Page 17 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)
Hector raised his fist to Gabriella’s door, knocking firmly enough to be heard, but not so hard as to startle her. The lass had seemed as skittish as a filly since their encounter in his chambers. Not that he could blame her after what she’d endured.
When no answer came, he knocked again, more insistently this time. His patience was wearing thin—he had a clan to run and couldn’t stand about all morning.
Deciding he’d waited long enough, Hector pushed the door open.
The sight that greeted him made him pause. Gabriella lay asleep, her hair spread across the pillow like dark silk, her lips slightly parted. The morning light caressed the curve of her cheek, making his blood quicken despite himself.
His eyes traced the delicate column of her throat, where it disappeared beneath the covers. Then, he noticed her brow creasing even in sleep, as if she was battling demons in her dreams.
For a moment, a thought crossed his mind—would his protection ever be enough to chase away the haunted look in her eyes?
“Gabriella,” he called, his voice rough. “Are ye awake, lass?”
She started violently, bolting upright with a small gasp. Her eyes flew open, wild and unfocused, before settling on him. Recognition dawned, followed by a flush that spread across her cheeks as she clutched the bedcovers to her chest.
“Laird McCulloch,” she stammered, pressing herself against the headboard. “I didnae expect ye in me chambers—”
“Get dressed,” he commanded, cutting her off.
His gaze swept over her, noting the fabric of the nightgown the servants had found for her. Like the other garments she’d been given, it was serviceable but far from befitting a woman staying in the Laird’s wing.
“We leave in fifteen minutes.”
She blinked up at him, confusion plain on her face. “Leave? Where are we goin’?”
“To the village. Ye cannae continue wearin’ the same clothes I got ye when ye first arrived at the castle. I willnae have ye keep wearin’ just a few dresses in me home.” He crossed his arms, planting his feet squarely in the corridor. “Ye need proper clothin’.”
Understanding dawned in her eyes, followed swiftly by apprehension. “But I dinnae need anythin’.”
“This isnae a request, lass,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Fifteen minutes. Wear the blue dress ye had on before.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and closed the door.
He ignored the memory of their kiss that had haunted him these past days—the way her soft lips had parted beneath his, the sweet taste of her mouth, how she’d melted against him with such eager surrender.
The memory of her breathy moans, the way her fingers had tangled in his hair, how perfectly her curves had molded to his harder frame.
Most torturous of all was remembering the heat that had blazed between them, the way she’d pressed her hips against his, innocent yet instinctively seeking more.
The phantom feel of her body beneath his hands still burned through him at the most inconvenient moments, leaving him aching with want and the unexpected urge to see her dressed as befitted her beauty.
Hector strode across the courtyard toward the stables, his jaw clenched as he fought with himself over his true motivations.
I’m being practical. This is all simply a matter of clan dignity.
The lass would be seen by his people, and it wouldn’t do for her to appear as an unbefitting guest at the castle. His reputation as a laird demanded that all under his protection be properly cared for.
But even as he rehearsed these reasonable justifications, a darker truth whispered in the back of his mind.
There was something primitively satisfying about the thought of clothing her in garments he had chosen, fabrics he had paid for.
Of seeing her draped in silks and velvets that proclaimed, without words, that she was under his protection—his to provide for, his to—
Nay.
He dismissed the thought before it could form fully. This was about propriety, nothing more. He refused to examine the possessive heat that coiled in his chest at the image of Gabriella adorned in finery that bore the subtle mark of his claim.
Noah waited at the castle entrance, already seated atop his horse and ready. He gave a respectful nod as Hector approached. “I thought it best to accompany ye, Me Laird. There’ve been reports of strangers in the area.”
Hector nodded, appreciating Noah’s foresight. The men hunting Gabriella might still be searching for her, and he wouldn’t risk her safety.
“I will be ridin’ with the lass for her own protection,” Hector said, laying a hand on his stallion’s muscular neck.
Noah’s mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. “As ye wish, Me Laird.”
Hector narrowed his eyes at his friend’s barely concealed amusement. “Have ye somethin’ to say, Noah?”
