She was heartily sick of having the shrew moniker pinned to her. And ’twas somehow worse coming from him than from Broc, from whom she expected nothing better. She would have to get him back. Poke and prod him to the point of embarrassment in front of strangers…well, she had done a wee bit of that already. But he deserved more. So much more. ’Twas too bad she needed his help, else she’d leave him here to wink and grin like a fool at sweet, silly Dolag, who had not the wits to strike back when she was so mistreated. She’d best find some backbone, for no one would wish to wed such a pathetic creature.
Of course Broc said no one but Dogface would marry her, but at least it wasn’t because she was pathetic. Better to speak your mind loudly than to have no mind to speak of.
She turned to pace back to the far end of the village. She had not been able to strike back at Tayg’s words as she wished lest she confirm the not-so-subtle hint he gave of her identity. But she would have her revenge.
There were the easy ways, of course. Dumping a bucket of water on him while he slept was always effective, though his clothing would be wet and they would be delayed from their trip. No, not that then.
If the snow was not so thick upon the ground she could gather dead, prickly thistles and place them in his bedding. She had gotten Callum several times with that one when she was little, but he had finally gotten wise and began to check his bed before he climbed into it. Apparently there were certain parts of a man’s body that did not take kindly to the prickly thistle. She smiled as she remembered the look of pained surprise mixed with grudging respect she had seen on Callum’s face.
But the snow was too thick and the moonlight too pale to go gathering thistles. She could not sabotage Tayg’s food, for she ate it too. Dung in his shoes, snow in his bags? Nay, all would delay them, and she would not allow Dogface, nor her family, to catch up to her until she had secured her future and the clan’s with the king. There must be something…
As she turned to retrace her steps toward the hall, she saw the door open and Tayg step out of the dimly lit interior into the night. She slowed her steps, watching carefully as he moved toward her.
“Are you not cold?” he called to her.
“I am too angry to feel the cold,” she said, though that odd warm chill washed over her with his words.
He had the audacity to chuckle. “You drew that upon yourself.”
“By asking that you do your job?”
They met halfway between the hall and the end of the village, facing each other on the path. “By putting Sweet Dolag before the crowd like that. ’Twas not a kind thing to do.”
Shame flashed through her, surprising her with its sharp twisting in her gut. ’Twas not a feeling she was overly familiar with, nor one she liked, and it angered her that he should make her feel it. “I have seen bards do such many times,” she said, her voice purposely sharp.
“Perhaps, but I do not know of any bard who would pick such a timid lass to put before a crowd.”
The disappointment in his voice grated on her, raising her irritation with him even further. “But did you not need to see her strengths and weaknesses so that you may inform the king of her qualities? Did you not need to see that she is unsuitable for him?”
“Him?” He looked down at her as if she were a recalcitrant wean. “Do you think she is a rival in your plans for poor Tayg of Culrain? ’Twas not necessary to embarrass her in order to find out her true character, Catriona of Assynt.” His tone cut her, shaming her again. “She did that just fine on her own while we ate. It did not need your pointing out her faults for all to witness. I have no doubt that all here know of her frailties and of her strengths.”
“Strengths? She has no strengths. She is all aflutter over a little teasing. She is without sufficient backbone to even stand up for herself—”
“Then perhaps you should have done it for her.”
“Me? I do not owe her anything!”
He shook his head and said quietly, “Aye, you do not owe anything to anyone, do you? You are the most selfish person I have ever met.”
“I…why should…” She glared at him. He did not know her, did not understand her. How dare he judge her so harshly. “’Tis not true. I care only for my clan.”
He shook his head and gave a half-laugh. “Nay, you care only for yourself and your troubles. You do not have half the dignity of that timid little sparrow inside.” With that he turned and strode back toward the hall.
Catriona couldn’t believe what he had said. Selfish? And how much dignity could Dolag have when she allowed her own clan to tease her so with nary a retort? Determined to strike back at him, determined to make him feel the same gut-twisting she endured at his words, she launched herself after him, grabbing him by the arm and forcing him to face her.
