Charming the Shrew

by Laurin Wittig

  Holy Mother of God. What had he done? What had they done? The predawn sky seemed to stare at him through the dark circle of foliage as if watching him.

  Quickly he pieced the night together: they had kissed, eaten a cold meal, he had suffered her glares and ill-temper, and then they had gone to sleep, on their own pallets of bracken and blankets. He had done nothing. They had gone to sleep separately. He raised his head and looked around. She had moved from her place, near but separate from him, to his side.

  Tayg rose up on his elbows and looked over at the perfect profile of her pale face. The traveling was hard on her, showing in the bruised-looking shadows under her eyes. Her hair, which had escaped its ugly covering and its tight braid, lay about her like an ebony pool. He turned toward her and lifted a heavy, silky lock, letting it slide through his fingers.

  She was beautiful. Sleep softened her features from their usual belligerent form to one of vulnerable innocence. ’Twas an odd thing to consider, but the truth of it struck him hard in the belly. An unfamiliar urge to protect her warmed and alarmed him.

  She stirred and opened her eyes.

  Tayg rose as casually as he could manage, though the blanket that tangled about his feet made it difficult. “Good morn,” he said.

  “Good—” Catriona sat up, the same glare glittering in her eyes that had been there the previous evening. “What do you think you were doing?”

  “I was sleeping. And you?” He pointedly looked to where she had started the night, well away from where she had ended it.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying naught. But ’twould appear that you were cold in the night and sought a wee bit of shared warmth.” Tayg was irritated at her attitude. She spluttered, but simply rose and left their cozy thicket, crashing through the woods beyond.

  His skin itched when he remembered the feel of her soft curves nestled up against him. ’Twasn’t the first time a lass had climbed into his bed in the night. Though usually the outcome was more pleasurable than this morning’s. Hastily he released the twisted and tangled plaid from the belt that held it about him. He spread the plaid on the ground and began to re-gather the pleats, distracting himself by folding the heavy material just so. When it was pleated to his satisfaction, he slid his wide leather belt under the garment, lay down atop the plaid, and buckled it about him again. Lastly he rose, adjusted the pleating about his hips, and drew the loose ends up to fasten them at his shoulder with the large silver brooch that had belonged to his brother. That done, his mind quickly returned to the lass crashing about outside their shelter.

  Irritation that she should be so offended at the idea of snuggling up with him surged through him. Most lasses were quite happy to receive his attention, but this one…she was soft and greedy when he kissed her, but then she would pull the mantle of her temper over her and prove her right to the shrew moniker. And yet, despite her sharp tongue, he could not wrench his mind away from the feel of her in his arms, the woad blue of her eyes when they went liquid with desire, for he had seen desire written on her face as clearly as he saw disdain there.

  What was he to do about this growing attraction between them? It would not do to allow it to continue. She did not want him—except if she knew his true identity—and he most certainly did not want her. She was bonny, but her mouth was as prickly as a thistle…well, her words were prickly, but her mouth, he remembered, was soft and sweet and—

  He had to do something, and he had to do it quickly. Maybe she would fall down a ravine and drown in a burn. Nay, it would solve his immediate problem, but he’d never be able to live with himself if he let that happen. Not to mention he wouldn’t have a hostage for the king.

  The king. He must keep his duty sharply in his mind. Aye, if they traveled hard, they would arrive at Dingwall Castle in time to warn the king, and they would be too exhausted to indulge this passing unwanted attraction. And if he kept her angry, then her words would also serve to keep him focused on her faults instead of on her attributes. His mind drifted to her many soft attributes.

  Cat’s crashing drew closer, jarring Tayg back to his problem. He looked up through the thick evergreen branches and noticed that it was nearly full light. They had wasted precious time cuddled up like two bear cubs. His mind veered to other, more interesting ways they could have warmed themselves. He struggled to remember the king, the plot, the snow—anything but her.

