"Too far," he snapped. " 'Tis almost dark."

He started to turn, but she caught his sleeve. His muscles felt hard beneath her fingertips. "Wait. What is your name?" #

He muttered an answer, but she couldn't have heard him right. "The brute?" she repeated.

"MacBrut"-he cast her a brooding look-"without an e"

He could spell, too. She wanted to proclaim it the perfect name for an unfriendly lout. But whatever his faults, Mr. MacBrut had come to their rescue. "How did you find us?" she asked.

"Your footman."

Exasperated, she said, "Then why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I dinna have time for chatter."

He directed the horse up a steep track into the hills. Miss Gilbert fell into step behind him. Lugging the heavy hamper in one hand and the dog in the other, Helen hastened to catch up to the small party, already barely visible through the falling snow. She slogged through drifts higher than her ankle boots and felt icy trickles down her silk stockings. Within a short time, her hem was sodden and the freezing dampness dragged at her skirts. Miss Gilbert was struggling to keep up, so Helen lent her aid, though it was awkward while holding the dog in the crook of her arm.

"Bless you, my lady," the governess panted. "And bless our rescuer. Aren't we lucky he happened along?"

"Lucky, indeed." Helen didn't want to alarm the older woman. But something about MacBrut made her uneasy. How did they know they could trust this stranger? He might be a bandit, leading them to his lair…

Quickly she banished the morbid thought. She was no longer a silly girl who spun fancies. Better she should praise him for being a good Samaritan.

MacBrut. That must be his clan. What was his first name?

She watched his wide back as he led them steadily higher into the mountains. A thick wool plaid wrapped his massive torso. Now and then, she caught a flash of strong, bare legs beneath his knee-length kilt. The sight caused a peculiar tension in the pit of her stomach. If he had any sense, he'd wear trews in such weather. Though perhaps the storm had caught him by surprise, too.

Where was he taking them?

She had her answer a few minutes later when she spied a castle through the snow. The dark monolith reared against the sheer rock face of a cliff. There was no drawbridge or moat, only an arched gate with a raised portcullis. Through the dimness of dusk, Helen glimpsed twin towers guarding either end of the walled yard.

Picking a path through the scattered rubble, MacBrut guided the horse toward a tall stone keep. Helen could barely feel her feet as she trudged across the bleak courtyard. The basket of food dragged on her arm, but she spared only a fleeting thought for her own discomfort. From the way Miss Gilbert clung, her round body quivering, Helen knew the cold upland trek had been hard on the aging woman.

The keep was chilly and dark inside, but at least the walls provided protection from the wind and snow. Helen gratefully set down the hamper and tilted her head back, turning around for a dizzying view of a cavernous room. The faintest light seeped through the high window slits.

She looked at MacBrut. "What is this place?"

"My castle."

"Your castle?"

"Aye."

"Do you live here alone?"

"Do you see anyone else?" he snarled back.

He probably couldn't get a dog to stay with him, Helen decided. He had brought the coachman in, horse and all, and now he lifted Abbott down, setting him on the stone floor so that he could sit propped against the wall.

Worried, Helen crouched beside him. "Poor Abbott. How do you fare?"

"Fine, m'lady," he said, though pain roughened his voice.

She looked up, seeking their host. "He needs warmth. Can we-"

Before she could suggest a fire, MacBrut strode into the murky shadows of the hall. His heavy footsteps echoed through the gloom. What a rude, exasperating man! Then came a rustling noise and the hollow thump of wood being, tossed onto a grate. Within moments a cheery blaze sent light and warmth radiating into the hall.

No, he was a wonderful man.

She helped Miss Gilbert to the massive stone hearth and seated her on a three-legged stool. Smiling, the governess stretched out her mittened hands to the fire. "Oh, this is lovely," she said, looking as pleased as a pudgy mole invited to the drawing room of a duke.

Helen set down M'lord, who scooted close to the fire. She turned her back to the blaze, soaking in the blessed heat, but only for a moment. Seeing MacBrut half carrying the coachman, she removed her fur-trimmed cloak and made a pallet close to the hearth. "Have you any blankets?" she asked him.

"The trunk upstairs. In the first chamber." With a tilt of his head, he indicated the darkness. Gruffly, he added, "Take a candle."

She found a stub of wax in a basket beside the hearth, and touched the wick to the fire. It was torture to leave the blazing warmth for the icy bowels of the keep. Shivering, she clenched her teeth to keep them from chatter-, hig.

The meager circle of illumination wavered over the stone floor, without penetrating the dense gloom elsewhere in the vast chamber. She could see only a short distance in front of her. The place smelled musty and ancient. She lifted the candle and searched for the stairs. Rusted armor hung on the walls alongside huge faded tapestries. A dull layer of grime coated the few chairs. If this was MacBrut's home, he sorely needed a housekeeper.

Better yet, a wife to sweeten his sour disposition. Unless he already had one-imprisoned in the dungeon.

Just as she started toward the arched opening of a stairwell, a peculiar sight distracted her. On a dais half-hidden in the shadows, a long trestle table was draped in yellowed linen and set for a dinner party. Dust shrouded the fine porcelain plates. Cobwebs stretched from the filthy crystal glassware to the tarnished silver candlesticks. Dark lumps sat upon serving dishes, and only when Helen walked closer did she realize it was petrified food.

She stood riveted, her skin prickling from more than the frigid air. The ghostly dinner waited as if the residents of the castle had been called away in mid-meal. What could have happened? A clan war perhaps? It must have been a tragedy if even the servants had not come back to clear the table.

'The stairs are that way."

