The Archer's Daughter (7 page)

His upbringing explained why she had heard the faint lilt of Irish when they had first met. His father would have hired a tutor for his schooling, and subsequent removal of said unsightly lilt. Owen must have grown up surrounded by death and destruction. Come to think of it, Cate had as well. What a quality to have in common. “With your father’s status, why were your men plotting to kill you today? Surely, being his son should count for something amongst them?”

“That I cannot answer. I can only assume the bounty for your head has risen to a tempting amount and you would be easier to kill with me out of the way. They hold no loyalty with me.”

“I am returning to my village tomorrow.” Was she warning him? Telling him? Asking for permission? She had been completely honest with him from the moment they first met, and Cate couldn’t explain it. He was her enemy, yet she felt completely at ease with him. It was the strangest feeling. “You are welcome to join me if you fear returning to London would further put your life in danger. You would find respite in Hawkhurst.”

“I am certainly not finding it under this tree.” Owen groaned, sliding up to a sitting position at the base of the pine. He leaned against the trunk and closed his eyes.

Cate rose to her elbows. “Your wound. Has it started to fester?”

“I’m not sure. I cannot see a bloody thing.”

“We cannot risk a fire. We might as well welcome them for dinner.” She clamored to her hands and knees. Twigs and needles crunched beneath her weight as she shuffled closer to Owen. “Let me take a look. You could be losing more blood. The bandage wasn’t that secure.”

“How are you to see my wound if I cannot?”

“There are other ways to see.” Tentatively reaching out her hand, she felt for Owen’s leg. “Is it this one?” she asked, walking her fingers up his calf.

Owen croaked out, “Yes.”

Cate pressed forward with her examination despite the hindrance of darkness. The flesh contracted beneath her palms as she worked her way to the knee, the dried blood rough under her fingers as she probed for his wound.

Owen drew in a sharp hiss when her hands traveled even further north. “Take heed, woman, for you do not understand the repercussions such dealings have on a man.”

Her fingers lingered on the inside of his thigh just under his braies where the gash wept. “Oh,” she breathed softly, “I do.” Fingers clasped tightly around hers, pinning them in place against the meaty portion of his thigh. A rush came over Cate, accelerating her breathing and the steady beating of her heart.

Taking her hand in his, Owen gently pulled her closer and brought her palm to his chest. He placed it flat over his erratically thumping heart. “See what your touch does to me?”

“It rivals my own.” Cate returned the touch, bringing his palm to her chest. She pressed his hand just above the swell of her breast. The heat of his skin seared through her thin tunic, igniting a flame deep in her belly. Never had she felt something so thrilling and fearsome at once. He lingered there, his only movement being from her own breathing.

Owen brushed his thumb over her nipple. The bud swelled instantly from the light touch, as his thumb lowered to trace the underlying curve of her breast. Cate fell forward slightly, catching herself before crashing against him completely. She exhaled along the arc of his neck, taking a breath before righting herself.

She brought her fingers to his face, lightly grazing his cheekbone. The course hair of his stubble bit at her fingers as she explored his jaw line, and she followed it to the squareness of his chin. Circling up to his lips, she ran the pad of her finger over their fullness. Slightly parted, Owen lightly kissed it, licking the tip.

He whispered her name, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. His hands settled on her waist, and he turned into her, a silent beckon for her to move closer. With her touch still warm on his face, Cate pressed her lips against his, full and demanding. Owen reciprocated the need, his fingers kneading her flesh.

Cate abruptly cried out, breaking the kiss when a sharp pain radiated from her side to her middle. Owen had caught her unawares near her tender wound. He apologized profusely, soothing the area with the warmth of his palm. She cut his atonements short with another kiss, exploring his mouth with her tongue. Then without warning, Cate ended the connection and retreated to her bit of pine. “Goodnight,” she yawned, turning her back to Owen.

For the first time in her life, Cate found herself unable to trust her actions. Her body had betrayed her instinct for self-preservation, and damn it… she’d enjoyed every bit of it.

