Charming the Shrew (7 page)

He also would learn no more for the king, but perhaps he had learned enough. He had delivered the missive from the king and had the other from Duff, though it made little sense. He had done as he had been instructed to. Perhaps he had done enough.

So, he had a plan. Pass the night as best they could, taking care to keep his distance. Return her to her family on the morrow, then slip away unseen. That would solve all his troubles where this lass was concerned. By midmorn he would be back on his way, peacefully alone, free to find the king with what little news he had garnered from Duff.

Uneasy with his plan but unable to see an alternative solution to his sudden troubles, he returned to the cave, ready to do what he must to survive the night in the company of the beautiful shrew.

T
HEY SHARED A
meal of dried beef and drier oatcakes in relative quiet. Tayg saw no reason to reveal his plan for the morrow to the lass, thereby destroying the tentative truce they had achieved. He was nearly certain she had been lost when he came upon her, so in the morn he would agree to take her wherever she wished. He doubted she would know where he was really taking her until they arrived, at which point he would deposit her on her own two feet, point her toward her home, and ride quickly out of sight.

“Why do you scowl so?” Catriona asked.

“Am I?”

“You look like a fat barn cat, contemplating an interloper. Or is it simply that you care not for the repast?” She examined a piece of meat in the firelight and shook her head. “I do not find much satisfaction in eating leather.”

“’Tis beef and you should be happy with it. ’Tis more than you would have had were it not for me.”

She notched her chin up, but did not look at him, nor did she admit he spoke the truth.

“I would have my message,” she said after a moment. “Tell me what it says.”

“You are full of pleasantries.” He fumbled in the pouch at his waist and drew forth the crumpled piece of parchment the MacDonell chief had given him. “I do not know what it says,” he said, handing it to her. “The MacDonell said I should deliver it to your brother Broc and that he would read it to you.”

“That lout can no more read than I,” she said, breaking the blob of wax that had sealed it.

“Ailig, he has been to Edinburgh and was trained in the arts of reading and writing and figuring. Broc has no time for such things.”

Tayg watched as she puzzled over the writing.

“I do not know why Dogface would send me a message, unless ’twas to threaten me. Do you think ’tis a threat?”

Tayg reached for the parchment and tilted it so the firelight fell upon the spiky writing. “‘I shall arrive three days early. The wedding must take place immediately. The spider watcher awaits Seona’s greeting, and we will not disappoint. I expect you to ride as soon as the bedding is finished.’”

An eerie crawling sensation prickled his skin. He looked up to see Catriona’s eyes wide with astonishment and her mouth gaping open.

“You can read!”

Blast and damnation. No bard of his supposed rank would have such a skill. “A little. I was to be…I was to be…a monk,” he finished, almost on a question, waving the parchment in front of him to draw her attention back to it and away from his mistake. This bard business was going to be harder than he thought.

She glanced at the missive, and Tayg saw the astonishment burn away and anger replace it. “I shall never wed that man, and I certainly shall not bed him! He is so daft he even confuses my name and Broc’s broadsword.”

The venom in her voice had Tayg thankful it was not him she spoke of. “Your brother named his sword?” He tried to hand the parchment back to her, but she leaned away from him as if it were a severed head he held.

“I do not want anything of that beast Dogface, not even his words. Burn it. Use it for kindling. I do not care—just never speak those words again!” She wrapped her cloak tightly about her and lay down near the fire with her back to him.

Tayg watched her for a moment, then turned his attention back to the message that had upset her so. ’Twas clear from the writing the lad was no romantic with soft words and false love to woo a wife with, especially if he could not even remember the name of his betrothed. From the sound of it, the man wanted as much to do with the lass as she with him. ’Twas not unheard of in the Highlands for such a marriage to occur, but usually when there was this much rancor between the bride and groom the family called it off and found another, more acceptable match.

