Sixteen
 

It was just before midnight on Christmas Eve when Gregor finally climbed the stairs to his chamber. Between the long masses of the season and his duties as laird, it had been a tiresome day.

He forced his gaze away from the door on the left, but not before noticing the tempting glow of candlelight spilling out from underneath.

She was awake. Knowing that, and how close she was, sure as hell didn’t make it easy to do the right thing.

He wasn’t a lad in the first throes of passion, damn it—even if she made him feel like one. He could wait until they were married to have her in his bed. God knew, she could probably use the time to recover from the other night.

But he had a feeling it was going to be a very long twelve nights. Assuming he could secure a dispensation with the king’s help from Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews, Gregor hoped to marry Cate on January fifth—Twelfth Night—the day marking the end to the winter festival on the eve of the Epiphany.

He could have waited the three weeks for the banns to be read, but with Bruce expected to call him back in early January for the siege on Perth Castle, that would mean delaying their wedding until the next time he could return home.

That he would not countenance. Cate was his, and he wanted it to be true in fact as well as in deed.

He’d never imagined that he would be the one making haste to the altar. But it was as if once the last hurdle in his mind had been cleared, there was nothing stopping him from seeing what he wanted: Cate as his wife, standing beside him in the day and sleeping beside him at night. Although there probably wouldn’t be much sleeping for a while.

Just thinking about what he’d like to be doing to her right now was enough to make him hot, hard, and frustrated. It was her fault for being so damned responsive and uninhibited. She made love just like she did everything else: no holds barred, without pretense or artifice and with unbridled passion.

With a little experience …

God help him! He didn’t even want to think about it. She could bring him to his knees.

Perhaps she already had. What he felt for her was like nothing he’d ever felt for a woman before.

Did he love her? He didn’t know if he was capable of that kind of emotion. But her belief in him made him want to be the kind of man who could stay by the hearth, and maybe for now that was enough.

He closed the door, putting temptation firmly behind him. Barely a moment passed, however, before he heard a soft knock. Steeling himself, he opened the door. As he’d expected, Cate stood there in her dressing robe.

“You’re up late,” she said.

“I could say the same for you.”

“I was waiting for you.”

His mouth quirked. “So I gathered. But you shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” she said with a cheeky smile, flouncing in anyway. “But it’s been so busy the past couple of days, I haven’t had a chance to talk with you alone, and I wanted to give you something.”

Suddenly, he noticed the way she was holding her robe tightly in front of her chest as if she were hiding something. Something like a naked body? His eyes must have flared.

She rolled her eyes, guessing his train of thought, and laughed. “I’m afraid I’m wearing a very thick, very old chemise under here, given what happened to the last one.”

He grinned. “I’ll buy you a dozen chemises.”

She quirked a brow. “The more to rip apart?”

“How did you guess?”

She laughed and opened her gown. “Sorry to disappoint you, but that isn’t what I brought you.” Taking out the linen bundle that had been tucked in front of her, she handed it to him. “It’s this—for Christmas,” she explained.

“What is it?”

“Why don’t you open it and see?”

After untying the strand of silk ribbon she’d wrapped around the bundle, he carefully unfolded the linen, revealing a linen tunic embroidered with scrollwork in gold and scarlet thread around the neck and—when he held it up—sleeves. Inspecting the embroidery closer, he realized the design wasn’t scrolls as he originally thought. “They’re arrows,” he said, stunned.

She blushed, nodding. “It’s to wear under your armor.”

It was perfect—he couldn’t believe how perfect. He was touched. The stitches were exquisite. He frowned. “You did this?”

His voice must have revealed his surprise.

“I do know how to sew.”

He lifted a brow. They both knew she found needlework torturous.

“Well, I do.” She wrinkled her nose. “Very well, Ete did most of it. But I did come up with the design. And I did this part right here.” She pointed to the back of the collar, where the stitches were quite a bit more uneven.

