On a Highland Shore (20 page)

“I dinna even think she’s lovely. But Rignor does.”

“Rignor’s not looking past her breasts and her willingness. I’m thinking she doesna intend to stay a widow long. She’s looking for a wealthy man who can give her children. One son and she’s secure. While Father and Mother lived there was little chance of Rignor marrying her. And perhaps even less now. Our wealth is gone. Rignor now has nothing.”

“He still has the title. And the land. And if William helps us rebuild, perhaps she’ll still want to marry him. What will happen to us then?”

“I dinna ken. We can only hope he sees her for what she is.”

“Not likely.”

“Then we need to hope she finds someone else to pursue,” Margaret said. “But enough of Dagmar. We’re safe now, and we have to think on that.”

“I’m trying to, but…It just doesna seem real. None of it seems real.”

“Nor to me. Nor to me.”

It was the noises in the corridor that woke her. Margaret sat up, trying to get her bearings, then remembered she was in Dagmar’s bed. Dagmar’s, of all the people in the world. Nell slept on, but fitfully, her mouth forming whispered words that made no sense, her head slowly shaking as though even in her dreams she denied what had happened. Margaret slipped from the bed and tiptoed across the room, listening at the door. When she heard Dagmar’s voice, she opened the door a crack. Dagmar stood in the middle of the corridor, her back to Margaret, facing Gannon MacMagnus. Dagmar was laughing, the laugh of seduction, not of mirth.

Gannon had ignored Dagmar’s obvious invitations all evening, was not surprised to see the beautiful woman here now, stepping out of the darkness of the hallway to greet him as he stepped away from the stairs. She smiled and walked slowly forward, the floorboards creaking under her feet. She’d chosen her time well. Rory was still below in the hall with Rufus; Rignor slept where he’d fallen on the rushes beneath the table where they’d talked, drunk again.

“Gannon,” she said, her voice low and breathy with promise.

“Dagmar,” he whispered. “Yer da showed us our room a’ready.”

“Aye,” she said. “I ken. Ye’re sleeping with O’Neill and Rignor and yer brother. I thought…” She bent forward, shrugging her breasts from her low neckline and thrusting them forward for his touch. “I thought to offer ye a softer resting place.”

He took a step back. She gave a low laugh and came closer.

“Are ye afraid of me, Irishman? Fearful that I’ll bite?”

She was beautiful, and so were her breasts. He was tempted to reach for them, to feel her lushness in his hands, her warm body against him, her lovely mouth on him. To take the hand she extended to him and let her lead him away. He was sure it would be both memorable and satisfying.

“Terrified, Dagmar,” he said with a smile.

She smiled widely, putting her hands on her waist and leaning forward, letting the moonlight coming through the window touch just the tips of her nipples. “I promise not to hurt ye.”

She rose up and put her mouth on his cheek, then brushed it across his lips, her breasts crushed for that moment against him. His body reacted instantly. Behind her he heard a noise, but could see nothing in the darkness of the hallway. He laughed low in his throat and stepped back, knowing he was about to make an enemy of her. He yawned widely. “Thank ye, but no.”

She jerked back out of the light, her hands covering her breasts. “What does that mean?”

“Think on it. It’ll come to ye.” He laughed and walked away, hearing her curse him and knowing she would retaliate.

Weary as he was, he did not seek his bed, but went back downstairs, so later, when Dagmar’s whereabouts were discussed, none could say he’d been with her. It shouldn’t matter what anyone might say. He was his own man, with no wife to answer to, no mistress to accuse him of unfaithfulness. He crossed the hall to the table where Rufus and Rory still sat, sharing the last of a stone bottle of whisky that Rufus had produced after the others had gone to sleep. Rory gave him a tired smile, and Rufus poured another cup for him as he sat on the bench.

“Got lost, did ye?” Rory asked. His tone was mild, but Gannon had no doubt that Rory had a good idea of what had just happened.

“Aye,” Gannon said, and took a deep drink of the whisky, trying not to remember the tips of Dagmar’s breasts in the moonlight. Perhaps he was a fool.

