“She was here,” Beathan insisted, turning to face Ronan. “The lass. I swear it.”

Ronan met the desperate eyes of his steward, his mouth tight. He’d left his cousin Eadan’s wedding early to return to his manor after his servant Gavin had fetched him. Beathan had sent for Ronan after seeing a strange lass wandering the grounds. A lass who supposedly vanished before his eyes.

But they’d spent the entire evening checking every section of the manor’s expansive grounds, from the stables to the back gardens, even patches of the surrounding forest, but there was no sign of a wandering lass.

“I know it sounds mad,” Beathan continued, at Ronan’s wary look, “but the lass vanished. I saw it. I—I think ’twas one of the stiuireadh.”

Ronan stiffened. It seemed like he and Eadan were the only ones who didn’t believe in the stiuireadh, druid witches who supposedly made people disappear.

Beathan kept his imploring gaze trained on him. Disappointment coursed through Ronan as he met Beathan's dark eyes. In his fiftieth year, with a kindly round face and paternal manner, Beathan was one of the most rational men he knew; it was one of the reasons he’d hired him to oversee his manor.

“’Tis likely a lass who got lost and made her way back to the castle—or the village,” Ronan said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The castle’s not far; it may be a wedding guest who lost her way.”

Beathan didn't look convinced, but Ronan turned to make his way back to the manor. Earlier, he had every intention of returning to the castle after searching for this mysterious lass, but the fruitless search lasted longer than he’d thought and the wedding festivities had likely ceased by now. Eadan would have long since taken his new bride, Fiona, to their marital bed.

Eadan and Fiona were heading to one of the Macleay properties deep in the Highlands for some time alone after the wedding; they had a turbulent few weeks dealing with the scheming of a rival clan leader, Dughall of Clan Acheson. Eadan had told Ronan he wanted time alone with his new bride before stepping into his role as chieftain of Clan Macleay. While Eadan was away, he’d entrusted Ronan with leadership duties of the castle and the clan. The next day Ronan would officially take over Eadan’s leadership duties. Anxiety filled his chest at the thought.

While Ronan held high rank in the clan and had a manor of his own, Eadan was the one who'd always shouldered much of the leadership responsibilities of the clan. Ronan was not a direct heir and didn’t have the same pressures as Eadan; he’d spent most of his life enjoying his leisure with lasses, drink, and sport. But deep down Ronan envied his cousin for his admirable leadership skills; Ronan didn’t believe he possessed the same talents.

As Ronan entered his empty chamber, stripping out of his kilt and tunic, a wave of envy swept over him as he thought of Eadan’s newfound happiness with Fiona. This envy had first pierced him during their wedding and continued to linger, which irritated him. He’d never desired a bride of his own, relieved that the pressure was all on Eadan to produce an heir for the clan.

He realized that he'd not bedded a lass in weeks with his attentions focused on the conflict with Clan Acheson. He’d just have to find a bonnie lass to sate his lust soon. Once he quelled his restless loins, this odd longing of his would cease.

* * *

At first light the next morning, Ronan made his way on horseback to Macleay Castle. Tension gripped him as he arrived, entering the great hall. A dozen yeoman, tenants, and landholders had already gathered; all eyes fell on him as he made his way to the head table.

On a daily basis, Eadan heard their grievances and issued resolutions. If he couldn’t come up with a resolution on his own, he'd hold a meeting with the other clan nobles. Ronan was glad to not have this duty, but in Eadan's absence this was now Ronan's role.

For the rest of the morning, he listened to the concerns of each man. Thankfully, they were minor disputes over land and crop yields, and Ronan issued what he hoped were fair resolutions.

Relief filled him as the crowd began to thin, though his eyes widened in surprise at the raven-haired woman who stepped forward, the last visitor of the day. Elspeth Graeme. The widow of a high-ranking noble of Clan Macleay, she’d also been a sympathizer and close ally of Clan Acheson. Eadan and his men hadn’t found her guilty of any wrongdoing in the days after the battle with Dughall, but she was still not without suspicion. Eadan had ordered her to remain under watch by his men, and her movements beyond clan lands were restricted.

