The Arrow by Monica McCarty
“He has red hair,” Gregor said incredulously. “And freckles!”
Cate stood, meeting his accusing stare. “How very observant of you,” she said, with a sharp look of warning not to say anything more in front of the children.
She’d known the bright red hair and freckles would be a problem. The coloring, although common enough in the Highlands, did not run in Gregor’s immediate family. It was the first thing John had pointed out.
But surely with the plethora of women Gregor had been with, there had been at least a handful of redheads?
If the darkening look on his face was any indication, it seemed perhaps not.
She knew she was searching for a straw to clutch, but even if she’d harbored more than a big twinge of doubt about Pip, she’d held out some hope for the little ones. It would be so much easier to convince him to let them stay if there was a possibility they were his.
Proving that he wasn’t a completely unfeeling brute, however, Gregor bent down on a knee to address the little boy. “How old are you, Edward?”
Cate winced at the same time that Eddie jumped. Even lowered, Gregor’s voice was deep and authoritative. Scary to someone not used to being on the other side of his questions. Cate, of course, had plenty of experience with that.
Eddie, however, did not. When the little boy decided to use her skirts as a curtain to hide behind, Cate gave him an encouraging nudge forward. “It’s okay, Eddie. This is your new laird. Remember I told you about him? He’s been off fighting the nasty old English in the war. He won’t hurt you. He just wants to ask you some questions.”
The little boy looked up at her with his big blue eyes and nodded. Peeking out from behind her skirt, he held up three fingers.
“Come here, lad,” Gregor said in a gentler voice.
Cate put her hand on the boy’s head. “I’m not sure that’s a good—”
Gregor shot her a glare. “I’m not going to hurt him. I just want to ask him a few questions.”
That wasn’t why she’d tried to stop him.
“It’s okay, Eddie,” Pip said with a devilish grin.
Cate shot him a look and started to explain to Gregor, but it was too late. Gregor had taken the boy’s hand from hers and drawn him forward.
Cate said a silent prayer the little boy didn’t get too scared or upset.
“When is your saint’s day, lad?” Gregor asked.
Eddie gave him a big gap-toothed grin and Cate heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe it would be all right after all. “All Saint’s Day. Pip gave me a new ball ’cause I was sad.”
“Why were you sad?”
The smile fell as quickly as it had appeared. “I missed my mummy.”
Gregor’s voice was even softer yet, and Cate felt her heart tumble from her chest. “What’s your mummy’s name, Eddie?”
“Mummy.” His little jaw started to tremble. “I want my mummy.”
Cate would have moved toward him, but Gregor put a firm hand on his back. “I know you do, lad. And I would like to find her for you, but I need to know her name. What did other people call her? Janet? Mary? Elizabeth? Christina …?”
Eddie brightened with understanding. “Ellen! That’s what my Gram called her.”
“And did your mum have nice red hair like you, lad?”
Eddie nodded furiously.
Gregor smiled, gave the boy a pat on the head, and stood. The smug look on his face did not bode well. The boy’s answer seemed to have convinced Gregor that he was not his father.
The matter decided in his mind at least, Gregor turned to the little girl, who was wiggling in Ete’s arms. “And who is this?”
“Mathilda, my laird,” Ete said. “A right heavy handful this one is.”
Gregor frowned. “Doesn’t she walk?”
Cate and Ete exchange a look. “Not really, my laird,” the older woman answered dryly. “It’s more of a run.”
As if on cue, a determined “Down!” was added to Maddy’s wiggling.
Gregor looked at Cate. “She talks?”
Cate shrugged. “A few words here and there. We think she’s about sixteen months—give or take a few.” Cate held out her arms to a struggling Ete. “Here, I’ll take her.”
But for once, Maddy didn’t seem to want Cate to hold her. She’d apparently overcome her temporary fear of Gregor and was eyeing him intently, while squirming and saying “no” over and over to Cate. Her face was growing redder and redder, and Cate feared those “no’s” were about to turn to a screech. That had to be avoided at all costs.
“Here, you take her,” Cate said, thrusting the child into his arms and not giving him a chance to refuse. “I think she wants you.”
The stunned look on his face would have been comical if Maddy hadn’t immediately quieted and started making a sound Cate had never heard from her before. In between sniffles from the cold she was still getting over, the cranky toddler—the very cranky toddler who hadn’t done much but scream for the past week—started to coo and goo, making eyes at him like …
Good lord, did he have the same effect on females of all ages? It appeared so. The little girl was flirting!
“I think you’ve made another conquest,” Cate said dryly.
Some of Gregor’s shock had worn off, but he was still holding the little girl out like she had the plague. He did, however, grin. A devastating grin that made Cate suck in her breath. It was a grin that had made countless women fall at his feet, her included.
“Apparently the lass has good taste. I guess that is something.” He examined her like a piglet at market. “She’s a cute little thing, if you like white-blond hair and big blue eyes.”
She would have wagered he did, but something about the way he said it made her wonder.
Gregor asked Cate what she knew of the child, and Cate started to tell him, but apparently Maddy had other ideas. She started kicking and bouncing up and down, reaching for Gregor to pull her closer. “My!” she said, then louder, “My!”
