Harold said, “Waste of time to have any more sword-practice sessions.”

The sun shone more boldly like a brilliant golden sphere coming to claim the castle, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look up.

Harold glanced heavenward.

Then several of the men sheathed their swords and began pulling off their shirts.

“What…?” Harold said.

“No more practice.” Ian stalked off as his men bared their chests to the sun.

Julia rushed down the tower steps to meet Ian in the bailey. “What’s going on?”

“Worshipping the sun. This may be the only chance they get. And once we use up our quota of sunny days for the year, that’s it.”

She chuckled. “And what about you?” She slipped her hand inside his shirt and ran her fingers over his chest.

God, her touch was like heaven. He wrapped his arm around her waist and headed for the inner bailey. “I’d rather worship you.”

She smiled. “You say the nicest things, and I have to tell you that you were brilliant when you fought the instructor,” she said on a sigh.

“Aye.”

“And you’re always so humble about it.”

He grinned at her.

“I think you embarrassed the instructor, though.”

“If he can’t deal with it, he shouldn’t be teaching sword fighting to battle-hardened warriors.” He glanced at her journal. “Get some good notes for your Texas cowboys? I thought they only used guns.”

“I might change my mind again.”

He scooped her up in his arms and quickened his pace. “I’ll change it for you.”

The smile she gave him said she was ready.

“I have something to show you,” Ian said. Her raised brows made him think she believed he wanted to show her something naughty. He laughed.

She blushed beautifully, and he kissed her nose. “I would love to know what you’re thinking.”

But when he walked her inside the keep, he carried her to where the portrait leaned beside the wall. He would swear it was a portrait of Julia, wearing a dress of silks of an earlier age, an arisaid of the MacPherson plaid wrapped around her. The portrait had to have been painted long before Julia was born. It looked just like her, though, with the same fascinating green eyes, the same ivory skin, and the same red hair.

Mutely, Julia stared at the portrait. Then she whispered, “Who is she?”

“Fiona MacPherson,” Aunt Agnes said, coming from the direction of the kitchen, her gray eyes switching from the portrait to Julia to Ian. “See why I knew she was a MacPherson? She looks just like her.”

He put Julia down, but her knees gave a little, and he held her arm. “This is my Aunt Agnes.”

“The family historian,” Julia said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Hmm, are you now? What might I discover as I sort through the family journals?”

Julia’s spine stiffened regally. “That at one time, the castle was mine.”

For a fraction of a moment, his aunt just stared at her. Then her lips curved up a wee bit. “Do tell. Weel, we shall see, won’t we?”

Then his aunt swept out of the room toward the stairs.

Ian shook his head and led Julia to the kitchen. “I had no idea you had it in you. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone cut my aunt down that quickly.”

Julia smiled up at him. “I might not be able to fight with a sword, but give me words,” she said and swept her pen in the air as if she was writing, “and I can stand my ground.”

“Ah, and as soon as I have some time, I intend to read these books of yours to see if your pen is as mighty as a sword.”

Before they reached the kitchen, he heard Heather whispering near the garden door leading into the kitchen, “I’ll meet you tonight after everyone’s retired for the evening.”

Ian’s blood heated, and he stalked off to see just who his cousin intended to meet in secret after dark.

Julia sighed. Ian hadn’t caught who the man was who had been speaking to Heather. She gave a name, John Smith. An American. Human. With the film crew.

And Ian was furious. He stalked out of the kitchen and through the gardens and went to speak with Maria before she left, to locate this John Smith, and to tell him in no uncertain terms what would become of him if he even dared to see Heather again.

Heather was upset, rubbing her arms and staring out the kitchen window at the gardens. “I went to college in Texas because I needed to get away from Ian and his brothers and my own brothers who watch me like the wolves they are. And so what did Ian do? He sent one of my brothers with me, and when he wasn’t around, either Ian’s brothers or my other two brothers would pop in and watch over me. Not once was I able to slip away to date an American.” She let out her breath in heavy exasperation and then appealed to Julia with darkened eyes. “Can’t you speak to Ian?”

Julia shook her head. “Not about this. You’re his responsibility. I’m sorry, Heather.”

“Was your pack the same way?” Heather shook her head. “It can’t have been since you came here alone and didn’t have anyone to watch over you.”

