Duty And Passion In The Highlands: A Scottish Medieval Historical Highlander Collection

by Adamina Young

  “Then the sooner we get started the better,” Margaret said grimly. Malle said nothing for a moment, so Margaret waited and drummed her fingers on the table. Malle sighed inwardly. She had wanted to keep the storeroom a private place where she could be alone and no one could find her, but her mother did not give up easily.

  “Very well, Mammy,” she said in a defeated tone, and led Margaret reluctantly to the library, where she pulled out the book and led the way into the hidden room behind the bookcase.

  Margaret gasped when she saw it. “This is a treasure trove, Malle!” she exclaimed.

  “It is,” Malle agreed. “I have tried to put everything in some kind of order but it needs a different kind of mind from mine to do it!”

  Margaret looked at her fondly. “Not you,” she laughed. “Leave it to me, and we will see if we can piece some more of our family history together. I would love to find out about all of it!” She gave Malle’s backside a playful pat. “Go riding and do not pass into Dunbar land. I do not care what the Laird says or how well intentioned he may be, but we are only safe if we stay on our side of the Cut.”

  Malle nodded and turned away.

  “Promise me, Malle,” Margaret insisted, her voice stern and commanding. Malle knew that disobeying her mother when she spoke in that tone was not a good idea!

  “I promise, Mammy,” she replied, smiling. “Don’t worry about me.” She turned away and left, but Margaret MacEwan watched her as she walked out.

  I am her mother, she thought. It is my duty to worry.

  From her window, she watched Malle and Arthur trot away in the direction of the graveyard. Since it was shared by the whole village of Drumnadour, it was in neutral territory, so Malle was as safe there as it was possible to be.

  Malle had taken some carnations from the castle hothouses with the intention of putting them on Isobell’s grave. The cemetery was ancient—some of the graves were four hundred years old—but fortunately both the Dunbars and the MacEwans had a mausoleum of their own. She wondered which one Isobell would be interred in, since she had been born a MacEwan but had become a Dunbar by marriage. Which family had claimed her? She went into her own family’s first, and searched amongst all the coffins in the narrow niches where they rested. There was no Isobell Maria MacEwan Dunbar anywhere. She found her mother, her great-aunt, her aunt, and her grandmother and grandfather, but no Isobell rested there.

  She was not sure the Dunbar mausoleum would be accessible to her but she tried the door anyway, and to her surprise it opened. She stepped tentatively into the dark interior, feeling a sense of creeping dread as she imagined the hostile spirits of all the Dunbars around her. Again, she crept around the coffins, but could find nothing. She frowned in puzzlement. Surely Isobell could not be buried amongst the graves of the villagers? That would be a serious insult indeed!

  She did find something, however. There was a book of condolences on a lectern inside the building, and when she opened it and paged through it she came to a page that was wholly dedicated to Isobell. It had been written by Donnan and obviously been done in anger.

  * * *

  My beloved Isobell, you were the center of my life, even though we had such a short time together to enjoy our love, and I can never forgive my family for separating us in death. But at least my brother made sure that you are resting under the oak tree where we were married, and for that I will always love him. Soon, we will be together again in heaven, and no one will ever be able to part us again. I have a feeling it will be soon, my treasure, because I cannot live without you. I will count every moment till we meet again. Goodbye, my Isobell, my beloved.

  * * *

  Malle was shocked. So that was the answer! Isobell was denied a place with both the MacEwans and the Dunbars, but Jamie had found somewhere even more special to both of them. Malle knew vaguely where the tree was, since it was a famous landmark in the area, but she was not completely certain. There were several hand-drawn maps of the area amongst the documents she had looked through, and she knew that it was not far away, but to see it she would have to cross the Cut onto Dunbar land. She wavered for a moment, then made up her mind. She would do it, but her mother must never know.

  Craig had decided that it was time to take a day off that day. He had been helping some of his tenants with the sheep shearing for the last week and had been taking rather a lot out of himself. He had been doing much thinking about Malle MacEwan too and wondering why she disturbed him so much.

