Page 6 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

Hector strode away from Gabriella’s chamber, his fists clenched, his knuckles white with barely contained fury. He had witnessed many atrocities in battle, but the state of the lass had ignited a rage within him that threatened to consume his reason.

“Bloody hell!” he growled, each injury burning into his mind—the cuts on her arms and feet, the bruises on her skin, the raw wounds where ropes had cut deep, and even the fresh ones she’d gotten running for her life during the hunt.

“For six bloody months, they held innocent lasses to hunt on me lands. I’d tear out their throats with me bare hands if I could. ”

He reached the corridor’s end and paused, glancing back at the heavy oak door to her chamber.

He’d placed her in a room adjacent to his quarters in the east wing—an arrangement that would raise eyebrows among the servants.

Unmarried lasses should stay in the west wing, far from the Laird’s chambers.

“‘Tis for her protection,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

The lass had nearly flung herself off a cliff so she would not be captured. Hell, she’d tried to run away from him even in her weakened state. Who knew what she might try if left alone?

But even as he justified his decision, Hector knew there was more to it. Her fierce spirit, unbroken despite everything, had awakened something protective inside him he’d thought long dead.

His mind returned to the confusion in her blue eyes when he’d told her she was safe.

To the moment when that bastard had nearly reached her before Hector intervened.

If he’d been a minute late and the bastard had caught her, she might have been lost forever, living a life no better than that of a trapped animal.

“I’ll get ye. Every last one of ye bastards!”

“Me Laird?” A timid voice broke through his thoughts.

A young maid stood frozen in the corridor, a stack of linens in her arms. Her eyes were wide with alarm at his display of temper.

Hector schooled his features into something resembling calm. “Carry on, Moira.”

The girl hurried past, giving him a wide berth. Her fear was a sharp reminder of his position. A laird could not indulge in displays of emotion like common men. His people looked to him for strength, for stability in the clan.

The snake who had led the hunt had escaped. He had slithered away during the chaos, but Hector would find him before too long. He would make him pay for every mark on Gabriella’s body, every moment of terror those lasses had endured.

His father had taught him that a warrior’s rage was a weapon, useful only when properly tempered and controlled.

A McCulloch doesnae lose control. A McCulloch doesnae fail in his duty.

And Hector had a new duty now, to the fierce-eyed lass sleeping in the chamber behind him, and to every woman who had suffered at the hands of these hunters. He would not fail them.

“Mark me words. I’ll see every one of ye burn for it.”

Hours later, Hector sat hunched over maps of the region, marking possible hideouts where the hunt’s leader might have fled. His eyes burned from strain in the dim candlelight, but his mind refused to slow down. The brandy beside him remained untouched—he needed clarity, not comfort.

He pushed back from the desk, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. Perhaps rest would come now that he had a plan. Reluctantly, he made his way to his chambers, stripping off his léine and falling onto his bed.

The sleep that eventually claimed him was dark and fitful, until a scream tore through the night, jerking him awake.

Hector bolted upright, instantly alert. The sound came again—raw terror from the chamber next to his. Gabriella.

He grabbed the dirk he kept beside his bed and was at her door in moments, his heart pounding with dread.

He burst into her chamber, his weapon raised, scanning the shadows for intruders. Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating the bed where Gabriella thrashed above the linens, still screaming, though her eyes remained closed.

He exhaled sharply, lowering the blade. Setting the dirk on a nearby table, he approached the bed cautiously.

“Gabriella,” he called, keeping his voice low but firm. “Wake up, lass. Ye’re dreamin’.”

She didn’t hear him. She was far too lost in whatever horror her mind had conjured. Her face was contorted in terror, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Nay! Please! I willnae go back!” she cried, her arms flailing as if warding off invisible hands.

Hector sat carefully on the edge of the bed and held firmly to her wrists, mindful of her injuries.

“Gabriella,” he repeated, louder this time. “Wake up. Ye’re safe now.”