  He could not allow such thoughts where Catriona the Shrew was concerned. Kisses had been dangerous enough. But now that he had the feel of her, he was in even greater peril. Giving her any hint of her growing power over him would only land him in more trouble. Something had to be done. It had to be done now.

  He gathered up their blankets, shoving them into a leather sack. He grabbed the water skin and drank the last of it, swishing it around to relieve the sour taste in his mouth. Finally he pulled the last of the oatcakes and what was left of the dried venison out of the nearly empty food sack and set it out for their morning meal. When he returned from a brief trip into the wood, he found the object of his tangled thoughts quietly breaking her fast.

  “We need to fill the water skin again,” he said.

  She nodded but did not look at him.

  “We must away now. Precious daylight is being wasted, and we must hurry your cause to the king’s side.”

  This time she did look at him. “Aye.”

  Tayg paced the small space, uncomfortably aware of her. “Your brothers, ’twill not be long before they find our trail again.”

  “You led them astray. We have need to hurry, but we are safe from them.”

  He stared at her. “Do not play the stupid wench with me. They followed you as far as Fionn. They suspect that you are with me. How long do you think it will take them to realize we did not continue in our first direction? How long before they find us alone together?”

  “We will have to stay ahead of them, then.” She shrugged and finished her oatcake with dainty little nibbles that nearly distracted Tayg from his purpose.

  He pushed his fingers through his tangled hair, forcing his mind away from her pale, perfect skin and back to the need to escape her company while his duty to the king held him in this purgatory. “They are on horses. Do you truly think we will outpace them when we must share but one?”

  She looked at him, chewing her venison, but said nothing.

  Confounding, irritating, beautiful, irritating, he reminded himself, woman. He was going to have to be blunt to get a reaction from her, and he desperately needed a reaction from her.

  “What about this morn?” Ah, that made her blush and avert her eyes, but still she did not rise to his baiting. “Do you plan to sleep with me each night? For if you do, we best change our story. ’Twould not be seemly for a brother and a sister of our advanced ages to sleep together so.”

  “’Twill not happen again,” she said.

  He watched as she pressed her lips together until they became a thin line. Her back was straight, and she had raised her chin just a fraction of an inch. She was nearly there. ’Twould take only another nudge or two and the shrew would appear, ensuring his safety—at least his safety from his own daft impulses.

  He stepped close to her, his legs nearly touching her knees. He reached down and lifted her chin so she had to look up at him while he leered down at her, doing his best to discomfit her, to draw forth the shrew. He desperately needed to see that difficult lass and not the warm woman who had slept in his arms.

  “Ah, but can you guarantee that, lass?” He wanted to see her as tumbled topsy-turvy by this situation as he was, wanted her to react as he knew she would, saving him from his own folly.

  “For I cannot guarantee that I can be such a gentleman should you linger in my bed again.”

  “I did not—” She burst to her feet, her eyes narrowed, her food forgotten. Nearly nose to nose with him, she stared into his eyes. “I would never linger in the bed of a lowborn bard who cannot even sing a proper ballad nor
play a simple drum. I would never sully myself with such as you!” Her hands were fisted at her hips, and her voice rose with each word, sharper, shriller.

  Tayg refrained from grinning at her, for he desperately did not wish to spoil her mood. This was exactly what he wanted: the shrew in all her glory. He stepped back, needing the distance more than he needed to maintain his antagonistic posture, and bowed low.

  “I would not ask you to sully your precious reputation with such as I—what little reputation you still have.” He waited a heartbeat to let his jab sink in, then rose from his bow and cocked an eyebrow at her, daring her, begging her to sally forth with another diatribe against him.

  “My reputation is—”

  “In shambles,” he finished for her. “We have been seen traveling together, and at least your brothers suspect the truth. What husband will the king be able to give you when that is known?”

  She took a deep breath, and for a moment he thought he saw fear in her eyes, though it was quickly replaced with the familiar hard determination.

