Charming the Shrew

by Laurin Wittig

  She sat for a long time feeding the fire, tending it carefully until she had a roaring blaze going. Only when she was sure the fire would not go out did she move to Tayg’s side and begin to remove his wet clothing.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  TAYG WOKE SLOWLY, aware of a pleasant warmth along his back and the weight of several blankets over him. When he could finally get his eyes to focus it was on the glowing embers of a fire. He didn’t remember building a fire. Truth was he didn’t remember much. His stomach growled, his ribs and jaw hurt, and his bladder complained.

  He tried to rise, only to realize the warmth along his back was connected to the viselike grip about his middle. Cat was snuggled up to him, keeping him warm though he could feel her shivering. Carefully he pried her arm from his waist and gingerly rolled to face her. She shifted closer to him until her head rested against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her and started rubbing her back to warm her while he considered his surroundings and struggled to remember how he had come to be here.

  Gradually bits and pieces of the night and their flight from Duchally Castle came back to him. He remembered the beating the MacLeod brothers had given him. He remembered the look of concern when Cat found him, followed by righteous indignation when she discovered who his attackers were. But then his memory went fuzzy.

  Flashes of Cat and Isobel huddled together, then cold and pain as every step the horse took jarred his tender ribs. Nothing more…except a vague memory of gentle hands removing his sodden plaid and apparently his trews.

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the glowing fire. His clothes were draped from pegs on the wall. The horse was contentedly sleeping, his head drooping and one hind leg cocked in repose.

  Catriona had managed to get them here. She had very likely saved his life. He smoothed a strand of hair away from her face and was rewarded with a contented sigh. He marveled at what she had accomplished.

  Catriona MacLeod was a bundle of contradictions. One moment he wanted to throttle her, the next to kiss her. One moment she was scolding him, and the next she was carefully binding his ribs or trying to warm him in his sleep. She was not the shrew she appeared to be, and she certainly wasn’t the shriveled crone the gossips gave her to be.

  Nay. She was a bonny lass, with a sharp tongue, true, but a sharp mind as well. And he was proud of her. Less than a sennight ago he had rescued a lost lass from a snowstorm. This night—if ’twas the same night—she had rescued him with the help of a new friend. It was almost as if she had never been given the opportunity to be herself. She was more than anyone had guessed. More than she knew herself.

  He kissed her forehead lightly, inhaling the sleep-warm scent of her, then lightly stroked her silky hair. In the dim light from the fire he couldn’t see more than the paleness of her skin and the dark fringe of eyelashes against it. She was truly a bonny lass, a sweet lass in her own tart way, a staunch friend in the face of trouble. He remembered the sound of her laughter and the sweet taste of her lips. She was brave and determined and, he realized with a start, loyal. He felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with their shared body heat.

  She did not deserve to be married off to that ugly, traitorous, horse’s arse of a MacDonell who clearly did not want her for herself. She did not deserve to be hunted down by her brothers, who clearly did not understand how strongly she hated—or was it feared?—Dogface. Either way, how could they hunt her and force her into wedding him?

  Separately Dogface and the brothers would have been formidable foes. Now they would no doubt join forces, and he and Cat would have to be even more careful not to be discovered.

  He remembered the missive he had intercepted. Dogface suspected Tayg had the damning parchment, but he didn’t know Tayg could read it, had read it. And the longer it stayed that way the better. So many problems and they all seemed to be drawing together—her brothers, Dogface MacDonell, the missive threatening the king. Even his own mother’s plot to marry him off seemed to be tied into this mess since that’s what forced him into this position in the first place—and what kept him from revealing his true self to Catriona.

  Cat sighed, drawing his attention away from the downward spiral of his thoughts. She was tired and cold, and he was injured thanks to her brothers. No matter what happened, they were in this together now. They would discuss what to do when she awakened and they were both clear-headed.

  He carefully rose, pulling a blanket about him. He placed a log on the fire and fanned it to a blaze, then retrieved dry clothes from his bags.

  CATRIONA SAT ACROSS the fire from the sleeping Tayg. At some point in the night he must have moved because she had awoken to the pleasantly disturbing feeling of being surrounded by him, or nearly so. He had been scooped against her back, his arm tucked around her waist, holding her tight against him though she clearly remembered pressing up against his back last night, desperate to warm him. And he had not been clothed when she went to sleep. She vividly remembered struggling to get him out of his wet things while averting her eyes from his battered body. He had dressed himself sometime during the night.

  Now she sat across the fire and stared at his bruised face in the flickering light. It was light out, though the snow still raged on the wind. Dogface, Broc, and the rest of the sheep would be after them soon. The smell of the fire would draw them to this hut. Their sanctuary would quickly become a prison, and she feared that Broc would finish what he’d started with Tayg.

  Anger slithered up her spine and settled its teeth around her heart. Why didn’t Broc give up? And why was Dogface so determined to marry her? Surely he loathed her at least as much as she loathed him. She would not make a good wife to him, so why?

