She saw it register in his eyes. Anger and something else shimmered for a moment, and then both were carefully banked.

When he stepped back, his expression was unreadable. "It is the wrong time." His callused hands were surprisingly gentle as he pulled a piece of lace from her hair.

Hope's heart jackknifed at his touch. She swung away from him and jammed the gown angrily back into its box.

He didn't matter a bit in her life. If he left tomorrow, it would make no difference to her.

But when Hope looked down, she saw that she had wired a pair of scissors into the middle of her wreath.

Just perfect.

MacLeod picked up the evergreen by the door and slid it over his shoulder, laughing softly.

"What's so funny?" she demanded.

"I'm not quite sure. Perhaps it is you. Perhaps it is this beautiful house you've made here." He ran a hand through his hair. "Perhaps it is simply the idea of Christmas." He looked down at the gown in its plain box. "I'll remember."

"You'll remember what?"

"Everything."

Hope glared at him, wondering what he would remember but too proud to ask. "I don't have anything to remember."

For a moment darkness filled his eyes. "For some people that would be a blessing. Now I will go to arrange your tree." His broad muscles flexed as he turned.

"Oh, MacLeod."

"Yes?"

"Don't expect any Christmas gifts from me," Hope said sweetly.

"None were expected." He glanced at the box that held the gown, and grinned lazily. "By all honor, the sight of you and that gown were gift enough."

THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Hope stared down at a second brown paper package lying on her bed.

Jeffrey had brought up this one from the back terrace. Like the first, this one was also unaddressed, but for Hope's name scrawled on the front.

She spent the next fifteen minutes straightening the linen closet and trying to convince herself she had no interest in seeing what was inside the brown paper, but finally curiosity won out.

Carefully she shook the package and listened for a telltale rattle, but heard only a whisper of fabric.

Common sense sailed out the window. She tore into the brown wrapping, shredding it away in one stroke. Tissue paper emerged, bright with gilded angels. Then Hope went very still as the tissue paper parted.

It was lace, what there was of it. It was white and frothy, every woman's secret fantasy. A low, square neck fell to a tight, pleated bodice crowned with fluttering sleeves. The skirt was knee-length, elegant and full, layers and layers of it.

Hope held one hand behind the fragile fabric. It would lure and seduce, all magic, hinting at what was-or wasn't-worn beneath.

It would delight any woman who wore it and torment any man who saw it.

Hope played with the delicate coral ribbon threaded through the fitted bodice and felt her heart melt. It was perfect, absolutely perfect. She touched the delicate patterns, aching to put the gown on, but her clock told her there was no time.

Like it or not, Winston Wyndgate was expected any moment. She'd let him search her house twice, which had revealed neither the brooch nor any documents of historical value. He had grudgingly dropped his harassment about the missing brooch.

But Hope still sensed his suspicion centered on her. Only when the brooch was found would she be entirely cleared.

As the clock struck three, a sleek black BMW raced up the drive at fever pitch. Trust Wyndgate not to be late.

She lowered the gown back into its simple package, letting the lace slide through her fingers. After Wyndgate left, there would be carols and a tree-decorating ceremony.

Hope sighed.

The gown-and its mysterious donor-would have to wait.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

WINSTON WYNDGATE'S waistcoat of paisley silk gleamed beneath finely tailored tweeds. His cuff links were of antique silver and his shirt was of Irish linen. But it was the happy smile on his face that made Hope truly uneasy.

Gabrielle had shown him to a sunny room that overlooked the back lawns. Hope did not offer her hand when she entered.

"My dear girl, how healthy you look. Your Christmas decorations are superb." He raised his arms in a dramatic gesture like a seasoned lawyer working on a jury.

Hope was not about to be manipulated by a man who harassed and threatened her. "I'm glad you enjoy them." She took a seat by the back window. "But I doubt you came all this way to discuss Glenbrae's decorations."

