The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  Erik steered the birlinn around the rocky outcrops that protected the mouth of the cave. “Stay sharp, lads,” he said in a hushed voice. The Virgin’s Plunge explained the unusual nighttime activity, but something was setting the hair at the back of his neck on edge.

  As the boat slid through the jagged entranceway, he kept one eye on the castle perched high above him and the other fixed on the back end of the long cavern. He knew they couldn’t be seen from above, and although he would never be accused of an excess of caution, an acute sense of danger had saved his neck more than once.

  For a moment they were blinded by darkness. But then, floating out of the black abyss, he saw flickering shards of orange at the opposite end of the cavern. Three long waves. A pause. Two short. Then repeated.

  It was the right signal, but he relaxed only when they drew close enough for him to recognize the crude features of the McQuillan chief’s henchman, Fergal. A rare frown turned his expression. Fergal wasn’t who he was expecting, and the substitution wasn’t a welcome one.

  Fergal McQuillan was a vicious scourge who would not only kill his own mother for coin but enjoy it. Erik had fought by his side years ago and although he could appreciate enthusiasm and frenzy in battle, Fergal’s bloodlust didn’t end with the fighting. However, he didn’t need to like him. Fergal might be scum, but he could wield a sword, and right now they needed all the warriors they could get. Chief—Tor MacLeod—had once told Bruce he would need to get dirty to win. He was right.

  As long as Fergal and the rest of the McQuillans kept their word, they wouldn’t have any problems.

  Having nearly reached the water’s edge, Erik jumped over the side of the boat and waded through the knee-high water to the rocky shore.

  He met the McQuillan warrior with a firm grasp of his forearm. After greeting a few of the other men he knew by name, he made the necessary introductions as Randolph and Domnall came up behind him. McQuillan seemed agitated about something—something Erik suspected he wasn’t going to like.

  “I expected to see your chief,” Erik said evenly, forcing a gracious smile to his face that never reached his eyes.

  Fergal shook his head. He was bald, and his head had an odd conical shape that was especially noticeable given his flat features, thick neck, and scruffy ginger beard. “Change of plans,” the warrior said. “He couldn’t get away. Ulster has arrived, and the castle is swarming with English. His absence might be noticed.”

  Erik’s eyes narrowed just a hair. His instincts had been right. They’d just sailed right into the middle of a hornet’s nest. If this was a trap, Fergal’s ill-formed head wouldn’t be long for his body. Two seconds—that’s all it would take to grasp the handle of his battle-axe and swing. A sizable part of him wouldn’t mind the excuse.

  Half expecting English troops to come pouring down the ramp, Erik glanced past Fergal’s shoulder before giving the warrior a cool stare. “I thought your chief said Ulster would be at Carrickfergus.”

  “That’s what we were told, but he showed up unexpectedly on Edward’s orders.” Fergal spat reflexively at the king’s name. “De Monthermer—or the Earl of Atholl, as he calls himself now—is here as well.”

  Well, wasn’t that interesting? That explained the English patrol being so close to the castle. De Monthermer commanded the largest—and most experienced—fleet of galleys in Edward’s navy. Though the Englishman had come to Bruce’s aid once before, Erik could not count on him to do so again.

  What the hell was de Monthermer doing here? Before he could ask, Fergal explained, “An alliance with one of Ulster’s daughters.”

  Erik nodded grimly. Bad intelligence in war was more common than not, but this kind of “mistake” could get him and his men killed. One wrong move and their heads would be on pikes gracing Scotland’s castles. Although it would make a damned fine-looking addition, Erik was rather attached to his.

  “You need to get the hell out of here,” Fergal urged, clearly on the verge of panic. “English ships are patrolling all over this place.”

  “We know,” Erik said calmly. “We ran into one”—in a manner of speaking—“a few miles back.”

  “Give me the coin and we can be done.”

