Quinn motioned to the rather homely lass employed by the innkeeper to deliver platters of food and mugs of ale to the patrons, when she was not involved with cleaning the rooms and refreshing the linens, candles and the like.

He held his empty mug aloft, in desire of another drink. This brief bit of rest was due him, he believed, after spending the better part of a month living mostly out of doors. He had only spared a few pence on a room for the night twice in all that time, when the thought of another bite of day-old rabbit set his teeth on edge and caused him to regret ever having left the comfort of the Anderson clan.

When such sullen thoughts overwhelmed him, it was the time to spend the night at the nearest inn, so long as it seemed fairly clean and reasonably priced.

Now that he was so close to Inverness, the thriving port on the northern coast and perhaps the capital of the Highlands—if there was such a place—he’d had his choice of several inns down the length of the road leading into the heart of the town.

He’d chosen well, the taste of crisp, glistening fat still fresh on his tongue as he drank from his second mug of ale. Not the best, not by far, but fairly priced for the low quality.

It mattered little just then, at any rate. He was too relieved to be at rest for the first time in a fortnight to mourn his choice of refreshment.

Several of the other roundtables were occupied, all of the patrons were men, either on their way in or out of Inverness. He was near the territory of Clan Fraser, he knew, and he’d seen several clansmen riding in groups past the well-concealed place he’d chosen for his lookout. It seemed there was a clan meeting in the works.

None of this mattered to him. His only concern was for the coins in the purse at his waist, beneath his tunic. How many times a day did he test the strength of the cord which held the purse in place? Its contents meant everything.

They meant his brother’s life.

He’d reminded himself of this very fact more times than he could remember. When the rain fell so hard it made him forget what it felt like to be dry, when the hooves of his faithful chestnut gelding sank into the mud as they made their slow way through the woods, when he was hungry for lack of decent hunting so early in the season, he’d reminded himself of Lennox’s haunted eyes.

Of the coughing and groans of misery coming from within that large room.

Of its filth and disease.

Disease which Lennox might contract and perhaps die of.

It was all that kept away the guilt at times.

At one of the tables sat a man wearing a bright red tunic, his sword at his waist. He’d seen fighting, judging from the way his eyes moved from side to side at all times. He was on his guard.

One look at the man’s companion explained why.

When she removed the dark cloak which had disguised her to him at first, Quinn took note of her the way he’d always taken note of women.

Her long, lustrous braid. Brown with a faint hint of red when she moved her head one way or the other and the caught the light from the candles throughout the room.

She was a bit broad-shouldered for a woman, a bit long of limb, but full at the breast and hip. Womanly. She stirred something in him which had gone silent in recent days.

It appeared that even he was capable of losing his appetite for the pleasures of the flesh, but this lass reminded him of what he’d been missing.

Her profile was strong, her neck long and lean and leading up to a proud jaw and chin, a straight nose, full brows over eyes as blue as the sky just before twilight.

Yes. She stirred him.

But she was not alone.

And judging by the good quality of her kirtle and the jeweled hilt of her escort’s sword, there might be more to her than just a lovely face and pleasing form.

The two of them rose from the table once they’d finished dining. Quinn lowered his head, making himself invisible as always, but still watched from the corner of his eye as the man with the sword—he was a soldier, or had been one judging by his bearing and the quality of his weapon—dropped a handful of coins onto the table.

They were leaving. They had only come in to dine or were leaving after having spent the previous night. Quinn couldn’t remember seeing them before, they’d like as not kept to themselves, as they seemed to be making haste to take their leave.

There was a choice to be made.

Leave them alone or follow and take what he could. He might threaten the lass, make it more difficult for the soldier to refuse him while there was a dirk held to the throat of the woman it was his responsibility to protect.

His mind was made up before he stood, handing a few pence to the homely young serving lass before following his new prey. The poor thing looked homelier than ever in comparison to the vision of beauty who he intended to steal from.

In another time, a better time, he would have followed her with something else in mind. Something far more pleasurable for them both.

Everything he needed, he carried either at his waist or in a canvas pack over one shoulder, so he had nothing to do once he stepped outside but mount his horse.

“My apologies,” he murmured, patting the beast’s withers. “I know I told ye we’d rest, but I cannot ignore opportunity.”

The soldier drove a carriage, a simple thing with a canvas top. The lass must have rested inside while her escort manned the two-horse team. It was late, full dark, but the light color of the canvas stood out even when clouds obscured the moon.

They were heading closer to Inverness, with only a small patch of forest standing between them and the town. Quinn thought quickly out of necessity, as there would be little chance to overtake the carriage.

