A Highland Inheritance (Highlands Ever After Book 2)

by Aileen Adams

  Duilach spoke up. “Send her away. She’s causing trouble.”

  “Send her where?” Colin planted his feet a little wider apart, his own arms crossed over his chest, his gaze unwavering as he stared at Duilach.

  “I don’t care… we don’t care. But we don’t want her here.”

  Colin glared at the lot of them. “She has caused no trouble. She has come into the village, what, three times? To purchase supplies. I venture to say she barely spoke a word to any of you. So, tell me, what kind of trouble is she causing? Is she setting fire to your houses, because if she has, tell me and I will arrest her instead.”

  Grumbling erupted from the group as Bruce O’Bannon spoke up. “You’re taking her side against us? An Englishwoman?”

  “Aye.” Colin nodded. “In this instance, I am.” He scowled, his voice low with threat. “She has bothered none of you, other than her birthright, which is not her fault, nor yours. She may be an Englishwoman, but not one who determines the laws, nor writes them, nor influences them. Rather, she has paid good coin for the goods she has purchased from you.”

  “Ye don’t know what you’re doing, what you’re saying,” Shaughnessy snapped.

  “I do,” Colin said. “I am obeying the law.” Once more, his gaze passed over each and every man standing before him. “And I am warning all of you, that under the law, and my responsibility as sheriff of this county, this entire region, that I will find who set her house afire and tried to kill her. Someone who hid under the darkness of night, set fire to a woman’s home with her inside, a woman with no protector, no defense.” He shook his head, disappointed with all of them. “Ye tell me which party is in the wrong.”

  “She doesn’t belong here!”

  “She’s going to cause trouble!”

  The chatter of voices grew, one voice overwhelming another. He knew the men were angry, not particularly at Iona Douglas herself, but the fact that she was English, and that the English had lorded themselves over the Scots for decades, to the point of rebellion. Yet even though the rebellion had been squashed, it had resulted in more laws, more deaths, more resentment.

  “I’m warning every man here, and ye can spread the word if ye care to, that as sheriff, I am obligated by the law, and by your own votes that I officially received to take this office, to keep peace in our region. Don’t we have enough troubles as it is? You’re going to let one lone woman upset you? Why do ye fear her so?” Silence, so quiet that he heard the sound of a bee buzzing over wildflowers growing in front of the jailhouse.

  “Because, Sheriff,” Duilach sneered as he spoke. “Because where one comes, more will follow.” With that, he turned and walked away, shoulders and back stiff, hands fisted in anger. The others followed.

  Colin watched them go, slowly shaking his head. He knew that Iona’s arrival here would cause trouble, but he hadn’t expected this. He needed to do something to defuse the situation before it got worse. But how? What could he do to alter the deep-rooted prejudice and hatred of his villagers—and many Scots—against the English? And even more importantly, was Iona Douglas strong enough, brave enough, or foolish enough to stand up to them?

  14

  Iona spent the remaining hours of the morning and into the early afternoon digging through the remains of her house. Her home. After only a few days, she had grown accustomed to the idea that for the first time in her life, she had a home. Something of her own, something that she could feel comfortable in, not only for shelter, but for emotional peace. Now it was gone, some of the burned cross beams and supports still glowing a faint red, some areas issuing small wisps of smoke, the stringent scent of ash nearly overcoming her senses, the scent of charred wood stinging her nostrils.

  She crouched carefully, watching where she placed her feet, using a stick she had picked up in the yard to shovel aside bits and pieces of furniture remnants, a chair leg over there, a corner of the kitchen table over here. Furniture that Alasdair, Beitris, and Elspeth had so graciously given her, and now everything was gone. Every bit of furniture, her clothing, her trunk… all of it gone. Left with only the clothes on her back and her determination, Iona blinked back tears of despair.

  Life could be so unfair, so cruel. Why did it have to be this way? Why did total strangers hate her so much that they had burned down her house around her, seemingly not concerned one bit that she too could have died in the blaze? Was their hate against English so great that they would take out their frustrations and their animosity on her? A lone female? Apparently so.

