After the blessing, he welcomed the congregation—who had come from both castles—to see the marriage: every last chambermaid, stable hand, and gardener was there, as well as tenant farmers and their wives. The chapel was simply too small, so they were having the nuptial Mass in the courtyard.
“Never in all my years as a priest has it given me so much pleasure to join a young couple in Holy Matrimony,” he said happily. “Why? Because not only are two souls and two families joining together, but an ancient wound is being healed. The MacEwans and the Dunbars will no longer be enemies but united in the best bond of all; the bond of love, as Craig and Malle say their vows and join their lives together forever. Let us pray.”
The Mass continued, but neither Craig nor Malle heard much of it until they came to the vows.
“Craig,” Father John invited, “as the provider and protector, please go first.”
Craig’s smile was infinitely loving as he looked at the woman who was his whole world. “Malle,” he began, “I adore you, but it has not always been so. When we first met we thought that we would be enemies, but somehow love crept up on us and brought us together, as we were meant to be. So today I pledge my life and all that I have to you, and I vow to love you and be faithful to you for the rest of my days. Please tell me you will be my wife.”
“I will be your wife, Craig,” she replied, looking into his eyes and smiling. “For you are the only man I have ever loved, and the only one I could ever imagine walking beside on life’s journey. You are the only man whose children I want to bear. There has never been anyone else for me, and there will never be. I swear to be a loving and faithful wife to you, and if we are blessed with children, the best mother I can be. Will you be my husband?”
“I will,” he replied, his voice trembling with emotion. Then he slid the golden ring on her finger and they were married, and despite the solemnity of the ceremony, a great cheer went up from the assembled spectators.
The rest of the Mass could not pass quickly enough for them. Father Baxter, sensing their urgency, performed the rest of the ceremony a little more quickly than usual, and soon it was over. They then shared their first loving kiss as husband and wife.
Craig looked down into her eyes with their long black lashes as he caressed her cheek, and said, “Lady Malle Dunbar, I cannot wait to make you mine.”
“And I cannot wait to be yours, Laird Craig Dunbar,” she smiled lovingly.
“Then let us eat and be courteous to our guests for a while,” he suggested, “then we can slip away. All I want to do is have you in my arms, all to myself in our bed.”
“Then we want the same thing, Laird of mine.” She laughed and kissed him, then they went into the throng of guests to be hugged, kissed, and congratulated by hundreds of eager guests. Everyone had been provided for, even the most humble of the servants, who had never eaten so well.
They had been very abstemious with their drinking, watering down their wine and taking only a little whisky, whereas the rest of the guests were becoming distinctly tipsy. After an hour or so, they saw their chance and slipped away. At the bottom of the staircase Craig swept Malle up in his arms and ran upstairs, carrying her in his arms without apparent effort.
At the top he put her down. “This is your castle,” he observed. “Tell me where to go.”
She pointed in the direction of the bedroom and began to tug on his hand, but he stood still, laughing.
“What?” she asked, baffled.
“Well as long as we are standing here, this is as good a place as any for one of these,” he said, as his mouth swooped down on hers.
Malle clung to him, loving the warm sweet pressure of his lips moving on hers and the gentle invasion of his tongue as it stroked hers. It was heavenly, but all too soon it ended, and she took his hand and began to lead him to the room that had been prepared for their first night together. It was magnificent, and he looked around in awe.
The bed was made of richly carved mahogany, and the luster of the rich brown wood was repeated in the rust satin coverlet and fat pillows that rested on it. The hangings were a warm buttercream color which was echoed in the earthenware bowls of mountain avens, daisies, and heather perching on round mahogany tables scattered around the room.
There were hanging embroideries of horses and hounds, flowers and landscapes, and scenes of everyday life, and then Craig looked out of the window to Loch Erin, its navy blue waters ruffled by the breeze blowing in from the sea, which was a misty smudge on the horizon a few miles away.
He turned to her and put his arms around her waist, then gathered her into his arms with a deep sigh of satisfaction. “My lovely wife,” he whispered. “Alone at last. Do you know what I want to do first?”
“No,” she whispered, then she gave a nervous gulp of fear.
“I want to hold you, just hold you, till your fear is gone,” he said gently, looking into her eyes. “Because I know you are afraid.”
“I am...a little,” she admitted.
He turned her around and began to undo the laces at the back of her dress until she was wearing only her chemise, then pulled the coverlet on the blanket back so that she could climb into bed. Once there, she pulled the bedclothes up to her chin and watched him unfolding his plaid and taking off the silver brooch that pinned it to his shoulder. Soon he was wearing nothing but his shirt. It reached the middle of his thighs, for which she was thankful, because she was not yet ready for the sight of his whole body.
He pulled back the covers and lay down beside her, then wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close so that she buried her face in the crook between his neck and shoulder. His flesh was warm and firm, and he smelled of lavender oil and his own natural musk, which was like perfume to her. It was like being in heaven, she thought, cocooned in warmth and love.
