The Arrow

by Monica McCarty

  Mindful of Eddie’s unpredictable bladder, she decided she’d better stop before she went home with damp clothes. The wee laddie was getting better at making it to the garderobe, though, and she knew it was because he was beginning to feel safe and secure.

  Gregor wouldn’t send them away. But the odd conversation she’d had with John still bothered her. Clearly he’d been trying to warn her away from Gregor, and she’d gotten the feeling it had been for a reason. Was it the children, or something else?

  With one last kiss on Eddie’s cheek and a tight hug around his narrow ribs, she set him down. “Should we find a tree?”

  He nodded and grabbed the area between his legs so anxiously, she realized she’d probably stopped just in time.

  After a minute, the little boy said proudly, “I made the snow lellow!”

  For some reason, he thought this was hilarious and proceeded to break out into giggles all over again. “Lellow snow, lellow snow … Maddy can’t make a line like that. Girls have to squat, did you know that? Standing is much better.”

  Goodness gracious, the conversation topics of a three-year-old boy! Privately, she agreed with his conclusion—boys definitely had it easier in that regard. “It is quite a talent,” she said wryly, glancing over at the artistic accomplishment, which was actually more of a jagged spray than a line. Neatness would have to come later, she supposed. “But perhaps you had best keep it to yourself. We wouldn’t want Maddy to feel badly.”

  He sobered, considering her words with a gravity that made her want to squeeze him all over again. He nodded his gingery head. “Aye, you are probably right. What about my fa—” He stopped, amending, “The laird?”

  Her chest pinched at the telling slip. The boy had been told by his mother before she’d abandoned him that Gregor was his father, but even at three he was old enough to understand that Gregor hadn’t claimed him. That was one thing she’d never had to face. Her father had never denied his parentage. But like Eddie, even at a young age, she’d understood that she was a bastard. She’d been given a chance to leave the public ridicule behind when she’d left Lochmaben, but the memories were not so easy to erase.

  Her heart went out to the boy, wishing she could shelter him from the inevitable hurt that label would bring. It would have been so much easier if he’d been Gregor’s. No matter what “the laird” said, she knew he would not deny his own flesh and blood. But what about children who weren’t his, yet needed him all the same?

  And what about a wife? It was a question she’d never asked herself. Would her bastardy make a difference to him, if he knew? She didn’t want to think so, but for the first time, the fact that she’d lied to him didn’t sit well. She’d been thinking about herself when she’d given him a different name, not a future marriage. She was still the same person, whether her parents had been married or not. What did it matter if her father was technically alive? He’d been dead to her since she was five.

  It might matter.

  Pushing aside her uncertainty, she smiled at the laddie. Gregor would do the right thing. “I’m sure the laird would love to hear about it. Should we go find him?” It was getting close to the midday meal anyway.

  Eddie nodded, and with his tiny hand in hers, they started winding their way through the trees. While Eddie continued to jabber on about his new talent, Cate’s thoughts veered toward the afternoon practice session with Gregor. As much as she was looking forward to the prospect of spending time with him and learning from him, she was also eager to match wits—and skills—with him. She wanted to impress him. She wanted to show him that he’d been right to encourage her. But most of all she wanted him to take her seriously. She knew that he’d always thought her pursuits something of a game, but they weren’t to her. She was proud of her accomplishments, and she wanted him to be proud of them, too.

  She wanted him to see her as strong. Not as a young girl who needed protection. She didn’t want to be the little girl in the well anymore. She wanted him to care for her not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

  She must have chased Eddie deeper into the forest than she’d realized. They were still a good furlong from Dunlyon when she felt a prickle at the back her neck. Instinct made her tense and glance behind her. She had the distinct sensation of being watched.

  Not seeing anything, she nonetheless held Eddie’s hand a little firmer and quickened her pace.

  The feeling grew more pronounced as they went on, and her heart started to pound faster. Every few steps she shot a furtive glance around, but even in the winter, the trees and snow-covered limbs were dense, preventing her from getting a clear view in any direction. She was being ridiculous.

