Hope tried to bank her own angry sense of violation. "He's simply being thorough, Gabrielle. The brooch was very valuable for historical reasons, Wyndgate is an important man, and he paid me a lot of money for it. I expect he's put more than a little pressure on the police to produce the thief."

She smiled bitterly. "If there are any clues here, Detective Sergeant Kipworth means to find them.

He reminds me of a hungry dog with a very big bone."

"The kitchen, too?"

"The kitchen, too."

"If that man lays a finger on my cassoulet, I will give him a word or two. I won't have my dinner ruined, investigation or no investigation."

"It's his job." Hope winced as her muscles tightened painfully. "We all need to cooperate as much as possible."

"Police." Gabrielle blew out a hard stream of air. "I knew one in Paris. He arranged for expensive cars to be stolen so that he could find them."

Hope massaged her forehead and watched snow swirl over the leaded window. "What happened to him?"

"Promoted in three months, he was. The evening papers called him a hero." Gabrielle sniffed and flipped one hand. "Police."

"ARE YOU SURE you won't come with us?" Jeffrey stamped his snowy feet on the edge of the carpet. "Perpetua particularly wanted to see you."

"I can't leave now, Jeffrey. There are a thousand things to do here."

Jeffrey frowned. "Is something bothering you, Hope? I mean, besides the fact that you're running out of food and in the middle of a police investigation." He gave a dry laugh. "As if that isn't enough."

"I'm fine, Jeffrey."

"If MacLeod has done something or bothered you, I'll call him out. Even if he can tear me into little pieces."

Hope's lips curved at the image of hand-to-hand combat at Glenbrae House's front courtyard. Very medieval, she decided, and that was entirely appropriate. But there was nothing wrong that a week's sleep, a delivery of food and a closed police investigation wouldn't cure.

The officer's questions had just left her feeling edgy and all too aware of MacLeod's peculiar situation. His silent presence was starting to grate on Hope's nerves, and the threat of more bad weather only added to her uneasiness.

It was just as well that MacLeod was busying himself in the stable. He had hinted about a secret to be completed before Christmas, and no amount of wheedling would dig any more details out of him.

Hope touched her cheeks, sensitive from being thoroughly manhandled during their long hours of lovemaking. She wished he would come back. She wanted the man, not his gifts. She wanted to hear his cocky laugh and feel his callused hands.

Laughter trailed through the hall as Lady Draycott and her daughter raced around the corner. Miss Vee was bundled into a bright parka, her eyes full of excitement.

"Off to the Wishwells for lunch, are you?"

Genevieve nodded, wriggling with barely contained energy. "Mr. Gibbs is coming, too. He loves the snow." She pulled the bear from beneath her parka, revealing a brilliant fuchsia sweater and matching knit beret. "See?"

"Very dashing," Hope agreed.

"I hope the snow won't stop until we get there. Miss Morwenna said I could eat stew and pet the cats. They have three, did you know?"

Hope smiled. "I don't think you need to worry about the snow melting away anytime soon."

Kacey Draycott helped her daughter tuck Mr. Gibbs into a safe pocket. "By the way, I've been meaning to ask you about those figures in the manger. They are remarkably like a set of rare chess pieces I saw in Paris several years ago. Mid-thirteenth century or thereabouts. I remember them because that style of carving in the round is unique. You are certain yours are only reproductions?"

Kacey Draycott frowned. "If those are authentic, they would be worth a great deal of money. I could suggest a reputable dealer. Several museums would probably be interested in bidding, too."

Thirteenth century.

Hope watched wet snow slip down the window. Sounds filled her head. Of course, the style was thirteenth century. That was exactly when MacLeod had learned it. "You're certain of the date?"

Hope said softly.

"Near enough. I'd put it around the Fourth Crusade. Medieval weapons are my real specialty, but I've built up a collection of folk sculpture over the years. I rather covet those pieces myself, but I doubt I could afford them." Her eyes narrowed. "Come to think of it, they would be about the same period as that lovely cross you're wearing."

The cross he had given her. The cross she had promised to wear always.

Hope had a sudden image of Ronan MacLeod, angry and disoriented the night of his arrival in the storm. He had insisted that Glenbrae House was wrong, the rooms were wrong, the furniture was wrong. That the date she gave him was impossible.

Thirteenth century.

Hope's scalp prickled as the enormity of their miracle struck her. By all laws of nature, they never should have met.

She thought of a man swept through a fold in time, forever lost to his own world. He had come seven hundred years to find her, against all logic and all odds. Hope swore she would make him happy. Most of all she would love him, driving away the hell of a thousand battles that still shadowed his gray eyes.

"Look, Mama, someone's coming." Genevieve Draycott ran to the window. "He's all covered with snow and he's wearing a kilt. Aren't his legs cold?"

"I expect he's used to it, my love."

"It's Mr. MacLeod, isn't it?"

"I think you're right, Miss Vee."

Hope swallowed, feeling her pulse kick sharply. Desire was one thing in the sultry darkness while hormones ran amok. But in the daylight, reason prevailed.

Maybe he'd changed his mind.

