Hired By My Rich Highland Husband

Love in the Scottish Winter Highlands

Pale morning light pierced through the clouds. The cold air smelled like peat fire and rain, like smoke, like frost, like everything that she loved about winter. The hills around this small town were almost as chalky as the sky. From a distance, they looked like folds of a wool blanket. It was still early. Marla flipped up the collar of her peacoat and walked along the cobblestoned street. Despite the November chill, her face was glowing.

This place, half-snuggled in a valley, was a far cry from the busy, tiring city of London she had called home for fourteen years and left behind yesterday morning.

Yet here she was. In Scotland.

Marla swallowed, unsure of what lay ahead. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind. A swirl of conflicting emotions surged in her chest. There was a rush of anticipation, yes, but also a warning that nagged at her mind, reminding her of the risks. It was the glimmer of possibility, too hard to ignore, that made her cheeks flush.

I’m really doing this, aren’t I?

As she sauntered to her appointment with the solicitor, she took in the sights and sounds of Kilcranach’s old core. Side roads led up the hill and wound their way through the village like a gemstone necklace that someone had carelessly dropped. In contrast, the high street was built in a straight line and flanked by quaint shops with whitewashed facades. With their slate roofs and pointed gables, the houses looked like they had been there since the time of Mary, Queen of Scots. Or at least since some enlightened, eighteenth-century landowner had stuffed his crofters into efficient lodgings so they could collect kelp while sheep grazed on what used to be their land. The sea, as the screeching chorus of gulls in the background announced, wasn’t very far away.

Behind a bend, Marla noticed the small castle looming in the distance. A structure with blonde sandstone walls, overgrown with ivy. Even from afar, it appeared as sad as in the photos. And calling it a castle was a stretch. It looked more defeated than defensive. Although it must once have been an inviting eighteenth-century country house. Marla imagined glamorous balls and hunting parties with people wearing tweed.

In truth, she had no concept of what the Scottish nobility used to do in their extensive spare time two hundred years ago. Even two years ago, for that matter.

Today, the former grand house was a neglected three-storey building with dull panes in its many large mullion windows. It seemed tired, forgotten, and lonely. This house had the weight of well over two hundred years pressing down on it – and it appeared as if it was done pushing back.

Her house now. Her weight.

Marla snorted in disbelief, and a frosty cloud of breath formed in front of her nose. What the hell had happened? Four weeks ago, she had been living her life in London, working as an oncology nurse for the National Health Service NHS. Mostly reading books while curled up on her couch. Completely unspectacular and utterly intentional. After everything, Marla had designed her life to be as stable and safe as possible. A solid wooden drawer with cosy velvet lining.

Until one phone call changed it all.

She had just returned from running errands when her mobile rang. At first, she thought it was a prank. Who wouldn’t?

‘Good afternoon! Marla Wilson? You will not have heard of me, but I have something important to tell you,’ said the male voice on the other end.

‘Not at all a bizarre thing to say. Bye.’

‘Wait! There is something you must know,’ the unknown caller cut in.

‘Oh, really? Must I?’ Marla’s day off had been unpleasant so far. She was in a mood . ‘Let me guess: you’re calling in the name of Prince Harry and need cash for a charity? Or better still, you’re a Nigerian prince and need my help with wiring four million dollars to my account? Guess what, I don’t believe in princes and—’

‘Miss Wilson, there seems to be a misunderstanding. My name is William Collins. I work with Arniston Solicitors, and the reason I’m calling you today is to inform you of an inheritance.’

‘Ha! I knew it. No thanks,’ she scoffed.

‘Does the name Gordon Wilson ring a bell?’

Marla gasped. That was her grandda’s name.

How does he… What…?

Anger welled up inside her. ‘What do you know of my grandfather? Is this a cruel joke? My grandda died two years ago. Don’t you feel ashamed using dead people’s names in a scam?’

‘No, no! Of course not, Miss Wilson. It is just… How do I put this delicately? It seems that in his youth, Gordon Wilson had made an acquaintance of some…emotional significance. Let us leave it at that.’

