"You do."

She gnawed at her lip. "I wanted it to be perfect."

"Even if it isn't perfect, it still is," he said hoarsely. "So it is when love is given. The details do not matter. It is the look in your eyes that makes this perfect to me. That crooked smile and the husky, broken sound you make when I touch you."

Her eyes were huge, luminous. "I don't..."

"You do. You did it twice and once more just now."

"So you're keeping score now, MacLeod?"

"Keeping...track," he corrected gently. "Of everything. I do not want to forget a single second."

Her hands tightened. "In case something happens?"

"The chance is great. I will not lie, Hope. History says the King's Wolf returned to Glenbrae." He shook his head. "If history can change, I swear I'll find a way to do it. Until then..." He eased her thigh across his, groaning while she cradled his heat. "Until then, we must write our own legends, my heart."

Moonlight spilled through the high windows, dappling her body in shadows.

Beautiful, Ronan thought. Honest and brave. Her face and smile all that he had glimpsed in dreams.

And he had loved her even then.

She traced the frown lines at his brow. "You think too much, MacLeod. You keep score too well."

"Keep track," he whispered as he lifted her against him, parted her, made her breath catch when she sheathed him. She opened to him like a flower, clung on sleek petals until he shook with the need to drive deep and impale her. He closed his eyes, trying not to feel her hands dig at his shoulders, trying not to feel how perfectly their bodies fit.

The scent of cloves and roses clung to her skin. In the darkness, hunger had a thousand names, a thousand reasons. He meant to savor every one.

But she caught him unawares, twisting to drive him back and pin his rigid body beneath hers. "I'm not very good at this, MacLeod."

"Any better and I'll be dead," he muttered.

She shifted. Softness ached, then spread to cradle him. "I'll keep that in mind," she whispered. "But meanwhile..."

Meanwhile he died. Meanwhile his heart tilted and his very reason fled. She was too soft, too tight, too giving, the sum of all his dark imaginings.

"Is this...the general idea?"

His hands locked over her hips, sliding her lower. "Do I have the look of a man dissatisfied?"

"Not quite." Hope gave a breathless laugh. "I can't believe I'm touching you, doing this. Talking as if this was the most normal thing in the world." She sighed, sinking down, taking more of him. "As if it wasn't like finding a little corner of heaven." She touched his scarred chest gently. "Hope O'Hara and a man who probably has his sculpture on a church wall somewhere. You could even be considered a national legend."

"Only the bad sort, I'm afraid. The kind that mothers use to frighten willful daughters." A tremor shook her as he rocked against her, slow and hard. "But tonight I am no more than a man, Hope. A lover you are driving to a fine madness."

"Madness. I like the sound of that." She sank, gloved him exquisitely. "You're a hard man to proposition, MacLeod. Not that I've had much practice." Her lips curved, sinful. "With hard men, that is."

"I like how you make your propositions," he breathed. The fit was perfect and his control was nearly gone when he linked their fingers and pulled her close to trace the tip of her breast with his teeth. His hand slid between their joined bodies. "I don't think you need any more practice," he muttered hoarsely. "I am the one in danger of death at any second."

His fingers moved. He felt her instant, shuddering gasp.

"Not fair, MacLeod. That's-cheating."

His smile was a slash of silver in the moonlight. "I never said I'd be fair, Hope. Only that I'd love you as no other man ever has. And I will." One slow thrust, one brush of his hands, and she was lost again, her eyes blind as she arched against him.

Dear God, how much I love her, MacLeod thought, watching the passion catch her. If only he could see the future. If only there were more time for them.

If only...

Her eyes opened. "I can see how you became a legend, Ronan MacLeod. And I think I've forgotten how to speak." She planted a dazed kiss against his mouth, her cheeks aflame. "I can't move. I can't even remember my name. Any suggestions?"

MacLeod groaned as she closed around him, all heat and silk. He didn't feel like a legend. He felt like a man in extremis as her muscles tightened, drawing him in, draining him of sanity. "Then forget your name. Forget all else but how we fit together, mo run."

His heart hammered with an intensity that was almost painful as he gripped her hips and impaled her until he could drive no higher. Thigh to thigh they moved. The only sound was his groan, her broken cry.

Beneath them snow swept through the glen, and the black arms of the oaks tossed in the wind.

Darkness raced, pounding at MacLeod's mind as he found the small, shining door that love and Glenbrae's miracles had opened between the centuries.

There, matter and time twisted, losing all meaning.

Hope stiffened. Her body closed around him and she cried out his name, clutching blindly at his shoulders.

This time MacLeod followed her.

No more keeping score. No more guarding his wary heart.

Honor be damned, duties be damned; he threw back his head and rocked against her high and hard, spilling his hot seed deep. He knew a grim satisfaction as her legs locked around him and she twisted, shot through with pleasure yet again, then collapsed blindly against his chest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

SOMEWHERE BEYOND MIDNIGHT, Hope stirred. MacLeod had managed to tug a pillow beneath her head and find a blanket for them to share.

Snow danced against the window and he smiled sleepily when he felt her fingers tug at the soft hair at his chest.

