Strange, all strange.

He closed his eyes, making the sign of the cross for protection.

The house seemed to mock him, for it was the same yet not the same. Dizziness twisted his mind, and he knew if he moved from the door, he would fall.

Seven centuries gone past?

No, it was purest madness. But the evidence was before him now, glinting in every shadowed room.

How could he fight the terrible proof of his eyes? This was the same house he had left before the storm-yet now its differences were stark.

Rain struck the roof. MacLeod stiffened as fingers softly brushed his arm. He wanted no more contact or dialogue with the spy. How had she wrought such changes here in a single night?

Glenbrae House had been his first home in decades, a place where he had hoped to find contentment.

Now all hope of that was vanished.

"I'm sorry. Truly I am."

She was a flawless performer, MacLeod thought. There seemed to be genuine regret in her voice.

"Sorry for what?" he said bitterly. "That you have failed in your mission to shake my hold on reason?" He laughed tightly. "Edward makes no reward to those who fail him, as you will learn soon enough."

"You really believe that Edward is still king, don't you?" she whispered.

MacLeod stared off into the gray clouds where lightning flickered coldly. "So he was when last I saw him, in the flesh at his court but two weeks ago."

There was a soft catch in her throat. "I...don't know what to say."

In truth there was nothing left to say, the Crusader thought grimly. Either the woman lied or he had lost all reason, and he refused to accept the second possibility. "The bailiff sent you here to cozen me."

"There is no bailiff at Glenbrae House."

MacLeod laughed darkly. "Then perhaps the king selected you as my wife. He has threatened often enough that he might, if I did not choose on my own. Have you come from the court to tie the knot about me?"

Her voice hardened. "I don't know any kings. Even if I did, I would marry for no reason but my heart's desire."

"Spoken like a woman." MacLeod sank back against the door frame. The rain seemed to streak inside his eyes, blinding him. No, this tale of hers could not be true. She had been sent to befuddle him with her heady scent and expressive eyes, a seasoned spy in Edward's employ.

But what if her words were true...?

Then all the world he knew was gone. All the people he trusted were turned to dust. And he had no home left, no king to serve and no village to protect.

The thought was a dagger to his flesh.

"What magic have you worked?" he whispered hoarsely, burying his fingers in her hair and hauling her against his chest. "Speak me the truth now, witch, before I squeeze the last breath from your lips."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

HOPE SAW THE ALARM harden his mouth and fill his eyes, overshadowing the anger. She had come from her room, wakened by the sound of slamming doors and muttered oaths, only to find her visitor struggling to stay upright. If not for the fear in his eyes, she would have sworn she was dealing with a madman.

"Tell me," MacLeod repeated roughly.

But his fear held her, tempering her own anger. "I'm no witch. I doubt such creatures exist. I almost died in the storm, remember? If I could make magic, I would have used it, believe me."

"Perhaps weakness was your greatest trick."

Sticks and gravel rattled at the window. The house creaked around them, rocked by lashing winds.

Hope stared deep into his eyes, looking past the worry and the anger, willing him to believe her.

"These things I have said are true. Hurting me won't change that."

He looked down at his hands, now locked around her wrists. "Hurting you was not my purpose." He closed his eyes, a shudder working through his body. "Nothing I do is as I plan. Why is it all so different?"

"Different in what way?"

He made an angry, impatient sound. "In every way. The colors are too bright. The smells are flat, too sweet. You have glass everywhere, too many books. And the colored walls..." He fought for control. Then, very gently, he ran his hands over her wrists. "I ask your forgiveness for any harm I have given. It shames me, and I will undertake penance for giving you pain."

He was deadly serious, Hope saw. "I'll be fine. Just don't plan on trying anything like that again."

Gravely he pulled his sword from its sheath and held it out to her. "If I do such a thing again, I order you to use my sword against me."

The man is serious, Hope thought. "You want me to-attack you?"

"I will not oppose the blow. Deal with me as you must. If a man cannot wield control over himself, he is no more than a dog."

The conviction in his voice shook Hope. He would let her strike him down and never oppose her blow, if he thought himself at fault.

Men weren't supposed to act this way. There was something seriously wrong here.

"Take the sword," he ordered.

Reluctantly she gripped the leather-wrapped hilt. As the stranger released his hold, the weapon nearly plunged from her fingers. "You didn't tell me this thing weighed a ton!"