He grinned and pulled her up in his arms. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He kissed her. Softly at first, and then, as always seemed to happen, with far more passion than he’d intended. When he drew back, they were both breathing hard. It took her eyes a moment to focus. His bed loomed too damned close. It would be so easy to push her back …

“I have something else for you as well,” she said.

“Hiding other treasures under that gown, Caty?”

She laughed. “You never know. But this one is under the bed.” When he drew back, she explained. “John helped me carry it up here earlier.”

He bent down and dragged out another bundle, this one sturdy, about six feet long, six inches in diameter, and wrapped not in linen, but in hides of leather. “What do you have in here, a caber?”

“Close.”

He flipped back the hides and stared in stunned silence at the gift at his feet. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Bending down, he inspected it closer, paying particular attention to the unblemished grain from end to end. There wasn’t a knot or twist in sight.

Unbelievable. Maybe she was the one who should be called a sorcerer. How else could she have procured such a treasure?

She watched him with increasing anxiousness, her hands twisting in her ruby-colored, velvet dressing robe. “It’s a stave of yew,” she said, obviously worried by his silence.

He knew exactly what it was. It wasn’t just a stave of yew; it was a nearly flawless stave of yew. The kind of flawless that was perfect for making a bow and had been nearly impossible to find since the war broke out. With the demand for bows so high, much of the good yew had been felled in both Scotland and England.

His voice was low and full of awe that bordered on reverence. “Where did you get this?”

“From the merchant who brings your wines from Bordeaux.”

Gregor frowned. “He told me he couldn’t find anything like this.”

She grinned. “Well, I encouraged him to look a little harder.” Gregor knew better than to ask how. “The opening of the trade routes has helped. It comes from Spain and was cut last winter, so it will only need a bit more seasoning.”

He didn’t say anything. He was too overwhelmed to do anything other than stare at what had to be the most generous, thoughtful gift he’d ever received.

“Do you like it?”

The uncertainty in her voice knocked him from his stupor. “I love it. I don’t know what do say.”

She beamed. Lifting on her tiptoes, she slid her arms around his neck. “Perhaps you might think of another way to thank me?”

His arm slid around her waist, as if there was no other place it belonged. “I was trying to be good.”

Her dark eyes danced with golden sparks of mischief in the candlelight. “You are good.” Her hips rubbed teasingly against his. “Very, very good.”

“Naughty lass.” He gave her bottom a little swat. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I can think of a few things, and I’m sure you could help me think of a few more that I’ve never tried before.”

He groaned, feeling the heat swell in his groin. He sure as hell could. Would he shock her with his requests? Probably, but knowing Cate it would not be for long. He’d been fantasizing about her mouth on him for too long. Just the thought of it was enough to make him hard as a rock.

“You sure know how to shoot my good intentions to hell.”

Her eyes lit up excitedly. “I do?”

He nodded and kissed her again. “I used to have a little self-control.”

He slid his hands under the shoulders of her robe to slide it off. She had already started to work the ties of his cotun but smiled up at him. “And you don’t now?”

“Apparently not where you are concerned.”

To prove it, he ripped the chemise she was wearing right off her. It was old, plain, and in his way.

“Gregor!” she screeched, still shy enough to try to cover herself. But the lass had absolutely nothing to hide—nothing. “Not another one,” she groaned. “I will have nothing left to wear.”

“What a pity. I suppose I will just have to keep you naked in my bed.”

He stopped further protests by jerking his tunic over his head, pulling off his boots, and quickly dispensing with his breeches.

She stared at him, taking in every inch of his nakedness. He’d never been self-conscious in his life, but standing there while she studied him came pretty damn close. He wanted her approval. When she eventually looked up at him, it was clear he had it—and more. She was looking at him as if she couldn’t wait to devour him. “Tell me what do to. Tell me how to please you.”

“You already do.”

Just standing there she brought him to his knees. She was adorable—small, compact, and strong, with the sleek grace of a wildcat. Outwardly unimposing but dangerous, with the raw instincts of a fighter. She made every other woman who’d come before her seem flimsy and insubstantial.

