Frowning, he scanned the lawn and the stable beyond.

When he looked up, fear roiled into fury.

High above, a window lay open, its long lace curtains flapping in the wind. MacLeod drew back, just able to make out a black shape vanishing over the sill.

Follow your heart, Highlander.

Now, before your time runs out, as ours did.

With a ragged curse he peeled open the sack and ran his hands over the smooth, curved wood inside.

SHOWTIME.

Hope's heart pounded as she gripped the stair rail.

A bloodcurdling scream erupted through Jeffrey's carefully prepared audio system, and dim light played over the walls, outlining plumes of drifting smoke.

"Glide," Hope whispered, remembering Jeffrey's instructions. She was supposed to be terrifying, unworldly, and all she felt like was an idiot. At the top of the landing, she raised her hand as another scream tore free from the audio system.

Down below her, the tourists huddled closer.

Praying she didn't look as idiotic as she felt, Hope took four more steps along the stairs, then swept her arm and trailing sleeve over the banister. The lights dimmed, and she felt the fan kick in, fluttering the folds of her gown and lacy sleeves. At the same moment, a ghostly "head" separated from the back of her body and flew off through the air directly toward the German visitors.

The tragic, beheaded ghost of Glenbrae House made its first official appearance, greeted by screams and gestures and a torrent of excited German.

Hope was starting to believe the scheme might actually work when a cold draft played over the top of the stairs. She prayed that Banquo hadn't found a new route of escape. If so, pandemonium would be unleashed any second.

The lights flickered twice, and she realized Jeffrey was signaling her to continue to the bottom of the stairs, where she would regain her "head" as they had rehearsed.

Hope looked back, but nothing moved in the gloom. No doubt Banquo was safe in his cage after all.

Touching the banister, she found the piece of twine that Jeffrey had left, marking the spot where she was to stop. Exactly as planned, the ghostly head sailed back to her. She caught the mound of stuffed canvas, released it from its string, and tucked it under one arm while more otherworldly laughter echoed through the house.

The Germans moved back toward the front door, then stampeded into the night.

Jeffrey crowed in triumph. Gabrielle emerged from behind a sofa, clapping wildly. Both froze at the sight of Ronan MacLeod bent on one knee beside the window.

"Make no move," he said, reaching to the floor beside him. The bow shifted in his hands, its nocked arrow pointing upward. "Stay, you in the shadows."

He was here? He had stayed?

Something snagged Hope's skirt, throwing her sideways. As cold air gusted over her shoulders, she struck the banister and felt her gown rip cleanly in two.

And then she was thrown forward into the shadows, where the steps rushed up in an angry blur to meet her.

"HOPE."

A word. A voice that tried to reach her.

The word came again, tense and angry. No, frightened now.

She frowned, trying to open her eyes. Tried to sit up and failed.

Hope.

Her name, possibly. And someone moving, brushing her face.

Wet. The taste of salt on her cheeks. Why was someone crying?

Why was she crying?

"Can you hear, mo cridhe?"

She knew that voice. Knew its timbre and its swell, its velvet lilt and burr. "MacLeod?"

"Aye." The deep voice shook. "Gloria dei."

Was he speaking Latin or some other ancient tongue? Hope could not understand him. "Why...are you here?"

"To annoy you."

She tried to laugh but couldn't. All she knew was that he was close, his arms clenched tight around her. "I...fell," she rasped.

"So you did. A terrible ghost, you make."

The first, sweet sight of him stole her breath. His face was set in harsh lines of worry and there were scratches on his neck. His eyes burned like those in the ancient portrait.

"My arm hurts and I think my head's going to explode."

He laughed for the first time. "You would be far worse if we hadn't pushed the pillows beneath to catch you. You've slept for a quarter of an hour already."

"You came back." She touched the hard jaw, the sculpted cheekbone, loving each in turn. "Why?"

"Because you needed me."

"But how did you know-"

"Hush," he whispered, his lips pressed to her face.

Jeffrey cleared his throat and poked his head over MacLeod's shoulder. "You okay, Hope? Great performance, but we could have done without that last bit of gymnastics on the stairs."

"So could I." She tried to move, winced at the pain in her shoulder, and stayed exactly where she was. "What did our visitors think before they ran away?"