  He was not the kind of man who had much trouble with women, since usually they were only too willing to fall at his feet. Malle was an exception to that rule. Not only did she refuse to fall at his feet, but he thought there was a reasonable possibility that she would stomp on his toes given half a chance. He had no time for her. He told himself that over and over again but the message was not being received by his heart, only his head.

  It was a cloudy but otherwise pleasant morning, and he decided to take himself along to the place he loved best on the whole of his father’s extensive estate: the oak tree. It was said that the tree was five hundred years old, but no one knew if that was truth or legend. It was certainly a very old and unusual tree, its branches gnarled and twisted, its bark gray, chipping, and peeling in the harsh Highland climate.

  Usually the only trees which thrived in the unforgiving weather were pines, spruces, and firs, but he loved to sit underneath the old oak, lean his head back on the trunk, think and daydream, plan and make pictures in the air. If anyone had seen him like this they would have been astonished, and his reputation as a big tough man would have been ruined.

  The fact that there was a gravestone next to him had never bothered him. Isobell Dunbar, who had been born a MacEwan, was more of a legend than an ancestor, and since she and her husband Donnan never had any children, they were not blood kin.

  He came in sight of the big tree, yawning, then stopped dead. Underneath the spreading branches of the oak was Malle MacEwan, and she was crying bitterly. He stood still for a fraction of a second, wondering what to do, then he ducked behind a fir tree to watch her. The fact that she was on his family’s land had not occurred to him at all, because suddenly his mind was wholly occupied by the woman in front of him, and all he wanted to do at that moment was to be near her.

  Malle had found the tree quite easily, and she dismounted to let Arthur crop the grass for a while. She made her way up to the oak very slowly, and saw that the grave was clearly marked with a rectangular shaped iron fence about a foot high which was rusted with age and weather. The graves in the crypts were not open to the weather and were in immaculate condition, but Isobell’s was covered in weeds and fallen leaves, most of them rotten. Malle doubted anyone had visited it in years and it was a sad, sad sight.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as she pulled up wild plants of all descriptions, cleared away oak leaves and, since she had no other tools, she swept the earth smooth with her hands.

  She sat back to look at the gravestone. It was made of what had been polished granite, but it had been overgrown by moss and lichen then scoured by years of wind and salt water from the Irish Sea, which was only a mile or so away.

  The inscription on it had been almost completely worn away, but she scraped away the plant life and read: Isobell Maria MacEwan Dunbar, Beloved Wife of Donnan. Rest in Peace, My Angel, Until We Meet Again in Heaven.

  They could have spent a long and happy life together if Isobell had lived longer; perhaps there would have been children, and Donnan would never have gone to live in a monastery. They were such a tragic couple; everything that could have gone wrong for them had gone wrong—the worst thing of all was that Isobell’s death had never been explained.

  Malle caressed the stone with her fingertips then read the words aloud in a low murmur. She wished she had brought a vase with her, since she had nothing to put the flowers in. She laid them on the grave and said a silent prayer for the repose of Isobell’s soul, and that of her grieving husband, then she smiled thr
ough her tears. They were together now.

  “They say she committed suicide,” said a deep voice from behind Malle. She jumped in fright then rose to her feet, twisting around to face him in one fluid movement. The dagger she always carried with her seemed to leap into her hand and she pointed it at him, scowling with rage.

  Craig put his hands up, but he was not afraid. He did not even pretend to be. He could have disarmed her in the time it had taken her to rise to her feet, but he admired her spirit too much to disillusion her. Her ability in hand-to-hand combat would be feeble; she was a woman, and that was not her fault, but she really ought not to be challenging men twice her size, he thought. He stepped fully into her line of sight and she followed him all the way, turning as he turned.

  “Don’t tell me I am on your land, Dunbar,” she said, her voice gritty and threatening. “I am just leaving, if you will allow me. This is our relative’s grave. I had heard her and Donnan’s story and I wanted to come and see her; this is her grave, which unfortunately is on your land. I apologize for trespassing.”

