By 8:00 the bar was starting to fill. The band was on stage warming up as Methos downed another beer. Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. They were about to have company, immortal company. His head swiveled around discreetly, trying to get a better look at the people in the bar, looking for anyone he recognized. Then he checked himself. The feeling was slight, very slight, more of a niggling than an outright sensation. Whoever it was, was pre-immortal. Some poor soul who would have their world blown apart someday. Methos felt a twinge of pity for them.

At a table a few feet away from the bar, MacLeod had felt the meager buzz too, but before he could turn around, a flash of red stopped in front of him.

"Duncan? Oh my God. I can't believe it's really you. You haven't changed a bit."

MacLeod stared down at Bryn O'Neill in amazement. The faint aura was hers.

"What, have I changed that much?" She laughed at his startled expression.

"Yeah, I guess so," MacLeod mumbled, off balance.

She laughed again, sitting down. "I mean it. You really haven't changed. Not a bit. You must tell me your secret one day."

You'll know soon enough, thought MacLeod, studying her.

At 5'4", with curling hair the colour of polished copper, Bryn O'Neill was a bundle of energy and always had been. MacLeod smiled to himself as he remembered the pale, skinny 12-year-old that he had first met years ago. At that time all her energy had been channeled into her dancing. She had been good, very good, and he hadn't been surprised when, at twenty, she had moved to London to continue her studies. It confused him that, despite the times he had spent with her and Tara, he never before had an inkling that she was immortal. Usually he knew, but with Bryn there had been nothing, although there was barely more than that now. The immortal sense he felt from her was weak at best. This was going to be more difficult than he anticipated.

Back at the bar, Methos was still scanning the crowd for the source of his discomfort. He noted the redhead now sat with MacLeod and Tara. The younger sister, he thought, then stopped. No, it couldn't be. Mac would have told him, warned him. But looking at MacLeod's face, Methos knew his instinct was right and suspected that Scot was just as surprised as he was.

MacLeod caught Methos' eye and read his thoughts. "I'll be right back. What can I get you to drink?" He looked at Bryn.

"White wine, please."

MacLeod made his way over to the bar. Joe was behind it, mixing drinks.

Methos stood with his back to Joe, watching the band. "Well, well," he murmured, "you didn't tell us the little one was immortal."

"I didn't know," MacLeod replied.

"What?" said Joe, looking up, "Bryn? Immortal? Can't be."

"You didn't know?" Methos snorted.

MacLeod shrugged. "I guess I didn't notice."

Methos looked at him. "I might be out of line here, MacLeod, but that feeling you get in the back of the neck when another immortal is near? It's there for a reason. It's considered important in helping ensure that your head isn't severed from your body. You might want to take note of it next time."

"Very funny," replied MacLeod.

"Just a piece of friendly advice, one *old* immortal to a younger one."

"Wait a minute here, guys. Bryn O'Neill? Immortal?" Joe looked at MacLeod in amazement.

"Joe, you surprise me." Methos smiled. "I would have thought your skepticism would have been seriously damaged years ago."

Joe glared at him. "I stayed with Danny and his wife. She was pregnant with Bryn at the time."

"Pregnant with someone but not the fair Bryn I'll wager, at least not that one." Methos nodded in the direction of the table. He looked over at MacLeod again. "You can't protect her you know. Immortal or not. He'll get to her. It might not be today; it might not be next week, but get her he will. You can't protect her 24/7. And from all accounts he is a very patient man. It's a waste of time."

"I'll do what I can," countered MacLeod.

"Yeah, and lose your head in the process. Boyscout! Chivalry gets you so far. Then it gets you dead! You'll find that out the hard way one day."

"Well, when that happens you have my permission to say I told you so," MacLeod shot back, smiling tightly.

"We all die one day, MacLeod, even the pretty ones." Methos sighed, turning back to the bar. "Obviously she doesn't know she's immortal?"

"Not a clue."

"What about the sister, Tara?"

"Nope."

Methos blew his breath out slowly. "I don't envy you this one my friend."

