Four
 

With Cate requisitioning the tub, Gregor made use of the river to wash away the two days of grime from the saddle. On a hot summer day, a dip in the River Lyon was invigorating and refreshing, but about a week from mid-winter’s day, it was like jumping into ice water. Cold enough to freeze your bollocks off.

He hoped.

The prurient thoughts about his wee “ward” weren’t just an annoyance, they were also bloody embarrassing. A man of his experience should have some control over his thoughts and his body, damn it. But apparently, he was reduced to relying on cold water until he could find a husband for her.

To that end, the first thing he’d done after meeting with John was make a list of suitable men in the area—not too old, not too young, not too rich, not too poor, not too noble of blood, but not a peasant either. He was seeking a man who would appreciate the generous tocher that Gregor intended to provide, but who would not require an important family alliance. Although Cate would benefit by her connection with him as her guardian, her father had been only a man-at-arms of one of Bruce’s vassals.

It was a delicate balance, but Gregor intended to make the best connection for her that he could. It was what she deserved. He couldn’t see her with a simple husbandman or cottar. There was something oddly noble about the lass. She certainly acted like a queen sometimes—or at least with all the bloody authority of one. Perhaps one of his retainers? A member of a local chieftain’s meinie? The second or third son of a local chief?

In the end, he’d come up with a half-dozen names. He would have the clerk start writing to them immediately. As Gregor was home for the holidays for the first time in years, he would be expected to hold a feast for the Hogmanay celebration, which would be as good a reason as any to bring them here. With any luck, the betrothal would be all wrapped up by the time he was called back in early January.

But he feared it was going to be a long few weeks until then.

Returning to the tower house, Gregor started to climb the third set of stairs before catching himself and going back down to the second. Christ, he’d been chieftain for six years, and he still had to remind himself that he was “the laird.”

It was a position that had never been meant for him as the third son. God knew, he wasn’t cut out for the responsibility. His father would have hated to see the clan under Gregor’s leadership. After Alasdair’s death, his father had put all his faith in Gregor’s second-oldest brother, Gille. It probably would have killed him to know that Gille had fallen not long after he had on the same battlefield, leaving his “useless” third son as his heir.

There were two chambers on the second floor, the laird’s—now his—being the larger. John slept in the other. Cate slept on the third floor (with his mother before she’d died), in the chamber Gregor had shared with his brothers as a boy.

He’d never paid much mind to the size of the tower house before, but now he regretted that his father hadn’t had time to begin the plans he’d made to build a new, modern keep of stone. The old wooden walls had seen better days, and the building—although serviceable—was simple and rustic, not fitting for the laird of the most important chieftain of the MacGregors. Isolated in the Highlands as they were, the wooden palisade fortifications had been adequate until recently.

But it was the other defenses that Gregor was thinking about. Distance and separation were what he needed, but the small tower house—the small, intimate tower house—provided little of that. He was far too conscious of that single flight of stairs.

After exchanging his war clothes for a fresh tunic, surcoat, and leather breeches, Gregor knew he’d delayed long enough. But he relished the first precious few hours of peace before the throng descended. It was always that way when he returned after so many months away. He knew it was expected—and partially his fault for staying away for so long—but sometimes he felt like a carcass in the sun with the buzzards pecking away at him. The men wanted a decision about some dispute, requests for delays in the payment of rents, or to put off their service, and the women …

He groaned. They wanted a piece of him, too. Some a bigger piece than others. He sometimes thought it would be worth getting married just to avoid having to evade all the “offers” that came his way. But then he would remember that getting married meant he would have a wife.

MacSorley, who was the king of the nicknames (it was how many of the Guardsmen had ended up with their noms de guerre), had taken to calling him “Slick” or the “Sorcerer,” referring to Gregor’s propensity to “magically” evade the traps of the more marriage-minded lasses who threw themselves in his path. According to MacSorley, Gregor had slipped out of even more bonds than MacRuairi, who was an expert at getting in and out of anywhere. It wasn’t too far from the truth. Eventually, Gregor knew he would have to get married—he might not like responsibility, but he recognized when he had it—but right now his only focus was on the war.

