Page 39 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

Arrival

For once, the rising sun brought no relief to Pippia. Arran woke her with a gentle shake to her shoulder and turned away as soon as she opened her eyes.

“Get up,” Arran said gruffly. “Today is our last day of travel. Hurry up.”

Pippia stared up at him, feeling the loose bindings around her wrist, and realized that he had untied her before he woke her.

“We’re…we’re almost there?” Pippia ventured, and Arran nodded.

“Hurry,” he repeated.

They rode in the same position as before, with Pippia perched on the front of the saddle, with Arran’s arms around her. It felt like a cruel mockery of their intimacy before. Pippia pressed her lips together and tried to fight back tears.

Their kiss last night had been beyond wonderful. To be pressed against Arran like that, to feel his strong arms around her, had been like nothing Pippia had ever experienced. The gentle, experienced press of his lips was indescribable, and she still shivered at the memory of his stubble scraping against her neck.

What had gone wrong? Had she said something, done something? Pippia had no experience in these matters. She had certainly never kissed anyone else, never lain in somebody’s arms the way she did with Arran. Perhaps she’d made some mistake.

But what mistake could cause Arran to turn away from her like that? Why did he have to be so harsh?

Pippia simply didn’t have an answer.

They came to a river next, and Arran carefully rode Edward across a shallow part. The water came almost to the horse’s withers, and Pippia was forced to cling to the saddle. She found herself staring at Arran’s bare arms, sleeves pushed back away from the water, revealing more scars.

Pippia had no inclination to touch his scars again. She was fairly sure that she would be pushed roughly away if she tried.

The scenery on the other side of the river was noticeably different from what Pippia was used to. She had presumed that there was no real difference between McTavie and Stewart land, but Stewart land seemed to be more barren, with fewer trees and less greenery. Of course, that could be her imagination.

Pippia thought not, though.

“Are you tired?” Arran spoke for the first time that long, long day. “We can stop for a break if you’re tired. There’ll be no time to rest once we get there.”

Was it Pippia’s imagination again, or was there a hint of finality in Arran’s voice? Some kind of worry, some kind of guilt? She was tempted to twist and look up at him, to see his expression, but she didn’t feel entitled to do such a thing anymore.

“I’m not tired,” Pippia answered. “I’d rather just get there and get it over with.”

Arran nodded and said no more. Edward clopped onward, now following a roughly hewn road and leaving the forest behind.

They were coming to the hills now, barren of trees and greenery. The grass was scrubby, hard-wearing stuff, with flashes of colored heather in places. The landscape looked hard and unforgiving, a far cry from the forests and undergrowth that Pippia was used to. It seemed to be colder, too, with a chill wind blowing unimpeded across the fields.

“There’s the castle,” Arran said abruptly, and somewhat unnecessarily.

Pippia racked her brains for the name of Laird James Stewart’s castle. What was it…Donough Castle? It looked like a fortress, even more so than the castle back home. It looked like the kind of building that was freezing cold, even in summer. It had been built with dark stone and loomed on the horizon like some kind of sorcerer’s castle.

Pippia shivered and felt Arran’s arms tighten briefly around her.

“It’s not so bad inside,” he murmured, but Pippia could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

They passed through a little village before they reached the castle. People milled around, but nobody bothered to spare them more than a brief glance. If Pippia had been unsure of how well-known Arran’s mission had been, this was her answer. Nobody knew who she was and what she was doing here. Perhaps it was safer that way. Could Stewart men and women be trusted not to turn on their enemy’s daughter and possibly drag her from her horse and beat her to death?

Arran turned the horse toward the front of the castle. Guards watched him pass curiously but made no move to stop him. There were one or two whistles and lecherous comments aimed at Pippia, but the men quickly wilted when Arran turned his glare upon them.

There were stone steps leading up into the castle, tall, steep, and forbidding. Pippia found herself wondering if the castle’s owner had added all of those steps simply to inconvenience visitors to the castle and to leave them feeling tired and out of breath.

A man stood at the bottom of the steps, arms folded, staring at her. Behind him, a small, round-faced man in a Stewart tartan stood silently. Behind her, Arran sucked in a breath.

“Curse it, that’s Jimmy. He’s the laird’s steward, and he can’t be trusted. He hates me,” Arran added under his breath. “There’s no helping it, though.”

Pippia was hardly listening. She was staring at the man with folded arms. Laird James Stewart. Her grandfather’s enemy, her father’s enemy, and her enemy. He was staring back at her, too, a small smile on his fox-like face.