On a Highland Shore (41 page)

Gannon pulled his blade from the man’s throat and whirled around, looking wildly for Nor. He was not here among the dead, not among those held at sword point by Gannon’s Irish.

“Do ye see him?” he called to his men. “Nor? D’ye see him anywhere?”

“There!” One of the men shouted, pointing to the pathway that ran along the top of the cliffs. “He’s leaving, the swine!”

Gannon followed the man’s gaze. Nor was limping, he saw with savage delight, but still moving quickly.
Bastard’s deserting his own men
. Gannon ran past the last of the tents and along the rocky top of the cliffs. The path was well-defined, but old, rutted, dotted with sparse clumps of plants, showing how seldom it had been used. Ahead was the guardian standing stone of the loch, and beyond it, on the northern rim, Nor still ran. Gannon increased his speed, feeling his shoulder wound burn as he hefted his axe in one hand, his sword in the other. One of them was about to die.

He could hear footsteps behind him and threw a glance over his shoulder, not surprised to see Drason following him, the boy’s jaw clenched in fury.

“He’s mine!” Drason shouted, lifting his sword arm high. “Let me kill him!”

Gannon concentrated on catching Nor. If possible, he’d let the boy have a swing at his uncle, but he himself would see the Norseman dead. Below, the water rippled in the sudden breeze, Nor’s ships, one still burning, were spun closer to the rocks beneath the cliffs.

He could hear Nor’s breathing now, labored but still strong. And then he was there, just behind Nor, who turned to meet him, lips drawn back in a feral smile. Nor raised his axe, swinging at Gannon with surprising speed. Gannon jumped out of the way and whirled around, delivering a blow to Nor’s side. The angle was wrong, and the blade bounced off Nor’s chain mail instead of going through it, but the Norseman staggered backward.

“Nor!” Drason shouted, racing past Gannon. “You filthy swine! You killed my father and Thorfinn. And you thought no one knew. But I did.”

Nor’s smile was self-satisfied. “And who is left to challenge me now? You? A boy too afraid to do battle?”

With a roar, Drason lunged at Nor, his blows raining on his uncle’s shoulders, but deflected by the chain mail. The boy, Gannon realized, was not able to deliver enough force to pierce the mail. Nor raised his arm, and Gannon shoved the boy aside, stepping forward to intercept Nor’s blow with his own. The shock of the impact sent them both reeling, Nor spinning close to the cliff edge, silhouetted against the blue of the water behind him.

Margaret looked at the men on the beach, but did not see Gannon there; nor was he among those who stood on the slope, where the battle was now over. And he was not, she breathed a prayer of thanks for it, among the dead being laid out on the shingle. She looked along the cliff path, where Nor was—no longer alone. Nor stood, his back to the cliff, facing Gannon. To Gannon’s right Drason was climbing to his feet. Nor slashed at Gannon, the diagonal swing of his axe catching the sun; Gannon’s blade met Nor’s above their heads. The men leaned forward, each trying to break the other’s grip, then staggered backward as the blades slipped apart.

Gannon was alive. She ran to him, through the last of the encampment and up the path to the cliffs. She was praying out loud when she passed the standing stone, and pressed her hand on it, praying to its spirit as well, just in case the old gods lingered here. And then she ran on. Gannon and Nor were of a height, both strong men. Gannon was younger; Nor was heavier. More ruthless.

The two men faced each other, but they’d shifted positions, their sides to the cliff now. Gannon raised his arm. And saw her. He paused. And Nor moved.

“Gannon, look out!” she screamed.

It happened all at once. She reached them just as Nor’s arm swung up, his blow catching not Gannon, but bouncing off the shield that Drason, darting between them, held high, using it to shelter himself as he struck at Nor’s middle with his sword, his shout of triumph ringing across the loch. He stepped back, glaring at Nor.

Nor staggered backward. Then, with a visible effort, raised his arm again. Gannon pushed the boy aside, thrusting at Nor. The blade hit home, piercing the chain mail just below Nor’s arm, and again. Nor gave a grunt of surprise and stared at Gannon, his arm falling slowly and all color leaving his face. Gannon held the blade to the tender skin of Nor’s neck, above the chain mail.

“May ye burn in Hell for yer evil deeds, Nor Thorkelson,” Gannon said.

“Only in your dreams, Irishman,” Nor grunted, his voice weaker. He dropped the axe and clutched his side, blood streaming down him now. “Damn you.”

