"I now pronounce you man and wife," the minister said, somewhat glumly.

Annabel pulled away from her husband. "So when," she whispered, still on tiptoe, "is the next caper?"

And he laughed and kissed her again.

A WEDDIN' OR A HANGIN' by Jill Jones

Chapter One

"A weddin' or a hangin'. What’ll it be?"

The clan members gathered closer to the fire, laughing and speculating as they waited for the verdict, although Meredith guessed they knew what was coming. She could scarcely conceal a grin. These people must have heard this folk tale a thousand times, but still, the old storyteller held them rapt.

She was held rapt as well, by his story, by the night, by the enchantment of at last arriving on Scottish soil. It was a long way from where she lived in the mountains of North Carolina, but it felt like home, for since her childhood her grandfather had regaled her with stories such as these about Scotland and their kinsmen, the Clan Macrae. Meredith Macrae Wentworth, the American cousin, now sat with those kinsmen around a bonfire in an open field near the village of Corridan on the northern coast of Scotland. In front of her lay the North Sea, behind her rose the Highlands. Above, the aurora borealis shimmered, punctuated frequently by shooting stars.

She had arrived, she decided, in heaven.

That heaven consisted of more than beautiful scenery, however. Today, she'd cheered these Macraes through the local Highland games and forged the beginnings of a heartfelt bond with her clan. She gazed into the fire-warmed faces of the people with whom she shared an ancient and honored bloodline. Ruddy cheeks and sun-bleached hair bespoke their rugged outdoor lives. Broad smiles and genuine affection for each other said even more about these gentle giants who had treated her like a true daughter of Scotland. They embodied a noble character, were dignified in their own rustic way. Until they hit the playing field.

In spite of her enthusiasm for her clan, Meredith was troubled by what she'd witnessed earlier in the day. Unlike the games she helped organize in the States, which were played in a spirit of sportsmanship and camaraderie, the competition today between the Macraes and their rival clan, the Sinclairs, had been fierce and uncompromising, bordering on violence, with insults flying between the players.

Her gaze wandered into the darkness beyond the fire circle where across the field another bonfire lit up the night. Gathered around it were the Sinclairs. The Macraes had filled her ears with tales of an ancient feud between the two clans and made it clear that although the bloodshed had ceased, the enmity had not.

She'd seen the leader of the Sinclairs today, a tall, robust, darkly handsome man who defeated every opponent he faced. Although her clansmen had denounced him, he didn't appear to have horns and a tail as they would have had her believe. He was, in fact, one of the few who had displayed gentlemanly behavior. She'd also found him downright sexy in his traditional Scottish attire. She thought about crossing over to his bonfire to congratulate him on his victories but decided she didn't need to complicate her life by indulging her passing attraction to the Sinclair chieftain. For as much as she would like to remain in this quaint seacoast village, soon she would have to return to North Carolina.

Meredith returned her attention to the storyteller as he completed his yarn. It was a humorous tale, and also sadly poignant, about a young outlaw who was caught stealing cattle from a wealthy laird and who was thrown into the castle dungeon to await hanging. The laird's wife, however, offered to save his life if he would marry their oldest, and very ugly, daughter. The girl was so hard to look at that the thief at first chose hanging, but after several days' consideration in the dark dungeon, he decided instead to let the earl tie the other kind of knot to seal his fate.

Meredith joined in the laughter at the story's end and watched in merriment from the edge of the circle as a bottle of whisky was passed around. She needed no whisky to warm her, for although she was weary, she was suffused with a glow as radiant as the flickering fire. This was all she'd dreamed of and more. At last she was truly a part of the Clan Macrae. And unbelievably, at last she owned a piece of her beloved Scotland. For last night, in a formal ceremony performed entirely in Gaelic, she had inherited the property once belonging to the former clan chieftain, her great-uncle Archibald Macrae.

Uncle Archie, as she'd known him, was her grandfather's brother. He'd kept up with the American side of his family and knew of Meredith's passion for Scotland. She was deeply touched that he would bequeath his belongings to her. She was also pleased that she had managed to follow the Gaelic ceremony. As a hobby she had learned to read and write the ancient language of her forebears, but until now she'd had little opportunity to experience it as a living language.

Along with a small parcel of land and the cottage in which her great-uncle once lived, she had inherited a number of historical artifacts that had been handed down through generations of Macraes. Although honored to be the recipient of these treasures, Meredith wondered if anyone resented them going to an American. That did not appear to be the case, however, for after the ceremony, she had been given a shawl woven in the plaid of the Macrae tartan and wished well by everyone in the community. That's when she'd learned that the village of Corridan was populated mainly by her kinsmen. She smiled to herself and drew the shawl over her shoulders, turning to go. She'd longed for clan kinship; now she belonged to an entire town of Macraes!

Ian Sinclair wished he could share in the enthusiasm of his fellow clansmen as they celebrated their many victories in today's games with drams from his personal stash of fine Duneagen single-malt whisky. He wished, in fact, that he relished the competition as much as they did. As head of the Clan Sinclair, he felt obliged to participate, but a part of him resented the waste of a day. He had so many other, far more pressing problems on his mind than defeating the Macraes on the field of play. He found it depressing, too, that his fellow Sinclairs persisted in perpetuating that age-old feud. At least, he thought, casting a dubious eye on the men who were growing increasingly drunk, in recent years the feud had been confined to this arena. Better that than the sniping and harassment that had gone on before.

Ian turned away from the fire and walked down the lane toward his car, feeling the effort of the day in every muscle. It was nearly midnight, and the sun had at last descended, leaving a twilight sky illuminated with a brilliant show of the mystical northern lights. He was forever awestruck by the aurora borealis and overwhelmed by the majesty of the Highlands of his birth.

He loved this land, fiercely, protectively, although lately he'd begun to wonder why he gave a damn at all. It wasn't a happy land, but rather one that seemed to breed strife. Since he'd become the Sinclair clan chieftain, he had been constantly embroiled in land disputes between his own clansmen. Senseless squabbles, since the land itself had little other than scenic value. Still, Scotsmen would be Scotsmen, he thought morosely. They simply loved to fight.

Then there was the castle. Duneagen, the crumbling ancestral fortress, loomed above him, high on a craggy cliff overlooking the serene bay of Corridan like a dark stain on the night. He had inherited the gloomy pile of stone upon his father's death, and being young and eager, he'd vowed to restore it to its former glory. He hadn't known that like a rapacious monster, it would swallow his already diminished family fortune and wash it down with the profits from the Duneagen Distillery.