“My pack is… different. It’s just my grandfather and father and me.” She realized then that she hadn’t even told her father and grandfather what had happened between Ian and her—that they were now mated—and hoped that they wouldn’t be too upset with her over it.

“What would you do if you were in my place?”

Julia smiled. “Well, it would depend. If I really like the guy…” She shrugged. “But I’m not giving you any advice.”

Heather smiled and then nodded. “Thank you.” Then she opened the kitchen door and hurried into the gardens.

Uh-oh.

Julia saw a cell phone lying on the kitchen counter and hoped Ian, or whoever owned it, wouldn’t mind her calling her grandfather. She punched in his number. The phone rang and rang and rang. She took a deep breath. Her grandfather would undoubtedly figure it was one of the MacNeills again—because of the caller ID—and not want to talk to him. But not only that, he was probably still mad at her for telling Ian the truth about the betrothal contract.

She disconnected the phone. Why couldn’t her grandfather have an answering machine?

She glanced around the kitchen, realized she was totally alone, and thought about the secret niche. Ian planned to have his men look for it. She was part of the family now. Why couldn’t she look for it in the meantime while he was busy trying to scare off a potential bad boy who wanted to see Heather?

Her skin prickling with tension, she stalked across the great hall, glanced at the portrait that looked eerily like her, and then headed up the stairs until she reached the third floor. These were the family’s bedchambers. But where would her family have hidden the box? Where would her family have stayed? In all of the rooms. The castle had been theirs.

She peered into the first of the rooms. She smelled mostly Guthrie’s scent and then slipped inside. The bed curtains and bed coverings were done in navy blue, the walls covered in paintings of the ocean and sailing ships. The room contained a dark wood chest, a wardrobe container, and bedside tables, but the secret niche would undoubtedly be in the walls somewhere. A stack of financial reports sat next to Guthrie’s bed. Poor guy to have to read that stuff before he tried to sleep. She peered behind paintings and tried to see at the rear of the wardrobe chest and the tall headboard at the head of the bed. Unless the niche was at the back of the wardrobe chest, she didn’t think it was here.

Next, she found Cearnach’s room. Every wall was covered with swords and dirks and shields and made her think of an armory. All he needed was a stand of armor to make the room complete. She examined every inch of wall that she could reach, except where large, bulky pieces of furniture blocked her view.

She really thought this was going to be easier to find. She should have known better. If it had been that simple, Ian’s people would have learned of it long ago.

She discovered a woman’s room next and thought she might have found Aunt Agnes’s chamber, but the fragrance was not hers or Heather’s, although it reminded Julia that Agnes had gone in this direction earlier and probably was in her room. On the dresser stood photos of Ian and his brothers, Heather, and three men that Julia assumed were Heather’s brothers.

Maybe this was Ian’s mother’s room. The furniture was less massive, the legs curved in the Queen Anne style and easier to see around, the bed drapes and coverlets pale green, and pictures of heather and floral gardens filled the walls. But no sign of a hidden niche.

Disappointed, and afraid Ian would catch her at any moment, she found Duncan’s bedchamber. She’d expected dark, black, like Ian’s room. But instead, his bed was covered in forest green and everything was big. Big dresser, big bed, big shelf unit, big wardrobe container. Big. Massive. Like the castle itself. And the paintings on the walls? Hunting scenes. Men, Irish wolfhounds, horses, and wolves, but hunting what?

She quickly checked the walls in the room, really not wanting to get caught in…

Footsteps headed her way. Her heart nearly beat out of her chest. Two doors, one to the hallway and one to who knew where. But then she wondered if he had a trapdoor like the one in Ian’s lady’s chamber. She quickly searched under the rugs and found one.

She reconsidered. She wasn’t looking for anything but the secret niche. Who would blame her? It wasn’t like she was trying to steal from Duncan or anything. The footfalls grew closer. But then again, she should have asked to search his room. She flipped up the carpet, pulled up the trapdoor, slipped inside, and realized she couldn’t put the carpet back in place. Too late. She was down in the stairwell, and the footfalls were nearly here. She closed the trapdoor and hurried down the steps. Dumb, dumb, dumb. But then she had a thought. What if the secret niche was in the tunnels?

Ian hadn’t found any sign of a John Smith, and Maria had already left with the rest of the film crew for the night, and the gates were locked. On his way back to the keep, he got a call from Duncan. “Yeah?”