A Highland Inheritance (Highlands Ever After Book 2)

by Aileen Adams

  He couldn’t help feeling curious. What kind of woman was this? “And what will ye do about the collapsing roof, the drafty walls, and, when ye get inside, ye may even find it worse—”

  “I am often underestimated, Sheriff, but I can assure you, I can take care of the repairs on my own. It wouldn’t be the first—”

  Colin sputtered, staring between the house and back to Iona and then back to the house again, rendered speechless. “Ye can’t possibly—”

  She interrupted, a polite smile lifting the corners of that delicate mouth. “There’s plenty of long grass over there in that meadow, adequate for thatching. You said there’s a creek behind the house, didn’t you?” She didn’t wait for him to answer but continued instead. “I can make new mud chinking for the walls.”

  Why, this was absolutely—he searched his brain for the right word—preposterous! Unheard of! This just wasn’t done, not by a woman anyway. Arriving by herself into the middle of what could truly be considered hostile territory was bad enough, but to then proclaim that she was capable of making home repairs? What kind of woman was this? Were all Englishwomen so stubborn, so… unladylike?

  “You’re surprised, Sheriff. I understand. It goes against everything you’ve been led to believe about women, doesn’t it? Women can’t possibly own property. They can’t travel absent a chaperone without risking gossip. Women can’t do anything but bear children, cook, and sew.” She turned to him, arms akimbo, fists planted against her waist. “Well, I don’t care about all that, Sheriff. Think what you will, as those in the village surely will, but I take care of myself. Always have and always will.”

  Not a man often at a loss for words, Colin snorted. “Aye, you’re different, lass, and yes, ye can believe that ye will be talked about in the village. But these repairs, perhaps I can find some people in the village willing to help. If I have some spare time, I can also help—”

  “I would prefer to be left alone, Sheriff, at least for the time being.” She paused, glanced down, and folded her hands sedately in her lap again. “Please don’t think me rude. It has been a difficult few months, and I need some time alone to gather my thoughts and get my bearings. I release you of responsibility for me—”

  “I’m the sheriff of this region,” Colin argued softly, intrigued in spite of himself. “I’m responsible for ye whether ye like it or not.”

  Iona locked gazes with him for several moments, chin thrust forward, as if biting back more words. Then, in incrementally small shifts, her shoulders relaxed, and she turned again to gaze around the property. For the briefest moment, he felt pity for her.

  In the short time he had been with her, he gathered that Iona Douglas was unique. She was also stubborn and willful and unconcerned about societal mores. A woman who wanted to live on her own terms, independently if possible. Yet he couldn’t decide whether she was brave or foolish for coming here, a sole Englishwoman attempting to settle in a valley full of Scots who were, at the moment, none too fond of the English.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, turning back to him. “And again, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t much care.” She stomped her foot down on the floorboard of the wagon in frustration. “I inherited this house, and come what may, I’m going to make it my home. And if nobody around here likes it, they can just leave me alone!”

  “Miss Douglas, it’s my duty to tell ye that it’s not safe for ye to be out here by yourself. There are outlaws around here, and I can’t guarantee your safety. So please abide my warning.”

  “Thank you for informing me, Sheriff,” she said, her gaze riveted to the house. “You need not worry. I can take care of myself.”

  He grumbled in annoyance. “A tiny lass like ye? And how do ye propose to—”

  She turned to him, her eyes blazing, her head tilted back, her chin thrust stubbornly forward again. “I’m used to taking care of myself, Sheriff. I’m not naïve nor particularly foolish. Unfortunately, I am also not in a position to be selective. This is my home now, and this is where I’ll stay.”

  Brave and foolish. She was both. He shook his head, wrapped the reins around the brake handle of the wagon, then stepped down. He didn’t bother walking toward her side of the wagon to help her from the seat, thinking she’d probably take offense and slap his hand away anyway. He was annoyed, yet more than a little curious, as he walked toward the back of the wagon.

  She stepped down, jumping the last foot on her own, brushing her hands against her gown as she moved to join him.

