The Arrow by Monica McCarty
Cate.
Her gasp of surprise tangled with his groan of something far more primal. Lust. Raw, physical, primitive lust that took hold of him and wouldn’t let go.
She looked up, and their eyes met in the semi-darkness. He saw her confusion, her innocence, and her desire. Her very womanly desire.
For a moment that was all he saw. The connection was so strong, so visceral, it seemed everything else faded away. The horrible screeching. The time. The place. The voice of reason. His thoughts became a dark tunnel of need that led only to the woman in his arms.
He wanted to drown in her. To push her up against the wall, cover her mouth with his, and give in to the desire roaring through his body. He didn’t know what the hell was happening to him. The control he always felt had deserted him. He was wild.
The arm wrapped around her waist instinctively tightened, drawing her even closer. Her eyes widened, as she no doubt felt what he did. Bodies plastered together, her breasts crushed against his chest, her stomach nestled against the substantial bulge of his manhood, their legs entwined. Like a lock that had slipped into place, each part had been fitted together precisely.
Perfectly.
Christ, it felt incredible. She felt incredible. The heat started move to lower, to swell in his groin, to fill his cock and tighten his bollocks.
Every muscle in his body went rigid to battle the urges racing through him. The lust came on him so quickly and powerfully, it seemed impossible to hold back—especially for a man who’d never had to hold it back before. It had always been so easy for him—maybe too easy. When he wanted a woman, he never had to ask.
But this was different. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d ever wanted a woman this intensely. It must be some damned perverse bone in his body making him want her precisely because he couldn’t have her.
You can’t have her. The voice penetrated the haze that had engulfed him.
But he didn’t want to let her go. How could something that felt so damned right be so damned wrong?
Cate had wanted him to be struck by the lightning bolt, but instead she was the one who felt as if her entire world had shifted.
Her knowledge of love and romance was the bards’ tales of a young girl. Sweet and tender, the gentle flutter of heartstrings at the thought of his lips touching hers for the first time in a chaste, reverent kiss. The kind of kiss a knight might give his lady after championing her on the tournament lists. That was what she’d pictured it would be like between them. That was all she knew.
But when Gregor caught her in his arms and held her against him, the picture changed forever. What she felt wasn’t sweet or romantic or chaste at all. The cravings of her body weren’t gentle flutters but a torrential thunderstorm of need, hot and powerful and a little—maybe a lot—wicked.
The images flashing through her head weren’t of gallant knights bowing over their fair maidens’ hands proclaiming their undying love, but of dark, sultry chambers and naked limbs entwined in bedsheets.
Sweet heaven, he was naked! Or rather, half of him was naked. And with her wearing only a thin linen shift, the feel of his powerful chest against hers was unlike anything she’d ever imagined. It made her hot and flushed and weak all over.
Instinctively her hands had slid around his shoulders when he caught her to him, and that was where they stayed, molded to the smooth, bare skin and hard, bulging muscle. He was so warm. She wanted to sink into him and never let go.
She’d known he was strong and powerfully built, but seeing him in the flesh was an entirely different kind of knowledge. The kind of knowledge that once awakened would never be put to rest again.
He’d been forged like a weapon of war, all lean, rigid muscle and tight sinew, without an ounce of spare flesh of which to speak. His shoulders were square and broad, his arms thick with rounded slabs of muscle, his waist narrow, and his stomach lined with layer after layer of tight rope-like bands. He was as hard as granite, yet impossibly warm—almost hot—to the touch. Especially where their bodies met.
She was hot, too, her skin flushed and strangely sensitive. She’d never felt like this before. The sensations—her thoughts and desires—shocked her. Confused her. Making her feel like she was seeing him for the first time.
She’d never imagined what the sight and feel of a man’s naked chest could do to her. She’d never imagined the hot flush that would claim her body. The heaviness in her breasts and loins. The unmistakable flicker of awareness between her legs, and then the strange dampness. She’d never imagined wanting to run her hands all over someone’s body, wanting to feel the hard ridges and muscular bulges tightening under her fingertips.
But his naked chest did all of that.
It was just as perfect as the rest of him, glowing warm and golden in the light from the single torch that lit the hall. How was it possible for one man to be so blessed? It was as if God had set out to create a man who would make women fall to their knees.
She’d wanted Gregor MacGregor from the moment she’d seen him staring down at her in that well. But this was a different kind of want. It was much more powerful. It was the want of a woman for a man that came not just from the heart but from somewhere bone-deep and elemental. It was the want that could make a woman lose her virtue.
Until this moment, Cate had never really understood what could have made her mother—such a perfect lady in every other respect—do what she did. Now she had an inkling of just how easy it would be to lose herself in a man’s arms.
Did Gregor feel it, too?
When their eyes met, Cate saw a myriad of emotions crossing his face, none of which she could decipher.
The screaming stopped as abruptly as it had started. Yet for a long heartbeat, neither of them moved. “Gregor, I …”
She didn’t know what to say. Her emotions were too big to put into words.
