It wasn't because of any lack of business. For the past three weeks she had had a small but steady stream of visitors, beginning the night that the headless ghost made its first appearance. After that, word of Gabrielle's cooking and the ghostly visitations had spread fast. Two German student groups stopped for brief stays, followed by a medieval choral society from the United States. A chance referral had brought honeymooning couples. For an added air of romance, Hope added scented pinecones to the fire burning in the largest suite, bubble bath in the sunny south-facing bathroom and tiers of votive candles. Chilled champagne in etched crystal goblets conferred the final touch of luxury.

Right now Hope saw her most recent honeymooners holding hands on the rear terrace. Snow dusted the air and the wind held a chill, but neither seemed to notice, shoulder to shoulder in a lingering kiss.

It was a storybook scene of beauty and romance.

Somehow the sight only left her feeling lonely.

Frowning, she twisted a length of gold ribbon through a pine wreath, then tacked on a fragile lace angel with foil wings. The wreath would sit on the mantel beside an arrangement of cut flowers. All she needed was the holly for the front door.

She glanced outside, wondering why Jeffrey hadn't returned from his mission to bring an armful of green sprigs. A man was striding along the old stone fence, the wind combing his long, dark hair.

MacLeod.

The collar of his leather jacket was turned up against the wind, and a huge fir tree was angled over one shoulder.

Hope felt the hot little lurch that struck her whenever she saw him. To her absolute disgust, she was no more able to control her physical response to him than she had been four weeks earlier. He was still the most incredible man she had ever seen-and also the most irritating.

She scowled, watching the tree sway on his shoulder. She had told him not to bother about a tree.

She had made it clear that she and Jeffrey would choose one later that afternoon. As usual, he had paid no attention.

Though the concept of cutting a tree and bringing it inside to decorate had at first seemed foreign to him, he had questioned Jeffrey, then vanished shortly after breakfast. Now Hope realized why.

He had chosen a tree, then cut and hauled it back over steep, stony ground to the house. Hope could see him grinning like an idiot, with fir needles dusting his hair and shoulders.

She wanted to hate the man. She wanted to close her heart to him.

Ronan MacLeod made either thing impossible.

Frowning, she concentrated on arranging pine boughs and fresh fruit around scented candles for the salon, appalled to see that her hands were trembling.

Her vision blurred with tears. It was Christmas, blast it. She ought to be full of joy, looking forward to the peace of the season and the companionship of her new friends.

But Hope was too honest to pretend. She knew the source of the tears that blocked her vision. She knew exactly what-or rather who-made her hands tremble.

It was the tall man striding up the glen with the tree over his back. It was the sight of his cocky grin when they argued, which was too often. It was the sadness that crept into his eyes whenever he thought she wasn't looking.

Over the past weeks he had examined, questioned and explored everything he had come in contact with. He had poked into every corner of Glenbrae House with a focused intelligence that was almost frightening. He had borrowed books from Hope, studied maps and old prints and had even gone into the village library to scan their volumes. He didn't seem to have a particular question to be answered: instead, every detail of his life here at Glenbrae seemed to baffle and intrigue him.

He might almost have been a man coming awake from a long sleep, or a child dizzy with exploring new toys. Whether Hope liked it or not, his excitement was contagious. One day he grilled Gabrielle from dawn to dusk about current French culture. The next day he interrogated Jeffrey about England's political structure.

When a guest produced a portable CD player with an album by Enya, MacLeod was transfixed. The pounding bass of contemporary Celtic fusion bands made his eyes twinkle and his toes tap. Hope actually caught him gyrating beneath borrowed headphones while he added a section of new mortar to the kitchen wall.

She had already decided on her Christmas gift to him: a handheld video game with the noisiest games available. She could hardly wait to see his face.

Assuming he was still here when Christmas dawned.

Judging by his behavior, there was nothing to hold him. To Hope's chagrin, everything had changed since that night in the stables almost four weeks before. Oh, he had been friendly and helpful. He had tackled the tiniest repairs and the grittiest problem.

But he hadn't touched her once. He hadn't even looked at her measuringly or given a sign that he found her remotely attractive. They might as well have been siblings.