And it scared the hell out of her.

“Oy, Owen.” Cate
nudged him in the leg with her foot. He still slept, nestled in the pine. “Wake up.”

His eyes fluttered, then widened. Sitting up, he wiped his weary face. “The sun has barely risen.”

“And the deer will have bedded before we even find them, so you must get up. Honestly, you act as though you fought in battle or something.” Cate grinned, repositioning the quiver on her back.

“Why are we searching for deer?” Owen crawled out from beneath the shelter of the pine and rose on unsteady legs. He brushed the bracken from his clothes, quickly inspected his wound, and stretched his arms above his head.

“My people are starving, and since you said I couldn’t feed them your precious horse, I now need to hunt. Few have such skills as I.” Cate grew impatient. Dawn saturated the sky, encroaching on her with every passing moment. “It is up to me to feed them. I have been absent for too long.”

“All right then.” A sly smile — a twitch of the mouth, really — formed on his lips as Owen entertained the idea. “Can you not hunt once we have reached Hawkhurst?”

“The fields are bare and the forest as well. I have traveled to Bedgebury for many a deer in the past.”

“The King’s deer?”

Cate nodded. “Only the finest.”

“You don’t fear being caught?” Owen stared at her with intent, an incredulous glare blanketing his face.

She waved off his questioning. “I don’t fret over it. I’m quiet, and I’m careful. The King is none the wiser. Besides, there is already a price on my head, and as of today, it has most likely tripled. It doesn’t frighten me in the least. Can you hunt?”

“I’m a fairly good tracker.” Owen quickly ran his fingers over his hair, tugging out the tangles and bits of pine from his slumber. It hung loose at his nape, framing the line of his jaw and curling slightly at the ends.

“I wager I’m better,” she teased.

Owen arched an eyebrow. “If you’ll wager whatever that was you did last night, I’m all for it.”

Cate could feel the heat rising through her cheeks. She turned, not wanting him to see her fluster. “Let us go, then.”

She found a fresh trail not far from where they had stopped for the night. From the size of the tracks, a large buck was traveling to his grazing spot along a well-marked path. The grass was worn from months of steady use. This hunt would be easy. Cate needed something to go as planned for once. Her luck had been nonexistent since meeting this Owen Grey. Licking her finger and raising it into the wind, she detected which way it was blowing. “This way,” she whispered to Owen, crouching low to the ground. She led him around a small, green clearing, repositioning downwind of the deer.

She spotted him. Graceful, muscular, and donning the largest antler rack she’d ever seen, The buck was absolutely perfect. She raised her bow as Owen ducked down beside her. Twigs and forest litter crunched beneath his boots, spurring Cate to flash him a look of pure evil. “Could you be any louder, giant?” she scolded, lightly punching him in the arm.

Thankfully, the deer only raised his head at the sound. Soon it was back to grazing, its tail swishing about with ease. She pulled an arrow from her quiver, running her fingers over the goose feather fletches. Cate loaded the bow. Standing to her full height seamlessly, she pulled back the bowstring, aimed, and then released. The arrow whipped through the open field, imbedding in the chest of the deer just behind the shoulder. It kicked its hind legs and jumped a few twisting leaps forward before teetering to the side and collapsing in a heap.

Her heart burst with jubilation. Cate flashed Owen a prideful grin. “Perfect shot.” He nodded. Cate slung the bow across her chest, lightly jogging to where the beast fell. She pulled out a knife hidden within the depths of her borrowed quiver, thankful many of the archers in her village knew of her father’s little trick. It was a small knife but got the job done. Owen retrieved the horse while Cate gutted the buck, and both worked together to sling the carcass over the saddle.

After washing up in a nearby stream, Cate steered them toward her home of Hawkhurst. The talk was light and strangely consisted mostly of food and which cut of meat each wanted to sample first. Cate asked Owen if he knew what true hunger even felt like, poking fun at his current state. A hearty laugh was followed by a long silence. Cate didn’t want to broach the subject of her predicament — they tread on uneasy waters as it was. The journey home was not a long one. However, Owen slowed them down immensely. He stumbled along the path and winded easily. Cate feared his injury didn’t fare well.

