Charming the Shrew Read online

  “Tread lightly with your tongue, my Cat. We do not want these kind folk to regret their hospitality.”

  “I will say—”

  “What you must. I know,” he said, his mouth drawn into an un-Tayg-like frown. “Just try to say what you must with a light step. Do not draw attention to yourself that way, for ’tis how your brothers describe you first. Remember that you are not Catriona the Shrew here, but Cat, a lass traveling with her brother to meet her beloved. I know you can do this.” He held her glance for a moment. “Make me proud,” he whispered.

  With those strange words, he released her and lightly pushed her toward the waiting lad. She rubbed a sudden aching pain in the middle of her chest with the heel of her hand and wondered how she could have indigestion when it had been so long since she’d eaten. She rolled Tayg’s words around in her mind and rubbed the pain again. She glanced back over her shoulder at the bard just before Kester led her out of the hall. Tayg had already been drawn into conversation with one of the castle folk.

  The lad led her through several cold, dark passageways and at last to a chamber. He was just opening the door for her when a girlish voice shouted, “Hold!”

  Kester grinned and turned in the direction the command had come from. “Now you’ll meet our Isobel,” he said to Catriona. “She’s the finest lass in all the Highlands.” He turned a grinning face to her, then realized what he’d said. He had the grace to blush crimson just as the lass came to the top of the stair and hurried down the hallway toward them.

  Catriona felt her stomach drop as the blond beauty smiled at her.

  “I understand you’re to share my chamber,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling with delight. “’Twill be wonderful to have someone to talk to!”

  Catriona tried not to groan. Talk was the last thing she wanted just now, but a whisper of Tayg’s voice floated through her mind, reminding her to step lightly, to make him proud. And oddly, she wished to.

  Isobel took her hand and pulled her into the cozy chamber. A wood fire crackled in the fireplace and beautiful tapestries covered the walls. A huge bed with a deep mattress nearly filled the room. It was hung with lush curtains of blue and saffron. Catriona eyed the bed with a desire so strong it was all she could do to keep from flinging herself onto it.

  She turned as the door closed, shutting her in the chamber with Isobel. She heard Tayg’s odd words again: Make me proud. No one had ever asked such a thing of her. She was unsure how to go about doing as he asked until she remembered his advice to “tread lightly.” He wished her to mind her tongue—to be Cat rather than Triona.

  Her first instinct was to say something nasty to Isobel just to show Tayg that he could not tell her what to do, but then she looked at the happy young woman before her and did not have the energy to pour icy water on her enthusiasm for no reason other than to irritate Tayg.

  “You look very tired…um, I’m sorry, I do not know your name,” Isobel said.

  “Cat,” she said quickly, realizing that Tayg’s odd name for her rolled off her tongue easily.

  Isobel quirked an eyebrow at the name but said nothing. So that was what it was like to tread lightly. The girl’s restrained reaction reminded her of her father’s favorite admonition to her: “If you can’t say something nice, keep yer gob shut.”

  “Would it be possible for a bath to be brought—”

  “’Tis on its way already,” Isobel cut her off. “Let me take your things. If you like, I can have your clothes cleaned for you.”

  “Yes…I mean no. I shall have to wear these again.” At the girl’s puzzled look she added, “We…we…lost my sack of clothing in the storm.” She hoped the lie was convincing.

  “Well, these are beyond wearing,” Isobel said. She cocked her head and studied Cat for a moment. “I think we are of a size.” She turned to a trunk at the foot of her bed and rummaged through the contents, then drew forth a beautiful gown the deep blue of woad-dyed cloth. It was cut simply, but the color was so intense it made Catriona want to stroke it.

  “’Tis the most beautiful gown I have ever seen,” she said.

  “I would be pleased to lend it to you while yours is being cleaned.”

  Catriona took a step forward, her hand outstretched to caress the finely woven wool. She could well imagine herself in such a gown, all eyes upon her as she entered the great hall. The color would complement her deep blue eyes and pale skin. She would leave her hair uncovered. Tayg would see her as she should be…

  She jerked her hand back, as if burned by the fabric. “No, I cannot wear such a magnificent gown.”

