“A few?” MacSorley said. “The enterprising lass sold nearly a dozen tickets to see the ‘most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.’ ” He added the last in the dreamy, singsongy voice of a sixteen-year-old lass that made Gregor itch to put his fist through that gleaming grin.
“Tickets?” Bruce asked incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”
MacRuairi nodded, smirking. “Aye, at a half-penny apiece. And all these years, we’ve been getting to look at him for free.”
Gregor shot him a glare. Now MacRuairi was making jests? Christ, hell had truly frozen over.
“I told you not to remove your helm,” MacSorley said, still smirking.
“For three days?” Gregor replied exasperatedly, raking his hair back with his fingers. It was so bloody ridiculous. It wasn’t the fact that he was an elite warrior in the Highland Guard taking on the most dangerous missions that was going to get him killed, it was his cursed face.
Although he had to admit there were times when it wasn’t a curse—in the alehouse last night, for example, with that pretty, buxom serving lass who’d crept into his bed—but it sure as hell didn’t have a place in war.
Just once he’d like to meet a woman who didn’t take one look at his face and pledge her undying love. Or at least one who wasn’t married to one of his brethren.
Gregor stood silently as MacSorley and MacRuairi exchanged a few more barbs pointed in his direction. By the time they were done, even the king was chuckling.
Aye, it was bloody hilarious. He supposed there were a lot worse things than having women throw themselves at him, but sometimes it began to wear.
After a minute Bruce sobered. “So how long do you think it’s going to be before someone connects ‘the most handsome man she’s ever seen’ who was part of the failed attack on Berwick with Gregor MacGregor, the famed archer and ‘most handsome man in Scotland’?”
Gregor cringed again. Christ, he hated that moniker. “I don’t know, sire.”
That his anonymity in the Highland Guard had possibly been jeopardized was one of the worst parts of the whole fiasco in the village. They were all still reeling from the traitor Alex Seton’s defection to the enemy. He’d betrayed them all. God help their former brother-in-arms if they ever came face to face with him in battle. Although Seton’s former partner Robbie Boyd had been certain Seton would inform the English of their identities, thus far he hadn’t. But with what had happened in the village, Gregor knew it was only a matter of time before he was unmasked.
Having his identity hidden was one of the reasons he’d been so eager to join the Highland Guard. The anonymity—the mask—gave him freedom. He would earn a name for himself by his sword—or rather, his bow—and nothing else. There were no distractions like there were at the Highland Games. No well-meaning relatives like his uncle Malcolm, chief of the MacGregor clan, telling him how to help his clan by marrying one of the women who were only too eager to take him for a husband. Gregor would defeat the English, help see the man who had been more a father to him than his own secured on the throne, and do his duty to his clan on his own merit. By deed and skill alone.
“Aye, well, neither do I,” the king said, “but I think it’s best if you stay out of sight for a while.” Gregor started to protest, but Bruce cut him off. “Only a few weeks. It will be Christmas soon anyway. I will send for you when we are ready to take Perth.” The king intended to begin laying siege to Perth Castle in early January. He smiled appeasingly. “God knows we can all use a little break. A few weeks to relax and clear our heads. I need you all at one hundred percent.”
The words were directed at all of them, but Gregor wasn’t fooled. The king knew Gregor had been struggling of late. That was the real reason for this “break.” Gregor had let him down. Shame twisted in his gut, but all he could do was nod.
“Besides,” Bruce said, handing him a folded piece of parchment, “this arrived from your brother a few days ago.”
Gregor let out a groan of deep dread, eyeing the note as if it carried the plague. Bloody hell, what had she done this time?
He took the note with reluctance, not wanting to know. Gregor hadn’t had much schooling, but his younger brother John had been meant for the church before their two older brothers had died, and he could write as well as read. Gregor had only a bit of the latter skill, but it was enough to make out the short missive. “Come as soon as you can. Emergency.”
Rather than raise alarm, the note only made him curse.
“Problems?” Bruce asked innocently.
He might be king, but that didn’t mean Gregor couldn’t glare at him from time to time. “It seems I’m needed at home.”
“Something wrong, Arrow? Don’t tell me those golden wings of yours have finally tarnished in your adoring wee ward’s eyes?” MacSorley said, guessing, as the king had, what had provoked the curse.
“She’s not my ward, you arse!” He ignored the reference to the lass’s mistaking him for an angel. Thank God for Helen MacKay. Until she’d arrived and assumed the nickname, MacSorley had called him Angel.
“Then what is she?” MacRuairi asked.
Hell if he knew. A termagant? A penance? God’s test of his sanity? The lass was always landing in some kind of trouble. From the moment he brought her home, she’d been causing “emergencies” of one sort or another.
Like the time she’d entered a local archery contest dressed as a boy in a hooded cloak and bested every one of the local lads, nearly causing a riot. Damn it, that was probably his fault. But he’d never imagined when he told her that she could learn to protect herself that the lass would take to warfare quite so enthusiastically. John, who’d been teaching her, said she was better than some men he knew. His brother was exaggerating, of course; she was only a lass—and not a very big one at that.
