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 cornersof 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 pulledher effortlessly to her feet, she stumbled against him, partly from weakness, partly from wounded pride.
The solid wallof 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 leftto 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 werethick 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 bustledwith 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 dismountedin 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 legsbuckled the moment her feet touched the ground. Only his quick reflexes saved her from collapsing in a heap.
“Ye should have savedyer 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’dtold 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.
4
“Mistress Agnes,” he barked as he ducked through the doorway. “I’ve need of ye.”
The scent hit Gabriella first—herbsand tinctures, honey and cloves. Nothing like the stench of their prison.
A woman appearedfrom behind a curtain, gray-haired and straight-backed. Her keen eyes took in Gabriella in one sweep.
“Put her there,”she directed, pointing to a cot near a small fireplace.
