The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel (18 page)

“I’m glad of it.” Good news indeed. He didn’t relish arriving on Rathlin with Bruce’s nephew ill or feverish.

“He wanted to rejoin you today, but Meg threatened to tie him down if he attempted to get up.”

“It would be wasted on him,” Erik said dryly, and he was surprised when instead of lecturing him, she laughed.

Their eyes held for a moment before he looked away, instinctively shying from the connection and the intimacy of shared understanding.

He was treading on unfamiliar ground. He didn’t have personal conversations like this. He entertained. He made people laugh. That was what people wanted from him. Everyone except her.

Thankfully, Meg chose that moment to return, shattering the strange undercurrent running between them. With Meg he had his sea legs back. Intimate conversations were not for him. For the rest of the evening, Erik entertained the ladies—and Randolph, when he woke—with amusing stories from his arsenal of adventures on the high seas.

Even Ellie seemed to be having a good time. But once or twice he caught her studying him with that observant little gaze of hers that seemed to see far more of him than he wanted her to, and he had the feeling he’d somehow disappointed her.

What he couldn’t explain was why it bothered him.

He never did make it to the alehouse. After dinner he took up Duncan’s post outside the house. The lass was his responsibility. His duty. And for the remainder of the time she was with him, he would be the one to watch over her.

It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

Nine

Finlaggan Castle, Islay

    “By the rood, where is he?” Robert Bruce slammed his hand on the wood table, scattering the markers he’d carefully positioned on the crudely drawn map to the floor. “We should have heard from him by now.”

The rare outburst had stunned the men gathered in the counsel chamber into silence. They were the king’s inner circle—or what remained of it.

Of Bruce’s once large retinue of knights, only Neil Campbell, James Douglas, Robert Hay, James Stewart, and his brother Edward were still at his side. Of his vaunted Highland Guard, only Tor “Chief” MacLeod, Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor, and the recently arrived Robbie “Raider” Boyd remained.

It was Boyd and the hideous news he’d brought with him that was being felt by everyone in the chamber.

Bruce’s eyes burned, the still raw pain nearly unbearable. His beloved brother Nigel was dead, as was his dearest friend and savior at the battle of Methven, Sir Christopher Seton. The loyal Earl of Atholl, too. The first earl executed in Scotland in over two hundred years.

Seton had been betrayed by MacNab at Loch Doon, where he’d taken refuge after the battle. Not long after Bruce had fled Scotland, Nigel and the earl had been beheaded in Berwick, having been captured at Kildrummy Castle with Boyd, who’d managed to escape and bring them this horrible news. It was the first news of his friends and family that Bruce had received since fleeing Dunaverty and escaping into the dark world of the Western Isles. Part of him craved to return to the darkness, fearing what he might find out next.

His wife and daughter were safe, he told himself. They had to be.

But dear God, his brother! Of his four brothers, the handsome and roguish Nigel had always been his favorite. He was much like their missing seafarer—bold, larger than life, and always ready with a jest. The kind of man that women flocked to and men wanted to be.

MacLeod eyed him steadily. “If Hawk is not here, there is a reason. He will send word when he is able. There is still plenty of time.”

But they hadn’t heard from MacSorley in a week. The seafarer was supposed to join them on Islay after meeting with the Irish, and the two-pronged attack to take back his kingdom was only a week away. Bruce’s brothers Thomas and Alexander were ready to go in Ireland for the southern attack on Galloway. Bruce needed to get his men to Arran for the northern attack on Turnberry.

“How can you be so bloody calm?” he demanded. “My brothers have secured forces for the attack in the south, but where are my mercenaries? We are supposed to be assembling the army at Rathlin in a matter of days.” From Rathlin they would sail to Arran. “How can I launch an attack without men?”

“They’ll be there.”

MacLeod had ice running through his damned veins. The Highlander’s stony facade never betrayed a flicker of emotion. “How can you be so bloody sure?”

“Because I know Hawk. You can count on him. If he has to swim the Irish mercenaries to Arran himself, he’ll do it.”

“Then why have we not heard from him?”

“We will,” MacGregor said, echoing the confidence of his captain. “I’m sure he’s just holed up somewhere, waiting until he can get a message through. With all the English activity in the channel, he’s probably just trying to be cautious.”

“Hawk?” Bruce said incredulously. “He doesn’t have a cautious bone in his body.”

“It took me some time to find you myself, sire,” Boyd pointed out.

“How did you?” Bruce asked. His survival depended on only a chosen few knowing where he was at all times—the men in this room and the other members of the Highland Guard. Even his friend William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, would be hard pressed to find him now. One more person he hoped was safe.

The hulking warrior met his gaze. “A mutual friend,” he said with a hard glint in his eyes.

Bruce nodded, understanding the source of Boyd’s anger. Arthur Campbell was proving even more useful than Bruce anticipated—not that any of the Highland Guard would thank him for it. Campbell had been forced to leave the Guard after “failing” a challenge and had gone on to be a knight in the service of the enemy. Or so it seemed. In reality he was a spy, scouting for Bruce.

Bruce had thought it vital to keep the truth from all but a few—including most of Campbell’s Highland Guard brethren. In retrospect, it had probably been a mistake, but the close brotherhood of the Guard was something Bruce was still getting used to.

“And there has still been no word of my wife?”

