On a Highland Shore (22 page)

His hand slid along her jaw, lifting her face to his. His kiss was firm, hungry. Possessive. His lips were surprisingly soft, his fingers gentle on her skin. He touched her only with his fingers and lips, but desire radiated from him. He leaned closer, still not touching her, but so near that she could feel his heat, could sense the rising of his chest as he breathed, see the pulse at his throat and the long, lean line of his jaw as he claimed her mouth again, this time lingering. She’d been kissed before, even caressed before, at court, but no touch of skin on skin, no lips that met hers, had ever felt like this.

His mouth fit hers perfectly; his hand moved on her as though he’d done this a thousand times, as though he’d caressed her cheek before, had let his fingers slide down her throat to her collarbone, tracing along her skin and setting her body on fire. No one had ever kissed her like this, had ever made her body lean toward his warmth, had left her yearning for more.

And he knew it. He lifted his head, let her see the triumph in his eyes, and took a half step back. He was not unshaken; his cheeks were flushed, his eyes overbright. She put her hand to her mouth, feeling her own wave of victory.

“We have met before, Margaret.”

And kissed before. And more…

He did not say it, but the words reverberated between them as though he had. His smile was exultant and she felt a wave of wonder at him, at herself, at the comfort she found in the thought that they had somehow, sometime, known each other.
Madness. But…have we?
She thought of that moment at Somerstrath when she knew that he would not harm her, that no matter how fearsome he appeared, she was safe from his wrath. She’d been right then. And it was right now to trust him, to be in this place with him, to let him kiss her.

He did not touch her again, just held her gaze, then turned and took a deep breath, surveying the glen one last time, as though bidding farewell to a much-loved place. “I ken ye’re bound to another, lass, and I will respect that. But I dinna have to like it.”

His words, and the thought of Lachlan, were like a breath of icy air. She stepped backward.

“I can see ye dinna wish to speak of it,” he said.

“No.”

The light went out of his eyes. “I’d best get ye back,” he said, and led the way.

N
ell frowned as she saw Gannon help Margaret down the rocks of the southern headland. She turned to let the wind blow her hair from her face, then turned again as she saw Rignor watching them as well, his expression stormy. Her spirits, already low, tumbled further. Something had happened between Margaret and Gannon, that much was obvious in the way he looked at her. In the way Margaret avoided his gaze, then turned to meet it again, as though she could not look anywhere but at him. Nell sighed and cast a glance at Rufus, who watched Gannon and Margaret with a sardonic gaze. And Rignor, crossing his arms and glowering. At Tiernan, standing with Rory O’Neill, his smile widening at something O’Neill said, but his gaze following his brother.

Something had happened between Margaret and Gannon that prevented them from seeing all those around them. His touches were short, but each time he looked into her eyes, and each time Margaret would give him a half smile, then look away. Then back. It was Gannon who first noticed them watching. He slowed his pace, and said something to Margaret that made her look up. Her expression, already guarded, grew warier.

“Gannon!” Rufus’s voice, behind Nell, was untroubled. “Ye promised to teach my men about axe fighting. Are ye visiting the next clan instead?”

Gannon laughed. “There’s plenty of daylight left, Rufus. I was just making sure we dinna have any surprises coming from the south.”

“The only surprise is the two of ye,” Rignor said loud enough to draw many stares but not loud enough for Gannon or Margaret to hear.

“How could ye be surprised?” O’Neill asked, walking forward to meet Gannon, talking loudly about the sail on one of his ships.

Gannon answered and altered his course, leaving Margaret without a backward glance to join O’Neill. Margaret did not look after him but walked toward the fortress.

Nell lifted her skirts and ran to join her, thinking to head Rignor off, but he was quicker. As Margaret neared him, he grabbed her arm, wrenching her sideways and leaning his face close to hers. Whatever he said made her rear backward as though slapped. She replied, apparently angering Rignor even more, then pulled her arm from his grasp.

“I am not!” Margaret said heatedly as Nell neared them.

Rignor sneered. “Ye…”

“They’re all watching,” Nell whispered loudly. “Look behind me. They’re all watching the two of ye.”

Rignor’s gaze flickered from Margaret to Nell, then over her shoulder. He spun on his heel and walked into the fortress, his color high. Margaret rubbed her arm and glared after him.

“What happened?” Nell asked.

“He’s angry because I was walking with Gannon.”

“Aye, I saw that. What happened with ye and Gannon?”

Margaret’s gaze met hers, then dropped. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing,” Margaret said fiercely, then followed Rignor inside, leaving Nell staring after both of them.

She followed Margaret up to their room, closing the door quietly behind her while Margaret paced across the room.

