He wanted someone who argued with him. Who challenged him and cared enough to delve beneath the surface. Who wanted to give as much as she wanted to receive.
“I love you.”
He heard the words over and over in his head. He could see her face in the moonlight and couldn’t escape the feeling that he’d made a mistake. That Ellie had been offering him something special, and he’d been too blind to see it. That maybe the words he’d heard many times before had meant something different coming from her. But he’d asked her to marry him, hadn’t he? It was she who hadn’t wanted him. Why would she? He had nothing to offer her.
His fingers clenched the heavy pewter goblet until the raised metal edge of the fleur-de-lis engraving bit into his fingers.
What the hell was the matter with him?
Disgusted with himself, he tried to relax and give the lass some encouragement. But the teasing and flirting felt forced, and he soon found himself frustrated by the light banter. Still propped on his knee, he was glad when she turned to speak to the woman who’d come up to refill her flagon of ale.
He took a deep swig and gazed around the torchlit tent at the crowd of boisterous, already half-sotted men. Even if he did not share in their revelry, Erik did not begrudge them their fun. There’d been precious little cause for celebrating of late, and the men needed something to raise their spirits. It was the first time he’d seen Bruce smiling since the horrific news of his brothers’ beheadings and the capture of the women had reached them.
There had been small patches of good news. Striker and Hunter had been among the handful of men to escape in the failed second prong of the attack in Galloway. On a two-day mission north, the remaining members of the Highland Guard—including Alex “Dragon” Seton, who’d found them shortly after Turnberry—had slipped into the lightly defended Urquhart Castle and rescued Magnus “Saint” MacKay and William “Templar” Gordon after months of imprisonment. Then, about a week later, with the help of Gordon’s magic powder, they’d freed Domnall and the rest of Erik’s men from Ayr.
But these successes had to be weighed against the heavy costs this war had exacted: three brothers, Christopher Seton, the Earl of Atholl, an imprisoned family, and too many others.
Thus far, Bruce’s return to Scottish soil had yielded no more than a few hundred acres of wild, godforsaken mountains in Galloway. They’d made little headway against the English since Turnberry. The raids and small attacks on supply routes weren’t enough to rally additional men to the king’s banner. They were treading water, just holding their heads up high enough to avoid drowning. And eventually they would tire.
They needed something decisive to draw more men into the fold. But this time the king was being patient, refusing to meet the English unless it was on his terms. Erik hoped it came soon. Any momentum they’d garnered since Turnberry was quickly dissipating in the mud and grime of living on the run.
But tonight they were almost civilized again. After months of living in virtual squalor, it felt good to sit at a table again. Unlike the English nobles who traveled with wagons of household comforts, Bruce needed to travel lightly and be able to move at a moment’s notice. But, for the feast tonight, a kinswoman of the king’s, Christina of Carrick, had arranged for a tent to be erected, and a few tables and benches had been carted to their temporary mountain headquarters near Glen Trool.
As the guest of honor, Erik was seated at the center table a few seats away from the king, his brother Edward, James Douglas, Neil Campbell, MacRuairi, MacGregor, and MacLeod. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that his cousin was arguing with the king again.
If there was anyone who could rival Erik for his black temper lately, it was MacRuairi. He didn’t need to hear to know what they were arguing about. The king had refused to sanction MacRuairi’s repeated requests to attempt to rescue the ladies from captivity. He needed them alive, the king said. Attempting to rescue the well-guarded ladies in English strongholds at this point would be a suicide mission. He couldn’t risk losing them—not when their situation was so precarious. Once he’d solidified his base, he would lead the Highland Guard himself.
But MacRuairi would not be satisfied by reason. He was like a man possessed in his determination to free the ladies—especially the two hanging in cages.
“You don’t seem to be enjoying your present,” MacLeod said pointedly from his seat on Erik’s left.
Erik defied the knowing look in his chief’s eye by sliding his hand around the lass’s round bottom. “Oh, I’m enjoying it fine.”
