The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(30)

Since the moment they’d first knocked on the door of the old longhouse, Hawk—as Meg had screamed, giving him the kind of welcome that left Ellie in no doubt of their relationship—had been the center of attention.

The excitement had quieted down for the night, but revved back up the moment he sauntered back through the door this morning. Didn’t he have things to do? Plunder for gold? Conquer small countries? Abduct more innocent women?

Apparently not. It seemed he had all the time in the world for his adoring throng. The small room was stuffed to the rafters with female visitors. It hadn’t taken the island women long to learn of his arrival, and they’d been knocking on Meg’s door ever since.

Ellie had learned from Meg that they were on a small island just off the Scottish coast of Kintyre. Counting the seven women in the room, Ellie wouldn’t be surprised if half the unmarried female population was sitting around Meg’s hearth—though she was only assuming they were all unmarried.

“Of course I missed you, love. How could I forget that pie you made me before I left?” she heard him say. “It was the sweetest thing I ever tasted.” Ellie didn’t need to look to know that his eyes were twinkling mischievously, but she did anyway. “Or the second sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He didn’t direct it to anyone in particular, but let it hang out there as if it were meant for each one of them individually.

Ellie had to admit that he had a talent. Watching him was akin to watching a master craftsman at work. He exuded charisma; it dripped off him like cold cream. He doled out compliments with deft sincerity, was unfailingly attentive, and treated each woman as if she were a princess. It wasn’t hard to understand why everyone liked him.

Then why did her jaw ache and her teeth feel whittled down from listening to him as the women fawned all over him? Like a Saracen surrounded by his harem, he had the women clustered around his chair, hanging on his every word. He had one arm draped lazily over Meg’s shoulder while another woman pretended to perch herself on the arm of the chair but ended up half on his lap.

Not that he was leaving all the fondling to the women. She’d never seen so many bottom pats and long “welcome” kisses in her life. This had to be the most hospitable island in Scotland!

Realizing she was frowning, she turned back to the bread and cheese Meg had given her to break her fast. It was no business of hers who he touched as long as it wasn’t her. If anyone had cause for complaint it was Meg, and she didn’t seem to mind the competition.

Ellie surreptitiously watched the group from her seat at the table on one side of the small hall. After that greeting last night, she’d been certain Meg was his mistress. The pretty redhead certainly looked the part. Probably a few years older than Ellie, she had a wide, welcoming smile, rosy cheeks, and the biggest br**sts Ellie had ever seen. Her lush sensuality was everything Ellie was not. She felt like a dried-up old prune in comparison. But watching the two of them now, she wasn’t so sure about the nature of their relationship. He treated her with the same roguish good humor that he did everyone else.

He was so infuriatingly nice. Yet Ellie couldn’t help but think that he used his affability as a mask to keep everyone at a distance. All these people who thought they knew him so well probably didn’t know him at all.

Even his name was a mystery. “Hawk” was how even the women referred to him. Not that it didn’t fit. The bird of prey that soared over the sea, wild and free, hunting with sudden attacks from a place of concealment, was perfect for a pirate.

She nibbled at her food, listening to the master at work. Behind the lazy grin hid a very observant man. He asked about Maura’s new hairstyle, Deidre’s new gown, and how Bessie’s young son was recovering after having hurt his leg in a fall from a tree last year. He made a point to ask something personal of each one of them, but any attempts to ask questions of him were deflected with a grin and a jest—usually a naughty one. It was so expertly done, Ellie wondered if the women even realized what he was doing.

It made her curious as to the real man behind the golden veneer.

“Something wrong, Ellie?” he asked.

A crowd of curious faces turned toward her. She was surprised he’d even noticed she was here, with his attention so well occupied.

“You don’t seem your usual chirpy self this morning,” he added innocently, those wickedly blue eyes twinkling with mirth.

Ellie’s gaze narrowed; she was too exhausted to properly ignore him. Nor had she forgiven him for the little story he’d told Meg last night on how she came to be with him. “I’m perfectly chirpy,” she growled. For someone who’d had two hours of sleep after being stolen from her home by a boatload of Vikings.

He looked at her as if he was trying not to laugh. “Aye, I can see that.”

She had to grit her teeth not to glare at him again when he whispered—loudly—an apology to the other women about her being so grumpy in the morning.

His needling was all the more grating because it happened to be true. She had always been slow to rise (as her mother had generously called it) in the best of circumstances—and today definitely hadn’t been the best of circumstances. Meg had been up since the crack of dawn cooking and, after helping her tend Thomas and Duncan—the man who’d been struck by the arrow—Ellie had collapsed on the makeshift pallet before the fire just a few short hours ago.