She blushed. “I know men prefer more curves, but your mother said I scared them all away on the practice yard, and I was doomed to be as thin as a bowstring.”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, my mother didn’t have any idea what men prefer.” Her body was toned and sensual, and so damned arousing, he suspected that one day strength and firmness of flesh in women would become prized. “Besides, I have always preferred a bow.” He held her gaze. “You are perfect. So perfect that I’m going to have to insist you spend much more time practicing all those hand-to-hand combat moves—although not on the practice yard.”

Her brows drew together. “Then wh—?”

She didn’t have a chance to finish her question before he catapulted her back on his bed and pinned her with his body.

She gasped with surprise, and then smiled. “There is one problem with your plan.”

He lifted a brow challengingly. “What’s that?”

“What if I don’t want to get up? What if I like it exactly where I am?” She moved her hips so his erection fit snugly between her legs, the fat head nudging temptingly at her entrance. He rocked his hips a little, teasing her until her breath quickened with those throaty little gasps that drove him wild.

“Oh, I think you’ll want to get up, Caty.” He sunk in just a little, letting her take him in an inch or two before retreating. He felt her shudder with need, and it took every bit of his control not to sink in deep and give it all to her. “Weren’t you talking about learning new things? I didn’t think you were a quitter.”

He’d known she wouldn’t be able to resist that taunt. Just as he knew as soon as he gave her an opening he would be on his back.

He was—and more aroused than he could stand. The lass gave new meaning to the word “bedsport.” He had a feeling making love with Cate was going to be an entirely different experience—and one that would keep him on his toes for a while.

Maybe forever.

For once he did not push the thought away. He let it sit there, getting used to it.

“Now what?” she asked, looking down at him from her perch lying on top of him. His heartbeat jammed in his chest. Everything seemed to stop. She looked so damned sweet and yet so unconsciously sensual, with her dark eyes fixed on him, her hair tumbling around her shoulders, and her small, pert breasts thrusting proudly in the air. He wanted to hold on to this moment forever.

He drew his hand up to tuck a lock of silky dark hair behind her ear. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he pulled her mouth toward his, kissing her gently, tenderly, with long, slow pulls of his tongue.

But they were both too eager to wait for long.

“Get on your knees and straddle me,” he said roughly—huskily.

She looked confused for a minute, but then comprehension dawned. A warm glimmer of understanding spread across her face in a slow smile.

Gregor didn’t know whether her quick grasp of the situation should make him curse or drop to his knees in gratitude. How long before she realized who held all the power here?

Not long, if her quick mastery of the position meant anything. She braced her hands on his chest as she moved her hips over him. “Like this?” she said with a slow bob over his erection, which was pounding against his stomach angrily and not in any mood to play games.

Her breasts were too tempting. He had to reach out and cup the firm mounds in his hands, his fingers lightly plying the dark pink tips until they were as hard as two tiny pebbles.

She moaned, arching into his hands, and bobbed over him again, sliding his length between her legs this time, where he could feel the sweet heat and dampness. He made a sound of agonized pleasure and lifted his hips toward the tight, hot glove that he wanted gripping him.

“What do I do?” she asked, her breath uneven.

He could have shown her, but he wanted to let her be in charge and in control of her passion. “Put me inside you.”

He groaned when her fingers came around him, and she lifted her hips into position. Every muscle in his body flexed to hold still as she rubbed the heavy head against her slickness, looking for …

Oh God, yes. He groaned as she found it and started to lower her body on him, inch by inch. He was slick with sweat and near the end of his rope by the time she was fully impaled.

She drew her hands down the tight bands of his stomach and threw her head back, sinking deeper and savoring the pleasure of their bodies fully joined—connected. “You feel so good,” she said. “So big and thick—I love the way you fill me.”

He deserved a kingdom at least for not coming right there. The innocently erotic words sent hot bolts of pleasure from the base of his spine to the tip of his cock.

