He needed the lass as hostage for the king. He no more wanted to see her wed to Duff MacDonell than she did, for ’twould bode ill for the king and for any possible peace in the Highlands, if not for all of Scotland, for to force the king to defend his realm from the north and the south would divide his army beyond use and all of Scotland would suffer for it. How was it that one irritating lass could be a pivot point for a kingdom’s future? How was it that that irritating lass saw him as the answer to her troubles?
He considered her for a moment. ’Twas true the king would see merit in an alliance between Tayg and this lass. ’Twas true a marriage between them would bind her clan to his against the MacDonells. ’Twas true, but Tayg had no wish to marry such a lass as this one. If he was to marry, he would wish for a sweet wife. Life was hard enough without shackling oneself to a shrew. And yet he needed to take her to the king.
An idea formed. He would find her a husband before they reached the king. There had to be other clans between here and Dingwall with lads loyal to the king. ’Twould only require convincing them to marry the lass…a task that might prove to be impossible.
He looked at her where she sat, watching him, waiting for his answer. A bonny smile played over her full lips and twinkled in her midnight eyes while her clever hands worked a complicated braid with her ebon hair. If he could convince her to hold her tongue, ’twould be no hardship to sway a lad toward such a beautiful lass. But could she hold her tongue?
He would have to find out now.
“What’s in it for me?” he said.
She seemed startled by his sudden question.
“I am a bard on the king’s business. What advantage does it serve me to help you in your quest?”
“I will not…”
She blushed, and his mind rapidly followed the direction her thoughts had clearly taken. His blood rushed, and he damned himself for the unwanted reaction to the image of what she suggested.
“I do not want you in my bed,” he said quickly. In fact, he wanted her as far away from his bed as possible, no matter what his body’s reaction was to her, for to bed the wench would play into her plan to marry him.
“I do not have any coin but that I can get for you, after, or if you prefer I will find you a place where you may winter over. You may decide as you wish.” She rose and brushed dirt from her skirts. “But let us go now, bard. We have a long way to travel to meet the king.” She was lifting saddlebags and settling them on the horse.
Tayg smiled at her back. “What if we chance upon a village or someone who may know you? How will you explain traveling alone with a bard?”
Catriona turned from the horse.
“I am not known east of Loch Assynt, at least not by anything but reputation. No one will recognize me. You yourself said I was not ugly, though ’tis what the gossipmongers say about me. Besides, I can disguise myself somehow…maybe as your sister? That would work.” She kilted up her skirts, tucking them into her belt and exposing a familiar pair of trews beneath. “See, I can dress the part of a traveling wench. No one will suspect.”
Tayg worked hard not to grin. She was smart, this one. A disguise would help, but he needed to see if she could take the part one crucial step further.
“Once you open your mouth everyone will know you are the Shrew of Assynt. Word of your whereabouts will quickly get to your—” he chose the next word carefully “—betrothed.”
She narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together. She stared at him, fire snapping in her gaze, but did not say anything. Perfect. She was perfect.
“Right. So you can act the part of an indignant sister. I daresay you’ve much experience with that.”
She nodded her head. “You are taking me to the king with you, bard. Perhaps he will wed me to Tayg of Culrain, or we may find me a husband along the way while you search for brides—as long as we do so quickly. I will not let Dogface find me.” She gave him a smug smile and turned back to loading the horse.
Tayg rolled his eyes. So she would be his sister, but he would not chance a village until he was sure she could hold to her part. For now, though, they must get away from the shores of Loch Assynt before her family found them.
He walked to her side and rummaged in one of the bags. He pulled out an old length of red and black plaid and handed it to her.
“Wrap that about your head to keep you warmer.” He pulled his extra pair of mittens from another bag. “Do not let your fingers freeze.”
He finished arranging the bags on the horse and grabbed the reins. As he led the beast to the cave entrance, Tayg glanced at Catriona. “You can keep the trews,” he said.
“I intend to,” she replied, following him out of their shelter and into the brightening dawn.
THE SNOW WAS deep, and they had been slogging through it for hours. Tayg didn’t even look behind him, not wanting to care how tired the exasperating lass was. If he didn’t look, he didn’t have to know. To her credit, she had not asked for his help, though he was sure she had slipped several times given the surprised whuff sound he heard from her periodically. It took all his self-control not to help her, not to put her on the horse and see to her comfort. ’Twas a test, he reminded himself for the hundredth time. He needed to see if she could mind her tongue, could truly play her part, even in adversity, for their safety—and his future—depended on keeping their true identities secret.
Whuff!
He winced, sure that her bottom was getting good and sore, but he had a part to play too, and charming Tayg was not it.
“Bard.”
Tayg continued on, pulling the pony through a deep drift of heavy wet snow.
“Bard!”
He stopped and slowly turned. He looked at her sitting splayed in the snow, a scowl upon her wind-reddened face. He cocked an eyebrow at her but said nothing.
“I am hungry,” she said. “And I have needs to tend to,” she added, looking away.
“Then tend to them.”
“Will you wait?”
His own stomach grumbled, and he realized it had been a long time since they had broken their fast. He nodded and dropped the horse’s reins to the ground.
