Page 1 of Highlander’s Ancient Vengeance

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 could 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.”