The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(43)

MacLeod eyed him steadily. “If Hawk is not here, there is a reason. He will send word when he is able. There is still plenty of time.”

But they hadn’t heard from MacSorley in a week. The seafarer was supposed to join them on Islay after meeting with the Irish, and the two-pronged attack to take back his kingdom was only a week away. Bruce’s brothers Thomas and Alexander were ready to go in Ireland for the southern attack on Galloway. Bruce needed to get his men to Arran for the northern attack on Turnberry.

“How can you be so bloody calm?” he demanded. “My brothers have secured forces for the attack in the south, but where are my mercenaries? We are supposed to be assembling the army at Rathlin in a matter of days.” From Rathlin they would sail to Arran. “How can I launch an attack without men?”

“They’ll be there.”

MacLeod had ice running through his damned veins. The Highlander’s stony facade never betrayed a flicker of emotion. “How can you be so bloody sure?”

“Because I know Hawk. You can count on him. If he has to swim the Irish mercenaries to Arran himself, he’ll do it.”

“Then why have we not heard from him?”

“We will,” MacGregor said, echoing the confidence of his captain. “I’m sure he’s just holed up somewhere, waiting until he can get a message through. With all the English activity in the channel, he’s probably just trying to be cautious.”

“Hawk?” Bruce said incredulously. “He doesn’t have a cautious bone in his body.”

“It took me some time to find you myself, sire,” Boyd pointed out.

“How did you?” Bruce asked. His survival depended on only a chosen few knowing where he was at all times—the men in this room and the other members of the Highland Guard. Even his friend William Lamberton, Bishop of St. Andrews, would be hard pressed to find him now. One more person he hoped was safe.

The hulking warrior met his gaze. “A mutual friend,” he said with a hard glint in his eyes.

Bruce nodded, understanding the source of Boyd’s anger. Arthur Campbell was proving even more useful than Bruce anticipated—not that any of the Highland Guard would thank him for it. Campbell had been forced to leave the Guard after “failing” a challenge and had gone on to be a knight in the service of the enemy. Or so it seemed. In reality he was a spy, scouting for Bruce.

Bruce had thought it vital to keep the truth from all but a few—including most of Campbell’s Highland Guard brethren. In retrospect, it had probably been a mistake, but the close brotherhood of the Guard was something Bruce was still getting used to.

“And there has still been no word of my wife?”

Boyd shook his head sadly. “Nay, sire. Not since they fled Kildrummy ahead of the English.”

Boyd and his partner in the Highland Guard, the young English knight Alex “Dragon” Seton, had stayed behind to help Nigel give the women time to get away. Boyd and Seton had been imprisoned and had managed to escape—with help—before execution. But they’d separated soon afterward, when Alex had heard of his brother’s betrayal at Loch Doon.

“They’re in good hands, sire,” Boyd said.

Bruce nodded, hoping he could trust Lachlan MacRuairi—Viper—and the other two members of the Guard who’d accompanied the women: William Gordon, known as Templar, and Magnus MacKay, known as Saint.

“As is your nephew,” MacLeod put in, referring to Randolph, who’d sailed with Hawk.

God, he hoped so. Everything depended on Hawk getting those men to him in time. There was no room for any more failures. He’d exhausted his allotment of narrow escapes. Even a cat had only so many lives.

MacGregor, who was nearly as renowned for his perfect face as he was for his skill with the bow, grinned. “If I know Hawk, he’s probably sitting on a beach somewhere, entertaining half the female population of whatever village or island he’s holed up on.”

“By the time we hear about it, it will be three-quarters,” Boyd said dryly.

Bruce smiled for the first time since they’d arrived at Islay and found not Hawk, as they’d expected, but Boyd waiting for them. “You’re probably right.”

A disturbance outside the door drew his attention. MacLeod went to investigate, and when he returned a moment later, accompanied by a young fisherman, it was about as close to a smile as Bruce suspected his mouth would turn.

“What is it?” he asked.

The fierce Highland chief met his gaze. “Word has arrived.”

The fisherman was pushed forward. Obviously intimidated by the gathering of men in the room, he spoke in a halting voice. “Minor delay. Men secured. Proceed as planned.”

The fisherman was ushered out of the room, with Bruce giving instructions for him to be fed and recompensed for his journey.

When they were alone again, Bruce turned to his brother—one of the three he had left. “Edward, I want you and Raider to go to Arran and scout the area near Broderick—Lochranza Castle in particular. The rest of us will sail to Rathlin as planned and wait for Hawk.”

“You see, sire,” MacGregor said. “Nothing to worry about.”

By the rood, Bruce prayed he was right. It wasn’t just him but the future of an entire nation counting on the heralded seafarer.

Chapter Ten