Wyndgate rested his arm comfortably on the mantel, every inch at ease. "No, of course not. And I will come to the point, for you must be very busy this time of year." His eyes narrowed. "With your inn finally full, you're no doubt beginning to make a nice return on your investment." The sunlight glinted on his silver hair. "And I'm sure, like myself, you wish to see this unpleasant situation with the brooch resolved."

Hope frowned, waiting for him to get to the point.

"To that end I've hired a private investigator to find the brooch. He's a good man, CID background and awards commendations. I've worked with him on several cases of art theft, which is why I particularly wanted him for the job."

Hope stiffened. What was Wyndgate getting at?

He toyed with an herb basket on the mantel. "Charming, quite charming. Now, where was I? Oh yes, Beresford. Just last week he came up with an interesting discovery. Quiet as this area of the Highlands would appear, it has not always been so. According to his report, twenty-five years ago there was a string of robberies here in Glenbrae and the surrounding villages. This area was a haven for blue bloods then-salmon fishing, grouse hunting and sport of all kinds. Problem was, they refused to leave their valuables at home. Jewelry, period rifles and whatever baubles were at hand- nothing was safe. Not even the books in their libraries."

Hope frowned. "I still don't see what this has to do with me."

The collector drummed his fingers lightly on the mantelpiece. "Beresford has reason to believe that the robberies have begun again."

"But that's ridiculous. We've had no problems here. No one in Glenbrae has."

"None that have been made public," Wyndgate murmured. "Usually these things are hushed up by the insurance companies. Theft is bad for corporate morale, you know. Shareholders worry about their investments."

"You think that the same person stole the brooch? If so, why would he wait twenty-five years to start stealing again?"

Wyndgate steepled his fingers. "Haven't got a clue, I'm afraid. I've taken the information to the authorities, of course. Someone should be coming up to speak with you within the next week.

They've assigned a man by the name of Kipworth, Detective Sergeant James A."

Hope pushed to her feet. "I'll be delighted to speak with Detective Sergeant Kipworth, of course.

And now if there's nothing else..."

"No, nothing." Wyndgate's eyes narrowed. "I thought I would stay over for a day or two in the village. Poke about myself, if you see what I mean. Thought I'd take some pictures of the stairwell for my records. You don't mind, do you?"

Hope shrugged. It's a free country.

But his presence unsettled her. She couldn't be comfortable until the brooch was found, and both of them knew it. "I wish you good luck, but I doubt you'll find much. If any village is the picture of order and tranquility, Glenbrae is it."

"You remember what they say about judging books by their covers, Miss O'Hara." Wyndgate turned at the doorway. "Meanwhile, I suggest that you be careful. Glenbrae is not the haven of tranquility you believe it to be. I suggest you consider locking your doors. And of course, don't trust any strangers.

DON'T TRUST ANY STRANGERS.

Hope tried to shrug off Wyndgate's warning as she dressed for the night's festivities. There was nothing suspicious going on in Glenbrae. If so, she would have known it.

In spite of that, Wyndgate's last words left her uneasy.

She looked in the mirror and straightened the silk ribbon in her hair, a perfect match to her long tartan skirt. Her red satin blouse added the color she needed. Something bright. Something happy.

Something that would distract her from the depression that seemed to be growing all day.

She had invited Archibald Brown and the Wishwell sisters tonight, along with the quieter members of the Investment Club. Having the whole group would have been too dangerous to her breakable ornaments. After the guests finished trimming the Christmas tree, they would sing carols before the blazing fire. Then Gabrielle would usher in an assortment of traditional desserts, from mincemeat pies to lemon curd cake and syllabubs. Even now the exact menu was a closely guarded secret.

Hope tried to summon up a proper sense of gaiety for her first Christmas at Glenbrae. Outside, snow feathered down and the glen lay blue-gray in the grip of twilight. All was quiet, mountains and loch caught in a veil of unbroken peace.

Only she seemed to be restless and uneasy.

She squared her shoulders, refusing to dwell on the things she had lost. She had made wonderful friends, and tonight was her way of thanking them for their inspiration and encouragement. They expected her to be happy, and so she would.