“I don’t know where you get the nerve to speak to me this way,” she said, gripping both of his arms now and standing on her tippy toes so she was nearly nose to nose with him. “’Twould only take a word from me and you would be stuck with me for the rest of your life!”
“Aye, lass, and you would be stuck with me,” he said, his voice low, his warm breath washing over her face. “Can you say which is a worse fate?”
Catriona’s heart was beating fast, and she felt strangely light-headed, almost as if she stood outside herself watching these strangers argue as they stepped nearer and nearer to each other. She struggled to hold fast to her anger, for another deeper, darker emotion was threatening to sweep over her. She swallowed. “’Tis easy. I would never spend my life with you.” She struggled to think of the one thing that would drive him away from her. “I must wed a better man than you,” she hissed.
He didn’t even have the good manners to flinch. Instead he cocked his head and pursed his full lips as if she were a puzzling child. “So you say. How do you know another man is any better than I?” His voice was quiet now, yet there was something dangerous about it.
“Anyone would be better than you.”
“Even Dogface MacDonell?”
She tried to say aye, but she could not utter that large a lie, even to make her point.
“So there is at least one man I am better than. You have a fine sense of gratitude toward someone who saved you from freezing to death, found you a hot meal to warm your belly and a place by the fire to rest your head this night.” He grabbed her by the shoulders, looked her in the eye, then lowered his gaze to her mouth. Catriona’s breath hitched at the intensity, the concentration, in his cinnamon eyes.
“We are lucky they are not making us sleep in the snow after that performance in there,” he said, as if to himself.
“’Twas you who called her a p—”
Before she could finish the word something snapped in his eyes and Tayg leaned in and covered her lips with his own.
Catriona gasped but was immediately mesmerized by the sensations his touch sent racing through her. He took advantage of her hesitation and pressed his lips to hers again, softly yet firmly. Catriona felt a thrill run through her, that same warm chill she had experienced when he had helped her hide her hair. Intrigued, she let him continue the kiss. Standing perfectly still, she let her eyes drift shut so she could better concentrate on the surprising sensations that were coursing through her. His lips were warm, gentle as they played over hers. She rested her hands on his arms and stepped a bit closer, giving in to her instincts.
TAYG PULLED BACK and looked into her midnight eyes. How could such sharp words come from such a sweet mouth? His gaze moved from her surprised eyes to her full lips and, God help him, he kissed her again.
This time, however, she leaned into him. He moved his hands to her face and tilted her head to get better access to that surprising sweetness. He plundered, kissing and nibbling, letting his pent-up frustration guide his actions instead of his head. He needed more, wanted…
Tayg coaxed open her mouth, then taught her the delights of the deeper, more intimate kiss. He pulled her against him, crushing her soft breasts into his
chest. A small moan escaped her, and he smiled against her lips.
“See, lass,” he said, nibbling first on the corners of her mouth, then moving to that tender spot below her ear, “there are better tasks for a tongue than slicing away at a man’s pride.”
Catriona went from warm and pliable to cold and stiff in a heartbeat. She shoved him hard, and he stumbled backward. Tayg wished he was the one who had held his tongue this time.
“If you ever try such a thing again,” she said, poking him in the chest with one sharp finger and glaring up at him, her eyes narrowed and her temper clear, “I’ll slice more than your pride.” She shoved him again then swept past him and into the hall.
Tayg stood there, trying to figure out what had just happened. What was he thinking, kissing her? Was he daft? He no more wanted that woman than he wanted Dolag. Then he laughed at himself, for certain parts of him were quite certain he did want her.
He took a deep breath and tried to calm his blood. She was the oddest mix of prickly pride and soft, sensuous woman when she allowed herself to be. The memory of her molding herself to him, that small sweet moan escaping her dewy lips. Och! If he continued like this, he’d have to sit himself down in the snow before he could return to the hall.
