“Lochmaben is only another hour away,” Reid said, sitting rigidly in the saddle with Corinne tucked between his thighs.

She turned her head, glancing at the forest they rode through. A strand of her hair slid across Reid’s lips.

“Oh?” she replied softly.

The lass had seemed lost in thought throughout the morning and afternoon. Her creamy brow had been creased, her ocean-colored eyes distant.

For his part, Reid had woken in a foul mood. It was because he longed to be home, he told himself, not because today would be his last day with the perplexing Englishwoman sharing his saddle.

Though his men hadn’t said aught, he could sense a softening from them toward the lass. Alain and the others remained quiet, with nary a comment about how eager they were to reach Lochmaben and turn the lass over to the Bruce so that they could be on their way to the Highlands. It had to be because they’d seen her abused hands. English or nay, no woman deserved to be treated thus.

He could have eased their pace if he’d wanted to. The horses were tired, and so was Corinne. He could have found an excuse to draw out their ride, to camp one more night before reaching Lochmaben. But to do so would be admitting too much to himself—that he admired her spirit, and that he found her nearness…distracting.

Nay, he would not drag this out. They would reach Lochmaben by nightfall, and then she would be the Bruce’s problem.

Seeming to sense the direction of his thoughts, she turned her head partially toward him. “What will you do after we arrive in Lochmaben?”

He cleared his throat. “My men and I will return to the Highlands.”

“And what are the Highlands like?”

“Och, lass,” Hamond said, reining his horse closer. “The Highlands are like no other place on God’s green earth. Mountains like ye wouldnae believe.”

“And lochs filled with the clearest waters,” Alain added.

“Purple heather blanketing the hillsides,” Hamond continued. “Waterfalls, fairy pools—”

“And whisky enough to stop that wagging tongue, Hamond,” Cedrick, one of the best Mackenzie warriors, cut in.

The men chuckled at that.

Corinne laughed lightly, and a strange, twisting sensation stole through Reid’s chest.

“That sounds lovely.”

“Aye, milady, it is,” Leith said, bobbing his blond head. This had been the lad’s first journey away from the Highlands. He’d proven himself on the battlefield, though he still bore a youthful eagerness about him that made Reid feel old. “Ye should see it one day. No words can describe the Highlands’ beauty, especially Eilean Donan.”

“Eilean Donan?” Corinne said, glancing over her shoulder at Reid.

“The Mackenzie clan keep,” he answered.

“It is the strongest castle in the Highlands, for the strongest clan,” Leith went on proudly. “Its walls are ten feet thick, and its towers are—”

“Leith,” Reid cut in, his mood darkening. “There is no need to bore the lass with details—she’ll never see the place.”

A somber silence fell over the group until Corinne spoke up again.

“What will you do once you return home?” she asked quietly.

 “See to my people and attend to clan matters.”

That sounded simple enough, but what actually awaited him was far more complicated. He’d need to meet with Laird Arthur MacDonnell to discuss their alliance, and no doubt send more men to the MacDonnell border to combat the MacVales’ raids. Laird MacDonnell was itching for a clan war against the MacVales, and it would fall to Reid to defuse the situation. And now that winter was approaching, it was his responsibility to ensure his people were prepared.

And then of course he needed to marry and produce an heir.

Reid bit down on a curse. Though the Mackenzies had accepted him as their Laird, other clans would see his position as a weakness. A bastard-born Laird without an heir—he was more vulnerable than he cared to admit.

Corinne fell silent, mayhap sensing his rapidly blackening mood.

All too soon, they broke through the tree line and rode onto an open, gently rolling moor. In the fading light, Reid spotted the Bruce’s army camp, a bluish-white splotch against the browning hillsides.

Reid spurred his horse into a gallop, his men following suit. As they drew closer, Reid brought his forefinger and thumb to his mouth and let out a loud, high whistle. An answering whistle sounded from the camp, cutting through the gloaming.

