The Arrow by Monica McCarty
“It meant something to me,” she said softly.
His expression looked truly pained, not that it helped ease hers any. “I’m sorry, Cate. Truly. I never meant to hurt you.”
“But you don’t love me, have no intention of marrying me, and would see me wed to a man I barely know just so you don’t have to worry about me? I understand.”
But she didn’t. How could he have been planning this and said nothing? John must have known about Gregor’s plans for her betrothal—that was what he’d been trying to warn her about. She was such a fool.
Oh God, the children. What about them? They’d needed her, and she’d let them down.
“Cate …”
He reached for her, but she stepped away to avoid his grasp. She straightened her spine, hurt turning to anger. “You don’t need to explain. It is my fault for falling in love with the wrong man. Of course you’ve no wish to marry me. You’re the most handsome man in Scotland, with your choice of brides. You could have a kingdom. I’m a bastard.” Seeing his shock, she added, “Aye, a bastard, some nobleman’s by-blow. Kirkpatrick was my stepfather.”
He was clearly taken aback. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“Because I was tired of being ashamed of the ‘noble’ father who deserted me when I was five.”
“Who is he?”
“What difference does it make? He’s dead to me. Dead. Bastard or orphan, I have little to recommend me and much not to recommend me. I’m surprised you managed to find someone to marry me at all.”
His eyes flashed dangerously. He was angry now. Good. If the man known for breaking hearts managed to feel one-tenth of the emotion she felt right now it would be enough.
“If you want to know, there were plenty of men eager to marry you.”
He didn’t sound happy about it—not that she believed him anyway. “But not the only one who matters. Would it be so horrible to let yourself love me, Gregor?”
He looked pained—uncomfortable—as if he would rather be anywhere than here, having this discussion. “I’ve no wish to marry anyone right now. But if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be for a ‘kingdom’ or to a woman who wanted to marry ‘the handsomest man in Scotland.’ And if you don’t know that, you don’t know me at all.”
Was he mad? “Know you? I know you like your beef rare, your pork lightly pink, your sauces savory, and your vegetables firm. I know you prefer plums to pears and oranges to apples. I know you like oysters raw and eggs from salmon spread on crusty bread—which is disgusting by the way. I know you can tell where a wine is from from the first sip, and would rather go thirsty than drink the sweet wernage your mother loved. I know you drink more when you are unhappy, which I suspect has been a lot of late.”
Taking advantage of his shock, she continued. “I know you hate accepting anything unless you’ve earned it. I know your father was an arse and made you think you would never amount to anything, but that you’ve proved him wrong. I know you think you need to be perfect but that you never will be. I know that a man who is the best archer in Scotland, and who has fought loyally beside Robert the Bruce for years—even in the lowest part of his reign—is not irresponsible but a man to count on. I know you don’t want to be a protector but you are. I know you let John do your duty as chieftain because you don’t think you deserve it. I know that the enemies you kill in battle mean something to you, and that’s why the stack of stones on your father’s grave and the coin in Father Roland’s offertory basket grow higher every time you come home.”
She drew a deep breath. “I know you think that you are better off alone and don’t want to care about me, but that you do. I know that I’m the only woman you really talk to, and that means something. I know that when I sent Lizzie to the wine storage room with you, you didn’t touch her, even though you could have. I know you’ve bedded many women but the only one you really cared about hurt you. I know you think that you will hurt me, but that if you loved me, you’d be loyal and true to me to death—just as I would be to you.”
Their eyes met, and she dared him to stop her. “I know that being a notch in a bedpost bothers you more than you let on, but you don’t think anyone can see beyond that perfect face of yours to the flawed man underneath. Maybe you’re right, but you’ll never know because you won’t take a chance and trust your feelings. Because I know you feel this, too, Gregor. Just as I know that one day you will regret marrying me to another man, but by then it will be too late, and you will have no one to blame but yourself.”
He just stared at her. “Jesus, Cate, I …”
Didn’t know what to say. That was clear. Suddenly, the storm of emotion drained out of her. What was left was a sense of futility and hopelessness—and maybe a need to strike back. “Marry me to whomever you want, Gregor—it doesn’t make a difference to me. None of them are you. But when you are lying there in the dark tonight, trying to go to sleep with your body aching for me as mine will for you, think about this: The next man I am lying under might be my husband, and unlike you, he will not pull back.”
The pulse below his jaw jumped, his mouth hardening into a tight white line. She thought he might reach for her, but his arms stayed rigidly fixed at his sides.
“Of course, you could prove I mean nothing to you and find relief another way, but I don’t think you’ll do that. I think you want me and no other. But go ahead and prove me wrong … if you can.”
Cate didn’t know where she’d found the strength to utter the challenge, but even knowing the risk, she would not take it back. She had too much to lose. Her faith would be rewarded or destroyed now—before he married her to another man.
Feeling more battered and bruised than she’d ever been from training, Cate turned on her heel and walked away.
She didn’t look back.