G
annon was awake before dawn. He stood on the narrow porch that overlooked the courtyard while rain pelted the fortress, ignoring the sidelong glances he still drew from Rufus’s people. Short of shearing his hair and stooping, he could think of no way to change what he looked like. But perhaps Rory was right, perhaps it was time to dress like a Scot, to don their clothing and hope they could see the man, not the Norseman. He watched the people as they worked, thinking of the little things that could be done to make their tasks easier. He was still studying them when Rufus came to stand at his side, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked out at the rain.

“Ye’re up early,” Rufus said.

“Aye, as ye are.”

“There’s always work to be done, and more when ye’re housing an extra two hundred men.”

Gannon gave him a sharp glance. “Would ye have us leave, then?”

Rufus shook his head, as though considering it. “No. O’Neill says he’ll send some of his men hunting today.”

“Aye. And mine as well. We’ll help ye feed us, while we’re protecting ye.”

“Good.” Rufus paused. “I met yer da when he came once with O’Neill.”

“I dinna ken that.”

“Aye. A good man. Ye have no wife in Ireland?’

“No.”

“Nor land?”

“None.”

Rufus nodded as though pleased. “Ye’ll be staying when O’Neill goes home?”

“Until William Ross collects his family and secures the coast.”

“Could be a while, then.”

“Could be.”

“Have ye given any thought to staying beyond that? We can always use good men, more so now than ever with Somerstrath gone.”

“Rignor’s now Somerstrath.”

Rufus snorted. “He’ll never be the man his father was. He’ll never rebuild Somerstrath alone, and is unlikely to do so even with help. And Ross kens that. I’m not sure he’ll replace his own nephew, but I am sure he’d be glad to ken a strong man is nearby, and I’m sure he’ll continue to be a generous overlord.”

“Ye’re here.”

“For now, but no one lives forever. My lass is getting older, too, and I’ve no grandchildren yet. What will happen to Inverstrath if Dagmar doesna marry a man strong enough to follow me?”

“I’m not looking for a wife.”

“What man is? Think on it, lad. There’s opportunity here now.”

“My uncle is expecting me back in Ireland.”

“There’s land to be had here.” Rufus laughed. “Think on it, MacMagnus. In the meantime, in exchange for my hospitality, I’ll expect ye to teach my men to defend themselves against a Norseman’s axe. Ye can do that, aye?”

“I can.”

“Good. Start today,” Rufus said, and slapped Gannon’s shoulder as he left.

When the rain stopped, Gannon checked on his men at the ships, finding them safe but restless. Several were playing dice and invited him to join them. He smiled and declined, then looked north, toward the beach that was on the other side of the headland. Beyond that, if one walked far enough, was Somerstrath. To the south the arm of land that enclosed Inverstrath’s harbor continued, rising steeply, its rocky crest shielding whatever lay beyond from his view. He walked toward it, southward along Inverstrath’s beach, then up the headland, clambering over huge boulders and around the occasional clump of green that grew on its inhospitable slope, until at last he reached the top.

The view was worth his effort; on his right the headland continued even farther, its sides barren where it leaned out into the sea; barren on the opposite shore as well, where the ground fell from a narrow crest to disappear into the cobalt water below. The sea loch was narrow at its entrance, the two guardian headlands gray and unwelcoming even now at the height of summer. At the end of the one on which he now stood were the remnants of a tiny fort, perhaps a broch, the cylindrical towers that one found all over Ireland and Scotland. This one, unlike the others, looked not to be a safe haven, but a lookout, a protected place from which to view all who entered the loch or passed by on the sea. Its roof was gone, but the walls still stood, and from here the view was magnificent.

Just below him the loch widened, its waters still the rich blue of deep water. Navigable, he thought. The opposite shore grew even taller, a slab of gray. There was no sign of habitation, except for the path to his left that wandered along the crest of this ridge. He followed it for some fifty feet, then saw that what he’d supposed to be a shadow on the far shore was actually the mouth of a cave, gaping open, revealing a watery floor studded with boulders, like teeth in its maw. He stared at the cave, thinking of stories he’d heard as a boy, of caves where dragons lived. Or where dragonships could rest. The cave was too small to shelter one of the Norse ships, but the loch, which continued to the east, might not be.

