Her Scottsh Legacy

By Barbara Baldwin

Hunter MacGregor is content with his life, raising sheep in the lowlands of Scotland. Even when he must take over management of the local textile mill after the owner dies, he accepts the additional responsibility to keep the mill running. Yet before the heir can be found, his life is upended further when he rescues a woman from a watery carriage accident only to find she has lost her memory.

He names her Heather and the only clue to her identity is a letter. However water has washed away the words and all that remains is an embossed seal. Her accent is American and he wonders why she traveled alone to a Scottish village. Her humor and gentleness soon enchant him and her kisses create a passion he never thought to experience.

Heather must rely on Hunter’s good graces until her memory returns. As the days pass, she falls in love with the beauty of the lowlands and the kindness of the people she encounters. Yet central to it all is the one she comes to love the most. Hunter is a man who encourages her to be herself and teaches her the wonders of pleasure.

When Heather recovers her memory the mystery deepens. Why does she claim a connection with a woman who disappeared from Gilchrist over twenty-five years ago? How can an American be the heir to a Scottish fortune? If everything they discover proves true, Hunter must accept the fact that although he loves her, he must let her go.

As for Heather, regardless of the mystery behind her legacy, there is only one issue to be considered. How can she convince Hunter all the wealth in the world means nothing if she can’t have his love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780228616122

Barbara Baldwin

Barb loves to travel and explore new places and each of her novels is set in a different locale. She has written practically all her life, beginning with journals of family vacations. She is now published in poetry, short stories, essays, magazine articles, teacher resource materials, and full-length fiction. She also wrote and co-produced a documentary on Kansas history that won state and national awards. She has an MA in Communication, has taught at the college level and has made over 100 presentations at state and national conferences.Barb can be reached at [e-mail] or through her website at www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin.

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Her Scottish Legacy

Barbara Baldwin

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 978-0-2286-1612-2

Kindle 978-0-2286-1613-9

PDF 978-0-2286-1614-6

Print ISBNs

Amazon 978-0-2286-1615-3

LSI 978-0-2286-1616-0

B&N 978-0-2286-1617-7

Copyright 2021 by Barbara Baldwin

Cover Art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

Prologue

Gilchrist Manor, Scotland – 1828

For days, Hunter sneaked around the back of the manor and peeked through the window. At eight years of age, he was tall enough to see over the casement into the elegant room. But it wasn’t the room that fascinated him. It was the lady of the manor. As he had seen on previous days, she sat very still, like a carving of shimmering white marble. Her beauty reminded him of the statues he had seen in the museum in Edinburgh the one time his mother had taken him to the city.

The painter moved toward her, adjusting the sleeve of her dress so it slid slightly off her shoulder. Hunter’s fists clinched. The man had no right to touch her. His paint-stained fingers lingered and Hunter had the urge to break the window glass and scream for him to leave her alone.

She didn’t move; didn’t appear to even notice as he caressed her cheek and tilted her chin just so before moving back to the easel and picking up a brush. Hunter’s gaze returned to the woman. Her gaze shifted and for a moment she stared directly at him, and yet he felt she was not looking at him at all but seeing something beyond his understanding. Her eyes, a shimmering blue in the light, were incredibly sad, but as he watched, the corners of her mouth tilted ever so slightly as her hand flattened for an instant across her stomach.

Youch! he squealed as calloused fingers pinched his ear and dragged him away from the lighted window.

Ye know better than to be peeking through the winders, Hunter boy! His da continued dragging him by the ear through the manor gardens. Hunter grabbed his thick wrist with both small hands to relieve the pain on his ear.

But she’s so beautiful, and so sad. ‘Tis not right she’s hurting.

His da stopped at the far edge of the garden and finally released his ear. Hunter rubbed the abused lobe.

She’s a lady, son, and married to the master of Gilchrist. Don’t be forgetting it. With a sigh, he rubbed his big hands over his face. I’m her man’s gardener and you, the gardener’s boy so you need to stay away from her, y’hear?

Hunter stood as tall as his eight-year-old frame would allow. She’s not happy, da, but I can change that. I’m going to marry her when I grow up.

For the first time since catching him, his da’s face broke into a smile, then a laugh bellowed forth. Affectionately tousling his shaggy hair, he pushed him toward home. Aye, and I’m the King of Scotland.

Deflated, Hunter realized the foolishness of his remark as they had no king in Scotland.

* * *

Regardless of his da’s orders, Hunter felt it his duty to watch over the beautiful lady. One day as he scurried through the garden toward the manor, he came upon her by the rose bushes. He stopped short, not sure how to approach her. She knelt, trying to dig a hole with a small spade like his da would use when potting flowers.