At the table, Bryn was watching MacLeod at the bar. Her eyes lingered on the tall man at the end in the jeans and heather-gray Henley. He's gorgeous. Duncan always did have some interesting friends.

Tara caught her sister's glance, the type of glance she hadn't seen in a long while. "What? You've got that smile on your face that means you're up to something."

"Who? Me? I'm not up to anything." Bryn averted her eyes quickly.

"Yes, you are. Who are you eyeing up? Not Duncan!"

Bryn laughed. "God, no. That would be like ogling my brother. No. Actually, I was kinda looking at the guy he was talking to."

Tara glanced back at the bar. "That's Joe Dawson. He was a friend of Dad's, and I think he's a bit too old for you." She knew exactly who her sister was talking about but continued to play the game.

"That's really Joe Dawson? I remember him. He used to come and stay at the house sometimes. No, I'm not talking about him. I'm talking about the other guy." Bryn stole a look across at the figure slumped somewhat gracefully at the bar.

Tara studied Adam. "Yeah, he's all right I guess. If you like the tall, brooding types with chiseled features." It was good to see Bryn finally showing interest in someone. Since DeWinter, she had shied away from any sort of social contact. Tara made a mental note to ask MacLeod about his friend.

"Hmmm. I think I do like the tall brooding types with chiseled features. In fact, I think I like them a lot! He's really cute," said Bryn, rising. "I think MacLeod needs a hand with those drinks."

Tara stared open mouthed at her sister as Bryn walked over to the bar.

"Hey, did you get lost or something?" asked Bryn. She paused, looking at the man behind the bar. "You're Joe Dawson. Tara pointed you out. You used to stay at our house when I was a kid."

Joe looked up and nodded. "Bryn O'Neill. I haven't seen you since you were about so high." He indicated a level of about four feet with his hand.

"With braces and pig tails, don't remind me." Bryn shook her head in remembrance. "Boy, this really is like homecoming week." She turned in MacLeod's direction, her eyes drifting to the man at the end of the bar. Amused, he caught her glance.

"Oh, Bryn, this is Adam Pierson, a friend of mine. Adam this is Bryn O'Neill, Tara's sister."

Bryn held out her hand. "Hello." She looked up at him politely, and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes are beautiful. But he looks...out of place some how.

Methos turned to acknowledge the introduction...and stopped. He suddenly knew why Tara O'Neill had seemed so familiar. Though it was impossible that the two women were blood related, Bryn being immortal, their resemblance to each other was uncanny. Facially, they would easily be tagged as sisters, but where Tara had straight blonde hair, Bryn's was red and curly. The sounds of the bar seemed hollow in his ears, and everything around him began to turn as he stared into the face that had haunted his dreams for the past three years.

"Nice to meet you," he muttered, quickly releasing her hand and turning away. His breath came in great gulps and he prayed no one noticed.

MacLeod frowned at his friend's rudeness.

Methos continued to stare at the bar, trying to convince himself that this wasn't really happening. Damn it old man, get a grip. It's not her, just someone who looks like her. You really have to get over this.

"Duncan, do you mind if I sit here and visit with Joe?" Bryn asked. She had noticed the way Adam had looked at her. Perhaps this needed a little exploring. It had been a long time since she had had anyone in her life. There was a time, after the 'accident' that she doubted she would ever have the courage or desire to meet anyone again. She had firmly convinced herself that for her there would be no husband, no children. She would never gain back the ability to trust someone that much, and besides who would want her? Men wanted wives with smooth, soft skin, not scars criss-crossed everywhere.

"No, fine. Tara and I have some catching up of our own to do." MacLeod took the drinks and returned to the table.

"Bryn...that's a beautiful name." Methos tried hard to make the comment sound as normal and off-hand as he could. He realized his bizarre behavior had been noticed and didn't want her to think...well, he really didn't know what he wanted her to think.

"Thank you. It's Welsh for..."

"Mountain." Methos smiled.

"You speak Welsh?" Bryn asked amazed.

"A bit." And Gaelic, and French, and Spanish, and German, Italian, Russian, and a dozen other languages you've never heard of.

