A Highland Inheritance (Highlands Ever After Book 2)

by Aileen Adams

  He stood, and she approached, hesitantly extending the loaves of bread toward him. He stared at her again, his expression displaying nothing, and then reached into a small leather pouch attached to his waist. He extracted two coins and placed them on the stump. He gestured for her to do the same. Whether it was because he was loath to have her fingers touch his hand or he was aware of her caution, she didn’t know, and she wasn’t about to ask. He plucked the two loaves of bread off the stump, offered her a short nod, then turned and disappeared into the woods. A moment later, she heard the clop-clop of a horse’s hooves.

  She walked back inside, rubbing the two coins together, a self-satisfied smile on her face. While she certainly wouldn’t let her guard down around Dougal Craig, she would take advantage where she could. Perhaps, with time, she would find the same success with the villagers. She placed the two coins inside a small, wooden box that she retrieved from the depths of her valise, the one item she had left of her parents, and then turned to find a decent hiding place for it. Moving through the lower part of the house, she found a loose floorboard. She pulled up one end, cringing when she peeked beneath it and found loose, dark soil, a centipede darting away from the sudden light. She nestled the box into the soft dirt and set the board back down, stepped on it, and then moved into the kitchen, wondering if she had enough supplies to make more loaves of bread tomorrow, along with the tarts that she had promised Beitris and Elspeth. Still, the tarts and pies meant venturing into the woods for berries.

  No time like the present, she thought. She placed the thread and the needles on the floor next to the chair in the sitting room, in front of the cold fireplace, and glanced outside. She had at least a few hours before dusk fell over the land. She could explore the woods behind the house, looking for berry bushes that had not been plucked clean by birds, squirrels, or other animals. Before she left the house, she grabbed one of her sticks and then, standing in the front doorway, gazed carefully into the wood line, looking for any signs of Dougal or anyone else.

  While Dougal had not threatened her or made any overt advances toward her, negative or otherwise, she didn’t trust him farther than she’d be able to throw him. He was a Scot, a Highlander, a man with a bad reputation, if she could believe what the sheriff told her. The sheriff would have no reason to lie, as he did seem concerned about her safety. Perhaps not due to personal reasons but because he felt responsible for her wellbeing.

  She saw nothing, and with a sigh, moved around the side of the house and then walked across the short clearing that separated the back of the house from the tree line behind. Beyond a slope, she heard the gurgling of the stream at the bottom, sheltered inside the tree line. She moved cautiously into the woods. The moment she entered their depths, she felt like she’d entered another world. There were no forests like this in the vicinity of her home on the Isle of Skye. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d ventured into woods and felt a shiver of fear race down her spine at the different feel of the forest beneath the canopy of trees. Everything sounded different here, dulled somewhat. The air smelled heavily of pine, of dirt, and scents from other shrubs and undergrowth that she couldn’t identify.

  She ventured farther, continuously looking behind her to discern landmarks—an oddly shaped tree, a downed branch, a dip in the forest floor that would help guide her back to her house. She had no inclination of venturing too deep into the woods, not on this first foray. Next time she would bring some strips of cloth that she could tie to tree branches to mark her way. For now, she just wanted to explore a short distance, hopefully able to find some berries so she could make good on her promise to bake some tarts and pies not only for Beitris and Elspeth, but old Endorra. She knew that the prime fruit-growing season for raspberries and strawberries, perhaps even black currants, fell between early summer to midfall.

  To her delight, before venturing far, she came across a bush that at first she thought offered blueberries, but upon closer inspection, were indeed black currants. A small, tart berry that when combined with sugar were often found in delicious tarts and pies. Their deep, inky blue color indicated that they were ripe. A close relative to gooseberry, she knew black currants were often preferred for jams and as an accompaniment or sauce for wild game and richer cuts of meat. Maybe she’d make some of that, too, if she could purchase the needed supplies. Black currants were extremely tart, and she would need to make not only sweet pastry dough with them, but add plenty of sugar on top of the berries prior to cooking. Though still hoping that she would find some wild strawberries, raspberries, or blueberries, she nevertheless plucked several handfuls of the black currant berries and tossed them into her basket. She would make do with them if she had to.

