Highlander's Beautiful Liar A Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance Historical Novel - Adamina Young Page 0,74
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.”
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.