  He lifted the trunk by its handles, his muscles bunching as he lifted it from the bed of the wagon and carried it toward the front door. She quickly moved in front of him and pulled the aging leather strap that lifted the bar on the inside, and pushed open the door, pausing warily before she stepped inside.

  A sneeze immediately erupted from her as dust fluttered upward. She turned to him, cheeks bright red as she placed a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me.” She waved her hand in front of her.

  He watched in amusement as her face crinkled, her eyes closed, and she sneezed again, and not a dainty sneeze at that.

  “Oh! Again I—”

  Another sneeze, but this time she turned around, head bowed and shaking, whether in abject embarrassment or amusement, he couldn’t tell. He set the trunk down onto the warped floorboards of the small foyer, sending up another small cloud of dust. He turned his face away but not in time to escape the dust wafting up into his nose, prompting a sneeze of his own. He shook his head and gazed around the small foyer. Straight ahead, a hallway. To the right and left a doorway, to the left the kitchen and space for a table, and to the right a sitting room or parlor. Straight ahead, a stairway hugged the wall leading up to a second floor, where from previous exploration, he knew were two small bedrooms and an even smaller room, likely intended for storage or maybe even a nursery.

  “Be careful of the stairs going up,” he cautioned. “Several of the boards are loose, and some are half rotted through.”

  She turned to him, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You’ve been in here?”

  He shrugged. “Just to make sure no squatters had taken over the place. It wasn’t likely because of the rumors about this place. It garners curiosity—”

  “What kind of rumors?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Hauntings, ghosts… perhaps a treasure of some sorts.”

  She laughed, a sound pleasant to his ears.

  “And do you believe in ghosts, Sheriff?” she asked.

  He shook his head.

  She nodded and turned from him, hands once again on her hips as she studied the place, eyes narrowed. He could almost see her mind organizing her thoughts, determining what needed to be done, and which had to be taken care of first.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be going now. I’ll come check on ye tomorrow, see if ye need anything, or a ride into the village for supplies…”

  She didn’t turn to look at him, but nodded absently, engrossed in her thoughts. She murmured a polite thank-you and then moved into the room to the left, shuffling through the space that served as a small eating area, leaving tiny footprints in her wake as she disappeared into the kitchen proper.

  He turned and left, leaving the door open behind him. He paused outside, gazing around, the forest encroaching from the rear, fallow meadows on either side, and an outcropping of trees to the front, beyond which the rarely traveled road led back to the village in one direction, into the wild and rugged forests of the east in the other.

  Against his better judgment, he left her there by herself. What else could he do? As he climbed into the wagon and urged the horse forward, turning the wagon around to bounce its way back onto the rough path, he shook his head, hoping he wasn’t making a big mistake. She was a determined woman, but he’d fulfilled his obligation in telling her that the area has seen a rash of outlaw activity lately. He had hinted that it might not be the best idea for her to stay there alone. Besides that, he didn’t want to admit the one f
act that had him shaking his head all the way back to the village.

  He was definitely attracted to her.

  4

  The moment the sheriff pulled the wagon out of the yard and disappeared behind the copse of trees in the bend in the road, Iona’s bravado fell, and her shoulders slumped as she glared at the house around her, shaking her head. What was she doing here? How could she possibly do this on her own? Yes, her companion and friend Tyra Fletcher was due to arrive in a month’s time, but until then? She hadn’t exactly lied to the sheriff. She could rethatch the roof on her own, it would just take a little doing, that’s all. She could rechink the stones. She had watched men do both in the past. If there was one thing Iona did well, it was watch. She studied people and paid close attention to everything.

  The inside of the house was in great disrepair, not only the dust coating the floorboards, but giant, fluttery cobwebs hanging in every corner, the walls stained with dust and age. What little furniture had been left behind looked rotted and unsafe to use. She gazed upward toward the second floor and moved toward the stairs, eyeing them with a critical gaze, heedful of the sheriff’s warning. Two steps up, she stifled yet another sneeze.

