He sidestepped coolly.

"N-now." Fear raced, making her heart pump. If he heard the break in her voice or saw the pallor of her cheeks, he gave no sign of it.

Hope shoved angrily at his chest, but the motion was as useful as cobwebs hitting granite. In all honesty, the man didn't seem violent or intent on robbery. He simply looked angry and confused.

Not that Hope was about to take any chances.

"You can let go now."

No movement.

"You're hurting me."

His hands loosened, but he remained in front of her, an unshakable wall of chain mail and muscle between her and the door.

Hope stiffened as his hand slid onto her hip. "That's one bad idea, Galahad." Her hands clenched on the flashlight. As a weapon, it had limited value, but she wouldn't go down without a fight.

His hand closed over the flashlight. Frowning, he pulled the gray metal handle from her fingers and studied the tool suspiciously.

What was going on? Hope thought irritably. The man looked as if he had never used a flashlight before.

The handle jerked as he brushed a button and sent a powerful beam through the darkness. With an incomprehensible curse he dropped the flashlight and glared as it rolled across the floor, then ricocheted off a chair leg.

Correction, Hope thought. The man looked as if he had never seen a flashlight before.

She glowered as the glass face shattered at her feet. Being around this man was getting expensive.

"That flashlight cost a lot of money," she snapped, shoving vainly at his rigid arm.

No answer.

Hope gritted his teeth. The man was starting to make her seriously nervous-and he didn't appear to understand a word she said.

"You might enjoy acting out captor-captive fantasies, but I don't find the idea particularly entertaining. Where did you get that costume, by the way? Wide World of Wrestling?"

Still no answer. Hope shoved at his hands. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will. I'm a fifth-degree black belt," she lied again.

He didn't exactly grovel in fright. In fact, his face registered no emotion whatsoever.

"Scram, will you? I've got work to do."

His jaw tensed. Something flickered in those keen, loch-gray eyes. "Work?"

Did he think that the floors cleaned themselves after a rainstorm? "Work, as in manual labor. Right at the top is checking the eaves-provided I still have any eaves left to check."

"Eaves?"

"The place where I nearly broke my neck when I fell in the rain." Nobody's memory could be that bad, Hope thought. Maybe he was high on drugs.

Just my luck, she thought miserably. She'd asked for a hero and instead she'd gotten a drug addict.

"Eaves. As in roof." She pointed over their heads, making one last attempt to communicate.

"Ah. Roof." He pointed to the ceiling, too. "Up there." He touched her damp hair. "You are not a man."

"Surprise, surprise."

At least he seemed to speak English. Still, Hope decided that the sooner he left, the better. Her bedroom was beginning to feel decidedly cramped, and the hard thigh crowding her hip didn't add to her comfort.

"Give me some space, here." She shoved at him with her bent knee, but only managed to slap their bodies together. She winced as a metal prong jabbed her thigh. "Ouch! That circus costume of yours is dangerous."

Something flashed in his eyes. Hope didn't want to know what it was. He looked even more angry and confused than before.

"Listen, I'm going downstairs to work. I don't suggest you try to stop me." Would stomping on his instep work? she wondered.

"You perform...work here?" This time the words were rough but audible. He seemed to have a heavy accent that Hope couldn't place.

French? German?

"Of course. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I'm a wimp. Right now I need to see how much of the attic is buried beneath rainwater," she said grimly.

"Why?"

Hope counted silently to five. "Because this is my house, Jack. Taking care of it is part of my job description."

"My name is not Jack." Belatedly her last words seemed to register. A frown cut across his brow.

"Your...house?"

"That's right. Do you have a problem with that?"

"You...work in this house?" he said slowly.

"Not this house, my house," Hope corrected. "At Glenbrae House I pay the bills and hire the help. I even wash the windows when necessary. Someone's got to keep this beautiful old wreck in one piece."

"Glenbrae...House." He swept a piercing look through the room. The glass glinted, dark with rain, holding their reflections just above the trees dimly visible in the orchard. "I did not give you hire,"

he said.

No kidding. She wouldn't work for this specimen in a thousand years.

"Who has brought you here? Will? My bailiff?"

Hope stared at him. The man was having real problems with his English. Maybe the bump on his head had done more damage than she'd realized. "Not anyone. And believe me, I've never seen you before in my life."

"Nor have I seen you. But if you have hire at Glenbrae House, it is by my grace."

A strand of black hair curled over his forehead, just above an angry purple bruise. Hope realized the bruise had come in his effort to rescue her.

Forget it, she told herself. She couldn't afford to be generous or grateful when he was intent on taking advantage of her. "No one hired me," she repeated. "I own this place."