  Randolph, obviously eager to be away, reached under his armor to retrieve the bag he had tied around his waist, but Erik put a hand out to stop him. “Not just yet. Why don’t we all relax a little bit? We’ll get out of here, but I think we have some details to discuss first.”

  Fergal sputtered, “But there’s no time, the English—”

  “Are a bloody pain in the arse,” Erik finished with a conspiratorial wink. “I know.” Hornet’s nest or not, he had a mission to do. And until guards started rushing down that ramp, he wasn’t going to be rushed. “We don’t want there to be any misunderstandings. Isn’t that right, Fergal?”

  The other man shook his head.

  Erik took the bag from Randolph and weighed it in his hand. Fergal watched it hungrily. “Half now as we agreed, the rest when you bring the three hundred men to Bruce.”

  “All we need to know is when and where.”

  “There’s a beach near Fair Head, do you know it?”

  Fergal nodded, a puzzled look on his face. “Aye.”

  “Be there on the night of the thirteenth with your men.”

  A skeptical look crossed the Irishman’s flat face. “Bruce intends to launch the attack from Ireland?”

  Erik shook his head. “Nay. I will take you to the king myself.” Fair Head was the closest point on the Irish mainland to Rathlin, where Bruce planned to rendezvous.

  Fergal’s expression hardened, realizing that Erik intended to keep him in the dark about the plan. But if Erik was disinclined to trust the McQuillan chief, he was even more so with Fergal.

  “That’s not what we agreed,” the Irishman said angrily.

  Erik took a step forward. Though Fergal was as thick and sturdy as a boar—and just as mean—Erik towered over him by at least a foot. As to who was the better warrior … they both knew there was no question. Only a handful of men had a chance of defeating Erik with a sword or battle-axe, and Fergal was not one of them.

  Despite the implied threat of the movement, Erik smiled. “Now, Fergal,” he said complacently. “I remember quite well the conversation I had with your chief a few weeks ago, right here in this cave, and that’s exactly what we agreed. Half now, half at the rendezvous with Bruce. Why would you require more information?”

  Fergal’s eyes shifted in the torchlight, understanding what Erik was implying. “I like to know where I am going.”

  “You will, when you need to know. These are the terms. It’s up to you,” Erik said with a careless shrug, holding out the bag.

  The Irishman snatched it and slipped it into his cotun. “Aye, the beach near Fair Head on the thirteenth. We’ll be there,” he said with all the enthusiasm of a dog who’d been backed into a corner. “Just make sure you are.”

  A loud splash in the water behind him cut off Erik’s reply. Instinctively, he spun around, his battle-axe already in his hand. The rest of the men had drawn their weapons as well.

  “What was that?” Fergal asked, holding up his torch.

  Erik peered into the darkness. “I don’t know.”

  The Irishman turned to two of his men and ordered, “Find out.”

  This wasn’t good, not good at all.

  Ellie knew she was in trouble the moment she started to get out of the water and heard the men coming down the ramp of the cave carrying torches. She’d originally intended to swim back to the beach, but the water was colder than she remembered—either that or she was well and truly getting old—so she’d decided to walk back to the beach from the cave.

  To think, up until this point she’d actually been having a good time. Matty had been so excited to see her. It had been worth it just to see the surprise on her face. And once she’d thrown off her cloak and jumped into the water, Ellie realized how much she missed swimming. Even in the
freezing water the sense of freedom was exhilarating.

  Perhaps she should have ignored the men and continued walking up the ramp, returning to the group at the beach to claim her crown. But there was something about being soaking wet in a chemise without a cloak to wrap around herself that made her want to avoid a large group of rough-looking warriors in the middle of the night.

  So she’d quickly retreated to the icy sea, intending to swim back the way she’d come no matter how freezing it was, only to have her escape route cut off by the arrival of the boat.

  One look at the men on the birlinn was enough to stop her heart cold. It was dark, but she could make out enough.

  Dear Lord, the Vikings are coming!

