On a Highland Shore (25 page)

The evening before Gannon and his brother were to set out for Skye, William Ross talked at length about what they could expect from Leod, what the brothers should and should not do and say. Gannon, weary from the endless instruction, finally escaped for a moment to stand outside in the cool evening air. Their course was set. He did not believe Leod would harm them. He could be wrong about that, in which case he’d die a fool, but at least it wouldn’t be Rory and Ross dying. Small comfort, that.

The gloaming was fading into the deep blue of a summer’s night when the gates swung open and a company of men, thirty or so, entered, bringing dust and the smell of hard-run horses with them. Their leader was of middle height, lean, his nose and tone sharp, his face very ordinary. A forgettable man, except for his manner. He tossed his reins to the ground as he dismounted, letting Rufus’s men run forward to grab them, then strode forward, giving the Inverstrath people only cursory greetings. Gannon disliked him on sight.

“Ye’d think he was important,” one of Rufus’s men said.

“I heard he might be a bastard of the late king,” a second man said. “There’s some connection.”

The first man snorted. “It’s nothing that grand. His mother is some kin to King Alexander is all. Look at him. Does he look like the king?”

“Who is he?” Gannon asked.

“Lachlan Ross.”

So this was the man who would marry Margaret MacDonald. Gannon looked more closely. He was more finely dressed than anyone at Inverstrath, including William; his belt was of gold, his sword hilt jeweled, his cloak lined with fine wool. His boots were polished and his linen shirt freshly pressed. He looked like a wealthy man’s son, accustomed to being well fed and pampered, which was probably what he was. Interesting, Gannon thought, that a liegeman should dress more richly than his earl, and behave as though he were royalty, instead of what he was—a petty laird in a small country.

Lachlan threw a comment over his shoulder, and Rufus’s men ran forward again to disrobe him, unpinning his cloak as though Lachlan Ross were unable to do it for himself. Gannon turned on his heel and walked into the hall.

Margaret and Nell had retired, but he heard Ross give instructions that Margaret was to be told Lachlan had arrived. An eager bride would have hurried down to greet him, but the stairs, Gannon noted with satisfaction, remained empty.

In the dark of the night, Rignor came to their room, scratching at the door like a cat. Margaret, now awake, listened in confusion until he spoke.

“Margaret. Open the door.”

She did, barely able to make out his shape in the dim hallway; he was lit from the back by the pale moonlight coming through the window near the top of the stairs. He leaned forward, his breath stinking of ale.

“Lachlan’s here,” Rignor said.

“I heard.”

“Ye dinna go down and greet him.”

“I have nothing to say to him, Rignor.”

“William says ye asked to be married by a priest.”

“Aye,” she said. It had been a delaying tactic; the priest who served both Somerstrath and Inverstrath had died in the raid. The closest one was days away.

“He’s sent for a priest and says ye’ll be married as soon as he arrives. I tried, Margaret. I told him that it was unseemly with our parents so newly in their graves, but William was firm. I swear to ye I tried to stop it. Or delay it. I tried.”

She rested her head against the doorjamb, knowing he was lying.

“I need this, Margaret. I really need ye to marry Lachlan.” He hurried through the rest of it, all the same reasons he’d used before. “If we anger William, or Lachlan, I’ll pay the price for yer willfulness. Surely ye’d not do that to me? Ye kent yer whole life that ye’d marry him. Why refuse now? Surely ye see that this is about much more than just us. I dinna ask this for me, Margaret. I ask for all those who would be affected if we fail. We canna think only of ourselves.”

“Just a moment ago ye said ye’d pay the price for my willfulness. That sounds like ye’re thinking of yerself, Rignor.”

“I meant that it would not go well for the people of Somerstrath. There’s only a few left, Margaret. Surely ye want the best for them now.”

“How is it ye despised Lachlan before all this happened, Rignor, and now ye canna find a fault in him? It was ye who told me he was vain and selfish. And ye who was willing to kill him at Somerstrath when I found him with Fiona.”

“That was in the heat of the moment. Margaret, ye’ve made too much of it all. Ye were not wed yet. What harm was done but to yer pride?” He sighed. “Do as ye will, Margaret, but ken that there are a lot of people whose future rests on ye. I ken ye’ll do what’s best for all and no’ just yerself.” He walked away, his shoulders slumped as though defeated.