He heard a sound and realized she wept. As he watched, she dropped the spade and cradled her arm against her chest. He could see where a bruise marred the fair skin of her arm and a button hung by a thread at the edge of her capped sleeve.

Who hurt you? he demanded as he stepped forward. He didn’t understand why his chest hurt so badly. I will find the monster who has made you cry and slay him!

She lifted her head and gave him a sad smile but shook her head.

Perhaps instead you can do me a great favor and help dig. Her soft and lyrical voice would remain a favorite memory of Hunter’s for years to come.

Da can plant for you. ‘Tis his job.

She quickly shook her head. No, I cannot bother your father. She looked over at the chest sitting next to her skirts as she knelt. ’Tis…’tis only my poor precious cat. I am being sentimental, and a man would not understand.

Hunter took the spade she offered and started to dig. He glanced at her sideways and saw her watching him.

Might I ask you a question? he almost stuttered.

That brought a small smile. Of course you may.

That word…senti…senti? What does it mean?

Sentimental? She thought for a moment. It is feelings of tenderness or sadness.

Hunter thought about the way it had hurt when his mother had died. Is it wrong for a man to be sentimental? He could feel his cheeks warm and dropped his gaze back to the hole to continue digging.

Being sentimental is one of the best possible traits for a man to have, although it is a hard one to admit. He felt her ruffle his hair. Or for little boys, she added softly.

I’m not such a little boy, he grumbled. To prove his worth, he stood and grabbed the handles of the chest to lift it into the hole. He almost stumbled under the weight of it.

If you will beg pardon, your cat feels more like a Scottish wild cat, though the chest is small to contain such an animal. He scooped soil over it then sat back on his heels.

Thank you, Hunter MacGregor. You have been my Prince Charming this day, but I would ask one more thing of you.

He blushed at her praise and swore silently he would slay dragons if she asked it of him.

At his nod, she reached up and plucked the silver button from her sleeve and pressed it into his grubby hand, curling his fingers around it.

You must promise not to tell anyone that you saw me today and say naught of what we have done. Can you do that?

He nodded vigorously, clutching his treasure tightly as she gracefully came to her feet and silently turned and walked away.

The next day, Lady Alisha disappeared.

Chapter 1

Gilchrist, Scotland, 1853

Hunter stood on the small porch of the cottage gazing out upon wet fields. He scraped back his hair with both hands as he stared up at yet another leaden sky. It had been raining for days, unusual for Scotland in mid-March. Spring appeared to plan an early arrival to the lowlands. Who could say why Mother Nature had turned so fickle.

It appears to have let up for a bit, Finley said as he squinted off to the west. Hunter followed his gaze, trying to ascertain whether they would get drowned if they ventured out.

There’s no help for it. If the river’s swollen, as I fear, we can’t afford to have the sheep stranded on the far side, or worse yet on that small island always jutting up in the middle.

Aye, that’s the right of it for sure. Finley turned to the door. Might as well get to it.

Hunter followed the sheep herder back inside where they donned their Macintosh and wide brimmed hats. He wound a warm scarf around his neck for added protection. Finley’s wife, Maggie, met them in the small sitting room, wiping her hands on her long apron.

Might you not wait a bit? She looked worried and Hunter understood. Andrew Finley wasn’t young anymore, regardless of the man’s protestations, yet he refused to give up his livelihood. Though two decades younger than his friend, Hunter felt the same. He had seen too many men waste away if they no longer had a reason to get up of a morning.

The rain’s let up for now, wife. Instead of worrying, put on the kettle so there’ll be hot tea on our return. Though he sounded gruff, Hunter saw the look of affection that passed between the two. He wondered if there would ever be a woman to look at him that way. Shaking his head, he knew such thoughts were a waste of time.

They saddled the horses in the small barn behind the cottage. Rain began again as they rode out, this time a light mist that didn’t prevent them from moving into a canter over the fields toward the river. The meadows were already greening and the trees on the west edge of the property were leafing, most likely due to the abundant rain. A far sight better than snow, but still, he’d had enough.

Though they came across a small cluster of sheep in the open meadow, it was by no means the majority of the flock. Hunter pulled his horse to a walk, scanning the edge of the forest. Normally sheep stayed in the open, but he could see specks of white at the edge of the trees. At least they weren’t across the river, or in it.

MacGregor! Finley hollered and when Hunter turned his gaze, the man frantically pointed toward the river. He kicked his horse into a run.

There! Finley pointed just as Hunter heard a shout in the distance. Up-river, by no more than fifty meters, he could see a carriage, the back wheels sloping dangerously down the embankment. The horse dug vigorously at the muddy bank trying to find purchase then reared, hooves slashing the air, its whinnies near a screech of terror. The driver stood precariously close, trying to grab the harness each time the horse’s hooves hit the mud.

