Page 7 of Hunted By the Cruel Highlander (Lasses of the Highland Hunt #1)

“Good mornin’, Me Lady. Have ye waken?”

Gabriella stirred awake at the strange, distant voice.

For a moment, she didn’t recognize her surroundings—the high ceiling, the stone walls covered with tapestries, the early morning light filtering through heavy curtains. Then, the fog of sleep cleared, and she remembered.

She was in Castle McCulloch.

Safety.

She drew a shaky breath, then realized something remarkable—she’d slept through the night. No nightmares had torn her from sleep, no visions of Lewis or the cellar had haunted her dreams. After the night of terrors that had brought Hector to her chamber, unperturbed rest felt like a miracle.

Sunlight gently spilled through the window, illuminating a room that still took her breath away.

The bed where she’d slept was larger than the entire space she’d shared with her father in their modest home.

The sheets against her skin were impossibly soft—not rough linen, but something finer that she couldn’t name.

A small fire crackled in the hearth, though the morning was mild. Such luxury, to burn wood for comfort rather than necessity.

The woven rug beneath the bed, the carved chest at the foot of the bed, the washbasin made of polished metal rather than chipped pottery—all spoke of wealth beyond anything she’d known.

A soft knock at the door pulled her out of her reverie.

“Me Lady. I brought ye some tea.” The voice on the other side of the door was muffled.

“Come in,” Gabriella called, pulling the blanket around her shoulders.

A young maid entered, carrying a tray. She was perhaps sixteen, with rosy cheeks and a smattering of freckles across her nose.

“Good mornin’, Me Lady.” She punctuated her greeting with a quick curtsy. “I’ve brought ye some breakfast. I’m Aileen. Laird McCulloch assigned me to attend ye.”

Gabriella stiffened at the title. “I’m nay lady,” she replied quietly. “Just Gabriella will do.”

Aileen set the tray down on a small table near the window. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Me Lady, but I must follow the Laird’s orders. Ye’re to be treated as family here, and that means addressin’ ye as a Lady.” Her tone was respectful but firm, making it clear she wouldn’t be swayed on this matter.

Gabriella’s breath caught in her throat.

Treated as family? The words struck her like a physical blow.

She hadn’t been part of a family since her father died four years ago.

The concept felt foreign, dangerous even—to allow herself to imagine belonging somewhere, with people who might care for her welfare.

“That’s… that’s nae necessary,” she stammered, her fingers twisting in the blanket. “I’m only here temporarily.”

Aileen turned with a smile, a hint of stubbornness in her expression. “The Laird’s orders, Me Lady. And he’s nae one whose commands are taken lightly in this castle.”

She busied herself with pulling back the curtains and stoking the fire, chattering as she worked.

“I’ve drawn ye a bath in the adjoinin’ chamber. Mrs. Bard—she’s the housekeeper—says ye’re to join the family for the mornin’ meal, so I’ve brought one of the dresses Mistress Ross finished yestereve.”

Gabriella watched the maid’s efficient movements, pulling away instinctively when Aileen came too close. The maid seemed to notice, keeping a careful distance as she laid out the dress—a simple but elegant garment made of deep blue wool, with delicate embroidery at the neckline and sleeves.

“Would ye like help with yer bath, Me Lady?” Aileen asked, testing the water temperature with her fingertips.

“Nay.” Gabriella’s reply was too quick.

But the maid’s expression didn’t change. She’d likely been warned about Gabriella’s circumstances.

“I mean, I can manage. Old habits. Been on me own all me life.” Gabriella attempted a smile.

Aileen nodded, understanding beyond her years in her eyes.

“Ye’re safe now, Me Lady. But I understand needin’ to do things yerself.

” She arranged the towels neatly. “Me ma says that independence is a woman’s true wealth.

Just call when ye need help with the dress, then.

It laces up the back—even the Laird himself couldnae manage those knots alone. ”

The adjoining chamber contained a wooden tub filled with steaming water. Flowers floated on the surface, releasing a gentle fragrance that reminded Gabriella of summer fields. She slipped out of her nightgown and into the water, half expecting to wake up from what surely must be a dream.

The heat soothed the lingering aches in her body. Two days of proper food and rest had already begun to restore her strength, though she still grew tired easily.

When she emerged from the bath, she wrapped herself in a linen towel and called softly for Aileen.

The maid returned, helping her into a clean shift and then the blue dress, her fingers deftly tying the laces.

