The Inheritance: Chapter One[M,M]

# The Inheritance: Chapter One

The letter arrived on a Tuesday, tucked between bills and advertisements like it wasn't about to detonate my entire life. Plain envelope, Scottish postmark, addressed in the kind of formal typeface that screamed 'legal correspondence.' I nearly tossed it with the junk mail.

"Mr. Elliot James Thorne," it began, and already I knew something was off. Nobody called me Elliot except my mother when she was angry. "We regret to inform you of the passing of your great-uncle, Mr. Alasdair Thorne..."

Great-uncle? I didn't have a great-uncle. At least not one my family had ever mentioned.

"...and as the sole surviving descendant, you have inherited his property located in the Scottish Highlands, specifically a cottage and surrounding land in the village of Ardvreck..."

I read the letter three times before the reality sank in. Someone had died, someone apparently related to me, and left me property in Scotland. A place I'd never been, populated by people I'd never met.

My little bookshop in Bath wouldn't run itself, but the letter requested my presence "at earliest convenience" to "settle the estate matters." I sat back in my chair, the quiet of the empty shop suddenly oppressive. I'd never left England. Never wanted to. My life was contained, predictable, morning tea, familiar customers, the comforting smell of old books.

Yet something in me stirred at the thought of highlands and heather. A place untouched by the careful restraint that defined my existence.

Three days later, I was on a train heading north.

---

The solicitor, a Mr. Campbell with a shock of white hair and ruddy complexion, met me at the station in Inverness. His handshake was firm, his smile genuine beneath shrewd eyes.

"Ye look like him," he said, appraising me. "Around the eyes."

"I never met him," I admitted, feeling strangely guilty. "My father never mentioned any relatives in Scotland."

Campbell's mouth tightened. "Aye, there was a falling out many years ago. Family matters." He didn't elaborate, and I didn't press.

The drive from Inverness deeper into the Highlands was breathtaking. Mountains rose impossibly high, their peaks lost in misty clouds. Valleys stretched green and wild, dotted with sheep and the occasional stone house.

"Your great-uncle Alasdair lived alone these past thirty years," Campbell said as we wound through narrow roads. "Bit of a recluse, but respected in the community. He was a scholar of local history, wrote several books about the area."

This, at least, I could connect with. "I own a bookshop," I offered.

Campbell nodded. "He mentioned that. Said it's why he left everything to you instead of selling. Thought you might appreciate the collection he's amassed, if nothing else."

The village of Ardvreck was little more than a cluster of buildings around a single main street. People glanced at our car as we passed, curious in that small-town way that made me shrink into my seat.

"The cottage is just up this way," Campbell said, turning onto a dirt path that curved away from the village and up a gentle slope. "It's been empty these past few months since Alasdair passed, so don't expect much."

The track wound through scraggly trees before opening to a clearing, and there it was, my inheritance. A stone cottage with a slate roof, smoke-blackened chimney, and windows like watchful eyes. It should have been idyllic.

It was a disaster.

Half the roof had collapsed, the garden was overgrown, and even from the car I could see the door hung askew on its hinges.

"There's been some deterioration," Campbell said mildly.

"It's uninhabitable," I said flatly.

"Aye, needs work." He parked and turned to me. "The property's worth something, even in this state. The land alone, fifteen acres, including that wooded area and access to the stream, would fetch a decent price. But if you were to restore it..."

We got out, and the Highland air hit me, crisp, cool, scented with earth and heather and something else that felt ancient in my lungs. Despite everything, I felt a tug of recognition.

Inside was worse than outside. Water damage had destroyed much of the furniture and sections of the floor. But there, in what must have been the living room, stood bookshelves, dozens of them, miraculously spared the worst of the damage. They lined every wall, packed with volumes that made my fingers itch to examine them.

"His collection," Campbell said, watching me. "Local history, folklore, some rare editions. Probably worth more than the cottage itself to the right buyers."

I pulled out a volume bound in faded red leather. *The Mysteries of the Western Highlands*, the gold lettering proclaimed.

"How long would a renovation take?" I heard myself ask.

"Depends on who you hire. There's not many skilled builders in the village these days." Campbell hesitated. "There is one local craftsman who could handle it, but he's... particular about the work he takes on."

