The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(87)

“I plan to be long gone by then.” His best bet—his only bet at the moment—was the old skiff. To make it seaworthy, he was going to have to improvise. But he didn’t have much time; it was already almost dark. “I’m going to need your help,” he said to Meg.

She grinned eagerly. “Just tell me what to do.”

He explained what he needed, and Meg returned to the croft to gather help and supplies.

“What can I do?” Ellie asked.

He turned, seeing that she was watching him with a determined look on her face. What he wanted to do was lock her away somewhere safe—preferably a high, impenetrable tower—until this was all over. But he had a feeling she wouldn’t agree to that, even if it were possible. She had that I-intend-to-help-and-you’d-better-not-try-to-stop-me look on her face.

“I don’t suppose you’ve noticed a nice high tower around here, have you?”

She rolled her eyes. “You won’t get rid of me so easily.”

He didn’t doubt it. He liked that about her. She wasn’t easily pushed around. How had Domnall put it? She didn’t take his shite. “You can help Meg when she returns. Can you start a fire?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

“Good.” His wet clothes didn’t matter, but he wanted her warm and dry. “See what food you can find.”

Her mouth tightened as if she knew what he was up to. “I’m not hungry.”

“I am,” he said. “And I’m going to be hungrier before the night is through. You’ll do me no good if you are weak from lack of food.”

They had a long night ahead of them.

He led her back to Meg’s longhouse and told her he’d be back. “Where are you going?”

“To see if there is anything I can salvage from the cave. And then I have a ship to build.”

Her eyes widened. “You can’t mean to attempt to outrun the English fleet in that rickety pile of kindling.”

He grinned. “Not attempt.” He dropped a kiss on her mouth before she could reply. “I’ll be back soon.”

He started to go, but she stopped him. “You won’t leave without …”

Me. He knew what she was trying to ask. But beyond getting her warm and fed, he hadn’t fully considered what he was going to do with her.

He’d vowed to take her home, but he no longer had the time. He couldn’t leave her here in case the English returned. She knew too much. He trusted her, but not the English methods of persuasion.

Assuming he was able to make the skiff safe enough to cross the channel, she would be safer with him—as long as the English didn’t catch up with him. But he didn’t have any intention of allowing that to happen.

He wanted her close. So he could protect her, he told himself. If he left her here, it would drive him mad with worry, not knowing what was happening.

He hated that he’d gotten her into this, but into it she was.

“I’ll be back. Be ready to go.”

It was the first smile he’d seen on her face since the morning, and he realized how much her unhappiness had weighed on him.

He just hoped to hell he was doing the right thing.

Ellie had never seen anything like it. Working with single-minded determination and purpose, in a few hours Erik had rigged the small skiff for a sail, turning tree branches into a mast, a few old planks into a rudder, and linen bedsheets into a sail. The axe that had slain more men on the battlefield than she wanted to think about had become a delicately honed instrument in the hands of a skilled shipbuilder.

She stood on the beach, warm and fed, bundled in extra plaids and a thick fur mantle, admiring his handiwork as final preparations for their voyage were made.

Though by no means as sturdy as his hawk birlinn, the skiff was eminently more impressive than when she’d last seen it. He’d repaired some of the warped boards by planing down the old ones for a tighter and stronger fit. One or two had been replaced, but he hadn’t wanted to do more because the wood was not cured. The hull had been blackened with a sticky material that Erik said would help keep it watertight.

The mast was rustic-looking but appeared functional, as did the rudder attached at the back. The sail had been fashioned from two bedsheets that she and Meg had sewn together. An old fisherman had then spread some kind of rancid-smelling animal fat on it.

Erik had finished storing the provisions that Meg had given him—extra blankets, food, water, and ale—in a small chest that he’d fastened to the hull for her to sit on and came up to stand beside her.

“Your ship awaits, my lady,” he said with a gallant flourish of his hand.

She shook her head and gave him a wry look. “Is there anything you can’t do?”

He grinned. “Not that I know of, but I’m sure you’ll be the first to let me know if there is.”

She laughed. “Count on it.”

After all that they’d been through today, Ellie realized that his ability to lighten the mood definitely had its benefits. It was easy to see why his men admired him so much. In the darkness of battle, men needed a way to ease the tension. Erik was a natural morale-booster. Moreover, his unflappability in the face of danger and calamity must inspire and give confidence to the men he led. He would be the perfect man to have around when things didn’t go right—as was inevitable in war.