The needles went still. "Are you serious? A fifteenth-century castle, fifty-six cows and four outbuildings? Yours?"

"Every brick and shed."

Jamee looked stunned. "Does this castle happen to have a name?"

"Glenlyle. That happens to be my name, too."

"A title?" Jamee shook her head in shock. "A real, live lord? I saved a real live lord from jumping."

"I wasnot about to jump."

"Don"t bother me with fine points." Her eyes gleamed. "Glenlyle Castle. And it"s really fifteenth-century?"

"Some of it is even older. There are carved stones in the courtyard that probably predate the Vikings."

"Haunted, no doubt?"

Ian shook his head. "Not that I"ve ever seen." He"d heard, of course. Over the breakfast table every visitor to Glenlyle reported at least one strange encounter from the night before. And then there was the story of Glenlyle"s cursed lovers.

Another row of orange knots formed beneath Jamee"s expert fingers. "So why did you need the description?"

Ian thought of Glenlyle"s windswept towers facing the restless sea. A weight settled over his chest. "It isn"t important. Go to sleep." He rose abruptly and strode to the window. In the fireplace the peat hissed softly, while fog pressed outside at the glass. Despite his tension, he was suddenly conscious of their solitude and the intimacy of the scene. "You could have been hurt coming after me in the dark, you know. Did you stop to think of that?"

"No."

"You should have," he said tightly.

"If I stop to think about things, I get frightened or embarrassed and then I"m afraid to finish.

Now I try not to plan things too much." She shrugged. "Adam gives me hell for it."

"And who," Ian asked, "is Adam? Boyfriend or lover?"

"Brother," she said.

"No lovers? No boyfriends of any sort?"

"Is that odd?" she asked, utterly guileless. Her eyes were filled with firelight, and her skin glowed the color of Botticelli"s Madonna that hung in the library at Glenlyle. For another woman it would be odd, but not for Jamee.

Not after what she"d been through.

Don"t let it get personal,Ian told himself. She was beautiful and vulnerable, despite her determined front. And he couldn"t let any of that touch him.

But light danced in her hair, outlining the full curve of her mouth as she watched him, unblinking. Ian wondered if her eyes would change if he pulled her into his arms. He wondered how she would taste if he kissed her slowly, feeling her come alive beneath his touch.

He bit back a Gaelic curse, blocking the heated images.

"Was that another prayer?"

"I wish it were." He stirred the fire. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"As if you trusted me."

"I do trust you," she said calmly.

"What if I were some kind of criminal? Maybe I even have a gun."

"You don"t. I checked your bag when you went out to get water."

Ian was stunned. He was also glad he had been wearing his jacket when he went out. Another thing to remember in the future.

"Tell me what you were doing out on that cliff," Ian said, changing the subject. "Before you decided to rescue me, of course."

Jamee shrugged. "Oh, this and that."

"That doesn"t tell me much."

"No, I don"t suppose it does."

"Are you always this secretive?" Ian asked.

"Are you always this inquisitive?" Her needles clicked back and forth. "Is there a wife at that castle of yours?"

"Does it matter?"

Her hands slowed. "I"m not sure. You have a beautiful mouth, you know."

This time Ian"s Gaelic curse was longer and more inventive than the last. Ian Fraser Douglass McCall didnot have a beautiful mouth. A laird of Glenlyle didnot have a beautiful mouth.

He was all set to tell her that when he heard her yawn. She was two feet away, snuggled against the cushions, telling him he had a beautiful mouth. Then she yawned while he entertained fantasies that were fast becoming uncomfortably graphic.

"Dammit, I do not have a beautiful-" Ian stopped. "Jamee?"

She was sound asleep, yarn dropped at her side, knitting needles forgotten at her chest.

Ian took a long, slow breath, feeling her beauty eat into his very soul.

He covered her gently, trying to ignore the warmth of her hair, cascading red and golden over his fingers. Only then did he realize his hands were trembling.

A fine protectorhe made.

"A beautiful mouth indeed," he said roughly. He found a spot as far away from her as the walls of the cottage would allow.

It wasn"t nearly far enough, he discovered, watching Jamee sleep.

HEAT RISES IN SLOW WAVES, each breath coming harder. There is no running, no crying out. The silence knows where to follow and it always finds her. Chokes her.