As he was leaving his room, he caught a glimpse of the bed and was tempted—damned tempted—to collapse on it, draw the fur-lined blanket over his head, and forget about everything for a while. Maybe Bruce was right. Maybe he needed this break more than he’d realized.

How long did he have before it started? If the noise coming from below in the not-so-Great Hall was any indication, not long. Damn, it sounded like a feast in there.

A moment later, standing inside the entry and scanning the crowded room, he groaned. There were already at least forty of his clansmen in the room. By tomorrow morning, there likely would be twice that many.

He picked John out in the crowd, standing next to the dais with some members of Gregor’s meinie, talking with an attractive woman. A very attractive woman, he noticed on second glance, taking in the slender but shapely curves in the snug green gown, the silky cascade of wavy, dark hair that edged just past her shoulders, and the pretty profile.

Gregor brightened, suddenly feeling a little lighter, and started toward them. A little distraction. That’s what he needed. He hoped his brother didn’t have a prior claim. He’d learned the hard way what could happen if two brothers desired the same woman—that was a mistake he would never make again.

No matter how shapely a set of breasts or sweet a bottom—

He stopped mid-step, feeling as if he’d just slammed into a stone wall.

It couldn’t be.

John caught sight of him, waved, and said something to the woman at his side. She turned, and Gregor felt something in his chest drop to the floor. His blood followed hard after it. He felt as if Raider had taken one of those giant cabers he liked to throw and slammed it across his chest.

No, damn it, no!

But it was Cate. Looking …

Lovely. And not like a young girl at all. His jaw clenched. Nay, she looked very much like a woman full grown. She smiled, and the sense of dread that had begun to crawl over him grew crushing. Suffocating. A woman full grown and far too attractive for his peace of mind. Who would have guessed that the mud-soaked urchin could look so damned pretty?

Mud he knew how to handle. But this—this—what the hell was he supposed to do with glossy, dark hair, eyes so bright and lively they seemed to sparkle across the room, wide crimson lips that suddenly looked naughty in an entirely different way, and breasts? Breasts, damn it! Breasts that weren’t just in his imagination anymore, but were now being displayed to perfection in a snug, figure-molding gown. Sized to fit perfectly in a man’s hand, they were firm, round, and mouthwateringly sweet. Every bit as sweet as he’d imagined after they’d been pressed against his chest. But now they weren’t in his imagination; they were right there, perched under his nose where he couldn’t deny them.

His “wee ward” had grown up, and Gregor couldn’t do a damned thing about it.

The inconvenient attraction he felt for her, however, he could do something about. Ignore, distract, and be rid of her as soon as possible—that was his plan.

But securing a quick betrothal had taken on a new urgency.

Cate’s heart caught when she saw him across the room. This was it. This was the moment for which she’d been dreaming. She waited for lightning to strike. For him to see her for the first time as a woman—a desirable woman.

She waited. And waited. But his gaze skimmed over her without the barest flicker before returning to his brother.

And just like that, the moment passed.

She blinked, stunned. She’d been so certain that this time he would notice her, it seemed impossible that he hadn’t.

She tried not to be disappointed, but Gregor’s lack of reaction to her appearance crushed her newfound confidence in her femininity like the bud of a flower under a boot.

Maybe there was something wrong with her? Maybe she didn’t have what other women had that made them attractive to men—sensually attracted, not “you’re a great friend” attracted.

Wait. Perhaps he hadn’t recognized her or couldn’t see her from the distance across the Hall?

Sadly not. He crossed the Hall, greeted them both, and didn’t make one comment about her dress or hair. She might as well have been wearing a sackcloth, for all that he noticed. Indeed, his notice seemed to have been diverted elsewhere. Namely to the bodice of the gown of the prior seneschal’s widow, Màiri, whom Cate knew had shared his bed on more than one occasion in the past.

Cate’s mouth tightened. Perhaps the change in her appearance had not been as dramatic as John’s reaction had led her to believe, and Gregor needed a little help to see it?

