Page 37 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

No Sleep Tonight

Arran had never known that a simple touch could burn like this. What was she thinking of, fondling his arms like this? Why did he care? He bit his lip, trying to turn his thoughts to more seemly things.

He had promised Pippia that no harm would come to her in his care. He had meant it. He’d also promised Stewart that he would bring the girl to him.

“Aye, well, it could have been worse,” Arran managed. He was deeply regretting pulling Pippia this close to himself. What had he been thinking? Why should he care if she passed a bad night’s sleep?

Deep down, however, Arran knew the truth. He cared for the lass. He wanted her to be warm, safe, comfortable. More than that, he wanted to have her in his arms again.

Pippia’s soft, warm hand closed around Arran’s wrist. She wasn’t gripping or holding him tightly. Her fingers moved over his skin, the pads of her fingers brushing the calloused skin over his scars.

Arran could take no more. He wrenched his hand away from her and gripped her wrist in turn, holding her wandering hands away from him.

“That’s enough,” Arran rasped. “Go to sleep.”

“What’s the matter?” Pippia twisted to look up at him. She was so beautiful in the firelight, the flickering glow illuminating the contours of her heart-shaped face, touching her hair and making it gleam like fire itself. “Why are you angry?”

“I’m not angry.”

“Arran, I’m just trying to tell you that I’m sorry this has happened to you.”

“I don’t need your pity!”

Pippia flinched at his harsh tone but did not move. “Do you think you would have become one of the Stewart warriors if it hadn’t been for—”

“Enough, Pippia. Please. I’ve asked you to stop.”

Far from stopping, Pippia twisted around even further.

What in heaven’s name is the lass doing? Arran thought despairingly. They were face-to-face now, with barely a few inches of space between their faces. The tree trunk was hard and unyielding behind his back, and Pippia was in front of him, crowding him in.

“Have you ever told anyone about what you went through?” Pippia was insisting.

Arran stared at her. “Why would I? Believe me, I’m not special. Tell me, who would care?”

“I would. I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Do you think I haven’t endured my fair share of hardships?”

Arran laughed aloud at that one. “Forgive me, lass, but yes, I do think that. There’s no shame in enjoying an easy life.”

“I was about to be married to a stranger, with my own father ignoring my wishes. He knew I didn’t want to marry him, and he didn’t care!” Pippia burst out. “I was moved around like a piece in a game, and I can’t stand it. Could you stand it?”

Arran shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he repeated.

“Tell me, then. Just—”

It was too much. Arran couldn’t take it, having Pippia stare at him so yearningly, as if she wanted so badly to understand him, to soothe away his wounds until they scabbed over and stopped hurting like the scars that littered his body.

But she couldn’t. No one could. He was a fool for ever believing that they could.

Fool, certainly, because Arran lunged forward, cupping the back of Pippia’s head and pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that was more desperate than finesse.

Arran wasn’t sure what made him make such a terrible decision. There was, really, no way that this could end well.

He had expected a cry of alarm, for Pippia to scramble backward in shock and anger and possibly to deliver a stinging slap across his face, which would be well deserved.