The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with your hands?”

  The swift change of subject caught him off guard. “Nothing.”

  She stood and walked toward him, that stubborn chin set in a line that he didn’t like. “Let me see.”

  He was about to tell her it was none of her damned business when one of her hands circled around his wrist. Christ, her fingers were soft. And so damned small. They could barely close halfway around. His mind immediately went to another part of his body, thinking of those fingers wrapped around something thick and throbbing.

  Heat flared inside him and instead of pulling away, he allowed her to turn over his hand, revealing his bloody, shredded palms.

  The gasp made him wish he hadn’t—as did the outraged look on her face. “How did this happen?”

  He shrugged off her concern. “The ropes. It’s nothing. It happens all the time.” He liked the connection with the sail and didn’t wear gauntlets.

  “It looks horrible. Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Nay,” he replied automatically.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Let me guess: tall, overly muscular pirates don’t feel pain?”

  He grinned for the first time since entering the longhouse. “Overly muscular? I didn’t think you noticed.”

  “I’m not blind,” she huffed. Her eyes flashed in the flickering firelight. He’d thought they were brown, but standing so close he could see flecks of green and gold. Unusual and quite pretty. Then she had to ruin the effect by adding, “I’d notice a peacock preening his feathers and strutting around, too.”

  Erik was shocked into rare silence. For once a quick response did not slip from his tongue. Had she just compared him to a bloody peacock? First a dog, now a bird? He was one of the most feared warriors in the Highlands, personal guardsman to a king, henchman and kinsman to one of the most powerful leaders in the Western Isles, and chieftain of an ancient clan.

  That prickle of irritation grew to a full-fledged stab.

  “Nor am I impressed by your masculine bravado,” she said. “And don’t try to distract me.”

  He was thinking of a couple of ways to do just that. The heat from the fire, and that faint hint of lavender that had grown stronger as she drew near, were doing strange things to him.

  Innocent maids were not his usual fare. He might enjoy flirting, but he was always discerning in his bed partners. He preferred experienced lasses who understood lust and wouldn’t make the mistake of thinking they were in love. But his body didn’t seem to be listening.

  She examined his hand, tracing the pad of her finger over the raw edges. He stood perfectly still, giving no indication that her poking and prodding hurt like hell.

  “You still have sand in here,” she accused. “And fibers of rope.” She gazed up at him as if he were an incorrigible child and not a man a foot taller than she and roughly twice her weight. “Don’t you know that this can become infected?”

  “I’ll see to it later.”

  “I’ll see to it now.” She lifted her chin to his. “You aren’t leaving here until I put something on these.”

  He shook his head. There she went, ordering him around again. It was becoming a bad habit—and one he was going to have to break her of. Right after she let go of his hand.

  “I didn’t know you cared,” he teased.

  She ignored him—something she did far too easily—and dragged him toward the chair. “Sit,” she ordered.

  He’d have to work on that tone as well. But, after a few minutes of her fussing over him, he decided he might let her boss him around a little more. He could get used to this. And she was far more aware of him than she wanted him to know.

  As she bustled around the room to organize the things she would need, he could sense her growing nervousness as she realized he was watching her. Nervousness that became even more pronounced when she came to stand before him, edging slightly between his knees.

  He felt a little bit like Bruce’s spider with its web. She was trapped, though she didn’t know it yet.

  Her leg brushed against his thigh, and he heard the sharp intake of her breath. Her hands shook as she lowered the bowl of warm water on the table beside the chair. They were so close, he could see the slight quickening of her pulse at her neck.

  He smiled. This was more like it. The little nursemaid was not wholly immune to him. Seeing her all flustered like this almost made up for the trouble she’d given him … almost.

  He wasn’t completely unaffected himself—especially when she leaned over to help put his hand in the bowl of warm water and her hair spilled forward, brushing over him like a thick, silky veil. He dipped his head a few inches closer, inhaling the heady, floral fragrance and fighting the urge to bury his face in the dark tresses and let the incredible softness wash over him in a billowy silken cloud.

