The Hawk: A Highland Guard Novel

by Monica McCarty

  Seamus MacDonald was one of the best cooks in the Highlands. Angus Og had been reluctant to forgo his skills, but had realized that the old man could better serve as a cook to the English. Most of the castle servants were his cousin’s men. The English brought plenty of soldiers and weapons, but they made use of the locals for labor. The arrogant knights, accustomed to the strictures of feudalism, discounted the danger of “peasants,” failing to understand that many household positions in the Highlands were a sign of prestige.

  “Seamus,” he whispered, nudging the man with his foot.

  Knowing the danger of waking a sleeping Highlander, Erik stood back, which was a good thing when the old man sprang up like a lad of two and twenty, dirk in hand.

  Erik smiled in the darkness. “I thought you’d be expecting me.”

  The cantankerous cook—a redundancy, in Erik’s experience—scowled at him. “Why do you think I’m here and not sleeping in the comfort of my bed?” His gaze dipped over Erik’s blackened body and hair. “God’s blood, you look like something just dredged up from a bog.” He threw Erik a plaid. “Cover yourself before you kill someone with that thing.”

  Erik grinned. As he’d said before, he’d never come up short in his life. “The lasses don’t seem to object.”

  The old man chortled. “What do you need this time?”

  Seamus had never been one for pleasantries.

  “Any word from our friend?”

  The cook shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “But you were able to send word?”

  “My man left the next morning. If something had happened, I would have heard.”

  Erik nodded. He would have preferred confirmation that his message had reached Bruce, but it would have to do for now.

  “Will I be sleeping any more nights on the floor?” Seamus asked.

  “Perhaps a few. I hope to return once more before I leave.”

  “Have care, lad, the English are looking for our friend but also for you. There is a price on your head of two hundred marks.”

  Erik feigned disappointment. “Is that all?”

  Seamus’s mouth didn’t even twitch. It was a fortune. Not as much as the three hundred they’d offered for Wallace, but more than offered for any other man except for Bruce. “It’s nay a joking matter, lad. There is something odd going on.”

  “You worry too much, old man.” But seeing the concern on his friend’s face, he sighed. “I promise to be careful. Believe me, I’ve no more wish to see the inside of an English dungeon than you do.” He paused. “In the meantime, I have another request.”

  “A message?”

  “Aye. But this time to Ireland. Do you have someone?”

  Seamus’s brows furrowed like two furry gray caterpillars. He stroked his long, bristly beard. “Aye, what do you need?”

  “To reach someone in Ulster’s household.”

  “Is this for our friend?”

  Erik shook his head, not surprised that Seamus thought it was a message from Bruce to someone in his wife’s family. “It’s a long story. But I need to get word to the earl’s seneschal that Ellie the nursemaid is safe and will be returned home soon.”

  Erik could tell the other man was curious but knew better than to ask questions. Suddenly, he frowned.

  “What is it?” Erik asked.

  “Could the lass have anything to do with the unusual fervor of the English hunt?”

  Erik considered the question and then quickly dismissed it. Even if they’d connected the missing nursemaid with the woman who’d cried for help in the water, the English were not likely to be concerned about an Irish lass of little consequence. “Nay.” He shook his head. “It’s me they want.”

  “I can only imagine what you did to rile their anger to such a frenzy.”

  Erik just smiled. “How soon can you get it there?”

  Seamus shrugged. “A day, two at most.”

  “Good.” He slapped Seamus on the back. “Get some sleep, old man. I’ll return in a few days, if I am able.” He unwrapped the plaid from around his shoulders. “Here, you’d better take this,” he said, handing it to him. He would have to dispose of it before he got back into the water. No use ruining a good plaid for a few more minutes of warmth.

  Seamus shook his head, looking him over. “You nearly scared me half to death the first time I saw you. I thought you were one of the devil’s minions coming for me.”

  Erik chuckled. “Not yet, old man. You’ve still got a few more years to atone for the last sixty of hell-raising.”

