Charming the Shrew by Laurin Wittig Page B

turned to face him.
    “’Tis no wimple, but ’twill serve the purpose,” he said, reaching out and tucking a stray tendril under the material.
    His fingers were remarkably gentle against her wind-chapped cheek, and a curious warm chill ran through her where he touched her. He stared at her for a moment as if frozen to the spot.
    “Bard?” She touched his arm and he jerked as if burned by her, then quickly bent and dug into the snow at his feet without a word. When he reached the rocky ground underneath, he dug until he had a small handful of dirt. He added a bit of snow to it, making a muddy mixture, then rubbed his hands together, letting most of the dirt drop back to the ground. He reached toward her face again, and Catriona pulled back.
    “I’ll not hurt you, lass, but we must distract from your beauti—from your pale skin.” Gently he ran his thumbs over her cheeks in what felt more like a caress than anything else. He ran a finger along her nose, as if memorizing the line of it. Slowly he drew his palm over her chin. His eyes followed the path his hands took, and Catriona was mesmerized by the strange sensation of his soft touch spreading the cold, gritty dirt. She found it hard to breathe, and he seemed to be having the same trouble. Her skin felt heated, and she did not know what to do with her hands. He finished by brushing away much of his handiwork with the backs of his fingers, once more lingering over his task.
    At last he stepped back. She licked her lips nervously and watched him swallow, his eyes fixed upon her mouth. For a moment they stood there, silent, watching.
    “I think that will do,” he finally said, that husky note once more in his voice. He bent to the snow again and cleaned his hands. When he faced her he wore his usual slightly perturbed look.
    “You understand what you must do?” he asked. “How you must behave?”
    “I do, bard,” she said in a breathless voice. She cleared her throat and pushed the disturbing sensation of his hands on her face from her mind. “I am well versed in the behavior of a sister toward an older brother.” That was better. “’Twill not be difficult.”
    He nodded but didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked a bit like a man heading to the gallows.
    “I can do this,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “Do not worry.”
    He backed away a step, breaking her touch, then picked up the reins and moved toward the smell of peat smoke.
    “Bard, wait!” she called.
    He stopped and looked back at her as she caught up to him.
    “Do you not think a sister would know her brother’s name?”
    “Tayg,” he said, and she saw him wince as if he had not meant to tell her.
    Surprised, she asked, “Like brave Tayg of Culrain?”
    He turned and began walking again. “’Tis a common name among Clan Munro.”
    “Then you are of that clan?” She loped along behind him, trying to catch up with his long strides despite her fatigue. “Is that why you were angry last night? Are you rivals, perhaps?”
    “Save your breath, lass,” he said. “The sun is nearly set. If we are to chance this, I would reach our destination before full dark.”
    Catriona followed him, trying out his name in her mind. Tayg. It summoned to mind images of a man in battle, the king’s banner flying over his head, sword drawn, a battle cry upon his lips. But this Tayg was a bard, not a warrior. She tried to adjust the image to one of a bard, seated in a hall, but she could not. Now there was a face on the warrior, and it belonged to this Tayg. She shook her head at the nonsense. ’Twas an uncommon name, to be sure, yet it connected him to his clan. ’Twas a good name—for a bard or a warrior.

    “H ELLO !” T AYG CALLED as they entered a village just as the last light was about to fade from the sky. Heads poked out of cottage doors, but no one spoke to them. “’Tis a bard I am, in search of a warm meal and a place to sleep out of the cold for me and my sister,” he said