For MacLeod there was nothing but her mouth, nothing but the heat they made together so perfectly.

He fought for control even as he found her heat beneath her garment of soft wool. With expert hands, he slid aside lace and silk and moved within her, showing her about grace and aching beauty.

"Feel this, Hope. Feel me wanting you. Wanting us."

His legs braced her, showing his desire. But his control did not waver.

"Oh, God, I-can't." Her voice shook.

"You can. You will." Time, explanations, nothing mattered but this.

He felt her stiffen, liquid against his hand. Her eyes closed as he eased farther, sheathed perfectly by her deepest heat.

"Beautiful," he whispered. And then he moved again, finding her hidden softness, showing her just how beautiful she was to him. How loved.

Her back arched. Her hands dug into his back and she cried out his name. MacLeod closed his eyes as he felt her tense, then close around him in swift, hot tremors that left him cursing inside. Wanting inside.

So close. So flawless.

But all this could never be his.

Somewhere above the loch a night bird cried in lonely protest, racing beneath the moon, and darkness enfolded the glen.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

HER EYES OPENED TO HIS, hazed with desire. "What am I supposed to say?"

"Nothing." He traced the line of her cheek, smiling slightly.

"That's...it?"

He nodded.

She took a short, unsteady breath. Candlelight gilded her face and her expressive mouth. "So what happens now, Macleod?"

"You tell me how beautiful you are. Because you are."

She swallowed. "But the rest. I mean, just now. You didn't-"

"No, I did not." He touched her face, wishing he could hold her forever. "And I will not." Though the movement was a sword cut at his heart, he eased away from her and smoothed her clothing.

"You're...going?"

He nodded, turning away to gather his armor and leather.

"You're going now?"

He did not answer.

"Just like that?"

"So you can remain hard. So we both can remain hard," he added grimly.

Hope felt something slide into her hands.

"Keep them safe for me. They need...someone."

Hope looked down at the balls of fur wriggling against her skirt. She lifted the kittens to her face, fighting back a hundred questions.

Because it was too late for questions. Now more than ever. He had to go. And she had to watch him.

He led the horse to the door and blew out the single candle, now long guttered. Moonlight traced his cheeks with rough beauty as he turned. "Remember how it felt, mo cridhe. Remember when another man touches you and makes you taste paradise, as one surely will." Moonlight touched his gauntlets, shoved beneath his arm, and Pegasus gave a hugging snort.

"But..."

Then he was gone.

Hope watched without moving until she could see no more of him.

Then, like a sleepwalker, she stumbled back to the house, past Gabrielle and up the hall. She did not bother to shove away her tears as she skirted the brooding portrait hidden in the night's gloom, where it stood firm guard over Glenbrae's ancient secrets.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG.

The floor creaked and a door moved. Was it Ronan?

Hope lay in bed and listened to the wind and the dozen sounds of a settling old house. But there was no echo of a man's footsteps or his booming laugh.

Beside her the telephone pealed shrilly. After wrestling with the cord and knocking off all her pillows, she managed to find the receiver. "H'llo?"

"Where is it?"

Hope gazed blearily at the luminous face of the clock beside her bed. It was 1:32 in the morning.

Wind tapped at the window, and outside the sky was black. "Mr. Wyndgate?"

"That's right. I want to know where the bloody thing is."

Hope stifled a yawn and sat up groggily. "Where what is?"

"The brooch, of course." The collector's voice was very close to a shout. "Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. I placed the brooch in a box and drove directly back here to my country house. I dined and had a short walk, then settled down to work. But then I found that both the brooch and box were gone."

"I don't understand."

"I should think it's quite clear, Ms. O'Hara. No one else but you knew about that piece."

Hope watched lightning crackle against gray banks of clouds. "Why would someone steal the brooch?"

"I would hardly steal from myself, Ms. O'Hara. I have a shattered exterior window and a door that did not damage itself. Did you find a better offer and decide to send someone to steal the brooch back?" he hissed.

Hope straightened slowly, fighting waves of sleep and confusion. "I haven't seen the wolf since you left here this afternoon."

"Can you explain why nothing else was removed? Why did they know exactly what to look for?"

Hope didn't feel up to explaining anything. The man must be crazy. It was the middle of the night.

She was still caught in a dream of cutting gray eyes and a haunting, angular face. She already felt guilty for the sale she had made, though it had been necessary in order to keep Glenbrae House solvent. "This is pure nonsense," she said firmly. "I don't have your brooch, and I certainly didn't pay anyone to steal it from you."

"Be very careful about what you say, Ms. O'Hara, because you're going to have to prove every word in court. You've pocketed a great deal of my money, paid to you in good faith, and I have your signature on a bill of sale. Police do not look kindly on this sort of arranged theft."

