Not more death."

The old warrior had died then. Edward's brutish soldiers had found Ronan hunched over his father's lifeless body. In spite of his father's words, the boy of twelve had bitten back tears and fought like a man. More than a few scars on his back bore old testimony to his rage against the English invaders.

But in the end Ronan had failed. There had been no hope of victory in that icy glen. Bloody and defeated, bound by ropes and steel, he had done as his father bade and gone with his enemies. There had been no choice.

"What purpose do you hold for me in this?" he whispered now to the God he had served so well in the East. But God seemed lost to him here, where mist veiled the trackless hills. Perhaps God had forgotten all about him.

Down the glen, the wind seemed to carry his words through the tall pines. For a second Ronan almost imagined the weight of his father's hand on his shoulder and the sad, cruel keening of the pipes.

Tears burned at his cheeks. Tears for warriors gone and dreams shattered. He had traveled far to find a home, only to find it stolen. But why?

Again there were no answers.

Blindly he made his way along the rocky slope. He had to believe he had been brought here for a purpose.

Behind him pebbles rattled hollowly over the bank.

MacLeod's fingers locked on his belt. Even here the woman came, fearless just as he had known she would be.

He made a low, savage sound. He could face no one now. The strangeness was still too raw, leaving him with anger that roiled to find a victim. "Go away."

"No. Not until I have some answers."

He cursed softly. He wanted the same thing she did, but there were no answers to give. He tugged at the wool girding his waist. He did not trust his control, and the last thing he wanted was to hurt her.

Better to make her go, and this would be the fastest way. "Stubborn creature. I ask you to leave."

The cloth loosened at his waist.

"And I'm asking you for answers."

"There are none. But if you wish to stay, you are welcome to watch me bathe."

He pulled the cloth free. As he had expected, she gasped, a soft sound lost in the swirl of the water as he met the loch.

The current was as cold as an assassin's heart. Ignoring the chill, MacLeod strode deeper. He heard a strangled cough and swift footsteps that crossed the bank. So she had gone.

He knew a moment of regret. What was he to do now? What sort of life could this strange, hostile world hold for a warrior such as he?

All he wanted was to go home.

"I'm not leaving, you know." A twig snapped. "Not until I have an explanation."

She sounded angry.

She sounded frightened.

The Scotsman's lips curved in bitter humor. By honor, so was he.

But even frightened, she would not leave. He was beginning to see the steel in her. It was clear that she cherished his house, and she did it without the help of any man. Extraordinary that the woman was a fighter just as he was.

But this was one fight she would lose. MacLeod was determined to be alone.

He strode out deeper, his teeth chattering as he welcomed the cold currents in a headlong plunge.

Exhilarated, he let the icy water clear his muddled thoughts.

So he had lost his time and his world. At least he was alive. With luck he could find a way back.

And if not...

If not, he must adapt as he had adapted before.

God's hand was in all things, even the most insignificant, so the Church said. MacLeod took refuge in that thought now.

He had survived before and he would survive again.

As a boy, he had plunged into this same loch. Already lanky at the age of eight, he had splashed and made mayhem in the cove while his three sisters mocked and ambushed him in turn. Three beauties, they had been. Strong-willed just as Hope O'Hara was.

But Ronan had seen their laughter fade. He had seen the English take them, and even now he remembered their screams and the curses, so abruptly silenced. Tied with rope and marched over the hill like cattle, taken God knew where. And nothing he or any other MacLeod man could do to save them.

No more laughing then. No more sparkling eyes.

The dark memories clung as he broke the surface. Sputtering, he threw back his head. Did the English still fight the clans now? he wondered. Were the stones of the glens still dark with Highland blood?

If so, God help them.

When he turned, the woman was still on the bank, her shoulders stiff as steel. "I'm not leaving. You may be stubborn, but I'm more stubborn. If you swim away, I'll just follow you."

Humor warred with irritation. For such a small woman, she would task a Norman sausage butcher, so she would. "What answers do you want of me?"

"Why you left, for one. Make it the truth this time."

Did he know what the truth was? And could she bear it if he told her?

MacLeod studied the rocky bank. The truth was, he felt no comfort being near her. The truth was that he didn't want to feel her beauty eating into his very soul. He had enough trouble struggling to control his reason without her to assault his senses.

"One man's truth may be another man's lies. They may hurt more than you know."

"I'll risk it."

"Perhaps I will not." It was too soon to speak of what had happened. He needed time to understand for himself first.