  “My brothers only suspect. They know nothing for sure. As brother and sister we are perfectly proper traveling together. Once I explain my plight to the king, all will be well and no one need ever know we traveled together.”

  “You would have the world work as you will it, though it seldom goes with your or anyone else’s plans.”

  She glared up at him. “I decide my fate, no one else.”

  “Very well. Then decide your fate for this day. The sun is well up, and we have wasted precious daylight. We should be away.”

  She watched him for a moment, then scooped up the water skins and once more disappeared through the green walls of the copse.

  Tayg watched her go. He had successfully roused the shrew, bringing a sparkle to her eyes and a flush to her cheeks.

  Unfortunately it had not had the desired effect upon him.

  CATRIONA LED THE way back to the trail, her thoughts swirling like storm clouds surging on the wind. The man had deliberately baited her. She was sure of it, for hadn’t her brothers, especially Broc, done so all her life? But why? He had provoked her before, but never had she felt he had done so on purpose. He had pushed her to keep up, questioned her about things she’d rather not speak of, teased her, but not with the purpose of raising her temper, though he frequently had. This was different, and she wanted to know what he was up to. One thing she knew about men, when they were up to something it was best to find out what they planned so you could defend yourself.

  They reached the trail they had traveled the previous day, their tracks all too clear in the undisturbed snow. She struck out in the same direction they had been traveling, secretly pleased that she had known which way to go without his help. She struggled along a few strides, breaking the path through the knee-high, crusted-over snow when Tayg strode past and took over the lead once more.

  It was ever so in her life, always trailing along behind some male. At least her brothers had a legitimate claim to going first as they were all older than she, if you could call that a claim. But Tayg, he had no reason to treat her like she was some ridiculous wean, unable even to find her way along a clear trail. And he had the audacity to suggest she had slept—not with, maybe against—him on purpose, indeed, “lingered” in his bed. As if she would do such a daft thing. Of course it had been awfully cozy, snuggled up against…no, ’twas a daft thing to do, and ’twould not happen again.

  She was set to find a suitable husband, Tayg of Culrain or another if the king so wished. Someone who would keep the clan from Dogface’s grip despite her brothers’ plans. But all that would be for naught, as Tayg had so sweetly pointed out, if she was ever found in such a position with the bard.

  The bard. Hmph. If he was a bard, she was the Maid of Norway. Never had a bard treated an instrument with such disregard as this one did. She watched the drum bag bang against another sack at the horse’s side. Last night he had dropped things upon it. Nay, he was no bard.

  She remembered his performance in the village hall at Fionn. He was a fine storyteller, but he knew less than she did about singing or playing. And that pitiful song he had made up about poor Sweet Dolag.

  “You know you cannot sing a note,” she said, tired of arguing only with herself.

  He glanced back at her. “I suppose you could do better?”

  “A squealing piglet could do better.”

  “Ah, I’m less than some wee swine now?”

  “Aye. That you are.”

  “What have I done that’s got your tongue wagging again?” She could swear she heard a smile in his voice. He was definitely up to something.

  She ran to catch up with him, grabbing his sleeve and stopping him. “What have you done? You forced me to act your sister—”

  “I did not force.”

  “Then you embarrassed me, calling me names in front of the entire village of Fionn.” Her voice rose with each point.

  “And you had naught to do with that situation?” he asked, his eyebrows raised and his mouth drawn into a line, though the corners seemed to tremble slightly, as if he struggled to keep them under control. “You take no responsibility when ’twas you that pulled the lass before the crowd and left me no choice but to sing to her?”

  “I take responsibility when it is mine to take. You had no need to include me in your ridiculous excuse for a song. That debacle was entirely your fault.” She stabbed him in the chest with her finger to emphasize her point. “You are just like all the other men in my life—”

  “Do not lump me in your life. I am but a reluctant victim of your scheming.”