He tried not to cringe when the lass giggled and wiggled deeper into his lap, swatting at his hand playfully. But thankfully she was too busy enjoying her ale and MacGregor’s pretty face on his right to resume her attentions.
Depressingly, he felt nary the faintest spark of competitive fires stirring inside him. He half wished the famed archer would take her off his hands—or in this case, his lap.
“It was the king’s idea,” MacLeod said, eyeing him over the edge of his goblet. “I think it’s his way of apologizing.”
“He has nothing to apologize for,” Erik said. “I offended his honor and made things even more difficult between him and his father-in-law. He gave no more than I deserved.”
“Ulster doesn’t seem to have taken it personally,” MacLeod said. “As for the king’s honor,” he shrugged, “I think he regrets some of the things he said.”
“He would have strung me up by my bollocks if he could have.”
The Chief of the Highland Guard didn’t argue with him. “You’re probably right. But you’re too damn valuable and he knows it. Besides, he needs every man he can get right now.” MacLeod looked him in the eye. “I think Randolph’s turning affected him deeply. More than he has let on.”
Erik didn’t disagree. It had affected them all. Domnall had filled them in on the details, but it had pretty much happened as Erik had suspected. Opportunistic perhaps, but no less a betrayal.
Erik took it as a personal failure. Randolph had been under his command. He’d thought he was getting through to the lad. Apparently not.
“In any event,” MacLeod said, “now that his anger has cooled, I think the king realizes that you are not solely to blame for what happened. You didn’t know who she was. I think he’s more angry at his brother for failing to recognize the lass.” One corner of his mouth cracked in a half-smile. “Nor has the king forgotten what it is like to fall in love.”
Forgetting all about the lass on his knee, Erik nearly knocked her to the ground when he jerked around to the man at his side. He gave him a hard glare. “Love?” He laughed sharply. “Christ’s bones, I’m not in love.”
The fierce warrior eyed him challengingly. “So there’s another reason for your ill temper these past two months?”
Erik’s mouth fell in a hard line. “You mean aside from living in these godforsaken mountains being chased by a bunch of English dogs? I cared about her, of course, but I’m hardly the type to chain myself to one lass.” He forced himself to shiver, trying not to remember that it used to come reflexively. “Not with so much fun to be had.”
“I can see that,” MacLeod said wryly, with an eye to the buxom lass on Erik’s lap. “You appear to be having the time of your life.”
Erik found himself getting angry, and he didn’t know whether it was from MacLeod’s sarcasm or his damn inability to ignore it. Usually unflappable, when it came to Ellie he’d become almost—he did shudder this time—sensitive.
In an effort to reclaim control of the conversation, he said idly, “It doesn’t matter. Whether the king believes me or not, I did offer for her.” He met his friend’s stare. “The lass refused.”
“It’s about time,” MacLeod murmured.
Erik glared. “What did you say?”
MacLeod shrugged. “Just that I would like to meet her.”
Erik hoped she was far away from here. Back in Ireland or—he swallowed bitterly—in England. Gritting his teeth against the r
eflexive surge of anger, he drained his flagon of ale and called for another.
It was his bloody Saint’s Day, damnation; he was going to enjoy it. Thirty years, he thought angrily. And everything had been going perfectly for twenty-nine and three-quarters of them. Last year he would have shared in the revelry, enjoyed teasing and flirting with the lass in his lap, and looked forward to a long night of pleasure.
Perhaps sensing the return of his attention, the lass resumed her efforts. She kissed him again, bolder now, as she attempted to take matters into her own hands, so to speak. He felt her hand close over the unresponsive bulge between his legs. “Ah, you’re a big man,” she giggled. “All over.”
He couldn’t even muster a naughty rejoinder. He tried to enjoy himself. Tried to relax and concentrate on her skilled hands, but it gave him only the unpleasant sensation of bugs crawling on his skin.
Ellie had bloody ruined him. Turned him into a damn eunuch.