  Hell, the sultry, darkening room was playing tricks on him. He shifted in his seat, and she looked up from her task with alarm.

  “Is something wrong? Did I hurt you?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all.” It was more an insistent throbbing. He couldn’t resist teasing her. “You can touch me anytime.”

  When she gave him a small smile and merely nodded, he thought she might have missed the suggestive lilt in his voice—until she gave his hand a not-so-gentle squeeze.

  He winced. “Ouch.” The little she-devil had done that on purpose. “That hurt.”

  She lifted those wide, green-flecked hazel eyes to his and blinked innocently. He hadn’t noticed before what thick, sooty lashes she had.

  “Did it?” she asked. “You’re not as tough as you look; I’ll try to be more careful.”

  His eyes narrowed, deciding not to tease her further until she was finished. But it turned out that teasing wasn’t necessary; his nearness was doing enough to rattle her.

  She wouldn’t look at him, but he could see the heat growing darker on her cheeks as she finished rinsing the sand and grit from his wounds, then drying his hands in a clean piece of linen.

  She set her jaw, trying to pretend he wasn’t getting to her, but the tiny white lines around her mouth gave her away. He could feel the tension radiating from her and knew that she had every instinct on high alert. Why, he’d wager that every hair at the back of her neck was standing on edge.

  Aye, this was more like it. This kind of reaction he understood. He was back on solid ground again. His ground.

  He had to bite back the smile when she leaned forward to pick up the jar of ointment that she’d found on the shelves and her breast accidentally grazed his shoulder. She jerked as if he’d burned her—as if her tightly wound body had never come into contact with a man before.

  Was that it? He frowned. It seemed a waste that a lass of her age—she must be nearing her mid-twenties—had never known a man’s touch. She was old enough to have a couple of children of her own by now, rather than be taking care of someone else’s. What was she waiting for?

  Her dark head was bent in concentration as she applied the cool salve to his wounds and carefully wrapped strips of linen between his thumb and forefinger across his palms, leaving his fingers free to move. He couldn’t resist pressing his thigh against hers as she worked, getting far too much satisfaction when her fingers fumbled with the final knot on his second hand.

  One little nudge and she would be in his lap.

  It was tempting—damned tempting. He was hotter than he’d been in a long time.

  As soon as she was done, she tried to spin away. “There you go,” she said with exaggerated brightness, as if her body wasn’t humming for him. “All done.”

  He caught her wrist and held her to him, not ready to let her go just yet. “Thank you,” he said, his voice surprisingly husky.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, not meeting his gaze.

  She tried to turn her head away, but he caught her chin and forced her eyes to his. Her lips parted and the pulse at her neck fluttered against his knuckle like the wings of a butterfly.

&n
bsp; He wasn’t sure what he meant to do, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how he liked seeing her flustered. How he wanted to fluster her some more. And what a damned shame it was to get to her age and never know a man’s touch.

  “Let go of me,” she managed shakily.

  The poor thing was as jittery as a lass who’d never been kissed.

  Ah, hell. She probably hadn’t been kissed before. His eyes fell on her mouth. It was a pretty mouth, when it wasn’t pursed thinly with disapproval—rosy and lush, with a soft, sensual curve. It would be a crime to leave a mouth like that untouched. Hell, he was doing her a favor. One side of his mouth lifted in a wicked curve. Call it his Christian duty.

  He could make an exception to his “never dally with maids” rule just this once.

  He let his thumb slide over the too-stubborn point of her chin, softening it with a gentle caress. Her skin felt almost unreal, as smooth and velvety as cream.

  Her eyes widened. “W-what are y-you doing?”

  He smiled, letting the pad of his thumb slide over the plump pillow of her lower lip. The hitch in her breath sent a pulse of heat to his groin. “I’m going to kiss you,” he said.