The moment the widow walked away, Cate diverted Gregor’s attention from the other woman’s sashaying hips back to her by stepping slightly in front of him to block his view. “I’m wearing a new dress,” she pointed out.

His jaw appeared to tighten before he turned his gaze to meet hers. The quick once-over he did of the gown was hardly longer than the passing glance he’d given her earlier. “It’s nice.”

It’s nice? Not even a “you look nice”? Good gracious, the man handed out compliments to every other woman like they were sweets to bairns, and all he could manage for her was nice?

She glared at him. “Do you think the color flattering? Your mother thought so when she bought it for me, but I wasn’t sure.”

She saw the telltale tic of annoyance appear on his jaw, but as she was rather annoyed herself, she paid it no mind.

“It’s certainly an improvement over the brown you were wearing earlier.”

Cate gasped in outrage. The beast! He meant the mud!

Her eyes narrowed, anger replacing her earlier disappointment. Was he purposefully being dense? Didn’t he realize that she was practically banging him over the head to get him to notice her?

Apparently, her banging was too subtle. She straightened, sticking her chest out the way Seonaid did whenever she came within fifty yards of him. “You do not think it’s too tight? I’ve grown quite a bit in the past two years.”

For one long heartbeat his eyes dropped. She sucked in her breath, feeling singed, as if a slow-moving wildfire were sweeping across her chest. Yet, oddly, her nipples hardened the way they did in a cold bath. The heat and hardness were a heady sensation, making her skin flush with a heavy tingle. It was as if her body were the string of a clàrsach that had just been strummed.

She felt her knees grow weak. Something hot and powerful fired between them. Something that made the air feel thick with tension. She knew she would see heat reflected in his gaze—the desire that she’d longed for.

But his eyes when they returned to hers weren’t hot at all—they were cool and distant.

“If the gown is uncomfortable, you can go change,” he said indifferently. “We will wait to start the meal. But don’t take too long—I’m hungry.”

He turned back to John, who’d been listening to the conversation with an odd expression on his face, and Cate didn’t know whether to cry or kick the handsome clod in his leather-clad backside.

She was saved from making the decision by the appearance of Ete, who stepped out from the wooden partition behind the dais that separated the Hall from the corridor leading to the kitchens and the small room that served as the laird’s solar. Cate gave her a questioning look and the other woman nodded. The children were ready.

Anticipating that Gregor would not want this meeting to take place in public, Cate had asked Ete to bring the children to the laird’s solar.

She put her hand on Gregor’s arm, startling him from his conversation with his brother. He stiffened, the muscles in his arm turned as rigid as steel. Moss-green eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her shiver.

She dropped her hand, the tension emanating from him startling her. Good gracious, what was the matter with him? He acted like she had the plague.

“They are waiting for us,” she said hastily.

“Who?”

She tried not to lose her patience, reminding herself how important it was that this went well, but it wasn’t easy. How could he have forgotten about them already? “Your children.”

Gregor shot a look to John, who just shrugged and gave him a “don’t look at me” look. “I told her you wouldn’t like it,” John said.

“And I told him,” Cate said with a tight smile to John (the traitor), “that you wouldn’t deny your own flesh and blood.”

Gregor’s mouth tightened, and she knew he wanted to argue with her premise but was holding his tongue—presumably because he knew his shouting would enable others to overhear their conversation.

“Where are they?” he asked impatiently, clearly eager for the meeting to be done with.

“In the solar.”

He gestured with his hand for her to lead the way.

“Watch your feet,” John said with a snicker.

Cate shot him a chastising glare, and pulled Gregor along when he would have turned to ask his brother what he meant.

“Perhaps you can pour Gregor some wine for when we get back, John,” she said over her shoulder with a sugary smile.

The solar was small and without a window to let in natural light. Even with the circular iron candelabrum lit, the room was fairly dark. It wasn’t until she closed the door behind them, however, that Cate realized her mistake. The two younger children took one look at the big warrior, and their eyes went wide with fright. Only Pip didn’t look like he was about to burst out in tears. Nay, Pip was too intent on scowling and projecting an air of surly indifference to notice how the room seemed to suddenly fill with the big, strapping warrior.

