As the sky turned from slate gray to charcoal, the Mackenzie Laird reined in his large dun horse. Corinne sagged with relief. How could these Scotsmen ride over rough terrain and through dense woods with few rests, yet not be falling out of their saddles with fatigue?

They must all be made of stone. The Laird had certainly felt like a rock wall behind her as they rode. His chest was so broad and hard that she had bounced off it several times, yet his firm hand wrapped around her waist had kept her in the saddle before him.

It was far too intimate for an English lady to be wedged between a kilted man’s thighs the way she was. Corinne tossed the thought aside. She cared not what a lady was and was not allowed to do, but considering she intended to become a nun, she shouldn’t have noticed just how warm and solid Laird Reid Mackenzie was. Nor the fact that he smelled like wood smoke and wool and sharp, sweet pine.

As he dismounted, his heat vanished, making her hunch into the green and blue plaid he’d given her. Blessedly, the rains had stayed at bay during the day, allowing her plain brown woolen skirts to dry, yet the evening was growing rapidly colder.

She let him pull her from the horse’s back, his hands encircling her waist. When her feet were on the ground, he leveled her with a sharp look, his gray eyes steely.

“Can I trust ye to see to yerself for a moment, or are ye going to run again?”

Corinne didn’t have the energy to bristle, yet a flicker of warm ire kindled in her belly. The barbarian had more than proved that he could force her into submission. She hated to admit it, but he’d been right—he was bigger and stronger than she was by far, but more than that, his will was wrought of iron. Never had she met a man so commanding, so determined, so wholly obeyed by his men, than the Mackenzie Laird.

“Aye,” she muttered, hating the sound of defeat in her voice.

As she trudged to a copse of bushes nearby, she reminded herself that she wasn’t giving up—only accepting a minor setback. She would allow the Laird—nay, she couldn’t pretend that she had any power over him. She would accept that he was taking her to the King of Scotland.

If the King truly meant to destroy her forced union with Halbert de Perroy, all the better. And once the Bruce was through with her, she would find a convent to join. It mattered not which convent, for she trusted her abilities with ink and quill enough to know that she would be accepted as a scribe—welcomed, even.

Who knew, she might even stay in the Scottish Lowlands. As long as she was allowed to perform her work, she cared not if she ever returned to England.

She emerged from the bushes to find the dozen Mackenzie warriors setting about arranging a makeshift camp between the trees. The horses had been hobbled, and one of the men, a gnarled old giant with gray-dusted brown hair, was making a fire.

“Bring some kindling with ye, lassie,” the old warrior called as she approached.

Corinne bent and awkwardly tried to pick up a few sticks at her feet. Her stiff, sore hands protested, making her wince and suck in a breath.

“Let me.” Suddenly the Laird loomed over her. “Dinnae mind Hamond,” he said, taking the sticks gently from her aching hands. “Go sit by the fire and warm yerself.”

She nodded, too tired to do aught but obey him. She lowered herself onto a rock as the warrior called Hamond coaxed the fire to life.

The Laird dumped an armload of wood next to Hamond, then retrieved a waterskin and pouch of food from his saddlebags. The other warriors settled themselves around the fire with food and drink as well, though Corinne noticed that they gave her a wide berth.

The Mackenzie Laird seemed to ignore the invisible wall separating her from the others, for he approached and sat right next to her. She accepted the waterskin and more biscuits, along with dried venison from the pouch.

As she gingerly lifted the skin in both hands, the Laird’s low voice made her start.

“Yer hands pain ye. What is wrong with them?”

“Naught,” she said, too quickly. Heat rose from her neck to her face. “I am fine,” she added in a more even voice.

He eyed her for a long moment. “Ah. My mistake.”

Seeming to drop the topic, he turned to the food pouch and rummaged in it for a moment. Then he drew out a small green apple. “Try this,” he said, tossing the apple in the air to her.

Without thinking, she reached for the fruit, but when it landed in her open palms, she gasped at the smarting pain. The apple rolled from her throbbing hands into the dirt.

The Laird clicked his tongue and reached for the apple, polishing it against the plaid across his thighs. But when he met her gaze, his eyes were surprisingly gentle.

“Tell me the truth,” he murmured. “Ye are hurting.”

A breath slipped from her lungs. “Aye.”

“Mayhap I have something in my saddlebag that can help. Let me look at them.”

He reached for her, but she recoiled on instinct. He stilled, his large, callused hands suspended between them. “I willnae harm ye,” he said.

Something about the soft, low rumble of his voice made her extend her hands toward him.

As if he were handling a newly hatched chick, he took up one glove and pulled ever so slightly. Though they were made of soft calfskin, the rasp of the gloves against her hand made her gasp again. The feel of the cool night air on her skin was a relief. He removed her other glove with the same care, but once her hands were exposed to the flickering orange firelight, he froze.

Corinne looked down at her hands. They actually appeared better than they had a few days past when her father had taken a cane and then a switch to them. Aye, the bruises had darkened to a deep purple across her knuckles, but the welts on her palms had mostly closed, though they were still red and raw-looking.