  Now that she was alone, she felt a renewed wave of uncertainty and fear race through her. She tried to shrug it off, like she usually did, but now that she was here, now that her journey was over, she would face new challenges. She felt tired. She had already endured more than what she felt was her share of challenges that life had thrown at her. The deaths of her own parents, being shuttled from relative to relative until she had ended up on the Isle of Skye, then being tossed out yet again with no prospects… A terrifying situation that took her breath away. Then the missive from her great-aunt’s solicitor… It had changed everything. Gave her hope, and yet now that she had finally arrived, nothing but more challenges lay ahead.

  Would it never end? Was this her fate in life? To always have to struggle for even the meager things one needed to survive? Which brought her to another problem. While she could try to rethatch the damaged part of the roof and she could figure out how to chink the walls, she was no hunter. How would she procure meat? It wasn’t too late to start a vegetable garden, at least a small one, but she would have to go to the village to procure seeds. Well, she decided, she could worry about that later. Tomorrow. For today, she would simply explore her new home and the property around it. Determine what she needed to do and how she would go about it.

  Even so, every sound was different here, even the types of birds in the trees. She was used to living on an island coast, the sound of waves, the seagulls, and the ocean breeze forever tugging at her senses. The air here didn’t smell salty, but of pine and meadow flowers that she didn’t recognize, of grasses that blew gently in the afternoon wind. She wondered what kind of animals lived in the forest. Did bears, wolves, or wild boars live in those trees behind the house?

  First things first. To secure the house and make sure that no animals had taken up residence. Then, she would find a way to block the doors, to latch the semi rotted shutters so that nothing could get in.

  She stepped to the front door, closed it, and then bent down to grab one of the handles of her trunk, tugging it through the small hallway and into what she supposed had once served as the parlor or sitting room. Every movement elicited dust motes and an upsurge of dirt, prompting her to sneeze again. One of the first things she needed to do, and as soon as possible, was to sweep out this room, get the dust out, and remove the cobwebs, at least enough so that she could be in one room without her nose feeling all stuffy, constantly sneezing, and her eyes watering. This reaction had never happened to her on the Isle of Skye, and she fought back a sense of frustration.

  Iona spent the remainder of the afternoon sweeping out the front rooms. She had manufactured a rudimentary broom with a long stick she had found outside at the edge of the woods and a couple of handfuls of long twigs, which she tied to the stick with a strip of cloth she had cut from the bottom hem of one of her older under gowns. She hated to do it, but there was no other recourse. Covering her face with another strip of cloth cut from the bottom of the gown, she had swept like a dervish, eliciting large, floating clouds of dust motes which in turn settled on her gown and in her hair and on her skin. Next, she had attacked the cobwebs with a vengeance.

  She found an old bucket in the space between the house and the tree line, and though it sprung slow leaks in a couple of places, it would have to do. She walked down to the small stream meandering its way through the trees a short distance from the back of the house, filled the bucket to the brim, and then struggled back up the hill, water sloshing over its brim. She brought the bucket in, dunked the cloth she’d used to cover her face into it, and began to scrub the floor. Not perfect of course, because a brush would have been ideal, but again, she used what she had to make do.

  By the time the sun hung low over the horizon, she had the front sitting room somewhat clean. Tomorrow morning, she would have to walk into the village, purchase a few necessary supplies, and do a better job. Sighing with weariness and more than a little disappointment, she set the broom in the corner, took the bucket and the water that remained in the bottom outside, and left it by the rear door. She returned to the front room and sat on her trunk, eyeing her surroundings.

  The wet floorboards smelled musty, old, and much like the ship that had brought her here. Staying busy had helped distract her, but now, her worries and anxiety returned full force. She rose from the trunk and moved to the open window facing the side of the house, and then to the front window, looking out at the edges of the trees, the meadow beyond—a realization struck her, prompting a nervous swallow. No birds. No angry or playful chattering of squirrels, nothing. Not even the hum of bees or the chirps of crickets that she’d noted earlier. Her heart racing, she peered into the growing darkness, watching for whatever it was that had stilled the forest. A wild animal or a two-legged one?