With a snarl, Drason gave Nor a shove, to the rim of the cliff. “Damn you, Nor!” he shouted, and shoved again.

Nor swayed. Margaret could see the realization in his eyes that he was about to fall. Nor’s head tilted back. As he tumbled into the air, he grabbed Gannon’s shirt and pulled him forward.

They fell over the edge together.

The last thing Gannon heard before the water closed over his head was Margaret’s scream. And then all was cold and dark as he struggled. Alone, for Nor was not here. He stretched his arms wide, kicking and pushing toward the surface, but sank deeper.

He’d failed and death was at hand. Water seeped beneath his clothing, heartless liquid fingers sucking the last of his breath from his lungs and catching at his legs, the weight of the chain mail he wore pulling him relentlessly down. His limbs were too heavy to raise. He looked up at the light one last time.
Margaret
.

M
argaret did not know how many times she screamed, nor how she got to the edge of the cliff, but she was there, leaning to look, Drason clutching her back from the rim. They stared down together and she screamed Gannon’s name again.

There was no answer, no reassuring call from him, just a groan from Nor and the raucous cries of the seagulls circling overhead.

“Gannon!”

Nor was still not dead. He would be soon, though, for no one could live impaled on a mast. One of Nor’s own ships had drifted beneath the cliff, its mast tapered at the top, the wood piercing his middle. Nor was moving, his arms flailing slowly, his head lifting to stare across the water. She screamed again at the horror of it, at the realization that Gannon was not on the ship but gone under the water.

Drason released her, dropping his sword, and without a word, dove into the icy waters next to the ship, the wave closing over him as it must have over Gannon. Suddenly there were men everywhere, next to her, and on the shore to her left, and in
Gannon’s Lady
, being pushed off the beach, men pointing to where Gannon had disappeared beneath the waves. She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks, praying.

It is not your time
, the whispers said.
Go back. It is not your time.

Gannon gained another foot, then another, rising toward the light. But the chain mail dragged him back down. He ached with every movement. It would be so simple to just let himself sink, to find sweet sleep and to rest.

Margaret is waiting
, the whispers said.
Go back
.

He fought the weariness and the cold, yanking the mail over his head with a strength he did not know he still had, ignoring his burning lungs and the stabs of pain from his shoulder. He let the chain mail fall from his hand; it sank immediately from sight. He pushed himself toward the surface.

His hand broke through, then his head. He filled his lungs with air.

“Gannon! Here!”

It was Drason’s voice. He turned to see the boy in the water with him, gripping the side of Nor’s charred ship, reaching his hand for Gannon to grab. And above Drason, impaled on the mast, was Nor, dropped against the wood, his body swaying with the motion of the ship.

“He’s dead,” Drason said unnecessarily, towing Gannon toward the ship.

“Gannon! Gannon! Dear God, thank ye! Gannon!”

He saw Margaret at once, leaning over the edge of the cliff, one of the Inverstrath men holding on to her arm. She waved frantically, and he raised his arm in a weak salute.

“Margaret!”

She was running toward the harbor. He was too weary to call to her again, too weary to do anything but hang on to the railing and be grateful for each breath of air. Drason pointed, and he followed the boy’s gaze, to see
Gannon’s Lady
approaching, full of his men. He looked from the ship to Margaret, running.
Gannon’s Lady
and Gannon’s lady. He lay back in the water and stared at the sky. And laughed. Nor was dead. And they were alive.

“Gannon! Sir!”

His ship was alongside him now, hands reaching to haul him aboard. And a few moments later he was delivered to the beach, to Margaret’s waiting arms. He clasped her to him, breathing prayers of thanksgiving, catching sight over her head of the guardian stone at the end of the loch, hearing faint traces of whispers on the wind. To whoever, whatever, had protected them, he was grateful. He held her tighter, let her sob into his shoulder, his thoughts making him speechless. His near drowning had happened almost exactly as he’d dreamt it. In his dreams he’d failed. In life he had not. He had triumphed over death itself, and every breath seemed precious now.

Margaret turned in his arms. “My love,” she said, and kissed his neck.

His heart was too full to speak. He pulled her hand to his mouth and kissed it, then held it in his own. She would heal him. And he her. They’d spend their lives together. He pulled her closer, and said a silent prayer of thanks.