"Particular how?"

"He doesn't suffer fools, and he's protective of traditional ways. Doesn't approve of outsiders buying up old properties and modernizing them." Campbell shrugged. "But he's the best. If you want authenticity, Rory MacKinnon's your only real option."

The name settled in the dusty air. Rory MacKinnon.

"And if he refuses?"

"Then you're looking at bringing in workers from Inverness, at considerable expense, who won't understand these old buildings." Campbell checked his watch. "He'll be at the pub around now. We could speak with him, if you're serious about restoration."

I wasn't serious about it. I couldn't be. I had a life back in Bath, a business that needed me.

Yet the books called to me. The cottage, broken as it was, felt like it was waiting.

"Let's talk to him," I said.

---

The Ardvreck Arms was exactly what a Highland pub should be: low ceilings crossed with dark wooden beams, a stone fireplace, the smell of whisky and wood smoke. The conversation didn't stop when we entered, but it dimmed, and I felt eyes tracking us as Campbell led me to the bar.

"Evening, dear," he greeted Moira, the barkeeper and conveniently enough, his wife, a woman in her sixties with streaks of gray in her dark hair. "Is himself here tonight?"

She nodded toward the far corner, where a solitary figure sat with his back to the wall. Even from across the room, I could feel a force field of *leave me alone* radiating from him.

"Good luck," she said with a meaningful look at me. "He's in a mood."

Campbell sighed. "When is he not?" He ordered us both drinks, whisky for him, ale for me, and we approached the corner table.

Up close, Rory MacKinnon was not what I'd expected. I'd imagined some grizzled old craftsman, but the man before us couldn't have been more than twenty-five. He had the build of someone who worked with his hands, broad shoulders straining against a worn flannel shirt, strong forearms revealed by rolled-up sleeves, callused fingers wrapped around his glass. His hair was dark, slightly too long, curling at the edges around a face that would have been handsome if it wasn't set in such a forbidding expression.

Then he looked up, and I nearly stumbled. His eyes were the most intense I'd ever seen, storm-gray and penetrating, fringed with lashes that were almost obscenely long for a man. They widened slightly when they landed on me, a flash of something like recognition crossing his features before his expression shuttered again.

"No," he said before Campbell could speak, his voice low and rough with an accent that transformed the simple word into something musical despite its curtness.

"You haven't heard what I'm asking," Campbell said mildly, sitting down uninvited. I reluctantly took the remaining chair, uncomfortably aware of how close my knee was to Rory's under the small table.

"Ye're here with a stranger, so you're asking if I'll work for him. The answer's no." His gaze shifted to me, traveling from my face down to my chest and back up in one swift, assessing movement that left heat in its wake. "Let me guess. You bought Alasdair's place and want to turn it into a holiday cottage for English tourists."

"I didn't buy it," I said, finding my voice despite the sudden dryness in my throat. "I inherited it. He was my great-uncle."

Something flickered in his expression,surprise, maybe, or disbelief. "Alasdair never mentioned family."

"We never knew about him either. Apparently there was some kind of falling out."

Rory leaned forward, and I caught his scent, sawdust, whisky, and something earthy and male that made my pulse kick up. "So you're here to sell it, then."

"I…" The truth was, I didn't know anymore. Twelve hours ago, the answer would have been simple. Now, nothing felt simple. "I'm considering my options."

He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "Your option is to sell to someone who'll appreciate what that place is, not what it could be turned into."

His dismissal sparked something in me, a flare of stubbornness I rarely indulged. "And what exactly is it?" I challenged.

"A piece of history. A connection to the land. Something that was built to last by people who understood this place." His accent grew thicker with his passion, rolling his Rs and softening his vowels in a way that was absurdly, inappropriately arousing.

"Rory," Campbell interjected, "Elliot here owns a bookshop. He has an appreciation for Alasdair's collection."

"A bookshop," Rory repeated, looking at me with genuine interest now. His gaze was so intense I had to resist the urge to squirm in my seat. "In London, I suppose?"

"Bath," I corrected. "Specializing in literary fiction and history."

He took a drink, watching me over the rim of his glass. His lips were full, I noticed, pressing against the glass in a way that made me wonder how they would feel against skin. I pushed the thought away, heat rushing to my face.

