Charming the Shrew

by Laurin Wittig

  “Cat, do you think you could release my tunic, love?”

  “Hmm?” She sat up enough for him to see her face, satisfaction evident in her faint smile and the dazed expression in her eyes. She moved to kiss him, then stopped. The dazed expression cleared and confusion replaced it. Catriona stared at him then glanced down at her hands, fisted in his tunic. She abruptly released her grip.

  “What have we done?”

  “Nothing irreversible, lass,” he said, carefully pulling her shift up to cover her beautiful full breasts before he reached for them again. He pushed her back gently until she slid off his lap. He glimpsed dark curls between her legs glistening with the result of his lapse in judgment and struggled to remember why he could not finish what he’d started. She caught the direction of his gaze and quickly covered herself, drawing her knees up again and wrapping herself in one of the blankets.

  “What did you do to me?”

  Tayg took a deep breath and caught the musky scent of her satisfaction. “’Tis more what you do to me, lass.” He shook his head at his own traitorous words.

  “I did nothing to you!”

  “We’d best get some sleep—”

  “I’ll not sleep with you!”

  “Nay, I know. I did not mean—”

  Cat rose and moved to her pallet, gathering it up from its place next to his and moving it to the opposite side of the fire.

  “You will not touch me again. You will not kiss me. I cannot give myself to such as you.”

  “Such as me?” Anger rose in his gut, though he knew he should not take her words to heart.

  “You are a bard, and not a very good one at that. You have no power to help me keep my brothers from—”

  “What makes you think any man will stand up to your brothers for you?”

  The look of panic on her face didn’t match the cutting edge of her tone or the agitated way she was arranging her pallet.

  He had scared her.

  He had scared himself.

  TAYG LAY FOR a long time staring into the darkness, listening to the keening wind, struggling to ignore the black humor that had descended on him when Cat had pulled away and made it plain what she wanted…or rather what she didn’t want…or who.

  And yet her body told him otherwise. He knew she reacted as strongly as he did when they touched. When he kissed her she had leaned into him, pulled him closer, been just as stunned by the intensity of each kiss as he was.

  He turned onto his side—it was a bit less tender now than when he had awakened—and faced the fire and the shadowy lass who slept on the other side of it. He missed the feel of her curled up against him. He wanted…more.

  But he shouldn’t. He couldn’t. He dared not entangle himself in such a way with a lass like Catriona MacLeod. ’Twas dangerous enough that they traveled together. If they were found together, no one would believe her virtue was unsullied. He would be forced to wed her—assuming her brothers did not kill him first. ’Twas a daft notion, marrying the Shrew of Assynt. Marrying Cat.

  He turned his back to the fire and stared into the darkness for a long time, reminding himself of all the reasons he did not wish to marry. He tried to think of reasons Cat would not make a good wife, but he kept remembering the feel of her lips on his and her hands fisted in his tunic. Quickly he forced his thoughts back to why he didn’t want a wife, but his reasons seemed feeble even to him. It was a long time before sleep finally took him.

  THE NEXT DAY passed slowly. Tayg tried to venture out to gather wood, but a few minutes in the battering wind and he returned to the relative warmth of the hut worn out and weak with only a few measly branches to show for his effort.

  Catriona had fussed over him, making him lie down again, covering him with all the blankets and stirring up a stew that tempted his belly despite the meager ingredients she had available. He didn’t think he was really that badly off, but he was enjoying her attentions too much to do anything to make her stop. He spent the day watching her as she moved about their makeshift home, caring for and cleaning up after the horse; mending first her clothes and then his; cooking; tidying. She even beat the dirt from his plaid and his cloak.

  What she didn’t do was talk to him. She wouldn’t look him in the eye, and she was careful not to let him touch her, or to touch him, except to check the bindings on his battered ribs.