“I think she wants your brooch, my laird,” Ete said. “She likes shiny things.”
But it wasn’t the large gold broach set around an onyx stone securing the plaid he wore around his shoulders that Maddy wanted. It was the other shiny thing.
As soon as Gregor pulled the little girl in closer, she reached for his face, putting her no-doubt droolly hand on his cheek. “My! Pretty!”
There was a moment of stunned silence at the child’s proclamation.
But then Cate and Ete took one look at Gregor’s horrified face, exchanged glances, and burst into laughter. Seeing Gregor’s horror at being called “pretty,” even Pip joined in.
Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if Eddie hadn’t started laughing, too. Thus they found out the hard way that the little boy didn’t release his bladder only when he was scared or upset.
“Oh, no,” Eddie whispered, tugging her skirts. “I have to go.”
Cate looked down and tried not to groan. “I think you already went, sweeting.”
“What the hell?” Gregor yelled, jumping back and nearly dropping Maddy as the stream of liquid headed for his feet.
Cate took one look at his face and knew the chance for a good impression was long gone. With nothing to lose, she gave in to the laughter and grinned. “John warned you to watch your feet.”
After nearly having had his foot pissed on, the midday meal was blissfully anticlimactic. But Gregor was painfully aware of the woman at his side.
As if it weren’t bad enough that his body was humming with attraction, she was aggravating his edginess with laughter. Hers, at his expense.
“This is quite a pretty bowl, isn’t it, Gregor?” and “What a pretty dress that is, Màiri, don’t you agree, Gregor?” followed by “The heather was so pretty a couple of months ago, Gregor—too bad you could not have returned then.”
Each time she said “pretty” with such teasing laughter dancing in her eyes, he itched to throw her back against the “pretty” tablecloth and kiss th
Wrong, he reminded himself. But the voice was weaker this time. Or rather the desire hammering through his body for her was getting louder.
Normally, he wouldn’t mind the prodding—God knew he’d heard far worse from MacSorley—but he was wound so damned tight, he felt ready to explode.
To avoid that, he distracted himself with Màiri. The seneschal’s widow had slid into John’s seat after his brother had disappeared when Gregor called for the wine. At his first taste of the spiced swill, Gregor knew why. He would deal with his wine-poaching brother later, but for the moment all his attention was on the pret—damn it, lovely widow. He found himself relaxing. Enjoying the food—which was exceptional—and the easy, flirtatious banter.
Cate he largely ignored. Or tried to ignore, which was easier said than done, since she seemed to poke or nudge him for something every other minute. It was the oddest thing, though. Rather than getting all prickly or annoyed by his curt-bordering-on-rude responses, she was unusually calm and solicitous. “Is the lamb to your liking?” (It was exactly how he liked it, actually—roasted with lots of mint.) “Can I get you more wine?” (No. God knew he needed all his senses sharp to deal with her.) “What do you think of the new piper?” (He was the best Gregor had ever heard.) “Can I get you another trencher?” (No, he and Màiri didn’t mind sharing this one.)
Once or twice he thought she was about to lose her temper, but then she would mumble something under her breath and smile at him instead. A very demure, maidenly smile that he couldn’t recall ever seeing on her face before. That made him uneasy. The lass was up to something, and he suspected he knew what.
Cate’s adoration for him had always made him uneasy, but now that she was older it was worse. The last thing he wanted was to be the object of a young girl’s first love. She would only get hurt, and he didn’t want that. He cared about her. As any man put in his position would, of course.
By the end of the meal, he and his bruised ribs were looking forward to the evening, when he intended to rid himself of the edginess for good. He thought Màiri was looking forward to it as well, which was why he was surprised when he found himself walking back from the stables alone after she didn’t appear for their assignation.
He passed through the Hall, where the trestle tables had been replaced by bedrolls for the sleeping clansmen, on the way to his room.
“Did you have a nice walk?”
Recognizing the voice, he stiffened. Cate was seated on a wooden bench before the fire with John, a chessboard set out between them. They looked … cozy. He frowned.
“It’s rather cold for a nighttime jaunt, isn’t it?” she added.
Though it was an innocuous question, something about the way her eyes sparkled in the firelight made that frown deepen. Had she been aware of his foiled plans? And why the hell did her knowing about his liaisons bother him?
“I like the cold.” Especially when he felt so damned hot.
He strode toward them and glanced down at the chess pieces that had been carved by his father. His father and his eldest brother, Alasdair, had loved to play. Gregor, on the other hand, had never had the patience for the game—another mark of many against him to his father’s mind.
Striker, Raider, and Chief played, as did Bruce. Indeed, some of their matches had been more fierce and contested than the battles with the English of late.
He frowned at the board. From the looks of it, Cate appeared to be winning. His gaze met hers. “You play chess?”
She smiled. “A little.”
John snorted. “Don’t let her fool you, brother. She’ll take the shirt off your back if you aren’t careful. The lass is ruthless, with no mercy for a man’s pride. She’s been crushing mine for years. Padraig won’t play with her anymore. Last time he was home, she had him helping Ete with hanging the laundry after he lost.”
