Charming the Shrew (12 page)

“Cat? Are you not thirsty?”

She nodded and forced her feet to move, though she did not trust her voice. The urgency to get away this morning had pushed the memory from her mind—and her body—which now remembered it vividly! Never before had she felt the liquid heat that had coursed through her. Never before had she had the kind of disturbing, though not distressing, dreams she had experienced last night.

Part of her wanted to experience that wonderful, dazed feeling again, but a sterner part of her said it would be dangerous. Too dangerous to allow that kind of feeling out. Never before had she been so willing to give up control of herself and just be. ’Twould not be prudent to allow herself to fall into that situation again. ’Twas pure folly, but it had been unlike any folly she had ever known before.

She knelt beside him at the burn and slaked her thirst, but she did not allow herself to look at him.

H
OURS LATER
, T
AYG
glanced up at the darkening sky. They needed to find a place to pass the night. They had left the caves behind, and the forest offered little in the way of true shelter from the elements. At least the sky was mostly clear. If it didn’t snow, they would be fine under the open sky. If it did, well, they would manage that if they had to.

A bit of cover would be in order, however, just in case they hadn’t thrown the brothers off as much as he hoped.

Tayg spied a copse of young pine trees, ringed by evergreen shrubbery with long, densely covered branches. He veered off the trail toward it.

“Where are you going?” Catriona asked.

He looked back at her. She stood on the trail, fists on her hips, her mouth drawn down into a most unbecoming frown. She was angry that he would not answer her questions, but he did not know how to answer them. The truth could not be told, even the part he was sure of. He did not wish to get tangled up in lies, so the only thing to do was to avoid answering. Of course the look on her face back at the burn had stopped not only her questions but very nearly his heart. He could have sworn the look was desire, bare and bold. Perhaps it had been, for it reminded him of the look on her face when he had foolishly kissed her the night before. Yet she had quickly mastered that softness.

“We will stop for the night here,” he said, then turned back to the copse.

“Where?” she shouted after him.

Tayg kept going, leaving the horse at the edge and pushing his way into the dense bushes. Once beneath the canopy of spreading branches he discovered exactly what he had hoped was there—a thick cushion of pine straw in a small cleared space. ’Twas a spot the deer most likely used, and while it was not exactly a roof over their heads, it was big enough for the three of them. It would provide cover from the trail and would keep most snow off of them if the weather changed.

“Bard?” Her voice came from outside the copse and carried a slight wobble as if she were afraid. “Bard? Tayg?”

He smiled to himself. Yes, they had cover from the trail. Apparently she couldn’t see him even from a few feet away.

“Tayg!” A note of panic had invaded her voice.

He stepped forward and stuck his hand through the prickly, aromatic foliage.

“Oh!”

She was close. He crooked his finger, beckoning her within. He drew his hand back and parted the branches just enough so he could peer out at her.

“’Tis cozy in here and sheltered from the trail. We dare not make a fire, in case…”

“Aye, in case Broc and the sheep were not fooled by your wee trick?”

He winced at her tone more than at the words. “Would you have preferred I left you there to wait for your brothers to find you?” He grabbed the horse’s reins and forced him to pass through the bushes. The branches snapped back into place, and Tayg was rewarded with her exaggerated huff.

He led the horse to one side and looped the reins over a branch. He lifted the bags from the saddle and dropped them in the middle of the circle, wincing when the drum boomed as the other bags fell on top of it.

“’Tis a fine bard you’ll make if you do not have an instrument to play.”

He glanced back to find her standing inside the shelter with her arms crossed. She had one raven-colored eyebrow raised.

“I am tired. ’Twas a slip. I’m sure the drum is fine.” Just to prove his disguise, he rearranged the bags and slipped the drum free. He ran his hands over the tautly stretched skin as if he knew what he was looking for. There were no obvious holes in it. He could only hope there was not some less obvious problem. Shrugging, he tucked it back into its protective bag.

Catriona still stood, arms crossed, combat in her face. He rose.