  Enormous warriors with long blond hair visible beneath steel nasal helms, fur mantles, armed to the teeth, and … did she mention enormous? There was no way she was going to try to swim past them. She was well and truly trapped.

  Taking refuge along the side of the cave in the darkness, she managed to pull herself up onto a small jagged rock before she froze to death—not that the cold night air was much better. Her entire body was wracked with shivers. Her teeth clattered and her wet hair froze in icy chunks around her shoulders. She drew her feet up under her as best she could on the sloping, jagged surface and wrapped her arms around her knees, rolling into a ball to try to stay warm.

  But she knew she couldn’t stay like this for long. She prayed the men finished their business quickly. She heard their voices but was unable to make out what they were saying. Still, she didn’t need to know what they were doing to know that she shouldn’t be here.

  What would be worse, freezing to death or having them find her? Neither choice sounded promising at the moment.

  She never should have allowed herself to get talked into this. Nor should she have swum so far away from the group alone—didn’t she always caution the younger children against this very thing?—but she’d wanted to win and she loved this cave.

  Why, oh why had she let Matty get to her? Boring wasn’t so bad. Boring was safe. Boring was warm. Right now she could be sleeping in her nice, cozy bed stacked with furs instead of trying to feel her fingertips, perched on a rock in a dark cave filled with terrifying Vikings doing God-knows-what.

  She was too cold and frightened to be curious. She didn’t even dare to peek her head out from behind her rocky hiding place to venture a glance toward the shore, for fear that they would see her.

  If only they would hurry up. Her teeth were chattering so loud she feared they would hear her soon, and she didn’t know how much longer she could stay perched on the slippery rock when she couldn’t feel her …

  Uh-oh.

  Her feet slid out from under her. She wobbled, trying to catch herself, but it was too late. She hit the water with a definitive splash. The shock of cold and the flash of panic sent her heart racing at a frantic pace. She resisted the natural urge to shoot back to the surface and instead cautiously raised her head.

  Perhaps they hadn’t heard?

  But one glance toward shore told her she wasn’t going to be so lucky. Two men jumped into the water and started to swim toward her. She dove back under and swam with everything she had.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  She was cold, and tired from her earlier swim, and they had momentum on their side. One of the men got a hold of her ankle. She tried to kick away, but he reeled her in as easily as a fish on a line. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at a herring on her plate in the same way.

  An arm snaked around her waist. The brutish warrior pulled her against him none too gently, dragging her back to the surface.

  The ruffian uttered a crude oath. “It’s a lass!” he called back.

  She heard the moment of paused surprise before a rough voice said, “Bring her.”

  “Bloody hell, it’s cold in here,” the man swore in her ear. From the anger in his voice, he clearly blamed her for being forced to get wet.

  “Let go of me!” she yelled. “Do you know who I am? My father—”

  But his name was cut off by the press of a hard, callused hand over her mouth. “Shush,” he warned. “You’ll bring the entire guard down on us, and you’re in enough trouble already.”

  She stilled, not liking the sound of that. The soldier dragged her up the rocky shore and threw her unceremoniously down at the feet of a bald-headed man who—thankfully—looked familiar to her. She racked her frozen brain, but it wasn’t moving too fast. Was he one of her father’s men? One of the castle soldiers? Surely he would help her.

  She was certainly more likely to find understanding from a familiar face than from a boatload of Norsemen—she shivered reflexively—wasn’t she?

  She was about to plead her case when she glanced into the bald soldier’s eyes. The words froze on her tongue. She knew without asking that he would be of no help. The man was utterly without emotion; he had the cold, flat eyes of a reptile.

  “How much did you hear? Why are you spying on us?” he demanded sharply.

  “N-nothing. I wasn’t spying.” Her teeth were still rattling. “I … swear … s-swimming.”

  “She must have come from the group of revelers on the beach,” a deep voice from behind her said. Like the others he spoke in Gaelic, but there was something calming in the warm, husky tones.

  She nodded vigorously, since her teeth didn’t seem to be agreeing with her, and ventured a glance in his direction.

