Page 9 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

This was not the case with Pippia and Malcolm. If one did not know that they were father and daughter, one could never have guessed it.

“Pippia, I’m glad to see you here.”

“I’m glad to see you too, Father. You’re hurt?” she said, making it sound like a question, and gestured at the bloody bandage wrapped around her father’s upper arm. Malcolm barely glanced at it.

“It’s nothing. Is there food ready, and plenty of ale and wine? We’ve had a hard fight and a long ride, and these good men are nearly starving to death!” He raised his voice for the last part so that his warriors could hear, and a cheer went up from the soldiers. “We may not have won this little tussle with the fox Stewart, but that makes no odds. I am not afraid for our clan, and nor should any of you!”

That part was certainly for the assembled people. There was another cheer, and Pippia waited for the din to die down before she spoke.

“Yes, the banquet is all prepared. I’m sure you’re all hungry,” Pippia said, aware that all of the men were listening eagerly to what she had to say.

Thank heavens Hilda had had the foresight to help her prepare a feast.

“Good,” Malcolm said, giving her a brief nod, and turned to lead the way into the hall without another word to his daughter.

Pippia followed, with the crowd leaving a respectful distance around her, jostling each other instead of their laird’s daughter.

She hadn’t expected much more from her father. Thanks would have been nice, but Malcolm McTavie wasn’t in the habit of giving thanks for what he considered his due. His food, his home, his daughter. Nothing had been done that he had not deserved, and he expected no less. She was his, just like his wife had been, just as his castle and his weapons were his. Malcolm McTavie was not in the habit of thanking anyone for what was his already.

Hilda had assured Pippia that the irritation at this kind of treatment would fade over time, but so far, she was wrong.

Malcolm talked and laughed with his warriors, their voices booming around the cavernous hallway, almost as if they hadn’t suffered a defeat at all.

Pippia knew, without having to ask, that the skirmish had gone badly. Laird Stewart had won. They’d lost good warriors; Pippia noticed that more than one man she’d known for years was missing. There weren’t men to replace them. The remaining men in the villages were thin and poor and would need extensive training before they could even be used in battle, let alone replace seasoned warriors.

Stewart, on the other hand, was said to hire mercenaries. He was a rich man, and money could buy an army. Not loyalty, perhaps, unless one’s opponent was poor. Then there was no danger of your mercenaries receiving a higher price elsewhere.

Freshly widowed women and newly-made orphans were hustled out of the feasting hall to grieve quietly somewhere else, and the group sat down to the feast. Nobody bothered to wash, and the place quickly began to stink of unwashed bodies, sweat, and horses.

Pippia took up her place beside her father, who sat at the head of the table. She was the only woman there, except for the serving girls.

It was going to be a long evening. Although, Pippia thought, eyeing the way the men attacked the meat and bread, perhaps we’ll run out of food, and they’ll get tired and leave.

Maybe. But they likely wouldn’t run out of ale and wine anytime soon. Pippia picked at her own plate of food, but the greasy, overcooked meat and dry bread turned her stomach.

She eyed her father, who was chewing busily at a leg of something or other (was it goose?), and wondered if she dared ask him what had happened during the skirmish. Malcolm glanced up and caught her eye, and Pippia hastily redirected her gaze to her plate.

No, she decided. She did not have the courage.

“Alasdair fought well,” Malcolm said bluntly, much to Pippia’s surprise. Her father nodded toward a warrior sitting opposite.

The man must have been a few years younger than Malcolm himself, perhaps five or ten years younger. He had red hair, thinning at the sides, and his nose had been broken and twisted so many times Pippia found herself wondering how on earth he managed to sneeze. He had a stringy red beard and scars littered almost every inch of exposed skin. He hadn’t bothered to wash either, and Pippia could smell him from across the table.

He was a large man, like Malcolm, and was absently tearing his food to pieces in his hands, getting grease on his hands and crumbs on the already-dirty tabletop.

“Well done,” Pippia managed. Malcolm was still looking at her as if expecting something else.

“He’s asked for your hand in marriage,” Malcolm said, after a short pause.

A cold chill went down Pippia’s spine as if someone was trickling icy water down the back of her dress. She knew Alasdair by sight, and he spent a lot of time staring thoughtfully at her. At the time, Pippia had thought he was simply ogling her, the way he ogled every pretty girl he saw. Now, she began to suspect that he’d had higher ambitions in mind than imagining getting her into bed.

Marrying Pippia would put a man in place as Malcolm’s heir. A woman couldn’t possibly lead a clan, after all, so Pippia’s husband would have that privilege. That was quite a dowry.

“What?” she managed. “Why?”

Malcolm took his time in responding, leisurely chewing a mouthful of bread. “He fought well, better than ten men. Afterwards, he approached me and asked for your hand. He deserved it, and he’ll make a good clan leader after me. I agreed.”

Pippia tried to think of something to say, something that respectfully acknowledged her father and did not offend Alasdair while making it clear that Pippia would not and could not marry him.