She moved a little and he nearly wept from the effort to stay still. From the effort not to take her hips and slide her up and down on top of him until they were both coming hard.

She was so tight …

“Ride me, Cate,” he gritted out. It wasn’t an order, but more of a plea.

And ride him she did. Slowly and tentatively at first, and then when she found the rhythm, hard and hell-bent for leather.

It felt too good. He could feel the pressure coiling and couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed her hips, digging his fingers into her taut backside, as his body seized. “Oh God, sweetheart, I’m going to—”

She cut him off with her cry, sinking down on him hard. He held her there tight, grounding her against him, letting the hard spasms of her release pull him right over the edge.

He came harder than he’d ever come in his life, shooting his seed deep inside her in a hot rush of blinding pleasure.

When she collapsed on top of him, he had only enough energy left to roll her to the side and tuck her in against him. He wanted to say something, but all he could think of was a dazed and unimaginative “wow.”

She’d brought him to his knees, all right. And it was a damned good place to be.

Cate thought she probably should be embarrassed by her wantonness, but she was too warm and contented—and too wonderfully exhausted—to muster any enthusiasm for the effort. Besides, if she were honest with herself, she wasn’t embarrassed at all. She didn’t need experience to know that Gregor liked her brazenness and her passion for him.

Ride me. Heat spread over her skin when she thought of how she’d done exactly that. She’d never imagined that kind of freedom—that kind of wildness. It had been incredible. With him inside her, she’d felt powerful enough to storm castles or conquer kingdoms.

She smiled against his chest as her finger absently traced the markings on his arm. It was so different being with him like this. She’d never imagined he could be so light-hearted and playful. He didn’t seem remote and untouchable at all, but rather quite wonderfully touchable. She’d never felt closer to anyone in her life.

“What’s so amusing?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, a little embarrassed by how happy she was. “I’ve never seen a tattoo before. What does it signify? I understand the two crossed arrows behind the shield, but I thought the badge of the MacGregors was a lion’s head? The Lion Rampant is the standard of the king.” He might have tensed, but she was too busy staring at it. “And what is this design that goes around your arm? It looks like a spiderweb.”

He enfolded her hand in his and moved it from his arm to his chest. “So many questions, little one. Aren’t you sleepy?”

She propped her chin up on his chest and frowned. “Why do I have the feeling you are trying to avoid my question?”

He held her gaze for a moment in the soft candlelight. He seemed to be debating with himself about something. “You are right; it doesn’t have to do with the MacGregors. It’s just something I did a while back with some friends of mine.”

He tried to dismiss it, but for some reason she sensed it was important to him. “Does it have to do with your role in the king’s army?” He looked surprised. “I know you don’t like to say anything, but I gather what you do is important.”

“I’m a bowman, Cate.”

“Aye, but I’d warrant an important one. What exactly do you do?”

He paused for so long, she didn’t think he was going to answer her. When he spoke, it was carefully. “Sometimes the king needs important targets eliminated. A good marksman can come in handy for that.”

She frowned, and then suddenly her eyes widened. “Targets? You mean people?”

He held her gaze, as if steeling himself for her reaction. “Aye. I’m trained to kill, Cate. It’s what I do.”

He stated it as a fact and without apology, but somehow she knew it wasn’t easy for him to admit. “And I’m sure every one of them has been necessary, although I’m sure it doesn’t make it any easier.”

He looked surprised, as if he’d expected condemnation. He shrugged. “You get used to it.”

She suspected he never got used to it at all. But he undoubtedly saw his compassion as a weakness for a warrior, when in fact it only emphasized his humanity. Caring was nothing to be ashamed of.

She’d guessed how much the deaths affected him when she’d realized what the rocks were for. They were his atonement, his acknowledgment of every life that had been taken in the pursuit of Robert the Bruce’s ambition.

She thought for a minute. “But what does the tattoo have to do with all of this?”

