Page 6 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

2

What Isn’t Mine

Arran made his way through the maze of the servants’ quarters, heading to the tiny, cold box room he called his own.

He didn’t particularly enjoy berthing in Donough Castle. Aside from the fact that the servants’ halls barely had enough space for two people to pass each other and the endless, inescapable drafts, Arran knew well that he was never truly alone. The walls had ears and the keyholes had eyes, and one couldn’t whisper a word without at least one person hearing.

It wasn’t as if Arran’s room held wonderful luxuries to tempt him, anyway.

Taking the rusted old key out of his pocket, to which Arran suspected there were at least five duplicates in the castle, he unlocked his bedroom door and pushed inside.

Everything was just as he’d left it a week ago, the last time Arran had stayed in the castle, albeit with a new thin layer of dust. His narrow, straw-stuffed mattress bed sat underneath the room’s single window, high up in the wall and barred. There was a three-legged stool that would certainly not support Arran’s weight, a box with a few crumpled items of clothing and other everyday items, a cold fireplace with no firewood, and a chipped pewter bowl in the corner, with a dull and cracked mirror propped up beside it.

“Home sweet home,” Arran murmured, tossing his pack into the corner. There was an outraged squeak, implying that he had disturbed a sleeping mouse. The creature scuttled out of its hiding place, squatting on the floor and watching Arran make his preparations.

“Good to know they’ve kept up with the housekeeping while I’ve been away,” Arran muttered, not sure whether he was talking to himself or just addressing the mouse.

Kidnapping a woman. Just when he thought Stewart could not stoop any lower. Arran grabbed an extra cloak and spare shirt, which could be torn up to make bandages if need be. Mostly, however, he had everything that mattered currently on his person or in his pack. Arran did not leave his weapons lying around his room.

As he deliberated between his few possessions on what to take, Arran let his mind wander. It would not be the first time he had kidnapped a person of interest and brought him back to the Stewart estate. However, this would be the first time he had kidnapped an innocent woman. Well, as innocent as a McTavie could be.

He ought to ask Stewart to let him stay in a cottage somewhere outside the castle. He would still be under the laird’s thumb, of course, but at least he would not be in the man’s castle. If he caught Stewart in a good mood—after he’d delivered the daughter of his greatest enemy, for example—he may well be willing to grant Arran’s request.

Outside, the rain had started to fall. It was never a simple fall of rain there, of course. There was always a biting, icy wind behind the rain, and today it was driving the raindrops through the high, barred window, and cold drops fell onto Arran.

He cursed, trying in vain to get out of the way of the rain. He knew from experience that water and dampness would trickle down the wall next to his bed, seeping through the dirty blanket and into the straw mattress. More than once, Arran had woken in the night under a faint layer of frost and snow. The castle staff did not like him, eyeing him as warily as they did the rest of Stewart’s warriors.

Perhaps that was wise. Stewart did not bother to restrain his men. He made it clear that while a good, loyal fighting man was hard to find and sometimes difficult to keep, a new scullery maid or stableboy could be found anywhere and much more cheaply.

“This place is hell,” he muttered. “I’d love to see it sink into the sea, and good riddance. There’s not a soul here I’d miss.”

“Really? Not a soul? Oh, Arran, you wound me.” A sultry, feminine voice came from the door, which Arran was quite sure he had closed after him—and locked it, too.

“Sierra,” Arran said, feeling suddenly, crushingly tired. He was not ready for this. “You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Why not? It’s my castle, after all.”

“You know why. Someone will see you.”

“Let them see. Why should I care what any of them think?”

“Well, I daresay you care what Stewart thinks. After all, he’s your husband.”

Sierra blinked, a little disconcerted. She rallied and took a few slow, sashaying steps out of the darkness of the doorway, closing the door behind her. He would swear she’d practiced this entrance. Sierra never made a movement unless it made her look graceful and desirable. It was a talent and one she polished regularly.

Arran swallowed hard and looked away.

She looked mouthwatering and had all the confidence of a beautiful woman who knew she was beautiful. It would be impossible not to be confident if one looked like Sierra.

Sierra had discarded her fine dress for the kind of thing a peasant might wear, an outfit designed for practicality, with cheap, flimsy fabrics and dull colors. She wore a loose, wide-necked blouse, the sleeves dipping down over her wrists, and a soft bodice which laced at the front. The skirt, a green stuff affair, had real darns and stains on it, indicating that it belonged to a real servant girl.

Arran wondered whether one of the maids was sitting and shivering in her underthings somewhere, waiting for her lady to return with her dress. She would certainly be undressed since Sierra certainly wouldn’t allow a maid to wear one of her dresses, not even for a few moments. It wouldn’t occur to her to allow her maid to find something else to wear. Sierra wasn’t in the habit of considering her servant’s feelings. Or anyone’s feelings besides her own, really. Heaven help the poor maid if she was caught in her underthings.

It would depend on who caught her. The poor thing.

Sierra, naturally, would see the dress as nothing more than a plaything, to be worn and then discarded when she was tired of the game. She probably planned tonight’s excursion with the excitement of dressing up for a dance or great feast.

Doubtless, that was how Sierra had managed to sneak down into the servants’ halls without being noticed. It must have killed her to go without attention for those long, long minutes. She must have loved the secrecy of it all—dressing up and tiptoeing around, searching out the handsome warrior for a shocking intrigue.