Slowly, the Laird cupped her hands in his and turned them into the firelight. The silence stretched as he continued to stare, and Corinne felt her face grow hot once more.

Belatedly, she realized that the other men had fallen silent as well, their eyes pinned to her mangled hands.

“Who did this to ye?”

The Laird’s voice was so low and deadly soft that Corinne almost didn’t hear his question. He glanced up at her, his eyes tight and hard.

“Who did this to ye?” he repeated. “Was it yer fiancé? Is that why ye were trying to run away when we attacked?”

“Nay,” she replied, growing increasingly embarrassed under the men’s stares.

The Laird must have sensed her discomfort, for he whipped his gaze to the others. “Sleep,” he ordered. “We ride at dawn tomorrow.”

As they had earlier that morning, the men settled themselves on the ground, pulling plaids around their shoulders and heads. Though Corinne didn’t doubt they could still hear her, for they lay only just on the other side of the fire, the heat in her cheeks cooled slightly now that so many sets of eyes no longer bore down on her.

“Who then?” the Laird prodded.

Though a lump rose in her throat, Corinne swallowed it. She lifted her head and met the Laird’s gaze. “My father.”

A storm brewed in the Laird’s flinty eyes. “What kind of man does this to his own daughter?”

“The kind who wishes for sons,” she said. “And barring that, at least his daughter’s obedience.”

The Laird released a breath, and some of the uncomfortable tension evaporated between them. “Let me guess. Ye arenae particularly obedient.”

“Nay,” she said, surprising herself with a breathy chuckle. “Haven’t you noticed?”

He grunted, but there was a hint of humor to it. As soon as it had arrived, however, his mirth vanished as he held her gaze.

“And yer fiancé? Why were ye running from him?”

She tilted her head. “De Perroy and my father…they are alike. I only met the man twice. He’s three times my age, of course, but that is not why I decided to run. He…he was the one who told my father to take me in hand, to teach me a lesson I’d not soon forget.” She lifted her hands to demonstrate. “I knew that a life with him would be filled with such…lessons.”

And Corinne knew herself. No beating, no cruelty, no torture would ever deter her from her path as a scribe. Which meant that she could either die at de Perroy’s hands, broken and bloodied, or she could escape to a nunnery and live as she wished.

“And where would ye have run to, if I hadnae found ye?” the Laird murmured, seeming to sense the direction of her thoughts.

“A convent,” she replied, smiling faintly. “An original plan, wouldn’t you say, Laird?”

“Call me Reid,” he said softly. “And it doesnae have to be original to be effective.”

She smiled again before going on. “I had taken refuge at a nunnery near my father’s holding many a time. I knew I could not return there, for it would be the first place he and de Perroy would look. But I imagined that there would be another abbey near enough for me to slip away from my father’s guards and take sanctuary. That is why I did this.” She blew on a shorn red lock of hair that had fallen across her face.

“So ye cut it yerself,” Reid said, his eyes amused as they traveled over her head. “I had wondered about that.”

“All novices must have their hair cut when they take the pledge to join the church,” she said. “I thought to speed the process along. Besides, it tricked you into thinking I was a boy when you first saw me.”

He reached up and coiled a short strand around his finger. Corinne stilled, his nearness suddenly overwhelming. As his gray gaze slid along the lock of hair he fingered, she caught his scent, of smoke and pine and warm wool. She wondered abruptly what the rough growth on his face would feel like against her own smooth skin. His broad shoulders, clad in a simple shirt and an extra length of plaid, almost completely blocked out the fire as he leaned forward slightly.

“Aye, ye had me fooled for a moment, but once ye were in my arms, I kenned ye were a woman.” His soft, low voice was like a velvet caress, sending warmth into her face and rippling across her skin.

Reid sat back suddenly, releasing the strand of hair. He turned toward the fire, and she saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. She, too, had to swallow hard against the erratic pounding of her heart in the back of her throat. It was fear, she told herself—fear of being in the presence of such an intimidating man. A little voice in a corner of her mind whispered that it was also fear at the tug of fascination she felt toward him.

Never had she experienced such sensations before—a coiling in the pit of her stomach, a flush all over her body, her heart thumping wildly against her ribs—and all set off by a word, a look, a glancing touch of fingers to hair.

Whatever madness this was, Corinne wanted no part of it. She would let Reid Mackenzie take her to the King of Scotland, aye, but after that, her work as a scribe awaited.

Reid cleared his throat. “I have some salve in my saddlebags that might help with the welts on yer hands.”

“Nay,” she said, hastily pulling on her gloves once more. “They are already healing.”

In a sennight or two, she might even be able to lift a quill once more.

“Rest then,” he said, glancing at her.

She did as he bade, lowering herself to the ground and pulling the plaid tight around her body. But despite the weariness in her limbs, she stared into the dying fire for a long while, listening to Reid breathe beside her.