Charming the Shrew (9 page)

He was doomed. He must do something. And he had to do it quickly.

“We’ll see what we find,” he said, sending a silent prayer that wherever the smoke came from it would not be upon their path. For now, he needed to get away from her before his body and his imagination ganged up on him and he did something he would forever regret. “If we find someone, we shall have to make you plain before they see us.” He turned away from her surprised look and continued on the road they had been traveling.

P
UNGENT PEAT SMOKE
greeted Catriona long before the village came into view. Fatigue unlike any she had known dragged at her feet, making it harder and harder to lift them. Thank goodness the bard and his horse were breaking the trail for her or she would have given up miles ago.

He stopped ahead of her and waited. If she didn’t know better, she’d think that was concern on his face, but he was nearly as hateful to her as Broc, so that was impossible. He would not care if she were sinking into hellfire with a rock tied about her neck. But that wasn’t fair. If she was truthful with herself she must admit that he had been kind to her in a gruff sort of way. He had even made her laugh. She did not want to like the man, but she had to admit, at least to herself, that he was not so bad as most.

She caught up with him and was puzzled by the odd look in his eyes, almost as if he had never seen her before.

“We need to hide your hair before we enter the village, and smudge up your skin,” he said to her.

She merely nodded, wondering if she’d be able to force her feet to move again now that she had stopped. She looked up at him and saw the unmistakable mark of concern in the lines of his face and the slant of his eyebrows.

“You need not worry, bard,” she said. “I will not say anything to give myself away.”

He stared at her a moment, as if she were some odd bit of flotsam he’d found, then turned to rummage in a saddlebag. He pulled a length of stained linen from it and handed it to her.

“What am I to do with this?”

“You need to fashion a wimple, if you can, or at least a veil. The more of your hair and face that are obscured, the less chance you will draw attention to yourself. We will both regret it if you are recognized.”

Of course. She pushed the hood of her cloak back and loosened the plaid scrap she had looped about her neck. Pulling her heavy braid out from beneath her cloak, she coiled it around her head and tried to hold it in place with one hand while she wrapped the cloth about it with the other.

Just when she got the cloth in place, the braid slithered out of her grasp. She started over, and once more, just as she was about to get the linen in place, the braid escaped her.

“Here, let me hold your hair,” the bard said, his voice strangely husky.

He stepped behind her and took her braid from her hand, wrapping it inexpertly but gently about her head. Catriona shivered at the pleasing warmth of his fingers against her scalp as she finally managed to wrap the cloth securely and tie it in place at the back of her head. When she was done she turned to face him.

“’Tis no wimple, but ’twill serve the purpose,” he said, reaching out and tucking a stray tendril under the material.

His fingers were remarkably gentle against her wind-chapped cheek, and a curious warm chill ran through her where he touched her. He stared at her for a moment as if frozen to the spot.

“Bard?” She touched his arm and he jerked as if burned by her, then quickly bent and dug into the snow at his feet without a word. When he reached the rocky ground underneath, he dug until he had a small handful of dirt. He added a bit of snow to it, making a muddy mixture, then rubbed his hands together, letting most of the dirt drop back to the ground. He reached toward her face again, and Catriona pulled back.

“I’ll not hurt you, lass, but we must distract from your beauti—from your pale skin.” Gently he ran his thumbs over her cheeks in what felt more like a caress than anything else. He ran a finger along her nose, as if memorizing the line of it. Slowly he drew his palm over her chin. His eyes followed the path his hands took, and Catriona was mesmerized by the strange sensation of his soft touch spreading the cold, gritty dirt. She found it hard to breathe, and he seemed to be having the same trouble. Her skin felt heated, and she did not know what to do with her hands. He finished by brushing away much of his handiwork with the backs of his fingers, once more lingering over his task.

At last he stepped back. She licked her lips nervously and watched him swallow, his eyes fixed upon her mouth. For a moment they stood there, silent, watching.