  “Aye, a reluctant something, but not a bard.”

  “Ah, we’re back to that, are we?”

  “We’re back to that. What are you really? You cannot sing better than any average Highlander. You cannot play even half as well as you sing. So what are you? A spy for the king, come to the Highlands to see if we are behaving ourselves? A convict escaped from Edinburgh’s gaol? Maybe some earl’s son off on a lark before winter sets in good?”

  Tayg’s face went as white as the snow that surrounded them, but she was not sure which of her possible explanations had hit home.

  “Any of those would be better than what you really are,” he said, his voice tightly controlled. “A spoiled wee lass, too hardheaded to see her own folly.”

  “I am a grown woman, bard. And the only folly I see is in continuing to travel with you.” Catriona swung away from him and headed down the trail.

  Tayg’s laughter followed her. Whirling around she shouted, “Why do you laugh at me?”

  “Because you are heading back to your home.” At her blank stare, he added, “You are going the wrong way if you wish to get to the king in Dingwall!”

  Catriona looked about her and was horrified to see that she was indeed retracing their steps. Her face heated, and Tayg laughed again as he turned to continue in the correct direction.

  “You would not have made it past Loch Assynt without me,” he said.

  The words hit her in the stomach as surely as if he had thrown a punch. Too angry to speak, she reached for the only weapon she had…snow.

  Scooping a large handful into her mittens, she packed it quickly, as her brother Ailig had taught her. Aiming, she let the snowball fly. It landed with a faint thud and a splat right in the middle of Tayg’s back. The impact made him stagger a little, then he turned, a look of fury on his face. But Catriona had another missile ready. She let it fly, this time splashing over his chest. At least she had learned something of use from her bullying brothers.

  Fury was quickly replaced with determination on Tayg’s face. When he stooped to scoop up his own snow, Catriona darted behind a tree, grabbed more snow, and prepared her next volley. She peered around the tree just in time to be splattered with flying snow as Tayg’s barrage hit the trunk just beside her. He darted behind a tree, and she used the opportunity to change trees herself. When he looked out, she let hers fly, hitting him square
in the face.

  “Ah! I’ll get you!” Tayg raced toward her, one hand scrubbing snow from his face, the other arm cocked to let his snowball fly.

  Catriona quickly rearmed herself, then raced away from him through the forest. This time, though, Tayg’s aim was true, and she stumbled forward as his icy ball slammed into her back. She turned and threw hers, missing him as he stepped behind yet another tree. Catriona took off again, darting from tree to tree until she thought she was far enough away to stop and form several hard-packed balls. She grabbed the edges of her cloak and formed a pocket to hold her arsenal, which she quickly loaded into it. She peeked out from the tree to see where Tayg had got to when she felt a light tapping on her shoulder.

  Whipping around, she came face-to-face with him. He promptly dropped his snowball on her head. Snow slid down her face and under her collar.

  “Why you—” But before she could think of a good name to call him, he was racing away again.

  She chased him, throwing ball after ball, hitting him with some, missing with others, which elicited wild laughter from the demented man. Her last one landed against his backside. He stopped to face her, trying to look indignant, but the grin on his face, combined with bits of snow, pine straw, and odd bits of bracken, made him look rather silly. Catriona covered her mouth, trying to stifle a giggle.

  When he started at a run toward her again, she waited just until he thought he had her, then sidestepped out of his way. He skidded to a halt, his back to her. She couldn’t help herself—she leaped onto his back, knocking him face-first into the snow.

  “Get off me!” His voice was muffled by the snow.

  “Not until you admit I’ve won.”

  “I’ll teach you—” Tayg flipped over, grabbing her and pinning her beneath him in one fluid demonstration of his strength. “Now what are you going to do?”

  Catriona’s hand was flung out to the side. She quickly grabbed as much snow as she could. “This!” she said, bringing her arm up and smashing the snow against his bare neck.