Frederick did not look at him. “This is nae a tavern tale.”
“Precisely why it likely is one,” Lennox replied lightly. “Young blood. Stubborn hearts. A dramatic exit into the sunset.”
Frederick’s gaze swept the tree line beyond the cottages. “Let us hope ye’re right.”
Because if she had simply fled with a lover, he could return to the castle with a lecture prepared and nothing more.
If she had nae…He pushed the thought aside.
He had spent the last year repairing the damage his father left behind. Debts settled. Trade routes secured. Borders reinforced. He had negotiated alliances carefully, spoken firmly, and shown strength without posturing. His people needed stability. They needed certainty.
He would not allow fear to creep back into their homes.
Lennox made a quick study of him. “Ye ken, if ye pursued finding a wife with the same ferocity ye pursue missing villagers, Lady Caitlin would be the happiest woman in the Highlands.”
Frederick turned his head slowly.
Lennox grinned outright. “I am merely observing.”
“Me mother’s concerns are her own.”
“Aye, but she shares them loudly,” Lennox said. “I believe her exact words last week were, ‘If Frederick can reorganize half the clan’s finances, he can surely organize a courtship.’”
Frederick shot him a look sharp enough to skin a deer.
Lennox only laughed. “Ye can glare all ye like, me Laird. It doesnae change the truth. Even the O’Douglas has taken a bride, ye ken.”
Frederick faced forward again, expression hardening. “He took the MacFarlane girl.
Marriage was not a romantic pursuit. It was alliance. Stability. Strategy. He had seen what poor decisions could cost a clan. He would not gamble on sentiment.
And yet, a memory surfaced anyway.
Bonnie green eyes. Freckles scattered across pale skin. Hair like flame in firelight. A laugh that had startled him into forgetting, for a single reckless night, the weight of inheritance.
He balled his hands into fists.
That had been weakness. A lapse allowed under grief.Never again.
Still, those eyes returned unbidden whenever Lennox or his mother spoke of wives and heirs.
They moved through the village slowly, stopping at each cottage. The story did not change. A missing lass. No struggle. No scream heard. No sign left behind.
Frederick knelt once near the well at the edge of the lane, examining the ground himself. The soil was disturbed by many feet. Nothing distinct. Nothing useful.
Lennox crouched beside him. “If this was done deliberately, it was done clean.”
Frederick rose without answering.
“Where next?” Lennox asked.
A woman standing near her doorway cleared her throat hesitantly. She had been watching them for some time.
“Me Laird,” she said nervously, wringing her apron. “If ye’re seeking answers… there’s one place left.”
Frederick met her gaze steadily. “Speak plainly.”
“At the edge of the village,” she continued, lowering her voice as though the wind might carry her words, “where the Spáewife lives.”