The Arrow: A Highland Guard Novel (The Highland Guard) (6 page)

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, masculine 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.

Was she being a fool? Was it ludicrous to think he could ever love her back?

John muttered a curse and dragged his fingers back through his dark-blond hair. “Damn it, I know. But he shouldn’t leave it here for so long if he doesn’t want someone to drink it.”

Cate tried not to laugh. “Let me know how that excuse works.”

John shook his head. “You’ll know.” He grimaced, unconsciously rubbing his shoulder as if already feeling the thrashing he would take on the practice yard. “I hope he hasn’t learned any more new wrestling moves. The last time I had bruises for a week.”

Cate laughed, walked over to him, stood up on her toes, and placed a fond peck on his cheek. “Poor John.” When she drew back, his eyes looked a little odd. She hoped he wasn’t coming down with the ague. Maddy had been sick for a week.

“Don’t worry about the money,” she told him. “I’ll see where Pip has gone. He’s probably on his way back with your spices right now.”

Despite what she’d told John, Cate wasn’t so certain about Pip’s location. After searching the tower house and the handful of wooden buildings inside the peel, she hurried along the path in the woods the short distance to the village. If she happened to be heading toward the alehouse, she told herself it didn’t mean she didn’t trust him. Pip—Phillip—was a troubled, confused fifteen-year-old lad who’d been abandoned by his mother. He needed someone to believe
in him. And Cate did. Really. She was just being diligent in her covering of all possible locations.

As it turned out, Cate’s faith in him was warranted, although she would have rather found him at the alehouse.

Barely had the old wooden motte-and-bailey tower house of Dunlyon, built by Gregor’s grandfather on the site of an ancient hill fort, faded into the distance when she heard a burst of laughter followed by the excited shouts and cries of children playing, coming from the River Lyon on her right.

She smiled and continued on her way. But a small prickle at the back of her neck made her stop and listen again. In the cacophony of noise she tried to sort out the different sounds. A chill spread over her skin, and she started to run. It wasn’t laughing, but jeers. And it wasn’t the excited shouts of children playing, but the inciting chants of a mob.

Her heart pounded as she ran through the canopy of trees and burst out into the bright sunshine of the boggy riverbank. Her stomach dropped seeing the circle of boys—although two or three of them were already the size of full-grown men—gathered around watching something.

Please don’t let it be …

“Get him, Dougal!”

The hard thump of a fist in the gut, followed by a sharp “umph” and moan, were enough to confirm her suspicions, even before she caught a glimpse of the black hair caked with mud and the bloody too-big nose.

Rage stormed through her. “Get away from him!” she shouted, running toward the not-so-little brutes.

The sound of her voice parted the circle of spectators like Moses at the Red Sea. The thugs-in-the-making gaped at her as if she were a madwoman. Which, as furious as she was, wasn’t far off.

Be smart
. John’s admonitions came back to her.
Lead with your head, not with your heart
.

She scanned the faces. She knew most of them and wasn’t surprised by any, except for one. Willy MacNee met her gaze and quickly turned away, his face as red as a ripe tomato. Willy was the younger brother of one of her friends, and a sweet boy. She’d expected better of him, and he knew it.

But her attention was soon focused on the two boys at the center of the spectacle. One was big, thick, and mean; the other was small and thin, and didn’t know when to back down. After assuring herself Pip was all right beyond the obvious broken nose (the last thing the already overlarge feature on his small face needed), she turned to Dougal. “What is the meaning of this, Dougal? How dare you hit him!”

The boy obviously wasn’t used to being taken to task by a woman. Recalling the bruises she’d seen on his mother’s face, she wasn’t surprised. The father was just as brutish as the son.

But when he looked her up and down, she realized it wasn’t just her sudden appearance that had startled him; it was also her clothing. She’d forgotten about the fine gown and realized he’d never seen her dressed like a lady before—like the daughter of a chieftain. Except she wasn’t the daughter of a chieftain, and everyone knew it.

They thought her an orphan rescued by the absent MacGregor laird. Not a peasant, but not a lady either. Somewhere in between. By not telling Gregor the truth about her father, the stain of her bastardy had not followed her to Roro.

Seeming to remember her status, Dougal puffed up and thrust out his chest like a preening peacock. “ ’Tis none of your affair, mistress. This is between us men.”

She lifted a brow at that, making the seventeen-year-old boy flush.

She took a step toward him. Though she was about half
his weight and a full head shorter, the fierceness of her expression must have startled him. Instinctively he moved back. “Pip
is
my business,” she said firmly. “He is my family.”

“He’s a worthless, thieving no-name bastard!”

Rage expanded every vein in her body. Pip, too, let out a roar that belied his size and launched himself at the other boy, fists pummeling. “I’m not a thief. It was you who took my money. I was only trying to get it back!”

Pip’s advantage of surprise didn’t last long. He landed only a few blows before Dougal retaliated with an upper-cross to his jaw. Blood sprayed out of his mouth as Pip’s body went flying back through the air like a sack of bones.

Cate didn’t think; she reacted. Dougal’s fist had barely returned from his side when she took hold of his arm and twisted it around his back.

Leverage, position, and hitting the right spot
, she reminded herself,
not physical strength
. Still, her pulse was racing. This wasn’t the training yard.

But it was working. She couldn’t believe it was actually working! She was really doing it.

Dougal let out a yelp of pain and stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprouted a second head. Levering her foot around his body, she pulled his arm until his eyes started to water and sweat poured off his reddened face. His knees were buckling to absorb the pain, so when she leaned toward him their noses were only inches apart. “You are nothing more than a big bully, Dougal MacNab. A weak boy who preys on those physically smaller than you. But size doesn’t equal strength.” She tugged his arm a little harder until he cried out. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson because if you touch one hair on his head again, I will find you and ensure you do.”

Suddenly, she was conscious of the other boys. Coming out of their shock, they’d started to murmur and shift back
and forth a little uneasily, as if they knew they should do something. She’d been so carried away by her success that she’d forgotten about the others. But Cate was painfully aware that using what she’d learned on one man was vastly different than on a half-dozen.

“Please,” he said, the crack in his voice reminding her of his age. “You’re going to break my arm.”

“You’ll remember?”

He nodded vehemently.

“Good.” She released him and took a few steps back. He was rubbing his shoulder, staring at her with a mixture of disbelief, embarrassment, outrage, and hatred. “Being mean doesn’t make you a man, Dougal. And fear is not respect. I hope you will remember that as well.”

Deciding it might be prudent to get out of there as quickly as possible, she turned to help Pip up. The next thing she knew, she was facedown in the mud. It wasn’t the first time she’d been knocked down from behind, but it was the only time she’d ever wanted to cry. The sodden, muddy edge of her pink veil reminded her of what she was wearing. Her gown was ruined.