Page 3 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

Gabriella woke up to the unfamiliar rhythm of a horse beneath her and a strong arm holding her upright. Her head lolled against something—the man’s chest.

For the space of a heartbeat, she allowed herself to bask in this strange comfort before memory crashed over her. The hunt. Her capture. Being lifted out of her hiding spot.

She hadn’t gotten away. She belonged to a laird now.

She jerked upright, panic surging through her.

“Easy, lass,” a deep voice rumbled against her back. The same voice. “Ye’re safe now.”

Safe. Such a foreign concept.

Gabriella hadn’t been safe since she left her father’s tiny cottage to find work. Nothing had been safe about her life since her first encounter with Lewis. She twisted, trying to see the face of her captor.

He loosened his grip just enough to allow her to turn. Fierce brown eyes met hers. His jaw was set in a hard line beneath a day’s growth, and his expression was focused, determined.

“Where are ye takin’ me?” She tried to sound confident, demanding, but her voice came out as a mere rasp. Her throat still felt raw despite the brief rest.

“To me castle,” he replied, his Highland accent thicker than her commoner’s lilt. “Castle McCulloch. Me home.”

The thought of living in such a fine castle as a bed slave sent a wave of revulsion through Gabriella.

“I escaped a madman only to be caught by a beast,” she spat, struggling weakly against his hold. The horse snorted in response to her agitation.

His arm tightened around her waist slightly enough to still her movements. “Stop that before ye fall. Ye’re in nay condition to be fightin’ me.”

He was right. Gabriella felt as though she was being stabbed by the jagged edges of broken glass. Every movement sent bolts of pain through her limbs. The brief burst of energy from panic was bleeding away, leaving her hollow and trembling.

“I willnae let ye use me.” She summoned what little defiance she had left. “I’ll die first.”

Something flashed across his face. Gabriella thought it looked like… respect?

“Ye’re a fiery one, are ye nae, lass?” he said, his tone clipped, business-like. “But I assure ye, ye’ll be safe at Castle McCulloch. Nay one will harm ye.”

“Why should I believe you?” Gabriella challenged weakly, though the gravity of his tone confused her. “You caught me in that hunt like all the other lairds.”

“I caught ye to save ye, lass,” he replied. “Though ye might nae believe that yet.”

His words silenced her. Still, Gabriella knew better than to trust the words of any man, especially one who had hunted her to use her as a bed slave.

The horse slowed to navigate a particularly rocky patch of trail.

Gabriella shifted uncomfortably, then cleared her throat. “I need to…” She hesitated, her cheeks coloring slightly. “Nature calls.”

The Laird glanced down at her, his jaw tightening. “We’re nearly there, lass.”

“I cannae wait,” she insisted, her voice rising with practiced urgency. “Please. Just a moment by those bushes.”

Hector sighed, but reined the stallion to a halt. “Make it quick, then.”

He dismounted first, then reached up to help her down. His hands around her waist felt strong and steady, and as he lifted her out of the saddle, an unexpected tingle spread through her body at his touch, catching her by surprise.

The firm muscles beneath her fingers sent an unfamiliar shiver up her spine—a reaction that both confused and alarmed her. After months of fearing men’s touch, why did this contact affect her so differently?

Gabriella pushed these strange feelings aside, focusing on what she needed to do.

The moment her feet touched the ground, she swayed deliberately, grasping his arm for support.

“Ye need me to…”

“I can manage,” she said, pulling away. “Just… turn around.”

He hesitated, suspicion flickering across his features.

“Please,” she added, crossing her legs for effect. “It’s hardly dignified.”

With obvious reluctance, he turned his back. “Dinnae wander far.”

Gabriella limped toward a cluster of hawthorn bushes, making a show of each painful step. Once behind their cover, she cast a quick glance back. Hector stood with his back to her, his hand resting casually on his dirk.

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

It’s now or never.

She bolted. He’d expect her to head toward the path they’d taken, so she veered left, down a slope dotted with bracken. Her weakened legs screamed in protest as she half-ran, half-stumbled through the undergrowth.

Each footfall sent bolts of pain through her, but freedom lay in the dense woodland ahead.