Maybe he already regretted everything.

Parkas rustled. "Can we go say hello, Mama? I want to see his kilt."

"Most women would," Kacey murmured.

Hope heard laughter and the stamp of boots, then the sound of a door closing. Greetings flashed back and forth, pleasantries exchanged as if from a great distance.

And then she was swept up against Ronan's chest, locked in a kiss that could have sizzled graphite.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

"LOOK, MAMA, THEY'RE kissing again."

"So I see, my love."

Genevieve considered for a moment. "Is that how grownups make babies?"

Kacey Draycott cleared her throat. "Not exactly, Vee."

"Sarah's nanny told her that babies come on milk day and the delivery man leaves them off, but I don't believe it."

"That's very wise of you."

"So where do they come from?"

Silence spun out.

"Mama, why do you look so funny?"

"I think, my love, that we should leave them alone while you and I...go discuss some things."

Dimly Hope heard a door shut. Over the hammering in her head she felt a cold draft slice through the room.

Reason returned. "Ronan, that was awful."

His brow arched. "Then I'll try again."

"No, not how you kissed. I mean the timing. It was terribly rude of us. Now you've chased them away."

"Nonsense. Lady Draycott appears to be a woman who can handle anything. And her daughter could probably charm the growl from a tiger."

Hope frowned down at his neck. There were two faint red lines running from his ear to his shoulder.

"Did I do that?"

"Among other things." MacLeod laughed. "I'll be glad to reveal the extent of the damage upstairs."

"Upstairs? We can't. Ronan, where are you taking me?"

"Upstairs." His hands locked around her. "For a survey of your amenities, Ms. O'Hara. As a prospective guest, I'll need to check your inn thoroughly." His eyes darkened. "We'll inspect the private rooms. Test the beds."

"We can't. It's the middle of the morning." Hope took a shaky breath. Dear Lord, there was a detective roaming around already. "When you didn't come back, I thought you might already be regretting this...."

He stopped, studying her face. "Regret loving you? No man could be so foolish, my heart. Is that what all this protesting is about?"

Hope shrugged. "Maybe." She felt the lurch of her heart and the rising heat of him at her hip.

"Ronan, you're-"

He gave her a slow, dark smile. "So I am. It appears to happen whenever I'm around you."

He carried her into his room and set her down by the window. Sunlight filtered over her flushed cheeks. "You're wearing my gift." He touched the silver cross gently, then turned to close the door.

As he did, his foot struck something beside the window.

Hope heard the crack of shattering porcelain. She winced at the sight of her oldest blue and white vase in pieces on the floor. Beside it lay the ugly weathered gargoyle that MacLeod had brought in from the stable. Now a crack ran through the stone from end to end.

"Forgive me for the vase," MacLeod muttered. "Someone must have moved it since last night. Now I've ruined your statue."

"Wait," Hope said, frowning. "There's something inside it, Ronan." She brushed away chips of stone and broken pottery, tugging at a layer of heavy plastic folded inside the carving.

A flat rectangular form emerged, dusted with dirt and stone powder. Ronan peered over her shoulder, rubbing his heel. "What is it?"

"Some kind of book, I think." Hope eased yellowed pages out from beneath an oilskin covering.

"Very old, by the look of it." Then her fingers stilled. "It-it can't be."

"Can't be what?" MacLeod sank down beside her.

"Look at those handwritten letters." Hope drew a low breath. "Look at the script and those margin notes. It's Macbeth," she whispered reverently.

"I have heard of this lord who killed his king. He was a villain. Why write about such a man and such an unnatural crime?"

Hope ran a finger gently over the old pages, feeling excitement race through her. "Because evil was to be a warning to others. Look at this." She pointed to the next page. "'Newly corrected by W.

Shakespeare.'" Her hands shook as she laid the pages on her lap. "Shakespeare himself," she repeated. "The date says 1616."

"It is valuable, then?"

"Valuable beyond price," Hope breathed. "My uncle always believed that Macbeth was the most disputed of Shakespeare's plays. He was convinced that Shakespeare abbreviated the play himself, and then his version was corrupted by others. If this is real and a genuine work, corrected by the playwright himself..." She looked up. "We'll have to find Jeffrey. Drama is his specialty. He'll know if it's real." She started to rise, but MacLeod held her still.

"Are you certain you should do that?" His eyes were hard. "If this is so precious, maybe it would be better not to mention it to anyone else."

"You think Jeffrey..."

MacLeod rubbed his neck. "I don't know. I only think it would be better to wait."

"I don't like this. Not any of it," Hope said angrily. "You make me suspect everyone."

"Even me?" MacLeod slid the book back into its hiding place, frowning. "My own arrival has been anything but a normal one. This all may be a great and cunning plan by me to confound you, seduce you and steal this precious manuscript."

"Are you quite finished?" Hope said dryly.

"Mmm."

She drew him around to face her and ran a finger along his jaw. "Idiot. As if I suspected you. Any criminal with half a brain could concoct a better story than the one you told me, MacLeod. Being flung through time? Then swept back again by the force of touching his own portrait?"