He read the words again, trying to figure out what it was about them that nagged at him so. The MacDonell wished to rush the wedding…perhaps he feared his bride would run away. Tayg smiled at that thought. He did not wish to disappoint the—he looked back at the paper.
Spider watcher.
’Twas an odd thing to call someone, unless—

Tayg read the message yet again, this time remembering the message he had delivered to the MacDonell and the unexpected glint of pleasure in his eyes at being commanded to appear before the king. The king…

He’d heard a tale that told of the king and how he had watched a spider in a cave and drawn courage from the determined creature. So the MacDonell wished to take Catriona…nay, he did not say Catriona, he had used the name of Broc’s sword…

A cold sweat broke out on Tayg’s brow as the true intent of the message slammed into him. This message had been intended for Broc, not Catriona, and it outlined the alliance between the clans—and the first task that would test it, taking up swords against the king! Tayg was sure of it.

The MacDonells and the MacLeods rode to meet the king, and ’twas not to give fealty. The two clans rode against King Robert, and Tayg held the evidence in his hand. What to do? He could not ride against the MacDonell by himself, and Catriona’s clan would not help him. Indeed, if spending a night alone with her wasn’t enough to anger them, riding against their ally would.

That left warning the king. He must ride to warn the king himself. He had the evidence. The task fell to him alone.

He regarded the lass across the fire. Perhaps not alone. He had the evidence, and he had a hostage, who had provided the needed clue to understand the message and who might yet reveal more information that would be of use to the king. He folded the missive and tucked it in his pouch.

So much for leisurely adventures or even not-so-leisurely spying through the Highlands. He must make for the king as swiftly as possible, which would then put him back in the path of Mum’s scheme too soon. Tayg wanted to punch something. All his plans were ruined by a conniving, dog-faced chief. He could save his king or he could save his freedom, but he could not do both, and worse yet, he would have to take the shrew with him.

Truly, there was no mercy.

C
ATRIONA TURNED OVER
and faced the fire. Her back was a little less than frozen. She could not say as much for her front. The fire flickered in the dark cave, casting just enough light to show the man sleeping on his back, his well-formed, trews-clad legs sticking out of the plaid that served as both bed and blanket. The scowl was gone from his face, leaving in its place an almost graceful peace that softened his mouth and relaxed the furrows from his brow. He looked perfectly comfortable there on the hard cave floor across the meager fire from her, yet she was freezing and the ground was hard and lumpy. Her heavy winter cloak did little to cushion her from it. She dug a rock from beneath her hip and decided to give up on sleep. Sitting up, she arranged her clothing to maximize any warmth it might afford.

What she really wanted was a plaid to wrap herself in as he did, or at least a pair of Ailig’s cast-off trews to keep away the drafts that slipped up her skirts. But those were back in Assynt, and she was here with this stranger, his horse, and—wait. There had been a pair of trews in the saddlebags! Surely the bard would not wish her to remain cold.

She rose quietly and moved to the back of the cave where the bags had been left. Slowly she lifted a flap and dug her hand into the first bag. Food. She moved to the next. Oats for the horse. The third was the one. She pulled out a pair of woolen trews. They were big, but they would do. She tugged off her boots, slid her legs into the garment, then put her boots back on her cold feet before standing and pulling the woolen leggings up. It took her some time to unfasten her belt, arrange the loose waist of the trews under her gown, then fasten the belt again over her gown to hold the trews up. They didn’t solve the problem of cold completely, but they helped. She moved back to her spot by the fire.

Settling back as near to the fire as she dared, she gazed at the flames, then found her attention pulled to the sleeping form of her companion. He turned toward her suddenly, startling her, but he quickly settled back into his deep sleep, one well-muscled arm tucked beneath his head. She remembered how strong his arms were, how his warm hand had enveloped hers and how muscular his thighs had been as she lay across them on the ride to this cave. He really was a braw man, though in sleep he looked younger, less concerned than he had when he had been awake, as if he shed his cares in his dreams. But what cares could a bard have beyond learning the latest news and singing for his keep?

She
had cares, and not small ones, cares she must attend to.

Leaving had at least kept her out of Dogface’s hands, and from the sound of the message the bard had read her—she still marveled that he could read—she had left none too soon.

But what was she to do now? If she continued with her original plan, she would have to travel past Assynt to get to her aunt’s village by the sea. She had no wish to go anywhere near her home until she was sure Dogface had departed and would not be returning. That meant her aunt’s was no longer her destination. Then where could she go?

Not Assynt, nor Dun Donell, nor the sea village, nor an abbey. She shuddered. The list of where she could not go was growing longer by the moment.

