The Arrow by Monica McCarty
Unfortunately, however, that same stubbornness that helped him drag himself out of the mud during practice also made him dig in his heels where Gregor was concerned.
She pressed her lips together in a hard line. Gregor might have made her happier than any woman ought to be, but that didn’t mean she didn’t wish she could throttle him for a thing or two—Pip being foremost among them. Gregor and Pip had gotten off to a horrible start—in large part due to Gregor’s insensitive handling of the boy’s situation—but she was determined that would change. They would come to care for one another, even if it killed her.
Ushering Pip inside the chamber, she motioned for him to take a seat on a stool by the brazier. She sat on the bed opposite him and tried to soothe his hurt by calmly responding to his demand. “I know you are not fond of the laird—”
“I hate him!” Pip cut her off virulently. His eyes glinted with proof of his words. “He wasn’t supposed to marry you. He was supposed to leave. Men like him always leave.”
Cate sensed something important lurking behind his words. She’d assumed that Pip had never known his father—he had professed him to be Gregor, after all—but he spoke as if from experience.
Her heart went out to him. She knew how horrible it was to have one parent abandon you; how much worse it must be to have two. She would know the truth eventually, but she would wait until he trusted her enough to tell it.
“Pip,” she said patiently, “you barely know him.”
“I know all I need to know,” he said with a belligerent thrust of his chin. “I saw the way he was looking at you last night in your chamber when you had a nightmare; I knew what he was going to do. He hurt you!”
Cate was shocked—and embarrassed—by how much the boy had guessed. “He didn’t hurt me, Pip,” she said quietly.
His mouth drew in a tight line. “I might be a bastard, but I know that what he did was wrong. I know all about him. I know how many women he takes to his bed. Why do you think my mother—”
He stopped, staring at her with wide, horror-struck eyes.
“Why do I think your mother what?” she asked gently.
His face crumpled, and tears he was valiantly trying to hold at bay shone hotly in his eyes. “You’re going to hate me, and want to send me away just like him. He knows—or thinks he knows.”
“Knows what, Pip?”
The whole sordid tale burst out in a wave of tears and choking apologies. Apparently, his mother, who had been ill-used and then discarded by one of the MacGregor tacks-men a few years after Pip’s birth, had seen the money he’d sent to her every month to care for the child end on his death about six months ago. Pip had tried to do odd jobs to make money, but whatever he made was barely enough to pay for his mother’s ale, let alone keep them fed and clothed as well.
Turned to bitterness and drink, his mother had begun concocting wild stories about his father, until it seemed even she believed them. Unable to feed them both, she’d forced Pip to go to the man who’d bedded so many women, saying, “Why couldn’t he have been your father?” Pip had gone along with it because he’d expected to be turned away at the door. He’d never imagined Cate would take pity on him.
He’d wanted to tell her the truth, but he’d been scared that she would send him away. When his mother found out he’d been taken in—and how well he was being treated—she’d demanded he give her money or she would take him from his new home.
About halfway through the story, Cate had taken him in her arms, holding those scrawny shoulders with all the affection she’d been wanting to show him from the first. She heard what he wasn’t saying as well. His mother’s abuse had been physical as well.
By the time he was done, they were both shaking: Pip with sobs, and Cate with outrage. She’d known there would be a story, and it would be an ugly one, but what kind of woman could do that to her child? Cate didn’t care what she’d been through, or how mired she was in her drunkenness—it was inexcusable. Poor Pip.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m sorry for lying to you and not telling you the truth. But I knew you’d send me away.”
“I have no intention of sending you anywhere, Pip. This is your home.”
He pulled back and looked up at her as if she were either deaf or addled. “Didn’t you just hear what I said?”
She nodded. “I heard you perfectly.”
“But you’re marrying him; he won’t let me stay.” He paused, a gleam in his dark eyes. “Maybe you can marry John instead?”
Cate fought a smile, but she returned his earnestness with her own. “But I don’t love John; I love Gregor.”
His face fell. “You do?”
She nodded.
He didn’t hide his distaste. “Does he love you?”
How like a young person to get right to the heart of the matter. She didn’t blame him for asking it, when she wondered as much herself. Sometimes it was a little difficult to conceive. “I think so, but I don’t think he realizes it yet. Gregor does not form attachments easily.”
Pip’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”
She smiled. “Nothing more than a healthy case of cynicism. He’s had so many women offering him their hearts for the wrong reasons, he’s become jaded. He does not trust easily,” she added. Thinking of Isobel and what happened with his brother, perhaps it was understandable. To say he’d erected defensive walls around himself was putting it mildly.
Pip didn’t look convinced.
“Give him a chance, Pip—you’ll see. He won’t let us down.”
Sixteen
It was just before midnight on Christmas Eve when Gregor finally climbed the stairs to his chamber. Between the long masses of the season and his duties as laird, it had been a tiresome day.
