Author's Notes: This is actually written by Emperata8, my beta. While plotting out Kendra's family we came up with how her parents, Marcail MacLeod and Aiden Gordon met. He insisted I post this, and so here it is, enjoy!

Side Story: Bars and Ballrooms

The rain fell heavily on Marcail MacLeod. Her dress had turned to a soggy mishmash of fabric, her makeup was reduced to smears, and a large, immaculate shelter lay behind her. Still, Marcail stayed in the rain. The rain created music, while the house behind her only held noise.

For five days and nights, Marcail had been enduring noise. Five days of jabbering from tailors and handmaidens. Five nights of the same music played the same way by what sounded like the same musicians. Five nights of further prattling from distant relations, acquaintances and suitors. For Marcail, those five nights could have held two years of chattering from boring, charmless suitors. After all, why was Alistair MacLeod dragging his family to all these soirees and parties, if not to show his beloved daughter to prospective sons-in-law?

Indeed, the prospective sons-in-law were there. They were driven to the sixteen-year-old dark-haired, brown-eyed, rose-lipped beauty from across the dance floor. But amid five nights of noise and chatter, Marcail could not remember a single voice. Nor could she remember a face.

Marcail knew that the house behind her held nothing. Nothing except for a sixth night of noise.

"Alms for a poor man?"

Marcail snapped her eyes open. She found an old man stumbling toward her into the light of the mansion. He was old, scruffy, nattily-dressed and apparently drunk. A drifter.

"I'm sorry," said Marcail. "I have nothing to give."

The man took a swig from a bottle and kept walking toward Marcail. "What about that dress of yours?" he asked. "Looks fancy enough, I could get some coins off it…"

The man advanced toward Marcail. His step was wobbly, but he was moving faster. Marcail turned to run for the mansion, a scream was almost out of her lips…

"Archie!"

The drunk and the girl both turned to face this new voice. They found a boy walking out of the night. He was lean and lanky, dressed in tattered clothes, though they were still in better condition than his friend's. Marcail guessed he was slightly older than she was. She could make out a razor-sharp smile from under his dirtied face and a pair of shining blue eyes from under an ocean of tousled, wavy dark brown hair (soaked wet in the rain).

"We've been looking all over for you, Archie," said the boy. "Now come on back, play some cards, maybe."

The old man gestured to Marcail and to the house behind her with a wave of his unsteady arm. The boy stopped him, lightly holding Archie's arm and scanning the house with a sharp eye.

"Yes," said the boy. "It's very pretty. They're both," he added with a grin to Marcail, "very pretty."

It wasn't much of a compliment, but something about this boy's smile brought color to Marcail's cheek.

The boy continued. "Now, you're cold…" he sniffed the man a bit, frowning and gripping Archie's shoulders tighter as he attempted to turn him, "and you're drunk. So, how about we go back to the bar…"

"Trespassers!" Marcail turned her head at the bellow and saw Lord Mackay, the host of the party, lumbering down the steps with a cane in his hand. "Leave my property this instant!"

But the strangers were already gone.

"Marcail, what were you thinking?"

The ball was over, all the MacLeods were home, and Marcail was now standing before her father, head of his little portion of the MacLeod clan, Alistair MacLeod. She had since changed into a spare, more casual dress.

"One of the greatest clans in Scotland extended its hospitality to you, and you decide to catch your death of cold instead! Do you have any idea what you were doing?"

"Getting a breath of fresh air, Father" replied Marcail. Her voice sounded calm, but Alistair caught the impatience underneath.

He sighed. "What do I have to do, Marcail? What more do you want? I can spend all our time and all our money to find you a match, but it won't do any good until you…"

"Enough, Father!" interrupted Marcail. A moment passed, and Alistair gestured for her to continue.

"That's just it. I've had enough. Enough spending, enough noise, enough fake smiles to last a lifetime."

"You're tired of going to all the parties," said Alistair.

"Yes."

"Then what do you propose instead?"

She paused to think a moment. "Something less noisy. Less stressful. Smaller." Marcail hesitated.

"Go on," said Alistair.

She thought a bit more, then shrugged. Alistair went to her.