As the sun painted the sky, an array of pink and yellow hues across a smear of veiled clouds, Hawkhurst came into view. Nestled in a tiny valley, it sat motionless and guarded with shutters closed against the evening chill. Only ghostly reminders of the days’ transgressions remained. Cate’s speed increased slightly, the thought of sleeping in her own home at the front of her thoughts. Owen lagged behind, quite openly hesitant.

“Come on, now. ’Tis all right. They won’t harm you.” Cate urged him onward, leading the horse ahead. “I will protect you.” She smirked.

“Perhaps not, but you seem quite sure they would eat the horse without hesitation.” Owen crossed his arms over his chest.

“His name
is
Dinner.” Cate mimicked his stance, raising an eyebrow. “The son of an earl, eh? Scared of a few old ladies and children?” She scoffed. “Never have I heard something so preposterous.” Cate laughed, shaking her head at the thought.

“You mock me for a valid concern?”

“No, I’m laughing at you.”

Owen sighed. “All right, Cate. We shall play this your way, but if one person so much as raises a blade at me…”

“You need a physician.” She spoke over him, exasperated.

“As do you. I’m no healer.”

“Then we shall suffer his ministrations side by side… and absent of all blades.” Cate clucked her tongue at Dinner and urged the horse onward.

Cate brought Owen into the village by way of the narrow main road. Furrowed by wagon wheels on each side, she kept to the soft grass strip separating the deep, muddy lines. Sharply veering to the right, she changed directions and followed a narrow path through a plowed field. The horse snorted, tossing his head when Cate pulled him to a halt outside of Wallace’s small, modest home. “Wait here,” she told Owen. “I must speak with Wallace and inform him you are here. He will see to your safety while you are here.”

“Brilliant…” Owen muttered, a scowl curling his lips.

Cate handed over the reins and approached the door. It flew open before she could knock. Wallace towered over her, draped in his linen night shirt. He gripped the edge of the door with white knuckles and wide eyes as if she were a spirit. Then burly arms wrapped around her in a viciously endearing hug.

“Oh my, Cate. Ye gave us all such a fright.” Wallace pushed her back while clutching her about the forearms, giving Cate a once over. “Are ye well, lass?”

Cate returned the embrace, breathing in the familiar scent of her life-long friend and confidant. She let out a deep sigh, content to linger in his presence. “I have seen my fair share of better days.” Cate broke the hug, turning toward Owen. “The viscount could use a physician.”

Wallace shifted his eyes to Owen, pushing Cate aside.

She pushed back. “Wallace, he saved my life! We can at least mend his wounds and feed him before we cast him out. We are not heathens. Well, not all of us.” Cate pointed toward the deer carcass slung over the horse.

“Alice,” Wallace called out to his English wife. She appeared in the threshold within moments. “Go fetch Thomas Blake.”

Alice wrapped her night coat tightly around her middle and hurried from the house, disappearing in the shadows.

Wallace heaved a heavy sigh. “Well then, come in, the both of ye. I’ll hang up the deer.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I thank ye, Cate.”

Owen handed Wallace the reins and followed Cate through the door.

The home, while of basic wattle and daub construction, was warm and welcoming inside. The fire pit had long since died down and only glowing coals remained, casting harsh shadows on the arched walls of the long house. Cate paused, taking in the smells of long ago faded memories. She had spent many a night inside these walls and had even helped to patch the thatch roof one summer, as she was the only one nimble enough to climb the exposed rafters. And willing. God, so willing to earn her father’s approval.

Summer straw crunched beneath her boots along the hard-packed earthen floor as Cate moved further into the house. A small table and two benches sat tucked against the far wall. A window with shutters closed tightly against the night air framed the space between sleeping quarters and the empty byre opposite each end. The byre was filled with sacks and barrels now that warmer weather was upon them, with Wallace’s livestock turned out to graze in the back pasture. Cate spotted a few areas in need of repair, and she told herself she would see to them soon.

