Page 11 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

4

First Blood

The rain had set in by now. It was a mizzling, fine rain, the kind that seemed almost negligible but soaked you to the skin anyway.

Arran was glad he had his thick tartan, but even that would get soaked if he walked in the rain long enough. It seemed that the undergrowth around him and the trees above him were dense enough to block out the warmth of the sun but not the cold of the wind and rain.

Just perfect, he thought bitterly and with resignation.

After his encounter with Sierra, Arran had wanted nothing more than to walk out into the night and get this wretched task over with. He never wanted to see Laird Stewart or his cursed, beautiful wife ever again. He almost had, too. He’d slipped through the kitchens, unnoticed in all the hustle and bustle, and opened one of the side doors that led straight out into the gardens. An icy blast of air had rattled in, and the servants complained of the cold and shouted to him to get out or stay in, but for heaven’s sake, to shut the door!

Arran did shut the door but stayed inside. His desperation to get away from the woman he could never have didn’t quite override his practicality. He didn’t believe that Sierra would come searching for him again. She was a very clever woman, and she knew that openly cuckolding her husband—or even hinting that he was not the only love in her life—could be disastrous for her. It could be fatal. Plenty of lairds had murdered their women in fits of jealous rage. Nobody seemed to care.

So, Arran had no pressing need to leave the castle at once besides his own discomfort and misery.

The simple fact was, traveling at night was dangerous, even for experienced men. With the pitch black and the rain, putting a foot wrong and tumbling off a cliff to one’s death was a real possibility. He could fall into a hidden pit and break his leg, and then he’d lie there, helpless, until he died of exposure or thirst, whichever one came first. He could come face-to-face with a pack of bandits, and they could overwhelm him with numbers and sheer hate.

Anything could happen. Every Scot child was taught that the hills and lochs were beautiful but could kill as surely as any knife. One should never lose respect for the Highlands. He recalled some men and women going out in blizzards or floods and their bodies being found weeks later. Others had gone out into the night and simply never returned. Living here for one’s whole life was no guarantee.

Most of the thoughts Arran imagined ended in a slow, painful death. Nobody would ever know. They would shrug and say that he was always destined for a bad end. Laird Stewart would heave a regretful sigh and choose another bold, strong warrior to run his risks for him. Sierra might mourn a little until some new handsome plaything caught her eye, one who wouldn’t nag her to leave her husband and start a new life with him.

Nobody was coming after him. Sierra would never leave her rich husband and her comfortable castle. She rather wisely decorated her rooms a little better than Stewart liked the rest of the place and had created a cozy, fine nest. Arran had seen the inside of Sierra’s rooms more times than he cared to remember and knew what luxuries she enjoyed. No, she would never exchange her rich life to be an outlaw’s woman—and outlaws they would be. Arran had no illusions of what he would be if he stole away Stewart’s wife and fled.

He felt foolish for ever believing she would leave with him.

So, Arran curled up in a corner of the cold, hard, unforgiving servants’ halls, wrapped his cloak around him, and tried to sleep. During the early hours of the morning, when the kitchens were quiet for a few blessed hours, he did manage to sleep a little.

After some time, the first servant girls came yawning down to start their chores, less than three hours after the last servants had retired to bed. Arran bestirred himself, straightening his aching limbs and climbing reluctantly to his feet. He was freezing cold and wasn’t likely to warm up on his long journey. It was time to go, and there was no point in waiting around.

Arran slipped out of the door without so much as a farewell or good luck wish from anyone. He did not look back.

It would be a solid two days’ walk to the border of McTavie land. Of course, Arran could not take the roads; he could encounter anyone on his way. If the wrong person spotted him, a rumor might fly around the country that a single warrior in Stewart tartan was seen walking toward McTavie land shortly before the man’s daughter disappeared. There would be malicious gossip and rumors, gradually taking form to become the truth, and both Stewart and McTavie would hear of it.

Both men would be forced to act, and it would be a bloodbath rather than the smooth final move that Stewart envisioned.

No, it was much better to be careful. Arran moved parallel to the roads, about a half-mile away. The roads often followed the water, and that was good. The terrain was rougher off the roads, and it would take a lesser man twice the time to make the journey. Arran knew it would only take him an extra half-day. If the weather was fair, that was, and he didn’t run into any unusual difficulties.

Then, once he’d reached the borders, there was less than a day’s journey to McTavie’s estate. Arran wasn’t sure exactly where to find it, but it would surely not be difficult to find.

Still, Arran was beginning to believe that this would not be a simple task. He had no idea of the estate’s exact whereabouts, and he had no clue what McTavie’s daughter even looked like. What if she were surrounded by a host of ladies, like Sierra? How would he ever know which one to take?

Arran imagined accidentally bringing home the wrong girl to Stewart and shuddered. He would take his time and make extra sure that he had the right girl.

Laird Stewart did not tolerate mistakes.

He walked during the daylight hours and rested at night, sleeping fitfully beside a modest, smoldering fire, wrapped in his cloak to keep out the chill.

At noon, on the third day from leaving Stewart’s castle, Arran reached the powerful river that ran between Stewart and McTavie land.

Or rather, through it, depending on which clan chief you listened to. Stewart was adamant that the lush farmlands beyond the river were his by right, whereas McTavie denied that and made a counterclaim that the farmlands on Stewart’s side of the river were, in fact, his.

There was a lot more to that story. In fact, there was generations’ worth of blood spill and infighting, reckless battles and assassinations. Neither party had gained an inch. The river split McTavie and Stewart lands as it always had, acknowledging neither man as master.

Arran didn’t know the details and frankly did not care. In fact, he doubted that anyone knew the truth by now, and it was too late for the truth in any case.

Arran found a narrow point and managed to wade across. A bridge might be easier, but he knew that each one would be heavily guarded. There’d be Stewart men on this side and McTavie men on the other, and Arran would never make it across the bridge alive, let alone unnoticed.

However, this raised another point. He was now soaking wet from the waist down and wasn’t likely to dry anytime soon. Fevers and chills notwithstanding, a wet man in enemy tartan would attract notice.