Jesus. It was the only coherent thought he could manage, so he repeated it: Jesus.
Gregor didn’t know how long he’d stood there after she left. She’d done it again: turned him upside-down, inside-out, and all the way around. He felt like he’d been sucked up into a tempest to spin around for a while, before being spit back out onto the ground like a ship scattered on the rocks. A ship that had been sailing along just fine—perfectly fine—until it had run into an unexpected maelstrom.
Cate.
She loves me. After hearing that litany of his character—good and bad—how could he doubt it? It wasn’t a girlish tendre or an instant infatuation with his face; she really did know him.
Hell, she knew him better than he knew himself. And he didn’t know what to think about that except he didn’t like it. It confused him. Nay, she confused him.
How did she know so much about him, anyway? Undoubtedly his mother had told her some, some she must have figured out from observation, and some was conjecture. “I think you want me, and no other.” That sure as hell was conjecture … wasn’t it?
“Prove me wrong … if you can.” He should. God knew he should. But he wouldn’t hurt her like that to prove a point.
He’d hurt her enough with his damned plan. A plan that had seemed perfect before he’d come home but didn’t seem so perfect now. He hadn’t anticipated wanting her. Hadn’t anticipated being unable to keep his damned hands to himself. Hadn’t anticipated her response, and sure as hell hadn’t anticipated the surge of what could only be called jealousy at the thought of her with another man. “The next man I am lying under might be my husband.” He swore again.
Nor had he anticipated the guilt he would feel for sending her from her home. For being so eager to be rid of her.
Being rid of her was what he thought he wanted, but when she put it so harshly, damn it, he didn’t like how it sounded.
He didn’t want to be rid of her. But what other choice did he have? He couldn’t marry her.
Or could he? Could he be the man she thought him? The man she deserved?
Ah hell, what was she doing to him? A wife sure as hell wasn’t the way to clear his head. Picking up the dag
He was walking past the stables when a thin, dark form jumped out to block his path.
Recognizing the miscreant, Gregor’s lip curled with distaste. A curl of distaste that was returned in force by the miscreant—along with a menacing glare. “What did you do to her?”
From the way Pip was clenching and re-clenching his small fists, Gregor realized the lad was actually thinking about using them. Another time it might have amused him, but in his present state he was in no mood for the perceived wrongs of a deceitful brat who’d taken advantage of Cate’s too-big heart. The lad hadn’t been abandoned. According to the information Gregor’s seneschal had uncovered, Pip had been sending his mother money—probably since he’d arrived.
“Do to whom?” Gregor said. “Say what you will, Phillip—I’m busy.”
Hatred twisted the lad’s face into a mask of rage. “What did you do to Cate? Why did you make her cry?”
Ah hell. It felt like someone was pounding a hammer on his chest like it was an anvil. “Cate was crying?”
“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you!”
Gregor was taken aback by the venom and intensity of the threat. He did not doubt the boy meant it. “Leave it, Pip. It has nothing to do with you. This is between Cate and me.”
“Why are you even here? No one needs you here. I wish you’d just go away and never come back. Everything was fine before you came.”
The lad’s words packed a surprising punch, perhaps striking closer than he would have liked. Gregor’s temper sparked. “Was it fine because there was no one here to question your story? Fine so you could deceive and take advantage of a woman who has been far kinder to you than you deserve? Or fine so that you could continue to send the mother you claim abandoned you coin?”
The boy’s face went so white it seemed all the blood had been leeched out of him. “Wait, you don’t understand!”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
Fear had replaced the hatred. In an instant the lad’s surly bravado vanished. It almost looked like fear in his eyes. “Please, you can’t send me away!”
Sending him away was exactly what Gregor should do. And he would, but he wasn’t as immune to the lad’s pleading as he wanted to be. Before he could question him further, however, Gregor had to fend off another attack. This one from a yapping ball of wiry fur that had come tearing out of the barn to attach itself to Gregor’s ankle again.
“God’s blood!” He reached down to grab the pup by the scruff—mindful of the surprisingly sharp little teeth that snapped at his hand—and held it up to his face. “Quiet.”
The sharp command startled the pup, who gave a pathetic little yelp before going silent—blissfully silent. It then proceeded to stare at Gregor with what could only be described as a big-eyed puppy-dog look.
Christ, not another foundling on his conscience.
Holding the creature out to Pip, he dropped it into his waiting arms. “Keep the little rat out of my way, Pip, or get rid of it.”
“Why am I not surprised that you don’t like dogs?”
“I like dogs fine. Find me one—or at least one that doesn’t shatter eardrums with its barking or try to sink its teeth into my ankles.”
The boy shielded the pup in his arms protectively. If he was trying to make Gregor feel like a bully, he was doing a damned fine job of it.
“Strange how he likes everyone else,” Pip said. “But they do say dogs are a good judge of character.”
Much as Cate had done shortly before, the boy turned on his heel and left him standing there. And like before, Gregor was left with the distinct feeling that he’d come out on the losing side of the confrontation.