Her eyes flew open, wild and unseeing at first. Then, recognition dawned, followed immediately by fresh fear. She jerked backward, pressing herself against the headboard.

“It’s me, Gabriella.” Hector released her wrists, raising his hands to show that he meant no harm. “Ye were havin’ a nightmare.”

Gabriella’s breath came in ragged gasps. She stared at him, blinking in the dim light. “Laird McCulloch?”

“Aye. Ye’re in me castle, remember? Ye’re safe here.”

Slowly, the terror in her eyes receded, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion that made her look far older than her years. She drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didnae mean to wake ye.”

Something twisted in Hector’s chest at her apology. Had punishment become what she expected in place of understanding?

“Dinnae apologize.” He paused, unsure how to handle the situation. “Would ye… would ye like to speak of it? Yer dream?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. “It was just memories. Things that happened.”

“Sometimes speakin’ about such things can rob them of their power.”

Gabriella looked up at him, studying his face. Whatever she saw must have reassured her, for she drew a shuddering breath and spoke.

“It was about Lewis, the tavern owner who took me.” Her voice was barely audible. “In the dream, he found me here and dragged me back to that… that place. Said he had sold me, and I had to go with him.”

Hector went utterly still. Lewis. At last, he had the name of the hunt’s leader.

His fingers itched to reach for the dirk and head out, to hunt down this man immediately. But he forced himself to remain focused on Gabriella.

“He willnae find ye here,” he assured her, keeping his voice steady despite the cold rage building inside him. “And ye belong to nay one, least of all him.”

She nodded, though doubt lingered in her expression. “It felt so real. I could smell the dampness of the cellar, feel the chains…” Her voice broke.

“I understand. I have such dreams meself sometimes.”

It was barely a whisper, but she had heard it.

“Ye do?” Genuine surprise colored her voice.

Hector nodded, surprised at himself for revealing such a thing. He rarely spoke of his vulnerabilities, even to his family. Yet something about her honest fear moved him to offer honesty in return.

“About me faither’s death,” he found himself saying. “I was there when it happened. A rival clan attacked us durin’ a hunt. I watched him fall.”

The memory of his father’s surprised expression as the arrow struck and the terrible moment when his knees buckled flashed through his mind.

“I still dream of it sometimes. Wake up thinkin’ I could have done somethin’ different.”

Gabriella’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

This time, her words held genuine sympathy rather than fear.

“It was four years ago,” Hector added. “The dreams come less frequently now.” He looked away, suddenly uncomfortable with how much he’d revealed. “Yers will fade too, in time.”

A fragile silence fell between them. Hector noticed the way she held her head up. Despite everything she’d endured, there was a quiet dignity about her, as if some essential part of her spirit remained unbroken.

“Would ye like some water? Or I could have tea brought up?” he offered gruffly, unsure what else to do for her.

She shook her head. “Nay, thank ye. I think I can sleep again now.”

Hector nodded and rose from the bed. “I’ll leave ye, then. But I’m just beyond that wall,” he said, gesturing to the wall between their chambers. “If ye need anythin’, ye only need to call out.”

As he turned to go, her voice stopped him.

“Laird McCulloch?”

He looked back. “Aye?”

“Thank ye,” she said simply. “For comin’. For… understandin’.”

For the space of a heartbeat, they were not laird and rescued prisoner, but simply two people who had glimpsed each other’s wounds. It was a fragile thread of connection, but it was enough. For now.

“Rest well, Gabriella,” he said, his voice rough.

As he closed the door behind him, Hector found himself lingering, listening until her breathing slowed into the rhythm of sleep. Only then did he return to his chamber, the name “Lewis” burning in his mind like a brand.

Dawn broke through the narrow windows of the war room, casting long shadows across the ancient oak table where Hector had gathered his most trusted men. Maps and parchment lay spread before them, weighted down with daggers and goblets.

