It would be tricky, he knew, for it was an all-or-nothing proposition. He had to convince every single villager to sell out and move away. The same with the chieftain of the Clan Sinclair. Unless he could secure the entire area, the owners of the cruise line could not implement their plans.
Angus Stewart smiled to himself, returned to his vehicle and headed down the hill into the village. He would succeed, for he had worked out an ingenious plan of his own. He was nothing if not one of Aberdeen 's most creative solicitors.
Not knowing how long she might stay in Corridan, Meredith had not yet bought groceries for the cottage. With only a cup of hot tea for breakfast, by eleven o'clock she was ravenous. Donning her new shawl, she'd set out on the short walk into the village, wondering what time the little pub served lunch.
About halfway to town, she'd heard a car approaching from behind her, too fast, it seemed, for the narrow road. She turned and watched as a dark green Land Rover careened around a turn in the road. It slowed as it came nearer, and her heart lurched as she recognized the driver.
Ian Sinclair.
He made no attempt to stop and greet her, but she was not surprised after the way she'd hurried away from him the night before. He did, however, cast a glance her way, and his face seemed set in a scowl. A most handsome scowl, but unfriendly nonetheless. She jumped as he suddenly accelerated and wondered if the getaway gesture was in reply to her own abrupt dismissal of him the night before.
Perturbed more by her undeniable attraction to the man than his abrupt exit, Meredith continued on, reaching the old whitewashed pub only moments later. She immediately noticed a bright red Nissan sedan in the adjacent car park. It stood out from the rest of the vehicles not only in color, but also in size and youth. Curious, she wondered if a tourist had wandered off the beaten path or gotten lost. Corridan was remote, and the roads leading here were rough.
She pushed open the door and walked in on a heated exchange between three local men and a stranger who sat at a table in the corner. He was a small fellow, with thinning brown hair combed back from his forehead to hide his encroaching baldness. His beaked nose, slanting forehead, and weak chin gave him the look of a rodent, she decided. Meredith ordered a ploughboy sandwich from the bartender, a man she knew only as "Mac." He nodded, but she could tell he was distracted and had one ear tuned to the men in the corner. She turned her attention to them as well.
"I'm telling you, you have no legal claim to this land," the stranger said emphatically. "I've searched the historical records of ownership of this entire area, and you Macraes were all run out, quite legally, by the Earl of Sinclair in 1815. Back then, it was called a 'clearing,' and the earl cleared the lands around Duneagen Castle as far as the eye could see to run sheep. Any of your families who came back on the land since then did so illegally. You have no valid title of ownership." That said, he sat back with a defiant glare, daring them to challenge him.
The locals rose to the bait. "You're a liar," Sandy Macrae growled, his already ruddy face turning an even deeper shade of red. "Who are ye, and what'd ye come here for? Why are ye sayin' these things?"
Meredith's pulse quickened. Who indeed was this odious little man, and what did he hope to gain by stirring up trouble with such preposterous claims?
He reached into his jacket pocket and took out some business cards and spread them on the table. "The name's Stewart. Angus Stewart. I'm a solicitor, but I'm not your enemy. I came here because I've learned that history may be about to repeat itself, and I want to help you."
"What in th' name of Saint Brigid are ye talkin' about?" Fergus Macrae demanded, standing with legs apart and arms folded, blocking the rear exit with his bulk.
"The Sinclair may be going to do it again. A clearing, I mean. Not for sheep this time, but for tourists."
Meredith's eyes widened even as her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. Surely she wasn't hearing correctly.
"Go on with ye," Mac yelled from behind the bar. "There's no such thing in these times."
Angus Stewart gave him a knowing look. "I wouldn't be so sure, if I were you."
The front door opened and several more men from the village hurried in, along with a boy who had been sent to fetch them. "What's up? Why'd y' send for us, Mac?"
"This here bloke's tryin' t' convince us th' Sinclair's about t' do a clearin' round here," Mac filled them in. "Says we don't have legal claim t' our land and that we're about t' be run off it."
Meredith couldn't believe her ears. Surely everyone had some kind of legal title to their property. These families had been here for eons. But then she thought back to the ceremony of two nights ago, when her great-uncle's property was transferred to her. There had been no transfer of a deed. Simply a reading of the will and the consensus of the clan.
Where was the paperwork?
As if reading her thoughts, Angus Stewart asked the villagers, "Where is the proof that you own your land? The papers that verify it was purchased legally? I have searched every kind of record I can think of in towns from here to Aberdeen," he said, then added with a hopeless shrug, "I've not found one shred of evidence that any of this land was ever purchased from the Earl of Sinclair."
The room grew quiet. Meredith saw the men exchange troubled glances, and a terrible fear began to gnaw at her. Could this man's claims possibly be true? Was there a threat of the villagers being evicted? If so, what would he gain from coming to warn them?
Years of fending for herself in the world gave her the courage to confront the man. She edged off the stool at the bar and moved to the front of the crowd. "Who sent you here?"
The man jumped to his feet, obviously surprised at being challenged by a young woman. "The name's Stewart, ma'am. Angus Stewart. I represent a landowner in Aberdeen who, hearing of the plight of the people here in Corridan, has generously offered to relocate all of you at a most reasonable cost."
Meredith heard the rumble of disbelief from the men assembled around her. She herself found it difficult to believe the man's scam was so transparent. "So you're here to sell land?"
She saw the blood rise to redden his face. "I'm here because I'm a decent chap," he replied defensively. "I've gone to a lot of trouble to check out the rumor that there are plans to develop this land into a tourist resort. It's not just a rumor, ma'am. It's a project that's already in the planning stages. And if, as I believe to be the case, the Sinclair does indeed hold legal title to this land, there is nothing to prevent him from evicting all of you to make way for the resort." He turned sympathetic eyes to the villagers.
"For my whole career, I've made my living representing the common man," he told them, "and I'm a Scotsman born and bred. I don't want to see my country invaded by hordes of foreigners in a commercial venture such as this that will mean nothing short of the rape of this glorious land. I undertook my research thinking I could prevent it by disproving the Sinclair's claim of ownership. Then, when I discovered that his claim might stand up in court, I searched for ways to lessen the blow to my countrymen-you, the common people, who will suffer, just as your forefathers did two centuries ago at the hands of the Sinclair."
Meredith looked around and saw that Stewart was punching the right buttons to stir the Macrae hatred of the Sinclairs. But his words rang false to her. She listened carefully as he continued.
"That's when I approached my client to see if he could help. This good man has created a pleasant subdivision on the outskirts of Aberdeen and has not only offered to sell you a plot of land with a new cottage on it at a very reasonable price, he's willing to give each and qvery person in this village who is being so brutally uprooted a moving allowance."