"From Mr. MacLeod, one of our staff. He said there was something you ought to know about, something he had found in his bedroom."

Kipworth drew a slow, silky breath. "How interesting. I'd better go have a chat with him. Where did you say he was?"

"He went off to the upper orchard, then to the cliffs," Hope lied calmly.

Something flickered in Kipworth's eyes. "Why would he go there? Surely he knew I was here inside the house."

Hope thought wildly. She pressed a hand to her stomach, which lurched with pain that was no longer feigned. "I-I can't seem to remember," she mumbled. "There was something he wanted you to see. He carried it from the old fishing shed. Does that make any sense?"

Her face was all innocence, all trust. It was a prizewinning performance.

Kipworth patted her shoulder. "You just leave Mr. MacLeod to me, Ms. O'Hara. I'll look into the matter fully." He touched the delicate silver cross at her throat. "Such a pretty piece. Another gift?"

His hand lingered.

Hope could barely stand to be so close. How could a man lie so calmly? "My favorite one. Was there anything more?" She shivered-and realized too late that Kipworth had felt it, too.

"Is something else wrong?"

Hope shrugged. "I'm feeling sick again." She lunged up the stairs with another groan of pain. "I hope you find the thief," she called. "Whoever stole that brooch should be put behind bars."

He stood looking up at her, a small, grim smile on his face. "My sentiments exactly. And you can be certain I won't stop until I complete my job."

So honest. So conscientious.

Hope suppressed another shudder as he strode down the rear hallway and disappeared.

A little time now, thank heavens. Think.

She gazed longingly at the kitchen. There were no sounds now, but the Draycotts might still be nearby. If only she could trust them.

But she couldn't trust anyone. Not after what Kipworth had said. Anyone could have been on the other end of the line.

She had to find Ronan now.

Warm parka, Hope thought.

MacLeod's sweater and scarf, mittens shoved in the pocket. Wool trousers and heaviest boots. All the time she fought hot, awful waves of nausea. She thought about taking something for the pain, but decided against it. An interaction might make her even worse.

Out the window she saw a dark form striding purposefully over the snow toward the orchard.

"Kipworth" was wasting no time following his latest lead.

Hope plunged down the rear stairs. Fighting dizziness, she headed in exactly the opposite direction and prayed that Ronan was still out in the stables.

"DADDY?"

"What, Duchess?"

"Why is the policeman hiking in the snow near the orchard?" Genevieve Draycott braced her chin on her palms as she stared out the window. "Do you think he's going to have a snowball fight?"

Nicholas followed his daughter's gaze. "I rather doubt it, my love. Policemen don't usually have snowball fights."

"Why not?"

"Too busy. Too serious, I suppose."

Genevieve tilted her head, frowning. "Ms. O'Hara and Mr. MacLeod were having a snowball fight the night we got here. They seemed to be having lots of fun. I like them."

Nicholas Draycott remembered very clearly the intimate scene they had witnessed in the light of the Land Rover's front beams. A snowball fight was the least of what they had interrupted.

He cleared his throat. "They did seem to be having fun, didn't they?" He stared through the window at Detective Sergeant Kipworth's retreating back, feeling a tug of uneasiness.

"Nicky, is something wrong?"

Now was not the time to discuss his uneasiness with his wife, especially with Genevieve hanging on every word. "I suspect that the man has a well-developed sense of self-preservation. No doubt he is headed outside so he can decline any taste of my cooking."

Kacey did not laugh, too quick at reading her husband's moods. "Nicholas, if there's something you're not telling me..."

Genevieve tugged at his sleeve. "Daddy, the oil is burning. And the vegetables are turning a funny dark color."

"Damn and blast." Muttering, the viscount spun back to the stove, his thoughts racing to some disturbing conclusions. First had come the fire, followed by the sudden sickness of Gabrielle and Jeffrey.

Coincidences?

Every warning instinct clamored into red alert.

"I'm afraid that dinner will have to wait," he said tightly. "I've got to make a call."

"But the power lines..."

Nicholas frowned, already reaching into his jacket pocket for his cellular phone.

THE AIR WAS STILL with a bitter, ringing cold as Hope made her way through the dark strands of Norway spruce along the loch. Beeches girded the stone fence, their few remaining leaves clinking like small, golden coins in the wind. White and green ran together before her eyes.

South of the stable, a sullen row of clouds swept over the hillside. It was less than a quarter mile to the old stone building, but in her weakened condition the distance would feel like twenty.

As pain burned through her stomach, she stumbled through the snow, careful to keep Glenbrae House between herself and the rise of the cliffs, where she prayed the counterfeit police officer was still busy searching for MacLeod.

A fir tree slapped wet powder against her face, and with every second the light changed, gray clouds racing before the afternoon sun. This time of year the weather could shift in a second. Even without the promise of more snow, it would be twilight within minutes and full darkness in less than an hour.

Soon the man who called himself Kipworth would reach the cliffs and realize he had been tricked.

He would turn back and see her footprints. And then...

