Page 15 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

“Nay, nay!” Andrea’s firm voice cut through her conflicted thoughts. “Ye cannae stab at the cloth like ye’re skewerin’ a haggis, lass. The thread must flow like water.”

She demonstrated with practiced ease, her weathered hands creating a perfect Scottish thistle with just a few deft movements.

Gabriella bit her lower lip, struggling to master the delicate art before her as unwelcome memories of Hector’s fierce kiss three nights prior intruded on her concentration. She fought against the memory, hating how her body had responded to him despite all her hard-learned wariness of men.

Erica smirked from her seat by the hearth. “Dinnae fret, Gabriella. It took me years to satisfy Maither’s exactin’ standards. The McCullochs demand perfection in all things—whether it’s embroidery or battle.”

Gabriella’s cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment as she awkwardly attempted to mimic Andrea’s technique.

Despite her efforts to forget, she could still feel Hector’s strong hands on her waist, the commanding press of his mouth against hers.

The memory made her fingers slip, sending the needle through the wrong section of fabric.

She cursed inwardly at her weakness, at how easily her mind betrayed her resolve to keep her distance.

“I’ve made a proper mess of it,” she sighed, displaying the tangled threads of what was meant to be a simple border pattern.

“‘Tis only yer first lesson,” Andrea reassured her, taking the hoop to correct her mistake. “We can fix this easily enough.”

Gabriella nodded gratefully, though her thoughts remained troubled.

Six months of captivity had taught her that men’s desires meant pain and fear.

Yet, somewhere in this castle, strode Hector, a man whose touch had awakened feelings she’d never experienced before.

Feelings she didn’t trust and couldn’t afford to indulge if she meant to protect her heart and eventually escape to France.

“Here now,” Andrea said, returning the embroidery. “Try again. Keep yer stitches small and even.”

With a steadying breath, Gabriella forced herself to focus on the task at hand rather than the confusing pull she felt toward the castle’s intimidating laird.

“Ye see these interlockin’ knots?” Andrea traced the pattern on her own fabric. “Each clan has its own special designs. The McCullochs have favored this twisted rope pattern since before Robert the Bruce claimed the throne.”

Her fingers moved with practiced precision, the blue thread weaving through the linen in perfect, even stitches.

Gabriella studied the intricate pattern and then attempted to recreate it on her own fabric. Her first attempt was clumsy, the thread puckering the fabric. With a frown of concentration, she unpicked the stitches and tried again, more slowly this time.

“Better.” Andrea nodded approvingly. “Ye have steady hands when ye put yer mind to it.”

Erica leaned closer, inspecting Gabriella’s work. “Ye’ve improved so much already! Ye’re a quicker study than I am. Maither despaired of me ever masterin’ the simplest chain stitch.”

Gabriella smiled despite herself. The repetitive motion was becoming almost soothing, helping to quiet the tumult of her thoughts. She completed a full line of the pattern, her confidence growing with each stitch.

“There now,” Andrea said warmly. “Ye have a natural talent. Once ye stopped tryin’ to murder the fabric.”

A maid entered with a tray of tea and freshly baked oatcakes drizzled with heather honey. The rich, sweet scent filled the solar as Andrea poured three cups of the steaming brew.

“These oatcakes are Cook’s specialty,” Erica said, taking one eagerly. “She’ll only make them on clear days when the honey flows freely from the hives on the south hill.”

Gabriella set down her fabric, accepting a cup of tea gratefully. The taste was unfamiliar but pleasant, laced with herbs she couldn’t name.

“Tell me about yer life, lass,” Andrea asked, settling back with her cup of tea. “Before ye went to work at the tavern.”

Gabriella set down her cup, her fingers tightening involuntarily around the fabric in her lap. “There was nothin’ special about it.”

“Oh, lass. Surely there must have been some fond memories?” Andrea’s weathered face softened with genuine regret.

Gabriella returned to her stitching, not meeting their eyes. “Me faither was a good man. He was a stonemason by trade. He taught me a lot about hard work and being strong, but apart from his trade, he didnae have a lot of other skills.”

“He does sound like a good man,” Erica agreed with a smile. “Did ye travel with him for his work?”

Gabriella nodded, her expression warming at the memories. “Aye, until I was twelve. Then, his joints began to pain him too much for regular work, so we settled in one place.”

As she spoke, her stitches grew more confident. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as she recalled happier times.

“One thing me faither did was insist that I read every day. Said a lass who kenned her letters would never be taken advantage of.”

