But every movement hurt. She managed to raise her foot several inches and sway forward. Like a drunken swimmer she lurched from side to side, making a few precious inches of headway with each effort. Around her the bog hissed, unwilling to be cheated of its prey.

Hope fought her way forward, grim and determined. She moved again-and gave a gasp of relief when her foot hit solid earth.

Snow whipped at her face, and she was too tired to sweep it free, too cold to care. She sank down against the snow, at the edge of exhaustion.

Beyond fear.

Beyond planning. Beyond thought of any sort.

Her only plan was to wait, to wait in utter silence. Ronan would come. All she had to do was stay alive until he found her.

She heard the crunch of snow, sickeningly close. She froze, her heartbeat drumming in her ears.

"Hope." It was a gentle whisper, seductive as the falling snow. "I know you're there. Your footprints led me right to you."

Fear. Knuckles shoved against her mouth to keep from crying out. And always the cold, an old friend now.

"You know it's useless," Kipworth whispered. "You know you'll never get away from me."

Ronan would come, Hope thought. All she had to do was wait.

"Don't expect your mystery man to come riding in on his charger. I passed him on the way back from the cliffs and told him you had walked over to see the Wishwell sisters." He gave a low laugh.

"Yes, I know about them, too. Just as I know you've found the folio of Macbeth. I want it, Hope.

Very badly. And I'm going to have it."

She wouldn't believe him. Ronan would come. He couldn't be tricked so easily.

More crunching steps, closer now. Then the hollow click of metal upon metal.

"Do you know what that was? No, I don't expect you would." He laughed softly. "It's a handy device in my particular line of work. A silencer, very good at distances up to thirty feet. So you see, my dear, no one is going to hear me when I start shooting. And no one is going to hear your screams either. Not MacLeod. Not the elegant Lord Draycott."

So the Draycotts had been innocent guests after all. Too late for regrets now. Nearly too late for anything.

A scream built in her throat.

More crunching. Somewhere to her left.

"I'm coming, Hope...."

MACLEOD WAS ABOUT to leave the stables when Nicholas Draycott sprinted out of the darkness, panting hard.

"Is-Hope-" He dragged in a breath. "Is she out here?"

"No." MacLeod's eyes hardened. "What's wrong?"

"Kipworth-not from the police. She left, probably to find you. She's out there somewhere in the snow."

MacLeod muttered a hoarse stream of Gaelic, and Draycott didn't need a translator to recognize curses. "I will find her. Then Kipworth will regret that he was ever born to woman." MacLeod tore off his jacket.

"What can I do?"

"Are her footprints still clear?"

"Gone, for all practical use. The wind has kicked up and there's more snow on its way."

MacLeod stood bare-chested. "No matter. I will find her." He dug his fingers into the dirt of the stable, then tracked dark lines over his chest, a token of battle, first to right, then to left.

He did the same to his cheeks. "If I fail, let me be cut down with her. Give me no breath to draw if hers should fail first." Slowly he dropped the dirt back to the floor. "It is done. Draycott has heard, as my witness."

"My God, man, you'll freeze like that."

MacLeod pushed past him. "It is our way." He pulled his quiver from the floor and shoved it across his bare shoulder. "My heart will bring me all the heat that I need tonight."

Within seconds, he was swallowed up by the darkness.

SO COLD.

She faded in and out of consciousness. Cold whispering, a lover now. Rest, just for a while. Sleep...

Hope forced her eyes open. If she slept, she would never wake again.

She pulled off her parka and shoved it beneath the snow. White sweater, white hat and scarf.

Ronan's gifts, all white. Wearing them would hide her, giving Kipworth no chance to see her. No hope...

Shivering again.

Somewhere a beech tree whispered. Dry, cold leaves blew onto her face. There might have been a light somewhere to her left or it might have been her imagination.

Shivering.

Wait. Wait for Ronan.

LACE FLUTTERED, ghostly white against the snow. Silk and black velvet took form around broad shoulders. The ghost of Draycott Abbey paced the night, his feet unimpeded by the mounded snow.

"The blackguard. I should have known. Never liked the police."

He halted, stared north with eyes narrowed. "Yes, of course I know he's there." A gray shape appeared, footprints light against the snow. The cat cried, low and questioning.

"Yes, they're safe for now, locked in a bedroom just as Nicholas told them. If they weren't quite safe, I wouldn't be out here."

The cat's tail flicked once.

"Nicholas has gone after her, along with MacLeod. She is safe for the moment, but as soon as they're within Kipworth's range..."

The wind growled sullenly, snapping wet snow into the air.

"I'm glad that you agree. It will take both of us this time, my friend. I wouldn't dream of calling on the Wishwells. This is far beyond their talents."

