She shook her head again. "How?" she wondered aloud.

She didn’t really expect an answer, but he gave her one. "No one knows exactly how, Robin, but we do exist." At her sharp look, he nodded once. "Yes, there are others. Hundreds of others that I know of. We live among mortals, and, as you see, we don’t differ from you that much. Duncan MacLeod is another one."

Robin put a hand to her forehead. This was a bit much to absorb, but she had to know more. "Go on," she prompted.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "All right. Immortals live as mortals up until the time of first death. At that point, we stop aging, our wounds heal with the speed you’ve just seen, and we can sense others of our kind. It’s like—a buzz in the head."

Robin nodded, taking it all in. He was encouraged by this, but knew that the next part of his explanation wouldn’t be quite as well received. "What we sense in each other is the Quickening. It’s much like electrical power. It is what gives us our ability to heal, our strength, and it’s been speculated that the Quickening holds our memories. The older you are, the more powerful you are.

"The reason I bring this up is that upon final death—losing one’s head, in other words—that power is released, and the Immortal nearest by receives the power of the Quickening." He stood and walked back over to his coat. This time, he produced, from within its folds, a broadsword. He brought it back over to Robin.

She couldn’t help but stare at it. It was simple—no ornamentation, no jewels, just three feet of polished, razor-sharp metal. Matthew spoke again.

"We carry swords. Whether to defend ourselves or hunt for others, we all have to know how to use them. New Immortals are mentored by older ones."

The implications struck Robin. "Have you . . ?"

"Taken heads?" he finished gently. "Yes. I’m old enough now that I don’t have to actively hunt to gain power, but I do answer challenges when needed. I don’t like to fight, but I can—when necessary. I like being alive."

She looked away, stunned almost to the point of feeling nothing by what he’d just told her. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I like you. Because I trust you. Because I want our relationship to go further, and I know that you need to know this now in order to make that decision." He smiled. "Besides, I think you can handle this secret. Not everybody could. But you can."

She wasn’t so sure as he sounded. Too many questions gnawed at her brain. "How do you get this way? I mean, will your children be Immortals too?"

"We don’t have children, Robin. We’re sterile."

"So how do you come into the world?"

This was it. Methos took a deep breath. "No one knows that. We’re all of us foundlings."

It took a few seconds for that to sink in. "Claire," Robin whispered, and ran from the room.

Methos found her leaning over Claire’s sleeping form. Robin’s eyes connected with his, and all he could do is nod. She breathed a mild curse, the first he’d heard from her.

"I knew when I found her, Robin," he told the nurse softly. "She’s going to be one of us someday."

Robin started crying. This was too much. In another moment, the man she knew as Matthew Adamson was holding her against his bare chest. She continued to cry, all the time smelling the sharp scent of his blood. A few minutes later, she pushed lightly away, and he released her.

"Listen," he murmured, "you’ve got a lot to think about. We can talk tomorrow, or anytime, and I’ll answer all of your questions."

Mutely, she nodded. Seeing his half-naked body, she said the first thing that came to mind. "Sorry about your shirt."

He laughed, and, after a moment, she did, too. "Wait here a moment," she ordered, and went to her bedroom. After a few minutes, she returned, bearing a seriously oversized sweatshirt. When he pulled it on, it was too large, even for him. There was something scratchy at the back of his neck. He yanked it out.

"Let me have that," Robin said hastily, and made a sudden grab for the tag he was holding. Methos, though, had found something interesting.

He read from the tag: "Big Man Shirts: ‘Lord in Heaven, hear my prayer, and help me if you can: I’ve got the shirt, now fill it with a man.’"

Robin blushed deeply. He laughed, then took her in his arms again. His mouth connected with hers in a long, gentle kiss. "Seems your prayers have been answered."

She followed him to the door, where he hid dagger and sword in his coat before putting it on. He gave her one last kiss, then turned to leave.

"Matthew," she called suddenly. He turned. "What’s your real name?"

He smiled. "Methos." He turned toward the door, then turned back. "Oh, and incidentally, Robin—you’re far from the world’s oldest virgin." With that, he left.

Robin went back over to the couch and picked up the necklace he’d given her. Her left hand felt something wet on the couch fabric, and she looked down to see several drops of his blood there.

"Robin? Earth to Robin."

Talya Davidman’s voice penetrated the thick fog of Robin’s thoughts. She suddenly realized she’d been staring at a report for five minutes without reading any of it.

"Oh . . . hi, Talya. I . . . uh . . ." she trailed off. Talya sighed and pulled up a chair.

"That’s the face of man troubles," the older nurse declared. Robin slumped. "Come on, Robin. Out with it, or you’ll be of no use at all today."

How to put it? Robin decided on a gross oversimplification. "Matthew . . . told me a little about his past last night. I’m not sure what to make of it."

Talya smiled gently. "You know, I had the same problem myself once upon a time with Sam."

Robin looked startled. "The Rabbi Davidman?"

"Oh, yeah," Talya confirmed. "He wasn’t always a Rabbi, or even a good little Jewish boy. I won’t go into details, but he ran with a pretty bad crowd as a young man and a college frat boy. Eventually, he straightened out, but not after doing some things he seriously regretted."

The older nurse sighed, looking away. "One of those things was . . . he slept with a few of his girlfriends. I didn’t like hearing that, you know, because I’d been good. I’d saved myself for marriage, and it hurt me to know that he hadn’t." She shook her head. "But in the end, what mattered was that he loved me and I loved him. We belong together, and I can’t imagine my life without him."

Talya turned her full attention to her younger coworker. "Robin, the past is the past. Who is the man you know now?"

Robin nodded slowly, understanding.

"Do you love him?" prompted Talya.

