CHARMING THE SHREW
CHARMING THE SHREW
The Legacy of MacLeod
by Laurin Wittig
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2004 Laurin Wittig
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT
CHARMING THE SHREW:
“In this exhilarating Highlands adventure Wittig knows how to merge passion, wild adventure, history and danger into a perfect tale that takes your breath away and tugs at the heart.”
ROMANTIC TIMES BOOKCLUB MAGAZINE
“Move over, Shakespeare, no one writes a more loveable shrew than Laurin Wittig.”
SHERRILYN KENYON, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR
For Mom,
Jane Magruder Watkins,
who taught me to follow my own star.
Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PREVIEW
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
December 23, 1307, Inverurie, Scotland
ROBERT THE BRUCE, king of Scotland, shouldn’t be dying.
Tayg Munro tried to understand this strange twist of fate as he huddled near a stingy fire, wrapped tightly in his plaid against the bone-chilling cold of the Scottish winter. Smoke from the army’s cookfires drifted, leaving a faint gray haze both within and without the palisaded walls of the nearby fort. He could just make out the rise of the motte, a huge earthen hill clad in dirty drifts of snow, upon which sat the timbered tower where the king languished, growing ever weaker.
Despite the death of Longshanks, Edward I of England, in midsummer, and despite the relief afforded by Edward II’s disinterest in war, Scotland’s fate had not yet been determined. All seemed now to hang on the vagaries of a stubborn wasting disease.
The irony that all that the Scots had endured and overcome at Longshanks’s hand might now be lost to a wasting illness was not missed by Tayg. He did not think there was another leader who could unite the varied peoples of Scotland. The loss of Sir William Wallace had been a terrible blow to their fight to rid themselves of England’s grasp, but the Bruce had stepped in and raised Sir William’s banner of freedom with admirable strength and passion.
Now, though, ’twas rumored that the king would not last the night. Gillies had been sent hither and yon in search of a cure. Healers had come from as far away as the Kilmartin glen in the far west. But hope blew away on the sharp winter wind.
Tayg stirred the fire and glanced across its feeble flames at his companions in this endeavor: red-haired Duncan MacCulloch, his best friend and cousin; auld Gair of MacTavish, whom he’d met when first he joined the Bruce’s band; quiet young Tearlach Munro, another cousin; and Tayg’s older brother, Robbie the Braw, revered by all who knew him. Only the king was a better leader of men as far as Tayg was concerned.
But even Robbie wore the expression so common among their company: fatigue edged by despair. Indeed, each of his companions wore it as they sat hunched near the fire. All were good men who had lost someone or something to this constant battle against both the English and their own countrymen. Each had his own reason for being here, not the least of which was an abiding belief that King Robert was the last hope for Scotland’s future. ’Twas a heavy mantle for such a young monarch.
The Scottish earls had not been quick to rally to the cause. The Munros’ own neighbor and ally, the Earl of Ross, was none too pleased that the sons of Munro were following the king, for Ross was on the side of whoever won this fight for Scotland, and he had not yet firmly laid his sword at anyone’s feet. Yet Tayg’s brother Robbie had decided to support the Bruce, and their father had agreed.
Tayg had had no particular opinion about this fracas when Robbie had dragged him into battle. He had thought ’twould be a grand adventure and that he would watch Robbie’s back, protecting his own selfish interests in the future.
But it had turned out to be much more than that.
He had come to admire the men he fought beside and even more the man who led them, the man who lay dying within the timbered walls atop the hill. ’Twas a bitter fate to sit and wait for death.
Just two days past, the Earl of Buchan had attacked a scouting party and butchered the lot of them, leaving them for the carrion crows and magpies to pick at. The gossips claimed that the Bruce had attempted to rise from his deathbed to lead a counterattack, but the king had not been seen.
A sudden cry of surprise went up throughout the camp. Tayg and his companions rose as one, peering into the dimness. Out of the dusk loomed a knight in full battle gear upon a silver-gray charger. As the knight drew closer, his surcoat revealed the rampant lion of Scotland, blood-red, against a glowing golden background.
A chorus of cheers erupted even as Tayg solved the puzzle for himself.
“The king!”
“The king lives!”
Cheers rose around him as the camp of nearly seven hundred surrounded the man they had all thought lost to Scotland.
The king raised his hand, and a hush fell over the army. “’Tis I!” His voice wavered slightly, then steadied.
Shouts surrounded him, louder this time, filling the air with excitement and hope. Tayg felt the weight upon his heart lift.
The king signaled for silence again. “We have grave work this night, and I would not leave you to accomplish such alone.” His voice was now strong and carried easily over the heads of the hushed crowd.
Tayg worked his way nearer to the man who was not so very much older than Robbie. He was near enough to see a lingering pallor to the king’s skin and the dark hollows of his shrunken cheeks, but his posture was erect, his voice strong, and there was a glint in his eyes that bespoke an inner fire that had not been dampened by illness. ’Twas a miracle!