“The color suits ye,” she commented, guiding Gabriella to a looking glass mounted on the wall. “Brings out the blue in yer eyes.”

Gabriella stared at her reflection, barely recognizing herself. The gaunt face remained, but clean hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders. The dress, simple as it was, transformed her from a prisoner to… someone else. Someone she might have been in another life.

“I was often told that I looked like me maither,” Gabriella whispered, touching the glass.

Her father had kept a small portrait, now lost like everything else from that time. The only thing she’d known of her mother was the stories her father told—of her kindness; her love of books; her blue eyes, which Gabriella had inherited.

“Did ye nae ken yer maither, Me Lady?” Aileen asked gently, brushing Gabriella’s hair.

“She died birthin’ me,” Gabriella replied. “And me faither died when I was fifteen. After that, I worked at a tavern until…” she trailed off, unwilling to speak of what came after.

Aileen nodded, understanding in her young face. “Well, I think she’d be proud to see ye now. Ye look like ye belong in this castle.”

Her innocent comment stirred something painful in Gabriella’s chest. She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong anywhere.

“The family will be waitin’,” Aileen said, fastening a simple silver pin at Gabriella’s shoulder—another luxury she’d never possessed. “Mrs. Bard says that the Laird was quite insistent that ye join them this mornin’.”

“Are they all there?” Gabriella asked, her stomach fluttering with nerves.

“Aye. Lady McCulloch, Lady Erica, and Mr. Noah, the Laird’s man-at-arms. Ye neednae worry—they’re kind folk. Lady Erica, especially, asked a lot of questions about ye.”

Gabriella followed Aileen through corridors that still seemed like a maze. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes and battles lined the walls. Servants paused in their duties to either bow or curtsy as she passed, their curious gazes following her.

The Great Hall was located in the heart of the castle, a cavernous space with a high ceiling supported by massive beams. Morning light streamed through tall windows, illuminating the McCulloch clan crest carved above the enormous fireplace.

A long table dominated the room, though only one end was set for the morning meal.

Gabriella hesitated at the entrance, suddenly wishing she could flee back to the safety of her chamber. Hector looked up and saw her. Something flickered across his face as he nodded for her to come to the empty chair on his right.

Four people sat at the table, with Hector at the head. An older woman who could only be Lady McCulloch sat on his left. She straightened, her gray-streaked hair and elegant posture contrasting with the sadness in her eyes.

Across from her sat a younger woman with Hector’s brown eyes, who must be Erica. She leaned forward eagerly, her smile bright and curious. The last person at the table was a pleasant-faced man whose gaze remained fixed on Gabriella, watchful but not unkind.

Squaring her shoulders, Gabriella crossed the hall, acutely aware of every eye on her. The clicking of her borrowed shoes on the stone floor seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

She reached the table, hesitating at the chair Hector indicated.

“Join us,” he urged, his deep voice breaking the silence.

Gabriella slid into the seat, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

“Ye must be Gabriella,” old Lady McCulloch said, her voice gentle. “Welcome to our home. I’m Andrea Muir. Me daughter is, of course, Erica, and this is Noah.”

“Thank you, Me Lady,” Gabriella replied, the title feeling strange on her tongue.

She reached for the napkin, unsure which of the two beside her plate to use.

Lady McCulloch subtly nudged the smaller one toward her with a warm smile. “The linen is for yer lap, dear.”

Heat rushed to Gabriella’s cheeks. “Of course. I—”

“Is it true that ye fought off one of the hunters?” Erica interrupted, leaning so far forward that her sleeve nearly dipped into her porridge. “Hector mentioned ye have quite the spirit. He said that ye nearly threw yerself off a cliff so as nae to be captured!”

“Erica,” Lady McCulloch chided softly.

“It’s all right,” Gabriella said. “I… tried to escape. Nothin’ brave about it.”

“I disagree,” Noah spoke up, his tone somber. “Fightin’ when the odds are against ye takes courage. All four of ye were very brave.”

A servant appeared, filling Gabriella’s bowl with porridge drizzled with honey. She stared at the steaming food, suddenly unsure if she should wait for the others.

“Please, eat,” Lady McCulloch encouraged, noticing her hesitation.

Gabriella carefully took a spoonful, savoring the rich flavors. The healer’s warning echoed in her mind—eat slowly, in small portions.

The table before her was laden with morning bounty. English customs might have reached some tables after the recent troubles, but Castle McCulloch maintained traditions that predated Culloden.