“What’s that?”

“It was a lie.” He chuckled when she opened her lips. “That slight discrepancy I mentioned. I thought I reeled off that false family history with amazing detail.”

“You lied to me? Why would you do that, dammit?”

“I had to have time to search for my family’s treasure. I was poor as a church mouse back then, remember?” He shrugged. “I hadn’t found it yet, and I was worried that the castle grounds would be swamped by fortune hunters. The treasure was mine; you knew that.”

“Of course. I helped you search for it later. But why on earth lie to me about it?”

“I thought that if I could make you believe you had ties to the Run, you’d not only want to keep any fortune hunters from pouncing but might want to stay yourself.” He grimaced. “All you wanted to do, though, was go back to your Eve and Joe and forget all about the Run. I could have let you go.” He added quietly, “But I couldn’t do that, because it wasn’t only the treasure that was mine. I was head of the family, Earl of Cranought, the laird. After I saw the portrait, I knew you were mine, too. Part of my family, my kin, and I had to have time to convince you that you belonged here.” He shook his head and sighed. “But you’re extremely stubborn, Jane. It’s taken years and you’re still fighting it.”

“I’m stubborn, MacDuff? You tried to manipulate me.”

“Nonsense. I never did anything that I thought was against your best interests. I helped you whenever I could, didn’t I? We became good friends.”

She couldn’t deny it. “There was still something shady about you lying to me.”

“It had to be done. It was for the good of MacDuff’s Run.” He added simply, “The good of our family.”

And that was the end-all of every argument as far as MacDuff was concerned, she thought. “Your family, not mine. Back off, MacDuff.”

“Our family,” he repeated. “Stop fighting it.”

“Can’t do it. The fight goes on.” She reached out and affectionately squeezed his arm. “These days you’re rich as Midas and have villages and distant relatives all over the property. You don’t need me around. Give it up, MacDuff.”

“I’ll think about it.” Then he smiled. “Nah, I’m a Scot. It’s not in my genes.”

“You’re impossible. I refuse to discuss it.” She was carefully turning the stiff pages of the diary. “And there’s practically nothing of interest in this journal. No other paintings or portraits like the one in the gallery. Just a few lists and what looks like diagrams.” She turned another page. “And this old faded green ribbon that looks like it’s going to fall apart.”