On a Highland Shore (13 page)

Only the barbaric Norse would have done this. The head on the beach had been a warning that none of them had heeded, its blond hair a sign of those who would come with death as their purpose. No one had understood the danger it had heralded. And now one of the murderers stood here, drawn no doubt by Nell’s screams. Rignor took a shaky breath, and behind him the guard shifted his weight.

Be silent
.
Don’t breathe. Don’t move. Don’t think
.

The Viking lifted his sword and stepped inside, glancing around before turning his gaze to the storeroom. He stared at it for what seemed an eternity, then at last looked toward the stairs. If he went up them, Margaret thought, perhaps they could sneak out into the courtyard…but her hopes of escape were dashed when yet another Viking appeared in the doorway, others visible behind him. The first man said something too low for her to hear, and the second nodded, relaying the message to the others. Four men entered the ground floor, and others moved outside.

Is this how we are to die?

The second Viking looked up the stairwell, then spoke quietly. The first man nodded, turning his gaze to the storeroom door once again. He raised his sword. And moved out of sight. Margaret’s heart leapt in terror. There was nothing on that side of the guardroom to hold his interest, but from there he could come closer to their hiding place. The second man disappeared behind the storeroom door.

Dear God, dear God, protect us…

There was silence then, a long moment when no one moved. Margaret was sure the Vikings could hear her heart pounding. Nell sucked in her breath, the tiniest inhalation of air that seemed to reverberate off the walls. Margaret heard the scrape of leather on stone as one of the Vikings shifted his weight, then silence yet again.

A hand came from the side of the doorway, a long arm clothed in linen, a band of gold around his wrist, carved with Norse runes. Long fingers gripped Nell’s clothing and yanked her, screaming, out of the storeroom. Nell screamed again as the Viking clasped her to him. He frowned fiercely as she struggled in his arms, kicking and raining ineffectual blows on his head. The door was pulled open wide, and the second Viking stood there, almost as tall and blond as the first.

There was no time to think, no time to talk to her brother, to form a plan. Margaret leapt from the storeroom to help Nell, her short sword raised high, her cries wordless. Behind her Rignor and the guard were shouting curses and taking on the others, but Margaret could see only this one man, huge and angry, Nell caught in his grip. He shifted her sister to his left side and faced Margaret, his sword scything through the air with a whistling sound, not touching her, but holding her where she was.

She saw his surprise when he looked at her. She swung her sword through the air, hoping to use his surprise to her advantage, but he leaned back, out of her reach. And waited. Nell, clutched in his left arm, struggled and screamed, the sound piercing in the small space. Margaret swiped at him again. He slashed out to block her blow, his long sword meeting hers with a shivering clang that she felt up her entire arm. He did not seem to feel it.

There were no more sounds of battle from behind her, but Margaret dared not turn to see if Rignor still lived. Someone breathed heavily, and she prayed that it was her brother. Two of the Vikings moved closer to the one before her, and he thrust Nell toward them. They grabbed her, holding her between them, but the Viking did not watch. He kept his gaze on Margaret.

And then, with no warning, swept his blade through the air to land at her throat. His arm was longer, his sword longer than hers; she could not reach him without risking being impaled, and she saw that knowledge in his eyes.

“Let her go!” Margaret cried. “Release her, ye filthy murderer!”

He leaned forward, and Nell screamed.

O
h, please, sir, dinna hurt Margaret!” Nell cried, sobbing now. The Viking looked into Margaret’s eyes. “Give me yer sword,” he said slowly in Gaelic, as if he thought she would not understand him. He had an accent, but with so few words she could not tell more than that.

His voice and tone surprised her. Did Vikings sound like this, like ordinary men? Did they speak her language?

“We mean ye no harm. Give me yer sword.”

“Dinna trust him, Margaret!” Rignor shouted. “No harm, Norseman? Ye hold a sword to my sister’s throat while the rest of ye hold us back. If this is no harm, I’ll have none of it.”

“Ye have no choice,” the Viking growled.

Rignor lunged forward with a roar, struggling with the other Vikings. His attempts were short-lived; he was easily subdued again. The Viking before her had not watched, keeping his attention instead on her. He reached for Margaret’s sword again with his left arm, this wrist banded in gold as well. “Give me the sword.”