“What did he say to ye?” Nell asked.

Margaret’s expression softened. “He wanted me to see the next glen. He thinks it would be a bonnie place to build a fortress. He says…” She looked at Nell and stopped talking.

“I meant Rignor,” Nell said.

Margaret nodded quickly. “That I was not to behave like a whore. That I am to remember I am about to be married. All because I talked with another man. That’s all I did, Nell! But Dagmar, who has never been faithful, can do no wrong, who slept with a stranger last night…” She stopped, wide-eyed.

“I ken! I saw Dagmar and Tiernan this morning. I heard them in the night. She’s the whore, not ye!”

“But,” Margaret said slowly, “perhaps this is good. Perhaps Rignor will see her for what she is and be cured of her.”

“He says he’s going to marry her.”

“That’s nothing new.”

“And he says he needs ye to marry Lachlan, that if ye dinna he would lose Uncle William’s backing for certain, and perhaps the king’s. He asked me to talk to ye and get ye to see that ye have to abide by the troth.”

“When did he say that?”

“Today. When ye were with Gannon. He saw ye leave the beach with him. A lot of people saw ye leave with him.” She paused, unwilling to continue.

“What else did he say?”

“That Gannon was being attentive to ye only because he hopes to get Somerstrath, that Rory O’Neill is planning to marry Gannon to a Scottish woman with land and family and that ye’re conveniently here.”

“That’s Dagmar talking. She’s afraid she’ll be supplanted. What else?”

“That Gannon was asking why ye dinna inherit the land since ye’re the eldest. And that…Gannon has a woman waiting for him in Ireland.”

“I thought Tiernan told ye neither of them is married.”

“He did. Rignor says Gannon has a woman, not that he’s married. What will ye do?”

Margaret’s gaze was sharp. “I’ll ask him.”

Nell hated Dagmar. She hated everything about her: the smug way she carried herself, the coy looks she threw at the men, especially Rignor and Tiernan and Gannon—and even Rory O’Neill, as advanced in age as he was. The way Dagmar tossed her hair over her shoulder and followed it with a glance at whichever man she was stalking, making sure his attention was on her as she walked away, as if it would be anywhere else. All the men watched Dagmar; she could have her pick of them, and still it wasn’t enough. Nell hated that Margaret did nothing about it, just watched Dagmar with a guarded expression, while Rignor and Tiernan watched her every move with open lust.

As long as she could remember, Dagmar had been leading Rignor on and he’d been trailing after her. Dagmar did not care for him. Why was it that Rignor could not see it, when it was so obvious? And why was Tiernan doing the same thing, as though Dagmar were astonishingly desirable and there was not another female around? Her anger rose again as she thought of seeing them down the hallway this morning, of the way his hand had lingered along Dagmar’s shoulder, drawing her back against his naked chest for yet another kiss. He’d not seen Nell there, hoping the floor would open and take her away. Not that he would have noticed even if she’d been standing in front of him. He’d probably already forgotten that Nell MacDonald was alive.

Alive. A wave of shame washed over her. She was so selfish. She was alive, blessedly so, and to think of such stupid things as Dagmar and how much time Rignor and Tiernan spent with her was wrong. She should be praying for the souls of her parents and brothers, and all the people of Somerstrath, for Davey, wherever he was, asking God to keep him safe. She should be thinking of how fortunate she was to be living still, to be here and safe. She should not be staring at Dagmar and wishing her anywhere but here.

Nell was not the only one to watch Dagmar with displeasure. Gannon watched her, too, saw her calculating how to play her part, watched her pitting Rignor and Tiernan against each other, all the while throwing glances at him that were meant to entice but which only had the opposite effect. He’d not smiled in return, nor followed her when she left. He’d openly watched Margaret, and Dagmar had watched him, her irritation visible. Her annoyance amused him; her actions did not. She was poison. Rignor and Tiernan could hardly be civil; each watched the other with growing enmity, which worried him. The enemy was without, but neither Rignor nor Tiernan seemed to remember that. Gannon tried not to notice that Rufus watched him as he watched Rufus’s daughter, occasionally winking as though to remind him of their conversation. How did one tell a man that his daughter was the last woman on Earth he’d bed?

He spent the morning training men and avoiding women. He and Tiernan had argued—his fault for being foolish enough to think he could warn his brother about Dagmar. He’d repeated what Rory had told him, that she was looking for a husband, and cautioned Tiernan that she should not be trusted. But he’d injured his brother’s pride, and Tiernan had angrily told Gannon that, strange as it might seem, a woman as fine as Dagmar might actually prefer Tiernan to him, then stalked away. Gannon watched Tiernan with a heavy heart, but he was damned if he’d break their silence.

