Charming the Shrew (5 page)

He had taken his leave gratefully and traveled hard until he came upon another village where he passed yet another uncomfortable night, though for different reasons. He had enjoyed his newfound anonymity, though his first foray as a bard had not gone well. He had taken his leave before sunup. From there he had traveled hard directly to Dun Donell, wishing to get this task done so he could get on with enjoying a more leisurely trek through the Highlands. He had arrived well past the early setting of the sun, and he planned to stay but one night as well, not wishing to chance discovery of his true identity.

But for now he must make a better show of being a bard. It wasn’t as easy to impersonate one as he had thought ’twould be. People had expectations, and he certainly hadn’t lived up to them at the last village. Thank goodness his natural charm had enabled him to bluff his way through the evening. This time he had a better idea of what needed doing.

First he would sing an old ballad, something melancholy and familiar to those gathering about him. Then he’d tell a story or two. He could tell stories all night long. ’Twas the singing and the playing that vexed him. After the stories, he’d sing a slightly livelier tune, and then he’d move into the news and gossip. If he gauged it right, a few songs would be all he needed to get him through the evening—and none of them would be about Tayg of Culrain.

Well then, to begin. He took a long swig of ale to bolster his courage and began the rhythmic beating of the drum. When he thought he’d got the beat going well enough to add the complication of a tune, he began to hum the melody. Perhaps he could get the growing crowd to sing with him so his voice would not have to carry all on its own. He hummed a bit louder, but no one joined in.

When he decided there was no putting it off any longer he launched into the sad song, only to realize he was beating the drum too quickly. Stumbling over the words as he adjusted the tempo, he noticed a few surprised looks on the faces around him. A child giggled, and he felt his cheeks heat. What had he been thinking when he decided to do this?

He stumbled over the words again and lost the beat. Pulling his thoughts back to the song, he drew it to an early close, took another long pull of the ale, and went with his strength.

“As you can see, I’m not much of a singer.” Scattered laughter met him, and he tried not to mind. “But I am an excellent storyteller, one to rival the king’s own.” He flashed his smile at a lass sitting close, and was rewarded with a dimpled grin.

“What story will you tell?” she asked.

“Ah, what sort of story would you like?” he asked the crowd, searching the faces there for any possibilities.

“One with monsters and gore!” yelled a lad with a dirty face and a tangled mop of blond hair.

“Ah, you wish to hear of the English then, and Longshanks, their dearly departed king?”

A loud chorus of boos and hisses had him grinning.

“A story of war and victory!” someone yelled.

“A love story!” yelled a lass from the other side of the circle.

“Ah, I have just the thing,” Tayg said, anxious to avoid any stories that might refer to him.

“And ’tis true, too. Have you heard the tale of the mad chief and the fair healer? Nay? Well then, gather round, and I’ll tell you about the evil doings way down to Kilmartin.”

Tayg launched into a story he had heard shortly after the miraculous recovery of King Robert last winter, though he did his best to embellish the love story with as much intrigue and horror as he could. When he ended, the crowd applauded and begged for more, so he told a story of a man who had come from the mists of time to claim his own true love. This tale was full of swordfights and miracles, and he had the crowd firmly under his spell right up to the very end when the villain was sent off into a blast of fire. This time the crowd erupted into cheers, and Tayg felt very pleased with himself. Maybe this wasn’t so hard after all.

“Tell us another, bard.”

“Aye, soon. For now, though, I am hungry and the smell coming from those platters is most appealing!”

The crowd looked around, apparently surprised to find the food had been brought into the hall without them noticing. Everyone agreed with him and scrambled to seats. Tayg placed the drum carefully on the floor next to his stool, then sauntered over to a table, finding a place where he could view the entire hall while he ate.

He settled himself in between two pretty lasses, one blond, one auburn-haired. Both giggled when he grinned at them. As he reached for a platter of small pies, a hush fell over the crowded hall.

Tayg looked up in time to see the chief settle himself at the head table at the far end of the hall. Duff MacDonell was a large, ugly man. His skin was pocked, and his lank, brown hair hung in his nearly colorless eyes. His nose was so long it seemed to push his mouth down his jutting chin.

His personality matched his looks.

Tayg had delivered the earl’s message to the chief as soon as he had arrived. Duff had seemed oddly glad to receive the summons to greet the king, not at all the reaction Tayg had expected.