Noah stood at Hector’s right, while Duncan, his master-at-arms, and Malcolm, his chief scout, stood on the other side.

“What do we ken for certain?” Hector asked, tracing his finger along the map that showed the territories surrounding his lands.

“Four organizers,” Noah began. “Two were captured, and two escaped—this Lewis the lass spoke of.” He marked the locations with small stones. “All we’ve learned is that they’ve organized three hunts over the past year.”

“Three,” Hector repeated, disgust coloring his voice. “How many women before these four?”

Malcolm cleared his throat. “According to the prisoners, six at the first hunt, eight at the second.”

“Eighteen women.” Hector’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. “Eighteen lasses hunted like animals on me own lands.”

“Ye cannae blame yerself, Me Laird,” Duncan said. “Ye acted as soon as ye heard of it.”

Hector wasn’t consoled. “Nae soon enough for those first fourteen.” He straightened, pushing his dark thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. “Where would this Lewis run to? He must have a bolt-hole.”

Malcolm studied the map. “A name was mentioned. A tavern where they’d meet before the hunts. The Spotted Hare, near Inverness.”

“I ken it,” Noah said. “Rough establishment, changed hands about a year ago.”

Hector’s head snapped up. “A year ago? At the same time these hunts began?”

Noah nodded. “Perhaps the bastard owns the tavern.”

“Malcolm, take four men to Inverness,” Hector instructed. “Watch the tavern, but dinnae approach. If this Lewis is the ringleader, I want him brought here to answer for his crimes.”

“Aye, Me Laird.” Malcolm rolled up one of the maps. “We’ll leave at midday.”

“Duncan, double the patrols along the borders,” Hector added. “If he attempts to return for any reason, I want him caught.” Then, his eyes narrowed. “Did ye hear talk of any future hunts planned?”

“Aye,” Duncan replied. “The men we caught spoke of preparations for a fourth, larger hunt at the next full moon. More lasses, more payin’ hunters.”

“Then we have two weeks,” Hector said, a cold smile forming on his lips. “If we havenae found Lewis by then, we’ll be waitin’ at that hunt. He’d nae miss the chance for more coin.”

“A trap,” Noah agreed, nodding in approval.

That evening at supper, Hector found himself facing the curious gazes of his mother and sister across the high table.

“Well?” his mother, Andrea Muir, finally asked, setting down her goblet. “Are ye going to tell us about this mysterious woman ye’ve brought into our home?”

Hector pushed down his annoyance. He should have known that Mistress Agnes would waste no time informing his mother.

“Her name is Gabriella. She was held captive by the men runnin’ the hunts I’ve been investigatin’.”

His mother’s face paled. “The poor lass. Is she badly hurt?”

“She’s been mistreated, starved,” Hector replied, his voice tight. “But she’s strong. Stronger than most men I ken, to have survived what she did.”

“And ye’ve put her in the east wing?” Andrea asked, her gaze narrowing. “Rather close to yer chambers, is it nae?”

“For her protection,” Hector replied stiffly. “She’s been through a lot.”

“Of course,” Andrea relented, though the glint in her eyes suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced. “And how long will she be stayin’ with us?”

“A month,” Hector said. “She’s agreed to keep an eye on Erica in exchange for passage to France.”

“Keep an eye on me?” Erica spluttered indignantly. “I’m nae a child, Hector!”

“Yet ye still find trouble with remarkable consistency,” he replied dryly.

“Well, I think it’s wonderful to have another young woman here,” his mother interjected before Erica could retort. “When might we meet her?”

“When she’s stronger.” Hector’s tone was firm. “She needs rest now, and space. She’s been through horror none of us can imagine.”

His mother nodded, though her eyes never left his face. “Ye speak of her with great concern, me boy.”

“Any decent man would be concerned,” Hector pointed out, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

“Indeed,” she murmured, a small smile playing on her lips. “Indeed.”