There was a flicker of movement beyond the shore, as if from some hidden form caught beneath the heavy woods. Another bird took startled fright.

But when the clouds sailed free and the sun returned, there was no more motion, no more trace of frightened animals.

Only the loch moved, capped with smooth crests. Undisturbed, it rippled on, as old as the dark Highland hills.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

GLENBRAE HOUSE WAS silent, shadowed in the Highlands' early twilight. Clouds of gold and trailing lavender banked the cliffs, but inside, all was still, from weathered eaves to the old tower stairs.

And it was there at the base of the stairs that MacLeod saw the painting. A mere wisp of color, ghostlike in the dusk.

A man in trailing hauberk, chain mail and long gauntlets. A man with regret in his eyes and too much fighting in his face.

Himself.

Who had captured his likeness here by the first turning of the stair? Who had seen beyond his habitual mask to the darkness of his wary heart?

But it was his image; of that, he had no doubt. The gauntlets were his own, crafted at the hand of a singularly skilled armorer of fine Bordeaux steel. Each rivet was clear, down to the leather straps at the cuff and fingers.

Him.

In that moment MacLeod realized he was part of this house, part of this remote glen. Perhaps his contribution had been greater than he knew.

History, he reminded himself. The ancient past.

It was his future he contemplated now. How could he leave the way he'd planned? Honor dictated that he stay as long as Hope O'Hara was in danger.

But duty demanded that he go, returning to his time and the people who also needed him. If he stayed longer and his invisible bonds with this twentieth-century female grew stronger...

He bit back a curse. Once again he felt betrayed, a man lost, turned out of his own time. He wondered if the face in the fresco showed the same angry marks of betrayal that lay upon his soul.

The final beams of daylight filtered through the hall, touching the image on the wall. MacLeod saw the sadness in the eyes, the stiff arrogance in the shoulders.

Did he look so? Had he worn his past so clearly about him?

He lifted his hand, half expecting to feel his own flesh and blood caught there upon the wall.

But the half-light played strange tricks, and MacLeod could have sworn his fingers met no obstacle, passing senseless deep into stone.

Into the cold depths of his own heart.

He pulled his fingers back with a muffled curse. There were too many tricks in this place, too many devices to make a man question his logic.

Intent on his own image, he did not hear the light step behind him or the soft chuckle.

"Most impressive, is he not?" Gabrielle stood beside him, studying the ghostly fresco. "A man who knows too much of war and far too little of things that truly matter."

His brow rose. "And what things would that be?"

"Laughter. Fine wine. A dozen noisy children in a sunny house."

"Hmm."

She did not turn to look at him, and MacLeod was glad for that.

"And what do you know of these things that truly matter?"

She gave a shrug that could have meant any of several things-acceptance, regret or anger. "I know because they are things that I've never had. Never hoped to have." Her voice fell. "Before I came here, it went badly for me. No work. No money. No hint of any future. There were nights on rainy streets when I was hungry and cold...." Her shoulders stiffened. "Times when I thought of selling my body, since it seemed I had no other skills."

"But you did not?"

She turned then, a glint in her dark eyes. In the half-light he saw pride and angry pragmatism.

"We shall pretend, Scotsman, that you did not ask that question."

He gave a tiny smile and nodded.

"This man," she said presently, pointing at the shadowy knight, "has also known cold nights on rainy roads. He has known the power of shifting dreams and he thinks his heart is whole, but he is wrong."

MacLeod looked at his own face, dominated by dark, wary eyes. "He is?"

"But of course. The heart can only be whole when given. Then the dreams take shape, truly real. In that moment all the things that truly matter begin." Silence fell and then Gabrielle sighed. "What do you mean to do about Hope?"

He tried to resent the question but failed. "Leave, most likely. It is her wish as well as mine."

"Is that so?"

MacLeod's face hardened. "She has no need for me here. She can hire another man to fix her roof.

She can hire twenty."

Gabrielle gave an exasperated snort. "With what, may I ask? With kind words and promises of hot meals? No, Scotsman, I think not."

He made an angry gesture, driving a hand through his hair. "But she must have wealth. This house, these lands..."

Gabrielle shook her head. "Every penny went to the purchase and the repairs. It has been months of dust and sawing and work. And just when the future looked secure, the letter came. Taxes," she hissed, making the word a curse. "Enough to break her."

MacLeod didn't speak. Couldn't, when her words had such a ring of truth about them.

"She needs a strong pair of arms and an honest heart. She needs...someone like him." Gabrielle traced the harsh features on the wall.

MacLeod didn't speak. He was too busy thinking about Hope, wondering if any of this could be true.

"Not," Gabrielle murmured, "that anyone asked me."

As he strode outside without a backward glance, she was pleased to see that she had finally penetrated that prickly shell of his. And though it was impossible, she could have sworn she heard him curse.

In perfect medieval French.

"HAVE YOU SEEN HIM?" Hope's face was pale, her shoulders stiff.

Gabrielle frowned and put down her knife. "Seen who? Jeffrey?"

"Him. MacLeod."

