On a Highland Shore (34 page)

“Wait,” Rufus said. “He was the one tied to the mast. Why would Thorkelson do that?”

“We’ll have to ask him why. Separate him from the others,” Gannon said. “We’ll need to talk to him before we go after his uncle. But not now.” He gave the others a sudden grin. “Now it’s time to celebrate our victory.”

“Wait,” Margaret said, looking into Drason’s eyes. “Please. Do ye ken where my brother Davey is? He’s one of the boys taken from Somerstrath. Can ye tell me anything of him?”

Drason swallowed visibly, but shook his head. “I can tell you nothing.”

Margaret stepped back, her disappointment obvious. Drason’s gaze shifted away from her, caught Nell’s and shifted away again as his color rose. Margaret narrowed her eyes. This one merited more questioning.

“Come,” Rufus said. “It is time to celebrate. We’ll leave them until morning.”

But it was not yet time, it seemed, for Gannon had no sooner left the room than he was called to the door of the hall by several men, their voices tight with excitement. He joined them, weary and wary, realizing that these were the men assigned to burying the Vikings. He could spare these men a kind word and a moment. Their task was unenviable.

“What is it?” he asked.

One pointed behind him and the others cleared a pathway. “Ye need to see it for yerself,” the man said. “We none of us would have believed it.”

He swallowed his annoyance and stepped forward. One of the Norse dead lay on his back on the stones of the outer porch. He was not a particularly large man, but Gannon could see little else in the dim light. He looked up at Rufus’s men. “Aye?”

“Look closer, sir,” one said.

Another handed him a torch. He held it over the man, seeing nothing unusual about him. Until he looked at the man’s face. And stopped breathing.

“It’s the monk,” one man said. “The one who married Lady Margaret. He was fighting with the Vikings. We found him on the beach.”

“It canna be…but it is.” Gannon looked up. “Get Rufus. Get Tiernan.”

“No need, we’re here,” Rufus said, coming forward. “Let me see him…Jesu! It is the monk! What the hell is he doing dressed like that?”

“Why would a monk dress like a Norseman?” Tiernan asked. “And die with them, fighting against us, unless he was one of them?”

“He wouldn’t,” Rufus said.

“Aye,” Gannon said. “He wouldn’t. Which means…Get Drason.”

They waited while the boy was brought to them, Gannon’s mind spinning. The monk who was not a monk, the Scotsman who was not a Scotsman. And all that that might mean. When Drason arrived Gannon held the torch over the body.

“D’ye ken this man?” Gannon asked him.

Drason nodded. “He was one of Nor’s spies. He pretended to be a monk on pilgrimage so he could talk to everyone. He was very good and Nor paid him well.”

They all looked from Drason to the man on the ground.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Rufus exclaimed with a laugh. “That means the marriage wasna valid. He’s no more a monk than I am. Lady Margaret isna married after all!”

Gannon stared at him, then turned to Drason. “Are ye sure?”

The boy nodded. “Yes. Ask the others. They’ll tell you the same.”

“We found this on him,” Rufus’s man said, holding out his hand.

Gannon took the wooden rosary, distinctive for its golden beads, and held it high. “It’s the same one the monk wore, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Rufus said and let out a bark of laughter. “All that fuss and she’s still unwed! Wait until Lachlan Ross hears! Ha!”

Gannon’s smile was wide. “It wasna valid. She’s not married.” He glanced at Rufus’s man again. “Go get Lady Margaret, will ye? She needs to see this.”

Margaret stared as he had when she saw the man on the ground, listened when Tiernan told her who the man was, and met Gannon’s gaze when Rufus said her marriage was not valid. She stared again at the man, and she smiled. Then she laughed, and then she held her hand out to Gannon.

“It’s time to celebrate, aye, sir?” she asked, and led the way back inside.

It was Rufus who announced the discovery, leading his people in cheers that Margaret was not a married woman. The hall, already alive with music, drums pounding the rhythm to which the dancers moved, whistles and bodhrans sounding above the talk, grew steadily louder. Listeners drummed hands on tables, women began moving sinuously to the music, beckoning men who moved now to put their hands on a waist, wrap their arms around a willing form, and soon, while no one watched, fade into the shadows near the walls, or leave the hall altogether.