"Are you from Wales? From your accent I can tell that you're not from around here."

Methos shook his head. "I'm from a lot of places."

"Tara tells me you're a dancer," Joe said, looking to distract Bryn's attention from the immortal's background. He had seen the sparks between the two of them and wasn't sure he liked where it was going, especially if what MacLeod said was true.

"Yes. At least I used to be. I had an...accident a few years back. I haven't danced much since." Bryn bit her lip. "I went back to school and studied interior design. That's what I do now. But I do miss the dancing." She smiled as happy memories flooded her mind. "I was in the original cast of Lord of the Dance, I was...."

"Third girl from the end," Methos supplied before he could stop himself. Hell, it is her.

"So, she managed to wangle an introduction did she?" Tara asked MacLeod as he set her drink in front of her.

"Who? Bryn? She didn't need to be introduced to Joe, she already knew him." He dropped into the chair beside her.

"Not Joe, Adam." Tara smiled. "She's thinks he's cute."

MacLeod turned to look at his friend. "I can think of a lot of words to describe Adam. 'Cute' would not be one of them. 'Fraid she won't get too far with him."

"It's good to see her enjoying herself. She rarely goes out. She's okay with him isn't she?" After months of looking after her sister, Tara was still having a hard time letting go.

"With Adam? Yeah, she's fine. He'll just make somewhat polite conversation with her before he disappears off home like he always does. Romance is not his thing. After tonight, she'll probably never run into him again."

Bryn turned to Methos as Joe moved down the bar to serve some customers. "What?" she demanded. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," Methos said miserably, not looking at her. Why had he said anything? Why hadn't he just kept his mouth shut? He knew why. Hers was the face he had searched for in crowds. The reason he had hung around London airports, deliberately catching later flights in the hopes that she just might be there too. When he closed his eyes at night, her face was there. He had waited for this minute, never thinking it would occur. And now it had.

"No, you said third girl from the end. How did you know that? How..? Did you see the show or something?" Bryn looked at him, a touch of fear in her eyes.

He nodded.

"But how would you remember... Oh, God, you saw me didn't you?" Bryn's hand flew up to cover her face. "You were there the night I fell." The explanation relieved her somewhat.

Again Methos nodded. He was there the night she fell. What he didn't tell her was that by that time, he had seen her in the show every night for almost four weeks.

Three years ago. London. It had begun innocently enough. He was still a Watcher and, bored with research, he had headed out for a quiet drink when he ran into a friend. The friend had a ticket to Lord of the Dance and no interest in going. With little encouragement, he gave the ticket to Methos and wished him a good night.

Surprisingly the evening out appealed to him. It had been years since he had been to the theatre. And besides, the Irish music would remind him of his 'younger' days.

He picked up the soft, fragile buzz as the lights went down. It hadn't been there before, so it couldn't be anyone seated nearby. It had to be someone on stage. Seven women began the opening number, and one of them would be immortal one day. By process of elimination, the dancers moving closer or further away from where he sat, he dismissed the first two.

Then his eyes fell on the third girl, and he felt the air rush out of his lungs. It was her. With waist-length copper curls and seemingly endless legs, she was beautiful. Methos watched her, fascinated. By the end of the show, he couldn't have told anyone what he had seen. Only that he had seen her.

The next day he bought another ticket. And the next day. And the next. He soon discovered that she had Tuesdays and Fridays off, and on those days sat in his apartment and brooded, counting the hours until the next show. He told himself it was insane, obsessional, he didn't even know her name for Christ's sake! The programme simply listed all the dancers in alphabetical order.

After debating with himself for days, he finally screwed up the courage to call the publicist named in the programme. He told the woman a convoluted tale of his being a casting agent looking for a dancer, a dancer with a specific look. The woman had sternly told him to put it in writing, hanging up the phone before he could ask anything more.

Waiting backstage was equally useless. She had been surrounded by friends the few times that he had glimpsed her leaving. Methos had melted into the shadows miserably, wondering what kind of an idiot he was. He was acting more like a love-struck sixteen-year-old than someone who had been alive for centuries. He had questioned absently if he had ever actually been sixteen. But then he remembered that he had.

