Page 13 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

“Lad,” Hector called to the stable boy, “go to Lady Gabriella’s chambers and inform her that there will be nay ridin’ lesson today. Tell her I have clan business to attend to.”

The boy nodded and scurried off.

Hector stood in the training yard, his arms crossed as he surveyed the morning mist lifting from the hills beyond.

Better to avoid her entirely than risk a repeat of last night’s encounter.

God’s blood, he could have taken her right there against the stone wall. The way her body had responded to his nearness, the slight parting of her lips—she had been his for the taking. Any other lass and he wouldn’t have hesitated.

Hector ran a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his jaw.

The women he’d bedded before Caitlyn, and since her betrayal, had been willing, experienced, and—most importantly—temporary.

They’d known the rules of the game as well as he did.

A night of mutual pleasure, perhaps two, then a clean parting with no expectations.

But Gabriella… she was different. Innocent despite everything she’d endured.

The huntsmen had planned to use her body with no regard for her spirit.

If he took her now, knowing she was bound for France in less than a month, wouldn’t he be guilty of the same callousness?

A different cage, but a cage nonetheless.

“I’m nae one of them,” he muttered to himself, turning toward the castle.

The lass deserved better than to be another conquest, another woman he’d taken and walked away from.

Hours later, Hector strode down the corridor to his private study. The meeting with his steward and man-at-arms had been productive but tedious—tallying winter stores, assessing which cottages needed repairs before the cold set in, and planning patrols along the borders.

As he passed the library door, a soft laugh caught his attention. He paused, finding himself drawn toward the sound.

Gabriella sat in one of the high-back chairs near the window, a heavy tome open on her lap.

Sunlight streamed through the leaded glass, causing her brown waves to twinkle.

She wore a simple, forest-green dress, practical but no less flattering.

Her finger traced a line on the page as she read, a slight smile playing on her lips.

Hector hesitated at the threshold, suddenly aware that he was intruding on a private moment. Then, as if sensing his presence, she looked up.

“Laird McCulloch,” she said, starting to rise.

“Stay seated,” he urged, entering the room. “I didnae mean to disturb ye.”

“Ye’re nae disturbin’ me.” She settled back, marking her place with a slender finger. “I thought ye had clan business today.”

“Finished earlier than expected.” He gestured to the book. “What are ye readin’ that brings such a smile to yer face?”

She glanced down, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. “Highland folklore. Tales of kelpies and selkies. Me faither used to tell me similar stories when I was small.”

Curiosity piqued, Hector set his documents on a nearby table and took the seat opposite her. “Which tale were ye readin’ just now?”

“The one about the laird who fell in love with a selkie.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “He stole her sealskin so she couldnae return to the sea.”

“Ah, that one.” Hector nodded. “Me maither told it differently. In her version, the selkie chooses to stay, even when she finds her skin again.”

“That’s nae how most tales go,” Gabriella said, leaning forward slightly. “Usually, the selkie finds her skin and abandons her human family without a backward glance.”

“Perhaps me maither preferred happier endings.”

“And do ye? Prefer happy endings, I mean,” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

Hector studied her face—the earnestness in her blue eyes, the slight tilt of her head. “I’m a practical man. I believe in makin’ the best of what life gives ye, nae wishin’ for fairytales.”

“That’s nae an answer, Laird McCulloch.”

“Hector,” he corrected, surprised by his insistence. “I told ye before—if we’re to spend a month together, ‘Laird McCulloch’ will grow tiresome.”

She nodded, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Hector, then. Ye still havenae answered me question.”

He leaned back, considering. “I believe happy endings must be earned, nae gifted by fate or magic.”

“Like the selkie choosin’ to stay.”

“Precisely.”

Gabriella turned a page, then looked up with mischief in her eyes. “Did ye ken that there’s a tale that says the McCullochs have selkie blood? That’s why yer men are such strong swimmers.”

Hector chuckled, the sound surprising even himself. It had been too long since he’d simply conversed with a woman like this. “Is that what the book says? I should have a word with the author.”

“The book doesnae say it.” Her smile widened. “That’s what they whispered at the tavern. That and other rumors about Highland lairds.”

“Should I ask what else they said about us?”

“Probably nae,” she teased, then sobered slightly. “Though they did say the McCullochs were fair to their people. That part seems true enough.”

“We try to be.” He watched her fingers trace the edge of the page, oddly mesmerized by the simple movement. “Did ye enjoy workin’ at the tavern? Before…”

“Before Lewis?” She didn’t flinch at the name. “It was honest work. Some days were better than others. I enjoyed the stories travelers would bring—tales of places I’d never seen.”

“Like France.”

She nodded. “France, Italy, even lands far beyond. I used to imagine what it would be like to see such places meself.”

“And now ye’ll have that chance.”

A shadow crossed her face. “God willin’.”

“Ye doubt me word?” Hector raised an eyebrow. “I promised ye passage to France, and ye’ll have it.”

“I dinnae doubt yer word,” she said. “Only the kindness of fate. I’ve learned nae to count on tomorrow’s promises.”

Something in her tone—not self-pity, but a simple statement of hard-earned wisdom—stirred an unexpected protectiveness in him.

“The McCullochs keep their promises, Gabriella. Ye’ll have yer fresh start.”