  Disappointment trembled on Isobel’s lips and in her eyes, and Catriona realized how sharp her words had been.

  Tread lightly.

  Make me proud.

  ’Twas in her own best interest to do as he asked. She certainly wasn’t going to watch her tongue for his sake. She smiled at the girl before her.

  “You should wear this gown tonight. Your father said there were many guests seeking shelter from the storm within these walls. You should be the one to shine in such a gown when hosting so many.”

  The girl’s disappointment diminished, and Catriona realized she really was trying to be kind. Well, if treading lightly meant letting this lass be kind, she could find a way to do so without drawing such attention to herself.

  “Do you have another? Perhaps something a bit plainer? I do not wish to draw all eyes to myself as that grand gown shall do.” There, the truth stated quietly and Isobel was smiling again, though not as broadly as before.

  “Aye, I have another, but I’ve never met a lass as beautiful as you who did not want to draw a young man’s attention to herself.”

  Isobel’s casual compliment shocked Catriona. She turned to the fire and warmed her hands for a moment as she tried to make her voice work again.

  “I did not mean to embarrass you,” Isobel said quietly.

  Cat glanced over her shoulder and smiled at the girl.

  “I have no desire to draw such attention to myself.” At least not right now, she added to herself.

  A knock on the door interrupted the conversation, much to Catriona’s relief.

  Isobel opened the door. Two lads hauled in a fair-sized wooden tub while four lasses followed with kettles of hot water. After several more trips, they had the tub filled with delightfully steaming water. In the meantime, Isobel had pulled out a block of precious castile soap, a length of linen toweling, a comb, and a much less attention-drawing gray-green gown. When Catriona tried to ease the tangles from her hair, her chilled fingers would not cooperate. The other young woman gently took the comb from her and began the task herself. All the while, Isobel kept up a one-sided conversation, telling Catriona all the castle gossip, about her herb garden, and the storm that auld Anne’s creaky knees had predicted.

  As Catriona settled herself into the tub she hoped Isobel would leave her alone for a while, but the lass just perched upon the end of her bed and continued to prattle away. Heat soaked slowly into Catriona, chasing away the last bits of frosty cold that had lodged in her bones. She nodded occasionally, or grunted, more to keep the lass company than because she felt it necessary to participate in the conversation.

  There was a pause in Isobel’s monologue when Catriona ducked under the water to wet her hair. As she lathered it, there was silence. She ducked under again to rinse the soap from her, and when she sat up once more Isobel had moved to the side of the tub.

  “If you like, I’ll pour some clean water over your hair.”

  Catriona smiled, feeling more relaxed than she had in days. She nodded and leaned her head back while the warm water sluiced over her.

  “Tell me about your traveling companion. He is not your husband, is he?”

  The question caught her off guard. “Nay, he is my brother.”

  “And he is a bard?”

  Catriona nodded, sinking deeper into the tub until her chin touched the water though her knees were raised into the frigid air.r />
  “Why do you travel with him?”

  The girl had too many questions and Catriona too few answers. “Tayg takes me to my betrothed,” she said, keeping to Tayg’s story.

  “Tayg? That is your brother’s name? I have only heard that name once before.”

  Damn. Had Tayg given his name? Nay, she did not think so. The chief had referred to him only as bard. She would have to warn him that she had slipped and used his true name. “’Tis a common name in Clan Munro,” she said.

  “Aye, ’tis where the other who bears that name is from. Tayg of Culrain, son of the chief of Munro.” Isobel got a dreamy lost look on her face that made Catriona uncomfortable.

  “So you have met the warrior Tayg?” Catriona asked, prepared to pepper her with questions if the answer was yes.

  “Nay.”

  Catriona felt a moment’s disappointment but was too content in her bath to dwell on it.

  “But I have heard he is seeking a wife,” Isobel continued. “Or at least his mother seeks a wife for him. I have heard he does not wish to wed. I have also heard he is a charming, braw man.”

  ’Twas more than Catriona had heard from the songs and tales of the man. “Yet he has taken no wife,” Catriona said before she could stop herself.