Not knowing what else to do, he had simply continued to attend the show, hoping for a miracle. Every night he went, he promised himself it would be the last time. But it never was. Finally the miracle presented itself. He stood in the rain for an hour and paid two hundred pounds for a ticket that would get him into the show and to a cocktail reception with the cast afterward. It was now or never, he told himself.

That was the night she fell. The sixth number, a quick timestep that she had performed flawlessly every evening until now. Her foot caught on the costume piece that she had discarded at the beginning of the dance. The crowd gasped audibly as she went crashing down on one knee, her face a mixture of pain and horror. She recovered quickly and completed the dance in perfect sequence with her castmates, but Methos could see the agony in her eyes.

She danced no more that night; another girl took her place. Afterward, at the reception, Methos made polite conversation for two hours before finally admitting to himself that she wasn't coming. He had lain awake all night, his disappointment hanging over him like a dark cloud.

She didn't dance the next day. Nor the next. And after a week Methos had to face the fact that she was gone. Injured or banished, he knew not which, nor cared. He only knew that she was out of his life and he had no way to find her again. That was when the dreams began.

And now, three years later, she sat beside him, on a stool, in Joe's bar. Her hair was shorter, just past her shoulders. Her face was pale, as if she didn't go out much, and her eyes had dark smudges beneath them that told of too little sleep, but it was her. Alive. Breathing. And still pre- immortal. Methos breathed slowly, willing his heart to slow down, sure that everyone could hear it.

"I'm so embarrassed. The only night I *ever* fell and I have to meet someone who not only saw it, but remembers it. Remembers me!" Bryn blushed.

Methos shrugged. "It happens". Oh, that was brilliant! Very comforting!

She laughed and shook her head. "Not to me it doesn't. Or at least it didn't until that night. That was the last night I danced you know." She smiled sadly.

"You had your accident after that?" The word 'accident' caught in his throat. He remembered the pictures Tara had tossed on the bar earlier. Stefan DeWinter is no accident. He's a bastard and a dead man if he ever crosses paths with me, Methos promised her silently.

"Yes, I did," Bryn replied, looking away. Time to change the subject. "What do you do?" she asked of him, taking a drink of her wine.

"I'm a student, grad student." The cover he had used as a Watcher was one he often fell back on when faced with questions he didn't want to answer.

"Studying what? No, don't tell me, let me guess." She closed her eyes as if in deep thought. "Something to do with history."

He looked at her, surprised that she had had known. "Mac told you."

"No, I guessed. You don't look the type to be studying poli sci. I think you have an old soul," Bryn replied.

Green eyes met gray ones and held for a brief moment, then an awkward silence descended upon them. Methos vainly racked his brain for something to say. Anything. But it was no use. He couldn't string two thoughts together. 5,000 years old, survivor of numerous wars and battles, able to defend himself more than aptly against any immortal, and this small, elfin woman had rendered him stupid and speechless.

"Well, I should be getting back to the table I guess. Duncan and I have a lot to catch up on." Taking his silence as disinterest, she slid down from the stool reluctantly. "It was nice meeting you Adam." She shook her head. I should have known better. A guy like this would *never* be interested in someone like me. "Joe, good to see you. I'll drop in again some time." Bryn turned and walked back to the table.

"She looks great," commented Joe. "Who ever took care of her after the 'accident' did a wonderful job. She's very pretty."

"She's beautiful," murmured Methos, his gaze following her across the floor.

Joe looked at him sharply, decided he must have misheard, and moved back down the bar.

Tara, MacLeod and Bryn traded stories and memories for the rest of the evening. Methos watched them, an odd feeling in his stomach that intensified as he watched Bryn and MacLeod laughing together. He realized he was jealous that the man had Bryn's attention. I'm jealous over someone I just met. How sane am I? He shook his head, and downed the rest of the beer. Time to go.

"Catch ya later Joe. I'm gone."

"See ya. Take care."

