"I'm telling you, you have no legal claim to this land," the stranger said emphatically. "I've searched the historical records of ownership of this entire area, and you Macraes were all run out, quite legally, by the Earl of Sinclair in 1815. Back then, it was called a 'clearing,' and the earl cleared the lands around Duneagen Castle as far as the eye could see to run sheep. Any of your families who came back on the land since then did so illegally. You have no valid title of ownership." That said, he sat back with a defiant glare, daring them to challenge him.

The locals rose to the bait. "You're a liar," Sandy Macrae growled, his already ruddy face turning an even deeper shade of red. "Who are ye, and what'd ye come here for? Why are ye sayin' these things?"

Meredith's pulse quickened. Who indeed was this odious little man, and what did he hope to gain by stirring up trouble with such preposterous claims?

He reached into his jacket pocket and took out some business cards and spread them on the table. "The name's Stewart. Angus Stewart. I'm a solicitor, but I'm not your enemy. I came here because I've learned that history may be about to repeat itself, and I want to help you."

"What in th' name of Saint Brigid are ye talkin' about?" Fergus Macrae demanded, standing with legs apart and arms folded, blocking the rear exit with his bulk.

"The Sinclair may be going to do it again. A clearing, I mean. Not for sheep this time, but for tourists."

Meredith's eyes widened even as her heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. Surely she wasn't hearing correctly.

"Go on with ye," Mac yelled from behind the bar. "There's no such thing in these times."

Angus Stewart gave him a knowing look. "I wouldn't be so sure, if I were you."

The front door opened and several more men from the village hurried in, along with a boy who had been sent to fetch them. "What's up? Why'd y' send for us, Mac?"

"This here bloke's tryin' t' convince us th' Sinclair's about t' do a clearin' round here," Mac filled them in. "Says we don't have legal claim t' our land and that we're about t' be run off it."

Meredith couldn't believe her ears. Surely everyone had some kind of legal title to their property. These families had been here for eons. But then she thought back to the ceremony of two nights ago, when her great-uncle's property was transferred to her. There had been no transfer of a deed. Simply a reading of the will and the consensus of the clan.

Where was the paperwork?

As if reading her thoughts, Angus Stewart asked the villagers, "Where is the proof that you own your land? The papers that verify it was purchased legally? I have searched every kind of record I can think of in towns from here to Aberdeen," he said, then added with a hopeless shrug, "I've not found one shred of evidence that any of this land was ever purchased from the Earl of Sinclair."

The room grew quiet. Meredith saw the men exchange troubled glances, and a terrible fear began to gnaw at her. Could this man's claims possibly be true? Was there a threat of the villagers being evicted? If so, what would he gain from coming to warn them?

Years of fending for herself in the world gave her the courage to confront the man. She edged off the stool at the bar and moved to the front of the crowd. "Who sent you here?"

The man jumped to his feet, obviously surprised at being challenged by a young woman. "The name's Stewart, ma'am. Angus Stewart. I represent a landowner in Aberdeen who, hearing of the plight of the people here in Corridan, has generously offered to relocate all of you at a most reasonable cost."

Meredith heard the rumble of disbelief from the men assembled around her. She herself found it difficult to believe the man's scam was so transparent. "So you're here to sell land?"

She saw the blood rise to redden his face. "I'm here because I'm a decent chap," he replied defensively. "I've gone to a lot of trouble to check out the rumor that there are plans to develop this land into a tourist resort. It's not just a rumor, ma'am. It's a project that's already in the planning stages. And if, as I believe to be the case, the Sinclair does indeed hold legal title to this land, there is nothing to prevent him from evicting all of you to make way for the resort." He turned sympathetic eyes to the villagers.

"For my whole career, I've made my living representing the common man," he told them, "and I'm a Scotsman born and bred. I don't want to see my country invaded by hordes of foreigners in a commercial venture such as this that will mean nothing short of the rape of this glorious land. I undertook my research thinking I could prevent it by disproving the Sinclair's claim of ownership. Then, when I discovered that his claim might stand up in court, I searched for ways to lessen the blow to my countrymen-you, the common people, who will suffer, just as your forefathers did two centuries ago at the hands of the Sinclair."