  He frowned. “She is no relative of mine; she is not blood of my blood. But you may go, MacEwan. I cannot be bothered with you; I have better things to fritter away my time on.” His tone was patronizing and dismissive, and suddenly Malle lost all control of her reason. He was over six feet tall, weighed far more than she did, and could have knocked her over with one finger.

  She gave a roar of rage and lunged at him with the dagger, but before it struck him, her wrist was caught in a grip of iron, and Craig’s steely gray eyes were fixed on her with a penetrating hostile glare. She tried to wrest her arm free, but he was too strong.

  Before, Craig had been merely amusing himself and testing how far he could push her, but now it appeared that he had gone too far. This was not a game for her; it was deadly serious, and now it had become serious for him too.

  He twisted the dagger out of her hand, but she would not give up trying to pull away, and knowing that she was now defenseless, she became as aggressive as a cornered bear. It did not even cross her mind to ask him to let her go, and for a moment they were both held captive by their stubbornness; neither would back down first.

  Then with a growl, he brought his lips down on hers in a hard, punishing kiss.

  8

  Giving In

  Malle did not even try to put up a fight after that. Craig was enraged and determined to have his way, and he had backed her up against the tree trunk and was pinning her there with his weight. As well as that, she realized that she did not want to resist him. His lips, which had been hard and brutal at the beginning, were now caressing hers with a gentle pressure, and she let out an involuntary moan of pleasure.

  She could not believe this feeling. It was as though something had ignited a flame inside her, and she felt herself becoming breathless with passion. She could not control herself.

  It was not her first kiss; she had been kissed many times before, but not like this. He thrust his hands into her hair and ran the silky strands through his fingers, and without even realizing, Malle wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him closer. The rasp of his beard against her face was so pleasurable that she ran her hands over it and heard herself moaning again. What was happening to her?

  But that beard reminded her that he was very much a man. A Dunbar man. Her enemy. She tried to push him away and of course it was useless, but eventually he let her go.

  They stood scowling at each other, both breathless and furious. Craig was not only angry with Malle, but with himself. She was trespassing, but that was not what had maddened him; what had really enraged him was her defiance. He disliked and desired her at the same time, and he felt helpless to reconcile these emotions.

  His body wanted her quite desperately, but she obviously did not feel the same, and this baffled him. How could a tiny woman like this stand up to a man ten inches taller than she and not be afraid? He was used to putting the fear of God into men who were much bigger in size and strength than this little woman. However, he had seen not one sign of fear in her eyes as she lunged at him, and there had been no hesitation in her movements. She was as wild as a she-cat defending her kittens.

  Malle knew she should be furious—she was furious—but not only with Craig. She was angry with herself for enjoying the kiss so much.

  If he expected her to calm down, he was sorely disappointed. He could almost see the sparks flying from her eyes.

  “So that is how the men in your family treat their women,” she said scathingly. She felt as though he could read her thoughts, and was feeling embarrassed and vulnerable, and as always at times like these, she lashed out.

  She raked him up and down with a withering stare. “I am sorry I set foot on your land, but rest assured it will never happen again. If I see you on neutral ground, do not speak to me, do not look at me, in fact...do not acknowledge me in any way, and I will do you the same courtesy.”

  His anger was now rising to meet her own. “Have a care, MacEwan!” he said angrily. “You are still on my land and I would be quite within my rights to arrest and imprison you. My family is as dear to me as yours is to you, and do not forget it. If you carry on in this vein I will not be responsible for my actions, so watch your mouth!”

  He began to walk away but Malle was not ready to be quiet yet. “No wonder Isobell died in your family’s care. The Dunbars are obviously used to taking just what they want!”

  Craig stopped in his tracks and bunched his hands into fists. “Not another word,” he growled. He was at the limit of his self control, and he knew that one more sound from her would be one too many. He would never strike a woman, but he was not above throwing one in the dungeon.

