He kept his head down and watched the floor swim for the few moments it took prior to the tingle of healing. He was rested and hadn't been fighting: recovery would be swift. She didn't need to see the strain on his face as an added trauma, but she worked with the police ... he knew it would take something this severe to convince her of the truth.

"I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I was born in 1518 in Glenfinnan by the shores of Lock Sheil and I am immortal," he had told her. Now, by pain that crumpled him and the fresh blood on his shirt beside his heart, Brenda Wyatt could not deny or disbelieve his truth.

Tears on her face?

Connor was still, wondering. Her hand came up, touched the dapple of slick blood on his shirt and then crept to his stubbled cheek and lay open on it. By instinct, his hand came up and reached for her face, mirroring her action ... only to stop partway there.

He expected shock and dismay, horror, at this exercise of immortality. He never expected the power hidden in the hand resting like a benediction on his face. He never expected the leap of his pulse to answer that strength, sending courses of faint pain echoing through the tissue still barely healed deep in his chest.

He was 468 years old and a woman's caress could still transfix him, fingers curled slightly as if afraid to reach out to touch ... to taste the tears ... to smooth over the soft skin. He was immortal and so very fragile beneath her hand.

MacNairCDC
Title supplied by the person who fru'd the picture on the board

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