Page 45 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

Before Pippia could reply, they heard footsteps again. Pippia would have frozen, but Arran was clearly more familiar with the layout of the castle and tugged her sideways into a little alcove. There was a hard wooden seat next to a large window, with a velvet curtain half-shielding the alcove.

Arran made no move to pull the curtain all the way across, crowding Pippia into the secluded part of the alcove instead. That was clever; if anyone glanced at the alcove as they passed by, it would look visibly empty.

Unfortunately, it meant that Arran and Pippia were pushed close together, uncomfortably close. Pippia found herself pressed up against the wall again, with Arran inches away from her. He had his head turned, ears pricked up for sounds that the danger was passing.

“Why are you doing this?” Pippia whispered. “Why are you helping me?”

He didn’t answer for a moment, chewing his lip instead. “Because they’re going to kill you.”

“You didn’t know that before? For shame, Arran. Didn’t I keep telling you?”

“I… I think I knew. I think some part of me understood, but I just pretended that things were different.” Arran turned to look down at her, eyes wide and pleading. “Don’t you do that sometimes?”

“Yes,” Pippia admitted. “I do. So, what changed?”

“We should go. Come on.”

“No!” Pippia grabbed at Arran’s wrist, pulling him back into the alcove. “Not so fast. Tell me, please. What changed?”

She was still gripping his wrist, and Pippia felt the raised curve of a scar underneath her fingertips.

Arran squeezed his eyes closed. “Because I care about you, alright? I care about you, and I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.”

A lump appeared in Pippia’s throat, and she struggled to find something to say. Arran tugged her out of the alcove, and the two ran wordlessly down the corridors together.

“Only a little further,” Arran whispered. “There’s a side door just a little further along; we can slip out there.”

As he spoke, they rounded the corner and found themselves face-to-face with three very surprised-looking guards. The leading guard, a sharp-faced bald man, immediately grasped the situation.

“Stop them!” he bellowed. “The lass is escaping!”

If the guards weren’t sure who “the lass” was, they didn’t show it. They drew their swords, long and impressive-looking claymores. There was plenty of room in the hallway for all three of them to rush Arran at once, weapons drawn and ready for blood.

Arran swore, pushing Pippia behind him. He swung his broadsword, easily ducking under the first man’s powerful swing. Pippia watched as he kicked one man’s feet out from underneath him, dealing a fatal blow across the man’s stomach. He toppled, but there were still another two men.

Arran crossed swords with the second man, the two of them grunting and snarling at each other and pushing with all their might. Arran was the stronger, shoving the man away and neatly decapitating him with one swing. Pippia resolutely did not watch the dead man’s head bounce away down the hallway.

That left only the bald man, who was deceptively quick for such a large person. Arran was tired, and it was dark, and the bald man slipped under Arran’s guard, kicking at his legs. Arran crumbled to the floor with a panicked gasp, and the bald man raised his sword, pointing down, for the killing blow.

Pippia never thought twice. She threw the dirk Arran had given her. It was not a knife designed for throwing; over a longer distance, that could have been a problem. However, over this distance, Pippia’s well-aimed knife went hurtling to its target, thudding through the bald man’s throat. His eyes widened in comical shock, and he dropped his claymore with a clang.

He collapsed to his feet, convulsing and choking, and Arran scrambled to his feet.

“Quick!” he breathed. “That’ll have attracted notice.”

“Your broadsword… My dirk!” Pippia gasped.

“There’s no time!”

Hand in hand, Arran and Pippia raced down the hallway together, leaving their bloody weapons on the floor of the castle.

They burst out of the small side door. The sun had set, but the moon was not out yet, and everything was pitch dark. Not too dark to hide the figure of a woman, standing in front of the silvery form of Edward, tossing his head curiously, tied to a post.

Arran came to a halt. “Sierra!” he gasped.

The woman, a tall, black-haired beauty with an enviable figure, eyed Pippia with mild curiosity. “So, this is the little princess.”

“I’m not a princess!” Pippia shot back immediately, and felt Arran squeeze her hand.

“We just want to go,” Arran said. “Sierra, please.”

Pippia glanced between the two of them. There was something going on here, and whatever it was, Pippia would certainly be bringing it up later. The woman—Sierra—stared at Arran for a long moment.

“Go,” she said finally. “Go. You’ve raised hell, and you may still be caught. Better ride hard. Can that spindly little horse carry you fast enough?”

“You’ll see,” Arran said, swinging himself onto the saddle and hauling Pippia after him. “This will be Edward’s grand moment.”

“Edward?” Sierra repeated, wrinkling her nose. “Who calls a horse Edward?”

There was no time for answers or questions. Behind them, the castle was lit up by candles and torchlight. Pippia had a sudden, wild vision of the castle as some monstrous face and the lit windows as baleful eyes glaring down at them. In that case, the huge doors and endless stone steps would be a vast maw, opening up to swallow them alive. Pippia clutched at the front of Edward’s saddle with a cry.

Arran dug his heels into the horse’s side. Shocked and a little annoyed, Edward went hurtling forward into the darkness.

Pippia twisted to look back over her shoulders. She caught a glimpse of Laird Stewart himself, flanked by Jimmy running down the stairs to the castle, a moment too late. Sierra stood, watching after them, and Pippia could have sworn that she was smiling.