Boyd shook his head sadly. “Nay, sire. Not since they fled Kildrummy ahead of the English.”

Boyd and his partner in the Highland Guard, the young English knight Alex “Dragon” Seton, had stayed behind to help Nigel give the women time to get away. Boyd and Seton had been imprisoned and had managed to escape—with help—before execution. But they’d separated soon afterward, when Alex had heard of his brother’s betrayal at Loch Doon.

“They’re in good hands, sire,” Boyd said.

Bruce nodded, hoping he could trust Lachlan MacRuairi—Viper—and the other two members of the Guard who’d accompanied the women: William Gordon, known as Templar, and Magnus MacKay, known as Saint.

“As is your nephew,” MacLeod put in, referring to Randolph, who’d sailed with Hawk.

God, he hoped so. Everything depended on Hawk getting those men to him in time. There was no room for any more failures. He’d exhausted his allotment of narrow escapes. Even a cat had only so many lives.

MacGregor, who was nearly as renowned for his perfect face as he was for his skill with the bow, grinned. “If I know Hawk, he’s probably sitting on a beach somewhere, entertaining half the female population of whatever village or island he’s holed up on.”

“By the time we hear about it, it will be three-quarters,” Boyd said dryly.

Bruce smiled for the first time since they’d arrived at Islay and found not Hawk, as they’d expected, but Boyd waiting for them. “You’re probably right.”

A disturbance outside the door drew his attention. MacLeod went to investigate, and when he returned a moment later, accompanied by a young fisherman, it was about as close to a smile as Bruce suspected his mouth would turn.

“What is it?” he asked.

The fierce Highland chief met his gaze. “Word has arrived.”

The fisherman was pushed forward. Obviously intimidated by the gathering of men in the room, he spoke in a halting voice. “Minor delay. Men secured. Proceed as planned.”

The fisherman was ushered out of the room, with Bruce giving instructions for him to be fed and recompensed for his journey.

When they were alone again, Bruce turned to his brother—one of the three he had left. “Edward, I want you and Raider to go to Arran and scout the area near Broderick—Lochranza Castle in particular. The rest of us will sail to Rathlin as planned and wait for Hawk.”

“You see, sire,” MacGregor said. “Nothing to worry about.”

By the rood, Bruce prayed he was right. It wasn’t just him but the future of an entire nation counting on the heralded seafarer.

Ten

    Ellie buried her head deeper in the pillow, trying to drown out the horrible sound. But the hearty laughter pierced the billowy tufts of shorn lamb’s wool with ease.

God, what time was it?

Unfurling the pillow from around her head, she cracked open her eyes only to slam them immediately shut again, when the beam of bright sunlight peeking through the bed-curtains shot through her skull like a piercing dagger.

She groaned. Morning. Already.

Heaving a weary sigh, she resolved herself to the inevitable. It was time to get up. She went about her morning prayers and ablutions, doing her best to ignore the laughter and voices coming from the kitchen on the opposite side of the building. It wasn’t like Duncan to be so loud in the morning. What could possibly be so funny at this ungodly time of day?

Though not a separate chamber, the two beds set up along the western wall were separated by a wooden partition between two posts, affording more privacy from the frequent visitors than the nooks along the opposite wall where Thomas slept.

With her face washed, hair combed, and teeth cleaned, Ellie felt marginally better as she emerged from behind the partition to face the day. But when she discovered the source of the laughter, she was tempted to turn right back around to bury her head a little longer.

It wasn’t Duncan. The pirate captain had changed back into his warrior’s garb from the fine tunic he’d worn last night, and his long leather-clad legs were stretched out before him as he relaxed in one of Meg’s wooden chairs, a broad smile spread across his too-cheerful face.

How could anyone look so happy in the morning? She felt like a haggard old crone until at least mid-morning.

He cocked a brow. “Look who’s finally awake. We thought you might sleep the day away.”

As best she could tell, the day was still painfully new. It couldn’t be much past daybreak. Though the days were getting longer, the winter sun did not peek over the horizon until after eight.

“Morning, Ellie,” Meg said just as cheerily. “Would you like the usual to break your fast?”

Ellie nodded gratefully and sank down on the bench at the table. “Thanks, Meg, that would be wonderful.”

She’d grown appallingly fond of the simple morning fare: fresh bread, coddled eggs, slices of smoked pork or herring, and a special brew of water steeped with spices that was a secret recipe of Meg’s that Ellie vowed to have before she left—if she could ever get up early enough to watch her make it.

“Where’s Duncan?” she asked, breaking off a piece of bread and chewing it slowly, savoring the delicious combination of toasty oat and barley.

The captain’s gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly. “His arm has healed well enough for him to return to his duties. I’m afraid you are stuck with me for the next few days.”

Her pulse spiked with alarm. “I’m sure that isn’t necessary,” she said quickly. “I don’t need a nursemaid. I’ve given you my word—”

“No matter how it came to be,” he cut her off with a meaningful glance at Meg, “you are under my protection until I can return you to your family.”

Ellie realized her mistake: she’d forgotten that Meg didn’t know that she was being held against her will. Although, if Ellie wasn’t worried about her family and what they must be thinking, she could almost forget it herself. The past few days had been terrifying, exciting, and—recalling that kiss—about the furthest thing from boring she could imagine. Moreover, living with Meg was giving her a glimpse of a world entirely different from the sheltered life of privilege and duty she’d known.