The Arrow by Monica McCarty
Rather than be intimidated by his anger, however, she looked up at him and smiled. “Freshly washed, brushed, and folded.” She shook her head. “You still leave them on the floor, I see.”
Whether it was the intimacy of how much she knew about his personal habits or the intimacy of knowing she had been in his room when he was sleeping, Gregor didn’t know, but he felt the walls closing in on him. Nay, she was closing in on him, and he didn’t like it. It made him want to lash out as he always did when a woman set her sights on him and tried to corner him. “Stay out of my room, Cate—especially when I’m sleeping.”
How she’d managed to sneak up on him was alarming on many different levels.
Her brows furrowed. “Why?”
“Because it isn’t right, damn it!”
She lifted a brow. “Isn’t right? I’m like a daughter to you—or a sister. Aren’t I?”
The hell she was! She was …
Clever. He stopped, realizing what she was doing: forcing him to acknowledge something he didn’t want to acknowledge.
He couldn’t let her keep doing this to him. It was time to untwist the knots the lass had him all tied up in. She’d grown too bold after what he’d inadvertently revealed the other night. But he’d been playing this game a hell of a lot longer than she had. He smiled slowly. “Aye, you’re right.”
She blinked. “I am?”
“Perhaps not a daughter—I’m not quite that old—but definitely a younger sister.” She looked properly horrified. He shrugged as if it no longer mattered to him. “I was only trying to protect you.”
She swallowed uncertainly. If her closeness weren’t firing every nerve ending in his body, he would surely have enjoyed it.
“Protect me from what?”
He gave her his best roguish grin. “Seeing something that might shock your maidenly sensibilities in the event I have company.”
She sucked in her breath, stricken, the thought obviously never having occurred to her. But if he thought she would so easily be discouraged, he’d underestimated her. The lass was far too stubborn and proud. Nor, as her little brawl at the river had proved, would she back down from a fight, even when the odds were not in her favor. And betting on him was bad odds indeed.
The stricken look slipped away, and the gaze that held his was far more knowing and determined than he would have liked. “There is very little privacy in a castle, Gregor. I’m sure you’ve nothing that I haven’t seen before.” The eyes scanning his chest and reminding him of exactly how much she’d seen were narrowed—and didn’t seem impressed. Though why the hell that grated, he didn’t know. He didn’t want her admiring him or his body. But who the hell was she comparing him to? Admittedly he’d bulked up in the past few years, but it was all muscle—
He stopped. Good God, what was she doing to him?
“Although for the children’s sake,” she added, “I hope you will keep your ‘company’ to a minimum.”
She’d done it again. Put him on the defensive. Making him feel like an arse. A profligate arse.
Whom he shared his bed with was his business. He didn’t owe her any explanations. He would bring a woman to his chamber if he wanted to.
But damn it, it would hurt her, and something inside him rebelled at the idea.
Her words, however, reminded him of another problem. Every time he tried to talk to her about “the children,” she kept putting him off. It seemed the only way to be rid of her was to mention that he’d been on his deathbed with an arrow through his neck when Eddie was conceived and patrolling the Western Isles hunting down John of Lorn in the months during Maddie’s conception. “Speaking of the children, have you made arrangements yet for their removal—”
“There they are now,” she said, cutting him off. He could hear her relief at once again being saved from discussing the matter by the arrival of Ete, Lizzie, the scowling black-haired charlatan, the child who had a propensity to release his bladder every time Gregor was near, and the banshee in the guise of a blond-haired poppet. “We had best go, if we do not want Father Roland angry at us for being late.”
She tried to flounce off, but he caught her arm. “We aren’t done with this, Cate.”
She looked up at him, and something about her expression—hell, everything about her expression—made him want to cover her mouth with his. “No.” Her eyes searched his, probing. “No, we’re not.”
He might have been pleased by her agreement, except he knew she wasn’t talking about the children.
