Angus Stewart dropped his head and studied his hands. Then he returned his gaze to the crowd who stood before him stunned and speechless. "It's not much," he said in a voice just above a whisper, as if emotion were caught in his throat. "But it's something at least to make up for the land you'll be losing. Please, I beg you, consider my offer. Let me help you."

Chapter Four

All hell broke loose in the pub after Angus Stewart left the premises. Mac had sent the boy to the fishermen at the seashore and the farmers in the fields, to alert those who hadn't been in the impromptu meeting that something bad was afoot. In a few minutes, the tiny public house was bulging with men and women wanting to know what was going on.

Robert Macrae, the clan chieftain, moved to the far side of the room and, placing a finger at each side of his mouth, emitted an earsplitting whistle that immediately commanded everyone's attention. When the room was quiet, he briefly repeated Stewart's story.

"Could it be true?" asked one woman, and Meredith heard the edge of hysteria in her voice.

"Of course it's not true. Th' man's off his head," said another, although not sounding convinced.

"It's th' curse…" came from a woman standing nearby, an utterance that renewed the general commotion.

The Macrae gave another whistle. "Quiet, all of you. There's no need for panic," he told them. "We own this land. We've lived on it for generations and there's never been a question about it. This is likely some scheme made up by that weaselly solicitor to make a fast quid at our expense."

"Maybe," said Mac, his voice heavy with suspicion, "but then again, maybe he's tellin' th' truth. Maybe th' Sinclair is plottin't' take over our land."

"If he wants mine," vowed Sandy Macrae, "he'll have t' kill me for it."

"I'll kill him first," shouted another, and the rest echoed the sentiment.

Meredith felt sick to her stomach. This wasn't the Scotland of her dreams. This was more like a nightmare. These people… her people… had suddenly been transformed from respectable, hardworking Highlanders into a murderous mob by the words of a solicitor. An outsider. Why were they listening to him? Did they think for one minute that they did not legally own their land? Did they believe Ian Sinclair and his clan might actually try to take it from them? Or were they just reacting from the inbred hatred in their hearts for the Clan Sinclair?

She pushed through the crowd and out the door. Leaning against the cool stone wall of the building, she inhaled deeply of the rarefied Highland air, trying to settle her nerves and sort things out. A thousand questions assailed her. Did she, or any of them, have legal deeds as proof they owned their property? Were the clans about to go to war? And what on earth did that woman mean by "It's th' curse"?

The biggest question in her mind was, who had hired Angus Stewart? Did he represent some altruistic land developer in Aberdeen? Meredith doubted it. It made more sense that Stewart was in the employ of the man who stood to benefit from taking their land virtually for free. Ian Sinclair. He owned the castle. Now he wanted the village. She'd heard the upkeep of the castle kept him nearly broke, and it made sense that he might try to develop a resort to fund the preservation of his fortress high on the hill Squinting into the hazy sunlight, she could see it from where she stood and could tell even from a distance it was in sore need of major restoration.

Why didn't he just offer to buy the property from the villagers? But she knew the answer almost as soon as the thought occurred to her-the Macraes would never sell an inch of their soil to a Sinclair.

No, he would logically have had to resort to some more devious plan. Meredith suspected that Ian Sinclair had negotiated with the developer of the Aberdeen subdivision to subsidize the cost of that property, hoping the Macraes, in fear that their land was not their own, would take up the sweet deal and relocate with little resistance. Stewart was just the go-between.

But why, she wondered again, would the Macraes fear for ownership of their land? Unless…

Her earlier question reared its head again. Where was the paperwork?

Ian Sinclair looked at the business card his secretary handed him. Why in God's name was a solicitor from Aberdeen calling on him? He had little patience with solicitors even on the best of days, and today wasn't one of them. His engineer had called from Duneagen with an exorbitant estimate of the cost of repairing the plumbing, and a large pallet of his finest Duneagen single-malt had fallen from a forklift while being loaded into a shipping container and crashed onto the dock. Insurance would cover the financial loss, but the thought of the exquisite eighteen-year-old Scotch dripping away between the boards of the creosote-covered wharf was almost enough to make him cry.

"Show him in, but ring me in ten minutes," he instructed his secretary, who gave him a knowing smile.

Angus Stewart cut neither an impressive nor threatening figure. He was short, unhandsome, and seemed somehow… oily. "What can I do for you, Mr. Stewart?" Ian asked politely, indicating for the man to take a seat.

The solicitor sat down, placed his briefcase on the floor at his side, and then turned a warm smile on Ian. "The question is, Mr. Sinclair, what can I do for you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know you are a busy man, so I'll get right to the point. In addition to being a solicitor, I am also an ardent fan of Scottish history. I am particularly interested in the preservation of the ancient architectural treasures of our nation, such as Duneagen Castle. I have learned, sir, that you have expended commendable effort, not to mention substantial private funds, to restore Duneagen."

In spite of the man's ingratiating words, Ian was irked that the solicitor had been poking around in his affairs. "And how, may I ask, did you come to know this?"

Stewart's eyes pierced him with a calculating gaze. "As you will discover, sir, research is my forte. It's my job to learn many things on behalf of my clients. I apologize if I have intruded unwittingly into forbidden territory, but please hear me out. I'm here, sir, as the representative of a group of investors who are interested in purchasing Duneagen Castle with the intent of completely restoring it to its former glory."

Ian thought his ears deceived him. "You want to buy Duneagen Castle?"

"My clients do, yes. Might you possibly entertain an offer?"

After the morning's frustration with the plumbing and the prospect of yet another major expenditure on the castle, Ian was almost ready to give the bloody thing away. But his suspicions were aroused. "Perhaps," he replied, "but as you undoubtedly learned in the course of your… ah… research, it will take a veritable fortune to achieve those ends. What do your clients plan to do with the castle once it is restored?"

Stewart rubbed the palms of his hands together and gave him another solicitous smile. "Ah, I detect a kindred spirit, a loyal Scot, someone who cares what happens to our historical treasures," he said. "Although it is not of high priority to them, once the structure is sound and the decor authentic to the date of its construction, I believe they will open it to the public, much like Stirling or Holyrood."

The thought took Ian by surprise. He'd never considered anyone would pay to look at Duneagen, it was so remote and inaccessible. Yet, so was Dunnottar, on the eastern coast, and it had become a tourist attraction even in its state of ruin. "They'd have to charge a lot of money to make it pay for the renovations," he remarked.

"Yes," Stewart agreed, "they would."

Ian leaned back in his chair and furrowed his fingers through his hair. "I don't know, Mr. Stewart. That castle is part of the Sinclair heritage. Technically, I am the Earl of Sinclair, although I don't go in for titles. Still, I'm not inclined to sell my clan's crumbling legacy at any price."