Dirk nodded, noticing another new tomb off to the side, but it contained no plaque. "Who is interred there?"

"No one yet, but it is reserved for Donald McMurdo. He donated a substantial amount of money for the rebuilding of the church."

Disbelief and outrage clawed through Dirk. "McMurdo? That murdering highwayman?"

A regretful expression crossed the reverend's face. "Aye. The very same."

"He has killed an untold number of innocent people."

"I have no doubt he has. And finally, it seems he has grown concerned about his immortal soul. That's why he donated so much."

"Blood money," Dirk muttered, feeling suddenly that the church was tainted.

"The good Lord is forgiving."

"And are you certain McMurdo has repented of all the murders and crimes he's committed?" Surely 'twas the same man who'd held Dirk and his party at gunpoint just before they'd reached Durness.

"God only knows, but he wanted to be buried within the church walls. I think he fears the MacKay clan and the people of Durness will desecrate his remains after he dies if he is not buried in a protected place. As far as I'm concerned, he bought a tomb, not his way into heaven. His fate is in God's hands."

"Indeed." But to have a murderer's future tomb so close to his father's and all his ancestors' grated on Dirk's already frayed nerves. If McMurdo tried any more deadly tricks he might find himself occupying his fancy tomb sooner rather than later.

"Aye, I definitely see your father in you." The minister gave another one of those near imperceptible grins. "You have his temper and his sense of right and wrong. He never could stand injustice. You will make a formidable chief. A brilliant leader. Your father would be proud." He gave a brief bow. "If there is anything I can do to assist you, let me know."

"I thank you, Reverend. There will be a hearing in two days at the castle. The clan will decide who the rightful chief is. If you would be willing to testify that you remember me and know me to be Dirk MacKay, eldest son of Griff MacKay, that would be a great help to me."

"I'll be glad to. I bid you good evening."

Dirk bowed, and the minister retreated out the side door, likely headed to his nearby cottage.

A memorial plaque? Dirk had to see this.

He gave the new chapel one final glance and left by the front door, still feeling disturbed that it was built with a murderer's money. Why would his father allow such a thing… unless the clan was having financial difficulty? Had Maighread and her fancy manor house bled them dry? He'd have to talk to the steward soon after he was installed as chief.

Outside, Dirk meandered between the grass-covered graves with their old tombstones. The sun, having dropped behind the hills, stained the sky orange, pink and violet. The whole of the north wall faced the bay and Faraid Head beyond, depending on where an onlooker might stand. Halfway along, he noticed a carved gray stone plaque set into the wall. It measured about a foot in height. He moved forward to stand before it.

To honor the memory of Dirk MacKay, brave and noble son of Chief Griffin MacKay. Born 1591. Died 1606 Faraid Head. We miss you.

Of a sudden, he felt the finality of his death just as his father and clan did. It could have so easily been true.

A few feet away stood the grave marker for his cousin who truly had died that day, William MacKay.

His stepmother was a murderer in truth.

Something thumped behind him and he whirled, hand on his sword hilt, alert and ready to lash out.

The dark-clothed figure from the beach stood ten feet away.

Chapter Twelve

Isobel.

For Dirk, seeing her here in the cemetery was so unexpected, he was at a loss for words. And his body was still in high-alert defense and attack mode.

Removing his hand from his sword hilt, he felt daft for the sudden rush of alarm that had near made him strike before he saw who was behind him. His pulse thumped in his ears like a drum. This wasn't the first time it had happened. Expecting to be ambushed at any moment tended to do that to a man.

"Pray pardon. I didn't mean to startle you," Isobel said, frowning. "Are you well?"

He drew in a deep breath, then blew out the tension, forcing himself to relax. "Aye. What are you doing outside the gates? The highwayman could venture into these parts."

She frowned and glanced about. "I simply had to get outside while the weather was halfway pleasant. If it makes you feel any better, I have a dagger in my pouch."

It didn't, but he supposed that was better than nothing.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I was but admiring my memorial plaque," he said in a dry tone and motioned toward it.

She moved forward, her eyes scanning the carved stone. "Oh," she breathed. "Brave and noble. I agree with that."

Her words meant more than he could say. "I thank you," he murmured.

When her dark eyes found him again they were misty. "Your clan missed you."

"No more than I missed them."

"But you knew they were here. They thought you were gone… permanently."

"Aye, there is a difference," he admitted. He especially knew that to be true now that his father had passed. It touched him deeply that Da had such a fine plaque carved in his honor.

She glanced at the plaque again. "Faraid Head… where is that?"

"Over two miles that way." He pointed over the wall toward the massive stretch of land on the opposite side of Balnakeil Bay. "'Tis inhospitable with naught but sand dunes and sea cliffs."

"What happened?"

Too much to explain it to her now. A mixture of dark emotions converged on him, memories of what he'd gone through that night. To know Lady MacKay was so greedy she was willing to kill for what was rightfully his… while he, at age fifteen, endured the pain of a serious injury and the fear of hanging off the edge of a cliff for hours in the darkness and wind, the waves crashing below where his best friend had died, not knowing if he would be able to climb back to the top or if he would also fall to his death. And then the gratitude of surviving. Nay, 'twas too much to relive now. And he rarely talked about it.

"I'll tell you sometime," he said, staring toward the harsh headland, thinking of Will and missing him more now that he stood at his grave. He didn't want to call Isobel's attention to it, nor did he want to talk about his cousin at the moment. More urgent issues were at hand.

"We need to talk," he said.

"I thought we were." She bit her lip but a faint grin slipped out, distracting him, pulling him up from the depths of dismal emotions. His past vanished like morning mist as he focused completely on the here and now.

Isobel.

Loose strands of her dark hair escaped the cowl and fluttered in the wind, tempting him to capture them and twine them about his fingers. Her cheeks and lips were rosy from the chill air… and her dark eyes entrancing.

Damned if she wasn't a wee seductress.

He glanced away to better focus on what he'd wanted to say. "I mean we need to talk about something serious."

"There is naught more serious than a memorial plaque," she said with a straight face.

He snorted and grinned before he could stop himself, unsure why her words struck him as humorous. He shook his head. "I think we should head back to the castle afore dark. 'Tis growing colder with the setting of the sun."