A new thought had her shuddering: ’twas not unheard of for a bride to be married by proxy. Nay, Broc would not do that to her…would he? She must not panic. She was smarter than Broc, so there must be a way around this problem. Perhaps he had not thought of a proxy wedding…but he would, eventually. Someone would mention it, probably Dogface, though she still did not understand why he wished to wed her. But ’twas just the kind of thing he would suggest, for he was too like Broc in that he did not brook with others thwarting his wishes. She would not be safe from the vile man unless he could not wed her.

An idea formed, faint at first, but as she mulled it over it became clearer, stronger. She must wed another before Dogface or Broc could find her and seal her fate. Even if they did marry her to Dogface by proxy, ’twould not hold up if she had previously consummated a union with another to whom she had freely given her vows.

She must marry. She must marry soon.

She watched the sleeping man across from her. He was very pleasant to look at, but nay, he would not make for the sort of husband she needed. She must find someone with enough strength and power to stand up to Dogface, and to Broc, for ’twould come to that, she was sure. She needed a hero like those in the songs the bards sang…a hero like Tayg of Culrain.

She considered that for a moment. As far as she knew he was unwed and a second son. He was loyal to the king, for he had fought by King Robert’s side for many months. He was faithful, strong, brave. All the things she needed in a husband, for herself and for the clan. But would he take her to wife?

She would bring a powerful alliance as her tocher, along with wealth. He was said to be the very opposite of Dogface and Broc. Perhaps if she could not convince Tayg of Culrain himself she could convince the king to pledge them for ’twould be to his benefit to seal an alliance between his loyal man and one of the far Highland clans.

The king. She had told Ailig to seek the king’s support to make him the next chief of Clan Leod, yet he had declined, most forcefully, to do so. But that did not mean that she could not petition the king. Ailig had asked her what her duty was. Was it not to see to the well-being of the clan? Marrying Dogface would not speak to the well-being of the clan. Broc stepping into her father’s place as chief would not speak to the well-being of the clan.

But if she were to secure a strong alliance to one such as Tayg of Culrain and if she were to secure the king’s command that Ailig should be chief of Clan Leod of Assynt after his father, then that would speak to the well-being of the clan.

Of course her tongue might not endear her to the king…or to her intended husband. Anger rose in her that she would have to hide her true self, but Ailig’s words of counsel came back to her. With a little effort to curb her tongue she would serve her own purposes, securing a future she could contemplate without revulsion. After all, marrying a hero would be very different from marrying a rogue. She smiled to herself. She had a plan. She would away to the king in the morning with, or without, the bard.

T
AYG AWOKE SLOWLY
and stared at the opening of the cave. The snow had let up while he slept, and the sky was just beginning to turn a deep predawn gray. He glanced across the fire at the sleeping lass who had managed to destroy his adventure merely by standing on a trail in front of him. He risked a forced marriage to the bonny but irritating lass. He risked his life if the MacDonell realized what Tayg had learned. He risked his future happiness by returning from his adventure before his father could thwart his mother’s plan to lock him in marriage by month’s end.

He stood and settled his plaid about him while he glared at the lass. How was it possible that a chance meeting with someone on a deserted Highland track could change so much? He stomped over to the saddlebags. The Shrew of Assynt. Hell and damnation. Not only was he obliged to quit his journey and hurry to the king’s side to warn him of the conspiring of the MacDonells and the MacLeods, but he must take the shrew with him.

He dug out the sack of oats he had brought for his horse and fed the shaggy animal. Damn and hellfire! He could not be caught alone with the shrew. He would be doomed, and his mother would not care one way or the other. Nay, it could not happen. And her brothers? What would they do if he and Catriona were found together? Kill him or force him to wed her. Somehow he couldn’t see the difference in those fates. And the damage was done, as far as her family would be concerned. They had spent a night, however chastely, together alone in a cave in the wilds.

What to do? ’Twas clear that they must get to the king as soon as possible. ’Twas also clear that no one must know they were together until they reached the king. If all else failed, he would depend upon the lass to refuse to be trapped into wedding him. But how? His glance fell upon the drum sack lying by the saddlebags. Of course, a bard would not serve her purposes; a lass like her needed security and alliances.

He would have to trust that she would not deign to have a bard…but just in case, he would make sure she did not want him. Aye, that was the way of it.