He sighed and shook his head, smiling. “You are as unrelenting as some warriors I know. I will explain everything to you when we are married.”

She liked hearing him say that. “And when will that be?”

“I hope by Twelfth Night. I wrote the king and asked him to help me procure a dispensation.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “I wish I could be there to see his reaction. I think Bruce was convinced I’d never find my way willingly to the altar. He’ll be disappointed not to be here for the wedding, but I’m sure once Perth is taken he will arrange a great feast at Dunstaffnage.”

Cate stiffened. “A what?”

He tipped her chin to look at him. “I know you blame the king for what happened, Cate, but that blame is misplaced. He was as devastated by the massacre of your village as he was when news that his wife, daughter, sister, and the Countess of Buchan had been taken reached him. He disappeared into the forest and didn’t talk to anyone for days.”

Cate refused to allow herself to feel pity for him. She hardened her heart. “Any guilt Robert Bruce felt is deserved. We are all just pawns to a nobleman’s ambition. What are the lives of a few villagers in the name of a throne? What is a daughter?” She paused, and quickly added, “Or a wife.”

“That isn’t Bruce at all, Cate. You don’t know him the way I do. He is a great man; there is no one I believe in more. He believed in me when no one else did. When I first came to him, I was young and more braggart and conceited than warrior. But he helped me hone my skills from sport at the Games to the battlefield. He helped make me a warrior.”

Cate felt ill. Gregor’s admiration for the king went far deeper than she’d realized. God, he almost made him sound like a father. And she better than anyone knew the danger in that. She didn’t want him to know the same disappointment that she had.

“Scotland needs him. It’s staggering to think of what he’s already accomplished, and how close we are to victory. Robert the Bruce belongs on the throne, and I will do all in my power to see him there permanently.” He took her chin and lifted her face to his. “It’s important to me that you give him a fair chance, Cate. Believe me, he never imagined—none of us did—what would happen to your village for helping us.”

“ ‘Us’? You weren’t there.”

“Two of my closest friends—men I consider brothers—were among the men your village provided shelter to. If you hadn’t, they would be dead. They were two of the men who were with me when I found you in the well.”

She gazed at him wordlessly. She hadn’t realized …

“Bruce mourns each loss of life in this war and carries the weight of it with him every day. No one knows more than he does what has been lost in the pursuit of a throne. But it isn’t just the three brothers and close friends who he mourns, it’s also people like your mother and the other villagers. He was even worried about you, Cate.”

Her heart stopped, and then started thudding wildly. Fearing he would notice, she moved off him just enough to break contact. Instantly, she was cold. “Me?”

“Aye, he was very interested in you.” Gregor frowned, as if something about the memory bothered him.

“You didn’t tell him anything?”

With how anxiously she’d spoken, it was no wonder that he gave her an odd look.

“I told him what I knew at the time: your name and age.” He reconsidered. “At least what we thought your age to be, eleven or twelve.”

Cate hoped her relief wasn’t visible. She’d never expected the king to take a personal interest in her, but it was a good thing that she’d lied about her name—both her names. Bruce wouldn’t have known of her mother’s second husband. When Bruce left them, her mother had been about to marry her first husband.

Though she wanted to ask more, she feared she’d already said too much. Gregor was too perceptive. She didn’t want him to guess that the man he so revered was the same man who’d abandoned her when she was five.

“I was small for my age,” she said.

He smiled. “You are still small for your age.”

“Big enough to put you on your ar—” She stopped when he gave her a warning glance. “Back,” she finished sweetly.

“Aye, well, just don’t think the king didn’t care. He did. Bruce took the loss of your village very hard. He said it had been some time since he’d visited, but he knew many of the villagers personally.” Something seemed to occur to him. “Did you know him, Cate?”

She thought she had. At one time, she’d thought there was no man greater than Robert Bruce, the dashing young Earl of Carrick. But it turned out she hadn’t known him at all. The man she’d boasted of as the greatest knight in Christendom had cut her out of his life as thoroughly as if she’d never existed. It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t made her love him first. Her heart pinched at the memory of just how much she’d loved the man who’d sired her.

