She told herself she didn't care.

And she knew it was a lie.

With a sigh, she forced her thoughts back to her guests. Every meeting of the Glenbrae Investment Club was a theatrical event that tottered on the edge of chaos. The members took fiercely personal interest in every stock or mutual fund bought and sold, and they were quick to express their scorn for weak choices. The group's varied backgrounds in politics, international trade and military duty gave them broad expertise, which they built upon at every meeting.

She turned to see Gabrielle carrying in a platter with blue corn bread and her special three-alarm black bean soup spiced with Tabasco sauce.

"Just in time." Hope managed a smile. "They're fighting again."

"This will stop them. It is hard to fight on a full stomach, so my mother always said."

"Especially when your mouth is on fire," Jeffrey added, carrying in two huge pitchers of steaming spiced cider.

"You've outdone yourself yet again, Gabrielle." Hope closed her eyes, inhaling the fragrance of cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves.

"It is nothing. A bit of this, a pinch of that. Of course, the green chiles and fresh cilantro were not so easy to find, but I have my ways." She raised her shoulders in an expressive Gallic shrug.

"Where do those people get their energy?" Jeffrey said. "They've been arguing for nearly two hours without a break. Even the lady with the gavel knows more about mutual funds than my father, and that's supposed to be his specialty."

"Oh? Does he work in London?" Hope asked casually.

"He used to."

"But, Jeffrey, you never told me your father was an important man of finances!" Gabrielle put a hand on his arm. "You must go in and join them. They are always thrilled to have new members."

His face reddened. "I don't care a whit about bonds and markets. I had enough of that from my father, morning to night." He charged past Gabrielle, pitchers clinking and cider sloshing.

"They don't seem to be on the best of terms." Hope frowned. "I wonder if his father knows where Jeffrey is."

"Or if he cares. What father would not want to know where his son is? Me, I think I will find him and tell him." Gabrielle stared after Jeffrey, a look of fierce protectiveness in her eyes.

"I don't know, Gabrielle. Jeffrey was very adamant that he wanted nothing to do with his father. He might not thank you for interfering."

"Pfft. As if I care for any thanks. His father should know," she said firmly. "On the day that I met him, Jeffrey had not eaten for three days. Three days," she repeated. "In fact, I would like to tell this so important man of finances a thing or two about his duty as a father."

"But how will you find him?"

Gabrielle smiled darkly. "Me, I have many sources."

Hope didn't doubt it for a second. She only prayed that Gabrielle's interference would not make things worse.

Jeffrey charged out of the sitting room, his hands empty, his face blazing red.

Gavel in hand, Morwenna Wishwell stared after him. "I'm afraid it's something Archibald said. It seemed innocent enough at the time. He merely remarked that the boy looked the spitting image of an old friend of his in London, someone he knew in his World War Two days. Your friend looked extremely upset and then he just charged off. Shall I go and have a talk with him?"

"Better let him cool down," Hope said. "Apparently he and his father are not on the best of terms."

"Poor unhappy soul." Morwenna moved closer. "But tell me, Miss O'Hara, have you had any unexpected visitors here?" Her bright eyes glinted with curiosity.

"One." Hope frowned. "A man arrived here two nights ago. He saved my life, actually." She looked away, trying not to remember.

The lady's sharp eyes widened. "Did he indeed?"

"If he hadn't come by when he did, I'd have broken my neck."

The old woman clapped her hands in excitement. "So it worked. Our calculations were correct."

"Calculations?"

"Oh, nothing, my dear." Morwenna gripped Hope's arm. "Tell me what he's like."

"It doesn't matter. He's gone." Hope swallowed. "He left yesterday."

Morwenna's two sisters emerged from the noisy room to join them. Morwenna grasped Perpetua's hand. "We did it, Pet," she said excitedly. "He's come. But now he's left us, Hope says. Why would he-"

"Hush," her sister said softly.

"But-"

Perpetua gently but firmly patted her palm. "We don't want to bore Miss O'Hara. It appears she has other things to worry about. As usual, the gentlemen have gone through all the food and they're back to fighting again."

Hope gave a slow, distracted nod. "I'll get the chocolate mocha pound cake."

"But what was his name?" Morwenna demanded.

"MacLeod. Ronan MacLeod."

A little sigh emerged from the three sisters in unison. "MacLeod," Perpetua said slowly. "The name sounds familiar. I wonder if he was related to the Portree MacLeods by any chance."

"But why did he go?" Morwenna persisted.

"Because it was best. For both of us," Hope whispered.

"Oh dear, they're fighting again." Honoria tugged at Hope's hands, pointing to the meeting room.

"Talk to them, Miss O'Hara. Tell them you'll send them home without any cake if they don't behave."

Hope sighed as Archibald Brown delivered a resounding left hook to his opponent, who looked perfectly delighted to answer in kind. Two chairs toppled and a tweed jacket went flying.

Was there something in the water?

