Angus Og had a vast network of men along the western seaboard. Erik should know; he’d served as henchman to his cousin the Lord of Islay and one of the most powerful men in the Western Isles for nearly a decade, before he’d been tapped by Bruce for the Highland Guard.
Erik had been reluctant to leave the service of the man who’d done so much for him. Only a lad of seven years when his father had died, Erik had been too young to protect himself from the manipulative, land-grabbing mechanizations of the MacDougall kinsmen who’d pretended to help him. It was Angus Og who’d protected him and his family and shown him the meaning of loyalty. It was Angus Og who’d made him a man.
But his cousin had been insistent that he join Bruce, and Erik owed him too much not to do as he bid. It had also been a way to recover the lands stolen upon his father’s death by the MacDougalls.
The struggle for dominance between the two powerful branches of Somerled’s descendants—the MacDonalds and the MacDougalls—dominated West Highland politics. Right now the MacDougalls, who’d aligned themselves with Edward, were favored, but that would all change when Bruce reclaimed his crown. Seeing John MacDougall of Lorn suffer would be just as satisfying as seeing Edward kicked back to England with his English tail between his legs.
Erik could have tried to get the message through by boat, but it would be much simpler to swim—simpler for him, at least. The castle guards would be on the watch for a boat, but they wouldn’t be expecting a swimmer.
He grinned. It would be unexpected. Dangerous. Extreme. Just the way he liked it.
And it had worked. Last night he’d swum the two-mile divide between Spoon Island and Dunaverty and passed a message to one of his cousin’s men.
As Erik approached the door of Meg’s house, he heard the muffled rumble of Duncan’s laughter mixed with the much lighter—almost girlish—tinkle of a woman’s. Not Meg’s, he knew instinctively, but Ellie’s.
Something about the sound didn’t sit well with him. With a perfunctory knock, he pushed the door open.
And stopped cold.
Duncan had his hands around Ellie’s waist to lift her high in the air, as she reached for something on one of the large store shelves built into the rafters along the edge of the ceiling. But all Erik could see was his kinsman’s eyes fastened on her bottom, the surprisingly shapely curve of which was revealed all too clearly in the borrowed old leine, the linen thin from wear.
Ellie and Duncan startled at the interruption. Duncan’s grip slid from around her waist, and Ellie cried out when he nearly dropped her. But Duncan managed to catch her in his arms before she fell to the floor.
Bloody convenient, Erik thought, every nerve ending set at a blistering edge.
Ellie’s look of surprise turned to amusement as she met Duncan’s gaze, and they both burst out laughing again. Ignoring Erik’s presence entirely.
“I think maybe we should have gotten the ladder after all,” she said. Her eyes suddenly grew concerned. “Is your arm all right?”
Duncan laughed. “My arm is fine, lass, just like I told you. I could lift a wee thing like you with one arm—injured or nay. You must give me another chance to prove it to you or my pride will be wounded beyond repair.” He gave her a wink. “Besides, this is much more fun than a ladder.”
Erik almost felt sorry for his kinsman, knowing that Ellie was impervious to much more skillful flirting than his cousin’s feeble attempts at charm. Anticipating the set-down she was about to make, he was shocked instead to see a very maidenly blush stain Ellie’s cheeks.
Erik would have been dumbfounded, but he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about ripping Ellie out of his cousin’s arms, and then perhaps driving his fist through Duncan’s crooked grin.
His eyes narrowed on the other man. His mother claimed there was a resemblance between the cousins, but he didn’t see it. Duncan’s hair was darker, and Erik was at least two inches taller and had three stone of muscle on his younger-by-three-years kinsman.
Ellie finally remembered he was there. She glanced over him—briefly—then gave Duncan a little nod in Erik’s direction. “Perhaps we should see what your captain wants before we try again?”
Duncan didn’t appear to be in any hurry to set her down—until he met Erik’s gaze. With a puzzled frown, he reluctantly set her feet to the floor.