  After a while Tayg rose once more from his pallet, but there was nothing for him to do but try to pace in the tiny cottage. There was nothing to do but sleep, eat…his gaze lingered over the oddly still Cat sitting by the fire. A strange prickling sensation seemed to take turns running down Tayg’s spine and wriggling in his belly. Nay, there was naught to do but sleep, he told himself firmly. ’Twasn’t right, this situation. ’Twasn’t natural for him to have to fight his desires like this. And yet he must.

  In desperation he grabbed the sack that held his drum. She didn’t think he was a bard. Well, he could act the part now. A bard would entertain when faced with a long, cold confinement. He could entertain her when he dared not do anything else.

  Tayg fit the beater into his hand, positioned the drum on his leg, and began tapping out a simple rhythm. Catriona rose and moved to her pallet. She lay down on it, pulling a blanket around her but watching him.

  Tayg sang to himself at first, listening to the combination of his voice and that of the drum. He learned to beat it in different areas for a slightly different quality of sound, moving his hand over the face of the drum as he’d seen others do.

  He tried a second song, and then a third. He thought Catriona had drifted off to sleep when he was surprised to hear her lovely voice joining with his, weaving around the melody in a haunting descant.

  “You are better at this than I,” he said when the song ended. She gave him a wan smile, and he started into another song, more lively this time, happy for a Scottish tune. Again she joined in, picking up the melody, adding trills and flourishes that he had never heard before.

  “You are quite the bard yourself, sweet Cat.”

  The startled look in her eyes told him he had said something he shouldn’t. He quickly started playing the drum again, humming the first thing that came to him.

  “Are you trying to anger me now?” she asked.

  He shook his head but continued humming the oddly familiar tune. He couldn’t quite find the words yet, but he knew they would come in a moment. They must.

  “Once again you do not recognize what you are humming, do you?” Cat said.

  “Aye…” But he didn’t, not quite.

  “Sweet Dolag of Fionn, a sweet thing she is,” Catriona sang to him.

  “Her hair is like fire, her face like a pig,” he finished with a grin. “Ah, yes, now I remember it. I think I will leave out that last bit when I sing it for the king.”

  “Why would you sing that drivel for him?” Her voice was sharp.

  “You do not like my song?”

  “’Tis no song, that. ’Tis worthy of a drunken fool, no more.”

  “Ah, but if you were to sing along as you were a moment ago, ’twould elevate it above a mere tavern song. How else am I to tell the king of the lovely lasses I have met?”

  Catriona sat up and laughed. “What makes you think any of these lassies wish for the king to give them to his warriors? I suspect even the famed Tayg of Culrain is like any other man anxious to take up the reins of power: cocky, arrogant, unaware of the needs and feelings of those around him. Why would a woman wish to be given to any of them?”

  Tayg winced inwardly at her description of him and felt a moment of kinship with her. To be described in such a way to one’s face, as he had done to her, was not an elevating experience.

  “That is not Tayg of Culrain you describe,” he said, making sure his wry grin was in place, “well, except perhaps the cocky part, but then he has reason to be.” After all, he was pulling off this bit of mummery, wasn’t he?

  “If he is cocky, he is all the other. In my experience they come all of o
ne.”

  “And your experience of men is so vast?”

  She glared at him. “Vast enough. I have lived in a household full to the rafters of men my whole life. I think I understand them as well as any woman may.”

  “’Tis sure you do.” He beat a slow rhythm on the drum, then looked back at her across the crackling fire. “You would judge all men against your brothers.”

  “They provide plenty of experience for me. Each is different, each a blight on society in his own way.”

  “All of them?”

  “Sometimes Ailig is fine—on his own—but when the others are around, he does not stand up to them. He does not speak his mind.”

  “As you do.”

  “Aye. As I do.”

  “And you hold Ailig in contempt because he does not behave as you do?”

  “Nay. I do not hold him in contempt, though that is an apt description of my feelings for the rest of my brothers. With Ailig I feel…pity.”

  Tayg’s hand stilled on the drum. “Pity? Why that?”

