The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  “You know what I think, Ellie? I think you liked that kiss quite a lot. I think you wanted more. Much more. I think you wanted to let go for once and experience life. I think that you have been responsible for so long, and cut yourself off from feeling anything, that you’ve forgotten how to have fun.”

  She gasped at how close to the mark he’d hit. Was she so obvious? She felt a horrible stinging behind her eyes. “So you think I’m some dried-up virgin who could use a little excitement, and you decided to take pity on me?”

  His eyes flared. He took a step closer, and the heat of his body washed over her. “Pity wasn’t what I felt at all.”

  The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Lust. That’s what he meant, and the acknowledgment set all of her already frazzled nerves prickling with heat. The thought that he could lust for someone like her seemed inexplicable. Men like him didn’t spare her two glances.

  She tried to ignore his closeness, but his tall, muscular body loomed over her in the bright sunlight, enveloping her with his fierce masculine essence. He put his hand on her hip and it felt like a brand. A claim.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs. God, he was going to kiss her again. For one reckless moment—before prudence and self-preservation took over—she wanted it. But she couldn’t let him know how intensely her body reacted to him. He would only use it against her. She wouldn’t become a game. A challenge. Another woman to fall to his feet. Just one more in a long line of conquests for a Viking raider.

  Though every instinct in her body clamored to surrender to her senses, she forced herself to stand boldly before him, giving no hint to how deeply he affected her. How her body was quivering for him. “I don’t need you to tell me how to live my life. Who are you to pass judgment? A man who flashes a grin and turns everything into a joke so that he can avoid making any real attachments.”

  His jaw grew so taut she wondered if she’d gone too far.

  “You don’t know what you are talking about.”

  But she did. She’d been surrounded by perfection her whole life and seen the destruction wrought when you fell in love with it. “Everything is easy for you. People like you without even trying. Why wouldn’t they? You’re handsome, witty, charming—irrepressibly likable. It all comes so naturally that you never have to work at anything deeper.”

  “Who says I want anything deeper? Maybe I’m perfectly happy the way I am.”

  She gazed up at him, one side of her mouth lifting in a sad semblance of a smile. “That’s exactly my point.”

  He wasn’t the sort of man who would steal her heart. She wanted that deep connection. He took nothing seriously, and she took everything seriously. She might be drawn to him, but the very things that did so—the excitement, the wild, untamed spirit—were the very things that made him wrong for her. If she let him, he would only break her heart.

  Erik was perfectly happy the way he was; he didn’t need to be lectured by some uptight little nursemaid with big hazel eyes and a know-it-all mouth that also happened to be one of the most lush, kissable-looking mouths he could recall.

  Was it his fault people liked him?

  Why did she have to be so bloody serious about everything? Couldn’t she just relax and have a little fun?

  He didn’t know why he was so angry. “I’m hardly likely to fall prey to a man like you.” That had started it. He should be grateful she didn’t fancy herself enamored with him. But something about the way she’d said it—so matter-of-factly—made him feel lacking. As if she’d measured him against some invisible nursemaid stick and he’d come up short. It was ludicrous … ridiculous … crazy. He’d never come up short in anything in his life.

  And did she have to sound so bloody sensible about the whole thing? He was the one that had the voice of reason: “it’s nothing serious,” “it’s only natural”—those were his lines. He was the one who was supposed to be softening the blow, trying to let her down easily.

  His eyes narrowed on the flutter of the delicate pulse below her neck. Perhaps she wasn’t as unaffected as she wanted him to think.

  Perhaps she wasn’t unaffected at all.

  He was tempted to prove it—damned tempted. He felt a perverse desire to push and push against that resistance of hers until she broke, releasing the curious, adventuresome woman he sensed buried behind the imperious facade. To prove that she was no different.

  But he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out where it led—or maybe it was because he knew exactly where it would lead. To her under him. Or, knowing Ellie, probably her on top of him.

  Ah, hell. He shifted uncomfortably. Taut little breasts. A slim waist to wrap his hands around. Long, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders as she rode him hard, probably trying to boss him around. The image once pictured was hard to get out of his mind.

  But it would never do. He liked undemanding women, and Ellie, with her penetrating eyes and probing questions, would demand far more than he wanted to give. He liked his life just the way it was, damnation.

  He dropped her arm and took a step back. “We’ll leave by week’s end.”

  He had to meet the McQuillans on the thirteenth, whether Randolph was recovered or not.

  She held his gaze for a long moment, and he would have given up swiving for a month—or at least a few more days—to know what she was thinking. Was she disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her? Or was she just disappointed in him?

  After an uncomfortable pause, she asked, “Where will you take me?”

  He knew what she was asking, but he couldn’t take her home. Not yet. “Come,” he said, leading her along the path. “It isn’t much farther.”

  They walked for another fifteen minutes or so before the breeze sharpened with the scent of the sea, and their destination came into view ahead. He didn’t know if she realized that they’d traversed the small island, which was less than a mile north to south and only slightly wider east to west.

  Ellie caught sight of the massive arched rock formation at the edge of the cliffside and turned to him excitedly. “Is that where we are going?”