Having become accustomed to his size, Cate forgot how physically intimidating Gregor could be. At three or four inches over six feet, he was a head taller than most men. Five years ago he’d still possessed some of the lean muscle of youth, but not any longer. Nay, now his build was all hard, solid man. His muscular chest and arms didn’t need to be clad in armor to look intimidating; they were steely and forbidding all on their own. As her eyes skimmed over the broad shoulders and bulging arms, taking him in as if for the first time, an odd little flutter of awareness tingled low in her belly. She felt … funny.

Maddy’s whimper, however, knocked her from her stupor with a frown.

“You’re scaring them,” she said under her breath.

One very finely arched brow lifted. “I’m just standing here.”

“Aye, well try not to look so big.” He stared at her as if he couldn’t figure out whether she was serious or not. Not knowing herself, but realizing how nervous she was, she began the introductions. “You’ve already met Phillip,” she said. “And this young man is Edward—Eddie.” She knelt down and held out her hand to the little boy. He eyed Gregor uncertainly, looking as if he wanted to bury his head in Ete’s skirts. But after Cate’s encouraging nod, he released the nursemaid’s hand, slid the fingers into his mouth, and slipped his other hand into Cate’s.

“He has red hair,” Gregor said incredulously. “And freckles!”

Cate stood, meeting his accusing stare. “How very observant of you,” she said, with a sharp look of warning not to say anything more in front of the children.

She’d known the bright red hair and freckles would be a problem. The coloring, although common enough in the Highlands, did not run in Gregor’s immediate family. It was the first thing John had pointed out.

But surely with the plethora of women Gregor had been with, there had been at least a handful of redheads?

If the darkening look on his face was any indication, it seemed perhaps not.

She knew she was searching for a straw to clutch, but even if she’d harbored more than a big twinge of doubt about Pip, she’d held out some hope for the little ones. It would be so much easier to convince him to let them stay if there was a possibility they were his.

Proving that he wasn’t a completely unfeeling brute, however, Gregor bent down on a knee to address the little boy. “How old are you, Edward?”

Cate winced at the same time that Eddie jumped. Even lowered, Gregor’s voice was deep and authoritative. Scary to someone not used to being on the other side of his questions. Cate, of course, had plenty of experience with that.

Eddie, however, did not. When the little boy decided to use her skirts as a curtain to hide behind, Cate gave him an encouraging nudge forward. “It’s okay, Eddie. This is your new laird. Remember I told you about him? He’s been off fighting the nasty old English in the war. He won’t hurt you. He just wants to ask you some questions.”

The little boy looked up at her with his big blue eyes and nodded. Peeking out from behind her skirt, he held up three fingers.

“Come here, lad,” Gregor said in a gentler voice.

Cate put her hand on the boy’s head. “I’m not sure that’s a good—”

Gregor shot her a glare. “I’m not going to hurt him. I just want to ask him a few questions.”

That wasn’t why she’d tried to stop him.

“It’s okay, Eddie,” Pip said with a devilish grin.

Cate shot him a look and started to explain to Gregor, but it was too late. Gregor had taken the boy’s hand from hers and drawn him forward.

Cate said a silent prayer the little boy didn’t get too scared or upset.

“When is your saint’s day, lad?” Gregor asked.

Eddie gave him a big gap-toothed grin and Cate heaved a sigh of relief. Maybe it would be all right after all. “All Saint’s Day. Pip gave me a new ball ’cause I was sad.”

“Why were you sad?”

The smile fell as quickly as it had appeared. “I missed my mummy.”

Gregor’s voice was even softer yet, and Cate felt her heart tumble from her chest. “What’s your mummy’s name, Eddie?”

“Mummy.” His little jaw started to tremble. “I want my mummy.”

Cate would have moved toward him, but Gregor put a firm hand on his back. “I know you do, lad. And I would like to find her for you, but I need to know her name. What did other people call her? Janet? Mary? Elizabeth? Christina …?”

