On a Highland Shore (38 page)

“You will dine with me tonight,” Nor said, drawing her attention back to him. “I’ll send for you later.”

“No,” she said.

He blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. “Yes,” he said, and strode away. Behind him, guarded by two men, Dagmar followed him. They went higher up the hill, disappearing into the only other wooden structure.

Nor’s man pushed her inside the dark hut. She was soon joined by the other women. Margaret sat in a corner, silent, while some of the others sobbed. The guards were many, the location remote. How could she escape? How could she take the others with her? It seemed impossible. But she was on Skye, and that alone was comforting.

Gannon. Nell, dear heart, be safe.

G
annon buried his brother himself, refusing all aid except to bring Tiernan down from the wall where he’d been strung like a prize. He dug the grave in the fading light while the others watched, and placed Tiernan within it, then filled the hole. When the others came forward with the small stones for his brother’s cairn, he stacked them himself. He stood silently while they prayed over the tiny plot of land that held Tiernan then moved on to the other graves.

How was it possible that Tiernan was dead, that he would never hear that merry laugh again, never be teased by him? Never argue with him again? How was it possible that he’d left his brother to face death without him, knowing what Nor was? He’d not been here to protect him. He’d been chasing across the sea, looking for a monster. And the monster had been here, taking his revenge. Taking Margaret. Once again, as at Somerstrath, he helped bury the dead. Here, now, he buried his own, working with a growing determination. Nor Thorkelson might have started the raids, might indeed have started a war. But Gannon vowed he would finish it.

Nell was alive, and for that he was grateful. She’d told him everything she knew, and he’d wrapped his arms around her, telling her that he was glad she’d survived. He’d held her while she cried for Tiernan, his own tears mingling with hers. When he’d told her about the boys he’d brought home, she’d brightened for a moment, then slumped again when he said that Davey was not among them.

He could think of little else than that Margaret was gone. Dagmar had been taken as well, along with the youngest of the women. And Rignor…was dead, killed by his own men. He heard the story, but not from the men who had killed Rignor, for they, too, had died in the attack. He buried them next to Rignor, finding a grim satisfaction in it. He’d never liked the man, that was true, but he’d never imagined that Rignor would tell murderers where to find his sisters—or the woman he’d loved for most of his life. Or the people he’d been entrusted to lead. Had his wrath been directed only at Margaret or Dagmar? Or was this, his final act, as undisciplined and poorly thought through as all his other actions? It was a contemptible legacy for a man to leave.

The ships in Rufus’s harbor belonged to the next clan, whose chieftain, a hardy man named MacDougall, had filled his two ships with armed men and come to assist when the Inverstrath runner brought word of the attack. They, too, arrived too late to do anything but help bury the dead, but they offered safe haven to Inverstrath’s survivors. Gannon encouraged Rufus’s people to go with the MacDougalls, but refused the shelter for himself.

“I’m going to Skye,” he told them, “to find Margaret and bring her home.”

MacDougall pledged his aid, and Gannon was both surprised and pleased when many volunteered to join him.

“Ye are one of us now,” one of the Inverstrath women told him.

He had to turn away from her before she saw his eyes filling with tears. How could it be, when he’d lost everyone dear to him, when he’d failed to protect them, that they could have faith in him?

After a hurried meal, a hurried conversation with Nell and an even more hurried one with MacDougall, Gannon and his fleet left. He had three ships now and 150 men. It would have to do. He’d ignored the worried questions about sailing through the night, about how they would find Nor’s encampment. He’d looked at Nell, who would stay behind, embracing her, then gently pushing her away when she clung to him, telling her to be brave a bit longer. And he looked at Drason Anderson, unbound now and sitting among Gannon’s men. Drason, who had expressed as much horror as the others at what they’d found at Inverstrath, and who, eyes burning with anger, told Gannon they would hunt Nor down if it took forever. He believed the boy.

Gannon’s Lady
slipped back into the sea, catching the night wind eagerly, and headed back the way she’d come. He’d find Nor. But first he had a stop to make.

