The Arrow

by Monica McCarty

  He looked down at the dog and nodded.

  Again she wanted to put her arms around him, but she remembered all too well how she’d been at that age. Lady Marion had been patient with her, and she would do the same for Pip.

  She turned to leave, but he stopped her. “How did you do what you did to Dougal today?”

  Her mouth twisted. It had been rather amazing. She hadn’t really been convinced all of her practice would pay off. But it had, and she was proud of herself. “Practice.”

  His eyes darkened again. “Did he teach you?”

  She shook her head. For years she’d pestered Gregor every time he came home to teach her how to defend herself, but he always put her off “until next time.” Finally, she grew weary of waiting and asked John. “No, John taught me.”

  Pip paused for a moment and looked up at her uncertainly. “Do you think that maybe you could teach me?”

  She grinned. “You wouldn’t mind taking lessons in warfare from a lass?”

  He thought for a minute, obviously taking her question seriously. “Not if you can teach me to do that.”

  She laughed. “Well, why don’t we see what you can do tomorrow?”

  He stared at her, a look of cautious excitement on his bruised and battered face. “Really?”

  She smiled. It was still so hard for him to believe that anything good would be coming his way, but she was determined to change that. “Really. But you’ll have to work hard.”

  His black head was nodding so enthusiastically, she feared he might start his nose bleeding again. “I will, I promise.”

  She hid a smile. “Then come to the practice yard after your chores. John and I should be done by then.”

  A few times a week—more if she begged him hard enough—John found time to squeeze in a few practice sessions with her in between his other duties. With Gregor and their youngest brother, Padraig, off fighting, it had been left to John to keep watch over their holdings for the time being. Although John was anxious to return to the battle, Cate looked forward to their training more than anything—except for Gregor’s visits.

  Reminded that the very man was likely waiting for her and the children in the Great Hall, Cate hurried to get the salve and see what could be done about Pip’s poor face. She had to ensure that Gregor’s second impression was better than the first. A wry smile turned her lips. Given the first meeting, that shouldn’t be too hard.

  Four

  With Cate requisitioning the tub, Gregor made use of the river to wash away the two days of grime from the saddle. On a hot summer day, a dip in the River Lyon was invigorating and refreshing, but about a week from mid-winter’s day, it was like jumping into ice water. Cold enough to freeze your bollocks off.

  He hoped.

  The prurient thoughts about his wee “ward” weren’t just an annoyance, they were also bloody embarrassing. A man of his experience should have some control over his thoughts and his body, damn it. But apparently, he was reduced to relying on cold water until he could find a husband for her.

  To that end, the first thing he’d done after meeting with John was make a list of suitable men in the area—not too old, not too young, not too rich, not too poor, not too noble of blood, but not a peasant either. He was seeking a man who would appreciate the generous tocher that Gregor intended to provide, but who would not require an important family alliance. Although Cate would benefit by her connection with him as her guardian, her father had been only a man-at-arms of one of Bruce’s vassals.

  It was a delicate balance, but Gregor intended to make the best connection for her that he could. It was what she deserved. He couldn’t see her with a simple husbandman or cottar. There was something oddly noble about the lass. She certainly acted like a queen sometimes—or at least with all the bloody authority of one. Perhaps one of his retainers? A member of a local chieftain’s meinie? The second or third son of a local chief?

  In the end, he’d come up with a half-dozen names. He would have the clerk start writing to them immediately. As Gregor was home for the holidays for the first time in years, he would be expected to hold a feast for the Hogmanay celebration, which would be as good a reason as any to bring them here. With any luck, the betrothal would be all wrapped up by the time he was called back in early January.

  But he feared it was going to be a long few weeks until then.

  Returning to the tower house, Gregor started to climb the third set of stairs before catching himself and going back down to the second. Christ, he’d been chieftain for six years, and he still had to remind himself that he was “the laird.”

