Beside her, Genevieve stirred restlessly. "Where's Mr. MacLeod, Mama?"

"Inside, my love." Kacey Draycott's voice was strained. "He'll be out as soon as he can."

"I want him to come."

"We all want him to come, Vee."

"I...I don't need Mr. Gibbs and I'm sorry I sent Mr. MacLeod in. If he's hurt, it will be all my fault." Her voice broke. "I'll make the policeman arrest me and put me in jail if anything happens to Mr. MacLeod. But then I'll never see you and Daddy again..."

"Hush, love. Mr. MacLeod went back in because it was right. He thought someone was still inside."

Smoke twisted out the upper window. Hope began to pace again, arms locked to her chest.

Genevieve stiffened. "Did you see it, Mama?"

"See what, love?"

"The cat. It was Gideon, I'm sure of it. He was there by the window just before it closed. And I saw someone with him."

Hope peered through the trailing smoke. Sure enough, the window was closed now.

Ronan. He had made it that far. God, why didn't he hurry?

Fear clamped hard over Hope's chest. She could bear the agony no longer. She turned and started toward the door.

Nicholas Draycott was there before her, his eyes harrowed but determined. "I can't let you go in."

"I'm going. It's my house and my life."

"And you can't throw it away. You have family, friends-people who care about you."

Without Ronan, they would mean nothing. Hope pushed past the Englishman, gasping as he caught her wrist. She struggled fiercely, her eyes blurred by tears. "Let me go. I'm going back inside. If you try to hold me here, so help me, I'll-"

A door squeaked. Snow crunched. "You'll do what, my shrew?" His laugh, shaky but alive, was broken by a cough.

Hope reached him in a heartbeat. She ran her hands over his face, his neck, his shoulders, balanced between joy and tears. "You big, crazy fool." She wrapped her arms around him and pulled his face down to hers.

He tasted of salt and smoke-and blood. Hope gasped. "Your lip-Ronan, what happened?"

"Couldn't see in the smoke. I ran into a bookcase. You should see the books." He cradled her wet cheeks, pulled her trembling hand to his mouth and kissed it fiercely. Abruptly he pulled away with a hard oath. "You're bleeding. My God, your nails-"

Hope closed her fingers, hiding her palm. "It doesn't matter. All that matters is you're alive. We'll start over if the roof burns, Ronan. We'll find another house, another glen." Though the thought wrung at her heart, Hope managed a shaky smile. "One where it never snows."

"That would be a grave loss, my love." He traced the line of the last tear sliding down her cheek.

"Excuse me." They glanced down to see Genevieve tugging at MacLeod's kilt. "I'm sorry I asked you to go in," she said in a watery voice. "It was wrong. And I don't even care that you didn't get Mr. Gibbs." She hiccupped, part of a sob that she couldn't hold back. "Well, only a little."

MacLeod caught her small hand in his big one. "Only a little? I suppose he'll understand. But you'd better explain to him yourself." He patted his sleeve, then eased a lumpy shape from beneath one cuff.

The furry head and body were instantly enveloped against Genevieve's chest. "You found him!"

She danced up and down, the worn bear clutched to her heart. "Mama, Daddy, he brought me back Mr. Gibbs!"

Hope looked away, remembering when life had been simpler and a worn bear was the only thing in the world.

She swallowed, hiding a watery sound of her own.

Ronan MacLeod just couldn't stop being a hero.

THE AFTERNOON SUN peered thinly through gray clouds. Detective Sergeant Kipworth searched Hope's library, examined the burned and smoky section of floor near the fireplace, and pronounced his belief that the cause was a defective flue. It had taken two unpleasant hours to brush, sweep and scrub away the soot, but the process revealed little serious damage. The flames had spread only to the surrounding columns near the fireplace. Except for a small section of singed rug and the acrid smell of smoke, the house was starting to return to order.

Hope realized just how lucky she was. In a period building like Glenbrae House, fire could have raced through every room. She would have to clean the linens and air out all the rooms, but the damage could have been far greater.