"Marcail, dear, I'm sorry. But I don't see any other way to getting you a husband."

"Do you want to see me married that badly?"

"I want to see you happy, dear. That's all." Alistair smiled at her. "You're the greatest daughter I could hope to have. You're destined for a happy life, I know you are. You deserve a great man to share that life with."

"And you think that man will be at one of these parties."

"I hope so. The one tomorrow will be at the Gordon manor. You'll go and you'll behave yourself." His tone was soft, but Alistair was clearly resolved. "Now, try and get a good night's rest."

"Good night, Father," she replied with a nod. As she turned to leave her father's study, Marcail found her brother Filib waiting outside.

"That went well," he said.

"He never could stay angry with us."

"Not with you, at any rate."

They walked towards their rooms in a few moments of silence.

"Filib?"

"Yes, Marcail?"

"Quit trying to pick my pocket."

"Just testing you."

One glance at the Gordon ballroom and it was clear that no expense was spared. The crystal was polished, the silver was polished, the floor was polished… even the plates appeared to be polished. Everything was shiny and everyone was dressed to the nines with their best makeup, fanciest wigs and most extravagant outfits on for display.

Finlay Gordon, eldest of the Gordon sons, greeted all his guests as they approached him, yet declined the numerous attempts at small talk and dancing. Instead, he walked around the entire ballroom, scanning every inch with a strange concentration on his face. Indeed, it took great concentration to ignore the gossip that he was searching for a particular young lady to share a dance with. Eventually, Finlay moved on to the dining room.

"He's gone," said Filib.

Next to him, Marcail stumbled out of a broom closet placed conveniently far from the dance floor.

"I'm starting to grow tired of this."

"Try it sometime," she replied. "It's just as crowded in there, and a bit quieter as well."

"Marcail, you can't go to a party and not talk with anyone. It just doesn't work that way." As Filib talked, he gently adjusted Marcail's hair into position.

"What's the point of talking if no one's really saying anything? Filib, I'm not going to find a husband here."

"Then don't try to find a husband," said Filib. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Just pretend to." He gestured to everyone at the party. "You think they're like this all the time? Everyone's just lying to one another. That's all life is." Filib put his attention back toward his sister. "Just pretend to have fun. Sometimes, that's all it takes."

"Ah! Hello there!" A man in his early twenties approached them. His eyes seemed unusually big and his teeth seemed unnaturally straight. "I beg your pardon, but why are you not on the dance floor? It wouldn't do to show my guests a rotten time, would it?"

His voice immediately grated Marcail's nerves. He spoke rather quickly and his voice seemed rather high-pitched.

"You're a Gordon?" she asked.

He quickly bowed. "Greer Gordon, at your service. And who might you be?"

"Filib MacLeod," said Filib with a bow. "My sister, Marcail."

As Marcail slowly curtsied, Greer's eyes grew even wider. This disturbed Marcail, and Filib silently agreed.

"Marcail MacLeod? I've heard of your beauty, and I see they were not exaggerating! May I have this dance?"

Filib stood there like a statue. Marcail tried to decide between an elaborate way out or a strained attempt to act happy. A second later, the decision was made for her.

"Greer! I should have known you were wooing some lovely lass." Out of the crowd, a boy approached them. "After all, what woman could possibly resist your charm and charisma?" He slipped a subtle wink to Filib and Marcail.

Filib smiled, appreciating the sarcasm. Marcail just studied this new boy. She guessed he was slightly older than she was.

"Ah, brother! Allow me to introduce Filib and Marcail MacLeod." Greer's brother and Filib bowed simultaneously. Marcail almost forgot to curtsy – she was distracted by his shining blue eyes.

"A pleasure to meet you both," he said with a razor-sharp smile. "My name is Aidan Gordon."

By now, Filib had no doubt that something was wrong with his sister. Her eyes went wide as she stared at Aidan. Marcail had apparently quit breathing.

"Charmed to meet you, Aidan," Filib replied quickly. "Greer, would you join me for some refreshment?"

Before Greer could answer, Filib was dragging him away. Marcail and Aidan were left alone, facing each other.