"So," she said huskily, "how does it feel to be a legend?"

"Maybe I should ask you." He drew her head onto his shoulder and smoothed the warm curve of her hip. "Books have been written about less, woman."

She chuckled unsteadily. "Don't make me laugh, MacLeod. It takes energy that I need to breathe."

A grin worked over his lips. "And I was so busy feeling sorry for myself. A sculpture on a church wall, I believe you called me."

She snuggled closer. "Go ahead and deny it."

He shrugged. "Guilty, I'm afraid. There were three at last count."

Hope traced his jaw with her fingertip. "You really are a legend. You're making me feel panicky again, MacLeod. How is a normal woman supposed to measure up to that kind of reputation?"

"Like this." His thigh moved. Slow and sweet, he entered her on a glide of pure magic.

No fury this time. No blind desperation. Only a slow, shuddering pleasure where his body rode hers.

Only his hands, locked around hers as he watched her eyes darken, watched her pleasure begin again.

And he kissed the soft, broken moan from her lips when the glide took her higher and stole her breath.

In truth, Hope O'Hara made him feel like a legend, MacLeod thought. She made him feel like a man who could claim kingdoms and start dynasties. Here in this beautiful glen he was changed, tamed, freed of his dark past.

The wolf no longer paced inside him.

Purest magic, all of it. MacLeod prayed he would have the rest of his life to thank her. If not, he would simply hoard whatever precious moments they were given.

The silver cross glinted. In the pale moonlight it lay cold between their heat, reminding MacLeod of old vows and fallen friends.

He closed his eyes and felt Hope's arms around him, her hair like a curtain at his cheek. This, he thought. All he wanted or could ever need. One heart and one breath.

The silver cross shifted, warm with their heat when he groaned and found the sweet, dark mystery, then rode it down into forever.

And Hope was there, waiting for him.

HOPE STRETCHED SLOWLY, eyes closed while the first hint of dawn filtered through the window. There was a strange weight in her body, a warm tugging in muscles she'd never even imagined. The man was amazing.

A smile played over her lips as she draped herself across the lean, rugged body that had driven her to delirious pleasure throughout the night.

The silver cross slid over her skin, brushing MacLeod's chest. I love you, she thought. Now and tomorrow and forever. I'll love you no matter how long it lasts or where it takes us.

She touched his face, flushed from the stubble on his jaw. A dozen other places carried the same flush. She felt thoroughly manhandled, sweetly depraved.

Entirely cherished.

She eased one hand under the blanket and nuzzled his warm chest. "Did I forget to say good morning, MacLeod?"

His smile was a dark curve of pure satiety. "Not that I recall. But possibly I don't recall too much after the last hour, when you toppled me onto the bed-"

"I didn't."

"-and proceeded to make havoc with my body."

"Havoc?" She laughed huskily. "I wouldn't quite call it that." Her hand slid lower. "Such an amazing body. A legendary body. A man who is a rock among men."

He gave a low groan as she swept down the rapidly hardening length of him. "Not always a rock."

"Feels that way to me." She planted swift, hot kisses over his jaw. "The body of a man who knows exactly how to keep score."

"Keep track," he muttered hoarsely as she goaded him with sweet, searching fingers that closed like a glove. He caught her hand and twisted, sweeping her beneath him on the bed. "I have a new opinion of beds, by the way. They have their particular uses." She was soft against his hand, soft against his mouth when he nuzzled her tight, warm curls.

His name was a moan when she arched against him, seeking blindly. He entered her when the dazed pleasure faded from her eyes, delighting them both.

Hope suddenly stiffened, staring over his shoulder. "What's that...thing?"

He moved deeper, smiling. "Which...thing are you referring to, my heart?"

Hope rasped, "Rogue. I mean the piece of stone that's grinning at me from the side table."

MacLeod studied the weathered piece of stone he'd brought inside several days earlier. Something about its eyes had intrigued him. "I found it by the stables. An old carving, the sort you'd expect to find on a church wall. I thought you should have it before someone else found it."

"It's cute," Hope murmured, moving beneath him in warm, silken rhythm. "In an ugly sort of way."

"Like me."

"Nay," she whispered. "You're all beauty, MacLeod. Nothing cute about you."

The eyes of the stone gargoyle seemed to follow her, holding some grave secret as Hope felt the silver coils tighten and shimmer through her. "Kiss me," she said, suddenly frightened. Suddenly all too aware of the fragile nature of the miracle that held them together.

His body moved over her, into her, fierce and hungry. Hope opened to him, flesh, mind and spirit, offering him her joy and all the time they could steal.

Skin against skin, desire became a dark rhythm.

"Is this-the general idea?" he rasped.

"If that's supposed to impress me-" she closed her eyes, gasped, letting the silver ride through her "-you're definitely succeeding, MacLeod."

There in the blue silence of dawn they forgot their names, forgot how time could harm them, forgot everything but how they fit together, a legend and his love.

One breath and one dream.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

ALL NIGHT THE SNOW FELL, and at ten o'clock the next morning it was still coming down.

Hope was in her office surveying unanswered mail and unfinished paperwork when she jumped at the sudden sound of knocking.