After finding the ill omen outside his chamber door, Ronan spent most of the night questioning his servants, trying to determine if any of them had seen a stranger entering the manor. Beathan looked furious when Ronan told him of the ill omen, vowing to help him find the perpetrator. But none of the servants they’d questioned had seen anything amiss.

Beathan seemed suspicious of their ignorance, but Ronan trusted his servants. He treated them well, and they were loyal to him and the clan. Many had worked at his manor the entire time he’d been laird.

“Donnae forget that Dughall’s men turned some of Eadan’s servants against him, and they were loyal as well,” Beathan cautioned, after Ronan questioned the final servant and they stood alone in his study.

“If one of them is the traitor, I’ll find out,” he said, though he wasn’t sure how. “I want a guard on the front and back entrance—’til this is sorted.”

Beathan left him alone, and Ronan took a seat at his table examining the piece of burnt bark. The elder tree wasn’t common in the Highlands; it needed more fertile soul. Many in the Highlands believed spirits lived in these trees and to burn them was an ill omen. Ronan did not believe in such superstition, but he believed in the sender’s intent. Someone had taken great effort to seek one of these rare trees, burn its bark, and leave it for him to find as a warning.

That night he drifted off to sleep with troubled thoughts plaguing his mind. A banging on his door early the next morning roused him.

"M'laird!"

Ronan sat up, alarmed. It was Beathan's voice; he sounded panicked. Ronan shrugged into his clothes before hurrying to the door.

“What is it?” he asked, swinging it open to find a wide-eyed Beathan.

“There’s another lass wandering the grounds—a different one this time,” Beathan said.

Ronan closed his eyes, his shoulders sinking with annoyance.

“We already searched the grounds for— “

“This one didnae disappear,” Beathan interrupted. He moved past Ronan to the window, peering out. “She’s still there.”

Ronan trailed Beathan to the window, stiffening as he followed his gaze. There was indeed a lass emerging from the forests on the far edge of the grounds—he couldn’t make out any of her features beyond her golden hair.

Confusion filled him, and then fury, as he recalled the burnt elder wood he’d received the night before. Had she been the one to do it?

“I’ll handle the lass,” Ronan said, his mouth tightening as he stepped back from the window.

Moments later, he stalked out of the front door, making his way toward the lass. She stood frozen on the edge of the grounds and didn’t try to flee.

As he drew closer to her, his mouth went dry. She was by far the bonniest lass he’d ever seen—hair the color of burnished gold, a heart-shaped face with a generous mouth and eyes a deep green that reminded him of a verdant meadow. She was tall for a lass, her slender curves pronounced beneath the lavender gown she wore. He felt himself harden against his kilt as hot, molten desire filled every part of him.

Christ, Ronan, he scolded himself. She’s an intruder on yer lands. Now’s not the time tae think with yer cock.

“Who are ye?” he demanded, once he reached her. “Why are ye intruding on my lands?”

The lass just looked at him, a stricken look in her eyes. Her gaze flitted past him to the manor and back to him. She swallowed but said nothing.

“I’m going tae ask ye again, lass,” he said, stepping forward, close enough to inhale her scent—cinnamon and rosemary. He ignored the swell of desire that surged over him, keeping his voice firm. “Who are ye and why are ye intruding on my lands?”

“My—my name is Kara,” she stammered. “I’m—I’m from the—er—the village. I’m lost.”

Ronan went still as he studied her. She had the same strange accent as Eadan’s wife Fiona. His suspicion spiked as his gaze raked over her gown. The village was some distance away on foot, and her dress was that of a noble woman’s. Noble women didn’t live in villages—they lived in manor homes or castles. And they certainly didn’t go around unescorted. The lass was lying to him.

“I’ll ask ye again, lass,” he growled. “Who are ye?”

“I told you,” she said, her voice firmer now, her chin jutting upward with defiance. “My name is Kara, and I’m from the village. I’m lost. Could—could you point me in the right direction?”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed. More lies. He stepped forward and took her arm in a gentle but firm grip. She let out a yelp as he dragged her toward the manor, struggling to get out of his grasp.

“Let me go!” she shouted. “This is—HELP! Let me go!”

He shot her a look of disbelief as they continued toward the manor.

“Ye’re trespassing on my property, lass,” he growled. “No one will help ye except me. And I willnae be doing that ’til ye tell me who ye are.”

He continued to drag her into the manor, past the small group of servants who'd gathered in the entry way, keeping a firm grip on her arm as he led her up the stairs and into a guest chamber at the far end of the hall.

Only then did he release her, closing the door behind him and leaning against it with his arms crossed.

Kara stumbled back from him, looking around at the chamber like a frightened deer. Ronan’s anger subsided; she seemed genuinely frightened.

“I’ll not hurt ye, lass,” he said gently. “I’m Ronan of Clan Macleay, laird of this manor. Now I ask ye only for the truth. Who are ye?”

“I told you—"

“The truth.”

Kara blinked, and her eyes glistened with tears. His heart softened with that sympathy, but he reminded himself of the ill omen he’d received the night before. How could it be mere coincidence that she’d shown up the morning after he received it? He needed to be on guard.

“All right,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’m—I’m here to look for my family.”

He studied her. He suspected she was still withholding something, but this statement seemed truthful.

“I—I arrived at a village. Somehow, I made a wrong turn, and I ended up here. I’m—I’m sorry I trespassed on your grounds, but I didn’t know where I was. I just—I just want to be on my way.”

“Yer family? What are their names?”

“Suibhne and Orla,” she said. “They’re farmers. They have two young daughters.”

Ronan searched his mind, but the names were not at all familiar, and he knew dozens of the villagers by name. Her face fell, which confirmed for him she was telling the truth—at least about searching for her family.

“I’ll need tae confirm yer telling me the truth,” he said. “And then . . . perhaps ye can be on yer way.”

“Perhaps?” she echoed, stiffening with alarm. “Aye."

“And until then?” she demanded. “You can’t mean to keep me prisoner here?”

“As ye were trespassing on my property, ’tis my right,” he growled. “’Till I can confirm what ye say is truth . . . ye’re my captive.”