The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(49)

He smiled back at her. “Is tonight soon enough?”

It must have been better than she’d expected, because all of a sudden she threw her arms around him. “Thank you,” she whispered against the leather of his cotun. He swore he could feel the softness of her breath on his skin, spreading over him in a warm glow.

When he looked down at the tiny woman curled against him, at her satiny head shimmering like polished mahogany in the sunlight, at the long sweep of dark lashes brushing against the velvety-soft cheek pressed to his chest, something inside him shifted. A fierce swell of protectiveness rose inside him.

“You’re welcome,” he said, sliding his arms around her narrow back with a feeling that could only be described as contentment. It was strange, but with all of the women he’d held in his arms before, no one had ever felt quite like this.

Chapter Eleven

The initial jolt was always the worst. The sharp blast of cold that forced an involuntary gasp from his lungs and sucked out every sensation from his body, the overwhelming chill that penetrated to the bones, and then the mind-numbing lethargy that made it seem as if everything inside him had slowed to a crawl.

The first few seconds after diving into the wintry sea were something Erik never got used to—no amount of conditioning or seal grease could change that. But once the shock had dulled and he began to swim, his mind took control and he forgot all about the temperature. He focused on the strokes, on his even breathing, and on the mission ahead.

Not many would attempt to swim across open seas and treacherous currents at the dead of night in temperatures that would render most men unconscious in less than an hour. Fortunately for Bruce, Erik was not most men.

His skills on and in the water were what had brought him to Bruce’s attention in the first place. The Highland Guard had been formed for just these kinds of seemingly impossible missions under extreme conditions. Bruce had handpicked the greatest warriors in each discipline of warfare and forged them into a single elite fighting force—a deceptively simple idea that was in fact revolutionary. Never before had men from different clans been brought together into one guard, united not by blood but by common purpose: to free Scotland from English tyranny and restore its crown to Robert Bruce, a man worthy of the title of king.

The Guard had given Erik a sense of purpose that he’d never known. He knew that what he was doing was not just important, but would be remembered for ages.

If they were successful.

Erik did not delude himself. Bruce’s situation was dire. Edward of England was out for blood. For Bruce to reclaim his kingdom, it would take not only careful planning and fierce warriors, but luck. Something Erik had never lacked for.

As he left the shelter of the bay behind for the open waters, the current intensified and the waves grew higher, requiring more energy and concentration. He followed the beam of moonlight across the blackened seas, thankful for the relatively clear skies. But in winter, he knew that could change in a heartbeat. One favorite saying of Islanders was that if you don’t like the weather, just wait a few minutes. Fortunately for him, the past few days had been dry, and tonight seemed inclined to hold to the pattern.

God, he loved it out here in the darkness. The peace. The solitude. The challenge of taking on nature in all of its omnipotent majesty. Pushing himself to the limit, and then the euphoria that coursed through his blood when he succeeded—there was nothing like it.

Half an hour later, Erik gazed up at the towering shadow of the great castle of Dunaverty. Perched on a massive rock—remarkably similar to Dunluce Castle—on a promontory of land at the southern tip of Kintyre, the strategically located castle had been the site of ancient forts for as long as anyone could recall.

Once a prominent stronghold of his Norse ancestors, the castle had descended to his cousin Angus Og from their great-great-grandfather Somerled—the mighty King of the Isles who’d given Erik’s clan its name: MacSorley, sons of Somerled. The little nursemaid would probably find it appropriate that Somerled meant “summer traveler,” a reference to going “a viking.”

The long swim and cold water had sapped his strength, but as Erik drew closer his blood fired with a renewed burst of energy. The real danger was about to begin.

The castle’s sea-gate was just ahead. As last time, he was covered head to toe in black seal grease. It not only helped to insulate him from the cold but allowed him to blend into the night, so he should be able—like last time—to slip under the gate without being detected. The gate had been fashioned to keep out a boat, not a solitary swimmer.

It had taken the English months of sieging to breach the castle walls; he would need less than a minute.

Taking a deep breath, he dove into the tomblike blackness. The water was no more than ten feet deep at this point, and it took him only seconds to touch the rocky bottom. Using that as his guide, he skated along the seafloor until he knew that he was clear of the bars. Only then did he surface—carefully and soundlessly.

He opened his eyes to torchlight and the cavelike stone chamber deep in the bowels of Dunaverty Castle. He was in.

But he wasn’t alone.

Erik held perfectly still, not breathing, as a solitary guard made his rounds past the gate. But luck was with him again. The Englishman barely glanced at the water below him. Why should he? The gate was down. Unless ships were suddenly capable of diving underwater—Erik smiled at the ridiculous notion—the guard had nothing to fear. Or so he assumed.