Eddie brightened with understanding. “Ellen! That’s what my Gram called her.”

“And did your mum have nice red hair like you, lad?”

Eddie nodded furiously.

Gregor smiled, gave the boy a pat on the head, and stood. The smug look on his face did not bode well. The boy’s answer seemed to have convinced Gregor that he was not his father.

The matter decided in his mind at least, Gregor turned to the little girl, who was wiggling in Ete’s arms. “And who is this?”

“Mathilda, my laird,” Ete said. “A right heavy handful this one is.”

Gregor frowned. “Doesn’t she walk?”

Cate and Ete exchange a look. “Not really, my laird,” the older woman answered dryly. “It’s more of a run.”

As if on cue, a determined “Down!” was added to Maddy’s wiggling.

Gregor looked at Cate. “She talks?”

Cate shrugged. “A few words here and there. We think she’s about sixteen months—give or take a few.” Cate held out her arms to a struggling Ete. “Here, I’ll take her.”

But for once, Maddy didn’t seem to want Cate to hold her. She’d apparently overcome her temporary fear of Gregor and was eyeing him intently, while squirming and saying “no” over and over to Cate. Her face was growing redder and redder, and Cate feared those “no’s” were about to turn to a screech. That had to be avoided at all costs.

“Here, you take her,” Cate said, thrusting the child into his arms and not giving him a chance to refuse. “I think she wants you.”

The stunned look on his face would have been comical if Maddy hadn’t immediately quieted and started making a sound Cate had never heard from her before. In between sniffles from the cold she was still getting over, the cranky toddler—the very cranky toddler who hadn’t done much but scream for the past week—started to coo and goo, making eyes at him like …

Good lord, did he have the same effect on females of all ages? It appeared so. The little girl was flirting!

“I think you’ve made another conquest,” Cate said dryly.

Some of Gregor’s shock had worn off, but he was still holding the little girl out like she had the plague. He did, however, grin. A devastating grin that made Cate suck in her breath. It was a grin that had made countless women fall at his feet, her included.

“Apparently the lass has good taste. I guess that is something.” He examined her like a piglet at market. “She’s a cute little thing, if you like white-blond hair and big blue eyes.”

She would have wagered he did, but something about the way he said it made her wonder.

Gregor asked Cate what she knew of the child, and Cate started to tell him, but apparently Maddy had other ideas. She started kicking and bouncing up and down, reaching for Gregor to pull her closer. “My!” she said, then louder, “My!”

“I think she wants your brooch, my laird,” Ete said. “She likes shiny things.”

But it wasn’t the large gold broach set around an onyx stone securing the plaid he wore around his shoulders that Maddy wanted. It was the other shiny thing.

As soon as Gregor pulled the little girl in closer, she reached for his face, putting her no-doubt droolly hand on his cheek. “My! Pretty!”

There was a moment of stunned silence at the child’s proclamation.

But then Cate and Ete took one look at Gregor’s horrified face, exchanged glances, and burst into laughter. Seeing Gregor’s horror at being called “pretty,” even Pip joined in.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if Eddie hadn’t started laughing, too. Thus they found out the hard way that the little boy didn’t release his bladder only when he was scared or upset.

“Oh, no,” Eddie whispered, tugging her skirts. “I have to go.”

Cate looked down and tried not to groan. “I think you already went, sweeting.”

“What the hell?” Gregor yelled, jumping back and nearly dropping Maddy as the stream of liquid headed for his feet.

Cate took one look at his face and knew the chance for a good impression was long gone. With nothing to lose, she gave in to the laughter and grinned. “John warned you to watch your feet.”

After nearly having had his foot pissed on, the midday meal was blissfully anticlimactic. But Gregor was painfully aware of the woman at his side.

As if it weren’t bad enough that his body was humming with attraction, she was aggravating his edginess with laughter. Hers, at his expense.

“This is quite a pretty bowl, isn’t it, Gregor?” and “What a pretty dress that is, Màiri, don’t you agree, Gregor?” followed by “The heather was so pretty a couple of months ago, Gregor—too bad you could not have returned then.”

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.”