which boasted traditional paneled walls, muted green and tartan cushions on the chairs and benches and a mellowed oak bar counter. And her host and hostess couldn’t have been kinder, she reflected with a smile. The pub was the gathering place for the locals, and last night a man in a tartan tam had played Scottish tunes on an ancient squeeze box. Very picturesque. A pity she didn’t have more time to appreciate it.
As she sat and sipped her tea, Meredith weighed her options. She’d wait until ten o’clock and then make her way up the hill to the ancient Highland keep just visible through the rising mist. She peeked gloomily at the stark, forbidding structure through the net curtains. It looked about as welcoming as its tenant. When she bit into a piece of warm raisin toast spread with butter and delicious homemade marmalade, she wished she could sit here all day and soak in the atmosphere, but she had a job to do.
Taking another sip of strong black tea, grateful for its reassuring warmth and smothering an inner hankering for espresso, Meredith thought about her boys, asleep now at Ranelagh, their grandparents’ home, the family plantation that they loved dearly. She glanced at her watch and calculated the time difference between Scotland and Savannah with a sigh. Not a good time to call. In a few hours her father, John Rowland, would drive them to school in the new four-wheel drive he’d acquired last week and the kids would love it. Would her mother remember to tell Nan, the maid who’d been with her family forever, to send Mick’s soccer shoes along for his afternoon practice? Perhaps she’d better leave a text message on her mom’s mobile just in case.
Searching her purse for her cell phone, Meredith suddenly stopped herself. She was being ridiculous. She would only risk waking the household, and there was little use worrying about matters over which she had no control. She’d do better to apply her thoughts and energy to the upcoming meeting.
At ten o’clock precisely, Meredith left the Strathcairn Arms, and after a deep breath of damp, misty morning air got into her rental car and drove through the tiny village of Strathcairn. Now that she could see it properly, she realized it was quaint. Little whitewashed cottages bordered each side of the street, lending the impression of a Grimm’s fairy tale. She saw the butcher, the baker. She grinned. All that was missing was the candlestick maker.
What, she wondered, could have induced a man like Grant Gallagher, a man who moved in pretty sophisticated circles, to come to an out-of-the-way spot like this?
Not that it was any of her business, she reminded herself as the car wound up the bumpy narrow road toward the castle. Her only interest was the execution of Rowena’s will and perhaps to persuade him to do something for Dallas. In fact, all she really needed to extract from Gallagher was a commitment to come to the U.S. sometime in the next three months so they could have the meeting Rowena had insisted on and go ahead with probate. She also would require some material for an extra DNA test that would shut up the Carstairs relatives if they made a nuisance of themselves, an increasingly likely contingency. She sighed heavily, wondering why her gut was telling her it wasn’t going to be that easy.
The mist had lifted as she reached the top of the steep hill where the castle loomed, severe and uninviting. Slowing the car, Meredith glanced at the huge wrought-iron gates, surprised to see them open. Raising her brows, she drove on through, past a couple ancient oak trees, tended grass and onto the gravel drive, wheels crunching loudly as she came to a smooth stop in front of the massive front door.
Picking up her briefcase, she checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then stepped out of the car, almost tripping on a large jutting root. Recovering her balance, she straightened her skirt and, securing the briefcase firmly under her arm, walked up the wide, well-trodden shallow stone steps that led to the front door. There she tugged a rusty iron wire to her right, presuming it must be the doorbell. Sure enough, a distant clanging somewhere in the castle’s nether regions confirmed she was right. Taking a deep breath, Meredith stood straighter and braced herself. Then she heard a cough and a shuffle of feet and slowly the ancient door creaked open.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, smiling professionally at the stooped elderly woman in a flowered, pale blue, mid-calf overall. She presumed this must be Mrs. Duffy. Her hair was scooped up in a tight bun secured by a net. A pair of clear blue eyes stared inquiringly at her. “I’ve come to see Mr. Gallagher. Is he in?”
“And who might ye be?” the woman asked warily, looking her up and down.
Undeterred, Meredith kept the smile in place. “I’m Meredith Hunter. I’m an attorney from the United States. I believe we may have spoken yesterday. I’ve come to see Mr. Gallagher on important business.” She shifted her weight to the other foot while the woman continued to eye her with misgiving. “Well,” she asked, trying not to sound rude or impatient, “is he in?”
“A couldna say.”
“Look, either he’s here or he isn’t,” Meredith responded, her patience withering, wondering if Gallagher had instructed his housekeeper to be unwelcoming only to her, or if the frosty reception applied to all visitors. “I’ve come all the way from Georgia to see him,” she pleaded. “At least you might let me in.”
The woman’s expression unbent slightly and her blue eyes softened a tad. “Well, he won’t be pleased, but I suppose there’s nae use ye standing out there in the drizzle. Come in. You can wait in the living room,” she offered, then shaking her head and muttering under her breath, she turned and led the way. Meredith followed her inside.
The hall was vast and drafty. Agaping medieval stone fireplace large enough to roast an ox stood against the far wall. It looked as if it hadn’t been lit in a while. A threadbare Oriental rug covered the floor and a wide oak staircase led up to a Gothic-arched gallery above. The owner of Strathcairn Castle hadn’t done much to modernize the place, she noted. It also felt distinctly chilly, and she shivered as Mrs. Duffy showed her grudgingly into the parlor. She wished she’d brought her coat.
“I’ll go and tell Mr. Gallagher you’re here,” she said as they entered the oak-paneled living room.
“Thanks,” Meredith murmured, stepping closer to the fireplace, glad of the warmth of the crackling logs. Placing her briefcase on a tapestry chair, she took a look about. There were portraits—under the circumstances, they could hardly be Grant Gallagher’s ancestors—hanging on the walls, as well as miscellaneous ornaments, some ugly, large, empty porcelain vases and an expanse of draughty French windows framed with faded chintz drapes that looked out over a lawn. Meredith stepped over and looked out at the view. The lawn was pristine and stretched toward the edge of the cliff. Beyond that she spied a fishing boat bobbing back and forth, tossed by the strong wind as it ploughed the leaden waves. She could hear the squawk of gulls in the distance and the windows shook in their casements when a strong gust of wind hit.
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, wondering whether to sit or remain standing. Gallagher had certainly chosen an eerie spot to work. She wondered if it was here he planned his Machiavellian takeovers. The venue certainly lent itself.
After a ten-minute wait, Meredith’s mood had deteriorated significantly. Surely the man must realize that she wasn’t here by choice but that she was merely doing her job. She wondered again if Gallagher had read Rowena’s letter and whether she had revealed the truth. What if he hadn’t known he was adopted? It was a definite possibility. Some adoptive parents never disclosed the truth to their child. How, she wondered uneasily, was she going to tell him the tangled story if that proved to be the case? Meredith shifted nervously before the fire, tweaked her chestnut hair behind her ear and wished it were all over.
Then, just as she was about to go and seek out Mrs. Duffy, the noise of a squeaking door handle from an adjoining room had her spinning on her heel and a tall, remarkably handsome, dark-haired man in old jeans, a baggy gray sweater and a