His whole posture changed. "Glenbrae is mine by grant of the sovereign, with all wod-penny and chiminage. Mine." The words were rough but unmistakable.

His confidence unsettled her. Could her purchase have been a mistake? As an American, she was hardly an expert in the complexities of English entails and leaseholds. What if her lawyer had overlooked some technicality? Worse yet, what if someone else held prior right to the land?

Impossible, she told herself.

She took a long, slow breath. The man looked more disoriented than she'd thought. His body was rigid and his fingers were now clamped on her neck. She was going to have to set him straight about a few things.

"Two things," she muttered. "First of all, you're-strangling me."

He frowned. "Strangle?" The keen eyes narrowed, and then he released her throat. But his hands settled tensely around the back of her neck.

At least it was a start, Hope thought. "The second thing is a little more important. There's one problem with what you just said about owning Glenbrae House. It's already owned-by me. I hold clear deed and title, duly authorized by all relevant authorities. It may not be a royal grant, but I assure you it's every bit as legal."

For an instant more confusion filled his eyes. "Show me this deed," he growled.

"With pleasure." Hope smiled icily. "Just as soon as you take your hands off my neck."

He looked down at his clenched fingers, then shrugged and stepped back. "If you flee, I will track you."

"Don't worry, buster, I'm not going anywhere."

He scowled. "Enough talk. Show me your right of ownership."

Hope fumed at his arrogance. "I'm supposed to prove ownership to a man who goes around dressed in armor and a sheet?"

"My covering is called a surcoat."

"I'm so glad to know that. You must be a big hit on Halloween.

"Halloween?"

Hope shook her head. "Do you always dress like that?"

"It is customary."

Customary where? she wondered. In the medieval fair where he worked as an entertainer? If so, why didn't he just admit it?

She moved to the door, careful to make no quick movements that might provoke him. Given his unpredictable moods, she couldn't be too careful. "Forget the deed. My leaking roof is more important."

"Fetch your legal writ. Then I will see to the safety of the roof."

"I don't recall asking for your help," she said tightly.

"It is well you did not, for you growl like a Bedouin rug dealer cursing his camel. You would keep any man with wits to ten paces."

"Where does that leave you?"

"But I am not a Bedouin rug dealer," he said calmly. "And you...interest me. Even if you are a witch."

"If I were a witch, you'd be a toad right now." Hope took advantage of the distance between them to aim a fierce kick at his shin.

He gave no notice that he felt anything.

"Because you saved my life, I'll feed you one hot meal. After that, you're out of here."

"Out...here?"

"Gone. Departed. Hasta la vista, baby."

"I am no infant." His brow rose. "And where am I to go?"

"That's your problem. Go wherever you want. Home-or back to whatever fair it is you work at."

He slanted her an imperious glare. "I have seen fairs. They are noisy things of no interest to me."

Hope swallowed hard. When would Gabrielle and Jeffrey get back?

She thought of the small, battery-operated stun gun tucked in a drawer in the kitchen. Her uncle had insisted she take it on her first backpacking trip through Provence as a college student. Hope had only needed it once, when a drunken pair of American football players had decided it would be amusing to toss her fully clothed into the Seine.

In the end she had talked her way out of that confrontation. She would talk her way out of this one, too.

Then rescue or not, it was goodbye, knight errant.

The deed was exactly where Hope had left it, hidden inside a wall safe in her study. She might be naive, but she wasn't totally stupid, and she didn't keep her important papers lying around for someone to snatch.

The stranger watched curiously as she removed her fireproof protective metal document box and carried it to her desk.

Light brushed the peach moire walls with warmth from floor to beamed ceiling, but there was little else to see. Hope had moved all her antiques to the guest rooms, keeping for herself only a simple pine desk flanked by high bookshelves.

His breath caught as he turned to study the walls. "So many books," he whispered.

Hope shrugged. "I like to read. It's not exactly a crime."

"Most unusual." He moved to the wall, frowning. "You are a cloistered woman?"

"A what?"

He spoke slowly, as if answering a child. "A female of God, wedded to the church."

Hope had a sudden inspiration. "I might be." Maybe that would keep him from inflicting any more bodily harm.

"Only in the cloisters or at court have I seen so many volumes in one place." He ran his fingers gently over the spines. "These are religious books that you read?"

Couldn't he tell? "Let's say they're a-a mix. The Church encourages broad-mindedness these days."

"Indeed. Shakes-peare. Ag-a-tha Christie. Tom Cl-ancy." He read the words in slow, halting tones.