Ale and whisky flowed freely, for what celebration could be more important than this one? But the people of Inverstrath did not need the effects of fermentation; the thrill of merely surviving the day was exhilarating enough. They had defeated the Norsemen; anything seemed possible. It was not only appropriate, but necessary to celebrate life and the Inverstrath people celebrated in the oldest way known to men and women.

Gannon danced for hours and drank and laughed with the Scotsmen. And through it all Margaret was at his side, her hand often in his. He watched her laugh, saw the sadness in her eyes that did not leave despite her jubilation, looked at the way she moved, at the curve of her waist and her breasts, at her hair catching the light, shining dark as night. At her long slender fingers threaded through his own, at how small she seemed, yet how perfect. He was lost. He’d never been more sure of himself.

He would make her his. And he would wait no longer. If the situation were different, he could offer marriage. Now he was supposed to be content to wait for a king and a bishop—and a fop named Lachlan—to decide whether he could ever offer it. The marriage might not be valid, but the betrothal still was. He drained another cup of whisky and took Margaret’s hands.

“Will ye come with me, lass? For a bit of a walk?”

Margaret tilted her head. “Outside?”

“Aye.”

“In the night?”

“Aye.”

“Alone?”

He laughed. “Oh, aye, lassie, verra alone. Ye and me and the stars in the heavens.”

Her smile was arousing. “Then take me, sir.”

He laughed again, not trusting himself to answer in a prudent manner, reaching for her hand and leading her through the hall door, then the gates. He wrapped his cloak around her, glad that he had it with him—in case she’d agreed—and led her to the berm above the beach. The waves were soft tonight, the sky crowded with stars, the moon just making her appearance. He kissed her, lingering, tasting her lips and cheeks and neck, feeling his body’s readiness.

He took both her hands in his and faced her. “I love ye, Margaret.”

She smiled into his eyes. “And I ye.”

“I want ye with me, lass. I want to share my days with ye, then my nights. Will ye?”

She held their joined hands up between them, leaned to kiss his fingers. Her voice was hushed. “I thought we would die today, Gannon. I thought they would plow through ye and yer men and burst open the gates to kill us all. I thought I was prepared to die.” She took a shuddering breath and smiled. “May God be praised, I was wrong. What I learned today is how verra precious life is. And how much I want to live it, really live it.” Her smile deepened. “Ye’re already in my heart. I want ye in my bed. Would ye consider it?”

He stared at her for a moment, then he threw his head back, laughing. “Oh, lassie mine, I’ve been doing little else. I was going to get to that next.” He waved a hand toward the hall behind them. “And we willna be alone. How many children will be born next spring as a result of this night? But are ye sure?”

“I’ve never been more certain.”

He was undone. “Come, love. I ken just the place.”

The moon was high enough, her light pale but adequate to show them the way along the beach, then up the path to the southern headland. At the top of the ridge Gannon took a deep breath of the night air. They needed no candle here—the moon and the stars provided enough light for him to see her face.

“What about Tiernan, what about Nell?”

“Tiernan will understand. And dinna fret about Nell. He’ll guard her.”

She nodded. She, too, had seen Tiernan dancing with Nell, had seen the careful way he touched her, but the way he still found Dagmar’s gaze. It was time, she told herself, to let Nell take care of Nell. Gannon pulled her into his arms.

“I love ye, lass. We’ll not do anything ye dinna wish to.”

“I want ye, Gannon. What I wish is for ye to want me.”

He laughed then and looked down at himself. “Oh, I do, lassie, as ye can see. But I dinna want ye to regret…”

“I don’t. I won’t.”

“Then ken this.” He took her hands in his and knelt before her. “I pledge myself to ye, Margaret MacDonald, for as long as we both shall live. I will guard ye and love ye and give ye the best of me for all my life.”

She knelt to face him, never more sure of what she was about to do than now. “And I pledge myself to ye, Gannon MacMagnus. I will guard ye and love ye and give ye the best of me for all our lives. For all eternity.”

“Eternity. Aye, that’s better,” he said, his smile playing around his mouth. “For eternity then.” He kissed her, and again, then pulled her to her feet.

“Here?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, lass. Come.”