But his first impression of her all those years ago had been right. The lass was a fierce little thing. A real fighter. She was also stubborn, proud, opinionated, bossy, and overconfident. All fine characteristics in a man, but not in a young girl.
It was hard to stay angry with her, though. She wasn’t a beauty by any means, but she was cute in an unassuming fashion. Until she smiled. When she smiled, she was as cute as the devil.
She also adored him. Which made him bloody uncomfortable. Especially lately, as she grew older. She’d become a … distraction. Which was exactly what he needed to be rid of.
“So when are we going to meet this wee lass?” Bruce said. Not such a wee lass anymore, Gregor recalled uneasily. The last time he’d been home—a year ago, when his mother had died—that fact had been brought home to him in an embarrassing fashion, when Cate had broken down crying and somehow ended up in his arms. And on his lap. “What was her name? Caitrina?”
Gregor nodded, surprised that the king remembered. Six years ago, when they’d returned to camp after leaving the lass with his mother, Bruce had been horrorstruck by what had happened to the villagers. He, like the rest of them, had been deeply moved by the lass’s tragedy and had taken a personal interest in her.
“Aye, Caitrina Kirkpatrick.” Though his mother had called her Cate.
“How old is she now?” Bruce asked.
Gregor shrugged. “Seventeen or eighteen.”
“Hell, Arrow,” MacRuairi said. “If you want to be rid of the chit so badly, why don’t you just find her a husband?”
If he weren’t such a mean bastard, Gregor would have hugged him. Of course! Marriage! Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier?
There was only one problem. He had to find someone fool enough to take her on.
Two
Dunlyon, Roro, Perthshire, Scottish Highlands
This time when Gregor came home, Cate was going to be ready. She could no longer be patient.
As she’d done every day for the past week since John had sent the letter, she dressed with particular care. As she normally didn’t take any care, this was quite an extraordinary undertaking. The “boyishly” short, just-past-he
r-shoulder, dark hair that she usually kept tied back with string, a piece of leather, or whatever else she happened to have on hand had been brushed and brushed until it was as glossy and shiny as polished mahogany to hang loose around her shoulders.
A simple circlet of gold, given to her by Lady Marion before she’d succumbed to the fever, rested upon her head, securing the gossamer-thin pink veil that covered—but did not hide—the dark tresses. Her hair was one of her best features, and she had to take advantage of whatever she could.
Cate didn’t need to pinch her cheeks as some girls did; hers were rosy enough from all the time she spent outdoors. Her lips, too, didn’t need any color, as they were naturally a dark, vibrant red.
She wrinkled her nose. Unfortunately, the freckles she couldn’t do anything about. Cate told herself they added character, but she’d never convinced her mother or Lady Marion to agree.
She stepped back from the looking glass procured from the bottom of one of Lady Marion’s trunks, held out the deep rose velvet skirts of her cotehardie, and chewed anxiously on her lip, not knowing quite what to make of her attempts.
She hadn’t been sure about the color—she’d never liked pink—but Lady Marion had insisted it would be “beautiful” on her. That was an exaggeration, but it did seem to flatter her coloring. The gown was one of three that Lady Marion had insisted on buying her two years ago on Cate’s eighteenth saint’s day. “You are a lady now, sweeting,” the older woman had said with a fond smile. “You need at least a few fine gowns.”
It had been so important to her, Cate hadn’t had the heart to argue, but she’d never seemed to find the occasion to wear them. Frankly, dressing in such fine things made her feel a little silly. Like she was pretending to be someone she was not.
Her father had given her a beautiful dress once. It had made her feel like a princess. When he left, she’d shoved it under the bed and never looked at it again.
Her chest squeezed with a longing she refused to acknowledge. She wasn’t a lady, no matter who her father happened to be.
Her attention returned to the strange woman in the looking glass.
“Men want a woman to act like a woman, my love.” Her mother’s voice mingled with Lady Marion’s in her memory—in so many ways they’d been one in the same. Both gentle, sweet ladies. Nothing like Cate.
Her chin set with determination. She would be soft and feminine if it killed her. But goodness gracious, did being a lady have to be so blasted uncomfortable?
She tugged at the fabric around her bodice, trying to pull it up. Two years had added a certain dimension to parts of her body that she was not quite used to, making the gown a bit tight in the bodice. But as that was the fashion, she supposed no one would notice.
Cate had given up the breeches under the skirts when Lady Marion nearly fainted the first time she’d seen them, but she’d made few other concessions. She would wear shoes in the winter but not in the summer. And no matter how plain, the simple “peasant lad’s” clothes were what she felt comfortable in while training.
She’d just finished her critical appraisal when the door burst open behind her. Assuming it was Ete, who was supposed to have helped her with her hair and veil but was called away when Maddy started crying (screeching, actually), Cate didn’t turn right away. It was only when the silence became noticeable that she looked and realized that it wasn’t the maidservant but John.
He was staring at her slack-jawed, with a slightly dazed look on his face.
Cate wrinkled her nose. Whatever was the matter with him?
Suddenly, the blood slid from her face, and her heart started to pound—gallop, more accurately. “Is he here?”
John didn’t seem to hear her. “You look … you look beautiful.”