Methos stretched, grabbed his coat from behind the bar, and started for the door. He paused momentarily, then turned back to the table where Bryn sat with MacLeod and Tara. Part of him didn't want to leave. Suppose it wouldn't hurt to display some manners. Methos wandered back toward the table, trying to convince himself that was all this was.

"I'm heading out. It was nice to meet you both." He avoided Bryn's eyes and stared at Tara.

Bryn looked up at him, wondering if he were married, had a girlfriend, would like a girlfriend, a housemaid, a slave, any of the above. "We should be going too," she said with a sigh. "I have a client to see early tomorrow, and I can't be late." She rose, looking at Tara expectantly.

"Ahm, there was something I..." Tara looked at MacLeod. With the exception of a few meaningful looks, they hadn't had a chance to discuss what they were going to do about Stefan DeWinter.

"I can take the car. Duncan can drop you off later," Bryn suggested.

"No, that's fine. Duncan and I can talk some other time." Tara began to gather her things.  She didn't want Bryn going home alone, not when Stefan DeWinter was out there.

"I can drop her off." Methos wasn't sure whether he had actually said the words, or simply thought them, until he registered MacLeod's look of surprise.

"You don't have to you know. I can catch a cab or something." Bryn was undecided whether she wanted him to drive her home or not. Being with a stranger in a crowded bar was one thing, being alone in a vehicle with them was another.

"No, it's no problem. I can take you home," Methos replied, not meeting her gaze. He couldn't think straight when she looked at him; any intelligence he may have once possessed seemed to fly out the window. Why he had volunteered to take her home was beyond him. Liar, you know why.

"Okay, thanks." She smiled up at him, then bent down and kissed MacLeod's cheek. "It was lovely to see you again. I've missed you."

"I've missed you too. Good night." He ruffled her hair.

Outside the rain had stopped, leaving puddles everywhere. They walked silently toward the parking lot. Methos watched her under his eyelashes, noting the graceful way she moved. He opened the driver's door and got in, tossing his coat to the back. Then he slid over to unlock the passenger door for Bryn, asking where they where going.

She gave him directions, watching him nod his understanding of where they were headed.

"You really don't have to do this you know. If it's out of your way I can take a cab or a bus or something." Part of her hoped he'd say yes, part no.

Yeah, and I'd answer to MacLeod tomorrow when he found out about it, thought Methos. He knew that in reality, MacLeod's reaction had nothing to do with it. He wanted to take her home, wanted to be with her. "No, it's not out of my way."

Bryn smiled to herself. She breathed deeply, taking in his smell of sandalwood and musk. Relax, she told herself. He's a friend of Duncan's.

Methos pulled onto the road, turning the radio on with one hand as he went. At first the conversation was stilted, as both struggled to overcome their shyness and find a common interest to discuss. After awhile the awkwardness left, and they chattered on easily. Methos found himself discussing the truth or myth of Arthurian legends, the recent crisis in Iraq and the latest plotline of "ER", of which he had never heard, much to Bryn's disbelief.

They drove through the city to its very outskirts, the neighborhoods becoming more secluded the farther they went. This was a very old area of town, still heavily wooded. The houses were often large, set in oversized properties of one or two acres. Each was situated in such a way that from any one of them, even though you were still within city limits, you'd be hard pressed to see the home of your neighbor, or the streetlights that lined the road.

It wasn't until Methos turned onto the adjoining street to Bryn's home that he realized he was being followed. No buzz, so it couldn't be DeWinter, or any other head hunting immortal for that matter. Who the hell else would follow him?

"Damn," Bryn muttered.

"What?"

"I forgot about the road construction. We live in that little crescent up there, we back onto the river, but the road is closed. This is as far as you can go." She pointed to a spot a bit farther up the road. "If you just drop me off there I can walk the rest of the way."

"Not on your life. MacLeod would have my head. I'll walk you the rest of the way."

She laughed at his words, certainly not taking them seriously. "All right, if you insist."