  But the sudden flap of birds, disturbed from their roost in the tree limbs, signaled that it wasn’t her imagination. Who would be watching her and trying to scare her? Dougal? She wouldn’t put it past the lad to seek vengeance, but he didn’t seem to have the patience or cunning to lay in ambuscade or the deviousness to devise a plan of fear.

  Could it be brigands? They were so isolated in the glen, it was easy to forget the troubles that faced other parts of Scotland: roaming bands of outlaws in the war-torn lowlands, war parties of English soldiers near the English garrison-held castles, and the clans who still opposed Bruce, like the MacDowells in the southwest.

  This part of the Highlands had largely been free from conflict since the MacDougalls had lost the Battle of Brander to Bruce four years earlier. Most of the time the war felt very far away from Roro and Dunlyon. If it weren’t for Gregor’s part in it, she could almost forget the danger. But she felt it now, lurking out there, hidden in the trees. It reminded her of her childhood. Lochmaben in the south of Scotland had always been right in the heart of the war. Of the many things Gregor had given her, perhaps peace was the most significant.

  “Too fast, Cate. My wegs ’urt.”

  She muttered a curse and tried to mask her rising panic. Slowing, but not stopping, she gave Eddie an encouraging smile. “I’m sorry, sweeting—I just didn’t want you to miss it.”

  “Miss what?”

  “I asked cook to make a special fig tart—but you know how Pip likes them, too.”

  The incentive of losing out on the tart was all he needed to give him a fresh boost of energy. Eddie’s little “wegs” started to move so fast he was practically running.

  It was with great relief that the edge of the tree line appeared ahead of them. She could see the tower house now in the distance beyond. Almost there …

  A sound behind her made her turn. About twenty yards away, a rider broke through the trees. Realizing she’d seen him, he stopped.

  Cate stopped, too, paralyzed in horror. Terror spread a sheen of ice over her skin, freezing her limbs. She couldn’t move. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought it was the soldier from her nightmares, the man who’d killed her mother. He had the same dark hair, the same finely trimmed beard, the same Norman aquiline features …

  But no. The haze of raw panic cleared. It wasn’t him. This man was younger. His build was not as thick. His face was not as outwardly handsome, his expression not as coldly arrogant. He wasn’t dressed in mail and the surcoat of an English soldier; rather he wore the leather cotun and plaid of a Highlander. But the resemblance was eerie.

  Why was he following her?

  A sudden frantic yapping in the opposite direction drew her gaze. She turned back toward the castle to see the pup and Pip rambling over the snow-covered landscape.

  Pip laughed when he saw her. “I wondered what he was so excited about. The pup took off like an arrow, and I didn’t know where he was going.”

  She was about to shout a warning to him not to come any farther, when she glanced back to the rider and realized he was gone.

  “Did you eat my tart, Pip?” Eddie said angrily.

  “What tart?” Pip came to a stop before her, breathing hard. Her expression must have made him forget Eddie’s odd question. “What’s wrong? Why is Eddie against the tree?” Ca
te looked down, not realizing she’d pushed Eddie behind her to protect him. “You look as pale as a ghost.”

  “You didn’t see him?”

  “Who?”

  “The rider.”

  Pip frowned. “I didn’t see anyone. Did he threaten you? We should tell John.”

  Not Gregor. Pip’s instant dislike of Gregor seemed to have settled into permanence.

  Cate thought for a minute, recalling the events without the terror. Had the rider threatened her? She’d thought he was following her, but he could have just been passing through the woods. He’d done nothing overt, except stare at her and have the misfortune of bearing a marked resemblance to the man who’d haunted her nights for five years.

  She shook her head. “He didn’t do anything. He just startled me, that’s all.” She’d overreacted. Suddenly, feeling silly, she forced a smile on her lips. “It was probably just a messenger. The laird seems to have a new one every day.”