She was about to intervene in the altercation when Gabrielle touched her shoulder. "It is the telephone for you. It is your friend Jamee McCall. Now you will talk and I will see to these men who act like little boys."

Hope sent a last anxious glance at Morwenna as she left the room to take her call. "Jamee, is that you?"

"I'm surprised you remember my name. An odd sort of friend you are. You never return any of my calls."

"It's been a little...complicated here."

"Hope, is something wrong?"

Hope sighed. She had never been able to keep secrets from her oldest friend. "So, Lady McCall, how does the noble life of ease suit you?"

"Noble life?" Hope's American friend, married for less than a year to the twelfth laird of Glenlyle, gave an audible snort. "I've married into chaos. It was bad growing up with four brothers, but nothing prepared me for Glenlyle at Christmas. We've got half-stitched teddy bears stacked on every table, scraps of tartan jammed in every corner, and as usual, Ian is working himself to pieces."

Hope chuckled. "I suspect that both of you are loving every second."

"Actually, I do believe we are. But what about you? How is business? Have you had any more visitors?"

Hope stared out at the front salon. Archibald Brown was struggling to his feet, and Morwenna and her two sisters were brushing off his jacket and tie. He had been toppled by a left hook from his adversary, who disagreed with his stock assessments.

Life was never dull in Glenbrae.

"We'll manage."

"That's not what I asked, my wonderful, infuriating friend."

"I know it wasn't."

"If you have room, Ian and I would love to come visit. We've been planning to come down for a long stay. We could leave just as soon as we finish the last shipment of bears for Windsor. My brothers are dying to see the place, too. I'm sure they would be delighted to join us."

She waited. An unspoken question hung in the air.

Hope's fingers tightened on the telephone. She wasn't ready for Jamee to see Glenbrae House until it was full of paying guests. She wanted desperately to succeed here. "I'd love to see you and Ian.

Your brothers, too, of course. But right now...things are a little hectic."

"You're full?"

Hope bit her lip, trying not to lie. "Actually, we have some German visitors due any minute."

"That's wonderful, Hope. Are they business travelers? People who will be impressed by the detailed restoration work and the fine antiques you've gathered?"

"Not exactly."

The last of the investment club members were filing down the path at the front of the house, and Jeffrey waved to Hope from the stairwell. He was carrying a microphone, a black light and Hope's voluminous costume. He pointed at his watch.

Showtime, Hope thought. "I've got to go, Jamee. Give my love to Ian, will you? And to all those cute little bears."

"But, Hope, I..."

"Talk to you soon, Jamee." Feeling guilty, Hope hung up before her friend could ask any more pointed questions.

She watched her friends vanish up the glen and suddenly felt empty inside.

"Hope, we don't have much time." Jeffrey held out her costume, grinning. "We need one last run-through with all the modifications and this version should be quite something to remember." He paused. "Are you listening? Hope?"

"Ready to go, Jeffrey."

"Grand. Just break a leg, all right?"

"I certainly hope not."

"I'M SO GLAD we saw you there by the loch. Your name is MacLeod, you said?" Morwenna Wishwell smiled up at the tall man in a well-worn tartan.

"So it is. Do you need my help getting back home?"

Morwenna took his arm. "That would be lovely. It isn't far, but in the dark it's easy to stumble."

Morwenna Wishwell hadn't missed a step yet, and her feet looked entirely steady. In fact, all three sisters looked hearty beyond their years.

But MacLeod was happy to stay far from Hope's sight. He had found random footprints by the rear gardens and a broken lock on a lower window, but nothing that should have left him so convinced of her danger.

He should have been putting his mind to finding a way home. There were people back in his own time who needed him. He hadn't the leisure to flounder about here in a world of talking boxes, bath bubbles and a woman who turned his soul upside down.

It was time to go home, just as he had promised her.

He stared at the black hills, ignoring a black, racing regret.

"Mr. MacLeod? Is something bothering you, dear boy?"

Dear boy. No one had ever called him that. He tried to be angry at the delicate white-haired lady, but couldn't. He suspected a very keen mind beneath that fragile manner, and there was something oddly compelling in her tone.

"Perhaps."

"We can help." Morwenna patted his arm. "My sisters and I are very skilled in managing things."

"What kind of things?"

"Oh, whatever you like, my dear boy. Trees, weather. Even people on occasion, though they are much harder."

MacLeod felt an uneasy pricking at his shoulders. "And how do you...manage these things?"

They walked past the stone fence into the greater darkness of the forest. Somewhere an owl called, once and then again, the sound echoed by the sharp bark of a fox.

MacLeod had never heard any owls here in the glen. Nor had he seen any foxes.

His uneasiness grew as he heard another shrill bark from a blur of white along the cliffs. MacLeod watched the sleek form race up the glen, then vanish. "What was that?"

"A white fox, I believe. He lives up there in the mist."

"I never saw such a creature."

"Not many people have. Now, what were we discussing?"

"How you manage things."

"Oh, yes. There are always variables, influences, external factors."