  It was a position that had never been meant for him as the third son. God knew, he wasn’t cut out for the responsibility. His father would have hated to see the clan under Gregor’s leadership. After Alasdair’s death, his father had put all his faith in Gregor’s second-oldest brother, Gille. It probably would have killed him to know that Gille had fallen not long after he had on the same battlefield, leaving his “useless” third son as his heir.

  There were two chambers on the second floor, the laird’s—now his—being the larger. John slept in the other. Cate slept on the third floor (with his mother before she’d died), in the chamber Gregor had shared with his brothers as a boy.

  He’d never paid much mind to the size of the tower house before, but now he regretted that his father hadn’t had time to begin the plans he’d made to build a new, modern keep of stone. The old wooden walls had seen better days, and the building—although serviceable—was simple and rustic, not fitting for the laird of the most important chieftain of the MacGregors. Isolated in the Highlands as they were, the wooden palisade fortifications had been adequate until recently.

  But it was the other defenses that Gregor was thinking about. Distance and separation were what he needed, but the small tower house—the small, intimate tower house—provided little of that. He was far too conscious of that single flight of stairs.

  After exchanging his war clothes for a fresh tunic, surcoat, and leather breeches, Gregor knew he’d delayed long enough. But he relished the first precious few hours of peace before the throng descended. It was always that way when he returned after so many months away. He knew it was expected—and partially his fault for staying away for so long—but sometimes he felt like a carcass in the sun with the buzzards pecking away at him. The men wanted a decision about some dispute, requests for delays in the payment of rents, or to put off their service, and the women …

  He groaned. They wanted a piece of him, too. Some a bigger piece than others. He sometimes thought it would be worth getting married just to avoid having to evade all the “offers” that came his way. But then he would remember that getting married meant he would have a wife.

  MacSorley, who was the king of the nicknames (it was how many of the Guardsmen had ended up with their noms de guerre), had taken to calling him “Slick” or the “Sorcerer,” referring to Gregor’s propensity to “magically” evade the traps of the more marriage-minded lasses who threw themselves in his path. According to MacSorley, Gregor had slipped out of even more bonds than MacRuairi, who was an expert at getting in and out of anywhere. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Eventually, Gregor knew he would have to get married—he might not like responsibility, but he recognized when he had it—but right now his only focus was on the war.

  As he was leaving his room, he caught a glimpse of the bed and was tempted—damned tempted—to collapse on it, draw the fur-lined blanket over his head, and forget about everything for a while. Maybe Bruce was right. Maybe he needed this break more than he’d realized.

  How long did he have before it started? If the noise coming from below in the not-so-Great Hall was any indication, not long. Damn, it sounded like a feast in there.

  A moment later, standing inside the entry and scanning the crowded room, he groaned. There were already at least forty of his clansmen in the room. By tomorrow morning, there likely would be twice that many.

  He picked Jo
hn out in the crowd, standing next to the dais with some members of Gregor’s meinie, talking with an attractive woman. A very attractive woman, he noticed on second glance, taking in the slender but shapely curves in the snug green gown, the silky cascade of wavy, dark hair that edged just past her shoulders, and the pretty profile.

  Gregor brightened, suddenly feeling a little lighter, and started toward them. A little distraction. That’s what he needed. He hoped his brother didn’t have a prior claim. He’d learned the hard way what could happen if two brothers desired the same woman—that was a mistake he would never make again.

  No matter how shapely a set of breasts or sweet a bottom—

  He stopped mid-step, feeling as if he’d just slammed into a stone wall.

  It couldn’t be.

  John caught sight of him, waved, and said something to the woman at his side. She turned, and Gregor felt something in his chest drop to the floor. His blood followed hard after it. He felt as if Raider had taken one of those giant cabers he liked to throw and slammed it across his chest.

  No, damn it, no!