Their homecoming at Inverstrath was bittersweet. Nell was waiting at the headland when they sailed into the harbor and met them on the beach, dancing with excitement, throwing her arms around Margaret, then bursting into tears when they told her they’d not found Davey, and worse, the news they’d learned from Nor’s men, that Davey had disappeared.

“He could still be alive,” Margaret told her, seeing in Nell’s eyes that she found as little comfort in that as Margaret did.

The Inverstrath women, most unharmed, were delighted to be home, and the Inverstrath men proud of their part in returning them and destroying Nor and his fleet. Drason was hailed as a hero, the boy’s delight in it obvious. But Inverstrath itself was gone, and the mood quickly sobered as they all realized that the simplest of things, like a warm bed and a supply of food, might be beyond them for a while.

MacDougall offered them shelter, and the people thanked him, but refused, saying they would stay. They waved to him and to the Ross ships as they departed, then turned to Gannon for direction. He told them that Inverstrath’s village could be rebuilt and started on it at once with most of the men, sending others into the forest to hunt for food. And a runner to find a priest, for Margaret and Gannon intended to marry at once.

For four days all was quiet. On the fifth day a visitor came—not the anticipated priest, but a messenger from the king. Alexander’s message was simple. Gannon was to come to him at once. And bring Margaret and Nell.

It took over a week to reach the king. They sailed south on
Gannon’s Lady
, through the Sound of Mull and the Firth of Lorne, landing in a tiny village on Kintyre. From there they made their way overland and on small boats, skirting the waters where Haakon’s fleet might be anchored, arriving in the early evening of a cold and rainy day in October. The king was billeted in the home of a local laird, the troops sent to him by the seven earls camped around him in a great circle.

Gannon had argued against going to Alexander, for he could think of only two reasons that they had been summoned: Margaret’s betrothal and her family’s deaths, and he’d not wanted to discuss either with the king. He feared that he was about to lose the woman he loved to Lachlan, that Alexander would order Margaret to marry him and Gannon to watch it yet again. He’d had no nightmares since their return to Inverstrath, and for the first time in years the whispers were silent. He felt unguided, wondering if his wishes that the dreams and whispers would leave him alone had at last had been granted. And if that was for the best.

He missed Tiernan. Life would never be same. He gave Nell the golden brooch that had been Tiernan’s, telling her that it had been hammered by Thor himself. When she protested, sobbing, that he should keep it, he put a hand over his heart, telling her his brother would always be there. And that he knew Nell had loved him, too. She clasped the brooch in her hand and nodded, and he leaned to kiss her forehead.

He tried to be sanguine, telling himself that Alexander of Scotland held no authority over him, and that if need be, he’d steal Margaret off in the night and together they’d make a life in Ireland. He’d had to be content with that.

Alexander’s encampment was large, a city of tents outside the home the king was using as his base camp. Queen Margaret had stayed at Stirling, but many of the courtiers had accompanied the king. Uncle William received them at once, telling them that Lachlan was there. Margaret’s mood, already low, plummeted further. Gannon said nothing, but his expression gave his thoughts away, and she wondered yet again if they’d been foolish to come. How simple it would have been to slip away to Ireland and pretend never to have received the message. What had made her believe that putting them all in Alexander’s power was wise?

The king sent word that he would receive them the next day, which did little to allay their anxiety. They stayed with Uncle William that night, in his camp, comfortable, but far from luxurious, talking for hours of all that had happened since they’d parted. William told them that Gannon was being hailed as “the hero of Inverstrath,” the only man to have fought off the Norsemen and lived to tell of it, and Margaret’s mood lightened. Surely the king would not force her now, not when all the talk was of Gannon’s prowess.

They talked then of the seemingly endless rounds of negotiations between Haakon and Alexander.

“This is intentional on Alexander’s part,” William told them. “If the king wanted to end this, it would have been settled long ago. I think Alexander’s waiting for the winter storms.”

“Or for Haakon to die,” Gannon said.

“Or for Haakon to die,” William agreed.

It was midafternoon before they were summoned to the king, their nerves stretched taut with the wait. The audience was not private, as Gannon had hoped. The hall was filled with more than fifty people who strained to see him, Margaret, and Nell enter. Gannon looked across the gathering, finding Lachlan, as he’d known he would.

King Alexander was younger than Gannon had realized, not much older than Gannon himself. He greeted them cordially, which allayed some of Gannon’s fears.

“We have heard of all you have suffered,” Alexander said to them, “and are sorry for your losses.”