When he began to kiss and stroke her, she was no longer afraid, and when they came together at last he eased her past the pain to the ultimate pleasure beyond it. Afterward, they lay, sated with love, lost in the afterglow.
“Now you are mine,” he murmured, lost in her eyes. “I do not know what I did to deserve you, but you are, Malle Dunbar.”
“And you are mine.” She caressed the bristle on his cheek, relishing the ticklish rasp under her palm. “Oh, my love, I never realized it was possible to be so happy.”
“It is a revelation for me too,” he said in wonder. “And now that our families are friends, there is a bright future ahead.”
“Especially if we have children,” she murmured, her eyes twinkling.
“Hmmm...yes.” He smiled, then folded his arms around her and kissed her again. “Shall we make a little Isobell?”
She nodded happily. “And if we fail this time we can go on trying until we succeed!”
His eyes widened in mock horror. “You will kill me!” he said fearfully.
She giggled and kissed him softly. “But at least you will die with a smile on your face!”
The day after the wedding, Malle picked some mountain avens from the hillside just outside the castle gates. It was a bracing but sunny day, and she felt as though the sun was shining out of her. She was married, really married at last to the man of her dreams, and she knew in some mysterious way that it was Isobell and Donnan whom she had to thank.
When she got to the gravestone, which she had scrubbed with her own hands to restore it to its former pristine state, she kissed it. “Thank you, Isobell,” she whispered, “from one wife to another.”
She laid the flowers tenderly on the grave and felt tears sting her eyes. She could not contain all the joy she was feeling; it was completely overwhelming her. Presently, Craig came up behind her and gently lifted her to her feet, then folded his arms around her and laid his cheek on her hair.
“I think she was looking after us,” Malle murmured. “She and Donnan. I am sure they were there when we needed them, and saved our lives.”
“They were,” Craig agreed. “Now, Lady Dunbar, I am hungry.”
&
nbsp; “You are always hungry!” She laughed. “I swear that you could empty the castle stores singlehandedly!”
“When I said ‘hungry’,” he said mischievously, eyes twinkling, “did I mention food?”
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Prologue
A week before her death, May Stevenson, Lyall and Fenella’s mother, was talking about it almost as though she was looking forward to it.
“Remember, you two,” she said, wagging a finger at them as they sat on either side of her bed, “I will be looking down on you from heaven—if I get there, of course!”
“Of course you will get there, Mama!” Fenella took her mother’s hands between her own and laid them against her cheek. “And you and Papa can look down on us and wish nightmares upon us if we misbehave.”
May laughed. “I would never do that,” she laughed. Her gray-green eyes crinkled as she looked fondly at her daughter. Her voice was hoarse and her breathing was heavy and labored, but she had not lost her sense of humor.
“However, if you do not follow my instructions exactly, I will come back and haunt you!”
Lyall took May’s other hand and kissed it, smiling at her. God, I love her so much, he thought. “So what are your instructions, Mama?”
May was suddenly seized by a bout of coughing that was so violent that she lost the power of speech for a moment. Fenella and Lyall looked at each other anxiously, then Lyall sat on the bed and put his arm around his mother. He waited until the paroxysm ceased, then gently kissed her hair.
“Perhaps you should stop talking now,” he suggested.
“No!” Her voice was firm and definite. “I am not dead yet, Son, and I will talk until death steals my last breath from me!”
Lyall knew his mother; it was best to stay silent at a time like this. She then said, “As I was saying, I expect you both to marry nice, kind people. They do not have to be beautiful or rich, but they must be kind and generous. You must have at least four children each, two of each sex, to ensure a new generation of Stevensons. You and your children will all go to Confession once a month and confess every little trifle!”
She loved them and could not get enough of looking at their faces, as she knew that she did not have much longer to live. The consumption that had affected her for the last five years, which had stripped her of her flesh and almost robbed her of her breath, was greedily eating her up as if she were a tasty morsel of meat. However, she did not fear death, for she knew that her beloved husband Roy was waiting for her in heaven, having gone there six months previously, and she was desperate to see him again, for her life was empty without him.
As he was now the Laird proper of the Stevenson Estate, Lyall knew he would feel May’s absence keenly, for the weight of running the entire estate had landed on his shoulders after his father’s unexpected demise. His mother had been a constant source of support and advice, and he knew that when she died, not only would he miss her on an emotional level, he would feel the absence of her valuable help and support since she knew almost as much as her father had about matters of animal husbandry, agriculture, and accounting. She also had a way with people that he did not have and never would. She was not just his mother—she was one of the most extraordinary people he had ever met.
Presently May’s maid came in to give her a bed bath, then Fenella and Lyall kissed her and left.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Fenella burst into tears. Lyall put his arms around her and held her for a while. “Shhh, my little sister,” he murmured. “We will miss her, but she will be with Paw and will no longer be suffering. She will be in paradise.”
