The Archer's Daughter (8 page)

She waved off the insinuation. “That has nothing to do with it. He saved my life, I saved his. We are even.”

“So what is he doing here in Hawkhurst?” Alice folded her hands in her lap. They disappeared in the folds of her night robe.

Cate pressed her lips together in thought. “I do not know. I sort of… invited him, I think.”

“Well, let’s get you cleaned up and see if the physician is ready to see you. I believe I still have some of Rebecca’s things tucked away.” Alice spoke of her daughter, who died giving birth some years back. Rebecca was Alice’s only child, and in some ways, Cate felt as if she filled a certain void in Alice and Wallace’s lives. She didn’t mind the role, as they served purpose in hers, too.

Alice left the room in search of clothes for Cate, and she followed her to the threshold, peeking through the crack in the door. Owen lay sprawled out on a blanket in the center of the room, disrobed except for a small blanket covering his manhood. Thomas worked diligently on the gash to Owen’s thigh, cleansing it with liquid from a small flask and several different concoctions from small jars he retrieved from his medicinal bag.

Owen drank from another flask, downing the Scottish whisky Wallace kept on hand for special occasions. Cate could only assume this indeed called for something a bit stronger than ale. Owen grunted and muttered words Cate wouldn’t dare repeat, but she committed them to memory anyhow. Deep lines formed on his chest when he contracted his muscles, the skin growing taught from the pain. A light dusting of dark hair trailed from his navel, dissipating beneath the covering. Owen took another swig before lowering his head to the floor. He let out a long sigh, and Cate prayed the drink was finally taking effect. She didn’t envy the pain he must feel.

Alice’s face filled Cate’s vision, and she took a hasty step back, startled. The woman shooed Cate deeper into the little room with her free arm. The other was full of clothing, a brush, and a wet cloth inside a small bowl of water. “You will keep your eyes averted, if you know what’s good for you.” She set the bowl down on the small circular stand next to the bed and tossed the garments onto the bed. Helping to remove the sullied tunic, Alice pulled Cate’s arms through and over her head. She discarded it to the corner of the room. “Good heavens, Cate, you are nothing but skin and bones. Have you not fed yourself, girl?”

She averted her eyes, and the question. “That belongs to Bane — Owen— I… I should return it,” Cate muttered, knowing the tunic was doomed.

“I am sure his lordship has aplenty to spare.” Alice set to work untying the strips of linen from around Cate’s chest, careful to wet when needed as to not disturb the wound. When she reached the stitched skin, Alice put her hands to her hips, tilting her head to the side. “
He
did this?”

Cate nodded. “Is it terribly ugly?” She grimaced at the thought of being disfigured for the remainder of time.

Alice released a light chuckle, inspecting the neat row of horsehair knots. “No, in fact he did a right proper job, he did. Most likely saved your life.” She pressed her fingers against the area, checking for lumps and feverish spots. “There does not seem to be any broken ribs, but I suppose they will ache mightily for a good while. Still, we should have Mr. Blake give you a thorough inspection before he leaves.” Alice took up the cloth, wringing the excess water back into the bowl. She washed Cate’s arms, face, and middle, taking care to not catch the stitches. “Does it still seep?”

“A little, mostly when I… move about. Alice, I will pay you and Wallace for the physician. Do not think I will not.”

The woman took Cate’s hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. “’Tis no cause for worry, dear.”

Once sufficiently cleaned, Alice helped Cate to disrobe and slip into a clean shift and brushed her hair, removing bits of twig and leaves as she worked. Once finished, Cate’s long, dark locks cascaded neatly down her back in gentle waves.

When the women reentered the common room of the house, Owen was seated once again on a bench next to the table, with Wallace seated opposite him, both imbibing in a cup of drink.

“Ahh, there she is,” Thomas Blake called out when spotting Cate. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Cate’s eyes darted to the table. Owen fumbled with his cup, nearly knocking it over in his feeble attempt to stand. His injured leg stuck out straight from under the table, his upper thigh wrapped tightly in fresh bandages. He slunk back to the bench and steadied himself. Cate supposed he was a bit too drunk to accomplish much of anything, let alone standing.

