The Arrow: A Highland Guard Novel (The Highland Guard) (48 page)

She was smiling when her gaze met her partner’s again.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Sir Thomas asked, a mischievous sparkle in his deep blue eyes.

“Immensely,” she said with ill-concealed relish.

He laughed. “I don’t think your former guardian is having much fun. Why do I have the feeling I should watch my back as I leave here later? Let me guess—you danced with Lindsay last night?”

Cate instantly sobered. She bit her lip, looking up at him worriedly. “I’m sorry … I wasn’t thinking. I’m afraid you are probably right.”

“I was only jesting. If MacGregor wants a fight he will have one. Besides, I owe him. He and his friends put me through hell when I rejoined my uncle a few years back.”
The gleam in his eye turned decidedly wicked. “What’s say we make him suffer?”

Cate thought a minute—well, more like two seconds, really—and grinned back at him. “You don’t mind?”

“Dear cousin, it will be my pleasure. Watching that one squirm with jealousy is worth
two
black eyes.”

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. Whatever her father had said to Gregor earlier seemed to have worked. And she did have her month—whatever that meant.

Having her suspicions, the next day she hunted down her father in the laird’s solar to find out. He dismissed the hulking Island chief who never seemed to leave his side, Tor MacLeod, and the handful of other men with whom he’d just finished meeting. She’d heard her father refer to him as Chief a number of times, leading her to suspect that he was the leader of the Phantoms. He was certainly big and intimidating enough. Fierce-looking was putting it mildly.

Leaning back in his chair behind the table, her father watched her pace back and forth a few times, waiting for her to begin.

She stopped and turned to face him. “You were furious with Gregor after I was shot. To what did he agree to make you forgive him?”

He quirked a brow in a way that was vaguely familiar. “What makes you think I’ve forgiven him?”

She bit her lip. “Haven’t you?”

“It depends.” His expression softened. “Have you?”

Cate pursed her mouth. “Of course not—why should I?” Realizing her father didn’t know the details and not wanting to go into them, she added, “Did you force him to agree to stay away from me for a month?”

His mouth quirked mischievously. “Not exactly.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

“I did not force him to do anything; it was his idea.”

Her brows drew together. “His idea?”

“Aye, he thought you deserved to have some time as my daughter.” His voice softened. “He wanted you to feel special. To have all of those things that would have been your due had we not been separated.”

Cate’s eyes widened. Of all the things she’d expected him to say, it wasn’t that. Rocked, she swayed on suddenly unsteady legs. Locating a bench behind her, she sat. “He did? Then all this …?”

“Was his idea. I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t think of it. He was right, Caty—you deserved to be treated like a princess.”

They both knew a natural daughter wasn’t a princess, but she understood what he meant. What she couldn’t believe was that Gregor had done something so sweet … so thoughtful … so
caring
.

“The circlet?”

“He had it designed specially for you in Oban.”

Cate didn’t know what to say.

“He cares about you, Caty.”

She could not argue. But was it enough? Could she forgive him?

“What happens after a month?”

“I gave him permission to court you—that is all. And only if you agree.”

Cate felt her chest tighten as the ice around her heart began to crack, and a glimmer of the love she’d once held for Gregor crept back in. “When is the month over?”

“Wednesday.”

Two days. She looked up at her father with despair. “What do I do?”

His eyes were gentle. “What do you want to do?”

Trust him
. She didn’t speak the words aloud, but her father must have seen the thought in her face.

“I think you already know what you want to do. I can’t
say I’m not pleased. I hope this means I will get my archer back.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Annoyance crossed his noble features. “My best bowman claims he doesn’t want to fight anymore.”

Twenty-seven
 

After being pushed to the very edge of his restraint the night before, it wasn’t surprising that Gregor found himself at the practice yard early the next morning. He felt like killing someone and needed an outlet. Nay, not just someone—the smug bastard who’d had his eyes and hands all over Cate last night. Just the memory of the way Randolph’s palm had rested on the small of her back and then slid down one very inappropriate inch made every muscle in Gregor’s body flare.

Gritting his teeth, he swung his sword and let it come down with all the frustration and anger teeming inside him.

He was fortunate his sparring partner was the best swordsman in Scotland and didn’t know the meaning of the word “practice.” With MacLeod it was always full-out, no-holds-barred combat.

MacLeod blocked the blow, albeit with some effort. The Chief of the Highland Guard drew back to take a break, breathing heavily. “Christ, Arrow, keep swinging a sword like this and we might find a new place for you with or without your bow.” He gave him a long look. “I guess I don’t need to ask what has gotten into you? I saw Randolph with your lass last night.”

Suddenly, MacLeod’s gaze shifted past him. Gregor turned just as Cate stomped up beside him.

“I’m not his lass,” she said to MacLeod with gritted
teeth. Gregor was so glad to see her, so busy drinking in every sweet inch of her, that he didn’t even mind when she scowled at him. “Why aren’t you practicing with your bow? And what is this my father says about you not rejoining the, uh …” She looked about uncertainly at the men gathered around. “… army?”

Unfortunately, his place in the “army” wasn’t exactly a secret anymore. Gregor sighed, pulled off his helm, and dragged his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair. Damn Bruce for bringing her into this! “Can we talk about this later, Cate?”

“I don’t know, Slick,” MacSorley piped in from his position leaning against the wall of the armory, where he’d been watching the sword practice. “I’m rather interested in what you have to say on the subject as well.” He looked around at the other members of the Guard gathered there: Sutherland, MacKay, MacRuairi, and Campbell. “We all are.”