“Mistress Graeme,” he said politely, though his body had gone rigid with tension. “Do ye have a grievance I can assist ye with?”

Elspeth paused before speaking, giving him a seductive look with her dark eyes. Elspeth was a frequent guest at suppers at the castle; during one such drunken supper Ronan had kissed her. He’d not gone further than that; while she was quite bonnie, she didn't stir desire in his belly and he hadn’t tried to bed her. But by the surreptitious glances she cast him whenever she was around, he knew she desired more.

“I’ve come tae request ownership of lands in the south owed to my late husband, Artagan Graeme. My request has been under consideration for some time, since before the battle with Dughall and his men.”

“I’ll review Eadan’s land deeds, but I may need tae wait for my cousin’s return.”

Elspeth’s mouth tightened and she clasped her hands before her.

“Aye,” Elspeth murmured. “I understand, m’laird. But I hope it doesnae take much longer, I am owed those lands. I’d be grateful if ye could send me notice when the lands will be signed over. Or . . . ye could pay me a visit at Graeme House.”

Her words were polite but heavy with meaning. She smiled, her gaze lingering on his. Ronan averted his eyes, trying to keep his expression stoic. It was foolish of him to ever kiss the lass and give her false ideas.

“I will send word when I can,” he said. “I thank ye for coming tae the castle.”

Elspeth’s face fell with disappointment but she gave him a respectful nod and left the hall, trailed by a female servant.

“Yer cousin doesnae want tae grant Mistress Graham those lands; she's still not trusted."

Ronan looked up at the new steward of Castle Macleay, Moireach, who’d sat silently at his side all morning. Now Moireach glowered at him with a look of disapproval.

“I made no promises,” Ronan stiffly replied. “As I told her, I’ll wait for the laird’s return.”

Moireach gave him a curt nod, getting to his feet.

“There're deeds and rents tae be looked over in the laird’s study. Come,” Moireach said, not waiting for Ronan as he headed out of the hall.

Ronan glared after him. Moireach had replaced Eadan’s former steward Naoghas, a kind man Ronan had known since he was a bairn. Dughall had Naoghas killed weeks ago; Ronan, Eadan and many in the clan missed him greatly. Moireach came recommended from the household of another clan noble, and while he proved to be more than competent, he was already acting like an overbearing father, one who didn’t respect Ronan’s temporary leadership.

Ronan spent the rest of the day reviewing the stacks of parchments on Eadan’s table in his study; he didn’t even have time to break for a midday meal. He didn’t know how his cousin handled such a tedious task day in and day out.

Night had fallen when Ronan finally returned to his manor, tucked away on its own patch of land a small distance away from the castle, its dark gray stone veneer looming in the darkness as he approached.

His uncle had granted him the manor in his twentieth year after the previous owner passed away. And while he spent most of his time there, it never felt as much of a home as Macleay Castle did. He’d grown up in the castle, his uncle Bran having taken him in after the death of his own father. Bran was more like a father to him than an uncle, Eadan a brother.

A sudden stab of loneliness pierced him. Eadan and Fiona would soon start their family and Bran had retired to his own home off castle grounds. Soon the castle would no longer feel like home. He supposed this was why men chose to wed—to create a sense of home. It wasn’t something Ronan had even pondered nor was it something he’d ever wanted. He didn’t want to bear the responsibility of a bride, a family. His series of mistresses brought him great contentment, and he made certain to tell each one before he bedded them he had no desire to wed.

Ronan dismounted from his horse as he arrived in the courtyard of his manor, handing the reins to a stable boy who rushed forward. There hadn’t been time today, but he intended to hold a supper at the castle to seek out his next mistress. He’d make it clear what he was looking for—a lass to warm his bed. Just because Eadan settled down with a wife didn’t mean he had to do the same.

Appeased by the thought, he entered the manor and climbed the stairs, heading down the long hallway to his chamber.

He froze at the sight that greeted him. At the base of his chamber door lay a piece of charred wood. He recognized the darkened bark, wood from an elder tree.

It was an ill omen—and someone had placed it there for him to find.

It was a threat.