Charming the Shrew

by Laurin Wittig

  “She will not have me.”

  “You are not thinking, Tayg,” Duncan said. “’Tis clear you love her, and if I am not mistaken, the lass has proved her love of you, has she not?”

  Tayg refused to blush at his friend’s implication, though ’twas true. Even before she had said the words to him he had known by her body’s reaction to him just how she felt about him. “She says she loves me. She says were I truly the bard she knew instead of the heir to Culrain…”

  “Then find a way. You are still the bard she met, are you not? ’Tis but a part of you. Were you less yourself with the lass just because you took the guise of a bard?”

  “Nay.” He shook his head, considering his friend’s questions. “Nay, I was more myself with her than ever before. I was no longer trying to be Robbie, nor was I trying to live up to anyone else’s expectations, save my own.”

  “Then you have but to show the lass that you are the same man she fell in love with. She loves you, aye, but she needs a wee bit of convincing.”

  Images from their travels flashed through Tayg’s mind. That first night in the cave, her standing beside Dolag while he sang that awful…

  He grinned. “I know just the thing. Excuse me,” he said, rising from his seat. “I must speak to the king.”

  CAT SAT ON the bed, exactly where she had sat when Tayg had left her. Somehow she knew this was his chamber, the bed his bed. She wanted both to throw herself across the bed and cry her heart dry and to leave the room and think no more of the dark-eyed man who had worked his way through her armor and made a place for himself in her heart. Her heart ached, and she was sure nothing would ever stop that pain. Everything she had wanted was here in her grasp, had been offered to her, and yet she could not take it, could not pull Tayg and his family into the black morass that was the plight of all MacLeods thanks to her brother and that idiot, Dogface.

  There was naught for her here. She could not take it, so it might as well not exist. If only she had never left Assynt. Never met Tayg. Never come to love the irritating man.

  But she had, and if she was honest with herself, she knew ’twould have been worse for everyone had they not met, had they not worked together to thwart Broc and Dogface, had they not worked together to warn the king. ’Twould have been worse for her too, for she would now be wed to Dogface, and that was an even bleaker future than the one she now faced.

  A soft knock came on the door.

  “Come in.”

  The door opened and her heart leapt for a moment, thinking Tayg had come back to beg her to change her mind. But it wasn’t Tayg. ’Twas Ailig.

  “We are summoned to the hall, Cat,” he said.

  Startled, she looked up. “Why do you call me that?” Her voice was quiet, and she cringed at the wobble in it.

  “’Tis a fitting name,” he said gently. “You have teeth and claws aplenty, and yet, as I have been told, you are sweet and gentle and protective of your own.”

  “I am not.”

  “Aye, lass. For all that you are angry with your bard—”

  “He’s not—”

  “He is yours, Cat, whether you can see it or no, he is yours and you are his. Do you not see how you have changed under his care and influence?”

  “I have changed, that I cannot deny, and ’tis sure he had some hand in it.” Her traitorous body remembered only too well how his hands had been upon her. Her breathing increased and panic welled up in her. She could not forget that he had lied to her, betrayed her. Used her. He had taken her as a hostage, not to help her. Lies, all lies. Aye, but lies for a greater purpose. Not lies to hurt her.

  “We must go,” Ailig said, gesturing to the door.

  She nodded and rose, settling the beautiful gown about her then preceding him out of the room. The corridor was cold, but they had only to cross to the turnstile stair and descend a floor. They stepped from the stair directly into the hall. It was crowded with people, far more than when she had arrived with Tayg a few hours ago. A fire burned along one long wall, and two long rows of trestle tables filled the space. The chamber where she had met the king was at this end of the hall, but this time the king sat at the table, raised above the rest, at the far end.

  Ailig placed a hand at the small of her back and steered her along the wall where an aisle had been left.

  “Why do you think the king wishes to see us?” she asked Ailig in a whisper.

