The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel Read online

  He barely had time to process the thought, for in the next moment all hell broke loose. Bruce’s men were on them, bursting out of the darkness like demons from hell. The lady’s guardsman, still staggering from the arrow, took a spear in the side and a battle-axe in the head. He toppled to the ground like a big oak tree, landing with a heavy thud.

  Arthur heard a startled cry behind him and, anticipating the impulse, blocked the lass’s path before she could rush forward to help the fallen soldier. He was past her help.

  But one of Bruce’s men must have caught the movement.

  What happened next was nothing but instinct. It was too fast to be anything else. A spear hurdled through the air, heading straight for her. Arthur didn’t think, he reacted. Reaching up, he snatched the spear midair in his hand, catching it only a few feet from her head. In one swift movement he brought it down across his knee and snapped it in two, tossing the splintered pieces to the ground.

  He heard her startled gasp, but didn’t dare take his eyes from the score of men rushing toward him. “Get behind the damned tree,” he shouted angrily, before turning to block a blow of a sword from the right. The man left him an opening, which Arthur didn’t take.

  He swore, fending off another. What the hell should he do? Reveal himself? Would they believe him? He could fight his way out, but there was the lass to consider …

  A moment later the decision was taken from him—for good or bad.

  A man’s voice rang out from the trees, “Hold!” The warriors seemed confused, but immediately did as the newcomer bid, stopping in their tracks. Seconds later, a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows. “Ranger, what in the hell are you doing here?”

  Shaking his head with disbelief, Arthur stepped forward to greet the black-clad warrior who’d emerged from trees. Gregor MacGregor. That certainly explained the perfect arrow shot he’d noticed earlier. MacGregor was the best archer in the Highlands, giving proof to the war name of “Arrow” chosen by Bruce to protect his identity as a member of the Highland Guard.

  He wasn’t sure whether or not he should be grateful to see his former enemy turned Highland Guard partner, and at one time, the closest thing he had to a friend. That had changed when Arthur had been forced to leave the Highland Guard more than a year and a half ago. At the time, none of his fellow guardsman—including MacGregor—had known the truth. When they’d heard he’d joined with the enemy they’d thought him a traitor. Though they’d eventually learned the truth, his role had kept him apart.

  They clasped forearms, and despite his initial hesitation, Arthur found himself grinning beneath his helm. Damn, it was good to see him. “I see that no one’s messed up that pretty face of yours yet,” he said, knowing how much MacGregor’s renowned good looks bothered him.

  MacGregor laughed. “I’m working on it. It’s damn good to see you. But what are you doing here? You’re lucky I saw you catch that spear.”

  Arthur had once saved MacGregor’s life doing the same thing. It wasn’t as difficult as it looked—if you could get past the fear. Most couldn’t. He didn’t have any.

  “Sorry about the arrow,” MacGregor said, pointing toward his left shoulder where blood was oozing from around the splintered staff, an inch of which was still protruding from his arm.

  Arthur shrugged. “It’s nothing.” He’d had worse.

  “You know this traitor, Captain?” one of the men asked.

  “Aye,” MacGregor said, before Arthur could caution him. “And he’s no traitor. He’s one of ours.”

  Damn. The lass. He’d forgotten about the lass. Any hope that she might not have heard MacGregor or grasped the significance were dashed when he heard her sharp intake of breath.

  MacGregor heard it, too. He reached for his bow, but Arthur shook him off.

  “It’s safe,” he said. “You can come out now, lass.”

  “Lass?” MacGregor swore under his breath. “So that’s what this is about.”

  Arthur nodded.

  The woman moved out from behind the tree. When Arthur reached to take her elbow, she stiffened as if his touch offended. Aye, she’d heard all right.

  Her hood had slid back in the chaos, revealing long shimmering locks of golden brown hair falling in thick, heavy waves down her back. The sheer beauty of it seemed so out of place, it temporarily startled him. But when a sliver of moonlight fell upon her face, Arthur’s breath caught in a hard, fierce jolt.

  She was lovely. Her tiny heart-shaped face was dominated by large, heavily lashed light eyes. Her nose was small and slightly turned, her chin pointed, and her brows softly arched. Her lips were a perfectly shaped pink bow and her skin … her skin was as smooth and velvety as cream. She had that sweet, vulnerable look of a small, fluffy animal—a kitten or a rabbit, perhaps.

  The innocent breath of femininity was not what he was expecting and seemed utterly incongruous in the midst of war.

  He could only stare in stunned silence as MacGregor—the whoreson—stepped forward, peeled off his nasal helm, and gallantly bowed over her hand.

  “My apologies, milady,” he said with a smile that had felled half the female hearts in the Highlands—the other half he’d yet to meet. “We were expecting someone else.”

  Arthur heard the lass’s predictable gasp when she beheld the face of the man reputed to be the most handsome in the Highlands. But she quickly composed herself and, to his surprise, seemed remarkably lucid. Most women were babbling by now. “Obviously. Does King Hood make war on women now?” she asked, using the English slur for the outlawed king. She eyed the church up ahead. “Or merely priests.”

  For someone surrounded by enemies, she showed a surprising lack of fear. If the fine ermine-lined cloak hadn’t given her away, he would have known she was a noble woman from the pride in her manner alone.

  MacGregor winced. “As I said, it was a mistake. King Robert makes war only on those who deny him what is rightfully his.”

  She made a sharp sound of disagreement. “If we are done here, I’ve come to fetch the priest.” Her eyes fell on her fallen guardsman. “It is too late for my man, but perhaps he can still give release to those who await him at the castle.”

  Last rites, Arthur realized. Probably for those wounded in the battle of Glen Trool a week’s past.

  Though the helm covered his face, he kept his voice low, to further mask his identity. His cover had been jeopardized enough—he didn’t want there to be any chance that she would be able to identify him.

  She must be related to one of the nobles who’d been called to Ayr to hunt Bruce. He’d make sure to stay away from the castle—far away. “What is your name, milady? And why do you travel with such a paltry guard?”

  She stiffened, looking down her tiny nose at him. With the adorable little upturn, it should have been ridiculous, but she managed a surprisingly effective amount of disdain. “Fetching a priest is usually not a dangerous task—as I’m sure even a spy can attest.”

  Arthur’s mouth fell in a hard line. So much for gratitude. Perhaps he should have left her to her fate.

  MacGregor stepped forward. “You owe this man your life, milady. If he hadn’t interfered,” he nodded toward her fallen guardsman, “you both would have been dead.”

  Her eyes widened, and tiny white teeth bit down on the soft pillow of her lower lip. Arthur felt another unwelcome tug beneath the belt of his sword.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, turning to him. “Thank you.”

  Gratitude from a beautiful woman was not without effect. The tug in his groin pulled a little harder, the lilting huskiness of her voice making him think of beds, naked flesh, and whispered words of pleasure.

  “Your arm …” She gazed up at him uncertainly. “Is it hurt badly?”

  Before he could form a response, he heard a noise. His gaze shot through the trees to the church, noticing the signs of movement.

  Damn. The sound of the attack must have alerted the occupants of the church.

  “You need t