The lad’s words packed a surprising punch, perhaps striking closer than he would have liked. Gregor’s temper sparked. “Was it fine because there was no one here to question your story? Fine so you could deceive and take advantage of a woman who has been far kinder to you than you deserve? Or fine so that you could continue to send the mother you claim abandoned you coin?”
The boy’s face went so white it seemed all the blood had been leeched out of him. “Wait, you don’t understand!”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
Fear had replaced the hatred. In an instant the lad’s surly bravado vanished. It almost looked like fear in his eyes. “Please, you can’t send me away!”
Sending him away was exactly what Gregor should do. And he would, but he wasn’t as immune to the lad’s pleading as he wanted to be. Before he could question him further, however, Gregor had to fend off another attack. This one from a yapping ball of wiry fur that had come tearing out of the barn to attach itself to Gregor’s ankle again.
“God’s blood!” He reached down to grab the pup by the scruff—mindful of the surprisingly sharp little teeth that snapped at his hand—and held it up to his face. “Quiet.”
The sharp command startled the pup, who gave a pathetic little yelp before going silent—blissfullysilent. It then proceeded to stare at Gregor with what could only be described as a big-eyed puppy-dog look.
Christ, not another foundling on his conscience.
Holding the creature out to Pip, he dropped it into his waiting arms. “Keep the little rat out of my way, Pip, or get rid of it.”
“Why am I not surprised that you don’t like dogs?”
“I like dogs fine. Find me one—or at least one that doesn’t shatter eardrums with its barking or try to sink its teeth into my ankles.”
The boy shielded the pup in his arms protectively. If he was trying to make Gregor feel like a bully, he was doing a damned fine job of it.
“Strange how he likes everyone else,” Pip said. “But they do say dogs are a good judge of character.”
Much as Cate had done shortly before, the boy turned on his heel and left him standing there. And like before, Gregor was left with the distinct feeling that he’d come out on the losing side of the confrontation.
Damn it, he needed to get back to the battlefield. At least there he was good at something. Or used to be good at something. But what if…
He refused to contemplate it. There was nothing wrong with him. He just needed to get back on track. Clear his head.
Hell, maybe he should just marry her so he stopped thinking about her so much.
He shook his head. Christ, he wasn’t losing his edge; he was losing his damned mind!
Thirteen
Cate had definitely won all right. Gregor kicked the twisted bed linens off him and jumped out of bed for the fifth or sixth time—he’d stopped counting—to pace around his room like a lion in a cage. The cage of his own mind.
The pacing eased his restlessness, but only temporarily. The moment he climbed back into bed, put his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes, the images would start again. The tormentingly sharp images of Cate in bed with the reeve’s son on top of her. Kissing her. Touching her.Not pulling back. Slowly lifting the hem of her linen chemise, sliding his hand up her bare thigh…
Gregor swore and pounded the side of his fist on the windowsill with enough force to make the glass shake. He bent his head, resting it on the shutter, closing his eyes and willing the maddening images to go away.
Slowly, his pulse returned to normal and the fiery madness cooled, driving the heat from his blood and skin. He lifted his head, took a deep breath, and turned to scan the dark chamber, the soft glow of the peat providing just enough light to see by. His gaze stopped momentarily on the flagon of whisky sitting on his bedside table, as it had done many times tonight.
“I know you drink more when you are unhappy.”
He didn’t drink too much, damn it. He was always in control, and never drank to the point of drunkenness. But the number of times he’d woken up in the past year with his head feeling as if it were splitting apart told him she wasn’t completely wrong.
Christ, now he couldn’t even have a drink of whisky before bed without hearing her voice. Actually, it was the drink of whisky he wanted tonothear her voice. To blur the haunting images and let him get some rest.
Perhaps he should have gone to the alehouse after all.
Who the hell was he fooling? He didn’t want to go to the alehouse and find a lass to take to his bed.“I think you want me and no other.”She was right, damn her. God knew it probably wouldn’t last. He was bound to desire another woman at some point. He had enough of them to choose from; eventually one would catch his eye.
But what if he only ever wanted Cate?
Was that even possible?