He left the road, riding just within the tree line, keeping the carriage in his sights until he’d passed it. In spite of a pair of powerful animals pulling it, it moved slowly. It had been used quite heavily and perhaps pushed past its ability, for the axles creaked terribly, and the wooden box pitched from side to side, reminding Quinn of nothing so much as a man who’d had too much to drink.

The poor lass must have been sick to her stomach from the motion.

He reminded himself there was no room for that sort of thinking. He could not imagine what she was thinking, could not feel pity for her. No matter who she was, no matter how comely she may be.

The more he thought along those lines, the more difficult it would be for him to do what needed to be done.

Once he was certain he’d put enough distance between them, he turned toward the road and dismounted before tying the reins off to a branch. The poor beast was near exhaustion from so much riding. “This will not take long,” he promised, patting its withers again before crouching behind a birch nearer the road and watching for the approach of the carriage.

It came up slowly, as expected, still swaying with each turn of the wheels, it was enough to bring questions to mind. Questions of whether the carriage’s passenger possessed anything worth stealing floated through his mind, based upon the condition of the carriage in which she rode.

There had to be something. The jeweled sword, at the very least.

Quinn held his breath, one hand on the dirk still tucked into his belt.

When the time was right, and the horses were close enough to startle, he leaped out from behind the birch and threw himself into the path of the oncoming carriage.

The horses reared back, hooves pawing at thin air, their screams mingling with the shouts from the driver and those coming from the lass. He couldn’t see her, but he could hear her.

She shouted with good reason. The horses veered to the left when their front hooves touched the ground, away from Quinn, pulling the carriage violently to the side. So violently, the axles broke, which tore the wheels from the body.

The carriage fell apart, the wood splintering onto the road when it made contact and sending up a great cloud of dust before the half-mad team dragged the carriage body off the road and into the woods.

Quinn took advantage of the chaos, taking hold of the soldier when he jumped from the driver’s bench and holding him by the wide collar of his tunic.

When the man’s hand went to his sword, Quinn was quick to remove it from his belt before tossing it aside. “I would not make any further attempts to defend yourself. Let us see if the lass is injured.”

“If you brought harm to her, I will make you pay,” the soldier swore, though anything else he wished to add was lost forever thanks to the blade which Quinn pressed to his throat.

“Aye, I’m certain I will,” Quinn grunted as the two of them followed the path the horses took to what was left of the carriage box.

It was empty except for a trunk and a handful of supplies.

“Where is she?” Quinn hissed, pressing the blade tighter against the man’s throat until a thin trickle of blood ran down.

“I do not know! There was nowhere else for her to go!” The man sounded genuine, just as perplexed by this sudden turn of events. They had more than likely both expected to find her injured, perhaps grievously so, lying in a heap.

“Let him go.” Both of them turned as one and found the lass in question holding the jeweled-hilted sword with both hands. He caught a glimpse of a crest engraved in the metal close to the hilt, though he did not recognize it.

She leveled the sword at Quinn’s chest.

It shook terribly.

“I’ve nothing for you,” she declared. “Nothing of value. You might take this sword, so long as you swear not to harm us with it, but that is all we have.”

“Lass,” Quinn whispered as soothingly as he could, suddenly concerned. Not because he thought the woman could harm him, she could hardly hold the thing still, as strong as she appeared.

His concern was with the time they had already wasted. They might be overtaken at any point by another traveler who would spy what was on the road and perhaps wish to be of service.

The horses, still hitched to the carriage, had dragged much of it off the road, even so, the wheels and several pieces of wood were still scattered about and would surely attract attention.

“Are ye certain ye wish to do this, lass?” he asked.

“You are the one who brought us to this point,” she reminded him in a trembling voice. “Now. Please. Release him and allow us to be on our way.”

“That isn’t how this type of situation normally progresses,” he smirked. “You’re in no position to be making demands. I’ll slice the throat of your friend here.”

“He’s not my friend,” she admitted before wincing at her loose tongue.

Not that Quinn had been under any other impression. Men who carried swords and wore what was clearly a uniform of some sort did not escort young women out of charity.

“Just the same, I’ll kill him, and that would leave ye all alone.”

She hesitated, holding his gaze for one breathless moment.

It was the soldier who spoke first. “The Marquis will hunt you down for this. He will see to it that you are severely punished for laying hands upon me, not to mention how you’ve threatened this young woman.”

Quinn was still looking at the young woman holding the sword. “Who are ye to this Marquis, then?” he asked, keenly aware of the time they wasted but curious just the same.

“He is waiting for me,” she admitted. “We have business to address.”

He couldn’t help smiling at this turn of events. “Is he, now?”

