The Archer's Daughter (10 page)

He raised his glass in thanks, then sipped it. “Never have I felt so… out of sorts.”

“I do not envy you,” she replied. “You lead a most contrasting way of life. How is Dinner… I mean, Jack?” Cate made light conversation, attempting to make him feel a bit more at ease. She knew how off-putting the glares and blank stares could be.

“Jack is faring quite well. With the help of Thomas Blake, we were able to mend his wounds and clean them. I’m sure the beast has it out for me at present, but he should be fit to ride in a few days.” Owen scanned the greenery, never settling his eyes in one spot for too long.

“Will you be leaving, then?” Her voice had gone soft when she looked up at him. It would be for the best, but Cate briefly found herself never wanting to leave his side. Her heart wished he would stay, but her mind knew that could never happen.

Owen cleared his throat. “Duty calls in London.”

“Will you not try this amazing beast your own hands carved?” One of the women who had been tasked to cook thrust a platter filled with meat under Owen’s nose.

“I killed it,” Cate muttered under her breath, eyeing the juicy cuts.

Owen shuffled from the sudden intrusion. “I would be much obliged.” He smiled down at the plump woman. She tottered slightly with delight, then hustled to a corner table, motioning for Owen to follow. With a beckoning nod from Owen, Cate joined him.

They were seated near the food and drink, with various platters splayed in the center of the table. Cate downed two glasses of wine when the miller’s daughters introduced themselves, stating they had been instructed to fill the bath for him later in the evening. Owen objected at first, but Wallace intercepted the conversation while passing by, insisting the tub had already been brought by wagon.

“It is done, so take your bath like a good lad,” Cate teased, a wry smile curving the ends of her lips. “I told them to leave the tub at my father’s shop, seeing as it is unoccupied at the moment. You will have plenty of privacy and a bed of your own.”

“My thanks.” Owen raised his cup in appreciation then took a long swig, finishing his ale. Before he had even finished swallowing the fiery liquid, the cup was refilled.

“You are most welcome. I am truly jealous of your hot water bath. I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed the warmth of fired water on my skin.”

“I will not bore you with tales of my upbringing then.” Owen flashed her a dubious grin and ducked when Cate playfully swung for his head.

Folding her arms on the table surface, Cate was content to watch folks dancing. Children chased one another in circles around the tables and trees. She nibbled on the food before her, the plate piled with meat and cheeses and bits of hard bread. Her stomach pained her from having eaten so much after having so little, and she wished she could curl up into a ball and sleep for days.

One of the yellow-haired miller’s daughters returned to fill Owen’s cup. Her sweet face and ample bosom irked Cate to the deepest depths of her core. The way she swayed around Owen to take up his cup, feigning an accidental brush against his shoulder with her chest… oh, how it unnerved her.

“Off with you!” Cate waved the girl away. “His lordship is perfectly capable of pouring his own ale, thank you! Go give your attentions to Ned… perhaps the drink will improve his singing!”

The miller’s daughter scowled but obeyed. With hands on her hips, she circled the table slowly, finally leaving when Cate curled her lip in a growl.

“Whore,” Cate muttered, filling her own cup with more wine.

Owen sputtered, erupting in laughter. “Did I not tell you? That whore is to wash my back.”

Cate promptly punched him in the forearm.

“Oh, are you jealous, Cate? Would
you
rather be my hand servant?”

“I am servant to no man.” Cate leaned in close to Owen, her eyes following the lines of his jaw, tracing the curves of his lips. Finding herself lost in the depths of his eyes, her head swirled. A bit tipsy from the wine, she fell forward.

Owen caught her by the shoulders, pushing her upright on the stool. “Maybe you should rest awhile.”

“Maybe you should get me another drink.” Cate turned her cup upside down, showing it was empty.

Owen tucked a lock of hair behind Cate’s ear. “I think you’ve had enough for now, Cate.” His words were soft, and their tone soothing. “If you are capable of standing, perhaps you would share a dance with me instead?”

