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

by Adamina Young

  He glared at her for a moment then clamped his mouth shut again.

  Malle went around to the front of the crowd to join her parents, and Margaret frowned at her. “Malle, you should not be here!” she hissed. “This is no place for you!”

  “I want to see what is going on, Mammy,” she replied. “I am part of this family and this concerns me too.”

  Margaret sighed. “Stay quiet then,” she instructed. Malle nodded.

  Craig’s eyes followed her as she left him and went to stand with her parents. Her hair was still tangled from sleep, her dress not properly laced and crumpled because it had been lying in a heap on the floor. If he had not disliked her so much he would have found her adorable in her tousled state.

  For a moment, their gazes locked, green eyes on gray, and hers widened as if in surprise before they looked away...but in that moment, all his animosity towards her vanished. He knew he needed to talk to her and make things right between them.

  When Craig began to speak, he did so in Gaelic, so that all his workers could not use the excuse that they could not understand him. Nearly everyone in the Highlands spoke Gaelic, but Craig spoke it like a working person and not like a nobleman, so they respected him more.

  “The reason why we are all here today is because another man has died,” he said heavily, “from Laird MacEwan’s estate, and his name was Angus Morrison.”

  Malle gave a gasp and her heart missed a beat. She was acquainted with Angus; he and his wife and four children lived on a cottage on the edge of the estate, and she knew them to be hardworking and kind people. What could they have done to deserve this?

  “Something sinister is going on,” Craig was saying gravelly. “And we are determined to get to the bottom of this before someone else is killed, so I am asking you all, if you can think of anything that might be of help to us, please come and see my father or me. My father is your Laird, I am his son, and it is our duty to take care of you. Whatever you say will be kept secret, and this I swear on the blood of Christ.” He crossed himself and stood back.

  Malle was acutely aware of him but determined not to show it. Her eyes swept over the faces of all the men in front of her and lit on Alan Bruce, who was standing at the edge of the crowd. She had not really looked at him before.

  She had disliked him laying his hands on her when he had helped her father to subdue her; something within her found him sinister and threatening, especially when he stared at her as he was doing now.

  Malle prided herself that she never dropped her gaze from anyone, and this time was no exception. She stared at him until his eyes slid away from hers, then he wandered away and disappeared from her sight. She felt frightened; she always trusted her instinct and it had never failed her before.

  Still, it would be unjust to condemn an innocent man on the basis of her suspicions, and she would look foolish, so she said nothing.

  Presently, the two lairds went inside and Craig followed them, much to Malle’s relief. She was not in the mood for another spat with him. She went upstairs to wash, but was unwilling to admit to herself that she wanted to look pretty for him, then came down into the courtyard with the intention of taking Arthur out for a ride, only to find that Craig was standing there watching her coming out of the main entrance.

  She was wearing a riding habit of gray wool and her hair was bound up and tied in a knot on top of her head. She looked elegant, yet mischievous at the same time, and he found himself desperately craving another one of her kisses. Not a stolen one, but a tender, willing exchange of affection.

  Malle sped up her pace and gave him a terse nod of acknowledgement, to which he replied with an equally abrupt bow, and he watched her straight-backed purposeful stride as she walked into the stables and found Arthur placidly chewing hay. He whickered in greeting as he saw her, and she laughed softly and rubbed his velvet nose before kissing it.

  “He is a beautiful horse,” Craig said, as he came up behind her to stroke Arthur’s mane. He could think of nothing else to say; he, who had always been so confident with women, felt like a ten-year-old boy again, tongue-tied with shyness.

  “Yes, you said so before.” Malle’s tone was irritable. The groom had saddled Arthur and Malle was about to lead him out, but Craig was standing in her way.

  “Excuse me, please,” she snapped. Craig could have kissed her right there and then. She was at her most lovely when she was angry.

  “I would like to talk to you,” he said reasonably. “Surely that is not too much to ask?”

  She stared at him for a moment and bunched her fists, then screwed up her eyes. “Write me a letter,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Now let me out, Dunbar, before I remind you again whose castle this is and call a guard!”

  He looked down into her eyes, now dark with anger, then bowed and stepped back, but his eyes followed her as she walked away.

  Malle knew that she would calm down in a short while. Somehow Arthur’s placid temperament transferred itself to her as she was riding him. The opposite happened with Craig; just looking at him made her angry.

  The Highlands were beautiful in spring, when the heather, having rested after winter, began to spread its pink carpet over the hills, preparing for the glorious riot of color in the summer. Bluebells lurked underneath the fir trees, and the bright lemon yellow stripes of gorse bushes were everywhere. The farmers were busy planting seeds, plowing fields, and delivering baby animals of all varieties.

  Malle stopped to watch a pair of lambs running and jumping on all four legs at once in the inimitable comic way of all baby sheep. Soon it would be time for their mothers to stop being balls of wool with legs and start resembling animals again when the shearing season began.