She heard his laughter in her dream, the low chuckle that rumbled through his chest, the one she’d been delighted to discover when they’d made love. He’d been a different man that night, tender and almost carefree, the fearsome warrior gone and in his place a man she could well imagine spending the rest of her life with, one who teased and smiled, who gave pleasure as he took his own. She’d slid her finger across his chest, feeling his laughter, the crisp golden hairs that dusted his skin, had run her hand the length of the scar the Norsemen had given him, suddenly aware of a cold wind coming from somewhere. And then her dream changed, from a candlelit room to a cold beach, where a severed head was slammed onto the sand by angry waves, and small boys looked at her for an explanation.

Margaret opened her eyes at the rough shaking. Above her a familiar and hated face loomed, that of the man who guarded the women, a foul man who had taken more than his share of liberties with them. He gestured for her to rise, not bothering to hide his smirk, and she knew where she was headed. The women around her cowered, their wide eyes revealing both their fear and their relief that it was not them being summoned. The last girl to leave had been given to Nor’s men. They’d heard her screams, then the laughter of men. She had not returned.

She was too slow to rise for the guard, for he grabbed her and shoved her toward the door. She stumbled out into the predawn light.

Nor had not called for her last night. And Dagmar had not joined the women; it did not take much imagination to know where she’d been. The man led her up the path, along the edge of the cliff, to the longhouse. Below her in the harbor men were already moving about on the ships. One ship was arriving, gliding in silently from the long channel that led to the sea. Two more were leaving. More raids, she wondered, shivering at the thought. Was Nor with them? Was she being brought to the longhouse to serve another purpose than the one she anticipated? She thought of the older Inverstrath women thrown to the Norsemen like scraps to starving wolves. She would endure it. Whatever this day brought, she would endure it.

The guard stopped before the longhouse. It was well named, for the building was long and squat, huddled against the ground. Crude, she thought, fitting for the man who held court there. The guard knocked. She could hear Nor’s answer, curt and tinged with humor, but could not understand his words. The guard pushed the door open and gestured her inside.

The room was low, built of dark timbers without decoration. There was a fire of sorts thrust into a brazier that looked almost Roman, but no chimney. The smoke escaped through a ragged hole cut in the roof. On the floor was a rug from Persia and on a low, ornately carved chest, was the silver candlestick that had once been her mother’s, the one that Lachlan had brought with him to Fiona’s on that fateful night. It steadied her, the sight of the candlestick, reminded her of all this man had done, of all he was, and that the only way to defeat him might be to die with him. She had no weapon but her mind, and she must be prepared to use it.

Nor watched her from a large chair across the room, like a king overseeing his domain. At the other end of the room was a beautiful bed, stolen, no doubt, from one of the raided villages, for the turned bedposts were carved with Celtic symbols, intertwining animals and plants. It was empty, but the coverings lay clustered at the foot of the bed, as though someone had just risen. Dagmar? There was, blessedly, no sign of her.

Nor smiled now, gesturing for her to stand before him, his pale blue eyes noting every detail of her. “Come in, Lady Margaret. I trust you are well today.”

“Aye,” she said.

“As am I, although you have not asked.”

She did not answer.

“Dagmar has been an interesting companion.”

“All the men say that.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “She’s told me much about you, about your history and your family. You are the niece of the Earl of Ross, which is most interesting. And Somerstrath was your home. So sorry to have destroyed it. Had I known you would return, I would have waited for you. And you are the reluctant wife of Lachlan Ross, married by a monk, who was not a monk. You were wed and not wed.” He leaned forward, his smile wide. “I have rarely enjoyed anything more than thinking of you married by a man from Caithness who would sell his mother for silver.” He laughed aloud. “And now you have an attachment to Gannon Magnusson, MacMagnus, as you Scots call him.”

She met his gaze, but said nothing. He smiled again, appearing for a moment to be nothing more than a genial, handsome man.

“And this Gannon, I’ve discovered, is kin to the laird of Ulster. Pity about his brother. No doubt his uncle in Antrim will be displeased with me. But none of this is news to you.” He paused, rubbing his hand along the arm of the chair. He tossed his hair over his shoulder, raising his chin as he studied her.

“You are beautiful, which is fortunate. I could ransom you.” He spoke as though he were discussing the weather. “Gannon would probably pay to have you back, even if your ‘husband’ would not. Or perhaps your uncle would. Or perhaps you’re thinking that they will come for you, that I’ve killed a lot of people, and they will come for revenge. But let’s consider. Lachlan Ross will not come for you, not after the way you treated him. Your uncle is very busy with other things, with Haakon’s fleet off Scotland’s shores and King Alexander’s request that your uncle bring an army to aid him. William might be too busy with all that to arrange a ransom just now. With Norway and Scotland at war who has time to consider the fate of one insignificant woman?”