In fact, she was going to smile her way through the evening if it killed her.

"BUT IT STILL makes no sense. Why do you cut down a tree and carry the whole thing inside rather than just one log?" MacLeod frowned at Jeffrey, who was struggling to lift a bulky oak log onto his shoulder in response to Hope's request for firewood to last the evening.

"Because it takes the whole tree to hold the ornaments."

"Ornaments?"

"Decorations. Shiny bells and glittery stars." Jeffrey grunted as he dropped the log. "Things to make you happy and remind you this is the season for giving. Don't tell me you've never had a Christmas tree before."

MacLeod shrugged. Over the past weeks he had learned to guard his answers carefully, for fear of giving away the truth of his past. As a result, each day he tottered between excitement and savage frustration. There were too many things to learn, too many mistakes that could expose him.

He had no reason to believe anyone would accept his story as the truth. From the books he had skimmed and the television he had seen, MacLeod had discovered the twentieth century to be a time as wary as his own. People were easily frightened by anything that could not be explained by the normal rules of their science.

And he certainly could not be explained.

If he wasn't careful, he would be declared mad and be strapped into one of those tight canvas jackets he had seen on a late-night movie.

"A Christmas tree? Not that I can remember," he said cautiously.

"Foul luck," Jeffrey said sympathetically. "My parents were never big on sentiment, but at least they saw to a tree for us every year." He frowned at the pile of logs. "You'll enjoy tonight. Hope's been planning this for days now." He grunted, trying vainly to lift another log.

MacLeod pulled it free and dropped it effortlessly on the pile already cradled in his arms.

"Show-off." Jeffrey sniffed, studying him intently. "So, MacLeod, is there something going on between the two of you?"

"Going...on?"

"Don't give me that icy look. I've seen the two of you together. Hope used to shimmer whenever you were around. Her eyes positively caught fire. But now she never smiles. Come to think of it, neither do you."

MacLeod shouldered the last pieces of wood, shoved the shed door shut with his foot, and started up the path toward the inn. "I hadn't noticed," he said tensely.

"And I'm the Pope," Jeffrey muttered.

MacLeod's brow rose. "You do not look like any pope that I have ever seen."

"Forget the Pope. Tell me about Hope and why she never smiles anymore. Something's wrong. You must have noticed."

MacLeod stared at the lights up the hill. He had noticed the changes, of course. Lately she seemed to take every opportunity to avoid him. But it was the safest choice for them both. When they were together, they either argued or lost their wits in a haze of pure lust.

Since the lust could lead only to further frustration and pain, it was better that they spent no more time together than was absolutely necessary. Once he left and went back to his own time, Hope would understand why he had tried to spare her.

"It is only normal," MacLeod muttered. "She has been busy preparing for this holiday of hers."

"Christmas doesn't belong to just Hope. And it's more than that," Jeffrey said firmly. "You've both been marching around like storm troopers."

MacLeod's brow rose. "Storm what?"

"You know, wookies. The force is with you."

"It is?"

Jeffrey sighed. "Star Wars, MacLeod. Darth Vader and Han Solo. Luke and Leia."

"Oh, that." In truth, MacLeod had no clue what Jeffrey was talking about. In the weeks since being catapulted into this chaotic time in English history, he had confronted a thousand mysteries of arcane speech and baffling behavior. He had gleaned what he could from television, books and the things they called magazines. The rest he simply lied about. The important thing, MacLeod had learned, was to appear casual and confident no matter the subject or question.

In a way, behaving like a twentieth-century male reminded him of the cutthroat behavior of King Edward's nobles at court.

MacLeod scowled. Sometimes he felt as if he had become too comfortable with glib smiles and cool laughter. Soon he would simper with the best, agreeing with everything and saying nothing.

The thought made him curse.

"Don't glare at me, MacLeod. If you ask me, the problem is that Hope's in love," Jeffrey said flatly.