He heard Angus Stewart exhale a deep breath. "That is unfortunate, Mr. Sinclair. For if we could work out an arrangement, it wouldn't be necessary to bring to light the rest of what I've discovered in my research."

Ian's head snapped up at the threat inherent in his words. "And what would that be?"

"In delving through the archives of the past two hundred years," Stewart said slowly, "I found something very interesting that took place around the turn of the eighteenth century." He paused, as if for effect. "In 1811, to be exact. Before that date, Duneagen Castle and all the lands surrounding it belonged to… the Clan Macrae."

Ian leaned forward, incredulous. "What? What are you talking about?"

"Your forefathers stole it." Stewart smiled pleasantly.

"It never belonged to the Sinclairs, and it doesn't to this day. Duneagen Castle is rightfully owned by the Macraes. Now, that being the case, I could, and should, I suppose, make my offer to the Macrae chieftain down in Corridan. But it's easier sometimes just to go with the status quo. Some things are best left alone, don't you agree, Mr. Sinclair?" "You're insane."

"I thought you might have a little trouble believing my research, so I took the liberty of bringing along photocopies of the papers I found to prove my point." He snapped open his briefcase and took out a thin sheaf of paper attached with a metal clip. He threw it on Ian's desk.

"When you've had time to study this, I will contact you again," he said, rising. "My clients are prepared to make you a reasonable offer, Mr. Sinclair, but they hope to buy it for a reasonable price. They will, after all, be investing a great deal more than the initial purchase price to bring the castle back to life." He went to the door, then looked back over his shoulder. "Look at it this way, Mr. Sinclair. Something is better than nothing."

Chapter Five

It had been nearly a week since the solicitor named Angus Stewart had dropped his little bomb on the villagers, but nothing had been resolved, and rumors flew thick and fast. Meredith had tried to gain information from Robert Macrae, but he'd explained little, making her feel like an outsider again. Discouraged, Meredith wondered what, if anything, she could do to protect the interests of her clansmen. She wasn't a solicitor, just a twenty-nine-year-old woman with a lot of common sense and a good head for business. She was unsure what good that would do her, a foreigner not only to this country but also to its culture, but she was determined to try to get to the bottom of this. She hoped a walk on the beach might clear her mind and give her some inspiration.

The sun was high in the sky, golden against brilliant blue. To one side, blackened granite cliffs rose in a sheer vertical wall. To the other, the ocean lapped placidly at the coarse sand and splashed over mossy shards of rock that had long ago tumbled from the cliff. Seagulls chattered noisily as they plunged into the frigid waters in search of dinner. But her mind was not on the dramatic natural beauty that surrounded her.

She was worried sick about the solicitor's threat. Her newfound relations were in a turmoil, as not a single one could produce a deed to their property. Although Robert Macrae had assured them that their ownership could be proved by the long history of their possession, Meredith thought he was being naive.

These people lived a simple, remote life. She doubted that there was even a computer in the village. There were only two telephones, one in the pub, the other in a traditional red phone booth at the center of town. The people of Corridan were provincial and vulnerable, ripe pickings for an unscrupulous solicitor like Stewart and his client, Ian Sinclair.

She was also deeply disturbed by what she'd learned about Ian Sinclair from Robert Macrae. He had told her of the man's almost obsessive determination to renovate the castle and of his cutthroat business practices. She was convinced the Sinclair chieftain would stop at nothing to achieve his goals and believed he might be capable of evicting the villagers to create an income-producing resort property.

She heard barking and looked down the beach, where she saw a black-and-white dog racing back and forth, playing in the shallow waves. Meredith smiled for the first time that day. She recognized it as a border collie, one of those highly intelligent animals used by the Highlanders to tend their sheep. So taken was she with the antics of the dog that she failed to realize that it was followed by a man walking toward her on the beach.

A tall man, with dark hair and broad shoulders. Her heart skipped a beat. Ian Sinclair.

Her first instinct was to run, but suddenly she decided to hold her ground. Maybe this was providential. She wanted answers. Here was the man to give them to her. That was one thing she could do with her common sense. Ask questions. She leaned back against a large boulder, one leg bent and propped on the rock, arms folded, and waited.

If Ian Sinclair saw her, he didn't show it. He walked slowly but steadily, his hands in his pockets, head down, as if deep in thought. He wore a dark fisherman's sweater and jeans. He didn't look like a villain. He looked, in fact, like a man with troubles as worrisome as her own. For an instant, she considered that-maybe he wasn't at the root of this business with Stewart after all.

Surprised by the momentary flash of sympathy she felt for him, Meredith frowned and reined in her feelings. Of course he was behind Stewart. Who else could it possibly be? Her momentary lapse in reason was caused by nothing more than her physical attraction to him. That, she told herself sternly, was something she would just have to get over.

The dog spotted Meredith long before its master did and came bounding toward her. She reached down with one hand and petted its head. "Hey, boy. Or are you a girl?" she said, scratching the animal behind the ears. She heard a sharp whistle and the dog took off, racing back to the man who had come to a standstill about twenty yards away.

"I'm sorry if he was bothering you," he said.

"He wasn't. I love dogs. What's his name?"

"Domino. He's not a pet."

Meredith felt as if she'd been scolded for being friendly to the animal. "Then I won't pet him," she returned, annoyed, but she held his gaze defiantly. Silence stretched awkwardly between them, and she became aware that her heart was thundering in her chest, not from fear or intimidation, but from an altogether different emotion. A physical reaction to his presence surged from somewhere deep inside, a totally inappropriate emotional response considering the circumstances. A response called desire.

"What are you doing here?" he asked brusquely. Desire beat a hasty retreat.

"Why?" she replied sharply, recovering quickly. "Is this your private beach?"

He stepped closer, his dark eyes riveting hers until she thought she might squirm. "In Corridan, I mean. What are you doing in the village?"

Meredith was confused by his question and the challenging attitude behind it, but she refused to be bullied. She lifted her chin. "I'm visiting my relatives."

His frown deepened and he gave her a look that said he clearly disbelieved her. "Visiting? Are you sure you're not here on some other…business?"

Running into the American woman on the beach was just the perfect capper for the Week from Hell. Ian had nearly exploded in anger after Angus Stewart left* but the questions the solicitor had planted in his mind had disturbed him all week, making it difficult to concentrate on work, which irritated the hell out of him. He'd come to the castle for the weekend to rest and think, and this morning he'd set out early to walk the moors above Duneagen where he usually found solace and peace of mind. He had hiked vigorously for hours, up over the crest and down the far side, his mind so intent on discrediting Angus Stewart's claim that he was unaware that his cousin's dog had joined him.