  Seamus snorted. “Sixty? I’m nine and forty, you arse.”

  Erik laughed and took his leave.

  He was halfway through the tunnel when he felt that first prickle of unease—the first sensation that something wasn’t right. Even before he heard anything, he knew someone was coming. Sliding the dirk from his waist, he stopped against the wall and listened. A moment later the soft rumble of distant voices confirmed what his instincts had already told him.

  But instead of a single guardsman, as it should have been, at least a dozen men were coming from the sea-gate. A galley must have arrived.

  Damned inconvenient of them.

  Normally, taking on a dozen English soldiers single-handedly would be nothing Erik thought twice about. He’d been trained well. That he was naked and armed only with a dirk merely gave the English a fighting chance.

  But he couldn’t, blast it. Though it went against every bone in his body to shirk from a challenge, he didn’t want to alert the English to his presence by leaving a pile of bodies around to explain, not if he could help it. Not only would it cut off Dunaverty as a source of communication, it would also draw unwanted attention to an area that was far too close to Arran a week before the attack.

  Knowing he wouldn’t be able to make it past them in the narrow tunnel, Erik started to retrace his steps backward. He would hide somewhere in the kitchen vaults until they passed.

  At least that was the plan.

  It was a good one, too, except that when he ducked into the first storeroom, his quick scan of the room neglected to notice the lad who must have been nestled among the bags and barrels of flour, oats, and barley. He was so intent on trying to hear the conversation of the approaching soldiers, he didn’t sense the movement behind him until it was too late.

  He spun around. The boy opened his mouth to scream and lashed out wildly in the dark with a knife.

  Erik reacted almost instantaneously, clasping a hand over the boy’s mouth and pinning him to the wall with his forearm. He was quick enough to stifle most of the sound, but not quick enough to prevent the blade from slicing across his gut.

  Erik winced at the sharp burn of pain and felt the dampness of blood dripping down his stomach, but didn’t make a sound.

  The boy’s eyes widened as their gazes met in the darkness.

  Erik couldn’t believe it. A lad of no more than seven or eight—probably in charge of keeping the rats away from the food—had not only gotten the jump on him, but had managed to inflict some damage as well. He didn’t want to think about how close that knife had come to gelding him.

  Erik was sure as hell glad the other members of the Guard weren’t here to see this; he would never hear the end of it. Especially from Seton and MacGregor, who usually bore the brunt of his needling. It was their own fault for making it too easy on him. Seton for being a bloody Englishman, and MacGregor for that pretty face of his.

  “What was that?” Erik heard someone say from outside the door. He went utterly still, disaster only the slightest sound away.

  He kept his eyes on the boy’s and shook his head in silent warning not to make a sound.

  The boy’s eyes grew even rounder. The wee lad was clearly too terrified to do anything other than stare at Erik as if he were seeing a ghost.

  Walk by, Erik silently encouraged the soldiers in the tunnel.

  To no avail.

  A moment later he heard a commanding voice order, “See to it, Will
iam.”

  Erik grabbed the boy and moved soundlessly behind the door. He hoped William wasn’t too thorough.

  The door pushed open. He held his breath and locked the boy in a near chokehold to prevent him from making a sound. He could hear William’s breathing through the heavy wooden planks of the door. A moment later, the storeroom flooded with light as a torch was extended into the room.

  Every muscle in his body tensed; he was ready at a second’s notice to toss the boy aside and fight. Part of him—the part of him that wasn’t used to considering ramifications—hoped for the excuse.

  “There’s nothing here,” the soldier on the other side of the door said. “Must have been a rat.”

  A moment later the door closed, but Erik waited until the last sound of footsteps faded before he set down the boy.

  “No screaming, lad,” he whispered in Gaelic. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Slowly, he released his hand from the boy’s mouth. The boy immediately scattered to the farthest corner of the small room to hide behind a big barrel. “Please, I’ll be good,” he whimpered in a trembling voice. “Don’t take me to hell with you. I promise to listen to my mum.”

