Page 28 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

Her door flew open. “Gabriella, I—”

Hector’s words froze, his entire body going rigid in the doorway. His gaze locked on her, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Gabriella sat on a stool near the window, half-dressed in her chemise and stays, her hair loose around her shoulders, waiting for Aileen to braid it. Heat flooded her cheeks at being caught in such a state of undress.

“I should have knocked,” he said roughly, though he made no move to leave.

His eyes darkened in a way that made her pulse quicken. She raised a questioning eyebrow, breaking the spell that seemed to hold them both captive.

“What did ye need?” she asked, proud that her voice remained steady.

He cleared his throat, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him—a liberty that would have scandalized her weeks ago.

“Ye remember I ordered ye a gown? The seamstress sent word that she needs ye for the final fittin’. We leave within the hour.”

“Very well.” She reached for her dress, acutely aware of his piercing gaze. “Anythin’ else?”

“Aye.” His voice carried that edge of satisfaction she’d grown familiar with. “The weddin’ will be tomorrow.”

The words hit her like a physical blow.

Tomorrow.

Her hands stilled on the fabric of her gown, and she felt the blood drain from her face.

“So soon?” she whispered.

“The banns have been read. The preparations are nearly finished.” He moved closer, and she could see the possessive gleam in his eyes. “Unless ye’ve changed yer mind about acceptin’ me protection?”

The way he said ‘protection’ made it clear that he meant far more than that, but she lifted her chin defiantly. “In name only, as we agreed.”

Something flickered across his features—amusement, perhaps, or challenge. “As ye say, lass.”

“I should finish dressin’,” she said quickly, needing him gone before her resolve faltered.

“Aye. I’ll be waitin’ in the courtyard.” He paused at the door, his gaze raking over her once more. “Wear somethin’ warm. The ride to the village can be… cold.”

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Gabriella to wonder if he’d meant the weather or something else entirely.

Gabriella had forgotten how it felt to ride pressed against Hector’s chest, his arms bracketing her as he gripped the reins. Every movement of the horse jolted her back against him, and she could feel the solid wall of muscle at her spine, the warmth radiating through his shirt.

His breath stirred the hair at her temple when he leaned forward to guide the stallion around a fallen branch, and she had to bite her lip to suppress the shiver that ran through her.

This was dangerous—this pull she felt toward him, the way her body seemed to soften against his without her permission.

Marriage in name only.

“Almost there,” he murmured in her ear, and the low rumble of his voice made her stomach flutter traitorously.

She felt him tense behind her as a particularly rough patch of road pressed her more firmly against him. His breathing changed, becoming more controlled, deliberate. When his arm tightened around her waist—ostensibly to steady her—she caught the sharp intake of breath he tried to hide.

He was as affected as she was.

The realization sent heat spiraling through her, even as she fought against it.

She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her back, could sense the restraint in every careful movement he made.

When she shifted slightly, trying to ease the growing tension in her body, she heard him curse softly under his breath.

“Dinnae move like that,” he said roughly, his voice strained.

“Like what?” she asked, though she knew perfectly well what he meant.

His grip on the reins tightened. “Ye ken exactly what ye’re doing, lass.”

Did she? Perhaps part of her was testing him, testing this dangerous attraction that hummed between them like a living thing.

“Ah! Laird McCulloch! And the bride-to-be!” Mistress Ross beamed as she gestured toward a curtained alcove. “Just days ago, ye were a guest, and now ye are a bride,” she said with an exaggerated wink at Gabriella. “Me Laird, everythin’ is ready, just as ye requested.”

Her shop seemed smaller today—perhaps because, in Gabriella’s mind, Hector’s presence seemed to fill every corner.

Mistress Ross bustled about with obvious excitement, her apprentice trailing behind with armfuls of fabric and ribbon.

Gabriella moved toward the fitting area, but Hector’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“I’ll be stayin’,” he said simply.

Heat flooded her cheeks. “That’s highly improper.”

“I was here the first time, was I nae?” he pointed out, his voice carrying that note of authority she was learning to recognize.

Gabriella was about to explain that the last time they were here, he hadn’t looked at her like he wanted to tear her clothes off her body, when he growled, “And there are security concerns to consider.”

Mistress Ross looked between them uncertainly. “Perhaps… perhaps the Laird could remain on the other side of the curtain? For the lady’s modesty?”

