Charming the Shrew by Laurin Wittig

sweat broke out on Tayg’s brow as the true intent of the message slammed into him. This message had been intended for Broc, not Catriona, and it outlined the alliance between the clans—and the first task that would test it, taking up swords against the king! Tayg was sure of it.
    The MacDonells and the MacLeods rode to meet the king, and ’twas not to give fealty. The two clans rode against King Robert, and Tayg held the evidence in his hand. What to do? He could not ride against the MacDonell by himself, and Catriona’s clan would not help him. Indeed, if spending a night alone with her wasn’t enough to anger them, riding against their ally would.
    That left warning the king. He must ride to warn the king himself. He had the evidence. The task fell to him alone.
    He regarded the lass across the fire. Perhaps not alone. He had the evidence, and he had a hostage, who had provided the needed clue to understand the message and who might yet reveal more information that would be of use to the king. He folded the missive and tucked it in his pouch.
    So much for leisurely adventures or even not-so-leisurely spying through the Highlands. He must make for the king as swiftly as possible, which would then put him back in the path of Mum’s scheme too soon. Tayg wanted to punch something. All his plans were ruined by a conniving, dog-faced chief. He could save his king or he could save his freedom, but he could not do both, and worse yet, he would have to take the shrew with him.
    Truly, there was no mercy.

CHAPTER FOUR
    C ATRIONA TURNED OVER and faced the fire. Her back was a little less than frozen. She could not say as much for her front. The fire flickered in the dark cave, casting just enough light to show the man sleeping on his back, his well-formed, trews-clad legs sticking out of the plaid that served as both bed and blanket. The scowl was gone from his face, leaving in its place an almost graceful peace that softened his mouth and relaxed the furrows from his brow. He looked perfectly comfortable there on the hard cave floor across the meager fire from her, yet she was freezing and the ground was hard and lumpy. Her heavy winter cloak did little to cushion her from it. She dug a rock from beneath her hip and decided to give up on sleep. Sitting up, she arranged her clothing to maximize any warmth it might afford.
    What she really wanted was a plaid to wrap herself in as he did, or at least a pair of Ailig’s cast-off trews to keep away the drafts that slipped up her skirts. But those were back in Assynt, and she was here with this stranger, his horse, and—wait. There had been a pair of trews in the saddlebags! Surely the bard would not wish her to remain cold.
    She rose quietly and moved to the back of the cave where the bags had been left. Slowly she lifted a flap and dug her hand into the first bag. Food. She moved to the next. Oats for the horse. The third was the one. She pulled out a pair of woolen trews. They were big, but they would do. She tugged off her boots, slid her legs into the garment, then put her boots back on her cold feet before standing and pulling the woolen leggings up. It took her some time to unfasten her belt, arrange the loose waist of the trews under her gown, then fasten the belt again over her gown to hold the trews up. They didn’t solve the problem of cold completely, but they helped. She moved back to her spot by the fire.
    Settling back as near to the fire as she dared, she gazed at the flames, then found her attention pulled to the sleeping form of her companion. He turned toward her suddenly, startling her, but he quickly settled back into his deep sleep, one well-muscled arm tucked beneath his head. She remembered how strong his arms were, how his warm hand had enveloped hers and how muscular his thighs had been as she lay across them on the ride to this cave. He really was a braw man, though in sleep he looked younger, less concerned than he had when he had been awake, as if