Free Taming the Scotsman by Kinley MacGregor

agreed.
    He ambled back toward the fire where Cat still stood with her hands on her hips as she watched the other two imbeciles head off.
    “They are such fools,” she said under her breath.
    “Now, Cat, don’t be so angry because they didn’t listen to you.”
    “I’m not angry. I’m perfectly calm. See.”
    He laughed at that, then he and Pagan helped her clean up their dinner remains. Catarina washed their cups and platters while Viktor fed the scraps to their horses.
    Pagan returned to sit by the wagon, where he remained totally impassive and silent.
    After a short while, Bavel and Lysander returned, empty-handed. Both of them had lost a good deal of color in their cheeks.
    “Well?” Viktor asked, his voice a cross between fear and hope.
    “Have you seen the size of the man?” Bavel gasped. “He’s even taller than Pagan.”
    Cat looked at said man who stood at least a head taller than any other man she’d ever seen.
    Even Lysander’s face was pale, and Cat had never known anything to daunt the ex-soldier. A veteran fighter of the Crusades, Lysander had always had fearless nerves.
    Until now.
    “I don’t want to be hitting this man, to be sure,” Lysander agreed. “Like as not, it will only upset him.”
    Pagan laughed at that.
    “How big can he be?” Viktor asked.
    Lysander stretched his arm over his head andstood on his tiptoes. “He’s a giant. No one said anything about kidnapping a giant.”
    Bavel nodded furiously. “We’ll need a bigger wagon to hold him.”
    Cat exchanged an amused look with Pagan, who continued to watch them in silence.
    Viktor stroked his gray beard as he considered their words. “I was told he drank much. Was he not in his cups?”
    Lysander shrugged. “All I know is he had an ax and I watched him cut down a tree twice the size of me with only three strokes. I wasn’t about to get between him and that ax to figure out if he was drunk or not. And if he could do that drunk…Well, I’m thinking he’s a mighty fine terror.”
    Suddenly, all three men looked to Pagan, who arched a brow at their attention.
    “You won’t be involving me in this madness. If you want him, you’ll have to get him on your own.”
    In unison their gazes moved on to her.
    “Oh,” Catarina said snidely. “Now why you be staring at me, huh?”
    Lysander cleared his throat. He looked at the others, then back to her. “What’s your idea, woman?”
    “So now you be facing me for ideas, eh? What makes you think a simple, brainless woman like myself would have any idea on how to accomplish men’s work? Why, I feel faint just trying to think any thought at all.”
    Lysander curled his lips.
    “Please,” Bavel said, moving over to stand by her. “You’ve no idea what we’ve just seen. If you be having any more ideas, I’m willing to listen.” He shot a look at Lysander over his shoulder. “And if he insults you again, it’ll be his noggin we conk.”
     
    Nora woke up early, even before the brewer and his wife did. As quietly as she could, she left the small cottage to attend to her needs.
    It was barely after dawn, with the light just creeping through the village. This was one of her favorite times of the day. She almost always woke up before anyone else, and she treasured the times where she was alone in the world.
    But she wasn’t alone, she realized as she neared the small stream that ran behind the cottage.
    Ewan had beaten her awake and to her spot.
    She froze the instant she saw him in the early morning misty light. His black hair slicked back from his sculpted face, he was waist-deep in the water, holding a knife to his throat as he shaved himself.
    Her gaze feasted on the sight of his tanned flesh. On the way the waves of the water lapped against his bare, tawny skin, caressing and teasing it to a fine sheen.
    She traced the line of his muscles with her eyes, watching the way his body bunched and flexed with every move he made.
    Aye, Ewan MacAllister was the finest-looking