The Arrow: A Highland Guard Novel (The Highland Guard) (11 page)

Each time she said “pretty” with such teasing laughter dancing in her eyes, he itched to throw her back against the “pretty” tablecloth and kiss that impudent grin right from her mouth. Kiss her until those golden flecks in her dark eyes were soft and hazy with passion. Kiss her until the laughter in her throat turned to soft moans and whimpers. Kiss her until she knew just how far from pretty he could be.

Wrong
, he reminded himself. But the voice was weaker
this time. Or rather the desire hammering through his body for her was getting louder.

Normally, he wouldn’t mind the prodding—God knew he’d heard far worse from MacSorley—but he was wound so damned tight, he felt ready to explode.

To avoid that, he distracted himself with Màiri. The seneschal’s widow had slid into John’s seat after his brother had disappeared when Gregor called for the wine. At his first taste of the spiced swill, Gregor knew why. He would deal with his wine-poaching brother later, but for the moment all his attention was on the pret—damn it,
lovely
widow. He found himself relaxing. Enjoying the food—which was exceptional—and the easy, flirtatious banter.

Cate he largely ignored. Or tried to ignore, which was easier said than done, since she seemed to poke or nudge him for something every other minute. It was the oddest thing, though. Rather than getting all prickly or annoyed by his curt-bordering-on-rude responses, she was unusually calm and solicitous. “Is the lamb to your liking?” (It was exactly how he liked it, actually—roasted with lots of mint.) “Can I get you more wine?” (No. God knew he needed all his senses sharp to deal with her.) “What do you think of the new piper?” (He was the best Gregor had ever heard.) “Can I get you another trencher?” (No, he and Màiri didn’t mind sharing this one.)

Once or twice he thought she was about to lose her temper, but then she would mumble something under her breath and smile at him instead. A very demure, maidenly smile that he couldn’t recall ever seeing on her face before. That made him uneasy. The lass was up to something, and he suspected he knew what.

Cate’s adoration for him had always made him uneasy, but now that she was older it was worse. The last thing he wanted was to be the object of a young girl’s first love. She would only get hurt, and he didn’t want that. He cared about her. As any man put in his position would, of course.

By the end of the meal, he and his bruised ribs were looking forward to the evening, when he intended to rid himself of the edginess for good. He thought Màiri was looking forward to it as well, which was why he was surprised when he found himself walking back from the stables alone after she didn’t appear for their assignation.

He passed through the Hall, where the trestle tables had been replaced by bedrolls for the sleeping clansmen, on the way to his room.

“Did you have a nice walk?”

Recognizing the voice, he stiffened. Cate was seated on a wooden bench before the fire with John, a chessboard set out between them. They looked … 
cozy
. He frowned.

“It’s rather cold for a nighttime jaunt, isn’t it?” she added.

Though it was an innocuous question, something about the way her eyes sparkled in the firelight made that frown deepen. Had she been aware of his foiled plans? And why the hell did her knowing about his liaisons bother him?

“I like the cold.” Especially when he felt so damned
hot
.

He strode toward them and glanced down at the chess pieces that had been carved by his father. His father and his eldest brother, Alasdair, had loved to play. Gregor, on the other hand, had never had the patience for the game—another mark of many against him to his father’s mind.

Striker, Raider, and Chief played, as did Bruce. Indeed, some of their matches had been more fierce and contested than the battles with the English of late.

He frowned at the board. From the looks of it, Cate appeared to be winning. His gaze met hers. “You play chess?”

She smiled. “A little.”

John snorted. “Don’t let her fool you, brother. She’ll take the shirt off your back if you aren’t careful. The lass is ruthless, with no mercy for a man’s pride. She’s been crushing mine for years. Padraig won’t play with her anymore.
Last time he was home, she had him helping Ete with hanging the laundry after he lost.”

Their youngest brother, who fought for Bruce under their uncle Malcolm, the Chief of the MacGregors, was nearly as good a chess player as their father had been.

Cate grinned. “John exaggerates.”

His brother grunted. “The hell I do.”

Gregor shook his head. “You shouldn’t have taught her if you weren’t willing to lose.”

There was an awkward pause. John shot Cate an uncomfortable glance. For some reason, the intimacy of that silent communication bothered him.

Cate seemed to stiffen slightly, but when she responded her voice was light and breezy. Perhaps too breezy. “John has taught me many things”—Gregor didn’t like the sound of that—“but not this. I learned chess from my father.”

Chess was a nobleman’s game. Though it wouldn’t be unheard of for a man of Kirkpatrick’s birth to learn the game, it wasn’t usual. Something about it pricked. But the subject of her father wasn’t one she wished to discuss. Ever. Gregor had broached the subject a few times over the years, but Cate shut down so completely, he’d stopped. He hated seeing her upset.

She stood. “I think I shall retire.” She looked at John. “We can finish the game tomorrow.”

“It shouldn’t take long,” John said wryly.

Both men watched her cross the Hall and slip into the darkness beyond the partition. The Hall seemed suddenly … less.

John was watching him. “The lass has grown up.”

Sensing there was more to the statement than there appeared, Gregor gave an inconsequential, “Aye.”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

He shot his brother a withering glare. “I noticed.” When she’d stuck out her chest earlier, he’d nearly swallowed his tongue.

“Then why didn’t you say anything about the gown? It isn’t like you to be so ungallant around a lady.”

“What gown?”

John’s face darkened. “Don’t be an arse, Gregor. I saw your reaction, even if she didn’t. You noticed. The question is, what the hell are you going to do about it?”

“Find her a husband.”

The blunt response took his brother aback. John thought for a moment, and then shook his head. “She’ll never agree. She loves it here and belongs here, maybe even more than you or I. This is her home. You can’t send her away.”