She shakes, so terrified she can only whimper, her lips dry and broken.

There is no time in the Dream. No past, no future. Only the sick, shattering now.

"You can"t get away," the Dream people whisper, tying her hands and shoving her over the mud.

"N-no." She fights as she had then. Useless.

"Get in."

She screams. He hits her, not enough to knock her out. Just enough to make sure she obeys.

"Get in and be quiet."

The closet is small and black and hot. She can"t close her eyes.

Not again. Not down there in the darkness and the heat.

"Why?" As always, she tries to understand something for which there is no understanding.

"Because you"re here and we"re hungry. You"re the meal ticket. Mommy and Daddy will pay.

Nice Mommy and Daddy."

The laughter rises, cold and loud.

"Not in the closet. Please..."

Outside in the night the moon burns in the summer sky. Hard hands press at her back. She whimpers in the darkness when the heavy door slams shut behind her. So alone.

There is no time in the Dream. No past, no future. Only the sick, shattering now.

THE SCRAPE OF METALwoke Ian. He lurched upright, instantly alert. Something cold brushed his face.

The door was open. Fog frothed over the threshold, ghostly in the light of the dying fire.

"Jamee?"

Nothing moved. Her blanket was on the table. Her sweater was tossed on the floor, her jeans slung crazily on a chair across the room.

But the woman who had worn them was gone.

CHAPTER SIX.

IAN GRABBEDan oil lantern from the worn table and shoved a match to the wick. The spark had barely caught before he plunged outside into the night. Chill waves of cloud pressed at his face as he listened to the silence, his heart pounding. "Dammit, Jamee, whereare you?"

Water slapped somewhere to his left. He gripped the lantern, skidding down the muddy slope, then called again.

A tiny, broken sound drifted up the hill.

"Answer me, Jamee."

The sound came again. Ian lurched forward, stumbling in the mud while the lantern swung wildly in his hands.

He glimpsed her through the mist, huddled against a rock. Beads of water gleamed on her pale skin and her eyes were wide, frightened like an animal"s.

Ian could almost smell her terror. "Can you hear me, Jamee?"

She whimpered again. Her hands moved restlessly, shoving at invisible walls.

Ian knelt beside her, holding the lantern high, trying to keep the fury from his voice. Jamee would not understand that his rage was not for her, but the men who had left her like this. "It"s Ian, Jamee." He kept his voice to a whisper. "Everything will be all right. Let"s go in by the fire now." He reached out for her, then stopped. His hands clenched helplessly. How could he reach her, locked as she was in the past?

He remembered the chilling images from Adam Night"s videotape. She was back there now, looking through the eyes of a frightened child helpless in the dark. And Ian could only kneel beside her, terrified to do anything that might add to her pain.

He held out the lantern, letting the light filter around her. "You take it, Jamee. Then we"ll go home. The fire will feel good."

She moved jerkily, like someone who had been drinking. Her fingers gripped the lantern handle and the broken, keening noise came again. "Light," she said hoarsely.

"There"s more light in the cottage. You can lead the way. You remember, don"t you?"

She blinked, stiff with cold. Her eyes were dazed and unfocused. Ian yearned to pull her into his arms, but he knew the wrong movement could trigger the terror anew. If she bolted now, he wasn"t certain he could catch her in the fog.

Not in time. Not if someone else was waiting for the same chance.

"Ready?"

She rose awkwardly, her arms rigid. How long had she been there, huddled in the mist?

Dammit, why hadn"t he heard her go out?

She took a step forward and swayed, then caught herself on the rock. Ian had to clench his hands to keep from touching her. Not yet, dammit. Not while she was so afraid. "Up the hill, Jamee. See the fire through the door?"

She frowned, moving awkwardly up the muddy slope. Her body glowed, as pale as the fog in the light cast from the lantern she carried.

At the door, Jamee blinked, then moved jerkily to the fire and sat before it. Her hands anchored her knees as she swayed from side to side, crooning softly.

In that second Ian understood Adam Night"s anguish and fury at a nightmare no amount of love could erase.

She made a low sound as Ian slid a blanket around her shoulders. "What is it, Jamee?"

Her hand rose toward the fire.