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

by Adamina Young

  Duty and Passion in the Highlands

  Boxset

  Adamina Young

  Contents

  Highlander’s Ancient Vengence

  Prologue

  1. Confrontation

  2. The Story

  3. The Body

  4. Dunbar Estate

  5. The Secret Room

  6. More Letters

  7. Isobell’s Grave

  8. Giving In

  9. Nightmare

  10. Another Killing

  11. An Apology

  12. The Accident

  13. Many Letters

  14. The Ambush

  15. 200 years

  16. Recovering

  17. Lairds and Ladies

  18. Their Blessing

  19. The Letter

  20. The Wedding

  Epilogue

  Highlander’s Flaming Secrets

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Highlander’s Twist of Fate

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Highlander’s Ancient Vengence

  Prologue

  She was furious. This man was one of the Dunbar workers; she knew that because her father had taken her around to meet every one of the men and their wives on the MacEwan estate. And this man was a stranger. She was not going to allow anyone with any connection to the Dunbars to wander about MacEwan land unchallenged!

  Malle MacEwan was an expert horsewoman. Everyone on the MacEwan estate knew it, but she always looked tiny on top of her big war horse Arthur, whom she had named after the legendary King of the Britons. He was an enormous chestnut beast who was more than a ton of bulging muscles and had hooves the size of dinner plates. He would let no one else ride him but Malle, and with her, he was as gentle as a newborn lamb.

  He did not look gentle now, though. Malle was in pursuit of a trespasser who had the temerity to venture onto MacEwan land, no doubt to poach the deer there. Some thieves had even tried to poach the wild boars, but those fearsome tusked pigs could take care of themselves, and it took a brave man to tackle one.

  However, this man was not brave. Malle had heard him as she walked Arthur down to the burn to drink, and sat behind him to watch him squatting behind a bush and peering through the trees. She peered through the trunks of the closely-spaced pine trees to see what he was doing, but he seemed to be trying to make himself disappear, cowering behind a bush in terror.

  Malle rode forward, then dismounted, confident that the trespasser had not seen her, but when she trod on a twig that broke under her feet, it snapped with a crack that made her flinch. The man looked up, and although his eyes were wide with fear, he moved fast. As Malle stepped in front of him and tried to block his escape, he gave her a hefty push and she landed on her backside amongst the pine needles, then he jumped onto his horse and urged it forward. It leapt away and put on a surprising burst of speed before Malle had struggled to her feet.

  She jumped into the saddle and Arthur sprung forward. The horse in front was smaller and much faster than big powerful Arthur over a short distance, although his sheer muscle power would win out in the end over a longer stretch. Moreover, a thick mist was rising from the waters of the Cut, the stream that separated the two estates, and the other rider was disappearing from sight. They were nearing Dunbar land, and Malle knew that it would be more than her life was worth to put a toe over the boundary. If she did, she was likely to be arrested and thrown into the Dunbar dungeon for as long as the Laird cared to keep her there.

  Malle MacEwan was not afraid of many things; she had been trained in riding, swordsmanship, and archery by experts, and could also handle a knife and dagger with ease. There was only one thing in the world that gave her nightmares, and that was being put in a cage, a cell, or any small space from which she could not escape.

  She could see that the boundary of the Dunbar land was now very close. It was a ten-foot-wide burn called the Cut, because it cut a line between the two estates.

  Now I’ve got him! she thought triumphantly, expecting him to stop at any minute.

  However, the smaller horse did not even slow down; it leapt from five feet behind the edge of the bank and landed the same distance away on the other side. Malle’s jaw dropped open in surprise even as she scowled with rage. She brought Arthur to a halt at the water’s edge and sat, fuming.

  “If I ever see you on my father’s land again,” she said, and her voice throbbed with rage, “I will swipe that ugly head right off your skinny shoulders! Do you hear me?”

  The man looked shocked and penitent, but Malle was not sure whether his expression was genuine. “Why Mistress, it was wee Mairi here.” He patted his horse’s neck. “We were oot rabbit huntin’ an’ ane o’ the wee so-an’-so’s ran in front o’ her an’ gied her a fright. She threw me right on the flair an’ ran aff. Ye saw how she flew ower the burn—she jumped right intae your side o’ the fence. I went tae get her back, she is my only horse. I’m awfy sorry.”

  “A most interesting tale,” Malle said dryly, cocking her head to one side and folding her arms. “Unfortunately, I do not believe it. I believe you were about for some less than honest purpose of your own.” Her voice was harsh.

  The man shrugged and spread his hands. “I wis tellin’ ye the truth. I never tell a lie.” His face looked long and doleful.

