Excerpt

Cat Logan wandered through Edinburgh in a dreamy glow. The musical lilt of the inhabitants' speech delighted her almost as much as the easy juxtaposition of ancient and contemporary architecture. Everywhere she turned, she discovered new reference points for her recently acquired degree in medieval literature, as well as her clan heritage. The Logans of Lasterrick had left an indelible mark on Edinburgh.

Each day brought new revelations, and she blessed Gran Da for his extravagant graduation gift. Life had been hard for both of them since her father's death, but Gran Da had been determined to celebrate Cat's achievement in style.

"I'm so proud of you, Cat," he had said, draping an arm around her shoulders. "I only wish your mother and father could be here to share this day."

"Me, too, Gran Da." Cat nestled into her grandfather's embrace and blessed the fates who had given her into this dear old man's care. Gran Da had welcomed her father and his infant daughter home after Cat's mother had died. Complications from Cat's entrance into the world had robbed her father of his wife and Cat of her mother, but she'd never felt any stigma of blame. Gran Da had been there for them. He had provided warmth and stability in Cat's life while her father had pursued his military career.

But David Logan, a high-ranking air force pilot, had died in a training accident last year. Cat and Gran Da had both been devastated by his loss.

As if to punctuate Cat's need for a European vacation, her ex-fiancé Brent Myers had chosen the night before graduation to announce he'd fallen out of love with Cat and into bed with Ariana Davidson.

She'd given that scumball four years of her life. Why had he asked her to marry him if he hadn't been certain she was the woman he wanted to spend his life with? Why had she accepted? How could she have missed a character flaw that allowed such blatant disloyalty and unfaithfulness? Obviously, her judgment sucked when it came to good-looking men.

Gran Da had taken the defection in stride.

"I'm sorry, love," he said quietly when Cat informed him of the broken engagement. "I won't discuss it further, if that's yer wish, but ye need tae ken I'm nae surprised. I've a bit o' the sight, an' I've always known ye were destined for an unexpected path. Nothin' about Brent was unexpected.

"Go tae Scotland, darlin' girl, an' if opportunity arises, ne'er look back. I've a feelin' in me bones ... Scotland holds yer future."

* * *

On her third day in Edinburgh, a previously undiscovered lane beckoned. She hesitated. If the most ancient byways were also the narrowest, allowing the least penetration of the summer sun, this one qualified as the oldest of the old. The narrow passage drew her, the near-compulsion reminding her of Gran Da's remarks about second sight. Curiosity won out over caution, and she followed her instincts to a shabby, little establishment near the midpoint of the narrow lane.

Cat studied the grimy window of the ancient thrift shop. The interior appeared as black as the tarnished silver door knocker. Did she really want to push past the door and breach the musty interior? She'd passed a reputable-looking antique shop two blocks back; perhaps she should browse there.

Yet, the same indescribable something that had pulled her past the clean, well- kept shop and into this narrow lane prompted her to linger.

Follow your heart, her grandsire's voice whispered in her mind. But why would her heart lead her to a second-hand junk shop in a forgotten district of Edinburgh?

She'd never learn the answer if she was too cowardly to cross the threshold. Expelling a sigh, she straightened her shoulders, grasped the doorknob, and turned.

An old-fashioned bell tinkled, and she stepped into the little store. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, barely lighting the dark recesses of the room. Shelves towered against the walls, and stacks of shabby furniture obscured the floor. Cat wended a careful path between tottering stacks of rubbish.

She lingered over a yellowing baptismal gown for an infant, fingering the fine lace and admiring the tiny, precise stitches of the hand-sewn seams. Hard to imagine that all clothing had once been sewn by dedicated women. And men. Mustn't forget the tailors of the world.

"May I help ye fin' somethin', miss?"

Cat gasped and dropped the gown. She hadn't noticed anyone in the gloom of the shop. An elderly man with stringy, grey hair and stubbly jaw stood behind a sturdy wood counter — the only flat surface in the shop not covered with a jumble of knick- knacks.

"No thank you," she said with a little smile. "I'm just looking."

"Nae many Americans stop to browse in my wee shop."

"My accent gave me away?"

"Aye, lassie. Nae a body will mistake ye for a Scot."

She sighed and turned back to the baptismal gown. "That's too bad because my roots are here."

"Ahh," he breathed. "Sae you're one o' those. Searchin' for yer ancestry, are ye? What's yer surname?"

"Logan. I've traced my family back to Sir Robert of Lasterrick."

"Well, then," he said, smug satisfaction lighting his homely face, "Ye've come tae th' right shop. I happen tae hae a relic of Sir Robert's only son, Sir Eideard Logan. We'd name him Edward today."

He rounded the counter and scuttled between rows of merchandise to a tall shelf at the back. Opening a ladder, he climbed to the top with surprising agility and poked his hand behind a grimy vase. Carefully, he withdrew his prize and returned to the floor of the shop.

Cat sidled over to join him, her heart beating a quick tattoo against her chest. "What is it?" she asked, breathless with anticipation.

"A silver casket," he replied, revealing a tarnished silver box roughly the size of a ream of paper.

Cat stretched out her hand to stroke the embossed lid.

"'Tis rumored tae contain Sir Eddie's heart."

"Eww!" She snatched her hand back and buried it in her pocket.

The shopkeeper laughed, a full, rich sound that bounced off the ceiling and skittered among the piles of rubble.

She smiled wanly. "Don't you know what's in the box?"

"Nay, miss. 'Twould take a braver man than me tae open this box. 'Tis cursed, ye

see."

Now it was Cat's turn to laugh. "Cursed? You believe in such nonsense?"

The man nodded gravely. "Aye, lassie, I dae, an' sae should ye if ye ken what's good for ye." He turned back to the ladder and started to climb.

Cat's heart leapt. Her instincts screamed that the silver casket held a secret — that its contents had drawn her to this dusty little shop.

"Wait," she cried. "Please."

The man paused. He studied her face with narrowed eyes, glanced at the casket, and then nodded. Stepping back to the ground, he led the way to his counter and gently placed the casket upon it.

Cat followed him, and this time her hands ignored her brain. They cradled the tarnished box, stroking the ornamented surface of the lid.

"Here now, miss. Ye're gettin' filthy. Let me clean 'at up."

Gently, he disengaged the casket from her reluctant fingers and wiped it with a soft cloth. The more he rubbed, the more Cat itched to hold the casket again. Finally, when she could bear the separation no longer, she pulled the box back and stared at the now gleaming lid.

"Are those words?"

The shopkeeper adjusted his glasses and cocked his head. "Aye. There's an inscription."

"Can you read it?"

"Probably. But nae if ye clutch it sae."

A nervous giggle escaped her lips. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's gotten into me." She shoved the casket across the counter to him.

He turned the lid to the light and read in a halting voice, "Catriona, return to me my heart. Lastalrig Castle. By the bright of the moon. Eideard."

Apprehension seized Cat's throat and squeezed. Her vision swam, and her fingers tingled. She clung to consciousness by sheer force of will.

"What ...." Her voice croaked and died. She moistened her dry lips, cleared her throat, and spoke again. "What was that name?"

He stared at her with open curiosity. "Catriona. It's th' auld form of Katherine."

"I know. My name is Catriona Logan."