"But there are. Dozens." Hope closed her eyes as his fingers feathered over her cheek, reducing her neural matter to jelly. "Hundreds, probably."

He chuckled. "None that are important. You bewitch me. You confound me."

Hope was feeling altogether too bewitched and confounded herself. "We don't trust each other. We certainly don't understand each other. Sometimes I doubt we're even speaking the same language."

She blew out a puff of air. "And there's that other small problem. I'm from the twentieth century and you say you're from the thirteenth."

"So I am."

"You see? You say something like that and expect me to believe you? You may as well tell me pigs can fly and men have never walked on the moon."

"The moon?" A muscle moved at his jaw. "Men have walked there?"

Hope closed her eyes. He was doing it again-confusing her, tempting her, making her think he might actually be telling the truth. "You are not from the thirteenth century, MacLeod. You can't be."

He stiffened. "But I am."

"And you did not get flung down into this glen by some mysterious action of magic or fate."

A frown cut down his forehead. "I did."

So they were right back where they started from, Hope thought bleakly. "So much for trust."

"Look at me." His hand moved over her shoulder and tightened. "Look at me and really see me. Do you think I want to be here in this time? Do you think I like to be thought a fool or a liar?" His shoulder sank back against the rough wall.

Hope shivered. She didn't believe him. Couldn't believe him. But she couldn't bear to see him so lost and angry either.

She laid one hand on his rigid shoulder, feeling the muscles stretched taut beneath. "Maybe...we should meet halfway."

"And where would that be?" he said bitterly. "Somewhere in the seventeenth century?"

"Ronan, listen-"

"No, you listen. I did not choose to come here, Hope O'Hara. I did not choose to find you. But I have. And now I will not pretend that you do not stir me, goad me." His eyes darkened. "Of all the women, all the places, that I should find you here...in my own glen, seven centuries into my future..." His muscles clenched. "Do not tell me it would be bad between us. Joining our bodies would be heaven itself." His eyes hardened. "I would make most certain of that."

Hope shivered at the rough desire in his voice. She had a sudden image of his body sliding deep and hard into hers. He would be demanding, thorough, ruthlessly patient.

God help her, Hope wanted all that.

He stared at the locked door, his eyes grim. "And I would show you so, were the choice mine. Here and now, I would take you as mine, while the touch was hot and sweet for us both."

Hot and sweet.

His.

Hope swallowed, swept with need, wanting to trust him. It had been too long since she had trusted another person.

Finally she had found a hero, a man of real honor. And who expected she would find him right here in distant, sleepy Glenbrae?

He stared at her, his eyes masked. "But there are things you must know. I am hated, feared. I have done things that shame me sorely."

"There must have been a reason."

He laughed bitterly. "Out of obedience to a man who values nothing and no one. And because power, once tasted, is a hard thing to forgo."

She looked at him in confusion, uncertain what he was trying to explain.

He made a harsh sound. "It matters not," he said. "War and betrayal are simply words to you. We share nothing save our love for this house. So why do I think only of this?" His fingers opened over her breasts. Her response was instant, as aroused skin tightened beneath his searching touch. Time seemed to burn.

To crawl.

Dimly, through the sudden hammering of her heart, Hope heard a sound above her. She blinked, fighting off the pull of his eyes, trapped in shifting waves of need.

A handful of pebbles rained down from the ceiling. One struck her head and a dozen more hit the flagstone floor like distant gunshots.

MacLeod turned and cursed as he saw a dark shadow plunge through the roof hole and hurtle down toward them.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

DOWN FROM THE CEILING, Banquo shot through the air, a blur of noise and gray feathers.

"Come, thick night!" he cried. "Come, thick night!"

Hope blinked, feeling reality crash down. What was she thinking of? What had come over her usual logic and calm practicality?

Looking down, she saw her sweater hitched below the curve of her breasts. With a strangled oath she wrenched it down, while MacLeod watched, his eyes glinting.

She gnawed at her lip. "About what just happened. It's-done. Finished." She crossed her arms at her waist. "It...can't happen again. Ever."

He made no answer, but the look in his eyes could have scored granite.

Banquo circled the room twice, then alighted on Hope's shoulder, looking very pleased with himself. Hope took a deep breath, delighted to have a distraction. "Banquo, you dear thing, how did you find us?"

"Fair is foul," the bird rasped. "Fair is foul."

"The creature truly talks?"

"And talks and talks." Hope managed a laugh. "Morning, noon and most of the night. A regular orator, aren't you?" She stroked the bird's long feathers. "How did you find us? Did Jeffrey send you?"

