The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel (9 page)

As Domnall reached over to drag the lass into the boat, Erik eyed the approaching galleys. The English were almost on top of them. He had a minute—maybe seconds—before they were in range of the English bows. A few minutes after that, and the boats would be surrounding them.

Sailing north into the wind was no longer an option. The galleys had great oar power, and Erik didn’t have room to attempt to beat into the wind by zigzagging back and forth. Nor did he have time to turn around in the direction from which they’d come and try to outrun them. To the south was Ireland and its rocky shoreline.

Already anticipating what they thought was his only move, the English ships had spread out to the length of an arrow’s flight between them. If he attempted to sail between them, his
birlinn
would be showered with arrows from two sides. The galley on his right had angled slightly toward the coast, ready to cut off any attempt to slip around him.

Erik’s options were quickly dwindling. The English galleys were converging around him, the middle boat staying slightly back as the other two pulled forward to circle around him like a noose. But he had no intention of sticking around for the hanging.

He grasped one of his men’s hands and heaved himself over the wooden railing. Even as his feet hit the deck, he was shouting orders and taking control of the ropes. A fur was thrown around his shoulders, but the cold was the least of his concerns right now.

He could feel the energy in the boat crackle with excitement as the men realized what he was going to do. It was bold and daring—even for him.

Nothing like the straightforward surprise attack
, he thought with a smile of anticipation. The quickest way out of this was to head right into the middle of the trap they thought they’d laid for him. He just had to get there before the two outside ships could adjust and cut him off.

It would be close, but close was what made life worth living. He felt the sharp gust of wind at his back and smiled, knowing the gods were with him.

What a night! And it wasn’t over yet. Blood pumped hard through his veins in anticipation of the moments to come. All his senses were focused on the task before him. He adjusted his hands, getting a good grip on the prickly hemp ropes, and let the sail out a little. The ropes jerked hard as the sail filled with wind, and he braced his feet as the
birlinn
shot off like an arrow toward the middle boat. Targeting the middle boat took the other two boats out of their archers’ range. But they would still have the middle boat’s arrows with which to contend.

Randolph lifted his head from his chest long enough to look around and see what was happening. He was shaking with the cold, and his voice was weak and scratchy from the near-drowning. “What’s he doing?”

Erik was relieved to hear the lass had recovered enough to reply. “Unless I’m mistaken,” she said, “I think he means to take on three English galleys.”

Randolph shook his head. “Oh, I’m sure you’re not mistaken. That sounds like just the kind of thing he’d do.”

The waterlogged knight put his head back down on his knees as if he were beyond caring. Perhaps some good might have come out of this after all, if it meant Erik didn’t have to listen to the lad’s incessant complaining all night.

Erik felt the lass’s gaze on him.

“Do you mean to kill us all?”

He took his eye off the English target for one minute and gave her a jaunty grin. “Not if they blink first.”

    What did he mean, “blink first”?

Ellie’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. No … he couldn’t seriously mean to—

Oh, but he did. One look at that devilish grin and she knew it was exactly what he intended. Instead of surrendering—as any reasonable person would do when cornered—the pirate captain intended to wage a direct attack, heading right for the English galley and forcing
them
to turn to avoid
him
. It was a deadly joust of pure masculine bravado, to see whose nerve would crack first.

“You c-can’t be serious,” she sputtered.

He just grinned, telling her he was perfectly serious.

“But what if he doesn’t turn in time?” she demanded. “We’ll all end up in the sea.”

He shrugged. “It’s no worse than what they have planned for us. Besides,” he gave her a wink, “my men know how to swim.”

Which probably wasn’t true for the English. It was one of the ironies of seafaring that most sailors didn’t know how to swim.

He was going to do this.

It was rash. It was reckless. It was aggressive and bold. Something she suspected he was quite often. Ellie stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and unwilling admiration. Who was this man? He was either mad or foolhardy—or perhaps both. Just look at him, smiling as if he were having the time of his life rather than on the brink of death or capture. With his feet braced wide, his arms flexed, and every muscle in his body strained to harness the power of the wind, he looked utterly at ease and in control—as if this were no more than a pleasant afternoon tour around the Isles.

Watching him, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would never yield. Confidence and command oozed from every muscular, giant six-and-a-half-foot inch of him. He would go down fighting in a blaze of glory rather than surrender. She could only pray the English captain showed less fortitude.

It was all happening so fast, yet every second passed with torturous slowness. All she could do was watch in mute horror from her position near the stern as the English boat drew closer and closer.

With Domnall manning the rudder, she’d been placed on the floor of the boat, wedged between two oarsmen and ordered to stay low. The man who’d nearly drowned trying to save her—the same dark-haired warrior who’d stepped forward before—was curled up on the floor opposite her.

She bit her lip, feeling a twinge of guilt. Even in the hazy moonlight she could see that he didn’t look well. His face was a waxy gray, and he was shivering uncontrollably. The other men had thrown a few blankets around him but hadn’t had time for much else. Like her, the occupants of the boat were focused on the drama unfolding at sea. Unlike her, however, they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it. It was clear they trusted their captain absolutely—even if he meant to send them to their deaths.

“Hey, Captain, you think he’ll piss himself before or after he gets out of the way?”

“He’s a damned Englishman,” the pirate responded dryly. “I’m betting on both.”

That set off a back-and-forth fire of jesting and wagering on whether the English would turn to the left or to the right, and whether they would capsize the boat while trying to turn around to come after them.

Ellie would never understand men: how could you jest and wager at a time like this? They’d die going to the bottom of the sea and make a contest of who got there first. Her fingers clenched the edges of the plaid and fur tossed hastily back around her shoulders when she’d emerged from the water. Not much longer …

The boats were drawing together at an alarming speed.