The soft brown eyes looked away for a moment, then returned to Talya’s steady gaze. "You know, I think I just might."

"Good!" Talya pulled Robin in for a quick, impulsive hug. "Do we hear wedding bells in the near future?"

Robin pulled back and looked askance at her friend. "Does the term ‘yenta’ mean anything to you, Talya?"

It had been three months since Robin had first taken Claire home. Robin had told Matthew (Methos, her brain reminded her) that she was willing to give it a try, and had soon found herself on the receiving end of an old-fashioned courtship. He sent her flowers at work (prompting no end of comments from Talya and Jayne, and sullen jealousy from Paige), bought her small gifts "just because I was thinking of you," and, best of all, exhibited the utmost respect for her.

It was so wonderful. The few guys Robin had dated since high school had treated as unreasonable her demand that she had to get to know them before she’d sleep with them. Eventually, she’d given up on men almost altogether. Yet here was this wonderful man, apparently prepared to give her all the time she needed. She felt almost perfectly comfortable around him, in spite of his sexiness.

One winter’s afternoon, Methos was walking across campus when he felt the faint whisper of Claire’s presence. He "listened" for a moment, trying to decide where it was coming from, then pinpointed Robin sitting on a bench not far away, with Claire’s stroller nearby. He headed toward them.

As he approached, he realized something was wrong. Robin’s face was downcast, her shoulders slumped. She didn’t even look up as he sat beside her.

"What’s wrong, Robin?" he inquired gently.

She looked up at him with red eyes and tearstained cheeks. "I don’t think I’m going to be able to keep her, Matthew." As the words came out, a fresh sob welled up from within her, and Methos wrapped his arms around her.

"Why do you think that?"

Another soft sob. "What have I got to offer her? An apartment? A menial salary in an uncertain job market? A beat-up old Toyota?"

"Your love," Methos reminded her. Robin raised her head from his shoulder.

"What good is that? I’m tired all the time, and it’ll only get worse as she becomes mobile. I don’t want her being raised by a day care and a barely-there mother. I want her to have a real home and a family. She deserves a mother and a father who are there for her all the time, like I had. I can’t offer her that, Matthew. She deserves better than what I’ve got." Robin angrily wiped away her tears.

This was it. Methos could encourage her to let Claire go, find a nice adoptive family for her. Then he wouldn’t be responsible for raising a pre-Immortal, with all the questions that went with that. It would be so simple to do so . . .

And watch Robin’s heart break.

Methos took her hands gently. "Robin, if it’s a home and a family you want for her—why not marry me?"

Absolute shock washed over Robin. A part of her brain commented dryly that she should be getting used to the sensation by now. "What?"

His hazel gaze was steady. "Marry me. You and Claire can move into my house—there’s certainly enough room. You can even quit your job, if you want. I do have savings, you know."

She gave him a hard look. "You’re proposing? Just like that?"

He shrugged. "I’ll admit that I expected us to take about a year to get to this point, but yes, I’m proposing. And yes, I’m completely serious."

Her brow wrinkled. "Is this because of Claire?"

"No." His tone was firm. "Normally, I do my best to keep away from pre-Immortals. Let them live their lives. In this case, though . . ." He looked away from the nurse’s astonished eyes. "I want to be with you, Robin. If that means raising Claire, I will."

"But you don’t want to."

He paused. "It’s not as simple as that, Robin. I do love Claire, and I have raised children before. Just never a pre-Immortal. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what to do."

She smiled softly. "That makes two of us." Her eyes locked on his face again. "Are you sure you won’t regret marrying me?" She couldn’t believe she was even considering a proposal like this, but she was.

He looked directly into her eyes. "Robin, you know what I am. I’ve lived a long life and I intend for it to be much longer. I can tell you right now that I will never regret spending fifty or sixty years with you. But it’s the rest of your life we’re talking about. The decision is yours."

Tears welled up in Robin’s eyes. She reached over to the stroller and gently lifted Claire, muffled under a half-dozen layers, into her arms.

"What do you say, little one?" Robin murmured.

The baby smiled.

Friday was a busy day. Robin gave her two weeks notice at work, Methos picked up adoption papers for Claire, Robin and Methos got married in a small civil ceremony, and she moved the bulk of her stuff to his house. Adding all that on top of a full day’s work and the tail end of a virus put Robin’s lights out by nine o’clock. As Methos would later comment, "Not a very romantic wedding night."

Robin had the following day off, and the new family spent it together. It had decided to snow rather heavily outside, which made staying in all the more cozy. They made cocoa and played with Claire in between her naps, and while she was napping, Robin and Methos played a sort of game that had evolved during Robin’s previous visits to his house. Robin would select an item from Methos’ collection, and he would tell her the story behind where he got it. The notable exception to this was a huge bronze ax Methos kept in his spare room. He refused to discuss that, and she didn’t press him on it.

Claire finally went down for the night. Robin, after putting the baby to bed, rejoined her husband in the living room. He was sitting up against the couch and beckoned her to join him. She thought to just sit beside him, but he had other ideas. Almost without knowing how, Robin found herself cradled close in his arms. His mouth met hers in a slow, soft kiss.

She kissed him back. For a time—Robin would never know how long—they just shared kisses. There was something indescribably right about it, and while they kissed, neither wanted more. It was only when Methos raised his head that Robin realized how much more her body was demanding.

Methos caressed the hair back from her face. "So, Robin, what happens now?"

Robin flushed deeply. She knew exactly what she wanted, but . . . how could he feel the same way? Her voice wouldn’t work.

He misinterpreted her silence. "If it’s too soon, Robin, it’s all right. Making love can wait until you’re sure."

"No," she blurted suddenly. "I-I mean . . ." Deeply embarrassed, she looked away from the amusement in his eyes.