"I hope you'll pardon my older brother," said Aidan. "He can talk with merchants and politicians for days, but he can't last for five seconds with a beautiful girl." Aidan sighed and shook his head. Marcail kept staring at that smile.

Marcail tried to form words. "You… Were you…"

Aidan put a finger to his lips. "Would you care to dance, Miss MacLeod?"

"No thank you," she replied. "I…"

"Is the music not to your liking?" Aidan asked.

"No, it's fine," she said. "It's just…" she gestured to the guests on the dance floor. Aidan nodded.

"Yes, I tire of them as well, from time to time."

Across the dance floor, Alistair tapped another guest on the shoulder.

"That boy," Alistair said, pointing to the boy talking with his daughter. "Who is he?"

"Ah, that is Aidan, the youngest of the Gordon sons," replied the guest. "A fine young gentleman, that one."

Alistair nodded in approval. He turned back to the guests. "Tell me more of him."

He never saw Marcail and Aidan leave the dance floor.

The whole city spread out under Marcail. Every lamppost, every building, every street seemed far more tranquil from where she stood. Then she looked up. Above the balcony, there were ten thousand brilliant stars surrounding a three-quarter moon.

And it was silent. How Marcail missed silence.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" asked Aidan.

"Heavenly," said Marcail.

"Good word for it. I like to come here when my parents have their more annoying guests over."

Aidan sighed and took off his wig, revealing an ocean of wavy dark brown hair.

"I never would have guessed that was you back at the Mackay house," said Marcail.

"Yeah, I wanted to apologize for that," said Aidan.

"Apologize for what? You saved my life."

"No I didn't. Archie could barely stand up last night. You could've knocked him down if you wanted to."

"You spend time with him often?" asked Marcail.

"Oh yes," Aidan replied. "I spend a lot of time with drunkards and filth and scallywags."

Marcail blanched by reflex. "Why?"

Aidan leaned against the balcony's railing. "They say that only drunkards and children tell the truth. Well, the drunkards I've met are a lot more honest than the people you'll find back there." He gestured inside.

In that moment, Marcail thought the boy sounded like Filib. She joined him on the rail. "I guess there are fewer expectations," she said. "Fewer protocols, less pressure," Marcail gestured to Aidan's wig. "Fewer disguises."

"You go to a bar with the right people and the right attitude, you'll find nothing but fun and song and good times," said Aidan.

"The same could be said of balls and parties, though," Marcail replied. "It just takes the right people and the right attitude." She was talking as much to herself as to Aidan.

They looked at each other for a beat, admiring each other and contemplating the conversation.

Finally, Aidan looked over the rail and pointed to a bar. "I'm going there tomorrow night. Why don't you come?"

About twenty-four hours later, Marcail quietly left her bedchamber. Nobody knew why Alistair had no ball or party scheduled for that night, and no one bothered asking. This was a night of relaxation without dancing or socializing, and the MacLeods knew how to spend it.

The MacLeod daughter slunk toward the front door while all of her other family members were asleep… except one.

"Marcail!" hissed a voice. "Marcail!"

Marcail pressed against the wall. She stayed in the shadows, silent and completely still.

"Don't try that with me. I taught you everything you know about stealth."

"Filib," whispered Marcail, "could you just go back to bed, please?"

"Not until you tell me what you're up to." Marcail hesitated. "It's about that boy, isn't it?"

"Will you just let me go?" Marcail was pleading now.

"Marcail, it's all right. Just tell me where you're going."

She hesitated. "The Bairn's Bane."

He looked at her for a dumbfounded moment. Filib couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You're going to the Bairn's Bane dressed like that?"

"What's wrong with it?" She was wearing her most casual dress.

A few minutes later, Filib and Marcail had broken into the servant's living quarters. After sorting through the laundry, they found two sets of shoddier clothes in their sizes, put them on and hid their original clothes under a nearby bench.

While Filib picked the lock on the MacLeods' front gate, Marcail asked him "Why aren't you stopping me? Mercy, why aren't you going back to sleep?"

Filib opened the gate. "Where does that get fun?"

