Maybe being hit in the face would make him forget the things he could not have.

Powder sprayed over his face, but he barely noticed, entranced by the moonlight glinting on her pale cheeks.

"Fight, MacLeod." The long hat bounced as she shoved her hands to her hips. "You know how to fight, don't you?"

Far too well, he thought. Better than any man should. But fighting was the easy way out. Staying and sinking roots was far harder.

"Not with you. Not tonight." His voice tightened. "Better that you go away."

She frowned, moving closer. "What's that by your foot?"

"Nothing."

"Blast it, Ronan-" With a quick sidestep she darted past and swept up the house of wood and bark.

"A manger," she whispered. "You made a manger for me?"

"It is only a simple thing," he said gruffly.

"It's...beautiful." Her voice caught. "I can see each face and strand of hair. You've carved Joseph in the round, with an olive tree growing beside him."

MacLeod shrugged. "To symbolize life."

"And Mary has a twining rose."

"It seemed...right for her inward beauty."

"You're very good."

"There was time whenever we camped. The long nights left too much time for thinking. I made things instead."

"I see." She frowned. "It was therapy. Treatment, you might say."

"We all had ways of...coping. Is that your word?"

She nodded gravely, then rose to her toes and kissed him.

Gently. Quickly. As if afraid to linger or explore for fear of what might happen next.

"It doesn't matter what you call it." She set the manger carefully back in the snow and moved an old star of beaten tin onto the branch directly overhead. "First my bear and now this. I-I don't know how to thank you."

"There is no need for thanks. They are my gifts to you. I have none other, and it is your custom to give gifts among friends, I have learned."

Again something flashed in her face. "So now I have to give you something in return. Something unexpected. Something...useful." A smile touched her lips. "Turn around while I find it."

"There is no need to-"

"Just turn around, MacLeod."

"Very well." He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the tree. The tin star seemed to gleam with fragile light, spinning and twisting while snow drifted gently over the manger, dusting the figures inside. The night seemed to draw close and the hills to hold their breath.

Maybe there is room at the inn.

Just for this one night.

Behind him Hope's feet crunched over the lawn. "You're leaving?" MacLeod turned slowly. "I don't understand."

"It's simple, really. You had one kind of therapy in that camp you spoke about, wherever it was.

You're not going to tell me where, are you?"

He shrugged.

"I didn't think so. Let's just say this is another kind of therapy." She dug her hands into the snow.

"A good snowball fight is better than any psychotherapy, if you ask me."

"You think I need...this psychotherapy?" he asked grimly.

"You said it yourself. We all have secrets." She molded the snow, her eyes glittering. "What are you waiting for?"

His lips twitched, and he felt the beginning of a smile. "So you wish to fight with me?"

"That's the general idea, champ. Usual rules-no holding, no going for the face. No shoving snow down the collar." Hope danced from side to side, grinning wickedly. "Well, maybe once or twice down the collar." Her third missile sailed off without warning and caught MacLeod square on the shoulder, powdering his neck thoroughly.

"This is cheating," he said. "You attacked without notice."

"Where I come from, that's not cheating, that's superior tactics!" Hope danced behind the decorated tree, already shaping another snowball. "So stop meditating and get to work."

Snow drifted down, painting the night with enchantment, and MacLeod was lost before he knew it, given over to the magic of a woman and a night and a beautiful old house that looked on with silent indulgence while the little tin star twinkled above the manger.

He accepted the stark realization then. He loved Hope O'Hara. He wanted to stay with her, fight with her, laugh with her. The dream could no longer be denied.

Desire twisted deep in his chest. In all certainty he had loved this woman from the first moment he had seen her in the rain, dangling crazily from the edge of the roof. Her smile was a rare gift, a candle that lit the way for all who knew her. Her loyalty was absolute, and her concern for her friends was unshakable.

But even if he couldn't stay to enjoy that smile of hers, MacLeod vowed they would have this one perfect night to remember.

He scooped up a handful of snow and shaped it carefully, ducking as she shot another white clump past the tree.

"Come on, MacLeod, you're not even putting up a fight here." More snow hurtled toward him, slapping home soundly against his chest. "Sheesh, this is like taking candy from a baby."

"It is always dangerous to underestimate the enemy. Good tactics depend on good preparation."

"Lame, MacLeod."

His eyes narrowed as he stalked her, packing snow between his hands. She popped out from behind the tree, feinted left, then leaped out of reach just before his snowball hissed past.

"You can do better than that. Come on, they must have taught you all about tactical assessment and terrain strategies in that army you served with."

No, they had taught him nothing, MacLeod thought. Not about the things that truly mattered. Not about the sound of snow hitting a little tin star or the way a woman's laugh could echo in the night and fill a man's heart until it could hold no more joy.

"Of course they did," he said, tracking her over the snow. "But they taught me to know the enemy first." He shot around the tree and spun left, chuckling when she threw a snowball just as he had expected. Then he lunged forward and scooped her up in his arms.

"Hey, that's cheating. No holding and no lifting," she protested.

He laughed as she stuck snow down the front of his shirt and smeared it over his chest. Another snowball, pulled from inside the tail of her cap, was ground over his face.

