Page 11 of Highlander’s Ancient Vengeance

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 through 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.