The Bairn's Bane was a typical place of ill repute. Lots of liquor and lots of smoke were shared over lots of stories, games and grudges by lots of criminals, prostitutes and other rascals. Needless to say, it was usually quite noisy when night fell. From three blocks away on any given night, one could hear various musical instruments and assorted curses, in addition to punches, grunts, broken furniture and the occasional gunshot.

"Why is it so quiet?" Marcail asked.

As Marcail and Filib stood in front of the Bairn's Bane, they noticed a strange lack of noise.

"You're sure this is the right place?"

"He pointed right at it," she answered.

Finally, the siblings pushed through the door and found a mass of people inside. They appeared to be the expected group of scoundrels, but their backs were all to the door. Indeed, they all seemed to be focused on the center of the tavern.

As Marcail moved among them, she heard the occasional whisper: "Twenty on Collins." "He doesn't stand a prayer." And so on.

Finally, Marcail and Filib arrived at the center of attention: There was Aidan Gordon, sitting across from a big, ugly, smelly man. They stared at each other in complete silence and complete stillness. Finally, Aidan raised a glass to his lips and drank deeply. A nearby man filled Aidan's cup. A few moments later, the large man drank from his cup, which was promptly filled. Then Aidan drank, then the man drank, then Aidan drank, then the man drank, the man wobbled a bit…

Everyone held his breath…

The man collapsed.

Aidan thrust his fist in the air as the tavern erupted in cheers, shouts and curses. Money transactions, bargains, curses and fights broke out instantly. All the while, Aidan sat there until he finally noticed someone.

"Marcail! You made it!" He approached Marcail and bowed slightly. "And… Filib? Is that right?"

"It is," Filib answered. They shook hands. "Tell me, how can you drink so much and still walk in a straight line?"

"Years of practice, my friend. Maybe you would share a drink with me?"

Filib smiled. "I'd like that."

Aidan turned to Marcail. "But first, may I have the pleasure of a dance?"

"Are the musicians any better?" countered Marcail.

"The most talented you'll find in any bar." Filib went to a corner where a five-piece band sat idle. He tossed a few coins to the conductor. Within seconds, the air was filled with a jig of drums and violins and bagpipes.

Instantly, a dozen drunkards were on the floor, stepping and turning to the music, dancing with whatever prostitute or intoxicated friend happened to be nearby. At the center of the floor were Marcail and Aidan. He was surprised to discover that Marcail was a wonderful dancer. Even Marcail couldn't believe how easily she was moving with her partner.

Filib didn't join in the festivities himself. He simply sat back with a small whisky, smiling at the music and the movement. To Filib, it seemed as though the drunks weren't moving to any rhythm or reason, though they appeared to be dancing nonetheless. However, Marcail and Aidan were unmistakably dancing. What's more, Filib was pleased to see that his sister was smiling and laughing the whole time.

Marcail was happy. She was having a good time, and Filib hadn't seen that in months.

Finally, Marcail and Aidan leapt up and started dancing on an empty table. A few others followed suit, but they were all too drunk to dance and balance on a table at the same time. Finally, everyone stopped dancing and focused on Aidan and Marcail. They clapped in rhythm (or something like it) as the Gordon boy and his guest moved their feet in astonishing displays to the music.

The song ended all too soon, and the bar was filled with applause for the young couple. Aidan helped Marcail down. She couldn't stop laughing, even though she was so short of breath.

"Let's see old Greer do that!" exclaimed Aidan.

"One more time?" Marcail finally asked.

"Not before I get your brother that drink."

A few minutes later, Marcail and Filib sat at a table with their host. All three of them were nursing cups of whisky, bought and paid for by Aidan.

"So tell me," Filib started, addressing Aidan, "what's a gentleman like you doing in a place like this?"

"Fun, excitement, social interaction," Aidan replied. "Same reason you go to dances and parties, really."

"It's like no ball I've been to," said Marcail. "And I've been to too many recently."

"I've noticed that," said Aidan. With a drink, he added "May I ask why?"

"Father wants to show me off, that's all. Hopes I'll find a husband before long."

"See, that's why I come here," Aidan said. "The poor have their nights at the bar, and we aristocrats have our parties. They serve the same function, really, but the poor don't worry as much about decorum and propriety."