  “Aye.” He smiled at her enthusiasm. Not only was the arch magnificent to look upon, but it also provided a perfect vantage of the sea-lanes to the south and west where he could scout the English position. It was near this point that the English galley had anchored a few days ago.

  “Can I climb on top?” she asked.

  She must have been having an effect on him, because he was only half-tempted to quip back with a wicked response. “If you think you are up to it. It’s more dangerous than it looks from here.”

  She gave him a scornful look and practically ran to the edge of the cliff. His heart almost stopped a few times, but she scrambled to the top with surprising ease.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, turning to him with a look of pure elation on her face.

  Then his heart did stop.

  She looked beautiful. Radiant. The features hadn’t changed, but something was different. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time. All of her. Not just the sum of her features or the size of her breasts, but something else entirely. Something real and important.

  Ellie might be bossy, demanding, and far too serious, but she was also a smart, sensitive, generous young lass who’d been snatched from her home with nary a fare-thee-well. Who’d weathered the difficult circumstances with surprising resilience. Who didn’t cry and complain, but accepted her situation with quiet resolve and determination. And who seemed to have no problem taking him to task as if he were a naughty schoolboy.

  Hell, as much as she exasperated him, he admired her.

  Uncomfortable with the direction of his thoughts, he said, “I gather you’ve done this more than once?”

  She smiled. “A long time ago.”

  Not so very long ago, he’d wager. He could still see a glimpse of the girl she’d been in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes.

  She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You’ll laugh, but as a girl my si
ngle greatest ambition was to visit every isle between Ireland and Norway.”

  He gave her a long look. “I don’t think it’s funny at all.” He understood the impulse completely. Too completely. They were more alike than he wanted to know. She had an adventurer’s spirit. He, too, knew the excitement of exploring new places, of seeing new things, of widening the narrow world in which he lived. Of standing on a rock like this, feeling as if he were on the edge of the world, and wondering at the men who had come before him.

  He had to turn away, not liking the odd stirrings inside him.

  They stood high atop the natural arch, gazing out at the wide stretch of blue beyond.

  “It’s so quiet,” she said in a hushed voice. The wind picked up a strand of her hair and carried it across her face, before she tucked it back behind her ear.

  She was right: the seaways were surprisingly clear except for a few small fishing skiffs. He wondered whether the English had finally given up.

  A moment later his question was answered, when the white dot of a sail appeared in the distance to the south. They were still there. Not lying in wait the way they normally did, but actively hunting. He must have angered them more than he realized.

  Ellie hadn’t noticed; her gaze was fixed to the west.

  She pointed in the distance. “Is that …?” He could hear the sudden swell of emotion in her voice.

  He looked at her and nodded. “Aye, that’s the Antrim coast.”

  Ireland. Her home.

  “So close,” she said longingly.

  He shouldn’t have looked at her. A look of such intense sadness came over her tiny, heart-shaped face that he immediately wanted to take her in his arms and do anything to make it go away.

  “You miss your family?” he found himself asking.

  “They think I’m dead,” she said, her chin quivering. His chest felt as though it was burning. “They’ve been through so much already.”

  “Your mother?”

  She nodded, blinking back tears. “And my eldest brother.”

  Damn, he hadn’t realized.

  Erik made a decision. He could do nothing to change their circumstances—at least not until the attack was launched—but he could alleviate some of her sadness and worry. He had to go back to Dunaverty tonight anyway. There would be no harm. “What if I could get a message to them that you are safe?”

  She gasped and turned to him incredulously with wide, searching eyes. “You’re serious?”

  He nodded solemnly. “On one condition.”

  Her gaze turned wary, and he wondered what was going through her mind. “What kind of condition?”

  “That you try to enjoy yourself for the remainder of our time on the island.”

  She looked aghast. “I couldn’t.”

  He didn’t say anything except to raise his brow.

  Her brows came together in a delicate V. “Why does it matter to you?” she asked.

  Erik didn’t know, except that it did. He wanted to see her smile. He wanted to see her happy. “It’s for your good, not mine. So, do we have a deal?”

  Her head tilted; she was studying him with such intensity that it felt as if she could see right through him. He resisted the inexplicable urge to squirm. He wasn’t used to people looking at him like that—beyond the superficial. But she must have liked what she’d seen, because a broad smile lit her face. “When can you send it?”

  He smiled back at her. “Is tonight soon enough?”

  It must have been better than she’d expected, because all of a sudden she threw her arms around him. “Thank you,” she whispered against the leather of his cotun. He swore he could feel the softness of her breath on his skin, spreading over him in a warm glow.

  When he looked down at the tiny woman curled against him, at her satiny head shimmering like polished mahogany in the sunlight, at the long sweep of dark lashes brushing against the velvety-soft cheek pressed to his chest, something inside him shifted. A fierce swell of protectiveness rose inside him.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, sliding his arms around her narrow back with a feeling that could only be described as contentment. It was strange, but with all of the women he’d held in his arms before, no one had ever felt quite like this.

