Page 17 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

7

Time to Get To Work

Arran was so convinced that he should be encountering more patrols, sentries, and other security measures that he didn’t realize he’d entered deep into McTavie territory until he began to see McTavie tartan everywhere.

The villages were in a sorry state. Arran was shocked. Had some of the formidable warriors he’d faced come from places like this? Some villages were so ramshackle, so disorganized, with their inhabitants so miserable and listless, he had no idea they were proper villages at all. It occurred to Arran that if Stewart had sent him on a reconnaissance mission, he could have gathered some very useful information.

For example, it was apparent that McTavie and his lands were phenomenally poor. Perhaps the castle itself was sturdy and rich, but that would mean that McTavie was keeping his fires hot and his banquet tables full while his people starved and froze. That was never a good sign.

Also, Arran noticed hardly any able-bodied men. There were boys too young and men too old to fight, but very few strong men in their prime. That could indicate that all the fighting men had been called up, and there was hardly anyone left.

He’s vulnerable, Arran thought. His forces are depleting, and now is the time for Stewart to strike.

Yes, this was valuable information.

Too bad Stewart hadn’t asked him to spy.

Arran felt a spiteful thrill when he thought about withholding this information. Besides, chances were that Stewart would know all this anyway. The man seemed to be all-knowing, with no scrap of information, however small, escaping his eagle eyes.

Arran stopped short at that idea. It wasn’t a pleasant thing to imagine because it indicated that Stewart would know about Arran and Sierra.

You’re being foolish, he told himself firmly. You’d be hanging from a tree somewhere if Stewart knew that, and Sierra would die in mysterious circumstances.

Wouldn’t he?

Nobody else knew about Arran or Sierra. She might be a foolhardy gossip, but not even she would risk talking about betraying her husband under his very nose.

Would Stewart care?

Well, that was a foolish question, but he rarely seemed interested in Sierra at all. Perhaps he allowed her to amuse herself.

No, that wasn’t the case. Arran knew James Stewart; the man had pride as prickly as a thornbush. Something like this would never be forgiven, and never forgotten.

So, if Stewart knew, why was Arran not dead?

Although, this task did sometimes seem like a suicide mission. Arran set his jaw and continued on his way.

If Stewart wanted him dead, he’d have to try harder than this. A simple jaunt into enemy territory would not be what killed Arran, he was sure of that. Better yet, he could stop being such a disgusting coward and put a dagger in himself.

Well, that was unlikely. Arran hadn’t known Stewart for all these years without realizing what a yellow-bellied coward the man was. Laird Stewart did not get his own lily-white hands dirty, and he had no real talent for combat besides stabbing men in the back, literally and figuratively, and the few skills he’d been forced to learn as a young boy. No, he had other men to do the killing.

Men like Arran. There were plenty of other warriors eager to fill the gap left by a presumptuous right-hand man and just as eager to learn from his mistakes. Not that there was much to learn from a warrior making the mistake of helping himself to his laird’s wife. The foolishness there was fairly self-explanatory.

Arran knew he was getting closer to the keep by the size and quality of the villages. However, the locals still had that hang-dog look that told of misery, hardship, and untold losses. He sensed that there was something deeper here than a recently lost skirmish. Could it be that the long-held feud was cutting deeper into McTavie’s people than the man had let on? Perhaps an end to the war was coming sooner than anyone thought possible. Not, of course, that a feud like this would end without bloodshed.

These feuds were started by blood and ended with that blood multiplied and shed a thousandfold. Arran shuddered and tried not to think of his own hand in that bloodshed.

Afternoon was marching on toward evening, and it would be dark soon. Arran was tired, footsore and irritable, very much in need of a hot bath and a proper bed. He’d even settle for a straw mattress in a barn if it meant he didn’t need to spend another night outdoors with the frost settling around him and the ground icy underneath him.

Arran had a pocketful of coins and jingled them thoughtfully as he walked. Would taking a room at an inn be too much? Would he be noticed? Now, Arran knew that in the town outside Stewart’s castle, strangers and travelers came and went. It wasn’t unusual for a lone traveler—spouting some story about searching for work or visiting family—to stop for a brief respite as he passed by. Perhaps it wouldn’t draw any attention in this village, either.

But was it a risk he intended to take?

However, as farm laborers and women going about their chores passed him by on the road (Arran did not think it necessary to kill them all, especially since they barely looked twice at him), he realized that his presence had already been noted, however idly. Surely it would be more suspicious for a traveler to disappear altogether? It would be quite natural for a hungry, tired traveler to seek out the local inn.

You certainly can rationalize, I’ll give you that, Arran told himself grimly. He’d fair talked himself into it, and now his heart was set on a good meal and a soft (ish) bed for the night. Well, he’d need to look around for the poor lass in any case.

This village was a little better. It was cleaner, certainly, but there were more men in McTavie tartan lounging around, some openly complaining about not being invited into the castle for some celebration feast or other. It meant that Arran, slipping into the first inn he came to, did not stand out. The McTavie men gave him an uninterested glance up and down, judged him as not one of them, and resumed their conversations.