"Come on, MacLeod. You're losing here and you don't even know it." She sputtered as he scooped up snow in one hand and dangled it with silent menace over her head. "I don't think you're going to use that."

His smile grew. "No?" Snow sprinkled over her cheeks, sparkling on her eyelashes. "Do you still think so?"

She glared, all warrior. "So you surprised me. Now I go to strategy two."

"Strategy two?"

Her fingers burrowed beneath his jacket and sweater, aimed unerringly for his chest. "MacLeod, you're soaked."

"It feels good." His grin grew. "So do you."

"Don't change the subject. A snowball fight is serious business." A dimple flashed at her cheek.

"Give up yet?"

"Never." His voice was grave, full of rough challenge.

"And you still refuse to put me down?"

His brow rose. "Is that a threat, Ms. O'Hara?"

"Too bloody right it is." She attacked in earnest, tickling every bare inch she could reach, uncovering ribs and chest and sides until MacLeod shook from the effort to hold back his laughter.

He tried to catch her hands, but couldn't without putting her down. His eyes promised retribution even as he twisted beneath her lethal fingers.

"You'll never win, MacLeod. Cry uncle."

"Why would I want to complain to a relative?"

"Surrender, I mean." She traced his sensitive ribs, besieging him with yet another attack.

When his sides ached and her touch threatened to reduce him to lunacy, MacLeod launched a defense of his own. "One unfair tactic deserves another," he muttered, then locked his mouth to hers and let the heat shoot through both of them.

Over the hammer of his heart, he heard Hope's little gasp settle into a sigh. He grinned as she wrapped her hands around his snow-covered neck. "Cheat. That was unfair tactics," she protested.

"And I was so sure you were a man of honor."

"I seem to forget all my honor around you," he said gravely.

"Good." Her mouth softened and she skimmed his lips with her own, merciless and slow. He responded with dark urgency, trapping her for the touch he must have or die. He felt the thunder of her heart as he sank to his knees in the snow, keeping her locked in his arms.

When had the night grown so still and his need so great? Why did the little star seem to wink and gleam at them from the tree?

Then MacLeod simply didn't care. He shoved off her hat, cursing. "Hope, sweet Hope." His hands twisted in her hair as he scattered kisses over her face and neck. "I tried to stay away. By St. Julian, I tried to forget your scent and the feel of your mouth."

She wriggled closer. "Why?"

"Because it was the right thing to do. I have nothing to offer, no worth and no future. All I have is a past too immense to share. In every way that counts I am a failure."

She trapped his cheeks, her eyes furious. "Now you're getting me really angry. You can save a kitten, train a horse and repair the most wretched stove. Those figures you carved look like perfect historical replicas. You could probably be a millionaire inside of a year if you put your mind to it."

Her hands tightened. "So don't tell me you're a failure, with nothing to offer."

His jaw hardened. "I don't have anything to offer. Not one shred of what you deserve. And any minute, time might shift and I might have to go-"

"Go?" Her voice broke. "Go where? What do you mean?"

He saw the loss in her eyes and realized it was too late for them. The line was crossed, whether he wanted it so or not. By some deep mystery, her heart was given, just as his was. Now they would have to bear the consequences, whether in joy or sorrow.

"MacLeod, talk to me. What did you mean?"

"Nothing, my heart. Not a thing that matters." A lopsided smile twisted his mouth. "Can't you do any better than that for a kiss, woman?"

He winced as powder bombarded his head. Then they were tumbling over the new-fallen snow, giggling like noisy children. Neither could find bare skin fast enough. Her hands raced over his waist; his palm nudged her breast. And they froze.

Snow drifted into their eyes and longing drummed in their veins. "This counts, Hope," MacLeod whispered. "This will change things. So tell me what we're doing."

"The right thing," Hope answered, pulling him down for a searching kiss that left them both gasping.

His jacket hit the snow with a hiss. Her scarf caught on his shoulders, then sailed through the air and dangled crazily from the fir tree. The night was breathless with need and dreams when he rolled to his back, cushioning her from the cold as he drew her down on top of him.

"I've never wanted like this before, Hope. No woman ever." He ran a line of soft kisses up her neck, delighting in her shuddered response as she arched against him.

And I will never feel this way again, MacLeod knew with absolute certainty. There would be no pleasure in any other woman, no joy in any other's kiss. Not after touching her.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered, loving the feel of her body against him. Loving how she shifted restlessly, thighs to his thighs, wanting in her eyes.

He covered her heart, feeling her pulse race, just as wild as his. She shuddered as he palmed her breast, sighed as he grazed the hardening nipple.

MacLeod had never been a reckless man, but now he was. He wanted to look at her and then bring his mouth slowly everywhere his eyes had savored. He wanted to find her pulse points and leave her panting when he drove her over the edge of pleasure.

Honor or not, he would have all those things from her now.

Lights filtered through the dense snow. Blinking, he raised his head and gradually made out two fiery circles of light like torches. A car?

He scowled at the noisy modern conveyance, an entirely unsatisfactory substitute for a horse. The lights drew closer. Whoever it was wasn't stopping.

"A car," he rasped, shoving down Hope's sweater, trying to straighten her clothes and order his ragged thoughts. "Someone-coming."

"Car?" She sat up, frowning. "But who-why-"