Charming the Shrew (3 page)

“You ken you are to be chief, aye?”

“Aye.”

“You have proved your mettle this year past. I believe you will serve the clan well.”

Tayg forced himself to maintain his relaxed pose, watching and waiting as he had done so often in war. “I shall do my best. I promised Robbie ’twould be so.”

Angus actually smiled. “I do not doubt it. Robbie would not allow his responsibilities to go unanswered. He was always very serious in that way.”

“Aye, he was.”

“As we would ask you to be,” Sorcha said.

The prickling spread from his scalp down his back, and he found himself braced for battle.

“Sorcha, I do not think ’tis the time now to speak of such things.”

“Wheesht, Angus, ’tis past time for the lad to wed.”

“Wed?” Tayg’s feet thumped to the floor, and he reached for his tankard. The growing gleam in his mother’s blue eyes worried him, and he realized ’twas too late to escape before she sprang whatever plan she had on him.

“If we are to avoid much turmoil within these walls, we must see you wed immediately. ’Twill be a long and dismal winter if the lasses are at odds over you, especially with their mums pushing them all to it.”

“I do not wish to wed.”

“Few men do until confronted with it,” Sorcha said. “There are plenty of willing lasses here in Culrain. You shall wed before the month is out, and all will be well.”

“Nay, ’twill not be well! Nay,” he said again, stalling for time while his mind searched for just the right argument to stay his mother’s plan. “I need a year at the very least, perhaps two.”

Angus laughed quietly. “I would give you more than that, lad, but I’m afraid your mother does have a point.”

Tayg held out his tankard, which Angus quickly refilled. He let his head drop back against the chair and stared up at the smoke-darkened ceiling. He was only just home, only now coming to terms with his new role in the clan, yet already Mum was pushing him further.

He knew he would be judged by his reaction, but he could not take this task upon himself. ’Twas enough to step into Robbie’s shoes and lead the clan. ’Twas his duty, and he would fulfill it. “I do not wish to marry…yet,” he said, still staring at the ceiling where he would not have to see the stubborn gleam he knew to be in his mother’s eyes.

“But—” Sorcha placed her hand upon his arm.

He held up a hand to stop her words.

“If I am to take Robbie’s place,” he said, finally facing her, “then you must trust me to do what I deem best. Marrying hastily will do naught but bring strife to these good folk, and to me. Tell everyone—especially that bard—that I will choose a wife when I am ready to. If there is trouble, I will do my best to defuse it. And tell him to stop singing those damn songs.”

“See, Sorcha, did I not say so?” Angus said, grinning as if Tayg had felled the biggest stag in the wood.

“Aye, you did, but ’twill not be enough.”

“I will not be forced to wed one of these lasses. Were it not me, ’twould be someone else they bickered over. Besides,” he said, looking over the young women enjoying the bard’s entertainment, “I have known them all long enough to know there is none amongst them whom I wish to wed.”

“Then we will arrange another—”

“Nay. I will find my own wife.”

Sorcha looked at him, her gaze level and unwavering. “You are to be chief. It is your duty to do what is best for the clan. As long as you are here and not wed, you will cause trouble amongst the women. ’Twill be good for no one.”

Tayg sighed and prayed for strength against his mother’s strong will. “Then I shall leave. I shall return to the king’s service—”

“Wait, lad,” Angus said. “As it happens, I have a task needs doing that will serve to delay—” he looked pointedly at Sorcha “—what your mother fears will happen. ’Twill also give you the opportunity to meet other lasses who may…appeal to you.” He motioned Tayg to follow him into his private chamber.

“Angus.” Sorcha’s voice was low, and her displeasure with his interference was clear.

“The lad is right, my love. He should not be forced to wed so hastily. I did not like that it was necessary for Robbie to wed a lass he did not fancy. The lad here is wise enough to see the folly in such a plan. We will buy Tayg and you some time.” He leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Go. Spread the word that Tayg is leaving immediately on the king’s business. Make sure that bard understands that if he wants to continue to enjoy the company of the Munro lass he fancies he will cooperate—and he’ll stop singing those songs.”

“Or telling those tales,” Tayg added.

Sorcha looked first at her husband and then her son. She rose and hugged Tayg. “I do not want to see you unhappy. There is enough of that in this life, but we must consider the clan—”

“Go now, love,” Angus said, and Tayg was surprised to hear the softness in his father’s voice.

