Unfortunately, instead of finding some reason to believe Stewart was mistaken, Ian had only managed to conclude that the solicitor's claim could be true. His an-cestors could have stolen the property from the Macraes, although in the ways of the clans of old, possession equaled ownership, and winning a battle was an accepted means of transferring property. After two hundred years of claimed ownership, however, Ian believed the land would be considered Sinclair property, regardless of any lack of official documentation. Still, he'd set his family's barrister onto it just to make sure.

The question remained, who was behind Angus Stew-

art? Who were these investors, and were they as benignly benevolent as he'd maintained? Ian's gut told him that wasn't the case.

A bothersome thought had occurred to him somewhere along the way. Odd, that two strangers would suddenly appear in the vicinity within a day or so of one another. Angus Stewart and the American woman whose name he still did not know. Was she somehow involved in this? If she was like so many Americans of Scottish descent, she was probably a passionate student of Scottish history. She might have poked into the troubled history of her clan, found one of those instances of "change of ownership" on the battlefield, and come up with the charge that the Sinclairs had stolen Duneagen Castle from her ancestors. Was she rich, though? Did she have the money to pull off the extensive restoration? Or was it just a scam to get him to part with his family's ancestral castle for pennies on the pound?

The irony was that at this point Ian Sinclair would have welcomed help in restoring the old castle. But he'd be damned if he'd be bulldozed by anyone, solicitor or lady, into selling Duneagen Castle.

And now, here he was, face-to-face with that lady, challenging her with all the raw anger he had built up over the afternoon. "Are you sure you're not here on some other… business?" He'd blurted the question that had been on his mind more bluntly than he'd meant to, and he saw defiance ignite in her deep green eyes.

"What other business would that be, Mr. Sinclair, and why is it any business of yours?"

He regretted his brusqueness. He suspected her, but she hadn't been proven guilty. Hell, he knew nothing about her. The wind stole a wisp of her russet hair from its nest and teased it against her fair face, and suddenly, irrationally, Ian wanted to reach out and touch it. "I'm sorry," he said, easing out of his frown. "I was out of line." He attempted a smile. "Ye have the advantage of knowing my name." His eyes fastened on the flutter of the coppery strand of hair. "May I know yours?"

She tucked the hair behind her ear. "I'm Meredith Wentworth. Meredith Macrae Wentworth." She pushed away from the rock and walked toward the shore. "My great-uncle was Archibald Macrae, chieftain of the Clan Macrae until his recent death."

So she was the distant relative… "I knew the Macrae," Ian said, watching as she slipped her hands into the hip pockets of her jeans. "He was a reasonable and respected man. My condolences."

She turned to him with a look of surprise. "I didn't know the Macraes and the Sinclairs were on speaking terms."

"Your uncle helped me forge what precarious peace we have between the clans," he told her. "He was a good man. Did ye know him?"

She gave him a dubious glance. "Unfortunately, I never met him. We talked on the phone from time to time, when my grandfather, his brother, was still alive."

" 'Tis too bad ye couldn't come to Scotland before he died."

She dropped her gaze, and he saw a shadow of sadness on her face. "Yes. I regret that I never took the time, and now he's gone." She looked up at him, her expression bleak. "He left me a legacy," she said at last in explanation of her belated visit. "His land and cottage and a few other items of Macrae memorabilia. He knew how much I loved my Scottish heritage."

Enough to have come up with the claim being made by Angus Stewart? Ian wondered. His earlier suspicions came charging back. She might have come to Corridan to claim her inheritance, but he wasn't convinced that was the only reason for her visit. If he could keep her talking, perhaps he'd learn the rest.

"Would ye care to walk down the beach with me?"

She shrugged. "Sure. Why not?"

"I take it from your comment about the Macraes and the Sinclairs that ye've been told about our feud. Maybe ye wouldn't want to be seen with me?"

"Clan feuds are, or should be, passe," she told him as they hit a stride along the sand. "I mean, this is 1998."

"Tell that to our kinsmen," Ian laughed, liking her good sense, wishing both their clans shared it. Wishing, too, that he could take her hand as they walked. In spite of his doubts about her, she was the most engaging woman he'd met in years. Maybe ever. It wasn't just her looks, although he was completely taken with her sexy, fresh-faced appeal. She was also bright, sharp-witted. He suspected she could hold her own in any conflict or debate.

Too bad that despite her appeal, despite her talk about feuds being outmoded, she might be behind an action that would undoubtedly ignite a new conflict between the Sinclairs and the Macraes. She would need all those sharp wits and more if she dared pursue the backhanded affair presented to him by her agent, for he would fight her with every ounce of Sinclair blood in his veins. Keeping pace alongside her, enjoying her company, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Chapter Six

Later that night Meredith soaked in the old claw-footed tub, wishing she had some of her favorite bath salts to ease the stiffness in her muscles. She was unused to such strenuous exercise. So engrossed were they in conversation, she and Ian Sinclair had walked miles before she realized it.

Meredith ran some cool water and splashed it in her face, thinking about Ian Sinclair. She didn't know what to make of the man. She wanted to distrust him. Did distrust him, actually. Yet, his entire manner was that of a man who cared as deeply as she did about Scotland and his own heritage. Although she'd been unsuccessful in ferreting any suspect plans out of him, he'd told her some remarkable stories about recent flare-ups between their clans, before the two chieftains had worked together to arrive at an agreement that all future conflict would be confined to the playing field. He'd said that like her, he deplored the futile family feud and told her he hoped that the new Macrae would continue to enforce that policy.

He hadn't for a minute sounded like a man about to evict the people of Corridan.

Yet she knew it could only be a bluff, an outward show of goodwill to cover his real intent. She just wished she knew what that intent was. It would help her decide her own intentions toward Ian Sinclair.

Giving up the bath at last, she shivered into a towel and then into a long wool skirt and sweater. The purple and blue Pride of Scotland, a new tartan, had become a favorite, and she loved the way the long full skirt felt almost like a cozy blanket around her legs.

Her stomach growled, and she realized how hungry she was. She took the small kg of lamb she'd purchased earlier at the village store from the tiny fridge and seasoned it with garlic and rosemary. It was too much for one person, but she could make sandwiches from the leftovers. Placing the roast in the oven, she poured herself a glass of wine.

Only then did she allow thoughts of Ian Sinclair to wander through her mind again. How could she learn the truth about the man? Not from her kinsmen, she was certain. They were so prejudiced against the Sinclair that no one, not even Robert Macrae, seemed to be able to think objectively about them.

She'd learned a little about him on their hike. He was thirty-two, had never been married, and appeared to be a classic type-A workaholic. In addition to Duneagen Castle, he had inherited his family's distillery business, and if what he said was true, he'd managed to turn it from a small "boutique" operation into a firm that exported quality aged single-malt Scotch to countries, around the world. Apparently in the process, he had undercut some smaller distilleries, which would have gone out of business if he hadn't bought them out instead. Cutthroat business practices?