The slope helped her gain momentum despite her weakness. Her lungs burned, but a wild exhilaration drove her forward.

She’d done it! The fool had actually turned his back on—

“Goin’ somewhere, lass?”

The deep voice stopped her cold.

Impossibly, the Laird stood directly in her path, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Not even breathing hard. Not a hair out of place.

Gabriella skidded to a halt, disbelief creasing her features. She glanced back up the hill. How had he—?

Her legs gave way beneath her. She collapsed to her knees, frustration and exhaustion overwhelming her. She pitched forward, pressing her forehead to the soil, her fingers clawing at the earth.

“Nay!” The word escaped her in a whisper, then grew into a choked sob.

She pressed her forehead against the cool earth, her shoulders shaking with silent grief as tears carved paths through the dirt on her face.

Hector’s shadow fell across her prostrate form. “Are ye quite finished?”

She remained facedown, speaking directly into the soil, her voice rising and falling in theatrical despair. “Please. Just leave me here to die.”

Gabriella rolled onto her back, her arms splayed, staring up at him. Leaves and twigs clung to her hair as if she were some wild woodland creature.

The corners of Hector’s mouth twitched—almost, but not quite—a smile.

“Die? Nay, lass. Nae on me watch. I told ye, ye’re free.

I’m bringin’ ye to me castle to rest and recover yer strength.

After that, ye’re free to go wherever ye want.

So, if ye’re done communin’ with the earth, we should keep going. ” He extended his hand.

“I dinnae believe ye,” she said, her voice rough from disuse. “But I’m in nay position to argue, am I? Better to die in yer castle than in these woods, I suppose.”

She glared at him, then took his hand, her jaw set stubbornly. “Just ken that if ye’re lyin’, I’ll find a way to escape. I’ve survived worse than ye, Me Laird.”

As he pulled her effortlessly to her feet, she stumbled against him, partly from weakness, partly from wounded pride.

The solid wall of his chest caught her, and for a heartbeat, something primitive sparked in her veins—a sudden, unwelcome awareness of him as a man rather than just her captor.

“Next time,” he murmured dryly near her ear as he steadied her, “try for the downhill path on the other side. It leads to a stream. Ye might have made it fifty paces.”

With nothing left to say or even do, Gabriella slumped against him. Just a few paces ahead, the land around them opened into rolling hills dotted with heather and gorse. In the distance, she could see the outline of a castle perched atop a rise, its stone walls catching the afternoon light.

Her prison. She’d need all her wits about her to survive what was coming.

As they drew closer, the castle loomed larger than anything Gabriella would have imagined. Stone towers reached toward the sky like grasping fingers, flags bearing what must be Clan McCulloch’s crest snapping in the Highland wind.

The walls were thick and formidable, built to withstand sieges and attacks.

“Here we are,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Castle McCulloch.”

They approached the gates, where two guards snapped to attention at the sight of their Laird. They exchanged quick glances when they saw Gabriella, but said nothing.

“Open the gates,” the Laird commanded.

“Aye, Laird McCulloch.” Both guards moved simultaneously to obey.

The courtyard bustled with activity that stilled as they entered. Servants paused their work, stable boys stopped mid-task, and all eyes turned toward Gabriella and Hector. She felt their stares, filled with questions she had no answers to.

“Me Laird,” a man called, stepping forward. He was older, with a weathered face and sharp eyes. “Ye’ve returned.”

“Aye, Duncan.”

The Laird dismounted in one fluid motion, then reached up for her. His hands were careful and controlled as they lifted her down. The strength in those hands was obvious—he could have snapped her in two without effort—yet he handled her like she was fragile glass.

Gabriella’s legs buckled the moment her feet touched the ground. Only his quick reflexes saved her from collapsing in a heap.

“Ye should have saved yer strength instead of tryin’ to escape. I’ll take ye to the healer so she can examine ye,” he spoke in a clipped tone.

Without waiting for a response, he scooped her back into his arms.

Despite what he’d told her, Gabriella expected to be carried to a chamber, perhaps his own, where she’d face what all the captured women surely faced.

Instead, he strode across the courtyard toward a small building near the castle wall.