The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(21)

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.