“What plagues you, lass?” he asked as he freed the horse from its saddle.

“Me? I have no troubles, other than that I am traveling with a daft man who will not explain himself.”

“I do not have to explain myself to you.”

Catriona stalked over to him and stuck a finger in his chest, her eyes blazing. “Aye, you do. Why did you not take advantage of the situation and rid yourself of me?”

The air crackled between them as they stared at each other, she waiting for his answer, he trying to figure out what answer to give. He saw temper flare in her eyes, and a tiny tremble at the edge of her mouth that betrayed her fear. But fear of what? The lass did not seem to fear much of anything. Him, least of all. He reached forward and ran the backs of his fingers over her soft cheek. The temper faded, and something deeper rose in her gaze.

“I think it was because of this,” he said, dipping his mouth quickly to hers.

Sparks flew through him, and he recognized the truth of his words. Despite her sharp tongue, her kiss was liquid fire, burning through his veins, sweeping reason from his mind.

Cat swayed almost imperceptibly toward him, then quickly seemed to remember herself. She stepped back, her hand to her lips, her eyes wide.

“Do not ever do that again,” she said, though he saw her chin tremble, and he knew well the fire that burned in her eyes, for it burned just as brightly in his belly. She might not want his kisses, but she burned just as much as he did from them.

He grinned at her and gave a little bow. “As you command, my high-and-mighty lady.”

“I am not, nor will I ever be, lady to a bard. Neither will I play your harlot while we travel to the king.”

“You are no harlot, only a difficult, ungrateful woman. Tayg the Bard will not touch you again, of that you can be sure.” As long as he could control his impulses. What had come over him? He did not wish to entangle himself any further with this woman, yet here he had succumbed again to the siren call of her lips. Thank goodness she had regained control of her senses before he had done something truly daft. He gave himself a shake and returned his attention to the horse.

“Make yourself useful,” he said, sounding like Robbie when facing a battle. ’Twas the only way to hide his rising frustration from the disturbing lass. “Find some water for us, then we’ll sup. ’Twill be dark very soon.” When he realized that he had not heard her stir, he glanced over his shoulder. She stood there, back straight, nose in the air, and fury in her eyes.

“What?” he asked.

“I do not take orders like some serving wench.”

He rose and faced her, his own temper rising to match his frustration. “Indeed, you do not.” He took a deep breath and tried to remember she was a lass, not a soldier from the army. “I beg your forgiveness. I have been too long in the company of soldiers.” Surprise shone in her eyes, and he realized he had slipped in his persona again. “’Tis where I learned the battle songs,” he said. To distract her from his words, he flashed his never-fail grin at her and bowed low. “I will make beds for us. Will you fetch some water?”

He leaned down and hooked the strap of his water skin with his fingers, swinging it to her in one smooth motion. She snatched it from the air without ever taking her eyes from his.

“I do not know what you are up to, bard, but do not think you can fool me with your words.”

“If you would rather make our camp, I shall be happy to fetch the water.” He waited for her to decide.

After what seemed hours, she finally let out a growl and a muttered oath, then turned and ducked under the sheltering branches of their hideaway. Tayg turned back to his work, still grinning. She was as prickly as a gorse bush, but there was something underneath that difficult exterior that was in need of a bit of tending. Every once in a while—like when he kissed her—her softer side would reveal itself. Still, she reminded him of the cat-a-mountain in his dream: soft fur, sharp bite. ’Twas one good thing about kissing Cat: she could not offer biting comments when her mouth was so engaged.

He realized suddenly that he no longer thought of her or called her by her given name. Nay, she was Cat to him, and the name fit her well, claws and all. Tayg smiled again and returned to his work.

T
HEY PASSED AN
uneventful evening, with episodes of silence followed by moments of glaring, followed by Cat’s studied disinterest. When they finally lay down on their separate pallets, Tayg watched her rigid back, limned by the faint moonlight, until, after a long while, she relaxed and her breathing became slow and even. He was going to have to do something about his growing attraction to her, and soon. It made no sense that he should be attracted to her. She was trouble, and he had enough of that in his life.

