Page 37 of Trapped By the Wicked Highlander
“Aye,” another man added with a nod. “I’ve seen men near death on their feet again, eatin’ and speakin’ like they were never ill. ‘Tis nay small feat. The lass is skilled, that much is clear.”
Hunter leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly against the table’s surface.
“She is,” he admitted. “I ken she had talent, but even I dinnae expect such a swift recovery for so many. She’s been tireless in her efforts.”
"A small penchant for her work then. I believe we can part with some coin, furs and the like. We daenae want McAllister to think us ungrateful," the elder said.
"Aye, ‘tis something I agree with. We shall send her back with a bounty when she does depart us," the other elder said.
There were murmurs of agreement around the table, a few of the men exchanging approving glances.
“’Tis a shame she’s only on loan from Castle McAllister,” one of the younger council members remarked, shaking his head. “Would be a great thing if we could keep her here.”
Hunter’s jaw tightened, though he forced his expression to remain neutral. The thought of Cassandra leaving twisted something deep in his chest, a discomfort he did not care to examine too closely. She had become a part of life at Castle McDougal, her presence as familiar as the stone walls that surrounded them.
“Aye,” said another elder, nodding sagely. “When our own healer recovers, it would be wise to have Cassandra teach him her ways before she departs. Would be a waste to let all that knowledge leave with her.”
Hunter swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to respond. The mere mention of Cassandra leaving sent an unexpected wave of unease through him. He had always known she was meant to return to McAllister lands, but the ideaof watching her ride away, of losing her presence in the castle, felt more intolerable than he cared to admit.
“She’s made a place for herself here,” Hunter said finally, his voice measured. “I will speak to her about sharin’ her methods with our healer when he recovers.”
“Aye,” the elder said, satisfied. “Tis a good plan. We’d be fools to let such knowledge slip through our fingers.”
Hunter nodded, but his thoughts remained troubled. He had always believed himself to be a man of logic, of duty before all else. But the more time he spent with Cassandra, the more he found himself questioning what he truly wanted.
One of the councilmen, a man named Fergus, gave Hunter a knowing look. “Ye seem troubled, Laird. Is there somethin’ on yer mind?”
Hunter exhaled slowly. “Nothin’ of concern,” he lied. “Only considerin’ the best course of action for the clan.”
Fergus smirked but said nothing more. The meeting continued, with talk shifting to other matters—land disputes, upcoming trade agreements, and the approaching winter preparations. But no matter how many topics were discussed, Hunter’s mind kept drifting back to Cassandra.
The thought of her leaving left an ache in his chest he did not understand, nor did he want to. Yet, every day it became harder to ignore.
Later that night, Hunter sat in his dimly lit bedchamber, his hands clenched into fists on the armrests of his chair. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering light across the stone walls.
His thoughts swirled like a storm, refusing to settle long enough for him to find peace. The attack from Michael had him thinking about his ex-wife, Margaret. He knew he had made a mistake listening to her and granting her wish to be exiled into secrecy.
That grave mistake meant that Elena did not have her mother and he feared what that was doing to the wee lass.
With a frustrated sigh, he pushed himself up and strode toward the whiskey decanter on the table—only to find it empty.
Scowling, he grabbed the crystal bottle and shook it as if willing it to fill itself. When it remained stubbornly dry, he muttered a curse under his breath. The day had been long, filled with more tension than he cared to admit, and now he couldn’t even enjoy a drink to ease his mind. Determined, he left his chambers and made his way toward the kitchens, his bare feet silent against the stone floors.
When he entered the kitchen, the scent of warm bread and spices greeted him. Jessica stood near the large hearth, hersleeves rolled up and her hands dusted with flour. She glanced up as he walked in, arching an amused brow at his appearance.
“Och, cousin, ye look as if ye lost a battle. What brings ye creepin’ about at this hour?”
Hunter crossed his arms over his chest, leveling her with a stern look. “I could ask ye the same, lass. Ye should be abed, nae bakin’ in the dead of night.”
Jessica smirked as she kneaded a lump of dough. “And ye should be restin’ in yer fine bedchambers instead of skulkin’ about lookin’ for whiskey.”
Hunter exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Aye, well, seems we both have our reasons for bein’ wakeful.” His voice lost its usual edge, settling into something weary.
Jessica glanced at him, her expression softening. “What troubles ye, then? Ye look as though ye carry the weight of the whole clan on yer shoulders.”
He hesitated, then sighed, leaning against the wooden counter. “It’s me daughter, Elena.”
Jessica wiped her hands on her apron and turned to face him fully. “What about the lass? She seems well enough.”