Erik felt his blood cool—marginally.
“Did you want something, Captain?”
Erik bit back the inexplicable rage he was feeling toward his kinsman. “Why aren’t you at your post?” he snapped.
Ellie stepped in front of him, and Erik would have laughed if the protective gesture didn’t irritate him so much. “It was my fault,” she said. “Meg asked me to fix a tincture for Thomas when he woke, and I couldn’t reach the rosemary hanging from the ceiling, so I asked Duncan to help me bring the ladder in from outside.”
Duncan grinned at her appreciatively. “And I told her we didn’t need a ladder.”
Since when had his only-think-of-battle cousin turned into such a rogue?
“Duncan has been a wonderful help,” Ellie said.
Erik could hear his teeth grinding together. I’m sure he bloody well has. “Unfortunately, Duncan is needed down at camp.”
One of his cousin’s brows shot up as if he knew Erik was lying. “I am?”
The look on Erik’s face must have convinced him. “I’m afraid the rosemary will have to wait, lass,” Duncan apologized. “But I’ll be back.”
The hell you will. If Erik couldn’t trust his own cousin to control himself, he was going to be forced to watch the lass himself. He was the one responsible for her, after all. One kiss didn’t mean he couldn’t control himself. He’d merely been taken by surprise that such an ordinary lass could get him so … hot. He was sure the novelty had worn off.
But when the door closed behind Duncan, the room suddenly felt very small. Ellie moved to stand before the fire, watching him, but she kept her distance, as if she sensed the strange energy in the room as well. Yet that only exacerbated the restlessness teeming inside him, as he could see the curve of her breasts and hips outlined in the light.
He needed to get her more clothes. A nice, sturdy wool cotte would do.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked.
Realizing he was scowling, he schooled his features into impassivity. “Nay.”
“Did you want something?”
You. Angry at the intrusive thought, he said curtly, “To check on Thomas. Where is he?”
Ellie pointed to the opposite end of the room, the place where bed nooks had been built into the side of the wall. “He’s resting. Meg said ’tis the best thing for him now.” Anticipating his question, she said, “Mhairi finally had her babe last night, and Meg has gone to check on her. A boy. Alastair, she’s named him.”
“A good name,” Erik said. My father’s name. Many islanders honored their chieftains by naming their children after them. After years of MacDougall rule, the gesture touched him.
She was watching him with a pensive look on her face. “You look different,” she said finally. “I’ve never seen you without your armor.”
Self-consciousness was something Erik had never experienced before, but under her steady hazel gaze that didn’t miss much, he flirted with it now. He’d bathed and changed tunics because of the seal grease he’d lathered all over him for the swim—certainly not because of anything she’d said.
“Alas, no gold to plunder or maidens to rescue tonight,” he said with a grin. “Even pirates take a night off every now and then.”
One side of her mouth lifted.
A start, he supposed.
She took a few steps closer, and then to his shock, reached out and took the sleeve of the colorful dark-red silk tunic between her fingers. “It’s beautiful,” she said admiringly. For a strange moment, looking down at her tiny face in the firelight, she looked beautiful, too. His chest felt odd, as if his tunic had grown too tight. “The embroidery is exquisite.??
?
“My sister made it for me,” he said, his voice oddly rough.
“You have a sister?”
“Not a sister, five.”
“Younger?”
He shook his head. “All older.”
“Brothers?”
“Only me.”
“Ah,” she said with a nod of the head, as if suddenly understanding something.
He didn’t like the sound of it. “What?”
She shrugged. “Nothing. It just explains some things.” Before he could think of what to reply to that, she shocked him again by reaching up to flick a lock of hair at his temple. He sucked in his breath, his body stiffening at her touch—all of his body. He could smell her again. Hundreds of women used lavender-tinted soap—why did it smell different on her? And that long, silky-soft hair … he wanted to bury his face in it and watch it spill over his chest.