"And the rich don't have to worry about rum bottles smashed over their heads," Filib pointed out.

"No," agreed Aidan. "But they do have to worry about protecting their honor. People really do get killed in duels. I've heard of some nasty feuds between clans as well."

"You're saying that people don't kill for honor in bars?" asked Marcail.

"Not as often as they kill out of desperation."

"Or out of drunkenness," added Filib.

"That's different," said Aidan.

"So, you're saying that the poor and the rich have similar pleasures and problems, but in different ways," said Marcail.

"That about sums it up," acknowledged Aidan.

"Never thought about it that way," she said.

"Spend a few nights with the so-called 'dregs' of society, and you start to see things in a whole new way."

"Is that why you keep coming here?" asked Filib.

Before Aidan could answer, a group of patrons starting fighting their way to the table where he sat with the MacLeod siblings. Aidan excused himself from the table and broke up the fight.

"I assume some of you wanted to talk with me?"

One of the guests piped up. "We heard you had some money with you, Aidan."

"So?"

"Any chance you could give me a few coins?"

The guests started fighting again. "What about me?" and so forth.

This time, Marcail was the one who stopped the fight. "Who do you think you are asking money from Aidan for no reason? What does he owe you?"

Aidan gently pushed her aside. He addressed the drunkards. "You want money? Fine. But you'll have to earn it the old-fashioned way."

Within minutes, half of the bar was silent again. The majority of the patrons were huddled once more around a table where Aidan sat. However, there was a lot more money on the table this time, and Aidan was now facing three tavern patrons. Filib was seated at the table as well.

Aidan locked eyes with his opponents for a long moment, then:

"Two Pair," he said.

"Two Pair," repeated Filib.

"Pair."

"Ace high card."

"Straight!"

The winner scooped up his money as Aidan and the other players groaned. One of the guests took his winnings and left. He was immediately replaced by another patron. Marcail heard the usual whispers of "Hey, can I borrow a bit?" and "Just enough to ante, come on." She had joined in the game previously (with money loaned from Filib and Aidan), interested in learning the game. After losing promptly, she sat back and tried to learn from example.

Strangely enough, Aidan was the clear loser. He was the only one betting large amounts of money, and his wallet was shrinking quickly. Sure, Aidan had won a few hands, but only when the stakes were minimal.

Before long, another hand was underway, and five cards were dealt to each player. Everyone anted up, placed their bets, drew cards, and so forth.

Aidan tried to keep his hand hidden from onlookers with a straight poker face, but Marcail could see that he now held two fives and three kings. A full house.

The dealer came around to Aidan.

"Three cards," Aidan said. Marcail could see that he threw away the three kings.

No surprise, really. He'd been playing that way all night.

After losing the hand, Aidan stepped away from the table. There were protests, but Aidan simply threw up his hands. "Nothing left, guys. Keep playing, have fun." Filib stepped away from the table as well.

"That was generous of you," whispered Filib.

Aidan smiled. "So you noticed?"

"I don't believe that you spend so much time around taverns and wind up so bad at cards."

They sat down with Marcail. "Do they know you let them win?" she asked Aidan.

"I hope not. I'm trying to teach them something."

"That they can make a lot of money by gambling?" Filib asked. He didn't hide the question's sarcasm.

"They lose a lot," countered Aidan. "I just don't want them to get the idea that people just go around, handing out money."

"You do," Marcail pointed out.

Aidan sighed and drank deeply. "I sympathize with them, all right? They're good people, just unlucky."

"That's no excuse to throw away your own good luck," said Filib.

"Is it?" asked Aidan. He leaned forward. "Every day, we sit in our palaces with our servants and our abundant food and our warm comfy beds while these people freeze and starve. If I have to make a few sacrifices to set that right, so be it."

"Stop blaming yourself for their problems," said Marcail. "You can't get rid of poverty by yourself. You could spend your whole fortune, and ours too, but your friends here would still go hungry eventually."

"But what if I could make one life better? Just one?" He pointed to a guest. "Carbrey there won a lot of money off me just now. If he uses that money for just one warm meal between him and his family, my money will be well spent."

