On a Highland Shore (19 page)

Rufus’s home was very different from Somerstrath, although both were protected by jutting headlands north and south, and both had very serviceable harbors. But where Somerstrath was built on land that sloped from the deep harbor to the foot of the glen, Inverstrath’s fortress sat behind a deep flat plain that rose only slightly from the water. Instead of Somerstrath’s tall stone keep, surrounded by fortified walls and a prosperous village enclosed by yet another wall, Rufus’s fortress was a long string of two-story wooden buildings that looked like they had once been separate buildings, joined at a later date. The rambling structure was surrounded by wooden fortifications, yes, but the walls looked easy to breech, the gates insubstantial, although well manned. And the fortress had been built in a dip between two headlands that jutted out to sea, lower than the hills behind it. It could easily flood in a wet year; in a dry year the wind could help fire roar through its halls. And at any time, an enemy could station himself on one of the headlands and attack the fortress from above, or set up a siege on the unprotected plain before the gates.

He would have done it very differently. He would have built atop one of the headlands, and built of stone, as the Normans did, rather than burnable wood. Someday, when he at last came to it, his home would be built with security as the primary concern; within its walls his family would be safe. He’d study the winds and water patterns and learn from them. He’d build in harmony with the land, using the mountains as a defense, the headlands as foundations, and the water as an ally, recognizing it for the highway it was. And when that day came, if that day came, his men would be trained and vigilant, his woman and children protected. He turned to look at Margaret one last time, then they arrived.

The Inverstrath men were armed and wary, relaxing their guard only when Rufus jumped from Rory’s ship and waded ashore, calling for them to welcome their visitors. The men who had traveled with him jumped from the ship, then Rory and his men followed with Margaret and Nell and their brother. Gannon and Tiernan and their men were last, walking past the villagers who came forward to welcome Rufus home. Gannon ignored the whispered comments of Rufus’s people that he looked like a Norseman, ignored the fear in their eyes as he passed, ignored the way the people moved back from him as though he might murder someone at any moment.

Margaret turned to throw a glance at him over her shoulder, then told the villagers, her voice clear and carrying, “No, he’s Irish. He’s protecting us.”

The last woman to defend him had been his mother, and that a very long time ago. He smiled to himself as she turned yet again and saw him watching her.

Rory stepped aside and waited for Gannon to join him. “We’ll have to have ye dressing like the Scots soon to reassure them.”

“No’ likely,” Gannon answered. “I’ll wear no skirts.”

“Dinna tell the Scotsmen ye think they’re wearing skirts, laddie. Some of the fiercest men I’ve ever kent have worn the feileadh. It’s what’s underneath that counts, and ye have those.”

Gannon laughed with him then, watching Margaret’s body move as they approached the gates, watching her hair sway with her steps, her hips move, her skirts lifting with her steps, revealing slim ankles that tapered up…

“Dinna stare at her,” Rory said quietly. “They might forgive ye for looking like a Norseman, but they’ll not forgive ye for acting like one.”

“How did I survive all those years without yer help?”

Rory gave a grunt of laughter. “Not well, I can tell ye that. Ye’ve much to learn still, lad.” He paused, then continued, his tone thoughtful. “On the other hand…if we can find ye a Scottish heiress…not this one, she’s landless and promised. But it’s a thought worth pursuing. Try and look harmless, aye?”

Gannon swallowed his smile and followed Rory through the gates, past the curious crowds gathered there, and into Rufus’s fortress. The hall was large, and dimly lit, its rough-hewn walls undecorated, benches polished by use, not oils, and a handful of tables, their surfaces scarred and pitted. Rufus, it seemed, was a man who wasted neither coin nor effort on comfort. Gannon and Tiernan were ushered forward, to stand with Rory and be introduced to Rufus’s subordinates, and then to a pretty woman who came to stand at his side, her stance assured, breasts outthrust, her gaze direct.

“My daughter, Dagmar,” Rufus said.

This, then, was the woman Rory had warned him about. She was tall, her dark blond hair pulled back to show even features, winged eyebrows above brown eyes. She wore deep red, the same color on her lips, and she smiled with unmistakable welcome. Her open appraisal of both brothers amused Gannon, but Tiernan stared as though transfixed, which amused Gannon even more. A serving girl placed a tray of ale on the table and Dagmar leaned low for two cups, her bodice falling forward, revealing her ample breasts; she pretended not to notice, but gave herself away with her sidelong glance. She gave Rignor a cup of ale and a long, slow smile that made him take a half step forward toward her. So that’s the way of it, Gannon thought, as she handed cups to him and Tiernan. She took one for herself and sipped, looking at Gannon over the rim.