  Of course, she didn’t want to stay in the midst of a group of people who hated her with such passion, but she had nowhere else to go. No more relatives willing to take her in. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she did know one thing. She wasn’t going to give up so easily. She still had the land. If she had to, as a very last resort, she could sell it. Maybe Dougal Craig would want to buy it.

  Then what? Where to go?

  Back to the Isle of Skye?

  No.

  Back to England?

  No, there was nothing there for her. She would be as alone there as she was here in Scotland or on the Isle of Skye.

  She had not lived in England since she was a young child, and it was as foreign a place to her as the land on which she now stood. Besides, it would likely be more expensive to live on English soil, and English society would certainly look down their nose at her even worse than they did here; a solitary woman trying to make her own way in the world, without a male relative controlling everything she did.

  No. Perhaps she would become a hermit, live by herself like old Endorra, but even old Endorra had friends in the village, having grown up in the area. Was this her future? To live out here by herself, ever wary of someone trying to attack her or destroy her property? If she somehow managed to rebuild a small home for herself on the property, would someone try to burn down her home again? Would she forever be the outsider? Making her way into town infrequently, and only to buy supplies from villagers who were resentful to even take her coin?

  It was then that she remembered the coins that she had buried under the floorboards.

  Looking up, orienting herself within the remaining stone walls of the foundation, she moved to the spot where she believed she had buried those few coins. The hem of her gown dragged in the sooty ash, already smudged and stained. She frowned at a rip, now no longer with even needle and thread with which to mend it. She could imagine the looks she would get if she walked into town wearing her filthy, ash-blackened gown. Within the next day or two, depending on how much she could salvage from the remnants of the home and her ability to fashion some sort of shelter, the gown she wore would soon grow even more tattered. She had no comb to even run through her hair, no nice ribbons to tie it back, no hand mirror to assess the straightness of her braid nor the coil of it she often wrapped around her head, fastening with small clips.

  Once again, the thought that she had absolutely nothing forced the air from her lungs like a punch to the stomach. Not even the simplest things with which to survive. Scowling, she stabbed her stick among the remnants of the beams, the stairs, even pieces of the thatched roof that had collapsed inward, some piles nearly as high as her knee. She grabbed pieces, still warm to the touch, and flung them aside, her hands and fingernails soon as black as the charred wood and soot that coated everything surrounding her. She crouched, beyond caring now whether her gown got filthy. She would have to literally walk into the stream behind the house wearing her gown to wash it, and herself, to wash the stink of fire from her skin, from her hair, and the very clothes on her back.

  She sighed, once again blinking back scalding tears, mumbling to herself, telling herself not to give up, not to wallow in self-pity too long. She had too much work to do. She grew frustrated when she couldn’t find her coins and blinked back tears. Would they have melted in the heat of the fire?

  Then, out of nowhere, she hunched over, sobs building in her chest, demanding release. Shoulders shaking, she v
ented her sorrow, fears, and frustration. Warm tears streamed down her cheeks, but she brushed them away with the back of her hand, not caring that her cheeks would be smeared as black as her hands. Just for a moment, she would allow herself to feel, to cry, and then she would—

  There!

  She spied the edge of something rounded, not wood, and not a remnant of furniture. She brushed the ash away, a half laugh caught in her throat as she spied a coin, and then another. She snatched them from the still-warm ground, and rubbed them in her fingers, and then on the hem of her gown, cleaning the soot from them. Thank heaven! She had four coins left to her name. Four precious coins, including the coins she had gotten from Dougal Craig in exchange for bread. She had added them to the coins remaining from the small wooden box in her valise. She quickly stood, gazing at the floor around her, or what used to be her floor, looking for any other belongings that might’ve survived, but saw nothing.

  She heard a noise from behind her and turned to the road, shading her eyes with her hand as she squinted against the early afternoon glare.

