Corinne had been led to a small tent somewhere in the middle of the complex maze of canvas. She’d been given a basin of water so that she could wipe away the dust and dirt of travel, and a tray of steaming, thick stew. A Mackenzie warrior must have also discreetly delivered one of the gowns they’d taken during their attack, for she found a blue woolen dress folded outside her tent a few minutes after she’d arrived.

She washed, ate, and changed, feeling surprisingly fresh considering all that had happened over the last two and a half days.

The cot in the corner of the tent beckoned, but before she could lie down, someone outside cleared his throat and rapped on the wooden pole at the entrance.

“The King wishes to see ye now,” the guard standing at the entrance to her tent informed her.

A sudden burst of nerves filled her stomach. Reid had portrayed the King as decent and honorable, yet he’d admitted that he had no idea what the Bruce intended to do with her other than hold her until her marriage alliance could be dissolved.

Corinne steeled her spine, nodding for the guard to lead the way. She had never met a King before, but the Bruce was not her King. She willed herself to be brave, to demand that in return for having her kidnapped, she be allowed to join a convent once he’d accomplished his goals.

After several twists and turns through the network of tents, the guard stopped before the largest of them all.

“Ye’ll wait here until the King summons ye in,” the guard said, bracing his feet before the tent’s opening.

She eyed the guard for a moment. He was a few years older than she, mayhap five and twenty, with dark hair and several scars on his face, along with a crook in his nose. He wore a plain linen shirt and a red and blue checked plaid belted around his waist. That seemed to be standard attire for Scottish warriors, regardless of the sharp autumnal edge to the air.

Corinne smoothed her blue skirts, wishing she’d brought her cloak. Night was rapidly falling, and with it the temperature. She shifted from foot to foot while the guard stared straight over her head as if she wasn’t there.

Muffled voices drifted through the canvas beside her.

“…but I’ve been away from my clan… It has been a year now… and two since Euna…”

The low, confident voice was unmistakable—Reid was already inside the King’s tent.

What was he speaking on, and to whom? She shuffled closer, attempting to make it look as though she was only trying to step warmth into her feet.

“The clan deserves an heir, a future Laird who willnae be tarnished by illegitimacy.”

Corinne pulled in a cold breath. Was Reid speaking of himself? How could he be illegitimate and yet also the Laird of the Mackenzies? In all his dealings with his men, she’d never once seen them question him or hesitate at one of his orders. Yet the heaviness in his voice revealed the weight of his worries.

Reid’s voice dropped for a moment, and all Corinne could make out was a muffled rumble. But then his voice rose once more.

“…the MacVales may try to make a move against us.”

“Ye need a wife then,” another voice, sure and steady, said. Could that be…the King of Scotland himself?

“Aye,” came Reid’s guarded response.

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

“Oh?”

“Aye. The de Reymont lass.”

Corinne’s legs crumpled beneath her. She sagged into the tent’s canvas siding and would have fallen all the way through if the guard hadn’t snatched her up by the shoulders.

“What?” came Reid’s outraged bellow.

The guard blinked in comprehension at her, awkwardly placing her on her feet.

“I’m sure it will be just another moment, milady,” he said. “Can ye stand?”

“A-aye.” It took Corinne a moment to recognize the shaking, thin voice as her own.

She righted herself, staring at the swath of canvas separating her from Reid and the Bruce.

This was to be her future? Pawned off to yet another man to appease some scheme or other? What of her plans, her dreams? What of her work as a scribe?

“I willnae marry an Englishwoman, Robert!” Reid roared on the other side of the canvas. “Ye ken I need to marry a Scotswoman—a Laird’s daughter, no less.”

“Reid,” came the Bruce’s smooth, even voice, “calm yerself. I have thought this through. It is what’s best for Scotland—and it will help ye, too.”

“Help me?” Reid shouted. “How can it help me to be saddled with an English bride? I’m on shaky ground as it is, damn it!”

Even as a flood of embarrassed heat rushed to her face, Corinne withered inside. Reid didn’t want to be saddled with her? As if she were some horrible, unwanted burden.

“My marriage needs to form an alliance with one of my neighboring clans, no’ bring their wrath upon me—and give my enemies more room to question the legitimacy of my claim to the Lairdship!” Reid went on.

This was all too much. Corinne had barely escaped one terrible match. And now she would be made to give up her dreams and be thrust at a man who didn’t even want her. Her throat knotted and frustrated tears burned in her eyes. She felt as though she were going to be sick.

Through the blur of tears, she met the guard’s uncomfortable gaze. His face had turned as red as the slashes of dyed wool in his plaid. He straightened his stance, visibly working to wipe his face of all embarrassment, but there was simply no pretending that they couldn’t both clearly hear the conversation inside the tent.

After a moment of consideration, the guard finally took pity on her. He cleared his throat noisily, cutting into Reid’s next tirade. Without permission, he stuck his head through the tent’s flap.

“Lady Corinne de Reymont awaits as requested, Sire,” he said loudly.

The tent fell dead silent.

Someone inside coughed softly. “Show her in, please, Andrew.”

The guard, Andrew, stepped back and held open the canvas flap for her. Swallowing hard, Corinne lifted her chin and entered.