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remember it.” She gave him a sharp nod and turned to pull down a burlap bag hanging from a hook on the wall.
    A loud thud , thud , thud sounded, and they froze, their eyes darting to the barred door.

3
    M acRae,” Meg breathed, and glanced toward her brother.
    The door handle rattled and a hand banged against the stout wooden door again. “Meg Munro! Open up!”
    Coll ground his teeth and started forward, but Meg caught his arm and motioned him back. “Nae, stay here. I’ll get rid of him.”
    She crossed the floor to the front window and peered out. As she expected, the narrow form of Donald MacRae was on her doorstep. “It’s late to be paying visits, Mr. MacRae.”
    He turned toward the window. “Open the door, Meg.”
    “I’m not in the habit of opening the door to men at this hour,” she told him, crossing her arms.
    “You know you need not fear me, Meg. ’Tis only affection I have for you.”
    “Affection? Is that what you call it now?” Meg snorted.
    “Aye.” He stepped closer. “You could have whatever you wanted, you ken, if you’d say the word.”
    “The word would choke me.” Meg regarded him stonily.
    His mouth tightened. “You’ll change your tune one day. It’ll be your ill luck if I don’t want you any longer.”
    “Why are you here, MacRae?”
    “Someone set fire to the storehouse tonight.”
    “Well, it was not I.”
    “I did not think it was.” He smiled thinly. “I am looking for your brother.”
    “My brother? What does Coll have to do with your storehouse catching fire? Are you needing his help to put it out?”
    “The only help I need from your brother is to find out who set the fire.”
    “I don’t know if you’re mad or a fool, MacRae, but I—”
    “Leave off, Meg,” her brother interrupted. She whipped around to see him stride past her and shove up the wooden bar on the door. He yanked the door open and stood towering over the other man.
    MacRae gaped at him, and Meg turned away to hide her smile. Coll looked ludicrous. He had pulled one of her aprons, liberally splattered with plum juice, over his head. The garment was far too short and too small, the sash barely meeting behind his broad back. In one huge fist, he carried a wooden spoon, which he now pointed at MacRae as if it were a dagger. “What do you mean, MacRae, hanging about my sister’s cottage this late?”
    The estate manager straightened, trying to recover his air of authority. “I was looking for you, Munro.”
    “And you found me.” The two men glared at one another.
    “Well, then,” Meg said crisply, “if all you wanted is to look at Coll, I’d say you’ve accomplished your goal.” She put her hand on the door as if to close it.
    MacRae threw up his hand to block the door and turned his sharp gaze on Meg. “You expect me to believe he’s been here all evening?”
    “I don’t waste my time contemplating your beliefs on anything. Coll is helping me make my plum preserves. If it’s proof you need, you have only to look in my kitchen.”
    MacRae shoved past them, stalking into the kitchen. Meg followed him, casting a quick glance at the worktable. She saw that Coll had shoved jars of preserves, bottles of various tonics, and empty containers around the things she’d prepared for Dougal, effectively concealing them. The cramped room was hot and thick with the scent of stewing plums, the pot bubbling away merrily on the fire.
    “Satisfied?” Meg asked scornfully, planting her fists on her hips. “Now, I’ll thank you to take your suspicious mind elsewhere.”
    MacRae turned a look filled with frustration and anger on her, then strode back into the main room of the cottage. Turning slowly, he cast his eyes over the entire room. His gaze lingered for a moment on Meg’s bed, tucked into a corner of the room and partially hidden by a wooden screen, and Meg’s skin crawled.
    “Time for you to leave, MacRae.” Coll clamped his hand around the other man’s bony arm and steered him