The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(100)

Erik hopped over the edge of the birlinn into the knee-deep water and strode toward them.

“Where have you been?” Bruce demanded before he’d even taken a step upon the rocky beach. “You were supposed to be here yesterday. This is cutting it too damn close, even for you, Hawk.” He looked around. “Where’s your ship? And my nephew?”

Erik’s mouth fell in a grim line. “The English found us on Spoon a few hours before we were to leave. I will tell you everything when we reach Arran, but Randolph and my men were taken.”

Even for a man who’d suffered so many disappointments, the blow did not fall any softer. Bruce flinched. “Dead?”

Erik shook his head. “I do not think so, your grace.”

He kept his suspicions to himself for now, but the king was shrewd, and Erik suspected he was wondering the same thing as he: how unwillingly Randolph had gone.

The king’s gaze hardened, his eyes as cold and black as polished ebony. “I hope you have a good explanation for how this could have happened.”

Erik nodded. So did he.

He glanced at Chief, who stood beside Bruce. “Is everyone ready?” Erik asked.

“Aye.”

Erik could see from his gaze that the captain of the Highland Guard had questions for him, too. But like Bruce’s, they would have to wait.

Erik quickly conferred with the king about who would lead the Irish ships as well as two of the four birlinns of Islemen. Ewen “Hunter” Lamont and Eoin “Striker” MacLean had taken the other two ships with Bruce’s brothers south to Galloway for the second prong of the attack against the MacDowells.

With seven ships to deal with—five Irish and two of his cousin’s—it was decided that Erik would lead the fleet in one of the Irish ships, and Chief would captain one of MacDonald’s ships carrying the king. As the king’s largely Lowland retinue had limited sailing experience, Erik left the seafaring Irish to captain their other ships. He placed Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor—the only other member of the Highland Guard present—in charge of the remaining birlinn.

Less than an hour later, they were on their way. Erik led the way with the mercenaries, sailing point a short distance ahead to be able to give warning if needed.

Unlike the night before, it was a good night for sailing. The sky was clear—relatively; it was the misty Western Isles, after all—and a steady wind bore down on them from the north. Their destination, Arran Isle, lay to the northeast of Spoon, nestled in the armpit of the Kintyre Peninsula and the Ayrshire coast, forty or so miles from Rathlin.

But they would be forty tension-filled miles. Erik knew that danger lurked behind every wave. Evading the English patrols with one ship was one thing, but with seven it was another.

He took particular care near crossways, knowing that the English patrols liked to lurk where two or three bodies of water came together. After heading north around Rathlin, he ordered the ships to lower their sails.

It was a good thing he did. He was fairly certain he’d caught a glimpse of a sail to the south where the Rathlin sound met the North Channel. Once they’d skirted clear of Rathlin, there was nothing but open sea between them and Scotland.

He kept his eyes peeled for any sign of a ship, but all he could see for miles was the dark sky and the tremulous rise and fall of the glistening black waves.

It was almost too quiet—too peaceful—after the tumult of the night before.

He closed down his thoughts before they could take hold. Ellie had crept into his head too many times already, and he was determined not to think about her. She’d distracted him enough. Right now everyone was counting on him to get them safely to Arran, and this time nothing was going to interfere.

Not even a bossy, confounding termagant with green-flecked eyes, a stubborn chin, and the softest skin he’d ever felt.

He would forget, damn it. He would forget.

The closer they got to the Mull of Kintyre, the more Erik couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Although he didn’t have as acute a sense of danger as Campbell—the scout’s instincts were eerie—he lived by his instincts.

About a mile off the Mull of Kintyre, he gave the order to lower the sails and instructed the other captains to wait for him.

Silently, he ordered his men to row, keeping his razor-sharp senses honed on any movement in the darkness. When a few of the mercenaries started to whisper among themselves, he threatened to cut out the tongue of the next man who opened his mouth. They must have believed him, because the ship was deadly silent.

The birlinn inched forward in the darkness. Despite the cold winter night, sweat gathered on his brow. His blood hammered in his veins as he scanned the horizon before them.

His instincts flared, clamoring in his ears. But he couldn’t see anything. Not a single sail—

His gaze caught on something. An odd-shaped shadow in the distance. He gave the silent order for the men to stop.

Damn. It was them.

The crafty blighters were lying in wait, sails down, hoping to catch any fly attempting to sail into their web. Pirate tactics. It was a hell of a time for the bloody English to start paying attention.

He counted at least six dark shadows between Spoon and the small isle of Alisa Craig standing guard at the mouth of the Firth of Clyde, effectively cutting off any attempt to reach Arran.

Erik gave the order to fall back—carefully, so as to not be seen—and returned to the other ships. Pulling alongside Chief’s birlinn, he informed the king and his captain of the trap ahead.