"All that money is really worth it?" Filib asked.

"It is when you see it through Carbrey's eyes."

They let that point hang in the air for a while.

Marcail finally spoke up. "But there must be a better way than gambling. The men here are reasonably fit. They must be suitable for labor. And the women are surely fit for something better than prostitution."

Aidan let out a wistful smile. "I know that. I've tried to show them, but they never listened."

"I guess they like this way of living," said Filib.

"A fair guess," Marcail agreed. "And if that's so, I'd say it's their choice."

Aidan nodded. "Aye." He raised his glass. "Here's to the poor."

They all raised their glasses and drank.

The doors exploded open a split second later.

"Where izze? Where izzat reeky whoreson baggage?"

Marcail had met quite a few big and ugly men that night. Possibly more than on any other night of her life. But at that instant, the biggest, ugliest, hairiest, smelliest drunk on two legs had barged through the door. Naturally, Aidan was not intimidated as he approached the drunk.

"Hello, Sorley," he addressed the newcomer. "I don't suppose you're looking for me?"

Marcail watched as "Sorley" slogged his way to half an inch from Aidan's face. She was amazed that he didn't flinch.

"My money. Gimme my money!"

"What are you talking about?" asked Aidan.

"You gimme money for my wife!"

"I gave you plenty last week."

The drunk was undeterred. "You've always been giving me money for 'er!"

"Yet she's still dying and you're still drunk," Aidan responded.

"You should still give 'im the money, Gordon." As the bar patron spoke, he stood up and went next to Sorley. "You've seen his wife, how bad off she is."

Another patron joined him. "You know that every man deserves a second chance."

Marcail moved to protest, but Filib stopped her.

"I've lost count of how many 'chances' I've given Sorley," countered Aidan.

"I ask you fer money," slurred Sorley, "now you givit to me like y' always do! Right now!"

Aidan looked him dead in the eye. "Come back when you're sober."

"NOW!" Sorley brought his fist crashing down toward Aidan. Naturally, he'd been on his guard for a while by that point. Aidan swiftly dodged the blow. A split-second later, Sorley's friends moved in.

The three of them fought with brute strength, but Aidan countered with speed. It was no contest. Every time the thugs advanced, they found their blows dodged and their feet swept from underneath them. Unfortunately, it was clear that Aidan had no intention of hurting his attackers. Sorley and his friends did not seem to have that scruple.

As for the drunks surrounding Aidan and Sorley, they didn't want to be left out of the action, but they couldn't pick sides between Aidan and Sorley (that would require a sober mind and a lot of pesky thinking). So, the majority of the patrons took their pent-up energy out on each other. The result started out as pandemonium, then quickly escalated to pandemonium with lots of cussing, and eventually ended as pandemonium, cussing, broken furniture, gunfire and – worst of all – bad aim.

Aidan could concentrate in the midst of all this, but his movement was more limited and his senses were blurred slightly by the added noise. However, he clearly heard the sound of a bottle breaking behind him.

Aidan spun around to see Sorley approach with a broken rum bottle. The sight flashed by too quickly for Aidan to react…

Though he did see Filib emerge from the crowd to punch the brute's gut.

Aidan and Filib shared a quick smile before they noticed Sorley's companions approach. The Gordon and the MacLeod defended themselves incredibly well. Filib's opponent was throwing punch after punch, but the MacLeod boy swatted the blows away as he moved in. Eventually, the thug backed himself into a corner, and Filib was at point-blank range. One fierce blow to the head and Filib's opponent was down and out.

Aidan's opponent had a rather unfair advantage in the form of a hidden knife. Within one second, that advantage was taken away with a strike inside the wrist. Aidan didn't bother getting the knife back, he just went in for more punches while the brute was recovering. The guy tried retaliating, but Aidan was simply too fast. Of course, Aidan didn't want to hurt his adversary too badly, but that decision was made for him by a pewter mug that someone threw.

The mug clanged against the thug's left temple and he was out. That mug was aimed poorly to begin with, but another half-inch and Aidan would've been clocked instead. He took a second to appreciate his good luck.

