CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

HOPE RACED DOWN TO the kitchen to find a pot boiling over and the curtains flying madly.

Gabrielle was huddled against one wall, a spatula clasped to her chest.

MacLeod stood in the center of the room, staring in horror at the television set above Gabrielle's worktable. At his feet were the shattered remains of an old but very ugly Sevres platter.

"Diable." He made the sign of the cross, then pulled his sword from the floor. "Stand away. This is the devil's dark work."

Hope felt a hysterical laugh build in her throat. "A television set?"

"They move, these demons."

Hope took a cautious step forward. "It's all right, MacLeod. Put down the sword. It's only reruns of Gilligan's Island."

"You know their names?"

"Of course I do. Boring, but hardly the work of the devil."

He traced the mark of the cross again, this time with his sword. "Evil can be most cunning," he said harshly. "In the Holy Lands I had many visions. Around the campfire mirages came often to torment our souls in the desert light, but none were so clear as this one."

Hope saw him tense, his hand rising. "What are you doing?" She managed to catch his sword arm seconds before he would have decimated the glass screen. The man was consistent, at least. Every piece of his story meshed, right down to the part about the Holy Lands and the campfires.

But there was one small problem.

Time could not bend. Space and matter did not transmute, swallowing up unsuspecting victims.

Get a grip, she told herself.

"I own demesne lands in the fens of Norfolk and forty acres in Normandy." MacLeod's jaw clenched. "I have ridden with kings and supped with the mightiest of Outremar. Such tricks cannot deceive me."

Gabrielle was looking at him as if he were crazy. And Hope feared that any moment Winston Wyndgate might appear.

Explanations would have to wait, she decided. "It's all right, MacLeod. Trust me." She reached for the television controls, but he seized her hand.

On the screen Gilligan launched into one of his incessant arguments with the captain. It appeared to have something to do with a monkey and a very large coconut.

MacLeod stood stiffly, his whole being locked on the square glass screen. His concentration was almost frightening, Hope thought.

"How do the men fit inside the box?"

"They're not real, MacLeod. They're just images."

"So they are spirits."

When MacLeod raised his sword again, Hope moved in front of him. "That's enough culture for one day." She tried to turn off the power, but missed, and a moment later the screen filled with a glorious panorama of the Cartwright family galloping over the high plains of the Ponderosa Ranch.

MacLeod muttered harshly. "What manner of knights are these?"

"Not knights, cowboys."

"I know what a cow is," he said with angry dignity. "I also know what a boy is." He gestured fiercely at the television screen. "These are neither cows nor boys. And their horses are strange."

Gabrielle and Jeffrey had crept closer behind her and were staring at MacLeod in shock.

"You've never seen a cowboy?" Jeffrey asked. "The Magnificent Seven? Lonesome Dove?"

MacLeod's frown deepened. "Tricks and more tricks." He kept one eye on the television while he leveled his sword protectively in front of Hope. "What kind of magic have you conjured?"

"Not magic, technology. Science, MacLeod."

His face held no sign of understanding.

Jeffrey gave a low whistle. "He's serious. The man has never seen a cowboy before."

The tiny hairs stirred at the back of Hope's neck.

Frowning, she hit the power button and the screen went dark. She had enough problems for one morning without questioning her own sanity or the arcane laws of physics. Besides, MacLeod was favoring his good knee again. Crawling up the steep roof must have been agony for him.

"You should have told me your knee was bothering you again."

"It does not pain me." Even as he spoke, he slid more weight onto his other foot, grimacing slightly.

"Yeah, right," she muttered, tugging him toward the stairs.

"No. I want to know about tel-e-vision. In my time-"

"Later, MacLeod. Since you've worked so hard, I want you to have a nice hot soak. The heat will help your knee."

"Heating water will be too much trouble," he said gruffly.

Hope tugged at his arm, anxious to get him out of the kitchen before Wyndgate appeared. "No problem. I expect I can manage to turn a few handles for you."

The cozy bathroom had high ceilings, and the walls were lined with blue-and-white wallpaper crowded with scenes of cats. Sun shone through fine lace curtains as Hope opened the tall armoire by the door. "Here are clean towels. Don't feel you have to rush." She turned when she heard no answer. "MacLeod?"

He stood frozen in the doorway, one hand clenched to a fist. "This is the place?" He traced the porcelain sink warily. "You bathe in this?"

"No, over here." Hope pointed to a luxurious oversize tub nestled on intricate wooden feet. "There's sandalwood or jasmine soap. Take your pick."

"Soap is for women," MacLeod said flatly. "Have you no sand?"

Sighing, Hope flicked on the faucets and watched hot water stream into the tub. "Sorry, no sand."