He was just about to send the lass off on some false errand to fetch him more ale or whisky or God knows what else he could think of when he heard a commotion near the flap of the tent.
It was Boyd. He and Seton had drawn the unfortunate lot of being on guard duty tonight. A good thing, from the looks of it. The strongest man in Scotland was holding an intruder by the waist, dragging him inside with some difficulty. She—from the dainty slippers peeking out from below the cloak, now he could see it was a she—kicked the big warrior in the shin and attempted to wrench away.
“Let go of me, you oversized brute!”
Erik froze. His heart, his blood, everything came to a sudden, jerking halt.
“Robert,” she said in that bossy, authoritative voice that Erik knew so well. “I certainly hope this isn’t an example of how you treat the people trying to help you.”
Erik didn’t want to believe it, but the next minute his worst fears were confirmed. She tossed back her hood, pushed away a stunned Boyd, and stomped up to the table.
“Lady Elyne!” the king exclaimed, equally as shocked.
But Erik barely heard him. An angry red haze descended over him, blinding him from anything but the danger she’d put herself in.
The lass appeared to have a maddening penchant for stumbling into the wrong place at the wrong time.
He swore. Loudly.
Her gaze shot to his, and he registered her shock and then the hurt. It wasn’t until he stood up and snarled, “What the hell are you doing here?” that he remembered the woman on his lap.
Twenty-three
How ironic. The man she’d been dreaming about for weeks—months—and she hadn’t even recognized him. When the muscle-bound brute had thrust Ellie into the tent, instinctively she’d done a quick scan of the room. She’d noticed the buxom blond wrapped around the grizzled warrior, but hadn’t bothered to take a closer look.
Nothing about him felt familiar. Admittedly, with the woman hanging all over him she hadn’t been able to see him that clearly, but there was something different in the way he was sitting. The relaxed, utterly at-ease posture that characterized the man she knew had been replaced by a surly indifference that exuded danger and seemed to warn not to get too close.
It wasn’t until she’d heard his voice and turned to meet the familiar piercing blue-eyed gaze that her heart did a sharp tug in her chest. He was safe. Alive. She drank him in, noticing that the changes had gone far beyond posture. He was dressed differently, clad in a black war coat and a dark plaid. His hair was long and shaggy, and he had a week’s worth of scruff on his chin. His face seemed thinner, with a lean, hungry look to him that went along with the hard, humorless glare in his icy blue eyes and the surly twist of his mouth.
Instead of the swaggering pirate with the devilish glint in his eye, he was the most terrifying-looking man in a tent full of battle-hardened warriors.
Her relief to see him hale quickly turned to hurt. Her heart pinched. The woman had been kissing him. She’d had her head buried against his neck and her hands had been gripping the hard muscles of his broad shoulders. Muscles and shoulders Ellie knew intimately and had foolishly thought of as hers.
What had she expected, him to be pining after her?
Maybe a little.
Even seeing the woman fall to the floor, obviously forgotten, did nothing to lessen her hurt.
Fearing everyone in the room must be reading her thoughts, Ellie mustered her pride, lifted her chin, and with an imperious flick of her head, turned decisively from the irate, axe-wielding, dangerous-looking Viking.
It’s over. Her heart clenched. She’d known that. Now, she’d seen it for herself.
“Please, Robert, I must speak with you. It’s important.”
“It must be,” her brother-in-law said, but Ellie could tell that he was confused—and perhaps suspicious. Robert looked to the big man who’d grabbed her as she neared the camp. “She came alone?” he asked.
The rough-looking brute nodded. “Aye, but we’re checking to make sure.”
Robert nodded and came around the table to take her hand. “Come, sister, you can tell me what has brought you here.” He looked over his shoulder and motioned to a man seated next to Erik, and then to a few others. She noticed that the first warrior was dressed similarly to Erik and appeared well-matched in impressiveness. He was tall, heavily muscled, and ruggedly handsome—though not as shockingly so as the man on Erik’s other side. There was an air of authority about the first man that made her wonder who he was. Her brother-in-law obviously relied on him.