He didn’t know what Cate thought she knew about him, but she was wrong. And it was becoming very clear that one way or another, he was going to have to prove it.
Company. The one word had shaken Cate’s confidence to the core. He wouldn’t bring a woman to his room … would he?
With the way Gregor had been fighting acknowledging his attraction to her since the night in the corridor, she suspected he just well might.
Cate was going to have to up her vigilance and her efforts, it seemed, until he was ready to accept that there was something between them.
It was thoughts of how to save him from himself that kept her occupied during Father Roland’s long “popular” sermon given in Gaelic rather than Latin. Perhaps ironically, the subject was chastity, and the priest, after giving an example of the nun who’d gouged out her own eyes and had them sent to a king rather than be the object of his lust (Cate thought his point would have been stronger had the king gouged his own eyes out), was going on ad nauseam with long passages from the Gospel (these in Latin), which she didn’t understand.
Not surprisingly, Gregor had decided to sit a few benches away from her and the children. He was proving intractable on the subject of being “rid” of them, and she was finding it harder and harder to convince herself that he would change his mind. But as she had no intention of changing her mind either, they were at an impasse.
Patience, she reminded herself. But it was difficult. On all accounts. Not just the children, but waiting for him to acknowledge what was between them—especially with all the other women with whom she had to contend.
Feeling as if a rock were sitting on her chest, she watched as the instant the mass was over, the women descended on him like locusts. It had been the same for the past three mornings at Dunlyon, since news of his arrival had spread throughout the small village and surrounding countryside. His arrival always caused a sensation, with women arriving at Dunlyon to see the laird under all kinds of ridiculous pretenses.
He took all the attention in stride, smiling, flirting, and charming every one of them. Every one of them but her, and for the first time it bothered her. Cate was jealous. And no matter how many times she told herself the women were nothing to him, she couldn’t stop the little voice from saying that neither was she.
Yet. Lady Marion’s words came back to her. “Be patient, sweeting. Those women don’t mean anything to him. When he gives his heart to the right woman it will be forever.” It was giving it to the wrong woman that had been the problem. Gregor’s mother had guessed Cate’s feelings, and trying to give her hope—nothing would have pleased her more than to see them together—told her what had happened with his brother’s wife. How the woman had used Gregor to make his older brother jealous and elicit a proposal from him.
Cate followed John outside, where the villagers were taking advantage of the sunny winter morning to gather in the churchyard. One of the reeve’s sons—Farquhar, she recalled his name—stopped to talk to John, and Cate took the opportunity to look back at Gregor, who was still in the church trying to make his way outside.
Seeing whom he was talking to, she wished she hadn’t. Cate stiffened, her teeth grinding. Seonaid MacIan, the favored daughter of the wealthiest chieftain in the area, had befriended Cate when she’d first arrived but had turned on her once it became clear their friendship wouldn’t get her any closer to Gregor.
Blond, blue-eyed, and curved in all the places men seemed to like curves, Seonaid was the most b
Turning her gaze from the girl who’d done her best to make her life miserable for years, Cate was pleased to see Pip talking with some of the village lads, including Willy. Ete had Eddie in hand, but Lizzie looked exhausted from holding a squirming Maddy for so long, so Cate offered to spell her for a while. Finding a little space in the back of the churchyard, she let the little girl run for a bit, and then scooped her up in her arms and spun her around until they both were flushed and laughing.
“How sweet.”
Cate stiffened at the sound of the mocking voice. Holding Maddy close to her chest as if to protect her from the venom, she turned to see Seonaid. As always, a couple of her followers were at her side. Alys and Deidre never said much, their purpose simply to echo Seonaid.
“What have you done to yourself, Caitrina?” Seonaid’s big blue eyes scanned her gown. “You actually found a pretty dress to wear? After what you did to Dougal MacNab, I thought to find you in armor with a sword.” She laughed, though there was no humor intended in the scornful tones. On cue, Alys and Deidre’s snickering followed.