When they reached the outer edges of the sprawling sea of canvas tents that served as the King’s headquarters, Reid slowed. Several guards came forward to take their animals’ reins. Reid dismounted, then helped Corinne down.

“Tell the King that Laird Reid Mackenzie has returned,” he told one of the guards. “Along with the de Reymont lass.”

The guard nodded. “The King has asked that ye be taken to him immediately upon arrival, Laird. Milady, ye may rest and refresh yerself until ye are summoned.”

Corinne glanced up at Reid, her eyes wide and dark in the fading light. “Very well,” she said reluctantly to the guard.

“This way, milady.”

Two guards flanked her and guided her into the camp. Reid had to resist the strange urge to go after her. Would this be the last time he saw her?

“Follow me, Laird,” another man said. Reid snapped his gaze from Corinne’s back and let the soldier take the lead, leaving his men to see to themselves for the time being.

As they began winding through the maze of canvas tents, Reid noticed that the camp was abuzz with activity. Men were gathering weapons, drawing down tent poles, and loading wagons with supplies.

By the time they reached the Bruce’s tent near the heart of the sea of canvas, Reid was beginning to suspect that the camp, which had served as the Bruce’s base of operations for nigh on five years, would not be here much longer.

The guard motioned Reid into the tent and held the canvas flap back for him. When he ducked inside, he found the Bruce and a handful of others dismantling the King’s quarters. Sheets of parchment were being shuffled from the large oak desk into chests, the desk itself had been swept bare, and all but a few askew pieces of furniture remained.

“Ah, Reid!” the Bruce said, setting aside a large map that he’d been folding. “I’m glad to see ye back, man. And I assume that since ye are here, ye have done as I’ve asked and brought me the de Reymont lass.”

“Aye, Sire,” he said, eyeing the others in the room. “She is refreshing herself, but yer guards told me I was to come to ye straightaway.”

“Indeed. Leave us,” the Bruce said to the others.

They quietly filed from the tent. Without them, the space looked even starker and more chaotic.

“I take it ye are moving yer camp,” Reid commented, glancing at the sparse remains of the King’s headquarters.

“No’ moving,” the Bruce replied. “Dismantling.”

Surprise rippled through him. Surely the Bruce couldn’t be retreating from the Lowlands. He’d already reclaimed the Borderlands for Scotland and had just proven that he could strike as far south as York. Why would he cede Lochmaben?

“Dinnae scowl so much, man,” the Bruce said. “This is a sign of victory, no’ defeat. Come, sit with me.” Out of habit, the King gestured to the left of the desk, but only one chair remained there, resting on its side. The Bruce’s russet brows dropped. “Or mayhap we’ll stand.”

Reid clasped his hands behind his back and gave the King a curt nod.

“The fact is,” the Bruce began, “we dinnae need this camp anymore. The Lowlands are securely Scotland’s once more. Hell, the Borderlands and most of Northern England are ours as well.” The Bruce exhaled, a tired smile curling his lips. “Truth be told, we’ve nearly accomplished everything I set out to do when I took the throne…could it truly be nigh on fourteen years past?”

“Ye’ve done right by our people, Robert,” Reid said. “We couldnae ask for a better King.”

The Bruce smiled warmly, but then his dark eyes clouded. “There remains much to do, of course. The Pope still hasnae acknowledged me as King, nor that Scotland is a sovereign nation separate from England. But speaking of England…” The smile was back, his weathered face drawn in unadulterated joy. “I have some good news.”

“Aye?”

“When Edward arrived in York to find that his city was safe but hobbled by a defeat at our hands…he sent word asking for a truce.”

Reid felt his jaw slacken. Good God, it was as close to freedom as they’d ever come in this long, bloody war.

“He’ll leave us be, give up the fight over the Borderlands and Berwick and all the rest, as long as we dinnae continue marching southward,” the Bruce went on, emotion shining in his gaze. “It is finally happening. All our work, all the lives sacrificed over the years, all the battles lost and won—we are on the cusp now, man.”