Duff MacDonell was a well-known firebrand with delusions of greatness. He was a bully, and his clan was ill-liked because of it. Something was not right here. Maybe ’twas the odd gleam in his eye as Tayg had recited the message to him. Maybe ’twas the way the young chief had commanded him to wait for a message to deliver to Assynt without asking even if he was bound there.

Maybe he just did not like the man.

Tayg shook off the odd feeling and turned his attention back to the food in front of him. After a minute, the hum of quiet conversation once more filled the space.

“You know he’s going to bring that shrew here to live amongst us, do you not?” his dinner companion on his right said.

“A shrew?” Tayg admired the blond lass and considered his chances for a tumble with her later.

“Aye, he’s to marry the Shrew of Assynt, then he’ll bring her here to Dun Donell. She is said to be as ugly as Duff and twice as mean.”

“Why would he wed such a lass? ’Tis not for love, is it?”

“Oh, nay,” said the auburn-haired lass on his left. “Our Duff has a plan. The Shrew has five braw brothers and her father is kin to the MacLeods of Lewes, who control much of the islands and the coast. Duff seeks to ally us with them.”

Tayg chewed a tender chunk of venison for a moment before he realized exactly what the implication of the alliance meant.

“So your chief, he has no hope for King Robert’s cause?” Perhaps the king was more right than he knew to command the MacDonell to appear in Dingwall and swear fealty to the crown. Or was it already too late?

The auburn-haired lass shrugged. “I know not and I care not what alliances come of the wedding. ’Tis the women of the clan who will have to live most with the shrew. ’Tis the women of the clan who will have to teach her to mind her manners if she wishes not to be taken to the sea and left on a rock to drown.”

Tayg chuckled. “I do not envy the woman her time here.”

“I do not envy her wedding Duff, either,” she said. “Netta there,” she nodded at his blond dinner companion, “hoped to wed him, but as for me—” she looped her arm around Tayg’s and leaned close enough so he could feel her soft breast pressed against him “—I prefer a more bonny countenance upon a man.” She smiled broadly at him and batted her eyelashes.

Tayg grinned at her, then glanced at blond Netta. A well-developed tear spilled off her lashes and trailed prettily down her cheek. He’d long ago learned that many lasses could cry when they thought ’twould benefit them. He was wise to her game but would play along. Perhaps he could learn more about his host, whom the king clearly had reason to distrust. He wiped away that tear then leaned close.

Nuzzling her ear, he murmured, “’Tis clear the lout does not deserve you.”

Her eyes widened and the smile was back. He grinned at her and waggled his eyebrows, drawing a soft laugh from her.

“Will you tell us another story?” the other lass asked, drawing his attention back to her.

“I will, just as soon as I finish this delicious venison pie.” He signaled for his ale mug to be refilled, then quickly ate his meal. He might not wish to wed, but he could hope to have his bed warmed by one of these fair lasses this night, and if he learned aught of use to the king from her, then ’twould be doubly worth his time. Perhaps his trip to Dun Donell might not need to be so hastily concluded after all.

When Tayg was done eating, he returned to his stool by the fire. His dinner companions followed quickly behind him, claiming seats where no one would obstruct his view of their charms. He warmed his hands, smiled at the two lasses, then took up his drum again. Quietly he played and sang a few easy songs he had known since he was a wee lad. The noise of the people still eating covered up his mistakes and lent him a feeling of fading into the background that made him relax a bit.

Slowly more people filtered back to sit about him, listening while they talked quietly with their neighbors. He winked at Netta and the other lass, then glanced about the circle at the other friendly faces there. As he relaxed more, he found it easier to weave the melody through the beat of the drum without tripping one over the other. As he ended the song, he reached for his mug. He took a long drink, watching over the rim as his host moved through the crowd toward him.

He did not wish to speak with the man again, though ’twas impossible to avoid, he supposed.

Tayg lowered his mug, resettled his drum on his thigh, and prepared to start another song. But he did not get the chance.

“Come with me,” Duff said, grabbing his elbow and nearly tumbling the drum to the floor.

Tayg shook off the man’s grip and slowly leaned the instrument against the stool once more. He turned to his audience and bowed low as he had seen many a bard do. “I shall return to amuse you shortly,” he said with a pointed look at the chief.

The man snorted and led the way out of the crowd to a deserted table in a darkened corner of the hall.