Hesitantly he stuck a finger into the water. "It burns."

"It had better burn. I paid a fortune to have the plumbing redone."

MacLeod stood mesmerized by the water, as intent as a child with a new toy. Hope decided it was time to spring her next question. "Now you can tell me what was really going on out there by the loch."

His head rose slowly. "Going on?"

"That's right. Don't think I didn't notice how you were watching the woods before we were locked in the shed."

He frowned. "I do not know what you mean."

Hope sighed. Talking to him was like trying to discuss emotions with Mr. Spock. "Don't try to distract me. I want to know why you were so uneasy. I especially want to know what happened with that door."

MacLeod stirred the water. Hope was fairly certain he was stalling for time. "Well?"

He turned, moving closer. One finger rose to her cheek. "You have water here." Very gently he lifted the fragile, glistening bead onto his finger.

The movement made Hope's entire body tighten. She took a step backward, more angry at herself than him. "Forget about the water. I want answers."

"Answers were na what you wished of me before." The Gaelic cadences were rough in his voice.

"Outside by the loch, you were open to me, mo run. Open to all that you were feeling."

Hope swallowed. He wasn't going to let her forget, was he? "That was then, and this is now."

"Is forgetting so easy for you?"

Hope had not forgotten anything, but she wasn't about to cave in to lust again. She couldn't afford to. "I'll survive."

Motionless, Ronan MacLeod watched the currents hiss and ripple. He marveled at hot water that ran from a metal hole with no fire, and lights that glowed from glass globes set on the walls. Miracles of her time, he thought, and she counted them for naught.

By honor, in this age even bathing taxed his reason. He could never be comfortable here.

And what of his suspicions? Once they were freed, he had immediately surveyed the area, but the two men in the shadows were gone. He could confide his suspicions, but he had no doubt they would be greeted with the same disbelief as the rest of his story.

No, she would have no more explanations from him now. "It was a trick of the shadows. I imagined I saw a horse and rider among the trees."

"A horse and rider." Hope drummed her fingers on the windowsill. "How come I saw nothing of this supposed horse and rider?"

"Perhaps you are not so observant as I am."

But Hope was certain that MacLeod had been watching the cliffs, and it infuriated her that he would keep secrets affecting her inn. She glanced up, only to find him pulling his borrowed sweater over his head.

The sweater hit the floor.

"What are you d-doing?" she sputtered.

His chest gleamed, dusted with dark hair. Every muscle was sculpted and hard. "Surely it is not customary to wear clothes while bathing? You wish to stay and observe me?" His dark brow arched.

"That would be the second time."

Hope's face flamed. "In your dreams, brother."

"I am not your brother, mo cridhe. We both know that full well." His hands fell to the waist of his jeans.

Outmaneuvered. Outclassed. Outwitted.

Hope turned and slammed the door so hard that the wall rattled behind her. If a few of Gabrielle's copper pots tumbled to the floor, it would still be worth it, she thought grimly.

Her face was still fiery when she settled down in her study. For twenty minutes she sat grimly at her desk, mis-adding column after column of expenses. To her irritation, she found another file was missing, and when she tried to finish the text for an advertisement to appear in a regional travel magazine, all she came up with was a floor full of crumpled paper.

She decided to give up on the ad and attacked a pile of bills. She would transfer Wyndgate's funds the following day, but meanwhile she would have the pleasure of seeing a few creditors paid in full.

When she was finally done, she glanced at her watch, shocked to see that almost two hours had passed. Was Wyndgate still busy with his inspection?

She was about to go in search of him when her office door jerked open.

MacLeod glared at her from the threshold, his hair slicked back, damp from his bath.

His chest was bare and his face was a mask of anger.

"Enough tricks, woman. You will come here now," he rasped.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

HOPE CROSSED HER ARMS and glared back at him. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to say 'please' and 'thank you'?"

"My mother died when I was four," he said flatly. "And now you will come upstairs." His voice was strained, every movement wooden.

Hope didn't care. "What if I don't want to?"

"Then you will regret it."

Her voice shook. "I guess you're out of luck, buster. I've got work to do here, calls to make. And after that, I-"

He hauled her to her feet and pushed her into the hall. "We will talk later."

Hope jerked free of his hand. "Right now. Why are you walking funny?"

Color swept his hard, angled cheeks. "Upstairs. We will talk there."

Hope studied him suspiciously. Something was definitely wrong, but she saw that he wouldn't say anything here. In stiff silence she followed him up the stairs to the bathroom, where steam still drifted through the air. She sat stiffly on the windowsill, trying not to notice the beads of moisture glistening on his broad chest. "Will this be suitable for our discussion, Your Royal Highness?"