The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(107)

She had been different, he realized. Special. Though realizing it didn’t change things. She didn’t belong to him and never would.

In his darker moments, he tortured himself with the question of whether she’d married her bloody Englishman yet.

His muscles tensed, and the lass tittered something about his needing to relax. She nuzzled his neck and giggled as she whispered naughty suggestions in his ear, but he didn’t feel anything other than vague annoyance. He was tired of simpering and giggling. Of lasses who looked up at him as if he could do no wrong.

He wanted someone who argued with him. Who challenged him and cared enough to delve beneath the surface. Who wanted to give as much as she wanted to receive.

“I love you. “

He heard the words over and over in his head. He could see her face in the moonlight and couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d made a mistake. That Ellie had been offering him something special, and he’d been too blind to see it. That maybe the words he’d heard many times before had meant something different coming from her. But he’d asked her to marry him, hadn’t he? It was she who hadn’t wanted him. Why would she? He had nothing to offer her.

His fingers clenched the heavy pewter goblet until the raised metal edge of the fleur-de-lis engraving bit into his fingers.

What the hell was the matter with him?

Disgusted with himself, he tried to relax and give the lass some encouragement. But the teasing and flirting felt forced, and he soon found himself frustrated by the light banter. Still propped on his knee, he was glad when she turned to speak to the woman who’d come up to refill her flagon of ale.

He took a deep swig and gazed around the torchlit tent at the crowd of boisterous, already half-sotted men. Even if he did not share in their revelry, Erik did not begrudge them their fun. There’d been precious little cause for celebrating of late, and the men needed something to raise their spirits. It was the first time he’d seen Bruce smiling since the horrific news of his brothers’ beheadings and the capture of the women had reached them.

There had been small patches of good news. Striker and Hunter had been among the handful of men to escape in the failed second prong of the attack in Galloway. On a two-day mission north, the remaining members of the Highland Guard—including Alex “Dragon” Seton, who’d found them shortly after Turnberry—had slipped into the lightly defended Urquhart Castle and rescued Magnus “Saint” MacKay and William “Templar” Gordon after months of imprisonment. Then, about a week later, with the help of Gordon’s magic powder, they’d freed Domnall and the rest of Erik’s men from Ayr.

But these successes had to be weighed against the heavy costs this war had exacted: three brothers, Christopher Seton, the Earl of Atholl, an imprisoned family, and too many others.

Thus far, Bruce’s return to Scottish soil had yielded no more than a few hundred acres of wild, godforsaken mountains in Galloway. They’d made little headway against the English since Turnberry. The raids and small attacks on supply routes weren’t enough to rally additional men to the king’s banner. They were treading water, just holding their heads up high enough to avoid drowning. And eventually they would tire.

They needed something decisive to draw more men into the fold. But this time the king was being patient, refusing to meet the English unless it was on his terms. Erik hoped it came soon. Any momentum they’d garnered since Turnberry was quickly dissipating in the mud and grime of living on the run.

But tonight they were almost civilized again. After months of living in virtual squalor, it felt good to sit at a table again. Unlike the English nobles who traveled with wagons of household comforts, Bruce needed to travel lightly and be able to move at a moment’s notice. But, for the feast tonight, a kinswoman of the king’s, Christina of Carrick, had arranged for a tent to be erected, and a few tables and benches had been carted to their temporary mountain headquarters near Glen Trool.

As the guest of honor, Erik was seated at the center table a few seats away from the king, his brother Edward, James Douglas, Neil Campbell, MacRuairi, MacGregor, and MacLeod. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that his cousin was arguing with the king again.

If there was anyone who could rival Erik for his black temper lately, it was MacRuairi. He didn’t need to hear to know what they were arguing about. The king had refused to sanction MacRuairi’s repeated requests to attempt to rescue the ladies from captivity. He needed them alive, the king said. Attempting to rescue the well-guarded ladies in English strongholds at this point would be a suicide mission. He couldn’t risk losing them—not when their situation was so precarious. Once he’d solidified his base, he would lead the Highland Guard himself.

But MacRuairi would not be satisfied by reason. He was like a man possessed in his determination to free the ladies—especially the two hanging in cages.

“You don’t seem to be enjoying your present,” MacLeod said pointedly from his seat on Erik’s left.

Erik defied the knowing look in his chief’s eye by sliding his hand around the lass’s round bottom. “Oh, I’m enjoying it fine.”

He tried not to cringe when the lass giggled and wiggled deeper into his lap, swatting at his hand playfully. But thankfully she was too busy enjoying her ale and MacGregor’s pretty face on his right to resume her attentions.

Depressingly, he felt nary the faintest spark of competitive fires stirring inside him. He half wished the famed archer would take her off his hands—or in this case, his lap.