His stomach dropped as the implications hit him. “How did they find out?”
Meg shook her head. “One of the men or villagers must have told them.”
Erik tried to control his anger. If the English knew about Ellie, they could use her as a weapon against him. It shocked him to realize how effective a weapon she would be. The thought of her in danger turned his blood cold.
“I don’t think they’ve given up looking for you,” Meg said. “They’ll be back.”
“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.
What she hadn’t expected, however, was his incredible tenacity and determination. He had a job to do and nothing was going to get in his way. She suspected he’d swim off this island if he had to.
Clearly, if he cared about something he took it very seriously.
If only she could be that “something.”
Giving the rickety-skiff-turned-seaworthy-sailing-vessel another glance, she shook her head and said, “Why do I get the impression that you never give up?”
“It’s not in the blood. I’m a Highlander. Bas roimh geill.”
Death before surrender, she translated. The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the icy, heavy mist hovering around them.
Not noticing her reaction, he smiled as if something had suddenly amused him.
“What is it?”
“I was just thinking about a spider I came across recently.”
She made a face. “You find spiders amusing? Remind me to introduce you sometime to my brother Edmond; he loves nothing more than to put them in my little sister’s bed.”
He chuckled. “Not amusing, ironic. This wee spider inspired a king.”
He told her the story of Bruce’s spider in the cave. How at the king’s lowest moment of despair and hopelessness, when Bruce was ready to give up, the spider’s perseverance and ultimate success in spinning its web had acted as a powerful omen. One that had reinvigorated the flagging king for the long struggle ahead.
“It’s a wonderful tale,” Ellie said. “If Bruce succeeds, I suspect it will be used by nursemaids to inspire their charges for generations.” But given the source, she eyed him suspiciously. “How much of it is true?”
His eyes twinkled in the darkness. “You think I could make something like that up?” He put his hand over his heart dramatically. “You wound me.”
She gave him a stern look, which he ignored. Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he led her to the boat. The villagers had gathered around to bid them farewell, and Ellie was surprised to find herself included in many of the womanly hugs and manly back-slaps. But it wasn’t until they came to Meg that her throat constricted.
Meg embraced Erik first. “Take care of yourself and the lass,”
she said, trying to hide the tear she wiped from her eye. “I’d tell you not to do anything rash, but I know I’d be wasting my breath. But you did swear to replace those bedsheets by summer, and I’ll hold you to that promise.”
Erik laughed and gave her a fond kiss on the cheek. “You’ll have your new linens, love.”
“I’d better,” Meg said with mock severity. “And bring the lass with you when you come.”
Before Erik could reply, Meg turned to Ellie and enfolded her in that warm embrace. “Take care of him,” she whispered.
Ellie squeezed her a little tighter, not wanting to let go. For a moment, it felt as though she was saying goodbye to her mother again. Her chest tightened, and the back of her eyes started to burn.
“Thank you,” Ellie said with a broken sob. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for your kindness.”
Meg pulled back and gave her a peck on the cheek. Their eyes met in watery understanding. “Be happy,” she said.
Ellie nodded, unable to speak. She would try. But after what happened today, she didn’t know if that was possible. Despite the events that had transpired since, she was painfully aware of Erik’s continued silence on the matter of what had happened in the cave.
She’d given him her heart—her body—and nothing had ever felt so right. To her, at least.
He’d regretted it then; did he still?
All too quickly, she found herself loaded in the boat, pushed out to sea, and watching the small crowd gathered on the beach fade into the darkness and mist.
She felt a sharp pang of sadness, realizing that the happy lull of the isle was at an end. The question remained whether it was all fantasy or whether what had been forged between them on the small, idyllic island could flourish and grow in the real world. In a world of coming war.
She burrowed deeper into the cloak and pile of plaids around her shoulders. The light rain had relented, but the icy, cold mist penetrated just as deeply. Unfortunately there wasn’t much of a breeze, but Erik managed to keep the sail filled as the small skiff edged out of the bay.
As they entered the open sea, the temperature plummeted and the mist thickened almost impenetrably. She couldn’t see farther than a few feet in front of the boat. The sail started to flap as the gentle breeze from before seemed to evaporate, and Erik was forced to take up the oars.
“How long will it take to cross the channel to Ireland?”
He shrugged. “It depends. A few hours, maybe longer.”
She frowned. “With no wind?”
“It will pick up,” he said confidently, drawing the oars through the water in perfect tandem. He was seated opposite her, giving her a perfect view of his impressive arms and shoulders bulging with every stroke. The lack of sail power wasn’t all bad, she realized.
“How can you be so sure?”
He lifted one brow.
She rolled her eyes. “That’s right. The wind at your back.”
