The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  Less than an hour later, they were on their way. Erik led the way with the mercenaries, sailing point a short distance ahead to be able to give warning if needed.

  Unlike the night before, it was a good night for sailing. The sky was clear—relatively; it was the misty Western Isles, after all—and a steady wind bore down on them from the north. Their destination, Arran Isle, lay to the northeast of Spoon, nestled in the armpit of the Kintyre Peninsula and the Ayrshire coast, forty or so miles from Rathlin.

  But they would be forty tension-filled miles. Erik knew that danger lurked behind every wave. Evading the English patrols with one ship was one thing, but with seven it was another.

  He took particular care near crossways, knowing that the English patrols liked to lurk where two or three bodies of water came together. After heading north around Rathlin, he ordered the ships to lower their sails.

  It was a good thing he did. He was fairly certain he’d caught a glimpse of a sail to the south where the Rathlin sound met the North Channel. Once they’d skirted clear of Rathlin, there was nothing but open sea between them and Scotland.

  He kept his eyes peeled for any sign of a ship, but all he could see for miles was the dark sky and the tremulous rise and fall of the glistening black waves.

  It was almost too quiet—too peaceful—after the tumult of the night before.

  He closed down his thoughts before they could take hold. Ellie had crept into his head too many times already, and he was determined not to think about her. She’d distracted him enough. Right now everyone was counting on him to get them safely to Arran, and this time nothing was going to interfere.

  Not even a bossy, confounding termagant with green-flecked eyes, a stubborn chin, and the softest skin he’d ever felt.

  He would forget, damn it. He would forget.

  The closer they got to the Mull of Kintyre, the more Erik couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Although he didn’t have as acute a sense of danger as Campbell—the scout’s instincts were eerie—he lived by his instincts.

  About a mile off the Mull of Kintyre, he gave the order to lower the sails and instructed the other captains to wait for him.

  Silently, he ordered his men to row, keeping his razor-sharp senses honed on any movement in the darkness. When a few of the mercenaries started to whisper among themselves, he threatened to cut out the tongue of the next man who opened his mouth. They must have believed him, because the ship was deadly silent.

  The birlinn inched forward in the darkness. Despite the cold winter night, sweat gathered on his brow. His blood hammered in his veins as he scanned the horizon before them.

  His instincts flared, clamoring in his ears. But he couldn’t see anything. Not a single sail—

  His gaze caught on something. An odd-shaped shadow in the distance. He gave the silent order for the men to stop.

  Damn. It was them.

  The crafty blighters were lying in wait, sails down, hoping to catch any fly attempting to sail into their web. Pirate tactics. It was a hell of a time for the bloody English to start paying attention.

  He counted at least six dark shadows between Spoon and the small isle of Alisa Craig standing guard at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde, effectively cutting off any attempt to reach Arran.

  Erik gave the order to fall back—carefully, so as to not be seen—and returned to the other ships. Pulling alongside Chief’s birlinn, he informed the king and his captain of the trap ahead.

  Bruce swore and slammed his fist against the rail in frustration. “But how could they know?”

  “I don’t think they do,” Chief said. “If they knew of an attack, there would be a lot more than six ships.”

  Erik agreed. Boyd and Bruce had run into a similar blockade on their way back to Rathlin. “It’s dumb luck on their part to have picked the right night.”

  “And bad luck on ours,” the king said. “Of which I’ve had enough. We need to do something. It’s the only way to reach Arran. Can we slip through one at a time?”

  Erik shook his head. The night was too clear and the spans too narrow to avoid detection. “It’s too risky.”

  “The only way” … Bruce’s words sparked a memory.

  Of course! Normally Erik would have grinned, but his good humor seemed to have deserted him. About the same time as a little nursemaid.

  “I have another idea.” He looked at MacLeod. “We can go the same way as our ancestors did: barefoot.”

  Bruce frowned. “What in Hades are you talking about, Hawk?”

  MacLeod’s gaze flickered, and then a slow smile crept up his face. In a strange reversal of roles, it was actually Chief who was grinning like the devil. “It’s a fine night to go a viking.”

  Indeed it was. The only way to sail to Arran was from the south through the Firth of Clyde, but there was another, less conventional, route. A route to the north that their ancestors had used to avoid having to sail around the long arm of Kintyre.

  As Magnus Barefoot, the King of Norway, had done over two hundred years before, Erik led Bruce’s army around the western side of the arm of Kintyre. They carried their ships across the narrow spans of land at Tarbert, enabling them to reach Arran from the north and circumventing the trap the English had set for them.

  The greatest seafarer of his age walked the fleet to Arran.

  But they were in position.

  In less than twenty-four hours, Bruce was going to launch the attack on his ancestral seat of Turnberry Castle that would signal his return to Scotland, and mark his final bid for the throne.

  Ayr Castle, Ayrshire

  After the excitement of her arrival and a teary reunion with her father and her two eldest brothers, John and Thomas, who’d accompanied him to Scotland, Ellie pleaded exhaustion and retreated to the solitude of her chamber.

  She was able to delay her father’s questions for the remainder of the day, but the following morning, after breaking her fast, she was called to his solar.

  She had a surprise waiting for her.

  As soon as she opened the door, Matty came flying toward her, catapulting herself into Ellie’s arms. Her sister was sobbing so hard it was difficult to understand what she was saying, but the words didn’t matter. Ellie’s heart swelled at the heartfelt outpouring of emotion. She knew how much her brothers and sisters loved her, but it moved her to see it displayed so openly.

  Especially after her own profession of love had been met with such coldness.

  When Matty’s tears finally subsided, she drew back to gaze at Ellie through watery eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

  A frown gathered between Ellie’s brows. Her sister looked different, she realized. As if some of the natural exuberance and joie de vivre had gone missing. Her absence had affected Matty more than she’d realized.

  Matty blinked, as if she couldn’t believe Ellie was real. “When Ralph said you were all right, I didn’t believe him.”

  Ralph? Ellie looked back and forth between Matty and her betrothed, who had taken a position on the opposite side of the small room.

  Her father scowled. “So you decided to come here for yourself and see?”

  To Ellie’s surprise, Matty didn’t flash him one of her brilliant, placating smiles. Instead she lowered her gaze as if she were embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Father. I had to come.”

  Matty’s uncharacteristically subdued, filial response seemed to make her father just as uncomfortable as it did Ellie. Ellie turned to Ralph. “You went to Dunluce to tell the news to the rest of my family?”

  He nodded, looking embarrassed. “I knew how worried they were.”

  Ellie felt a lump in her throat, realizing how unfair she’d been to him. She wasn’t the only one affected by this alliance by marriage. It couldn’t be easy on him to take another wife after losing the woman he’d loved. Ralph de Monthermer was a kind man, and Ellie vowed to do her utmost to return that kindness. “Thank you,” she said.

  He seemed uncomfortable with her gratitud