Or strangers.

That was exactly what she wanted, wasn't it? There was nothing between the two of them. He said no more about himself than was absolutely necessary, keeping his past life and his future plans a mystery. He absorbed everything and confided nothing.

Stubborn, impossible man.

"Merry Christmas," Hope whispered to the air, tying damask bows around the first of four silk-covered hatboxes to be arranged beneath the Christmas tree. Blindly she reached for another box, thankful for the work that had kept her sane and preoccupied.

But work didn't occupy the nights. In the darkness she remembered things that were better forgotten. It didn't help that MacLeod slept in the room next to her. She heard every mutter and every creak of the bed, all too close-but a thousand miles away.

Did she trust him?

Absolutely, Hope admitted. He was unfailingly patient, disgustingly gentle. His kittens liked nothing more than to tumble all over him and lick his face in abject adoration.

They were females, Hope had discovered. No doubt that explained it.

But her second question was far harder. Did she believe him?

She stared through the French doors, remembering how he had raced out of the storm. She replayed the sight of his great horse as it performed impossibly fine movements to Ronan's slightest command. A crusading knight would have such a horse as that. A traveler from the thirteenth century would have shown Ronan's initial shock and fear, followed by the same enthusiastic curiosity about every detail of modern life.

The pine wreath snapped beneath Hope's fingers. If she had allowed herself to confront the question, the answer would have been yes, she did believe his story, outrageous and impossible as it was. There was a rock-hard vein of honor to the man and an old-fashioned streak of chivalry that could not be denied.

Yes, he could well be exactly what he said, a knight torn out of the late thirteenth century.

As always, Hope felt a lurch of panic at the thought. Probably it was she who was narrow-minded and confused. Perhaps her twentieth-century mentality simply could not accept the magical possibilities that his presence here implied.

Because Hope was neither a philosopher nor a physicist, her answer was simply to avoid the question. She accepted Ronan for what he was: a man of strength and honor, a sturdy right arm and a source of desperately needed help.

So what if he occasionally stumbled over contemporary slang or missed every movie reference? So what if he stared at a telephone as if it were an instrument of the devil? She had concerns that were far more painful.

It was no use trying to pretend Ronan MacLeod hadn't touched her heart. She was aware of him every second of every day, whether he was helping Gabrielle nurse the old wood-burning stove or showing Jeffrey how to whittle a bird out of fine-grained elm wood. Hope even knew how he slept, disdaining the soft bed to curl on a mound of blankets in the middle of the floor.

She enjoyed his company. She loved the sound of his low, musical accent and the boom of his laughter through the hallways. He was forthright and intent, his smile open and friendly.

And that was exactly the problem.

Hope realized she wanted far more than friendship, and it was painfully clear that she had misunderstood his initial interest. Dazed and disoriented after the storm, he must have reached out to the nearest person, namely her. Now that he was adjusting to life at Glenbrae, his guard was restored, and all their earlier intimacy was forgotten.

With an angry sound, Hope kicked a log that had tumbled from the wicker basket near the fireplace.

In the process she struck an iron poker and pain shot up her leg.

Bloody log.

Bloody man.

She was clutching her toe tenderly when Gabrielle opened the door behind her. "You are exercising, Hope?"

"Exercising my right of free speech," Hope said hoarsely. "You might want to cover your ears."

"Sit down by the fire and stop working," Gabrielle ordered. "All day you run from room to room, starting one project and stopping in the middle to begin another. You make me exhausted just to watch." Her eyes narrowed. "It is because of MacLeod, I think."

Hope turned back to her worktable. Pride made her cover her hurt. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about the way you look at him. The way you manage to be in the kitchen whenever he's fixing the stove or helping Jeffrey. I am talking about how you feel."

"I find him very pleasant. He's been helpful around the inn."

Gabrielle muttered an angry phrase in French. "Like children, both of you. Always so polite, always so distant. Just good friends?" She glared at Hope, her dark eyes burning. "And me, I am Charles de Gaulle."

Hope's throat burned. Any moment her humiliating secret would tumble out. It was bad enough that she'd fallen for a man with no explainable past; now his rejection had opened old, unhealed wounds.