Hector hesitated for only a moment before he barked, “Aye.”

His expression suggested that this compromise wasn’t entirely satisfactory to him.

Behind the curtain, Gabriella’s hands trembled as she removed her traveling dress. She could hear him moving just beyond the thin barrier, his boots thudding against the wooden floor, a chair creaking as he settled into it.

“The gown, miss,” the apprentice whispered, holding up the most beautiful dress Gabriella had ever seen.

It was made of ivory silk, with delicate blue embroidery that matched the McCulloch colors. The bodice was fitted to accentuate her curves while remaining tastefully modest. The skirts fell in elegant folds that would move beautifully during the wedding dance.

As the apprentice helped her into it, her breath caught. The woman reflected in the mirror looked like someone else entirely—not a tavern girl, but a lady worthy of a Highland laird.

“Perfect,” Mistress Ross breathed. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Is all well?” Hector’s voice came from just beyond the curtain, closer than before.

“Aye,” Mistress Ross called back. “Just a few small alterations needed.”

The seamstress worked quickly, but as she kneeled to hem the skirts, she looked up at Gabriella with knowing eyes.

“Ye’re a fortunate lass,” she said quietly. “The Laird has been alone for too long. Ye can see it in his eyes when he looks at ye—like a man who’s found somethin’ he thought was lost forever.”

Gabriella’s throat tightened. If only the woman knew the truth of their arrangement.

“Turn around slowly,” Mistress Ross instructed, stepping back to admire her work. “Let me see how the skirts move.”

As Gabriella turned, the curtain shifted slightly in the breeze drifting through an open window. Through the gap, she caught sight of Hector—and froze.

He was watching her through that narrow opening, his eyes dark with an intensity that made her breath hitch. The look on his face was raw, unguarded. There was a hunger there, along with something deeper, more complex.

Their eyes met for one charged moment before he deliberately looked away, his jaw clenched tight.

“We’re finished,” Mistress Ross announced, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air. “The gown is perfect.”

As Gabriella changed back into her traveling dress, her hands shook with more than the cool air. The memory of the look in Hector’s eyes burned through her—not the controlled, careful expression he usually wore, but something fierce and possessive that made her pulse race.

When she emerged from behind the curtain, he was standing by the window, his back to her, every line of his body taut with restraint.

“Ready?” he asked without turning around.

“Aye,” she managed.

The ride was torture. Every brush of his body against hers, every shift of the horse beneath them, seemed magnified tenfold. She could feel the tension radiating from him, could sense his careful control beginning to fray.

He stopped the stallion, dismounting quickly, and lifted her down. For a moment, they stood there, their bodies almost touching, the space between them charged with unspoken desire.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly, his eyes searching her face.

“Tomorrow,” she echoed, though the words felt like both a promise and a threat.

“We’ll dine at The Golden Stag before returnin’,” Hector announced as they secured the horses. “Ye’ve had little food today, and the ride back will be long.”

The Golden Stag was a grand establishment. Crystal glasses caught the light from dozens of candles, and the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the air. Other patrons spoke in hushed, refined tones—merchants and minor nobility rather than common folk.

Hector guided Gabriella to a secluded table near a window, pulling out her chair with courtly grace. The gesture sent warmth through her chest, even as she reminded herself that this was all for appearances.

“Wine,” he told the waitress. “Yer finest.”

As they waited for their meal, thunder rumbled in the distance. Gabriella glanced toward the window, noting the darkening sky.

“Tell me about France,” Hector said suddenly. “Did ye really mean to join the convent there?”

The question caught her off guard. “Aye. Or perhaps I… I thought of finding work. I could work as a seamstress or a lady’s maid. Start fresh where nay one kens me past.”

“And now?”

She met his eyes across the flickering candlelight. “Now I suppose I’ll be a Highlander’s wife instead.”

Something dark flashed in his gaze. “Is that so terrible a fate?”

The wine arrived, rich and smooth on her tongue. As fine as the wine at the castle. It warmed her blood and loosened the tight coil of anxiety in her chest.

“I never imagined such a life was possible for someone like me,” she admitted. “A laird’s wife… it seems like somethin’ out of a fairytale.”

“Ye underestimate yerself, lass,” Hector muttered, his voice rough.