He forced his gaze away from the door on the left, but not before noticing the tempting glow of candlelight spilling out from underneath.
She was awake. Knowing that, and how close she was, sure as hell didn’t make it easy to do the right thing.
He wasn’t a lad in the first throes of passion, damn it—even if she made him feel like one. He could wait until they were married to have her in his bed. God knew, she could probably use the time to recover from the other night.
But he had a feeling it was going to be a very long twelve nights. Assuming he could secure a dispensation with the king’s help from Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews, Gregor hoped to marry Cate on January fifth—Twelfth Night—the day marking the end to the winter festival on the eve of the Epiphany.
He could have waited the three weeks for the banns to be read, but with Bruce expected to call him back in early January for the siege on Perth Castle, that would mean delaying their wedding until the next time he could return home.
That he would not countenance. Cate was his, and he wanted it to be true in fact as well as in deed.
He’d never imagined that he would be the one making haste to the altar. But it was as if once the last hurdle in his mind had been cleared, there was nothing stopping him from seeing what he wanted: Cate as his wife, standing beside him in the day and sleeping beside him at night. Although there probably wouldn’t be much sleeping for a while.
Just thinking about what he’d like to be doing to her right now was enough to make him hot, hard, and frustrated. It was her fault for being so damned responsive and uninhibited. She made love just like she did everything else: no holds barred, without pretense or artifice and with unbridled passion.
With a little experience …
God help him! He didn’t even want to think about it. She could bring him to his knees.
Perhaps she already had. What he felt for her was like nothing he’d ever felt for a woman before.
Did he love her? He didn’t know if he was capable of that kind of emotion. But her belief in him made him want to be the kind of man who could stay by the hearth, and maybe for now that was enough.
He closed the door, putting temptation firmly behind him. Bare
“You’re up late,” she said.
“I could say the same for you.”
“I was waiting for you.”
His mouth quirked. “So I gathered. But you shouldn’t be here.”
“I know,” she said with a cheeky smile, flouncing in anyway. “But it’s been so busy the past couple of days, I haven’t had a chance to talk with you alone, and I wanted to give you something.”
Suddenly, he noticed the way she was holding her robe tightly in front of her chest as if she were hiding something. Something like a naked body? His eyes must have flared.
She rolled her eyes, guessing his train of thought, and laughed. “I’m afraid I’m wearing a very thick, very old chemise under here, given what happened to the last one.”
He grinned. “I’ll buy you a dozen chemises.”
She quirked a brow. “The more to rip apart?”
“How did you guess?”
She laughed and opened her gown. “Sorry to disappoint you, but that isn’t what I brought you.” Taking out the linen bundle that had been tucked in front of her, she handed it to him. “It’s this—for Christmas,” she explained.
“What is it?”
“Why don’t you open it and see?”
After untying the strand of silk ribbon she’d wrapped around the bundle, he carefully unfolded the linen, revealing a linen tunic embroidered with scrollwork in gold and scarlet thread around the neck and—when he held it up—sleeves. Inspecting the embroidery closer, he realized the design wasn’t scrolls as he originally thought. “They’re arrows,” he said, stunned.
She blushed, nodding. “It’s to wear under your armor.”
It was perfect—he couldn’t believe how perfect. He was touched. The stitches were exquisite. He frowned. “You did this?”
His voice must have revealed his surprise.
“I do know how to sew.”
He lifted a brow. They both knew she found needlework torturous.
“Well, I do.” She wrinkled her nose. “Very well, Ete did most of it. But I did come up with the design. And I did this part right here.” She pointed to the back of the collar, where the stitches were quite a bit more uneven.
He grinned and pulled her up in his arms. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He kissed her. Softly at first, and then, as always seemed to happen, with far more passion than he’d intended. When he drew back, they were both breathing hard. It took her eyes a moment to focus. His bed loomed too damned close. It would be so easy to push her back …
“I have something else for you as well,” she said.
“Hiding other treasures under that gown, Caty?”
She laughed. “You never know. But this one is under the bed.” When he drew back, she explained. “John helped me carry it up here earlier.”
He bent down and dragged out another bundle, this one sturdy, about six feet long, six inches in diameter, and wrapped not in linen, but in hides of leather. “What do you have in here, a caber?”
“Close.”
He flipped back the hides and stared in stunned silence at the gift at his feet. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Bending down, he inspected it closer, paying particular attention to the unblemished grain from end to end. There wasn’t a knot or twist in sight.
Unbelievable. Maybe she was the one who should be called a sorcerer. How else could she have procured such a treasure?
She watched him with increasing anxiousness, her hands twisting in her ruby-colored, velvet dressing robe. “It’s a stave of yew,” she said, obviously worried by his silence.
He knew exactly what it was. It wasn’t just a stave of yew; it was a nearly flawless stave of yew. The kind of flawless that was perfect for making a bow and had been nearly impossible to find since the war broke out. With the demand for bows so high, much of the good yew had been felled in both Scotland and England.
