Page 50 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

The woman nodded as if she heard such things every day. “And where are ye from?”

Now that was a more dangerous question. The woman—Mary—blandly regarded them, waiting for an answer.

“We’re traveling north,” Arran finally said. “There’s no home for us in the South.”

“I see. Well, ye don’t sound like Lowlanders, neither of ye, so I’ll assume ye haven’t traveled far. Now, let’s go over the facts, shall we? Ye can’t say where ye came from, and ye don’t know where ye’re going. Ye plan to marry, but ye have no one to marry ye. I’d ask more questions, but I know I won’t get an answer.”

Pippia had the grace to blush. “We’ve…we’ve had a rather difficult time of it, you see.”

“Ye’d be surprised how often people come to us after having a difficult time of it. Now, are ye hungry?”

Pippia and Arran wanted to cry with relief.

“Starving,” Arran said. “We’ve not had hot food for…well, a long time.”

“Good. Sit ye down, and I’ll get ye a bowl each. Ye can stay with me tonight.” Mary unhurriedly ladled out three bowls of stew while Arran and Pippia sat nearby, practically salivating. She handed them a bowl each with a fist-sized piece of bread. “Eat up.”

They needed no more encouragement. They slurped happily, and Mary regarded them with an unreadable expression.

“Ye could at least tell me what ye’re running from,” she said, once her two guests had eased up on furiously eating the hot stew.

“Long story,” Arran managed, sopping up the last of the stew with his piece of bread. “D’ye know anywhere we could settle?”

“Hmm, depends. Do ye have a trade?”

“I’m a warrior.”

“Ah, we’ve no need for that here. Not yet, at least.”

“You’re lucky,” Pippia murmured.

“We are,” Mary agreed. “I could ask around and see if anyone will take ye on as an apprentice. Our blacksmith is getting old, and he could use a helping hand. There’s plenty of empty crofts to choose from. Ye could settle here if ye like.”

Pippia and Arran looked at each other.

“Well, why not?” Pippia said. “Here’s as good as anywhere.”

“Aye, you’re right. You’ve been very kind to us, Mary.”

Mary cracked a small smile. “Aye, well, kindness can be difficult to find in these parts. Pippia, ye can sleep with me in the bed tonight, and Arran can take the opposite corner. There’ll be no misbehavior in my home, is that understood?” she added severely.

They nodded obediently.

“Good.”

The next day, Pippia and Arran ate a breakfast of porridge, cooked by Mary, and set out to explore the village. In fact, Mary’s home was the first of many, nestling in a valley near to the loch. Loch Ness, they called it. A castle overlooked the village, smaller and less imposing than Stewart’s castle, or even McTavie’s keep.

The blacksmith’s home was not hard to find. They simply listened out for the clang of a hammer on steel and followed it.

The blacksmith himself had clearly once been a tall, broad man, imposing and strong. However, he was aging and was gradually shrinking into himself. He saw them coming and set aside his work and waited, hands on hips, for the couple to approach.

“I hear ye are wanting to be married,” the blacksmith spoke, without further ado.

“Aye, we are. How did you know?” Arran asked.

The blacksmith jerked his head to the side, and Mary stepped out of the shadows, a wry smile on her face.

“We thought we’d get the official business of the wedding out of the way,” Mary explained. “Then we can eat and dance later.”