Page 19 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

8

Knife Hand

Pippia’s good mood evaporated the instant she walked through the gates to the castle. It was apparent that something was going on. Servants and soldiers were rushing everywhere, fetching and carrying and shouting orders.

One or two of them murmured vague congratulations as they rushed past Pippia, eyes lowered, dropping meek curtsies or bows. Pippia’s heart sank. They were clearly preparing a feast to rival the celebration of her father’s return home, and that could only mean trouble. In Pippia’s experience, feeding men up until they burst was only a prelude to worse things.

“Lady Pippia?” Malcolm’s steward, a thin, hook-nosed man named Evan, approached. “Your father wishes to speak to you. Please follow me.” He cast a disdainful glance at Hilda. “There will be no need for your services. You may go until you are needed again. Make yourself useful.”

Hilda’s jaw tightened at the rude treatment, and Pippia longed to leap to her old friend’s defense. Unfortunately, they had learned over long, hard experiences that Malcolm valued his steward’s opinion over all others. He would not punish the man on any evidence apart from his own eyes and ears and would not even trust his own daughter’s word against Evan’s.

Evan knew the power he wielded, and so did everyone else. So, Pippia said nothing as Hilda was arbitrarily dismissed. Evan gestured for her to follow him, and she did so.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Lady Pippia,” Evan said, leading the way along narrow wooden corridors into the heart of the keep. “On your upcoming marriage, I mean.”

Pippia swallowed hard. “Yes, my father told me of it not too long ago.”

“Really? I believe this marriage has been planned for some time.” There was a sly smile in Evan’s voice, and Pippia seethed.

“Am I to assume that you suggested that I marry Alasdair?”

“He’s a fine man. A woman could do worse,” Evan said piously. “I suspect you will need to give up many of your selfish ways when you’re married.”

“Selfish ways?” Pippia echoed, barely restraining her temper.

“Well, you have a tendency to do what you want, my lady. With all due respect,” Evan added, in a tone that indicated he actually had no respect at all.

Pippia pressed her lips together lest she say something she regretted. Then they were in front of the iron-studded door that opened into Malcolm’s study. Evan rapped sharply and stuck his head inside.

“Laird McTavie, your daughter is here.”

“Send her in,” came the deep, rumbling reply.

Evan turned to smile at Pippia. “You may go in.”

“Thank you,” Pippia managed, wishing very much that she had one of her knives with her to toss at Evan’s thin, smiling face. Of course he would suggest that she should be married off as soon as possible. She and Evan had never been friends, and Hilda had always contrived to keep her out of his way and out from under his influence. Evan had never forgiven them. He had to get rid of her as soon as possible, and Malcolm was all too happy to get his only daughter married and gone.

Well, not gone, at least. That was one mercy in this whole awful situation. Pippia would not have to move away. Alasdair lived here, and once he married her, he would be her father’s heir. There would be no question of leaving like many newlyweds did.

So, while she would be married to a man she cared nothing for—and she was sure that Alasdair cared nothing for her and only had his eye on being the future Laird McTavie—at least Pippia would stay among her friends and the people that she loved.

That was something, at least.

Malcolm sat behind a small table, studded with gouges and cuts, testaments to years of anger and weapons piled on the table. There was an empty seat across the table, and Malcolm benevolently gestured for his daughter to sit.

“We have much to discuss, Pippia.”

She sat, stiff and straight-backed, and tried not to look at Alasdair lurking over near the window. He seemed completely disinterested in her, sparing her only a brief nod and bow before turning back to stare out the window again.

“What is it, Father?”

“The people need something to buoy their spirits. Your engagement feast will happen tomorrow night. It would have been tonight except that the kitchens will need more time to prepare the food. Alasdair is very eager,” Malcolm added.

I’m sure he is, Pippia thought bitterly. “Father, I thought the wedding would not take place until—”

“Plans change,” Malcolm interrupted. “Pippia, I know you harbor foolish dreams of not being wed, but it’s time to grow up, do you understand? Your engagement feast is happening tomorrow, and your wedding will happen when I and Alasdair see fit. Is that understood?”

That was that, then. Malcolm’s voice held the promise of anger, the same booming rage that sent Pippia and everyone within the laird’s vicinity cowering and running in terror. Pippia knew from experience that arguing now would do her no good.