His voice was low and full of awe that bordered on reverence. “Where did you get this?”
“From the merchant who brings your wines from Bordeaux.”
Gregor frowned. “He told me he couldn’t find anything like this.”
She grinned. “Well, I encouraged him to look a little harder.” Gregor knew better than to ask how. “The opening of the trade routes has helped. It comes from Spain and was cut last winter, so it will only need a bit more seasoning.”
He didn’t say anything. He was too overwhelmed to do anything other than stare at what had to be the most generous, thoughtful gift he’d ever received.
“Do you like it?”
The uncertainty in her voice knocked him from his stupor. “I love it. I don’t know what do say.”
She beamed. Lifting on her tiptoes, she slid her arms around his neck. “Perhaps you might think of another way to thank me?”
His arm slid around her waist, as if there was no other place it belonged. “I was trying to be good.”
Her dark eyes danced with golden sparks of mischief in the candlelight. “You are good.” Her hips rubbed teasingly against his. “Very, very good.”
“Naughty lass.” He gave her bottom a little swat. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I can think of a few things, and I’m sure you could help me think of a few more that I’ve never tried before.”
He groaned, feeling the heat swell in his groin. He sure as hell could. Would he shock her with his requests? Probably, but knowing Cate it would not be for long. He’d been fantasizing about her mouth on him for too long. Just the thought of it was enough to make him hard as a rock.
“You sure know how to shoot my good intentions to hell.”
Her eyes lit up excitedly. “I do?”
He nodded and kissed her again. “I used to have a little self-control.”
He slid his hands under the shoulders of her robe to slide it off. She had already started to work the ties of his cotun but smiled up at him. “And you don’t now?”
“Apparently not where you are concerned.”
To prove it, he ripped the chemise she was wearing right off her. It was old, plain, and in his way.
“Gregor!” she screeched, still shy enough to try to cover herself. But the lass had absolutely nothing to hide—nothing. “Not another one,” she groaned. “I will have nothing left to wear.”
“What a pity. I suppose I will just have to keep you naked in my bed.”
He stopped further protests by jerking his tunic over his head, pulling off his boots, and quickly dispensing with his breeches.
She stared at him, taking in every inch of his nakedness. He’d never been self-conscious in his life, but standing there while she studied him came pretty damn close. He wanted her approval. When she eventually looked up at him, it was clear he had it—and more. She was looking at him as if she couldn’t wait to devour him. “Tell me what do to. Tell me how to please you.”
“You already do.”
Just standing there she brought him to his knees. She was adorable—small, compact, and strong, with the sleek grace of a wildcat. Outwardly unimposing but dangerous, with the raw instincts of a fighter. She made every other woman who’d come before her seem flimsy and insubstantial.
She blushed. “I know men prefer more curves, but your mother said I scared them all away on the practice yard, and I was doomed to be as thin as a bowstring.”
He chuckled. “Sweetheart, my mother didn’t have any idea what men prefer.” Her body was toned and sensual, and so damned arousing, he suspected that one day strength and firmness of flesh in women would become prized. “Besides, I have always preferred a bow.” He held her gaze. “You are perfect. So perfect that I’m going to have to insist you spend much more time practicing all those hand-to-hand combat moves—although not on the practice yard.”
Her brows drew together. “Then wh—?”
She didn’t ha
She gasped with surprise, and then smiled. “There is one problem with your plan.”
He lifted a brow challengingly. “What’s that?”
“What if I don’t want to get up? What if I like it exactly where I am?” She moved her hips so his erection fit snugly between her legs, the fat head nudging temptingly at her entrance. He rocked his hips a little, teasing her until her breath quickened with those throaty little gasps that drove him wild.
“Oh, I think you’ll want to get up, Caty.” He sunk in just a little, letting her take him in an inch or two before retreating. He felt her shudder with need, and it took every bit of his control not to sink in deep and give it all to her. “Weren’t you talking about learning new things? I didn’t think you were a quitter.”
He’d known she wouldn’t be able to resist that taunt. Just as he knew as soon as he gave her an opening he would be on his back.
He was—and more aroused than he could stand. The lass gave new meaning to the word “bedsport.” He had a feeling making love with Cate was going to be an entirely different experience—and one that would keep him on his toes for a while.
Maybe forever.
For once he did not push the thought away. He let it sit there, getting used to it.
“Now what?” she asked, looking down at him from her perch lying on top of him. His heartbeat jammed in his chest. Everything seemed to stop. She looked so damned sweet and yet so unconsciously sensual, with her dark eyes fixed on him, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, and her small, pert breasts thrusting proudly in the air. He wanted to hold on to this moment forever.
He drew his hand up to tuck a lock of silky dark hair behind her ear. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he pulled her mouth toward his, kissing her gently, tenderly, with long, slow pulls of his tongue.