Page 5 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

Pippia shook her head, sighing. Gordon was unusual, and his training methods were somewhat confusing. Still, he hadn’t steered her wrong so far. If we wanted her to throw a knife while blindfolded, then very well. She trusted him. She would try.

Pippia turned the knife over and over in her hand, drawing in deep, calming breaths the way she’d been taught. She smoothed the wooden handle with the pad of her thumb, feeling the carved patterns. Pippia had carved into the handle herself as a child, using the tip of a blunt paring knife taken from the kitchens. Over the years, her wobbly, lopsided drawings of flowers and dormice had turned into something more elaborate and polished.

This knife handle contained one of her earlier carvings. It was supposed to be a rabbit, but it certainly didn’t look like one. It might, at best, resemble a particularly fat, ugly cat.

Pippia lifted the knife to the height of her ear, hoping against hope that she was facing in the right direction. She could see nothing through the burlap blindfold except a few vague shapes and the play of light.

“Don’t blame me if this goes in your foot,” Pippia commented and heard Gordon chuckle under his breath.

She let the knife go in a smooth overarm throw and heard the dull thump of something sharp and fast-moving hitting something large, heavy, and still. Beside her, Gordon sucked in a breath.

“Did I hit anything? Was I close?”

“Have a look and see.”

Pippia tentatively pushed up the blindfold. Gordon sounded too calm for the knife to have done any kind of damage. She expected to see the knife sticking out of the ground, or perhaps to have hit the tree trunk.

To her amazement, Pippia saw the target swinging again, the knife sticking out near the edge. The second knife had landed barely six inches away from the first knife.

“I hit it,” Pippia said, astounded. “I really hit it!”

“Yes, you did.” Gordon had a strange expression on his face that could have been a twisted, proud smile. “Let’s hope it’s not beginner’s luck. Try again.”

Much more eagerly this time, Pippia pulled her blindfold back into place and fumbled at her belt for another knife.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Pippia flinched, dropping her knife onto the soggy earth with a muted plop. She didn’t need to see Gordon to know that he was startled, too.

“Hilda, my sweet, what are you doing out here?” Gordon spoke, sounding softer and a little conciliating.

Pippia tugged off the blindfold, blinking in the weak sunlight. She felt irrationally guilty, but that was just the overall effect Hilda had on a person.

The lady herself came puffing down the steep, slippery hillside, looking red-faced and more than a little annoyed.

“There you are, Pippia! What… Gordon, are you teaching her to throw knives again?” Hilda turned accusingly to her husband, who blushed, to Pippia’s endless amusement.

“It’s good practice,” Gordon answered defensively. “Besides, she’s a dab hand at it.” He gestured to the swinging target with the two knives sticking out from it, along with numerous nicks and holes from previously successful throws.

Hilda did not seem impressed. She glowered up at them both.

“Well, your father will be home within the hour. He’ll want to see Gordy, and he’ll want to see you. Oh, and look at the state of you!”

Pippia lifted her chin, swinging her long, fair plait over her shoulder. “These clothes are practical.”

“Aye, if you’re a grubby stableboy who only has a bath once a year. Ye gods, girl, you stink of horse.”

“That’ll be the horses.”

‘Don’t get pert with me, lass. We’ve got to go back right away. It’ll take the full hour to get you washed and dressed and reasonably presentable, and that’s if we hurry. Let Gordon tidy up all this nonsense.” Hilda gestured vaguely at the “nonsense,” including the weapons strewn on the ground and the two horses tied up near a tree after the early morning ride, far away from the knife-throwing practice. “Let’s pray that the laird doesn’t get home early and find that you are not here.”

Pippia paled a little at that. Her father expected his women—his daughter, and at one time, his wife—to be prepared and ready for him to come and go as he pleased. She often thought that he expected them to sit around the house, waiting with bated breath for him to return. Laird McTavie did not like to be contradicted, and he viewed anything that did not turn out as he imagined it as some kind of contradiction and a personal affront to his own manhood.

She remembered her father roaring in thunderous anger through the house because he had arrived at a late hour to find no feast ready and his wife and half of the servants asleep in bed.

Hilda seemed to understand some of Pippia’s unpleasant thoughts. She laid a small hand on Pippia’s arm, lowering her voice gently.

“Best to humor him, lovie. Don’t give him a sword to run you through with. We’ve had no note to tell us to prepare a celebration feast, so expect the worst.”

Pippia nodded, and the two began to hurry back toward the house, leaving Gordon behind. For such a short, tubby woman, Hilda could walk fast, and Pippia found herself scurrying after her, with no breath left to talk.

That was probably just as well. With the prospect of Laird McTavie seeing her, the comfortable, well-worn breeches and tunic were beginning to chafe. They suddenly felt too tight, too grimy, and just wrong. Pippia shivered. Her father hated to see his daughter wear breeches, and indeed Pippia had learned never to wear men’s clothes in her father’s sight, or even to refer to wearing men’s clothes in her father’s hearing, and to make sure nobody would tell him, either.

If he caught her dressed like this, or heard of the riding and knife-throwing practice, there would be hell to pay.

McTavie had very firm ideas of what women should and should not do, and heaven help any woman in his household who did not follow his ideals.

Almost unconsciously, Pippia quickened her pace.