The harsh echo of MacBrut's voice startled her. She spun around, the candle flame guttering. He stood pointing, a mythical beast outlined against the fire. His body cast a colossal shadow across the floor.

Still shaken by the strangeness of the abandoned meal, she mounted the winding stone staircase, half expecting to meet the specters of those long-forgotten diners. The upper corridor loomed dark and eerie, but she prodded «* herself along with the reminder of Abbott's injury.

Venturing through the first doorway, she found herself in a spacious bedchamber outfitted as finely as any London house with silk hangings and exquisite wood furniture, sadly begrimed now. At the foot of a massive four-poster bed stood a trunk of carved mahogany. She leaned down and blew a cloud of dust off the top. The leather hinges creaked when she opened the lid, and the musty odor of wool long shut away drifted to her, tinged by a certain subtle sweetness. Helen inhaled deeply, but couldn't quite identify the pleasant scent. Having no desire to linger in the lonely dark room, she grabbed an armload of blankets and hastened back downstairs.

Amazingly, the sound of laughter came from the group around the fire. A smile wreathed Abbott's broad face, and even MacBrut relaxed his unsociable scowl as he encouraged Miss Gilbert to accept a silver flask. She stared askance at the vessel before taking a dainty swallow. She coughed delicately, then drank again, more deeply.

Helen reached the welcome warmth of the fire and set down the blankets. "What is that you're drinking?"

Miss Gilbert dabbed her lips with a handkerchief. "A medicinal tonic. Mr. MacBrut recommended it to ward off a chill."

Helen sniffed the flask and almost reeled from the strong aroma. "Why, it's spirits."

"The finest Scots whisky," MacBrut said. "I'd offer you a nip, m'lady, but others need it more." He rudely plucked the flask from her and handed it to Abbott. "Drink this down, man. 'Twill dull the pain."

Like Miss Gilbert, the coachman obeyed MacBrut without question.

Of course, Helen reflected, perhaps they didn't catch the hostility burning in his eyes whenever he glanced at her. And they must not have noticed the hint of contempt in his voice. But she had noticed-especially the mocking way m'lady rolled off his tongue. He resented her presence in his ruined castle. Why?

The question piqued her curiosity. If they had intruded upon his solitude, she could understand his displeasure. But why single her out as the recipient of his ill humor?

Kneeling beside Abbott, the Highlander removed the makeshift splint. "I'll ha' to cut awa' your boot," he said, drawing a dirk from the sheath at his waist.

Abbott nodded, and took a long pull from the flask. "Do as you must."

MacBrut wielded the knife with an expert hand. Steel flashed as he sliced into the leather and neatly removed the boot. He sheathed the dirk, but not before Helen saw the gleam of a large cabochon sapphire decorating the scrolled hilt. Why would this rough Highlander have a weapon fit for a prince?

"It's a fine dirk," she said. "Where did you get it?"

His gaze met hers. In the light of the fire, his eyes were not black, but a deep midnight-blue that quite took her breath away. "I didna steal it."

"I never said you did." But she had felt a fleeting suspicion, and his frank scrutiny made her blush and turn away.

She busied herself folding one of the blankets into a compact square, then knelt down opposite MacBrut. "Here, we can prop his leg on this."

MacBrut frowned, but made no comment as he helped her position the support. Then he examined the coachman's ankle, probing so carefully that the coachman scarcely winced.

His deft movements fascinated Helen. She found herself studying his large hands, the long fingers and clean, trimmed nails, the broad, strong backs. They were not the soft hands of an aristocrat, but showed the talent and dexterity of a man accustomed to physical labor. She had the sudden, inexplicable image of him using those hands to pleasure a woman, his fingers dark against the fairness of her bosom, his touch tender and loving…

Loving? Surely not this curmudgeon.

"The cold has kept the swelling down, at least," MacBrut pronounced. " 'Tis something to be thankful for."

As he spoke, he took the stick and wrapped a piece of yellowed linen around it to make a padded splint, which he placed against the injured limb. Abbott sucked in a sharp breath, his weathered cheeks gray with pain.

"Oh, dear," Miss Gilbert said, averting her face and covering her eyes.

"Now, dinna trouble yourself, ma'am," MacBrut said with surprising kindness. "You might fetch the food from the basket. Once we're done here, Mr. Abbott will need some nourishment."

The older woman hopped off the stool. "I should be happy to do so." She trotted away.

MacBrut's gaze took on a distinct hostility as he looked at Helen. "Go on and help her," he said. "This is no place for an English lady."

Helen refused to let him scare her off when she might be a comfort to Abbott. "I'm staying here."

"Suit yourself. But if you swoon, I'll leave you lying where you fall."

"I never swoon."

Abbott attempted a jovial laugh. "Rest assured, sir, her ladyship is not one for hysterics. She never quailed the time we faced brigands in the Alps. She jabbed one in the belly with her umbrella, and the others ran away." The coachman fell silent, the corners of his mouth pinched with pain.

"Swallow that whisky," MacBrut said. "Every wee drop of it."

While the coachman was occupied with drinking, MacBrut turned his penetrating gaze on Helen. "Scared off the brigands, did you?" He looked her up and down, and lowered his voice to an undertone. "And here I thought Sassenach women had but one use."

His gaze ogled her bosom, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Helen told herself to feel outraged, but a tingling warmth filled her instead. The sensation had little to do with thawing skin, and everything to do with a shocking awareness of him as a man. A big, bold rogue of a man.

MacBrut focused on the task of splinting the injured limb. " Tis a clean break, I trow. At least you willna be getting the fever."