  A drop of water landed on the back of her hand and she groaned with disappointment. It was beginning to rain, however, this was not going to be a light shower, but a torrential downpour. She urged Arthur into a trot, then a canter, but even so, they were both drenched by the time they got back to the castle. Malle dismounted from Arthur and dripped her way along to the stables. There, to complete her miserable day, stood a determined and persistent Craig Dunbar.

  11

  An Apology

  “Are you still here?” She was annoyed and he could see that she was in a very bad mood.

  “Apparently.” He looked down at himself as if to check, then smiled at her.

  She sighed irritably. “I am soaked, and I am freezing. Can you please tell me what you want, Dunbar?”

  “First of all, can you please stop calling me by my surname?” he asked. “I have a perfectly serviceable Christian name, Craig. Can you bear to call me that?”

  She nodded.

  “May I call you Malle?” he asked.

  “If you wish,” she replied tersely. She was shivering and pulled her cloak around herself but that was drenched too.

  “You will catch a cold,” he said gently. Then, to her utter amazement, he took off his cloak and wrapped it around her, then swept her off her feet and ran across the courtyard from the stable to the main entrance of the castle. He put her down and stepped back with a low bow.

  “Thank you...Craig,” she said faintly, astonished. She called one of the maidservants to bring some mulled wine. “Sit in the parlor. I will be down soon.”

  Craig sat down by the fire. The two lairds were still talking, which was a small miracle, he thought. He had left them when the rain started and he knew that Malle would be back. He was alone for once, without anyone to disturb him, with no calls on his time, waiting for a beautiful woman to join him.

  Malle watched him for a few minutes from behind the edge of the door. He was utterly relaxed, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He almost looked like a different person, staring into the fire without making a sound. Off guard, his face looked peaceful, even gentle.

  Then suddenly he said, “You can come out now, Malle.” There was a laugh in his voice as he stood up.

  “How did you know I was here?” she
asked, as she went in and poured herself a glass of wine.

  “I have eyes on my ears,” he replied, eyes twinkling

  Malle laughed then spluttered as she choked on her wine. Her eyes were streaming tears, but for once they were not tears of anger, sadness, or pain—but laughter. He thumped her on her back, almost knocking her off her chair, and gradually her tears subsided; he wiped them away with a snow-white kerchief. Their faces were very close, but she did not pull back or push him away, and he held himself back from kissing her only with the utmost self-restraint. With any other woman he would have taken the chance, but not with Malle.

  At last, he took a deep breath and said: “I wanted to sincerely apologize for kissing you that day, especially in that manner. It was wrong of me, Malle.”

  She stared at him for a moment, stunned. It was the last thing she had expected him to say. “Why did you do it then?” she asked at last. “I was really afraid of you...you are so much bigger and stronger than I am, and I could have done nothing if you had forced yourself on me. I thought that you might, that you might kill me.”

  He was shocked. He sat forward in his seat and grabbed her hands in his. They looked impossibly small. No, she could not have done him much damage with these. He was surprised that she did not even try to pull away.

  “I am both sorry and ashamed.” His voice was gentle and he could not meet her eyes with his. “I did not think about what I was doing. I just wanted you to be quiet, and that was the quickest way I could think of to do it. But when you were in my arms, I did not want to let you go. It felt so...so right, and it had been a very long time since I kissed a woman, and I was just as shocked as you were, Malle. Now that I look back, I was so rough with you and I do not blame you for being displeased with me.”

  “Look at me,” she said quietly. He raised his head and she studied him for a moment, her gaze roaming over his face as if she wanted to memorize it.

  Malle saw a strong face, with a heavy brow over deep-set gray eyes. His nose was slightly Roman, and his mouth was beautifully sculpted, with a full and sensual lower lip. He had the kind of thick, springy hair that would never fall out, and his beard, though thick, was closely shaved to his face.

  When he was viewed in silhouette his head looked as though it was edged in fire as the sunlight struck it. He was a beautiful, strong, healthy man, and now that he had apologized for his mistake she could see the good heart that beat behind the tough exterior.

  Malle had a feeling that inside he was as soft as butter, but he could never express his tender feelings, since a man, especially a laird, was meant to show strength and not weakness.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, with a little smile. “It takes a big man to admit he is wrong.”

  He looked down at himself. “I cannot deny being a big man!” He laughed and she joined in, then slid her hands out from between his, and he suddenly felt bereft.

  “And I will confess that I felt something too,” she said awkwardly. “I liked being in your arms; you made me feel safe and I do not know why. However, you are a Dunbar, and I am a MacEwan, so there can never be anything between us.”

  He nodded resignedly and for some reason she was annoyed. Damn him! She wanted more of an argument, not immediate compliance!

  Kiss me anyway, she thought, looking hungrily at his lips, which were so close to hers. But she was disappointed, since he made no effort to do so.

  He sighed, nodding in agreement. “That is true,” he said sadly. “But I know that there will be a time when all this is over.” He looked out of the window, his eyes far away. “Maybe not soon, but you can never tell. Your father and mother are speaking to my father. Is that not a hopeful sign?”