He flopped over on his other side so he could not see the gentle slope of Cat’s hip in the wan moonlight. Nay, he would not allow himself to succumb to the temptation of her lips again. No matter what else happened, he knew this was not a woman he wished to wed, and kissing would lead to other, more intimate acts. Then, when she found out his true identity, she could use that shared intimacy to solve her problem. She had heard the songs and tales. According to his mum, every lass who had ever heard them wanted him for a husband. She was no different. She was trouble, and he had to get her to the king. Quickly.

He flopped back the other way, but squeezed his eyes shut so he would not see her ebon hair. Behind his lids her image floated, soft, beckoning him. Tayg groaned and struggled to remember his duty.

T
AYG AWOKE WITH
a start. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, then slowly he focused on the snow-flecked greenery over his head and the warm, softly snoring woman nestled in his arms. He rubbed his cheek against her hair and inhaled the scent of sleepy Cat…

Cat? In his arms!

Catriona slept, her softly rounded bottom nestled into his lap, her stomach slowly rising and falling under his hand. He jerked his hand away and rolled away from her onto his back.

Holy Mother of God. What had he done? What had
they
done? The predawn sky seemed to stare at him through the dark circle of foliage as if watching him.

Quickly he pieced the night together: they had kissed, eaten a cold meal, he had suffered her glares and ill-temper, and then they had gone to sleep, on their own pallets of bracken and blankets. He had done nothing. They had gone to sleep separately. He raised his head and looked around. She had moved from her place, near but separate from him, to his side.

Tayg rose up on his elbows and looked over at the perfect profile of her pale face. The traveling was hard on her, showing in the bruised-looking shadows under her eyes. Her hair, which had escaped its ugly covering and its tight braid, lay about her like an ebony pool. He turned toward her and lifted a heavy, silky lock, letting it slide through his fingers.

She was beautiful. Sleep softened her features from their usual belligerent form to one of vulnerable innocence. ’Twas an odd thing to consider, but the truth of it struck him hard in the belly. An unfamiliar urge to protect her warmed and alarmed him.

She stirred and opened her eyes.

Tayg rose as casually as he could manage, though the blanket that tangled about his feet made it difficult. “Good morn,” he said.

“Good—” Catriona sat up, the same glare glittering in her eyes that had been there the previous evening. “What do you think you were doing?”

“I was sleeping. And you?” He pointedly looked to where she had started the night, well away from where she had ended it.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying naught. But ’twould appear that you were cold in the night and sought a wee bit of shared warmth.” Tayg was irritated at her attitude. She spluttered, but simply rose and left their cozy thicket, crashing through the woods beyond.

His skin itched when he remembered the feel of her soft curves nestled up against him. ’Twasn’t the first time a lass had climbed into his bed in the night. Though usually the outcome was more pleasurable than this morning’s. Hastily he released the twisted and tangled plaid from the belt that held it about him. He spread the plaid on the ground and began to re-gather the pleats, distracting himself by folding the heavy material just so. When it was pleated to his satisfaction, he slid his wide leather belt under the garment, lay down atop the plaid, and buckled it about him again. Lastly he rose, adjusted the pleating about his hips, and drew the loose ends up to fasten them at his shoulder with the large silver brooch that had belonged to his brother. That done, his mind quickly returned to the lass crashing about outside their shelter.

Irritation that she should be so offended at the idea of snuggling up with him surged through him. Most lasses were quite happy to receive his attention, but this one…she was soft and greedy when he kissed her, but then she would pull the mantle of her temper over her and prove her right to the shrew moniker. And yet, despite her sharp tongue, he could not wrench his mind away from the feel of her in his arms, the woad blue of her eyes when they went liquid with desire, for he had seen desire written on her face as clearly as he saw disdain there.