  Pip gathered the pup, who’d begun to yap when Eddie started to “play” with him, ignoring the reference to Gregor. “Remember, he doesn’t like it when you pull his tail, Eddie. You have to be gentle with him if you want him to play with you.”

  “I was bein’ gentle,” the little boy whinged.

  Listening to Pip explain the finer points of dog care to Eddie as they walked back lightened her spirits considerably. She forgot about the rider and concentrated on the mismatched pair of foundlings who’d begun to sound like brothers.

  It didn’t take Gregor long to regret his promise to train her. About thirty seconds, to be precise. He’d ordered Cate to attack him with a knife. She was surprisingly quick and moved without hesitation. Still, he’d had years of reacting to threats. He grabbed the hand holding the weapon and twisted her arm around her back, where the dagger clattered harmlessly to the ground.

  The problem was that he was now wrapped around her, holding her from behind with his arm around her neck, and their bodies were touching in all the wrong places. As she struggled against the strain of her pinned arm and the chokehold around her neck, her taut backside rubbed against him in a way that his cock—the brainless idiot—mistook for erotic.

  Unable to take any more, and not wanting to hurt her, he let her go.

  She immediately turned on him, dark eyes shooting like the dagger she’d just dropped. “Why did you do that?”

  He frowned, having no bloody idea why she was so furious. “Hell, did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to.”

  “Of course you didn’t hurt me! You didn’t give me a chance to escape.”

  She looked so outraged, he had to struggle not to smile. For once he didn’t mind seeing her all riled up. She’d been oddly quiet at the midday meal earlier, and he’d wondered if something was wrong. She’d looked … upset. Which had distracted him from his conversation with Aonghus, his Am Marischal-tighe seneschal, whom he’d put in charge of sending out enquiries about the children, some of which had begun to yield results.

  Then, as they walked to the practice yard, she hadn’t smiled or joked with him at all. She’d been oddly intense and focused. All business. Which was exactly how he should be acting, not like a lust-crazed lad who stiffened just from the feel of a lass pressed against him.

  He cocked a brow. “I had one arm around your neck and the other was twisting your arm behind your back. Exactly how did you intend to escape?”

  Her eyes narrowed, hearing his amusement. “I was thinking.”

  “You didn’t have time to think—I could have crushed your throat with my arm.”

  Her eyes fell on the limb in question, lingering a little too long and appreciatively over the thick spans of muscle. He nearly groaned. Not all business, apparently. She’d been aware of him as well. Why did that only make him hotter?

  She lifted her gaze back to his, which didn’t do anything to cool his desire. Damn, she was cute. Especially when she was annoyed with him like this. Why he found that cute, he had no bloody idea. Nothing about his feelings for Cate made any sense. There was something about her fierce determination, her stubbornness, her direct, matter-of-fact manner, and her self-assuredness that just appealed to him. She carried herself like a noble lady but lacked all the superficial gloss of pretension and rigid adherence to convention.

  Such as those that would have kept her from the practice field.

  She was still glaring at him. “I thought it was you who told me physical strength wasn’t everything.”

  “It’s not. But there are times when it can be.”

  “But I wasn’t overpowered yet. I had my chin tucked to protect my neck. Here, I’ll show you.”

  Reluctantly, he let himself be put back into the frustratingly intimate position. He was holding her for demonstration now, and she wasn’t struggling, but his awareness crackled all the same. She felt good against him. Really good. Small and distinctly feminine, even though there was very little that was soft about her. She wasn’t lush and curved, but taut and firm. When he’d held her arm, he’d been surprised to find that she actually had muscles—not thick and round like his, but long and sleek like those of a courser bred for speed.

  He wondered what those muscles looked like naked.

  “I have my chin tucked so you can’t … Gregor, are you paying attention?”

  “Aye,” he lied gruffly.

  “You’re not doing it right. You have to hold me harder.”