  Growing braver and encouraged by her find, she ventured deeper into the woods, nearly gasping with pleasure when, a short distance beyond, she came across a wild raspberry bush. Excited, she plucked quickly, noting that the woods surrounding her were growing darker with oncoming dusk. She hadn’t realized she’d been gone so long, but dusk came earlier here than out in the open. She needed to hurry back home before it grew any darker. At least now she knew that berries were plentiful, and maybe tomorrow or the next day she would venture even deeper, perhaps even be fortunate enough to find a blueberry bush.

  She’d just turned to start back when she heard an unnatural sound in the forest. The sound of something hard striking stone.

  She froze.

  Moments later, she heard the soft neigh of a horse.

  Iona frowned.

  Had Dougal followed her into the woods? Her mouth grew dry, her heart pounding, she immediately ducked low and hid behind a tree, peering around the trunk without exposing herself. She heard the sound of horses’ hooves coming closer, more than one, coupled with the sound of voices. Boisterous and loud, two men laughing amongst themselves.

  Not a stone’s throw away, they rode past, their horses pushing through the undergrowth as they headed toward the meadow beyond the wood line, toward her house. Truly frightened now, she crouched even lower, lips pressed hard, heart pounding. She hid behind the tree and a bush hugging its base, her hand shaking as she tightly clutched her basket of berries. As soon as the horses passed and were a short distance ahead, she cautiously followed, making sure that she didn’t step on any sticks or twigs or bunches of leaves from deciduous trees that would announce her presence. They headed directly toward her home. Coincidence? She wasn’t sure.

  She caught only a glimpse of them, two men, on horseback, their clothes dark and ragged, but not tartan plaid. She’d never seen them before, never seen signs of anyone around her property except for Dougal. Who were they?

  Cautiously, she continued to follow. Soon, her fears were realized. Peeking from the depths and growing darkness of the woods, she heard them hoot when they saw her house.

  Heart racing now, partly with fear, partly with anger as they rode into her yard, the hooves of their horses churning up the small garden plot she had so laboriously and studiously created. She watched with increasing dismay as one of them dismounted and abruptly strode into her home.

  How dare they!

  She watched the other man dismount and follow the first.

  Moments later, they emerged, carrying her loaves of bread, laughing once more as they mounted, one of them devouring the loaf before he’d even settled in his saddle.

  “Bloody thieves,” she muttered softly under her breath. What would have happened if she’d been in the house, perhaps baking or cleaning when they’d arrived? She pushed her thoughts away from that as they disappeared down the road opposite of the village. Soon, the sounds of their horses and their laughter was swallowed up by oncoming darkness.

  Nevertheless, Iona remained hidden in the woods for some time afterward, afraid they might return. Just passing through? Or had they learned that she was living there alone, a woman, defenseless?

  Full dark had come before she dared creep back through the clearing into the house, closing the door behind her.
Her heart still pounding, her hands trembling, she looked around but saw that nothing had been taken except for the bread. Not that she had much to steal. Still, she decided at that moment that she needed to arm herself.

  The next time they came back, if they came back, she would be prepared. She knew that she could not handle a sword, but at least a dagger, perhaps a pistol or a musket. She had no idea how to load or fire a pistol or a musket, but she could learn. Perhaps she could ask Colin. Of one thing she was sure. She would not make herself easy prey.

  9

  It was just after midnight when Colin collapsed onto his bed with a deep sigh. It’d been a long, trying day. He’d ridden northwest of the village to mediate the dispute between Angus Phearson and Curt Stevens, and then had gotten embroiled in another issue when one of their neighbors had come to lend a hand to Angus, wearing his plaid, daring Colin to say something about it. As was his duty, Colin had warned all of them about the new law soon taking effect. In turn, this had prompted another heated argument, soon to be joined by a least a dozen others, half of them wearing their tartans, snubbing their noses not only at him, but at the crown.