Hope forced away the thought. She had enough to worry about just putting one foot in front of the other in the deep, mounded snow.

She slid sideways, lost her footing, stumbled to her feet, clumsier now with growing exhaustion.

She was nearly at the edge of the garden-or what would be the garden when spring melted three feet of snow. A thin, furious shout whipped down the hillside. She turned to see Kipworth raise his arm, waving furiously.

He knew. Now he would come after her.

Fear kicked hard in her chest. Only minutes now and so much ground left to cover.

She lowered her head and struggled forward, dimly realizing there was no pain or sensation at all in her feet. Her fingers, too, felt heavy and rubbery. Had she been completely rational, Hope would have been alarmed at the growing numbness.

But weariness gripped her. She closed her mind to all but the next painful step before her.

Weaker now. Slower. Every movement an agony as the drug burned through her veins and whispered seductively for her to rest.

For one last moment the sun floated golden on the horizon, then winked out. Within seconds twilight gathered in earnest, long shadows that closed into sudden darkness.

Night lay upon Glenbrae.

Hope looked south, desperately searching for the row of beech trees that marked the edge of the stable.

Nothing. No trees or bushes anywhere.

She froze, hit with a sickening realization: she had taken a wrong turn. Dizzy and disoriented, she could see nothing in the darkness.

She foundered over the snow, fighting panic. Too late she felt a sickening lurch beneath her feet and the wild sway of the ground.

Not an earthquake. Not her imagination.

Something real and far more dangerous.

Hope had never come here before, warned away by dozens of concerned Glenbrae residents since the very first week of her arrival. Now in her panic she had stumbled where no one was safe.

Fear gripped her as the peat bog whispered around her, sucking and hissing. In every direction the snow stretched unbroken, hiding all trace of terrain and any clue to escape.

She took a wary step forward, felt the moss beneath her feet shake like a flat boat on shifting waters. The ground whispered and bubbled, rocking the wet snow above the hidden bog.

And then Hope began to sink.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, they've sent no one here to Glenbrae House? I told you the man's name was Detective Sergeant Kipworth." Nicholas Draycott's fingers tightened on his cellular phone as he paced through the kitchen.

"I heard you the first time." Ian McCall answered with unusual harshness as he struggled to control his own uneasiness. "I'm only telling you what I turned up this morning, Nicholas. I've been on the phone tracking this man Kipworth ever since you called yesterday. The inspector on duty in Edinburgh said that they had planned to send someone down to Glenbrae to investigate, but he didn't make it in the snow. He had to turn back."

"Damn and blast. So our inspector is a fake."

"I'm afraid so. I'm leaving shortly. I have a friend who can handle a helicopter in any kind of weather. Meanwhile-"

"Meanwhile, I'll keep track of Hope."

As Nicholas hung up, his wife blocked his way. "I want to know what's wrong, Nicky. I want the truth this time."

"There's no time. I've got to find Hope."

Kacey frowned. "I saw her go out a few minutes ago. She was headed south, probably toward the stables."

Snow was coming down in thick, wet flakes that muffled all sound. It would also fill in any existing tracks, Nicholas thought. "She's out there," he said savagely. "And he's coming after her."

"The policeman?"

"He's no policeman."

His wife paled. "Oh, God..."

"Exactly." He jerked on his parka and gloves with savage energy.

"Are you going out for a snowball fight, Daddy?" Near the window Genevieve danced from foot to foot, all eagerness. "Can I come?"

"No, Duchess. Not this time. You and Mummy are going upstairs. It will be a kind of game, all right? Just between the three of us."

His daughter nodded, clearly thrilled at the thought of a private game between the three of them.

"Good girl." Nicholas bent his head, speaking softly to his wife. "Take Genevieve upstairs and lock yourself in the bedroom. Shove a chair, a bookcase and anything else you can lay your hands on in front of the door."

His wife's eyes were wide and frightened. "But-"

"Don't let anyone in but me. Do you understand? No one." He took her face fiercely between his hard fingers. After a moment Kacey nodded.

"Good. Remember, no one but me. Go now."

He watched the two most important people in his life run upstairs and waited to hear the click of the lock. Then, jacket in hand, he sprinted toward the front of the house. The glen was already blanketed in darkness when he reached the courtyard.

When he looked down, Hope's footprints were nearly covered by fresh, blowing snow.

AGAINST THE SHADOWS and the silence, Hope stood frozen. She felt the sucking mouth of the bog beneath her feet.

They would find her here when the snow melted-tomorrow, the next day, maybe in a year's time.

Or they might not find her at all, her body pulled inexorably beneath the shifting black waters of the bog.

She dug her nails into her palms and welcomed the pain, a sign that she was still alive and the game was not done yet. Soon Ronan would realize she was gone, and he would come after her. Hero that he was, he would not be dissuaded by small problems like relentless darkness, three feet of blowing snow and a deadly peat bog.

Though it hurt her frozen cheeks, Hope felt the beginning of a smile.