Erik felt the lass’s gaze on him.
“Do you mean to kill us all?”
He took his eye off the English target for one minute and gave her a jaunty grin. “Not if they blink first.”
What did he mean, “blink first”?
Ellie’s eyes widened as understanding dawned. No … he couldn’t seriously mean to—
Oh, but he did. One look at that devilish grin and she knew it was exactly what he intended. Instead of surrendering—as any reasonable person would do when cornered—the pirate captain intended to wage a direct attack, heading right for the English galley and forcing them to turn to avoid him. It was a deadly joust of pure masculine bravado, to see whose nerve would crack first.
“You c-can’t be serious,” she sputtered.
He just grinned, telling her he was perfectly serious.
“But what if he doesn’t turn in time?” she demanded. “We’ll all end up in the sea.”
He shrugged. “It’s no worse than what they have planned for us. Besides,” he gave her a wink, “my men know how to swim.”
Which probably wasn’t true for the English. It was one of the ironies of seafaring that most sailors didn’t know how to swim.
He was going to do this.
It was rash. It was reckless. It was aggressive and bold. Something she suspected he was quite often. Ellie stared at him with a mixture of disbelief and unwilling admiration. Who was this man? He was either mad or foolhardy—or perhaps both. Just look at him, smiling as if he were having the time of his life rather than on the brink of death or capture. With his feet braced wide, his arms flexed, and every muscle in his body strained to harness the power of the wind, he looked utterly at ease and in control—as if this were no more than a pleasant afternoon tour around the Isles.
Watching him, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would never yield. Confidence and command oozed from every muscular, giant six-and-a-half-foot inch of him. He would go down fighting in a blaze of glory rather than surrender. She could only pray the English captain showed less fortitude.
It was all happening so fast, yet every second passed with torturous slowness. All she could do was watch in mute horror from her position near the stern as the English boat drew closer and closer.
With Domnall manning the rudder, she’d been placed on the floor of the boat, wedged between two oarsmen and ordered to stay low. The man who’d nearly drowned trying to save her—the same dark-haired warrior who’d stepped forward before—was curled up on the floor opposite her.
She bit her lip, feeling a twinge of guilt. Even in the hazy moonlight she could see that he didn’t look well. His face was a waxy gray, and he was shivering uncontrollably. The other men had thrown a few blankets around him but hadn’t had time for much else. Like her, the occupants of the boat were focused on the drama unfolding at sea. Unlike her, however, they seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it. It was clear they trusted their captain absolutely—even if he meant to send them to their deaths.
“Hey, Captain, you think he’ll piss himself before or after he gets out of the way?”
“He’s a damned Englishman,” the pirate responded dryly. “I’m betting on both.”
That set off a back-and-forth fire of jesting and wagering on whether the English would turn to the left or to the right, and whether they would capsize the boat while trying to turn around to come after them.
Ellie would never understand men: how could you jest and wager at a time like this? They’d die going to the bottom of the sea and make a contest of who got there first. Her fingers clenched the edges of the plaid and fur tossed hastily back around her shoulders when she’d emerged from the water. Not much longer …
The boats were drawing together at an alarming speed.
Then, all too clearly, she heard a man’s voice in English call out, “Ready …” He paused, and then shouted, “Fire!”
The pirate captain was ready. “Take cover, lads!”
All around her the men lifted their targes over their heads, forming a protective canopy of wood and leather against the hail of English arrows. A terrifying dull thump made her jerk, but she was relieved to realize it was only the sound of an arrow hitting wood, not bone.
Despite the onslaught of arrows, their boat never slowed. It sped forward. Faster. Closer. Her pulse racing along with it.
Had the English realized they were the ones under attack? She didn’t think so.
The same English voice rang out across the waves, louder this time. “Stop! You’re under arrest.”
The pirate captain laughed, a deep, husky sound that sent a shiver sliding down her spine. “And you’re in my way.”
“Give way,” the Englishman demanded, though his voice had lost some of its certainty.
A few more arrows flew in their direction, but the pirate captain never gave an inch. He held his course steady and true, even when he had to duck to avoid an arrow aimed for his head. “Come now, lads, my sister has better aim than that.”
His voice was so calm! She, on the other hand, was so terrified that she’d forgotten even how cold and uncomfortable she was.
A few seconds later, the English voice rang out again: “Give way, I said! Give way!” Then the sounds of rising panic … swearing … rage. “Now!”
Her heart had stopped beating. Tension, as thick and heavy as the mist, coiled around her. The attackers were fifty feet away and closing quickly. She could see the prow of the English galley with all-too-perfect clarity directly in front on them. Only a few more feet. A few short seconds left for the English boat to turn. What if the pirate was wrong? Turn, you English fool! Turn!
She couldn’t watch.
She couldn’t not watch.
She had one eye on the deadly collision course and the other on the man at the helm. The big Viking never showed one glimmer of fear. Never lost the smile. And never blinked.
But the English did.
Just when she didn’t think she’d be able to bear it a second longer, when the tension had squeezed the very breath from her, she heard the cry go up to yield and saw the bow of the English galley shift to the right.