“We must repay Buchan for the slaughter of our men two days past. I will not let those noble warriors of Scotland go unavenged. We march within the hour!”
Yet another cheer ripped through the throng, and Tayg added his own voice to it.
The king turned back to the fortress, leaving the army to break camp and prepare for battle. Orders were shouted, and everyone scrambled to pack up their meager belongings and get back to the business of war.
Tayg fought his way through the crowd back to the hissing fire. Duncan joined him, along with their other companions, each lost in his own thoughts after the momentous arrival of the Bruce within the camp. Tayg watched as a cluster of women passed close by and one, a familiar plump lass with a long amber-colored braid, held back from the others, sidling nearer to him.
“So ye’ll be off then, Tayg?” she asked.
Tayg gave her a grin. “Will I be missed, Siusan?” She was one of the women who followed the army, keeping them fed and their clothes relatively
clean. Tayg flirted shamelessly with all the women, enjoying their attentions nearly as much as he enjoyed watching them move about their work, hips swaying, hands in graceful motion.
“Aye, ye’ll be missed. Though ’twill be blessedly less squabbling amongst the lasses with yer pretty puss busy in battle.” She gave him a smacking kiss then sobered. “Be ye careful now.”
“As careful as one can be in battle, sweetling.” He winked at her. “Never you worry, I shall return to cause more squabbling soon.”
Siusan looked at him, and for a moment he thought she was going to cry. Tayg took her work-roughened hand and kissed it as gallantly as he would the queen’s. “Be you careful too, lass.” The girl nodded then hurried away to catch up with the other women.
Duncan shook his head in wonder as he packed his belongings. “Even a call to battle by the Bruce himself does not stop your wooing of the lasses!”
“And why should it?” Tayg said, shoving a wooden cup into his pack. “She is scared, just like the rest of them. Where’s the harm in lifting her worries a bit and reminding her that there are better things for men and women to do than tramp off to war?”
“And no one lifts a lass’s fears so well as Tayg,” young Tearlach said as he spread out the remains of the fire then kicked dirt-crusted snow onto the fading embers, snuffing them out with a pathetic hiss.
Tayg suppressed a shudder. The king had come so close to the fire’s fate.
“’Tis a wonder he is up and about,” Duncan said, his voice low, his thoughts clearly following Tayg’s. “’Twas already passing amongst the men that he was dead, yet there he sat upon his horse as if he had just come from a council of war.”
“’Tis curious.” Robbie stared at the dying embers. “One of the healers must have found a way to defeat the king’s private enemy, whatever ’twas.”
“A witch,” Gair said. “Norval of Dummaglas saw her. Auburn hair, tall. She hails from Kilmartin, so Norval says.”
Tayg shrugged. “Perhaps ’tis only the attentions of a bonny lass that revived him. ’Tis often I’ve seen braw Duncan here revive himself when his Mairi tends his hurts.” He glanced at Duncan and grinned, glad to break the somber mood. His friend’s pale freckled face grew red, starting at his neck and rapidly rising to meet his hair, which was very nearly the same color, though with a faint cast of blond.
“Do not let the whelp embarrass you, Duncan,” Robbie said, sliding his battle-ax into his belt. “You ken well how he fares with the lasses.”
Laughter circled the fire.
“Aye. It has ever been so with this one.” Duncan grinned at Tayg this time, but there was something serious tucked away in that familiar expression. “Woo them. Bed them. Leave them with their heads spinning so ’twill be months before they’ll even look at another lad. That’s our Tayg. He has never been able to choose but one lass.”
“And why should I when there are so many who are willing to share my company—” he winked at quiet Tearlach, the youngest of the bunch “—and my bed?”
“Why indeed?” Gair agreed. “’Tis a bit jealous of the lad’s way of charming the lasses, I am. Though I would not want my daughter in his company…nor my wife,” he added with alarm in his voice though the grin was still in place on his battle-scarred face.
“I have never charmed a man’s wife, nor his sweetheart.” At Duncan’s snort, Tayg turned to him. “Not once I knew.”
“He tells the truth there, though I did have to knock him on his arse to get his attention,” Duncan said. “’Twas lucky for me you had only just turned your interest—and your charm—toward my Mairi. She was not yet under your spell.”
“Ah, smart lass, that Mairi,” Gair said.
Tearlach laughed, and the others grinned at the sound that would have been unthinkable in the camp of cold and dispirited men just minutes before.
Robbie yanked the drawstring on his pack closed with a little more viciousness than was strictly necessary. “You are welcome to try to woo my timid little betrothed, brother,” he said.
The sudden silence was all the greater for being surrounded by the noisy bustle of the army preparing to leave.