Fenella nodded. “I know, Lyall, but the thought of never seeing her again…” She burst into fresh sobs. Lyall gathered her more tightly against him, feeling as if he could weep himself.
He was ready, he told himself, over and over again. He was ready, but when May breathed her last breath, he realized he was nowhere near ready, and never would be.
The Funeral
May Stevenson’s funeral was attended by the whole population of the village of Kinlochan, the estates surrounding it, and the tenant farmers for miles around, which was a measure of how much she was loved. She considered herself a very fortunate woman, and believed in sharing what she had with those who had much less.
The nobility looked down on her; indeed, there were those who thought her slightly soft in the head because of her charity work. They believed that God had given everyone his or her place in the world—some nobility, some peasants—and between those two a great gulf had been fixed, like that between heaven and hell.
May thought this was hypocritical in the extreme. As a student of the scriptures herself, she could quote chapter and verse from the Good Book and those brave enough to take her on soon found out that the little white-haired lady with the bright blue eyes was a force to be reckoned with.
Consequently, Lady May carried on feeding the poor, reading stories to the local children, and teaching the girls to sew. She was tireless in her efforts to improve the lives of everyday people. Her next project was a little school for the village children where they could learn how to write by the priest. They would need scrolls and ink, and desks. They could also help with chores that the priest had for them as a form of payment, learning more things in the meantime! She had everything planned, but the savagery of her illness, the scourge of consumption, had prevented her from making her dream a reality. And with her death, it would probably never become one.
* * *
Laird Lyall Stevenson was not good at being sociable, but a big funeral was expected by him. He cared nothing about the opinions of others, and would have much preferred a smaller, private affair, but he had to think of his sister. At fifteen, Fenella was of the age when young men were beginning to notice her, and although a funeral was a solemn occasion, it was also a chance for the eligible members of both sexes to meet and mingle. He had little time for this, especially while he was mourning his beloved mother, but he would do anything for Fenella, whose future stretched out before her, still full of promise.
At the graveside Lyall had maintained a stiff and solemn dignity, while Fenella had sobbed on his shoulder. He wanted to weep himself, but the family honor depended on him appearing invincible.
Now he could see that Fenella appeared to have recovered a little, and was chatting to a group of friends, laughing occasionally, albeit in a subdued manner. He hoped she would recover quickly, since she had so much to look forward to, but she had the resilience of youth and a naturally happy disposition.
He decided to have a moment to himself and bounded upstairs to the first tier of the battlements where he could stand and think uninterrupted for a while.
Unfortunately, someone had got there before him. A very beautiful young woman was standing by one of the low parts of the crenellated wall, looking out to the sea. Her hair was waist-length and wavy, and of a shade somewhere between blonde and red. At any other time he would have welcomed her company, but not now. He was about to retrace his steps but she turned and saw him.
“M'Laird," she said, curtseying. “I am so sorry for your loss. Lady Stevenson was a good woman with a big heart, and we will all miss her.”
“Thank you,” Lyall replied. He was feeling the beginning of a headache behind his eyes and was not in the mood for talking to strangers, no matter how beautiful they were.
“I am Ailith Galloway," she introduced herself, then frowned. “Are you well, M'Laird?”
“No, I am not,"
he replied, then realizing how abrupt he sounded, he shook his head and apologized. “Forgive me, Mistress—it has been a long, hard day.”
Ailith looked at the big strong man before her with a feeling of pity. The castle was huge, the estate enormous, and his last source of moral support had gone. No wonder he looked so depressed.
“Of course it has, M'Laird," she said kindly. “I will leave you to your thoughts, and I will pray for you.”
He gave her a smile and a little bow, then promptly forgot about her.
He stayed on the battlements for a little while, weeping out of sight of everyone else. It was a womanly weakness, he knew, but he could not help it; his mother, the rock upon which his life had been built, was no more, and now he had no one to lean on. He chided himself for his self-pity, but surely even the strongest man was allowed to cry at his mother’s funeral?
He squared his shoulders and dashed away his tears, then went downstairs. He had to be strong for Fenella.
Ailith descended the stairs slowly, her face troubled. Poor Laird Stevenson looked like a man with the world on his shoulders, but she thought that a supportive wife might do him a world of good. She wondered why he was not yet married, since he was an attractive man in the prime of life, but no doubt he had personal reasons that were nothing to do with anyone else. She had felt a tug of attraction to him the first time she saw him, and wished that she had more time to spend with him, but she had no time to ponder the matter further.
Her betrothed, Jock McCauley, was striding towards her, smiling from ear to ear. He was a medium man in every way—medium height, medium build, hair that was a dun shade of brown, and gray eyes. He had been chosen for Ailith by her parents, who now lived on the Shetland island of Yell. They had known his parents and considered him “a good catch,” but Ailith had her doubts.
Highlander's Ancient Vengeance (Scottish Medieval Historical Romance) Page 13