Two
 

Dunlyon, Roro, Perthshire, Scottish Highlands

This time when Gregor came home, Cate was going to be ready. She could no longer be patient.

As she’d done every day for the past week since John had sent the letter, she dressed with particular care. As she normally didn’t take any care, this was quite an extraordinary undertaking. The “boyishly” short, just-past-her-shoulder, dark hair that she usually kept tied back with string, a piece of leather, or whatever else she happened to have on hand had been brushed and brushed until it was as glossy and shiny as polished mahogany to hang loose around her shoulders.

A simple circlet of gold, given to her by Lady Marion before she’d succumbed to the fever, rested upon her head, securing the gossamer-thin pink veil that covered—but did not hide—the dark tresses. Her hair was one of her best features, and she had to take advantage of whatever she could.

Cate didn’t need to pinch her cheeks as some girls did; hers were rosy enough from all the time she spent outdoors. Her lips, too, didn’t need any color, as they were naturally a dark, vibrant red.

She wrinkled her nose. Unfortunately, the freckles she couldn’t do anything about. Cate told herself they added character, but she’d never convinced her mother or Lady Marion to agree.

She stepped back from the looking glass procured from the bottom of one of Lady Marion’s trunks, held out the deep rose velvet skirts of her cotehardie, and chewed anxiously on her lip, not knowing quite what to make of her attempts.

She hadn’t been sure about the color—she’d never liked pink—but Lady Marion had insisted it would be “beautiful” on her. That was an exaggeration, but it did seem to flatter her coloring. The gown was one of three that Lady Marion had insisted on buying her two years ago on Cate’s eighteenth saint’s day. “You are a lady now, sweeting,” the older woman had said with a fond smile. “You need at least a few fine gowns.”

It had been so important to her, Cate hadn’t had the heart to argue, but she’d never seemed to find the occasion to wear them. Frankly, dressing in such fine things made her feel a little silly. Like she was pretending to be someone she was not.

Her father had given her a beautiful dress once. It had made her feel like a princess. When he left, she’d shoved it under the bed and never looked at it again.

Her chest squeezed with a longing she refused to acknowledge. She wasn’t a lady, no matter who her father happened to be.

Her attention returned to the strange woman in the looking glass.

“Men want a woman to act like a woman, my love.” Her mother’s voice mingled with Lady Marion’s in her memory—in so many ways they’d been one in the same. Both gentle, sweet ladies. Nothing like Cate.

Her chin set with determination. She would be soft and feminine if it killed her. But goodness gracious, did being a lady have to be so blasted uncomfortable?

She tugged at the fabric around her bodice, trying to pull it up. Two years had added a certain dimension to parts of her body that she was not quite used to, making the gown a bit tight in the bodice. But as that was the fashion, she supposed no one would notice.

Cate had given up the breeches under the skirts when Lady Marion nearly fainted the first time she’d seen them, but she’d made few other concessions. She would wear shoes in the winter but not in the summer. And no matter how plain, the simple “peasant lad’s” clothes were what she felt comfortable in while training.

She’d just finished her critical appraisal when the door burst open behind her. Assuming it was Ete, who was supposed to have helped her with her hair and veil but was called away when Maddy started crying (screeching, actually), Cate didn’t turn right away. It was only when the silence became noticeable that she looked and realized that it wasn’t the maidservant but John.

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.

The gown Lady Marion had bought for her.

The gown she’d wanted to impress Gregor with.

The gown that had made her feel … pretty.

She heard Pip shout in outrage, spewing a litany of inventive threats that almost made her smile.

Making a show of slowly dragging herself to her knees, she waited, her pulse racing. Just like practice …

Dougal’s feet appeared by her side. “You stupid bitch. I’ll show you who is a real man.”

His words unleashed a twisted flurry of anger and pain, his threat a brutal reminder of what had happened to her mother. She wanted to lash out. She wanted to cry. She wanted to punish any man who would ever think to rape a woman.

But John had warned her that her weakness wasn’t in her limbs but in her quick temper. So instead she waited patiently for what she hoped was coming.

He didn’t disappoint. Dougal moved his leg to kick her in the ribs, and she caught it, using the momentum to catapult him onto his back with a ground-smacking thud. A moment later she had her knee on his chest and her blade pressed against his thick neck. “You are a bully and a coward, Dougal MacNab.”