  Catriona pulled at the edge of the plaid she had wrapped about her and shrugged. “It isn’t as if he lets the others tell him what to do, he just does nothing to stop them. Ailig is quiet and keeps to himself more than the three sheep do. He doesn’t seem to care.”

  “About what?”

  “About his pride, about the thoughts of others. He is willing to be ridiculed, derided, mocked without calling the offender out, without defending himself in any way. He has this funny little almost-smile he gives as if he finds it all slightly amusing. Just once—”

  “You’d like him to stand up to them.”

  “Aye. Just once.”

  “Why?”

  She looked at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “So they will stop, of course.”

  “Ah, and that has worked so well for you.”

  Did she not see that Broc still played her as well as the finest harpist in the land played his instrument? It seemed that Ailig had discovered the secret to coping with her family. Too bad the hardheaded Catriona couldn’t let go of her pride long enough to see what was really happening.

  “Once I was made a fool of because I was too enamored of my brothers to think for myself. I will never put myself in such a situation again.”

  Something in her tone told Tayg they were not speaking of the same thing. The lost look on her face tore at Tayg, and he sensed he was finally seeing the true woman beneath the shrewish exterior she held up to the world. That tough, prickly persona protected the softer side of the lass that he glimpsed too rarely. He stayed quiet, not wanting to break her mood. He was intrigued by the hurt lass in front of him. Never would he have guessed that such lay hidden beneath the surface.

  “If I tell you something, will you promise never to make a song of it?” Now she did look directly at him, apparently gauging his sincerity before she decided to continue.

  It was an easy promise to make, so he readily agreed, his curiosity piqued by her change in manner and her sudden willingness to reveal something of herself. She seemed convinced of his promise, and she looked away again, absently braiding her hair.

  “When I was but ten and two we were constantly struggling with the MacDonells. They would steal our cows. We’d steal them back, plus a few of theirs for good measure. Jamie and Ailig would go along, but Broc, Callum, and Gowan were the instigators of much of the mayhem that took place. One time their prank went wrong and a cottage was burned. I do not think anyone was hurt, but the MacDonells did not take it well. One thing led to another, and before long my da and the chief of the MacDonells exchanged messages calling for a halt to the nonsense of the young men before it escalated beyond the stopping place.”

  “Why would they care?”

  “We had long been neighbors, friends even.”

  Tayg nodded, understanding instantly the way of these things. “What happened?”

  “When the two chiefs demanded their sons cease the raiding and the fighting, my da left it to Broc, as the eldest, to make amends with the MacDonell lads.”

  Tayg shifted, sensing that what came next was the real heart of her story.

  “I did not know any of this at the time, you understand. I was but a lassie, just showing signs of…of womanhood.” She ducked her head.

  “And a fine woman you’ve grown into.” Tayg couldn’t stop the whispered words, and they earned him a shy smile. Another conundrum. Shyness from Catriona? “Go on,” he encouraged.

  “Broc told me he had an important job for me. I did not understand him yet. He was my eldest brother and I idolized him. He was quite used to telling me to do things and having me jump to his command, as I did this time.

  “He sent me with a message for the MacDonells. He had it written on a piece of parchment. I wondered at the time why he had done that, and how, for Broc can neither read nor write, but as I said, I idolized him and did as he bade me, thinking to make him proud of me.

  “I rode a pony out to the place I was told to meet the MacDonells, and I awaited them. When they arrived ’twas only a few lads Broc’s age. I did not know them, but their leader was Dogface. He was ugly even then.”

  Every nerve in Tayg’s body tingled, but he sat, still and silent, letting her continue if she would.

  “I was nervous,” she said, twisting her braid in her hands. “I had never acted the messenger for my brothers before. I handed the message to the first one who approached, and he handed it back to Dogface. It took a while for them to figure out the words, but finally they did.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It bade them hand over their weapons to me and all would be forgiven.”

  “What!?”