“I think that will do,” he finally said, that husky note once more in his voice. He bent to the snow again and cleaned his hands. When he faced her he wore his usual slightly perturbed look.

“You understand what you must do?” he asked. “How you must behave?”

“I do, bard,” she said in a breathless voice. She cleared her throat and pushed the disturbing sensation of his hands on her face from her mind. “I am well versed in the behavior of a sister toward an older brother.” That was better. “’Twill not be difficult.”

He nodded but didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked a bit like a man heading to the gallows.

“I can do this,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “Do not worry.”

He backed away a step, breaking her touch, then picked up the reins and moved toward the smell of peat smoke.

“Bard, wait!” she called.

He stopped and looked back at her as she caught up to him.

“Do you not think a sister would know her brother’s name?”

“Tayg,” he said, and she saw him wince as if he had not meant to tell her.

Surprised, she asked, “Like brave Tayg of Culrain?”

He turned and began walking again. “’Tis a common name among Clan Munro.”

“Then you are of that clan?” She loped along behind him, trying to catch up with his long strides despite her fatigue. “Is that why you were angry last night? Are you rivals, perhaps?”

“Save your breath, lass,” he said. “The sun is nearly set. If we are to chance this, I would reach our destination before full dark.”

Catriona followed him, trying out his name in her mind. Tayg. It summoned to mind images of a man in battle, the king’s banner flying over his head, sword drawn, a battle cry upon his lips. But this Tayg was a bard, not a warrior. She tried to adjust the image to one of a bard, seated in a hall, but she could not. Now there was a face on the warrior, and it belonged to this Tayg. She shook her head at the nonsense. ’Twas an uncommon name, to be sure, yet it connected him to his clan. ’Twas a good name—for a bard or a warrior.

“H
ELLO
!” T
AYG CALLED
as they entered a village just as the last light was about to fade from the sky. Heads poked out of cottage doors, but no one spoke to them. “’Tis a bard I am, in search of a warm meal and a place to sleep out of the cold for me and my sister,” he said loudly.

“Welcome, bard,” a booming voice called from a larger building set at the far end of the small village.

Tayg and Catriona walked past a dozen small stone cottages thatched with heather. The earthy smell of burning peat hung low over the settlement. The blanket of new snow was broken in dirty trails leading from each dwelling to the main path on which they now trod through the center of the village. ’Twas not so different from every other Highland village Tayg had ever seen, including his own.

When they reached the foot of the trail, a barrel-chested man greeted them from the doorway of a house that was easily twice as big as the others they had passed.

“I am Farlan, chief of the Mackenzies of Fionn. I welcome you to our village.”

“I am—” Tayg hesitated. He did not wish to give their true names. “I am Duncan, and this is my sister Mairi.”

“We have been long without the merriment of a bard, good man. If you will entertain us, we will be happy to provide a warm meal and a place by the fire for the night.”

Tayg grinned. “Aye, that would be a fine trade, Farlan.”

“What brings you wandering in such weather, and with your sister?”

“Ah, well now, there’s a complicated tale,” he said, stalling. What was wrong with him? ’Twas stupid not to have thought of these questions before. The lass had his mind running in circles instead of attending to their survival. “I am escorting my sister to her new family. She is to wed.” ’Twas not so far from the truth.

“And this groom could not come to claim her?”

“Nay.” Tayg glanced at her and shook his head slightly. He should have devised a plausible story with her before they entered the village so they would not betray one another, but he had not been able to think of aught except to hide her loveliness. And then the wide-eyed look of wonder on her face at his touch had nearly undone him. He had come so close to tasting her…

Farlan cleared his throat.

Tayg shook his head and tried to rid himself of the distracting memory and focus on the tale he must weave to keep them safe. He hated it, but he had to trust her to go along with the tale he was concocting.

“Her betrothed had an accident hunting and has broken his leg. ’Tis impossible for him to travel now, yet they are anxious to begin their married bliss.”

He slanted a leering grin at Catriona, who, to her credit, did not respond to his jibe with anything except a narrowing of her eyes and a pursing of her lovely lips. ’Twas silly to bait her, and yet he found he could not help himself.

