Page 36 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

“Well, that’s not the first time I’ve done it.” Arran shifted a little, leaning further back against the tree. Pippia’s neck was cramping painfully on account of her strange position twisting around, and she was forced to turn around to face the fire again. She watched the dancing flames and listened to Arran’s voice rumbling behind her.

“I remember once when I was, oh, no more than sixteen, we were all training together. Do you remember the story I told you about Lachlan and his son, Edmund?”

Pippia shivered. “I remember.”

“Well, after his son died, Lachlan was monstrous towards us. I don’t know whether he felt guilt like he should have done, but I knew that he resented us all for living when his son was dead. I remember runs that lasted from before sunup until long after the moon was out, and we were all ready to drop dead from exhaustion. What was more, that was when he made us begin to train with real weapons.”

Pippia grew cold. “Your scars.”

“Aye, plenty of them were gotten during my training. It was almost a badge of honor. A boy without many scars was a boy that didn’t train hard enough. One day—well, it was a night, really—Lachlan had made us run all day, and then when the sun was setting, he made us stop and announced that we would do some combat exercises. Then he handed out dirks, all of them razor sharp. He’d sharpened them specially.”

Leaning back against Arran’s chest like this, Pippia could hear the man’s breath catch in his throat. She longed to twist around and put her arms around him, and that feeling shocked her.

“You got hurt?” Pippia whispered.

Arran gave a dry, mirthless chuckle. “There was one boy there…oh, I forget his name…and he liked having the opportunity to really hurt the others. He was big and strong, but he had no real skill. I was paired with him, and he couldn’t land a blow on me, even the underhanded ones that he tried. Lachlan called out for all the fighting pairs to separate, and I turned and walked away. The boy was full of rage, and he threw his dirk at me. It was a good throw, better than he usually managed. Someone called out to me, and I turned in time. I caught it, snatched it right out of the air.”

“Well done,” Pippia said, an odd feeling of pride blooming in her chest. “Your teacher must have been proud.”

“Hardly. Besides, I didn’t catch it right.” To make his point, Arran opened his hand, the one that wasn’t tied to Pippia’s, and revealed a long, white scar running from the center of his palm and to an inch or two down the underside of his wrist.

Pippia sucked in a breath. “That must have been bad.”

“Aye, it was. I almost cut my own wrists. I could have bled to death if the wound had been a little deeper. But it wasn’t, and I didn’t.” Arran sniffed. “Nobody ever threw a knife at me again. Until you, of course.”

Pippia forced a smile, but there was really nothing to smile about. Had this been his life? No love, no care, only vicious schoolmates and teachers who killed their own children? All backstabbing and violent?

“I’m sorry,” Pippia whispered, reaching out to trace a finger along the long, white scar on his palm. She felt Arran’s muscles stiffen at her touch.