The two men watched her walk to the bard and draw him away from the circle of listeners, then Angus wrapped an arm around Tayg’s shoulder and led him into the chief’s private chamber. Tayg had always thought of this chamber as the bear’s den, a dark little space where Da and Robbie would seclude themselves for hours, shutting out all others while they discussed who knew what. The small chamber was almost too warm after the drafty hall, so Tayg left the door open, allowing the heat to mingle with the cooler air as the room’s somber mood mingled with the bard’s lilting music.

His father stood at a battered wooden table that took up the center of the room. He tapped a parchment, pinned to the table with bricks of peat, with a thick finger.

“I received this just a day past. The Earl of Ross, that daft bastard, could have had the bard tell me what he wished instead of sending this drivel—” he banged the table with his fist “—but he does so love to show off his writing.”

“You ken he has someone write it for him, do you not?” Tayg asked.

“Aye, but he never hesitates to boast of the fact that he sends his messages in a written hand. Some fool notion of making sure his words are not mangled by the messenger. Fah. As if a bard would mangle any words. ’Tis a daft idea. Writing only leaves the message where others may find it. If ’tis truly important, it should never be set to parchment!”

Tayg just nodded as he scanned the jagged writing. He could read, but it wasn’t a skill he used often, and like any skill, it grew rusty with disuse. After a few moments, though, he had recovered the knack of it and began reading aloud: “Angus Dubh of Munro, my greetings.”

He ran his finger along the parchment as he deciphered the rest of the words there:

It was signed with the earl’s mark and an ornate seal of red wax with a sprig of juniper pressed into it.

Tayg considered what he’d read for a moment, scanning the words once more to get the sense of them. He glanced up at his father, who wore a deep scowl.

“Why would he not send his own man to the MacDonells?” Tayg asked.

“The better question is why did he bother to put such a task to parchment?” his father said, pacing in a circle about Tayg and the table.

“To make sure his words were not mistaken?”

“Nay, ’tis a simple message with little to complicate its delivery. There is more here, but I do not see it yet.”

“’Tis nothing more here, Da.”

“Ah, lad, there is,” he growled. “Just as a voice can imply the true or false intent of the spoken word, so parchment and quill can tell you more than is strictly written.”

Tayg leaned against the table and waited for his father to explain.

“You have been with the king. What do you know of this?” Angus gestured at the missive.

Surprise coursed through Tayg. His father was asking his opinion? Very well, a test. “’Tis an uneasy alliance,” he began, “between the king and the Earl of Ross, despite the impending marriage of the earl’s son to the king’s sister. ’Tis no secret there is little trust between Ross and the king as of yet.”

“Aye,” his father said, stroking his black and silver beard, “so Ross needs to offer proof to the king that he is a loyal servant, and what better way than to have as many folk as possible attest to such after seeing or hearing of this document.”

Tayg nodded and followed the line of reasoning. “He wants this conspicuous display taken to each chief, so that they too may attest to his loyalty when they greet the king at Dingwall.”

Angus nodded and paced.

“But why have one of our kin carry it?” Tayg mused.

“Ah, ’tis simple, that one. The earl would not wish to send one of his own kinsmen into that stronghold. There is no love lost between the Earl of Ross and the MacDonells.”

“So we, as loyal allies of the earl’s, but who have no argument with the MacDonells, are selected to trek into the bens at the start of winter.”

“You see?” Angus said, grinning as if Tayg had surprised him. “There was more to the missive than the words written upon the parchment. Perhaps your time with the king has honed your mind as well as your sword arm.”

Tayg tried to ignore the reference to his previous lack of interest in the politics swirling around the clan. Serving in the king’s cause for more than a year taught a man many things besides the art of battle.

“’Twill not be an easy journey,” Tayg said. “And Hogmanay is less than a month away.”

“Aye, ’twill likely take a fortnight or more to complete the task, and then only if the snows hold off.” Angus pulled a rolled parchment from a shelf below the table, spread it over the missive, and began studying what appeared to be a map.

Tayg considered the task. A fortnight journeying through the Highlands. Dun Donell would not be an easy trip even in high summer when the days were long and the weather gentle. This would be a fortnight, all told, in the cold, traveling from village to village, castle to castle, all alone. A fortnight might give him the time he needed to figure out how to avoid his mother’s solution to the problem with the lasses, or if he must wed, at least he would have this time to choose from other lasses he might meet along his journey. His father’s plan became clear.

“So I shall take this missive to the MacDonells,” he said, “thereby serving the king, the Earl of Ross, and escaping the clutches of both Mum and the other scheming women.” He tried to suppress the smile that fought to spread itself over his face. “And perhaps I shall find a lass I might wish to wed—one who is not enamored of the bard’s version of Tayg of Culrain.” He glanced at the map.

