Page 10 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

Nothing came to mind. Pippia opened and shut her mouth a few times, waiting in despair for some argument, some way of getting out of this. Nothing came to mind. Pippia’s famously quick tongue deserted her. Her wit dried up, and she found that she had nothing to say, no argument to make, no plea that would reach her father.

Malcolm watched her impassively, methodically using a piece of bread to sop up the gravy at the bottom of his plate.

After a moment or two, he seemed to get tired of watching the horror and resignation on his daughter’s face.

“It’s high time I chose an heir, and you should have been long married by now—married and bearing children. It’ll be good for you. You’ll be married in the spring,” Malcolm said shortly, and turned to speak to a man sitting on his other side.

“He’s not a brute,” Hilda said carefully. “He’s not a bad man. His wife died in childbirth about ten years ago, and the child died, too. I never heard of him beating her.”

“Well, he must be a paragon of virtue, then,” Pippia shot back.

Hilda shot her a hurt look, and Pippia wilted.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, lass. I know this is a shock. I hadn’t expected it either, otherwise I’d have warned you. I think the laird and Alasdair decided on it while they were away.”

Pippia had retreated to her room as soon as possible, desperate to confide in her only friend. First, however, she firmly locked the door. It wouldn’t be the first time a drunken warrior had wobbled off down a random corridor and started trying all the door handles to the bedrooms. Downstairs, there were shouts of merriment, raucous laughter, and the occasional attempt at a song.

Now, Pippia sat on the edge of her bed, with Hilda trying vainly to comfort her. Hilda had realized immediately that something was wrong and had not even paused to scold Pippia for the stains on her dress or the tear in her hem where somebody’s muddy boot had stepped on it.

“All I mean is that you were going to get married off sooner or later,” Hilda tried again. “You could do worse than Alasdair.”

“It isn’t fair. I never had a choice.” Pippia got to her feet, pacing around the room. The novelty of wearing a pretty dress again had rapidly faded. There were grease stains on the skirt, and somebody had tipped wine over Pippia’s sleeve. The skirts seemed to weave around Pippia’s legs as she walked, threatening to trip her up. “He never asked me if I liked him, if I wanted to be married…nothing. He didn’t care, and it wouldn’t have mattered even if I said anything.”

“Oh, my poor lass,” Hilda said, with pity in her eyes. “What did you expect?”

Pippia paused in her pacing.

“I don’t know. I expected better, I suppose. I thought I’d have a choice.”

“You’re just a lass, Pippia. You don’t get a choice. The sooner you resign yourself to that, the happier you’ll be.” Hilda hauled herself up from the bed and waddled over to take Pippia in her arms. “I’ll be there, remember? I’ll take care of you.”

Pippia let herself sink into Hilda’s arms, willing herself to be consoled, but the crushing misery would not go away. This was something that Hilda could not mend.