  Despite the circumstances, she gasped.

  God in heaven!

  She blinked, but he was real. The Norseman could rival her brothers and sisters for striking beauty. His dark blond hair was cut close to his head, just long enough to come to his ears, except for a long lock that fell across his forehead. Unlike most of the other men he wore no beard, revealing the clean, hard lines of his perfectly sculpted face. A wide, smooth brow, sharply angled cheeks, a square jaw, and a proud nose that shockingly—given his profession—appeared reasonably straight. It was too dark to see the color of his eyes, but she knew they’d be blue. Vivid blue. Ocean blue. Soul-piercing blue.

  She looked sharply away before he could catch her staring at him. Goodness! She thought men like that existed only in myths.

  He might be gorgeous, but he was also undoubtedly a pirate—and a tall, incredibly muscular one at that. A man built to conquer, pillage, and do God-knew-whatever-it-was that Vikings did, leaving a trail of destruction in his terrifying wake. He could crush her in one huge iron fist.

  The reptilian man spoke again. “We can’t risk her betraying us to Ulster.”

  Her heart dropped at the sound of her father’s name. Whatever it was that they were doing, they didn’t want her father to know about it. Clearly, telling them her identity wasn’t going to solve her problems. Indeed, it just might make them worse.

  What was she going to do? Her hands twisted in her damp chemise. This would have to win the prize for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had to explain, but the cold had numbed her brain.

  Forcing her teeth to stop clacking together, she said, “Please, this is all a mistake. I was swimming and stumbled upon you by accident.” She struggled to her feet and tried to appear calm. Rational. Confident. Not scared out of her mind. Think. Act like you know what you are doing. Speak with authority. “My friends will be wondering where I am. They’ll be looking for me …” She started to walk determinedly away, but her path was blocked by a wall of rough-looking Irishmen. Her smile shook, but she forced her voice to sound brisk and confident. “Let me pass and you can finish your business—”

  The bald man ignored her and spoke to the Norseman. “We’ll have to kill her.”

  Any blood that she had left in her body slid to her feet. Her breath caught in a sharp gasp. She tried to tell herself he couldn’t mean it, but one look at the soldier’s cruel face and she knew he did.

  Erik swore. This wasn’t going to turn out well. His straightforward mission had just taken an ugly turn.

&
nbsp; He hoped the lass didn’t faint, but the poor thing looked terrified. Not that he blamed her. What was she doing in the cave? Had she actually swum from the beach? At this time of year it was hard to believe, but she seemed to be in earnest.

  Still, he didn’t suppose it mattered. Whoever she was, and whatever she was doing, she’d just stumbled into a very bad situation.

  Unfortunately, Fergal had a point. If she’d heard anything, it could put his mission in danger. Nothing—and no one—could interfere with securing these mercenaries. They couldn’t let her walk out of here.

  But kill her? Every bone in his body rebelled at the thought of harming a lass.

  Erik loved women. All women. He loved the way they smelled. The softness of their skin. The way their long, silky hair spilled across his chest when they curled up next to him—or on top of him. He loved the tinkle of their laughter, their playfulness, and listening to them talk.

  He loved everything about them, but most of all he loved their lush femininity. Big, ripe breasts that he could weigh in his hands and bury his face between, curvy hips and round bottoms that he could hold under him, and soft thighs that wrapped around his waist as he slid slowly inside the most feminine place of all.

  He sighed. Aye, lasses were beautiful creatures. Every one of them. You only had to look hard enough.

  But, he had to admit, even with the added vantage provided by the wet linen, there wasn’t much to the lass before him. She was a wee slip of a thing. Average height but slim to the point of bony. He’d wager she weighed no more than seven stone soaking wet. Not his type at all. Erik preferred women with a little more meat on their bones. Lush and curvy, with something to hold on to—not as skinny as a reed. He was a big man, after all, and didn’t want to worry about crushing anyone.