  “He has not. Some say he wishes a love match, others say he is tired from war and would simply wait a bit before tying the knot with a lass. Whoever marries him, ’twill be a good match. He will be chief of a great clan, close kin to the Earl of Ross, and thus to the king himself. For me,” Isobel continued, “I do not wish for one who will be so much in the center of events, though he is said to be well favored, charming, and, well…”

  Catriona glanced over and realized the lass was blushing.

  “What?”

  “Well, I have heard—”

  Catriona was getting tired of those three little words.

  “I have heard that he does not leave a lass…unsatisfied.”

  “Unsatisfied?” What was she talking about?

  “Aye.” Isobel leaned close, whispering in Catriona’s ear. “In the ways of men and women.”

  At Catriona’s puzzled shake of her head Isobel added, “When he couples with a woman. In the bed!” she finally said, then covered her mouth with her hand as if she couldn’t believe she had said the words aloud.

  All Catriona could think to say was a sort of stunned, “Oh.”

  “Who are you bound to marry?” Isobel asked quietly.

  Catriona thought quickly. What name had Tayg given? She needed to get it right. Rory—but he had not said what clan. She thought of Tayg’s way of storytelling. What would he say? He’d use as much truth as possible, and he had named the man…

  “Rory of Clan Munro.” Catriona busied herself lathering her arms. “Do you know him?” she asked around the huge lump in her throat. If she was ever to be exposed for a liar ’twould be now.

  “I have heard his name, but know nothing more of him.”

  Relief surged through her.

  “He lives in Culrain, too, does he not? Is that where you are bound?”

  Catriona made a noncommittal sound.

  “I hear the king will be there soon,” Isobel said.

  This got her attention, and she sat up a bit. “The king will be in Culrain? I thought he was for Dingwall.”

  “Aye, he is, for his sister’s wedding, but first he tours the lands of those who have sworn fealty to him. ’Tis said he is bound for Culrain by week’s end. Perhaps you shall see him. I should like to meet King Robert someday…”

  Catriona glanced at the girl. Isobel sat upon the end of the bed, her feet on the trunk, her arms wrapped about her legs and her chin resting on her bent knees. Her eyes held a wistful look, as if she gazed at something far distant that she longed for.

  “Are you betrothed?” Catriona asked, surprised that she truly was curious about this girl. Normally she cared not what others did or thought.

  Isobel snapped her attention back from whatever faraway scene she imagined to focus on Catriona, who leaned back in the still-warm water and let the heat soak into her.

  “Am I what?”

  “Betrothed.”

  “Nay.”

  Catriona considered the lass. Blond hair, long and silky with just enough wave to make it seem constantly shifting in the flickering firelight. Her eyes were warm and friendly and seemed huge in her perfectly oval face. She was beautiful, charming in a talkative sort of way, and clearly of marriageable age. She would be a good match for a more serious-minded man—a man who needed a bit of a push to enjoy himself. Isobel needed someone to temper her chatter but who would appreciate her sweetness.

  “Surely you do not have much competition for the attentions of the young men.”

  Isobel shrugged. “There are none here that I would have, and though I have met many potential husbands—for it seems that all who travel this region pass through Duchally—I have not yet met one I wished to marry.”

  Catriona leaned her head back and stared at the planked ceiling. “I’d wager Ailig would appeal to you,” she said.

  “Ailig? Who is he?”

  “My—” Catriona sat straight up in the tub. What had made her speak of Ailig? What would Tayg do now? He would keep close to the truth. “My cousin. He is from Assynt—though I have never been there,” she added quickly. She had neatly directed the conversation away from her supposed husband-to-be and now was in danger again. Details, believable details, that’s what Tayg used to distract from the truth.

  “He is the youngest son of the MacLeod, and, I have heard,” she said, using Isobel’s words to draw her in, “the only brother with any brains. He is fair, like you. You would have lovely bairns.”

  “Is he not brother to the Shrew of Assynt?” Isobel asked, handing the toweling to Catriona as she stepped from the cooling water of the tub. “I do not think I would wish to marry into such a clan.”