  But it was Cate. Looking …

  Lovely. And not like a young girl at all. His jaw clenched. Nay, she looked very much like a woman full grown. She smiled, and the sense of dread that had begun to crawl over him grew crushing. Suffocating. A woman full grown and far too attractive for his peace of mind. Who would have guessed that the mud-soaked urchin could look so damned pretty?

  Mud he knew how to handle. But this—this—what the hell was he supposed to do with glossy, dark hair, eyes so bright and lively they seemed to sparkle across the room, wide crimson lips that suddenly looked naughty in an entirely different way, and breasts? Breasts, damn it! Breasts that weren’t just in his imagination anymore, but were now being displayed to perfection in a snug, figure-molding gown. Sized to fit perfectly in a man’s hand, they were firm, round, and mouthwateringly sweet. Every bit as sweet as he’d imagined after they’d been pressed against his chest. But now they weren’t in his imagination; they were right there, perched under his nose where he couldn’t deny them.

  His “wee ward” had grown up, and Gregor couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

  The inconvenient attraction he felt for her, however, he could do something about. Ignore, distract, and be rid of her as soon as possible—that was his plan.

  But securing a quick betrothal had taken on a new urgency.

  Cate’s heart caught when she saw him across the room. This was it. This was the moment for which she’d been dreaming. She waited for lightning to strike. For him to see her for the first time as a woman—a desirable woman.

  She waited. And waited. But his gaze skimmed over her without the barest flicker before returning to his brother.

  And just like that, the moment passed.

  She blinked, stunned. She’d been so certain that this time he would notice her, it seemed impossible that he hadn’t.

  She tried not to be disappointed, but Gregor’s lack of reaction to her appearance crushed her newfound confidence in her femininity like the bud of a flower under a boot.

  Maybe there was something wrong with her? Maybe she didn’t have what other women had that made them attractive to men—sensually attracted, not “you’re a great friend” attracted.

  Wait. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her or couldn’t see her from the distance across the Hall?

  Sadly not. He crossed the Hall, greeted them both, and didn’t make one comment about her dress or hair. She might as well have been wearing a sackcloth, for all that he noticed. Indeed, his notice seemed to have been diverted elsewhere. Namely to the bodice of the gown of the prior seneschal’s widow, Màiri, whom Cate knew had shared his bed on more than one occasion in the past.

  Cate’s mouth tightened. Perhaps the change in her appearance had not been as dramatic as John’s reaction had led her to believe, and Gregor needed a little help to see it?

  The moment the widow walked away, Cate diverted Gregor’s attention from the other woman’s sashaying hips back to her by stepping slightly in front of him to block his view. “I’m wearing a new dress,” she pointed out.

  His jaw appeared to tighten before he turned his gaze to meet hers. The quick once-over he did of the gown was hardly longer than the passing glance he’d given her earlier. “It’s nice.”

  It’s nice? Not even a “you look nice”? Good gracious, the man handed out compliments to every other woman like they were sweets to bairns, and all he could manage for her was nice?

  She glared at him. “Do you think the color flattering? Your mother thought so when she bought it for me, but I wasn’t sure.”

  She saw the telltale tic of annoyance appear on his jaw, but as she was rather annoyed herself, she paid it no mind.

  “It’s certainly an improvement over the brown you were wearing earlier.”

  Cate gasped in outrage. The beast! He meant the mud!

  Her eyes narrowed, anger replacing her earlier disappointment. Was he purposefully being dense? Didn’t he realize that she was practically banging him over the head to get him to notice her?

  Apparently, her banging was too subtle. She straightened, sticking her chest out the way Seonaid did whenever she came within fifty yards of him. “You do not think it’s too tight? I’ve grown quite a bit in the past two years.”

  For one long heartbeat his eyes dropped. She sucked in her breath, feeling singed, as if a slow-moving wildfire were sweeping across her chest. Yet, oddly, her nipples hardened the way they did in a cold bath. The heat and hardness were a heady sensation, making her skin flush with a heavy tingle. It was as if her body were the string of a clàrsach that had just been strummed.