  She leaned forward and stirred the stew she had made from the supplies Isobel had provided. A smile warmed her face as she thought about the golden-haired lass. She was a true friend, and Cat still could not quite understand how that had come to be. Oh, she knew she had followed Tayg’s advice—though she would be sure not to tell him that or she’d forever have to listen to him gloat. A lump formed in her throat. At the moment she would like to hear a bit of gloating from him.

  He was so still, his face so battered. She wanted to awaken him, just so she’d know he was going to be well, but she let him sleep. There was little else she could do for him at the moment. Keep him warm. Feed him when he awoke. And wait.

  But not too long.

  If there had been room in the confines of the hut, Catriona would have paced. But there wasn’t, so she satisfied the need to move by braiding and re-braiding her hair. Isobel had said she would send the brothers and Dogface off in the wrong direction, but Catriona knew that would not last long. Broc was an excellent hunter, and he would know quickly which way Tayg had gone—and which way he hadn’t—though the storm would slow him down. She had no doubt that soon Broc would find their trail, despite the snow and wind. She and Tayg would be trapped.

  Then what would happen? She’d protect Tayg as long as she could. Ailig sometimes could be prevailed upon to take her side against the other brothers. Perhaps that would work. But not likely. From Isobel’s description of the fight, Catriona was sure Ailig had done nothing to stop it. Nay, Broc would see Tayg punished—a bard daring to travel with his sister.

  And she would be dragged back to Assynt and forced to marry Dogface.

  She would die first.

  “You look cold, lass.”

  Catriona startled then frowned. Tayg’s voice was scratchy, but strong.

  “’Tis winter in the Highlands. Of course I am cold.” She dropped her braid and stirred the pot again. “Are you hungry?”

  Tayg sat up slowly, as if testing his body. “Aye. You cooked?”

  Catriona glared at him. “I cooked.”

  Tayg frowned at her. “I see you’re feeling back to your old self.”

  She ladled the stew into a wooden bowl and handed it and a horn spoon to him.

  “We must leave here as soon as we can travel,” he sa
id.

  She nodded and watched him eat the stew.

  “We cannot stay here. Your brothers and Dogface will track us down.”

  She nodded again. “But you can’t travel yet. We must wait here—rest—another day.” She worried her lower lip with her teeth.

  He regarded her for a moment as if she held some secret he could read in her eyes. “Do not be afraid, lass.”

  She glanced at his strong hands with the battered knuckles holding his bowl, then up to his bruised face.

  “’Tis not me I am afraid for.” Her voiced was strained despite her efforts to sound annoyed.

  A slow smile spread over Tayg’s full lips, and an answering heat spread in Catriona’s chest.

  “You fear for me?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

  “I…I…” Catriona busied herself with another bowl of the stew. She lifted the spoon to her mouth, then lowered it and glared at the grinning bard. “I wish to get to the king as soon as possible, and I need your help to do that. I do not fear for you,” she said quickly, then turned her undivided attention to the food in her bowl.

  His soft chuckle irritated her. Damn the man. She was afraid for him, but she’d not say so. The gloating would be bad enough over what she had already admitted to.

  After a few moments of silence, save for the horse’s soft snorts, Tayg put his bowl down. “Why do your brothers wish you to marry Dogface?”

  Caught off guard by the concern in his voice, she glanced up and was shaken to find the same concern shining from his eyes.

  “I do not know,” she whispered. “I do not know why Dogface would want me either.”

  She dropped her gaze to her bowl, for she was unused to such concern from anyone and did not understand why it made her want to curl up in his lap and cry.

  “I will never marry him.”

  “I do not blame you. Indeed, I would not let you. He is an ugly brute and a horse’s arse besides.”

  “You would not let me?”

  He took a deep breath. “Isobel is not your only friend. I could not in good conscience let you marry one such as he.” Tayg put his bowl down. “Besides, he was not looking for you at Duchally.”

  She didn’t know which of his statements disturbed her more, that he would not let her marry Dogface—a nervous thrill ran over her skin—that he was her friend, or that Dogface was not looking for her. That one was easier to think about; she’d think about the others, and what they meant, later.

  “He was looking for me,” she said. “He was there, sitting next to me in the great hall, and later in Isobel’s chamber.” Her voice rose slightly, and she tried to hide the shrill edge that had crept into it.

  Tayg moved stiffly to her side of the fire, lowering himself to face her, his legs folded between them. “He…” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “’Tis not you he is after, lass.”

  “He thinks I am to be his bride. Who else would he be after?”

  “Me.”

  Catriona’s breath hitched. “What do you mean?”

  “He is after me. I have something he wants.”

  “Well, if you wish to think of it that way, I’ll not stop you, but it comes down to the same thing. He wants me.”

  Tayg smiled, picked up her hand, and held it between his own. “Nay, you misunderstand. You forget the missive. I have his message that was to be delivered to Broc though he said ’twas for you. ’Tis not something either of them would wish to fall into the wrong hands. And mine are definitely the wrong hands,” he said, raising her hand to his lips and gently kissing her knuckles.

  Catriona was mesmerized by the soft, featherlight kiss. He lowered their hands, but he did not release hers. What had they been talking about? Oh yes, the missive.

  “But you read it to me,” she said, her voice more breathless than she liked.

