The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(84)

The soldier on the beach cursed and started to shout for help.

More soldiers had to be nearby.

Erik ran toward them from the water, looking like a demon possessed.

The soldier grabbed Ellie again and started to run toward a small, grassy hillock nestling the south of the cove. But her weight and struggles slowed him down. Before they even reached the edge of the beach, Erik had caught up with them.

“Let her go,” he boomed. His voice sounded different. Harder. Harsher. More forceful than she’d ever heard him.

The soldier stopped and forced her behind him. Sword drawn, he turned to face Erik. But Erik was already on him. Heedless of the blade hovering over his head, Erik pummeled him in the jaw with his fist, knocking the soldier off balance. She heard a crunch as he followed the punch with an immediate side-of-the-hand blow to the soldier’s wrist—opposite of the way it bent naturally—causing the sword to fall from his flopping hand. With a quick swipe of his foot, he knocked the soldier to the ground and drew the dagger across his neck.

Ellie quickly averted her gaze. War, dying, and bloodshed were all too common, but not something she ever got used to.

And Erik’s coldly efficient killing style was something entirely different. It had been the most brutal display of fighting she’d ever seen, though it was over in a matter of seconds. Seeing him like this, she no longer doubted Domnall’s story of him facing a score of warriors.

He pulled her from the rocks and drew her into his arms, holding her tightly against him. She could feel the press of his mouth on her head. The change from ruthless killer to tender lover couldn’t have been more dramatic.

“God, Ellie, are you all right?”

She nodded, her cheek resting against the cold, sodden linen of his tunic, the steady sound of his heartbeat calming her. “I’m fine.” She drew back, startled. “What about you?” Her gaze dropped to his side, where the saffron-colored fabric was now stained with a wide blotch of red. “You’re hurt,” she sobbed, pressing her hands to his wound.

He cupped her chin with his fingers and lifted her gaze to his. “It’s nothing. A graze, that’s all.”

She didn’t believe him until he showed her, lifting his shirt to reveal the thin, shallow slash on his side, and the hole in his tunic where the spear had caught and propelled him backward.

She closed her eyes, saying a prayer of thanks. A few more inches and the spear would have skewered him.

“You were lucky,” she said. Her throat thickened and tears sprang to her eyes. “They might have killed you.” As obviously had been their intent.

He grinned and dropped a soft kiss on her mouth. “Ah, love, it will take more than four English curs to take me down. The wind at my back, remember?”

She nodded. Fortune did seem to follow him. At another time she would have rolled her eyes at his boasting, but right now she was too grateful to care.

“We need to get out of here,” he said, his face suddenly grim. “Those soldiers didn’t come alone. There must be a ship nearby.”

Ellie tilted her head in the direction of the fallen soldier. “He was calling for help.”

“That means they’re close. Go back to the skiff and get dressed; you must be freezing.”

She’d been too terrified to notice, but she was shivering uncontrollably.

“Where are you going?” Her voice sounded a little panicky, and after what had just happened, she didn’t want to let him out of her sight.

He pointed to the hillock. “To see where the rest of them are.” He leaned down to pick up the fallen man’s sword. “Hurry.”

She did as he bade, quickly donning the woolen gown, her hose, and slippers. She’d just finished wrapping the plaid around her shoulders when he joined her.

She could tell from his harsh movements and fierce expression that something was wrong. Her stomach dropped, realizing it must be bad to have penetrated that unflappable demeanor.

“What is it? Did you see their galley?”

He dressed and armed himself as he spoke. “Aye, it’s on the other side of the hill—along with about a dozen soldiers.”

“But that’s not what’s bothering you?”

He finished buckling the scabbard that held his sword across his back and turned to meet her gaze. She could see the fury storming in his eyes.

“There are four English galleys guarding the bay, and smoke is coming from the direction of the beach.” He pointed south, and she could just make out the gray wisps against the similarly colored skies. “The English have found us.”

Time tolled at an agonizing pace as Erik waited for the English to give up their hunt. But they were relentless, turning over every rock on the small island.

It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed not to race back to the beach immediately. But he couldn’t. Two things stood in his way: he needed to protect Ellie—the sight of her in the English soldier’s grasp was not one he would soon forget—and he had to think about his mission.

If he were captured, Bruce wouldn’t have his mercenaries in time. Nor would he have Erik to lead the fleet to Arran. The mission had to come first. His men were well trained and could take care of themselves.

But hiding in a cave rather than joining the fight went against every bone in his body. Hours later he was going half-mad, feeling like a lion caged in a very small pen.