“Take this to Assynt,” he said, shoving a folded piece of parchment at him.

Tayg took it, turning it over to peer at the other side, but there was no seal to indicate the author of the document, only a thick, unmarked blob of gray wax.

“Do you wish to tell me what it says so that I may repeat it at Assynt?”

“Nay. ’Tis private—a note to my betrothed. See that her brother Broc receives it. He will see ’tis read to her.”

Tayg raised an eyebrow.

“See it done,” Duff said. “If you leave here by first light and ride hard, you can reach Assynt by sundown.”

“I thought I might bide here a day or two.” He watched the chief’s face and realized this was a man who brooked no argument from anyone. You did what he demanded or you paid the consequences. He had served with men like this and had little use for his type.

“You leave in the morn.”

“But I have discovered…reasons…to stay longer,” Tayg said, adding a cocky grin. Truly were it not for his bonny dinner partners, he would not care to stay beyond a single night, but he could not keep from goading Duff. He did not care to be ordered about by this man.

“You will leave in the morn. You will not be welcome here beyond the morning meal.”

Tayg looked again at the parchment in his hand. From what the lasses had said, he did not think this was a love note. His mind worked quickly. This man did not know he could read. He was entrusting a missive to him to deliver to the brother of his intended. If Tayg found the wax seal loosened and just happened to read the contents…

“As you will,” he said, tucking the note in the small leather sack hanging from his belt. He walked away quickly, not wishing to give the MacDonell time to dismiss him.

What was so important about this other clan and their shrew? Were they all gathering against King Robert? As soon as he was clear of this wretched clan’s lands he would read the note, and then he just might have to deliver it. After all, what better way to find out what the two clans were up to, and if they threatened the king and Scotland, than for a bard to sit among the folk and trade a tale or two?

C
ATRIONA LED THE
blue-black horse that belonged to her middle brother, Gowan, through the bailey. She would have taken her mare, but the horse was pregnant and could not travel as far or as fast as Catriona needed to this day. She had brought little with her, a change of clothes and enough food for a single day. More would have raised suspicions, and that she could not do.

Her plan depended on her behaving in a routine way, so she had broken her fast and tended to her daily duties. Broc had, as usual, sought her out to make her miserable, taunting her with her impending doom, which had resulted, in part because it suited her purposes, in one of their usual rows. Now she was leaving to ride off her temper, or so everyone would assume. She had borrowed Gowan’s horse for three days now, riding out for several hours after seeing to the business of the castle, returning a bit later each day. No one would expect her today until well after the midday meal. By then she would be nearly to her aunt’s village by the sea. Once there Catriona would secure her help in hiding her until the hated Dogface MacDonell gave up and returned to his home. That would give her the winter to convince her father that marrying her to the vile man would accomplish nothing good.

Outside the gate she mounted the horse and headed toward the loch. There she would turn away from her destination. As soon as she was out of sight of the castle, she would circle back and take the correct trail. She hoped her deception would throw off anyone who came searching for her.

The loch stretched before her and Quinag rose on the far side, but today the sky was steel gray, and the mountain’s peak lay hidden in a heavy mantle of clouds. She stopped for a moment, as she always did, and admired this peaceful spot, but she could not tarry long. She would return to her home soon. For now, though, she must continue as if ’twas any other day. She turned the horse and rode quickly away from Assynt.

When she rounded an outcropping that hid the castle from view, she kicked the horse into a gallop and raced down the trail, away from her home, away from her family that made her miserable and away from a marriage she refused to even consider. She leaned low over the powerful horse’s neck and let him fly. The cold wind pulled at her cloak, but the exhilaration of being free overrode any discomfort. When they came to the deer trail she had found yesterday, she guided the horse to it and circled quickly behind the castle and back to the trail that this time would lead to her destination. In no time, she would smell the salt tang of the sea air. Soon she would be at her aunt’s. Her father, Broc, and the sheep would not know where she had gone. They would be left to explain to Dogface why he had traveled all this way when there would never be a bride for him at Assynt.