She watched him move, but did not speak.

“So now,” he continued, “we have only Gannon, who is burying his brother. But even if Gannon wanted to come for you, he cannot. I left no ship whole at Inverstrath and very few men. He has only one ship and a handful of companions.” He shook his head. “Gannon will not come for you.”

“He will. Perhaps not soon, but he will come and make you pay for what you’ve done.”

He smiled slowly. “Ah. How certain you seem that he’ll come. Perhaps you’re right. But let me assure you, that if Gannon comes here, we will be ready. And our hospitality will be unlike anything he’s ever known.”

“He will not come alone. He will find ye and destroy ye.”

He went on as if she’d not spoken. “If no one meets my price, I could sell you in Norway, where many men might like to bed the niece of the Earl of Ross. Or send you even farther away, places where white skin and a face like yours would bring me a nice sum.” He slid from the chair and paced the room. “I could give you to my men, who would use you up in a week. But that would be wasteful when I have the others to pass along when I’m finished. Or I could keep you for myself if you prove interesting enough, if you are as inventive as Dagmar.”

“I assure you I am not.”

“It would please me to have Gannon know I had you. Shall we wait until he comes and have him watch?”

“Ye are disgusting.”

“And you, madam, are predictable.”

“As ye are.”

He smiled coldly. “I am not predictable.”

“But ye are. At every turn ye take the brutal course. It doesna take a fine mind to mistreat people.”

“Are you trying to win me over?”

“If I were, I’d be obsequious and tell ye that there’s never been anyone like ye, as Dagmar has. Or will. She says that to all the men.”

“And how would you know that?”

“The walls are sometimes thin.”

He laughed. “I have your brother David. He’s being held not far away.”

Her heart lurched.

“You may see him. In return for…certain favors.” Here it was, just as she’d expected. Actually more civil than she’d expected. She told herself it did not matter what he did to her, that despite his talk of selling her as a slave, he was far more likely to keep her alive to hold for ransom. Her value to him was as a pawn with which to bargain. And no one pays well for a dead woman. Nor Thorkelson might be intelligent, but he’d backed himself into a corner; she might be his path out of it. If Haakon of Norway won the war, Nor would never be asked to account for what he’d done. But if Alexander of Scotland won, Nor would be hunted. It was a gamble, and she was willing to bet that he’d take the safest route, that he would take the road that would keep them both alive.

She trembled as he came to stand before her, lifting her chin, moving her face side to side as though studying it. He brushed her hair back from her face, his touch gentle and caressing.
Let him do what he wants. Live through this. Don’t think
.

He slid his hand into the neck of her bodice, the backs of his fingers cold against her skin; she tried to control her flinch. He smiled slowly, thrusting his hand deeper, to rest between her breasts. And then he yanked, tearing her clothing from neckline to waist, pushing her back until she met the wall. He stripped what was left of her bodice from her, then stepped closer, lifting one breast, then the other.

“Gannon’s woman.” He leaned even closer, nuzzling her neck, his hips against hers, his arousal hard against her stomach.

I will bear this.

“Do you want your brother to live? He’s so young…”

“Aye.”

His lips moved to her shoulder and his hand tightened on her breast, then slid down to her waist, slipping under the edge of her skirts. “What are you willing to do?”

“What do ye want?”

He pulled his hand back, tearing her skirts open. She froze, closing her eyes, refusing to look at him as the air met her skin. He tore again. The last of her skirts fell, and she was naked.

“Open your eyes, Margaret!”

She did. His gaze was fevered, his eyes glowing.

“I want Gannon. And you’re going to deliver him, aren’t you? In exchange for your brother’s life, you will lure Gannon to me. But that’s not all. I want this,” he said, painfully tightening his grip on her breast.

I will bear this.

“And this,” he said, thrusting a hand between her legs, his fingers on her, then in her.

She gasped, jerked away from him, but he held her pinned against the wall. He pressed his mouth against hers, forcing her lips open. He thrust his tongue into her, probing, one hand on her breast again, the other, inside her, moving in rhythm with his tongue. She moaned and tried to break free, but he leaned against her now, her shoulders and back pressed into the rough wood of the wall. He lifted his head and looked at her.