The Arrow

by Monica McCarty

  Cate crossed her arms and glared back at him, feigning anger. “I thought I was doing all that. But by all means, if you think you can do a better job, go right ahead.”

  Gregor’s gaze sharpened. Blast it, he was too shrewd. He guessed what she was doing. Perhaps she’d gone a little too far with all her errors, but she’d wanted to make sure he noticed.

  Conscious of the young boy between them who was doing his best to look as if it didn’t matter to him either way, Cate held her breath. Please don’t reject him again.

  Gregor held her gaze for a long pause, and then gave her a sharp nod. It wasn’t acquiescence as much as an acknowledgment that she’d won this battle—but he wasn’t conceding the war.

  The next hour passed quickly as Gregor instructed Pip in the proper form and technique of the longbow. It was obvious Gregor was comfortable in the role of teacher, and she realized as she watched him that she was probably seeing what it was like when he worked with the men under his command.

  The English had become feared for their bowmen—especially the Welsh—but the Highlands and forests of Galloway had also bred bowmen of great repute. When the time came to face the English, Bruce would not be without skilled archers. Highly skilled archers, if Gregor had any influence on their training.

  It was clear that not only was he gifted with skill, he was gifted in the ability to convey that skill to others—the two didn’t always go together. He knew exactly how much information to give, when to make corrections, and when to give praise.

  He demonstrated but did not shoot his own bow, although she was glad to see that he had brought it. When she mentioned that she hadn’t seen him practicing with it of late and asked him if something was wrong, he brushed her off by turning the focus to her shooting.

  She was surprised when he made a few slight adjustments to her technique that immediately improved her accuracy. Like Pip, she used a smaller, lighter bow made for her lesser strength. Trying to draw Gregor’s bow was like trying to draw an iron bar. She could barely move it a few inches. The size of the muscles in his back and arms suddenly took on new meaning and importance. He needed to be that strong to wield the bow.

  Pip wasn’t the only one disappointed when Gregor put a stop to the practice. “We’d better start back, if we are going to be in time for the midday meal.”

  With most of the guests already arrived for the feast tomorrow, skipping it was out of the question. She gave a disappointed sigh anyway. “Must we?”

  His mouth curved. “Aye, we must.” He turned to Pip. “The way to get better is to treat each arrow you shoot at practice the same way you would at battle. This is not a skill that will be bettered by the sheer number of shots. It’s making each one count. You need to build up shoulder and back strength—remember it’s not in the arm; you are bending into the bow. Shooting when you are tired will do nothing to improve your skill.”

  The past hour had done what Cate had hoped. Pip was no longer looking at Gregor with veiled animosity and suspicion; he was looking at him like a beaten pup that had just had someone pet him for the first time. He was at once desperate for the kindness, but also leery of accepting it for fear that it wouldn’t last.

  When Pip nodded, Cate had to look away, fearing one of them would see the tears in her eyes.

  It would have been a perfect morning, if it hadn’t been marred by what happened on the ride back to Dunlyon.

  They were deep in the forest when she sensed a shift in Gregor’s watchfulness. As with most warriors, he always demonstrated a high level of alertness and awareness of his surroundings, no matter what the circumstances; but this was different. This was the sharpness and edginess of battle. Everything about him seemed harder.

  Pip was riding ahead, and Gregor slightly behind her, when she turned to him and said, “What’s wrong?”

  His jaw had tensed, and his mouth was drawn in a tight line. “I’m not sure. I felt something. In the hills to the north.” He didn’t need to tell her not to look in that direction. “I think someone is watching us.”

  Her skin prickled, and she instinctively stiffened. Her heart started to pound, climbing quickly toward her throat. “What should we do?”

  “When we get to the fork ahead, I want you to ride for the tower house with the lad. I’m going to circle around and see if I can sneak up on our watcher from behind.”

  “But what if there is more than one?”

  For some reason that made him smile. “I will be fine, Cate. You have nothing to worry about.” His face grew grave. “But I am trusting you to get Pip back to Dunlyon safely. Tell John what has happened. I will return as quickly as I can. Make some excuse to the guests.”

  She nodded. Before she had time to argue or panic, he was gone—maybe he’d counted on that.

  She did as he’d bid, returning to the castle with Pip and informing John of what had occurred. She did her best to do her duty as the lady of the castle, presiding over the midday meal and seeing that the guests were well attended, but her head—along with her heart—was somewhere else.

  She couldn’t seem to breathe until Gregor walked through the door of the Hall two hours later, the long meal still going on. He caught her gaze before he was surrounded. Expression grim, he shook his head.

  She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. Gregor had not faced danger, but that meant whatever was out there was still there.

  Eighteen

  Cate’s nose was pressed so closely to the wall she was probably getting splinters. He had her hands pinned and was immobilizing the rest of her by crushing her with the weight of his body.

  It was hard to breathe. For one moment, she felt a flicker of panic but pushed it back. She tried to move her foot behind his ankle, but he anticipated the move and used his leg and thigh to inhibit her movement.