The path stayed atop the ridge for a while, then dipped steeply to the shore. It was here that he stopped, feeling his heart’s slow thud and the hairs on the back of his neck rise as the wind sighed through the trees behind him.

Welcome home
.

He’d seen this view before, seen this valley, had stood at this very spot before. He’d stood on the other side of the loch, across the wide expanse of quiet water that could safely shelter two score ships, and knew, without turning, that behind him the meadow melded into the trees, the mountains towering above them. And across the water, rising from the valley floor, the ruins of an ancient wooden fortress. He did not need to travel around the end of the loch to know that he would find the fortress built as he would have built it—perhaps had built it. He did not need the whispers to tell him he’d been here before. Had loved here, for part of the memory was of a woman who stood at his side and slipped her hand in his.

Imaginings, he told himself. Dreams. He’d dreamed this place, or it looked like a spot in Ireland, which he was half-remembering.

Home
. The whispers mocked him for doubting. He ignored them, concentrating on the fortress across the water. Most of the wooden walls no longer stood, but were moldering into dust. There was an outer wall halfway up that slope, its gate sideways to the water, the path to it steep and winding so attackers would have to scramble rather than march to the opening.

Below him the water lapped softly on the shore as the tide waxed to full. Then overhead to the east, the harsh cry of an eagle drew his attention to the mountain that stood sentinel over this valley. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of pine and salt water and heather, of sunlight on rock, and somehow, of roses, not the protected beauties of enclosed gardens, but wild roses. He thought of Rufus’s offer, of Dagmar’s lush body. His own land. He took one last look at the glen, wondering why no one lived there, why Rufus’s people were clinging to a flat beachhead that was difficult to defend when this magnificent valley was here.

He was still pondering the question—and Rufus’s offer—when he reached Inverstrath’s beach. Was still mulling it over, when he saw her.

It had rained overnight and the air still smelled of it, the freshness welcome after the stifling warmth and closeness of the fortress. Margaret slipped from her bed at the first sound outside her door, grateful that the long night was over. She’d slept little and when she did, she’d had nightmares.

The field outside the walls was empty, the beach beyond it the same, but she could see men moving on and near the Irish ships. She walked slowly closer to the water, telling herself she was not searching among the Irish for one blond head that was familiar. For him. When she realized he was not among those who guarded the ships, she walked southward instead, letting the steady rise and fall of the waves comfort her. The tide was coming in and with it the wind, bringing the clean smell of the open water.

She turned away from the sea then and went into the village. Dagmar’s neglect had not reached here. The homes were small, clustered together, built of stone or daub and wattle, their roofs thatched. Many had fireplaces and chimneys, as had the Somerstrath villagers, which made life in the tiny houses so much more livable than in the old days. Doors were opening as she walked, people spilling out to begin the morning’s work. Children peered from behind their mothers’ skirts, giving her shy smiles. She knew them all, could name each family that lived here, each family that had lost loved ones in the attack on Somerstrath or had taken in the survivors. These were all that were left of her father’s people. They were her responsibility now, or more properly, Rignor’s.

She was surrounded at once by the villagers. She asked about their well-being and heard all the latest happenings, even some wonderful news about an expected baby. And then, unsettling, the people told her their doubts about Rignor’s capabilities to lead them. She listened, thanked them for their time, then took her leave. But heard the same worries from others as she left the village. Many others. One man stopped her to remind her that in the old days the clans would elect the next leader.

“It wasna always the old chief’s son…” the man said, his face reddening.

Margaret nodded, trying to sound cheerful. “We’ll be facing that soon enough. The first thing we need to do is make sure everyone’s safe, aye? My uncle will be here soon.”

“And the Irish will leave?”

“Rory O’Neill will stay until my uncle arrives.”

“We’ve heard he’ll be leaving some men behind for a bit.”

“I’ve heard that too. Does that concern ye?”

“Did ye hear Gannon MacMagnus came through the village last night?”

“No.”

“He said he wanted everyone to ken who he was and that he was no Norsemen. Looks like one, though.”