“Nay,” Tayg said with an exaggerated shudder. “She is too plain for my tastes, and too old.”
Robbie laughed, though ’twas a bit forced. “Aye, she is both, for me as well.” He shrugged.
Tayg covered his surprise at his brother’s unusual candor by turning his attention to checking his weapons: claymore on his back, dagger at his waist, sgian dhu, a small knife, hidden in a special sheath under his armpit. He knew the lass was not of Robbie’s choosing, but never had he said as much.
His brother was a better man than he, Tayg mused as he swung his pack onto his shoulder, picked up his targe—a round wooden shield—and moved with the others to form up in the rather loose way of Highlanders.
The army moved out, jogging up the road toward the waiting army of Buchan. War had taught Tayg that life was short and hard and one should take pleasure when and how one could, for there was not an abundance of it in this time and place. Yet Robbie would shackle himself to a woman he could find no pleasure in.
“Why did you not refuse her?” he asked at last.
Robbie was silent for so long Tayg began to think he had not heard the question. “I could not,” he finally said. “You ken well that this is a political alliance to assuage the worries of the Earl of Ross.”
Tayg nodded.
“To refuse the lass would have alarmed Ross—’twould have harmed the clan, and that I would not do. ’Tis enough that I have placed the clan in this position by following the Bruce. ’Twas only right that I do what I must to safeguard those who remained at home.”
“But you are not the only one fighting here.”
“Nay, but someday I will be chief, and our people must know that I will do what is necessary for the good of the clan.”
Tayg thanked the heavens that he was the second-born. Robbie could have the life of chief of Clan Munro. Tayg, as his brother’s champion, would serve the clan too, but he would have more freedom when it came to picking a wife and living his life.
Several horses cantered by, the Bruce on his silver-gray charger in the lead, moving rapidly toward the front of the column of men. Pride filled Tayg’s chest, and an unyielding determination wrapped thickly about him.
Before Robbie could wed, before either of them could get on with the life he chose, this battle must be won. Tayg knew too well how many young men had died at the hands of the English and their Scottish supporters. He knew more would die in the coming fight as well, but he no longer believed he had any choice—not in this. He would fight for King Robert. He would fight beside his brother for Scotland.
And after the battle was won, God willing, he would see Robbie lead their clan into a peaceful future.
CHAPTER ONE
Early December, 1308, Highlands
TAYG PULLED HIS shaggy Highland pony to a halt and gazed down over Culrain, the glen of his childhood. He had delayed this return for nearly a year while he served with the Bruce, but he could no longer deny his fate.
Robbie was dead. Tayg did not wish to be chief, but he knew there was no other choice, for Robbie had made Tayg promise to fulfill his unfinished duty to the clan.
Now the time had come to face destiny, and he would do it as Robbie would have. He sat up straighter, arranged his cloak, and settled his mouth into the serious expression Robbie always wore.
He nudged the pony forward.
It carried him along a snow-edged trail that led into the heart of the village. As he passed the outermost cottages with no notice from the inhabitants, he was unaccountably relieved to escape the usual clamor when someone returned after a long absence.
But ’twas not to be. A dog barked. A child ran round the corner of another cottage and slid to a stop.
“Robbie?” the lad said, and Tayg looked behind him, half expecting to find his brother there. “Nay. Tayg! Da, ’tis Tayg!”
he shouted, running to the cottage door and flinging it open. “’Tis Tayg!” he yelled again.
Doors flew open, and the lane was quickly flanked by Tayg’s kin, old and young alike, lining the way and shouting his name as if he were a great war hero—as they would have greeted Robbie.
Tayg waited for silence to descend again, but it didn’t. There were shouts and laughter and a lightness to the people’s faces he had not seen when last he was here, nearly a year ago when he had brought Robbie’s body home to be buried.
He stopped the pony in front of the largest structure in the village, the hallhouse. The three-storied stone building commanded the foot of the lane and was surrounded on three sides by a loop in the river, making it more defensible than any other place in the village. It served both as his parents’ home and as the central storage and social building for the clan. His mother, Sorcha Munro, stood at the top of the long, narrow stair rising to the only entrance. Her thin face looked older than he remembered, but her thick, braided hair was still a deep shade of sable, and there was a crackle in her eyes that told him she could still make sure her husband and her remaining son did as she wished them to.
Tayg offered her a smile and was pleased to see it returned. She had been overcome with grief when they had buried Robbie, and he had not thought to see a smile on her face ever again. He turned his smile into the cocky grin that had melted her anger when he was a youngling and prone to trouble. Her smile broadened, and she shook her head as she started down the stair.
His father, Angus Dubh, chief of Munro, stood at the bottom of the stair, his night-black hair beginning to show strands of silver at his temples and in his heavy beard, though the great bear of a man looked as strong and sturdy as ever he had.
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