Get back, man! Hunter hollered as he jumped from his horse. Even as he assessed the situation, the carriage slid further down the embankment, dragging the horse backward with it. The driver stumbled, landing in a muddy heap on the very edge of the bank. Hunter grabbed his collar to keep him from tumbling down to the water.

Finley, who had an affinity for animals, approached the horse, talking softly in Gaelic. Withers quivering, the horse shied sideways, straining at the harness, but did not rear again. I’ve got this ferocious beast, he said in a soothing voice, if the driver can help with the harness now.

The driver had managed to regain his feet but was turning away as though he meant to get as far away as possible. Hunter grabbed him by the collar again. Ye mean to leave yer poor horse to be pulled into the burn? he growled, his brogue becoming more pronounced in his anger.

The lady. Arms flailing, the man twisted against Hunter’s hold, his words lost beneath the roll of thunder as the rain began in earnest.

What? He couldn’t have heard right.

The driver pointed behind him and Hunter turned, seeing nothing but mud and water. The river rushed past, eating away at the bank and rising even as they stood there. The water, sparkling blue and placid on a sunny day, was a rapidly churning mass of brown mud, bits of leaves and tree limbs. The driver scrambled past him, slipping again and again on the bank. Hunter stayed a bit higher on the grass as he hurried after the man, but then quickly jumped down when the man crouched beside a brown lump, half in the water and near to washing away.

For the love of Saint Andrew. He would never have noticed a body, as she was wearing a dark brown coat, brown bonnet, gloves and boots. He started to lift her, but the embankment was steep enough he knew he couldn’t carry her up in his arms. The water washed over his knee boots by now and he knew there might only be minutes before they were swept downstream.

Up the bank, quickly man, he hollered to the coachman. I’ll lift her to you. As soon as the man reached the top and turned, Hunter lifted the woman. She wasn’t in the least light for her clothes and coat were soaked through and she remained unconscious to boot. Yet he held her high enough for the driver to reach down and catch her under the arms, pulling her up and onto the grass. Hunter scrambled up behind her, but not quickly enough to avoid a blow to his leg by a tree limb being swept downstream.

He grimaced as he dropped to the ground beside the woman. A twisted piece of wood stuck out the side of his boot and when he bent to remove it, searing pain shot up his leg.

He looked around to find that Finley had managed to get the horse out of its harness and tied it by his own mount. He shouted but the rain washed away his words.

Turning, he struggled to untie the woman’s bonnet, tossing it aside. Her face was marred with mud, her eyes closed, but his heart constricted at what he could see of her features. Pale smooth skin, a small straight nose and a full mouth led him to think her quite young. Her chest rose and fell on a cough and he quickly turned her to the side to pat her back.

Will she be a right? asked the coachman.

I have no idea, Hunter muttered, tapping her lightly on a cold, wet cheek. She breathed but did not open her eyes.

Finley joined them. You’re bleeding, lad.

Hunter glanced down at his leg. The pain had subsided, so he didn’t think it deep. Regardless it was the least of his concerns at the moment. He hobbled to his feet. We need to get her back to the cottage.

Unbuttoning her coat, he pulled her arms out as gently as he could manage. At Finley’s cough, he looked up long enough to say, She’s dead weight with all this wet on her. Help me get on my horse then you and the coachman can lift her to me.

Between the three of them, they hoisted the unconscious woman onto his horse in front of him. He opened his Macintosh and pulled it around her, tucking her back against his chest in an effort to keep her out of the rain. The coachman hitched himself onto the carriage horse and they took off for home. Hunter kept his horse at a walk, yet they still bounced along. The woman moaned, which he took as a good sign, but otherwise she didn’t stir.

Once they reached the cottage, Finley held the horse and Hunter managed to get down, the woman tilting sideways and then sliding into his arms. His leg threatened to buckle, pain throbbing in his calf, but he stalwartly limped up the steps and through the door. He heard Finley speak to the coachman and knew they would care for the horses.

Maggie, he called, glancing around, not at all sure what to do with the messy bundle in his arms. His housekeeper would not be happy to see him tracking mud and river water all over her clean floors.

You’re back, you crazy loons. I told you not… She stopped in the middle of the doorway; one hand flying to her mouth. In the next instant, she bustled across the sitting room, shooing him with her hands toward the front bedroom. My stars, what in heaven have you done now?

Despite the dire situation, Hunter grinned. Margaret Finley had known him all his life and had taken care of him on plenty of occasions after his mother had died. He had run wild more often than not and his father, the Gilchrist gardener, hadn’t known what to do with him.

He followed her into the bedroom where she hurriedly shook out an old quilt to cover the bed linens and he deposited his bundle there with a groan. He started to unbutton her half boots but Maggie shooed him out of the way. Go put the kettle water in a basin and bring me some fresh linen. It never occurred to her that he was her employer, not the other way around. He turned to hobble away.