  Erik’s first instinct was to calm the terror-struck child. But then he recalled Seamus’s comments earlier and realized the boy’s fear would solve the problem of leaving a witness behind. If the boy told anyone what he’d seen, they’d just think it the child’s imagination. Perhaps some men wouldn’t hesitate to kill the lad, but Erik drew the line at murdering innocents. Like Ellie, the boy had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  In the most eerie voice he could muster, he said, “Close your eyes, don’t move, and make no sound until morning or I will return. Do you understand?”

  The boy didn’t say anything, but Erik was fairly sure he was nodding frantically.

  He thought about trying to find something to bind his wound but knew it would only fall off in the water. After checking to make sure the tunnel was clear, Erik stepped outside. But knowing how the stories of a phantom army were already spreading across the countryside, he couldn’t resist one more warning to the boy. “Tell the English to leave Scotland or pay the price. We’re coming for them.”

  He heard a gasp and knew the boy must have heard the rumors. Bruce knew that fear could be a very powerful weapon among their enemies and had encouraged the tales of his phantom army of marauders intent on hunting down every last Englishman in Scotland.

  Fairly certain that the boy wouldn’t blink until morning, Erik didn’t want to take any chances and hurried down the tunnel toward the dock—this time uninterrupted. He held his hand over the wound across his stomach to staunch the blood as well as he could. Stopping to examine it in the torchlight, he was relieved to see that although it was bleeding heavily, it didn’t appear too deep. The salt water, however, was going to sting like hell. At least he’d be too numb after a few minutes in the cold water to feel it.

  He sure as hell hoped there weren’t many sharks nearby. Wrestling sharks might have been something he enjoyed as a lad, but he’d lost the taste for it after one had nearly taken off his hand. Erik didn’t get scared, but facing a big shark at night came damn close.

  Forty minutes and thankfully no shark sightings later, Erik dragged himself out of the water and was surrounded by his men before he’d hit the edge of the beach. The loss of blood coupled with the long swim had weakened him to the point of collapse. But he’d made it.

  When Domnall saw the gash, he fussed like an old woman and wanted to send someone for Meg immediately, but Erik didn’t want to wake her—them. Ellie needed her sleep. She prickled up like an angry bear if someone tried to wake her too early. The wound could wait until morning.

  But he was already looking forward to telling Ellie that his mission had been a success—mostly, though with his near discovery it would be too risky to attempt to return to Dunaverty anytime soon.

  She needed to have a little fun, and he was going to be the one to show her how.

  Ellie was finishing up the last bit of shortcake—leftover oat bread that Meg had sprinkled with sugar and put in the oven overnight to dry into a flaky, delectable treat—when someone knocked on the door.

  Thinking it would be Hawk, she was surprised to see Duncan stride into the hall. He returned her morning greeting and then turned quickly to Meg, who had just finished taking a tray to Thomas.

  “Meg, we need you down at camp to stitch a wound when you have a chance,” he smiled.

  Meg smiled. “I’ll get my things.”

  “Has the captain had you training this early in the morning?” Ellie asked. Meg had been called upon twice before to tend to cuts suffered in “training.”

  Duncan grinned. Like most everyone else, he liked to tease her about her late rising. “It’s already midday for most of us, lass. But nay, we’ve not been training. It’s the captain.”

  She jumped out of her chair before she realized what she was doing. “What’s happened?” Her pulse spiked with fear. He’d said he was going to deliver the message to her family last night. Had something happened? “Is he hurt?”

  Duncan gave her an odd look and she realized she’d overreacted. She forced her frantic heartbeat to calm. What is wrong with me?

  “Nay, lass, it’s only a scratch.”

  Ellie could only imagine what “only a scratch” was to tough warriors like Hawk and his men. With images of limbs dangling and guts pouring out, she followed Meg and Duncan down the path to the beach where the men had set up camp.