  Slowly, she moved from one window to the other, eyes wide, searching the increasing darkness. What good that would do, she didn’t know. She had no weapon but turned to grab the makeshift broom she had manufactured. Quickly, she moved toward it, grabbing the stout stick in her hand, not quite as tall as she but sturdy enough. She quickly unwrapped the twigs, which fell softly to the floor. Not an ideal weapon, but it would have to suffice. For now.

  She moved back toward the window, stared at the tree line again, but saw nothing. Maybe she had imagined it all—

  There!

  The briefest shadow of movement, then it was gone.

  She narrowed her eyes, stared at the spot for several moments, but she saw nothing. Not anymore. But she had seen something, a fleeting shadow. A deer? Possibly, but it had appeared taller than a deer. Heart pounding, the hair on the back of her neck standing up on end, she moved to the front door, closed it, and then decided that it didn’t much matter. If someone or something wanted in, it wasn’t much of a barrier. She thought back to what the sheriff had said of ghosts and hauntings… Stop it! She scolded herself for her foolishness. There was no such thing as ghosts!

  She couldn’t close the shutters and waited several more moments, didn’t see anything more and gradually, the evening birds, the chatter of crickets, the sounds of dusk returned. Probably a passing animal. With a sigh of relief, she moved back toward her trunk, opened it, and then dragged it into the corner of the room. As good a place as any to make a makeshift bed, where she could be facing both windows and the front door. She pulled several gowns and a cloak from the trunk and laid them one atop the other in the corner, using another underskirt as a makeshift pillow. Nodding with satisfaction, she then turned her attention to food. From her valise, she retrieved the half a loaf of bread that remained from her day’s journey, along with a small chunk of preserved meat. She moved to her makeshift bed and sat down on it cross-legged, her back against the wall as she plucked a few greenish, fuzzy spots from the bread and flicked them to the floor she had just cleaned be
side her bed.

  Her mental list of supplies kept growing. She’d need seeds, salt, flour, and yeast. She needed a brush to give the floor a good scrubbing. She needed… she needed everything from cooking utensils to bedding. Maybe a table, but that could come later. She didn’t have enough money left, tucked deep into a hidden pocket inside her valise, to pay for all these things. She would have to prioritize. Food first. Then her security, and then her comfort.

  She ate half the remaining loaf of bread, a quarter of the meat, and then ventured outside before it grew dark, making her way carefully down to the stream where she quickly washed her face and her arms and then drank her fill. That would have to do.

  Exhausted, she returned to the house, secured it is as best she could, and then retrieving the stick, set it aside her makeshift bed, lay down, and in moments fell into a deep, restless sleep.

  5

  It was nearing nightfall by the time Colin neared the village. He hadn’t felt comfortable leaving Iona Douglas alone in the house, but what else could he do? He couldn’t force her to listen to his warnings, couldn’t force her to find somewhere else to live. It was obvious to him that she had been abandoned or at the very least ostracized by family who wanted nothing to do with her. Why? He already gathered that she was willful, outspoken, and more than a little stubborn, and while that grated on his own nerves somewhat, he tried to understand it.

  It was one thing for a man to have to make do. Even during his own youth, he had often found himself alone, left to his own devices, struggling to survive. He’d come from the Highlands as a child, most of his clan wiped out by another. Nowhere else to go, he had begun to wander. Eventually, he had wandered to the Lowlands, but he didn’t like it there. Later, he’d headed north again and found this region where both Lowlanders and Highlanders had ended up, the halfway point almost in the middle of the country. Though a bit wary of each other, over the last generation or two, both groups had learned to coexist with one another. That was not to say that prejudices, distrust, and downright hatred no longer existed between Highlanders and Lowlanders. It did. The Lowlanders consider the Highlanders nothing better than wild animals—uncouth, rough, and uncivilized. At the same time, Highlanders had no use for Lowlanders, considering them one step above Englishmen.