Written In Stone

lay wrapped in one another's arms, sated after a day of lovemaking. Gavin had never known such joy, such a feeling of wholeness and completeness. He knew, without a doubt, that Angie was his mate, the woman made for him, and though he'd had to wait far too long for her, she was worth it. He turned to see her face and rested his head on his hand, a smug smile on his lips.
    "What are you grinning about?" she asked, smiling back at him.
    "Happiness," he answered. "I never knew what it was until now. Marry me, Angela."
    Angie caught her lip between her teeth. "I want to, but…"
    "But what?"
    "I was pregnant when I had the accident, and I lost my child. I cannot bear you children, Gavin."
    "Well," he said, "I guess for some men that would be a problem, but for me, I only want you."
    "Really?"
    "Really. However, you can have children."
    "No. The doctor said…"
    "That you'd never walk again," he interrupted her. "When we exchanged blood, your body was healed. Not just your legs but everything ever wrong with you, including your ability to bear children."
    "Oh," Angie said quietly.
    "Are you all right?"
    Angie nodded. "This is all so new to me, so unbelievable. I don't understand any of it. Tell me how it happened, Gavin. I need to know."
    Gavin took a deep breath and blew it out. "All right. But you have to listen to the whole story. I am… well… my parents and I… that is… are vampires."
    Angie burst into slightly hysterical laughter, not believing him. "I didn't know you were going to tell me a fairy tale!"
    Gavin grinned. "You have to listen to the whole story, you agreed."
    "I'm sorry," she said with a chuckle. "I'm listening."
    "It began a couple thousand years ago, long before I was on the earth, long before my parents were on the earth." He sat up on the bed and pulled her up with him. "This," he said pointing to the intricately carved headboard of his bed, "is the entire story. Of course, you have to know how to decipher it, but it tells the history of my family."

Chapter Eleven
Scotland
     
    Muredach Mor was born in 463 A.D.  He came from a long line of warriors that battled the Romans, Anglos and Saxons, the Picts and Britons, as well as rival clans of their own. He was a true Scot. Coming from Ireland to Argyll, his clan claimed Alba long before his birth. A warlike Celtic race called Scots, they claimed the entire area, including neighboring islands, and declared it the Kingdom of Dalriada. The entire country eventually adopted the name of the conquerors, and it became known as Scotland.
    Muredach was a proud man; proud of his heritage, his people, and the prosperity of his lands. One day, he would be laird, and he knew he had much to live up to once his father was no longer in charge. He was also a big man, standing six feet seven inches tall and weighing well over three hundred pounds, all solid muscle. Some say he was descended from the Philistines.
    The horse he rode had been bred by his own family, as had all the horses they rode. They needed to be able to endure the size of the Mor family members and be capable of enduring long rides and days of battle. They called the horses Morgans .
    No matter the size of his father and brothers, none of the family members matched Muredach in size or strength. Yet Muredach was a gentle man, not given to fits of temper or rage. In fact, legend has it that even in battle, Muredach killed with a slow, calm manner. He never lost his temper in battle — after all, it wasn't personal, it was just war. Shot with arrows, run through with a sword, hit with a claymore, or wounded with a spear, Muredach always recovered from his injuries, none the worse for wear. Some even said no one could kill Muredach - that he was immortal, blessed by God.
    When Muredach married the lovely Bettina Llewelyn, it was by arrangement of Laird Llewelyn. Muredach never met Bettina before their marriage and was not happy about the union, but it was his duty to his family as the eldest son. His four brothers tormented him endlessly until the girl arrived with her lady's maid for the ceremony. Bettina was thirteen years old, yet the beautiful woman she would become was quite evident. Muredach sighed, he was marrying a mere child, and although it was quite common for a girl to marry as early as ten or eleven, Muredach had hoped for an older woman, one closer to his own age. He was, after all, nearly twenty years old.
    "Very well, Da," Muredach said with a heavy sigh, turning to his father