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’smeinie? 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,intimatetower 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 theirnoms 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’smeinie, talking with an attractive woman. Averyattractive 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 grownandfar 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.