“Nae at all,” Noah replied innocently, though his eyes held a knowing gleam. “Just observin’ that ye seem particularly invested in the lass’s safety.”
Before Hector could deliver a suitable retort, he caught sight of Gabriella approaching hesitantly from the castle.
The blue dress he’d specified outlined her figure, even as it hung loosely on her still-too-thin hips.
Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid, highlighting her delicate bone structure.
“Ye didnae take too long,” he commented, pleased despite himself. Punctuality was a quality he valued.
Her eyes darted nervously to Noah, and she stopped several paces away, almost shrinking back toward the castle.
Hector observed the way she angled her body, as if trying to keep him between herself and Noah. The wariness in her stance reminded him of what she’d endured. She still didn’t trust men—and with good reason.
“Ye remember Noah, lass?” Hector asked, gesturing toward his man-at-arms. “Noah’s me right hand and most trusted man. He’ll be accompanyin’ us as protection.”
Noah executed a bow, keeping his distance. “Me Lady.”
Gabriella inclined her head slightly but didn’t speak. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her skirts.
“Ye have nothin’ to fear from Noah,” Hector added, his voice low enough so that only she could hear. “He’s sworn to protect everyone under me roof—especially those I’ve vouched for.”
Gabriella nodded, and Hector saw that some of the tension left her shoulders.
“I thought ye might want to try Moira again,” he continued, nodding toward his gentlest mare. “But the mountain path is steeper than the fields where we practiced. Ye’ll ride with me today.”
Something flashed in her eyes. Was it disappointment? She’d shown remarkable progress in their lessons, and he recognized the pride she took in each new skill mastered.
“Perhaps on the return journey,” he said, surprising himself with the concession. “If the weather holds.”
That earned him the ghost of a smile, quickly hidden as she glanced down.
Without waiting for further discussion, he moved to her side and put his hands on her waist. She stiffened at his touch, but didn’t pull away.
In one smooth motion, he lifted her onto his stallion’s back, noting how her body felt slightly fuller than during their first encounter—a sign the castle’s food was restoring her health.
“Remember what I taught ye about balance,” he instructed as he swung himself up behind her, his chest pressed against her back as he reached around for the reins.
The scent of her hair, clean and faintly herbal from the castle soap, filled his nostrils, stirring memories of their kiss.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Noah’s barely suppressed smirk. He shot him a warning glare that would have sent most men scrambling for cover. Noah merely arranged his features into an expression of exaggerated innocence.
Hector felt Gabriella tremble slightly as he adjusted his grip on the reins, his arms effectively caging her against him.
“The village is busier than usual today,” he said, deliberately keeping his tone businesslike. “Market day. Stay close.”
She gave a small nod, making a visible effort to relax her rigid posture.
As they moved through the castle gates and onto the path toward the village, Hector found himself uncomfortably aware of every small movement between them, of each time the horse’s motions pressed her more firmly against him.
The soft curves of her backside nestled intimately against his groin, and he had to grit his teeth against the immediate physical response.
Every subtle shift of her hips as the horse moved beneath them sent heat spiraling through him, making him painfully aware of how perfectly she fit against his body.
They rode in silence as the path wound down from Castle McCulloch toward the village below. The morning mist still clung to the lower slopes, shrouding the Highland landscape in a ghostly veil. Heather-covered hills rolled away to the distant mountains, their peaks sharp against the blue sky.
Hector kept his stallion at a careful walk, mindful of the extra rider. With each step, Gabriella’s body swayed against his, a rhythmic pressure that played havoc with his concentration.
The gentle rocking motion created a maddening friction between them, her soft warmth pressed so intimately against him that he could feel the heat of her skin through the layers of fabric.
His thighs bracketed hers, and he was acutely aware of every breath she took, every small movement that brought them into closer contact.
She’d started the journey sitting stiffly before him, her back straight as a rod, careful to avoid contact. But as the minutes passed, he felt her gradually relax, her slender frame molding more naturally against him.
Her spine curved slightly, allowing her to settle fully into the cradle of his arms and chest. Her smell filled his senses with each breath. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of her torso, the way her ribcage expanded beneath his arm where it encircled her waist.