He looked up at the sky, the stars filling the heavens now that the clouds were nearly gone. Good, perhaps tomorrow would be a good day for traveling. If only he could leave Catriona here—but that was impossible. He was just going to have to find some way to stop this unwanted attraction he felt before he ceased thinking altogether and did something really stupid.
TAYG ROLLED OVER and stared into the dying fire. Each time he had drifted off to sleep he’d dreamed of the kisses he had shared with Catriona. Waking each time with a start when the lass he kissed turned from a bonny young woman into a wild cat-a-mountain who flayed his skin with its claws. ’Twas an image he should hold close, for she was as dangerous to him as any of the hungry cats that roamed the Highlands.
He glanced over at the sleeping subject of his troubled night. She slept, oblivious to the problems swirling all around her. He sat up, adjusted his plaid, and belted it tightly about him. If he could keep the terror of his dream in his mind, he felt sure he would not be tempted to kiss those amazingly sweet, soft lips…no, he must not let his mind wander to that again. She was as feral and dangerous as any cat, and he would not forget it again.
He rose from his pallet and slipped away from the sleeping Cat. Outside the air was cold and misted with a heavy fog, the pale gray light of winter’s late dawn barely piercing the billowy stuff. He looked about for a privy but could not see far in the fog. He shrugged and headed for the nearby wood. A privy was not a necessity.
He trudged between the hall and a cottage and into the wood. Just as he was about to slip back out of the cover of the forest, he heard voices and the muffled sound of horses in the snow cover. His scalp tingled, a feeling of danger long experience had taught him to heed. He circled behind the cottage and crept along the far side until he reached the front that faced the trail he and Cat had arrived on last night.
The fog was still thick, and the voices were muffled. He waited.
“Good day to you!” a deep voice yelled as if from beneath a thick blanket. “Are you not up and about yet?”
There was something oddly familiar in the voice—not the voice itself, but rather the cadence or perhaps the demanding inflection as if the speaker expected…
Tayg froze.
“Aye, we are out and about this morn,” Farlan’s voice drifted to him from somewhere in the direction of the newcomers. “What would you be wanting in Fionn?” His voice did not hold the welcome he had shown Tayg and Cat the night before. Today he sounded wary of the newcomers.
“We search for a lass, a shrew-mouthed lass you should not wish upon your worst enemy. She is here and we come to relieve you of the burden of her company.”
The tingling in Tayg’s scalp spread down his backbone. He knew without a doubt that the newcomer was none other than Cat’s brother.
Broc MacLeod had found them.
CHAPTER SIX
TAYG CREPT CLOSER, keeping to the deeper shadows in the vague, fog-shrouded dawn. No doubt Broc had tracked them through the snow. It took precious little skill to follow a sole rut in the fresh snow. But what did the man know? Tayg moved closer to the front of the cottage and peered carefully around the corner.
The thick fog made details hazy, but ’twas clear that Farlan stood facing the newcomer…newcomers, Tayg corrected, for there were at least three horses. The fog parted unexpectedly, and Tayg swallowed an oath. He pulled back behind the corner of the cottage, but could still hear the conversation.
“And why would you be chasing a lass through this weather? Has she stolen your manhood, perhaps?” Farlan’s voice had an odd edge to it.
“’Tis none of your concern, auld man. I am Broc MacLeod of Assynt—”
“I ken well who you are, lad, so do not take that tone with me or I’ll drop your wee arse over yon cliff. Trouble licks your heels like a loyal dog, and ’tis a rare man in the Highlands that does not ken it.”
There was a moment of silence, and Tayg could imagine the bluster that was going on between the two Highlanders.
“We have followed her trail through the snow. It led us here. We will have the lass back.”
“We have no—how did you describe her?—shrew-mouthed lasses here. The lasses of Fionn are sweet-tempered as clearly your lass is not.”
“She is not mine.”
“Then why do you track her?”
