Rexanne Becnel - Scandalous Weddings

"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.

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?

In the conversation about his business he'd given her the only hint that he might be inclined to be involved in the plan that Angus Stewart had said he threatened. He'd remarked that the castle renovations drained the profits from the distillery and said that he had to find another way to fund the restoration. By turning Corridan into a tourist trap?

He'd acted strangely about the castle, too, probing her with questions about its history, as if she should know all about it. She'd been annoyed at first, wondering why he was bent on testing her knowledge of the area, but he'd backed off when she'd admitted how ignorant she really was about the history of Corridan. "I didn't even know there was a feud before I came here," she'd pointed out.

He'd grown quiet after that. Introspective almost. He was an interesting man, she decided. And very sexy. Her heart did a little flip-flop at the thought of his dark blue eyes and truant black hair that insisted on falling in disarray across his wide forehead. His ancestry was obviously the dark Celtic Scots, while hers was the fair-haired Vikings. Was the conflict between their families that ancient?

The aroma of garlic and rosemary began to permeate the small cottage, and Meredith started toward the kitchen nook to peel some small potatoes when she heard a knock at the door. Maybe it was Robert Macrae, checking on her. He and his wife, Anne, had been so kind. Not only had they driven all the way to Aberdeen to pick her up from the airport, but they had treated her as if she were close kin. She had grown fond of them in the short time she'd known them. When she opened the door, however, it was not Robert Macrae who greeted her.

"I hope I'm not intruding. I would have called, but there is a definite lack of telephones in the village." Ian Sinclair handed her a large bundle of wild heather, rich and purple in full bloom. "I gathered it from behind the castle. There's also a lack of florists around here."

The earlier flip-flop of her heart turned into manic palpitations. The man at her door was a blend of Prince Charming and the boy next door. He wore a white shirt and tie with a tweed jacket, but instead of slacks, he had on a tartan kilt and knee socks that outlined the muscles of his calves. His hair blew in the light evening breeze, and his eyes twinkled.

"I was hoping ye might go to dinner with me over in Craigmont," he said.

"Please, come in." Meredith found her breath at last and struggled to regain her senses. "I… I've already put on a leg of lamb. But there is plenty. Won't you join me here instead?" Oh, my God, what am I doing?

He stepped through the small door, filling the cottage with his size and presence. "Are ye sure? It smells wonderful, and I rarely have the pleasure of a home-cooked meal. We can go to Craigmont another time."

"I would enjoy the company," she replied weakly, her defenses destroyed by his good looks and the charm of his decidedly Scots accent. She took the heather and deposited it into the only thing she could find large enough to hold it, a pewter pitcher that stood on the mantel. Then she turned and asked, only half teasing, "You don't think I'd poison a Sinclair?"

He just grinned in reply. "What can I do to help?"

You can leave and let me come back to earth, she thought, but aloud she said, "I'm not used to these chilly summer evenings yet. Would you see to the fire?"

Meredith Wentworth was more beautiful than ever, Ian thought, questioning again the wisdom of his call at her cottage. But it seemed as if he couldn't help himself. His body appeared to be functioning independently of his brain and had brought him here even against his better judgment. Seeing her before him now, a vision in a heather-purple tartan skirt and angora sweater, he wasn't sorry.

After they had parted on the beach, he had returned to the castle intent on doing some book work he'd been unable to finish during the week. Instead, he'd showered and shaved, his mind filled with images of a tall, lithe redhead striding alongside him on the beach, thoughts that tantalized him in a most sensual manner. From there, he'd gone to gather heather, as if it were the most natural activity in the world. He'd never taken heather to a woman in his life.

She might be his enemy, but while they were together, she had given him no indication that she knew enough to be behind the plot to obtain Duneagen Castle. If she knew anything at all about the old fortress, she'd hidden it well behind a screen of feigned ignorance. He hadn't invited her to dinner to continue to probe her for guilt in the matter, however. He found he simply wanted to be with her again. All the same, he planned to keep his ears open.

Ian stoked the fire, then turned to face her. "It's a nice place. What do ye plan to do with it when ye return to the States?"

He saw her hands pause in the stirring of the potatoes she was sauteing on the kitchen stove. "I… I don't know."

"I suppose ye could rent it out."

She turned and gave him a slight smile. "Or, I could just stay here. Actually, I've been thinking about that."

Ian was surprised but at the same time strangely pleased at the prospect. The woman looked as if she belonged here, in these mountains, among the wind and heather and wild open spaces. "But what would ye do?" Restore an old castle?

"I haven't gotten that far," she laughed as she finished cooking. "It's probably all just a pipe dream anyway." She brought the platter of lamb and potatoes to the table. "Come. Dinner's ready." She indicated a chair. "Will you pour the wine?"

"It was good of ye to have me on such short notice," Ian said, refilling her glass and pouring the stout red liquid into another that was set at his place.

Their eyes met, and he saw a lovely blush color her cheeks. "It was good of you to invite me out," she said at last and raised her glass to his. "I'll take a rain check."

Warring emotions stirred within him as Ian took a seat at her table and tasted the succulent meal she was sharing with him. Even though he suspected she had hired Angus Stewart and had designs on his family legacy, he was at the same time drawn to her so strongly it almost hurt. She was the woman he'd dreamed of someday having in his life, and yet if she were deceiving him with her innocence and charm, that could never be. He had to know the truth.

"Delicious," he complimented her.

"Thanks. Lamb is one of my favorite dishes, but it's hard to find in my small town in North Carolina."

"What's it like there?"

"I live in the Blue Ridge Mountains. They're very much like these mountains, only not as grand. I run a little shop in a small town near several ski resorts, specializing in Scottish gifts and apparel."

Ian nearly dropped his fork. This woman was a shopkeeper? She looked more like a princess. This bit of information, however, gladdened him, for a shopkeeper would surely not have the money to undertake the restoration of a crumbling castle.

"I was wondering where ye got such a bonny tartan skirt," he said. "A person doesn't find that kind of weave in these parts."

Again the rosy blush. My God, but she was beautiful.

"It's not a clan tartan," she said. "It's a new design-"

She was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door, and Ian saw the color drain instantly from her face. "Oh, dear," she said. "That must be Robert and Anne."

Ian understood her distress. Likely she didn't want her clansmen to know she was entertaining a Sinclair. It could be awkward for her in spite of her egalitarian attitude toward the feud. But another thought suddenly occurred to him. What if it wasn't her clansmen who had come knocking? He stood, half expecting to see Angus Stewart at the door.

"Robert!" Meredith greeted her caller over-enthusiastically. "Come in. Have you had supper? I've.1 leg of lamb on the table. There's plenty."

Robert Macrae removed the flat cap from his head and came into the single living area of the cottage. "Thanks, but Anne's just fed me fine. I just stopped in to see if ye needed-" He broke off in mid-sentence when he saw Ian. The two clan chieftains stared at each other mutely for a long moment, then Robert turned to Meredith, and Ian saw the man's face grow fiery red.

"Sorry. I dinna know ye had company."

She had nothing to feel guilty for. Nothing! And yet Meredith could have died when she saw the look on Robert Macrae's face when he'd realized who was dining with her in the cottage. The Macrae had departed immediately without saying another word, leaving Meredith with the distinct impression she had in some way betrayed her clan. It infuriated her.

She turned to Ian and raised her chin just a little. "Shall we finish supper?" she asked, angry at her kinsman, not her guest. If her clansmen would spend more time talking with the Sinclairs and less time fighting, maybe the rivals could at last resolve their differences.