“He came to our village when I was a child,” she answered carefully, in what she hoped was a neutral voice.

“And you were not dazzled? I’m surprised. Not many women are immune to the charm of Robert Bruce.”

Not many at all. Her mother certainly hadn’t been. Cate hadn’t been either—at least for a while. And from what she heard, there were at least a few other women with natural children of Bruce who had been quite charmed as well. “Aye, well, maybe it takes a bit more than superficial charms to impress me.”

He lifted a brow. “Is that directed at me by any chance?”

She grinned. “Nay, but you might want to keep it in mind. The ‘dazzle’ of that face is bound to wear off … in a dozen years or so.”

“Good to know,” he said dryly. “And what happens when I need to impress you then?”

She rolled on top of him, savoring the feel of his hard masculine body against hers. “I suspect you will be able to think of a thing or two.”

She couldn’t believe that husky sound was her voice.

His hand slid down to grip her bottom and fit her snugly against him. Instantly, her body turned hot and liquid. He groaned as he gripped her by the back of her head and kissed her—hard. She reveled in the knowledge that the contact affected him the same way it did her.

She could feel the heat of him growing between her legs, when he suddenly pulled back. “God, you are going to kill me. But you need some sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a long day.”

It was Christmas. “You mean today.” It had to be well after midnight by now. “Are you sending me back to my room?”

“I’m afraid so, sweeting. I do not want to add to the gossip. In fact, I should probably remove myself to the barracks until we are wed.” She must have looked as disappointed as she felt, because he laughed. “It’s good to know that I will not be the only one counting the days.”

He couldn’t have given her a better gift than those offhanded words. “Do you mean it, Gregor? You are looking forward to marrying me?”

His brow furrowed. “I thought we covered this.”

“We did. It’s just that it’s all happened so fast, I feel like I’m going to wake up and discover you’ve changed your mind.”

He chuckled, brushing the back of his thumb over her bare shoulder. “There is little chance of that. It is you, I hope, who does not come to regret it.”

She frowned. “Why would I regret it?”

He paused for a long moment. “I’ve let a lot of people down in my life, Cate. I don’t want to end up doing that to you.”

“You won’t,” she said fiercely. She might not know all the circumstances of his past, but she knew something more important: she knew him. Gregor avoided attachment and responsibility away from the battlefield not because he was incapable of it, but because he feared letting people down. But just as the king could count on him, she knew she would count on him, too. He wouldn’t let her down.

He laughed and kissed her on the nose. “You remind me of someone when you have that expression on your face. But I can’t think of who.”

Good thing there wasn’t much light in the chamber, because she feared every ounce of color had drained from her face.

Reluctantly, she inched up, clutching the sheeting to her neck, looking for the puddle on the floor that was her robe. “Can you hand me that?”

He sat up, leaned against the wooden panel of the bed, and folded his arms across his chest. She might have noticed the devilish glint in his eyes if she hadn’t been so distracted by the bulging muscles of his arms. Good gracious! Her mouth actually seemed to be watering.

“And miss you tumbling out of my bed naked? I don’t think so.”

She glared at him, ripped the sheet from the bed, and wrapped it around her as she did her best not to “tumble.”

He chuckled, obviously amused by her efforts. “Isn’t it rather late for modesty? I’ve seen every inch of you.”

She pursed her mouth primly. “Some of us aren’t used to walking around stark naked.”

He shrugged unrepentantly. “I don’t usually get a lot of complaints.”

Her eyes narrowed, taking in every inch of a body that could make Adonis weep with envy. Arrogant rogue. It was worse because it was warranted. “I bet.”

Grabbing the robe from the floor, she purposefully let the sheet drop before securing it in front of her. A quick glance at the thickening column of his manhood made her smile. “Sweet dreams, Gregor.”