His amusement became compassion when he realized how confused she was. This is all very new to her, he told himself. Try and restrain your baser urges, you old deviant.

"Robin," he asked softly, "would you like me to make love to you?"

Her eyes met his very shyly. "Yes. Very much. But . . ." She swallowed, trying desperately to believe this was really happening. "Do you want me?"

"Oh, yes, Robin. Very much," he answered without hesitation. "I have for a long time. And believe it or not, I married you in the understanding that we would eventually share a bed."

She actually managed a weak laugh at that. "I . . . just find it so hard to believe that you . . ."

He interrupted her gently. "Robin, will you let me show you how beautiful I think you are?"

His wife’s eyes looked at him, full of wonder. "Beautiful?"

There was something almost unbearably poignant about the way she said the word, as if it was a precious gift being offered her. Methos kissed her softly.

"Beautiful. You are beautiful, Robin. Let me show you."

A long time later, Robin lay cradled against her husband. She felt limp, completely relaxed, divinely happy, and deeply in love. Methos’ lips ran across her forehead before finding her mouth for a long, gentle kiss. This is heaven, she thought.

How often in her life had she been beautiful to someone? How often had she heard voices—voices of friends, relatives, and even her own slim sister—that criticized her, told her she was unattractive because of her weight?

"Robin, you have such a pretty face. If only . . ." "Robin, I’m only telling you this for your own good . . ." "You know, if you lost a little weight . . ." "I just want to be honest with you, Robin . . ."

Worse yet, how often had that voice come from within? "I can’t wear that until I lose weight . . ." "Who am I trying to kid? He’d never notice me . . ." "I can’t believe I let myself get this fat . . ." "I look so awful today; I feel like wearing a sack . . ."

And now they were silenced by her husband’s voice, saying, "You are beautiful, Robin." He thought she was beautiful, no matter what size jeans she wore. And he’d just proven it. This man who could have any woman he set his sights on had just made love to her. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing a deep kiss to his mouth.

When the kiss ended, she whispered, "I love you."

One of his wonderful hands came up to stroke her hair softly. "And I love you, my Robin. I have ever since I saw you for the first time, holding Claire."

Tears pricked her eyes, and she buried her face against his neck. "So happy . . ."

His arms wrapped even more tightly around her and he sighed, as if deeply contented. "Making love to you, Robin . . . it was like coming home." He kissed her forehead, then relaxed back into the pillows, drawing her to lay against his chest. "Sleep, beloved," he murmured, and she did.

Robin watched her husband from the kitchen entrance. He was feeding Claire strained peaches while the baby tried her best to get him as gooey and sticky as she was. Robin took advantage of the moment to contemplate his form again. He was wearing a tee shirt as well as his boxers, but that hardly obscured his physical beauty. What stood out to her about him was how at ease he was inside his own skin. He’d have to be, she mused, after five thousand years.

She envied him that comfort. Robin had been plus-sized from the time she was young, and had never been fully at ease with her own body. Last night, though . . . last night had gone a long way toward making her feel beautiful. At last.

"No, in the mouth, not all over Daddy," he was muttering. Claire chortled and banged the tray with her little fists. Robin chuckled. Methos turned to meet her gaze of absolute love.

"Well if it isn’t my blushing bride." He stood, and Claire bleated to get his attention back. Methos turned to the baby. "Hold that thought."

Robin moved gladly into his embrace, and the two shared a long, languorous kiss. There are some definite advantages to being married to a 5,000 year-old, she thought through a haze. He raised his head.

"How do you feel this morning?" he murmured.

"Beautiful," she whispered. It was the truth. She pressed close to him, reveling in his embrace. "However," she amended, blushing, "I am sore in some . . . odd places."

He chuckled lightly. "Just means we need more practice, my love." They kissed again, deeply and thoroughly, only to discover that one kiss wasn’t enough. Both were well on their way to absolute senselessness when the phone rang. Robin pulled away with a groan of disappointment to answer the phone.

"Hello? Oh, hi, Nina." Pause. Expression of dismay. "Oh, really. Well, that’s just wonderful, Nina. Matthew and I look forward to seeing you next week." Another pause. More false enthusiasm. "Great. Glad to hear it. Next Friday, then. I’ll check Matthew’s plans. ‘Bye, Nina." Robin hung up and groaned.

"Something wrong?" Methos queried.

Robin walked back over to him. "My busybody big sister is going to be in town next week."

"Special occasion?"

Robin nodded, grimacing. "Special occasion, all right. She wants to scope you out top to bottom."

That got a laugh. "I promise to be on my best behavior." He pulled her into his arms.

"You don’t understand," Robin moaned. "She plays mind games."

"Really?" He grinned wolfishly. "She’s about to meet the master. Now—where were we?"

Robin gave him a sly glance. "I think I was about to explain Jayne Butler’s theory on handshakes to you . . ."

Nina’s visit the following Friday, with her husband and one-year-old son in tow, was everything Robin had dreaded and then some. The first thing she said to Robin when they were out of earshot of their husbands was, "That color makes you look wide, dear." Grant, Nina’s husband, immediately latched onto Methos’ accent and started giving the Immortal an exaggerated travelogue of Europe. Robin had to admire her husband’s response. Methos sat quietly listening for awhile, then started interjecting small corrections into the conversation:

"Oh, you must mean Sacre Coeur, not Notre Dame—you’ve got the wrong part of Paris." "Actually, that’s in Wales, not England." "I’m not sure what cathedral you’re talking about—Stefansdom is in Vienna, but that doesn’t sound like what you’re describing." "You’re probably thinking of the Rhine, not the Seine." "Yes, that’s along the Thames, but it’s not in London."

