Page 21 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

9

Falling Prey

Arran’s hands felt as if they were on fire. The flat of the knife would have burned the skin of his palms a little; he knew that from experience. However, these knives were clearly in good condition, very clean and sharp. The razor edge had just skimmed the inside of his palm, and Arran could feel a single trickle of hot blood oozing down.

This wasn’t the first time he’d snatched a knife out of the air as it hurtled toward him. It was a skill, but not one that could be learned. After all, you were either successful or you were dead.

Although, wouldn’t that have been an ignominious end? Accidentally killed by the laird’s daughter, who appeared to have a penchant for throwing knives. Embarrassing.

Arran suspected that grabbing the knife’s handle would be a much easier method; however, he wasn’t about to argue with the instincts that habitually saved his life.

The lass—Pippia was her name, Arran reminded himself—was staring at him as if he’d grown another head.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Arran blinked. He’d expected profuse apologies, horror at what had almost happened, or perhaps fear from the lass at being approached by a stranger in the woods, even if he was wearing a stolen McTavie tartan.

This young woman simply seemed annoyed, as if it were all a huge inconvenience.

“What?” Arran managed.

“You heard me. What kind of fool stands between a person throwing a knife and her target? Eh? You would not have done that if I were a man.”

“I…” Arran floundered for an answer. The trouble was that the lass was right. He would never have been so stupid as to step in front of a knife thrower or an archer during their practice. It simply wasn’t done, even if one escaped unscathed. It was bad manners and extremely foolhardy.

Arran realized, with a flush of embarrassment, that he had not considered Pippia McTavie as a real warrior, or a real threat. Well, she wasn’t, really, but one glance at the three knives sticking out of the center of the target should have told him that she had a formidable aim and should be approached with caution.

Arran wondered whether he was simply getting old and slow or whether the journey had gotten to him. While he struggled to come up with a suitable reply, the lass heaved a sigh.

“Let me see.”

“What?” Arran repeated, seeming to have forgotten that any other words existed.

“Your hand. You must have cut it, or burned it, or something. Let me see.” Pippia extended a hand, obviously intending for him to lay his injured hand in hers. Her clear gaze flitted down his frame, taking in the details of his appearance a little too greedily. Arran suddenly had the irrational urge to fidget and preen under her scrutiny.

He let go of the knife, holding it in his uninjured hand. That hand was simply stinging a little, but he knew from experience that the sting would fade soon. He could find a bandage for his cut palm later.

The woman sighed impatiently. She walked boldly up to him, wordlessly taking his left hand, with the cut palm, in hers.

Arran was too shocked to snatch away his hand. He’d never had anyone touch him so boldly…except maybe Sierra. He stared at Pippia’s pale yellow hair falling forward and had an intense desire to brush her curtain of hair behind her ears.

He did not, of course. Arran only stared blankly at her while she inspected his wound with gentle fingers.

“This is a nasty cut,” Pippia announced. “My blades are sharp but lucky for you, they’re very clean. We should find you a bandage, and I'll mix up a salve.”

“I don’t need your help,” Arran found himself saying. Pippia only shook her head absently, as if he were a child in need of a firm word or two.

“Comfrey,” Pippia murmured to herself. “A little knitbone should do the trick. It would be better if we had honey, but I can make a paste of the leaves and wrap a bandage over it… Yes, I think that’ll do.” She paused, glancing up at Arran. “It’s just medicine. I’m not a witch, in case you were wondering.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Arran said, recalling the various women who’d slipped around the camps of injured soldiers at night, handing out noxious pastes that healed wounds and kept infection at bay. The same women, talented seamstresses, sewed up wounds, set bones, and delivered babies. “Only a fool would think a physician was a witch.”

Pippia flashed him a smile. “You’d be surprised. Wait here.”

Then she was gone, flitting off into the undergrowth. To Arran’s mingled surprise and horror, he let her go. He simply stood there, moonstruck, holding out his injured palm and watching the blood clot around the wound.

Had he just let his only chance at capturing the lass scamper off into the undergrowth? Perhaps Pippia McTavie was cleverer than she looked and had gabbled away to give herself a chance to escape. It wouldn’t be the first time a seasoned warrior had fallen prey to a pretty face and a few coy glances.

Arran had just never thought that he would make that mistake.