A sound like a muffled cough drifted on the wind. Adrian's eyes grew darker. "Desperate, he's become. He knows his time is running out. But it's running out for her, too, with this infernal cold."

The cat surged forward through the snow, every muscle tensed. Then his footprints vanished.

"Well done, Gideon." Adrian sighed. "Like it or not, the Scotsman is going to need our help before the night is out." He rubbed his hands together, scowling. "I never liked Scotland. Too bloody cold."

As the wind swept fallen leaves across the snow, his lace-clad form shimmered and vanished.

MACLEOD FOUND the first hint of Hope's tracks just beyond the eastern curve of the loch. She had been moving slowly, stumbling twice within a yard.

His hands fisted. He could feel her pain and all her terror. Someone would pay for that, he swore.

He barely felt the cold on his chest now. The battle heat was upon him, savage and consuming. He stood listening for any sound, but heard nothing except the wind.

Eyes lowered, he searched in gradually widening circles so he would miss no clue of her. He found another print. Beside it lay the mark of her body where she had fallen, only to struggle back to her feet.

Brave woman. He would tell her that when he found her. And he would find her.

A slope rose before him, ridged with drifting snow. MacLeod took it on the run, his bow caught in one hand.

At the crest, light slashed out of the darkness, blinding him. He heard a cold laugh.

"Well, well, here's Mr. MacLeod." The barrel of a flashlight glinted down the barrel of Kipworth's gun. "Come and join our little party."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

CAUGHT, MACLEOD THOUGHT grimly.

But he had planned to be caught.

"Where is Hope?" Hands on his bow, he strode forward. He had to find her, and the best way was by allowing himself to be taken by her pursuer.

"So here's our mystery man," Kipworth hissed. "Not exactly dressed for a party, are you?"

"Where is she?"

"I'll ask the questions here. Now, put down that pathetic weapon and move to the top of the snowdrift, where I can see you."

Light glinted coldly along the metal barrel of a gun. "First tell me where she is."

"Stubborn bastard, aren't you? Wyndgate told me you were the one to watch out for. A regular fly in the ointment."

"Why would I be like an insect in gelatin?" All the time MacLeod spoke, he inched to the right until he could see what was beyond the banked snow. He prayed that Hope would be there.

"Very amusing." Kipworth's arm tightened. "But I'm losing my sense of humor in this bloody cold, so I suggest you move. Now."

At the edge of the slope now.

Three steps would bring him to the crest, MacLeod thought. "First Hope. Then I will put down my weapon."

"You don't seem to understand, fool. You have no bargaining power out here. I have the gun, remember?"

Not quite close enough. "What can your small weapon do that my bow cannot?"

"Where are you from, Mars?" Kipworth sent a bullet into the snow only inches from MacLeod's foot. "Does that answer your question?"

MacLeod laughed calmly. "Should I be frightened by that weak bit of noise?"

"You want blood? I can give you that if you want." Kipworth's arm rose. "You missed me on the stairs several weeks ago. Your arrow went past my head. I couldn't even search the house without running into one of you, and that set everything back for weeks. Whoever thought the woman would be such a fool to buy that wreck of a house?" Kipworth jerked the muzzle impatiently.

"Without her interference, we would have found the stolen folio long ago."

MacLeod understood only part of this, but he kept inching over the snow. "We?"

"Why so curious?"

"I like to know why someone is attempting to kill me."

Kipworth laughed tightly. "Logical enough. Wyndgate had a business associate with access to the Macbeth. It took three years of planning, but they finally pulled it off. The bloody theft of the century and no one could know. They planned for Wyndgate's friend to go underground and stay there while Wyndgate looked for a buyer with a large bank account and no messy moral concerns about where the folio had come from. He couldn't exactly put it out in a case in his living room, you understand. Something like that would have attracted immediate attention and a host of unpleasant questions."

MacLeod kept inching sideways. "But you found a purchaser?"

"Finally. By then Wyndgate and his friend had a falling out. He died two years ago, and the stubborn fool kept the book's location a secret to the end."

"Bad luck."

"An understatement." Kipworth turned suddenly. "Stop moving, damn it."

MacLeod shrugged. "But why Glenbrae House?"

"Because the man had worked in the area in the past. He knew the glen was isolated and its residents were eccentric, to say the least. The house was empty. No one was likely to bother him in this town. He and the parrot lived very quietly."

"Parrot?"

"That bloody bird you call Banquo. I suppose you'd recite Shakespeare, too, if it was all you heard for five years." Kipworth frowned. "I should have shot the bird when I had the chance."

Low and unsteady, a voice drifted over the slope. "Ronan, do what he s-says."

Panic swept down MacLeod's chest. "Are you hurt, mo run?"