“Please, sit.” Thomas motioned her to a small sitting stool next to the fire. “Where is your injury?”

“My side,” she answered.

Alice wrapped a blanket around Cate’s waist, and Cate plopped to the stool and wrenched up the shift enough to expose her wound, tired of being prodded like a deformed animal. The physician examined her, rubbed a salve over the stitched area to aid in healing, and told her to rest. When finished, Wallace produced the man’s fee and escorted him from the house, thanking him for his service at such an hour.

Wallace offered Owen his own bed out of formality for his title, spitting the words out with a forced infliction. Owen declined, stating he would feel more comfortable on the floor near the fire. Alice scurried about seeking quilts and some padding for him to sleep on. Cate, meanwhile, was hastened into the back room without so much as a goodnight.

Not that she expected it.

Cate tossed in her little makeshift bed on the floor, turning on her side. She smacked her head against a solid object in the dark and winced, bringing her palm up to cover the sting. She muttered a curse before remembering she shared the room. Stifled, Cate kicked back the covering. She needed air. She needed wine. She needed… something. Rising, and tripping herself up in the long shift she was not used to wearing, Cate exited the bedchamber, closing the rickety door behind her.

A dim glow from the fire illuminated the room enough to allow Cate to make her way to the table and pour herself a cup of wine from the pitcher. She gulped the liquid, the sweetness of it satisfying her thirst. Turning toward the fire, Cate glanced at Owen. He laid on his side, his silhouette dark against the smoldering of the embers. She focused on the steady rise and fall of his chest before placing the cup on the table, and rounded the bench to return to bed.

“Will you not bid me goodnight?”

Cate stumbled to a stop. The husky tone of his whisky-laden words warmed her skin, as if she were standing near the fire directly. “If I choose not to… what of it?” She questioned.

“You would force an injured man to rise and seek his own goodnight kiss, then?”

She coughed out a laugh. “Bold words. Is that the whisky or the man talking?” Cate put her hands to her hips and stared at his shadowy figure.

Owen rose up on his elbows. “I find it hard to distinguish between the two in recent days.”

“You use that little scratch as a way to gain favor?” Cate gawked at his unclothed chest. She had seen many an unshirted man in her days, but none had ever stirred her insides so. The harsh shadows hinted at the power resting just beneath the surface of his taut build. She wondered if his heart pounded in the same erratic beat as hers. She took a few steps closer to Owen as to not wake the lightly snoring Wallace behind the bedchamber door with her words.

“I fear the good man Blake does not have as gentle a touch as a woman such as yourself. If you would be so kind as to check the bandages for me, I would truly appreciate it. My fitful sleep has wrenched them loose.”

“All right. I will check them for you, if you insist.”

“I do.”

Cate crossed the expanse of the long house to the fire. She knelt beside Owen’s temporary bed, pulling her shift out from under her as she sat. “Damn thing,” she grunted, fighting with the expanse of linen. She removed the quilt coverings from his wound. A fleshy thigh was revealed, the nakedness catching her off-guard. She had expected clothing.

“So?” he asked. He choked out the word, thick and guttural.

Cate stared at him, at a loss for words.

“The bandages. Are they secure?”

Numbly, Cate lowered her eyes to the linen wrapped around his upper thigh. She fingered the cloth, testing the tightness. His bandages were in perfect order — not even seeping. Fabric brushed against the back of her hand and she withdrew it, startled.

“Touch me, Cate,” he whispered.

She swallowed hard, his want for her evident beneath the peaked woolen blanket. She was frozen, as if caught in a winter’s storm. Instinct told her to bolt, but her heart held her pinned to the floor. She dared not leave his side, fearing she would miss the opportunity to kiss him. His kiss… truly something she needed to experience again. She wanted to feel that fire ignite once more deep within. It had scared her before, but now she craved it.