‘Pardon me?’ She noticed a trace of shrillness in her voice.

‘I would much prefer to discuss the details with you in person. But as far as we know, he knew the young Lady Hamilton, and it appears that Gordon Wilson…made a lasting impression on her.’

‘Lady who?’

‘Lady Helena Cecilia Hamilton,’ he said.

‘Never heard of her.’

‘I see. Well, that is not at all surprising. She lived a secluded life. Lady Hamilton passed away six months ago.’

‘I don’t know what to say. Eh…I’m sorry for your loss?’

‘Thank you for your sympathy,’ Mr Collins said.

Something in his voice resonated with Marla. She recognised the incorruptible truth of grief. He must have held that lady in great esteem. Marla paced up and down her hallway, the shopping bags still by the door.

‘She was our client for many decades,’ he continued. ‘A good person, an amiable woman. One of a kind. She died without an heir, but her will – here the entire affair becomes more than a little unorthodox – unmistakably states that in these circumstances, the castle and estate should pass to the living descendants of Gordon Wilson.’

‘What? Okay. That’s…mental. My grandfather mentioned no lady. Ever. And I’m sure my gran wouldn’t have approved of other women in his life. If you know what I mean.’

‘Certainly, Miss Wilson. I did not intend to insinuate—’

‘Right. So, wait. You’re telling me that a complete stranger left a castle – an entire castle – to my grandda and his offspring? You can’t be serious.’

‘I assure you, this is not a joke to me, Miss Wilson.’

‘Oh, I don’t think this is funny either. And I have a lot of questions. Like why didn’t he tell anyone about any of this? Ever? What on earth is going on?’ Her voice rose. ‘How am I supposed to even know who my grandda was dating in his youth? That’s wrong,’ she huffed. ‘And who in their right mind doesn’t give their godforsaken castle to the National Trust instead of leaving it to a stranger? Doesn’t that sound suspiciously wrong to you?’

‘To you.’

‘Who?’

‘To you. She left Hazelbrae House to you. We have done some digging, you see. Since he passed two years ago and your mother in 1992, you are the only living blood relative of Gordon Wilson. Unless you have children, of course, but we could not find any records,’ he explained. ‘Hence, it follows – according to Lady Hamilton’s will – that it is you who inherits her estate.’

Marla flopped onto a chair, ungracefully landing on the cupcake she had bought herself as a treat and placed there when her phone rang. She didn’t notice it. All she noticed was a tingling numbness ascending from her legs, along with an uncomfortable ringing in her ears. After a pause, she said, ‘No siblings. No children. Neither existent nor planned.’

‘I apologise if this sounds intrusive. But you certainly see that we—’

‘Estate,’ Marla mumbled. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘I would much rather discuss everything in person. But for now, I can tell you that the inheritance encompasses a large, listed house with a few acres here in Scotland. Although the building is in a state, most unfortunately, and the land is a fraction of what it once used to be.’

‘Sorry, I have to ask, for the record – are you for real? Do you have any proof of whatever you’re saying, like…right now?’ Not that any serious, self-respecting scammer would answer that question with anything close to the truth. Nonetheless, she had to ask.

‘I guarantee that this is a most serious and lawful matter.’

She let out a breath. ‘You understand that I can’t simply believe everything a random stranger tells me on the phone? That’s one thing my grandda taught me,’ Marla said, mostly to herself, feeling the comforting weight of Gordon’s small knife in the side pocket of her jeans. Along with the all-too-familiar twinge of loss.

‘Yes, Miss Wilson. That is sensible. I would expect nothing less. I can send you all the relevant information and preliminary legal documents, the title, photographs, et cetera. And then, if you’re interested, Arniston Solicitors would love to welcome you to Kilcranach.’

That had been one month ago. The town hall clock towered above Marla. Its long, thin hands showed a quarter past nine. Almost time for her meeting with William Collins to finalise the particulars of this odd inheritance. She was a few minutes early. But her mind was racing, and she couldn’t sit in the car for one more second.

