My Fake Highland Scheme (Highland Chaos #4)

Chapter 1

Clementine

The Reluctant Heiress

I push open the door to The Grumpy Sheep with the secret hope that this traditional Scottish pub might resemble a Parisian café, at least a little.

No such luck. It’s exactly as I remember it from my distant childhood memories: the scent of stale beer mixed with damp wood hangs in the air, the old furniture is dark and worn, and rows of whisky bottles line the wall behind the bar.

What I don’t remember is the silence. Thick enough to cut with a knife.

Every head turns in my direction the moment I step inside.

People stare.

Not hostile, exactly. More like I’ve just wandered into the middle of a homeowners’ association meeting without an invitation.

Conversations pause for half a second—just long enough for me to feel observed, evaluated, categorized.

I spot Ewan across the room, a tray balanced on one forearm as he serves a table occupied by three men in hand-knitted sweaters who look like wise old Highland elders. He gestures discreetly toward the bar with a small nod and half a smile.

I head that way, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone. Sliding onto a barstool that creaks beneath me, I set my purse at my feet and pull out my phone.

The universal gesture for: I’m busy. Please don’t talk to me.

The problem is, my phone barely has a signal.

I should’ve expected that.

Glenfield is picturesque, authentic, charming... and apparently completely immune to 4G.

I pretend to scroll through my work emails, hoping nobody notices the loading wheel spinning endlessly for the last thirty seconds. The only unread email that managed to load before the signal disappeared came from my boss this morning.

Enjoy your time off. We’re thinking of you.

Translation:

Please come back soon because we’re drowning over here.

With a sigh, I set my phone down on the counter.

Around me, conversations gradually resume. Slowly. Tentatively. Like people testing the temperature of bathwater.

I catch snippets of English spoken in accents so thick I’m not entirely convinced it’s actually English.

An older woman sitting by the window peers at me over the rim of her teacup. She whispers something to the woman beside her, who leans slightly to get a better look.

I pretend not to notice, but I tense anyway.

I hate being the center of attention.

Especially when that attention comes from Scottish villagers who seem to regard me as some kind of exotic species.

I automatically sweep my hair over one shoulder and think that while my red hair might help me blend in around here, my bright yellow jacket certainly doesn’t.

Ewan finally returns.

He sets down his tray, wipes his hands on a towel tucked into his waistband, and leans against the bar across from me.

“Sorry for the wait. It’s been a busy day.”

I smile faintly.

“No problem. Looks like business is doing well.”

He shrugs with exaggerated modesty.

“It’s the only pub in the village. They don’t exactly have options.”

Turning toward a drawer beneath the counter, he opens it and pulls out an enormous ring of keys that clatters loudly against the wood.

The kind of key ring that looks like it belongs in an old Gothic movie, complete with wrought-iron keys weighing approximately three pounds each.

He slides it toward me.

“You really want to go there now? You only just got back to Glenfield.”

I look up at him, surprised by the concern in his voice.

“Might as well get it over with. The sooner I do the inspection, the sooner I can get back to France.”

For a moment, he studies me in silence, as though weighing whether he should say what’s on his mind.

Finally, he sighs and places both hands flat on the counter.

“It’s your decision. Want me to come with you?”

The offer touches me more than I care to admit.

Ewan and I may be cousins, but we barely know each other. We’ve crossed paths at endless family gatherings over the years, but he’s older than me and we never really formed a bond.

And yet here he is, willing to accompany me to a dusty old manor house just so I won’t have to go alone.

I hesitate for a second before shaking my head.

“No, thanks. I’ll manage. Besides, you’ve got work here.”

He nods, visibly relieved that he won’t have to close the pub and play tour guide.

“Alright. But call me if you need anything. Seriously.”

I take the keys.

They’re heavy and cold, and I feel like I’m holding a movie prop.

“Promise.”

A comfortable silence settles between us while he pours me a cup of tea without even asking what I want.

I wrap my hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth.

Ewan seems to be searching for the right words, as if there’s something he wants to say but isn’t sure how to bring it up.

“Grandma doing okay?” he finally asks.

I smile despite myself.

Our grandmother, Catriona, is a force of nature. At eighty-two, she still runs her life with military precision and a razor-sharp sense of humor.

“She’s doing great. Speaking of which, she told me to remind you that you owe her a visit.”

He laughs softly.

“I know. She’s already written to me three times this year.”

“She never lets anything go, does she?”

“Never. Pretty sure that’s a family trait.”

I can’t help smiling.

It’s true.

Our grandmother is stubborn, relentless, and absolutely determined that I deal with this manor business immediately.

No delays.

No excuses.

No negotiations.

Never mind that I have work, ongoing projects, and a perfectly full life in Paris.

As far as she’s concerned, this was non-negotiable.

And now here I am.

In the Highlands.

“And your parents?” Ewan asks. “Doing well?”

“Yeah. Still working way too much. They made me promise to take pictures of the manor. Did you know my dad only came here once?”

“Really?”

“Yep. Says it’s too far away and too complicated. But honestly, I think he just never wanted the responsibility.”

Ewan nods slowly, as though he understands exactly.

“That’s probably how it landed in your lap.”

“It could’ve been yours, considering you actually live here, but no. Grandma decided I was the best person to ‘deal with it.’ Her exact words.”

His smile contains a little too much amusement for my liking.

“She’s always had a strong sense of responsibility... for other people.”

This time I laugh outright.

“That’s exactly it.”

Ewan straightens and glances around the room.

The customers seem absorbed in their conversations, but I can tell some of them are listening.

