On a Highland Shore (26 page)

The breeze stirred again, drawing her gaze to the window and the moon beyond, the symbol of all that was feminine. She stared at the pale orb, trying to draw strength from it, from all the women who had gone before her into the unknown, to find some peace with the course of her life, simply one more in so many courses of womanhood. I want love, she told the moon. And peace. Can you bring them to me? There was, of course, no answer, and she smiled at her foolishness. She should have resigned herself to this years ago. And someday perhaps, surrounded by the children who would be her compensation for marriage to a man who didn’t want her—would she think of this night and laugh at her trepidation?

She heard the latch click and shrank back into the shadows, expecting a sleepy person in need of the garderobe farther down the hallway, or, worst case, her brother leaving Dagmar. What she’d not imagined was a naked Gannon MacMagnus stepping from the room he shared. He shifted something from one hand to another and turned to close the door quietly, his long, pale hair skimming across his back.

He paused, as though listening, then leaned against the wall, the left side of his body lit by the moonlight, the rest in shadow. His sigh was audible. After a moment, long arms shook out the trousers he had held and lean legs stepped into them. He tied the drawstring all too soon at his waist.

She should not be watching him from the shadows, but she could not tear her gaze away. He was magnificent. And now he was heading right toward her, where she stood at the top of the stairs. If she moved, he’d see her at once. If she did not move, he’d see her a moment later. She took a deep breath and stepped into the brilliant square of moonlight that was before her.

He stopped and stared at her. Only half of his face was illuminated, the rest in darkness, but she could see his surprise. His cheeks were dark hollows; his eyelashes cast long shadows; his wide mouth was softly lit from the side, the strong lines of his lips drawing her gaze. His collarbone was at her eye level; his shoulder, where it caught the light, wide and well muscled. His chest, with its pale dusting of hair, rising and falling with his breath, was not two feet in front of her. And across it, running from his neck to his ribs, a long, pale, ugly scar, the one he must have received when the Norsemen killed his father and brothers. She fought the urge to touch it, to touch him. Her heart began pounding.

G
annon thought he was dreaming. It took a moment for him to realize that this was no apparition, but Margaret herself who stood before him, her face, framed by her hair and the shadows, ghostly. She wore her cloak over a loose gown that was open at her throat. He could see the top of one milky breast as it rose with her breathing, saw her pulse beat at her neck and her hands clutch at her cloak. Her eyes were dark, her cheeks sculpted by the light that fell softly on her. He stared at her, at her breasts, at her lips, wondering what she’d taste like, what she would feel like under him. Around him. Had there ever been a lovelier woman? Or one he’d wanted more? She’d been here, he realized, when he’d stepped naked into the corridor. He glanced down the hall; there was enough light for her easily to have seen him.

“Margaret,” he whispered, “what are ye doing here, lass?”

“I couldna sleep.”

“Nor I,” he said.

“I just wanted…”

Her gaze fell to his mouth, and he felt his body stir. “…some air,” she said.

“D’ye want to go outside? I’ll take ye there.” He extended his hand. She took it, wrapping her smaller fingers around his.

“I canna go down there, with all those men.”

“No.” He lifted their joined hands into the light, looking from them to her, then leaned to wrap his other arm around her waist. “Just one kiss, Margaret, before we part forever. Just one. To remember me by.”

She put her hand on his shoulder, let it glide down his chest, smiling softly. “I’ll ne’er forget ye, Gannon.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, gently at first, then madly when she responded, pulling her tighter, feeling her breasts against him, her soft hands on his chest, on his shoulders, wrapping around his neck, threading through his hair. He kissed her mouth, her lips and cheeks, the sweet hollow of her neck, then her mouth again, claiming it, exploring it, pushing her against the wall, dizzy with desire. And when her tongue probed into his mouth, he slipped the cloak off her shoulder and put his hand to her breast.

She heard them first, the noises behind them. He lifted his head from hers and turned to see Lachlan watching them with a grave expression. Behind him someone moved, and Rory’s face appeared from the shadows. Margaret buried her head against his shoulder with a soft moan.

“Ye bastard!” Lachlan cried. “Get ye hands off my woman.”

Gannon kept his arms around her. “She’s no’ yer woman yet.”

“She’s promised to me.”

“Promised, not yet wed,” Gannon said.

“Get yer hands off her.”

“That’s for Margaret to decide.”

Rory stepped forward, holding up his hands for them to stop. Margaret leaned away from Gannon.

“It was only a kiss,” Rory said calmly. “Nothing more. Get yerself off now, lassie, before these two start a war over ye. Lads, we’re all tense. Let’s not make this more than it is.”

Margaret nodded and moved past Rory. Lachlan grabbed her arm.

“It was one kiss, Lachlan,” she said.

