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trews.
    As a rule, Drew kept his distance when it came to exchanges with the natives. The less they knew about him, the better. His
     dark scowl kept most people away. For those to whom he had to be civil, he’d learned to affect Highland charm to steer the
     conversation away from personal matters. As for intimate encounters, he employed discreet wenches who charged for their services
     and their silence.
    Why he felt drawn to engage a wee, fiery-tempered, trews-wearing lass who was a danger to herself and others, he didn’t know.
     Surely it had nothing to do with her rosy pink lips, the rough whiskey timbre of her voice, orthe thought of what bewitching charms might lie beneath that baggy shirt.
    Lord, he thought, shaking his head, he’d spent too many days of late on the links and not enough feeding his carnal appetites.
    The lass might be beautiful, but she was trouble. ’Twas a mistake to intervene in the affairs of quarrelsome Scots. And the
     last thing Drew needed was to draw the notice of their queen.
    But he supposed he was obliged to help the maid. She was partly right—it
had
been his idea to expose her. The queen might never have noticed her had it not been for the waving pennant of her dazzling
     curls.
    Besides, be they Scots or English, he’d never been the sort who could walk away from tiny, helpless creatures. Especially
     ones with sparkling eyes and tempting lips.
    He’d at least get the lass out of immediate danger and on the road home. He owed her that much.
    He studied the departing entourage to measure its progress.
    “Look, lass,” he offered, “I’ll take ye as far as Roslin.” With the current speed of the procession, they had about an hour’s
     advantage.
    “I’m not goin’.”
    “We should leave before the…” He swung his head back to her. “What?”
    “I’m not goin’.” Her arms were crossed stubbornly over her chest.
    He checked quickly for witnesses, then lowered his head to whisper, “If ye leave before the procession’s o’er, ye can escape
     ere they know ye’re gone.”
    Her eyes narrowed with disdain. “Spoken like a trueHighlander.” She looked him up and down. “If ye get into a scrape, ye just scamper off into the hills, don’t ye, never to
     be heard from again.”
    He blinked. He believed he’d just been insulted.
    “I’m no coward,” she told him, “and I’m a woman o’ my word. I told the man I’d meet him, and meet him I will.”
    Despite her brave vow, she was still a wee, naïve country lass from Selkirk who was about to get herself into more trouble
     than she realized.
    He told himself ’twasn’t his duty to set wayward innocents on proper paths, particularly not
enemy
wayward innocents.
    ’Twas folly for an Englishman to traffic with Scots.
    ’Twas madness to traffic with Scots royals.
    And ’twas the height of insanity for Drew to endanger his entire mission of vengeance for an impertinent, foolish, hot-tempered
     brat of a lass he’d just met who clearly didn’t want his aid.
    But, God help him, the words rushed out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Fine. I’ll escort ye to The White Hart then.”
    She lifted her impertinent, pointy chin. “Nae, ye go along. Shoo. Run off into the hills. ’Tisn’t your fight.”
    ’Twasn’t
his fight. The people here could worship the Pope, the Heavenly Father, or the ancient Celtic gods as far as he cared.
    But now the lass had insulted his honor and issued a challenge. He straightened proudly, fixing her with a stern gaze.
    “I’m no coward either, lass,” he bit out. “Let’s go. ’Twas me who sliced ye into the rough. I’ll be damned if I won’t chip
     ye out of it.”
    Her forehead creased in mild confusion.
    He smirked. He
had
spent too much time on the links.
    “Come along, lass,” he said with a resigned sigh, offering his arm. “Whatever the queen’s intent, after sufferin’ the sneers
     of her high and mighty secretary, we could both use a pint.”
    She