On top of everything, you managed to get yourself hurt, too? She stopped what she was doing and started toward him.

It’s nothing, he said. See to the woman.

After bringing Maggie what she needed, he limped back into the kitchen and set the kettle to boil once again, but he needed more than tea to take the chill from his bones. Gathering some mugs from the cupboard, he dug through the pantry for the bottle of whisky he knew Maggie hid somewhere behind the flour and sugar bags. He poured portions into three mugs as Finley and the coachman came in the back door, stomping their boots and hanging up their rain gear on the hooks by the door.

He passed each a mug, drank his down in a single gulp and finally sagged into a chair at the old, scarred worktable. He had no luck trying to toe off his wet boots. Seeing him struggle, Finley came around the table and with a yank or two, pulled them off and dropped them to the floor. Hunter couldn’t stop the groan from escaping his cold lips and Finley raised a brow as his gaze went to his leg.

A hole had been torn in his trousers and when he dragged them up, he could see where the tree branch had left a small, jagged cut in his calf. Without having to ask, Finley collected materials so Hunter could clean and bind the wound. As he did, he questioned the carriage driver.

What on earth were you doing on the river road on a day such as this? Though not uncommon for the mail coach and other travelers with private coaches to continue their journeys regardless of the weather, he had recognized the carriage as a public conveyance from Aberdeen.

It weren’t raining when we started out. The driver shrugged. Been a slow day so I went to the rail station, hoping for a fare or two to the local establishments. When her ladyship asked me to drive her and agreed to the fine, fat fee I said it would cost, why would I say nay? He grinned, lifting his glass in salute and downing the amber liquid in two gulps.

What is her name? Her destination? Hunter asked.

Heading to Gilchrist, though she never said why. And I hadn’t collected my fare, the driver grumbled.

I’ll see you are paid, Hunter assured him. Did she give her name or where in Gilchrist she meant to be taken?

The driver shook his head. And her trunk’s at the bottom of the demon river, I’d swear.

At that moment, Maggie entered the kitchen, dumping the basin of water into the sink and wiping her hands on her apron.

Did she wake? Hunter asked.

Nay. She’s got a lump on her forehead the size of an egg. I’m thinking we might want to get the physician. With a sigh, she poured herself a cup of tea. Her husband quickly stood to give her his seat and he went to lean against the counter. There’s something about her, the housekeeper murmured, shaking her head.

What do you mean? Hunter asked, certainly curious about a lady traveling alone to the northeastern realms of Scotland.

I can’t put a finger to it, she said, but she looks familiar.

Hunter glanced out the window to see that the rain had let up. Finley will see you bedded down in the stables, he said to the carriage driver. It’s the best I have to offer and at least it’s dry.

To Finley he added, If the rain’s stopped, can you ride into the village and fetch Carmichael?

That I can do, lad, but it does bring up a point, Finley said. The missus and me should probably both head into town. Seeing as how the lady is sleeping in your bed, you’ll be wanting to find your rest in the other bed.

Nonsense, Hunter replied. The back bedroom is yours and Maggie’s, for all the times you stay out here. I’ll be perfectly comfortable on the couch in the front room.

The Finleys were technically employed at the Gilchrist mansion, but the master of the estate, Donald Gilchrist, had died almost a year ago. Gilchrist had owned the large textile manufactory that supported the town and had employed Hunter in various capacities. Now, he kept the employees working as they waited for some distant relative to come and claim the house and business. To feel useful, Maggie had become his self-appointed housekeeper and cook while Finley continued on as a sheepherder. They split their time between the manor house and the outpost cottage, even with no one in residence at the house in town.

Maggie snorted at his comment about sleeping arrangements. You can’t fit that frame of yours onto that dainty couch.

Well, the floor in front of the fire will do just as well, Hunter replied and when she started to protest yet again, he added, I’ll brook no disagreement.

Hunter got little sleep that night. The physician, Carmichael, had come and examined the woman but proclaimed he could do little as anything dealing with the head was complicated. He said he would check back with them the next day and they should keep an eye on her in case a fever developed.

Before he bunked down on the pile of furs and quilts Maggie had made up for him, he looked in on the lady occupying his bed. With the mud cleaned from her face and engulfed in one of his shirts, she looked like a sleeping angel. Her dark blonde hair had dried and lay spread out around her like a halo and her pale, porcelain skin glowed in the soft light from the bedside lamp. She appeared quite young as she lay there unmoving. He couldn’t tell much of her shape as Maggie had piled several blankets atop her, but he recalled the slim feel of her in his arms.

Now, as he tossed and turned on his bed, his thoughts remained on the woman. As Maggie had noted, there was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t put a finger on it either. Perhaps in the morning, she would awaken and he could question her as to why