Page 19 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

“Surely ye have somethin’ ye like?” Mistress Ross pressed gently, her measuring tape draped around her neck as she studied Gabriella’s face. “A color that catches yer eye? A fabric that feels pleasant against yer skin?”

Gabriella fidgeted with her fingers, her voice barely above a whisper. “I… I dinnae want to be any trouble.”

“Trouble?” The seamstress laughed, a warm sound that filled the small shop.

“Lass, ye’re the most interestin’ project I’ve had in months.

Most ladies who come through that door already ken exactly what they want down to the last ribbon and button.

” She gestured toward bolts of fabric lining the walls.

“But ye… ye’re like a blank canvas waitin’ for the right artist’s touch. ”

Hector watched from his position near the window, noting how Gabriella’s gaze flickered nervously toward the colorful fabrics before dropping back to her hands.

“What about this?” Mistress Ross pulled down a bolt of deep red silk, holding it to Gabriella’s face. “It contrasts nicely with the deep blue in yer eyes.”

For just a moment, something sparked in Gabriella’s expression—a flash of longing quickly suppressed. “It’s… it’s very fine,” she said carefully.

“Aye, it is,” the seamstress agreed, then leaned closer with a conspiratorial wink. “And His Lairdship here has made it clear that the cost is nay concern. So, tell me truly, what would make ye feel beautiful?”

“A sapphire blue,” Hector found himself saying when Gabriella hesitated for too long. “To match her eyes when the light catches them.”

Gabriella’s gaze flew to his, surprise evident in those very eyes. Eyes he had apparently been noticing far more than he’d realized.

“Here now, look at this wool.” Mistress Ross’s high-pitched voice broke the moment as she presented a bolt of deep blue fabric. “Fine enough for a lady, but sturdy enough for Highland winters.” She laid it next to a rich emerald green fabric. “Which pleases ye more, lass?”

Gabriella’s fingers hovered uncertainly over both fabrics. “They’re both lovely,” she murmured, clearly unaccustomed to such choices.

“The blue one for everyday wear,” Hector decided, noting how the color complemented her fair skin. “And the green one for formal occasions.”

Relief flickered across Gabriella’s face at having the decision made for her.

The pattern continued as Mistress Ross presented linens for summer dresses, displaying various embroidery styles and lace trimmings. Each time, Gabriella would hesitate, and Hector would step in with a firm decision.

“Two ridin’ habits,” he instructed when the seamstress brought forth heavier fabrics. “One in brown, one in gray. Proper split skirts for safety.”

Mistress Ross’s eyes gleamed as she scribbled notes. “And nightclothes? Shall I show ye the fine linen we imported from Edinburgh last month? Perfect for chemises.”

Gabriella’s face flamed, but Hector maintained his businesslike demeanor. “Whatever is appropriate for a lady stayin’ at Castle McCulloch.”

The seamstress’s excitement mounted with each addition to the order. “And for the Beltane celebration next month? Every lass needs a special gown for the festivities.”

Gabriella looked up sharply. “I’ll be gone by then,” she said quietly. “To France.”

The words struck Hector like a physical blow. Of course she would. That had been their agreement. A month of keeping Erica out of trouble in exchange for passage to France. Yet, somehow, in the daily routine of riding lessons and shared meals, he’d forgotten about it.

“Nevertheless,” he said gruffly, “she needs a formal gown. Burgundy silk, if ye have it.”

The list grew longer: day dresses, aprons, warm cloaks, and shawls for cool evenings. Gabriella’s eyes widened with each addition, her fingers twisting anxiously in her skirts.

When Mistress Ross began describing undergarments in detail, Hector noticed Gabriella’s discomfort reaching its peak.

“I think Miss Patterson could use some fresh air,” he announced, cutting off the seamstress’s enthusiastic description of corset styles. “The measurements are complete, are they nae?”

“Aye, Me Laird,” Mistress Ross confirmed. “I have everythin’ I need for now.”

“Step outside for a moment, Gabriella,” Hector said, softening his voice. “I have some final business with Mistress Ross.”

Gabriella nodded gratefully, clearly eager to escape the overwhelming attention. “Will Noah be there?”

“He’ll be watchin’ the door. Dinnae wander far,” Hector cautioned. “The crowds can be thick on days like this.”

Once the bell above the door signaled Gabriella’s exit, Hector turned back to the seamstress, his expression serious.

“There’s more I require—I didnae wish to discuss it before the lass.”

