Charming the Shrew (10 page)

He winced as Catriona ground her heel on his toes under the table while smiling across the table at their host. Tayg jerked his foot from beneath hers, quickly moving all of his toes out of her reach.

“What news have you?” Catriona asked Farlan.

“Ah, there is little to tell. The snows have been deep in our glen though ’tis but December. ’Twill be a long, cold winter I fear.”

Tayg nodded. “There was little snow to the south when I traveled there a sennight past, but here ’twould appear winter has settled in long since.”

There was a silence and Tayg tried to ignore the palpable expectations rolling off of Farlan.

The man grinned at Tayg and patted his daughter’s arm. “My Sweet Dolag will make a fine wife. She is kind and sweet and demure. She is well-trained in the running of a hall or a castle. She cooks and sews and is good with the wee ones.”

Tayg squirmed at the man’s listing of his daughter’s qualifications. ’Twas like listening to a man speak of his favorite hunting hound. He was suddenly struck with the realization that he really should use this opportunity, and his anonymity, to see if he could find a lass he could be happily wedded to. If he did not find one before he reached the king, his mother would do the choosing for him. A shiver ran down his spine. That would never do. And what better way to audition a wife than this?

“Does she have a sense of humor?” Tayg asked, a grin on his face to disguise his serious question. Whoever he ended up bound to had best be able to laugh at his jokes.

Farlan frowned. “What use is that in a wife?”

Tayg laughed as if he’d been funny on purpose. “Aye, just so.” Did the lass never speak for herself? “And what of you, Sweet Dolag? What do you wish for from a husband?”

At last she glanced up at him. “Wish for?”

Tayg nodded at her, and she glanced at her father, as if asking him for her own opinion.

“I…I do not know. I suppose I wish for a husband who will care for me and our bairns, provide enough to eat, a home. What else should I wish for?” she asked, a very serious look upon her face.

“Do you not wish for love?” he asked.

“Of course. Doesn’t every lass? But ’tis seldom found.” This was certainly true in Tayg’s experience. “I do not expect it. If I am lucky, I will grow to love whomever I marry.”

“’Tis a sad way to approach marriage,” Tayg said. He had heard enough from this lass. She was sweet, no doubt, and biddable, but he could not see himself spending a long winter’s night with her. Nay, she was too shy and sober for his liking, despite the apparent promise of her ginger curls.

He drained his ale cup and reached for the sack containing his drum. “I think ’tis time to make merry,” he said. He pulled out the drum and ran his hands over the stretched skin, warming it slowly as he had seen bards do many times. He searched his memory for other things he had seen bards do, other than flirting with the lasses. Of that he had no need for practice.

Pulling an empty bench near the fire, he settled himself so his feet could be warmed while he played. As before, the crowd gathered around him, some pulling benches close, others standing, and the children all perched at his feet. He began with the same slow ballad he had played at Dun Donell, only this time he managed to get the beat right. He started in on the words, careful to keep the beat of the drum even and the tone of his voice melancholy.

When he was finished the crowd applauded, and he asked what kind of story they would like to hear. While he told the tale of the mad chief again, he noticed Catriona moved to the edge of the circle and stood across from him, watching him like a cat about to pounce on a fat mouse.

The applause sounded again at the end of the story, and he reached for his cup, slurping down the contents.

“Sing us another song, bard,” someone yelled from the edge of the crowd.

“Aye, sing us a love song, something sweet and romantic.”

He looked over the rim of his mug into the deep-blue eyes of the speaker, Catriona.

“I have another tale to tell—”

“But brother, we want a song. A lovely song. You know ‘The Maiden’s Choice.’ Sing it for us.”

Tayg glared at Catriona.

“Ah, lasses,” she said, raising her voice, “my brother needs a bit of enticement. ’Twould seem a full belly has him in a melancholy mood, and a man’s no good to anyone in a mood like that, now is he?” She had the audacity to wink at him while the lasses giggled and the men guffawed.