What was he to do about this growing attraction between them? It would not do to allow it to continue. She did not want him—except if she knew his true identity—and he most certainly did not want her. She was bonny, but her mouth was as prickly as a thistle…well, her words were prickly, but her mouth, he remembered, was soft and sweet and—

He had to do something, and he had to do it quickly. Maybe she would fall down a ravine and drown in a burn. Nay, it would solve his immediate problem, but he’d never be able to live with himself if he let that happen. Not to mention he wouldn’t have a hostage for the king.

The king. He must keep his duty sharply in his mind. Aye, if they traveled hard, they would arrive at Dingwall Castle in time to warn the king, and they would be too exhausted to indulge this passing unwanted attraction. And if he kept her angry, then her words would also serve to keep him focused on her faults instead of on her attributes. His mind drifted to her many soft attributes.

Cat’s crashing drew closer, jarring Tayg back to his problem. He looked up through the thick evergreen branches and noticed that it was nearly full light. They had wasted precious time cuddled up like two bear cubs. His mind veered to other, more interesting ways they could have warmed themselves. He struggled to remember the king, the plot, the snow—anything but her.

He could not allow such thoughts where Catriona the Shrew was concerned. Kisses had been dangerous enough. But now that he had the feel of her, he was in even greater peril. Giving her any hint of her growing power over him would only land him in more trouble. Something had to be done. It had to be done now.

He gathered up their blankets, shoving them into a leather sack. He grabbed the water skin and drank the last of it, swishing it around to relieve the sour taste in his mouth. Finally he pulled the last of the oatcakes and what was left of the dried venison out of the nearly empty food sack and set it out for their morning meal. When he returned from a brief trip into the wood, he found the object of his tangled thoughts quietly breaking her fast.

“We need to fill the water skin again,” he said.

She nodded but did not look at him.

“We must away now. Precious daylight is being wasted, and we must hurry your cause to the king’s side.”

This time she did look at him. “Aye.”

Tayg paced the small space, uncomfortably aware of her. “Your brothers, ’twill not be long before they find our trail again.”

“You led them astray. We have need to hurry, but we are safe from them.”

He stared at her. “Do not play the stupid wench with me. They followed you as far as Fionn. They suspect that you are with me. How long do you think it will take them to realize we did not continue in our first direction? How long before they find us alone together?”

“We will have to stay ahead of them, then.” She shrugged and finished her oatcake with dainty little nibbles that nearly distracted Tayg from his purpose.

He pushed his fingers through his tangled hair, forcing his mind away from her pale, perfect skin and back to the need to escape her company while his duty to the king held him in this purgatory. “They are on horses. Do you truly think we will outpace them when we must share but one?”

She looked at him, chewing her venison, but said nothing.

Confounding, irritating, beautiful, irritating, he reminded himself, woman. He was going to have to be blunt to get a reaction from her, and he desperately needed a reaction from her.

“What about this morn?” Ah, that made her blush and avert her eyes, but still she did not rise to his baiting. “Do you plan to sleep with me each night? For if you do, we best change our story. ’Twould not be seemly for a brother and a sister of our advanced ages to sleep together so.”

“’Twill not happen again,” she said.

He watched as she pressed her lips together until they became a thin line. Her back was straight, and she had raised her chin just a fraction of an inch. She was nearly there. ’Twould take only another nudge or two and the shrew would appear, ensuring his safety—at least his safety from his own daft impulses.

He stepped close to her, his legs nearly touching her knees. He reached down and lifted her chin so she had to look up at him while he leered down at her, doing his best to discomfit her, to draw forth the shrew. He desperately needed to see that difficult lass and not the warm woman who had slept in his arms.

“Ah, but can you guarantee that, lass?” He wanted to see her as tumbled topsy-turvy by this situation as he was, wanted her to react as he knew she would, saving him from his own folly.

“For I cannot guarantee that I can be such a gentleman should you linger in my bed again.”