Perhaps ’twas better in more ways than these for him to leave the comforts of his home for a while longer. Perhaps this bard would be gone by the time Tayg returned from his travels or at least his songs would have ceased. Or he would have moved on to another village where he would tell the same stories and sing the same songs and spread this drivel even farther into the Highlands…if others had not done so already.

He was daft if he thought escaping Culrain would solve this problem. The bards had no doubt spread these songs and tales across the Highlands. Such things were meant to lift the spirits, and songs of bravery in war were always the first to spread. No wonder his mother claimed the lasses were scheming to marry him. With drivel like that to contemplate, the lasses would be lying in wait for him, especially if word got out that he was journeying into the bens. Ballocks! ’Twould be an escape from his mum’s scheme but no reprieve from marriage-minded lasses.

Applause drifted through the door, and he heard the bard’s clear tenor voice beg the crowd’s pardon while he took a wee break.

There was the life. A bard traveled freely, unencumbered by responsibilities. He had the attentions of the lasses but not the burden of their aspirations. He had all the good of life and very little of the bad. If only…

Of course! A simple bard could do what Tayg of Culrain could not. A bard could deliver the Earl of Ross’s missive, make light with the lasses, and enjoy the hospitality of anyone he encountered on his journey. The only responsibilities he would have would be to entertain his hosts with songs and stories and the latest gossip. True, Tayg didn’t sing all that well, but he told stories as well as any trained
seanachaidh
, and he used to play the frame drum a bit when he was a lad. He knew gossip aplenty from spending months in the king’s army. How difficult could it be to pretend to be a bard—at least once he left the country where his face was known?

“I shall leave at first light.” Tayg quickly rolled up the Earl of Ross’s parchment.

Angus actually chuckled. “Wise lad. I’ll do what I can to dissuade your mum from finding you a lass herself. In truth I think she sees trouble where it is not, or perhaps she simply pines for your bairns. See that you do not return too soon, or we may see you wed too quickly yet.”

Tayg had packing to do and a drum to find, for he would be quit of these walls before sunrise. He gave a nod to his father and left the bear’s den, happy in his prospects, at least for the present.

“L
EAVE MY CHAMBER
now!” Catriona MacLeod glared at her eldest brother, Broc, and pointed a finger at the door.

He was aptly named, closely resembling the badger both in appearance and in temperament. Tall with a sharp face, midnight hair, and small eyes, he was quick to pick a fight and ruthless in defending his right to order about his many younger siblings. Catriona, the youngest, knew well how to deal with his brand of arrogance.

He stepped toward her. “I am not finished instructing you in—”

“It seems to me that the last time you ‘instructed’ me your porridge was burned every morning for a month, your bed collapsed beneath you, and—”

“Enough!” he bellowed. Catriona enjoyed the crimson cast to his skin.

“I am a woman grown and will run this castle as I see fit. If you do not like it, leave. ’Twould improve the smell greatly.”

He stepped closer until they were nearly nose to nose and she could see the hardness in his dark eyes.

“You will not run this castle with your demands and threats much longer, Triona,” Broc said. “Soon I will become chief, then my wife will see to its running and finally I will have some peace, a decent meal, and no more of your cutting tongue.”

“Are you not forgetting something?” she said, moving away from him but not being so stupid as to take her eyes off him.

“I never forget—”

“You have no wife. Pity no one will marry a mighty lout like you.”

“Unlike you, dear sister.” He surged forward and grabbed her arm, squeezing hard. Silently she cursed herself for not evading his grasp, but she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he hurt her. “You will be married sooner than you imagine.”

Catriona’s skin crawled at the quiet threat in his loathsome voice.

“What do you mean?” she asked, despising the glint that danced in his eyes as a genuine smile spread across his face.

Nothing good ever came of Broc’s good humor.

“You will find out soon enough.” He released her and turned to leave. Catriona heard him snicker. “You will get your due.”

“Tell me what you know or I’ll see that what remains of your precious hair falls out by month’s end.” Catriona knew each of her five brothers’ weaknesses and Broc’s was his hair. Long admired by the lasses for its glossy ebon waves, now, at only eight and twenty, it was thinning rapidly.

Broc grimaced but turned back to face her. “Your betrothed—” the smile on his face turned to a sneer “—is to arrive a sennight hence. Three days more and you shall be married. We shall be rid of you.”

Stunned, Catriona stared at him. “Who?” She hated that the word came out on a whisper.