Maybe she had a guardian angel or two after all.

With a sigh, Hope looked at her watch. Two o'clock. She sniffed the air, wondering why she didn't smell the rich fragrance of Gabrielle's cassoulet.

A moment later her cook wobbled into the room, her face ashen. "I am very sorry. I try, truly I do.

But I just can't-" She gasped. Her body went rigid and she raced from the room.

"Gabrielle, what's wrong?"

"She's sick. So am I." Jeffrey tottered over to a chair. "Stomach, if you know what I mean. It's hit both of us bloody hard. She keeps moaning that she has to cook, but she can barely stand up."

"Gabrielle's never sick." Hope stared anxiously down the hall. "Oh, heaven, the doctor won't be able to get through the snow."

"It's nothing mortal." Jeffrey gave a weak grin and eased his chin carefully onto his hands as if it might break. "The headache is the worst part. Feels like bits of glass shifting around behind your eyes." His voice was soft but firm. "We'll be fine. It's probably one of those twenty-four-hour things." When he wavered to his feet, the dark circles beneath his eyes were unmistakable. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go back upstairs and check on Gabrielle. Then I plan to sleep for about four decades." He rubbed his forehead with shaky fingers. "That is, if you can spare me."

Hope couldn't, of course, but she wouldn't tell him that. "We'll be just fine. Go up and rest. But shouldn't I go check on Gabrielle?"

"I advise against it. She hates being sick, hates being waited on. Very nasty temper." Jeffrey wandered out with one hand to his head, his skin the color of old oatmeal. "Better leave her to me."

Nicholas Draycott stood outside the door, watching Jeffrey lumber upstairs. "Something wrong?"

He shifted an armful of logs against his chest, smearing his immaculate tweed jacket with wood shavings.

"Oh, Lord, I forgot about the logs. I'd better go-"

He blocked her way. "You'll do no such thing. I can manage a few logs quite nicely. MacLeod already took the rest up." He gave Hope a quick, measuring look. "I rather like the man. He doesn't say much, but he doesn't miss much either. He seems quite keen on you, too, not that it's any of my business."

Hope colored slightly, noticing the glint of humor in Lord Draycott's eyes. "I expect you don't miss much either, Lord Draycott."

"Nicholas, please. One can't be formal with a pile of logs in hand."

Hope chuckled. "I see why Genevieve is smart as a whip. Not that your wife isn't just as sharp."

"Sharp at what?" Kacey Draycott clumped to the door with a smile and a pile of logs. Her cheeks were brilliant red, snow dusted her hair, and she looked, Hope decided, absolutely lovely.

"Just about everything, my love." Nicholas frowned. "And I told you not to carry those logs inside.

Ronan and I will take care of it."

"Men." Kacey blew a strand of snowy hair off her forehead. "They always have to be heroes. As if a woman can't balance a few logs."

"Where shall we take them, Mama?" Genevieve appeared, red-cheeked like her mother and equally delighted to be carrying three tiny logs of her own. "Upstairs or into the kitchen?"

Nicholas sighed. "Outgunned and outnumbered, as usual. I think I'd better slink off to the kitchen myself. It appears that you are in need of a cook, Ms. O'Hara."

"Cook?" Hope stared, speechless. The earl's usually tidy hair was all awry and his tweed jacket was getting dirtier by the second. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly let you."

"You can if you want to eat," he said reasonably.

Kacey smiled at her husband. "He's a wonderful chef, Ms. O'Hara. You won't be sorry. Nicholas gets far too few chances to cook these days since his lion of a butler considers it beneath the dignity of a viscount to sully his hands in the kitchen. Now, you just stay there and rest. We'll take charge of everything."

"But-"

"No buts."

Hope stared, speechless, as her three guests filed out. She had a moment of sympathy for Nicholas Draycott, feeling very much outgunned and outnumbered herself.

