The next case contained three shelves of maps and a section of classic children's books, which were Hope's favorites. Finally, at the back of the room, half hidden by a thick velvet curtain, she found the trunk with old cookbooks.

Cooking in Provence. Cooking in Venice. Cooking in the Seven Seas. Blast it, where was the Chinese volume?

Muttering, she knelt on the floor, examining a pile of books that had fallen at the back of a shelf.

Without warning a wave of dizziness struck her, making her stomach lurch.

Food, she thought. Breakfast had been half a piece of toast that morning. She had planned to take a break for lunch, but had never found the time to eat it. As soon as she had the book, she would snitch something from Lord Draycott. Even now delicious scents emanated from the kitchen.

She sank onto the floor, pulling the top books onto her lap.

Cooking in the Alhambra.

Cooking in Rome.

Footsteps padded down the hall. Hope heard the soft click of the door opening, followed by a faint, insistent ringing. It took her a moment to recognize the sound of a cellular phone.

"Yes, of course it's me, damn it." The words were low, muffled. Hope frowned, trying to place the voice.

"I'm at Glenbrae House, of course. Where did you think I'd be?"

Detective Sergeant Kipworth, she realized.

She leaned forward breathlessly. Eavesdropping or not, she wasn't going to miss any clues to the progress of his investigation.

"I told you not to call me here. It's too dangerous."

Dangerous? Hope rubbed her forehead. The room seemed to blur for a moment.

"What did you get on this fellow MacLeod? Any arrest record?"

Hope stiffened. Why were they investigating MacLeod?

"I see. You're sure of that?"

Hope felt her heart pound. Surely they couldn't be suspicious of Ronan.

"No previous occupations or prior addresses at all?" Kipworth bit back an oath. "That's impossible and you know it. You're simply not trying the right places."

More silence.

"Then take your bloody computers and fix them. He had to come from somewhere and be born to someone. Start with his National Registration number. Maybe he's got a passport."

Hope pressed a hand to her lurching stomach. They would find no National Registration number and no prior domiciles for Ronan MacLeod-not for roughly seven centuries, and not many computers would be looking back that far. It would almost be funny, she thought, if the whole idea weren't so harrowing.

Kipworth scanned a row of books along the wall. He was coming closer, Hope realized.

"Of course I'm still looking. Every bloody inch of the place. The book must be here somewhere,"

he snarled. "Otherwise, I'd be out of this wretched little town in a second."

Hope gasped at the menace in his voice.

"Just you listen to me. I've been tied up in this business for too long already. I'll find your book, just the way we agreed. But there's been a little change. That's right, a change." He laughed softly.

"The price just doubled."

Silence.

Hope rubbed her forehead as the floor bled into gray and then re-formed. Shivering, she sank back, thankful for the comforting support of the window. What was wrong with her?

"Yes, I know you have a buyer for your precious folio of Shakespeare and I know he's losing interest. That's why my fee just doubled."

Kipworth knew about the folio? But how could he, when she and Ronan had only discovered it that morning?

She rubbed her eyes, trying to ignore another wave of nausea.

"The others? I'm doing nothing about them for now. The cook and her boyfriend are out of the way.

It was easy enough to slip something in their drinks since they're always hanging about together in the kitchen. This fellow MacLeod will bear some looking at, too. But it's Hope O'Hara I'm after.

She has to know where the book is."

It's Hope O'Hara I'm after.

She blinked, trying to make sense of what Kipworth had just said. How had he learned about the precious folio and why was he arguing about money?

As she sank against the wall, a board squeaked. The sound echoed sharply in the silent room.

Kipworth swung around instantly. "Who's there?"

Hope eased back into the shadows. If he found her now, how would she explain her eavesdropping?

Footsteps paced closer and Hope had a sudden, horrible vision of being shot in her own house, convicted by posterity as a cold-blooded thief.

Then the heavy curtain rippled in a gust of air and Banquo swooped overhead with a shrill cry. "The moon is down," the great bird cried. "The moon is down."

"How did you get in here? I made certain that I latched the door behind me." Cursing, Kipworth strode to the door.

Banquo was faster. He soared outside, then circled back over Kipworth's head. "Enter three witches."

"I've heard quite enough Macbeth for one day. Come a bit closer and I'll teach you all about tragic endings."

As Banquo soared away, Hope realized he had saved her from discovery. She released the breath she'd been blocking in her throat.

"Yes, I'm still here. That was just the bloody parrot with his infernal chatter. That's the one, always quoting Shakespeare. What do you mean, does he know where the folio is? Are you suggesting that I interrogate a bloody bird?"

Hope realized that she was shivering, sharp, tight movements that wrenched her whole body.

Something slid down her nose.

Sweat. She was freezing, yet burning up at the same time.

"Hope O'Hara? Don't worry about her. She'll be out of the way soon enough. I gave her enough to put her in bed for a week." Kipworth paced beyond the curtain, laughing tightly. "And if that doesn't work, I'll have to think of another way, won't I?"