He made all these statements in a pleasant, conversational manner, not as if he was trying to out-snob Grant (which would’ve been tough in any case). Grant, for his part, wrapped up his travelogue with surprising haste. Actually, everything Methos said to his new sister-in-law and her husband was pleasant—which only frustrated Nina because, unconsciously, she was seeking a reason to dislike him. At the end of the day, she could find nothing wrong with him. She therefore decided to stay another day.

"Why don’t we spend some time together tomorrow, Robin? We can take the babies out for a stroll and talk," she suggested. Robin, of course, dreaded the prospect, but gritted her teeth and said, "Sure."

The walk they took would, in Robin’s words, "live forever in infamy." Nina started by asking whether Robin had been dyeing her hair and didn’t stop until she’d commented that the toenail polish Robin was wearing wasn’t really her color. Head to toe, Robin thought.

Then she thought, "Why am I taking this?"

Nina stopped abruptly. "What did you say?"

Robin realized she’d spoken her thought aloud. Well, fine, she thought. I’ve always wanted to say it, and now I have. Time to get some things out in the open. She turned to her sister.

"Nina, you’ve managed to find fault with practically everything about me, my life, my child, my husband, and the town I live in," she stated flatly. "Of course, that’s nothing new. You’ve been doing it all my life. ‘Robin, why don’t you lose some weight?’ ‘Robin, you know that nursing’s not a very high-class occupation.’ ‘Why do you hang out with her, Robin? She’s such a loser.’ Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder why I have to take it. Can you give me an answer?"

Nina’s shocked/hurt look was a piece of artwork. "Look, Robin, just because I care what’s going on in your life . . ."

Robin cut her off. "Do you? Well, here’s how things are going: I’ve met a wonderful, handsome, exciting, sexy, intelligent man and married him, we’re adopting a beautiful little girl, living in a terrific old house—did I tell you we’ve got plans for an addition?--I’ve lost ten pounds, quit my job to become a full-time mother, have terrific friends, and I’m trading in my old Toyota and buying a sleek new Saturn. That’s how I’m doing, Nina. I think my life’s going great."

Her sister shifted her stance. "Well, it certainly sounds good, Robin, but how long can it last?"

"Forever," Robin shot back. "Or at least until I’m old and gray. Whichever comes first."

"Don’t get snippy with me, Robin." Nina’s cheeks were flushed now. "All I’m saying is, you meet this guy and three months later, you’re married with a child. How long can that last?"

Robin almost laughed. "Look, Nina, if you’re really concerned, I can tell you that Matthew’s not going to run off after a few years because he’s bored. People who know the two of us a lot better than you think we’re meant for each other. So do I. Besides, I’m not going to leave; why should he?"

"A great-looking guy like him? Like he can’t get a better offer!" The words were out before Nina really considered how insulting they were. Robin felt like she’d been punched in the gut. Even after all this time, her sister’s disdain hurt.

Nina instantly recognized the mistake she’d made. She liked being in charge of other people’s lives and tended to take that charge any way she could. In Robin’s case, it had been by harping on her weight ever since adolescence. For all that, though, she didn’t really want to alienate her sister.

As for Robin, she recoiled from the pain, pulling back within herself. But it wasn’t like the other times she’d had to do so. Now, deep inside her was her husband’s voice telling her how beautiful he thought she was. She felt his hands on her body, touching her and murmuring into her ear how lovely her neck and shoulders were, how perfect her breasts, how her legs could have made Betty Grable weep with envy. Those assurances felt like the ground under her feet, supporting her and steadying her. Robin looked into her sister’s eyes.

"Matthew loves me," she said very calmly. "He thinks I’m beautiful. I don’t think he does; I know he does. He’s shown me in a million, million ways that I am the only woman he wants or needs. I don’t have to pretend with him. I don’t have to hide. Best of all, I don’t have to conform to someone else’s standards, especially not yours. As for my life, well, it’s good enough for me, even if it’s not good enough for you. It may be a bit messy for your tastes, but at least I don’t have to deal with the burden of perfection."

Nina looked like someone had splashed cold water in her face. Robin didn’t give her time to recover. She turned her stroller around and headed back for the house, suddenly admiring what a beautiful day it had turned out to be. Sure, it was chilly, but the sky was clear and the recent snow had melted. Robin breathed in, anticipating spring and the smell of flowers in the air. For the first time in her life, she felt completely free.

The walk back to the Adamson house was silent. Claire fell asleep, as did Robin’s nephew, Grant Jr. Upon arrival, Robin put Claire to bed and Nina announced to her husband (who was looking dazed and confused after another experience with "The Methos Technique") that it was time to be heading out. They packed themselves in their fully-equipped minivan, Nina said a somewhat stunned goodbye, and they were off.

"Pleasant chap, Grant," Methos commented as he and his wife watched their in-laws drive off. "Looked a bit peaked toward the end, though."

"Get back in the house," Robin ordered.

Methos obeyed, looking confused. "Why?"

"Because I suddenly want to have sex worse than I ever have in my life, and since I was, until recently, a twenty-seven year-old virgin, that’s saying quite a bit. Now move!"

The world’s oldest man eagerly complied. "Your wish is my command, my lady."

Winter deepened, then faded into spring. Robin and Methos slowly settled into married life. Claire grew like a weed. Methos met Robin’s father (who rather approved of what had happened with Nina, having been subjected to his older daughter’s "concern" for some years himself), and she met his few Immortal friends. Robin and Amanda, much to Methos’ chagrin, quickly became friends.

The first really warm day of spring, Robin received some good news from her social worker friend: the adoption of Claire was going to come through. Robin decided to meet Methos at the university with the good news, and she set out walking with Claire in a stroller.