“’Tis a good question, that,” Broc said. “There is only one clan in all the Highlands who is so desperate for an alliance as to accept Triona the Shrew as a bride.”

“Who?” she asked once more, her voice firmer now as she glowered at Broc. He was dangerously close to smiling again.
“Who!”

The smile crashed across his face and she wanted to smash a fist into it, but she had never been successful against her brothers that way and she needed to know her destiny. With a huge effort she held her fists at her sides, digging her fingernails into her palms.

“Who am I to wed, Broc?” Her voice dripped with the contempt she felt for this brother, but she knew he would not recognize it for what it was; he was too dense, too concerned with his torment of her to see it.

“Should be Da who tells you—”

“’Twould be a pity if you lost the rest of your hair. ’Tis the only thing the lasses like about you.”

He blanched.

She cocked an eyebrow at him in perfect imitation of his favorite expression when he had her in a corner.

“Very well, I shall tell you,” he growled, “but you will do naught to make my hair fall out.”

Catriona nodded. She had had no hand in his loss so far, so ’twas an easy promise to make.

“’Tis a MacDonell lad who has agreed to take you.” His voice was nonchalant, as if he spoke of the weather, but the malice was back in his eyes.

Catriona felt the blood drain from her cheeks, and she was suddenly cold to her bones. “Nay, ’tis not…”

At Broc’s huge grin and quick nod her knees went weak, but she knew better than to allow him to see how horribly his news struck her. She pushed past him, almost daring him to grab her so she could react as she had as a child, all fists and feet, flailing away at his tenderest spot. But ’twas a long time since she could get away with such behavior. Frustration shook her, and she raced for her father’s chamber as Broc chased her down the corridor.

“Father!” she yelled as she neared the chief’s chambers.

Ignoring the closed door, she shoved it open and strode straight for the slight, gray man sitting behind a table, squinting at a parchment filled with tiny marks.

“Broc must cease baiting me or I will not be held responsible if he can no longer father an heir.”

Without looking up, Neill MacLeod answered her. “Wheesht, Triona, I am figuring.”

Catriona huffed, but stood her ground. ’Twas not unusual to be ignored by her father.

“Broc says I’m to be married off to that dog-faced son-of-a-MacDonell.”

Her father continued to ignore her as he silently mouthed the numbers he was laboriously adding up.

“Father!”

Still he mouthed the numbers.

It was ever so with him, attending to the minutiae of inventories, the petty squabbles of the clan. Never did he give her the same level of attention. In desperation, she picked up the inkwell he was absently reaching toward with his quill and held it out of his reach.

“Triona! Damn it, girl! Now I’ve forgotten the number I need to write down.”

“Seven hundred thirty-one.” She held the ink for him to dip his quill into, then waited while he slowly wrote the number. When he was done writing and before he could start adding more numbers, she said, “Broc says you will marry me to Dogface MacDonell.”

Broc chuckled behind her. “His name is Duff MacDonell, and he is their chief. ’Tis a good match for you, Triona.”

She swung round to face him only to find three more brothers ranged behind him. Callum, Gowan, and Jamie tended to travel in a pack. They were stair-stepped in height, hair ranging from a rusty brown to nearly as black as Broc’s, and their expressions were always that of placid sheep, which was how Catriona tended to think of them. Now they were a step behind Broc, as usual. Only Ailig, the youngest son and her occasional ally against the others, was not present. This, too, was no surprise, as his way of dealing with their eldest sibling was mostly to avoid him.

“I was not speaking to you,” she said, glaring at Broc with contempt. She went around the table, the better able to command her father’s attention.

“You ken I will not marry him. I’ll not bend to the likes of Dogface MacDonell!”

“Nor anyone, it would seem, daughter.”

“Bending serves no purpose. You bend to no one. My brothers do not. Why should I?”

“There is bending and there is choosing. You have done neither. You do not bend to my will, yet neither do you choose a husband. What am I to do with such a willful child?”

“I am not willful.” She chose to ignore the raised eyebrows of every man in the room. “I simply will not be sacrificed.”

“We are not sacrificing you.”

“Nay,” Broc said under his breath, but still loud enough for her to hear, “we are gladly giving you away.” One of the sheep snorted.

Triona gripped the inkwell tightly, fighting the urge to hurl it at Broc’s smug face. Instead she slammed it down on the table, then belatedly remembered the stopper wasn’t in it. Ink fountained up and she reached out and caught most of it in her cupped hands before it could do more than splatter the parchment full of numbers.

“Triona!” Her father whisked the parchment out of danger. Her brothers chuckled. She glared at them as ink dripped from between her clenched fingers, splattering on the now empty tabletop.

