Page 2 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

“Isaid stop, lass!”

“Nay!” She thrashed weakly against his hold. “Let me go!”

Hector tightened his grip, lifting her off the ground. Her back pressed against his chest as he held her, shocked at how little she weighed.

He murmured near her ear, “Dinnae make this harder than it has to be and stay still.”

He maintained a commanding tone, so she’d obey. It didn’t work. Instead, she shifted, using her elbow to jab at his ribs. The desperation in her movements stirred something protective within him that he had never felt toward a lass before.

Hector started back toward the meeting point. Each glance at her revealed more evidence of whatever she’d been through: rope bruises on her wrists and ankles, long gashes along her arms that hadn’t quite healed, sharp angles that were evidence of starvation.

Hector realized she hadn’t moved, which concerned him more than her earlier struggle.

“Stay with me, lass,” he murmured, quickening his pace. “Nae much farther.”

The trees thinned as they approached the edge of the forest. Hector whistled to his horse and listened for its neighing response.

“That’s a fine specimen ye’ve caught,” a voice called from his right. “And I want her for meself.”

Hector turned, keeping the lass tight against him.

“I caught her fair,” he replied coldly. “She’s mine, according to the rules of the hunt.”

The rival Laird moved until he was blocking Hector’s path.

“Rules?” He laughed, his hand moving to the dirk at his belt. “These women are meant for men who can keep them. And I’ve taken a particular likin’ to this one.”

Hector was left with no choice. He set the lass down gently by the trunk of an oak tree. “Stay,” he commanded, hoping she was too weak to attempt another escape.

The Laird lunged the moment Hector’s hands left her, slashing with his blade. Hector stepped to the side, caught his wrist, and drove his fist into the man’s jaw with enough force to send him staggering backward.

“Try that again,” he growled, “and ye’ll nae leave these woods standin’.”

The man wiped blood from his lip, hatred burning in his eyes. “This isnae over,” he spat, before retreating into the trees.

Hector turned back to where he’d left the lass, only to find her gone.

“Bloody hell,” he swore, scanning the tree line.

She’d managed to drag herself away while he was occupied. The lass had more spirit than sense.

She’d managed to crawl, leaving a clear path through the undergrowth. When Hector spotted her, his blood froze.

She’d dragged herself to the edge of a steep ravine, her fingers clawing at the ground as she tried to pull herself those final few inches to the drop.

Christ Almighty. She would rather die than be taken.

He nearly flew across the distance and caught her just as her upper body tipped over the edge. She let out a broken sound—part frustration, part despair—as he pulled her back into his arms.

“Enough.” His tone was sharper than he had intended. “Ye’re nae dyin’ today.”

This time, when he lifted her, one arm went beneath her knees while the other supported her shoulders. Her head fell naturally against his chest.

As they crossed the field, he finally saw her face properly.

Despite the grime and exhaustion, Hector could see that she was a fair lass. Her face, though gaunt with hunger, held a finesse that couldn’t be diminished.

High cheekbones. Full lips, even if cracked at the moment. Skin that would be like porcelain if properly tended. Hector’s fingers itched to brush the tangled hair from her face, to reveal more of her features.

Despite her thin frame, he noticed she was curvier than he’d initially thought.

Her breasts pressed against his chest, and her hip fit well in his grip as he carried her.

Desire stirred unexpectedly, which he immediately banished, disgusted with himself. This woman had endured God knew what horrors; the last thing she needed was another man thinking of her in that way.

How much had she suffered? The bruises told a story of consistent abuse. And her willingness to throw herself to her death rather than be captured…

His grip tightened around her, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached. Everyone involved in this—everyone who had profited from her pain—would pay. He would see to it personally.

“I caught ye, so ye’re mine now,” he whispered to her with a deliberate smirk, but deep inside he hoped she might sense the promise beneath his words—that with him, she would finally be safe.

As he approached the meeting point, he spotted Theodore, Lucas, and Elijah already waiting, each with their own rescue. The other lasses looked afraid and desperate. They didn’t know yet how lucky they were.

Theodore caught his eye first. His slight nod told Hector that he hadn’t encountered any trouble. The woman beside him had wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes watching them warily.

Lucas stood protectively beside the youngest lass, who seemed unable to look up from the ground. Silent tears rolled down her dirt-smudged face.

Elijah held the arm of the dark-haired lass, who, despite her ragged appearance, maintained a certain defiance in her stance. Her eyes met Hector’s as he reached them.

“We’re clear,” Theodore said quietly. “We’ve got all the girls brought for the hunt today. But one of the organizers confessed that others are bein’ kept for another hunt.” He spat the last word like it was poison.

“And the organizers?” Hector asked, shifting his burden in his arms. The lass stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

“That’s two down,” Elijah reported. “The other two scattered when they realized something was amiss.”

“And the host?” Hector pressed.

Lucas shook his head. “One of the bastards we missed. Slipped away like the snake he is.”

Hector swore under his breath. The leader, at least, should have paid today.

“We return to our territories as planned,” he decided. “Our men will continue the hunt for the organizers. For now, these lasses need care.”

“Who takes whom?” Theodore asked, eyeing the woman in Hector’s arms.

Hector looked down at her face, peaceful in repose. Despite everything she’d endured, there was strength in her features.

“This one comes with me.” His tone brooked no argument.

The other Lairds nodded. Their plan had succeeded—at least this part of it. Four women were saved from a fate worse than death. It wasn’t enough to ease his conscience entirely, but it was a start.

“Our men are in position?” he asked.

“Aye,” Theodore assured. “They’ll sweep these woods clean by nightfall. Any organizer still lurking will face justice.”

“Good.”

Hector strode purposely to his waiting stallion, the lass still secure in his arms. With practiced efficiency, he hoisted her into the saddle, then swung up behind her in one fluid motion.

He positioned her against his chest, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist to keep her from falling as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

“We will meet again soon to finish this business. I will send word to each of ye.”

As he guided his stallion toward McCulloch territory, Hector made a silent vow to the woman in his arms. Whatever had happened to her before, she was under his protection now.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind: “A McCulloch protects those who cannae protect themselves. It is nae just a duty, son. It is an honor.”

He glanced down at the lass. His father would be proud of today’s work, though the task was far from finished.