Within that second, Sorley had a knife to Aidan's neck. "The money, Gordon. Now!"

Aidan didn't bother thinking about escape. Sorley had him outmuscled and he knew it. Instead, Aidan simply looked at the knife and thought "Hm. That looks familiar." This was followed by a string of silent curses for not disposing of that knife.

Filib watched the situation, and he knew better than to go help Aidan. Sorley had his eyes locked on the MacLeod boy; one move and Aidan would be dead before Filib would get to him.

Then, Filib noticed something just over Sorley's shoulder. He smiled and thought "Maybe I won't have to do anything after all."

Crash! Tink tink tink…

WHUMP!

Sorley went slack and fell over sideways, freeing Aidan. He spun around to see a two-hundred pound, full-grown man toppled by a hundred-pound sixteen-year old girl with a rum bottle.

Aidan and Marcail smiled at each other for a long moment. His gratitude went unspoken. He broke the moment to let out a shrill whistle. The whole bar immediately went silent.

Aidan yelled "A free drink to anyone who helps me throw out the trash!"

Not three minutes later, Aidan led twenty bar patrons (including Filib and Marcail) as they threw Sorley outside to sleep with the pigs.

Aidan joined the MacLeod siblings as they walked home. As she walked, Marcail took in the silence of the city's streets. She knew that the city would awaken in a few hours, but right now, after seven days and seven nights of noise, the stillness was heavenly.

However, it was also rather awkward, as none of the trio had spoken a word since leaving the Bairn's Bane. They couldn't seem to find anything to say. Finally, Aidan cleared his throat.

"Marcail?"

"Hm?"

"I never did thank you."

"For what?"

"You saved my life back there," he said.

"No I didn't," she said. "He was so drunk I knocked him over. You couldn't have done the same?"

Aidan smiled and nodded at the jest.

"It's I who should be thankful," she continued. "For so long now, I've been longing for something different. Some break in tedium from the usual soirees."

"It was a good time indeed," Filib added.

"Not really so different from a party, though," said Aidan. "Bars and ballrooms may have different trappings and different clientele, but they're both around for the same reason."

"To entertain their patrons." Marcail finished the thought.

Filib smirked. "We should invite some of those drunkards to a ball sometime."

"Or the rich and prosperous to the Bairn's Bane!" added Aidan.

Marcail stopped for a fake curtsy. "May I have this dance, Greer Gordon?" She flailed around in a drunken manner, grinning as wide as she possibly could. Aidan and Filib both laughed heartily at the imitation.

Almost too soon, they had arrived at the MacLeod residence. They stood there for a moment in awkward silence. Silently, the MacLeod siblings walked toward their front gate.

"Wait!"

The MacLeods spun to face Aidan again. He stood there uncomfortably for a moment. Finally: "That was a good fight wasn't it, Filib?"

"A good card game, too," answered Filib.

Another pause. "Care to do it again sometime?"

Filib approached Aidan and traded they a firm handshake. "Anytime."

They smiled and Filib went back to the gate.

"And Marcail…" It could've been the sunrise, but Marcail thought Filib was blushing a bit. She smiled a bit, watching him so uncomfortable. Finally, he said:

"That was quite a dance."

She smiled and nodded, walking towards him.

"Care to…"

She threw her arms around Aidan and kissed him. Hard. Aidan returned the kiss, and a few seconds later, she gently pulled her lips away.

"I'll be waiting," she said.

She turned and left for the front gate. Filib had already picked the lock and opened the gate. She stepped through, and her brother locked the gate shut once more. Afterwards, he turned to face her with a contented smirk.

"You're not angry? Shocked?" she asked.

"I'm shocked it took so long," he retorted.

Indeed, that was the beginning of a beautiful love affair between Marcail MacLeod and Aidan Gordon. They entertained each other and danced beautifully for the rich while they made merry and raised hell for the poor. Filib had also warmed up to the Gordon boy; they used their respective skills in conning and fighting to get each other out of some nasty scrapes.

A few years later, Aidan was taken into the MacLeods' good graces as he wed their treasured daughter. Marcail eventually gave birth to a daughter of her own, but that's for another story.