  He pressed her even harder. “That won’t work this time, Cate. What else can you do? Think.”

  There was an urgency to Gregor’s voice that she didn’t understand. But his words only increased her frustration. What could she do? She couldn’t do anything, blast it! He was as strong as a bloody ox! She could feel her pulse racing and her blood heating as the sense of helplessness mixed with anger. Every instinct in her body rebelled at this feeling of powerlessness.

  But she wasn’t powerless. With a sudden clarity of purpose, she stopped struggling. The moment he eased the pressure, she reacted. She bent her knees and slumped just enough to bring her head forward and snap it back hard against his face. Because he was so tall, she connected with his jaw and not his nose, but it was hard enough to make a cracking sound.

  He let out a grunt of pain and instinctively bent forward. Taking advantage of the opening, she twisted around, slamming her elbow into his ribs at the same time that her ankle laced around his foot.

  He didn’t fall to the ground, but the imbalance was enough for her to slip away.

  He was rubbing his jaw when she turned back to him. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “That was good instinct. When you’re ready we’ll try again, but this time we’ll practice what to do if someone has you backed against a wall with a knife to your throat.”

  She nodded, taking in the focused expression on his face. She knew she should be glad that he was taking her training seriously—very seriously—but she sensed a larger purpose at work. He was working her much harder than he ever had before. Almost as if he was trying to cram every possible horrible situation she could come up against into a single training session.

  Gregor retrieved a skin he’d filled with well water from a pile of weapons he’d brought for practice, drank deeply from it, and then handed it to her. Although it was a cold, overcast day, with an occasional light flurry of snow swirling in the air, her cheeks were flushed and warm from her exertions.

  She handed the skin back to him when she was done. “Is something bothering you, Gregor?”

  “Nay.”

  She frowned. “Are you sure? You seem rather
intense today. I wondered if it might have something to do with earlier? I thought you said you didn’t find anyone.”

  “I didn’t. But someone had been there. More than someone—I counted at least five sets of footprints.”

  “It was probably just travelers passing through.”

  His mouth fell in a tight line.

  “What?” she asked.

  His eyes were a very sharp and intense green when they met hers. “It wasn’t anyone passing through. They’d been there for at least a few days.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “What they left behind. They left quickly and didn’t have time to cover their rubbish.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant thought. “So even if they were there for a few days, why does it bother you, and what does it have to do with me?”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with you,” he said. “At least not directly. And it might not be anything. Hell, it probably isn’t anything.”

  He looked so unsettled—so unlike himself—that she reached for him. “What is it, Gregor? What are you not telling me?”

  He held her gaze for a long moment. Finally, he sighed and raked his fingers through his hair. “I suppose you have a right to know, and since the secret is already out, I won’t be breaking my oath.”

  “What oath?”

  He looked around as if he wanted to make sure no one was close enough to hear. Seeing a few of his clansmen moving around near the barracks, he motioned her a short distance away to the far side of the practice yard near the wooden palisade wall. “I haven’t been completely honest with you about my place in the king’s army.”

  Her heart stopped, then started to pound furiously. “You haven’t?”

  He shook his head. “You were right; there is a little bit more to what I do than serve as a bowman.”

  She waited for him to continue, feeling mildly vindicated, but far more concerned about what he was going to reveal. The way was acting, so mysterious and secretive, made her wary.

  “Have you ever heard of Bruce’s Phantoms?”

  She smiled. “Of course. Everyone has heard of them, but …”

  She stopped, her eyes widening and her mouth rounding in surprise. Suddenly, everything fell into place. It was as if her mind clicked, and things that hadn’t made sense now were clear. “You are a Phantom?”

  His mouth quirked with amusement. “So to speak, although as you can see I am not a ghost. Nor was it our idea to be mistaken as such, but the rumor has proved useful over the years to prevent out enemies from finding us.”

  “ ‘Us’? How many of there are you?”

  He hesitated. “I do not want to tell you more than you need to know. I would not be telling you any of this, but it seems my place in the Guard has been compromised.” He gave her a short explanation of what had happened at Berwick, leaving out the tickets. Hawk was bad enough; he didn’t need to hear it from her, too. “We decided to keep our identities secret not only to protect us from our enemies, but also to protect our families. If they could not get to us directly, they might be able to get to us through our loved ones. But this was before most of the men took wives.” He smiled. “Let’s just say keeping the secret from the wives has worked better in theory than in practice. But we have largely been able to keep our identities from being known by others with a couple of exceptions—and now, it seems, with me.”

  “So all of this fervor today is because you think I may be in danger?”

  He swore. “I probably overreacted, but I don’t want to take any chances. If I thought it would have kept you completely safe, I would have sent you off with Farquhar, no matter how badly I wanted you. But wife or ‘ward,’ it wouldn’t have made a difference. You, John, and Padraig are all at risk.”

  She was still too stunned by what he’d revealed to argue about Farquhar. “Do John and Padraig know?”

  He shook his head. “I think John suspects. But they will both have to be told.”