Margaret and Nell thanked him. Gannon nodded.

“Gannon MacMagnus,” Alexander said. “You come well recommended as a cousin of Rory O’Neill and a favorite of the Earl of Ross. Either man’s endorsement would have been enough for us to take notice. Both means I need to discover more about you. No one else has defeated the Norsemen. You’ve done it twice. Tell me how.”

Gannon described the battle at Inverstrath, then what happened on Skye, keeping the details sparse. But the king wanted to know more, questioning Gannon at length, asking for diagrams and maps, coming to stand at Gannon’s side as he explained the victories. It took hours—and bored many in the court—but when the last question of the king’s had been answered, Alexander smiled.

“We are grateful for your courage, and your service to Scotland,” Alexander said, handing a scroll to Gannon. “I give you this as a token of that gratitude.”

Those watching craned to see. Lachlan frowned. Margaret and Nell exchanged a look, and William Ross looked smug, as though he already knew what the scroll held.

“You can read?” the king asked, when Gannon did not unroll the parchment.

“I can, Yer Majesty,” Gannon said. “And I am grateful for your generosity. But I dinna want whatever this holds. There is only one thing I desire from ye.”

“You are refusing my gift?”

Alexander’s words were quiet; the murmur through the crowd was not.

“It is only a small gesture,” the king said. “A grant of land on Skye, on the Trotternish Peninsula. Fitting, I thought, for a man who defeated the Norsemen there. And lands in Ayreshire. My motives are not pure. I understand you wished to have land of your own and had hoped with this gift to keep you here in Scotland. I’m sure Rory O’Neill will forgive me in time.”

Gannon paused, then nodded. “It’s true, Yer Majesty, I have dreamed of my own land. But I ask that ye keep the land and grant me something else instead.”

There was silence in the room. Margaret put a hand to her throat. William Ross looked worried. Lachlan was smiling.

The king studied Gannon for a moment. “What is it you desire?”

“I ask ye to release Margaret MacDonald from her betrothal to Lachlan Ross.”

The silence stretched longer this time. Margaret swore she could hear her heart beat.

“I love her,” Gannon said. “I would marry her.”

He ignored the murmurs that followed, the smiles of the women who listened, the speculative glances thrown at him and Margaret. He ignored all of it.

As did the king.

Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “I have heard this. Lady Margaret,” he said, shifting his gaze, “you do realize that you are now Somerstrath? Your father and brothers are dead. The title and the lands are yours now, and I would see you well married.”

Margaret nodded. “I will marry no one but Gannon, my lord.”

The king looked at Gannon again. “If you were to marry her, would you stay in Scotland?”

“If she wishes it, my lord.”

“Then it’s done,” Alexander said lightly. “Have both, MacMagnus, the land and the woman. I wish you well of them. I will have the papers drawn up immediately. I ask that you wed at once, but stay and talk with me and my generals in greater detail about fighting the Norsemen. And when this war is over you’ll come to court, both of you.” He looked at Nell. “All of you.”

Gannon thanked him profusely. Alexander smiled and waved his words away. “Be gone, MacMagnus. I have a Norse king to irritate before the day is done. But don’t go far. Lachlan Ross, don’t look so glum. There are other women.” He rose and ended the audience.

Outside the hall, Gannon lifted Margaret into his arms and whirled them both around, laughing. “Marry me now, before I wake. Will ye, lass?”

Margaret laughed again. “Aye and aye and a thousand times aye.”

She kissed him while the courtiers smiled and clapped. And again when Nell wept with joy. And again.

Gannon and Margaret were married the next morning, in a simple service given by a proper priest, with Nell and William Ross, who had given his blessing, in attendance. There was a third uninvited guest—an ancient woman who smiled on their union.

Margaret, who thought the day could not be improved, smiled and embraced the woman. “Ye told me at Stirling this would happen, d’ye remember? Ye said we would meet at a court that was not a court.”

The old woman smiled and lifted a cup in their honor. “May your union be blessed. May it be happy and fruitful, for in your children lies the future of Scotland. May your home be filled with the laughter of children and of your children’s children, and may you have the wisdom both to treasure those days and prepare for others. May you find solace in each other when the wind blows ill, and joy when the sun shines upon you. May you never forget this moment, when love is your prize for courage. May your line continue into the future, to bring honor and love to other peoples and other lands, but may they never forget from whence they came. It is through them that you will live forever.”