In spite of her enthusiasm for her clan, Meredith was troubled by what she'd witnessed earlier in the day. Unlike the games she helped organize in the States, which were played in a spirit of sportsmanship and camaraderie, the competition today between the Macraes and their rival clan, the Sinclairs, had been fierce and uncompromising, bordering on violence, with insults flying between the players.

Her gaze wandered into the darkness beyond the fire circle where across the field another bonfire lit up the night. Gathered around it were the Sinclairs. The Macraes had filled her ears with tales of an ancient feud between the two clans and made it clear that although the bloodshed had ceased, the enmity had not.

She'd seen the leader of the Sinclairs today, a tall, robust, darkly handsome man who defeated every opponent he faced. Although her clansmen had denounced him, he didn't appear to have horns and a tail as they would have had her believe. He was, in fact, one of the few who had displayed gentlemanly behavior. She'd also found him downright sexy in his traditional Scottish attire. She thought about crossing over to his bonfire to congratulate him on his victories but decided she didn't need to complicate her life by indulging her passing attraction to the Sinclair chieftain. For as much as she would like to remain in this quaint seacoast village, soon she would have to return to North Carolina.

Meredith returned her attention to the storyteller as he completed his yarn. It was a humorous tale, and also sadly poignant, about a young outlaw who was caught stealing cattle from a wealthy laird and who was thrown into the castle dungeon to await hanging. The laird's wife, however, offered to save his life if he would marry their oldest, and very ugly, daughter. The girl was so hard to look at that the thief at first chose hanging, but after several days' consideration in the dark dungeon, he decided instead to let the earl tie the other kind of knot to seal his fate.

Meredith joined in the laughter at the story's end and watched in merriment from the edge of the circle as a bottle of whisky was passed around. She needed no whisky to warm her, for although she was weary, she was suffused with a glow as radiant as the flickering fire. This was all she'd dreamed of and more. At last she was truly a part of the Clan Macrae. And unbelievably, at last she owned a piece of her beloved Scotland. For last night, in a formal ceremony performed entirely in Gaelic, she had inherited the property once belonging to the former clan chieftain, her great-uncle Archibald Macrae.

Uncle Archie, as she'd known him, was her grandfather's brother. He'd kept up with the American side of his family and knew of Meredith's passion for Scotland. She was deeply touched that he would bequeath his belongings to her. She was also pleased that she had managed to follow the Gaelic ceremony. As a hobby she had learned to read and write the ancient language of her forebears, but until now she'd had little opportunity to experience it as a living language.

Along with a small parcel of land and the cottage in which her great-uncle once lived, she had inherited a number of historical artifacts that had been handed down through generations of Macraes. Although honored to be the recipient of these treasures, Meredith wondered if anyone resented them going to an American. That did not appear to be the case, however, for after the ceremony, she had been given a shawl woven in the plaid of the Macrae tartan and wished well by everyone in the community. That's when she'd learned that the village of Corridan was populated mainly by her kinsmen. She smiled to herself and drew the shawl over her shoulders, turning to go. She'd longed for clan kinship; now she belonged to an entire town of Macraes!


Ian Sinclair wished he could share in the enthusiasm of his fellow clansmen as they celebrated their many victories in today's games with drams from his personal stash of fine Duneagen single-malt whisky. He wished, in fact, that he relished the competition as much as they did. As head of the Clan Sinclair, he felt obliged to participate, but a part of him resented the waste of a day. He had so many other, far more pressing problems on his mind than defeating the Macraes on the field of play. He found it depressing, too, that his fellow Sinclairs persisted in perpetuating that age-old feud. At least, he thought, casting a dubious eye on the men who were growing increasingly drunk, in recent years the feud had been confined to this arena. Better that than the sniping and harassment that had gone on before.

Ian turned away from the fire and walked down the lane toward his car, feeling the effort of the day in every muscle. It was nearly midnight, and the sun had at last descended, leaving a twilight sky illuminated with a brilliant show of the mystical northern lights. He was forever awestruck by the aurora borealis and overwhelmed by the majesty of the Highlands of his birth.

He loved this land, fiercely, protectively, although lately he'd begun to wonder why he gave a damn at all. It wasn't a happy land, but rather one that seemed to breed strife. Since he'd become the Sinclair clan chieftain, he had been constantly embroiled in land disputes between his own clansmen. Senseless squabbles, since the land itself had little other than scenic value. Still, Scotsmen would be Scotsmen, he thought morosely. They simply loved to fight.

Then there was the castle. Duneagen, the crumbling ancestral fortress, loomed above him, high on a craggy cliff overlooking the serene bay of Corridan like a dark stain on the night. He had inherited the gloomy pile of stone upon his father's death, and being young and eager, he'd vowed to restore it to its former glory. He hadn't known that like a rapacious monster, it would swallow his already diminished family fortune and wash it down with the profits from the Duneagen Distillery.

Now at age thirty-two, he regretted making that commitment, but he couldn't quit feeding the beast. Ian had dumped so much money into the place in the past seven years, he couldn't afford to stop now and let it fall into ruin after all. He maintained quarters in the one habitable wing of the hulking old palace but most of the time stayed in his small apartment on the estate where he operated the distillery. That way he didn't have to go to bed with his folly every night.