Catriona took satisfaction from the difficult position she had left her family in. She urged the horse faster, twining her hands in his mane, letting the wind pull her hair from its braid, enjoying the cold bite of the rushing air on her cheeks for a long time until at last the horse began to slow of his own accord. Only when he came to a stop did she realize her stomach was grumbling with hunger. She looked up, trying to determine the hour, but the gray sky had lowered until it appeared to hang just above her head, blotting out the sun. The bens were swathed in dusky light, only their rocky feet visible beneath the clouds. The wind, which she had thought was due to the horse’s swift pace, pulled at her cloak, whipping it about her as if trying to wrench it away.

How far had she ridden? She could see nothing familiar, and snow was beginning to swirl on the wind. Surely she should have reached the sea by now. She looked about, certain that the crash of waves upon the rocky shore was near. Perhaps the clouds dampened the sound? But the smell…she sniffed. She remembered the smell of the sea from her single visit to her mother’s people, but the sharp, clear scent of salt and spray wasn’t on the wind. Snow was.

Panic gripped her for a moment until she forced herself to breathe deeply and think clearly. Had she gone the wrong way? She had a terrible sense of direction, ’twas true, but she had planned everything. If she had not let herself revel in her escape she might have watched more carefully. Perhaps she had simply made a wrong turning…but no, the loch was still beside her, so that was impossible. She had only to travel to the end of the loch, then continue on the same well-worn trail to the sea.

The horse cropped at the sparse mosses that grew along the trail. She pulled at the reins, trying to yank his head away from the browse. He shook her off and continued eating. She dared not get caught out in a snowstorm. She must find shelter soon. Winter was upon her. She took another deep breath and tried to stay calm, never her strongest skill.

She could turn back the way she had come, return to Assynt, but she would not. She would have to continue on and find shelter, quickly. Once she was safely out of the oncoming storm, she would figure out where she had erred and find her way to the sea. But that would come later. For now, she needed shelter, and from the looks of the rapidly lowering sky she had better find it soon.

She pulled on the horse’s reins again, and once more he snorted and tossed his head. She prodded him with her heels. Still he did not budge.

Snow stung her face and her temper snapped. “You addlepated horse!” She kicked him hard, pulling on the reins at the same time. The horse reacted, but not as she wished.

Catriona flew through the frigid air and landed hard on her back, knocking the breath from her and momentarily causing the world to darken. When she could breathe again, she gingerly got to her feet, thankful the wretched horse had thrown her into the hillocks of moss and dead heather instead of onto the rocky section of the trail they had just passed through.

She glared up at the recalcitrant animal and grabbed for the trailing reins. The horse danced backward, just out of reach. She stepped forward. He sidled to the left. She lunged. He pivoted and raced away, quickly disappearing over a rise.

Catriona stood there, in the middle of the trail, gaping at the empty landscape. The horse had abandoned her.

“Aaaahg!” She allowed all of her frustration and anger loose in that one screech, then proceeded to call the horse every name she had ever heard her brothers use, plus a few they had not the wit to think of.

“’Tis quite the genteel language you speak.”

Catriona screamed and whirled, finding herself face-to-face with yet another horse.

“How dare you sneak up on me like that!” she said, stepping back to look up at the rider.

The smirk that curved the man’s full lips and sparkled in his eyes was quickly replaced by a look of amused appreciation that Catriona had never seen in a man’s eyes before.

“Are you in need of help?” he asked, raising his eyebrows and smiling.

The man was beautiful. He sat at perfect ease in the saddle. His shoulders were broad, his hair a rich brown, and his mouth…something about his mouth made her breath hitch and her mind fill with fluff. She tried to speak but couldn’t seem to find any words.

“Are you hurt, lass?”

Catriona looked away, trying to order her muddled thoughts sufficiently to reply with something other than an inarticulate gurgle.

“I’ll not harm you,” he said.

She looked back in his direction but chose to focus on the horse’s ears instead of the man’s intriguing face. “My horse has run off.” She was surprised at the breathless sound to her voice, which served to fluster her further.

The appreciation slipped from his face to be replaced with concern. “Are you harmed? May I see you home, then? If you are alone it cannot be far.”

“Nay, I…” What to say? She would not return home, for that would be humiliating and her fate would be sealed. And she knew Broc would never give her a second chance to escape.

“We must reach shelter. I am bound for Assynt Castle.”

Catriona shook her head, her mind racing. He was going to Assynt! She could not go there, yet she had no horse, no shelter or food, not even a plaid to wrap herself in against the cold. She had little hope of surviving the oncoming night without this man’s help.