I can’t believe it. What if it’s too much for me?

Initially, she’d been less than thrilled at the thought of inheriting a castle from a stranger – everybody knew those houses were bottomless money pits – let alone the mystery surrounding her grandda’s dubious ex-lady-friend or whatever position Helena Whatshername Hamilton had once held in his life.

It was Marla’s pal Trish who had encouraged her to take the leap of faith, stuff her car with her favourite clothes and books, and move to Kilcranach to take on her inheritance – a property she hadn’t even set foot in.

‘Marl, what are you talking about? A flipping castle in Scotland, for fuck’s sake. That’s an amazing opportunity. Think what you could do with that!’ Trish had squealed from beneath her cloud of brown curls. ‘That’s how all those Mills & Boon novels start! And if it’s shit, you can sell it for a few million pounds to a Danish billionaire and bam! No more worrying about pensions or any of that. That’s you, sorted for life!’

Marla couldn’t help but smile at the memory of Trish’s innate enthusiasm and unwavering faith in the world. Most of the time, it was unfounded. But it somehow still made things better. Inexplicably. Or maybe even magically.

She moved past the bookshop. A narrow, three-storey, timber-framed building with a small café on the ground floor. A few people were grabbing a coffee to go. There was a pair of American tourists in trainers, hunched over their phones.

Probably a lot fewer of them in the Highlands in November than during summer.

The faint aroma of roasted beans and the scent of yellowed books wafted into the cold air. A young woman wearing a pointy hat and a black coat was peering into a shop window. Her long, emerald-green hair was fashioned into a braid and flowing down her shoulders on top of a woollen tartan shawl. She looked like a witch. Maybe this tiny town had more edge than Marla had imagined.

Whatever her doubts, and there were plenty, she was here now. After having drained a reassuring bottle of Bordeaux with Trish, Marla had made a promise to herself. Come rain or shine – and considering that this was Scotland, rain was the much more likely scenario – she would find a way to make it work.

This wasn’t just an unexpected inheritance. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to give back to her colleagues in the NHS, who worked so hard to save their patients’ lives. Create a retreat for tired doctors and nurses. Like herself. Like the ones that tried to save her mum twenty-five years ago or the ones who took care of her grandparents at the end. Renovating Hazelbrae was also a way to be connected to her grandda. To honour his memory, to find out who he had really been and where he was from.

And to start over after all the loss and sorrow.

The solicitor’s office was in one of the historic buildings just off the town square. The heavy door creaked as Marla opened it, revealing a claustrophobically small lobby. It wasn’t even large enough to contain a gathering of five people. Two timeworn oak chairs and an equally ancient wooden reception desk testified to the age of the office. The darkly panelled walls were adorned with antique paintings of ships conquering raging waves. It smelled of dust and varnish, with a slight salty tang. The entire room seemed like the wooden sea chest of a nineteenth-century naval officer.

Behind the panelled desk sat a woman with white streaks in her red bob, knitting what looked like a Fair Isle jumper. She didn’t so much as lift her head when the door creaked.

‘Hi. Good morning.’ Marla plastered on a polite smile.

Now the woman looked up. She gave a nod and put down her needles. ‘Morning. Welcome to Arniston Solicitors. How can I help you?’

Marla explained who she was and why she was there. The receptionist nodded again. This time, with squinted eyes. As if she couldn’t believe it. Neither could Marla.

‘Of course. Mr Collins is expecting you, Miss Wilson.’ She rose from her chair. ‘Please follow me. And watch your step. It’s a wee bit uneven.’

Marla walked behind her up a narrow spiral staircase with ornate cast iron steps and rails that were cold and coarse under her fingers.