  Her pupils darkened. She seemed to stop breathing. “Why?” she squeaked.

  Her eyes were raking his face so intently he didn’t think she was aware of his thigh closing against her, nudging her closer to his lap.

  He slid one of his bandaged hands around her waist, resting it on the gentle flare of her hip. “You’ve never been kissed before, have you, Ellie?”

  Mutely, she shook her head, too stunned to lie.

  He brought her face closer to his, running his thumb over her mouth again, pleased when it quivered and her lips parted.

  It was an invitation too sweet to ignore, and he brushed his mouth over hers. Gently. Softly. The barest touch. Letting her get used to the sensation.

  It was something he’d done hundreds of times before, but his senses exploded at the contact. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. How was it possible to have lips so soft and to taste so sweet? He wanted to sink into them. Into her.

  He pulled back, a bit perplexed, and stared into her half-lidded eyes. Aye, this was how she should look. Eyes soft and dreamy, a supplicant waiting for his touch. Not impassive and impervious.

  His brow furrowed, thinking it strange how hard his heart was hammering in his chest, and how much he wanted to kiss her.

  He took her mouth again, increasing the pressure, lingering for a deeper taste.

  Sweet? Hell, her mouth was like warm sugar, dissolving right under him.

  He kissed her harder, moving his mouth over hers hungrily, forgetting all about Christian duty. All he could think about was her velvety skin, her soft, sweet lips, her honey taste, and the enticing scent of her skin. He felt as if he were being dragged under in a delicious, sensual undertow—drowning in liquid desire.

  He couldn’t believe he was getting this hot over a kiss. His cock was as hard as a damned spike. Seeking a little relief, he pulled her against him, bringing her fully onto his lap. But the sensation of her bottom pressing on his arousal—separated by a thin piece of linen—only increased his agony, making him want more. Much more.

  She made a little sound at the feel of his hardness pressed so intimately against her. Half gasp of surprise and half something deeper that hinted at a sensuality he wouldn’t have surmised, but was damned eager to explore.

  The bandages on his hand didn’t prevent him from lacing his fingers through her hair to cup the back of her head and bring her mouth fully against his.

  Just a taste, he vowed, and urged her lips apart with his.

  Christ. The first sweep of his tongue in her mouth made him groan with raw pleasure.

  She startled at the unexpected invasion, but before she could pull away, he stroked her again. Sweeping his tongue against hers in a bold, seductive caress. Repeating it again and again until he could feel her soften against him.

  He liked her like this. All warm and melty in his arms. Her skin hot, her breath short, her body ripening for his touch. Was she damp for him? Was the heat rushing between her legs? Were those plump lips of her womanhood swelling? Quivering? Aching for his touch?

  What the hell was wrong with him? He knew desire, but this was … more. Something about this lass felt different, though hell if he knew what. The heat that gripped him grew tighter. All over. Not just in his groin.

  Suddenly uneasy, he started to pull away—and would have done so had he not felt the tentative flick of her tongue to his. The innocent response did something to him. It was as if that little flicker sparked a fire inside him.

  Instead of pulling away, he drew her nearer, bringing her more fully into his embrace. The tips of her breasts pressed against his chest as he deepened the kiss, circling and twining his tongue with hers. God, this felt good.

  And she responded, meeting his strokes with her own, tentatively at first, then with more confidence as his groans urged her on. He wanted to roar with masculine pride when he felt her arms circle his neck. Anything she lacked in experience she more than made up with enthusiasm. What a waste to keep passion like this bottled up to wither away and die. The lass was a natural.

  Her response was having a strange effect on him. His control seemed to be slipping. His kiss grew hotter. Wetter. Naughtier. He was kissing her, plundering her mouth as if he meant to swive her senseless.