He’d only moved a few feet when she knew where he was going, to the ruined fort at the edge of the world, where the view of the sea and the sky, if she ever looked away from him, would be amazing. They rounded the curved walls and stepped within, to the soft grass that grew here. Gannon spread his cloak on the ground and turned to face her.

“Are ye sure?”

“Never more, sir.”

“Then wear this,” he said, taking the golden torque from his neck and placing it on hers. “Wear it when we make love. And after, every day until we’re wed. I have no ring to give ye, but this way everyone will ken ye’re mine.”

It hung loose around her neck, heavy, and still warm from his skin. She touched it with pride, then raised her mouth to meet his. “Make me yers, Gannon.”

With a grin, he stepped back from her and unlaced his shirt. He’d shed his leather vest and chain mail earlier, and she’d watched him then, thinking of what those very male hands would feel like on her body. Now she watched again, blessing the moon for her light, feeling her body respond as he pulled his shirt out of his belt. He kicked his shoes aside impatiently, and with a quick yank of his wrist, unbuckled the belt around his waist. Leather and wool slid away. Then he pulled his shirt over his head and stood naked before her. His bones were long, she’d known that, his body lean and muscled, his form splendid. But what she’d not known, not even imagined, was what he would look like aroused and ready for her. She felt her face flush, and she moved toward him, reaching to touch his shoulders, tracing the long scar that seamed his skin, then sliding her hands down his side, stopping at his waist.

She met his gaze. “Teach me, love.”

He did.

They did not speak for a very long time then, lost in each other. They sank slowly to the ground, oblivious to the rising wind outside, heedless of the stars above and the waves that roared ashore, heedless of everything but their joy in each other. He taught her how to savor each touch, how to use her hands and mouth, to tease and pleasure him. And he did the same to her, removing her clothing slowly, touching each newly revealed part of her as though it were sacred, tracing lines of kisses along her body that set her aflame, making her long for his touch, for more of him. All of him.

He stretched out next to her, then above her, and she sighed with wonder at the sensation of his skin against hers, the lines of his body so different and yet so familiar. And when he entered her at last, she arched to receive him, wondering how she had ever lived without this, how perfect the union of man and woman was, how satisfying this could be. He was patient, she was eager to learn, and the hours passed quickly. They took their fill of each other, stopping only when they were each sated and languid, lying entwined together. Margaret lay cradled in his arm, her head on his shoulder. His hand caressed her shoulder absently.

She sighed with contentment. “I never kent it could be like this.”

“This, love, is but the beginning. There’s so much more,” he said, his hands already moving to cup her breasts.

He kissed the curve of her neck, then her shoulder, then dipped lower to capture her nipple. She stroked the back of his head, threading her fingers through his hair, then grasping his shoulders, wide and strong and so very male, feeling his lips on her, his chest against her stomach, his body responding to hers yet again. She laughed softly, and he raised his head.

“I canna imagine life without this, without ye,” she said.

“Nor I. Nor will I. Ye are mine now, Margaret, and I’ll not give ye up, not for any man, not for any law of church or king. Ye do realize that?”

“Aye. I feel the same.”

His smile was both fierce and tender. “I dinna ken where we’ll go from here, what the rest of the world will think or what they’ll want us to do. Yer brother will no doubt disapprove, and perhaps yer uncle. And surely Lachlan, but I dinna give a damn what he wants, or anyone else. I’ll not relinquish ye.”

“Nor I ye, Gannon.”

“Renegades, then, the two of us?”

She laughed. Margaret of Somerstrath as a renegade. She rather liked the idea. But what choice did she have? How could she spend her life without this man? Without the joy of love given willingly, not because of a contract but because of her heart? Without the mysteries of lovemaking being revealed by a man who was gentle and kind? How impossible it now seemed to spend her life with Lachlan.

“Ye are mine, Margaret.”

“And ye mine, Gannon.”

“I always have been. I always will be. It doesna matter what they think, lass. I pledged myself to ye, as men and women have since creation, and nothing will change that. If ye wish it, I will stay here and help yer brother rebuild Somerstrath. Or we can go to Ireland. I have no land, no riches, but I have a ship and a strong back. Ye willna go hungry, and when children come, they will be cared for. If ye will, lass. If ye’ll have me for the rest of yer life.”