It would be easy, actually, she told herself. She could sell the business. She already knew someone who wanted it. The house where she lived was a rental, whereas she owned this cottage. She added rich local cream to the cup, along with a pinch of sugar. Sinking into the pillows of the worn sofa opposite the fire, she sipped her tea, thinking of possibilities. Unbidden, the image of Ian Sinclair popped into her mind. Meredith sat up with a start. He was not a possibility.
And yet…
She allowed her mind to wander in his direction. What if she hadn't taken off so quickly back there in the parking lot? She closed her eyes, feeling his closeness, remembering the intensity of his eyes gazing into hers. What if… Ian Sinclair had kissed her? An involuntary shiver of delight ran through her, and Meredith opened her eyes again with a sigh. Her thoughts of moving to Corridan had made her delusional. He was a Sinclair. She was a Macrae. Their families had fought each other for over two centuries. What made her think that things could be different between them? The feud was so ingrained in the minds and hearts of both the Sinclairs and the Macraes it might even be in their genes by now. Forget it, sweetheart, she scolded herself, and for God's sake, get those thoughts of Ian Sinclair out of your mind.
She finished her tea, turned out the lights, undressed and slipped between the cool sheets. But as she drifted off to sleep, those thoughts of Ian Sinclair crept back again and made themselves at home in her dreams.
After a restless night pervaded by dreams of a chance encounter with a gorgeous American woman, Ian awoke with the strangest sensation that his left big toe was leaking. He edged himself up on his elbows and looked with bleary eyes to where his feet had kicked away the covers sometime in the night, and he saw that indeed his toe was wet. He flinched as another drop splashed against it. He looked up. It wasn't the toe that was leaking. It was the ceiling.
"Damnation!" He leapt out of bed and hastened into the clothes he'd dropped on a nearby chair the night before. They smelled of yesterday's games, but he didn't care. He had to find the source of the leak and stop it before it sent the ceiling onto his bed in a soggy plaster rain. He'd just had the roof repaired, and it wasn't raining outside. That left only one possibility as the source of the leak. One of the upstairs bathrooms.
Cursing under his breath, he raced up the stairs, feeling the stone floor cold and hard beneath his bare feet. As he'd feared, water was trickling from one of the five guest suites his grandparents had created on the second floor of the old castle and pooling in the central hall. The prewar plumbing was just one of the many headaches he faced in this renovation project from hell.
Ignoring the frigid water, Ian splashed through the puddle and went into the adjoining bathroom to find water spewing enthusiastically from a rusted split in a pipe. With a jerk and a curse, he closed the cutoff valve, then stood back to survey the damage and decide what to do about it.
The closest plumber was in Corridan, but he disliked calling on the villagers for help. They would come, but in their own sweet time, for they were Macraes, always on the lookout for an opportunity to annoy the Sinclairs. His own neighboring clansmen were spread out over many miles, and he didn't recall there being a decent plumber among them. He decided at last to send one of his engineers from the distillery over to patch things up. That was the trouble with the whole damnable place, he thought, throwing towels on the floor to soak up the water. It was one big patch after another. He didn't have the funds to replace everything that needed it. There was just too much. Roof. Windows. Plumbing. Electric wiring. Stone work. Not to mention furniture and fixtures.
He returned to his quarters below and chanced a quick, hot shower, praying the antiquated pipes would stand the strain. He dressed for work and half an hour later slammed out the door of the only relatively modernized wing of Duneagen Castle. Behind him the once-proud fortress was now a sad mass of weathering stone walls, a legacy he both loved and hated.
Ian considered stopping at the pub in Corridan for a cup of hot coffee to sustain him on the forty-minute drive to Duneagen Distilleries, but as it was already late in the morning, he decided he'd better hurry along to dispatch help for the ailing plumbing in the castle.
The road from the castle wound down from the high promontory and through the village, passing by the cottage once owned by Archibald Macrae. Ian glanced at it as he drove by, wondering if what he'd heard was true, that the old clan chieftain had left it to a distant relative. He gave a silent, sardonic laugh, doubting that a newcomer would be much welcomed in this tightly knit community.
The thought of a stranger in town reminded him of the American woman who had lingered at the fringe of his consciousness all through his morning's difficulties. Who was she? She'd told him she was Scottish at heart, and with her looks, he thought it likely there was Scottish DNA in her genes. From her scarf and her association with his rival clan at the games, Ian guessed she was a Macrae and wondered again if she had dismissed him so abruptly last night because he was a Sinclair. Had this newcomer already let tales of the feud set her against him? If so, she was a fool. A beautiful fool, but someone just as well avoided.
Rounding a corner, he caught his breath, for there, striding into the village on long legs, was the woman in question. She wore close-fitting jeans and a white turtle-neck sweater topped with the shawl she had worn last night. Her hair was piled casually onto her head, adding to her height and accentuating the length of her graceful neck. His reservations of only moments before fled, replaced by rekindled curiosity about her.
As there was but a single road through Corridan, he had no choice but to pass by her, and as he did he slowed and glanced through the car window into her face. She looked toward him and their gazes met, only for an instant, but long enough for him to know that if he weren't careful, he could drown in the sea-green depths of her eyes.
He pressed the accelerator and passed her but caught sight of her again in the rearview mirror. He thought she was watching him, as well. A strange sensation stirred within him, as if he had just seen into his future, and he sensed that somehow his fate was entwined with that of the American stranger. Ian looked away, telling himself that was a ridiculous notion. When he looked back again, she was lost from view.
Chapter Three
Angus Stewart pulled his mid-sized Nissan off the main roadway onto a narrow overlook above the village of Corridan. He killed the engine and got out of the car, stretching his arms and legs. It had been a long drive from Aberdeen. The day was fair and breezy, and he took off his hat and turned his face to the warmth of the late morning sun.
Below him, the unspoiled village looked picture-postcard perfect. Like a movie set. The pristine waters of Corridan Bay sparkled and glinted in the bright summer day, and the beach arched in a shimmering crescent between the protective arms of two promontories that rose steeply from the edge of the sea on either side. Perched on the far cliff, hulking over the harbor like a bird of prey, was an ancient weather-beaten castle.
Angus lit a cigarette and surveyed the area appreciatively. New Horizons Cruise Lines had chosen well. Corridan was an excellent site for their project. The deepwater harbor was both scenic and protected, not large but sufficient to accommodate two of the behemoth liners at a time. The village could be renovated just enough to retain the authentic feel of the past and yet provide the amenities wealthy cruise customers would expect. And the castle. It looked like something out of a storybook. Or would, he decided, after extensive refurbishing. It would cost a bundle, but the investors who had hired him seemed not to care.