Margaret had not even gotten back into the bed when he scratched again. She reluctantly opened the door again. “What is it, Rignor?”

“Let me talk to Dagmar.”

She stood, frozen, for a long moment. There was no reason that she should protect Dagmar. “She’s not here.”

“Aye, she is. Let me talk to her.”

Margaret opened the door. “Look for yerself. She’s not here.”

He did, shuffling toward the bed, bending low, squinting his eyes at Nell. He straightened, then gave Margaret a look she would never forget. And left without a word. She closed the door behind him with a heavy heart and leaned her head against it. Rignor, she thought, how could you not have known?

She dreamt of her family, of running up the stairs of the keep and finding them alive, smiling at her. Of Davey with them, laughing that she’d worried about him. She woke in the dark to find her face wet with tears and her heart heavy. What was duty? What was loyalty? And where, in all this, did the yearnings of her own heart fit? She was still lying awake when she heard the shouts and the thumps, then the sounds of men moving on the stairs. Doors flew open, and men called out in alarm.

Margaret rose, Nell with her, roused by the noise, grabbed her cloak and opened the door, half-expecting to be told that the Norsemen were at the door. But the hallway was quiet; the shouts were below now, and she flung her cloak over her shoulders, running down the stairs with Nell at her heels. The hall was dark, lit only by the remains of the fire in the huge fireplace, but even as she strained to see, men brought torches, placing them in the torch holders where they smoked toward the black ceiling.

“Bastard!” Rignor shouted from the center of a group of men. “Rutting bastard! I’ll have yer head!”

“Which one, laddie?” It was Tiernan’s voice, taut and excited.

Tiernan, she realized, had been drinking as well. Margaret tried to move through the crowd toward her brother, but quickly realized that was futile. She leapt atop a table and could at last see. Rignor and Tiernan were in the middle of a circle of men, Rignor drunk and waving his sword, shouting vengeance, Tiernan defiant, bleeding from a wound on his arm. A wild-eyed Rufus tried to calm Rignor, but was pushed angrily away. Margaret watched in horror; this was her doing. She’d been willing for him to know Dagmar was not with her, but she’d never envisioned this. Nell climbed atop the table and gasped.

“Bastard!” Rignor shouted again, lunging forward.

Tiernan laughed, lithely jumping out of Rignor’s reach. One of the Irishmen tossed him a sword, and Tiernan laughed again. “Come for me, then, Rignor. Ye’ll find it a bit more difficult now that I’m armed, but come on, laddie, have at me.” The men called encouragement to each of the combatants, the Scots and Irish each choosing their own. Rignor lunged forward again, his sword swinging through the air to meet nothing. Tiernan thrust his weapon forward so quickly it was hard to see, and Rignor’s cheek sprouted scarlet.

“Did no one ever tell ye not to pick a fight when ye’re drunk?” Tiernan taunted. “Makes ye slow, Rignor.” He sliced her brother’s other cheek, then stepped back and laughed. “Of course, aren’t ye always drunk?”

“Tiernan!” Nell cried. “Stop! Ye’ll kill him!”

Tiernan held his sword high but kept his gaze on Rignor. “I’ll let him live just for ye, sweet Nell.”

“Enough!” William’s roar was loud as he pushed through the men. “Enough!”

“Tiernan!” Rory O’Neill shouted, in William’s wake. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Have ye gone mad?”

“It’s him that’s gone mad,” Tiernan said. “He came after me, not I him.”

“Rutting bastard!” Rignor shouted.

William motioned for his men to capture Rignor, which was quickly done. Her brother, his arms held behind him and sword removed from his grip, glared across the circle at Tiernan.

“Put the sword down, Tiernan,” Gannon said, appearing from out of the crowd. He was barefoot, his hair tousled and wild, his expression thunderous. He wore only his kilt, his chest and legs bare. “Put it down,” he said again, coming forward into the light.

Tiernan paused, looking from Gannon to O’Neill, then, smiling crookedly, handed his brother the sword. “He came at me.”

“Rutting bastard!” Rignor shouted. “Ye fucking Irishman, coming here and trying to take our women!”

“I took nothing that wasna offered,” Tiernan shouted back. “She’s not yer woman, Rignor. Ye fool yerself. She makes herself available to anyone.”

Rufus leapt forward with a roar of protest, but William grabbed his arm and held him back.