Seonaid always had a way of making Cate feel awkward and unfeminine, and she knew it. Seonaid’s rich gowns were always trimmed with rows and rows of ribbon and embroidery, her hair always curled and artfully arranged, her skin looked like she bathed in milk, and there was never a speck of dirt under her nails. She was soft and lush as a pillowy confection, while Cate was hard and strong as a stick of dried beef.
When Cate looked at Seonaid she saw everything she wasn’t and could never be—on the outside. But underneath the pretty picture, Seonaid was selfish, spoiled, and spiteful, and any man who didn’t see that was a fool. Beef might not be flashy, but it had substance.
Cate was done letting the other woman make her feel bad about herself. “What do you want, Seonaid? As you can see, I’m busy.”
Seonaid’s lip curled with distaste as she looked at Maddy. “With one of the bastards? Why you would let them under the roof, I can’t imagine. If I were lady of the keep, I would have sent them away.”
Cate’s temper notched up at the word “bastard” and the familiar disdain. Disdain she’d heard far too many times as a child. “But you aren’t lady of the keep and certainly aren’t likely to be in the future, so it really is none of your concern.”
Seonaid’s cheeks flushed with anger, and her expression lost any pretense of equanimity. “Are you so sure of that? That’s not the impression I had a few minutes ago. I’d say the laird seemed very interested in a closer relationship.”
The way she emphasized “closer” made Cate’s chest twist. He wouldn’t. “I sincerely doubt that.”
“Why? You can’t think he’d prefer a boyish lass who plays at warfare to a woman like me—no matter what gown you are wearing.”
Cate clenched her fists. Knowing how to use a sword or defend herself didn’t make her “boyish.” But Seonaid’s barb had pricked what little there was of her feminine vanity. “It isn’t the dress but the character underneath. No matter how fine the linen you bundle it in, rotten fish still stinks.”
Alys and Deidre gasped. Seonaid turned florid, her eyes blazing with hatred. “Character? What a naive fool you are, Caitrina. Beauty and a bosom are what men want.”
Cate pursed her mouth stubbornly. “Not Gregor.”
She knew him. He wasn’t like that. She knew how little importance he put on his own looks, and how much it bothered him when other people did—though he never showed it. When he married, it would be for substance, not for superficial charms.
Seonaid might be cruel and spiteful, but she was also surprisingly astute, and something in Cate’s expression must have given her away. Her gaze pinned on Cate like a predator who’d just picked up the scent of blood. “My God, you are in love with him!” The sharp burst of laughter hurt more than Cate would have thought possible. “You don’t actually think the most handsome man in Scotland would ever marry a woman like you? A foundling he felt sorry for with nothing to recommend her but ‘character,’ a plain face, and a boyish figure?”
She wasn’t plain or boyish. She knew Seonaid was just being cruel, but the words still stung—and made her want to sting back. Gregor did care for her. And one day he would marry her. She knew it deep in her soul.
It shouldn’t matter that no one else knew. But like the taunts of “bastard” that had followed her as a child, Seonaid’s words had hit a tender spot—a defensive spot. “My father is the greatest knight in Christendom.” The old boast rang in her ears, and she felt the same compulsion to make them sorry for teasing her rise inside her.
“He will marry me,” she said fiercely. “And not because of a pretty face or big bosom, but because he loves me. The most handsomest man in Scotland will be my husband—you’ll see.”
The unwavering confidence in her voice seemed to take Seonaid momentarily aback, though she recovered quickly enough. “The only way you will ever get Gregor MacGregor to marry you is if you trap him,” her gaze swept over Cate’s modest bosom, “and you lack the proper enticements for that.”
Cate smiled, recalling the attraction simmering between her and Gregor a few nights ago. “Which only proves how little you know of enticing. You don’t have any idea what’s between us. If you don’t think I can do it, you are wrong!”