  “I do not know, sister mine. Do not fret. I am sure ’tis simply a formality before he sends us back to Assynt, or perhaps he wishes us to stay in his…care…as hostages against the good behavior of our kinsmen. Keep good hold of your temper, no matter what happens.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “If you think to goad me so I will not be afraid ’twill not work. I have learned the value of holding my tongue…at times…and of keeping a tight rein on my temper.”

  Ailig smiled at her. “You are a remarkable woman, Cat. Tayg is a remarkable man.”

  Catriona looked down at the floor. “He is.”

  Another moment and they stood before the king’s table. Ailig bowed and Catriona curtsied, though she could not bring herself to look up at the table. She did not want to see Tayg, could not meet his eyes again lest he see the shreds her heart was in. She would not give him any reason to believe she was not at peace with her decision. She would give him no reason to play the hero to the heartbroken lass.

  “Ailig of Assynt,” the king’s voice boomed out over the crowd, startling her into looking up. His eyes were on the two of them. His voice was firm, his expression…unreadable. She started to shake, and Ailig took her hand and squeezed it. The contact gave her courage. Together they would face whatever the king deemed just.

  “I have considered the information you brought to me this day. I have conversed with each of your surviving brothers, your sister—” he gave a slight nod of his head in her direction “—with the MacDonell, and with my loyal man, Tayg of Culrain.”

  Catriona held her breath, knowing that her own fate fell close to her brother’s.

  “I find your loyalty to me to be remarkable and greatly appreciated. I also find the death of Broc MacLeod of Assynt to be a boon, leaving the future leadership of your clan in some disarray.” He stopped and watched Cat and Ailig for a moment. She struggled not to squirm, though ’twas difficult under such scrutiny.

  “Ailig, though you are the youngest son of your father, I find you to be a man I can trust, a man who will be loyal to me and to the greater good of Scotland. Will you swear fealty to me, here and now?”

  “Aye, sire,” Ailig said without hesitation. He drew his dagger, placed it on his palms, and presented it to the king. He went down on one knee and bowed his head. “I do swear it though it may cause me to be cast out of Assynt. I swear fealty to you, Robert, king of Scotland.”

  “Rise.”

  Ailig did, and the king returned the dagger.

  “The MacDonell will accompany my guards to Dingwall where the Earl of Ross will host him in his dungeons that he may do no further harm to his clan. I command the three, Gowan, Jamie, and Callum of Clan Leod of Assynt, to serve in my army until such time as I deem their duty finished. Ailig, I charge you with bringing your clan into the community of Scotland.”

  “But sire—”

  “A good chief should have no trouble in this task.”

  Cat thought it was a rebuke at first, and then she realized the implication of the king’s words. She glanced at her brother and found his face serious; worry filled his eyes. This was just what she had wanted, and just what Ailig had not.

  “I will do what I must, sire. Clan Leod of Assynt will serve the king of Scotland.”

  Cat knew ’twas easier said than accomplished, but Ailig would find a way.

  “As it should,” King Robert said. “As for you, mistress,” he said, turning his attention to Catriona. “What boon would you seek for your loyalty?”

  “I ask for naught,” she said, startled by the unexpected question, �
�save to return to my home with my brother.”

  “I was given to understand you undertook the journey from Assynt in search of me to make a certain request.”

  Catriona tried to hide the pain such words caused. She swallowed, lifted her chin, and looked the king in the eye. “Nay, sire. I did not. ’Tis my place to return to Assynt and to leave you and the good people of Culrain to see to the future of Scotland.”

  The king shook his head. “There is one who would have otherwise.”

  “I cannot, sire. He deserves better than the cast-off daughter of a disgraced clan.”

  “Hmph. Is she cast-off, Ailig?”

  “Nay, lord, never.”

  “Is your clan disgraced?”

  Ailig did not say anything.

  “It is not,” the king said. “I am satisfied that those responsible are accounted for and will, or already have, paid for their part in the conspiracy. So, you are neither cast-off nor disgraced, Catriona. Even so, ’twould seem a mediocre bard would not quibble over such.”