Catriona struggled to her feet, headed off the trail and behind a large boulder. After a few moments she returned. Tayg handed her an oatcake and some dried venison. He took his cup, scooped it full of snow, and handed it to her.
“What am I to do with this?” she asked.
“Hold it in your lap while you eat so your body will heat it. By the time you are done eating, you will have water to drink.”
She actually smiled as she pulled the cup beneath her cloak. She shivered. “’Tis a wee bit cold.”
Tayg chuckled. He ate slowly to give the lass a chance to rest. He had been hard on her, pushing the pace through the deep snow so relentlessly that he was tired himself. He watched her as she stared up at the clouds. Fatigue showed in the shadows under her eyes, but she had not complained. ’Twas wholly unexpected, that. He would have thought she’d demand he let her ride or stop often to let her rest, or at the very least he expected she would find cause to complain about his company, the weather, the trail, or any number of other things.
Yet she had not.
She looked at him suddenly and caught him staring. “Do you know where we will stay this night?”
“Nay.”
“Is there a village nearby?”
“Nay.”
“Can you say aught besides nay?”
Tayg fought the smile that threatened him. “Nay.”
“Irritating man,” she said, though there wasn’t quite the sharp edge to the words there had been earlier.
“Nay.” This time he did smile, and she answered with a silvery giggle.
“You are not nearly so adept at annoying me as my brothers are.”
“Is that a complaint or a compliment?”
She considered for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose it is a compliment.” She drew the cup from beneath her cloak and smiled as
she peered inside it. “I would not wish anyone to aspire to the likes of my brothers, especially Broc, the eldest.” She drank down the water, and he admired the pale, slender column of her throat. She handed him the now empty cup.
“You do not get along with Broc?”
She gave a most unladylike snort. “I do not.”
“I wonder why that could be?” He cast her a sideways glance.
She stood, her hands braced upon her hips and a look of consternation on her face. “Because he is a loud, nettlesome oaf of a man. He has not the brains to mind his own business, much less the clan’s. Because he thinks that a woman could not possibly have an intelligent thing to say. Because he delights in humiliating—” she stopped and took a deep breath “—everyone.”
“’Tis glad I am that I asked.”
“Are you ready to proceed? I would prefer to sleep in a bed this night. I’ve no liking for sleeping in snow.”
Tayg rose and gave her a mocking half bow. The shrew had disappeared for a few moments and he had glimpsed a softer woman underneath, but the shrew was not long subdued and he found himself grateful for the reminder.
They trudged along, following the downward path of a burn, iced over except for the trickle of water left in the very center of the streambed. Tayg turned his thoughts to his immediate problem—could he trust her to hold her tongue? It had not taken much effort to set her temper off just now.
A familiar earthy-sweet odor insinuated itself into his musings. He stopped so quickly the horse’s nose nearly rested on his shoulder.
“What is it?” Catriona demanded.
Tayg smelled the air, crisp from the new snow, but tinged with the distinct scent of burning peat. There was just the slightest breeze to mark the direction of the smoke’s origin.
Catriona pushed her way past the horse through the knee-deep snow. “Well, bard? Why are we stopped?”
“We need to get off the trail for a while,” he said, quickly calculating what direction they needed to go to avoid whatever dwelling lay before them. He wasn’t ready to test their ruse on living, thinking people just yet.
“Why? No one follows us.”
“You do not know that. Do you wish to give the MacDonell a clear path to track you?”
Catriona looked back at the deep furrow in the snow where they had passed. “But no matter where we go we will leave a trail. Would it not be better to stick to this clear road where others may also pass and cover our tracks with their own?”
The lass was smarter than he had expected.
“We cannot chance meeting…anyone,” he said at last.
Her delicate eyebrows drew down in a look of puzzlement. “I thought we agreed I would act as your sister, and since you are behaving as irrationally as my brothers, I find that will be an easy task.”
“Aye, so easy you will not remember to mind your tongue.”
“I will remember.”
“Even if you do, how can you guarantee that there is no one who will recognize you?”
“I told you, I have never traveled this way.”
“Aye, but that does not mean that whomever we chance to meet has not traveled to Assynt.”
Tayg knew a moment of victory, but it was short lived.
“Very well, then we must disguise me by more than simply calling me your sister.”
Tayg groaned. The lass would not give up. But they could not take the chance. “A bard’s sister will have to perform for her keep.”
“Nay, ’tis you who will have to perform for our keep. I can simply ask hospitality—and offer my brother’s fine skill as a bard.”
This time it was Tayg who snorted.
“You have your mission too. How will you report to the king on brides if you do not venture into the villages to meet them? ’Twould not hurt for me to meet any eligible husbands too.”
She had him. If he intended to keep her with him without force, he needed her to believe his story, but he could not bear the thought of being caught with her before they reached the Bruce. He looked at her carefully, assessing those features that would most make her recognizable.
Quickly he took inventory: glossy black hair that fell, even braided, to her waist. Eyes the blue of the midsummer night sky when the sun had barely set and the colors of the world were dark and intense. Skin pale and perfect. And her mouth, soft and inviting.
His body tightened, and he fought the pleasure derived from merely looking at her. His imagination leaped, unwanted, to contemplating what it would be like to touch her.
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.
CHAPTER FIVE
PUNGENT 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.
Charming the Shrew Page 8