“What is the difference,” Lachlan asked, “between this and what happened between Fiona and me?”

“There is a world of difference,” she said. “Ours was only a kiss, yers much more. But ye’re right; both times the lass was willing.”

Margaret faded into the shadows. A moment later they heard the soft latch of her door. Lachlan threw Gannon a look full of hatred, then spun on his heel and stalked back to the cramped room.

“For God’s sake, lad,” Rory said. “Have we not enough on our plates with ye adding this?”

“It was one kiss, Rory.”

“It was much more than that, and ye ken it. Find another lass, Gannon.” Rory was still shaking his head as he left.

Gannon pounded down the stairs, through the maze of sleeping men and into the courtyard, where he stood in the night air, willing his body and emotions to subside. She’d marry Lachlan tomorrow. He should not be tempted by her lovely form, her dark eyes, should not remember the feel of her breasts against his chest, the feel of her fingers on his skin, the softness of her lips and the warmth of her response. Lachlan’s woman, he told himself, and best forgotten. He swore, then again. Why her? Why now, when the world had gone mad?

They left shortly after dawn, his men yawning and complaining about the hour. Tiernan, slightly green from the aftereffects of his drinking last night, was silent. They wore Irish clothing, and Gannon was glad of it; he was ready to leave Scotland behind. He’d never be a Scot. Why pretend? Rory came to see them off, as did Rufus. And Lachlan, who stood, arms crossed over his chest, on the berm above the beach, his stance stiff, his face expressionless.

“I dinna have to tell ye to be careful,” Rory said now, standing with Gannon on the shingle while the last of his men climbed aboard
Gannon’s Lady
.

“No,” Gannon said.

“Nor to tell ye that if ye think ye’re in danger, get out.”

“No.”

“Nor to tell ye how fortunate ye were last night that it was me with Lachlan and not William. After Tiernan and Rignor’s brawl…” He let his words trail off. “It’s not to be, laddie. There are other women.” When Gannon did not answer, he continued. “I’m serious, lad. There are other women. We’ll get ye home to Ireland, and ye can have yer pick.”

“What about the Scottish heiress?”

“I’m thinking it’s not such a good idea now. We’ll get ye home.”

“To do what, Rory? Be Erik’s lackey? I want land of my own someday.”

“Aye, and Rufus offered ye Dagmar and Inverstrath when he’s gone. I ken; he told me. And if ye took it, ye’d be laird here. But ye’d be Rignor’s liegeman and yer wife would be in his bed constantly. Can ye do that?”

Gannon stared into the distance. “I dinna think so.”

“Aye.” Rory gave him an appraising look. “If ye want land of yer own, we’ll find it, aye? Ye always have a place with me, laddie.”

“I thank ye for that.”

“Aye, well, ye might not later. Ye’ll earn yer land. Ye’re starting with this trip to Skye. Leod is wily. Remember that.”

“Aye.”

“Ye’re young. In time both ye and the lass will forget, though ye dinna think that possible now. Get ye gone, lad. Safe journey and God speed ye home.” He gave Gannon a quick embrace, then slapped his shoulder and strode away.

Gannon watched him for a moment, looked at Lachlan, still watching on the ground above, and turned to his ship, giving orders quietly. Rory was wrong. He’d never forget.

The Isle of Skye. Gannon stood in the stern of
Gannon’s Lady
with Tiernan as they slid by the tall cliffs that guarded the entrance to Leod’s fortress. They’d traveled without incident from Inverstrath to the most northwestern part of the island. He searched for signs of the watchers he knew would be there, men who would report their arrival; and soon he saw them, each signaling to the next man, holding banners or flags, of various colors.

Leod took no chances on being surprised, and he’d chosen his site well, but that was hardly surprising; he was a wily and thorough leader. Most likely someone had already reported that they were gliding across the cobalt waters toward Leod’s fortress, past Dunvegan Head and into Loch Dunvegan, where they passed the fishermen’s boats and the many small craft that filled the loch. The entrance to the large loch was wide and open to the sea; it embraced several islands within its waters and was large enough to hold many ships. Dunvegan was at the southernmost point of the loch and of course
Gannon’s Lady
had been seen. The flat land near the shore held clusters of small and ancient houses, most whitewashed and thatched, the people near them stopping to stare as they passed.

He’d approached Skye carefully, remembering the stories of the ships that had been run aground in her treacherous waters, or lured into a seemingly safe harbor only to find fierce men waiting for them. Skyemen were known to be a breed apart, a ferocious bunch; they’d been bred to it, tested by the mettle of invasion after invasion. It was difficult to find a Skyeman who did not carry Danish and Irish and Pictish and Scottish—and now Norse—blood. Cuchulain, Ireland’s greatest warrior, had come to train here, and it was said that his blood still ran through the people. The island had little arable land; its inhabitants had always been hardy. The south of the island, in the shadow of the Cuillins, Skye’s unforgettable mountains, was the most fertile. Their blue and gray peaks dominated the sky, inhospitable and alluring, thrusting into the air and daring those who looked upon them to approach. Few did; fewer returned from them, and those who had returned brought back tales of strange happenings and even stranger creatures that dwelled there.