  “Indeed,” she replied. “I hope something will come of it. There is one thing I need to tell you, though, Craig. There was a man standing amongst your workers, and he made me shiver in fear. Maybe I am being fanciful, but I did not like the look of him, and he stared at me as if he would bore a hole through me. There was such hate in his eyes! He has a long black beard, very greasy looking and dirty, gray hair and dark eyes, and he looked very big, but not fat. He looked like a barrel, in fact.”

  Craig laughed. “It sounds like Alan Bruce,” he replied. “I can understand why you would be scared, Malle; he is very fearsome-looking. Many folk do not like him because of that, but I assure you, he has been my father’s loyal worker for years and would not hurt a fly. I would trust him with my life.”

  “Hmmm,” she said doubtfully. “I will take your word for it, but my instincts tell me that there is something amiss with him. However, I cannot have a man arrested because I do not like his appearance, or there would be many more men in jail around these parts.”

  Craig laughed heartily at that. “You do us a great disservice, Malle,” he observed. “When God handed out gifts he gave nearly all of them to women. Look at you. You have beautiful soft skin, shining hair, gentle natures, alluring bodies, and you give the world the gift of children. What do we have? Hair everywhere, bones that jut out, big muscles, and ugly feet. Sometimes we even go bald. We are not pretty or delicate. Do not blame us, blame God!”

  “I can blame God and still be a little frightened, can I not?” she asked, then she smiled. It was the first great open smile she had given him, and he felt wonderful, as if she was blessing him.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he whispered.

  Her eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Th-thank you,” she stammered. “I doubt that, but thank you anyway.” She felt her face flushing and looked down at her hands, which she was twisting nervously on her lap. Kiss me, for the love of God! she thought desperately. Don’t make me have to do it!

  He put his big calloused hand over hers, and she looked up. His eyes were gentle as he leaned forward.

  Just when Malle thought she was going to get her wish, Laird Dunbar and the MacEwans came back into the room. They both looked grim, but no one looked angry.

  “Craig,” Malcolm Dunbar said thoughtfully, “have you had any word from the tenants or crofters about the matter we discussed?”

  Craig shook his head. “No, Father,” he replied. “But there has not been much time.”

  The lairds sat down face to face. Malle looked up at her mother, who was almost weeping with happiness.

  “They are working together,” she whispered in Malle’s ear.

  Malle frowned and raised her eyebrows. “Really?” she mouthed, and Margaret nodded. Malle was not so sure. Hundreds of years of fighting could not be swept away by a few hours of talking between two men.

  “Craig—may I call you Craig?” Kenneth asked.

  Craig smiled. “Of course, M’laird,” he replied.

  “We have decided to work together, your father and I,” Kenneth informed him.

  “Which you would have discovered if you had stayed in the room,” Malcolm Dunbar said, voice dripping with sarcasm. Craig said nothing while Kenneth kept on talking.

  “We are still talking, and barriers still exist between us, but neither of us want to see any more killing. If none of our workers will come forward with information, then we will go to them. We will each stay on our own side of the Cut and ask questions of our own tenants and crofters. This may help us to gain their trust as well as their cooperation, particularly if they receive a little financial compensation for it. We are sure that they are willing to help, but may be afraid, so we will have to arrange protection for them.”

  “And their livestock may also be at risk, so we need to safeguard that too,” Malcolm growled. “When I get my hands on this creature—or creatures—I will make him suffer!” His brow furrowed in a deep frown making his eyes dark and thunderous.

  “On that we can all agree!” Kenneth said grimly.

  Malle exchanged glances with Craig, and they smiled at each other, but Margaret intercepted the look. She frowned, thinking that she was not ready to trust a Dunbar. Not quite yet.

  Malle was looking at Craig’s ha
nds, wondering how it would feel for him to caress her. He was the most desirable man she had ever met, but they were separated by a dispute that had gone on for hundreds of years before she was born, and had nothing to do with either her or Craig. She could have howled with frustration. It was all so pointless.

  12

  The Accident

  When Craig went back to his own castle that afternoon he could think about nothing but Malle. He had been with dozens of women; he had a reputation for his exploits, but he had never found one he could fall in love with before. However, she was different.

  She had an intelligence that was missing in many other people he had encountered, and not just women. She was fierce; she could stand up for herself against any man, as she had done with him, and yet he knew that she could be tender and womanly.

  He knew it from the kiss, the way her pliant body had yielded to his, and he was beginning to know it from the way she talked to him and looked at him. She was tough and tender at the same time, while still being very feminine. In short, she was everything he wanted, and he realized that for the first time ever he cared about a woman, not for how she could make him feel in a carnal way, but for how she made him feel deep inside his heart and his mind.

  He fell asleep thinking about her and he woke up thinking about her, and she stayed at the back of his mind all day.

  When he got up, it was another cloudy day that threatened a downpour, and he felt his mood dip with the weather. He knew he was not going to see Malle that day unless he ventured onto MacEwan land, and although relations between the two families had thawed slightly, the guards would still arrest or chase away any Dunbar trespassers. Malle was not likely to venture onto Dunbar land to visit Isobell’s grave for the same reason.