Their youngest brother, who fought for Bruce under their uncle Malcolm, the Chief of the MacGregors, was nearly as good a chess player as their father had been.
Cate grinned. “John exaggerates.”
His brother grunted. “The hell I do.”
Gregor shook his head. “You shouldn’t have taught her if you weren’t willing to lose.”
There was an awkward pause. John shot Cate an uncomfortable glance. For some reason, the intimacy of that silent communication bothered him.
Cate seemed to stiffen slightly, but when she responded her voice was light and breezy. Perhaps too breezy. “John has taught me many things”—Gregor didn’t like the sound of that—“but not this. I learned chess from my father.”
Chess was a nobleman’s game. Though it wouldn’t be unheard of for a man of Kirkpatrick’s birth to learn the game, it wasn’t usual. Something about it pricked. But the subject of her father wasn’t one she wished to discuss. Ever. Gregor had broached the subject a few times over the years, but Cate shut down so completely, he’d stopped. He hated seeing her upset.
She stood. “I think I shall retire.” She looked at John. “We can finish the game tomorrow.”
“It shouldn’t take long,” John said wryly.
Both men watched her cross the Hall and slip into the darkness beyond the partition. The Hall seemed suddenly … less.
John was watching him. “The lass has grown up.”
Sensing there was more to the statement than there appeared, Gregor gave an inconsequential, “Aye.”
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
He shot his brother a withering glare. “I noticed.” When she’d stuck out her chest earlier, he’d nearly swallowed his tongue.
“Then why didn’t you say anything about the gown? It isn’t like you to be so ungallant around a lady.”
“What gown?”
John’s face darkened. “Don’t be an arse, Gregor. I saw your reaction, even if she didn’t. You noticed. The question is, what the hell are you going to do about it?”
“Find her a husband.”
The blunt response took his brother aback. John thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “She’ll never agree. She loves it here and belongs here, maybe even more than you or I. This is her home. You can’t send her away.”
Gregor steeled himself against the guilt, but it came anyway. “What would you have me do? With Mother gone, she can’t stay here. She’s not our sister.”
“No,” John said evenly. “No, she’s not.”
There was something in John’s voice that set Gregor’s already frayed nerve endings on edge. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
John returned the hard stare. “I don’t know. Maybe I should ask you?”
The two brothers gazed at one another in the firelight in some kind of challenge neither one of them wanted to acknowledge. But feeling as if he were wading damned close to something he didn’t want to step in—a mess he’d been in before—Gregor was the one to look away.
“What about the children?” John asked.
“They aren’t mine.”
“You are certain?”
“Aye.” Their ages had left no doubt.
John nodded. “I suspected as much.”
“Then why the hell did you let her take them in?”
“I wasn’t sure, and …” John looked up at him, and then gave a helpless shrug. “She wanted them.”
Gregor understood more than he wanted to. Cate was making the foundlings her family—their family. But he couldn’t let her do that.
God, he hated this. Hated feeling responsible for someone else’s happiness. He assuaged his guilt with the knowledge that she would likely have her own family soon enough. And he would get back to doing what he did best: fighting. Without anything—or anyone—else to weigh on him. John could handle the clan and act as chieftain. The position sho
“I’ll see you in the morning. Right now all I want to do is sleep.”
John’s mouth curved on one side. “Then you might want to find another bed.”
“What?”
John shook his head and smirked. “You’ll see.”
Five
Gregor was too tired to pay his brother’s vague comments any mind. He fell asleep as soon as his head landed on the pillow.
But instead of relaxed and sated (as he surely would have been had Màiri shown up in the barn), his sleep was restless and definitely un-sated. He dreamed of dancing golden-brown eyes, delicate dark brows, a turned-up nose, and a naughty mouth. A naughty mouth with soft, dark red lips that were wrapped around him, sucking—
A scream tore through the night, piercing like icy nails driven through his ears. He shot awake, the lustful dreams that had gripped his body instantly cooled by shock.
His first thought was that Cate was having another nightmare. The first couple of years at Dunlyon she’d been plagued by them, but they’d grown less frequent as the years went on. But Cate’s screams were of terror—they weren’t the shrill, high-pitched wail of the banshee that went on and on until his skull felt like it was going to explode.
Not Cate, he realized. Then what the hell was it?
By the time the second scream came hard on the heels of the first, this one longer and—if possible—shriller, he was already out of bed, pulling on his breeches. He threw open the door and was about to bang on his brother’s door, when it suddenly opened. A ghostly figure in white came flying out of the darkness toward him.
Instinctively—so as not to be barreled over—he caught the apparition to him. His body shocked at the contact. A rush of awareness poured through him like molten lava, hot and heavy through his veins. His nerve endings flared, his senses sharpened, and the heat … the heat engulfed him.
It wasn’t a ghost. The very real body pressed against his—nay, molded into his—was achingly female. Unusually firm and surprisingly solid for a lass, perhaps, but still un-mistakingly soft and sweet.