He felt like hell—which was probably no more than he deserved. He blinked up at the ceiling first, and then at the face of the woman on the pillow beside him.
He winced. God, he needed to get out of here. But as the slightest movement caused extreme pain and threatened what little control he had over his stomach, he unfurled himself from the lass’s vice-like grip with painstaking care.
It wasn’t Maggie snoring, he realized, but the man in the room beside this one.
Christ, what the hell was he doing? Looking around, he felt a blast of self-loathing and repugnance. Was this what he wanted? Drunken, meaningless liaisons in an alehouse where he woke up to the sounds of another drunkard’s snores?
He was a fool. Last night had served no purpose. He’d failed. Miserably. Even with Maggie’s mouth around him, he’d seen Cate’s face in his head, heard her voice, and knew he couldn’t go through with it. Didn’t want to go through with it—even if Maggie had been able to get a rise out of him.
He’d blame the whisky, but he knew that wasn’t all of it. The moment her mouth had come around him, he’d wanted to push her off. He’d tried to concentrate, tried to think about what she was doing, tried to force back the revulsion, but it hadn’t worked. After a few seconds he lost the battle, barely making it to the chamber pot in time.
He’d lost the contents of his stomach from a woman trying to pleasure him with her mouth—that had to be a first.
Maggie had been surprisingly understanding, telling him to lie down and that they would try again when the whisky wore off.
Gregor had passed out knowing it was never going to happen. Not sober, not drunk, not ever.
Cate was right. He loved her. Even knowing what she’d done, he loved her. He loved her resilience, her fight, her determination. He loved her strength and independence. He loved how she made her own way and didn’t rely on what was given to her like most noblewomen he knew. He loved kissing her, he loved holding her in his arms, and he loved making love to her.
And just touching another woman—or letting another woman touch him—was enough of a betrayal to make him physically ill.
He’d done nothing wrong, he told himself. Cate was the one who’d betrayed him.
Then why did he feel like emptying his gut all over again?
With a grim look at the woman sleeping in the bed, he fished a few coins from his sporran and left them on the bed. He would apologize later, but he needed to get away from here or he was going to embarrass himself again.
He hurried out of the alehouse, fortunately not running into anyone. It was barely dawn, and most of the occupants were probably still sleeping off last night’s festivities.
Gregor needed to wash them off. Taking a slight detour on his way back to the tower house, he stopped at the river to swim. That there was snow on the banks and the river was a few degrees from frozen seemed somehow fitting. But not even the icy dunking could wash away the stain of guilt that clung to him. No matter how many times he told himself that he’d done nothing wrong, that he owed her nothing, he couldn’t convince himself that it was true.
He might not have gone through with it, but he’d done enough.
The only way he was going to feel clean was to tell Cate what he’d done—or tried to do. Would she understand? Things were so buggered up between them, he didn’t know, but he would tell her the truth and apologize. No matter how bad things were, he shouldn’t have done—or attempted to do—what he did.
She’d hit a tender spot, and he’d reacted badly. But he loved her. He was going to have to try to trust her. If she said she hadn’t tricked him into marriage, he was going to do his damnedest to believe her.
With grim resolve, he pulled himself out the river and quickly—very quickly—donned his shirt, hose, and braies. He was reaching for hiscotunwhen he heard a noise behind him.
His head still foggy from the aftereffects of drink, and his movements slow from the cold, he barely deflected the knife aimed for the lower right side of his back. A stab that given the location could have killed him in a minute or two.
He could feel the edge of the blade brush past his side as he twisted, slammed his hand against his attacker’s wrist, and swung his leg around to knock him off his feet. A move that was easy given the size of his attacker.
Pip! The boy reached for the knife, but Gregor stepped on his wrist before he could get it. Leaning down, he dragged the lad up by the collar. “What in Hades do you think you are doing? You could have killed me.”
Pip’s face was an angry contortion of frustrated rage. “I wanted to kill you! I wish you were dead.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll have to get in line. Most of the English army is in front of you. I know why they want to kill me, but what have I done to deserve a knife in the back from you?”
“You weren’t supposed to marry her. You were supposed to leave. I just wanted you to go, so you wouldn’t send me away. But you sent all of us away, and you hurt Cate. I never meant for her to get hurt.”
Gregor released the boy and took a step back. The heat in his blood from the attack chilled. A shiver of premonition trickled down his spine. The boy’s words didn’t make any sense, but somehow he knew what had happened. “It was you. Cate never sent for John. You did.”
Pip nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I saw her come out of your room that morning and saw the blood on the cloths that she tried to hide. I wanted John to marry her, not you. I thought you would leave. You were supposed to leave. John is honorable, not you.”
As the full ramifications of what the boy was saying hit him, Gregor had to sit down. He found a rock and stared wordlessly at Pip, feeling like he’d just taken a knife in the gut.
She hadn’t set a trap for him; the boy had. She’d been innocent of any true wrongdoing, and he’d called her a liar. He’d nearly…ah hell, he almost got sick again, knowing how close he’d come to doing something he would have no right to ask her to forgive. “Do you have any idea of what you’ve done? What I’ve done?”