Women touched him all the time. It was nothing he noticed. But he was noticing it now. His entire body was noticing it. God, he couldn’t breathe. Heat pooled in his loins and his pulse pounded hard and fast. He was seconds away from sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her against him. He could almost feel the dart of her nipples raking his chest.
Unaware of the havoc she was wreaking on his senses, she said carelessly, “You’ve something in your hair.” She removed her hand, enabling him to think again, and rubbed it between her fingers. “It’s some kind of black grease.”
“Probably soot from the campfire,” he said blandly.
She wrinkled her nose. “It doesn’t look like soot.” She was looking at him so intently, he thought she was going to question him about the grease some more, but instead she said with a smile, “You wear your hair so short. I thought Highlanders preferred long hair and beards—like your Viking ancestors.”
He laughed. “Some do.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t like the itch.” Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Don’t you like it?”
She rolled her eyes, not realizing his question had been serious. He had been serious, he realized, not sure what to make of that.
“You’ll have to do better than that if you are looking for a compliment from me. From what I can tell, you’ve heard enough to last most people a lifetime.”
He found himself grinning. She was right, but for some reason he wanted to know what she thought. “And you are much too cynical for such a young lass. Tell me, how did you come to the earl’s household? You seem young to be a nursemaid.”
She dropped her gaze. “My mother.” Her voice softened. “I took over when …”
She died. He nodded, knowing that such was often the case. Though not hereditary like many important household positions in noble families, the appointment of nursemaids often were done that way in practice.
“I’m sorry, lass. How long ago?”
Her shoulders trembled, and he felt the overwhelming urge to draw her into his arms and comfort her. An urge that was far more unsettling than the lust he’d felt moments ago. With most women he wouldn’t have hesitated, but something about touching Ellie made him wary—it was like holding a flame too close to parchment.
“Three years ago come May.” She looked into his eyes and he felt something inside him tighten at the hint of vulnerability behind the no-nonsense, competent facade. “A fever.”
He nodded, giving no hint of the battle being waged inside him.
He was relieved when she finally looked away, and his head cleared.
“Ran—” he stopped himself. Damn, he couldn’t believe he’s almost let that slip. “Thomas is improving?”
She nodded. “He’s still not eating much, but he should be back on his feet in another few days.”
“I’m glad of it.” Good news indeed. He didn’t relish arriving on Rathlin with Bruce’s nephew ill or feverish.
“He wanted to rejoin you today, but Meg threatened to tie him down if he attempted to get up.”
“It would be wasted on him,” Erik said dryly, and he was surprised when instead of lecturing him, she laughed.
Their eyes held for a moment before he looked away, instinctively shying from the connection and the intimacy of shared understanding.
He was treading on unfamiliar ground. He didn’t have personal conversations like this. He entertained. He made people laugh. That was what people wanted from him. Everyone except her.
Thankfully, Meg chose that moment to return, shattering the strange undercurrent running between them. With Meg he had his sea legs back. Intimate conversations were not for him. For the rest of the evening, Erik entertained the ladies—and Randolph, when he woke—with amusing stories from his arsenal of adventures on the high seas.
Even Ellie seemed to be having a good time. But once or twice he caught her studying him with that observant little gaze of hers that seemed to see far more of him than he wanted her to, and he had the feeling he’d somehow disappointed her.
What he couldn’t explain was why it bothered him.
He never did make it to the alehouse. After dinner he took up Duncan’s post outside the house. The lass was his responsibility. His duty. And for the remainder of the time she was with him, he would be the one to watch over her.
It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.
Nine
Finlaggan Castle, Islay
“By the rood, where is he?” Robert Bruce slammed his hand on the wood table, scattering the markers he’d carefully positioned on the crudely drawn map to the floor. “We should have heard from him by now.”
The rare outburst had stunned the men gathered in the counsel chamber into silence. They were the king’s inner circle—or what remained of it.