  She felt her knees grow weak. Something hot and powerful fired between them. Something that made the air feel thick with tension. She knew she would see heat reflected in his gaze—the desire that she’d longed for.

  But his eyes when they returned to hers weren’t hot at all—they were cool and distant.

  “If the gown is uncomfortable, you can go change,” he said indifferently. “We will wait to start the meal. But don’t take too long—I’m hungry.”

  He turned back to John, who’d been listening to the conversation with an odd expression on his face, and Cate didn’t know whether to cry or kick the handsome clod in his leather-clad backside.

  She was saved from making the decision by the appearance of Ete, who stepped out from the wooden partition behind the dais that separated the Hall from the corridor leading to the kitchens and the small room that served as the laird’s solar. Cate gave her a questioning look and the other woman nodded. The children were ready.

  Anticipating that Gregor would not want this meeting to take place in public, Cate had asked Ete to bring the children to the laird’s solar.

  She put her hand on Gregor’s arm, startling him from his conversation with his brother. He stiffened, the muscles in his arm turned as rigid as steel. Moss-green eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her shiver.

  She dropped her hand, the tension emanating from him startling her. Good gracious, what was the matter with him? He acted like she had the plague.

  “They are waiting for us,” she said hastily.

  “Who?”

  She tried not to lose her patience, reminding herself how important it was that this went well, but it wasn’t easy. How could he have forgotten about them already? “Your children.”

  Gregor shot a look to John, who just shrugged and gave him a “don’t look at me” look. “I told her you wouldn’t like it,” John said.

  “And I told him,” Cate said with a tight smile to John (the traitor), “that you wouldn’t deny your own flesh and blood.”

  Gregor’s mouth tightened, and she knew he wanted to argue with her premise but was holding his tongue—presumably because he knew his shouting would enable others to overhear their conversation.

  “Where are they?” he asked impatiently, clearly eager for the meeting to be done
with.

  “In the solar.”

  He gestured with his hand for her to lead the way.

  “Watch your feet,” John said with a snicker.

  Cate shot him a chastising glare, and pulled Gregor along when he would have turned to ask his brother what he meant.

  “Perhaps you can pour Gregor some wine for when we get back, John,” she said over her shoulder with a sugary smile.

  The solar was small and without a window to let in natural light. Even with the circular iron candelabrum lit, the room was fairly dark. It wasn’t until she closed the door behind them, however, that Cate realized her mistake. The two younger children took one look at the big warrior, and their eyes went wide with fright. Only Pip didn’t look like he was about to burst out in tears. Nay, Pip was too intent on scowling and projecting an air of surly indifference to notice how the room seemed to suddenly fill with the big, strapping warrior.

  Having become accustomed to his size, Cate forgot how physically intimidating Gregor could be. At three or four inches over six feet, he was a head taller than most men. Five years ago he’d still possessed some of the lean muscle of youth, but not any longer. Nay, now his build was all hard, solid man. His muscular chest and arms didn’t need to be clad in armor to look intimidating; they were steely and forbidding all on their own. As her eyes skimmed over the broad shoulders and bulging arms, taking him in as if for the first time, an odd little flutter of awareness tingled low in her belly. She felt … funny.

  Maddy’s whimper, however, knocked her from her stupor with a frown.

  “You’re scaring them,” she said under her breath.

  One very finely arched brow lifted. “I’m just standing here.”

  “Aye, well try not to look so big.” He stared at her as if he couldn’t figure out whether she was serious or not. Not knowing herself, but realizing how nervous she was, she began the introductions. “You’ve already met Phillip,” she said. “And this young man is Edward—Eddie.” She knelt down and held out her hand to the little boy. He eyed Gregor uncertainly, looking as if he wanted to bury his head in Ete’s skirts. But after Cate’s encouraging nod, he released the nursemaid’s hand, slid the fingers into his mouth, and slipped his other hand into Cate’s.