  It had taken him several hours just to calm everyone down, not only the initial dispute that brought him out there, but the complaints, arguments, and threats, some aimed at him, some stating that any Englishman that dared traveled through the area better watch his back. About what would happen if the English followed up on their threats to rob the Scots of their very identity.

  Colin had arrived back at the village just before sundown and immediately been approached by Bruce Reed about a theft of two of his cows. Though tired, hungry, and more than a little annoyed, Colin had followed the farmer back to his property southwest of the village to see what he could find out. Not surprising, he found the tracks of several horses and one butchered cow not far from the property, just inside the wood line. The thieves had killed the cow, quickly butchered it, taking only some of the meat and leaving the rest of the carcass to rot. The farmer was irate. Colin was none too happy either. Not only was this a serious loss for the farmer, but a shameful waste of meat, which, prompted by the heat of the day, had already begun to spoil, flies buzzing around its surface, the rank odor of spoilage rising in the nearly oppressive air.

  He got into a bit of an argument with Bruce as well, after the farmer confronted him, asking what he was going to do about the increase of thieves and brigands roaming the region, no little thanks to the discontent brewing just beneath the surface of many Scotsmen these days. Colin had assured him that first thing in the morning, he would begin a search. With a little luck, perhaps he would be able to retrieve the man’s other cow. He wasn’t counting on it though.

  It looked like tomorrow was going to be another long day trying to track the thieves. Maybe he could enlist the help of a few of the villagers, but he wasn’t counting on that either. Most of the villagers in the area were busy with their crops, and few had the inclination, or the concern, to go chasing outlaws and brigands. In fact, he could only think of a few who might be interested, one of them suspected of being, if not a thief, then an outlier himself. Dougal Craig. He had ridden with Dougal a time or two in the past, the first time when thieves had stolen one of Dougal’s prize horses. His fairly antisocial manner didn’t help encourage a good reputation for him among the villagers, and often, when something was amiss, his was often the first name to come up. As far as he knew, Dougal hadn’t broken any laws, but—

  A pounding on his door jolted him from his thoughts. With a groan, he rose from his bed, still clothed, and stomped toward it, prepared to give a tongue lashing to whomever it was if it wasn’t a matter of life and death. He yanked open the door, the scowl on his face disappearing when he saw the frightened visage of Endorra on the other side of his threshold.

  “Endorra!” He looked past the old woman’s shoulder but didn’t see anybody else standing with her. “What’s the matter? Are ye all right?”

  “There’s a fire southeast of my property. I can smell the smoke. It’s not a campfire. Something’s on fire!”

  Colin frowned, peering into the darkness again behind her. “How did ye get here?”

  “I ran, what do ye think?” She gestured into the distance. “Ye’d better go check it out. If there’s a fire in the forest coming this way, ye will need to alert the entire village.”

  With a muttered curse, Colin nodded, gently moving the woman out of his way by placing his hands on her shoulders and sidestepping her. “Thank you, Endorra. Why don’t ye wait here instead of going back to your house. If the fire is coming this way, ye’ll be safer if—”

  “Aye, I’ll stay here,” she said. “Do you want me to alert anyone else?”

  Colin hesitated, but only for an instant. Perhaps Endorra was mistaken, perhaps not. It was better to be cautious, especially in the middle of summer, with a possible wildfire in the forest. He nodded again. “Aye,” he said. “Ye do that, and I’ll ride out that way and see what’s going on.”

  Only moments later, after giving Endorra a few names to warn, he mounted his horse and headed away from the village. Endorra was right. He did smell smoke on the breeze. Wood smoke. Was it a campfire? More than one? His heart sank as he thought of English troops invading the area again. Had they come into the region from the east while he was settling disputes on the west part of the county all day? Were they coming to make sure that the Scots would obey the banishment of the plaid in the coming days?

