Page 4 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

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Hitting the Target

“Take your time, lass. You’re always rushing. Less haste, more speed.”

“Don’t hassle me, Gordon.” Pippia closed one eye and then the other, squinting down the knife’s blade at the painted target hanging from a tree branch. Gordon had taught her to close her eyes like that to help judge distances during the aiming process but emphasized the importance of keeping both eyes open at the end.

Pippia let the knife fly. It spun through the air, thudding neatly in the rough red center of the target. Somebody had drawn the crude image of a man’s face on the flat wood. That was probably Hilda’s touch.

Of course, Hilda did not approve of her young charge learning to throw knives. Still, now was not the time for any McTavie to dispense with weapons training. Nice ladies who didn’t want to use knives and pikes could still find themselves impaled on them. Hilda might complain about her weapon-wielding charge, but she was also a practical woman who understood the dangerous times they were living in.

Hilda was the perfect image of a respectable Highland woman, with a host of mysterious herbal remedies at her fingertips and a varied mixture of old wives’ tales and solid wisdom. She was somewhere in her forties, a round-faced, round-bodied woman. She was the closest thing to a mother Pippia could imagine. From Pippia’s earliest memories, Hilda was the one who soothed her brow during fevers, applied salve to bruises and cuts, and told her remarkable folk stories at bedtime, stories that were not contained in any books. These days, Hilda wound Pippia’s beautiful hair in suitable hairstyles, chose appropriate dresses, and then insisted upon Pippia wearing them.

For a person who did not know the two, one would never imagine Hilda and Gordon would be willing to exchange a single word with each other, let alone that they had been married for the past twenty years.

Gordon did not have a respectable bone in his body; Pippia was sure of that. He was grey-haired already, making himself look older than he was, with a thick greyish beard and a very picturesque scar running across one eye, bisecting his eyebrow. One would presume that he was a man well versed in the arts of war. One would be right.

“A decent shot,” Gordon said, approvingly. “You’re doing well, lass.”

“I’ve got a good teacher,” Pippia acknowledged. She tilted her head, gazing at the target. It still swung lazily to and fro, with Pippia’s knife sticking out from its center. Would this really be anything like throwing a knife at a person? Surely there was a big difference between a flat piece of painted wood and a living, breathing bag of flesh and bone.

“There is a difference when it comes to the real thing,” Gordon spoke quietly as if sensing Pippia’s thoughts. “People move a lot more. But they’re not quite as hard as wood, you see.”

“It won’t come to that,” Pippia said, with more conviction than she felt.

Gordon gave her a look that was almost sympathetic. “Perhaps not. Now, I’ve another idea. Hold on for a while.”

Pippia took a moment to catch her breath while Gordon rummaged through his leather pouch, left carelessly abandoned under a tree.

It was a freezing day, and the weak sunlight barely did anything at all to warm Pippia’s exposed skin. She wore breeches and a long, grubby tunic, which she kept carefully hidden in a locked box under her bed in case one of the more nosy serving girls found it and reported the outfit to Laird McTavie.

At best, McTavie would presume that Pippia was doing just this—sneaking out to engage in unwomanly activities, like riding, sparring, and tossing knives about.

At worst, he might suspect she had a suitor, someone sneaking around and paying her visits. Pippia knew her father and the way his mind worked. He always expected betrayal, infidelity, and the worst possible outcome. She briefly envisioned the rage that would follow if McTavie believed that his only daughter had thrown away her virtue and shivered.

To distract herself, Pippia unplaited her hair, which was mostly fighting its way out of its braid anyway, and began to plait it again. She had fair hair, very long, reaching almost to her waist, as Hilda resolutely refused to allow Pippia to cut it. Quite frankly, Pippia’s hair got in the way, and she would have loved nothing better than to take a sharp dirk to it at the height of her shoulders.

“If ye’ve finished fussing with your hair,” Gordon remarked, “we can begin again.”

Pippia pulled the knot of string tightly around the end of her braid and picked up another knife. She was just about to take aim, getting into the stance Gordon had taught her when he gently lowered her arm.

“Just a moment. You’re missing something.”

Pippia mentally reviewed her stance, her grip, her focus. “What? What have I forgotten?”

“This.” Gordon reached across to tie a strip of thick burlap across Pippia’s eyes. The fabric was rough and scratchy and smelled a little suspicious. What was worse, of course, was that Pippia could no longer see.

“Gordon,” Pippia said, feeling rather as if she was stating the obvious, “I can’t see.”

“I know. Humor me.”

“But I can’t see the target.”

“No, but you know where it is.”

“But that isn’t…” Pippia tightened her grip on the smooth wood of the knife handle in her palm. “This is stupid, Gordon.”

“Aye, it is. Now off you go. Take your time. That target isn’t going anywhere.”