‘Ah, Miss Wilson,’ Mr Collins called from the back room. ‘Welcome to Arniston Solicitors! Glad you made it. How was the journey? Not entirely unpleasant, I hope?’ Mr Collins emerged from his office wearing a tweed suit with a waistcoat and a pocket watch, round glasses perched at the end of his pointed nose. He looked like an obscure side character in an unpublished Sherlock Holmes story, scholarly and anachronistic to the point of eccentricity. Much more interesting in person than on the phone. Marla liked him right away.

Mr Collins ushered her into his tiny office, where several stacks of documents were scattered around the room. The slope of the roof was low and crooked, Marla could hardly stand upright. A square window let in a few resilient rays of winter morning sunlight, illuminating several shelves of books lined up like soldiers at attention.

Over a cup of tea, Mr Collins explained the legal details of the inheritance. There was no family dispute, since this was a minor branch of the Hamiltons without relatives. The property had been surveyed and valued, the inventory and other forms completed, taxes and debts paid. So was the basic upkeep for a year, excluding insurance. Now was the time for the title transfer.

Marla understood all of it, or so she hoped. Dealing with small print had never been her core strength. She would inherit Hazelbrae House with about ten acres of surrounding land. Apparently, Helena Hamilton had declared that the house was not to be turned into a museum. ‘Hazelbrae is neither a shrine nor a zoo, it is a home,’ were her words, as related by Mr Collins. Miraculously, there was no remaining debt on the estate, but there had been no renovations since the 1980s. Good bones, neglected state. The estimated renovation and conservation costs were… Astronomical didn’t even begin to describe it.

And yet… Marla had felt drawn to Hazelbrae since she had first seen the pictures in Mr Collins’ e-mail.

It was still baffling, though. ‘What about their relationship? Were they…’ Marla trailed off.

‘Lady Hamilton and your grandfather?’

‘Yes, those two. Who else would I be talking about?’ She narrowed her eyes.

‘Sadly, there is not much more that I can tell you.’ Mr Collins adjusted his glasses. ‘She changed her will shortly before her serious health problems started, and I never had the opportunity to ask her personally. It is all a mystery. Or simply private.’

He dug out a document and followed the lines with his index finger. ‘According to Lady Hamilton’s will, in which she bequeathed her estate to his family, Gordon Wilson was, and I quote, “the truest, dearest friend I ever had. I owe him my life and more than I could ever repay.” End of quote.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Did he give her a kidney or something?’

‘I could not tell you. Lady Hamilton was a private and fascinating woman.’ Shifting his glasses again, he continued. ‘My guess? Since your grandfather was from this area and moved away when he was twenty, if our research is correct, they most likely knew each other in their youth. Mr Wilson must have been a friend or confidant to Lady Hamilton. Class difference aside.’

Mr Collins leaned back in his squeaking swivel chair and folded his hands in his lap. ‘We could try to investigate further. Although I have not the slightest idea how. We looked at her correspondence, but it didn’t include any significant private letters or documents, unfortunately.’

Marla shrugged. ‘I’m just so curious. I mean, who wouldn’t be? There must be more to this story, but it seems we’re not getting anywhere right now. So be it.’ She straightened her shoulders. ‘All right then, Mr Solicitor. Let’s do this.’

With the legal details outlined, explained, and mostly understood, Marla picked up Mr Collins’ pen in her right hand, her left hand on the document. She felt the tight weave of the paper fibres under her fingertips. The pen had an old-fashioned shape and a black, lacquered finish that had been worn smooth by generations of signers. Marla took a deep breath.

A few circles and scratches later, Mr Collins announced, ‘Congratulations, Miss Wilson. You are now the proud owner of Hazelbrae House. Good luck.’

Marla left the solicitor’s office exhilarated, bordering on terrified. To calm her jittery limbs, she decided to walk from the village to the castle and explore the area. It was eleven. Plenty of time in the day.

Time to make plans.

Marla would restore Hazelbrae House, find a new purpose and her roots here. It dawned on her how much she had been longing for a new beginning.

There was no way back. She had rented out her tiny flat in London and quit her job. A half-ruined castle in this remote Scottish village was her home now, which left only one possible conclusion: she must be insane.