  A drumbeat began, unsteady but strong. Catriona turned to find the crowd, so thick when she entered the hall, had parted down the middle between the tables to reveal Tayg, seated on a stool, his drum on his thigh and a grin on his face. A very pregnant lass rose from the near end of the tables and took Cat by the elbow and began pulling her down the hall.

  “Bard,” the lass said loudly.

  “Aye, Mairi?”

  “Will you not make up a song for this lass here? She is the bonniest I have seen in a very long time.”

  “I am not good at such things,” he said, and Cat found herself smiling in spite of the weight in the pit of her stomach.

  “’Tis sure I am that you can spin a fine verse. There is much to be said about this lass, aye?”

  Tayg’s gaze locked with Cat’s. He picked up the beat and Mairi dragged her forward, the crowd closing behind her, cutting off any hope of escape.

  He whistled the tune to the song he had made up for Dolag and Cat shook her head. “Do not…”

  “A lass, known as Cat, she is loyal and true.” His voice rose over her objection. “Her hair made of ebon, her voice like a flute.”

  Cat put her hands over her mouth, desperately trying not to cry, not to give in to Charming Tayg.

  “She is soft, sweet, and bonny, my own love, ’tis true. And she is never, no never, ever a shrew.”

  He stopped and the hall was absolutely silent. Catriona couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Tayg handed the drum to someone and rose, slowly moving toward her.

  “You see, Cat,” he said, grasping her hands and pulling them toward him. He held them, lifted them to his lips. A shudder ran through her at the soft touch of his mouth on her skin, and she could not take her eyes off his. “I am the same man I was when first we met…nay, I am a better man, and ’tis your doing. I cannot live without you. If you will not stay here in Culrain, then I have asked and gained the leave of my liege to follow you to Assynt where I will serenade you daily until you can stand it no longer and you take pity upon me and become my wife. For I will not rest until you are mine, love.

  “Will you marry me, brave Catriona? Will you be my wife, with all that entails? There will be strife and turmoil and hardship and happiness and laughter and love. God willing we’ll have bairns with your good looks and my easy temper.” He grinned at her then, the grin of her bard, her Tayg, the man she loved, the man who made her a better person than she had ever been, who taught her to laugh, to play, who made her heart, mind, and body sing, despite his poor efforts at verse.

  “Say yes, lass,” he said, more with his eyes than his voice.

  “Say yes!” the crowd yelled.

  Catriona looked about at the beaming faces surrounding her. She glanced over her shoulder at the dais and found the king, Tayg’s parents, and Ailig all grinning at her. Ailig nodded at her; Tayg’s mother did the same. Even the king was grinning and nodding.

  “Say him yea,” the king boomed out.

  Tayg took her face in his hands and kissed her, softly, gently. “Say you will be my wife, Cat. The king deems you worthy of the exalted heir of Culrain,” he said with a grin. “Will you not marry me?”

  “Aye,” she said, kissing him lightly on the lips as joy lifted her heart. “I will marry you.”

  Tayg grabbed her about the waist and swung her around, whooping and hollering to the cheers of the crowd.

  “Wait!” Cat cried. “Wait!”

  Tayg put her down and looked at her quizzically.

  “There is one condition I require,” she said, trying hard not to grin at the concerned look on his face.

  “Anything,” he said with complete seriousness.

  “I will marry you, but…you must promise never to make up any more songs.”

  Tayg’s expression stayed serious. “I do not know if I can make such a promise.”

  Now ’twas Cat’s turn to look worried.

  “If we have a wee lass, I may have to make one up for her.” He grinned then and Cat’s heart blossomed. He was her Charming Tayg, now and always.

  THE END

  GET A SNEAK PEEK AT

  DARING THE HIGHLANDER

  THE LEGACY OF MACLEOD

  CHAPTER ONE

  MORAINN MACRAILT HUGGED the sunset-colored plaid, her latest creation, to her stomach as she stood looking out over the frozen expanse of Loch Assynt. The castle loomed behind her, but she was not ready to enter it. She’d been putting it off all day, chiding herself for being a coward. It wasn’t like her to avoid confrontation, but she was tired of fending off her would-be suitor. She missed the days when she could hide behind her mourning. No one had approached her about marrying again until her official mourning period had ended just a fortnight earlier.

