"You're joking."

Britton set his pint down again and waved a hand in the air. "Now, don't get all upset. That's not to say you don't have legal ownership of it. Lots of land and properties changed hands that way back then. It could, however, mean a court battle to prove your right to the title and castle, and that takes time and money, not to mention the headache."

Ian groaned. "Who's behind it? Who hired Stewart?"

"Stewart's a lowlife. No self-respecting Scotsman would employ him. He works primarily for foreign interests. Does lots of work for American oil companies." '

"So who hired him?" Ian asked again.

"I can't prove it, but word is around that a consortium of American investors who own a large cruise-line company has eyes on Duneagen Castle and the town of

Corridan. They want to turn it into some sort of resort, a fantasy port of call that will give their rich customers a trip back in time, so to speak, so they can play at being in olden-day Scotland. It sounds like the kind of thing Stewart would get involved in. What's he offered you?"

Cold disappointment knifed through Ian. An American cruise-line company? Did Meredith work for them? She claimed to be the heir of Archibald Macrae, but the arrival of an American in Corridan at this time seemed just too coincidental. His suspicions that she was somehow involved in this development scheme were too strong for even the memory of her kiss to overcome.

Ian answered Britton's question, and the barrister winced. "Sounds like it's time for pre-emptive action."

Ian listened distractedly as George Britton rambled on, assuring him that the court would uphold Sinclair ownership of Duneagen Castle, but his mind was on Meredith Wentworth. Please don't let her be involved in this, his heart pleaded. Don't be a fool, his mind warned.

At last he could stand it no longer. He laid a twenty pound note on the table and stood to go. "Sorry, old chap. I can't wait for lunch. By all means get the ownership thing sorted out with the courts as quickly as possible. And keep an eye on Stewart, won't you? He seems a devious little devil. Call me if you learn anything more about these Americans, too."

Before George Britton could overcome his surprise at his client's sudden departure, Ian was out the door, car keys in hand. Nothing, not even ownership of the castle, was more important to him at the moment than to hear from Meredith's lips that she was not involved in any of this. He only hoped he could tell if she were lying.

Chapter Eight

The grocer was polite but not friendly. The people she passed on the street either barely nodded, stared at her openly, or looked the other way. No one greeted her warmly as they had done previously. Meredith knew she was being shunned. It didn't take long in a little town for word to spread that she'd been seen with the enemy.

She'd thought Robert Macrae was her friend, but she'd quickly learned that even within a clan there were limits. And she'd gone over that limit last night in inviting Ian Sinclair to dinner.,

After her brief and somewhat unpleasant visit to the village to pick up a few supplies, she returned to the cottage and donned her hiking boots, then set out with a sandwich and a bottle of water to climb into the high moors. Maybe up there at the top of the world, the brisk wind would clear her mind, and she could put things into perspective again.

Her mind wouldn't let her wait until she had reached the heights, however. It kept going over and over her dilemma with each step she took: she was a Macrae wanting to be friends with a Sinclair. The clan's treatment of her angered her, for although Ian's visit hadn't been planned, she'd had every intention of using it to find out what he was up to, which would have helped them all. They had been discussing tourism, edging around the subject, when, well… the kiss had gotten in the way. Meredith blushed at the memory but didn't try to chase it away. At the moment, she felt far friendlier toward Ian Sinclair than she did toward her own clansmen.

The fact was, however, she'd missed her chance last night. The opportunity had come and gone for her to ask Ian point-blank for a straight answer about his intentions for the village. She wanted to see him again but had no idea if that would happen. And if she did, what made her think he would tell her the truth if she asked? Her feelings for Ian Sinclair were dangerous, for she was strongly attracted to him, and she was liable to believe him no matter what he told her. It horrified her to think she might truly be consorting with the enemy.

By the time she reached the crest of the moor high above Duneagen Castle, she was miserable and conflicted. She sat on a rock and bit into the sandwich but found it hard to swallow. She considered just packing up and leaving Corridan. Maybe she didn't belong here after all.

She didn't want to go, though, until she knew the fate of her own property, if nothing else. There was little she could do to defend it from the other side of the ocean if Ian tried to remove the villagers. She had to find out what was going on. But how? She had no car. She couldn't just pop over to Aberdeen and check out Angus Stewart. Nor did she have any idea how one went about going through property records in Scotland. Even before last night, Robert Macrae had not wanted her involved, and she was certain he would not welcome her intrusion into village affairs now. It seemed there was only one option. Ian. She must find him again and demand the truth. And be strong enough to handle it if he told her he was behind the plan to evict the villagers. She just couldn't believe it of him, but then, she didn't know him very well.

A drop of rain splashed against her face, then another and another. Meredith looked up. The sky was boiling with dark clouds. A storm had brewed over the mountain without her even being aware of it. She swore under her breath and started back down the slope along a path. The rain fell in large, cold drops, pelting her and soaking her light cotton sweater and jeans. She quickened her step, hurrying as fast as she dared, and slipped on the slick mud and fell. This time she swore out loud. She was unhurt, except ijpr a scrape on her right palm where she'd tried to catch herself, but her jeans were slimed with mud.

With greater caution, Meredith descended the moor, keeping to the path, although it was not the way she had come. She rounded a large boulder and to her surprise found herself squarely in front of Duneagen Castle. Without thinking, she dashed for cover beneath an eave. Maybe she could wait out the storm here instead of squishing her way home in the rain.

Meredith shivered in her wet clothes and wondered if Ian might be at the castle. His Land Rover was nowhere in sight, but there might be a garage somewhere. She felt her hair and knew it was disheveled. Her hands were dirty from her fall and wiping them on her grimy jeans didn't help. She decided not to knock on the door after all. If he were home, she didn't want him to see her in such a mess.

After fifteen minutes, the rain showed no sign of letting up. Uncomfortably cold and damp, Meredith decided she had little to lose by going on to her cottage. At least there she could take a hot bath and have some tea. Clenching her jaw, she stepped out into the downpour and walked as fast as she could down the road that led to the village. She'd gone less than half a mile when she saw the headlights of a vehicle coming toward her, and she moved to the side of the road. The driver slowed as he approached her, and she saw with dismay that it was a dark green Land Rover. The laird had returned to his castle.

He opened the passenger door. "Get in."

Numb with cold and weary to the bone, she didn't argue. He turned up the heater and continued on up the hill.