Their surprise attack had worked without a hitch. De Reymont’s men had scrambled like a flock of startled chickens as Reid and his warriors descended upon them. Mayhap Reid had been wrong to be so wary of the Bruce’s “errand.” It had taken mere moments to subdue the English. Reid was all but home free.

He dismounted as the battle died around him and strode to the wagon. The English lass must be holed up inside.

“Alain, light torches,” he called over his shoulder as he reached the wagon. He pulled open the canvas flap at the back. The interior was dim and empty except for a few trunks. The lass must be hiding behind—or inside—one of them.

Without hesitation, he tore the entire covering off the wagon so that the torchlight would reveal every corner. Tossing the canvas sheet to the ground, Reid hoisted himself into the wagon’s bed.

The wagon creaked and rocked slightly under his weight, but no other movement or sound came. Muttering a curse, he strode to one of the trunks and flung it open. A few folded dresses lay inside. He moved them aside, but there was no false bottom in the trunk. He gave the other chest the same inspection, finding only a few trinkets and a sewing basket.

Where in damnation was the lass? Just as he stepped toward the back of the wagon once more, a little pile of something orange caught his eye. He crouched, lifting the strands into the light of the torches.

Was that…hair?

“What the bloody hell is going on?” he snapped to no one in particular.

Reid leapt from the wagon and stormed over to one of the Englishmen, who cowered on his knees before the mounted Mackenzie warriors.

“Spare me!” the man cried. “Take the girl if you wish, but let me live.”

“Bloody coward,” one of the Mackenzies muttered. Reid had to agree.

He halted in front of the crouching Englishman, lifting his sword slowly before him to ensure he had his attention.

“Where is she?” he demanded in a loud, cold voice. “Where is the de Reymont lass?”

The man’s eyes widened on Reid’s bloodied blade. “I-I…she is in the wagon, milord.”

“Nay, she isnae,” Reid snapped. “I’ll ask ye again—where is she? Tell me now, man, or answer to my sword.”

The man moaned in terror, his eyes nearly bulging from his head. Reid resisted the urge to spit. This was the sort of man Lord de Reymont had sent to protect his only daughter?

“I-I-I swear, milord,” the man stuttered. “Last I saw her, she was in the wagon.”

“I’ll give ye one last chance,” Reid managed through gritted teeth. “Tell me where the lass is.” He held up a handful of wavy red hair, staring hard at the man before him.

When the Englishman’s gaze locked on the hair, then shifted back to Reid’s blade, his eyes rolled back in his head as if he were about to faint. Reid lowered his sword with a frustrated exhale. “Bloody Englishmen,” he muttered as he turned his back on the spineless guard. “Ye men, search the northern slope,” he said, letting his gaze sweep the dark forest. “And ye lot, take the southern side. The damned lass is somewhere.”

Just as he was about to turn and remount his horse, a rustling of leaves and a clattering of pebbles had him snapping his head toward the hill enclosing the southern side of the valley.

A little tumble of leaves and rocks was sliding down the hillside. A flicker of movement higher up snagged his eye. Through the trees, a shadowy figure stood frozen—and staring right at Reid. The weak light of the moon caught on the figure’s head, illuminating the thatch of cropped orange hair there.

Was that a lad staring back at him? Reid’s mind still couldn’t make sense of the hair in his hand, but it matched the figure’s. The lad was slight and narrow-shouldered beneath his cloak, yet there was no mistaking that cropped flame-orange hair. He let the hair fall to the ground. Now was not the time for puzzling that mystery. He let his body take over, bolting directly for the base of the hill.

“Follow me,” he ordered his men. He pointed first to the left and then to the right, indicating that his men should fan out to flank him. They spurred their horses, instantly following his command as he charged straight for the fleeing lad.

He didn’t bother remounting—a horse would move just as slowly as a man over that steep, rocky, densely forested terrain. Besides, the surge of battle lust still ran in his veins, now transforming into the thrill of a hunt. Whoever the lad was, there would be no escaping Reid. And he would be made to answer for the de Reymont lass’s whereabouts.

Reid drove himself up the hillside at a sprint. His legs devoured the distance between him and his quarry, who still scrambled upward ahead of him. At the edges of his vision, he saw his men urging their horses over the uneven ground. This wee fish would not escape his net.

In another three heartbeats, he was nearly within an arm’s length of his prey. Reid dove forward, snagging his hand around the lad’s ankle. A high scream cut the night as the lad tumbled forward and landed hard on the sloping forest floor. Before the wee fish could wriggle away, Reid yanked forcefully on the ankle in his grasp, dragging the figure toward him.

But the lad was lighter than he’d expected. Instead of simply pulling him to a halt, Reid dragged the wee lad straight into his arms.

The lad screamed again, high and piercing, as Reid tightened his hold to keep him from escaping.

But as the lad writhed in his grasp, Reid began to notice things. The tangle of skirts beneath the lad’s cloak as he tried to lash out and kick Reid. The faint softness of the lad’s chest against his. And the distinct fragrance of lemon.

Just as Reid was about to abruptly release the lad—or rather, lass—the little hellion sank her teeth into his shoulder.