“Welcome to Inverstrath, my lords,” she said, her voice warm and deep and full of invitation.

Tiernan mumbled something incoherent. Gannon thanked her, then watched his brother stare at Dagmar. She was giving Rignor her attention now, leaning forward, her mouth slightly open, one hand at her throat, as he told of what had happened at Somerstrath. Gannon drank deeply of the ale; it was almost as good as William Ross’s. Rufus might not know how to build a strong fortress, but he knew how to brew. And his daughter knew how to captivate men.

Interesting mix, Gannon thought, then turned to see how Margaret was faring. She and Nell had been enveloped by a group of people as they’d entered the hall, almost all of them talking at once. Margaret was weeping as she listened.

“Those are the ones who made it here from Somerstrath,” Rufus said, following his gaze. “The women and children were in the upper pastures. The men were hunting. They saw some of the fighting, and they’re the ones who saw Davey and the others taken.”

“We’ll have to talk to them,” Gannon said.

Rufus raised an eyebrow. “Ye’ll be the last one they’ll talk to.”

“Then let Rignor talk to them. We need to find out everything we can about how the Norse attacked, how they got into and around the village so quickly.”

Rory nodded. “Whether they saw anything that could lead us to who did it.”

“Are ye going after them, then?” Rufus asked.

Rory and Gannon exchanged a glance.

“We’ll wait for William Ross,” Rory said.

Margaret wept as she embraced the handful of Somerstrath villagers who had escaped and come to Inverstrath. Twelve in all, six women, four children, and two men. None had seen the Norsemen arrive, but they had heard the screams and the clash of weapons. Margaret listened quietly while they told of their terror, of the dreadful things they’d seen, of their headlong rush to Inverstrath for their safety, and their guilt for surviving.

“Did ye see them take Davey?” Margaret asked.

One woman nodded. “He was kicking and screaming when they took him. They hauled the boys like sacks of meal, all five of them.”

Margaret closed her eyes, then opened them immediately as visions of Davey’s abduction filled her mind. He’s alive, she told herself. If the Norsemen had meant to kill him, they would have saved themselves the bother of taking him along. Which meant he was still alive, and that was what she would remember.

“Lass.” Rory O’Neill put a hand on her arm, his voice gentle as he nodded to the Somerstrath people. “Come, if ye would, all of ye, and tell us what ye saw.”

Margaret sat woodenly, trying not to visualize their words as the survivors told their tales, her thoughts tumbling. She watched Rignor, suddenly realizing that he’d not joined her and Nell to greet the Somerstrath people. He’d waited for them to come to him. And even now, as they poured out their hearts, he hardly listened, watching Dagmar instead. Scowling as Dagmar, returning with a pitcher of ale, settled herself between the MacMagnus brothers rather than next to him. Dagmar’s expressions of dismay were well timed, her gaze flashing often to Gannon. When he ignored her, she turned her charms on Tiernan, and found more success there.

Margaret let her gaze drift to the distance, wondering what she would have done if she’d been at Somerstrath when the Norsemen came, or if they’d arrived home to find the attack under way. Would she have run into the thick of the fighting, only to be killed herself? Or would she have hidden, as these survivors had done, and lived to tell the tale? What was courage, what prudence, or honor or foolishness? She no longer knew.

The topic turned from what had happened to what they should do about it. Rory O’Neill said he’d stay until Uncle William or his men arrived to be sure Inverstrath was secure. Rufus thanked him, but his ambivalence was obvious. When he wondered aloud how he was to feed and house two hundred additional men, Rory O’Neill bristled.

“Surely ye dinna begrudge us food while we stay and protect ye?”

“Of course I’m grateful, my lord,” Rufus protested.

Rory, mollified, nodded. “My men will help hunt and fish,” he said.

Rufus thanked him, and the men continued talking. But Margaret, meeting Gannon’s gaze, did not hear another word. Something had ignited in his blue eyes, something flashed between the two of them now. She pushed her hair off her suddenly warm neck and watched him watch her. She looked away from his smoldering gaze. Rignor’s gaze was heated as well, but her brother’s emotion was easy to understand. He scowled as Dagmar edged closer to Tiernan, their heads together and their voices hushed. Nell nudged Margaret and gestured at them. Across the table, Gannon leaned his chin on his hand and watched his brother.