“I do not need your help in that arena, my dear sister,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the laughter.

“Nay, ’tis not
my
help you’ll be needing, mayhap…” She threaded her way into the circle and made her way around it. “Mayhap you need a bit of inspiration? You should sing a song to a lass…this lass,” she said, pulling Dolag into the middle of the circle. “She may rouse you to better than you have sung so far.”

Tayg scowled at Catriona but managed to smile a split second later when Dolag glanced shyly at him.

“Ah, Dolag,” he said, deciding to play along with Catriona and best her at her own game.

“’Tis
Sweet
Dolag,” Farlan said from across the circle.

Tayg nodded. If he did this right, he could please Farlan and pay Catriona back for putting him in this difficult position. She would regret both grinding his toes and meddling with his performance. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated on Dolag, Sweet Dolag, he reminded himself.

“Ah, Sweet Dolag of Fionn.” He flashed her his cheekiest grin and winked at her, making sure Catriona also saw that wink. He watched as Dolag’s cheeks flushed pink just from that little bit of flirting. Here was a lass unused to the attentions of a man. She would be easy to flatter. He began a simple beat upon his drum.

“Sweet Dolag of Fionn, a sweet thing she is. Her hair is like fire, her face like a p—” he stumbled over the beat as he tried not to say the first rhyme he thought of: pig.

The crowd howled, but Farlan did not look happy and Dolag’s lower lip trembled.

“My apologies,” Tayg said quickly. “I do not usually make up songs so hastily,” he added. “Let me try again, for such a pretty lass deserves a pretty song.”

Farlan’s head bobbed in agreement, and the pink deepened on Dolag’s cheeks.

“Let me help you, brother,” Catriona said as she stood by Dolag’s side.

“Nay, you have helped enough.”

Again the crowd laughed loudly.

Tayg started the beat upon his drum again. “Fair Dolag of Fionn, fine of face and of form. She shines like a flower on a bonny spring morn.”

“Och, that’s better, lad,” Farlan shouted.

“She is never a shrew, a hen or a brat. She never dissents.” He looked at Catriona so he could be sure she understood his point. “Never talks back.”

Tayg let the beat flow for a moment while he thought of something else to sing.

“Fair Dolag of Fionn has grace like a cat. She sings like an angel—”

The crowd hooted, and Dolag ducked her head, staring at her feet. “’Tis clear he has not heard her sing, then!” someone shouted from the crowd.

Tayg smiled. “And—”

“Is blind as a bat!” another voice shouted from the other side of the circle.

Tayg tried not to smile. “You are unfair to lovely Dolag,” he called out, hoping to win a smile from the embarrassed lass. But she just hunched her shoulders and stood there. “She is fair and fine and bonny and true,” he sang. “Unlike my own sister, who is ever a shrew!” he finished with a flourish.

Raucous applause greeted his effort, with back slaps from those near him and hearty guffaws from all gathered around. Tayg glanced at the two women standing before him. One look at Dolag told him she had had enough of his attentions. One look at Catriona told him his jibes had hit home. Where Dolag was crimson and ducked her head as if to hide, Catriona stood, her fists on her shapely hips, her chin set and her skin flushed with anger.

“I have a fine idea,” he said, still beating the drum, but looking Catriona straight in the eyes.

“I’ll sing a song we all know. You can all join in and give Sweet Dolag,” he gave the lass his best you’re-a-rare-lass look, “a respite from your ribbing.”

This did win him a small, shy smile, which he answered with another grin and a wink. Once more the lass turned crimson. She was demure, to be sure, but too much. She was so meek he feared her own bairns would mistreat her. Tayg could not see himself wed to someone who would take such teasing not only to heart, but would not stand up for herself.

He sighed and launched into a well-known, slightly bawdy song that, to his relief, the crowd eagerly joined in on. Catriona glared at him as she forced her way through the circle of Mackenzies and stormed from the hall.

