The Arrow Read online

  “It meant something to me,” she said softly.

  His expression looked truly pained, not that it helped ease hers any. “I’m sorry, Cate. Truly. I never meant to hurt you.”

  “But you don’t love me, have no intention of marrying me, and would see me wed to a man I barely know just so you don’t have to worry about me? I understand.”

  But she didn’t. How could he have been planning this and said nothing? John must have known about Gregor’s plans for her betrothal—that was what he’d been trying to warn her about. She was such a fool.

  Oh God, the children. What about them? They’d needed her, and she’d let them down.

  “Cate …”

  He reached for her, but she stepped away to avoid his grasp. She straightened her spine, hurt turning to anger. “You don’t need to explain. It is my fault for falling in love with the wrong man. Of course you’ve no wish to marry me. You’re the most handsome man in Scotland, with your choice of brides. You could have a kingdom. I’m a bastard.” Seeing his shock, she added, “Aye, a bastard, some nobleman’s by-blow. Kirkpatrick was my stepfather.”

  He was clearly taken aback. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  “Because I was tired of being ashamed of the ‘noble’ father who deserted me when I was five.”

  “Who is he?”

  “What difference does it make? He’s dead to me. Dead. Bastard or orphan, I have little to recommend me and much not to recommend me. I’m surprised you managed to find someone to marry me at all.”

  His eyes flashed dangerously. He was angry now. Good. If the man known for breaking hearts managed to feel one-tenth of the emotion she felt right now it would be enough.

  “If you want to know, there were plenty of men eager to marry you.”

  He didn’t sound happy about it—not that she believed him anyway. “But not the only one who matters. Would it be so horrible to let yourself love me, Gregor?”

  He looked pained—uncomfortable—as if he would rather be anywhere than here, having this discussion. “I’ve no wish to marry anyone right now. But if I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be for a ‘kingdom’ or to a woman who wanted to marry ‘the handsomest man in Scotland.’ And if you don’t know that, you don’t know me at all.”

  Was he mad? “Know you? I know you like your beef rare, your pork lightly pink, your sauces savory, and your vegetables firm. I know you prefer plums to pears and oranges to apples. I know you like oysters raw and eggs from salmon spread on crusty bread—which is disgusting by the way. I know you can tell where a wine is from from the first sip, and would rather go thirsty than drink the sweet wernage your mother loved. I know you drink more when you are unhappy, which I suspect has been a lot of late.”

  Taking advantage of his shock, she continued. “I know you hate accepting anything unless you’ve earned it. I know your father was an arse and made you think you would never amount to anything, but that you’ve proved him wrong. I know you think you need to be perfect but that you never will be. I know that a man who is the best archer in Scotland, and who has fought loyally beside Robert the Bruce for years—even in the lowest part of his reign—is not irresponsible but a man to count on. I know you don’t want to be a protector but you are. I know you let John do your duty as chieftain because you don’t think you deserve it. I know that the enemies you kill in battle mean something to you, and that’s why the stack of stones on your father’s grave and the coin in Father Roland’s offertory basket grow higher every time you come home.”

  She drew a deep breath. “I know you think that you are better off alone and don’t want to care about me, but that you do. I know that I’m the only woman you really talk to, and that means something. I know that when I sent Lizzie to the wine storage room with you, you didn’t touch her, even though you could have. I know you’ve bedded many women but the only one you really cared about hurt you. I know you think that you will hurt me, but that if you loved me, you’d be loyal and true to me to death—just as I would be to you.”

  Their eyes met, and she dared him to stop her. “I know that being a notch in a bedpost bothers you more than you let on, but you don’t think anyone can see beyond that perfect face of yours to the flawed man underneath. Maybe you’re right, but you’ll never know because you won’t take a chance and trust your feelings. Because I know you feel this, too, Gregor. Just as I know that one day you will regret marrying me to another man, but by then it will be too late, and you will have no one to blame but yourself.”

  He just stared at her. “Jesus, Cate, I …”

  Didn’t know what to say. That was clear. Suddenly, the storm of emotion drained out of her. What was left was a sense of futility and hopelessness—and maybe a need to strike back. “Marry me to whomever you want, Gregor—it doesn’t make a difference to me. None of them are you. But when you are lying there in the dark tonight, trying to go to sleep with your body aching for me as mine will for you, think about this: The next man I am lying under might be my husband, and unlike you, he will not pull back.”

  The pulse below his jaw jumped, his mouth hardening into a tight white line. She thought he might reach for her, but his arms stayed rigidly fixed at his sides.

  “Of course, you could prove I mean nothing to you and find relief another way, but I don’t think you’ll do that. I think you want me and no other. But go ahead and prove me wrong … if you can.”

  Cate didn’t know where she’d found the strength to utter the challenge, but even knowing the risk, she would not take it back. She had too much to lose. Her faith would be rewarded or destroyed now—before he married her to another man.

  Feeling more battered and bruised than she’d ever been from training, Cate turned on her heel and walked away.

  She didn’t look back.

  Jesus. It was the only coherent thought he could manage, so he repeated it: Jesus.

  Gregor didn’t know how long he’d stood there after she left. She’d done it again: turned him upside-down, inside-out, and all the way around. He felt like he’d been sucked up into a tempest to spin around for a while, before being spit back out onto the ground like a ship scattered on the rocks. A ship that had been sailing along just fine—perfectly fine—until it had run into an unexpected maelstrom.

  Cate.

  She loves me. After hearing that litany of his character—good and bad—how could he doubt it? It wasn’t a girlish tendre or an instant infatuation with his face; she really did know him.

  Hell, she knew him better than he knew himself. And he didn’t know what to think about that except he didn’t like it. It confused him. Nay, she confused him.

  How did she know so much about him, anyway? Undoubtedly his mother had told her some, some she must have figured out from observation, and some was conjecture. “I think you want me, and no other.” That sure as hell was conjecture … wasn’t it?

  “Prove me wrong … if you can.” He should. God knew he should. But he wouldn’t hurt her like that to prove a point.

  He’d hurt her enough with his damned plan. A plan that had seemed perfect before he’d come home but didn’t seem so perfect now. He hadn’t anticipated wanting her. Hadn’t anticipated being unable to keep his damned hands to himself. Hadn’t anticipated her response, and sure as hell hadn’t anticipated the surge of what could only be called jealousy at the thought of her with another man. “The next man I am lying under might be my husband.” He swore again.

  Nor had he anticipated the guilt he would feel for sending her from her home. For being so eager to be rid of her.

  Being rid of her was what he thought he wanted, but when she put it so harshly, damn it, he didn’t like how it sounded.

  He didn’t want to be rid of her. But what other choice did he have? He couldn’t marry her.

  Or could he? Could he be the man she thought him? The man she deserved?

  Ah hell, what was she doing to him? A wife sure as hell wasn’t the way to clear his head. Picking up the dag