Page 18 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

Arran sat in an unobtrusive corner at a greasy table, and the innkeeper brought him a pint of ale, unasked for. Arran sipped the watery, unusually bitter ale and tried to keep half an ear on the conversations going on around him.

He’d never been spy material. Arran knew that he had no knack for conversation, no talent for talking to strangers and drawing out their secrets. James Stewart knew that, and he knew where Arran’s real talents lay. Conversation was never part of Arran’s job description, and he was quite happy with that. He quickly stopped listening to the McTavie men’s conversation since it mostly revolved around their various women and wives and what reckless things they got up to. In short, it was dull and completely unhelpful.

However, Arran did hear that some kind of large celebration would soon be occurring at the castle.

If this were some old heroes’ tale, Arran thought in resignation, they’d say everything I needed to hear instead of dancing around the point and talking about useless things. The ballads never mention sitting in a smelly old inn for hours while your backside gets sore, listening to idiots babble on incessantly.

“You certainly are nursing that ale, stranger.”

Arran flinched at the innkeeper’s scratchy, mistrustful voice.

“Beg pardon, sir?” he managed, trying to school his face into a friendly expression.

The innkeeper sniffed and nodded at Arran’s half-empty ale. “You're not a big drinker, then? Those fellows have polished off quarts of the stuff each, and they’re still going.”

Arran smiled thinly. “I’ve never been a lover of ale.”

The innkeeper’s face brightened a little, no doubt at the prospect of making a few extra coins after all. “Ah, I see. You’re a man who likes his wine. We’ve got some delicious—”

“No, thank you,” Arran said quickly, lest the innkeeper start parading his watery house wines, and then Arran would feel obliged to purchase a bottle. He didn’t want to deplete his money any more than necessary. Stewart hadn’t promised any monetary reward for this task, only that it had to be done.

The innkeeper’s face changed, and Arran knew he’d said the wrong thing. He would be remembered now, fixed in the innkeeper’s mind as the odd stranger who came alone and stared out of the window, barely drinking his ale, whereas the boisterous, roistering drunkards sinking pint after pint of ale would all blend into one in the innkeeper’s mind.

“Very well, then. I bid you good day,” the innkeeper said shortly, and retreated. Arran cursed himself for being a fool. The innkeeper was watching him closely now. Arran drank down the rest of the ale, repressing a shudder, and got up to leave. He was tempted to toss an extra coin onto the table, but it was probably far too late to buy the innkeeper’s goodwill and certainly too late to hope for forgetfulness.

Arran stepped out into the dusty courtyard, turning up his face to the weak sunlight. He’d say this for McTavie tartans: they were certainly warm. He tugged his cloak a little tighter around him and tried not to think of his own Stewart tartan shoved unceremoniously into his pack.

A shriek of laughter caught his attention, and Arran idly turned to see what was going on.

A group of children had gathered in the center of a nearby clearing with an impressive selection of carved wooden toys spread out around them. Some children were carefully walking their toys along the boggy earth, enacting strange and complicated plays. Others seemed to be engaged in a very dramatic battle, complete with traitors and other breathtaking twists of fate.

A woman was among them, laughing and playing. She darted from child to child, making suggestions and adjusting their little troops of soldiers. The children looked up at her adoringly as she did so, and Arran smiled to himself. She seemed to be having just as much fun as they did.

She was a beauty, that was for sure. She had long blonde hair left to tumble down her back in a simple braid. She had a heart-shaped face and a smile that made Arran want to smile, too, for no good reason.

She had a pretty figure, too, despite the unflattering green stuff dress she wore. She had a loose shawl around her shoulders, the end of which trailed in the mud. It was a McTavie tartan, of course, and Arran thought how much prettier she’d be in a Stewart tartan.

The woman had mud on the hem of her skirts and a few dirty patches where she’d knelt to talk to some of the children, but she didn’t seem to care at all. Long strands of fair hair fought their way out of her lumpy braid, and she brushed them carelessly behind her ear.

“Pretty girl, eh?”

Arran jumped at the innkeeper’s smug voice and cursed himself for being a fool yet again. What was he thinking, lounging around just outside the door? Did he think the innkeeper wouldn’t notice? Now he’d made himself memorable on three counts. Traveling alone as a stranger, not drinking enough ale, and gawking at a local beauty.

“Very pretty,” Arran managed, hoping he seemed sufficiently nonchalant, as the kind of man who blatantly ogled women wherever he went. “I bet she’s married, a beauty like her,” he continued, pretending that he wanted to make conversation with this man.

He snorted. “Not yet. She’s likely to be married soon, though. That’s what the gossips say, at least.”

Arran’s dark eyebrows shot up. “She must be an important girl for the gossips to be so interested.”

The innkeeper laughed aloud at that. “My, you are a stranger, aren’t you? You must have traveled far.”

“Far enough.”

“Well, I suppose you wouldn’t be expected to know her by sight unless you lived in these parts. That’s Pippia McTavie, Laird Malcolm McTavie’s daughter.”

Arran’s mouth dried up. “Ah, yes,” he managed. “I knew he had a daughter.”

“As I say, that’s her.” The innkeeper seemed to be rapidly losing interest in the conversation. “If you take my advice, friend, you’ll not be staring at her like that, not where a man in McTavie tartan can see.”

With that last piece of sage wisdom, the innkeeper turned on his heel and left, not waiting for Arran to point out that he, too, was wearing McTavie tartan.

Arran turned back to the happy scene with a frown. It seemed that the play was over. A short, older woman who he hadn’t spotted before was talking with Pippia McTavie. Pippia was smoothing down her skirts and trying to get rid of the mud, and it was apparent that they would soon be on their way.

That was her. There was his quarry, less than one hundred feet away from him. Arran sucked in a breath. He’d wasted enough time drinking disgusting ale and eyeing up pretty women. It was time to get to work.