Feeling more than a little cornered, Gregor might have snapped back angrily, but Cate unexpectedly came to his rescue. She turned to MacSorley. “You know, I think you are going to have to come up with a new name for him. He doesn’t look very slick right now. He looks rather a mess.”

Some rescue
. Gregor repressed a groan.

MacSorley grinned. “Ah, you might be right about that, lass. I’ll have to think of something. But don’t worry about that pretty face of his—it will heal up just fine. Did he ever tell you how he was dipped in the River Styx as a child?”

Gregor muttered a not very low “go to hell” under his breath, while Cate laughed.

“Like Achilles with the arrow? How appropriate! Did his mother hold him by the heel as well?”

It was MacRuairi who answered, shaking his head. “We didn’t think he was vulnerable anywhere. But turns out he is.”

Cate searched the faces of the men around them, waiting for an explanation.

Finally, Gregor let out an exasperated sigh. “You, Cate. He means you.”

Their eyes met and for the first time in a long time, she was not looking at him with hatred and anger. She blinked widely. “Oh.”

“Aye, ‘oh,’ ” he repeated. Conscious of too many eyes upon them, he drew her away. “Come, we can talk inside the armory—where we won’t have any interruptions.”

“Ah, hell, I was hoping for a rematch,” MacSorley said. “I’ll be ready next time, lass. Although you might not want to wear such a pretty gown. This time I won’t be the only one to get dirty.”

Cate was laughing as he dragged her away. “He’s amusing,” she said. “I can see why you like him so much.”

“Hawk’s a pain in the arse,” he grumbled. “Wait until he comes up with a nickname for
you
.”

The smile that lit her face stabbed him with a longing so intense it stole his breath. How could he have been such an idiot? How could he have thrown away the most important thing that had ever happened to him? She meant everything to him. He should have trusted his feelings. Committed himself to her, heart and soul.

“Do you think he will?” She couldn’t hide her excitement. “What do you think he will call me?”

“I don’t even want to guess. But you can be assured it will be hilarious to everyone but you or, more likely, me.”

Before they went into the armory, he washed some of the grime off his face and hands with a bucket of fresh water from the well.

Entering the armory, he could see that there was enough light coming through the wood slats, so he closed the door behind them. Clearing off a wooden crate that was used to reach the weapons stored higher on the walls, he motioned for her to sit, but she shook her head. “I’d prefer to stand.”

He’d prefer she do her standing a few feet away from him because in the enclosed space, with only a few feet between them, he was finding it very hard to keep his hands at his sides. It had been so long since he’d touched her—really touched her—that he ached with the need to feel her soft skin under his fingertips again. And as if the thought of that wasn’t enough to test the limits of his control, a moment later the subtle scent of flowers teased his senses. She’d used lavender in the water to wash her hair, and all he could think about was unbinding the two coils secured under her veil and burying his nose in the silky softness.

But he’d lost that privilege. He’d have to earn it back—if she let him.

Taking a step back, he cleared his throat. “What did you want, Cate?”

Unaware of the fragile command he had on his control, she stepped toward him until she stood only inches away. Christ, all he had to do was bend his head and her lips would be under his. His muscles tensed. A rush of heat pounded through his veins, but he kept his arms pinned to his sides and tried not to think about how badly he wanted to kiss her.

Maybe she was more aware of what she was doing to him than he realized. Her voice was slightly husky. “What’s wrong, Gregor? Why have you not been using your bow? Why are you contemplating quitting?”

His jaw hardened. It wasn’t quitting; it was merely that what he wanted had shifted. He no longer felt the need to prove himself. He no longer had the drive to be the best and nothing else. He no longer wanted to avoid his other duties.

“This isn’t because of me, is it?” she asked. “I know you didn’t mean to shoot me. It was an accident.”

He gritted his teeth against the tight swell of emotion in his throat. When he’d let loose that arrow, for the first
time the full import of what he did hit him. “I could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t. And even if you had, it wouldn’t have been your fault. You couldn’t have anticipated what I was going to do. In fact, I think you’d instructed me many times
not
to do what I did.”

The sympathy in her eyes undid him. He had to tell her the truth—no matter how shameful. “You don’t understand. If you hadn’t done what you did, the king might be dead.” His mouth hardened. “I missed, Cate. The arrow I shot was too low. It wouldn’t have killed Fitzwarren.”

The surprised doubt on her face only made it worse. “You can’t know that. And even even if it’s true, I imagine you were unusually distracted.”

He clenched his jaw in silence. She was right. He had been distracted—by her—but that was no excuse. “It wasn’t the first time. It’s one of the reasons I was sent home.” He described the hesitation at Berwick and the small mistakes he’d made leading up to it. He gave voice to his fear for the first time. “My skills are slipping.”

“Your skills are exceptional. But you are not perfect. So what? You are the only one who expects you to be, and you don’t need to be. Even with a few not-perfect shots, you are still the best archer in the Highlands. What about the shot you made from the ladder? From what my father said, it saved the attack from discovery.”

“I was lucky.”

She looked at him as if she knew better. “Luck or not, no one else could have made that shot, Gregor. No one. Think about that.”

His jaw hardened. Whether she was right really didn’t matter. “You don’t understand. I’m …” He just said it: “Christ, I’m losing my edge. I don’t feel the same intensity.”

She gave him a long look, considering his words but seeing far beyond them. “How could you? You must be
mentally exhausted. You’ve been fighting for my father for …?”

“Over seven years,” he filled in.

“So seven years of functioning at the highest levels, under the most extreme of conditions, with constant pressure? That would be difficult for any archer, let alone with the type of precision required for a marksman. I’m not surprised it has begun to wear on you; actually, I’m surprised you lasted this long.” She paused, cocking her head to study him. “Do you still believe in my father?”