One of the men at the table by the window is openly watching us without even attempting to hide it.

I lean slightly closer.

“Is it just me, or has everyone been staring at me since I walked in?”

He shrugs with fake innocence.

“Glenfield’s small. A new face gets noticed.”

I sigh.

Fantastic.

I’m officially today’s entertainment.

“A new French face, you mean.”

“That too. But don’t forget, you’ve got Scottish blood.”

“Oh, trust me,” I say, pointing first to my hair and then to my freckled cheeks, “there’s no way I could forget even if I wanted to.”

My cousin shakes his head with a grin.

I find myself thinking I’d like to know him better.

He seems kind.

Comfortable here.

Completely at home.

The sort of ally who might prove useful if I need one.

Just as I’m about to climb off my stool, Ewan leans toward me, his tone suddenly more serious.

“Oh, and one more thing. If you hear noises…”

I stop with the keys in my hand and frown.

“In the manor, I mean.”

He pauses.

“It’s just the wind.”

I stare at him.

“It’s definitely not haunted,” he adds quickly.

A smile tugs at my lips.

“I’m a little old to believe in ghosts, you know.”

He glances discreetly toward the customers before looking back at me.

“They do.”

I follow his gaze.

Several pairs of eyes are fixed on us.

Not aggressively.

More like they’re watching someone walk toward a cliff and waiting to see if she’s actually going to step off the edge.

I burst out laughing.

I can’t help it.

“Seriously? Ghosts?”

Ewan doesn’t laugh.

He simply folds his arms, his face perfectly neutral.

“I’m just saying you’re going to hear stories. Lots of stories. And none of them will match. Everyone has their own version of what happened at the manor.”

I shake my head, still amused.

“Well, I can’t wait to hear them. They’ll make great stories for my coworkers when I get back to France.”

Ewan says nothing.

He just watches me with an expression I can’t quite read.

As though he’s torn between warning me and letting me find out for myself.

I slip the keys into my bag and give him one last smile.

“Thanks for everything, Ewan. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Be careful on the road. The manor looks close, but it’s actually pretty isolated.”

“I will.”

I head for the door, fully aware that every eye in the room follows me.

Just before I step outside, I hear an elderly voice murmur:

“She has no idea what she’s walking into.”

I pause for half a second with my hand on the handle.

Then I push the door open without looking back.

They can believe whatever they want.

I’m going to do my inspection, take my photos, and get home as quickly as possible.

Quick.

Efficient.

And goodbye, Scotland.

The road leading to the manor is exactly as picturesque and uncomfortable as I expected.

Potholes every ten feet.

Sharp bends that force me to slow almost to a crawl.

Rolling green hills dotted with sheep that seem to watch me pass with silent judgment.

I drive carefully, my hands tight on the steering wheel of my rental car, wondering whether I should’ve accepted Ewan’s offer after all.

Not because of ghosts, obviously.

Just because I have the distinct feeling I’m driving deeper into a postcard that’s probably hiding rotten foundations and nonexistent insulation.

The manor appears around a bend, and I instinctively ease off the gas.

It’s imposing.

Not in a fairy-tale castle sort of way.

More in a family estate abandoned for far too long sort of way.

Gray stone walls disappear beneath ivy in places. The windows are dark. The massive front door looks as though it hasn’t been opened in years.

I park in front of the entrance, switch off the engine, and sit there for a few seconds with my hands still on the wheel.

So this is my inheritance.

I step out of the car, slam the door shut, and slowly make my way toward the porch.

The wind is stronger here than in the village.

It rattles the surrounding trees and whistles against the stone walls.

I pull the key ring from my pocket.

There are at least ten keys, each older than the last.

I start with the largest one—the one that looks like it belongs to a medieval dungeon.

It doesn’t even fit the lock.

I try the second.

Then the third.

The fourth finally produces a click.

Slowly, I turn the key and push.

The door opens with a creak straight out of a low-budget horror movie.

The interior is dark, cold, and smells closed up.

But contrary to what I expected, it’s not completely falling apart.

The furniture is still there, hidden beneath white sheets that make everything look like rows of silent ghosts.

The floorboards creak beneath my feet but hold firm.

I close the door behind me and switch on my phone’s flashlight.

And then, in the near-total silence, I hear a sound.

A creak.

Slow.

Steady.

I glance up at the ceiling.

It’s just the wind, I tell myself.

But a small voice in the back of my head adds:

Or maybe it isn’t.

I shake my head, annoyed with myself.

Good grief, Clementine.

You’re twenty-five years old.

You don’t believe in ghosts.

I move farther down the main hallway, sweeping the flashlight beam across the walls as I go.

Dusty portraits hang in neat rows.

Members of the Fraser family I’ve never met.

And at the end of the corridor stands a partially open door.

I approach cautiously and push it wider with my fingertips.

The kitchen.

Large.

Old-fashioned.

An enormous stone fireplace dominates one wall, while a heavy wooden table occupies the center of the room.

The cupboards are still full of dishes.

The utensils remain neatly stored away.

As if someone simply set everything down one day and walked away without ever coming back.

I set my bag on the table, pull out my notebook, and write:

Property Inspection — Fraser Manor — Day One

But just as I finish the first line, I hear another sound.

Closer this time.

I freeze.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I catch a shadow moving past the window.

My heart jumps into my throat.

I spin around, breathing hard, my phone flashlight aimed directly at the glass.

Nothing.

There’s nothing there.

“It’s just the wind, Clementine,” I mutter.

Or maybe it isn’t.