"And what do you know about restoration? About traditional Scottish building methods?"

"Absolutely nothing," I admitted. "That's why Mr. Campbell suggested I talk to you."

"I don't work for people who don't care about doing things right." His eyes hadn't left mine, and the conversation suddenly felt like it was about more than just the cottage.

"I care about doing things right," I said, surprising myself with my vehemence. "I restore books, the valuable ones, the ones that deserve preservation. I understand the importance of history."

Something shifted in his expression. Not softening, exactly, but a reassessment. His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth, then back to my eyes, so quickly I might have imagined it.

"The roof's half gone," he said. "The foundation's probably compromised. The interior needs to be gutted. It would be cheaper to tear it down and start over."

"I don't want to tear it down."

"Why not?"

It was a simple question with no simple answer. Why was I suddenly protective of a cottage I'd seen for all of thirty minutes? Why was I sitting in a pub arguing with a surly Scotsman who, despite his attitude, was making my body react in ways I couldn't explain?

"Because it was his," I said finally. "Because he left it to me for a reason."

Rory studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he finished his whisky and set down the glass with a decisive click.

"I'll come look at it tomorrow," he said. "Nine o'clock. That's not a promise to take the job, just an assessment."

Relief washed through me, though I couldn't explain why his agreement mattered so much. "Thank you."

He stood, and I was struck by how tall he was, at least six-two, with shoulders that seemed to block out the light from the nearby lamp. "Don't thank me yet. Once you hear what it'll cost, you'll likely change your mind."

With a nod to Campbell and nothing more to me, he left, the pub's atmosphere somehow less charged in his absence. I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"Well," Campbell said, looking pleased, "that went better than expected."

"That was better than expected?" I took a long drink of my ale, trying to cool the inexplicable heat that had built inside me during the conversation.

"He didn't tell you to go to hell, so aye, much better." Campbell smiled. "Now, there's a small hotel just down the road where you can stay tonight. Or there's the cottage, though you'd be camping essentially."

The responsible choice was the hotel. The safe choice. But something pulled me toward the cottage, broken as it was.

"I'll stay at the cottage," I said.

Campbell nodded, unsurprised. "Alasdair would have approved. Stubborn lot, you Thornes."

---

That night, I made a bed of sorts in the one corner of the cottage that seemed dry and stable. The silence was absolute in a way I'd never experienced, no traffic, no neighbors, nothing but the occasional rustle of wind through the damaged roof.

I'd selected one of Alasdair's books to read by flashlight, a local history of Ardvreck that mentioned my great-uncle several times as a source. Sleep came fitfully, dreams filled with fragments of stories from the book...and inexplicably, images of storm-gray eyes and strong hands.

I woke to gray dawn light and the distinct feeling I wasn't alone.

A sharp knock at the door confirmed it. I scrambled up, aware of my rumpled appearance after sleeping in my clothes, and opened the door to find Rory MacKinnon standing there, toolbox in hand. In the clear morning light, he was even more striking than he'd been in the dim pub. His dark hair was damp, curling against his neck, and his jawline was shadowed with stubble that made him look rugged and faintly dangerous.

"You're early," I said, squinting at my watch. It was barely seven.

"Ye slept here." His eyes took in my disheveled state, lingering a moment too long on the exposed skin where my shirt had come untucked.

"Yes." I resisted the urge to fix my clothes, oddly thrilled by his scrutiny.

"No wonder Alasdair's ghost is restless, with his home falling to pieces."

I stiffened. "Ghost?"

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. "Local superstition." He stepped past me without waiting for an invitation, his shoulder brushing mine in the narrow doorway. The brief contact sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with the morning chill.

"I'll need to see the extent of the damage," he said, seemingly oblivious to my reaction. "Do you have coffee, or shall I fetch some from my truck?"

"I don't have anything," I admitted. "I wasn't exactly planning on an extended stay."

He grunted and disappeared, returning moments later with a thermos. "You look like you need this more than I do," he said, handing it to me.

"Thank you." Our fingers brushed during the exchange, his warm and rough against mine, and something electric passed between us. His eyes met mine, startled, and I knew he'd felt it too.

He turned away first, moving toward the collapsed section of roof. "This wasn't sudden," he said, professional mask firmly back in place. "Neglect over years. The beams rotted gradually."