Despite the rather unflattering level of surprise in his voice, a warm blush spread up her cheeks, and she grinned with unabashed delight. Cate didn’t have any real pretensions toward beauty, but she could not doubt the admiration in John’s eyes. And it gave her the confidence that until that moment she hadn’t realized how much she’d needed.
She had never doubted her appeal to men—they liked her. Indeed, she had more male friends than she did female. But they treated her like a little sister they were fond of, which was not the way she wanted Gregor to think of her.
She was determined that this time he would notice her as a desirable woman. Of course, she’d told herself the same thing last year, but she was confident that it would be different this time. This time she had more than herself to consider. This time she was going to act—and look—like a lady.
From the first moment he’d looked down at her in that well, Gregor MacGregor had stolen a piece of her heart. When he’d taken her to his home, he’d stolen a little more. As the years passed, each time he came home—of which there had been precious few—he claimed more and more, until eventually he held it all. Her love had matured from that of a young girl’s to a woman’s, but it was the one constant in her life since that horrible day, and she held to it like a lifeline. (That and the resolve to discover the identity of the man who killed her mother. But after five years, Gregor had been unable to find out anything about the English captain.)
A less determined person might have given up in the face of Gregor’s obvious disinterest. Well, not disinterest really, more a lack of awareness. He still thought of her as the “child” he’d rescued, or the young girl he was forced to acknowledge when some kind of trouble arose (which, to be clear, wasn’t always her fault), and not the strong woman she’d become.
The woman who was perfect for him.
It was that certainty that kept Cate going when she became discouraged. And with Gregor MacGregor it was very easy to get discouraged. She knew he wasn’t perfect, but sometimes he certainly seemed that way. Not for the first time, she wished he weren’t so handsome. Or so charming. Or so good at everything he did. It made him feel out of reach. Elusive. Like trying to catch quicksilver.
It wasn’t arrogance, exactly. Or superiority. More a separation. He would laugh, flirt, and jest with everyone (except for her), but there was always an arm’s length between him and the world. An air of caution.
To the uninformed, hers might seem an impossible quest—the most handsome man in Scotland and a cute-ish twenty-year-old bastard who was better with a sword than with a needle?—but Cate knew there was a connection between them that defied logic or explanation. A connection that went beyond skin-deep.
She might not be a raving beauty, but she did have many other good qualities. She was loyal and trustworthy and would fight to the death for the people she loved. People liked her—except for Seonaid and her friends, but they weren’t nice to anyone.
If only Cate could curb her temper. And her passionate nature. And behave more like a lady. But she was working on those things.
That she and Gregor were meant to be together might seem a rather bold claim for someone who’d seen him no more than a handful of times in five years, but she had faith. She understood him like no one else. Not even his mother—perhaps especially his mother. God knew Lady Marion had loved him, but she hadn’t understood his drive. “He’s so handsome,” she would say. “He can have whatever he wants. Why must he put himself in danger for a man who might never be king when he could marry a king’s ransom?”
But Gregor was a man of deeds and accomplishments. He wanted to earn his way. That was why he fought so hard. Indeed, his dedication, loyalty, and integrity were the things she most admired about him. There was no man she believed in more.
She’d learned so much about him from his family, including John, who was still staring at her.
Cate laughed and, in what must be some primitive feminine instinct that had previously never been seen in her, she twirled. Twirled! “Do you think so?”
A broad smile spread across his familiar features. John was so much a brother to her, sometimes she forgot how handsome he was. Not outrageously so like Gregor—who could be?—but his strong, masc
uline features were warm and pleasing. Especially now when he was laughing (rather than scowling) at her.
“Aye, I’ve never seen you look so fine.” Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. “What’s this about, lass?”
Cate looked away, pretending to adjust her gown, so he wouldn’t see her embarrassment. “Nothing. Has Gregor arrived? Is that why you came to fetch me?”
He paused for too long before responding, as if he’d guessed exactly what this was about. She plastered an innocent look on her face and turned back expectantly. She didn’t think he was fooled, but then he swore, remembering his purpose. “Ah hell, it’s the lad. Have you seen him? I sent him into the village three hours ago with some coin to purchase some spice for the wine. If he’s gambled it away again …”
Cate stiffened. “Pip didn’t gamble away anything. It was stolen from him by that horrible Dougal MacNab.”
“So he says. But Iain saw the lad playing raffle at the alehouse that day.”
“I gave Pip that money from his share of the fish we caught; it was his own to do with as he liked. And Iain shouldn’t be tale-telling. Perhaps I should mention to Iain’s wife that he was at the alehouse the day the rents were paid?” Their old retainer had a fondness for Annie and her ale. His wife had barred him from both. Cate gave John a knowing look. “Besides, you shouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions. For example, I might think that you had sent Pip for some spices because you were drinking Gregor’s good wine again and trying to cover it up.”
John’s eyes narrowed. “Cate …”
The warning fell on deaf ears. He couldn’t intimidate her even if he tried. “It won’t work, you know. He will know the difference.”
Gregor had a taste for the fine things in life—from food, to drink, to horses, to women. The last would change when he found the right woman. In other words, her.
The Arrow Page 4