After Rignor had made a speech of vengeance and Rufus and his men had loudly proclaimed their assistance, after the men had exhausted all topics of discussion, after the Somerstrath survivors had been distributed among the houses of the village, and the Irishmen started stretching out to sleep on the floor of the hall, Margaret turned to find Dagmar at her elbow.

“I’ll show ye where ye’ll sleep,” Dagmar said.

None of the men, leaning over a crude sea chart, seemed to notice when she and Nell rose to follow Dagmar. They went up the narrow stairs at the end of the hall, around a corner, and down an even narrower and very dim hallway. Margaret tried not to compare Inverstrath’s spartan comforts with the luxuries of Somerstrath. Her father would have widened the stairs. Mother would have painted those beams, would have had tapestries to soften the harsh lines of the hall below, soft rugs underfoot, torches to light the way to bed.
Don’t think
.

Dagmar flung open a door. “Ye’ll use my room. Ye’ll share the bed.”

“With ye?” Nell asked, her tone suspicious.

“I’ll find somewhere else.”

Somewhere else, Margaret thought, and no doubt someone else. She ignored Nell’s disapproving huff. She thanked Dagmar, then waited until the door had closed behind her before turning to face Nell’s outrage. She put a finger to her lips.

“Ye ken where she’ll sleep!” Nell whispered indignantly. “With Rignor! Or if not with Rignor, then with Gannon or Tiernan. D’ye not think Tiernan’s far too young for her?”

Margaret pulled the bedcoverings back and searched for bedbugs. “Rignor’s too young for her; Rory O’Neill is too young for her. Calm yerself, Nell, Tiernan’s probably safe from her predations. Dagmar wants a wealthy husband.”

Nell nodded, seemingly mollified. “And Tiernan has nothing. Even Gannon has no land, only the one ship.” She untied her laces and kicked off her shoes.

“And how is it ye ken all this?”

“Tiernan told me. Both their parents are dead; their father died years ago, their mother only last winter. They were living with their stepfather until she died, then they went to Haraldsholm, on the Irish shore, where their uncle lives.”

“Tiernan told ye this?”

“Not all. Some of it I overhead. And I asked some of the Irishmen. And Rory O’Neill told me more. They’re neither of them married.”

“That’s hardly surprising. As ye’ve said, Tiernan’s young.”

“But Gannon isna.”

No, Margaret thought, remembering his arms around her, his body against hers, his gaze locked on to her own. Nell gave a small scream, batting a spider away from the bedcoverings. She stamped on it, then looked up.

“I hate it here! I hate Inverstrath! It’s dark and crowded and we’ve got spiders in our bed and did ye see how dirty the hall was, and the filth on the tables, and the platters! Ye could scrape yer nail in the muck! And look at this room! Her father’s the laird, and her room is this tiny hole. Look at the bed, Margaret!” Her voice was almost a wail now. “How long will we have to stay here?”

Margaret sighed and gingerly moved a pillow, half-expecting more spiders to leap out. “Until Uncle William arrives; it’s safe, and that’s what’s important now.”

“Why did this happen to us? Why are they all dead?” Nell burst into tears.

Margaret sighed, close to tears herself. She had no answers. They’d had this talk a thousand times already and she’d asked herself the same things a thousand thousand times. She waited until Nell’s tears slowed, then gestured to the room. “Ye’re right. Ye wouldna even ken a woman lives here, would ye?”

“And one clothes chest is all,” Nell said with a sniff. “And if ye tell me that we’ve always had more than Dagmar, and I should be charitable, I shall scream.”

“And excuse her behavior because of that? Nay. This room looks like she’s visiting, not living here, like she’s not planning to be here for long.”

“Why dinna she stay at her second husband’s home?”

“D’ye not ken the story?” When Nell shook her head, Margaret continued. “Mother probably dinna tell ye, thinking ye were too young, but ye would have heard it soon enough. Dagmar’s first husband—he was that ancient man who lived near Lachlan, remember?—left her some jewelry, but little else. Her second husband sent her home to Rufus in shame. When he died, he left her nothing; his lands and home went to the daughters of his first wife. I suspect he’d seen her for what she was. She’s lovely, Nell. And ambitious. But not bright.”