Margaret nodded. “He does.”

“He told us his men were no’ to be feared either, and if there were any problems with them, to come to him. That set well with most of us. So, if it’s Gannon that’s staying behind, we won’t be complaining.”

“Ah,” she said cautiously. “I’m sure we’ll ken more soon.”

She left quickly then, walking briskly before anyone else could tell her anything. She could not bear to hear any more complaints about her brother. She returned to the beach, knowing that when Uncle William arrived she’d have to tell him what she’d heard. And wondering what it meant for the future of her home and what was left of her family. It would kill Rignor, she knew, if he was displaced as her father’s heir. But surely it would not come to that. Surely the people would follow Rignor, and surely her brother would become the leader they needed. Wouldn’t he? She stared out over the water, trying to sort it out.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, nor what made her turn, but she did, as if he’d called her name, although no one had spoken. But there he was, Gannon, moving swiftly along the strand toward her, his hair lifted by the breeze, his cloak swaying from his shoulders, his chin lifting when he saw her. He moved even faster now, his smile wide. For a moment she felt the rightness of this, of her waiting for this man to come to her, as though they’d done this a hundred times before. She swallowed, straightening her back, fighting the urge to run to him. He would open his arms, of that she was certain.

And then what?

“Margaret.” His voice was hushed, meant for her alone. “Good morrow, lass. Ye’re up early this morning.”

She nodded, momentarily speechless. He’d not shaved; the golden bristles of his beard caught the light and drew her eye to his jawline. His tunic was not laced closed; through the opening she could see his chest, tanned skin and lower still…She met his gaze instead, surprised by the excitement in his eyes, the smile that transformed his face from fearsome warrior to handsome man with a secret to share.

He did not wait for her answer. “Have ye ever been south of here?”

“Aye, but not for years. There’s nothing there.”

He extended his hand. “Nothing, ye say? Come, let me show ye.”

She did not question him, nor what she should do. Without thought, nor any look behind her, she put her hand in his and let him lead her southward, along the last of Inverstrath’s beach and up the steep headland. He helped her over the larger rocks, his touch gentle but firm, his larger hand wrapping around hers, warm and strong. At the crest he released her hand and walked along the ridge, showing her the ruined fortress she’d forgotten about, as she’d forgotten how splendid the view was from here. He talked of why this sea loch was so perfect for defense,

“It’s not wide enough for two ships here,” he said, pointing. “Any attackers would be vulnerable from above. And there, where the loch turns, ye could have a ship waiting to meet anyone arriving. Ye could watch from the other side and have plenty of warning of anyone who approached. Come along here.”

He showed her all the reasons why this valley was different from the rest of the coastline, the meadows that could be tilled, the freshwater burn that tumbled from the mountain and joined the sea loch at its most inland point, the mountains that surrounded and protected the valley, the perfect rise of rock on which to put a home, a fortress, he said, which had already been built once. She only half listened, caught more by the emotion behind his words than the words themselves, by the glow in his eyes, as though he’d triumphed in discovering this spot. By the pleasure he seemed to take in showing her.

He pointed at the ruined fortress, showing her how well it had been considered, the placement perfect for defense. And beautiful as well; the view from there would be lovely. She’d been here before, but had never noticed how blue the water, how green the trees, how majestic this valley was.

“Ye could live well here,” he said. “Ye could make a home worth the effort.”

“Is it a home ye’re looking for, then?”

His expression closed at once, and his eyes, warm blue a moment before, turned glacial. Be careful, she told herself; a moment or two of closeness did not mean she should lower her guard. She would do well to remember that he was a stranger and not be captivated by his confident manner, his pleasing form and face. His touch, his smile. He pushed his hair back from his face with long fingers that had held hers just a few moments ago. A strong hand that had held a sword to her throat and clasped her against him in Fiona’s house. That had caressed her cheek and struck Rufus’s man down with equal ease. A man of changeable moods who had won over Rufus’s villagers in one night and did not bother to hide his contempt for her brother. They knew so little of each other, she and Gannon MacMagnus, and perhaps that was just as well.