Highlander - Donna Lettow [69]
He heard a sob escape her lips and pulled back, afraid he’d hurt her. But one look at her face, transported, told him otherwise. “Or maybe this,” he whispered, and gently kissed the gouge beneath her eye.
“You didn’t start the war, Duncan,” she said after a moment.
“No,” he agreed, “but I wish it was within my power to take you away from it.”
“You already have.” Miriam arched her body in his arms so her mouth could reach his once again, her dress falling back, baring her shoulders, her breasts, her eager body to his touch.
MacLeod’s mouth traveled from her lips down her throat. Miriam tilted her head back over his arm, exposing more skin to his caress. Tongue and lips guided by his fingers, he roved over her throat, lingered on the hollow at the join of head and torso, then buried his face between her breasts.
And suddenly felt the telltale presence of another Immortal.
MacLeod closed his eyes and sighed. He’d have to speak to Avram about his timing. But before he could begin to say a word to warn Miriam to dress, the rooftop door flew open and MacLeod found himself looking up into Rivka’s widening eyes.
“Duncan?”
At the sound of Rivka’s shocked young voice, Miriam sat up with a start and quickly pulled her dress closed, covering her body. Mortified, she turned her back on the twelve-year-old, unable to look her in the eyes.
“Rivka … ?” MacLeod was flustered. As he tried to stand up, Avram came pounding up the stairs behind Rivka.
Avram took in the strained tableau and understood the situation immediately. He quickly placed one hand over Rivka’s eyes and spun her around with the other so they both faced the opposite side of the roof.
“Hey!” she protested, squirming in his grasp.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?” Avram scolded her playfully as MacLeod helped gather Miriam’s things. “And you, goy,” he said over his shoulder to MacLeod with a laugh, “no one ever teach you to lock the door?”
MacLeod helped Miriam button her dress in a fraction of the time it had taken him to lingeringly unfasten it. “What is she doing here?” MacLeod wanted to know.
“Miriam’s supposed to be reporting to her station,” Rivka said with more than a trace of petulance. “Gutman sent me to tell her.” She squirmed harder. “Let me go, Tzaddik.”
Avram looked back at MacLeod, who signaled it was safe. Avram released her. She turned around with an icy glare for Miriam and MacLeod. “It’s time to go,” she announced.
MacLeod moved to her, touched her arm, “Rivka, I’m sorry,” but she shrugged him off and ran down the stairs. Miriam, with a weak smile, turned to follow. “I guess I should go “
Avram gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek. “Be careful, tsatskeleh.”
She smiled at the term of endearment and moved to the doorway. Then she stopped, one last look at MacLeod. “God be with you, Miriam,” he said.
For a moment she looked tearful, then she smiled again. “And also with you, Duncan MacLeod.” She closed the door to the rooftop behind her as she left.
Avram moved across the roof toward MacLeod. He picked up the empty wine bottle and regarded it with a wry smile. “I asked you to keep my seat warm. I didn’t say get it hot and sticky.”
“You knew, didn’t you?”
Avram shrugged. “I suspected.” MacLeod was silent, clearly troubled. Avram put a hand on his bare shoulder. “You did the right thing.”
“Did I?” MacLeod wasn’t so sure. “Miriam’s so … young.”
Avram’s eyes were frank, his words brutally honest. “And she’s probably not going to get much older. None of them are. And they know it.” MacLeod looked away, blinked hard. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it, but that’s our reality here. Old morals, old standards, they don’t apply anymore. You do what you have to do to survive. That’s the only commandment we’ve got left.”
MacLeod’s voice was tight. “It’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not,” Avram answered, matter-of-factly. “No one should have to die like this. Least of all someone like Miriam.”
“Then why can’t we stop it?”
Avram could hear the weight of centuries in his friend’s cry. It wouldn