He reached down, extending his square hand. “Step up on that rock and grab hold. I’ll swing you up. Let’s get you to Assynt, and in return for my good deed, you can see that they provide me with a warm meal and a place by the fire for the night.”

She clasped his hand, momentarily distracted by his sure voice and the way his callused skin felt against hers, warm and rough and strong. Slowly, as he waited for her to climb up behind him, his words sank in.

“I will not go home,” she said. She forced herself to look up into surprised eyes that matched the color of his hair.

“There’s a storm breaking over our heads and you would not take shelter?”

“Nay.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “I will not go to Assynt.”

“The storm is upon us, and I fear we have but little choice.”

She tried to free her hand from his warm grasp, but he held it tightly. “I said I’ll not go to Assynt.”

“You must. There is nowhere else close enough. Dun Donell is a hard day’s ride from here.”

“I’ll not go there either. I am bound for the sea and my aunt’s village.”

“The sea? The sea is behind you, lass.”

“Nay, ’tis just beyond the loch,” she said, but her voice wasn’t as strong as she wished, for snow was catching in his eyebrows and on his lashes and she couldn’t seem to focus on aught but his face.

“Aye, that end of it,” he said, pointing behind her. “I do not know what you run from, but it cannot be worse than a winter storm at night.”

“Little you know.”

“I know enough to recognize a stubborn lass when I meet one. If you ride with me, you can gaze upon my countenance as long as you wish,” he said with a cocky grin.

“Why would I wish to do that?” Catriona jerked her gaze from his face to the middle of his broad chest, though that wasn’t any less distracting. She tried again to remove her hand from his, but still he held on. She shook herself from her odd distraction. He would not let her go. He meant to return her to Assynt. Panic pushed its way once more into her thoughts. She pulled harder, and he suddenly released her. She stumbled back, nearly falling over a rock. She caught herself then leveled her stoniest glare at him.

“Be on your way. I shall see to my own well-being.”

T
AYG MISSED THE
feel of the beautiful stubborn lass’s cold hand in his, but he feared he would hurt her if he did not release his grip.

Irritation sawed through him. He had no time for stubborn lost lasses. The storm was upon them, they needed to find shelter, and after reading the message Duff MacDonell had given him for Assynt, he was sure there was a plot afoot, only he couldn’t tell exactly what it was. He had to get to Assynt. ’Twas his duty to the king, and this lass was getting in his way.

He’d tried charm, he’d tried reason, and judging from the thickening snow and gusty wind he had little time left for arguing, but he could not, in good conscience, leave the lass to freeze—no matter what else needed doing. He must find shelter for them immediately. He had little reason to believe she could care for herself. She was here in the midst of the wilderness, alone and unprepared, and he would not have her death upon his conscience. He had enough to worry about without that.

Tayg sighed and pasted his best grin-and-bear-it smile on his face. “I will not harm you, lass.” The glare in her eyes said she did not believe him. “Nor will I take you to Assynt, for it seems ’tis too late for that now.” He looked about him in the gloom, then back at her. Her shoulders had slumped, and she was chewing on her lip again. Just watching her straight, white teeth catch her lip made his mouth go dry. He forced his mind back to the trouble they were in and thrust out his hand once more.

“Come, lass. I will not allow you to stay here.” He watched as the ebony-haired beauty raised her chin so that she appeared to look down her nose at him despite the fact that he sat a horse and she stood at his feet. Her shoulders once more squared, and he could swear she readied herself for battle. What had he said to get her on her guard again? He had no time for this.

“We must—” he moved the horse toward her “—find—” he swiftly reached down and scooped her about the waist, swinging her up and over his lap in one sharp jerk “—shelter.” She was lying facedown with her stomach across his knees. After a split second of silent surprise, she started to scream and kick and flail. Tayg kicked the horse to a trot, thus silencing her as the horse’s movement stole her breath.

“Just what I need,” he muttered to himself, “daft lassies bent on killing themselves and me.”

“I’m not…bent…on killing…anyone…yet!” Her voice was muffled and breathless in a far different way than it had been moments before.

Daft git. Silly, beautiful woman. Tayg shook his head. She was bonny. Ebony hair, pale perfect skin, eyes so blue he could not name their shade. And her mouth was lush and dewy. But then he remembered her words when first he saw her and the stubborn tilt of her chin. She was not your usual sort of lass.