  Christ, not the thing to say right now!

  He did as she asked, although it wasn’t the way he wanted. If it had been the way he wanted, they both wouldn’t have any clothes on, the hand that was around her neck would be dipped between her legs, and the other would be cupping her breasts as he slowly slid into her from behind. It would be “harder,” all right. Hard and deep.

  He cursed silently, as the image sent a fresh rush of blood to a place that had no need of it. They were pressed together again, her tucked into the shield of his body. He caught a whiff of a soft fragrance from her hair and was trying to figure out the flower in her soap when something—the heel of her boot, he realized later—slammed down hard on his instep.

  He groaned in shock and not a small amount of pain, his body naturally buckling forward in surprise.

  She was ready and took advantage of the slack in the arm around her neck, twisting just enough to free the arm from its locked position at her back, pivot her foot behind his, and knock him on his arse.

  He didn’t know whether it was the ground or shock that slammed the air from his lungs—perhaps both.

  Jesus! Lustful thoughts about his opponent was definitely a new distraction for him on the battlefield. But he was sure as hell paying attention now.

  She stood over him, looking down. Though the sun was behind her head, he didn’t need to see her expression to know she was angry. He could hear it in her voice. “That’s how I’d do it. Now are you going to start taking this seriously, and stop holding me as if I’m a porcelain poppet?”

  He rolled off his back and jumped to his feet. “I’m taking it seriously, Cate. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  She heaved a heavy sigh, releasing some of the anger along with it. “I know, but it will happen. I’ve had plenty of bruises and scrapes with John.”

  His face darkened. “If John hasn’t been careful—”

  The exasperation was back. She looked like she couldn’t decide whether to shake him or stomp on his foot again. “Of course, he’s careful, but accidents happen in training. You can’t tell me you didn’t wobble home a few times after practice when you were learning.”

  Hell, he still did—especially when Boyd was teaching them something new. “That’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a …”

  “Lass,” she finished for him. “Well, you’re going to have to forget that. How else can I learn? I went through all of this with your brother. Isn’t it better to suffer a few accidental bruises from you than be defenseless against someone who is intent on doing me h
arm?”

  Hearing the rising agitation in her voice, he said in a gentle voice, “You are safe here, Cate.”

  “Am I?” Their eyes met and held. “You can’t guarantee that. Just today I—”

  She stopped, trying to turn away, but he wouldn’t let her. He caught her arm and forced her gaze back to his. Had someone tried to hurt her? Was that why she was so upset? God, he’d kill him!

  His voice was as hard as the steel that had just filled his veins. “What happened today?”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “I was in the forest playing with Eddie, and I saw him—or thought I saw him.”

  “Saw who?”

  “The man who attacked my mother.”

  He let her go, his expression automatically shuttering. “You were mistaken,” he said flatly. End of subject. End of conversation.

  But Cate wasn’t finished. “Yes, but he looked so much like him.” She shuddered at the memory, and the momentary glimpse of vulnerability made him want to reach for her. But it lasted for only an instant before the fierce expression returned to her face. “I don’t want to be scared.”

  “Did he threaten you?” The menace in his voice only hinted at the fury roaring inside him. Gregor rarely lost control. As an archer—a marksman—he had to be cold and methodical. Precise. Perfect. But just the idea of Cate in danger made him want to lash out wildly around him, striking indiscriminately and uncontrollably at anyone who would harm her.

  Where had that rage come from?

  She shook her head. “I thought he might be following me, but I must have been mistaken. He did nothing more than stare at me for a moment before continuing on. Did you perchance have a messenger today?”

  “Nay. In which direction was he heading?”

  “East, I think.”

  He questioned her a little more until he was satisfied that it was probably nothing. Solitary riders avoiding the road and traveling through the forest were not common, but neither were they that unusual. He would do some checking into it, however, just to be sure, and insist she take an escort if she was going to stray too far from the castle. Guessing how she’d react to that, he kept it to himself.