Then, all too clearly, she heard a man’s voice in English call out, “Ready …” He paused, and then shouted, “Fire!”

The pirate captain was ready. “Take cover, lads!”

All around her the men lifted their targes over their heads, forming a protective canopy of wood and leather against the hail of English arrows. A terrifying dull thump made her jerk, but she was relieved to realize it was only the sound of an arrow hitting wood, not bone.

Despite the onslaught of arrows, their boat never slowed. It sped forward. Faster. Closer. Her pulse racing along with it.

Had the English realized
they
were the ones under attack? She didn’t think so.

The same English voice rang out across the waves, louder this time. “Stop! You’re under arrest.”

The pirate captain laughed, a deep, husky sound that sent a shiver sliding down her spine. “And you’re in my way.”

“Give way,” the Englishman demanded, though his voice had lost some of its certainty.

A few more arrows flew in their direction, but the pirate captain never gave an inch. He held his course steady and true, even when he had to duck to avoid an arrow aimed for his head. “Come now, lads, my sister has better aim than that.”

His voice was so calm! She, on the other hand, was so terrified that she’d forgotten even how cold and uncomfortable she was.

A few seconds later, the English voice rang out again: “Give way, I said! Give way!” Then the sounds of rising panic … swearing … rage. “Now!”

Her heart had stopped beating. Tension, as thick and heavy as the mist, coiled around her. The attackers were fifty feet away and closing quickly. She could see the prow of the English galley with all-too-perfect clarity directly in front on them. Only a few more feet. A few short seconds left for the English boat to turn. What if the pirate was wrong?
Turn, you English fool! Turn!

She couldn’t watch.

She couldn’t
not
watch.

She had one eye on the deadly collision course and the other on the man at the helm. The big Viking never showed one glimmer of fear. Never lost the smile. And never blinked.

But the English did.

Just when she didn’t think she’d be able to bear it a second longer, when the tension had squeezed the very breath from her, she heard the cry go up to yield and saw the bow of the English galley shift to the right.

The pirates cheered as the
birlinn
tore by the galley of stunned English sailors.

They’d done it! She felt such a burst of exhilaration that for a moment she wanted to cheer along with them. Until she remembered that the English were her means of rescue, and that she was the one who’d alerted them in the first place.

And it wasn’t over yet. The next few minutes were only slightly less tension-ridden, as the English galleys turned around to give chase. The captain of the middle boat who’d lost the joust managed to do so without capsizing—to the great disappointment of some of the pirates. It would be a heavy blow indeed to the pride of the English navy if they knew how little these “barbarian” Islanders esteemed their sailing abilities.

By Ellie’s count that made four boats on their tail. The single boat that had been behind them had caught up in time to witness the near collision, but not to be of any help. As it had been sailing in the right direction, however, it had a head start on the others and proved the most difficult to shake.

The English galley was bigger, with at least twice as many oarsmen. But the pirate had the wind on his side. And she sensed that he had no intention of relinquishing it.

She watched in amazement as he reined in the sails tighter and tighter against the wind, sending the boat careening over the waves faster and faster. She had no idea how he could navigate at this speed in the darkness with only mist-shrouded moonlight to guide him, but he seemed to know exactly where he was going.

She turned around, seeing the galleys staggered behind them—pulling away—but still on their tail.

Then, as if he’d beckoned it, she felt the wind pick up and grow even sharper. He leaned back and flexed every formidable muscle in his body (of which there was a startlingly impressive number) against the added force. Ellie felt as if she were watching a man single-handedly wrestle nature and win. The massive square sail was pulled so taut and filled with so much air she thought it was going to tear apart in shreds.

She couldn’t imagine what kind of strength it took to manage such a feat. His arms were … incredible. She felt an odd stirring low in her belly and had the strangest urge to mold her hand around the bulge and press to see if it was as granite-hard as it looked. The impulse horrified her. What was wrong with her?

They were tearing across the waves with lightning speed. Moving faster than she’d ever thought possible.

It was terrifying.

It was thrilling.

It was the most exciting thing she’d ever done in her life. She’d never felt anything like it. The rush of exhilaration, the heart-pounding excitement, this crazy, wild ride over waves at a dizzying speed. She wanted to scream, but instead all she could do was grin as the wind tore through her hair, battered her face with sea-spray, drew tears from her eyes, and filled her lungs with air.

She was cold again, but it suddenly seemed unimportant. In the midst of madness and for the first time in weeks—years—Ellie could breathe.

Suddenly the
birlinn
started to tilt to the starboard side. She had to grab the rail to prevent herself from sliding across the wooden deck.

“To port!” the captain shouted into the wind.

The men moved to the port side, but even with the added weight on one side, Ellie could feel the boat lift higher. The dark-haired man who’d tried to help her seemed to be having trouble holding on, so a few of the oarsmen had come to his aid—which he didn’t seem too happy about accepting.

He shook them off when he noticed her stare, and Ellie quickly shifted her gaze, not wanting to embarrass him further.

The boat crested over a large wave and slammed down hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Dear Lord, how much longer could he continue to hold those ropes against such force? His arms had to be burning by now. She ventured a glance, but he appeared utterly at ease—seemingly impervious to the strain.

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. It seemed as if they were nearly perpendicular to the sea. The black waves seemed to be right under her. If she could peel her white-knuckled grip from the rail, she would be able to practically reach down and skim her fingers over the water.

She didn’t think her heart could take much more of this. “Slow down! We’re going too fast!” she demanded. “You’re going to flip us.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought the pirate’s gaze sparked in the darkness. The white flash of his teeth, however, was unmistakable. With a sinking dread, Ellie realized her mistake.
Never dare a daredevil
. He’d taken her words of caution as a challenge.

“Hold on tight,” he said, amusement evident in his voice.