She studied him for a moment, then surprised him with a genuine smile. “I believe ye.” She gestured to the documents he’d set aside. “But ye didnae come here to discuss folklore and promises. I’m keepin’ ye from yer duties.”

“A pleasant interruption,” he admitted. “More interestin’ than grain tallies and reports about the borders.”

“Is that what occupies a laird’s time? I imagined more sword-wieldin’ and dramatic declarations.”

“There’s that too, on occasion. But a clan needs more than a strong arm to survive. It needs careful plannin’.”

“And a wise leader.” Her observation was matter-of-fact, not flattery.

“I strive to be.” He rose, suddenly aware they’d been talking longer than he’d intended. “I should let ye return to yer readin’.”

Gabriella nodded, though he thought he detected a hint of disappointment. “Thank ye for the company.”

Hector paused at the door, turning back to look at her. The sunlight still played in her hair, her posture relaxed but dignified. She was nothing like the painted court ladies who’d sought his attention, nor like the eager village girls who had warmed his bed on occasion.

“Ye have more charm than I first thought, Gabriella Patterson,” he said quietly. “France will be fortunate to have ye.”

He left before she could respond, his long strides carrying him quickly down the corridor.

The unfamiliar lightness in his chest troubled him. He’d meant only to avoid temptation by canceling their riding lesson. Instead, he’d found something potentially more dangerous—a woman whose company he genuinely enjoyed.

Nearly one hour later, Hector was staring at the same supply ledger he’d spread on his desk when he came in, seeing not the columns of numbers but Gabriella’s face as she spoke of selkies and folklore, the way her eyes lit up when she smiled.

He pushed the book aside with a frustrated sigh. What was happening to him? He was Laird McCulloch—responsible for hundreds of lives, protector of his clan’s lands and future. He had no business being distracted by a lass who would be gone in less than a month.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie.

“Enter,” he called, straightening in his chair.

Noah stepped inside, a rolled parchment in his hand. “News from our scouts,” he said without preamble.

Hector gestured for him to continue, grateful for the distraction.

“There have been reports of a man matchin’ Lewis’s description near Inverness,” Noah began, unfolding the map on the desk. “Our men followed the trail, but…” He shook his head. “False lead. Just a merchant with similar colorin’.”

“Damnation.” Hector’s fist came down on the desk, rattling an inkwell. “He cannae have simply disappeared.”

“He kens ye’re lookin’ for him. We’ll find him,” Noah assured him. “The man’s a coward, nae a ghost. There’s news that future hunts have been canceled.”

Hector nodded, though frustration still burned in his chest. Lewis needed to answer for what he’d done—not just to Gabriella, but to all the women he’d trafficked.

“There’s somethin’ else.” Noah studied Hector’s face with the familiarity of a long friendship. “Ye seem… different today.”

“Different how?” Hector asked cautiously.

“Less like a bear with a thorn in its paw.” Noah’s expression softened into a slight smile. “I passed the library earlier. Saw ye sittin’ with the lass.”

Hector’s jaw tightened. “Just checkin’ on her well-being.”

“Of course,” Noah replied, his tone making it clear he didn’t believe that for a moment. “She’s settlin’ in well, then?”

“Well enough.” Hector turned to stare out the window, unwilling to meet his friend’s too-perceptive gaze. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

“Aye, she’d have to be, to survive what she did.” Noah paused, then added carefully, “It’s nae a crime to be attracted to her, Hector. She’s a bonny lass.”

“I’m tryin’ to protect her, Noah.” For a moment, Hector looked troubled, but then the mask of strength slipped back into place. “Besides, what will it say about me if I bed her only for her to leave for France in three weeks?”

“So ye admit ye’re attracted to her.”

Hector made a dismissive sound, turning back to his desk. “Like ye said, she’s bonny. I cannae treat her like other women. I made her a promise, and I’ll keep it.”

“And if she feels somethin’ for ye?”

The question hit Hector like a physical blow. He’d been trying not to think about the way Gabriella had looked last night, dressed in next to nothing. Or how her eyes had lit up when they spoke of folklore, how naturally conversation had flowed between them.

“She doesnae ken what she wants,” he muttered finally. “She’s been through hell, Noah. Held captive, starved, hunted like an animal. Whatever she thinks she feels for me may just be… gratitude. Confusion.”

“Ye dinnae give her much credit.”

“And ye dinnae understand the situation,” he countered, though with less heat than earlier. “I rescued her from men who would have used her. What kind of man would I be if I did the same?”

Noah’s eyebrows rose. “Is that what ye think ye’d be doin’?”

“What else would it be? She’s leavin’, Noah. She made that clear from the start. France is her destination, and I dinnae want to make her change her mind.”

Hector gathered the maps and papers, organizing them with more attention than necessary. “I need to continue me work. Was there anythin’ else about Lewis?”

Noah shook his head, recognizing the dismissal. “Nothin’ yet. But we’ll find him, Hector. I promise ye that.”

“See that ye do. The man has much to answer for.”

After Noah left, Hector remained at his desk, staring at the documents without seeing them.

The frustration he felt wasn’t just about Lewis’s escape. It was about his own inability to control these unwelcome feelings for a woman who would soon be gone from his life.

He needed to remember his responsibilities, his vows, his position. He was Laird McCulloch, and lairds didn’t abandon their duties for fleeting desires.

No matter how tempting those desires might be.