As she approached his building, Robin nearly ran into a tall, slim figure who turned out to be the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen in her life. In fact, she was gorgeous. She had to be near six feet tall, Robin thought. The woman’s deep red hair hung in silky waves halfway down her back, her face was heart-shaped, her eyes an amazing shade of green, her skin perfect, and her body was enough to cause cases of whiplash among the male population of the campus.

Now this gorgeous creature smiled at Robin and Claire and pulled open the door. "Please, you first," the woman insisted. Her voice was flavored with a distinct Welsh lilt a little stronger than Methos’.

Robin thanked her and went inside, turning automatically to head toward her husband’s office. To her surprise, the woman followed. Even more to her surprise, Methos stepped out into the hall outside his office as if he’d known Robin was coming. Robin smiled, confused. Then she saw the total astonishment on his face. His mouth seemed to be working to say something as he stared at the new woman over Robin’s shoulder.

"Matthew?" Robin asked, worried.

"Ganewyn?" he whispered. Robin looked back at the woman, who was wearing a perfectly dazzling smile.

"Hello, dear brother," she greeted softly.

"Brother?" Robin wondered out loud, looking back at her husband, who suddenly broke into a smile of his own.

"I don’t believe it," he declared. "Robin, sweetheart, have you already met . . ?" he trailed off, staring, beaming, at the tall woman behind his wife.

Robin felt lost. "Matthew, will you please tell me what’s going on?"

Methos seemed to shake off the spell. He strode forward, gently turning his wife to face the newcomer. "Robin, this is Ganewyn."

"Old friend?" Robin questioned.

"My oldest friend still living." Now Ganewyn looked a little worried. "Don’t worry, she knows," Methos reassured her. "Ganewyn, may I present my wife, Robin Wecks Adamson, and our daughter, Claire." Hastily, Robin turned the stroller around, and the Immortal woman hunched down and smiled at the baby.

"She’s beautiful, Methos," Ganewyn admired. "You have a lovely family. I’m . . . happy for you." Suddenly, the beauty seemed sad.

"What is it?" Methos asked.

Ganewyn gave him a softly melancholy smile as she stood. "Galen died a month ago."

Methos walked over to the woman he’d just described as his oldest friend and embraced her. "I’m so sorry, Ganewyn. It was about sixty years for you two, wasn’t it?"

"Yes." The word came out slightly choked, and as the two moved out of their embrace, Robin could see tears glistening in the woman’s eyes. "I-I thought I’d like to see an old friend."

"Why don’t you come to our house tonight for dinner?" Methos suddenly looked over at his wife. "If that’s okay with you, Robin."

Robin really wasn’t sure of what to think. The Immortal woman’s beauty was enough to intimidate practically any woman, let alone one with Robin’s insecurities, however much they’d been eased. And for all Robin knew, this was an old lover of Methos’.

"It’s fine," was all she said.

Dinner, fortunately, was far nicer with the woman Methos called "sister" than it had been with Robin’s sister. Ganewyn, in spite of having known Methos for four thousand years longer than Robin, made a special effort to include Robin in all conversation, or at least to explain when she and Methos got off on "old times." Robin learned that Ganewyn was a Celt of ancient Albion, and she’d known Methos for basically her entire life.

"He came to my father’s lands as a warrior," Ganewyn explained. "The first thing he did was to defeat my father’s champion in single combat. After that, he took command of our war band, which meant that I was under his command."

"You were a warrior?" Robin asked.

"Yes, I was," Ganewyn confirmed. "There were several woman-warriors in our war band. I was simply the tallest."

"And the most difficult" Methos put in.

"And you were a . . . commander?" This news clashed with her mental image of her husband. She couldn’t imagine him as a warrior.

Methos shifted a little uncomfortably. "Well, I couldn’t exactly be a history professor back then. The stuff hadn’t even been written."

Ganewyn caught on to the slight tension. "Robin, all kings had war bands back then. They were needed to protect the king’s lands from invasion or even from roving bands of brigands. Methos was exceptionally good at what he did, and my father’s lands were peaceful. Word tended to get around quickly to the worse elements of Albion that to attack my father’s lands or people was unwise, to say the least."

"I’m just having a hard time imagining it is all," Robin said, furrowing her brow in thought.

Ganewyn got a mischievous glint in her eye. "Just imagine your husband with long hair stiffened with lime, mostly naked, and painted blue, and you’ll get the picture."

Robin couldn’t stop giggling for almost five minutes. Methos gave his oldest friend a baleful look.

"Couldn’t you have just stuck with telling her about the time I got falling down drunk and proposed to Queen Elizabeth in front of Sir Walter Raleigh?" he pleaded. Getting a fresh round of giggles from this, he decided it was time to use the bathroom.

Ganewyn turned her smile back to Robin. "I hope you’re not feeling threatened by me anymore, Robin."

Robin flushed. "Was I that obvious?"

The Immortal shook her head. "No. It’s just that I’ve been around a long time, and I know how to read reactions pretty well. Truly, you have nothing to fear from me. Methos and I were . . . a long, long time ago, even as we reckon things. I came here to talk to an old friend—nothing more."

A little tension released inside Robin. She felt ashamed it had been there in the first place. "I’m sorry . . ." she began.

Ganewyn held up her hand. "No need. I share a long history with your husband; of course you wondered what that history was. Methos, though, eventually married my sister, not me." The Immortal cocked her head. "Actually, you quite remind me of her."

Robin lifted her eyebrows. Then she remembered that Ganewyn’s sister couldn’t have been genetically related to her. The Immortal woman had a faraway look on her face as she went on.

"She was a caring, generous young woman who wasn’t afraid to call Methos on what she thought were bad decisions. He admired that about her, and they came to love each other. Just as he loves you. You’re good for him, you know."

"You think so?" Robin suddenly wanted this woman’s approval.