There was more silence, then Broc cleared his throat. “She is my sister, betrothed to our ally. I have sworn to bring her back for her wedding. Where is she?”
“I told you. There is no lass here by that description.”
“Then who made the trail to this shite-hole?” Broc was clearly losing any patience he might have started with.
“The bard did,” a small voice piped up.
“Alasdair!” Farlan’s voice was stern, reminding Tayg of his own father’s voice when Tayg had raised his ire. “Get you back to your mother’s skirts and leave this to your elders.”
He winced in sympathy for the lad. Though he could not see him, he was certain there was a slump to his shoulders and an anger simmering at his sharp dismissal.
“There is a bard here?” another voice asked, masculine, but not as deep as Broc’s.
“I see not what a bard has to do with your runaway lass.”
“There was some sign that two people traveled the trail we followed,” a third voice said.
“Was there a woman with this bard?”
There was a long silence, and Tayg chanced another look. The fog had closed up around the band of men again, but he could still make out the form of Farlan standing there, his thick arms crossed over his barrel chest. His shoulder-length brown hair was wild about his head, and though the fog sought to hide him from Tayg’s view, ’twas clear Farlan glared at the men in front of him.
At last he said, “Aye, there is a woman with him—his own sister.”
“How do you ken she is his sister?”
“’Tis easy enough to tell. He introduced her. He baited her. She baited him—but she had no shrew-mouth. The bard bested her easily enough, as any older brother should. Aye, they are brother and sister, no doubt to my mind.”
Broc snorted, sending the fog swirling about him. “Triona has plenty of experience being bested by an older brother. ’Twould be an easy part for her to play. I shall see this lass for myself,” he said. “Come, lads. If Farlan will not show us where to look, we shall have to find her ourselves.”
Tayg was certain Farlan would not allow a search, but he took no chances. He sprinted around the backside of the cottage and dashed to the hall.
Cat was the link between Dogface MacDonell and the brothers MacLeod. As long as Tayg controlled her fate there was a chance the plot against the king would fail. He could not see either clan trusting
the other without such a link between them. Even if he did not make it to the king in time to warn him, keeping Cat from marriage to the MacDonell chief might be enough to fray the tempers of the conspirators and stop them.
He laughed to himself. ’Twas feeble reasoning, but he would not look at other, more personal reasons for keeping her with him.
Tayg slipped through the doorway and made his way down the hall to where Cat still slept near the fire. He nudged her with a hand on her shoulder. “Wake up,” Tayg whispered as she tried to shrug off his hand. “Your brother is here.”
Cat’s eyes popped open. “What?”
“Broc. He is here, asking for you, and others with him.”
She sat up, her eyes wide, with fear skittering through them. “I will not go with him!”
“Wheesht! I ken that. Come,” Tayg said as he gathered his own belongings. “We must away, quickly and quietly.”
“But why…”
“Do not ask questions. Unless you wish me to reconsider my plan and leave you here to face him alone?”
“I shall ask any question I deem—”
“Ask later. Leave now. Broc will be here any moment.”
She glared at him, but quickly stood and pulled her cloak about her, rolled her blankets, and tucked them under her arm. “I am ready.”
Tayg was surprised that she gave in so quickly. Broc must be formidable indeed.
“There is but the one door which faces the village, but there is a thick fog to cover our passing. Be very quiet, for sound is unpredictable in such weather.”
He grabbed her hand, and she followed him without another word. Tayg told himself he held her hand only to make sure she did not get lost in the fog or so that he could quiet her with a squeeze if necessary. But he also knew that the grudging trust she showed increased the warmth of her touch and pleased him to no end.
They left the warm confines of the hall and moved quickly along the edge of the building to the horse byre. Tayg was grateful so many feet had packed down the path between the buildings so their footsteps would not show. They slipped inside, and Tayg had his horse saddled and their goods loaded in no time. He led the animal out of the stable, vaulted into the saddle, and held his hand out to Cat.
Charming the Shrew Page 10