I sipped the coffee, strong and black, not how I usually took it, but exactly what I needed and watched him work. Despite his size, he moved with surprising grace. He stretched to examine the ceiling joists, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of taut abdomen and a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans. I looked away quickly, but not before he caught me staring.

His mouth quirked in what might have been a smirk. "Hand me that measuring tape, would you?"

I passed it to him, our fingers touching again. This time the contact lingered, his calloused thumb brushing deliberately across my knuckles before he withdrew.

"Thanks." His voice had dropped lower, rougher.

For the next hour, I followed him through the cottage as he assessed the damage, increasingly aware of how small the space felt with his large frame moving through it. We kept finding ourselves in tight spaces, reaching for the same doorframe to test its stability, ducking under the same beam, our bodies impossibly close. Each time, that same electricity crackled between us.

"Can it be saved?" I asked after he'd inspected the major damage points, trying to focus on the reason he was here, not on the way his forearms flexed as he tested the strength of a wooden support.

He straightened, pushing hair from his forehead with his forearm. A bead of sweat traced a path down his neck, and I had to clench my hands to keep from following it with my finger.

"Aye, it can. But it's not a quick job. We're talking months of work."

"Months?" My heart sank. I couldn't stay for months. My shop, my life...

"Three at minimum, if weather cooperates." His eyes met mine, challenging. "Still interested?"

The responsible answer was no. I should sell the property, take the money, return to my orderly life. Yet standing there with this intensely physical man whose every movement seemed designed to unravel my composure, I couldn't form the word.

"I need to make some arrangements," I said instead. "For my shop back home."

Something shifted in his expression, surprise, maybe, or approval. "You're serious about staying, then."

"I'm serious about the restoration," I clarified. "About doing it right."

He studied me for a long moment, his gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. "I'll draw up an estimate. We can start next week if you agree to the terms."

"And what are your terms, Mr. MacKinnon?"

His mouth quirked slightly. "I work alone. I do things the traditional way, which means no cutting corners." He paused. "And it's just Rory."

"Elliot," I returned, though he hadn't asked.

"I know who ye are." The way he said it carried weight beyond the obvious.

He moved toward the door, then paused, turning back. "You'll be needing somewhere to stay while the work's being done. The north side of the cottage is relatively stable, but you'd have no privacy once I start." His eyes held mine, the implications of his words hanging in the air between us.

"I'm sure I can find something in the village," I said, though the thought of leaving the cottage and being further from him, caused an inexplicable pang.

"Aye, there's rooms at the pub." He hesitated. "Or there's my place. I've a spare room that's gathering dust. It would save you money, and you'd be on hand to make decisions about the restoration."

The offer caught me off guard. "You'd let me stay with you? I thought you didn't like outsiders."

Something like heat flashed in his eyes. "I don't. But you're not exactly an outsider anymore, are you? You're Alasdair's blood." He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. "Besides, I need to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't get any modern notions about what this place should be."

I should have been offended by his presumption. Instead, I felt that same inexplicable thrill. "And how exactly do you plan to do that?"

His lips curved into a smile that was almost predatory. "I have my ways of being... persuasive."

The word hung between us, charged with meaning. My breath caught, and I watched his gaze drop to my chest where my nipples had hardened visibly against my thin shirt. When he looked back up, the storm in his eyes had darkened.

"Think about it," he said, his voice a rough caress. "Let me know tomorrow when I bring the estimate."

With that, he left, the cottage suddenly emptier and colder without his presence. I sank down onto a stable-looking chair, my legs weak, my mind racing with possibilities I'd never considered before arriving in this wild place.

What was happening to me? I'd never reacted to anyone this way, with this immediate, visceral response that bypassed all rational thought. Was it the cottage? The Highlands? Or was it just him, this man who looked at me like he could devour me whole?

I pulled out my phone, grimacing at the weak signal, and called my assistant manager back in Bath.

"Sophie? It's Elliot. Listen, how would you feel about running the shop on your own for a while? I'm going to be staying in Scotland a bit longer than expected..."

*Authors Note - Does Elliot take Rory up on his offer? Of course he does, you know me better than that. Trust me, things heat in the next two chapters*