  Eleven

  The initial jolt was always the worst. The sharp blast of cold that forced an involuntary gasp from his lungs and sucked out every sensation from his body, the overwhelming chill that penetrated to the bones, and then the mind-numbing lethargy that made it seem as if everything inside him had slowed to a crawl.

  The first few seconds after diving into the wintry sea were something Erik never got used to—no amount of conditioning or seal grease could change that. But once the shock had dulled and he began to swim, his mind took control and he forgot all about the temperature. He focused on the strokes, on his even breathing, and on the mission ahead.

  Not many would attempt to swim across open seas and treacherous currents at the dead of night in temperatures that would render most men unconscious in less than an hour. Fortunately for Bruce, Erik was not most men.

  His skills on and in the water were what had brought him to Bruce’s attention in the first place. The Highland Guard had been formed for just these kinds of seemingly impossible missions under extreme conditions. Bruce had handpicked the greatest warriors in each discipline of warfare and forged them into a single elite fighting force—a deceptively simple idea that was in fact revolutionary. Never before had men from different clans been brought together into one guard, united not by blood but by common purpose: to free Scotland from English tyranny and restore its crown to Robert Bruce, a man worthy of the title of king.

  The Guard had given Erik a sense of purpose that he’d never known. He knew that what he was doing was not just important, but would be remembered for ages.

  If they were successful.

  Erik did not delude himself. Bruce’s situation was dire. Edward of England was out for blood. For Bruce to reclaim his kingdom, it would take not only careful planning and fierce warriors, but luck. Something Erik had never lacked for.

  As he left the shelter of the bay behind for the open waters, the current intensified and the waves grew higher, requiring more energy and concentration. He followed the beam of moonlight across the blackened seas, thankful for the relatively clear skies. But in winter, he knew that could change in a heartbeat. One favorite saying of Islanders was that if you don’t like the weather, just wait a few minutes. Fortunately for him, the past few days had been dry, and tonight seemed inclined to hold to the pattern.

  God, he loved it out here in the darkness. The peace. The solitude. The challenge of taking on nature in all of its omnipotent majesty. Pushing himself to the limit, and then the euphoria that coursed through his blood when he succeeded—there was nothing like it.

  Half an hour later, Erik gazed up at the towering shadow of the great castle of Dunaverty. Perched on a massive rock—remarkably similar to Dunluce Castle—on a promontory of land at the southern tip of Kintyre, the strategically located castle had been the site of ancient forts for as long as anyone could recall.

  Once a prominent stronghold of his Norse ancestors, the castle had descended to his cousin Angus Og from their great-great-grandfather Somerled—the mighty King of the Isles who’d given Erik’s clan its name: MacSorley, sons of Somerled. The little nursemaid would probably find it appropriate that Somerled meant “summer traveler,” a reference to going “a viking.”

  The long swim and cold water had sapped his strength, but as Erik drew closer his blood fired with a renewed burst of energy. The real danger was about to begin.

  The castle’s sea-gate was just ahead. As last time, he was covered head to toe in black seal grease. It not only helped to insulate him from the cold but allowed him to blend into the night, so he should be able—like last time—to slip under the gate without being detected. The gate had been fashioned to keep out a boat, not a solitary swimmer.

  It had
taken the English months of sieging to breach the castle walls; he would need less than a minute.

  Taking a deep breath, he dove into the tomblike blackness. The water was no more than ten feet deep at this point, and it took him only seconds to touch the rocky bottom. Using that as his guide, he skated along the seafloor until he knew that he was clear of the bars. Only then did he surface—carefully and soundlessly.

  He opened his eyes to torchlight and the cavelike stone chamber deep in the bowels of Dunaverty Castle. He was in.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  Erik held perfectly still, not breathing, as a solitary guard made his rounds past the gate. But luck was with him again. The Englishman barely glanced at the water below him. Why should he? The gate was down. Unless ships were suddenly capable of diving underwater—Erik smiled at the ridiculous notion—the guard had nothing to fear. Or so he assumed.

  Erik waited for the guard’s torch to fade into the distance before levering himself out of the water and onto the stone platform that served as a dock.

  The blast of cold air felt like shards of ice pricking through his skin. He was tempted to use the “silent kill” that his cousin Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi had perfected—a dirk stuck in the back through to the lungs—to get some clothes, but Erik knew it was better if his comings and goings went unnoticed. Bruce wanted the Highland Guard to operate in the shadows, not only to be harder to detect, but also to increase the fear in the heart of their enemy.

  So, naked but for the black grease on his skin and the dirk tied to his waist, Erik made his way up the staircase, along the dank tunnel, and into the lower vaults of the castle. He kept to the walls, hiding in the shadows, as he made his way to the kitchens.

  Just like last time, he passed no one.

  The gradual increase of warmth, felt keenly by his shivering body, alerted him that he was nearing his destination. A welcoming blast of heat from the kitchen fires, kept smoldering all night, hit him as he ducked under the stone archway of the kitchen. He peered around the room in the semidarkness, relieved to see the sleeping form of a man rolled up in his plaid before the fire.