Laurin Wittig - Charming the Shrew

By

Laurin Wittig

Praise for Laurin Wittig's debut novel, The Devil of Kilmartin

"A marvelous Scottish tale that will keep you turning pages. Don't miss this one." Patricia Potter

"A truly magical Scottish romance, The Devil of Kilmartin is sure to sweep the readers off their collective feet and draw them into the mystical glens and greenery of the beautiful Scottish countryside. Unreservedly charming and absolutely riveting!" The Road to Romance

"Writing with the same passion that drives her characters, Wittig is certain to keep you turning the pages." Donna Kauffman

"Weaving passion, honor, intrigue and a touch of the paranormal Ms. Wittig has secured a place of honor on my 'must-read' list." Escape to Romance Reviews

"An exciting Medieval Scottish romance engaging fans will relish this delightful historical tale." BookBrowser

"An enchanting story filled with romance, intrigue and suspense." Romance Reviews Today

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

CHARMING THE SHREW

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation edition / May 2004

Copyright 2004 by Laurin Wittig.

Cover art by Leslie Peck.

ISBN: 0-425-19527-9

BERKLEY SENSATION

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

BERKLEY SENSATION and the "B" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Mom

Jane Magruder Watkins

who taught me to follow my own star

Acknowledgments

I would never have come this far without the unflagging support and awesome brain power of my critique group: Elizabeth Holcombe, Karen Lee, Courtney Henke and Catherine Anderson. Thank you, ladies!

Special thanks go to my dear friend Pamela Palmer Poulsen, who's always there to cheer me on and help me untangle the thorniest plot problems, and to Anne Shaw Moran, who coached this southern-bred woman on the details of serious snow.

As always, my love and thanks to my family, Dean, Samantha and Alex, who make it possible for me to spin my stories.

December 23, 1307, Inverurie, Scotland

Robert the Bruce, king of Scotland, shouldn't be dying. Tayg Munro tried to understand this strange twist of fate as he huddled near a stingy fire, wrapped tightly in his plaid against the bone-chilling cold of the Scottish winter. Smoke from the army's cookfires drifted, leaving a faint gray haze both within and without the palisaded walls of the nearby fort. He could just make out the rise of the motte, a huge earthen hill clad in dirty drifts of snow, upon which sat the timbered tower where the king languished, growing ever weaker.

Despite the death of Longshanks, Edward I of England, in midsummer, and despite the relief afforded by Edward II's disinterest in war, Scotland's fate had not yet been determined. All seemed now to hang on the vagaries of a stubborn wasting disease.

The irony that all that the Scots had endured and overcome at Longshanks's hand might now be lost to a wasting illness, was not missed by Tayg. He did not think there was another leader who could unite the varied peoples of Scotland. The loss of Sir William Wallace had been a terrible blow to their fight to rid themselves of England's grasp but the Bruce had stepped in and raised Sir William's banner of freedom with admirable strength and passion.

Now, though, 'twas rumored that the king would not last the night. Gillies had been sent hither and yon in search of a cure. Healers had come from as far away as the Kilmartin glen in the far west. But hope blew away on the sharp winter wind.

Tayg stirred the fire and glanced across its feeble flames at his companions in this endeavor: red-haired Duncan MacCulloch, his best friend and cousin; auld Gair of MacTavish, whom he'd met when first he joined the Bruce's band; quiet young Tearlach Munro, another cousin; and Tayg's older brother, Robbie the Braw, revered by all who knew him. Only the king was a better leader of men as far as Tayg was concerned.

But even Robbie wore the expression so common among their company: fatigue edged by despair. Indeed, each of his companions wore it as they sat hunched near the fire. All were good men who had lost someone or something to this constant battle against both the English and their own countrymen. Each had his own reason for being here, not the least of which was an abiding belief that King Robert was the last hope for Scotland's future. 'Twas a heavy mantle indeed for such a young monarch.

The Scottish earls had not been quick to rally to the cause. The Munros' own neighbor and ally, the Earl of Ross, was none too pleased that the sons of Munro were following the king, for Ross was on the side of whoever won this fight for Scotland and he had not yet firmly laid his sword at anyone's feet. Yet Tayg's brother Robbie had decided to support the Bruce and their father had agreed.

Tayg had had no particular opinion about this fracas when Robbie had dragged him into battle. He had thought 'twould be a grand adventure and that he would watch Robbie's back, protecting his own selfish interests in the future.

But it had turned out to be much more than that.

He had come to admire the men he fought beside and even more the man who led them, the man who lay dying within the timbered walls atop the hill. 'Twas a bitter fate to sit and wait for death.

Just two days past, the Earl of Buchan had attacked a scouting party and butchered the lot of them, leaving them for the carrion crows and magpies to pick at. The gossips claimed that the Bruce had attempted to rise from his deathbed to lead a counterattack, but the king had not been seen.

A sudden cry of surprise went up throughout the camp. Tayg and his companions rose as one, peering into the dimness. Out of the dusk loomed a knight in full battle gear upon a silver-gray charger. As the knight drew closer his surcoat revealed the rampant lion of Scotland, blood-red against a glowing golden background.

A chorus of cheers erupted even as Tayg solved the puzzle for himself.

"The king!"

"The king lives!"

Cheers rose around him as the camp of nearly seven hundred surrounded the man they had all thought lost to Scotland.

The king raised his hand and a hush fell over the army. " 'Tis I!" His voice wavered slightly but then steadied.

Shouts surrounded him, louder this time, filling the air with excitement and hope. Tayg felt the weight upon his heart lift.

The king signaled for silence again. "We have grave work this night and I would not leave you to accomplish such alone." His voice was now strong and carried easily over the heads of the hushed crowd.

Tayg worked his way nearer to the man who was not so very much older than Robbie. He was near enough to see a lingering pallor to the king's skin and the dark hollows of his shrunken cheeks, but his posture was erect, his voice strong, and there was a glint in his eyes that bespoke an inner fire that had not been dampened by illness. 'Twas a miracle!

"We must repay Buchan for the slaughter of our men two days past. I will not let those noble warriors of Scotland go unavenged. We march within the hour!"

Yet another cheer ripped through the throng and Tayg added his own voice to it.

The king turned back to the fortress, leaving the army to break camp and prepare for battle. Orders were shouted and everyone scrambled to pack up their meager belongings and get back to the business of war.