"I saw him go outside. Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes ago."

Hope's fingers twisted, restless. "Which way?"

"Over the lawn. To the stable, perhaps." She pointed out the window, where dusk gathered over the glen.

"I see." Hope drew a rough breath. "Very good."

"What is very good? What are you going to do?"

"Exactly what I should have done yesterday. Something I've put off too long." She ran one hand across her waist, as if to smooth away a wave of uneasiness. "I'm going to make him leave."

HE HAD TO GO. Definitely had to go.

She couldn't have him wandering about, overturning her life with that harrowed look in his eyes. A list of the man's problems could have filled a book. Meanwhile, he disturbed her, distracted her, making her forget she had a hundred problems of her own.

That was why he had to go tonight.

Hope kept the words running through her head as she walked toward the stables. Her feet hissed softly on the damp moss and the wind played through her hair. There was just enough light from the rising moon to pick her way over the uneven slope.

Beyond the stable wall she stopped, aware of a muffled stamping and the murmur of a low voice.

She crept to the wall's edge, blinking as she stared into sudden light.

A candle flickered on a rough stone bench, touching a rider and horse as they moved in a controlled dance. At a slight urging from MacLeod's leg, the great horse danced sideways, light as air. Another movement sent him prancing in place. Then, to Hope's awe, the great animal lifted a foreleg smooth as silk and kicked laterally.

There were names for paces like that, she thought. There had to be a whole science to that sort of movement and control that seemed effortless but had to be anything but, especially with an animal so large. Horses like that could only be seen in exhibitions and beer commercials. People didn't actually ride them anymore, not as MacLeod was doing. Not as he had done the night he'd jumped the cliff. A knight in full armor would need a mount large enough to bear the weight of man and armor, she thought. A horse with enough endurance to carry his master through battle upon battle...

What was she thinking? Hope shook off her rambling thoughts and eased back, feeling as if she had intruded on a dream of great beauty, a dialogue of movement and grace captured in silence by candlelight.

Then the horse's head rose. He sniffed and reared.

MacLeod turned, seeing her for the first time. Smiling slightly, he whispered to the horse. The gray mane fluttered as man and beast bent in a low bow.

Hope stepped into the light, struggling for words. "That was...beautiful. He's good, so good. How did he learn those things?"

"Work. Many nights we've spent at this, haven't we, Pegasus?" The horse tossed his head, snorting.

"It shows. He's amazing. So are you." Hope swallowed, remembering why she'd come. "But I need to talk to you."

MacLeod's hands clenched on the gray mane and he slid to the ground in a smooth movement that marked a man who had spent a great part of his life in the saddle.

But not now, Hope saw. The horse carried neither saddle nor bridle. "How...?"

MacLeod strode past her, the horse following at a sedate pace, head erect and entirely conscious of his regal grace.

As Hope followed them into Glenbrae's old stable, she had her second surprise. All was clean, the dirt floor raked and the rough wooden benches now free of litter and leaves. "You did this?"

MacLeod shrugged. "It was a small matter."

But Hope had seen the sorry state of the stables, littered with ten years of leaves and miscellaneous debris. Cleaning it had been beyond her, yet he had done it all in a day.

She trailed her hands over the gleaming saddle, leather straps and bridles hung neatly on the walls.

His armor shone behind him, freshly cleaned. Hope saw a barrel of sand on the floor and realized this was his method. Simple or not, it had worked.

He was a man to take care of things. In his quiet way he would move into a room, carve out his own order and transform everything in a matter of hours. She didn't know whether to be grateful or irritated.

She touched the chain mail and the shining gauntlets, and then a movement in his helmet caught her eye. He shifted quickly for a man so tall, blocking her way. "Did you wish to say something?"

Hope could have sworn he sounded guilty.

If so, she was going to find out why. Maybe he had moved those papers on her desk. Maybe he had done things more destructive than that.

She pushed past him. "What have you got in that helmet?" Expecting the worst, she reached over the rim, seeing nothing but shadows.

Something stirred against her fingers. She heard a muffled meow as a wriggling ball of warm fur pressed against her palm.

Two fluffy heads peered over the helmet's rim, blinking sleepily. A pair of kittens slipped over each other in their eagerness to stand.

"Kittens? Is this what you were trying to hide?"

She could have sworn his face flushed as he reached for the nearest one. Black and white paws skittered over his shoulders, then settled in the wool cradle MacLeod made of his long tartan. "They were alone, hungry. I heated milk in the kitchen and fed them with a cloth."

The kitten purred softly, shoving its velvet nose and face against MacLeod's neck in a haze of happiness. Absently MacLeod settled its wriggling white body beside his friend. "They're hungry again." He opened a jar on the edge of the table, poured milk into a clean rag, and offered it to the greedy newborns.

Hope stared in amazement. Kittens. The man was hiding kittens from her.

She took a ragged breath and forced her splintered thoughts back under control. It didn't matter if he was good with animals, she told herself grimly. She couldn't afford to trust him. He had to go.

"I need to talk to you, MacLeod."

He looked up, one brow arched.

"I am listening."