The pirates cheered as the birlinn tore by the galley of stunned English sailors.
They’d done it! She felt such a burst of exhilaration that for a moment she wanted to cheer along with them. Until she remembered that the English were her means of rescue, and that she was the one who’d alerted them in the first place.
And it wasn’t over yet. The next few minutes were only slightly less tension-ridden, as the English galleys turned around to give chase. The captain of the middle boat who’d lost the joust managed to do so without capsizing—to the great disappointment of some of the pirates. It would be a heavy blow indeed to the pride of the English navy if they knew how little these “barbarian” Islanders esteemed their sailing abilities.
By Ellie’s count that made four boats on their tail. The single boat that had been behind them had caught up in time to witness the near collision, but not to be of any help. As it had been sailing in the right direction, however, it had a head start on the others and proved the most difficult to shake.
The English galley was bigger, with at least twice as many oarsmen. But the pirate had the wind on his side. And she sensed that he had no intention of relinquishing it.
She watched in amazement as he reined in the sails tighter and tighter against the wind, sending the boat careening over the waves faster and faster. She had no idea how he could navigate at this speed in the darkness with only mist-shrouded moonlight to guide him, but he seemed to know exactly where he was going.
She turned around, seeing the galleys staggered behind them—pulling away—but still on their tail.
Then, as if he’d beckoned it, she felt the wind pick up and grow even sharper. He leaned back and flexed every formidable muscle in his body (of which there was a startlingly impressive number) against the added force. Ellie felt as if she were watching a man single-handedly
wrestle nature and win. The massive square sail was pulled so taut and filled with so much air she thought it was going to tear apart in shreds.
She couldn’t imagine what kind of strength it took to manage such a feat. His arms were … incredible. She felt an odd stirring low in her belly and had the strangest urge to mold her hand around the bulge and press to see if it was as granite-hard as it looked. The impulse horrified her. What was wrong with her?
They were tearing across the waves with lightning speed. Moving faster than she’d ever thought possible.
It was terrifying.
It was thrilling.
It was the most exciting thing she’d ever done in her life. She’d never felt anything like it. The rush of exhilaration, the heart-pounding excitement, this crazy, wild ride over waves at a dizzying speed. She wanted to scream, but instead all she could do was grin as the wind tore through her hair, battered her face with sea-spray, drew tears from her eyes, and filled her lungs with air.
She was cold again, but it suddenly seemed unimportant. In the midst of madness and for the first time in weeks—years—Ellie could breathe.
Suddenly the birlinn started to tilt to the starboard side. She had to grab the rail to prevent herself from sliding across the wooden deck.
“To port!” the captain shouted into the wind.
The men moved to the port side, but even with the added weight on one side, Ellie could feel the boat lift higher. The dark-haired man who’d tried to help her seemed to be having trouble holding on, so a few of the oarsmen had come to his aid—which he didn’t seem too happy about accepting.
He shook them off when he noticed her stare, and Ellie quickly shifted her gaze, not wanting to embarrass him further.
The boat crested over a large wave and slammed down hard enough to knock the air from her lungs. Dear Lord, how much longer could he continue to hold those ropes against such force? His arms had to be burning by now. She ventured a glance, but he appeared utterly at ease—seemingly impervious to the strain.
Her heart was beating wildly in her chest. It seemed as if they were nearly perpendicular to the sea. The black waves seemed to be right under her. If she could peel her white-knuckled grip from the rail, she would be able to practically reach down and skim her fingers over the water.
She didn’t think her heart could take much more of this. “Slow down! We’re going too fast!” she demanded. “You’re going to flip us.”
She couldn’t be sure, but she thought the pirate’s gaze sparked in the darkness. The white flash of his teeth, however, was unmistakable. With a sinking dread, Ellie realized her mistake. Never dare a daredevil. He’d taken her words of caution as a challenge.
“Hold on tight,” he said, amusement evident in his voice.
The dark-haired knight shot her a look and shook his head as if to say “What were you thinking?”
The captain wrenched the sail even tighter. Her heart took a leap. She could swear the boat lifted off the waves, and they were flying. Soaring over the sea like a bird in flight.
It was the most amazing thing she’d ever experienced—terrifying and thrilling at the same time.
Only when she thought they must be about to run into the coast of Scotland did he finally slow and order Domnall to turn north. With a deft adjustment of the ropes, the captain eased the boat down flat on the water once more, and the men were able to return to their oars.
“Looks like we lost ’em, Captain,” a boy of no more than six and ten who had to be serving as coxswain said.
“Good.”
In the excitement, Ellie realized she’d forgotten all about the boats chasing behind them, but the boy appeared to be right: with a combination of speed and deft maneuvering of which she’d never seen the like, the pirate had dodged four English galleys.
Her gaze fell back on the pirate captain, who was helping his men lower the sail so that the birlinn could disappear back into the night—a ghost ship once more. She didn’t want to be impressed, but she was. This swaggering pirate with the cocky grin and unwavering self-assuredness had to be one of the greatest sailors in a West Highland kingdom of seafarers.