“What’s so funny?” Her brother Ailig, youngest but for her, entered the chamber, pushing past the sheep. He took one step into the room and seemed to immediately grasp what had happened. He grabbed a rag from a table near the door and set it where Catriona could let the rest of the ink run into it.

“Nice catch.” He smiled at her, but the smile stopped short of his eyes and his voice sounded weary.

This was her favorite brother, indeed the only one she liked, fair-haired and unlike the others as much in manner as in appearance.

“Who’s done what to whom this time?” Ailig looked first at Catriona, then at Broc and the other brothers still ranged behind him.

“You have not told Ailig?” She directed this to her father. “Were you afraid he would tell me?”

“Nay. Broc has spoken out of turn,” Neill said, sending a stern look at his eldest. “We were to announce the betrothal at the evening meal.”

Shock coursed through her for the second time this morning.

“You were not going to tell me until you announced this before the entire clan?” She wiped her hands on her gown, leaving long black streaks of ink on the amber fabric. Neill studied the parchment he held safely in his hands.

“I will not marry him,” she said, as much to herself as to anyone else in the chamber. She turned to her father, her gown gripped in her ink-stained fists. “If you make me, I’ll…I’ll…I’ll stab him in his sleep. Then you’ll have trouble on your hands!”

“Triona—” Her father reached out, but she evaded him and fled the room. Broc’s self-satisfied chuckle followed her down the empty corridor.

C
ATRIONA STORMED THROUGH
the bailey to the main gate, scattering children and chickens ahead of her. As she left the castle’s confines, the magnificent vista of Loch Assynt opened up before her in all its early winter glory. The snow-clad peaks of Quinag rising on the opposite shore were reflected in the loch’s mirrored surface. As she neared the rocky beach, she slowed her steps. Ice clung to the verge and spread thickly upon those rocks that poked up from the dark, watery depths.

A breeze, gentle for December but still cold, tugged at her ruined gown. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing she had stopped long enough to retrieve her cloak before venturing outside. Winter was upon them, and she realized the timing of this ill-fated attempt to marry her off could not have been better planned. Soon the snows would reach down the slopes of the bens and into the glens. Everyone in the Highlands would hunker down for the winter. They would wait out the long, dark months until the coming of gentler weather when the thaw would begin. Only then would anyone venture far from their own safe homes.

She gazed up at Quinag. The crystal blue sky set against the white peak created a stark, glittering contrast. She loved this view, this peaceful spot, where she need not be on her guard against her brothers’ constant enmity.

Surely this marriage was Broc’s plan. He was the one who most wished to rid himself of her. What better way to accomplish that than to marry her off just as winter was about to cut them off from the wider world? She’d have no hope of returning home for months. Not that she would have any reason to return, other than to make Broc’s life a living hell. ’Twas not a bad idea, that, except clearly she was not wanted here by anyone. Anger warred with hurt and a painful sense that she’d been abandoned amid this horde of men. Not for the first time she wished she had a sister, a mother, even an aunt nearby. She needed an ally.

She picked up a round, white-flecked rock and let the frost on it melt against her anger-heated skin. Damn them all, brothers, father, everyone, she thought as she aimed at one of the icy rocks far out in the loch. She let her stone fly, hitting her target hard enough to shatter the ice covering.

“Is it safe to join you, or are you likely to pelt me next?”

She turned and glared at Ailig. His sandy hair fell in scraggly waves about his serious face, and his eyes were such a pale shade of gray they sometimes looked silver, as they did now. He wore a faded blue plaid over bare legs, though he had donned his low leather boots in deference to the cold.

This youngest brother, just two years older than her own nineteen years, was the bravest of them all. Though Broc delighted in causing her anger, Ailig was the only one who ever dared approach her when she was already angry.

“Are you?” he asked.

“What? Oh, going to pelt you?” She shook her head and turned back to the loch. “You are safe enough, though there are plenty of rocks to hand should I have need.”

“Warning taken. I thought you might need this.” He draped a cloak over her shoulders.

Ailig’s calm voice contrasted with Broc’s condescending tone as sharply as the sky contrasted with the mountain peak. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and let him comfort her as he used to do when they were children, telling her stories of his stays in Edinburgh to take her mind from the badgering of her elder brothers. But she had long ago sworn not to show weakness to any of them again, not even to Ailig. She pulled her cloak tightly about her and turned her attention back to the loch.

“The snow is further down the mountain this morning,” he said. “’Twon’t be long before it fills the glen.”