But she refused to fall apart. Summoning her pride, she glared back at Gabrielle. "Just because you and Jeffrey are head over heels doesn't mean that everyone has to be in love." Hope regretted the words as soon as she had said them, but by then it was too late.

Color swept through Gabrielle's cheeks. "At least we admit the way we feel."

"Gabrielle, I didn't mean-"

The chef raised one hand. "It is your choice to act as you will. I speak only because I see how you frown, how you worry. No, do not answer. You must decide your life as you choose. No one else can give advice or make your decisions for you." She frowned, putting a package on the loaded worktable. "And this comes to the kitchen. It must be for you. Perhaps a secret admirer."

Hope hesitated.

"Open it," Gabrielle urged.

The plain brown paper shredded away beneath Hope's fingers. Inside a simple box she found layers of fine tissue paper. Beneath the paper a slender column of silk tumbled free, butter-soft, the exact color of spring violets. Lace edged the tiny silk straps, and rosebuds dotted the hand-rolled hem.

The low neckline would hint at shadowed skin, as exquisitely sensual as the long slit at one side.

It would make a woman feel like a fairy princess; it would make a man think of nothing but taking it off.

"Women would kill to receive such a gift," Gabrielle whispered. "But who sent it? There is no card or name on the paper."

"Maybe it's a mistake."

Gabrielle's lips pursed. "For a mistake, it fits you perfectly."

Hope lifted the shimmering silk against her body, watching light play over the surface. A woman would wear such a gown to meet her lover. A bride would cherish such a gown for her honeymoon.

"Me, I go back to work," Gabrielle murmured. "Otherwise I will begin to be jealous."

As she closed the door behind her, Hope let the garment slide through her fingers. The package must have been delivered by mistake. It was probably meant for one of the visitors at the inn.

Mistake or not, Hope couldn't resist another touch. She let the shimmering purple folds fall against her body and closed her eyes, imagining the scent of roses and night-blooming jasmine.

And a man. A man who had eyes for no one but her.

A cool wind skimmed her shoulders as the door jerked open behind her.

"I've found a tree. I have holly, too, so that you can-" The holly slid forgotten to the worktable as MacLeod took in the sight of Hope and her luminous purple gown. "I'm sorry if I'm interrupting,"

he said tightly.

Hope's first instinct was to drop the gown, but something held her back. She saw that MacLeod's cool, impassive mask had finally slipped. Friendly curiosity had vanished beneath something darker and much more personal.

"What are you staring at?"

He didn't speak, circling slowly as he took his time looking at her. With any other man, Hope would have found such intense scrutiny intolerable.

"MacLeod?" Hope's fingers tightened on the fragile silk.

"It is beautiful." His voice was husky. "As are you."

"Do you think so?" Some demon made Hope smile beneath lowered lashes. "It's for sleeping in."

She stroked the silk along her body.

Heat filled his eyes. "So you were planning to sleep?"

"Oh, I thought I'd get around to it sometime." The husky tone of Hope's voice suggested she might get around to more important things first. "It's an early Christmas gift."

MacLeod's hand tightened on the corner of the table. "A gift?"

"From a very close...friend." Let him chew on that.

"How close?" He wasn't friendly and impersonal now. He wasn't cool and confident. His shoulders were stiff and a pulse was beating visibly at his jaw.

Hope liked the sight. She strolled closer, letting the gown ripple, letting him imagine how it would fit with nothing beneath. "Maybe that's none of your business." Her lips curved as she reached up to tug a sprig of holly from his hair.

Oh, he was angry. She could see the storm in his silver-gray eyes. Maybe they were finally getting somewhere. Hope suddenly remembered their conversation when they were locked in the shed.

You don't have to look at me that way...as if I was fire and you were frozen.

Perhaps it is so.

She wanted to see that same look in his eyes now. "Jealous?"

Heat snapped white-hot between them. His hands locked over her wrists. "Should I be?"

"No fair. I asked first."

"Life is often unfair. So answer. Do you wear this for another man?"

Hope tilted her head back, studying his face. "That's confidential information."

His hands slipped up her arms. "Maybe I could find out."

"Maybe you could." This time the challenge was hers.