He dropped her so suddenly, her legs almost didn’t have enough time to find their bones.
“What was that noise?”
Cate blinked. The question was so matter-of-fact, his expression so neutral, had she not been there, she would have never guessed that a moment ago he had been holding her as if he would never let her go.
She felt like she’d been knocked over by a battering ram. Her body was still flushed with arousal—her skin prickling, her nipples throbbing, her belly fluttering—and he was as cool and unruffled as always. Even without clothes on to ruffle!
Had he felt nothing? Was the fierce attraction not between them at all, but one-sided? Her sided? Did nothing touch him?
She stared at him, peering closer in the darkness. This time she detected the faint tightness around his mouth, the clenching of his fists, and the stiff set of his shoulders. His muscles, too, every God-blessed one of them, seemed to be slightly flexed and rigid. Like those of a man fighting for control. Holding himself back.
Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as unaffected as he wanted her to think.
As if he could read her mind, his expression hardened. “Go back to your room, Caitrina. I will track down the source of the screaming.”
She bit her lip and gave an apologetic smile. “There is no need. It was Maddy. She has an earache and wakes up sometimes.”
He cocked a brow. “Sometimes?”
Her apologetic smile turning wincing. “Sometimes every night.”
He groaned, raking his fingers back through his hair. There was some kind of marking on the top of his arm, but that wasn’t what made her suck in every gasp of air in her lungs. Good God in heaven! The flex of muscle in his arm …
Her stomach did a little flip and dove straight for her toes.
“Can nothing be done?” he asked.
She forced her eyes from the ripped ball of arm muscle, trying to grasp a thread of coherent thought in her head. “Uh, the healer gave us a poultice, and warm blankets seem to help. But from the sound of it, Lizzie has it under control now. She sleeps in the room with her.”
His gaze pin
It took Cate a moment to realize what he meant. When she did, all she could do was stare at him with her mouth open. He thought she and John …?
She straightened. How dare he! Unlike certain people in this corridor, she did not share her bed with whoever happened to be conveniently around. She had not been the one spoon-feeding Màiri bites of food all night. Food that Cate had gone to all that trouble to have prepared, including the special sugar-and-cinnamon biscuits she’d made herself. All his favorites. Everything perfect. Not that he’d noticed, blast it. How could he, when his face had been in Màiri’s bosom all night?
He wasn’t usually so obvious with his liaisons, but this time was different. It was almost as if he wanted her to notice.
Now Cate was the one clenching her fists. She wanted nothing more than to tell him exactly what she thought of his accusation, but her mother’s (and Lady Marion’s) words came back to her as they had all night long. “Ladies don’t have tempers, Caty. Men don’t want a shrew for a wife.”
Apparently men wanted a giggling ninny with big breasts! But Cate kept her unkind thoughts about the widow to herself.
Cate’s smile was so forced and brittle she thought her face might crack. “I moved down here to make room for the children. John slept in your chamber until Maddy became sick, when he decided he preferred the barracks.”
“So you are sleeping in the …”
“In the room next to yours, yes,” she finished. Why did he look so gray? “Is there something wrong with that?”
The muscle below his jaw started to tic from being squeezed so tightly, but he shook his head. “Nay.”
She frowned. “Are you all right? It sounds like you have something in your throat. Oh goodness, I hope you are not coming down with a—”
“I’m fine,” he growled, grabbing the wrist of the hand that was reaching for his forehead.
He shoved her hand back to her side and let go, but she could still feel the imprint of his hand around her wrist like a manacle.
“You don’t sound fine, you sound angry. If it’s about the sleeping arrangements or you holding me in your arms earlier—”
“I wasn’t holding you in my arms, damn it!”
Cate tried not to smile, but his reaction made her so happy, she couldn’t help it. If he hadn’t felt anything, he wouldn’t be so angry.
He had noticed her. He might not like it, but he had.
“You weren’t?” she said innocently. “I could have sworn your arm was around my waist and my chest was against yours for a good three minutes—”
His face darkened. “Cate …”
Heeding the warning, she grinned and slipped back into her room. She’d made her point. “Good night, Gregor. Sweet dreams,” she couldn’t resist adding, closing the door in his face.
It was a thick, solid door, but she could still hear him curse as he moved away.
Cate flopped back on her bed and gazed up at the wooden beams and trestles of the ceiling in the moonlit darkness with a huge smile on her face.
She wasn’t going to wait for lightning to strike after all. Nay, she was going to make a little storm of her own. She could afford to be patient, but the children could not. They needed him. He would see it … soon.
Six
Thanks to the short days of winter, it was still dark when Gregor woke to the sound of movement in the hall below. Although “woke” suggested sleep, which he’d had precious little of the past few days.
If it wasn’t Maddy’s crying (which had improved since he arranged to have a healer stay with her), it was his own dreams disturbing him. Sinful dreams. Wicked dreams. Dreams from which he’d wake hot and hard, poised on the edge of release. Hell, he’d taken himself in his hand so many nights this week, he felt like a sixteen-year-old lad again.
