The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(7)

Now this was really getting interesting. His pulse spiked with excitement. He lived for moments like these, a true test of skill and nerve.

“Now!” he shouted. “Pull hard, lads.”

Domnall made the adjustment with the rudder, the men plunged in their oars at a sharp angle to turn, and Erik fought to keep the sail beating as close to the wind as possible to help carry them out of harm’s way.

He heard the raised voices on the ship behind him but was too focused on the almost impossible task before him. The sea and momentum fought to pull them toward the rocks not ten feet to the port side. The men rowed harder, using every last ounce of their conserved energy. Energy the English rowers did not have.

The tip of the boat nudged just beyond the edge of the rocky point.

Only a few more feet …

But the rocks on his left kept getting closer—and bigger—as the birlinn careened toward disaster. He could hear Randolph alternatively cursing and praying, but he never broke his focus. “Harder,” he shouted to his men, his arms flexed and burning with the strain of manning the ropes. “Almost around …”

He held his breath as the boat edged past the tip of the point, his senses honed on the sounds below the waterline. Then he heard the soft screech. The unmistakable sound of rock scraping against oak would strike terror in the hearts of most seafarers, but Erik held steady. The sound continued for a few more seconds but did not deepen. They were around.

A big grin spread across his face. Ah, that was something! More excitement than he’d had since the storm that had hit them as they fled from Dunaverty. “We did it, lads!”

A cheer went up. A cheer that grew louder when they heard a cry of alarm go up behind them, followed by a deafening crash as the English boat smashed into the rocks.

Handing the two guide ropes to one of his men, he jumped up on a wooden chest that served as a bench and was rewarded with a clear view of the English sailors scrambling for safety on the very rocks that had just torn apart their boat. Their curses carried toward him in the wind.

He bowed with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “Give my regards to Eddie, lads.”

The fresh wave of cursing that answered him only made him laugh harder.

He jumped back down and cuffed Randolph on the back. The poor lad looked a bit green. “Now that was risky.”

The young knight looked at him with a mixture of admiration and incredulity. “You’ve the Devil’s own luck, Hawk. But one day it’s going to run out.”

“Aye, perhaps you are right.” Erik gave him a conspiratorial wink. “But not tonight.”

Or so he thought.

“St. Columba’s bones, Ellie! When is the last time you had any fun? You’ve become positively boring.” Matty emphasized the last with all the exaggerated drama of a girl of eight and ten, making it sound as if Ellie had caught some hideous disease akin to leprosy.

Ellie didn’t turn her attention from the swathes of fabric strewn across her bed, answering her younger sister automatically, “I’m not boring, and don’t blaspheme.” She lifted a light sky-blue silk up to her chest. “What do you think of this one?”

“See!” Matty threw up her hands in utter despair. “That’s exactly my point. You are only a few years older than I am, yet you act like my nursemaid. But even ol’ pinched-faced Betha was more fun than you. And Thomas says ‘St. Columba’s bones’ all the time and no one says a word to him.”

“I’m six years older, and Thomas isn’t a lady.” Ellie wrinkled her nose at her reflection in the looking glass and discarded the blue in the growing pile of unbecoming colors. The light pastels that were so favored right now did nothing for her dark hair and eyes.

Matty—whom pastels suited perfectly—narrowed her big blue eyes. There was nothing that annoyed Mathilda de Burgh more than having the freedom that her twin brother enjoyed pointed out. Her adorable chin set in a stubborn line, making her look like a mulish kitten. “That is a ridiculous reason, and you know it.”

Ellie shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “That’s the way of it.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Matty took her hand and gave her a pleading look. With her silky blond hair, porcelain skin, red Cupid’s-bow mouth, and big blue eyes, it was hard to resist. But Ellie had had plenty of experience doing just that. To a one, all nine—eight—of her siblings were ridiculously gorgeous creatures with fair hair and light eyes. She and Walter had been the only ones with their father’s dark Norman coloring.

A hot wave of sadness washed over her. Now there was only her.

“That’s why tonight will be so much fun,” Matty prodded, not giving up. “It’s the only night we are allowed to swim with men. This is your last chance. Next year you’ll be off in England with your new husband.” She heaved a dreamy sigh.

Ellie’s stomach took a little tumbling dive as it always did at the mention of her impending nuptials, but she pushed through the sudden queasiness. “Maiden’s Plunge isn’t for women of our position.”

She bit her lip, sounding staid even to her own ears. As the pagan celebration of Yule had given way to Christmas, so, too, had the ancient Norse “Virgin’s Plunge” (renamed the Maiden’s Plunge so as to not further offend the church), where the pagans had sacrificed young maidens to Aegir the god of the sea, given way to the celebration of Candlemas—the day marking the end of the Christmas season. The church cast a disapproving glare on the pagan celebrations but did not try to forbid them. Perhaps because they knew any attempt would fail.