Meredith looked around and saw that Stewart was punching the right buttons to stir the Macrae hatred of the Sinclairs. But his words rang false to her. She listened carefully as he continued.

"That's when I approached my client to see if he could help. This good man has created a pleasant subdivision on the outskirts of Aberdeen and has not only offered to sell you a plot of land with a new cottage on it at a very reasonable price, he's willing to give each and qvery person in this village who is being so brutally uprooted a moving allowance."

Angus Stewart dropped his head and studied his hands. Then he returned his gaze to the crowd who stood before him stunned and speechless. "It's not much," he said in a voice just above a whisper, as if emotion were caught in his throat. "But it's something at least to make up for the land you'll be losing. Please, I beg you, consider my offer. Let me help you."

Chapter Four

All hell broke loose in the pub after Angus Stewart left the premises. Mac had sent the boy to the fishermen at the seashore and the farmers in the fields, to alert those who hadn't been in the impromptu meeting that something bad was afoot. In a few minutes, the tiny public house was bulging with men and women wanting to know what was going on.

Robert Macrae, the clan chieftain, moved to the far side of the room and, placing a finger at each side of his mouth, emitted an earsplitting whistle that immediately commanded everyone's attention. When the room was quiet, he briefly repeated Stewart's story.

"Could it be true?" asked one woman, and Meredith heard the edge of hysteria in her voice.

"Of course it's not true. Th' man's off his head," said another, although not sounding convinced.

"It's th' curse…" came from a woman standing nearby, an utterance that renewed the general commotion.

The Macrae gave another whistle. "Quiet, all of you. There's no need for panic," he told them. "We own this land. We've lived on it for generations and there's never been a question about it. This is likely some scheme made up by that weaselly solicitor to make a fast quid at our expense."

"Maybe," said Mac, his voice heavy with suspicion, "but then again, maybe he's tellin' th' truth. Maybe th' Sinclair is plottin't' take over our land."

"If he wants mine," vowed Sandy Macrae, "he'll have t' kill me for it."

"I'll kill him first," shouted another, and the rest echoed the sentiment.

Meredith felt sick to her stomach. This wasn't the Scotland of her dreams. This was more like a nightmare. These people… her people… had suddenly been transformed from respectable, hardworking Highlanders into a murderous mob by the words of a solicitor. An outsider. Why were they listening to him? Did they think for one minute that they did not legally own their land? Did they believe Ian Sinclair and his clan might actually try to take it from them? Or were they just reacting from the inbred hatred in their hearts for the Clan Sinclair?

She pushed through the crowd and out the door. Leaning against the cool stone wall of the building, she inhaled deeply of the rarefied Highland air, trying to settle her nerves and sort things out. A thousand questions assailed her. Did she, or any of them, have legal deeds as proof they owned their property? Were the clans about to go to war? And what on earth did that woman mean by "It's th' curse"?

The biggest question in her mind was, who had hired Angus Stewart? Did he represent some altruistic land developer in Aberdeen? Meredith doubted it. It made more sense that Stewart was in the employ of the man who stood to benefit from taking their land virtually for free. Ian Sinclair. He owned the castle. Now he wanted the village. She'd heard the upkeep of the castle kept him nearly broke, and it made sense that he might try to develop a resort to fund the preservation of his fortress high on the hill Squinting into the hazy sunlight, she could see it from where she stood and could tell even from a distance it was in sore need of major restoration.

Why didn't he just offer to buy the property from the villagers? But she knew the answer almost as soon as the thought occurred to her-the Macraes would never sell an inch of their soil to a Sinclair.

No, he would logically have had to resort to some more devious plan. Meredith suspected that Ian Sinclair had negotiated with the developer of the Aberdeen subdivision to subsidize the cost of that property, hoping the Macraes, in fear that their land was not their own, would take up the sweet deal and relocate with little resistance. Stewart was just the go-between.

But why, she wondered again, would the Macraes fear for ownership of their land? Unless…

Her earlier question reared its head again. Where was the paperwork?