Edward Bruce had also risen to join them, as had an older warrior and a much younger one. Almost as an afterthought, Robert looked to Erik. “You might as well come, too.” He didn’t sound very happy about it.
She could read the tension between the two men and dearly hoped she wasn’t the cause.
Ellie followed her brother-in-law out of the tent and across the makeshift camp to a large gap in the rocky mountainside, intensely aware of the seething man behind her.
Erik was obviously not happy to see her. Not that she blamed him under the circumstances, but she hadn’t expected such vitriol—not from him. Did he hate her so much?
She hadn’t meant to deceive him; she’d only wanted to see if he could care about her for herself, without the trappings and duty of her nobility.
As it was well-lit by torches, she could see that the small cave had been set aside as the royal chamber of sorts, replete with a rustic chair, writing table, and mattress. It was a far cry from a palace, but Robert seemed perfectly at ease in his rough surroundings.
She’d always admired the handsome knight who’d won her sister’s heart, but she could see that Robert had been changed by the past year. She’d half-expected to find an outlaw with the furtive, anxious look of a hunted man. Instead she’d found a formidable warrior of strength and steely determination who seemed more a king in his dusty, dirty armor than he had in his crown and kingly robes.
Robert motioned for her to take the chair, and the men made use of various boulders and rocks scattered about the cave. As far as war councils went, it was an unusual one.
She could feel the heat of Erik’s angry glare on her, and some of the glow of success she’d been basking in for getting here dimmed. Her hands twisted anxiously in her skirts. Admittedly, traipsing across the war-torn countryside pretending to be a serving-maid-turned-spy for the English wasn’t exactly the safest thing to do, but it had been necessary.
Perhaps sensing her nervousness, Robert said gently, “I hope you won’t misunderstand, sister, when I say that although I’m happy to see you, I’m most interested in why you are here, and how you managed to find me.”
She concentrated on Robert, ignoring the fury emanating from the man leaning against the wall with his arms crossed forbiddingly before his broad, leather-clad chest. She wasn’t here for him anyway.
Well, not completely. Although she wasn’t sure her sympathy for her brother-in-law’s cause alone would have compelled her to such extremes.
She hadn’t snuck out of her chamber since she was a child. And stealing away in the night with a couple of unfamiliar English soldiers who thought she was a serving-maid to inform the most hunted man in Christendom of a trap awaiting him …
If her father ever found out he’d be horrified—and infuriated—by her betrayal. But after what Edward had done to her sister, Ellie would not feel guilt.
She took a deep breath and relayed the conversation she’d overheard between her father, Ralph, and Sir Aymer.
It wasn’t what they’d expected to hear, and she sensed an immediate shift in the occupants of the cave as the gravity of the information hit.
Robert swore. “They know where we are? Are you certain about this, sister? You could not have been mistaken?”
She shook her head. “I’m not mistaken. The English know where you are camped and plan to attack at dawn. They intended to have my sister’s maidservant come here to find out information—I convinced her to allow me to come in her stead.”
Leaving out Matty’s role in covering up for her, Ellie explained how she was led by a few of Sir Aymer’s men to the edge of the valley. They were awaiting her return to escort her back to the castle. She intended to tell them that she was refused entry to the camp, so she needed to return as soon as possible.
Edward Bruce was much less subtle than his brother. “How do we know you are telling us the truth? This could be a trap.”
Ellie gave him a withering stare. “It is a trap, though not one set by me. If you don’t believe me, send one of your men to the woods at the head of Loch Troon. You’ll find nearly fifteen hundred Englishmen to prove that what I’m telling you is the truth. But make sure to do it before dawn.” She turned to Robert. “You must ready your men and leave immediately.”
Bruce rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t think so.”
Ellie froze with disbelief. “But I swear, I’m telling you the truth.”
Robert smiled. “I believe you.” He looked to the impressive warrior she’d noticed before. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”