Reid roared as her teeth broke the skin. Before she could do more damage, he rolled on top of her and sprang up so that he straddled her hips, pinning her to the ground. With one hand around each wrist, he held her down. She thrashed wildly, screaming and bucking against him even though he had her completely restrained.

Just then, the yellow glow of torchlight fell on him and his struggling quarry.

“What in the bloody…” Alain mused, reining his horse beside Reid.

“This,” Reid said, tightening his grip on the writhing lass, “is de Reymont’s daughter. Isnae it, lass?”

She thrashed again beneath him, but then when her gaze caught on the mounted warriors drawing into a tight circle around them, her eyes rounded. She looked at Reid and began to tremble, recoiling as if she could sink into the rocky hillside to escape him.

He used her sudden terror-stricken stillness to examine her more closely. This was the daughter of an English nobleman? Her cropped hair was a wild nest of orange atop her head. Twigs and leaves stuck out from the riotous waves. Her skin was the palest white, except for several smudges of dirt and a few random scratches marring her cheeks.

Her wide eyes gave him pause for a moment. In the flickering torchlight, their exact color was hard to discern, but Reid was struck with the impression of a stormy blue-green ocean. His gaze dipped to her berry-red, trembling lips, and behind them a flash of white teeth—the teeth she’d used to bite him.

She was slight and only faintly soft beneath him, more bone than lush woman’s flesh, yet Reid’s traitorous body warmed now that he knew she was in fact a lass and not a lad.

He jerked himself abruptly off her, pulling her up to sitting by her wrists.

“What the bloody hell did ye do to yer hair?” he demanded. “And why were ye in the woods instead of inside the wagon?”

Belatedly, Reid realized that neither question was worth asking, for her answers didn’t matter. He had an assignment to complete: deliver the lass to the Bruce—naught else. Why should he care to know more about his charge?

“Touch me and I’ll…I’ll…” she sputtered, staring at him with a combination of fierceness and terror. “I’ll gouge your eyes out and bite your tongue off and—”

A soft chuckle rippled through the Mackenzie warriors. Reid only cocked an eyebrow at her. “Dinnae fash, lass. I dinnae wish to touch ye. Until a moment ago, I thought ye were a lad.”

A suffusion of red seeped over the lass’s face. She once more pulled against his hold on her wrists, but her gloved hands remained trapped.

A twinge of regret at the callousness of the remark niggled at Reid. She was completely under his power now, his captive. There was no need to insult her. For some reason, though, he needed to remind himself of what he was about. This was an errand for the Bruce, a simple delivery of this English lass. There was no room in Reid’s life for even a passing softness, a flicker of interest, toward her.

“What do you want with me, then?” she demanded, though her voice wavered with fear.

“King Robert the Bruce cordially requests the honor of yer presence,” he said dryly, causing another faint chuckle from his men.

He stood, pulling her to her feet after him.

“You…you are kidnapping me?” the lass breathed. “Taking me to Scotland?”

“Aye.”

Like a startled cat, she turned wild once more, attempting to bolt away from him. A few of his men’s horses nickered and stepped back as she fought once more for her freedom.

Good God, the lass was a fierce wee thing. She struggled against him as if her life depended on it—which he supposed it did. After this, naught would be the same for her. The Bruce would see her marriage arrangement dissolved. Assuming the King released her back to England at some point, her family might send her to a nunnery to shield themselves from rumors about her kidnapping by barbarian Scotsmen.

Once again, guilt tugged at Reid. The lass’s future was none of his concern, he reminded himself harshly. He was doing his duty to his King, and once he’d delivered the wee hellion, he could return to the Highlands and see to his responsibilities there.

To put an end to the lass’s wild struggles, he hoisted her up and folded her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She screamed and kicked and pounded his back, but he ignored her.

“To the camp,” he commanded his men. “We’ll take aught of value then ride north.”

As they descended into the valley, he let the others pull ahead.

“Ye willnae be harmed,” he murmured to the lass.

Her thrashing slowed, but Reid wasn’t sure if it was because she’d accepted what he’d said or if she was merely exhausted from her struggles.

When they reached the camp, he glanced at the wagon. “Leave it,” he said, “but take the contents of the trunks. The lass may have need of her things.”

It was a small mercy, but at least she would have a few gowns for the time the Bruce planned to hold her in Lochmaben, however long that might be.

As a handful of his men began passing the lass’s gowns out to be tucked into their saddlebags, Alain brought Reid’s horse to him.

“Do ye need rope to bind the wee thing, Laird?” Alain asked, a faint note of teasing in his voice.

“Nay,” Reid snapped. He hoisted the lass into the saddle, then swung up behind her.

He spared a moment to survey what remained of the de Reymont men’s camp. A few men lay wounded on the ground. Others had been killed. The coward who was so quick to give up his mistress was nowhere in sight.

It didn’t matter if he alerted someone to the attack. By the time the English could muster a response, he and his men would already be in Scotland with the lass. Besides, Reid rode with the strength of the entire Scottish army behind him. The Bruce protected those who served him, which was more than could be said for the English King.

One by one, the torches were snuffed as the men prepared to depart. He looped one arm around the lass, ensuring she couldn’t throw herself from his horse. Taking the reins up with his other hand, he spurred his horse into motion. His men fell in behind him, and soon they were swallowed by the night-blackened forest.