“Enough!” William shouted again. “Go back to yer beds. There’ll be no more to see.” When the men hesitated, he roared at them. “Go!” They moved reluctantly away.

Gannon held his sword before him, warily watching the crowd. He pulled Tiernan back toward him. Rory O’Neill came to stand with them, and several of the Irish moved closer to Gannon, guarding his back. Gannon spoke quietly to his brother, and Tiernan’s mood sobered. He nodded slowly, his defiance fading.

Margaret and Nell stayed where they were until the men dispersed, ignoring the glances thrown their way; then they climbed down from the table and started toward Rignor. Lachlan, who had been at the far side of the crowd, stepped forward now into the light, meeting Margaret’s gaze across the room. Rufus had disappeared, and, Dagmar, Margaret suddenly realized, had never appeared at all. William threw her and Nell a fierce glance.

“Go back to bed, lasses.” He nodded at the stairs. “Get ye gone.”

“I need to tend to Rignor,” Margaret said.

William’s lips curled. “No. That’s part of the problem. Go to bed.”

With a quiet word to William, Lachlan left the others, coming to stand before Margaret for a moment, then gesturing toward the stairs. “Come, Margaret, I’ll see ye safely upstairs.”

Margaret threw Rignor a look, but her brother turned sullenly away.

“Margaret, Nell, go!” William said fiercely.

The sisters followed Lachlan as he grabbed a smoking torch, then led the way up the steps. He did not speak when they’d reached their door, waiting until they’d passed into the room and turned to face him.

“Latch the door.” He paused. “I am sorry for yer loss. Yer losses.”

“Thank ye.” She summoned her courage and looked into his eyes. “Lachlan, will ye release me from this sham of a marriage? We neither of us want this. Let’s not feign otherwise.”

He shook his head. “I have agreed to marry ye, and I will do it.” When she did not reply, he continued. “I have no choice, nor do ye; William has made that plain. It is not a love match, but we can at least be civil.”

“There’s no benefit to ye to marrying me now. Why do it?”

“Yer uncle is one of the most powerful men in Scotland, Margaret. The king expects our families to be united with this marriage, and so they will be.”

“Lachlan…”

“What is it ye want, Margaret?” he asked, his tone angry now.

Her own anger flared to meet his. “What is it I want? I want my family alive, I want Davey home and my village intact and no one dead. I want the monsters that destroyed Somerstrath to be struck down and destroyed. I want my trust in ye and Fiona restored. And I can have none of that, can I?”

He stared at her for several moments, then shook his head. “No, ye can have none of it. But we can at least begin afresh from this moment. The priest should be here tomorrow, and we’ll be wed. Let us at least not start our marriage as enemies.”

She stared at him in surprise.

“Margaret, we will never be lovers, but we need not be enemies.”

“No,” she said softly, “we need not be enemies.”

She could not fall sleep again. It was time to face that she had no choice but to marry Lachlan. There would be no last-minute reprieve, no sudden renouncement of pledge, no gallant knight riding in to save her, and it was time to face that. She’d put the actual details of her marriage out of her mind, but now, lying awake in the dark, she thought of the ceremony and what would come afterward. The wedding itself would be simple, held in the hall, with all of Inverstrath’s inhabitants and guests as witnesses. The priest would bless their union, and there would be a feast of sorts afterward. Rufus had promised them a room alone, a luxury in the crowded fortress, but there would be little privacy beyond that. How could she bear it?

She slipped carefully from the bed. Nell slept on, not stirring when Margaret pulled her cloak on over her chemise. She’d walk through the hallways until weariness overtook her. She longed for the night air, but only a fool would attempt to walk through the throngs of sleeping men belowstairs.

The hallway was empty and cool; she walked from her dark doorway to the square of moonlight coming through the high open window above the stairway, a beam of silver in the dimness of the hall, the breeze shifting to send a whiff of night air to her, then pull it away, taunting her with what she could not have. As she paced between the stairway and her door she thought of Lachlan, naked and straining above Fiona. She shook her head to clear the vision. Could she run away? For a wild moment she considered living in the forest, foraging for herself, growing old in a hut she’d made of twigs and fern branches. Absurd; impossible. She’d not last the winter. It was not the act of union that frightened her; it was the imprisonment of a marriage she did not want. Whatever secrets the marriage bed held would be revealed soon enough. She did not fear them, but she regretted learning them with Lachlan.