  Two riders.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and her stomach knotted, the hair on the back of her head crawling in fear. Then she saw an uplifted hand and recognized Colin’s horse. Relief surged through her. If she’d had a chair, she would’ve sat in it. She purposely stiffened her knees and her spine, watching as Colin and Alasdair approached. Alasdair eyed the remnants of the house with narrowed eyes. As always, the first sight of him and his scarred face jarred her, but she kept her expression blank as they rode closer. Alasdair’s horse shied a bit at the overwhelming scent of fire that hovered in the air.

  She lowered her hand and crossed her arms over her chest, not out of defiance or annoyance, but because she didn’t know what else to do with them.

  “Iona.”

  She nodded in greeting, then nodded toward Alasdair as well, noticing for the first time two sacks slung behind him on his horse, and another larger pack behind Colin’s saddle. Would Colin try to convince her to leave again? Had he brought Alasdair along with him to encourage her to make that very decision? Both men sat on their horses, watching her and then glancing at the remnants of her house.

  Finally, Alasdair shook his head, mumbling softly.

  She couldn’t understand what he said and didn’t particularly want to.

  The two men glanced at each other, uncertainty in their gazes.

  Iona finally grew impatient. She had work to do. “What brings you out here?” Her hand clutched the coins fiercely.

  “Everyone in the village has heard about what happened…”

  Iona tried to stand even taller, lifting her chin slightly. “And? Now that they know I’m alive, are they going to try again? Or are they going to resort to the tar and feathers?”

  Colin scowled although Alasdair grunted a snort of amusement. It was he who spoke first.

  “Beitris and Elspeth asked me to bring ye these,” he said, reaching behind him and removing the two sacks tied together with a cord. He leaned over the side of his horse and placed them softly on the ground.

  “What is that?”

  Alasdair shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, his face darkening.

  She didn’t think the emotion was anger, but when he glanced down at her feet, not her face, she realized. He looked uncomfortable. Perhaps even embarrassed. She never would’ve thought to see that expression on such a fierce-looking man. She waited for him to reply, watched as he sent another glance toward Colin.

  At Colin’s nod, he replied.

  “My wife gave me a message for you.”

  Iona waited, arms still crossed over her chest. Why was the fearsome man so hesitant to say his piece? “And the message?”

  “She thought… after we heard what had happened, she and Elspeth thought that ye might…” One glance down at the ground, then, jaw set with resolution, he finished his sentence in a rush. “My wife and Elspeth thought that ye might need a gown or two. They bade me bring these over—”

  Iona gasped in her own surge of humiliation. She felt torn between outright refusing the charity while at the same time not wanting to insult Alasdair, nor the kindness and generosity of his wife and Elspeth. She swallowed hard, fighting the growing lump in her throat, blinking back warm tears that threatened.

  Before she could speak, Colin dismounted and untied the sack on the back of his horse.

  “I brought an old tent that I found in the stable at the jail. I think it was used by the former sheriff when he had to travel out into the moors looking for outlaws… Anyway, I thought ye might be able to use it, fashion a shelter out of it. There are no tent poles, but I think that Alasdair and I could…”

  He looked at her, likely saw the stricken expression on her face, and paused.

  Iona wanted to refuse again, the charity, the humiliation of being so needy, but she also knew that she needed shelter and clothes. Colin observed her for several moments while a myriad of emotions swept through her. Shame, coupled with a deep sense of appreciation and gratitude. She knew that Colin was behind this and her sense of gratitude toward him warmed her heart but at the same time prompted caution. She watched as he unwound yet one more sack from his saddle and placed it near the sacks of clothing that Alasdair had lowered to the ground.

  “Old Endorra also sent me with some food… some dried meat, a half a loaf of bread, some vegetables—”

  “I will accept your generosity,” Iona said, choking back tears as she gazed at the two men. “Please thank Beitris, Elspeth, and Endorra for me. I thank you also, but I refuse to take charity.”

