Page 33 of Trapped By the Wicked Highlander
Hunter pulled his horse to a stop near a modest stone seamstress shop, its wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze. He dismounted first, turning to offer Cassandra his hand, but she ignored it and slid off her saddle herself. He smirked,watching her straighten her skirts with a stubborn flick of her wrist, her chin lifted high.
"Always so determined to do things yer own way, eh, lass?" Hunter teased as she brushed past him toward the shop.
Cassandra shot him a pointed look, her eyes flashing. "I daenae need help dismountin’ a horse, Hunter," she retorted. "I’ve been ridin’ since I was a wee lass."
"Aye, but ye could stand to let someone take care of ye every now and then, since ye take care of others with nay thought to yerself" he said.
He watched as she stopped in her tracks at his words, then averted her gaze to the ground as she entered the shop.
The seamstress, a plump woman with gray-streaked hair, looked up from her work with a warm smile. She wiped her hands on her apron before stepping forward, her gaze sweeping over Cassandra with an appraising eye.
"Och, now this is a fine lass ye’ve brought me, Laird McDougal," she said. "What can I do for ye?"
Hunter gestured toward Cassandra. "She needs new dresses," he said simply.
Cassandra stiffened beside him. "I daenae need much, just one or two will do," she said quickly. "I dinnae expect to be away from home so long."
The seamstress hummed in thought before pulling out her measuring ribbon. "Well, best get yer measurements, lass," she said, waving Cassandra toward a small wooden stool. "Stand still now."
Cassandra sighed but obeyed, holding her arms out as the seamstress wrapped the ribbon around her waist.
Hunter watched, arms crossed, as the woman rattled off numbers and jotted them down. His gaze lingered longer than necessary on the curve of Cassandra’s waist, and when she glanced at him, her cheeks flushed deep pink.
When the seamstress finished, Hunter stepped forward. "I’ll need several dresses made," he said. "Sturdy ones for everyday wear—and one elegant enough for occasions at the castle."
Cassandra’s head snapped toward him. "Hunter, I daenae need?—"
He silenced her with a look. "Ye’ll have them, lass. Nay arguments."
She turned to the seamstress instead. "How much will it cost?"
The seamstress opened her mouth, but Hunter cut her off before she could respond. "Charge it to the castle credit," he said smoothly.
Cassandra spun to face him fully, hands planted on her hips. "I can pay for me own dresses," she insisted, her voice tinged with frustration. "Ye’ve nay need to be spendin’ yer coin on me."
Hunter’s jaw tightened as he stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Ye are under me clan’s protection, Cassandra," he said firmly. "As long as ye serve as our healer, ye’ll want for nothin’. I take care of me own."
Cassandra opened her mouth as if to argue, after a long pause, she exhaled in defeat. "Fine," she muttered.
Hunter smirked, satisfied. "That’s more like it, lass."
The seamstress clapped her hands together. "I’ll send them to the castle when they're ready, Laird," she said cheerfully. "I’ll make sure they fit her like a dream."
Cassandra shot him one last glare before turning back to the seamstress. "Thank ye," she said with a small nod, though her voice still carried a hint of reluctance.
Hunter leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just for her. "See, that wasnae so hard, was it?"
She huffed, crossing her arms. "Ye are impossible, Gilmour."
He chuckled, leading her back toward the door. "Aye, but ye like me anyway, daenae ye?"
She scoffed but said nothing, her blush giving her away. Hunter grinned as they stepped out into the village once more, pleased with himself—and with the way Cassandra was slowly, unwillingly, dropping her guard.
Hunter led Cassandra out of the seamstress’s cottage, the crisp Highland air brushing against his skin as they stepped onto the dirt path. The village bustled around them, but he remained focused on Cassandra, watching her adjust the folds of her gown.
She still seemed flustered from their conversation inside, her lips pressed into a stubborn line. He smirked to himself, enjoying how she bristled whenever he asserted himself.
Just as he was about to speak, movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. A man in a hooded cloak approached, his posture tense, his strides purposeful. Instinct stirred in Hunter’s gut, sharpening his senses as the man drew nearer. Before Hunter could react, the stranger lunged, a glint of steel flashing beneath the folds of his cloak.
