Relinquishing her worldly possessions would be easy. It was cutting her hair that was creating a problem.

Corinne de Reymont stared down at the shears in her sewing basket. The basket was tucked into one of her two trunks. It was no great bounty of goods. She had a few personal items—soap, combs, stockings—and a handful of gowns, one of which was even made of silk for her wedding day. And she had her sewing supplies, which she rarely used.

No quill.

No ink.

No parchment.

She’d been forced to leave those behind. Though it chafed, she willed herself to be grateful for small mercies, for if she’d been allowed to pack her scribing supplies, she would be hard-pressed now to leave them behind along with everything else.

As it was, she would not allow herself to mourn a few lost gowns and a sewing basket, for they weren’t truly hers. They belonged to her father, and soon enough, they would belong to Lord Halbert de Perroy. Besides, everything of value—linens, silver, and even coin—would be sent to de Perroy after the marriage was consummated.

Corinne swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at the thought. She lifted a trembling, gloved hand in front of her face, as if she could will it with her stare to cease throbbing. Aye, she would do this despite the injuries on her hands. She could cut her hair if it meant escaping a future as de Perroy’s property.

Gritting her teeth against the pain, she reached inside the sewing basket and wrapped her fingers around the shears. The wounds on the backs and palms of her hands scraped against the gloves’ lining. She sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. She could only pray that none of her father’s guards could hear her anguish. The wagon’s canvas siding was thin, and they slept on the ground only a few feet away.

Biting her lip to stop another pained cry, she lifted the shears. With her other hand, she clenched a hank of her red, unruly hair, pulling it taut despite the throbbing in both her beaten hands.

With a deep breath, she slid the shears around the clump of hair. She closed her eyes and snapped the blades shut. The tension on the strands went slack, and she opened her eyes to find a long clump of the hated orange stuff resting lightly in her palm.

The wild, insane urge to giggle suddenly rose in Corinne’s chest. Oh, how she despised her hair! Cutting it didn’t change the color, of course, but she suddenly felt free—free of her responsibility to marry de Perroy, free of her father’s control, and free to write her own future as a scribe. Now she could go to a nunnery unencumbered by her worldly possessions—including her hair.

Normally an abbess would cut a novice’s hair herself in a ceremony to purify the nunnery’s newest member of the outer world’s impediments. Corinne assured herself that wherever she took sanctuary, the nuns would forgive her for completing the step herself. Besides, being rid of her long tresses would make it easier to pass herself off as a boy if she were questioned before she could find and reach the nearest convent.

Buoyed by hope, she made quick work of the rest of her locks, cutting along the line of her jaw. She hardly noticed the pain in her hands as she worked, so giddy was she.

Yet as she snipped the last of her hair and let it fall to the wagon’s wooden floorboards, the knot returned to her stomach. This had been the easy part. Now she had to find a way to slip from the wagon and past her sleeping guards into the night-dark woods surrounding them.

As quietly as possible, she dropped the shears back into the basket and drew the hood of her cloak over her head. With a stiff, shaking hand, she drew back the wagon’s covering an inch, letting in the cold night air. Corinne peered into the darkness, searching for signs of movement from the guards, who lay wrapped in their cloaks nearby.

She gnawed on her lip. Mayhap if she woke one of them and claimed to need to seek privacy, he would let her go without suspicion. Or mayhap—

A twig snapped somewhere off in the woods. Corinne nearly leapt out of her skin. She clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a startled gasp, remembering too late the welts and bruises beneath her gloves. Moaning into her palm, she closed her eyes until the pain had receded enough for her to think clearly once more.

Only an animal, she told herself. None of the guards had stirred.

She pulled back the covering even farther, leaning her head out into the crisp night. Aye, she would pretend to need to relieve herself, then—

An explosion of shouts erupted all around. Shadows seemed to spring from the surrounding trees and take the form of men on horseback.

A shocked scream rose in her throat. The riders swarmed into their little camp, their already-drawn swords catching the weak light of the crescent moon overhead.

Her father’s men scrambled to their feet, reaching for their weapons even as the riders descended upon them.

Now! some distant, primal voice screamed in her head. This was her chance to escape. Her guards were distracted and overwhelmed by the unknown attackers. She could slip away and no one would notice.

Without another moment to waste, Corinne threw herself from the back of the wagon, stumbling upon the ground before finding her feet. Ducking her head, she scrambled toward the trees lining the clearing the men had chosen for their camp. The screams of battle and death sliced through the night air behind her, but she didn’t look back until she reached the safety of the trees.

She darted behind a large oak and swept her gaze over the camp. It was a roiling sea of men, horses, and weapons. Death cries ripped from men’s throats. Dark blood dulled raised steel. For the first time, she noticed that the men on horseback wore kilts.

Corinne’s mind numbed and her blood went cold. Scotsmen were known to be ruthless and savage. If they found her—

She had to focus. None of the Scotsmen had seen her, else they would have already come barreling after her.

The camp sat in a little clearing in a valley that ran east-west. She would be able to move faster if she stayed on the flat, straight path created by the valley. But she would also be easier to run down on horseback. She currently stood at the base of the southern slope protecting the valley. That left her little choice. She had to go up.

Pushing away from the oak, she scrambled uphill, darting between shadows. But before she’d gone far, a booming voice coming from the camp froze her feet.

“Where is she? Where is the de Reymont lass?”

Corinne’s heart stuttered and her stomach dropped to the forest floor. They were after her? The deep Scottish voice crashed through her thoughts.

“Tell me now, man, or answer to my sword.”

Over the pounding of her own blood in her ears, Corinne hadn’t noticed that the sounds of battle had ceased almost as quickly as they’d begun. And judging from the Scotsman demanding answers, the barbarians had been victorious.

She dared a glance back into the valley below. Someone had lit several torches. Even from a long stone’s throw away, Corinne could see that her father’s men lay bloodied and wounded—or dead—all around the wagon. The wagon’s canvas cover had been completely yanked off.

In the middle of a circle of mounted men stood a savage-looking warrior. His back was turned to her, his black hair reflecting the torchlight. He spoke to one of her guards, who was on his knees with the Scot’s blade to his throat.

“Tell me where the lass is,” the warrior demanded again. And then he raised his free hand, and the light caught what he held.

It was a clump of Corinne’s discarded hair.

The man on the ground before the Scot blubbered something incomprehensible, his wide, terrified eyes locked on the sword pointed at his throat. The Scot muttered something and turned away, lowering the blade. Then he began to sweep the surrounding forest with his gaze.

Panic spiked hard in Corinne’s veins. They were after her, but her fear-addled mind could not comprehend why. All she knew was that the dark Scotsman would hunt her down like a wolf after a fawn if she did not move now.

She flung herself into motion, forcing her legs to drive her higher up the hillside, but only a few steps in, her foot slid out from under her, sending dried leaves, pine needles, and a handful of stones tumbling downhill. Her hood fell back, yet she managed to catch herself before she could slide farther.

But it had been enough. Her head whipped to the torch-lit camp, her gaze colliding with the dark-headed warrior’s through the trees. His eyes flicked to the hank of red-orange hair in his hand, then back to her, clearly making out her uncovered head in the low light. He pointed directly at her, murmuring some order to his men.

And then he came after her.