She could not move. She took a shallow breath, wondering if it would be her last. He could have killed her already if he’d chosen to, this giant who stood before her, his long, lean fingers wrapped around the sword at her throat. His arm did not waver, nor did his intent gaze, except for the flash of anger there, quickly subdued. She had no doubt that he could dispatch her in a moment if he chose. Was this how her mother and brothers had felt at the end? Had they looked into their murderer’s eyes and known what would come next? Could death come in this guise, with a face like this, a form that was so pleasing? A man who looked like an avenging angel?

“Prove that ye mean us no harm,” Rignor shouted. “Take yer sword from her throat, Norseman.”

The blond man spoke without moving his gaze from Margaret’s. “I’m no Norseman. I am of Ireland.” His voice was melodic, lilting. His gaze searched her face, studying it. His tone softened. “Give me the sword, lass. Please. By all the saints, I swear I willna harm ye.”

His accent was Irish. She stared at him, at his Irish clothing. His brooch was decorated in the Celtic manner, with enameled carvings of fanciful animals. His tone was mild; his hair, illuminated by the light from the door, was a halo around his head. His eyes were a deep blue and held no hint of trickery. But there was an axe at his waist and the hilt of his sword was decorated with Norse runes. He wore Norse wristbands. The torque and his clothing might have been looted from the Irish.

Her voice was a whisper. “Ye look like a Norseman.”

“Aye, I ken I do. But I’m not. I will not harm ye.” He stepped closer. “I give ye my word on that, Margaret of Somerstrath.”

He’d remembered her name. She looked away, unnerved even more, then back into those blue, blue eyes. “Who are ye, and why are ye here?”

“My name is Gannon MacMagnus.” He wrapped his hand around hers, pushing her sword to the side, his touch gentle. “We mean ye no harm. I give ye my word.”

“And will ye give me yer word that ye willna harm my sister and brother, nor any of our people, nor will ye let yer men harm them?”

His sudden smile was mocking. “Ye’re hardly in a position to bargain…”

He stopped talking as a large man paused in the doorway, then stepped into the room. The man’s beard was gray under his helmet. He was tall and heavy, his leather padding tight over his round stomach. He wore a golden torque, much like Gannon’s, and golden rings on his fingers. He pulled off his helmet with a weary gesture and ran his hand through his graying chestnut hair. “Did ye find Somerstrath?”

Margaret let out the breath she’d not even realized she’d been holding.
Rory O’Neill. Praise God
. O’Neill had been her father’s ally for decades, her grandfather’s ally before that. When she was a girl, he’d visited Somerstrath several times. Then he’d been the emissary from an important family in Ireland. Now he was powerful in his own right, despite the Norman earls, as the overlord and chief of Ulster, in the north of Ireland. Why was he here? And was it possible, as dreadful as it was to imagine, that his men had done this? But why would he? It made no sense. He wiped his eyes, and the knot in her chest began to loosen. The Rory O’Neill she had known would not murder and weep at the same time.

“How many have ye found?” he asked Gannon, then threw a glance at Margaret, taking in Gannon’s blade at her throat. “Is she dangerous?”

Gannon stepped back from her, sheathing his sword, his color suddenly heightened. “Only these.”

O’Neill’s gaze turned to Margaret again, his expression changing from weary to relieved. “Ah, I dinna see who it was. Thank God ye’re alive. Where’s yer da?”

“My father is dead,” Rignor said. “Our whole family is dead, save my sisters and me. I am Rignor MacDonald, and these are my sisters Margaret and Nell.”

“I ken who ye are,” O’Neill said. “Ye’ve grown, the three of ye, but we’ve met before. I’m Rory O’Neill…”

“We ken who ye are. An ally, or so we believed. Why do ye attack us?”

O’Neill raised an eyebrow. “We dinna, lad. We’ve only just arrived.”

“Our home was attacked, and ye are here. If ye dinna do this, then why do ye have Norsemen with ye?”

O’Neill followed Rignor’s gaze to Gannon. “I don’t. That’s Gannon MacMagnus.” He gestured to the second Viking. “That’s his brother Tiernan. They’re cousins of mine.”