Damn it, he needed to get back to the battlefield. At least there he was good at something. Or used to be good at something. But what if …
He refused to contemplate it. There was nothing wrong with him. He just needed to get back on track. Clear his head.
Hell, maybe he should just marry her so he stopped thinking about her so much.
He shook his head. Christ, he wasn’t losing his edge; he was losing his damned mind!
Thirteen
Cate had definitely won all right. Gregor kicked the twisted bed linens off him and jumped out of bed for the fifth or sixth time—he’d stopped counting—to pace around his room like a lion in a cage. The cage of his own mind.
The pacing eased his restlessness, but only temporarily. The moment he climbed back into bed, put his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes, the images would start again. The tormentingly sharp images of Cate in bed with the reeve’s son on top of her. Kissing her. Touching her. Not pulling back. Slowly lifting the hem of her linen chemise, sliding his hand up her bare thigh …
Gregor swore and pounded the side of his fist on the windowsill with enough force to make the glass shake. He bent his head, resting it on the shutter, closing his eyes and willing the maddening images to go away.
Slowly, his pulse returned to normal and the fiery madness cooled, driving the heat from his blood and skin. He lifted his head, took a deep breath, and turned to scan the dark chamber, the soft glow of the peat providing just enough light to see by. His gaze stopped momentarily on the flagon of whisky sitting on his bedside table, as it had done many times tonight.
“I know you drink more when you are unhappy.”
He didn’t drink too much, damn it. He was always in control, and never drank to the point of drunkenness. But the number of times he’d woken up in the past year with his head feeling as if it were splitting apart told him she wasn’t completely wrong.
Christ, now he couldn’t even have a drink of whisky before bed without hearing her voice. Actually, it was the drink of whisky he wanted to not hear her voice. To blur the haunting images and let him get some rest.
Perhaps he should have gone to the alehouse after all.
Who the hell was he fooling? He didn’t want to go to the alehouse and find a lass to take to his bed. “I think you want me and no other.” She was right, damn her. God knew it probably wouldn’t last. He was bound to desire another woman at some point. He had enough of them to choose from; eventually one would catch his eye.
But what if he only ever wanted Cate?
Was that even possible?
All he had to do was think of his married brethren to know that it was. With the exception of MacLean, who’d been estranged from his wife since the start of the war, every one of his fellow Guardsmen was faithful to his wife. Even Raider and Hawk, and they had nearly as many women throwing themselves at them as he did.
Of course, they were “in love” with their wives, which was an emotion Gregor didn’t know whether he was even capable of feeling. He’d cared about Isobel—and sure as hell lusted for her—but the kind of flowery romantic love the bards wrote about, or the powerful this-is-the-only-woman-for-me and I’ll-do-anything-including-die-for-you emotion his friends had found? He’d never felt that.
You’d die for Cate.
The voice at the back of his mind jarred him. But that was different, wasn’t it? She was his responsibility, his family—he was supposed to feel that way.
She was his family.
Ah, hell. His heart sank like a stone in his chest. She was his family, and he’d tried to get rid of her with no more thought or care than he would have given to a stray cat—or dog, he thought, recalling his words to Pip earlier. Worse, he suspected he’d unintentionally hit a tender spot with respect to the father who’d abandoned her.
The father he hadn’t known about. He’d been surprised—and not a little angry—to learn about her lie, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been. He’d always sensed something wrong when Kirkpatrick’s name was mentioned. Now he understood why. H
Actually, he felt more outraged on her behalf. What kind of man could abandon his own child like that? No wonder she hated him. Gregor would kill the bastard himself if he could.
Yet she probably thought he was trying to do the same thing by getting rid of her—walking away from her, just as her bastard of a father had done.
He crossed purposefully to the bed and forced himself to lie down.
Cate wasn’t just family, and he knew it. What he felt for her was different. Confusing, frustrating, and maddening perhaps, but different. He didn’t know what it meant, but he suspected that if he ever wanted another peaceful night of sleep, he might indeed have to marry her.
For the first time that night, he closed his eyes and the images did not return. He might have been able to sleep if the screams hadn’t torn him from his bed.
“Stop!” she tried to shout. “Get off my mother!”
But the soldier kept thrusting, his mail-clad form moving between her mother’s legs. He turned, the dark, refined features that should be handsome twisted in an ugly, taunting smile that dared her to try to stop him. She struck him with the hoe over and over, but all it did was make him laugh harder. The maniacal sound rang in her ears, mixing with her mother’s screams.
Make it stop! Please, make it stop!
Strong arms grabbed her, and she tried to wrestle free. “No!” she cried. “I have to help her!”
“Cate!” a deep voice penetrated the darkness. She was shaking. Nay, someone was shaking her. “Wake up, sweetheart. You have to wake up. It’s just a dream.”
She opened her eyes. Gregor’s face stared back at her in the shadows. She was sitting up on her bed in his arms. It was he who was holding her, not the soldiers.