Page 18 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

When they reached a particularly steep section of the path, Hector tightened his arm around her waist to secure her. His palm spread wide across her stomach, his fingers spanning nearly from hip to hip, and he felt her muscles ripple beneath his touch.

He felt her sharp intake of breath, heard the small sound that escaped her lips—not protest, but something else entirely. Her pulse visibly quickened at the base of her throat, and though she didn’t look back at him, he noticed the flush creeping up her neck.

The way she unconsciously leaned back into his chest, seeking his strength and warmth, made every protective instinct roar to life alongside the desire that already burned through his veins.

For a dangerous moment, he allowed himself to imagine sliding his hand higher, feeling the quickening of her heartbeat beneath his palm, or lower, to the soft curve of her hip.

The thought of her melting against him as she had during their kiss, of hearing those sweet sounds of pleasure again, nearly undid his carefully maintained control. Hector knew he needed to distract himself.

“Ye’re learnin’ to move with the horse,” he muttered, his voice low near her ear. “A natural rider.”

She nodded, still not meeting his eyes. “I had a good teacher.”

The simple praise shouldn’t have pleased him as much as it did. Hector shifted in the saddle, adjusting his grip on the reins. When her hand accidentally brushed his thigh as she steadied herself, he felt the touch like a brand even through the fabric of his kilt.

Noah rode several paces ahead, his watchful gaze scanning the path and surrounding trees. Hector was grateful for his friend’s vigilance—not just for security, but for the semblance of privacy it afforded them.

As they approached the village, the path widened, merging into the main road. Cottages appeared, smoke rising from stone chimneys. Villagers paused in their tasks as the three riders passed, offering respectful nods to their Laird.

Hector felt Gabriella tense again as curious eyes turned their way. He was accustomed to scrutiny as the Laird, but he realized this attention was different. The villagers were openly staring at the woman in his arms.

“They’re merely curious,” he told her quietly. “They rarely see me with a woman who isnae me maither or sister.”

Gabriella glanced back at him then, her blue eyes wide. “What will they think?”

“It doesnae matter what they think,” he replied bluntly. “Ye’re under me protection. That’s all they need to ken.”

They reached the village square, bustling with market day activity. Stalls displayed everything, from fresh bread to hand-forged tools. The crowd parted for them, whispers following in their wake.

Hector guided his mount toward the seamstress’s shop at the far end of the square—a tidy stone building with colorful fabrics displayed in its window.

Noah dismounted first, scanning the area with practiced efficiency before approaching to help Gabriella down. She hesitated, her body tensing again.

Something dark shot through Hector at the sight of another man reaching for her.

How dare he?

The thought was irrational, possessive, but it blazed through him nonetheless.

“I’ll take her,” he growled, his voice carrying a warning edge as he fixed Noah with a harsh glare.

The younger man’s hands froze mid-reach, and he stepped back with a knowing look that only irritated Hector further.

Hector slid down from the saddle in one fluid motion. He reached up and gripped her waist, lifting her easily down to the ground. His hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, his fingers spanning her narrow waist possessively, as if marking his territory for anyone who might be watching.

Gabriella steadied herself by placing her palms against his chest. For a heartbeat, they stood frozen, their bodies nearly touching, her face tilted up to his. The memory of their kiss flared between them, hot and demanding.

A merchant’s call broke the moment. Gabriella stepped back quickly, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands.

“Noah,” Hector said, not taking his eyes off Gabriella’s flushed face, “remain with the horses. Keep watch.”

“Aye, Me Laird,” Noah replied, his expression neutral, though his eyes glinted with humor.

Hector placed his hand on the small of Gabriella’s back, guiding her toward the seamstress’s shop. He noted how people bowed their heads respectfully as they passed, how conversations died down, how even the most boisterous merchants tempered their calls in the presence of their Laird.

Throughout it all, Gabriella walked beside him, her spine straight, her chin lifted. But he felt the slight tremors under his palm, saw how her eyes darted from face to face, reading their curious expressions.