  Catriona felt her temper rise, but she remembered Tayg’s words and struggled to hold her tongue. She briskly dried herself and casually asked, “Have you ever met the…” Catriona could not bring herself to say shrew. “Have you ever met the lass?”

  “Nay, but her reputation flies upon the wind. She is your cousin too. Have you not heard of it?”

  Catriona shook her head and wished she could figure out how to stop this conversation without causing suspicion.

  Isobel settled herself back on the foot of the bed. “I have heard she is a shrew with a tongue as sharp as a well-honed dagger. She can flay the skin from a warrior with nothing but her words. It is also said that her clan runs scared before her. She is sharp-faced, and her body is shriveled to match her soul. ’Twould not suit me to go from my own family to living in the company of such as that.”

  Catriona had gone stone-still at this news, her face hidden behind the linen she now used to dry her hair.

  “’Tis funny we should speak of her,” Isobel continued. “I was just talking with a traveler who said the shrew had been sold to the MacDonells, though I imagine if they weren’t so hard put they would have turned down the tocher, no matter how grand it was. But then the MacLeods of Assynt have plenty of wealth to be able to marry off such a daughter as that shrew. Perhaps I should meet this cousin of yours after all…”

  Catriona felt the heat rise in her cheeks and quickly turned her back to the girl while she finished drying herself.

  “Sit there by the fire and I’ll comb your hair for you again,” Isobel said.

  Catriona wrapped the linen about her and did as the girl bade her, not wanting to face her until she could be sure this unfamiliar embarrassment was under control. Was this how she was seen by everyone? By Tayg? Shriveled up, sold to anyone who would take her?

  Isobel’s gentle ministrations, combined with Catriona’s fatigue, slowly lulled her into a near trance.

  “There,” Isobel said, “your hair is smoothed. Sit here before the fire while I take your clothes down to the kitchen. I shall set someone to was
hing them, then we’ll get you dressed, and if you’ll let me, I shall arrange your hair for you.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?” Catriona asked suddenly, then slapped her hand over her mouth as Isobel had earlier.

  Isobel laughed, and Catriona couldn’t help but smile back at her.

  “You are our guest, silly. Besides, there are blessed few lasses my age here. I have no one to gossip with, no sisters nor even any close cousins. You have not told me once to cease my prattling as my father loves to do. We shall be fast friends.”

  Catriona nodded, as amazed by Isobel’s answer as by the realization that by following Tayg’s request she had earned a friend, perhaps the first in her entire life. “We shall be fast friends,” she said and felt a grin spread upon her face.

  As long as Isobel didn’t find out who she truly was.

  CHAPTER NINE

  TAYG HAD POSITIONED himself so he could see the entry into the great hall. He had been waiting a long time, and still Catriona had not appeared. The longer they were apart, the more he feared her temper and sharp tongue would reveal her identity. Her safety—and his—depended on their ruse. Which meant they were in danger of discovery, for the woman had no clue how to mind her tongue or how to blend in with those around her.

  Indeed, blending in was not something he could ever imagine Cat doing. The deep blue of her eyes against her pale, creamy skin and the inky curtain of hair all served to draw the eye to the lass. The stubborn set of her chin and the glint of determination so often found in those azure eyes held one’s gaze.

  He smiled to himself at the image. She was never predictable…well, except when he sought to goad her temper, but even that, he realized, was becoming less predictable. She was, after only a few days in his company, becoming more adept at controlling her temper and her tongue. She was entertaining, keeping him forever on his toes, challenging him as no lass ever had. She was nothing like the lasses his mother would have him choose from.

  Nay, he’d not like one of those lasses who fawned over him because of the tales and ballads. Which was why ’twas important for him to find a lass for himself, and soon, for eventually his mother would win and he would marry. And of course it would come much sooner than he had hoped. As soon as he had delivered Cat and the damning missive to King Robert, his mother would have him in her snare again. ’Twould be far better to always travel with Cat, forever on guard for a prickly barb slung his way, or a soft kiss to be stolen, than to suffer a lass his mother chose.