A plan quickly formed itself in his mind. If a nobleman waited for her, there would be much more involved in her delivery to him than the price of a sword. No matter how handsome the hilt.

She was to be the man’s bride, like as not, and a man awaiting a bride—especially one as comely as the lass before him—would be more than willing to pay handsomely for her safe delivery.

Her arms were growing tired. The sword’s sharp tip sank further until it all but touched the ground.

In one quick move, he released the soldier and pulled the young woman to him instead. He wrenched the sword from her hand while holding the dirk to her throat instead of to the soldier’s. In the time it took to blink an eye, Quinn had gained a new captive.

He motioned to the remains of the carriage. “Take all of that off the road. Now.”

The soldier wished to defy him—Quinn could see it in his eyes, how bright they were with hostility—but complied, instead. The man had seen enough fighting to know when he was outsmarted.

Quinn waited in the shadows, holding the lass, while the soldier was quick about removing what was left on the road. It was not an unpleasant task, her body was warm, soft, the reminder of all he had given up over the last weeks.

“I tell you, I have nothing for you,” she whispered. Her body shook from head to toe, her knees nearly knocking together. He wondered in the back of his mind whether she would be able to hold her water in such a state.

“Ah, but ye do,” he chuckled. When she let out a pitiful whimper, he softened slightly. “I do not mean what ye think I mean, lass.” He had no intention of ravishing her, tempting though she was.

“What do you have in mind, then?”

“All in good time.” He beckoned for the soldier to join them. “Now. Strip down.”

The man blinked. “What?”

“Strip. Take off yer tunic, trousers, shoes. Hat. All of it.” He held the sword out, the edge dangerously close to the man’s stomach. “Be quick about it.”

As he did this, Quinn bound the young woman’s hands in front of her, using the reins from one of the two horses still hitched to what remained of the carriage. They had quieted somewhat but were still rather anxious.

“Calm them,” he ordered.

She couldn’t ride away on either of them, attached as they were, so he had no concerns on that matter.

What concerned him was the now nearly naked man before him, trembling in the chilly night air while wearing nothing but a pair of thin breeches.

Quinn leveled the sword at him. “Make a false move, and I’ll cut her throat,” he whispered.

“You will do no such thing, if you intended to, you would have done it by now.”

“I intend to do much more with her. She is quite valuable to me. But do not think that means I wouldn’t kill her rather than let you have her.” Quinn led the man to a thin birch, the trunk just big enough around that one might wrap their arms around it and touch their fingertips.

“What is your plan, then?”

“Nay,” Quinn chuckled. “Do ye think I would tell ye what I have in mind? When ye might be able to tell another and send them after us?” He used a coiled rope from the remains of the carriage to tie the man to the birch while the young woman looked on.

Only once did a brief flash of guilt stab him, but the man would not freeze. It was not quite that cold. He was far enough from the road that he would not be seen but not so far that he would not be heard if he called for help, though, judging by the fact that they had not been disturbed, he might not have the chance to do so until morning.

Which would give Quinn time to get away.

He bundled up the man’s clothing and was quick to unhitch the horses. Beautiful creatures, both. Which reminded him of something. “If ye manage to free yourself, there’s a chestnut gelding tied off on the other side of the road. Where I overtook ye.” He would hate to see it starve there simply because he’d come up with a new plan.

“Wait,” the young woman begged. “Please. If you wish to leave with me, please allow me to take my few possessions along.”

“Where are they?” he asked, exasperated.

“In the trunk.”

Quinn shook his head. “We have neither the time nor the room in my pack to transport your garments and shoes and so on.” He took her by the waist and lifted her onto one of the horses, holding tight to the reins before she had time to come up with any ideas about escape.

“Please, please. They’re all I have left of my mother,” she began to weep. “Do what you wish with me, only do not ask me to part with the only reminders I have of her.”

He merely snickered as he led both horses to the road, looking both ways before crossing to the other side. His chestnut was there, waiting faithfully.

“It is time for us to part ways,” he murmured as he untied the pig’s bladder which served as his water jug and removed his bedroll from the rear of the saddle. “Thank ye for helping me feel less alone.”

“Where are you taking me?” The bound woman stared at him, the tears still fresh on her cheeks.

Would that he might be able to wipe them away for her, but this was not the time for such flights of fancy.

“You’ll see when we’ll arrive,” he promised, mounting the second black gelding and taking her reins in one hand.

The truth was, he was as uncertain as she. A marquis meant France, even he knew that much, but there was no telling where. She would have to provide him that information.

Which meant he would need to get her to trust him if he hoped to collect a ransom for her.