The Hawk (Highland Guard #2)(90)

Maybe she’d even shed a tear or two.

Suddenly, a drop of water appeared on her cheek. The materialization of his thought startled him, until he realized it wasn’t a tear but rain.

Erik was normally attuned to every small change in the weather—as a seafarer his life and the lives of his men depended on it—but the rain had come without warning. The heavy mist had shrouded the signs, but all at once the mercurial Innse Gaell weather shifted like quicksilver.

“If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. “ The old Western Isles’ adage held true.

At first it didn’t concern him. The wind started to pick up, and he was able to put down his oars and hoist the makeshift sail. The tiny boat caught a sharp gust, and he covered as much distance as he’d rowed in a fraction of the time.

But light wind and rain were only a precursor of what was to come.

He’d experienced a sudden squall enough times before to know the signs. The rain intensified. The wind shifted and exploded in short, violent bursts. The seas started to churn. The waves heightened and steepened. The currents swirled and pulled.

It was getting harder and harder for Erik to hold his position. There weren’t many worse places than the North Channel in a winter storm—let alone in a small boat that had never been built for such an undertaking.

The air started to thicken and teem with restlessness. He could feel the energy of the storm building and knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.

By his reckoning it was close to midnight and they were nearly halfway, but the northern coast of Ireland was still a good seven miles away. His only option was to try to make it to shore, outrunning the storm before it hit full force.

But he knew he was in for a battle. Not just to reach Ireland in time, but for their lives. It was going to take everything he had to keep the waves and rain from swamping the boat or capsizing them.

He’d wanted a challenge, and it looked like he was going to have one. But he hadn’t wanted it this way, not with Ellie.

A strange feeling crawled around his chest. It took him a moment to realize what it was: fear. The realization took him aback. He’d been in much worse situations and never been scared before.

It was because of Ellie. His fear was for her. The thought of her in danger crippled him, made him feel almost … vulnerable. And he didn’t like it at all.

Christ, what had he done? He was supposed to protect her, not put her in danger. But recriminations would come later; right now he could think about only one thing: getting them out of this alive.

The crashing boom of thunder jolted Ellie harshly awake. “What’s happening?” she said dazedly.

“A wee spate of bad weather, that’s all,” he assured her.

Nothing in his voice or expression gave any hint of the danger, but he couldn’t do anything to hide the violent pitch of the boat over the waves, the howl of the wind, or the heavy rain and thunder. It was bad now, but he wasn’t going to let her know that he suspected it would get worse—much worse—before the night was through.

He could see the worry in her eyes. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

That she didn’t argue with him and decided to go along with his pretense told him how scared she was.

He indicated a bucket tied to the bow. “Try to keep as much water out of the hull as possible, and hold on tight—it might get bumpy.”

A prodigious understatement, as it turned out. The faster he went, the worse—and more dangerous—it became. He was constantly monitoring and adjusting his speed, while trying to avoid any breaking waves. He fought to harness the shifting wind with one hand, trying to keep the bow positioned into the oncoming waves, while working the rudder with the other.

He knew he had to try to sail as long as he could. It gave him a better ability to keep the bow heading in the right direction. He could only hope that the boat and quickly rigged mast were strong enough to withstand the burgeoning power of the storm.

But the little skiff proved to be surprisingly strong, and its flat-bottomed hull helped to keep them stable as the wind carried them over the torrential waves.

For the next few miles, the makeshift sail held as they sailed closer to safety. He hoped. But he’d lost virtually any ability to gauge their direction. He was operating on instinct alone.

The fight for survival dominated, but always at the back of his mind was his mission. He had to get them through this. Too much was resting on it. The timing of the attack was crucial. Months of preparation could not be wasted. A failure in one prong of the attack would leave the other vulnerable, and they would lose the element of surprise. With each day that passed, Erik knew the flicker of hope for Bruce’s cause dimmed.

Every inch of his body burned with the effort to keep them afloat, all the while never letting Ellie know that they were only one rogue wave away from disaster and death.

He looked at her pale face dripping with rain and felt an ache in his chest. He knew how scared she was, though she was doing her best to hide it. He’d never admired her strength more than he did at this moment. He wouldn’t ever forget the way she looked now, a tiny, waterlogged urchin, hair plastered to her face, soaking wet, trying to keep from toppling over in the gale-force winds while dutifully bailing water and watching his every move with those observant dark eyes of hers. But also with something else—trust and admiration that humbled him.