These were Warren and his wife. Her grandfather had mentioned that the cousins were a couple of years older than her, but Megan couldn't recall their exact age. Seeing her, the man quickly put his cup down and stood up with a polite smile.

“Hello, I’m Warren, and this is my wife, Glenn. Malcolm spoke a lot about you, always in good terms,” he said.

“Good morning. It’s nice to meet you,” replied Megan, with a slightly strained smile.

“Please, have a seat,” offered Glenn, pushing warm croissants towards her and pouring a cup of hot tea. Megan felt that the woman seemed slightly embarrassed when their eyes met.

“Thank you. We didn’t have a chance to meet yesterday; did you come back late?” Megan asked, hoping that her relatives could shed some light on the evening's events.

“Yes, we got back well after midnight,” Warren responded. “There was a tragedy in Glenn's family, and we had to go to Inverness. My apologies we were unable to meet you.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Douglas and Gregor helped me.”

“Megan, Malcolm felt very lonely before he passed, and asked us to stay with him. I think it would be proper for Glenn and me to return to Castle Raven after today's meeting,” the cousin seemed to justify his presence in the castle.

“As you wish, but if you decide to stay a bit longer, I'd be glad. It would give us a chance to get to know each other better.” The thought of staying alone in this large, cold castle, aside from Gregor, terrified her.

“Alright,” Warren smiled more warmly this time, “we'll stay a few more days and help you get accustomed to the place.”

“Great, thank you,” said Megan. She thought to herself: First of all, it wasn’t Warren who brought me in last night. Most likely it was the Highlander with the bagpipes. But why would he do this, and how did he know which bedroom was mine? Time will sort things out. But it would be best to wrap up the business here as quickly as possible and head back to London.

Having finished their tea, they all went to the assembly hall together. Its stone walls were adorned with deer antlers and other hunting trophies. A massive mahogany table was placed in the center. Lancet windows along the long wall made the hall very bright, offering a beautiful view of the river and hills.

Mr. Douglas, Gregor, and two men unknown to Megan, were already seated at the table. The eldest of them stood up when she entered.

“Hello Megan. It’s my pleasure to welcome you to your historic homeland. My brother had been dreaming of your arrival for years, and now that day has finally come. I am Alaric McKenzie, your late grandfather’s brother.”

His words made the girl feel guilty, as they sounded like a reproach, but she kept her emotions in check and calmly replied that the pleasure was mutual.

“Hi, I’m Duncan,” said the other man, grinning broadly and gazing at her admiringly. “What a pity that we’re related by blood; otherwise, I’d have already started courting you.” The cousin not only shook her hand but also kissed her on both cheeks as if they were old friends who hadn’t seen one another in years.

Duncan was a bit taller than Warren. A good-looking figure, playful eyes – everything about him suggested that he was a very confident young man and had no shortage of women. When he smiled, his handsome face radiated incredible magnetism. If Warren gave the impression of a very serious and modest person, Duncan was the complete opposite: cheerful, lively, uninhibited, he immediately became the center of attention. It seemed that energy was bursting out of him like a fountain.

Megan was pleasantly surprised to find all her relatives – dressed in traditional style. Each wore a woolen kilt in clan colors, still an integral part of the Scottish national costume. The men's skirts with large pleats at the back; a tartan plaid thrown over the left shoulder, secured with a brooch. A white shirt, handkerchief tie, black waistcoat, and black jacket – all perfectly fit the members of the McKenzie family. High woolen socks up to the knees, and over the belt hung a sporran – a leather pouch on a chain that fastened around the waist. It featured three small, rabbit tail-like attachments.

Carefully observing all this magnificence, the girl thought that the male members of the McKenzie family were very distinguished by their tall stature and good physiques. Aloud, she remarked, “I’ve seen many Scots in national dress in England, including Grandfather, but never paid attention to the details. It's truly very beautiful and extraordinarily elegant, especially when men know how to handle all the accompanying accessories, which, I think, many people these days neglect. All three of you look gorgeous – like Scottish national fashion models.”

“You are absolutely correct. A properly assembled costume is our history, which started here in these mountains, and we are proud of our traditions. In the big towns, few people nowadays wear kilts; they mostly prefer trousers. But the northern Scots will never abandon their customs.”

Having delivered his speech on national attire, Alaric took his place at the head of the table. His grandsons, Duncan and Warren, sat beside him. Megan noted how much Alaric and her grandfather resembled each other. A robust, gray-haired man, shorter than his grandsons, with a serious expression on his face. The eyes, nose, authoritative chin, were all so reminiscent of Malcolm… It felt as if they were of the same age. This resemblance poignantly touched her soul. The whole family was here, but he was not…