Page 8 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

3

The Feast

Pippia gave a hiss of pain. “Not so tight, Hilda!”

Hilda clucked disapprovingly. “You’ve only yourself to blame, lass. You’re putting on flesh.”

“I am not!” Pippia shot back, vaguely outraged. “Gordon says it’s muscle, and there’s nothing wrong with a little more flesh.”

“Well, I’m lacing up your bodice, and I beg to differ. I can scarcely get your bosoms in there. Don’t breathe too deeply, or it’ll all come popping open.”

Pippia had to chuckle at that idea. She knew that she had a fuller figure than most of the other women she saw in their castle, but that was likely just because she had more food to eat. She was fairly sure that Hilda’s round shape came from stealing food from the kitchens since the maids and serving girls never got a taste of the famous McTavie banquets. When Pippia was a child, she used to stuff food from the table into her apron, and then she would take it to children outside the estate.

That was, until Laird Malcolm McTavie found out and angrily made it clear that he had no wish to see his daughter feeding the dirty poor with her own hands. There were servants for that kind of thing.

“There. Done,” Hilda said, with a hint of pride in her voice. “Take a look at yourself in the glass.”

Pippia twirled experimentally in front of the looking glass that she scarcely used. Hilda had chosen well. Her dress, made less than a year ago by Hilda’s expert seamstress skills, was deep green and traditionally shaped. It had long sleeves, and bunches of Pippia’s snowy white blouse peeped out at the elbows and neckline. She wore a half-skirt of the McTavie tartan draped over her skirt and fastened around her waist.

Her fair hair had been brushed out, and since it would not curl properly, Hilda had twisted and braided it back into a neat little knot at the base of her neck, with thin strands strategically pulled out to dangle around her face and ears. As a final touch, Hilda had added a carved wooden comb to the knot, shaped like a flower.

All in all, Pippia admitted that she looked very well. Hilda had made the dress to hug Pippia’s generous curves, and while it was tight, it certainly fitted perfectly.

“Thank you, Hilda.”

Hilda gave a nod and a rare smile. She loved dressing up her young charge, but Pippia had always preferred rolling in the mud, running, and fighting to find clothes and new hairstyles. Pippia privately pitied Hilda, who had never had her own children and was saddled with Pippia and her rebellious ways instead of the sweet, fashionable daughter she craved.

Nevertheless, Hilda smiled and put up with Pippia’s strange ways. It made sweet moments like these even more memorable. The smile faded off both of their faces when they heard a commotion from the courtyard.

“That’ll be them,” Pippia said, trying to ignore the sudden frisson of nerves.

Weren’t young women supposed to happily welcome home their fathers, not dread their returns? Pippia was already cataloging everything she’d done in his absence that her father would disapprove of, wondering whether he was likely to find out and how angry he would be.

Almost without exception, the answer was very, very angry. Most of the servants were inclined to cover up their mistress’s foibles, but there was still a chance that Pippia’s activities would find their way to Malcolm McTavie’s ears.

“Off with you, then,” Hilda said briskly, not quite managing to disguise the worry in her eyes. “I’ll go and see that the banquet’s underway, and you’ll need to greet your father. Hurry, he’ll want you there before he arrives. You know what a shame it will be to him if you’re not there. Hurry! Run!”

Pippia hurried down the stone staircase, servants and soldiers respectfully stepping out of her way. It felt cumbersome and awkward to wear a dress after such a long time. Her long, heavy skirts seemed to be conspiring to trip her up, to send her tumbling headlong down the unforgiving steps in front of the entire household.

She reached the bottom of the stairs unscathed, with only a few wobbles and near misses. The door to the courtyard was flung open, letting in cold air and damp mist. Pippia hurried toward it, her steps echoing on the well-worn stone flags.

She was just in time.

Pippia had just taken her place among the waiting men and women, still out of breath from her mad dash from her room, when the gates began to crank open. A cheer rose from the assembled crowd, with cries, of, “They’re coming!” The cheering drowned out the sound of hoofbeats until the riders were right at the door.

Then the courtyard was full of steaming, whinnying horses and muddy, grim-faced riders. The cheering wavered and continued, a little more subdued now. Pippia was sure that she couldn’t be the only one to notice that there were far fewer here now than had left. This did not bode well.

Some men were visibly injured, almost toppling off their horses into the arms of their fellows. Most of the men wore dirty and blood-soaked bandages. Pippia heard muffled sobs and murmurs from people in the crowd who did not see the father, brother, son, or husband they had looked for among the surviving warriors.

A cart was dragged along at the very rear of the group, with dead and dying men heaped upon it. Those who did not see their men among the riders rushed toward the cart containing the injured as one last, desperate hope.

At the head of the group, Malcolm McTavie dismounted from his huge black horse, which steamed and chomped at its bit. Its monstrous hooves, caked with mud, pawed the ground, and Pippia noticed numerous cuts and injuries on the horse’s legs and flanks. Malcolm glanced around, and his eyes fell on Pippia. She hastily put a welcoming smile on her face. His expression did not change, but he walked toward her.

Pippia straightened her back and prepared to do her duty. They were being watched, with most of the warriors and spectators staring as their laird and his pretty daughter greeted each other.

Malcolm McTavie was a huge man, tall and broad, and only the biggest and strongest of horses could carry him. Pippia had likely inherited his talent with weapons, but in all other respects, the two could not have been more different. Malcolm’s deep brown hair had faded to an iron-grey with time, but his brown eyes still sparkled with intelligence and ruthlessness, almost hidden by bushy black brows and a thick beard.

Pippia’s long, fair hair, blue eyes, and heart-shaped face were all her mother’s, and she privately thought that her father resented her for that. She could not remember what her mother looked like, and there were no pictures or paintings. However, plenty of people had known both women and commented on the resemblance between mother and daughter, both in looks and temperament.