Wallace entered and Cate turned, startled from the moment of abstraction. “Thomas should be here presently, my lord, eh…” Wallace bowed slightly, albeit stiff and forced.

“Banebridge. My thanks, erm… I am afraid I do not know your full name.” Owen held out his hand in greeting.

“Wallace MacKenzie, my lord.” The burly Scot gripped the nobleman’s palm in his own briefly, seemingly not wanting to offend. “I mean ye no disrespect, but we aren’t used to hosting nobles, and forgive me for being wary of one who has tried to kill me.”

Owen gave Wallace a reassuring pat. “My sentiments as well.”

“Cate, I expect ye’ll be wanting to open yer father’s house now that yer home, aye?” Wallace rushed about the open space of the house, lighting candles and stoking the fire, adding two logs over the soft orange glow of the coals. Flames licked at the wood, igniting with a luminous blush of orange and red.

“I suppose I could take up his craft…” her voice trailed off. He would want her to carry on the bow making in his stead, but if she were to tell the truth, she feared the pain would only inhibit her ability to channel his expertise. She had not stepped foot in her home since learning of his death. The constant ache in her chest was far too great a pain to cope with. She had gathered a few things, taken the best bow, and left Hawkhurst.

Alice returned shortly after Owen and Cate seated themselves at the table, weary from the day’s journey. She brought them bread and bits of cheese, followed with wine and several refills to each of their cups. She fussed about the house, tidying what few trinkets they owned, and swept the floor near the fire pit, readying a bed for Owen. Cate, she’d declared, would sleep with her and Wallace in the separate sleeping quarters. Cate thought she’d heard the old woman mutter words having to do with murdering and baby making, but in her exhausted state, she couldn’t be too sure. There certainly wouldn’t be any of either, although Cate briefly entertained the idea of the latter.

Thomas Blake was a fairly stout man with a speckled beard and deep set eyes, quite the opposite of his protruding girth. He wore a simple tunic over his crinkled linen hose and carried a satchel of assorted medical necessities, which he plopped neatly on the table after entering the house. His chest puffed with over abundance when he addressed Owen with his title after asking how he was to be addressed. Cate rolled her eyes in disgust. Title or not, Owen was a man like any other. Flesh and blood.

“Will you be needing my services as well, girl?” Thomas peered down his long nose, his eyebrows raised in question.

Thomas Blake made her blood boil. “Do you think I wear this for your pleasure?” She pressed her palm against the blood stained tunic she wore.

Alice hissed her disapproval of Cate’s chosen words. “Come with me, Cate.” She beckoned her from the open room and to the sleeping quarters, picking up a lamp along the way. “Let us leave the doctor to his work. A young lady shouldn’t be seeing certain… areas of a man, injury or not.”

“Just who do you think bandaged his wound the first time?” Cate whispered to Alice, following her. She closed the door after entering the bedchamber.

Alice sat on the raised pallet bed and patted the woven blanket beside her, informing Cate to sit. Cate did as she was told. “All right now, let me have a look at this wound of yours.” Lifting the side of her tunic, Cate exposed the dirty bandage. The once clean strips of linen were now ragged and coated in dried crimson. Alice sucked in a surprised breath. “Heavens, child, how did this happen?”

“’Tis a very long story, Alice, one that I am sure will be told time upon time again in the coming days, but the short of it is I was attacked, and I was caught between a man and a blade. Owen stitched me up.”

“Owen?”

Cate corrected herself. “Lord Banebridge. The man sitting at your table.” She lowered the tunic.

“And he allows you to address him so informally?” Alice seemed horrified by the mere thought of it.

“At his request, I assure you. He is quite… well, unlike every man I have ever met, that one. The quiet ones are the ones you need to be wary of.”

“And a handsome one, to boot.” A grin appeared on Alice’s weathered face. Her long chestnut hair hung about her shoulders, complementing her infectious smile. A set of matching eyes beamed at Cate.