  She was grateful that neither said anything about her tagging along; she wasn’t sure she could explain it, except that she had to see for herself that he was all right. It was only the possibility that he might have been hurt while doing a favor for her that made her care.

  But it didn’t explain the heavy pounding in her heart and the feeling that someone had just stepped on her chest.

  A crowd of men were gathered around the fire at the rear of the cave, but they parted when Meg drew near, revealing the captain stretched out on a plaid, leaning against a low boulder.

  The bottom dropped out of Ellie’s stomach. Not because he looked so pale beneath the broad black smudges smeared over his skin—though he did—or because of the large diagonal gash across his stomach, but because he wasn’t wearing a cotun, tunic, leine, or anything else to cover his chest. His very broad, very muscled, very naked chest. Her gaze dropped to the plaid slung low across his waist, and her mouth went dry. Unless she was very mistaken, the rest of him was quite bereft of clothing as well.

  Dear Lord. Her palms grew damp, and her stomach started to flutter nervously. He was magnificent. Muscular but lean. The broad shield of his chest was as chiseled and defined as the rocky wall of the cave behind him. His arms were stacked and rounded with thick slabs of muscle; his stomach was flat and ripped, crossed by narrow, rigid bands of steel. If there was an ounce of extra flesh on him, she couldn’t see it.

  There had to be a primal feminine instinct buried deep inside her, set to flare at overt displays of physical strength. She didn’t need to be protected, but if she ever did, he was the man she would want at her side. He must be magnificent on the battlefield.

  His eyes locked on hers. Holding her. Not letting her turn away. The current of awareness between them tightened; she couldn’t break it if she wanted to.

  Something was happening, though she didn’t know what it was. It was as if for a moment all the pretense and hubris had been stripped away, leaving only a man and a woman. Not a pirate and a captive. Not the golden-god and the woman who was no more than passably pretty. Not the man running from the law and the earl’s daughter engaged to one of the most powerful men in England. For a moment it didn’t seem as though any of that mattered.

  He’d never looked at her so intently. So seriously. She feared he could see right through her. That he read her concern, her fear, and her very feminine reaction to his nakedness.

  This wasn’t a m
an who didn’t care about anything. This was a man of deep desires and fierce intensity. This was a man she could care about.

  The thought jarred—and terrified—her.

  She felt a strong tug in her chest and had to force herself to follow behind Meg, and not give in to the urge to immediately rush to his side to assure herself he was all right.

  “What have you done this time?” Meg asked.

  His gaze finally released her, and the mask of careless affability dropped right back into place. “Just a little trouble with a knife. It doesn’t look serious to me, but Domnall insisted you see to it. I told him that the lasses liked scars, but you know how stubborn he can be.”

  Domnall snorted. “I don’t want to drag your stinking corpse all over the isles, that’s all.”

  Erik laughed and turned to Ellie, who must have paled. “Don’t let all that bluster fool you, lass. He doesn’t mean a word of it. I’m fine.”

  “Why don’t you let me see how close you are to death’s door,” Meg said.

  She knelt beside him to examine the wound, and Ellie moved around to stand behind her.

  The “scratch” was an ugly, ragged gash of about five inches that ran from below his ribs to his lower right side. It was caked with sand and what appeared to be some kind of black grease. The same grease she’d noticed in his hair before. From the large smudges, she guessed that it had once covered him from head to toe, but that most of it had been washed or wiped off.

  He’d swum somewhere, she realized. And he’d done it before. What was he up to? Once again, the feeling that he was more than a typical pirate settled in.

  Meg looked over her shoulder. “Ellie, come here and help me with this.”

  Her eyes widened with horror, an innate sense of self-preservation kicking in. Touching him was the last thing she wanted to do.

  She froze.

  “Ellie?” Meg said again.

  Realizing everyone was looking at her—including Hawk—she forced herself to kneel beside Meg. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Clean the wound as best you can with this cloth, while I ready the needle and sinew. And I’ll need you to hold the wound together as I stitch.”