Of Bruce’s once large retinue of knights, only Neil Campbell, James Douglas, Robert Hay, James Stewart, and his brother Edward were still at his side. Of his vaunted Highland Guard, only Tor “Chief” MacLeod, Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor, and the recently arrived Robbie “Raider” Boyd remained.
It was Boyd and the hideous news he’d brought with him that was being felt by everyone in the chamber.
Bruce’s eyes burned, the still raw pain nearly unbearable. His beloved brother Nigel was dead, as was his dearest friend and savior at the battle of Methven, Sir Christopher Seton. The loyal Earl of Atholl, too. The first earl executed in Scotland in over two hundred years.
Seton had been betrayed by MacNab at Loch Doon, where he’d taken refuge after the battle. Not long after Bruce had fled Scotland, Nigel and the earl had been beheaded in Berwick, having been captured at Kildrummy Castle with Boyd, who’d managed to escape and bring them this horrible news. It was the first news of his friends and family that Bruce had received since fleeing Dunaverty and escaping into the dark world of the Western Isles. Part of him craved to return to the darkness, fearing what he might find out next.
His wife and daughter were safe, he told himself. They had to be.
But dear God, his brother! Of his four brothers, the handsome and roguish Nigel had always been his favorite. He was much like their missing seafarer—bold, larger than life, and always ready with a jest. The kind of man that women flocked to and men wanted to be.
MacLeod eyed him steadily. “If Hawk is not here, there is a reason. He will send word when he is able. There is still plenty of time.”
But they hadn’t heard from MacSorley in a week. The seafarer was supposed to join them on Islay after meeting with the Irish, and the two-pronged attack to take back his kingdom was only a week away. Bruce’s brothers Thomas and Alexander were ready to go in Ireland for the southern attack on Galloway. Bruce needed to get his men to Arran for the northern attack on Turnberry.
“How can you be so bloody calm?” he demanded. “My brothers have secured forces for the attack in the south, but where are my mercenaries? We are supposed to be assembling the army at Rathlin in a matter of days.” From Rathlin they would sail to Arran. “How can I launch an attack without men?”
“They’ll be there.”
MacLeod had ice
running through his damned veins. The Highlander’s stony facade never betrayed a flicker of emotion. “How can you be so bloody sure?”
“Because I know Hawk. You can count on him. If he has to swim the Irish mercenaries to Arran himself, he’ll do it.”
“Then why have we not heard from him?”
“We will,” MacGregor said, echoing the confidence of his captain. “I’m sure he’s just holed up somewhere, waiting until he can get a message through. With all the English activity in the channel, he’s probably just trying to be cautious.”
“Hawk?” Bruce said incredulously. “He doesn’t have a cautious bone in his body.”
“It took me some time to find you myself, sire,” Boyd pointed out.
“How did you?” Bruce asked. His survival depended on only a chosen few knowing where he was at all times—the men in this room and the other members of the Highland Guard. Even his friend William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, would be hard pressed to find him now. One more person he hoped was safe.
The hulking warrior met his gaze. “A mutual friend,” he said with a hard glint in his eyes.
Bruce nodded, understanding the source of Boyd’s anger. Arthur Campbell was proving even more useful than Bruce anticipated—not that any of the Highland Guard would thank him for it. Campbell had been forced to leave the Guard after “failing” a challenge and had gone on to be a knight in the service of the enemy. Or so it seemed. In reality he was a spy, scouting for Bruce.
Bruce had thought it vital to keep the truth from all but a few—including most of Campbell’s Highland Guard brethren. In retrospect, it had probably been a mistake, but the close brotherhood of the Guard was something Bruce was still getting used to.
“And there has still been no word of my wife?”
Boyd shook his head sadly. “Nay, sire. Not since they fled Kildrummy ahead of the English.”
Boyd and his partner in the Highland Guard, the young English knight Alex “Dragon” Seton, had stayed behind to help Nigel give the women time to get away. Boyd and Seton had been imprisoned and had managed to escape—with help—before execution. But they’d separated soon afterward, when Alex had heard of his brother’s betrayal at Loch Doon.