Reid scrubbed a hand over his face, a wild chuckle rumbling in his throat. “This is… By God, this is incredible!”

“Aye,” the Bruce replied, shaking his head in wonder. “We are still negotiating the terms, but if all goes well, the truce will be in place before year’s end.”

“Our warriors will be home all winter,” Reid breathed. “We might finally take a breath in peace.”

“Aye, though I am no’ sharing the news widely just yet, for I would ensure that this truce holds before raising our people’s hopes,” the Bruce said. “But assuming that it does, I’ll no longer need this camp to serve as a base of operations.”

“Where will ye go, then?”

“I am eager to rejoin my family. I’ll return to Cardross for a time to be with my wife and children—we are building an estate there—and then I’ll go to Perth. Scone Abbey has been the home of our parliament for years now, but we’ve been so busy making war that we’ve hardly had time to govern.” The Bruce smoothed a hand over his trimmed russet and gray beard. “But it is time to look beyond the next battle or siege and think of our country’s future.”

Reid smiled wryly. “Dinnae take offense, Robert, but it is hard to imagine ye hanging up yer chainmail and leading the country from an abbey rather than a battlefield.”

The Bruce snorted, but then he sobered, his gaze growing wistful. “It’s time I settle down, I think—with my family, and with the task of governing the nation we fought so hard for.”

He blinked the sudden mist from his eyes and fixed his gaze on Reid once more. “I’d like to see ye do the same, Reid.”

“Aye,” Reid replied, his brows lowering. “I have been glad to serve ye, Robert, but I’ve been away from my clan too much. It has been a year now since Logan and I came to our peace, and two since Euna…” He gritted his teeth. “The clan deserves an heir, a future Laird who willnae be tarnished by illegitimacy.”

The reconciliation with Logan, Reid’s younger half-brother and the rightful Laird of the Mackenzies by dint of blood if not birth order, had been an enormous weight lifted from Reid’s shoulders. He’d thought Logan responsible for the death of Laird Murdoch Mackenzie, the previous Laird. Twelve years ago, Reid had driven Logan away, considering him dead to the clan for what he’d done. Then Reid had stepped into the role of Laird, a role that had never been meant for him given his illegitimate birth.

When Reid had learned of Logan’s innocence last year, he’d realized Logan was actually the rightful heir to the Mackenzie Lairdship. Though Reid had been born two years earlier than Logan, it was a poorly kept secret that Reid’s mother Brinda had arrived for her marriage to Laird Murdoch Mackenzie already three months pregnant—with Reid.

But Logan had refused the Lairdship, choosing to remain in the Borderlands with his new wife Helena as keeper of Craigmoor Castle, the powerful stronghold Reid had helped the Bruce reclaim a year past.

Even with Logan’s blessing, and with his clan’s acceptance, Reid had always feared the consequences of a bastard-born man as the leader of the Mackenzies. It created instability. And an opening to be challenged.

Reid became aware of the Bruce’s keen eyes watching him. “Have members of yer clan been giving ye trouble?” the Bruce asked, seeming to read the direction of Reid’s thoughts.

“Nay,” he said quickly. “They accept me, but it isnae them I worry about. It’s our neighboring clans. The MacRaes and the MacDonnells have been steadfast allies, but the MacVales continue to cause trouble. If I dinnae shore up my line of succession, the MacVales may try to make a move against us.”

“Ye need a wife, then,” the Bruce said.

A sudden ripple of unease coursed up Reid’s spine. Suddenly he felt like a pawn, and the Bruce had no doubt plotted out several moves across the board for him.

“Aye,” Reid said carefully.

“Good,” the Bruce said, “because I have one in mind for ye.”

Reid’s gut twisted with trepidation. “Oh?”

“Aye.” The Bruce met his gaze, his dark eyes piercing. “The de Reymont lass.”