Page 44 of The Laird's Masked Passion

“Likely.”

“Could be a trap.”

“It is certainly a message.”

“And if it is meant tae draw ye out?”

Colin mounted. “Then we will disappoint them by surviving.”

They rode hard. The eastern ridge lay where the land rose rough and stony before dropping toward a thin stretch of birch and pine. Mist clung low among the trees when they arrived, and the air smelled of wet earth, old leaves, and blood not yet fully washed away.

Colin dismounted before the horse had quite settled. They had moved Alasdair’s body already, but the ground remembered. Dark stains marked the grass near the rocks. Broken bracken showed where a struggle took place. Colin crouched, touched the earth, and felt cold settle into his bones with a steadiness more dangerous than rage.

Alasdair had drawn his blade. There were marks enough for that. He had fought, one man against many.

Murdoch crouched beside him. “He didnae die easy.”

“Nay.”

It was a foolish comfort perhaps, that he had died fighting, but a comfort all the same.

Colin rose and glanced at the treeline. “Show me the tracks.”

Murdoch led him toward the birches. The signs were there: a snapped twig too high for deer, mud pressed beneath boot heels and crushed moss where men had passed with haste. Colin followed the trail with a hunter’s patience, saying little. His menspread behind him, silent and grim. At the ridge, the tracks divided.

“They came in here,” Murdoch pointed with the edge of his blade. “Four, maybe five. Others waited lower.”

“And left that way.” Colin turned toward the west. “Toward the old burn.”

“Aye.”

“Then they kent the land.”

Murdoch’s expression hardened. “Or someone told them.”

Colin looked back toward the castle, though it could not be seen from here. Enemy men had crossed his border. A guard had been murdered. It wasn’t done for cattle or for coin, but for warning, for proof that his walls were not as safe as he wished and for the pleasure of making him look toward every shadow and wonder what waited inside it.

He thought of Elspeth. His wife had been in his castle less than two days. Already death had followed her there.

Nay, he corrected himself coldly.Nae her. Me.

This washisblood feud,hisenemy,hisshadow. She had been dragged into it by bargain and vows and his own hand around her wrist before a priest. And he was his father’s son, bringing another woman into danger.

The thought cut. Colin let it. Then he turned it into anger.

“Search everything,” he ordered. “The ridge, the burn, the old hunting paths. Pairs only. Nay man goes alone. If ye find a stranger, dinnae kill him unless he gives ye cause. I want tongues more than corpses.”

Murdoch nodded and began signaling the men. Colin looked once more at the blood-dark grass.

“Send two men farther north,” he continued. “If this was only one breach, I want proof. If it was nae, I want more found before nightfall.”

“Aye, me laird.”

The men moved out, vanishing between trees and mist. Colin remained where he was for a moment, listening to the land, to the wind through birch leaves and the distant water over stone.

The attack at the cathedral had already been bold. This had followed.

Robert Munro, or whoever wore his hatred, had not finished.