Corinne tried with all her might to stay strong, to resist the giant Scotsman in the saddle behind her in any small way she could.
His thick forearm around her middle kept her pinned in place, his hand curling into the material of her dress at her side. She would never manage to dismount and make a break for it with him holding her so. She tried to lean forward so that her back didn’t brush his chest, but the position put her off-balance.
If her cursed hands weren’t so badly abused beneath her gloves, she could have used the saddle’s pommel to leverage an inch of space between her and her captor, but as it was, her hands were all but useless.
For many dark hours, she could not order her thoughts into coherency. The attack, then her attempted flight and capture, tumbled over and over in her mind. What could the King of Scotland possibly want with her? And could she trust the man behind her to keep his word and leave her unharmed?
His visage was burned into her brain. In the torchlight, his face had been like chiseled stone, all hard lines and angles. Black, unbound hair fell in waves around his shoulders, and he had nearly enough scruff of the same dark color on his face to be called a beard. A scar bisected his left eyebrow, making his scowl even fiercer than it already was. His eyes had been a strange slate gray that revealed only hardness and cold determination.
Yet there had been no malice in his gaze, nor lecherous invasion in his touch. Would he and his band of barbarian warriors truly not harm her?
As a gray dawn began to break, the man behind her whistled softly to the others. They drew together—there were mayhap a dozen of them, their green and blue kilts draping over their large warhorses—then reined to a halt as they reached a stream.
Unease rose like a tide inside her. When they’d been riding, her mind had walked in circles, thinking over and over upon what had happened back at the camp. But now Corinne realized she should have been focused on what lay ahead.
As the man dismounted behind her, her gaze darted over the warriors and the quiet forest surrounding them.
“Where are we? Why are we stopping? What are you about?”
The dark Scotsman exhaled, then reached for her and pulled her from the saddle.
“We are mayhap a day’s ride from the Scottish border,” he said evenly. “We are stopping to give the horses—and the men—a rest. And as to what I am about…” He lifted an eyebrow, the one sliced in two by a white scar. “…I told ye already. I’m delivering ye to the Bruce.”
Seeming to think that was a sufficient explanation, he pivoted on his heels, but kept a hand wrapped around her arm. He pulled her away from the stream and the others until he halted a stone’s throw deeper into the woods.
“Ye have a choice,” he said, turning back to her. “The hard way, or my way.”
So numbed with shock was she that all she could do was stare up at him, unable to comprehend what awaited her next.
“Ye can continue to fight and struggle against me,” he went on, “in which case I’ll have to tie ye to a tree so that we can all get some shuteye. Or ye can accept that ye will never escape me and that ye are going to Scotland as the King sees fit.”
Corinne’s jaw went slack. Those were her two choices? Despite her fear and exhaustion, a spark of rage kindled inside her. It seemed that powerful men would never cease trying to use her as a pawn for their own ends. First her father and Halbert de Perroy, and now this giant of a Scot and King Robert the Bruce himself!
By some miracle, she managed to hold her tongue. At last, the wheels of her mind began turning once more. She would have to escape, there was no doubting that. The closer they drew toward Scotland, the harder it would be to navigate by herself across the landscape.
Yet she was weak with fatigue, hunger, and thirst. Her flight from the Scots had left her battered and bruised. And the mountain of a man glowering down at her was far too suspicious at the moment to let her out of his sights.
She must make it appear that she was acquiescing to her fate, that she was submitting to him.
She let her lower lip begin to tremble, which was all too easy, since her composure was only a few threads from snapping as it was. Lowering her gaze, she nodded. “I…I understand.”
He was silent for a long moment, and she could feel his eyes on her, but at last he grunted.
“See to yer needs. I willnae be far, so dinnae consider doing something foolish.”
She hurried to a thick shrub nearby. When she emerged a moment later, the Scots were unsaddling and hobbling their horses. The dark-haired Scotsman—clearly the leader of the group—guided her by the elbow to a small clearing between the trees a few feet from the stream.
“Sit.”
Though his command chafed, she lowered herself to a rock amongst the ferns and loamy soil and waited while the man and the other Scots moved about their little camp.
Once he’d seen to his dun-colored horse, her captor approached and offered a waterskin. Gritting her teeth, she closed her hand around the skin and took a long drink. Then he passed her some dried biscuits, all the while watching her closely.
When the edge was gone from her hunger and thirst, he took back the waterskin and crouched on his haunches so that they were at eye level with one another.
“What is yer given name?” he asked, his low voice surprisingly gentle.
“Corinne,” she replied, meeting his gaze. In the overcast light, his eyes matched the clouds overhead—gray, shifting, and impenetrable.
“I am Laird Reid Mackenzie,” he said.
“Why are you doing this?” she blurted. She silently cursed herself for the desperation in her voice, but his sudden kindness was making her want to crumble to pieces in the face of all that was happening.
He lifted one shoulder. “Because my King asked me to.”
Her distress ratcheted into aggravation. “Then why is he doing this?”
The Mackenzie Laird stared at her evenly. “Does it matter? Ye cannae do aught to alter the King’s plans.”
Hot, helpless frustration surged in her veins. Aye, she was a pawn, her wishes meaningless, her ambition pointless in the face of men’s schemes.
“It matters to me,” she replied in a thin, tight voice.
He appraised her for a moment, then spoke again. “The King wished to thwart the union between Lord de Reymont and Lord de Perroy. He decided that the easiest way to accomplish that was to…eliminate the possibility of a marriage alliance.”
Corinne sucked in a breath. “Does your King mean to…to kill me, then?”
The Laird blinked. “Nay, of course no’.” The confusion cleared from his eyes. “Ye dinnae ken his character, but he is a man of honor. He doesnae murder women and children.”
“A man of honor?” she muttered. “He had you kidnap me. How is there honor in that?”
An amused look crossed the man’s hard features. “It isnae my place to question my King.” He hesitated before going on. “In truth, I dinnae ken what he has planned for ye once I deliver ye to him, but I assure ye he willnae harm ye.”
The Mackenzie Laird stood suddenly. “Get some rest while ye can,” he commanded. “We’ll push hard until we reach the border.”
“And then?” she murmured, looking up at him.
“Then it will take another day to reach the King’s camp in Lochmaben. And after that, I dinnae ken, for ye willnae be my concern anymore.”
With that, he strode to one of his men and murmured some instructions. The others began bedding down on the ground, wrapping extra lengths of blue and green checked plaid around themselves. The Laird accepted a folded swath of wool from the man he was speaking to, then returned to Corinne’s side and stretched out beside her.
“Remember, lass, dinnae think to cause trouble,” he muttered as he hunkered down into the ferns.
Weariness suddenly pulled fiercely at her, and she let herself slide from the rock onto the mossy forest floor. Pulling her cloak tight against the chilly autumn air, she gave over to an exhausted sleep.