Ronan plundered the depths of Kara’s mouth with his tongue, reaching out to press her beautiful body close to his. The softness of her lips, her curves pressed against him, and her sweet taste consumed his senses.

She reached up to wind her hands through his hair, pressing her body even closer to his, and her hardened nipples pressed against his tunic. She tasted sweet, like cinnamon, and his erection strained painfully against his kilt. He wanted nothing more than to swing the lass up into his arms, carry her into her chamber and bury himself inside her.

But he forced himself to release her, leaving them both breathless as they gazed at each other. Her lips were parted, her chest heaving, her green eyes infused with lust; he made himself take a step back from her, though he desperately wanted to claim her mouth once more.

“I—I bid ye good night,” he rasped, forcing himself to turn and walk away.

Though she was more than willing, he would not let himself bed her, not when he didn’t know what she was hiding; he didn’t fully trust her.

He'd noted her startled reaction when he spoke of Fiona. Did she know her? Were they connected somehow? Until he had some honest answers from her, he needed to keep a clear head around the lass.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself from fisting his cock as soon as he was alone in his chamber, imagining his mouth seizing Kara’s lovely breasts, tasting the sweetness that seeped from her center, burying himself inside of her, over and over, until they both cried out their release. Ronan gasped and shuddered as he came at very the thought, sinking back against the wall until his cock deflated.

When he came back to himself, he drew a ragged breath. What was it about her? He’d always been able to control himself around bonnie lasses before. But with Kara, the more he was around her, the more his desire for her grew. And it was more than just desire; he craved to know what was in her thoughts. Who she truly was.

Still aching for Kara, he fell into a fitful sleep, his dreams filled with both images of her and the ill omen of the burnt elder wood tree bark he'd received.

He avoided crossing paths with Kara the next morning, opting instead to ride to Macleay Castle where he took his morning meal. He set himself up in Eadan’s study to take care of the day's concerns, trying not to linger on the memory of Kara’s body molded to his own, his mouth probing hers. As he worked his way through a stack of land deeds, Osgar, one of Eadan’s guards, entered the study.

Ronan stilled, dread creeping through him. Osgar's expression was grim. Something had happened.

"'Tis our lands just south of here," Osgar said. "Lands that belonged to Artagan Graeme, Elspeth's late husband. Someone's burned 'em."

* * *

Hours later, Ronan stood in the center of the great hall, the eyes of every noble trained on him. He'd gone with Osgar to take in the burned-down farmlands—the singe marks on the ground indicated someone had purposefully set fire to it. As he'd gazed around at the scorched earth, he realized he could no longer keep what was happening quiet. The burned lands confirmed what he'd feared ever since receiving the ill omen.

Clan Macleay had a new enemy.

"Days ago, I received an ill omen left for me outside my chamber. 'Twas the burnt bark of an elder tree. I hoped there was nothing more tae it, but just today I discovered that someone has taken fire tae our lands," he said, holding the gaze of each noble.

A tense silence filled the great hall; fear and unease crossing the faces of the nobles.

“Has anyone else experienced anything suspicious as of late? Anything that could be deemed a threat?”

There was a lengthy pause until a noble by the name of McFadden spoke up.

“There was a fire in my stables days ago,” McFadden said. "I thought—hoped it was an accident."

“And someone left me an ill omen as well,” added Uallas, a stocky noble from the northern Macleay lands.

“When I went hunting with my men a few days ago, we thought someone trailed us. Whoever it was, he ran off before we could catch him,” said Neasan, another clan noble.

Ronan’s dread turned to fear as he listened to several more nobles speak of odd occurrences. On their own, the incidents weren’t noteworthy. But added together, it became clear. Someone had indeed targeted Clan Macleay—again. The question was—by whom? And why?

“I know Eadan is off with his new bride,” Moireach said, pulling Ronan from his thoughts. “But perhaps we should send a message tae him?”

Ronan stiffened as several of the nobles nodded in agreement. They don’t think me capable as a leader.

Ignoring the worrisome thought, he stepped forward and drew himself to his full height.

“Eadan left me in charge in his stead; I will handle this,” he said, his voice firm as he met the eyes of each noble. “And I say we start by questioning the nobles of Clan Acheson. It may just be coincidence that all this has happened after Dughall’s defeat—or it may not.”

To his relief, no one protested, though he saw doubt in the eyes of several nobles—most notably in Moireach's. A sliver of his own doubt filled him. Perhaps he should send for Eadan.

His thoughts remained a storm of conflict when he returned to his manor. Was his leadership at fault for what was happening? When Dughall targeted the clan, Eadan handled the matter deftly, all the while courting and falling in love with Fiona.

Ronan raked his hand through his hair as he stepped into his chamber. There was a part of him that never felt worthy of his role in the clan, that he was only a high-ranking noble because of Eadan and Bran. What would he be without them? A man without direction, without purpose.

He resisted the urge to seek out Kara, telling his chambermaid he’d like to take supper alone in his chamber.

When a knock sounded at his door, he didn’t look up, assuming it was his maid as the door swung open. A dismissal already hovered on his lips when he did look up, but it was Kara who stood there.

“I didn’t see you in the dining room for supper,” she said, giving him a hesitant smile.

“I—I decided tae dine alone,” he said gruffly, averting his eyes. Last night while someone set fire to Macleay lands, he'd been fisting himself as he fantasized about her. He couldn’t let her continue to distract him.

“I bid ye good night,” he said, keeping his features stoic, his tone polite but curt.

“Good night,” she whispered, a flash of hurt in her eyes before she closed the door, leaving him with a pang of longing in her absence. A pang he could not quell.