Pleased with his plan, he moved to her side to wake her. She was truly beautiful in her sleep. Her face was soft, her skin creamy in the pale dawn light. Her hair was like liquid night, and her lips…

He shook himself. Nay, she was the Shrew of Assynt, and if he did not watch himself she could ruin the rest of his life, not just the next sennight.

He nudged her with his toe. “Wake up. ’Tis time we left this cave.”

Her eyes opened slowly, and just as slowly she turned her head to look at him. Dreams still veiled her eyes, and he could see her confusion.

“Wake up. ’Tis time to travel.”

Her vision cleared, and her eyebrows drew down, a look of irritation replacing the soft, sleepy one. Suddenly he realized there was one sure way to make her keep her distance from him.

“Rise. We head to Assynt. I will return you to your family and let them deal with your disloyalty.” Tayg was pleased with the harsh edge to his voice. ’Twas a perfect imitation of his brother, and it earned him an even deeper scowl from the lass.

“I told you last night, I shall not return to Assynt.”

“And I have decided ’tis not worth the risk being found in your company.”

“Risk? What is your risk? No one knows I am with you, nor do they have any reason to believe I would be. My brothers do not even know of you.”

“Aye, they do not, but the MacDonell, he bade me deliver his missive.”

“Which you have done.”

In theory he had, but he knew the missive had not gone to its true recipient. He did not wish to bring her thoughts back to the strange damning message, though, so he changed the subject.

“You will be tracked.”

“Not in the new snow. What is the true reason you do not want to do as I wish?”

He watched her, judging what would anger her the most. “I have three.” He held up his index finger. “I do not wish to travel with a shrew.” Her face darkened like a winter storm about to break and he hurried on, raising a second finger. “I do not wish to anger the MacDonell.” He held up a third finger and waggled them at her. “And you will slow me down from my task.” He quickly turned to the saddlebags and began searching for something to break his fast.

“Is that all?” she asked, her voice sharp.

“That is enough,” he said, keeping his back to her, though he was inordinately curious to see her expression.

“I can do nothing about being the Shrew of Assynt, so that does not merit discussion. I do not give a rat’s arse if Dogface MacDonell is angry or not, and as for slowing you down, if we both ride the horse ’twill not happen.”

Tayg glanced over his shoulder at her. She was standing, her feet planted and her fists clenched as if she prepared to battle him physically if necessary. Good. Just a little more.

“The horse cannot carry both of us for long, and neither of us in this deep snow. You will slow me down, and I must reach the king as soon as possible.”

A light shone in her eyes, and Tayg had the distinct feeling of falling into a deep pit from which he might never extricate himself.

“I thought you were bound for Assynt, yet suddenly you are bound for the king? What business have you with the king?”

’Twas a good question, and he didn’t know how to answer it without giving away what he knew. Her loyalty to her clan, despite his jibe, just might override her hatred of the MacDonell if she knew why they rode for the king.

“Well, bard? Are you on some errand for him? Are you a spy, perhaps? Do you come to the Highlands to report on the doings of our clans?”

He had to be careful now. “I am…” He cast about for a plausible story—after all, he was an excellent storyteller, so this should be simple. “I am on a mission for the king.”

“And that would be…?”

“I search for brides.” ’Twas easier to stick close to the truth than to weave a completely false tale.

“But the king is wed already.”

“Aye, but he, he…he wants the Highlands settled in their support for him, so he seeks brides for several of his allies’ sons.”

“And these sons would be…?”

He did not like lying to the lass, nor did he care for the glint of curiosity in her eyes, but he had little choice. Tayg rummaged through the saddlebag and pulled out a wedge of cheese, hoping to distract her from her questions with the offering of food to break her fast. He carved off a chunk and tossed it to her, surprised when she caught it deftly, though almost absently. He then took one for himself and put it away.

“Do you not know for whom you seek brides?” she asked.

“I am not at liberty to speak of the king’s plans.” He moved back by the fireside and sat, watching her, judging this to be the moment to lock her into his plan.

“So you see, lass, you cannot come with me. I will return you to—”

“Nay, you will not. There are no eligible lasses at Assynt save for me, so you need not waste your time traveling there. You need to return to the king quickly, so you say. You have your mission to complete, and I find that it serves my purposes as well.”