The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(108)

“It was the king’s idea,” MacLeod said, eyeing him over the edge of his goblet. “I think it’s his way of apologizing.”

“He has nothing to apologize for,” Erik said. “I offended his honor and made things even more difficult between him and his father-in-law. He gave no more than I deserved.”

“Ulster doesn’t seem to have taken it personally,” MacLeod said. “As for the king’s honor,” he shrugged, “I think he regrets some of the things he said.”

“He would have strung me up by my bollocks if he could have.”

The Chief of the Highland Guard didn’t argue with him. “You’re probably right. But you’re too damn valuable and he knows it. Besides, he needs every man he can get right now.” MacLeod looked him in the eye. “I think Randolph’s turning affected him deeply. More than he has let on.”

Erik didn’t disagree. It had affected them all. Domnall had filled them in on the details, but it had pretty much happened as Erik had suspected. Opportunistic perhaps, but no less a betrayal.

Erik took it as a personal failure. Randolph had been under his command. He’d thought he was getting through to the lad. Apparently not.

“In any event,” MacLeod said, “now that his anger has cooled, I think the king realizes that you are not solely to blame for what happened. You didn’t know who she was. I think he’s more angry at his brother for failing to recognize the lass.” One corner of his mouth cracked in a half-smile. “Nor has the king forgotten what it is like to fall in love.”

Forgetting all about the lass on his knee, Erik nearly knocked her to the ground when he jerked around to the man at his side. He gave him a hard glare. “Love?” He laughed sharply. “Christ’s bones, I’m not in love.”

The fierce warrior eyed him challengingly. “So there’s another reason for your ill temper these past two months?”

Erik’s mouth fell in a hard line. “You mean aside from living in these godforsaken mountains being chased by a bunch of English dogs? I cared about her, of course, but I’m hardly the type to chain myself to one lass.” He forced himself to shiver, trying not to remember that it used to come reflexively. “Not with so much fun to be had.”

“I can see that,” MacLeod said wryly, with an eye to the buxom lass on Erik’s lap. “You appear to be having the time of your life.”

Erik found himself getting angry, and he didn’t know whether it was from MacLeod’s sarcasm or his damn inability to ignore it. Usually unflappable, when it came to Ellie he’d become almost—he did shudder this time—sensitive.

In an effort to reclaim control of the conversation, he said idly, “It doesn’t matter. Whether the king believes me or not, I did offer for her.” He met his friend’s stare. “The lass refused.”

“It’s about time,” MacLeod murmured.

Erik glared. “What did you say?”

MacLeod shrugged. “Just that I would like to meet her.”

Erik hoped she was far away from here. Back in Ireland or—he swallowed bitterly—in England. Gritting his teeth against the reflexive surge of anger, he drained his flagon of ale and called for another.

It was his bloody Saint’s Day, damnation; he was going to enjoy it. Thirty years, he thought angrily. And everything had been going perfectly for twenty-nine and three-quarters of them. Last year he would have shared in the revelry, enjoyed teasing and flirting with the lass in his lap, and looked forward to a long night of pleasure.

Perhaps sensing the return of his attention, the lass resumed her efforts. She kissed him again, bolder now, as she attempted to take matters into her own hands, so to speak. He felt her hand close over the unresponsive bulge between his legs. “Ah, you’re a big man,” she giggled. “All over.”

He couldn’t even muster a naughty rejoinder. He tried to enjoy himself. Tried to relax and concentrate on her skilled hands, but it gave him only the unpleasant sensation of bugs crawling on his skin.

Ellie had bloody ruined him. Turned him into a damn eunuch.

He was just about to send the lass off on some false errand to fetch him more ale or whisky or God knows what else he could think of when he heard a commotion near the flap of the tent.

It was Boyd. He and Seton had drawn the unfortunate lot of being on guard duty tonight. A good thing, from the looks of it. The strongest man in Scotland was holding an intruder by the waist, dragging him inside with some difficulty. She—from the dainty slippers peeking out from below the cloak, now he could see it was a she—kicked the big warrior in the shin and attempted to wrench away.

“Let go of me, you oversized brute!”

Erik froze. His heart, his blood, everything came to a sudden, jerking halt.

“Robert,” she said in that bossy, authoritative voice that Erik knew so well. “I certainly hope this isn’t an example of how you treat the people trying to help you.”

Erik didn’t want to believe it, but the next minute his worst fears were confirmed. She tossed back her hood, pushed away a stunned Boyd, and stomped up to the table.

“Lady Elyne!” the king exclaimed, equally as shocked.

But Erik barely heard him. An angry red haze descended over him, blinding him from anything but the danger she’d put herself in.