  Cate just stared at him, as if seeing him for the first time. She’d imagined a lot of things, but not this. “A Phantom? I can’t believe it. They say you are supermen who can move through walls and disappear into the mist. They say you can’t be killed. That you are all giants and—” She stopped a memory from returning. “The men with you that day when you found me. You were all wearing those ghastly helms and the black cotuns and plaids. I thought you were demons at first. They are Phantoms, too, aren’t they?”

  He nodded grimly. “If I asked you to forget their names, would you?”

  “I would try, but I’m afraid I have a very good memory.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “I figured as much. But I suspect I will not be able to keep the others’ identities from you for long.”

  “I would never betray your friends, Gregor.”

  “Aye, well, I don’t intend for you ever to be in a position to have to do that. What would you think about moving to the Western Isles until the war is over?”

  She looked at him incredulously. “You are jesting, aren’t you?”

  “Partly.” He reached out and swept a lock of dark hair from her cheek, tucking it behind an ear. “The thought of leaving you alone when Bruce sends for me makes my stomach turn.”

  Cate didn’t want to think about that either, knowing he would be leaving soon—maybe even days after their wedding. “I won’t be alone,” she said. “I have John and the other warriors of your meinie. I will take care to not wander anywhere on my own. And I might not have the superhuman strength and skill of a Phantom, but I am not unable to defend myself if need be.”

  He nodded. “I never thought it would be a relief to have a wife who is trained in warfare.”

  Her mouth quirked. “And I never thought I would marry a ghost.”

  “Phantom,” he corrected dryly. “Well, now you know all my secrets.” She paled, but he didn’t notice as he leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Perhaps we can resume your practice with the dagger?”

  She nodded, her shock at his news fading with the realization of what it meant. She might know all his secrets, but Gregor didn’t know all of hers. And with his place in Bruce’s army now revealed—although she still had dozens more questions—it was becoming a foregone conclusion that she was going to have to tell him. She could no longer delude herself that the name of her father wouldn’t matter to him. It would. The question—and what she feared—was his reaction when he learned the truth.

  Gregor had his arm around her neck from behind, the sharp blade of his dagger pressed to her throat. He’d showed her two ways of escaping. She’d mastered the first, of pulling down on his arm with both hands, as if she were going down to the ground, before driving him back suddenly against a hard surface—in this case, the wall of the barracks—but she was having a more difficult time with the second.

  “Tuck your chin to protect your throat,” he instructed. “And you still need to pull on my arm to lower the blade so it’s more at your shoulder than at your neck. The pivot has to be faster. You can’t give me time to react and get the blade back into position.”

  “I’m trying,” she groaned, frustrated. “But I’m having trouble positioning my hands as I turn.”

  “You’re thinking too much. Keep your hands in the same place as you are when pulling down on my arm, and just use your elbow and lean your head into my body as you pivot.” She had that fierce, determined, obstinate, pursed-mouth look on her face again that made him want to laugh. God, if she were a man, she could inspire legions with that look. “Ready to try again?”

  She nodded.

  He’d just gotten the blade into position when he sensed a movement behind him. He turned, but it was too late. His inattention cost him. Cate pulled, pivoted, and twisted the arm holding the blade behind him, forcing him to the ground by pressing against the back of that twisted arm.

  He swore. But it wasn’t due to the fact that he was eating dirt, her foot was now on his back, and his torquing arm was in pain; it
was due to their witnesses. One whose laugh he’d recognize anywhere.

  “Watch that face, laddie,” MacSorley said, the laughter still heavy in his voice. He’d obviously mistaken Cate for a boy, which wasn’t surprising, as Gregor had forced her to wear a mail coif as they practiced with the blade at her throat. “Wouldn’t want those ticket holders to be disappointed.”

  Cate frowned and released him, shooting him a questioning look.

  Bloody hell. “I’ll explain later,” Gregor said, getting to his feet. Despite the fact that he was going to have to tell Cate about the ridiculous tickets, he grinned at the big West Highland chieftain, who looked more like a Norse raider than an elite warrior. It was damned good to see him. “Nothing to worry about, Hawk. If something happens to me, we can always have them come see you and charge two for the price of one.”

  The two other men with him—Lachlan MacRuairi and Arthur Campbell—snickered. The men had obviously left their horses in the stables and come straight to the practice yard to find him.

  “You might have to offer three for one,” MacRuairi said dryly. “My cousin has been married for so long, he’s out of practice at pleasing lasses.”

  MacSorley smiled smugly. “There is only one lass I care about pleasing and believe me, cousin, she doesn’t have any complaints.”

  “How is Ellie?” MacGregor asked innocently. “I’ve been meaning to drop in for a visit next time she visits Campbell’s wife at Dunstaffnage.”

  The taunting grin fell from MacSorley’s face. His expression darkened, turning instantly deadly. “You aren’t going anywhere near my wife, MacGregor—not unless I’m there with her.”

  Gregor quirked a brow and smirked. “Worried, Hawk? I thought you hung the moon and stars in your wife’s eyes?”