Margaret could see the resemblance between the brothers now. Both were tall, lean, with the same cheekbones and very blue eyes. And both were displeased.

“Why should we believe ye?” Rignor demanded, “I’ll say it again: We were attacked. Ye are here. Tell me why I shouldna accuse ye of it?”

O’Neill drew himself up, his choler obvious. “I’ll warn ye not to say that again.”

“Ye have only to look at us,” Gannon said tersely. “We have two hundred men with us. Ye’ll find no signs of battle on any of them, no dead or wounded. Ye couldn’t have this much fighting without both sides having losses.”

Rignor thrust his chin out belligerently. “We found no dead but our own. How d’ye account for that?”

“I’m thinking they took their dead.”

“Why would they?”

“Perhaps it’s to keep ye from kenning who did it.”

O’Neill made a sharp gesture. “We didn’t attack ye, for God’s sake, Rignor.”

“Then why are ye here?”

“There were attacks on the coast in Ireland, in Antrim. I came to ask yer uncle William’s help in discovering what he kent of them and found he’d had two attacks on his own land and was about to send word to me. He asked us to come here on our way home and tell yer da of it all. We found Somerstrath burning and dead men on the beach and came to see if anyone still lived. It’s as simple as that.” There was a silence then, while Rignor and O’Neill stared at each other. When Rignor looked away, O’Neill nodded to himself. “Who was screaming?”

“Nell,” Rignor said, his bravado gone. “She…saw my mother. Upstairs.”

O’Neill glanced at the stairwell. “Ah.”

Gannon watched Margaret, his blue eyes solemn and his face without expression. She looked away, still feeling his gaze on her.

“How many of yer people are left?” O’Neill asked.

“We’ve found no one,” Rignor said. “We’ve just come from inland ourselves. We found all as ye see it, but we’ve not been down to the harbor or the lower village.”

“There is no one alive down there,” Gannon said.

Margaret raised a hand to her throat. It was impossible to believe that no one had survived. “Did ye look through all the houses?”

O’Neill nodded. “Aye, lass. There’s no one left alive. They came from the sea, as they did in Antrim, and on yer uncle’s lands.”

“Norsemen,” Rignor said, looking at Gannon.

Gannon crossed his arms over his chest. A wide chest, Margaret noted, and strong arms. A formidable man, his expression displeased. Rignor, she thought, would be wise not to antagonize him. She threw her brother a glance of caution, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. She turned back, to find Gannon watching her, and felt her cheeks color.

“Wait outside,” O’Neill said to Rignor in a tone that brooked no arguments. He waved some of his men forward, then nodded at Gannon and Tiernan to follow him, cautiously leading the way up the stairs.

Rignor stalked outside into the courtyard, past O’Neill’s men. Margaret and Nell followed. The courtyard was filled with Irishmen who stood in small groups, some blocking the gate, their manner making it plain that no one would leave. Margaret wrapped an arm around Nell and waited, trying not to visualize what O’Neill and the others would find.

“D’ye think we can trust them?” Nell whispered.

“Father did,” Margaret whispered back, looking up at the keep, at the gray stones that had become a tomb. At the window of the room she shared with Nell, where now a tall blond man stood, looking down at her, his expression grim. She tore her gaze away. “I dinna ken, Nell. But what choice do we have?”

The sky darkened in the few moments it took them to look through the keep, the wind cooling as it came off the sea. Night, such as it was, was coming. She looked away from the building as she heard the Irishmen pound down the stairs. They paused on the ground floor, their conversation hushed. She could hear O’Neill’s gruff voice, but not the words, and Gannon’s answer, terse and angry. Angry, she thought, feeling her own temper rise. What need had he of anger? It was not his family who lay dead, not his people decimated, not his home defiled. Why would Gannon MacMagnus be angry? But he was, for when he came through the doorway his expression was harsh, his mouth set in a firm frown, his eyes cold.

“I am sorry for all those ye’ve lost this day,” O’Neill said, coming to her. “We’ve some daylight left. We’ll take ye to yer uncle. Ross will need to ken what’s happened here.”

“We canna leave! We must stay!” Margaret cried. “Our brother Davey—he’s only eight years old—we canna find him. He may be hiding; he may be waiting until ye all leave to come out. We canna leave until we find him! And we must bury our family, and all the others. How can ye think we could leave?” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “We thank ye for yer offer of help, Lord O’Neill, but we must stay.”