"You will need two hands," he said gravely, shaping her other hand around the hilt. "Hold it so." He moved her fingers so that they lay tightly on the handle underneath his. "Now lift your arms together and swing in a free arc. That will give power to your movement."

Hope felt hysterical laughter rise in her throat.

This couldn't be happening. She was not standing in her hallway in the gray light of dawn, discussing sword technique with a man who looked like he could have given Braveheart Wallace fighting lessons.

But the sword was cold and heavy in her fingers, all too real. So was the man's body pressed against her side.

"I-I'll remember that. About using two hands." She eased away from him and held out the sword.

His dark brow rose. "You trust me?"

Hope considered the question carefully. "No," she said. "I know nothing about you."

His eyes hardened. "Then keep the sword."

"There is no need. For now, your eyes tell me all I need to know."

"Are you a seer to read them?"

Hope stared at his well-used sword. "It doesn't take a witch to read what's in your eyes."

"And what is that?"

"Pain. Confusion. And...fear."

His whole body stiffened. "I am a knight sworn to the cross. A knight does not know fear."

That strange talk of knights and honor again.

Hope shrugged. "I know nothing of knights or what they said in public. But in the silence of the night, even a knight would be only a man. And there he would face his fears alone."

He took his sword from her and slid it into the leather sheath on his hip. "You speak of men. Have you known so many?"

"A few." Hope shrugged.

His fingers opened, guiding her face back to his. "Finish."

"None of them was like you. You jumped the cliffs when I needed a rescuer. You...saved my life."

"I did no more than my duty." He stared down at the mottled marks on Hope's wrists, his jaw tense.

"And then I did this. A knight may not bring pain to a woman. It was my vow, and I have broken it.

Perhaps the stories about me are true."

"Stories?"

"It is said that I have no heart beneath my steel. That I can be cut, but I do not bleed."

A terrible bleakness filled his eyes. Hope remembered the wounds across his back and shoulders and was certain he had known pain enough for twenty men.

But if he had shed tears, it had been in solitude and in grim silence. He might be half crazy, but he was more of a hero than any man she had ever met before.

She saw him run one hand over his knee and shift to his other leg. "Is your knee bothering you?"

He shrugged. "It is an old and familiar pain."

Hope wanted to laugh, but there was nothing to mock. There was no bravado in his speech, only simple truth, coupled with a disturbing resignation.

He hurt, she realized, and he hurt often. It was no more than what he expected of life. In his eyes, his endurance entitled him to no special respect.

Hope wasn't sure whether he deserved a medal or a referral to a good psychiatrist.

She was about to ask more about his knee when a door opened at the back of the house and footsteps echoed up the stairwell.

Her rescuer went very still. "Who enters without permission? Your maidservant?"

Hope blinked. "I have no maidservant."

"Stay here," he ordered. "I will see to the intruders." He drew his sword and moved toward the stairs.

The crazy man was going off to fight on her behalf, Hope realized. With a gasp, she ran after him.

His sword could do serious damage from weight alone.

When she reached the stairs, Jeffrey was staring down the battered blade of the broadsword.

"Halt or I drop you where you stand."

"I give up. I'll say uncle or anything else you want." Jeffrey raised his hands. When he saw Hope, he gave a weak smile. "Tell him the natives are friendly, will you?"

"You can put down your sword." Hope bit back a ragged laugh, giddy at the absurdity of the whole scene. "This is one of my friends."

"A friend? Is he your lover?"

"What?"

"Lover," MacLeod said impatiently. "Does he share your bed?"

"What makes you think you can ask-"

Glowering, Hope's rescuer closed in on Jeffrey, sword leveled. "What say you to my question?"

"Er-lover? No way."

"Thank you for the compliment, Jeffrey," Hope muttered.

The young man's face flamed. "That is-We're not-Of course, I didn't mean to say that I don't think you're-"

MacLeod made a sound of disgust. "Are you one of the bailiff's men?" he demanded. "Or were you sent by Roulfe of Montaine? I should never have trusted him after he stole my horse in Genoa."

"Never been to Genoa," Jeffrey said quickly.

"You dress surpassing strange." He brushed his sword over Jeffrey's torn blue jeans and dripping blue anorak. "Are you jester to a troupe of traveling players?"