  She let her gaze wander over the double-peaked expanse of snow-draped mountain on the opposite shore, then up to the scudding clouds retreating down the length of the glen.

  She hadn’t always been a coward, but marriage hadn’t turned out the way she had expected. They had both quickly seen their mistake, but ’twas too late when they discovered it. They were married and there was nothing to undo that, until Hamish’s early death one night while reaving the MacTavishes’ cows with the chief’s sons.

  She should have felt a stab of pain at the thought of him, or at least guilt, but lately even that had faded to a small hollow ache that was becoming all too easy to live with. Not that anyone else need know that.

  She had been mortified that her first reaction to the news had been relief. She had been sad. He had not deserved to die so young, but deep inside where she would never let anyone see it, she had felt a door open. She had felt her true self pour forth again from where she had locked it away trying to be a good wife.

  But she would never do that again. And she’d never marry again. She had thought herself in love with Hamish, but the flush of infatuation had quickly burned out, and she’d been left living with a man she did not particularly like, and one who no longer liked her overmuch either. For three years they had avoided each other as much as possible, speaking little. He had been miserable and she blamed herself for that, but she had also been miserable and that, too, she blamed on herself. He was older than she was. He knew what he wanted in a wife. She was much younger and had been so lonely after the death of her mother and the emotional retreat of her father that the gratitude at the attention Hamish heaped on her had felt like love. What did she know of love? Nothing, it turned out.

  She let the calm and quiet of the winter landscape seep into her, fortify her. She drew the sharp-edged air into her lungs. Sick of her own cowardice, she faced the castle only to find herself being watched.

  Baltair, the clan’s champion, stood between her and the castle. A slow smile spread across his ruddy face, pulling his narrow lips tight and his crooked nose even further out of line than it usually was. The man really shouldn’t smile. His eyes went to slits, and he looked almos
t as if he were grimacing.

  She’d like to grimace too, but she managed to stop at a frown.

  “Is there something you need?” she asked, clutching her bundle of plaid tightly to her like armor. The man was relentless, and she was tired of it. He didn’t seem to understand her when she told him she was not looking for a husband. Why couldn’t anybody understand that? One thing she was beginning to understand was that when Baltair got it into his wee little mind that he wanted something…say, her…he was just as unyielding and just as hard of hearing as the stone wall his chest resembled.

  “Why are you always in such a hurry to get away from me, Morainn?” he asked, his voice low as if he spoke to a lover.

  She clamped down on the urge to kick him in the shin…or maybe higher. She satisfied herself with the thought, not the action, and cocked her head at him. “I have much to do. Do you not as well?”

  “Not so much that I cannot take time to woo my future bride.” His nose shifted direction subtly with each word he spoke. His hair, so dark a brown ’twas almost black, writhed around his face in the breeze that was growing stronger, and colder, by the moment. “You used to have sweet words for Hamish. Do you not have a sweet word for me?”

  Sweet words meant little, and she certainly didn’t have any for this big muttonhead. He was cut from the same rough cloth as the chief’s offspring, wild, willful, and too sure the world should bow down at his feet—something she would never do.

  “Hamish was my husband. You are not.”

  “Aye, but I will be.” Baltair grinned at her.

  “Only if I am dead and lying in my grave,” she muttered, stepping around him. Unfortunately he followed her, his long legs catching him up quickly.

  “Was that an acceptance?” he asked.

  She stopped in her tracks and glared at him. Irritation was an emotion she did not like, and this man gave it to her in heaps.

  “Baltair MacLeod, have you no ears? Can you not understand my words? I. Will. Never. Marry. Again. Not you, not anyone. Shall I repeat it again more slowly so you will understand it this time?”