“A drunkard’s dance. Marvelous idea.” Cate rolled her eyes but accepted his outstretched hand.

He took her hands in his, leading her into the mix of joyous dancers on the green. A drummer and a fiddler had joined in Ned’s tunes, creating a ruckus of upbeat spirits. The other dancers, lost in their own spins, paid the two no mind.

“I have not done this in a long while, so do not laugh.” Joining the line of the reel, Owen stepped forward in time with the beat, placing his palm against Cate’s. He whirled her about, wrapping his arm around her waist. His fingers lingered on the small of her back, and he traced the line of her hip when she pulled away.

“You seem to be doing just fine, my lord.” Her heart soared with the music. It could have been the copious amounts of wine flowing through her veins, but she found it hard to ignore the happy smile stretching from cheek to cheek when she changed the steps of the dance unexpectedly. Owen followed suit without missing a beat. As the song ended, Owen wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a loose hug. They laughed together as others clapped.

“Thank you for the dance. If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll sit the next one out, as my head has not yet stopped spinning.” Cate placed a palm against her forehead, as if the touch would cease the swirling.

“Excuse me, sir?” A small voice interrupted their embrace. A girl no more than ten years of age tugged at Owen’s sleeve.

He knelt beside her, his full attention focused on her dirtied face. “What can I do for you, young one?”

The girl bit the corner of her bottom lip and swayed nervously. “Might I dance with you?”

Owen stood, then swooped the girl up in his arms, twirling her. “I would be honored to dance with you… what is your name, child?”

“Mary, my lord.”

“Well then, Lady Mary, might I have this dance?”

Lightly touching his arm, Cate bid Owen farewell, returning to their table. Another jovial tune began and Cate huffed onto the bench, content to watch the nobleman sway with the child in dizzying circles. Thoughts of having children of her own to love and cherish eddied through alcohol induced visions. Thoughts quickly stamped out. Family, a husband… children… were not written in her stars.

“You are in love with him.” Alice’s voice bellowed over the music.

Startled, Cate shot upright. Lost in her daydreams, Cate hadn’t even noticed Alice’s arrival. “What? Do not speak of such wild notions,” she told Alice.

“I knew it the moment you returned with him, and I see it now even more.
You
might not believe it, but I know love when I see it.”

Cate rolled her eyes, emitting her distaste of the accusation from the back of her throat. “I was being honorable, Alice. Nothing more.” She wasn’t in love with him. She might admit to a slight infatuation if tortured, but it certainly wasn’t love. Love did not happen to someone such as she.

“Do you find your heart quickening when he is near? Do your insides tingle when he speaks to you?”

Cate turned to glare at Alice. “So what of it?” She poured herself a drink, not wanting to continue with the conversation.

“Stop it. He is not for you.” The wrinkles in Alice’s brow furrowed. Confusion must have shown on Cate’s face, for Alice repeated the words. “Let him be, and keep your distance. He will grow tired of you and discard you like refuse.”

“And if he does not?” Cate took a sip of her wine, intently waiting for Alice’s answer as she peered at her over the rim of the cup.

“Of course he will. A man such as he will take many women before he must marry. It is customary. He is of noble birth, Cate, and you know this. He must marry within his title.” A blush spread over Alice’s cheeks. She placed her hands in her lap, then spoke. “A man like that holds power over a woman, and… certain things might happen when a man shows… interest… in a woman.”

Cate chuckled. “You mean, a man like him would deflower a poor farm girl and think nothing of it?” Her eyes grew wide in fictitious alarm.

“Well, yes. It would be a sin against God for a woman to lay with a man who is not her husband.”

Cate finished the wine in her cup and stood. “Too late.” Returning the cup to the table, Cate turned to leave amidst Alice’s sputters and protests. Keeping her distance from Alice, who she was sure would immediately inform Wallace of her sins, Cate wandered to the tree line. She felt most comfortable there among the wood and away from the commotion of people.