“She is nearly an old woman and does not wish to give the lad a chance to change his mind.”

The chief guffawed. “If she is old, then I am young, but then time is different when you are in love.” He chucked Catriona under the chin, and Tayg prayed she would not bite the man. To his relief she did not.

“’Tis not every day a perfect match presents itself,” she said, her head dipped demurely, though her glare was aimed firmly at Tayg. “Should you not explain your other purpose to our host, my brother?”

Tayg started, then realized she could not be speaking of the plot against the king. “What other purpose?”

“The bride search, of course.” She looked at Farlan. “You’ll have to forgive him. The cold has addled his brain.”

“’Twill do that, aye, but what’s this of a bride search?”

Catriona stepped closer to Farlan and looped her arm around his as if taking him into a great confidence. Tayg wondered what she was up to.

“Have you not heard that the king seeks to marry off his loyal followers’ sons?” she said.

Farlan shook his head. “That news did not reach us.”

“My brother has been sent to spy out the bonniest lasses in the Highlands to present to the king as prospective brides.”

Tayg scowled at her, but she just flashed a cheeky grin at him.

“Surely you have some bonny lasses here,” she continued.

“We do. We do indeed,” he said, his eyes lighting with delight. “My own daughter would make a grand match for any lad.”

“Do you have any sons?”

Farlan blinked at her.

“Oh, not for me. I have heard that a clan near to the sea has a bonny daughter ready to wed. I merely thought…”

“’Tis a fine thought, lass, but my sons are all long wed. Did the king bid you find eligible sons to go with those brides?”

“Nay, I simply wish all lasses could be as blessed as I to be wed to a brave, braw lad.”

She batted her eyes at the chief, and Tayg struggled not to burst out laughing at her performance. She was far better at this than he would have thought.

Farlan chuckled. “Well, ’tis only a daughter I have left to settle, lass. But come, you are both cold, no doubt. Let us continue this conversation inside. Give your horse to Ian here.” He shoved a lad who had been lurking nearby toward them. “He will see ’tis well tended.”

“Our thanks,” Tayg said, pleased to change the subject. “If we can warm ourselves and sup, I would be happy to entertain your kinsmen this night.”

Farlan ushered them into the building, followed by most of the villagers, it seemed. He ordered several people off to gather food and drink, then led Tayg and Catriona to a table near a roaring fire at the end of the hall. A platter of mutton and one of roasted onions and turnips were quickly placed before them, along with a pitcher of ale. Trenchers were laid out with a horn spoon set upon them and wooden cups set next to the pitcher.

The hot food was delicious, and they ate quickly. Tayg was pleased to see the color return to Catriona’s smudged cheeks. The lass could rest here while he tried to be a bard again. He would follow the course he had followed at Dun Donell, depending more upon his storytelling ability and less upon his dubious talent as a musician.

Farlan joined them, a ginger-haired lass at his elbow. “Good bard, this is my daughter, Sweet Dolag.”

Tayg looked up at a lovely lass of perhaps ten and seven. Her copper hair framed a heart-shaped face with a riot of curls, but her eyes were cast down so that he could not tell their color. She was bonny, but not as bonny as Catriona. Tayg held his breath a moment, appalled at the thought. He must remember his purpose for traveling with Catriona and not let her beauty distract him. He needed to remember that she was a shrew and a hostage. Determined to redirect his troublesome thoughts, he rose and gave a nod of his head, like a small bow.

“’Tis pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”

The lass colored prettily. She sat beside her sire on the bench directly across from Tayg and Catriona, who set her spoon and knife aside and watched the father and daughter.

“What news have you?” Farlan asked.

Tayg chewed for a moment, then said, “’Tis not much news this time of year. The MacDonells are well.” Catriona muttered something, but he could not make it out. “Though the Beatons raid their livestock. The MacLeods of Assynt are as ever—” he glanced at Catriona “—arguing amongst themselves.”