Page 31 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

A Long Way to Go

Arran began to feel that tying their wrists together might have been a bad idea. Of course, it had stopped her from slinking off in the night or at any moment when his back was turned, but it was certainly causing a few problems. It was likely to cause a few more, too. Arran was carefully not thinking about what he would do when they needed to make water.

Even a simple task like mounting a horse—even a staid, placid one like Edward—was an ordeal when two people had their wrists bound together. They had to have several practice mounts, with the two of them trying to figure out who should climb the horse first and where they should sit. If they weren’t careful, Arran would end up unable to use one hand, which would make riding a horse almost impossible.

Arran kept imagining scenarios in which they toppled from Edward’s back, and one or both of them were killed or seriously injured. If he died, the pampered Lady Pippia would likely never make it home alive.

He had to keep her safe. He owed her that, at least.

In the end, Arran climbed onto the horse’s back first, one wrist still awkwardly anchored to Pippia’s. He hauled her up after him, like a heavy sack of potatoes, and deposited her on the saddle in front of him. She wriggled, trying to adjust her legs across the horse’s back, and Arran froze.

He certainly hoped she wouldn’t be wriggling and shifting around like that during their journey. Pippia and her clan were supposed to be his enemies, but Arran’s treacherous body didn’t seem to realize that.

“Ready?” he asked, and Pippia huffed.

“I suppose.”

Arran clapped his heels against the horse’s flank, and Edward began trotting forward at a less than thrilling pace. Arran groaned inwardly. At this rate, they wouldn’t make it back to Stewart before the end of the year.

He hadn’t the heart to spur Edward on much faster. They had a long way to go, and he was a thin, old horse. They would get there when they got there.

Still, Arran found himself worrying about food and other concerns. It was almost impossible to hunt while shackled to another person. He glanced down at Pippia, trying to work out whether she would be the kind of lass to get squeamish over a killed rabbit. She’d eaten the meat happily enough last night, but that signified nothing.

Either way, they only had enough food left for one meal, possibly two if he skimped on their rations.

They trotted on for a few miles in silence. It was a long, awkward silence, with Arran very aware of the fact he had a bonny lass in his arms, warm and smelling of pinesap and wet soil, no doubt from their night spent on the forest floor. He wished he could have put her on the back of his saddle, but that simply wouldn’t have been practical, with their hands tied together like this.

He could untie them while they rode the horse, but Arran wouldn’t put it past her to slip off the back of the horse while he was distracted and disappear into the forest before he could climb down himself. If he lost her in this forest, he would never find her again. She’d likely die, but there was a noticeable difference between a lass lost and dead in a forest and a lass held for ransom in a laird’s castle.

For the first mile, Pippia sat stiffly, back ramrod straight, as if she was trying to ignore the fact that Arran had his arms around her. Unsurprisingly, the journey quickly got the better of her. Gradually, maybe not even consciously, Pippia abandoned her pride and began to sag back against Arran’s chest.

After they’d traveled about two miles, Pippia was leaning back, her full weight resting against Arran’s chest.

To distract himself, Arran broke the silence first.

“Do you ride? Horses, I mean.”

Pippia shot him a glance over her shoulder. “What else could you mean? Yes, I ride a little. My father insisted on me learning when I was a young lass but then wouldn’t let me ride much as I got older. Lasses need to learn to cook and sew and keep house, he said.”

Arran didn’t miss the contemptuous tone in Pippia’s voice. For the first time, he wondered whether McTavie and his daughter were not on good terms. Did it have something to do with Pippia’s betrothal?

Arran was about to ask as much—at this point, he couldn’t make her dislike him any less—when he felt a light touch along one of his forearms.

He flinched, and the touch stopped immediately. Arran took his eyes off the narrow forest track ahead of them to look incredulously down at the young woman in his lap. Had Pippia been stroking one of his scars?

“Sorry,” Pippia said. It was hard to tell from this angle, but Arran was sure that her cheeks were red with embarrassment. “That one looks recent.”

Arran knew immediately that she was talking about the scar he’d received from a skirmish a month ago. It had healed well enough but hadn’t yet faded into the dull white of his other scars.

“It’s healed,” Arran said, for want of anything else to say. A scar was a scar, a memento of a time he could have died but didn’t. So long as it healed, why complain over it? They were signs that he was strong, that his body was healthy. He was a survivor.

Pippia nodded. “I can see that it’s healed, but it must have been a terrible wound. What happened? It must have hurt unbearably.”

“Not as much as the others. I got that one from…” Arran paused. How had he gotten that scar? He remembered the skirmish, remembered a dirk flashing through the air, catching the light. It was wielded by some faceless man wearing McTavie tartan. Arran’s arm had automatically moved to shield his face, and the blow had glanced off his forearm. He’d brought his sword arm into play and had neatly and effortlessly taken out his would-be murderer.

Arran furrowed his brow. He’d killed the man, whoever he was, and couldn’t even remember his face. That seemed…wrong, somehow.

Pippia twisted to look up at him.