Page 43 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

With that, she swept out, leaving a scent of perfume behind her. The delicate smell quickly faded, and the dirty smell of the inn took its place, all ingrained dirt, stale beer, and sweaty bodies.

Arran stared into his empty flagon, swilling around the dregs. The disgusting taste still lingered. He’d never liked ale, but it was cheaper than more expensive spirits.

He had been foolish. Politics and statesmanship had never been Arran’s skill, and he often couldn’t tell when somebody was lying to his face. How often had Laird Stewart lied to him or Sierra? He was a warrior, and battle was plain and simple. Lying had no place in combat. You couldn’t lie in combat.

Arran went to rub his hand over his face and was startled when the piece of fabric wrapped around his hand caught in a splinter on the table, preventing him from raising it. He paused and began to gently unwrap the bandage.

It was the one Pippia had applied several days ago. Of course, it felt like a lifetime ago. There were places where the green paste she’d added to fight off infection had colored his skin a tinge of green, but Arran knew from experience that would come off when he had a good wash.

He inspected the wound. It was clean, straight, and not too deep. The cut was already knitting together, and there was no hint of infection. She had done well. Arran’s mind replayed the image of Pippia leaning over his injury, fussing with the bandage and the green paste she’d made, to stave off infection from a stranger’s wound.

He remembered the way she’d hungrily bit into the rabbit meat he’d cooked for her on their first night together, with none of the grace and dignity that ladies were supposed to have, just plain and simple hunger. Arran smiled to himself.

He remembered hauling her back from the water’s edge and seeing the water droplets hang from her eyelashes, plastering a few strands of her fair hair to her face. He remembered her surprise and relief and the flush that had spread across her face when she realized that she was pulled close to Arran’s body.

He remembered the feel of her body beneath his hands, hot and heaving breaths that could have come from either one of them, or perhaps both, and the breathy gasps she’d let out when he kissed the side of her neck.

He remembered the expression on Pippia’s face when Jimmy and Laird Stewart dragged her up the stairs and into the castle and the nasty bang the door had made as it closed behind them. Arran stood abruptly, knocking over his chair with a crash. The innkeeper came scurrying into the room.

He paused when he saw Arran on his feet and eyed him warily.

“More ale, sir?”

“What?” Arran asked blankly. He saw confusion on the poor man’s face, obviously trying to work out if Arran was already drunk.

“Do…do you want more ale?”

“Oh. No, I don’t.” Arran strode out of the inn, leaving the nervous innkeeper to pick over the coins that Sierra had left on the table.

Edward was tied up outside the inn, a stone’s throw from the castle. Arran passed a hand over the horse’s flank and prayed that the poor creature wasn’t too tired. They were going to have to run, and quickly.

Arran ran up the steps to the castle, heading straight toward the heavy wooden doors. The guards barely gave him a second glance. It was only Arran, after all.