Since the night she’d ended up in his arms, his inconvenient lust for Cate had only gotten worse. Much worse. The lass seemed to be going out of the way to drive him half-mad. Nay, completely mad. Teasing him. Tempting him. Tormenting him with the desire for him that she didn’t bother to hide. Coming home was supposed to clear his head, giving him his edge back, not putting him on it.
He’d done his best to avoid her, but within the small confines of Dunlyon, it was virtually impossible. She tracked him down with some excuse whether he was locked away in his solar, in the stables, or training in the yard with the men. The only time he had a moment of peace was when he rode out with his men to scout or to see to some of his more distant clansmen.
It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been the target of a less-than-subtle invitation by a young lass who was pandering to his every need, entrancing him with her smiles, accidentally brushing her body against his, or using any excuse to touch him. He’d been subject to such games and machinations since he was a lad. He saw through them and knew how to deal with them.
Usually. But with Cate it was different. With Cate he might see through it, but it didn’t stop him from wanting her. She was the only one he’d ever had to resist, and doing so was proving more difficult than he ever could have imagined.
Twice he’d arranged other distractions, but twice his plans had been foiled. Once when a few of the men returned to the barracks unexpectedly, and another time when the servants decided to clean the storage room (at night, which seemed an odd time for housework).
Dunlyon was too damned small and the places for privacy few. There was his solar, of course, but with Cate right next door …
It made him uncomfortable. Cognizant of her tender feelings for him, he’d always tried to be somewhat circumspect in his dealings with other women while he was home. But he wondered how much longer he could keep that up in his present state. Exhausted and on edge were putting it mildly.
If it weren’t Sunday, he would have pulled the pillow over his head and rolled back over.
Sunday. Damn it, he had to get ready for mass in the village. With a groan of resignation, he fished around groggily for his braies. He could wash and dress practically in his sleep. The last seven years of war had taught him to be ready at a moment’s notice, and his movements were so engrained as to be rote. Cold water from the urn splashed on his face, a quick wash of his body, a paste of mint and salt and a rinse of white wine for his teeth, a comb through his hair (when he had a comb), tunic, hose, breeches, surcoat, plaid all nicely folded (which he couldn’t remember doing), and boots. Boots …
He squinted again at the foot of the bed. Damn it, where the hell were his boots?
Jerking open the door, he was about to call for one of the servants, when Seamus, the son of a local chieftain who John had agreed to foster and who served as something of his squire, came hurrying up the stairs, the missing boots in his hands.
“Sorry, my laird. You were probably looking for these. I was supposed to have them back before you woke.”
Gregor took the boots from the lad, noticing that they were no longer thick with mud. “You cleaned them?”
“Aye, Cate thought you would like them freshened up for mass this morning.”
“She did, did she?” How bloody thoughtful of her! How she managed to anticipate his every need before he did was damned disconcerting.
The boy took a step back. “Did I do something wrong? Should I check with your brother next time first?”
Gregor gritted his teeth. “They aren’t John’s boots, damn it, they’re mine.”
He was the laird.
The boy’s eyes widened, and Gregor swore, realizing what an arse he sounded like. This was what she’d reduced him to. Churlishness. He’d never been churlish in his life—until now. But it seemed that every time he turned around he was hearing “Cate sees to that,” or “John already did that,” or worse, “John and Cate took care of it.” Together.
Clearly, John was proving a capable laird in Gregor’s absence and Cate had taken
Gregor should be pleased that things were running so smoothly. Being laird was a job he’d never wanted or been destined for. He was glad he could focus on the war with the knowledge that his clan would be well looked after. He was. But being superfluous in his own tower took some getting used to.
“I’m sorry,” Seamus repeated anxiously.
Gregor swore. He shouldn’t take his irritation with Cate out on the lad. “Nay, ’tis I who am sorry, lad. I am ill-tempered this morning. You did a fine job—thank you.”
The boy beamed and was about to run off when the door next to his opened and out walked the source of Gregor’s ill-temper, looking fresh and sweet and too damned lovely for his not-so-peaceful state of mind in yet another snug-fitting gown—this one dusky blue.
She turned her bright-eyed gaze to his. Did she have to look so damned cheery? “Is something wrong? I thought I heard raised voices.”
“It’s nothing,” Gregor said at the same time the lad offered, “I was just returning the laird’s boots.”
She dimpled. Since when did she have dimples, damn it? “We’d hoped to surprise you.”
“You did,” Gregor said. Turning to Seamus, he added, “You can return to your other duties, lad. Tell my brother we’ll be leaving soon.”
Cate was studying his face with concern. “Are you sure you are all right? You were tossing and turning rather restlessly when I came in to bring your clothes—”
“When you what?” Gregor exploded furiously, taking a step toward her before he remembered how foolish that was. Christ, she smelled good. Plenty of women used heather to scent their soap, but none had ever smelled like this. None had ever made him want to bury his nose in her neck and inhale.