Owen sat upright, the blanket falling low about his middle. Tucking a dark lock behind her ear, he cupped Cate’s cheek with his free hand, gently caressing the high arch of her cheekbone. “I have dreamt of nothing else.”

“Your bandages have yet to fray.” Cate released the words on a whisper, somehow finding her hand upon Owen’s bare chest. She marveled at the subtle intricacies of the uniform lines shaping his midsection. His heart thumped beneath her palm and she lingered there for but a moment before trailing her hand lower, stopping over his abdomen.

Owen closed his eyes and drew in a wavering breath. “I willingly confess to the ruse.”

“Mmm. Well played, my lord. And what did you expect to gain from this ruse?”

“It brought you to my side, did it not? My view has changed for the better, at least.” His hand settled about her waist and he fiddled with the thin lining of Cate’s shift. “After losing to you in the wood today, I needed to find some way to turn the upper hand to my favor. And as of this very moment, I do believe I am winning.”

Hiking her nightgown higher, Cate crawled into Owen’s lap, cradling his hips between her thighs. “Does what you see please you?” she whispered in a breathy gasp.

His manhood strained against the blanket separating them. Cate rocked forward, wrapping her fingers around his neck. Owen moaned and she drew him to her breast. A gasp slipped past her lips at the touch of his heated tongue flickering over her peaked nipple hiding just beneath its linen barrier. His hair was like the finest of silks as she pushed her fingers through it, and it only seemed natural for her to clench it in her fists.

Fingers dug sharply into her hips. They tugged her forward, then grinding, sending a delicious wave of heat through her loins. A deep moan escaped her. Owen silenced her with a deep kiss. Tender, yet full and hungry.

“Shh,” he warned her, breaking the kiss, “lest we wake those sleeping beyond the bedchamber door.”

Cate sought his eyes. “Do you think me beautiful, Owen?” she asked softly.

“From the moment I first saw you, I was enthralled by your beauty. I have never seen your equal.”

Her heart hoped he spoke the truth. “And to think, when we first met you thought me a boy.”

Owen cupped her breasts. “At the present, I am grateful that assumption was wrong.” He kissed her again, slower this time, and with more exploration. He teased her with his tongue, and tugged slightly on her lower lip with his own. He took his time discovering every hidden curve of her body, kneading the flesh beneath his hands with expert precision, and she willingly allowed him to do so.

Between her legs, Cate stroked the expanse of his erection above the blanket separating them. “Love me like you would a
woman
, Owen.” Owen released a sigh, settling back on his elbows once more. His touches stopped, and she could sense his frustration.

“Cate… as much as I want to, I cannot be responsible for destroying your future. I would ruin you. I have let this go too far as it is.”

A bittersweet smile parted her lips. “Owen, I will not live long enough to marry or have children of my own, and I have come to accept my fate. I might as well enjoy my life while I still have it. My days here are numbered. We both know this.”

Owen didn’t give a reply. He simply slipped his hands beneath her shift and brought it up over her head as Cate raised her arms. He tossed it to the side. Her hair cascaded over her back and he ran his fingers through it before caressing the gentle curve of her spine. “Know that no matter what happens, I would spend my last days by your side.” He pulled Cate to lay beside him, covering her with the blanket.

Having never lain with a man briefly crossed her mind, but Cate pushed the thought aside. She had seen it enough to know how it worked, and she was no stranger to breeding the livestock in her village. Cate giggled, likening Owen to a stallion of superior breeding. Strong of build and well-endowed. She certainly had no reason to resist. When his fingers wandered between her legs, she parted them slightly, and Owen accepted the invitation.

He traveled the length of her thigh to her apex, cupping it in his palm. Spark ignited the flame inside her, burning her core. A heat like nothing she’d ever felt enveloped her — urged her to take, to taste.

To love.

She reciprocated the touch, grinding her hips against his palm with an urgent need to feel the sparks again. Delving deeper, Owen traced the folds of her womanhood, now slick with her desire for him. Finding the small nub, he hovered over it with his thumb, swirling it in circles. Cate arched her hips at the shocking thrill of bliss and bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out.