Page 54 of The Laird's Masked Desire
“All right.” Her answer took him by surprise.
And before he could say anything more, she turned and hurried toward the doors, already calling for Annabel as she crossed the threshold.
Domhnall watched her go, caught off guard by the ease of her compliance. It unsettled him more than her defiance ever had.
Cameron waited until the doors closed behind her before speaking. “Reports just came in from the outer patrols.”
Domhnall turned back at once. “Speak.”
“Signs of intrusion,” Cameron revealed. “Disturbed ground along the northwestern ridge. Cut markings on trees. They were deliberate, nae hunters. And…” He paused, rubbing his jaw. “Three guards found dead near the outer pass.”
The words struck like a blow. Domhnall’s vision narrowed. For a moment, the courtyard seemed too small to contain the fury that surged through him. His hands clenched at his sides, and his knuckles whitened as he forced himself to remain still.
“Take me there,” Domhnall demanded.
Cameron’s eyes flicked up. “Now?”
“Now.”
Within minutes they were riding again. A small party followed. They were men Domhnall trusted not to speak loosely, not to flinch when the ground told its story. The ride itself was swift and silent.
They dismounted at the edge of the pass where the trees pressed close and the land narrowed. Domhnall moved ahead at once, feeling his boots sinking slightly into disturbed earth. He did not need to be told where to look.
The footprints appeared too evenly spaced to be hurried. There was a bent fern, not trampled, as though someone had passed through with care. The bark of an oak bore a shallow cut, whichlooked both deliberate and angled. Domhnall was certain it was a mark not meant to be seen by chance.
“Knife work,” Cameron murmured. “Signaling.”
“Aye,” Domhnall said. “And restraint.”
They found the bodies farther in. Three men lay where they had fallen. They had not been dragged. Their throats were cut cleanly. Domhnall could see no defensive wounds beyond a single raised arm, and one of the men was still clenching a broken blade in one hand.
Domhnall crouched, examining the angle of the cut and the lack of struggle. “They were taken from behind, quietly.”
“Nay looting,” Cameron added. “Nay trophies.”
“Because this was nae about gain,” Domhnall replied. “It was a message.”
He straightened slowly, surveying the surrounding ground. The attackers had come in small numbers, four, perhaps five. They had moved with discipline, withdrawing the moment the work was done. There was no lingering and no pursuit invited.
A test.
“They wanted tae see how quickly we’d notice,” Cameron said. “How we’d respond.”
Domhnall did not need proof to know who had done this. Kenneth MacGregor’s hand lay over the ground like a shadow. This was not bandit work. Neither was it a feud flaring hot and loud. This was escalation done quietly, with intent sharpened by insult.
And yet, no banners lay trampled in the mud. No witness had seen a face. No blade bore a mark that could be named before the Crown. There was utter absence of anything solid, which was precisely the point.
“Burn naething,” he ordered. “Leave the ground as it is. I want the passes watched, nae warned.”
Cameron nodded. “And the men?”
“We bring them home,” Domhnall said quietly. “With honor.”
They returned to Inveraray before dusk. The men were riding hard and without a word. Domhnall said little, but his mind moved relentlessly, mapping what could be done and, more damningly, what could not.
Without proof, there could be no sanctioned retaliation. He could issue no declaration that would bring allies to heel or justify blood in daylight. To strike now would be to giveMacGregor exactly what he wanted: a provocation that could be turned against him.
So Domhnall did what he had always done best. He prepared.