Lightning streaked through the sky. Something cracked and skittered down the roof.

Arranged theft? Now he had crossed the line.

Hope's fingers clenched on the receiver. "And if you say much more, you're going to be facing a slander suit."

Cold laughter filled the line. "Indeed? I think that you're lying. I also think that you're going to be very, very sorry that you tangled with me, Ms. O'Hara."

The line went dead.

Hope's hands trembled as she hung up the phone. The accusations were preposterous, she told herself. No police investigation would turn up any evidence that she had been involved in stealing the brooch. In spite of that, the collector's accusations left her distinctly uneasy. If someone had wanted the silver wolf enough to steal it, no one was safe until the thief was found.

"WINSTON WYNDGATE paid you how much?" Gabrielle dropped the whisk she was using to make breakfast.

"Twenty-five thousand pounds," Hope repeated, toying with a piece of toast. "He said it was a very fine piece."

Gabrielle looked stunned. "It must be solid platinum to be worth that kind of money."

"Not platinum. Some kind of hammered silver, I think. But the piece has historical significance and it's very old."

"It must be as old as Methuselah to be worth that much to a cheapskate like Wyndgate."

"Winston Wyndgate, the antiques collector?" Jeffrey ambled into the kitchen and fished a piece of featherlight crepe from Gabrielle's pan, then sighed. "You outdo yourself again, Gabrielle."

"Enough flattery. Sit down and eat before my crepes are ruined."

Jeffrey seemed fascinated by the color that filled Gabrielle's face, but he said nothing as he slid behind the oak table. "I've heard of Wyndgate. He's a regular hawk when it comes to fine antiques.

You can be sure that if he offered that much, your piece was worth even more." He tugged at his hair, leaving it more untidy than ever. "I know a silversmith in Rye, an old friend of the family.

Would you like me to get his opinion?"

"It's too late," Hope said tiredly. "The King's Wolf is gone, and I, for one, am glad of it." She tried not to remember that MacLeod was also gone.

She had slept badly, worse than badly, her dreams haunted by images of border raiders, shouting Highlanders, and a warrior in a black cloak who had died centuries before. The bang of loose shutters had done nothing to help settle her rest.

Nor did the knowledge that her enigmatic visitor was gone.

Money or not, Hope cursed the instant that she had found the old brooch. It had brought her nothing but uneasiness and bleak dreams. And of Ronan MacLeod, she refused to think anything at all.

THAT EVENING at half past five the Glenbrae Investment Club came to order.

Within twelve minutes, eight stocks had been sold, four new stocks had been purchased, and over ten thousand pounds had changed hands. The air was tense, the room was noisy, and every one of the white-haired club members was in seventh heaven.

Morwenna Wishwell pounded the polished wooden desk with her gavel, but no one in the disorderly group seemed to pay the slightest attention. Tables rang with the pounding of fists, and white heads shook as elderly ladies and gentlemen threw themselves into the debate over the next stock predicted to skyrocket.

A slender woman in exquisite pearls and paisley sniffed loudly. "I don't care what you say. Fidelity Fund is the one to watch."

"Ach, rubbish." Archibald Brown, the Wishwells' nearest neighbor, waved his half-filled teacup, managing to spill a very fine Keemun brew over his muted tweed jacket. "'Tis RK Telephone for me."

"What about that new biotech company?" A woman with shining white hair sat forward enthusiastically. "I hear they are injecting growth genes in clogged arteries and making new blood vessels for heart patients."

"Biotech?" Archibald Brown sniffed. "All fine talk, ye know it as well as I, Samantha. It takes years for human trials."

Morwenna wielded her gavel again. "Has anyone checked the Toronto Stock Exchange Index today?" Somehow she managed to be heard among the clamor.

A frail old gentleman with wire-rim glasses and glowing cheeks raised a file in unsteady fingers.

"I've got the papers here. Primary reports are over there by the coffee cake. I say we should go for oil and gas and forget the Koreans."

"You'll na put money of mine into the energy sector, man," Archibald thundered. "Bound to fail.

Rising costs, that's all you'll see there."

"Bound to fail, is it?" the man with the glasses demanded, pushing from his seat.

As the two gentlemen prepared to square off, Morwenna intervened once more. "Stop that, you two.

Fighting solves nothing, which I've told both of you since you were in short pants. Now, settle down and behave so we can analyze the profit margins according to our agenda."

From the doorway, Hope watched. She kept listening foolishly for a sound on the stair or a low, rough laugh from the courtyard. But Ronan MacLeod was gone, his horse and armor with him.