Mistress Ross raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“Accessories,” Hector continued. “Proper ones. Hair ribbons and gloves for different occasions. Whatever a lady might need that comes from ye shop.”

“Of course, Me Laird.” The seamstress smiled knowingly. “And perhaps some jewelry? I have a cousin who crafts the finest silver pieces.”

“Simple but elegant.” Hector was unwilling to encourage her speculation about his motives. “Nothin’ ostentatious.”

Mistress Ross nodded, making additional notes. “This is a substantial order, Me Laird. I can have the first items ready by the week’s end, with the ones ye require adjusted sent to the castle today.”

“Good,” Hector interrupted. “The lass has little more than what she’s wearin’.”

Hector pulled out his purse. He counted out ten gold coins. It was enough to cover both the ready-made garments and the rest of the order. “This should suffice as a deposit.”

Mistress Ross’s eyes widened at the pile of coins. “More than sufficient, Me Laird! I’ll have me apprentice begin alterations immediately. The three dresses can be ready within the hour.”

Hector nodded, satisfied. “Have them wrapped and sent to Castle McCulloch when ready. The remainder of the order?”

“Will receive me personal attention,” Mistress Ross assured him, still staring at the gold. “Ye have me word.”

As Hector turned to leave, she cleared her throat.

“If I might say, Me Laird. It does an old heart good to see Castle McCulloch with a lady again. Yer maither and sister are fine women, but a young lass brings a different light to a home.”

Hector fixed her with a stern look. “The lass is under me protection. Nothin’ more.”

“Of course, Me Laird.” Mistress Ross bowed slightly and stepped back.

But as he stepped outside and found Gabriella waiting by Noah’s side, her face turned up toward the sun, he wondered if he was trying to convince the seamstress or himself.

Noah maintained his vigilant watch, holding the reins of both horses.

“The dresses will be delivered to the castle later today,” Hector announced, drawing her attention. “We have time for a meal before heading back.”

“The horses?” Gabriella questioned, glancing at the stallion that had carried them both.

“We’ll stable them for now,” Hector replied. “The tavern’s just across the square—easier to walk than to ride such a short distance.”

Noah called a passing boy, who came running. “Take these to Floyd’s stable,” he instructed, handing over the reins, along with a few coins. “They’ll need water and oats.”

“Aye, Sir,” the boy replied, leading the horses away.

Noah fell into step behind them as Hector guided Gabriella through the bustling market square. He maintained a respectful distance, close enough to protect but far enough to allow conversation.

The villagers parted for them, offering bows and curtsies to their Laird. Hector acknowledged them with brief nods, accustomed to such deference.

What he did not appreciate was the way the men’s gazes lingered on Gabriella.

Their eyes followed her movements, taking in her graceful gait, the way the morning light caught the brown threads in her hair, and the gentle sway of her hips beneath her plain blue dress.

He saw appreciation in their stares—and something hungrier that made his blood simmer.

A burning fury rose in his chest, primal and possessive. How dare they look at her like that? How dare they feast their eyes on what was—

The thought stopped him cold. What was his? When had he begun thinking of her in such terms?

But the rational part of his mind was drowned out by the overwhelming urge to plant his fist in every face that dared to appreciate her beauty. To make it clear to every man in the village that she was under his protection, that she was his.

His jaw clenched as he fought the irrational desire to pull her closer, to stake his claim somehow. Instead, he moved slightly nearer to her, close enough that his presence would be unmistakable to any observer.

The subtle shift put him between her and the most brazen of the stares, his larger frame shielding her from them.

“Laird McCulloch!” a burly blacksmith called out. “Fine day for the market!”

“Aye, Hamish,” Hector replied. “How fares the forge?”

“Busy with spring plantin’ tools,” the blacksmith answered, his gaze shifting to Gabriella with undisguised curiosity.

Hector placed his hand on the small of Gabriella’s back, a gesture that declared his protection to any watching eyes. The action wasn’t planned, but came instinctively. He felt her stiffen momentarily, then relax beneath his touch.

“The Highland Thistle has fresh venison stew today,” he said as they approached a stone building with a weathered wooden sign. “Best in the region.”

The tavern was a respectable establishment frequented by merchants and local craftsmen. As they entered, the warm scent of peat smoke and cooking meat enveloped them. Conversations paused momentarily as the patrons recognized their Laird, then resumed at a slightly lower volume.

“Laird McCulloch!” The tavern keeper hurried forward, wiping his hands on his apron. “An honor! Yer table is available.”