The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  He wanted someone who argued with him. Who challenged him and cared enough to delve beneath the surface. Who wanted to give as much as she wanted to receive.

  “I love you.”

  He heard the words over and over in his head. He could see her face in the moonlight and couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d made a mistake. That Ellie had been offering him something special, and he’d been too blind to see it. That maybe the words he’d heard many times before had meant something different coming from her. But he’d asked her to marry him, hadn’t he? It was she who hadn’t wanted him. Why would she? He had nothing to offer her.

  His fingers clenched the heavy pewter goblet until the raised metal edge of the fleur-de-lis engraving bit into his fingers.

  What the hell was the matter with him?

  Disgusted with himself, he tried to relax and give the lass some encouragement. But the teasing and flirting felt forced, and he soon found himself frustrated by the light banter. Still propped on his knee, he was glad when she turned to speak to the woman who’d come up to refill her flagon of ale.

  He took a deep swig and gazed around the torchlit tent at the crowd of boisterous, already half-sotted men. Even if he did not share in their revelry, Erik did not begrudge them their fun. There’d been precious little cause for celebrating of late, and the men needed something to raise their spirits. It was the first time he’d seen Bruce smiling since the horrific news of his brothers’ beheadings and the capture of the women had reached them.

  There had been small patches of good news. Striker and Hunter had been among the handful of men to escape in the failed second prong of the attack in Galloway. On a two-day mission north, the remaining members of the Highland Guard—including Alex “Dragon” Seton, who’d found them shortly after Turnberry—had slipped into the lightly defended Urquhart Castle and rescued Magnus “Saint” MacKay and William “Templar” Gordon after months of imprisonment. Then, about a week later, with the help of Gordon’s magic powder, they’d freed Domnall and the rest of Erik’s men from Ayr.

  But these successes had to be weighed against the heavy costs this war had exacted: three brothers, Christopher Seton, the Earl of Atholl, an imprisoned family, and too many others.

  Thus far, Bruce’s return to Scottish soil had yielded no more than a few hundred acres of wild, godforsaken mountains in Galloway. They’d made little headway against the English since Turnberry. The raids and small attacks on supply routes weren’t enough to rally additional men to the king’s banner. They were treading water, just holding their heads up high enough to avoid drowning. And eventually they would tire.

  They needed something decisive to draw more men into the fold. But this time the king was being patient, refusing to meet the English unless it was on his terms. Erik hoped it came soon. Any momentum they’d garnered since Turnberry was quickly dissipating in the mud and grime of living on the run.

  But tonight they were almost civilized again. After months of living in virtual squalor, it felt good to sit at a table again. Unlike the English nobles who traveled with wagons of household comforts, Bruce needed to travel lightly and be able to move at a moment’s notice. But, for the feast tonight, a kinswoman of the king’s, Christina of Carrick, had arranged for a tent to be erected, and a few tables and benches had been carted to their temporary mountain headquarters near Glen Trool.

  As the guest of honor, Erik was seated at the center table a few seats away from the king, his brother Edward, James Douglas, Neil Campbell, MacRuairi, MacGregor, and MacLeod. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that his cousin was arguing with the king again.

  If there was anyone who could rival Erik for his black temper lately, it was MacRuairi. He didn’t need to hear to know what they were arguing about. The king had refused to sanction MacRuairi’s repeated requests to attempt to rescue the ladies from captivity. He needed them alive, the king said. Attempting to rescue the well-guarded ladies in English strongholds at this point would be a suicide mission. He couldn’t risk losing them—not when their situation was so precarious. Once he’d solidified his base, he would lead the Highland Guard himself.

  But MacRuairi would not be satisfied by reason. He was like a man possessed in his determination to free the ladies—especially the two hanging in cages.

  “You don’t seem to be enjoying your present,” MacLeod said pointedly from his seat on Erik’s left.

  Erik defied the knowing look in his chief’s eye by sliding his hand around the lass’s round bottom. “Oh, I’m enjoying it fine.”

  He tried not to cringe when the lass giggled and wiggled deeper into his lap, swatting at his hand playfully. But thankfully she was too busy enjoying her ale and MacGregor’s pretty face on his right to resume her attentions.

  Depressingly, he felt nary the faintest spark of competitive fires stirring inside him. He half wished the famed archer would take her off his hands—or in this case, his lap.

  “It was the king’s idea,” MacLeod said, eyeing him over the edge of his goblet. “I think it’s his way of apologizing.”

  “He has nothing to apologize for,” Erik said. “I offended his honor and made things even more difficult between him and his father-in-law. He gave no more than I deserved.”

  “Ulster doesn’t seem to have taken it personally,” MacLeod said. “As for the king’s honor,” he shrugged, “I think he regrets some of the things he said.”

  “He would have strung me up by my bollocks if he could have.”

  The Chief of the Highland Guard didn’t argue with him. “You’re probably right. But you’re too damn valuable and he knows it. Besides, he needs every man he can get right now.” MacLeod looked him in the eye. “I think Randolph’s turning affected him deeply. More than he has let on.”

  Erik didn’t disagree. It had affected them all. Domnall had filled them in on the details, but it had pretty much happened as Erik had suspected. Opportunistic perhaps, but no less a betrayal.

  Erik took it as a personal failure. Randolph had been under his command. He’d thought he was getting through to the lad. Apparently not.

  “In any event,” MacLeod said, “now that his anger has cooled, I think the king realizes that you are not solely to blame for what happened. You didn’t know who she was. I think he’s more angry at his brother for failing to recognize the lass.” One corner of his mouth cracked in a half-smile. “Nor has the king forgotten what it is like to fall in love.”

  Forgetting all about the lass on his knee, Erik nearly knocked her to the ground when he jerked around to the man at his side. He gave him a hard glare. “Love?” He laughed sharply. “Christ’s bones, I’m not in love.”

  The fierce warrior eyed him challengingly. “So there’s another reason for your ill temper these past two months?”

  Erik’s mouth fell in a hard line. “You mean aside from living in these godforsaken mountains being chased by a bunch of English dogs? I cared about her, of course, but I’m hardly the type to chain myself to one lass.” He forced himself to shiver, trying not to remember that it used to come reflexively. “Not with so much fun to be had.”

  “I can see that,” MacLeod said wryly, with an eye to the buxom lass on Erik’s lap. “You appear to be having the time of your life.”

  Erik found himself getting angry, and he didn’t know whether it was from MacLeod’s sarcasm or his damn inability to ignore it. Usually unflappable, when it came to Ellie he’d become almost—he did shudder this time—sensitive.

  In an effort to reclaim control of the conversation, he said idly, “It doesn’t matter. Whether the king believes me or not, I did offer for her.” He met his friend’s stare. “The lass refused.”

  “It’s about time,” MacLeod murmured.

  Erik glared. “What did you say?”

  MacLeod shrugged. “Just that I would like to meet her.”

  Erik hoped she was far away from here. Back in Ireland or—he swallowed bitterly—in England. Gritting his teeth against the r