Gregor steeled himself against the guilt, but it came anyway. “What would you have me do? With Mother gone, she can’t stay here. She’s not our sister.”

“No,” John said evenly. “No, she’s not.”

There was something in John’s voice that set Gregor’s already frayed nerve endings on edge. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

John returned the hard stare. “I don’t know. Maybe I should ask you?”

The two brothers gazed at one another in the firelight in some kind of challenge neither one of them wanted to acknowledge. But feeling as if he were wading damned close to something he didn’t want to step in—a mess he’d been in before—Gregor was the one to look away.

“What about the children?” John asked.

“They aren’t mine.”

“You are certain?”

“Aye.” Their ages had left no doubt.

John nodded. “I suspected as much.”

“Then why the hell did you let her take them in?”

“I wasn’t sure, and …” John looked up at him, and then gave a helpless shrug. “She wanted them.”

Gregor understood more than he wanted to. Cate was making the foundlings her family—
their
family. But he couldn’t let her do that.

God, he hated this. Hated feeling responsible for someone else’s happiness. He assuaged his guilt with the knowledge that she would likely have her own family soon enough. And he would get back to doing what he did best: fighting. Without anything—or anyone—else to weigh on him. John could handle the clan and act as chieftain. The position should never have been Gregor’s anyway.

“I’ll see you in the morning. Right now all I want to do is sleep.”

John’s mouth curved on one side. “Then you might want to find another bed.”

“What?”

John shook his head and smirked. “You’ll see.”

Five
 

Gregor was too tired to pay his brother’s vague comments any mind. He fell asleep as soon as his head landed on the pillow.

But instead of relaxed and sated (as he surely would have been had Màiri shown up in the barn), his sleep was restless and definitely
un
-sated. He dreamed of dancing golden-brown eyes, delicate dark brows, a turned-up nose, and a naughty mouth. A naughty mouth with soft, dark red lips that were wrapped around him, sucking—

A scream tore through the night, piercing like icy nails driven through his ears. He shot awake, the lustful dreams that had gripped his body instantly cooled by shock.

His first thought was that Cate was having another nightmare. The first couple of years at Dunlyon she’d been plagued by them, but they’d grown less frequent as the years went on. But Cate’s screams were of terror—they weren’t the shrill, high-pitched wail of the banshee that went on and on until his skull felt like it was going to explode.

Not Cate
, he realized. Then what the hell was it?

By the time the second scream came hard on the heels of the first, this one longer and—if possible—shriller, he was already out of bed, pulling on his breeches. He threw open the door and was about to bang on his brother’s door, when it suddenly opened. A ghostly figure in white came flying out of the darkness toward him.

Instinctively—so as not to be barreled over—he caught the apparition to him. His body shocked at the contact. A rush of awareness poured through him like molten lava, hot and heavy through his veins. His nerve endings flared, his senses sharpened, and the heat … the heat engulfed him.

It wasn’t a ghost. The very real body pressed against his—nay, molded into his—was achingly female. Unusually firm and surprisingly solid for a lass, perhaps, but still un-mistakingly soft and sweet.

Cate
.

Her gasp of surprise tangled with his groan of something far more primal. Lust. Raw, physical, primitive lust that took hold of him and wouldn’t let go.

She looked up, and their eyes met in the semi-darkness. He saw her confusion, her innocence, and her desire. Her very
womanly
desire.

For a moment that was all he saw. The connection was so strong, so visceral, it seemed everything else faded away. The horrible screeching. The time. The place. The voice of reason. His thoughts became a dark tunnel of need that led only to the woman in his arms.

He wanted to drown in her. To push her up against the wall, cover her mouth with his, and give in to the desire roaring through his body. He didn’t know what the hell was happening to him. The control he always felt had deserted him. He was wild.

The arm wrapped around her waist instinctively tightened, drawing her even closer. Her eyes widened, as she no doubt felt what he did. Bodies plastered together, her breasts crushed against his chest, her stomach nestled against the substantial bulge of his manhood, their legs entwined. Like a lock that had slipped into place, each part had been fitted together precisely.

Perfectly
.

Christ, it felt incredible.
She
felt incredible. The heat
started move to lower, to swell in his groin, to fill his cock and tighten his bollocks.

Every muscle in his body went rigid to battle the urges racing through him. The lust came on him so quickly and powerfully, it seemed impossible to hold back—especially for a man who’d never had to hold it back before. It had always been so easy for him—maybe too easy. When he wanted a woman, he never had to ask.

But this was different. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d ever wanted a woman this intensely. It must be some damned perverse bone in his body making him want her precisely because he couldn’t have her.

You can’t have her
. The voice penetrated the haze that had engulfed him.

But he didn’t want to let her go. How could something that felt so damned right be so damned wrong?

Cate had wanted
him
to be struck by the lightning bolt, but instead she was the one who felt as if her entire world had shifted.

Her knowledge of love and romance was the bards’ tales of a young girl. Sweet and tender, the gentle flutter of heartstrings at the thought of his lips touching hers for the first time in a chaste, reverent kiss. The kind of kiss a knight might give his lady after championing her on the tournament lists. That was what she’d pictured it would be like between them. That was all she knew.

But when Gregor caught her in his arms and held her against him, the picture changed forever. What she felt wasn’t sweet or romantic or chaste at all. The cravings of her body weren’t gentle flutters but a torrential thunderstorm of need, hot and powerful and a little—maybe a lot—wicked.

The images flashing through her head weren’t of gallant knights bowing over their fair maidens’ hands proclaiming
their undying love, but of dark, sultry chambers and naked limbs entwined in bedsheets.