Charming the Shrew (19 page)

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 until 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.

T
AYG
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.

“Cat, do you think you could release my tunic, love?”

“Hmm?” She sat up enough for him to see her face, satisfaction evident in her faint smile and the dazed expression in her eyes. She moved to kiss him, then stopped. The dazed expression cleared and confusion replaced it. Catriona stared at him then glanced down at her hands, fisted in his tunic. She abruptly released her grip.

“What have we done?”

“Nothing irreversible, lass,” he said, carefully pulling her shift up to cover her beautiful full breasts before he reached for them again. He pushed her back gently until she slid off his lap. He glimpsed dark curls between her legs glistening with the result of his lapse in judgment and struggled to remember why he could not finish what he’d started. She caught the direction of his gaze and quickly covered herself, drawing her knees up again and wrapping herself in one of the blankets.

“What did you do to me?”

Tayg took a deep breath and caught the musky scent of her satisfaction. “’Tis more what you do to me, lass.” He shook his head at his own traitorous words.

“I did nothing to you!”

“We’d best get some sleep—”

“I’ll not sleep with you!”

“Nay, I know. I did not mean—”

Cat rose and moved to her pallet, gathering it up from its place next to his and moving it to the opposite side of the fire.

“You will not touch me again. You will not kiss me. I cannot give myself to such as you.”

“Such as me?” Anger rose in his gut, though he knew he should not take her words to heart.

“You are a bard, and not a very good one at that. You have no power to help me keep my brothers from—”

“What makes you think any man will stand up to your brothers for you?”

The look of panic on her face didn’t match the cutting edge of her tone or the agitated way she was arranging her pallet.

He had scared her.

He had scared himself.

T
AYG LAY FOR
a long time staring into the darkness, listening to the keening wind, struggling to ignore the black humor that had descended on him when Cat had pulled away and made it plain what she wanted…or rather what she didn’t want…or who.

And yet her body told him otherwise. He knew she reacted as strongly as he did when they touched. When he kissed her she had leaned into him, pulled him closer, been just as stunned by the intensity of each kiss as he was.

He turned onto his side—it was a bit less tender now than when he had awakened—and faced the fire and the shadowy lass who slept on the other side of it. He missed the feel of her curled up against him. He wanted…more.

But he shouldn’t. He couldn’t. He dared not entangle himself in such a way with a lass like Catriona MacLeod. ’Twas dangerous enough that they traveled together. If they were found together, no one would believe her virtue was unsullied. He would be forced to wed her—assuming her brothers did not kill him first. ’Twas a daft notion, marrying the Shrew of Assynt. Marrying Cat.

He turned his back to the fire and stared into the darkness for a long time, reminding himself of all the reasons he did not wish to marry. He tried to think of reasons Cat would not make a good wife, but he kept remembering the feel of her lips on his and her hands fisted in his tunic. Quickly he forced his thoughts back to why he didn’t want a wife, but his reasons seemed feeble even to him. It was a long time before sleep finally took him.

T
HE NEXT DAY
passed slowly. Tayg tried to venture out to gather wood, but a few minutes in the battering wind and he returned to the relative warmth of the hut worn out and weak with only a few measly branches to show for his effort.

Catriona had fussed over him, making him lie down again, covering him with all the blankets and stirring up a stew that tempted his belly despite the meager ingredients she had available. He didn’t think he was really that badly off, but he was enjoying her attentions too much to do anything to make her stop. He spent the day watching her as she moved about their makeshift home, caring for and cleaning up after the horse; mending first her clothes and then his; cooking; tidying. She even beat the dirt from his plaid and his cloak.

What she didn’t do was talk to him. She wouldn’t look him in the eye, and she was careful not to let him touch her, or to touch him, except to check the bindings on his battered ribs.

After a while Tayg rose once more from his pallet, but there was nothing for him to do but try to pace in the tiny cottage. There was nothing to do but sleep, eat…his gaze lingered over the oddly still Cat sitting by the fire. A strange prickling sensation seemed to take turns running down Tayg’s spine and wriggling in his belly. Nay, there was naught to do but sleep, he told himself firmly. ’Twasn’t right, this situation. ’Twasn’t natural for him to have to fight his desires like this. And yet he must.

In desperation he grabbed the sack that held his drum. She didn’t think he was a bard. Well, he could act the part now. A bard would entertain when faced with a long, cold confinement. He could entertain her when he dared not do anything else.

Tayg fit the beater into his hand, positioned the drum on his leg, and began tapping out a simple rhythm. Catriona rose and moved to her pallet. She lay down on it, pulling a blanket around her but watching him.

Tayg sang to himself at first, listening to the combination of his voice and that of the drum. He learned to beat it in different areas for a slightly different quality of sound, moving his hand over the face of the drum as he’d seen others do.

He tried a second song, and then a third. He thought Catriona had drifted off to sleep when he was surprised to hear her lovely voice joining with his, weaving around the melody in a haunting descant.

“You are better at this than I,” he said when the song ended. She gave him a wan smile, and he started into another song, more lively this time, happy for a Scottish tune. Again she joined in, picking up the melody, adding trills and flourishes that he had never heard before.

“You are quite the bard yourself, sweet Cat.”

The startled look in her eyes told him he had said something he shouldn’t. He quickly started playing the drum again, humming the first thing that came to him.

“Are you trying to anger me now?” she asked.

He shook his head but continued humming the oddly familiar tune. He couldn’t quite find the words yet, but he knew they would come in a moment. They must.

“Once again you do not recognize what you are humming, do you?” Cat said.

“Aye…” But he didn’t, not quite.

“Sweet Dolag of Fionn, a sweet thing she is,” Catriona sang to him.

“Her hair is like fire, her face like a pig,” he finished with a grin. “Ah, yes, now I remember it. I think I will leave out that last bit when I sing it for the king.”