Seonaid’s eyes widened, hearing her confidence.
Suddenly Cate cringed. The conversation was deteriorating, leaving her feeling as if she needed to jump in the loch to wash. She shouldn’t stoop to Seonaid’s level, no matter how well baited.
Holding Maddy tightly, she swept regally past the three women before Seonaid could muster her verbal weaponry for another attack.
Cate had barely turned the corner into the churchyard where everyone had gathered when she ran into John and Farquhar. “There you are,” John said. “We wondered where you had gone to.”
Cate’s smile was strained; she felt drained from the episode with Seonaid and her friends. “Maddy needed to stretch her legs after the sermon.”
“It was rather a long one,” Farquhar said with an understanding smile.
The easygoing smile surprised her. The reeve’s eldest son was something of a scholar and had recently returned from university study on the continent. From what she remembered of Farquhar before he left, he’d always seemed rather dry and serious.
They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and Cate was surprised when Farquhar offered to escort her back to Dunlyon. John seemed surprised as well, but mentioned that he and Gregor had business elsewhere. Cate was about to refuse when she chanced a glance at Gregor and reconsidered. She froze. He hadn’t moved very far from where she’d seen him last, but it was to whom he was talking, and the darkening expression on his face, that made her rather in a hurry to leave.
It was Màiri, which meant Cate was in trouble.
Seven
If Cate thought she could escape from him that easily, she’d better think again. Gregor now knew whom he had to thank for interfering with his assignations the past few days. God’s bones, the lass could give Robert the Bruce lessons in sabotage!
It took him a moment to recognize the man with whom she’d made her escape. He didn’t recall the reeve’s eldest son as being so tall—or so broad of shoulder. For a scholar, he looked like he spent most of his days out in the field or with a smith’s hammer in his hand. The observation wasn’t a welcome one. That Farquhar was both suitable and seemingly interested should have gladdened him—Farquhar was one of the men on Gregor’s list of potential suitors for her—but Gregor didn’t like the way the man was looking at her.
A lass could be disarmed by that friendly smile. Who knew what kind of trouble an innocent like Cate—inexperienced with the wicked ways of men—could find herself i
The vehemence of his reaction took him aback. He was only being protective—as her guardian, he told himself. He should be glad to find a suitor to take her off his hands. Then he could get down to focusing on getting his head back on straight. The next time the king needed him, he’d be ready. He wasn’t going to let him down again. But it took a long time for his fists to unclench after she’d made her swift escape.
As tempted as he was to go after her, his tenuous truce with the neighboring MacNabs required his attention.
He and John rode out to Lochay after church, but the meeting did not go well.
Kenneth MacNab of Lochay, a kinsman of the MacNab chief who’d stood with John of Lorn against Bruce at the Battle of Brander, was practically foaming at the mouth with outrage. “The termagant drew a dagger on my son when his back was turned. A dagger! The lass should be put to the stocks for what she did. You are fortunate I do not demand her arrest.”
Gregor’s jaw hardened, the only indication of how close he was to slamming his fist through the other man’s teeth at the idle threat. They both knew that there was no way in hell MacNab would draw more attention to his son’s humiliation—the incident had become public enough. And it was one thing for Gregor to call her a termagant; it was quite another for MacNab to do so.
“The lass is my responsibility,” Gregor said with surprising evenness. “If anyone is to punish her, it will be me.”
“And just how do you intend to do that?”
Gregor’s mouth thinned as he eyed the battle-scarred chieftain. Coarse, thickly built, and more wild and roughshod than most, MacNab was a handful of years older than Gregor and had retired from the battlefield, but was still a warrior with whom to reckon.
“Caitrina recounts the events differently.” As he’d been trying to avoid her, he’d actually gotten the story from John, along with confirmation from a surly, defensive Pip. “According to her, it was your son who pushed her down when her back was turned. She defended herself with the knife when he attempted to kick her while she was on the ground.”