  He rode quickly, allowing his horse to follow the trail out of the village, the dark woods encroaching the road in several spaces, falling back into small meadows, glades, and beyond, dangerous bogs under the darkness of night. The partly cloudy sky cast the moon into a dull, yellowish-white glow, rimmed by a brilliant circle of cloud.

  The night air felt cool against his skin, penetrating his linen shirt. Flushed with concern, he barely noticed. He’d ridden perhaps a mile from the village when he noted that the odor of wood smoke had grown heavier. His horse pranced nervously as he pulled up on the reins, seeking the source. There, through the trees! A brief glimpse of reddish-orange flames. His worst fears realized, he urged his horse forward at a gallop, his gaze searching for another glimpse of the fire, its strength, and its source.

  A quarter of a mile farther, his heart rate accelerated as he pulled up onto a small hill along the trail and gazed down into the small valley beyond. Not a forest fire. Not yet anyway. The flames were localized, but it wouldn’t take much for it to spread. The sight nearly bowled him over. The fire originated from Iona Douglas’s house. Heart pounding, he urged his horse forward, assessing the strength of the fire, which looked to have embroiled nearly all the bottom half of Iona’s house. Flames licked at the roof, the entire west side of the structure, and several spaces along the side of the house had also caught fire, including her fledgling garden, some grass between the house and the stone well a short distance away. If the wind kicked up, it would likely blow into the forest.

  He pulled his horse to an abrupt halt a short distance from the house, enough to keep his horse safe from the heat of flames and choking smoke. He rushed toward the house but couldn’t get too close. “Iona!” he shouted. “Iona!”

  No answer. He raced to the well, quickly lowered a new wooden bucket next to it, dropped it down, then waited precious seconds, glancing with frantic concern over his shoulder as he waited for the bucket to fill and grow heavy. The moment it did, he cranked the handle, heart pounding, concern racing through his veins. He unhooked the bucket from the rope, raced to the house, and tossed the bucket of water onto the front door, the meager splash of water doing nothing to dampen the flames licking at the threshold.

  “Iona!” he shouted again, racing back for another bucketful of water. Maybe she wasn’t at home. But where would she be? Was she inside? Unconscious from the smoke? Already dead? Had the fire in her fireplace started this fire or had something else? Someone else? Immediately he thought of Dougal and his threat to burn dow
n Iona’s house, but his brain wanted to refuse it. Dougal wouldn’t do such a thing. Would he?

  He raced back for another bucket, hoping that after Endorra alerted the villagers, more help would soon arrive. He couldn’t fight this fire on his own. He raced back to the house, threw another bucket of water at the doorway, and then, covering his mouth and nose with his arm, rushed forward and kicked at the door. It didn’t give. She must’ve barred it somehow from inside.

  “Iona!”

  He heard nothing but the crackle and sizzle of the flames, the pop of old wood catching, the whoosh of heat and flame feasting on the house, that same heat enveloping him, prompting his skin to tingle. If she was caught in their—

  He heard a sound. Was that a cry or a cough or was it the sound of the wood hissing and whistling as it was consumed with flame?

  “Iona!”

  He heard the sound again, a high-pitched sound. He backed up several steps and then charged the door, slamming his left shoulder into it. It gave, the door slamming open, only to fuel the flames inside with fury. The main room billowed smoke. He peered inside, his eyes stinging from smoke and ash.

  “Iona!”

  Fury raced through his veins. When he got his hands on whoever had set this fire, he’d—

  Another cry, distant and terrified. He couldn’t get inside, the heat too intense, the rooms glowing red with fire. Frustration battered at his senses. He thought of the stream behind the house, thinking that if he ran down, got himself completely drenched, that he might, just might, be able to get into the house. But doing so would waste precious time, and at the rate the fire was burning, the house could come crashing down any minute.