Page 22 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

Then he heard footsteps approaching, and Pippia came bustling back through the undergrowth. She held a handful of leaves and two rocks in one hand and a strip of white fabric in the other. Arran wondered wildly where on earth she’d got the fabric, as her dress didn’t seem to be white, and there were no ripped areas from the hem.

“Sit down,” she said, gesturing to a large boulder beside the tree stump she’d chosen for her own seat. Arran obeyed, sitting down heavily and with an odd sensation of guilt.

The lass laid the green leaves, which Arran did not recognize, on the larger of the two rocks and used the smaller one to crush the leaves into a paste. She worked with quick, efficient movements, indicating that this wasn’t the first time she’d used knitbone on a wound.

“Give me your hand,” Pippia said when she was finished, and Arran dutifully stuck out his hand. Cradling his hand in her slim, soft fingers, Pippia gently smeared the paste over the cut. It stung, and Arran bit back a wince.

“I’m glad your hands are clean,” she said, not looking up from her work. “I’ve noticed that men and women with dirty hands are more likely to get infected wounds. Isn’t that strange?”

“I do like to bathe,” Arran found himself saying. Heavens, what a stupid thing to say. Still, she smiled, and Arran was shocked to notice excitement coursing through him at that smile.

“Now for the bandage.”

She wrapped the strip of clean cloth around the wound, tying it neatly. “There we go,” Pippia said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Keep it clean and change the bandage regularly until the cut scabs, and you’ll be fine. You won’t get an infection from my blades, I can promise you that.”

“Thank you,” Arran managed, feeling very stupid and awkward all of a sudden.

What was he doing? What was he doing? Here was his quarry, his hands were literally on hers, and yet he was sitting dumbly and doing nothing? What kind of warrior was he?

Pippia was talking on and on about various herbs and pastes, and every now and then, she would talk about her knives. He noticed an odd expression on her face when she did so, as if she were talking about a forbidden subject.

Well, for a young woman who liked to fight and throw knives, it probably was a forbidden subject.

Now she was talking about some celebration down in the keep and that she must hurry back soon. Pippia’s face had lost its color and animation, and Arran felt a twinge of pity for her. Whatever this celebration was—her engagement, wasn’t it?—she was not relishing it.

He had to act now.

Arran slowly got to his feet. “Thank you for this,” he said, gesturing to his bandaged palm. “You’re a talented physician.”

She smiled weakly. “It comes from experience, I’m afraid. I’m always getting hurt, in one way or another.” She hastily looked down, as if she’d said too much, and traced one of the carved designs in the leather pouch. “My name is Pippia, by the way.”

“Thank you for the treatment,” Arran said as he was looking at her, trying hard not to reveal that he knew her.

She crumpled, and Arran caught her neatly before she landed on the cold, wet ground. He hoisted her into his arms and glanced around to make sure nobody had noticed. They were completely alone.

He walked quickly through the forest to where his horse was tied up. The horse, a dull sandy thing that he’d privately named Edward, had been stolen from outside the inn. He probably belonged to one of the drunken McTavie warriors inside the inn and was badly in need of a good feed and a proper brush. Arran made a mental note to properly care for the horse when they stopped for the night.

However, first things first. Arran wasn’t sure how quickly Pippia would come round; it was always hard to tell. Some people would stay unconscious for hours, and some only a few minutes. Time was of the essence, and Arran knew that somebody would come looking for the lass sooner or later.

He gently laid her across the front of the saddle. It was going to be a bumpy ride for poor Pippia McTavie, but there was really nothing he could do about that. Arran untied Edward, swiftly mounted his horse, and they were off.