“Wait.” He stood from the bed and thankfully for her peace of mind, drew on his braies. “I have something for you.”

She glanced down at his manhood. “I think you already gave it to me.”

He grinned appreciatively. “You are turning into quite a wicked lass, Caitrina.” She opened her mouth to correct him—Catherine—then slammed it shut. She wouldn’t disillusion him. He walked to the ambry, opened the door, and retrieved a small wooden box and a leather bag. “I have two gifts for you as well. I was going to give you the first when I came home, but after what happened with Dougal, I wasn’t sure whether I should encourage you.” He handed her the bag. “Promise me you will not draw this unless you have to.”

Knowing he was mostly teasing her, she refrained from arguing about how she “had to” with Dougal. Pulling back the flap of the bag, she retrieved a very thin leather scabbard and what looked to be a small dagger. But it was unlike any dagger she’d ever seen. The blade was about five inches long but it was thin and narrow, coming to a very sharp point. The handle was of horn, and when she put her hand around it, she realized it could have been sized just for her. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said.

“A friend of mine made it for me. It’s a special kind of dagger.” She looked at him questioningly. “It goes through mail,” he explained.

Her eyes widened; suddenly the shape of the blade made more sense. It was ingenious. Moving the blade around in her hand, she said, “You had this made for me?”

He nodded. “You can attach it to a leather girdle and wear it at your back or on your side.”

Cate was unbelievably touched by his thoughtfulness and by what it revealed. He knew her every bit as well as she knew him. They’d both gotten each other weapons! “It’s perfect,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Aye, well, put it away until I teach you how to use it. You did mention gelding one time.”

She laughed and slid it back into the scabbard. “Aye, well, I might have reconsidered. You’ll just have to not give me a reason.”

The gentle teasing suddenly vanished. His face grew painfully serious. She didn’t think there could have been a more awkward silence.

Her heart wrenched. She felt like a fool. He’d never made her any promises. But he wouldn’t want to do that … would he?

It would break her heart. Heartbreaker …

That was what he did, wasn’t it? Not to me. This is different.

“I hope I can do that,” he said.

Cate’s chest was burning, but she told herself not to overreact. “How long were you with Isobel, Gregor?”

His expression hardened. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“How long?”

“Nearly two years.”

“Did you bed other women when you were with her?”

“No.” He seemed surprised by the admission.

“That’s because when you care about someone you are loyal. And I have every intention of having you care about me very much.”

Their eyes held, and something strong and powerful passed between them. Her chest swelled, knowing he already did. It wasn’t a promise, but it was the makings of one.

He handed her the box. “This belongs to you now.”

“What is it?”

A small smile curved his mouth. He repeated her words back to her, “Why don’t you open it and see.”

Lifting the top, she drew in her breath. On a bed of velvet was the ring his mother had worn until her death. It was gold, with a large oval crystal in the center and lions’ heads engraved on either side. Hand shaking, she took it out from the box.

“It’s a charm stone,” he said. “There’s an engraving on the inside.” She held it up to the candle to read it. “ ‘S Rioghal mo dhream,’ ” he said for her.

Royal is my race.

The words taunted her. Stricken, she stared at the ring, not knowing what to do. She couldn’t put it on. Impostor.

“It’s the motto of the MacGregors,” he explained.

She blinked at him for a moment in confusion, and then sighed with relief. “Of course it is. I’ve seen it inscribed on your bow and sword.”

The MacGregors claimed descent from Gregor, the son of King Kenneth MacAlpin, the first King of Scots. How could she have forgotten? For a moment, she’d thought it was a cruel jest.

She slipped the ring on, holding her hand up and letting it catch the light. “I shall be honored to wear it.”

“My mother would be happy.”

Cate’s heart tugged at the memory of both women who would have been pleased. She wished they could be here to share this with her—with them. “Aye, she would,” Cate agreed.

“Happy Christmas, Cate.”

“Happy Christmas, Gregor.”

And with one more kiss, he sent her back to her bed—alas, alone.