  She was so damned hot, practically melting in his arms. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. His hand found the small curve of her breast, nothing like the soft, pillowy flesh he was used to, but firm and supple, with barely enough roundness to fill the palm of his hand. He wanted to squeeze and knead, to take the tiny bud of her nipple between his fingers and pinch it to a taut peak, but the wild fluttering of her heart beneath his hand made him take it slow.

  He teased her with his lips and tongue until she forgot about the weight of his hand covering her. Then he cupped her, gently, circling his thumb around the tip, until she moaned and arched into his hand.

  All he could think about was dragging his mouth down her neck, ripping open the neck of her leine—rolling that tight little bead with his tongue and sucking her deep into his mouth.

  His body was on fire, his heart pounding, blood roaring in his ears. He knew he was on the edge of doing something reckless but was unable to stop it. He wanted to be inside her, to feel her shatter around him. It was all he could think about.

  All of a sudden the door crashed open.

  Ellie sprang off his lap as if scalded. Erik felt as if he’d just had a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, and he stood up nearly as quickly as she did.

  What the hell?

  He didn’t know whether he was referring to the kiss or the interruption. He was dazed. Dazed!

  He automatically reached for the hilt of the dirk at his waist, but released it when he realized it was Domnall and Duncan, carrying a limp Randolph between them.

  Even as he fought to cool the blood still pounding through his veins, his mind cleared. “What happened?”

  Domnall gave him a curious look—obviously having caught some of what was going on. Ellie wasn’t Erik’s type and they both knew it. Skinny, plain little wrens weren’t his typical bedmates.

  “He collapsed. Feels like he’s burning up with fever.”

  Ellie made a sound of distress. “Put him over here.” She ushered the men to the bed built into the wall, snapping back into the efficient nursemaid with appalling speed—as if she hadn’t just been melting in his arms.

  Erik swore and dragged his hands through his hair, not sure whether he was angry at Randolph or himself. Someone had been rattled by that kiss, but it sure as hell didn’t seem to be her.

  Eight

  “Ellie!”

  She winced, the loud boom of Hawk’s voice shattering the peace of the sunny winter’s day and nearly causing her to drop the stack of freshly washed linens that she had piled in her arms.


  Lord, what have I done now?

  In the roughly forty-eight hours since she’d lost her mind and allowed him to kiss her, it seemed that when he wasn’t ignoring her, he was snapping at her for something she’d done wrong.

  He was the one who’d told her to be useful, but he objected to everything she did. If she offered to help Meg bring food to the men, he said she was getting in the way (the cave was a pigsty, and she’d only suggested that his men pick up after themselves). If she attempted to help some of the village women with their sewing, he accused her of trying to gain their sympathies to escape (it was his story, she pointed out; he could hardly fault her for improving upon it). He’d even forbidden her from tending to Thomas while he was in a delirium for fear that she would hear something she shouldn’t (who knew thieves had so many important secrets?). Thankfully, Thomas’s fever had broken yesterday, and though weak, it seemed the young pirate would recover.

  “Ellie!” he shouted again, bringing her shoulders to her ears once more.

  Preparing herself for another unpleasant encounter, she straightened her spine and turned around slowly, just in time to see him storming across the grass from the edge of the cliffside. One look at his dark expression and she thought about making a run for the door a few dozen feet away.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t yell so loud with Meg and Thomas in the same room? But as Duncan’s presence on the other side of the garden didn’t seem to be bothering him any, she doubted it.

  It seemed the pirate captain’s prodigious good humor extended to everyone but her. Even Thomas had noticed it, remarking that he’d never seen Hawk so short-tempered with a lass. Ellie would have been perversely pleased if it didn’t mean being forced to bear the brunt of that temper.

  Faith, he was an imposing sight! His mouth was clenched in a tight line and his eyes were two sharp beams of brilliant blue. His fair Norse coloring could turn icy and emotionless in a mercurial heartbeat. Though she was no longer scared that he would hurt her, having an angry, towering pirate bellowing at her wasn’t an altogether unintimidating experience.