The parrot fluffed his plumage. "Foul is fair," he called. "Foul is fair."

MacLeod snorted. "He speaks without sense."

"That's Banquo, all poetry and no substance. Just like several politicians I could name." Hope pushed to her feet and jiggled the door handle. "Jeffrey, you can open the door now."

No response.

She frowned at Banquo. "Where are they?"

The bird preened on her shoulder. "The greatest is behind."

"Don't tell me you escaped again." Hope's frown deepened. "Do they even know you're gone?"

"Nothing but what is not," came the shrill answer.

With a sigh, Hope turned to MacLeod. "This is no rescue after all, I'm afraid. The crazy bird disappears for a day or two, then comes soaring back as if nothing had happened. We've never found out where he goes. Just my luck that he'd do it now."

She made a tight, angry sound and moved back her hair impatiently. Her hands were shaking. She felt cold and hollow inside again. Why didn't anyone come?

"Hope." It was a single word, a simple breath of sound, but the rough tenderness in the word made her head turn.

"I know I'm safe, and I know the walls probably won't cave in. But knowing doesn't seem to help."

She locked her arms across her chest, watching his face. "You...you don't have to look at me that way," she whispered.

"What way?"

"As if I was fire and you were frozen."

"Perhaps it is so."

Hope swallowed, trapped by the heat in his eyes. "You weren't listening to me."

"I heard each word you said." His slow, patient look told her that the explanations made no difference to him. He would accept only what he wished to accept.

Outside, the metal bolt shook. The door rattled noisily. "Is anyone in there?"

Hope started to answer, but MacLeod pressed a hand over her mouth. "Wait," he said softly.

The door shook again. "Hello in there?"

"Is it your friend Jeffrey?"

Hope nodded, her response muffled by MacLeod's fingers.

It was MacLeod who answered. "Aye, it is us, Jeffrey. We are locked within."

"Thank God we found you." The door latch vibrated. "But this damned bolt is shoved tight. It's going to take me a minute or two...."

MacLeod let his fingers fall from Hope's mouth.

"What kind of trick was that?" Her face was white with anger.

"No trick," he said coolly. "It was best to determine who was outside before answering."

"Best for whom? Are you hiding from someone? If I have a criminal staying on my property, I damned well want to know it."

"Do you always curse in this way?"

Hope snorted. "Only around you."

"You need feel no alarm. I have committed no crimes."

Hope glared at him, her fury unabated. She was still glaring when the bolt slid free and sunlight poured into the room.

Jeffrey bounded inside. "Thank heaven. We've been looking for you everywhere." He looked sharply from one to the other. "What are you doing out here, Hope?" He stared at MacLeod. "With him?"

"We were locked in." Hope took a jerky breath and started toward the door.

Sunlight spilled over the weathered slope. Freedom. Open spaces.

"Locked in? How?"

Outside she dragged a shaky hand through her hair. "The door slammed shut and somehow the bolt fell. Probably from the wind."

"The wind?" Jeffrey looked unconvinced. "That's an oak door and a solid steel bolt. It would take more than the wind to-"

MacLeod cut in curtly. "We will answer questions later. Let her go to the fire. Can you not see she is stiff with cold?"

"You do look a bit odd, Hope." Jeffrey followed her outside, frowning. "Are you all right?"

"Fine. Just fine." She closed her eyes and drew in fresh air, spinning in a dizzy little circle. "It was cold in there. Too...narrow for comfort."

"But your face is bright red. You both look like you were just..." Jeffrey's voice fell away as he saw MacLeod surreptitiously straighten his makeshift kilt.

"We're fine, Jeffrey. We just need to warm up." Hope indulged in another steadying breath. "And then MacLeod needs some decent clothes before he freezes to death."

MacLeod's brow rose. "What is amiss with my attire?"

"Nothing, assuming you're an extra in a big-budget Hollywood epic set in thirteenth-century Scotland. In fact, Mel Gibson would hire you on the spot."

"What is a-"

Hope rolled her eyes. "Not again." As they followed the winding path along the glen, she slanted a cocky glance at her visitor. "Make my day, MacLeod. Tell me how you just happen to know how to thatch a roof."

TWENTY MINUTES LATER MacLeod stood scowling at his image.

He had never seen a silvered mirror crafted so large, nor had he ever seen such a misbegotten pair of leggings. Both left him feeling damnably uncomfortable.

Warily he inspected the strange metal teeth riding up over his manhood. "It is safe, this thing you call zipper?"