  Malle ignored the self-pitying whine of his voice. She sat looking at him for a while; he was an undersized creature with a small, sad face. “What is your name?” she demanded.

  The man opened his mouth to answer, but someone else did it for him.

  “His name is Fergus McDowell,” said a deep, gravelly voice. The owner of the voice came striding out of the mist. It was Craig Dunbar, the tall, strapping heir to the Dunbar estate, and judging by the thunderous scowl on his face, he did not look happy to see her.

  1

  Confrontation

  Craig Dunbar’s reputation preceded him, and looking at him, Malle could see why. Due to his extended stay in Aberdeen, she had not seen Craig since he was in his teens and she was a little girl, even though their estates were very close to each other. Even then it was only from a distance, since the Dunbars and MacEwans did not mix.

  When he was eighteen and she was nine. He had seemed enormous, even though he had been much shorter than he was now. However, this was a different Craig; now he had grown taller and broadened out to become the epitome of masculinity.

  He was well over six feet tall, with shoulders that suggested that he could plow a field or heft tree trunks on his own. She could not see his arms under his shirt, but she would wager that they were powerfully muscled, as were the calves she c
ould see below his kilt.

  His shoulder-length hair was a fiery shade of red, as was his closely-shaved beard, and he would have been attractive enough to give her palpitations had it not been for the forbidding scowl on his face. His feet were planted widely apart and his arms folded defensively across his body as he glared at her, and even though there was a small river separating them, she felt a twinge of uneasiness. He was a very big man, and she was tiny by comparison—in fact, she was a very small woman by any standards.

  “Fine horse, Mistress MacEwan,” he began. “I’ll wager he was not cheap.” His voice had a ring of sardonic amusement even though the fearsome expression on his face remained the same.

  She was stung into retaliation at once. “The value of my horse is no business of yours, Dunbar!” she snapped, not giving him the courtesy of his title as Laird Dunbar the Younger.

  She saw his jaw tighten and his brow descend even further, and she felt an unholy surge of satisfaction. He might be as strong as an oak tree, but she had not yet met a man who could defeat her in a battle of words. And she was sure that Craig Dunbar would not fare any better than any of the others who had taken her on.

  “I caught your man on my land,” Malle said angrily, pointing at Fergus, then at the thick branch he had used as a bridge to walk across the stream. “Up to no good, no doubt. I managed to stop him just in time. Did you send him?”

  Malle had the satisfaction of seeing him bristle with anger. “NO I DID NOT!” he bellowed. He made himself calm down with a visible effort, but Malle gave him a grim smile which would have stoked his fury again had he not given vent to it with a mighty roar of rage.

  “Really, Dunbar,” she said, with deep condescension, “you must learn to control your temper. It is not a fitting example to your workers.”

  Craig ran his hand back through his thick russet hair, then put his arm around Fergus’s shoulders. They both turned their backs on her and began to converse in low voices for some minutes, while Arthur lowered his head to the water and began to quench his thirst, unconcerned with the whole affair.

  Malle looked at the sky. It was clouding over again, and soon there would be a torrential downpour. She hoped she could put an end to this dispute peacefully before she had to go home.

  Just then, both men turned back towards her.

  “MacEwan,” Craig said sarcastically, echoing her disdainful mode of address, “Fergus has been a loyal employee of my father’s for as long as I can remember. I have known him since I was a boy, and if he said he was not about to commit a crime on your land, then he was not.”

  “Do you swear that you were not?” she asked Fergus sharply.

  Fergus’s expression changed to one of alarm. He was a religious man, as were most people, and he knew that lying under oath was a mortal sin, punishable by eternal damnation. Guilty or innocent, swearing an oath was a terrifying thing to do. He began to cough loudly, and Craig slapped him on the back, but it did not seem to help much. His face had turned bright red and there were tears streaming down his cheeks.

  When he had finished, he stood up straight and held up his hand. “I swear that I didnae want tae poach yer animals or steal yer sheep or cattle or dae onythin’ else Mistress,” Fergus said wheezily. “I am no’ a well man jist at the minute.”

  “What do you say to that, MacEwan?” Craig asked triumphantly, with an unpleasant smile.

  “Fergus McDowell, look at me,” Malle commanded. The man did not raise his eyes.

  “LOOK AT ME!” she roared, bending forward in her saddle as if to get closer to him.

  He looked up timidly, and her eyes stared at him so intently that it seemed she would bore a hole in his forehead.

  “If you are lying to me under oath, then God will punish you for it.” Her voice was a low warning growl. “You will roast in hell for all eternity. But you may thank Him that it was I who saw you, and not my father or any of his workers, because you would be rotting in my father’s dungeon even as we speak. You may lie to your Laird and lie to me, but you cannot lie to He who made you!”