Methos parked the Range Rover. The vehicle following him drove past, turned and drove back down the street. He turned to Bryn. "Stay right there." He got out and locked the door. Opening her door, he helped her onto the uneven sidewalk. He hesitated a moment, then opened the back door, removed his long coat and put it on. Better safe than sorry. They began to walk up the road toward the crescent.

"Quiet neighborhood," remarked Methos, looking over his shoulder to see if anyone followed. The street was empty.

"Yeah, that's what we like about it. Old too. I grew up in this house. It belonged to my parents. And to my paternal grandparents before them. It's over a hundred years old." Bryn spoke with pride. "I love it here. It's where I want to raise my children."

Methos smiled tightly. Oh Bryn, who will be the one to tell you that there won't be any children. Another thought came tripping over the heels of his first one. The sudden awareness that he wanted to be the one to tell her, to hold her while she cried the tears he knew would fall. He hurriedly pushed the thought aside.

The streetlights only went a portion of the way up the street. They left the pool of light of the last one and made their way in the moonlight.

It was Methos' warrior instinct, rather than his immortal one, that caused him to grab Bryn with one hand and toss her, none too gently, into the bushes that grew beside the road. In a fluid motion he grabbed the Ivanhoe from beneath his coat a fraction of a second before two men rushed out in front of them. One carried a machete, the other a switchblade. He heard Bryn gasp as she saw the sword glitter in the moonlight.

"This doesn't have to get messy." The shorter fellow eyed the sword nervously. It was a complication they hadn't planned on.

"I have no intention of it getting messy. At least not for me," Methos said evenly. "I'm not entirely sure what your intentions are, but if this is a game of rock, paper...blades... I think I just won."

"We just want her." The taller one nodded in Bryn's direction. "This doesn't have to involve you."

"No, you're wrong. It does involve me. She already has a date. I suggest you look elsewhere."

The two men glanced at each other. The man who hired them said it would be easy, that the girl would be alone. He certainly hadn't mentioned anything about a man with a sword.

"Now, be good little thugs and run off before someone gets hurt, quite probably you, all right." Methos was annoyed. It was bad enough that he had to occasionally fight immortals, now mortals were appearing before him wielding sharp implements too.

Suddenly, all he saw was the flicker of a blade as it flew toward him. He dodged to the left slightly but not quite fast enough as the knife caught him across the upper arm, slicing through the coat, the sweater underneath and his skin. He felt the blood begin to flow.

"I see you're not very good at following directions," he hissed, raising the sword. He swung at the two men, catching one across the shoulder as he turned to run. The man screamed but managed to stay on his feet and keep running.

Methos, mentally wondering if this were a set up to clear him from the scene, let them go. Chasing them would do no good. He looked at his arm where the blood lay cold and sticky on his coat, but no wound was left. This will take some explaining. He turned back to Bryn.

"You okay?"

Silence.

"Bryn? Bryn, are you okay? They're gone." His eyes searched the bushes where he had pushed her. He couldn't sense her anymore.

Clouds moved past the moon, flooding the street with light.

"Bryn, mo chroi, where are you?" The Gaelic endearment slipped off his tongue without thought.

She was gone. Cursing in a language not heard in more than 2,000 years, Methos took a deep breath. Damn it! He'd scared her. Well, who wouldn't be scared if two men jumped out at you and the person with you, whom you had just met, pulled a three-foot sword from under his coat, he mused.

He looked around him, down the street toward the Range Rover and up toward the houses at the end of the crescent. If I wanted to run and hide from someone or something, where would I go?

He started for the trees.

Bryn ran as soon as she saw the sword. What the hell was Adam doing with a sword? She didn't doubt that he could handle the two thugs, but she felt it prudent to take shelter. You never knew when someone would bring a gun to a knife fight.

She cut across the grass and headed for the trees, meaning to skirt around the few houses at the top of the crescent and enter her home at the back. From there she would call the police. It was quiet, and leaves and branches snapped under her feet as she went.

Suddenly, she heard someone behind her. Oh, no, they're coming! She looked around for a different escape route. Her eyes landed on a small shed. She moved as quietly as she could toward it.

