The Arrow Read online

  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 tha