  “He is not lying.” Craig’s deep voice sounded angry. “I trust him.”

  Fergus gave Craig a look of deep gratitude.

  “Then, Dunbar, you will not mind if I swear too.” She dismounted from Arthur and stood on the bank of the burn directly across from him. Then, raising her hand, she said in a clear, firm voice, “I swear that if I ever catch this man on my land again he will be arrested immediately and thrown into the dungeon. That goes for any Dunbar worker who sets foot here.”

  For a moment, Craig was dumbfounded. He had expected this little woman to back down and give up, but it appeared that she was made of sterner stuff. After her last riposte, he studied her more closely; she was not a big woman. In fact, he reckoned that she was almost a foot shorter than he was and so delicately built that she looked like an elf. Her every feature suggested fragility. She had small hands and feet, a heart-shaped face, large eyes, and long dark hair swept up on top of her head showing her swan-like neck. Everything about her looked delicately feminine except for the ferocity of her attitude, which befitted a man of his own stature.

  She was still waiting for a reply when he realized suddenly that he was staring at her. He shook his head as if to clear it of unwelcome thoughts, then replied, “I reserve the right to swear too, MacEwan. If one of your people trespasses on my land they will be very, very sorry indeed.”

  Malle gave a cynical laugh. “That is just what my father told me about you Dunbars,” she observed, shaking her head. “You will do anything to safeguard your land and wealth, even at the expense of others. You are a crowd of unscrupulous bandits.” Malle knew that she was accusing Craig of the same thing she was doing herself, but she chose to ignore it.

  “MacEwan, you have no idea what you are talking about,” he sighed, giving her a pitying smile. “Go home and play with your dollies. I have no more time to waste with you.”

  She gave him an exaggerated mocking curtsey, before tossing her last insult across the stream at him. “Swine!” Then she turned Arthur around and headed back home.

  Craig stood watching her as she cantered into the distance. His feelings were wavering between anger and admiration. He was not sure whether she was telling the truth, but surely a noble lady like Malle MacEwan would not risk her immortal soul on so trivial a matter!

  However, he had known Fergus for years, and had no reason to doubt his word either, and he was not likely to meet the lovely Malle again in the near future, whereas he had to meet and work with Fergus frequently. Nevertheless, she was fascinating, and he thought about her all the way home.

  Malle had no such charitable thoughts about Craig. He had been rude, discourteous, and had questioned her honesty. He deserved no respect, and she would not waste her time thinking about him. She tried to ignore the fact that he was a very attractive man; in her eyes his fearsome size made him a bully. Besides, he had a reputation as a brawler and a philanderer, and her disrespect for him knew no bounds.

  She went on with her journey, trying to empty her mind of Craig Dunbar to think about the new dress she was having made for her birthday. It was made of beautiful rust-colored velvet, and fitted her like a second skin. Her mother, Margaret MacEwan, had given her an amber brooch and earrings to wear with it, determined that her daughter should look like a princess. Amber always enhanced the color of her eyes, which were the subtle gray-green color of sage leaves.

  She had almost managed to put Craig Dunbar to the back of her mind when she walked into the dining room and met her father.

  Kenneth MacEwan was not a tall man, only about five feet nine, but what he lacked in height he made up for in personality and intelligence, both of which Malle had inherited from him. He had prematurely white hair, but his sparse beard was still brown, as were his eyebrows. Malle loved him more than anyone else in the world. She loved her mother too, of course, but in a different way. Her mother was her comfort, but her father was her protector an
d her feelings for him were special.

  Now she ran up to him and gave him a kiss, then hugged him tightly. She sighed with relief and rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes.

  “Malle my lass!” He put his arms around her waist and put her away a little to look at her. “What is wrong?”

  “Craig Dunbar,” she growled. “Paw, why did he have to come back from Aberdeen? Why did he not just stay there?”

  Kenneth MacEwan frowned. “Where did you meet him, lovie?” he asked, looking troubled. “Was he on our land?”

  “No, Paw, but one of his workers was,” she replied angrily. “I nearly stopped him from getting away, but he was too fast for me. I do not know what he was doing on our land but I will wager it was nothing good. He said his horse threw him then jumped the Cut and ran over to our side. Pfft! I can tell nonsense when I hear it.”

  “He got away, you say?” Kenneth asked.

  She nodded her head. “Yes, Paw, he got away and over the burn before I could catch up with him.” She gave another sigh, this time an angry one. “Then that Craig Dunbar appeared out of nowhere and started to defend him—even though he was on our land trying to do God knows what! Can you believe that wee nyaff denied it? Not only denied it, but swore an oath on it? And that big lump believed him? I swore one too, but I was not believed.”