Where the hell did she go? It was beginning to rain, and Methos was in no mood to play hide and seek in the dark, not even with her. He needed to get inside and call MacLeod. He had no doubt that the two men he had chased off had been sent by Stefan DeWinter. DeWinter sounded the type who liked to use outside help. Why get your hands dirty when you can pay someone else to do it?

He stopped and tried to sense Bryn. Nothing at first, then ever so slightly he began to feel her. He walked a bit farther, stepped out from behind a large tree, and was just about to call her name when an inner voice screamed 'down'. He dropped to his knees, hearing a loud 'thunk' somewhere above him.

"Oh, my God, Adam! Are you okay? Oh, God I nearly killed you." Bryn threw herself down beside him, grasping him by the shoulders.

Methos started at her nearness and her touch. Looking up he noted an axe imbedded deeply in the tree, about where his neck would have been if he hadn't dropped.

5,000 years old and the closest call I've had in ages is a near immortal who doesn't have a bloody clue what she's doing ...wouldn't that have been a joke. Despite himself he smiled, realizing that if he had to give his head up to anyone, he would rather it be to her.

He looked at her. "It's okay, they're gone. Where did you go?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave you behind, it's just that...I ran." Bryn smiled weakly. "Survival instinct kicked in I guess."

That instinct might save your head one day, thought Methos.

"What the hell was that all about? And why do you have a sword?" she demanded.

Just what Methos didn't want -- questions.  "I'll tell you later. Right now I just want to get inside, in case they come back." He helped her up.

His statement had the desired effect. Bryn momentarily put aside the questions in her mind and focused on getting to the house. Taking her hand, they made their way through the trees, skirting the gardens until she indicated that they were behind the house. Coming around the front, Bryn pulled a set of keys from her pocket.

"You'll come in, won't you?" She gazed at him. He could see she had been badly frightened.

"Yeah, I want to call MacLeod and have him bring Tara home in case those guys are still out there." Methos knew they were long gone, but needed to alert MacLeod that DeWinter had made another attempt for Bryn.

"Here, let me." He took the keys from her shaking hands, inserted one into the door and turned it. Pushing Bryn inside before him, he scanned the street one last time before shutting the door.

"Kronos!" Bryn's voice cut through the stillness of the house.

In an instant, Methos whirled and had the sword out, his breath catching in his throat. Kronos! No, it couldn't be. Not here. Not now.

"Hey, don't!" Bryn protested, dropping to her knees.

Methos looked down into a pair of large, expressive brown eyes, attached to an equally expressive face and finished off with a large black tail that waved happily. The big, shaggy black dog calmly regarded him and the weapon.

"Kronos?" His voice cracked.

"Yes, my dog. Tara gave him to me for prot...company." Bryn corrected herself quickly.

"Interesting name."

"Yes, I read it in a book somewhere. I thought it sounded gentle."

Gentle? Oh, sweetheart you have absolutely no idea. Methos shook his head at the thought.

Bryn eyed the sword warily. "What is it with you and that thing? Why do you carry a sword?"

His mind sought frantically for a logical explanation. "It's part of my studies. Part of my work." Not a total lie.

"But why did you have it under your coat?"  She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Methos sighed. "I...I didn't want to leave it in the Rover. I was afraid it would be stolen." The lie sounded lame even to his ears. One day she would have to be told what she was and what would happen to her, but now was not the time. Besides, MacLeod was better at these things than he was.

Bryn eyed him suspiciously, not sure whether to believe him or not. "I'd feel a whole lot better if you'd just put it away somewhere."

Methos followed her gaze to his sword. "Err...here okay?" He thrust it unceremoniously into the umbrella stand in the hallway.

It was then she noticed the blood on his arm. "You're hurt. They stabbed you. Here let me take a look."

"NO." The force of his voice stopped her in her tracks. "It's fine. Just a scratch." Wonderful, more questions!

"But all that blood, it must be deep. You might need stitches."

"I'm fine, really. It looks worse than it is." His tone told her the subject was better left alone.

Bryn shrugged. Fine, if he wants to play super hero, let him.