The floor swam wildly beneath Hope. He had drugged Gabrielle and Jeffrey, and then he must have drugged her tea. Dear Lord, she couldn't let him find her here.

She wobbled to her feet, remembering that Lord Draycott was in the kitchen. If only she could get through the door and down the corridor to the kitchen before Kipworth heard her. She inched toward a potted ficus tree flanking the rear door.

"Yes, I know all about your bloody lordship and his pretty wife. They'll get their precious book soon enough. Yes, I know they're obsessive about their collections. I also know that they're getting impatient."

Hope stared bleakly at the door. Your lordship and his pretty wife. Were the Draycotts somehow involved?

She drew a broken breath, trying to sort suspicion from truth while her stomach lurched with sickening force.

She was getting worse. Probably Kipworth's drug was just beginning to take effect. She had to make a decision quickly. As nice as he was, Lord Draycott was a stranger, a man who had appeared without notice or introduction. He could be anyone or anything.

Even a criminal.

She couldn't afford to trust anyone. Only Ronan.

She rubbed her throbbing head, trying to remember where he'd gone. The stables?

She dragged a shaking hand across her eyes. Out the back door, past the pantry. Through the mudroom. If she was very quiet, she could make it.

Holding her breath, she eased open the door behind the ficus. A faint breath of air drifted through the room, but Kipworth didn't appear to notice as he bent over the ornately carved fireplace.

His voice sounded distant and strained. "You heard about the fire, did you? Rather brilliant of me, I thought. A perfect way to clear out the house. No, of course I didn't take any chances. It was all smoke. The rags I set to burn at the edge of the grate looked terrible enough, but there was no real danger to the house, I made certain of that. But the bloody woman didn't carry anything out. The folio must still be inside, unless she's already hidden it somewhere else."

Hope saw Kipworth fumble in his pocket, then pull out a flat oval shape.

"The mantel? Yes, I noticed that. All kinds of carving. It might be some kind of puzzle. Your friend was a very clever man, and he could have hidden that folio you stole anywhere in the house."

That folio you stole...

Hope barely heard, her gaze locked on the flat, gray form in Kipworth's hands.

A snarling wolf with fangs bared.

The King's Wolf, she thought. Kipworth had the brooch? Had he stolen it from Wyndgate?

But she didn't stay to hear more. She crept along the hall toward the dark pantry. At the back door she bit back an oath. The heavy bolt was thrown, and she didn't dare to move it for fear of attracting Kipworth's notice.

She shook the door lightly, trying to focus. What to do next? The breakfast room would take her right past the door to the library where Kipworth was standing, but Hope realized she had no other choice. Any second she could lose consciousness. Kipworth must have poisoned the tea when she had gone out to answer the phone. Probably he had placed the call to draw her from the room. A very clever man, James Kipworth.

Although that would hardly be his real name.

Her vision blurred again. She wobbled through the mudroom, hearing no sound from Kipworth nor from the kitchen. Perhaps the Draycotts had gone out.

She dug her fingers into her temples, trying to concentrate. Five feet more, she thought. A wedge of shadow blurred the floor in front of her; beyond that lay the kitchen and its outer door to freedom and Ronan.

She inched forward, her heart pounding. She could see the edge of the door now.

Almost there...

Silence all around her. Pain and shadows.

Then she ran dead into James Kipworth's hard chest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

HE TURNED HER SLOWLY.

His hands on her shoulders were no longer comforting but tight with suspicion. Hope wondered how she had ever thought his face was pleasant.

"Ms. O'Hara, is something...wrong? You're not looking at all well."

Hope managed a weak smile. "My stomach-I'm afraid I'm coming down with whatever Gabrielle and Jeffrey have."

"You're sick, too?" His eyes were kindly now, concerned.

Or they would have seemed so if Hope hadn't overhead his recent conversation.

The man was a thief and possibly a killer, and Hope knew she would have to clear her blurring thoughts to have any chance of escape.

She put one hand over her stomach, wincing. He would expect her to be sick, and she obliged with a soft groan.

He put out a hand to steady her. "Good Lord, you really are sick. Perhaps you'd better go upstairs and rest." So concerned. So sincere.

Hope shivered. "That's where I was headed."

"Then why did you come from the back of the house?" His eyes narrowed.

"I had to make a stop-my stomach..." Hope gave an embarrassed laugh. When his expression relaxed, she realized the story had worked.

"Then there's no sense chatting when you probably feel like death itself. We'll take up my questions after you feel better. Meanwhile, I'll keep an eye out for any problems down here."

I'll just bet you will, Hope thought grimly. Then she had a stroke of inspiration. "This blasted flu is making me forgetful. I know there was a message I was supposed to give you, but I can't remember what."

His eyes narrowed. "A message? From whom?"