The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(10)

The young knight still looked disapproving. “It’s indecent.”

Erik laughed. “Exactly. That’s why it’s fun. And if you can’t appreciate the effects of cold water on a lass’s chemise then I fear you are completely beyond my help.”

One corner of Randolph’s mouth lifted. “Perhaps I can see some appeal.”

Erik laughed and slapped him on the back. “That’s more like it. Maybe there is still hope for you yet, Sir Tommy.”

The sail had once again been lowered to keep them as invisible as possible, and Erik kept the boat well back from shore to avoid being seen as they rowed past the castle. Dunluce Castle was uniquely—and dramatically—situated atop a massive triangular rocky crag of hundred-foot cliffs that fell to the sea in a sheer drop. A deep chasm ran behind the castle, separating it from the mainland, which could be reached only by crossing a narrow wooden bridge.

Below the castle was a magnificent sea-cavern that the locals called Mermaid’s Cave. The cave tunneled through the rock for nearly three hundred feet end-to-end—accessible from the sea at the south and from a rocky ramp from the land to the north. With ceilings that soared over fifty feet high, it was a vast underground palace. Easy sea access made it the perfect place for a meeting with the McQuillans—the former Scots who’d come to Ireland as gallowglass mercenaries and decided to stay as keepers of Dunluce for the Earl of Ulster. But the fierce warriors still hired out men … for a price.

Erik steered the birlinn around the rocky outcrops that protected the mouth of the cave. “Stay sharp, lads,” he said in a hushed voice. The Virgin’s Plunge explained the unusual nighttime activity, but something was setting the hair at the back of his neck on edge.

As the boat slid through the jagged entranceway, he kept one eye on the castle perched high above him and the other fixed on the back end of the long cavern. He knew they couldn’t be seen from above, and although he would never be accused of an excess of caution, an acute sense of danger had saved his neck more than once.

For a moment they were blinded by darkness. But then, floating out of the black abyss, he saw flickering shards of orange at the opposite end of the cavern. Three long waves. A pause. Two short. Then repeated.

It was the right signal, but he relaxed only when they drew close enough for him to recognize the crude features of the McQuillan chief’s henchman, Fergal. A rare frown turned his expression. Fergal wasn’t who he was expecting, and the substitution wasn’t a welcome one.

Fergal McQuillan was a vicious scourge who would not only kill his own mother for coin but enjoy it. Erik had fought by his side years ago and although he could appreciate enthusiasm and frenzy in battle, Fergal’s bloodlust didn’t end with the fighting. However, he didn’t need to like him. Fergal might be scum, but he could wield a sword, and right now they needed all the warriors they could get. Chief—Tor MacLeod—had once told Bruce he would need to get dirty to win. He was right.

As long as Fergal and the rest of the McQuillans kept their word, they wouldn’t have any problems.

Having nearly reached the water’s edge, Erik jumped over the side of the boat and waded through the knee-high water to the rocky shore.

He met the McQuillan warrior with a firm grasp of his forearm. After greeting a few of the other men he knew by name, he made the necessary introductions as Randolph and Domnall came up behind him. McQuillan seemed agitated about something—something Erik suspected he wasn’t going to like.

“I expected to see your chief,” Erik said evenly, forcing a gracious smile to his face that never reached his eyes.

Fergal shook his head. He was bald, and his head had an odd conical shape that was especially noticeable given his flat features, thick neck, and scruffy ginger beard. “Change of plans,” the warrior said. “He couldn’t get away. Ulster has arrived, and the castle is swarming with English. His absence might be noticed.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed just a hair. His instincts had been right. They’d just sailed right into the middle of a hornet’s nest. If this was a trap, Fergal’s ill-formed head wouldn’t be long for his body. Two seconds—that’s all it would take to grasp the handle of his battle-axe and swing. A sizable part of him wouldn’t mind the excuse.

Half expecting English troops to come pouring down the ramp, Erik glanced past Fergal’s shoulder before giving the warrior a cool stare. “I thought your chief said Ulster would be at Carrickfergus.”

“That’s what we were told, but he showed up unexpectedly on Edward’s orders.” Fergal spat reflexively at the king’s name. “De Monthermer—or the Earl of Atholl, as he calls himself now—is here as well.”

Well, wasn’t that interesting? That explained the English patrol being so close to the castle. De Monthermer commanded the largest—and most experienced—fleet of galleys in Edward’s navy. Though the Englishman had come to Bruce’s aid once before, Erik could not count on him to do so again.

What the hell was de Monthermer doing here? Before he could ask, Fergal explained, “An alliance with one of Ulster’s daughters.”

Erik nodded grimly. Bad intelligence in war was more common than not, but this kind of “mistake” could get him and his men killed. One wrong move and their heads would be on pikes gracing Scotland’s castles. Although it would make a damned fine-looking addition, Erik was rather attached to his.