He was glad of the company when Rory found him at his ship, gesturing Gannon away from his men with a nod.

“I canna stay any longer, laddie,” Rory said, walking briskly across the field toward the clustered houses of the village.

Gannon nodded; he’d expected as much. Rory’s responsibility was to Ireland, not to Scotland.

“But ye’ll be staying, as we’ve said.”

“Aye,” Gannon answered. They were almost at the first house. “Where are we going, Rory?”

The older man gave him a wide grin. “Ye’re about to become a Scot.”

“Not likely.”

“Aye, well, ye’ll look like one anyway. Rufus and I agree that if ye’re to stay, ye’d best not strike fear in the hearts of all those who look upon ye. I’ve found ye a feileadh to wear. A kilt, laddie. Dinna look at me so askance. It’s been cleaned. I wouldn’t want ye wondering what was crawling on ye under yer skirt.”

“Rory…”

O’Neill held up a hand. “Dinna argue. And aye, Tiernan will be wearing one, too. I heard the two of ye had words.”

“Does everyone talk?”

“What else is there to do here? The woman’s dangerous. Ye’d best watch him. Rignor thinks she’s his. I thought of taking Tiernan with me.” He continued before Gannon could protest. “But I ken ye wouldna like that. And even if the two of ye have argued, Tiernan will still guard yer back. So he’ll stay.”

“Good,” Gannon said, relieved. He’d patch it up with his brother. He’d much rather have Tiernan with him than across the sea just now.

Rory stopped before an open doorway. “It’s in here, laddie. Just let them show ye how to wear it. Ye can wear yer own shirt.”

“God love ye,” Gannon said as he stepped through the doorway with a grin.

“He does,” Rory said, and strode away laughing.

The men who fitted the feileadh to him laughed at his ineptitude, and he joined them; it was more difficult than he’d thought. It was nothing more than a long piece of cloth, folded on itself, then wrapped around his waist, the end of it thrown over his shoulder. He fixed it with the simple hammered brooch that his grandfather had given him. It took several tries before he could dress himself in the feileadh. He tolerated the snickers of the men, determined to learn how to wear the damn thing, imagining Margaret’s expression when she saw him.

It was sooner than he thought. He was lying on the floor, wrapping his belt around his waist and the mass of wool when he heard her voice.

“Lord O’Neill told me ye wanted me?” she said.

“Just to see this, Lady Margaret,” one of the men answered, moving so Gannon was visible.

Gannon scrambled to his feet, clutching the feileadh to him. Margaret’s eyes widened as she saw him, and he grinned at her.

“We’re teaching the Irishman to dress properly,” one of the men said. “He’s a bit slow about it.”

Margaret’s gaze touched the length of him, and he felt his body react, glad now of the bulk of material between him and discovery.

“Ye look grand, Gannon,” she said softly.

He grinned again. “Like I’ve worn it before, d’ye think?”

She flushed, but gave him a smile. “It should be under the belt, sir, not just near it,” she said, and disappeared from the doorway.

Gannon looked down to find the kilt dangling on one side. He swore cheerfully. One of the Scots pulled the wool away, leaving him only in his thin linen shirt, his erection tenting the cloth.

“He’s proud,” one of the men said, and the others laughed.

Gannon laughed with them. “Aye, well, if God had favored ye as He has me, ye’d be enjoying yerself, too.”

Margaret heard the laughter behind her as she hurried away. He’d been right; he had looked like he’d worn it before. But that was not what had affected her. It had been his laughter, his smile, his easy camaraderie with the Inverstrath men that had shaken her. Just for a moment she got a glimpse of what it might have been like if she’d met him under other circumstances, of the man he might be during peaceful times. She’d seen his lightheartedness and humor, and she’d been undone in an instant. Good God, how could she want a stranger so much with her family barely in their graves? Was she as wanton as Dagmar? Or was it simply nothing more than a yearning for the light Gannon brought with him?

He will bring life after death
.

She stopped walking. Was that it, then? Was it not just her body that yearned for him, but her soul? Or was that all ancient nonsense, half-remembered words told to a young impressionable girl, now recalled in a time of sorrow and grief and altered to fit her needs? Margaret hurried back to the fortress. She would not think of Gannon. Nor of Davey, nor Lachlan, nor of the future. She would, she decided, keep herself so busy that she would not be able to think at all. There was much to be done, candles to be made, clothing and bed linens to be washed, and the garden needed tending. She had much that could keep her occupied until Uncle William arrived. Work would be her solace. She’d keep her body busy and hope her mind followed.