  “Aye, but there is more there than the words say, Cat. Clearly you know nothing about the intent of the letter. That is all to the good. If you know nothing about the intent, then you cannot be held responsible for it.”

  “But I do know about the missive. Leaving Dogface’s intent to my imagination will surely not be wise.”

  He shook his head.

  “Is it important enough that if something should happen to you another should be able to deliver it into safe hands?”

  “Nothing will happen to me, lass.” He rubbed a thumb over her palm, and Catriona found the sensation both fascinating and comforting. “Just be assured that Duff—Dogface—does not know you were in that castle. He is after me.”

  Catriona yanked her hand away from his caresses and quickly folded her arms, hiding her hands from him.

  “Then why was he in Isobel’s chamber?”

  “Perhaps he saw me heading to that tower and was searching all the rooms—hers is amongst the first he would come to.”

  “Perhaps, but it does not matter which of us he searches for. If he finds you, he will also find me, and we’ll both be in bigger trouble for it.”

  Tayg placed his large, callused hand against her cheek. Catriona struggled not to lean into it, not to relish the comfort she gained from his skin against hers, not to sink into the sensual haze he called forth in her with just a glance or a touch. She struggled to maintain her glare.

  He smiled, his eyes twinkling, and before she realized what he was up to, he had hooked his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him, halting her forward motion with his kiss. Surprise kept her from reacting, and before she could even think, she was engulfed in that delicious heat that she had experienced twice before.

  His kiss was soft and demanding at the same time, and she found herself answering every challenge of his lips, his tongue, his hands in her hair. He groaned and pulled her closer still, deepening the kiss.

  Her heart seemed to stop, then start again double-pace. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the amazing sensation of being the sharp focus of all his attention. She wrapped her arms around him and felt him lift her into his lap, all the while kissing her as if he never intended to stop.

  And she did not wish to stop.

  Their plaid blankets slipped down around their waists, but the heat between them warded off the cold. She slid her fingers into his hair, slanting her head a bit to enjoy the feel of his lips on hers even more. A haze seemed to fall over her mind, as if she had drunk too much whiskey, yet her senses were acutely aware of every place he touched her, every change in the pressure of his hands upon her, every shuddering breath he took. He pulled her closer until there was nothing separating them but the thin barrier of their clothes and kissed her again.

  She was aware of the pressure, gathering deep within her, centering itself between her legs and in her breasts where they pressed against his chest. She was aware of the answering pressure of his arousal. He shifted his hips against her, holding her close, his lips leaving trails of heat as he kissed her neck and the hollow at the base of her throat. She heard herself moan, but could not stop it.

  He caressed her bottom, ran his hands over her back and into her hair. The heat of him warmed her and heightened the pressure until she couldn’t think clearly. Vaguely she was aware of him tugging at her shift, and then clearly she felt the heat of his hands directly on her skin, her breasts. It was exquisite. She tugged at the laces of his tunic, but when he lowered his mouth to her nipple, increasing the pressure unbearably, she could do nothing but lean into him, urging him to…she wasn’t sure what, but she wanted more.

  His hand moved lower, gently pressing her legs apart. She could do nothing—wanted to do nothing—but comply as his mouth covered hers once more and she lost herself in his kiss. Then she felt the warmth and the weight of his hand in that place where all the pressure centered. That wanting place.

  Her mind went blank. She could think of nothing, only feel the heat of him cradled against her, the urgency of his mouth on hers. She never wanted this moment to end, never wanted these heady new sensations to cease. And yet she strove toward some new height unt
il suddenly she was there, in a moment where all ceased to exist except the exquisite sensations coursing through her. Abruptly the pressure broke, splintering and spiraling out through her.

  TAYG WRAPPED HIS arms around her, holding her tight as her breathing slowed. His own breathing was ragged, his own need held tightly in check. What had he done? Despite his spontaneous nature, he had never been so driven by the hunger for a woman that he did not think through what he did. Never had the need to find that passion, to ignite it, made him forget where he was and who. And yet, though he had held onto just enough sanity not to roll her onto her back and take her hard and fast, he could not keep himself from touching her, driving her, satisfying her.

  Teaching her what she had to look forward to in his bed.

  His breath hitched. Was that what he wanted? Did he really want her in his bed?

  Cat nuzzled his neck, her body draped against him in her languor. Absently he ran a hand along her back, and she tucked her hips against his. He went still as a craving for her raced through him, stronger than before. Her passion, her abandon, had challenged what little control he had left.

  Aye. He wanted her in his bed. More than he had wanted any woman before. But did he want the rest? Marriage, bairns, Catriona the Shrew? He did not wish to marry, but he must. Was this the woman he could spend his life with? Wanting to bury himself in her wasn’t enough. Could he live with her day in and day out, or would she drive him mad? How could anyone know? How could he?

  Besides, she would want a husband to bide with her at Assynt and help her control her brothers. Tayg shuddered. He couldn’t see subjecting himself to that rabble again—especially on a daily basis—nor could he understand why she would want to. For once his responsibilities at Culrain, to his clan, stood as an advantage. He would never be allowed to shuck his mantle of responsibility to go live among another clan.

  He stroked her chilled cheek, and an odd melancholy drifted over him.