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."
It wouldn't be that hard to just stay here, she thought, where the mountains were even more magnificent, her family ties stronger even though her kin were still unfamiliar. She was getting to know them better each day. Meredith poured hot water over a tea bag, her mind traveling eagerly down the path she'd cleared for it.
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.