  “Aye, ’twas the same reaction the MacDonell lads had. They laughed, then said ’twas fitting that the witless MacLeods would send a lass to do a man’s job.”

  “They did not—”

  She looked up at him, her eyes big and full of old hurts. “They tried. They grabbed me, stripping my clothing from me until I wore naught but my undershift. But I managed to club one in the head with a rock and kicked the other…Dogface…in the groin. He could not move, so in pain was he, but he bade the rest throw me in a nearby bog to rot. They said…insulting things about me and about my family while I struggled to escape the muck. They took my pony and left me there.”

  “Your brothers did not follow you out there?”

  “Nay. You see, I was supposed to be a humiliating messenger for the MacDonells to receive, the task not deserving of the time of a man.”

  “Instead the MacDonells humiliated the messenger.”

  She nodded.

  “What happened when you returned home?”

  “’Twas late that night when I shouted at the gate to be admitted. My brothers, all but Ailig who was away in Edinburgh, were summoned, and when they saw me…” She shook her head.

  “They were not kind. I caught the ague because of that night spent in cold, muddy clothes. If it were not for my nursemaid, I probably would have died. I have never trusted my brothers since.”

  Tayg did not know what to say. The story explained much about Cat’s relationship with her family and everything about her hatred of Dogface. Neill of Assynt was daft to allow his sons to treat her so. How could the man allow a betrothal between them…unless he did not know of the event?

  “They were the fools, Cat,” he said softly, wanting to comfort her, to thank her for sharing this with him, for he was certain she had shared it with no one before him. But he didn’t know how. If she were another lass he’d take her in his arms and comfort her, but she had forbade that, and he knew his own control was tenuous at best where she was concerned.

  “We shall have to leave here tomorrow,” he said at last, not knowing what else to say. “This storm has raged long enough, and we dare tarry no longer.”

  Catriona nodded but did not look at him. Her eyes were trained on the fire between them.

  Tayg turned his attention back to his drumming.
>
  After a little while she turned her back to him and the fire, pulling the plaid tightly about her, accentuating the curves of her waist and buttocks. Tayg tried to concentrate on his drumming, keeping it light when he wanted to fling the thing across the room and gather her into his arms. Pride was important to Cat, and loyalty. ’Twas why she was so prickly—her pride had been stolen and her loyalty betrayed by those closest to her. He doubted she had let anyone close enough since to hurt her more—except for him. She had let him in, close, though she had not wanted to. And he would not betray that hard-won trust. He would not see her hurt again.

  Perhaps now he could avoid the little traps Broc and the others had set in her personality. She had a pride as large as his, but he now knew it to be a fragile thing.

  CATRIONA LAY STILL, trying to ignore the quiet tapping of Tayg’s playing. He was improving, which made her think again that he was no bard, else he would have been a better player to begin with. It did not matter, though. ’Twas not a problem she need bother herself with. As long as he got her to the king, she cared not what he was.

  And to that end she must reconsider her plan. Trying to be nice to him had resulted in an increase in the intimacy growing between them. The flare of passion that had ignited between them when they argued was nothing compared to the far more disturbing events this quiet mood between them had led to. What had come over her?

  She knew better than to trust a male like that, to give up control for the intoxicating feelings he roused in her. She could only hope that there was no opportunity for him to use her behavior, or her tale of woe, against her. Why she had told him she wasn’t sure, though the sense of shared pain at her brothers’ hands had perhaps lulled her into confiding in him. Broc repeated the tale regularly still. It seemed to be his favorite memory of her childhood days, and only by severe measures had she convinced him on occasion to keep his gob shut.

  But Tayg was different, or maybe ’twas only that he made her feel different, precious, cherished. Nay, ’twas only his way of muddling her mind. She would have to watch him carefully. There was no reason to believe he would be any different from her brothers, whether it was to use his knowledge against her, or to let others use it, did not matter. Nothing but grief would come from her behavior here in this travelers’ hut.