"YOU'RE GOING TO COOK? Really, Daddy?" Genevieve stared with great round eyes at her father as he rolled up his sleeves and tested a cleaver.

"Of course, I am, Duchess." He bent down to tug her golden pigtail. "After all, everyone should know how to do a few tricks in a kitchen." He caught up an apple from a basket, minced it into paper-thin slices, then handed one to his daughter, who was too amazed to speak.

"I think I'll try my hand at lion's head soup."

"You going to catch a lion? Oh, I don't think it would be nice to eat his head."

"Not a real lion's head, Duchess. Something wonderful and tasty. The Chinese give everything poetic names, even their food." He smiled. "Especially their food. And they have every right, because Chinese cuisine is the highest art form on this planet, mind you."

He searched through the commercial-size refrigerator and pulled out a handful of greens. Within seconds, neat, regular rows of vegetables filled the board in front of him.

"When did you learn that, Daddy?"

"When I had a great deal of time on my hands, Duchess." He glanced at his wife. "In a faraway place called Thailand."

Kacey paled. "Oh, Nicky-"

"Hush, love. It's all forgotten now, all but the good parts." He looked out at the snow, lost in a distant place and time. "There was an old cook there. He came from Szechwan and was a master with spices. The man could do amazing things with a knife." The viscount carved two radishes into perfect roses, then presented them to his wife and daughter with a flourish.

Genevieve's eyes grew even wider. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "So are you, Daddy."

"I quite agree," Kacey said huskily.

Nicholas swept them into a long hug. "The luckiest man in the world, that's what I am." His voice was a bit unsteady as he set Genevieve on the wooden table. "Now for the bad news, troops." He moved away and rubbed his jaw. "For Chinese food, the preparation is a killer. I'll need four good hands. I don't expect you know of any?"

Genevieve wriggled with excitement. "I do, I do. Can I use the big knife?"

Nicholas thought of the razor-sharp blade and felt his heart lurch. "Maybe the small knife. With a lot of supervision."

As he instructed his daughter, keeping one eye on the stove, something nagged at the back of his mind. There were factors at work here at Glenbrae House that Nicholas did not understand, and he could not quite accept that the fire had been an accident. There had been a striking amount of smoke for such a small area of actual damage.

A coincidence?

Nicholas didn't think so. But why would someone go to the trouble of setting a fire that went nowhere?

He frowned as he pounded a piece of ginger root to near oblivion. Jamee and Ian had been entirely right to call with their worries. His instinct told him something was not right here.

A movement pulled his eye to the window. For a moment he thought he saw a gray shape move toward the loch, low and sleek.

A cat?

He blinked, and then the dark shape was gone. Only snow stretched over the courtyard and along the rocky slope.

He must have imagined the cat.

But the odd prickle of uneasiness did not leave him. Nicholas had a keen sense for people, an ability that had been tested in dozens of dark alleys and war-torn corners of the world. He had given that up when Kacey came into his life, but the old instincts still served him well.

Within minutes he had sized up Ronan MacLeod as a man who could be trusted when the bullets began to fly. As soon as he finished cooking, he intended to track the Scotsman down for a long, detailed talk.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

AS SHE WALKED PAST the kitchen toward her office, Hope heard the sound of childish laughter.

She closed her eyes on a stab of pain.

Family. Belonging.

Things she had had so little of in her life, yet they were the most important of all gifts. As Lady Draycott's low laughter joined her daughter's, something burned at Hope's chest. How could she be jealous of a happy family?

She buried the thought, appalled. Just because her own relations had been lost, she had no right to resent the joy of others. The Draycotts seemed linked by a special love, so strong at times it was nearly tangible.

Maybe magical was a better word, Hope thought. But there would be no childish laughter for her.

No sticky hands and cherub cheeks. Medical science had made vast advances, but they still couldn't work miracles. She touched her stomach, trying to imagine the feel of a child growing there.

MacLeod's child.

Her hands clenched. How much she wanted that. He deserved to have a son with his keen eyes, or a daughter with his willful mouth.