He looked at her wide-eyed. “What kind of lass are you?”

“The kind who has a blade to your throat, so unless you want to continue this, I suggest you take your friends and go on home.”

This time when Cate let him up, she made sure to keep an eye on him as he rejoined his friends. They whispered back and forth, and every now and then Dougal would cast a scathing glare in her direction.

She still had her dagger drawn and ready, but when they didn’t leave right away, she felt the first prickle of sweat on her brow. It was the worried look Willy sent in her direction, however, that made her pulse flutter. They were planning something, and there were so many of them. Six, not including Willy. If they chose to fight as a group …

Cate swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Her advantages were surprise and quickness. She’d lost the first, which would seriously impact the second, even with one opponent. With six …

Deciding that she’d made her point, and perhaps she should be the one to back off, she motioned for Pip to come to her side.

Before he’d reached her, however, the sound of an approaching horse did what her threat had not, sending Dougal and the other boys scurrying off toward the village.

Cate let out the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She turned to face their unwitting rescuer just as the rider drew his horse to a halt on the edge of the riverbank.

She froze, the blood slowly draining from her face in horror.

No … Please, no. Not like this. He couldn’t see her like this. She’d wanted to impress him.

Her throat tightened, and a misty sheen of hot tears blurred her mud-streaked vision, as she took in the familiar white charger and the muscular, leather-clad warrior who sat atop the magnificent beast, staring down at her like some golden hero in a bard’s tale.

She blinked, feeling the urge to put her hand up as if she were staring straight into the sun. He didn’t need to wear chain mail to shine; he caught the light in a blinding array all on his own. But for once she did not feel like sighing.

It wasn’t fair! Did he always have to look so perfect? So shiny and polished? Always impeccable, as if dirt wouldn’t dare stick to him.

While she … she was a muddy mess. She wanted nothing more than to sink into the boggy ground and disappear.

He pulled off his helm and shook out his hair. It fell in spectacularly tousled waves around his face. Her heart squeezed at the unfairness. Her hair after being in a helm looked like it was plastered to her head.

“What in Hades have you done this time, Caitrina?” His mouth twitched. “Or do I want to know?”

Caitrina. He was the only one who’d ever called her that, and it wasn’t even her real name. Catherine. She shouldn’t have lied about her identity—or, by omission, her age (she realized he thought her younger)—but she’d been fifteen, traumatized, and desperate for him to take her with him. She’d known that if she’d told him the truth, he would never have done so. By using her dead second stepfather’s name of Kirkpatrick, there was no chance anyone would connect her to the bastard daughter of Helen of Lochmaben. And that was the way she wanted it. No more pitying looks. No more teasing. No more secret prayers that her father would come for her. She’d been given a chance to put that life behind her, and she’d taken it.

Any twinge of guilt she might have felt, however, was quickly forgotten when she saw that mouth twitch. How could he be so ungallant as to laugh at her? Because he thinks you are a child. A child who needed rescuing from a well. Not a woman full grown.

His amusement seemed the final slap of injustice on her mud-strewn indignity. She adored him, but the man could be a thoughtless horse’s backside at times. The tears that had threatened were forgotten; instead she fought the urge to put her dirty hands on him and knock him off that pristine white horse into the mud. Usually she admired his cool unflappability, but just once she’d like to see him ruffled.

Pip had obviously taken umbrage at the newcomer’s attitude as well. He angled his thin body in front of her. “She saved me, that’s what she did. One of those boys took my coin, and when I tried to get it back, he and his friends came after me. But Cate nearly broke his arm. And when he pushed her down, she pulled a knife on him.”

“She what?” Gregor exploded incredulously.

Cate tried to stop Pip, but apparently mistaking Gregor’s anger for admiration, he was eager to continue the story. “Aye, she flipped him on his back like a dead chicken and had her dirk right up to his neck.” The boy whose nose had swollen to the size of a turnip looked at her with unabashed adoration, and then back over to Gregor. “You should have seen her.”

Gregor looked at her as if he didn’t know whether he wanted to take her over his knee or be ill.

She winced; he definitely wasn’t impressed with her skills. She suspected there was going to be hell to pay for this—and not just from Dougal’s father.

Gregor gave her a hard look before turning to Pip. “And who perchance are you?”

Pip flushed. Seeing the boy’s discomfort, Cate thrust her chin up and met Gregor’s gaze. “He’s your son.”