He grinned. “You’re finally catching on.”
As that hardly deserved a response, she sat back to admire the view—which had gotten even better since he’d removed his cloak.
Despite the cold and eerie dark mist, the roll of waves and the smooth rowing motion was surprisingly relaxing. She found her eyes drooping as the day’s long and stressful events finally caught up to her.
She must have dozed, because the next thing she remembered was the rain pelting against her cheeks and the hard crack of thunder jarring her awake to a nightmare.
Nineteen
At first Erik wasn’t concerned by the stillness in the air. The lack of wind had its benefits: if the English were lying in wait, they wouldn’t be able to see his sail. Even he would be hard-pressed to outrun a fleet of English galleys in a ten-foot skiff.
He grinned at the thought that if it weren’t for his mission, he might be willing to try. He’d yet to meet a challenge he didn’t like—even an impossible one.
But the English were more likely to be holed up in some stolen Scottish castle, safe and warm in their beds, than sitting on a galley in the murky, cold mist watching for a solitary rebel—even one who’d tweaked their pride more than once.
He rowed in the murky darkness, using the west coast of Spoon as a reference for as long as he could. Once they entered the North Channel, however, all that was between them and Ireland was the pitch-black sea. Without the stars and land to guide him, he had to rely on instinct and years of experience at gauging the currents, and the wind to hold his course.
They’d left about four hours after sunset—a little after nine o’clock—which meant he had roughly ten hours of solid darkness left to reach Ireland and sail the men the short three miles to Rathlin.
Plenty of time even if he had to row the entire distance. But the wind would pick up. It was the Western Isles. Cold, mist, and wind were a given.
He spent the first couple of hours of their journey enjoying the relaxing rhythm of plunging the oars through the water and watching Ellie’s peaceful slumber.
For such a serious, no-nonsense lass, she looked ridiculously adorable when she slept. He liked the way her long, dark lashes swept against her pale cheeks, how her hands curled into small fists by her face, and how her lips parted softly as she breathed. He loved her changing expressions. The little frowns that turned to rapturous smiles and made him wonder what she was dreaming about.
But he was most surprised by how much he wanted to tuck her against his chest and fall asleep with his arms around her. After he made love to her again.
Shame tugged at him. With all that had happened, he hadn’t had a chance to rectify his ignoble reaction after their lovemaking. When he thought of how wonderful she’d been in the intervening hours, it made him feel even worse. She’d been a steady source of support at his side. Not asking questions, not making demands, not bursting into hysterical tears, and helping when needed.
He could do much worse for a wife.
A wife.
He paused, letting the idea take hold, surprised when he didn’t cringe or have to fight the urge to jump overboard.
Why not? he thought with a grin. Ellie would make him a fine wife. He liked her—cared about her even. She made him laugh. She challenged him as no other woman had before in a way that was oddly refreshing. With her he could relax.
And most important, if he married her, he would have her in his bed. Whenever he wanted. He suspected he’d be “wanting” an awful lot. His body heated at the memories. Making love to her had been … intense. Incredible. Damn near perfect.
Eventually his lust for her would fade—it had to, didn’t it?—but he’d be discreet and have care for her feelings when he took a leman, as was the custom. Although right now, the idea of another woman didn’t interest him.
Even a little.
It was a bit unsettling.
There was another consideration that he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind. If he let her go, she might be tempted to look for passion with someone else. But all that passion she’d held bottled up for so long was dangerous in the wrong hands. There were many men who might take advantage of her. Obviously, she needed someone to protect her.
He supposed it would have to be him.
The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed to him. Domnall was right. His mother and sisters wouldn’t care that she was only a nursemaid, and as far as everyone else …
Hell, he didn’t give a damn what other people thought; he never had.
He could give her wealth, position, and a home. Children of her own to boss around. His gaze slid over her sleeping form, resting on her stomach. He could almost picture her rushing out of one of his castles to greet him when he returned from a journey, her eyes bright with happiness to see him and her belly swollen with child. His chest tightened with a fierce, unfamiliar emotion at the thought of her heavy with his child. He wanted that connection with her. He wanted it with a primal intensity that surprised him.
He smiled, liking the idea more an
d more.
Wouldn’t she be surprised when she discovered her pirate was a great-grandson of Somerled and chieftain of one of the most ancient clans in the land? She’d probably be overwhelmed—grateful even. A sharp swell of satisfaction rose in his chest. Aye, grateful would be good—and unique, where Ellie was concerned.
Erik drew the oars through the increasingly strong current and rising waves with renewed vigor. He was anxious for her to wake up so he could tell her of his decision. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction. At first she’d be shocked—especially when she understood the honor he was doing her—then no doubt overjoyed, excited, and relieved.
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.