Page 27 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

Scars

Pippia groggily opened her eyes. It took a long moment for her to remember where she was and what had happened. She shifted, feeling cold, wet leaves under her cheeks. She breathed in, and the scent of soggy earth and wet undergrowth filled her senses. Her body was stiff in a way that indicated that she had spent too long in one position, an awkward position.

Her head was pounding, but Pippia realized numbly that she wasn’t as cold as she should have been. There was a fire nearby, still blazing, melting away the frost which had gathered during the night.

Pippia shifted and felt the weight of a man’s arm around her waist. Panic came flooding back, and she tried to wriggle away. The tug of her wrist, still bound to her captor’s, reminded Pippia that escape would not be so easy. Curse Arran and his attention to detail. No doubt he’d known that she would try and sneak away in the night.

Although considering that Pippia had slept soundly all night, perhaps he needn’t have worried.

Behind her, Arran stirred and mumbled in his sleep but did not wake. Pippia forced herself to stay silent.

Think, lass, think! she thought furiously. If I get away while he’s asleep, I might stand a chance of getting completely away.

When Arran’s breathing had settled again, Pippia risked a glance over her shoulder. In her sleep, she’d brought her arms around to curl at her chest, and Arran’s arm, wrist bound to hers, had followed. This left his arm slung over her waist, his hand brushing against hers. His chest brushed against Pippia’s back, and he radiated warmth. Sometime in the night, he must have draped his cloak over her, which was why the chill of the night hadn’t affected her.

She lay still, thinking. Picking at the knot was out of the question. Arran had carefully arranged the knot so that it was against the underside of his wrist. He’d pulled it up against his palm and closed his fist over it.

What was more, the knot looked complicated and unusual. No doubt Arran had a lifetime of complicated knots that nobody but he could untie. Pippia sighed.

Taking a deep breath, Pippia reached up and gently prodded at his closed fingers. Surely, now that he was asleep, his grip must have loosened?

No luck. Pippia cursed under her breath—a very interesting oath that she’d picked up from Gordon as a child—and tried again. She simply could not pry his fist open. If it wasn’t guaranteed to wake him, Pippia would have been tempted to apply her nails out of frustration.

She gave up, glancing back over her shoulder again to make sure he hadn’t woken. Arran had promised not to hurt her, but hadn’t her father made and broken a dozen promises before, all without batting an eye?

He’d promised her as a child that she could choose her own husband, for example. Pippia had no doubt that he would deny those words now, but she remembered them.

She surveyed Arran’s face. Even in sleep, there was a faint line between his thick, dark eyebrows. He had a few days’ growth of reddish-brown stubble on his cheeks, and his cropped hair was beginning to grow out a little, curls sticking out over his forehead.

Even lying side by side like this, he was so much larger than she was. Arran had broad shoulders and a barrel chest, and Pippia felt a sudden, irrational urge to huddle back into his strong chest and drift off back to sleep. He had the kind of body that came from long years of hard, heavy work, with muscles like iron bars.

He murmured in his sleep, something that sounded like a name, but one that Pippia couldn’t make out—something that began with the letter S. He pulled her a little closer to him so that Pippia’s back was now flush against his chest and his arm was tight around her waist.

Pippia froze, not wanting to move in case he tightened his grip. It wasn’t uncomfortable, and she didn’t feel as if she would be crushed, but there was certainly no wriggling out of this grip.

His arm was thick and muscular, bicep straining against the material of his shirt. For the first time, Pippia noticed white scars crisscrossing the corded muscles of his forearm, where his sleeve had ridden up.

Some of the scars were as long as Pippia’s hand, thick and raised, the skin around the scars puckered and calloused. There was a recent scar along his wrist, an inch or two long. This scar was pink, clearly only just healed. Pippia tentatively reached out a hand, running her fingertip along the ridged scar.

Pippia only had one scar on her body, an inch-long white mark behind her knee. She’d gotten it when out playing in the fields and had tried to climb over a fence. The wood was old and had splintered under her weight, and one splinter had cut into her leg.

Hilda had cleaned the wound and removed any trace of wood splinters, berating Pippia all the time for being so silly and careless. The injury had healed nicely but had left a permanent scar, a reminder of Pippia’s foolhardiness.

She still remembered the pain of the injury and the even worse pain of the cleaning afterward. She remembered that every wrong movement tugged at the sensitive, healing skin, and if she weren’t careful, the wound would reopen and drip blood down her calf. It hadn’t been a pleasant experience, and Pippia could hardly imagine what it must have felt like to receive some of these hideous-looking scars—and so many, too!

What kind of life had he led to end up covered in these kinds of injuries? What on earth did the rest of his body look like?

That thought sent a guilty jolt down Pippia’s spine, and she firmly reminded herself that she oughtn’t to be thinking of Arran’s body at all, and it was hardly any of her business. Somehow, that gentle, feather-light touch woke Arran, unlike all of Pippia’s earlier tossing and turning.

Arran propped himself up on one elbow and raised a hand to rub at his eyes, accidentally dragging Pippia’s hand along with it.

“Careful, you clumsy lout!” Pippia yelped, then flushed red. She really shouldn’t forget that this man was her captor. He was bigger than her, stronger than her, and had doubtless killed before. She should mind her manners.

Arran flinched, blinking down at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. He didn’t seem angry, only bemused and a little guilty.

“I apologize.”

He sat up, and Pippia followed him into a sitting position. She scrambled away as best she could, stretching her arm out where it was tied to Arran’s.