He’d been here before, as a young boy, had sailed here with his father and uncle, and sat with them, listening while the men talked of war. He couldn’t remember if Leod had been there, or what had been decided, but he did remember his father telling him on the way home to do more listening than talking in discussions like that. “Ye already know what’s in yer own mind,” Magnus had said. “Learn what’s in his.” Which is what he hoped to do now. He knew much of Leod’s history, that he was the son of Olaf the Black, the king of the Isle of Man.

Tiernan spoke now, as though reading his thoughts. “He has agreements with King Alexander of Scotland and with Haakon of Norway, aye?”

Gannon nodded, noting those on the shore who had stopped working and were watching their approach. “That way he canna lose, can he?”

“Erik said he was a fair man.”

“Aye, Erik always said so. We’ll find out soon enough, won’t we? Or not. Like as much he’ll tell us nothing. Ye understand what we’re up against, d’ye not? It won’t take much to set all of Ireland and Scotland at war with Leod and half the Norsemen in the world. If it’s Leod doing the raids, and I’m quite sure it’s not, which is why we’re here, he’s likely to throw us in chains or lop off our heads and it’s only by us not returning that the others will ken that it’s him. If it’s not Leod, God only kens what the ones who are doing the raids are like. All we ken is that they’re ruthless and dangerous. And if it’s not Leod, he’ll probably play both sides. Which means he’ll send word to the raiders that we’re looking for them.”

“Won’t they have figured that much out already? Surely no one can think to do what they’ve done and not be hunted.”

“Aye. But what if that’s exactly what they’re hoping we’ll do—come looking?” He shook his head. “All I need from Leod is a name.”

“All we need is to get out of here alive.”

“Rory will retaliate if we don’t.”

“Which will be the least of our worries,” Tiernan said. “I’ve not done enough good deeds to be assured where I’m going.”

Gannon laughed. “Nor I. Remind me to remedy that sometime, aye?”

He shaded his eyes as they neared the shore. Overhead the sun was still bright, and the glare off the water made it hard to see, but the runners going up the hill to the fortress were visible enough. He waved for his men to trim the sail and ready their oars. He wasn’t sure of their reception; it might be wise to be ready to flee, although how they’d get through the outer lochs and to the safety of the sea he wasn’t sure.

Someday, when he had his own home, his own land, he would do what Leod did to protect his own. But he would not think on that now, would not remember that this day Margaret would become Lachlan Ross’s wife, and this night Lachlan’s lover. He would think only that for whatever reason, Leod was allowing them to land unmolested. He raised a hand in response to the greetings they received, and watched his men throw lines to the men who waited ashore to pull
Gannon’s Lady
to the dock. It was time to see what Leod was made of. And perhaps himself.

The gods favored them. The seas were calm, the winds strong and steady. His ships made good time, and the Norseman was pleased. He had twelve ships with him now, lightly loaded with men, which left plenty of room for plunder and slaves. His men were eager and rested. His spies had returned with some pleasant news. And some not as pleasant.

His plan would stay the same. His ships would break into two groups; one would raid in the north of Scotland, visiting the Sinclairs, then the Munros. The second group, the one he led, would venture farther, to a place whose leader was not shrewd enough to see its weaknesses. He’d strike, then visit an old friend on the way home to hear all the latest news. He’d be welcomed, he was sure, despite the entanglements his visit might represent. His nephew was with him, the boy’s unhappiness palpable. The Norseman smiled to himself; by the end of the voyage he’d have Drason’s measure. Either the boy would rally and find his blood ran high during an attack, or he’d prove himself a coward. Either way, the dilemma Drason presented would be solved.

And when these raids were done, when his enemies at home were afraid to talk of him and his enemies abroad could talk of nothing else, then he’d start the second phase of his plan. His power would grow, and soon the kings of Ireland and Scotland and Norway would recognize him as an equal.

He poured the last of Somerstrath’s wine into the water. A libation for the gods, he thought, watching the drops disappear into the waves. And to ask for a small favor. The unwelcome news his spies had brought was that one of the boys he’d stolen was Somerstrath’s son. Who could have known that? The boy had not been in the keep with the others, nor had he been richly dressed. He’d looked like just one more village child. Now rescuing the boy would become a quest. Ross, his spies said, was already sending messengers out across Scotland with the news of the raid on Somerstrath. Soon the Norseman would lose the element of surprise he’d had earlier; the Scots would be prepared, waiting for his ships.