Methos knew that once she got over the initial shock of the confrontation, Bryn would start to ask questions again. Questions he didn't really want to answer. He had to get MacLeod and Tara here, fast. "I need to use the phone. To call Duncan," he said.

"Sure, no problem. It's in the kitchen. I'll make us some tea." She moved down the hall. "This way."

He followed her. Tea would keep her busy.

"It's right there." Bryn nodded toward a pine rolltop desk in the corner of the kitchen, and moved to the stove.

He dialed the bar.

"Joe? It's Adam. Is Mac still there?"

"Sure, he was just leaving. Problems?"

"Yeah, but nothing I couldn't handle. Let me speak to him will ya."

"Hey Mac, it's for you," Joe yelled at the departing couple.

MacLeod turned back to the bar. Tara followed, concern on her face.

"It's Adam. Something's gone down." Joe handed the phone over.

"What happened? Where's Bryn? Is she okay?" MacLeod gripped the phone.

"She's fine. So am I in case you were worried. We ran into a bit of a problem at the house."

"DeWinter?" MacLeod's eyes met Tara's.

"No, but I think he may have sent them. I took care of it." Methos lowered his voice. "Unfortunately taking care of it included a sword. Bryn saw it. So far she hasn't said much, but pretty soon she's going to have questions. A lot of them. I think you should get over here and fast."

"Yeah, we're on our way." MacLeod moved to hang up.

"And MacLeod.."

"Yeah?"

"She's going to have to be told." Methos hung up the phone and turned to Bryn.

"Mac and your sister will be here soon."

"The tea will be ready in a minute," she replied, hugging herself. The reality of what had happened earlier was starting to settle in.

"You really should get out of those wet clothes." If he could keep her busy, perhaps he could postpone the questions, at least until MacLeod got there.

"Yeah, I'm freezing." She hugged herself tighter. "I'll just go upstairs and change." She moved to the base of the staircase and looked up. Methos saw her bite her lip.

"Would you like me to come with you?" he asked gently.

"Please." Bryn looked at him with relief.

Taking her hand, he climbed the staircase in front of her.

"I don't think that there is anyone here, really. It's pretty silly of me, but I just...," her voice trailed off.

"You don't have to explain." Not to me, not ever.

He followed her down the hall and into a bedroom. She switched on the bedside lamp, bathing the room in soft light. The room was painted a pale yellow with stenciled roses just below the ceiling. A rose coloured duvet covered the bed. It was warm and inviting, completely different from his bedroom, which, despite his having been in the apartment two years, still looked like he had just moved in. He looked around appreciatively.

Bryn pulled a black sweatshirt from a dresser drawer and leggings from the wardrobe.

"I never thanked you." She turned back to Methos.

"What for?"

"What you did back there. Taking care of me. Not too many people would have stuck around like that."

Their eyes met and held. Her eyes, they reminded him of the Irish Sea in a storm...gray and silver. He reached out and gently rubbed his knuckles over her cheek, extending his fingers into her hair in a loving caress. "You're welcome. Any time."

They continued to stare at each other for a brief moment.

The soft scent of sandalwood broke through and touched Bryn's senses. This is moving way too fast. I just met this guy. What's wrong with me? She pulled away. "I'd better go and change, before I catch my death."

With regret, Methos withdrew his hand. He followed her into the hallway and watched her pad into the bathroom at the end.

Leaning against the wall, he put his head back and closed his eyes. How long since he had felt these stirrings? Decades? Centuries? Never? Yes, there had been others, too numerous to mention. But had it ever felt like this? At his side, his fingers absently moved in remembrance of the silky corkscrew curl they had so recently held. He smiled to himself. MacLeod would be proud of him. He had saved someone, thought of them first instead of himself for a change. But he knew he hadn't done it for MacLeod. He had done it for her. He jerked his head away from the wall, eyes wide from the thoughts running through his mind. Don't be stupid. You've only known her four hours, he counseled himself. But then why do I feel like I've been waiting for her my whole life?

The bathroom door opened, and Bryn emerged in clean, dry clothes. He took her hand and they made their way downstairs where the kettle whistled.