The whispers of the leaves soothed her fiery spirit. Guilt fogged her thoughts, and Cate felt sorry for giving Alice such a fright, but she was tired of her elders always telling her what she could or could not do. Her father had always told her to follow her heart, but that was difficult to do under the thumb of the MacKenzies.

Finding an inviting tree trunk, Cate lowered to the earthen floor. She hugged her knees while the sun sunk over the feast. Harsh shadows stretched along the Moor and faces blurred into the darkness. She could no longer pick out Owen from the crowd and wondered if he had retreated to his bath.

His bath. Those sister twits were probably knee deep in his water by now. She would have to see about that. Rising, Cate brushed the bits of twigs and fallen leaves from her kirtle and made her way along the edge of the Moor. On several occasions she found herself running to reach her father’s shop at the end of the thoroughfare.

Once she reached her home, Cate had to place her palms out in front of her to keep herself from crashing into the door. A soft glow emanated from the cracks in the shutters. She could hear the sloshing of water and the giggles of flirtatious girls from inside the walls, and it spurred her to open the door.

Cate gripped the latch with trembling fingers. Sucking in a deep breath, she wrenched it up, and the door creaked open. Darkness greeted her. Cate forced a breath through her lips. She’d half expected her father to scold her for returning home at such a late hour. Gathering her strength, she took a step across the threshold.

Cate pushed the door closed behind her. Various bows and quivers hung from pegs on the walls. The service counter jetted out from the corner with papers and an ink quill where her father had left them. She crossed herself, whispered a prayer in her father’s honor, and scurried to the back room closer to the light.

In the wood shop in the rear of the building, the large wooden tub stood stout in the center. Lined with a large piece of linen, the three miller’s daughters filled the tub with buckets of water. Owen sat on a stool off to the side, working with the toggles on his boots. Bucket after bucket was brought through the back door. The entire village seemed to be heating water for Owen’s bath. Steam rose from the surface, dissipating into the cooler air above.

When one of the Miller sisters offered to help remove Owen’s tunic, Cate’s blood boiled through her veins. With hands firmly on her hips and feet parted, she bellowed, “Out!” and glared until each girl disappeared through the back door. Following, Cate latched it shut behind them.

Upon returning to the tub, Cate stopped suddenly, in awe of the sight before her. Owen stood with bare back turned, his tunic thrown over the stool. He tested the water with his hand, swishing in the scented oils left on the table near the tub. The spicy aroma filled her nostrils.

Cate cleared her throat.

Owen casually turned toward her, smiled that up to no good grin, then returned his attentions to the water.

“If anyone here is to help you disrobe, it shall be me.”

“I never took you for the envious type.” His voice, low and calming, oozed with a succulent sweetness that made her insides turn to porridge.

“I might wield a blade and a bow while donning men’s hose, but I am still a woman with a woman’s desire for a man’s touch.” She took a few steps closer to him but stopped when his breeches dropped around his ankles. The fleshy muscles of his backside clenched as he bent slightly to step out of each legging. A gasp hitched in her throat. It had been dark when she had first explored the edges and lines of his body. Seeing him brazenly disrobe in front of her sent her womanhood reeling. She wanted to touch his skin and trace every etched line with her tongue. Cate inhaled deeply. She had drank entirely too much wine.

Owen discarded the bandage from his thigh, dropping it to the pile of clothing on the beamed floor. He inspected the wound before rising up on the small stool near the side of the tub and stepping in. He sunk into the depths of the water and sighed, leaning his head back to rest on the edge. With eyes closed, he murmured, “You are welcome to join me.”

The corners of her lips trembled, sweeping upward. Her fingers trembled as she untied the laces to her kirtle. Once loosened, she let it cascade in ripples, settling around her calves. Next came her shift, and the remnants of the makeshift bandages rounding her ribcage. Cate stepped from the pile and stood in the candlelight, allowing Owen to take in every inch of her.