  “Iona—”

  “I will pay you for these things,” she said, lifting her hand. She opened it and plucked two of the four remaining coins that she could call her own, then gingerly stepped forward, minding her steps as she moved toward Alasdair and Colin, coins extended in her fingers as she approached.

  Colin stood unmoving at the edge of the stone foundation of her home. “No one expects payment—”

  “Nevertheless, I will pay what I can, with the promise of more, in coin or in kind, as soon as possible.” Colin didn’t extend his hand, and she looked up at Alasdair, staring down at her with an inscrutable expression. “Take my coin, Sheriff, or I will not accept these gifts. Returning them would cause the givers pain, don’t you think?”

  With a heavy sigh, Colin extended his hand and she dropped the coins into them. Her fingers brushed against his warm palm, sending yet another surge of emotion through her, this one quite different from shame or gratitude. Overwhelmed by the generosity of a small handful of people in the area who did not begrudge her presence, she turned to look up at Alasdair. “Do extend my heartfelt gratitude to Beitris and Elspeth, and to ye both as well. I am overcome by such kindness.”

  Alasdair simply nodded, then returned to gazing at the ruins of her house.

  She turned to Colin. “Please thank Endorra.”

  Like Alasdair, Colin merely nodded, but Iona frowned, concern taking precedence over her gratitude, feeling conflicted and anxious.

  “I do worry, however, that in showing kindness toward me that those who help me will engender the animosity of the villagers. I do not wish this.” She turned to watch the road leading back to the village.

  “It will take some time, no doubt, for the villagers to accept your presence,” Colin said. “But I believe that with time, they will.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Iona said.

  Colin picked up the tent, looking for a good place against the wood line to set it up.

  Moments later, Alasdair also stepped from his horse, both the animals now tied, and he nodded toward her and then followed Colin.

  Her gaze followed them as the two men quickly and efficiently unwrapped the tent, speaking softly among themselves as they set it up at the edge of the woods, taking advantage of tree branches.

  In a short time, a small yet serviceable shelter had been erected just inside the wood line, within proximity to the stream
behind the house.

  She nodded with satisfaction as she stepped over the charred stone foundation of the house and made her way to her temporary home.

  15

  Colin glanced at Alasdair, riding silently beside him as they rode away from Iona’s property, a grin turning up the corners of his mouth. He shook his head and scowled. “What’s so funny? I’ve never met a more stubborn, aggravating, foolhardy woman in my life!”

  “She does speak her mind, doesn’t she?”

  “Aye, and I tell ye, Alasdair, those outspoken ways of hers are going to get her into more trouble!”

  He chuckled. “Be grateful ye don’t live with two outspoken, stubborn women.”

  Colin glanced askance at his friend with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that gentle Beitris is so outspoken. Elspeth, I can imagine, but not Beitris.”

  Alasdair grunted. “Ye’d be surprised.” He turned toward Colin. “Ye don’t know how much I’m hoping that our child is a boy. Not that I’d mind a lass, of course, but…”

  For the first time that day, Colin cracked a smile. “Maybe it’s more common than I assumed. Having never married—”

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve never courted a woman,” Alasdair exclaimed, eyebrows raised in surprise.

  “Of course, I’ve courted a lass or two in my time, but they were both very shy and demure.” He shook his head. “I suppose that Iona didn’t receive much instruction during her youth, so her forthrightness and outspokenness can be overlooked to a point.” He ignored Alasdair’s chortle of amusement. “It’s not that I care that much, don’t get me wrong. But she may very well alienate the villagers even worse than things stand now.”

  “I doubt it could get much worse. After all, someone tried to kill her.”

  Colin nodded, forgetting Iona’s stubborn pride. It was a serious consideration. Someone had burned her house down around her. Someone had tried to kill her. Why? And who had done it? A band of outlaws? If so, what was the motive? Could it be one of his own villagers, or more than one? If so, they couldn’t possibly think they would get away with it. Colin was a good sheriff, and highly intelligent. Surely, they knew that by now.