But she sat down on the bank, her eyes unflinching. "I'm here to stay. A little naked skin isn't going to scare me away."

He drew a harsh breath. "It would be safer if you left."

"Safer for whom?" She danced on the edge of a flame, he thought. And like most women, she was unaware of her danger.

But she could be bested.

He stood up slowly, water lapping at his chest. "You still choose to stay?"

Her cheeks flamed, but she did not move, fully resolute. MacLeod could not help but admire her.

By heaven, she was a stubborn sort of female.

So be it. She would see where her stubbornness led her.

Her eyes flickered toward his chest-then lower. When he realized where she was looking, his mouth twisted in a hard grin. So the lady was curious, was she? If so, it would be her undoing. "Are you so anxious to inspect my limbs?"

New color swept into her face, but she stared him down. "I might be-if you had anything worth looking at, which you don't. In fact, I've seen better muscle definition on a sumo wrestler."

MacLeod had no idea what a sumo was, but he recognized an insult when he heard it. His dark brow rose. "You wound me."

She snorted. "Even a Mack truck couldn't wound you."

"What is-"

"Never mind."

Ronan MacLeod suddenly knew she was lying. Perhaps it was because her cheeks flamed red, like a choirboy's in a brothel. Or perhaps it was the way her eyes kept slanting toward the water where it lapped at his waist.

Curious, the woman was. He did not displease her. But she was a complete innocent, judging by her restless, uneasy movements.

The knowledge sent heat coursing to his half-frozen limbs. "You have studied many men?"

She crossed her arms, all defiance. "Enough to know what's good when I see it."

"And how many men is that, Hope O'Hara?"

She looked out over the water, her voice low and breathless. Was the memory of a man's heated touch with her even now?

Something like envy tightened his throat.

"Dozens, that's how many."

As a liar, she was appalling. But as a woman, she was entrancing beyond measure. MacLeod's curiosity grew. "And you took these men as lovers after you made your...observations?"

"That's none of your business."

"Perhaps not." His lips pursed. "You found them pleasurable?"

More color snapped across her cheeks. "Absolutely. Let me tell you, I had huge pleasure. Incredible pleasure."

"You observed them in groups, did you? Was it three at a time? Four? Twenty?"

She glared at him. "I don't remember." She shifted from side to side, frowning. "It was a while ago."

"How long past?"

"Two years-three. I forget."

He grinned. He couldn't help it.

"And what is that silly smile supposed to mean?"

"If they had been MacLeod men, you would not have lost the memory so easily."

"Says you. All men get boring after a while. All those nights. All those amazing bodies." She gave an airy wave. "Who can even keep track?"

For a woman who was as skittish as a colt on spring ice, she claimed the worst sort of depravities.

She could not even lie without flushing the color of new roses. Yes, she was a pitiful liar.

And he was charmed beyond description.

She dressed like a man, worked like a man, thought like a man. She even knew how to argue like a man. MacLeod bit back a laugh. She was a woman to make a man's temper climb and his pulse race. He only wished he had met her in his own time.

The wind ruffled her strange, boyish cap of chestnut curls, sending fresh color through her cheeks.

Though her leggings were odd, they hugged her slender legs most pleasantly.

The thought of her body was an instant mistake. Even in the icy water he was not immune to desire, MacLeod discovered. But there could be no future between this woman and himself. He might be tossed back into his own time at any moment, as swiftly as he had come. By all honor, this sudden heat singing through his limbs could come to naught.

His reason knew that.

His body did not.

And soon she would see the evidence of his desire most clearly.

She wriggled restlessly. "Stop staring at me."

"If you wish." But he could no more master his urge to stare than he could walk on water. In this chaotic, unfamiliar world, she was life and color to him.

Sand swept around his feet, mottling the crystal water. Like those tiny, swirling grains, he was tossed adrift, his future unclear. Somehow he sensed that she held the clue to the mystery of his arrival here.

"Why did you leave the kitchen? What were you so afraid of?"

"I saw things I did not wish to see."

"What kind of things?"

"Do you hound a man always, giving him no peace?"

"I have to know. In a way you're my responsibility now," she said tensely.

A MacLeod was no one's responsibility but his own, by heaven. Especially not a woman's. "I have no answers to give you, woman! All is loss and confusion." MacLeod closed his eyes. He heard water gurgle past, relentless as time in its passage. "Mad, that makes me. A very fool. Laugh at me as you will."