What a shame that the Isles and the men who inhabited them were so untamed. Her brother-in-law could use men like this pirate if he ever hoped to reclaim Scotland’s crown from Edward. But Robert’s cause appeared to be lost. Ellie hadn’t had word from her sister in months; she prayed Beth was safe.
The hair at the back of her neck prickled as if someone was watching her. Shifting her gaze from the captain, she found the young dark-haired pirate studying her. She was glad for the darkness that hid the stain of color on her face for being caught staring at the captain. But her thoughts must have been more transparent than she realized.
“It’s not only skill but luck,” he said dryly in perfect aristocratic French. “I’ve never seen anything like it. He could land in a cesspit and come out smelling sweet.”
There was something in his voice that caught her attention. “You don’t like him?” She tried to speak softly under the boisterous din of the men around her, who were still celebrating their victory.
He looked at her as if she were daft. “Of course I like him. Everyone likes him. It’s impossible not to.”
Ellie tilted her head, puzzled by his reply, until it dawned on her: he was jealous. She supposed it was understandable. Though the dark-haired pirate was tall, lean, and handsome in his own fashion, he was young and couldn’t possibly hope to compete with the strapping, golden-god, seafaring warrior in the prime of his manhood.
Bigger than life, handsome as sin, with enough brash arrogance and raw charisma that men would follow him even to their deaths, the pirate captain exuded passion and energy. It was a magnetic combination, drawing people to him like moths to a flame. As if simply by being close to him, some of his golden glow would spill over onto those around him.
What would it be like to kiss him?
Sweet Mother Mary, where had that come from? It had popped out of nowhere. She couldn’t recall ever contemplating such a thing. The one time Ralph had tried to kiss her, she’d almost been ill.
Disconcerted by the direction of her thoughts, she switched the subject. “Are you feeling better?”
“Aye. Cold, wet, and uncomfortable, but I suspect you feel the same.”
He did look marginally better, though she doubted he would admit it if he wasn’t. His skin still had a sickly sheen, but at least his shivering seemed to have stopped. Sitting on the deck of the boat, below the rail, helped to keep the wind at bay.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
His expression drew wary and he hesitated before answering. “Thomas.”
“If you don’t mind my saying, Thomas, you don’t look or sound much like a pirate. You’re not with them, are you?”
He opened his mouth and then quickly slammed it shut. His eyes darted to the captain before he straightened and replied, “I’m not an Islander, but I am with them.”
She frowned, thinking it odd that a young man of obviously noble birth—not only his manner of speech but his fine, expensive armor suggested as much—would have joined with a band of Gall-Gaedhil pirates. But sensing he would say no more on the matter, she said, “Thank you for what you did back there at the cave—and for coming after me in the water.”
He shifted, as if her gratitude embarrassed him. “The next time I attempt to rescue a lass from drowning I’ll make sure to remove my armor first. I didn’t realize how heavy it would be, or”—he gave a small half smile—“how cold the water was.”
He shook his dark hair, which was frozen into chunks like hers. He started to say more but was interrupted by a sharp cough that grew progressively harder and deeper, as if he were still trying to purge the water from his lungs. When it wouldn’t stop, Ellie became alarmed and reached over to put a hand on his mail-clad back. She was no healer, but that cough didn’t sound good. He needed to get to shore and get dry and warm—which sounded like heaven t
o her as well. The fur was warm, but as he’d surmised, she was cold, wet, and uncomfortable.
Finally he stopped, and she removed her hand self-consciously. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.” Her throat tightened as the horror of the night welled up inside her. “I only wanted a chance to go home.”
He gave her a sympathetic look. “He won’t hurt you, you know. He meant what he said. When it’s safe, he’ll return you to your home.”
She was surprised to find that she actually believed him. Though it didn’t make sense, the pirate captain had saved her life. What kind of pirate risked his own life for an inconsequential prisoner anyway? Yet he’s saved her life—twice, if he was to be believed about leaving her in that cave. “When will that be?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas admitted.
It wasn’t good enough. She had to get home; she had to let her family know she was all right. She couldn’t sail around indefinitely. She was supposed to get married, for goodness sake. In her frustration, she conveniently forgot that she wasn’t exactly anxious for that marriage.
She turned around to demand that the pirate captain tell her what he meant to do with her, when she stopped suddenly, reconsidering. He was frowning, and something in his expression unsettled her. Caught up in the excitement of the chase, she’d momentarily forgotten the precariousness of her situation. She bit her lip, realizing he was probably furious with her for the trouble she’d caused by trying to escape.
Perhaps her demands could wait.
But before she could turn away, he motioned for her to come to him with a gentle crook of the finger that she suspected was one he’d used many times before.
Her spine went rigid. Something about the arrogant gesture raised every hackle in her body. She had visions of some Saracen sultan lounging in his tent and choosing his next concubine. She might be a temporary and unwilling captive, but she was not his slave. Nor was she a woman who would jump to do his bidding. Even her youngest brother, Edmond, had more manners—and the six-year-old lad was far more adorable than this arrogant, overgrown, too-handsome-for-his-own-good Viking. Half-Viking, she corrected.