“A learned man,” Andrea commented, refilling Gabriella’s cup. “That explains yer eloquence. Ye’re more educated than most lasses in these parts.”

“He believed knowledge was the only inheritance he could give me that couldnae be stolen away,” Gabriella said softly.

“And ye’ve been alone since he passed?” Erica asked, her usual mischievous expression replaced by genuine concern.

Gabriella nodded, resuming her stitching with renewed focus. “I found work at the tavern. The owner before Lewis was a fair man who needed someone who could keep accounts as well as serve. It was honest work until…” she trailed off, unwilling to revisit those darker memories.

Andrea reached over to adjust the thread. “Ye’ve had a hard road for one so young. But ye’re here now, and the McCullochs look after their own.”

The words stirred an unexpected warmth in Gabriella’s chest, though she reminded herself that this wasn’t truly her home. In less than a month, she would leave for France, to build a new life far from Scottish shores.

Still, as she sat in the companionable silence that followed, sharing tea and oatcakes with these women who asked nothing of her but her company, Gabriella felt something she hadn’t experienced in years—a tentative sense of belonging.

“McCulloch women are as skilled with needles as our men are with swords,” Erica declared, setting aside her embroidery to stretch her arms above her head. “Though I confess, I’d rather be out practicin’ with me bow than sittin’ here all day.”

Andrea clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “A proper lady should—”

“Be accomplished in all things,” Erica finished with a grin. “Including how to defend herself. Ye cannae deny, Maither, that Hector himself insisted I learn.”

“Aye, after ye nearly drowned yerself tryin’ to follow the men on their hunt,” Andrea reminded her, but there was fondness beneath her stern tone.

Gabriella watched their exchange with interest. “Ye ken how to use weapons, then?”

“Bow, dirk, and I’m passable with a sword,” Erica answered proudly. “Though Hector would say I’m still too slow on the parry. He drills me twice as hard as any of his men—says an enemy willnae go easy just because I’m a lass.”

Distracted by the mention of Hector, Gabriella’s needle slipped, pricking her finger. A bright drop of blood beaded on her skin. “Blast,” she muttered, then flushed at her coarse language.

“Here now.” Andrea moved swiftly, producing a small pot of salve from a nearby chest. “This will prevent infection.”

She dabbed the herbal mixture on Gabriella’s finger with surprising tenderness for one so formidable.

“Does the mention of me braither disturb ye so?” Erica asked with shrewd perception, her eyes dancing with mischief.

“Nae at all,” Gabriella replied too quickly. “I just lost me concentration.”

Andrea mercifully changed the subject. “What was yer job at the tavern like, lass?” She left the darker time unspoken.

Gabriella relaxed slightly, wrapping a small strip of linen around her finger. “There’s little to tell. I served ale, kept accounts, and swept floors. The patrons were mostly farmers and tradesmen—decent folk who worked hard and wanted a warm place to share stories at the day’s end.”

“And ye lived there? At the tavern?” Erica asked.

“Aye. The old owner, Fergus MacKay, let me have the small room above the kitchen.” Gabriella’s expression softened at the memory.

“He was kind. Treated me like the daughter he never had. When he died last year, the tavern passed to his nephew in Inverness, who sold it soon after.” Her hands stilled on her embroidery, clearly not wanting to speak more about the topic.

The solar fell silent. Even Erica seemed to sense this wasn’t a topic to ask further about.

“Did ye have friends there?” Andrea asked gently, breaking the heavy silence. “Other lasses yer age?”

“A few.” Gabriella resumed her stitching, grateful for the distraction. “The baker’s daughter would sometimes bring fresh bread and stay to gossip. And there was an old woman—Morag—who taught me about herbs and healing. Said I had the knack for it.”

“Perhaps ye can help Mistress Agnes in the surgery sometime,” Andrea suggested. “She’s always complainin’ about nae havin’ an apprentice with a steady hand.”

“I’d like that,” Gabriella admitted.

The thought of learning something useful, something that might serve her well in France, was appealing.

“And what of music and dancin’?” Erica pressed, leaning forward eagerly. “Did ye ever join in the festivals when the fiddlers came through?”

Gabriella’s cheeks colored. “I’ve never learned to dance properly,” she confessed. “There was music at the tavern sometimes, but I was always too busy servin’ to join in.”

“Never danced?” Erica’s expression was scandalized. “Maither, we must remedy this terrible situation at once! Especially with the harvest festival approachin’.”