“I did not—” She burst to her feet, her eyes narrowed, her food forgotten. Nearly nose to nose with him, she stared into his eyes. “I would never linger in the bed of a lowborn bard who cannot even sing a proper ballad nor play a simple drum. I would never sully myself with such as you!” Her hands were fisted at her hips, and her voice rose with each word, sharper, shriller.

Tayg refrained from grinning at her, for he desperately did not wish to spoil her mood. This was exactly what he wanted: the shrew in all her glory. He stepped back, needing the distance more than he needed to maintain his antagonistic posture, and bowed low.

“I would not ask you to sully your precious reputation with such as I—what little reputation you still have.” He waited a heartbeat to let his jab sink in, then rose from his bow and cocked an eyebrow at her, daring her, begging her to sally forth with another diatribe against him.

“My reputation is—”

“In shambles,” he finished for her. “We have been seen traveling together, and at least your brothers suspect the truth. What husband will the king be able to give you when that is known?”

She took a deep breath, and for a moment he thought he saw fear in her eyes, though it was quickly replaced with the familiar hard determination.

“My brothers only suspect. They know nothing for sure. As brother and sister we are perfectly proper traveling together. Once I explain my plight to the king, all will be well and no one need ever know we traveled together.”

“You would have the world work as you will it, though it seldom goes with your or anyone else’s plans.”

She glared up at him. “I decide my fate, no one else.”

“Very well. Then decide your fate for this day. The sun is well up, and we have wasted precious daylight. We should be away.”

She watched him for a moment, then scooped up the water skins and once more disappeared through the green walls of the copse.

Tayg watched her go. He had successfully roused the shrew, bringing a sparkle to her eyes and a flush to her cheeks.

Unfortunately it had not had the desired effect upon him.

C
ATRIONA LED THE
way back to the trail, her thoughts swirling like storm clouds surging on the wind. The man had deliberately baited her. She was sure of it, for hadn’t her brothers, especially Broc, done so all her life? But why? He had provoked her before, but never had she felt he had done so on purpose. He had pushed her to keep up, questioned her about things she’d rather not speak of, teased her, but not with the purpose of raising her temper, though he frequently had. This was different, and she wanted to know what he was up to. One thing she knew about men, when they were up to something it was best to find out what they planned so you could defend yourself.

They reached the trail they had traveled the previous day, their tracks all too clear in the undisturbed snow. She struck out in the same direction they had been traveling, secretly pleased that she had known which way to go without his help. She struggled along a few strides, breaking the path through the knee-high, crusted-over snow when Tayg strode past and took over the lead once more.

It was ever so in her life, always trailing along behind some male. At least her brothers had a legitimate claim to going first as they were all older than she, if you could call that a claim. But Tayg, he had no reason to treat her like she was some ridiculous wean, unable even to find her way along a clear trail. And he had the audacity to suggest she had slept—not with, maybe against—him on purpose, indeed, “lingered” in his bed. As if she would do such a daft thing. Of course it had been awfully cozy, snuggled up against…no, ’twas a daft thing to do, and ’twould not happen again.

She was set to find a suitable husband, Tayg of Culrain or another if the king so wished. Someone who would keep the clan from Dogface’s grip despite her brothers’ plans. But all that would be for naught, as Tayg had so sweetly pointed out, if she was ever found in such a position with the bard.

The bard. Hmph. If he was a bard, she was the Maid of Norway. Never had a bard treated an instrument with such disregard as this one did. She watched the drum bag bang against another sack at the horse’s side. Last night he had dropped things upon it. Nay, he was no bard.

She remembered his performance in the village hall at Fionn. He was a fine storyteller, but he knew less than she did about singing or playing. And that pitiful song he had made up about poor Sweet Dolag.

“You know you cannot sing a note,” she said, tired of arguing only with herself.

He glanced back at her. “I suppose you could do better?”

“A squealing piglet could do better.”

“Ah, I’m less than some wee swine now?”

“Aye. That you are.”

“What have I done that’s got your tongue wagging again?” She could swear she heard a smile in his voice. He was definitely up to something.