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Scotland are not exaggerated.”
    At the sound of his voice, something hot and thick and unfamiliar uncurled inside Meg. She realized, a little appalled, that her fingers were trembling. She clutched the handle of the basket more tightly to still them as her mind scrambled for a reply. Normally words came easily to Meg, but at this moment, she had been rendered mute.
    Embarrassed by her unaccustomed ineptitude, she dropped a hasty curtsy and whirled, hurrying to the steps. Head down to watch her footing as she rushed down the stairs, she mentally castigated herself. How could she have stood there, dumb as a sheep, and then curtsied to the man like a scullery maid? She was Meg Munro, an independent Highland woman, not some serf to bow her head when a lord passed by.
    As she reached the bottom of the steps, she lifted her gaze, and an absurd, annoying shiver went through her as she saw the earl trotting down a set of stone steps at right angles to the one she took.
    “No, stay,” he said, striding toward her, and he smiled.
    His smile was a fearsome thing, she thought, lighting his dark eyes and softening the sharp angles of his face. No doubt it had conquered many a girl’s virtue over the years.
    “I did not mean to frighten you away,” he went on, slowing as he came closer, like a man approaching a scared animal.
    His words struck a nerve. Meg faced him. “I don’t frighten that easily.”
    “That’s good to know.” The curve of his lips was more intimate now, and his eyes swept down her in a swift butunmistakable glance. “Then you will not be too timid to tell me your name.”
    Meg was not a novice at parrying a gentleman’s advances. Over the years more than one of Sir Andrew’s friends visiting at Baillannan had assumed she would succumb to his flattery or be bought by his coin, and she had given them swift, sharp setdowns. Today, however, instead of telling this man that he had no need to know her name, she merely lifted her chin in a challenging way and said, “I am Margaret Munro.”
    “Margaret Munro.” He rolled the words in his mouth as if they tasted sweet to him. “’Tis a lovely name. It suits such a lovely woman.”
    “I am glad you approve,” she retorted tartly.
    His eyes widened slightly, a little breath of a chuckle escaping him. “Do compliments raise your hackles, Miss Munro? I shall have to be careful, then, for the sight of you spurs compliments.” He moved a trifle closer. “I saw you in town yesterday.”
    “And I saw you.”
    “So you did. What good fortune, then, that you should visit Duncally today.”
    She stiffened. Did he mean to imply that she had sought him out? “’Twas not good fortune brought me here. It was business.” She lifted her basket a little higher on her arm and gave him a cool smile. “Now that business is done, I’d best leave. Good day, sir.”
    “But wait, you cannot leave yet,” he protested in a light, flirtatious tone. “I have learned nothing about you save your name.”
    “Dinna worry,” she tossed over her shoulder as shewalked away. “I am sure any number of people will be happy to tell you about Red Meg Munro.”

    Damon watched Meg stroll off, taking the curving path past the roses. He followed at a leisurely pace, stopping at the stone balustrade to watch her move down the long slope to yet another level, where grand stone steps split and cascaded on either side down the last steep drop.
    The wide, green swath of the lowest level of gardens lay before him, ending at the dark gray waters of the loch. But he did not study the magnificent view of land and water, only the small feminine figure striding along the promenade dividing the formal garden in half. She wore no cap or kerchief; the sun turned her hair to fire.
    Red Meg Munro . He smiled to himself. The name suited her, all heat and boldness and allure. God, she was beautiful! In her simple, slightly faded dress, without artifice or adornment, she would cast into the shade the