  Fortunately, Malle had said all she wanted to, and turned away from him. The last she saw of him was his broad back as he rode away in the direction of his castle.

  The last few moments had been a wrenching emotional ordeal for Malle. She tried to contain herself until he was out of sight, then she collapsed on the ground and started to sob her heart out. Being with Craig, held against the solid warmth of his body, having his powerful arms around her, his firm lips moving gently on hers, had been the most blissful moment of her whole life, and yet she had driven him away. How she wished he were not the enemy!

  She was unaware that tears were trickling down her face until she saw a damp spot on her dress, then she hastily wiped away the moisture from her cheeks.

  She sat for a long time looking at the grave before she thought about standing up, intending to say a last prayer and go home, but to her surprise, there was a priest standing behind her. He was an elderly man; tall, bent, and wrinkled, with faded blue eyes, but he had the kindest face she had ever seen, and benevolence radiated from him as he smiled at her. Malle hoped he had not witnessed the argument between herself and Craig, and their subsequent kiss; as a celibate man, it might have shocked him.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he greeted her, and she noted that he had quite a fine strong voice for a man who looked to be in his seventies. “Let me help you up.”

  Malle could have managed quite well on her own, but she allowed him to grasp her wrist and help her, realizing for the first time that it was tender from Craig’s grasp, and slightly bruised. She felt a surge of anger. Why had she even thought that she might like him?

  “I am Father John Baxter,” the priest said softly. “Why are you looking at this grave? It is a long way from the others.”

  “I am Malle MacEwan, and Isobell MacEwan was my ancestor, so I was curious,” she replied. “I had heard about her and Donnan’s love story, and I have read some pieces of their diaries. They were passionately in love, and what happened to Isobell was such a tragedy.”

  Father Baxter nodded. “Indeed, and a mystery,” he sighed. “Come to the church. I have priests’ diaries going back centuries. Maybe they could shed some light on the matter, if we add it to what you have uncovered already.”

  “I am trespassing on MacEwan land, Fat
her,” she pointed out. “So I must go back.”

  Father John shook his head emphatically. “In the church you are on God’s land, not the Dunbars’ or anyone else’s,” he replied. “That is why you can take sanctuary here and no one can touch you.”

  Malle sighed with relief.

  “And we can eat,” he suggested. “Plain fare, but it will sustain you.”

  “Thank you, Father. I am rather hungry,” she admitted. They chatted about all the affairs of the church, her life at the castle, and the recent problems on the border.

  When they got to the Church of St Laurence the Martyr, they went inside to Father John’s humble quarters, which was no more than a room with two chairs, a table, and a narrow bed with a fire for cooking and heating. The only decoration was a crucifix on the wall above his bed, and the entire place would not have filled the dress cupboard in Malle’s bedroom.

  There were a few shelves with bread, cheese, milk, and some earthenware dishes which probably contained barley and oats, a flagon of ale, and a few apples. Malle had seen a goat and a few chickens outside with a small kitchen garden, so Father John was self sufficient in this beautiful place. She envied him the solitary simplicity of his life. He put a bannock, a slice of cheese, and a mug of ale in front of her, then looked at her frankly.

  “You said that you wanted to find out more about the Dunbars?” he asked.

  “Isobell and Donan,” she replied, nodding. “Because their story seems to have much to do with the feud that is going on between our families today. For a while, during Isobell’s short life, it seemed to cool down a bit, but now it has flared up again and I have no idea why. We found a man’s body floating in the Cut the other day. He had been stabbed through the heart, but no one has any idea why, or who could have done it. He was a common working man with no valuables, so it cannot have been robbery.” She looked up at him and shrugged. “I know about it,” Father John said slowly. “Laird Dunbar came here after the death with the body to have it blessed and anointed. He was most upset and so was his son, Craig. I have never seen either of them that way before. His gentle blue eyes looked sad as he remembered.