The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(42)

He laughed. “Some do.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t like the itch.” Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Don’t you like it?”

She rolled her eyes, not realizing his question had been serious. He had been serious, he realized, not sure what to make of that.

“You’ll have to do better than that if you are looking for a compliment from me. From what I can tell, you’ve heard enough to last most people a lifetime.”

He found himself grinning. She was right, but for some reason he wanted to know what she thought. “And you are much too cynical for such a young lass. Tell me, how did you come to the earl’s household? You seem young to be a nursemaid.”

She dropped her gaze. “My mother.” Her voice softened. “I took over when …”

She died. He nodded, knowing that such was often the case. Though not hereditary like many important household positions in noble families, the appointment of nursemaids often were done that way in practice.

“I’m sorry, lass. How long ago?”

Her shoulders trembled, and he felt the overwhelming urge to draw her into his arms and comfort her. An urge that was far more unsettling than the lust he’d felt moments ago. With most women he wouldn’t have hesitated, but something about touching Ellie made him wary—it was like holding a flame too close to parchment.

“Three years ago come May.” She looked into his eyes and he felt something inside him tighten at the hint of vulnerability behind the no-nonsense, competent facade. “A fever.”

He nodded, giving no hint of the battle being waged inside him.

He was relieved when she finally looked away, and his head cleared.

“Ran—” he stopped himself. Damn, he couldn’t believe he’s almost let that slip. “Thomas is improving?”

She nodded. “He’s still not eating much, but he should be back on his feet in another few days.”

“I’m glad of it.” Good news indeed. He didn’t relish arriving on Rathlin with Bruce’s nephew ill or feverish.

“He wanted to rejoin you today, but Meg threatened to tie him down if he attempted to get up.”

“It would be wasted on him,” Erik said dryly, and he was surprised when instead of lecturing him, she laughed.

Their eyes held for a moment before he looked away, instinctively shying from the connection and the intimacy of shared understanding.

He was treading on unfamiliar ground. He didn’t have personal conversations like this. He entertained. He made people laugh. That was what people wanted from him. Everyone except her.

Thankfully, Meg chose that moment to return, shattering the strange undercurrent running between them. With Meg he had his sea legs back. Intimate conversations were not for him. For the rest of the evening, Erik entertained the ladies—and Randolph, when he woke—with amusing stories from his arsenal of adventures on the high seas.

Even Ellie seemed to be having a good time. But once or twice he caught her studying him with that observant little gaze of hers that seemed to see far more of him than he wanted her to, and he had the feeling he’d somehow disappointed her.

What he couldn’t explain was why it bothered him.

He never did make it to the alehouse. After dinner he took up Duncan’s post outside the house. The lass was his responsibility. His duty. And for the remainder of the time she was with him, he would be the one to watch over her.

It wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.

Chapter Nine

Finlaggan Castle, Islay

“By the rood, where is he?” Robert Bruce slammed his hand on the wood table, scattering the markers he’d carefully positioned on the crudely drawn map to the floor. “We should have heard from him by now.”

The rare outburst had stunned the men gathered in the counsel chamber into silence. They were the king’s inner circle—or what remained of it.

Of Bruce’s once large retinue of knights, only Neil Campbell, James Douglas, Robert Hay, James Stewart, and his brother Edward were still at his side. Of his vaunted Highland Guard, only Tor “Chief” MacLeod, Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor, and the recently arrived Robbie “Raider” Boyd remained.

It was Boyd and the hideous news he’d brought with him that was being felt by everyone in the chamber.

Bruce’s eyes burned, the still raw pain nearly unbearable. His beloved brother Nigel was dead, as was his dearest friend and savior at the battle of Methven, Sir Christopher Seton. The loyal Earl of Atholl, too. The first earl executed in Scotland in over two hundred years.

Seton had been betrayed by MacNab at Loch Doon, where he’d taken refuge after the battle. Not long after Bruce had fled Scotland, Nigel and the earl had been beheaded in Berwick, having been captured at Kildrummy Castle with Boyd, who’d managed to escape and bring them this horrible news. It was the first news of his friends and family that Bruce had received since fleeing Dunaverty and escaping into the dark world of the Western Isles. Part of him craved to return to the darkness, fearing what he might find out next.

His wife and daughter were safe, he told himself. They had to be.

But dear God, his brother! Of his four brothers, the handsome and roguish Nigel had always been his favorite. He was much like their missing seafarer—bold, larger than life, and always ready with a jest. The kind of man that women flocked to and men wanted to be.