“Ye’re safe with me, Gabriella,” he murmured in her ear. He studied her profile, his gaze steady and unwavering. “I give ye me word—nay harm will come to ye while ye’re under me protection.”

Her gaze met his then, something flickering in their blue depths that made his blood run hot. Understanding, perhaps. Or something deeper.

They reached the seamstress’s door, Noah taking up position outside with a vigilance that would have made any castle guard proud.

Hector opened the door, the bell above it tinkling softly.

“After ye, lass,” he said, gesturing for Gabriella to enter the world of fabrics and finery that awaited them.

The seamstress’s shop was unlike anything Gabriella had ever seen. Rolls of fabric lined the walls—rich wools in jewel tones, fine linens in soft pastels, and even bolts of silk that caught the light like water. The scent of lavender and beeswax filled the air.

A plump woman with graying hair bustled forward. Her eyes widened at the sight of Hector, and she dropped into a hasty curtsy.

“Laird McCulloch! What an honor! How may I serve ye today?”

Hector’s presence seemed to fill the small shop. He stood with his feet planted firmly on the floor, his shoulders squared—every inch the Laird. Gabriella found herself shrinking slightly in his shadow.

“Mistress Ross,” he greeted, his deep voice carrying the easy authority of one accustomed to command. “I require a complete wardrobe for Lady Gabriella. Everythin’ a lady might need.”

The seamstress’s eyes lit up as she turned to assess Gabriella. “Everythin’, ye say?”

“Day dresses, ridin’ habits, evenin’ gowns,” Hector listed. “Proper undergarments, nightclothes, cloaks for all seasons.”

Gabriella’s heart hammered in her chest. Even if she still had the few coins she’d managed to save from her work at the tavern, it would not cover even a single garment from this shop.

“Me Laird, I cannae. It’s too much,” she began.

“Be a good lass, now.” Hector’s tone brooked no argument, though his eyes were not as hard. “This isnae up for debate.”

Mistress Ross circled Gabriella like a hawk eyeing its prey. “Such a lovely figure, once ye fill out a bit. Those cheekbones! And that hair, perfect for shades of green or blue to bring out yer eyes.”

Gabriella felt her face heating as the woman continued her assessment. The idea of owning multiple dresses seemed foreign, even impossible. She’d never owned more than two at a time in her entire life.

“Arms up, dearie,” Mistress Ross instructed, producing a measuring tape from her pocket. “Let’s get yer measurements.”

As the seamstress worked, calling out numbers to her apprentice, who scribbled furiously in a ledger, Gabriella stole glances at Hector. He stood by the window, seemingly absorbed in watching the village square outside, but she caught him looking back more than once.

Why are ye doin’ this, Hector? What do ye expect in return?

Gabriella knew enough to understand that men didn’t simply give gifts without wanting something in return. Even kind, old Fergus had expected honest labor for her stay at the tavern.

“And the first dresses—ye’ll want them immediately, Me Laird?” Mistress Ross asked, measuring the circumference of Gabriella’s wrist.

“Aye,” Hector replied. “Whatever ye have that can be adjusted to fit today. The rest can follow.”

Gabriella’s stomach twisted with anxiety. “Laird McCulloch, this is too much. I dinnae need—”

His eyes locked onto hers, silencing her protests. “Ye do need, and ye will accept.”

“What colors would ye prefer, miss?” Mistress Ross asked, gesturing toward the rainbow of fabrics lining her shelves. “I think a deep forest green would suit yer coloring beautifully. Or perhaps a rich burgundy for evenings? And for summer, a pale yellow would be lovely.”

The choices overwhelmed Gabriella. Colors? Preferences? She’d never been asked such things before. Her tavern dresses had been brown or gray, chosen for their ability to hide stains and wear, not for beauty.

“I… I dinnae ken,” she whispered, her voice faltering.

The seamstress waited expectantly. The apprentice held her quill above the ledger. And Hector… Hector watched her with those intense eyes that seemed to see straight to her soul.

Gabriella looked at him, a question in her gaze that had nothing to do with fabric choices.

What did accepting his generosity truly mean? What would he demand in return?

And why, despite her fears, did some small part of her yearn to discover the answer?