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So why did her rejection hurt?

And why, now with a cup of uisge in his hands, could he only think of going back to the bedchamber, kissing her and making her his? A quiver of desire ran through his body as he imagined Amy naked under him, her back arched, her head tilted, her sweet mouth open as she moaned his name.

Craig shook his head. What a fool he was. Blinded by the wiles of a MacDougall. Wanting his enemy, the enemy who wanted him dead.

Most likely.

Or someone else, someone among his men, wanted him dead. The thought only darkened his mood further.

As he drank, he looked around the hall, studying every single man.

One of them could be a traitor, looking for the secret tunnel and wanting to kill him.

He had thought he could trust his men and the men of his allies.

Obviously, he was wrong.

Was Amy the one plotting his death?

That could still be possible. He had been certain of it before. But when he’d confronted her, she’d seemed genuinely surprised and even angry at his accusation, which had made him believe her for a moment. That could just be a ploy, though. Having access to him at night, sleeping, unguarded, might very well be the reason she’d married him. Or she could plan to put poison in his food.

Just as any man in the castle could, he reminded himself.

He wasn’t convinced Amy had sent the message, just as he wasn’t sure who the traitor was.

Not Owen, not Lachlan, not any other Cambel—none of them had any connection to MacDougalls or reason for treachery.

Not that he could think of, anyway.

Unless it was someone he wouldn’t have thought of—a Cambel who had ties to the enemy clan.

He saw Lachlan sitting at the same table as Owen, and the other Cambels. The men laughed, their table loud and lively.

Craig had known Lachlan his whole life. They were the same age, and for a time, Lachlan had been fostered with Craig’s family while their fathers were fighting in the south. Now he was a tacksman on Cambel lands and was as loyal to the clan as any Cambel through and through. Never in his life had Craig suspected Lachlan could have a treacherous bone in his body, except…

He had a MacDougall grandmother. Yes, on his mother’s side. Didn’t he?

Craig stood up and went to the table. He touched Lachlan’s shoulder. “Lachlan, a word?”

The man stood up. “Aye, cousin.”

They walked to Craig’s table, where no one was sitting.

“What is it?” Lachlan asked. “Why aren’t ye with yer bride, warming her bed?”

Craig was silent for a moment, studying the man’s face. His brown eyes were foggy and red, his eyelids heavy, his expression carefree.

How could he be a traitor? As long as Craig had known him, the man been honest to a fault.

“Does nae matter. Listen, were ye close with yer grandmother?”

“Was close with both of them.”

“The MacDougall one.”

“Aye, Granny Coline. She died when I was but a wee fart. Still remember her honeyed oatcakes, though. I didna see her often on account of they lived farther away. Did she visit ye from the grave or somethin’?”

Craig couldn’t tell anyone that the pigeon had been intercepted. He needed the traitor to be oblivious, so that whoever it was wouldn’t be jumpy. So that Craig could observe. He’d told Killian to keep silent about the note or he’d be endangering the whole castle. The boy understood—Craig had seen the determination on his face, the importance of the secret weighing on him.