Caught up in his thoughts, Ian didn't see the woman until he collided with her in the darkness, almost knocking her down. Instinctively, he took her elbow. "So sorry. How clumsy of me. I wasn't watching where I was going."

When she turned her face to him, he recognized her instantly-the tall, extraordinarily good-looking redhead he had fancied had been watching him all day. This close to her, even in the dim light, he could see that she wasn't just good-looking; she was beautiful. The fine features of her face were accented with high cheekbones and flawlessly arched brows. Her nose, turned up ever so slightly, appeared dusted with faint freckles, her cheeks burnished by a day in the sun. Although he couldn't discern their color, her wide eyes seemed to reflect the luminescence of the aurora, and her hair spilled in sunset disarray from where she had it fastened on the crown of her head. She had an essence of freshness about her, like the wild wind in the heather, a radiance that seemed to shimmer directly into the darkest corners of his heart. He swallowed hard, confused at the inexplicable emotions she evoked. "Sorry," he managed again.

She offered a tentative smile from the fullness of her lips, but her eyes reflected alarm. "No problem," she replied, drawing her elbow away. "I should have been paying more attention, too."

The woman's lilting accent captivated him further. "You're a stranger in these parts," he said, awkwardly stating the obvious. "An American?"

Cocking her head to one side, she replied curiously, "American in residence, but Scottish at heart." She gave no further explanation, nor did she offer her name. She merely gazed steadily into his eyes for a long moment with a look that turned Ian's insides to molten ore. She blinked at last and smiled a little uncertainly. "I have to go."

Ian didn't want her to go. Women like her were few and far between in northern Scotland, nonexistent in his life. "May I escort you to your car?"

"Don't have one," she answered, turning again to the path. "I'm staying in the village. It's just a short walk." Her tone was dismissive, and Ian got the message. Thanks but no thanks.

Discouraged, he watched her go. Only then did it register that she wore the Macrae tartan draped over her slender frame, and he recalled that she'd been with the Macraes all day. So that was it. She knew he was a Sinclair, and she didn't want to be seen with him.

Ian shook his head in disgust and took a shortcut across the field to where his Land Rover was parked. This was the twentieth century, for God's sake. Almost the twenty-first. When were these people going to grow up?

Chapter Two

Meredith was breathing hard by the time she reached the cottage. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her heart pounding heavily, not only from the brisk walk in the thin Highland air, but also from her reaction to the tall, solidly built Scotsman with the deep, resonant voice and rich Scots accent. That accent still echoed in her mind, confounding her that she found it so appealing.

She'd known him immediately. Ian Sinclair. The man she'd watched intently all day. He had been handsome seen from afar. He was drop-dead gorgeous close at hand, with dark, piercing eyes and thick black hair tossed across his forehead by the wind. For the slender space of time that he'd held her by the elbow, she had taken in the breadth and squareness of his shoulders, the well-proportioned height of his body, and had been rendered nearly senseless by the raw power of his masculinity. It had taken several long moments and a lot of willpower to gather her wits and move on down the road. She would have liked to have lingered with him there in the darkness, but he was a Sinclair, and she hadn't wanted any of her clansmen to come upon them together. Being literally the new kid on the block, she didn't want to do anything that might jeopardize her new relations with her blood kin.

Removing the shawl and hanging it on a peg by the door, she admitted that she would love to learn more about Ian Sinclair. Maybe she could ask around about him, quietly, discreetly. For something in his touch and in his eyes had reached into the depths of her being, shaking her, awakening her, seeming to call her to yet another aspect of her Scottish destiny. She knew that was nothing more than a fanciful notion, but she was unable to shake it.

The hour was late and she was tired, but Meredith was too keyed up to sleep. She decided instead to examine the treasures she had inherited. Going to the small wooden chest that sat on a stool in one corner, she raised the lid. At a glance, the Macrae treasures didn't look like much. A battered pewter quaich, the traditional Scots drinking vessel. A dirk with a handle made of a stag horn. A scarred old belt buckle. A rag of a scarf in the colors of the ancient Macrae tartan.

At the bottom, carefully folded in tissue paper, was a tablecloth woven of rough wool reputed to be over two hundred years old. Meredith stroked it with the back of her fingers but did not remove it. She'd wait until bright daylight to take it out. An article of that antiquity was surely fragile, and she didn't want to damage it by over-handling. She gazed at the other items, sending a silent thank-you to her departed great-uncle, for he'd given her far more than these material things, more even than the walls that surrounded her. He'd given her a sense of belonging to the clan.

Looking around the small dwelling, Meredith felt more at home than in any other place she could remember. She'd been in Corridan less than three days, and already her Scottish roots were tickling the bottoms of her feet. She knew she must return to North Carolina, but she wished suddenly that she could just stay here.

It wouldn't be that hard, she mused as she heated water for tea. Other than the tiny Scottish specialty shop, she owned in her small mountain town, there was nothing for her in the States. Her parents had both died, her best friend had married and moved away. Although she had many acquaintances, primarily through her work organizing the Highland Games each year, she was close to no one. She'd had one love affair during college, but after graduation, he'd wanted the city life, and she couldn't bear to leave her beloved mountains. Since college, there had been no "significant other."