"They were delighted, so I gathered from my limited German. Wanted to know when the next show was. Son et lumiere and all that." Jeffrey shook his head. "We'll be omitting that last part from the next performance, however." He slanted a look at MacLeod. "But we could use your razzle-dazzle with the bow and arrow. Pretty amazing, MacLeod. Did you learn to handle that thing in the army or in the circus?"

"Army," came the flat answer. "A bow has its uses."

"Me, I'd take a rifle. But why did you shoot up the stairs?"

MacLeod cradled Hope's face. "I thought I saw something."

Hope remembered the wind that had gusted along the stairs and the blur of movement at her back.

"You saw something, too?"

MacLeod hushed her with one finger. "No more talk. You need to rest. And this time do not argue. I do not converse with ghosts or headless apparitions." His lips curved. "Even one of such great beauty as you."

Snow hissed against the window as he settled Hope into her bed. The window was closed now, its metal latch locked, and MacLeod had made a quick search of the house. But he had found no sign of the intruder, and any further searches would have to wait until Hope slept.

He smoothed the blue covers over her. "You must be wealthy to own silk for your bed."

"Not silk. An imitation."

His brow rose, but he did not question her. Already the room seemed less foreign, and the light that burned in its small dome was welcome. "Your head?"

"Fine. Almost." She smiled, still too pale.

The bruise on her forehead made him scowl. "It hurts?"

"Not much."

"Your shoulder?"

"Only when I think about it." She gave a laugh. "Which is every second. Stop scowling at me, MacLeod."

He sat beside her on the bed, easing one hand beneath her head, his relief shifting into something darker. "I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm still here. So are you, though I told you to go. How did you know I needed you?"

A perfect question. One she had every right to ask.

But MacLeod wasn't certain he could answer it himself.

He thought about the scuff marks outside the back window and the lock that had pulled free, useless in his fingers. He thought about the shallow depressions in the snow beside the loch, marks that could have been left by a boat hastily beached. Whoever had broken into Glenbrae House could have come by water and left the same way, back into the night.

Were those reasons for him to stay?

Or were they simply excuses?

MacLeod's hands tightened, fisted against her soft sheets. "I want you, mo cridhe. About this, I will never lie. I want you now, here in this bed while the snow speaks against the window. I want your hands on me while you cry out in passion." His mouth took hers with a slow hunger that left her panting. "I want your laughter, Hope. And then I want the feel of your skin while I make you forget any other man and any other passion," he whispered hoarsely, nipping her chin, her throat and then her soft, full mouth.

She traced his jaw. "You don't ask for much, do you?"

"Everything." He stood up slowly. "But I can't have everything, can I? So I will have nothing." He stared at the light. "How does it darken?"

"Push the button."

After a moment he did, plunging the room into shadow.

She turned to follow him with her gaze. "What am I going to do with you, Ronan MacLeod?"

"Believe me," he said. "Just-believe me. And maybe the trust will come after that."

Then he opened the door and left the room, though it was the hardest thing he had ever done, as man or as warrior. Outside he held the wood frame, his head bent.

Trying to forget his honor and how much he wanted her.

Follow your heart, Highlander.

Now, before your time runs out, as ours did.

Silently, he took his position beside the door. His body was tense, alert to any danger, and the bow not far from his feet.

The King's Wolf had returned to Glenbrae.

PART THREE.

The Quest.

The ghost of Banquo.

No more to fear....

CHAPTER TWENTY.

Glenbrae House.

December.

IT WAS ALMOST CHRISTMAS, and Christmas was Hope's favorite time of year.

So what was wrong with her?

She stared blindly at the clutter on her long pine worktable. Bright raffia bows decorated wreaths of fresh berries. Pinecones and cinnamon twigs were twined with velvet onto a circle of cypress sprigs, and the fragrance was heavenly. Behind her the fire hissed and popped, its glow touching the walls of her workroom overlooking the loch.

With only two weeks until Christmas, she had her hands full. Stockings of antique lace were ready to hang beneath the ornate mantel in the front salon. Silver foil birds decorated homespun baskets heaped high with dried lavender, rose petals and orange-clove pomander balls. Light, color and fragrance filled every room.

Glenbrae was starting to feel like Christmas. Hope only wished she felt more in the mood for celebrating.