"Absolutely," Ganewyn said firmly. "He’s relaxed around you. With so many others, he puts up a mask. He feels safe with you, and I’m glad. We may not have worked out as lovers, but I have always—and will always—love him." She seemed sad again. "We both of us need mortal loves in our lives. Otherwise, we tend to drift, not really engaging in the life around us."

Robin leaned forward. "I’m just worried—I’m going to die long before he does. How will that affect him?" The mortal woman saw the tears in Ganewyn’s eyes. "I’m sorry—I didn’t mean . . ."

"No. It’s all right," Ganewyn assured her gently. "Neither Methos nor I would trade anything—not even freedom from pain—for the joys of loving. When you’re gone, he’ll remember and treasure that love, and he’ll be better for it. Just as I am better for having loved Galen."

Methos came back to the table, and there was more talk. Robin found herself enjoying Ganewyn’s company. Eventually, the Immortal woman excused herself. Robin purposely stayed behind to clear the dishes while Methos walked Ganewyn to her car.

"I wish you could stay longer, old friend," Methos told the ancient woman.

She smiled. "You’ve a wife now, Methos. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to stay longer. You and I both know that." Ganewyn looked back at the house, then leaned in closer to Methos, a worried frown creasing her forehead. "There is something I need to warn you about."

"Something, or someone?" Methos asked.

"Someone." Ganewyn looked back into Methos’ eyes. "There’s a headhunter named Gaston de Merrieult who seeks out ancient Immortals. He came after me awhile back. Fortunately, I was able to avoid him."

Methos nodded. Ganewyn was no more fond of the Game than he himself was. "I can lay low with the best of them."

"I hope so," she responded. "The most insidious thing he does, Methos, is use Immortals’ loved ones against them. He killed Damaris after shooting her husband and her student. Apparently, he’s done or tried the same thing with others; he killed Yoshio Shimuda, and Charzhia has sworn blood vengeance against him, as has Anja Thorsdotter."

Methos lifted his eyebrows. "With those two after his head, I doubt I’ll ever have to worry about him. I think I’ll root for Charzhia; Anja has a nasty set of scruples that would prevent her from giving him the sort of death he’s earned."

Ganewyn laughed. "That sounds like the man I met four thousand years ago." She sobered, reaching up to touch her friend’s face. "Goodbye, Methos," she said in her ancient tongue. "Take good care of your family, and be happy."

Her friend kissed her cheek gently. "Be well, Ganewyn."

The ancient woman smiled at him one last time before getting in her car and driving away.

Methos managed to put Ganewyn’s warning out of his mind by the time Robin persuaded him to see "Don Giovanni" with her. They called in Amber to look after Claire, dressed in their finest evening clothes, ate an expensive dinner at Borelli’s, and had a lovely time at the theater. Even Methos enjoyed himself. Must be the company, he thought, stealing a glance at his wife as they left the concert hall. She was radiant. The black velvet off-the-shoulder evening dress she’d bought special for the occasion looked incredible on her, and she’d pinned her hair up, drawing attention to her graceful features. She looked like a 1940’s glamour girl. How is it, he wondered, that men were stupid enough to overlook her until I came along? Not that I’m complaining . . .

Their car was parked on the street rather than in one of the (very full) parking garages. As they approached it, Methos suddenly felt the presence of another Immortal. He cursed to himself as he saw that the street was basically deserted.

"In the car, Robin," he ordered tersely. She, recognizing the look on his face, moved to obey . . .

A silenced shot. Robin screamed as she fell. Methos caught her.

"No," he whispered. He realized, much to his relief, that the bullet had hit her in the thigh rather than anywhere vital, but she was losing blood so rapidly he thought it must have nicked an artery.

His thoughts were interrupted by the Immortal emerging from a nearby alleyway.

"Good evening, Methos," the man greeted. Methos fixed him with a look of pure hatred. In a moment, though, the hatred melted away to reveal . . . nothing. A hard, masklike, non-expression took over his face. Robin, already in pain, shrank away from her husband, suddenly not recognizing him.

The man, apparently Gaston de Merrieult, looked at Robin as if she mattered not a bit. Then his eyes returned to his target. He was disconcerted at what he saw. Normally when he did this—wounded the mortal love of his intended target—the Immortal became enraged or upset enough to become sloppy. This one, it seemed, wouldn’t.

Methos lowered Robin gently to the ground, then reached into his coat to draw out his Ivanhoe broadsword. Gone was doctoral student Matthew Adamson; in his place was Methos, the ultimate player in the Game.

"This what you want, de Merrieult?" he inquired almost pleasantly.

De Merrieult drew out his own saber. "I’ve wanted this for a long time, Old Man." He backed into the alleyway. Methos followed.

Robin lay on the ground, bleeding. She had known about Immortal challenges from what Methos had told her, but hearing the quiet exchange between the two men, seeing the coldness take over the man she loved, was something she was completely unprepared for. Now she watched and listened as metal clashed against metal. Even in the half-light, she could pick out Methos. He moved like a cat, swift and deadly. The other man was incredibly fast, too, and she suddenly realized she could lose her husband. Then she, too, would die. What would become of Claire?

She grew dizzy, but forced herself to focus on the fight. Was the other man growing tired? He seemed to be. Maybe . . .

She saw it as it happened. The other man drew something from his coat with lightning swiftness, and she wanted to cry a warning to her husband, but couldn’t. But it wasn’t necessary. Even as the other man drew his dagger, Methos drew his own and blocked the blow.

De Merrieult had counted on the dagger as his trump card. When Methos blocked it, the end came swiftly.