C
ATRIONA STOMPED OUT
of the crowded hall and into the cold night air. Clouds scudded across a pale sliver of moon as if in a hurry to be on their way. Which is what she should do. Be on her way. She paced along a well-worn path through the snow. That arrogant, irritating, exasperating bard! He had poked at her pride, prodded her temper, all the time knowing that if she had not held onto her tongue they would both be in deeper trouble than they cared to even contemplate. And then he had called her that most hated word: shrew.

Only the thought of forever being bound to that ruffian had given her the strength to keep silent. How dare he call her those things in front of these people! He was as bad as her brothers. As stupid as her father. As insufferable as…as…she couldn’t think of anything as insufferable as His Bardship. If he
was
a bard, for he sang like a dying toad.

Catriona pulled her cloak close about her. She had reached the far end of the village, so she turned and paced back toward the hall.

She was heartily sick of having the shrew moniker pinned to her. And ’twas somehow worse coming from him than from Broc, from whom she expected nothing better. She would have to get him back. Poke and prod him to the point of embarrassment in front of strangers…well, she had done a wee bit of that already. But he deserved more. So much more. ’Twas too bad she needed his help, else she’d leave him here to wink and grin like a fool at sweet, silly Dolag, who had not the wits to strike back when she was so mistreated. She’d best find some backbone, for no one would wish to wed such a pathetic creature.

Of course Broc said no one but Dogface would marry her, but at least it wasn’t because she was pathetic. Better to speak your mind loudly than to have no mind to speak of.

She turned to pace back to the far end of the village. She had not been able to strike back at Tayg’s words as she wished lest she confirm the not-so-subtle hint he gave of her identity. But she would have her revenge.

There were the easy ways, of course. Dumping a bucket of water on him while he slept was always effective, though his clothing would be wet and they would be delayed from their trip. No, not that then.

If the snow was not so thick upon the ground she could gather dead, prickly thistles and place them in his bedding. She had gotten Callum several times with that one when she was little, but he had finally gotten wise and began to check his bed
before
he climbed into it. Apparently there were certain parts of a man’s body that did not take kindly to the prickly thistle. She smiled as she remembered the look of pained surprise mixed with grudging respect she had seen on Callum’s face.

But the snow was too thick and the moonlight too pale to go gathering thistles. She could not sabotage Tayg’s food, for she ate it too. Dung in his shoes, snow in his bags? Nay, all would delay them, and she would not allow Dogface, nor her family, to catch up to her until she had secured her future and the clan’s with the king. There must be something…

As she turned to retrace her steps toward the hall, she saw the door open and Tayg step out of the dimly lit interior into the night. She slowed her steps, watching carefully as he moved toward her.

“Are you not cold?” he called to her.

“I am too angry to feel the cold,” she said, though that odd warm chill washed over her with his words.

He had the audacity to chuckle. “You drew that upon yourself.”

“By asking that you do your job?”

They met halfway between the hall and the end of the village, facing each other on the path. “By putting Sweet Dolag before the crowd like that. ’Twas not a kind thing to do.”

Shame flashed through her, surprising her with its sharp twisting in her gut. ’Twas not a feeling she was overly familiar with, nor one she liked, and it angered her that he should make her feel it. “I have seen bards do such many times,” she said, her voice purposely sharp.

“Perhaps, but I do not know of any bard who would pick such a timid lass to put before a crowd.”

The disappointment in his voice grated on her, raising her irritation with him even further. “But did you not need to see her strengths and weaknesses so that you may inform the king of her qualities? Did you not need to see that she is unsuitable for him?”

“Him?” He looked down at her as if she were a recalcitrant wean. “Do you think she is a rival in your plans for poor Tayg of Culrain? ’Twas not necessary to embarrass her in order to find out her true character, Catriona of Assynt.” His tone cut her, shaming her again. “She did that just fine on her own while we ate. It did not need your pointing out her faults for all to witness. I have no doubt that all here know of her frailties and of her strengths.”