“Ye canna stay here,” O’Neill began.

She cut across his words. “We must! When ye go, would ye please return to Uncle William and ask him to send us help?”

O’Neill ran a hand through his hair, glanced at Gannon, who nodded. “Fine. We’ll stay and help ye find the boy.”

Her eyes filled; she blinked back her tears and fought the urge to scream at him. “The only place we’ve not looked is the lower village. Please ask yer men to stand aside so I can go there now.”

O’Neill’s expression softened. “Have ye not seen enough death for one day? Stay here, lassie. We’ll do it.”

“One of us has to go, sir. Ye wouldna ken Davey from another lad.”

O’Neill and Gannon exchanged another look. After a moment O’Neill nodded.

Gannon met her gaze. “I’ll go with ye.”

Gannon followed Margaret, Rignor, and Nell MacDonald along the pathway, but he watched Margaret. She was a tall woman, a very beautiful woman. Dark waves floated around her face, softening its angles. Her even features were lovely despite the fear apparent there, her cheeks rounded but pale, her jawline firm below clenched teeth. At another time, in another place, he would have enjoyed looking at her. He thought of her trying to battle with him, how ridiculous that had been, even for a moment. Amazon, he thought. Or Boadicea back from the grave.

Rignor went into the first house, but Gannon prevented Margaret from entering the second. “I’ll go,” he said, moving to block her passage.

She glared at him, her dark eyes angry. “Ye wouldna ken him.”

“Stay here, lass,” he said, more gruffly than he’d intended.

Her eyes flashed. “I’ve no need to do yer bidding. Step aside, sir.”

“If I find a lad his age, Margaret, I’ll fetch ye. Stay here.”

“Is this yer home, sir, or mine? Are those yer clanspeople lying dead in there, or mine? Step aside, if ye would.”

“I’m trying to spare ye, lass. Ye’re not accustomed to this.”

“And ye are? Ye’ve seen the like of this before?”

Memories swirled around him, of broken bodies and lives ended far too soon, of children’s sightless eyes and the horror of knowing what had been done. Of four bodies laid out on an Irish beach.

“Aye,” he said. “I have.”

Nell’s sniff drew his gaze; she was wiping tears from her cheek, looking so very small, so very young, that he had to look away, willing his memories to fade. He’d been her age. He turned back to Margaret, looked into her defiant eyes, saw the anger she was nursing. Good, he thought, for when the grief replaced the anger, it would be overwhelming.

“Margaret,” he said softly, “no one becomes accustomed to seeing those they kent dead. But I’ve done it, as ye have. Believe me, ye dinna need to see more.”

She pressed her lips together for a moment, then nodded. “Aye. Thank ye.” She moved to stand with Nell and Tiernan.

Gannon went into the nearest house. There were three people in it, none alive, none an eight-year-old boy. He and Rignor repeated their tasks, moving slowly down the pathway toward the harbor. After each house Rignor shook his head. Nell was sobbing now; Margaret’s expression was ravaged. She looked almost ethereal, like a tall fairy woman, dark hair blowing around her pale face. She looked like she could be made of marble—except for her eyes, dark and troubled, eyes that followed his every movement, but which she turned from him if he looked into them. She held herself stiffly, as though by controlling her body she could control her emotions, but her long fingers, threading through her hair, or clasping and unclasping her hands, betrayed her. Her wide mouth was drawn in a straight line. The women in Antrim had stood the same way, had held themselves together at first, but eventually each of them had broken, huge tumults of emotion pouring from them that nothing could repress. He’d not been able to watch them, but he could not look away from Margaret MacDonald.

He’d paid little attention on their way here to what Rory had told him about the Somerstrath children. Margaret was the eldest, he remembered that much, and was betrothed to some petty Ross lord who was cousin to Scotland’s King Alexander, one of those betrothals negotiated at birth. Rignor was the eldest son; it was he who would inherit Somerstrath. Already had, Gannon reminded himself. And Nell and four brothers? Or was it five? It did not matter now. All were gone, poor souls. He tried not to think of his own father and his brothers.