Robin flinched as she witnessed the death-stroke. Then she felt the charge in the air, saw the flashes of lightning, the vortex of energy that enfolded her husband. The world seemed to be turned on its side now, and she’d lost all sensation of pain, but still she watched as Methos struggled away from the last of the Quickening, hauling himself to his wounded love’s side.

The last thing that registered was joy as she realized that her husband, not the cold-eyed Immortal stranger who’d gone off to fight, was back at her side, holding her.

Methos sat in an incredibly uncomfortable hospital chair, waiting. He’d broken every traffic law to get Robin to the hospital; now it was up to the surgeons to save her. The wound itself wasn’t the problem, he knew, but the fact that she’d lost so much blood. He stood and paced. Anger beat at his brain: anger at de Merrieult, for trying such a cheap trick, anger at the Game, for dragging Robin into it, but mostly anger at himself, for allowing her to be hurt.

"Matthew?"

Methos whirled to face the voice, and Talya Davidman flinched from the rage in his eyes. Seeing her reaction, the ancient took a deep breath, closing his eyes until he was back under control.

"Talya," he finally managed. "I . . . assume you heard."

The Jewish woman nodded. "Yes. Clarice from the ER called me, and I got down here as quickly as I could." She approached Methos now. "How is she?"

Methos shook his head. "No word yet."

Talya nodded, taking this in. Then she fixed him with her intense, dark eyes. "How are you, Matthew?"

He sat down heavily in one of those uncomfortable chairs. "I can’t believe this happened to her," he breathed.

Talya sat beside him, gently taking his hand in one of hers. The physical contact with someone who Methos knew cared deeply about Robin soothed him.

"May I ask you a favor, Talya?" he ventured after a moment.

"Anything," she promised.

He took another deep breath. "We need someone to look after Claire tonight. Amber’s still there, but she’s got school tomorrow . . ."

"Of course." Talya’s voice was firm. "I can either stay at your place or take Claire back to my house tonight—we’ve already got a car seat and a spare crib for our grandson, so it’s no problem."

"Thank you, Talya. I . . ." he was cut off by the door of the waiting room opening. Surgeon Stan Gray stepped through.

"Mr. Adamson?" he asked.

Methos stood. The surgeon walked in and shook his hand, wearing the serious-but-glad expression Methos had hoped to see.

"Your wife’s out of danger, Mr. Adamson," Gray told him. "The flesh wound wasn’t serious—the bullet missed the bone, fortunately—but she’ll be in recovery for awhile because of the amount of blood she lost. Still, I anticipate a full recovery."

"Thank God," Talya murmured. Methos silently seconded the sentiment.

"Thank you, Doctor." The ancient man’s voice was husky. "More than I can say, thank you. May I see her?"

The surgeon nodded. "Not very long—she’s going to be groggy if she’s even awake, but a short visit shouldn’t harm anything."

Methos turned to Talya. "I’m going to stay here. Take Claire back to your place, and I’ll come get her tomorrow, all right?"

Talya wrapped her arms around the man she knew as Matthew Adamson. "Of course. Don’t worry about a thing—just take care of yourself and Robin."

"I will," he promised, returning her hug. Then he let her go and followed the surgeon into the recovery room.

Robin lay on the bed, incredibly pale. Methos’ mind flashed back to Alexa, and he forced the thought away with some effort. Robin wasn’t dying; he’d have her for a long, long time, as mortals reckoned things.

Or would he? She’d just witnessed the barbaric ritual known as "the Game." Would it be too much for her? What if it had scared her so much she wanted him out of her life—and Claire’s?

Methos knelt by the bed, taking her cold hand in his warm ones. Her eyelids fluttered. Her brown eyes looked bottomless in her pale face. For a moment, they were confused, afraid, but then she locked onto her husband’s face.

"Y-you’re here?" The whisper was almost too faint to hear.

"Always," he whispered back.

"So glad . . ." A ghost of a smile touched her mouth for a moment, and then she slipped back into unconsciousness.

"So what happens now?"

Robin bit her lip, then squatted and occupied herself with straightening Claire’s blanket inside the stroller. As she did so, her leg protested. The twinge of pain brought with it unwelcome anxieties.

It had been a month since the shooting. During that time, Robin had been released from the hospital and gone into physical therapy, with the doctor’s expectations of her making a full recovery. She’d gone home to Claire and Methos. Her expectations that everything would return to normal, however, had not been fulfilled. Her husband had seemed to back away from her, retreating within himself. Worse yet, Robin found that her image of him had been shattered beyond repair. She still loved him, but found herself wondering if love was really enough.

It had finally come to the point that Robin had made him take a walk with her not only so she could stretch her abused muscles, but so she could air her feelings, and perhaps understand his. They’d ended up at the college. And Robin realized she had no idea what to say to her husband’s first words.

Methos leaned quietly against an ancient oak tree, watching his wife. He hated the thought of losing her, but sometimes . . . sometimes these things happened. He would survive. Just like always . . .

Robin still wasn’t answering, and he decided to make his offer explicit, rather than oblique. "Robin, if you want to leave, I’ll understand."

"No!" The word seemed to slip free of Robin’s mouth before she could even think. She stood and looked at her husband. "No," she repeated, more softly, "I don’t want to leave you." She looked away.

"Robin, I want you to think about this carefully," Methos said softly. "The Game is only a part of what you’ll face in the coming years. I can only stay in one place for so long; ten years is my maximum. You’ll have to leave behind everything—everything—if you want to stay with me. You’ll never be able to bear a child of your own. These are the sacrifices you’ll have to make if you stay."

"I know." Her voice was soft, but firm, and she looked him straight in the eye. "I understood all that when we were married. I didn’t make my commitment lightly, Methos. I want to stay, and I’ll take the consequences of that."

Even the surge of relief Methos felt at her words couldn’t blind him to the fact that there was much left unsaid. "But?" he prompted.

