Page 3 of Highlander’s Ancient Vengeance

“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.”

“Most displeasing,” her father said, shaking his head. He looked at Malle and sighed. “A pity you did not capture him, because we can do nothing unless we catch them in the act, otherwise it is merely their word against ours, and I must admit, part of me would like a Dunbar in the dungeon. However, thank you for trying, Malle. I am very proud of you!”

2

The Story

Kenneth was boiling with rage when he heard about the trespasser, although he would never show it in front of Malle. “If there really are Dunbars coming onto our land”—his tone was thoughtful— “I think it would be prudent to put more guards around the edge of the estate, and perhaps put a fence there. Then no one could jump, wade, or swim across it, unless they were very, very determined.”

He poured them both a glass of mulled wine and they sat down to eat dinner, which was venison pie that evening.

Presently, Margaret MacEwan came in. She was an elegant woman with fair hair that had as yet no touch of gray in it, and the same sage-green eyes and small features as Malle. She was two inches taller than her daughter, but then, Malle thought sadly, most people were taller than she was.

Margaret kissed both her husband and daughter then sat down before accepting a glass of wine from Kenneth. “Why are you two looking so gloomy?” she asked at once. “Cheer up!”

Kenneth put a hand over hers on the table. “A potentially serious development on our southern border,” he said grimly, frowning. He briefly outlined what had happened that morning while Malle had been out riding.

Margaret shook her head sadly. “Those people!” she said angrily. “And that son of theirs! It is said that he is a rake, and that many women have fallen for him. He particularly likes young widows, so I have heard.”

Malle, who had been swallowing a mouthful of wine, choked on it and spat it out all over the pristine white tablecloth. Her eyes were watering and she shook her head furiously.

“Mammy,” she wheezed out at last. “Can we not speak of such things at the dining table please?” She wiped her tears, then her mouth. “I really do not think it is fit talk for the dinner table.” Malle did not want to be reminded of how attractive she found Craig Dunbar.

“Sorry, lovie,” her mother said soothingly. “How is your dress coming along?”

“Oh, Mammy, it’s lovely,” Malle gushed. “It fits like a second skin and it goes so well with the brooch and earrings. You were right—I am going to look like a princess!”

Kenneth watched his wife and daughter fondly as they began to journey into the delightful female world of dresses, ceilidhs, and weddings. He knew that if he slipped out without saying goodbye they would not even notice his absence.

As long as my girls are happy, he thought indulgently. He stood up and kissed them both on the cheek, said goodbye, and left them in gossip land, laughing softly as he went.

He was concerned about Malle, though. She was almost eighteen, and after that age it would be hard to find a suitable husband. There had been no lack of suitors; in fact, there had been many, but she had refused every one, and Malle herself could not give him the reasons why.

She had been thinking about the same subject herself, though. None of the young hopefuls who had beaten a path to her door had made her heart beat faster. The one man who had managed to do so was the one she most disliked: Craig Dunbar.

He was probably a drunk, she told herself. He had probably caught the pox from one of the whores he had slept with. He probably ate like a pig in a trough, and was as thick as two short planks of wood, and Malle could not stand stupid people. One could be uneducated without being an imbecile, but the son of a laird had no excuse; he had the best of everything.

She went to sit in the parlor, where she was reading Le Livre de La Cité des Dames, by Christine de Pizan in original French. She was teaching herself that language because she wanted to go to France to see the city of Paris at least once in her life. However, she also had a love of learning about anything and everything under the sun, whether it was sewing or sword fighting or even how to grow rye, and she would study it if it piqued her interest. She enjoyed good conversation and could hold her own in any debate, especially about things most women knew very little about, and she had argued dozens of men to a standstill on many occasions.

Her father came back, sat down, and yawned. He loved to be out in the fresh air, but it tired him out, since, as he admitted himself, he was not getting any younger.

“Do you have time to tell me another story, Paw?” Malle asked, smiling winningly. She knew the answer would be yes, since she could wrap soft-hearted Kenneth around her little finger with no effort at all.

He pretended to grumble a bit, but he loved telling stories as much as Malle liked hearing them. They had a ritual: she would stoke up the fire then pour him a dram of whisky while he sat and sorted out the story in his head by closing his eyes and concentrating. Then she would sit beside him with her head on his shoulder as she had done ever since she was a little girl, and he would begin to speak.

Tonight, the story was about the feud between the MacEwans and the Dunbars, as it usually was. She had listened to all the anecdotes before, but she loved to hear them again and again, even though she could practically recite them word for word. She would never admit, even to herself, that she loved coorying up beside her father and having his arm around her.

“When my father was a boy,” he began, “there was a strip of MacEwan land on the other side of the Cut, but it caused many problems, because the Dunbar sheep would not listen when we told them that they must not graze on that land.”

“Stupid sheep,” Malle murmured, laughing softly.

“So my grandfather put a fence up,” Kenneth said, frowning. “That worked for perhaps six months, then one day one of his shepherds came to my father and reported that some of Dunbar’s sheep were grazing on our land. My father had put up a very strong fence made of the strongest, most mature of our pine wood, so we knew it could not fall down. He walked along a half mile of the fence, almost to the end of our strip of land, then he found a space where the wood had been smashed.

“The force used to do that must have been very strong, but there was no way to prove that the Dunbars had done it, since that part of the Cut was very narrow and could have been reached by anyone.” He stopped to sip his wine and smiled at her. “Now you tell me the next bit.”