Robin sighed softly, looking at the ground, at the tree, at a set of young lovers walking hand-in-hand across the campus, at anything except her husband. Finally, she forced herself to look into his eyes.

"Who are you, Methos?" she asked.

It was his turn to look away. "There is no easy answer to your question." He raised his eyebrows, looking at Robin. "I’m the oldest of the Immortals, Robin. Even Ganewyn is a full millennium younger than me. It would be easier to tell you what I am *not*--what I have never been."

Robin shook her head. "I can’t comprehend that. That kind of age . . . I have no idea where to even begin."

"Then don’t try." Methos’ eyes flickered away, then found hers again. "Robin, Methos is a conniving, manipulative bastard who’s out for his own survival. That’s what he is, and that’s what he’s always been. I’d almost be happier if you didn’t know him."

Robin gave a snort of exasperation. "Ask me if I can make heads or tails out of that one," she commented sourly. She heard her husband’s soft chuckle. "Listen, whoever you are, I may not understand all you’ve been in five stinking thousand years, but I do know . . ." she swallowed softly. "I do know that you’ve made me feel something I never dreamt of feeling. You’ve given me a love like none I’ve ever known, and I’ve loved you in a way I never knew was possible. I don’t want to lose that, but I’m confused by you. And I’m frightened—not only for myself, but for Claire. I hate the idea of someone like him" and they both know who "he" was "using Claire against you."

"No one will." The iron-hard note in Methos’ voice was almost a shock to Robin. "I promise you, Robin—I will do everything in my power to protect you and Claire."

"I believe you." The words, softly spoken, seemed to anchor both of them.

Methos looked away again, sighing. "As for the Methos thing—Robin, just call me Matthew. Please." He reached up and touched her face. "Methos is too much for a mortal to understand. Too much for most Immortals to understand. Sometimes, he’s too much for me to understand. You fell in love with Matthew Adamson. That’s who I am for one lifetime—yours."

Robin shook her head, a slight grin forming on her face. "It’s really freaky, hearing you talk about yourself like that, you know."

Methos smiled, too. "We ancients are confusing that way. What I’m not confused about, and what you should not be confused about, is this: I love you, Robin. You will always be in my heart."

Her eyes glistened softly. "I love you, too . . . Matthew." She nodded. "You’re right, it’s simpler this way."

"Then we’ll leave Methos behind, my love. All that matters is us, in the here and now." He reached out one arm, and Robin willingly walked into his embrace. They kissed, bodies flush against each other, leaning against the oak tree.

"Way to go, Adamson!" yelled a voice. It was quickly followed by several catcalls.

Methos and Robin looked up. A few of his students were walking on a pathway nearby. One of them, a young man with unruly orange hair, gave Methos the double thumbs-up. Delia Cullen and Gina Cardones, also with the group, giggled.

Methos looked back down at his wife, who was blushing deep red. "Kids these days," he sighed. Robin dissolved into giggles, then leaned up to kiss him again.

Methos’ sharp ears brought him back to full consciousness. He could hear a light sound coming from the baby monitor. Gently, he eased himself away from his wife, who was boneless from lovemaking and soundly asleep. He grabbed and pulled on the set of boxers that had fallen to the floor at some point and made his way into Claire’s room.

The baby was wide awake, but seemed perfectly happy, playing with her mobile and talking to herself. She smiled at her father. He smiled back.

"Got no idea of what the world’s like, do you?" he asked softly. "You’re just content to have a home and a mom and dad at your beck and call, aren’t you?"

Claire grabbed her pink stuffed elephant that she wouldn’t go to sleep without and cooed up at Methos. He grinned, picking her up.

"Yeah, you know I can’t refuse you anything."

She chewed industriously at the elephant’s ear and reached up to grab Methos’ nose.

"It’s all right, you know," he told her. "Being innocent. It’s all right. There was a time I thought it wasn’t, that it would just get you into trouble. It’s more than just being naïve, though, being innocent. Want to hear what I think?" Claire seemed riveted, so Methos continued. "It’s believing you can really make a difference. It’s believing that no matter what happens, somehow, it will come out all right in the end. I’ve lived too long, I think, to ever truly believe that again, but you know what I’ve noticed? The truly innocent, the ones who really believe all that, all too often actually do make a difference. Things turn out all right for them. Somehow, they manage all that. Duncan MacLeod comes to mind." He cuddled Claire, who was looking progressively less interested in his eloquence and more interested in sleep, close to him. "Your mother, too. And you know what’s really interesting about these people?"

Claire’s eyes were closed, her breathing regular. Methos whispered, "They end up making other people better for having known them." He kissed his child. "Good night, little one."

As he replaced Claire in her crib, he sensed someone behind him. He turned to face his wife.

She looked beautiful in the moonlight, with her softly rumpled hair and comfortable old bathrobe. She smiled, a look of pure love.

He returned her smile. "I thought I’d well and truly exhausted you."

Even in the dim light, her blush was visible. "I heard you talking on the baby monitor and wondered what was going on," she explained. "Do you really believe all that?"

"Oddly enough, yes. But I’ll deny everything if you tell MacLeod."

Robin laughed. Methos watched her, still amazed that she had never seen her own beauty before he came along. She held out a hand.

"Come back to bed," was her soft invitation.

He took her hand, coming close, pulling her into his arms, and kissing her gently. For a long moment, he just savored the softness and sweetness of her, enjoying the rich curves of her body against his. By the time he raised his head, both of them had decided to stay awake awhile longer.

Methos gave one last glance toward the sleeping Claire before leaving the room with his wife.

Family, he thought, almost as if he was trying the word on for size. Family.

It sounded nice.

***

New Beginings

Rating: M

DISCLAIMER

Author's Notes:

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