Page 18 of Death at a Highland Wedding

“Whining?” I say. “Some kind of animal?”

“Hmm.” Gray strides off the path to the left.

“Duncan…” I warn.

“I have seen the traps, and I know what to watch for. Wait there.”

I snort. “Yeah, no.” I hurry after him while scanning the ground. The grass here is short, and a crumbling cow patty suggests it’s used for grazing. The shorter grass means we can see there aren’t any traps.

We’re skirting the edge of the largest of three lakes I’d spotted yesterday. In the distance, there’s a dock and a rowboat, which I presume is our eventual destination.

The whining gets louder for the first few steps. Then it stops altogether, as if whatever is out there heard us coming. Gray slows, one hand out to warn me back. I ignore the hand. I’m following in his footsteps, as any smart person would do when traversing a field covered in bear traps.

When something moves in the grass, I’m the one grabbing his coat and holding him back… and the one getting the dirty look that says he wasn’t going to rush forward. I still hold on to his coat as he resumes a slow walk, scanning the grass until he stops short.

Gray mutters an oath under his breath. When I go to peek around him, his hand shoots up. Then he thinks better of it and lowers his arm, letting me inch forward until I’m echoing his curse and pairing it with an exhale of disappointment.

Ahead is a trap. And caught in that trap? A wildcat, very clearly dead.

I know we’d heard whining, but looking at the poor beast, with the tip of its tongue protruding, I can’t imagine it was alive ten seconds ago.

The grass whispers again. Something’s moving on the other side of the cat. A tiny head pops up.

“Shi—” I stop myself before finishing the profanity. After a year, I no longer slip up in front of outsiders, but my next goal is not to do it when I’m startled.

I step forward. Gray’s arm shoots out again, but only hovers there before he fists his hand, as if he was just stretching. I take another step, being more careful than I need to be, considering that the trap has been sprung.

I bend before the kitten. It glances about uncertainly, as if ready to take off. Then I see why it doesn’t. One of its back legs is bloody and bent, badly broken. Seeing that, I do let out a full stream of twenty-first-century profanity under my breath.

A hiss sounds to my left, and I glance to see two other kittens watching me from the long grass. When I inch in their direction, they tumble over themselves to get away, and I stop.

“They seem fine,” I say. “But this one…”

“Yes,” Gray says, his expression grim, anger flashing in his eyes. “I told Archie—”

“Told me what?” a voice says, and we both look over to see Cranston striding through the long grass. Fiona is right behind him. Seeing that, I leap forward with, “Don’t—”

“Oh!” she says.

She doesn’t fall back or let out a shriek. Just that one startled word, and then she’s hurrying forward. Cranston grabs her arm so fast she practically slingshots back.

“Apologies,” he says, quickly releasing her. “But there is a trap.”

“Which has already sprung,” I grind out. “Robbing three kittens of their mother.”

“Good lord.” Sinclair comes up behind Fiona. He pales, and then reaches as if to lead her away from the grisly sight, but she ducks his grasp.

“Where are the kittens?” she says. Then she sees the one nearest me and sucks in a breath. “It has been injured.”

“These damnable traps were not my idea,” Cranston says. “Müller promised they would only frighten off poachers and the animals were clever enough to avoid them.”

“If animals are clever enough to avoid them,” I snap, “then please explain the purpose of traps.”

I expect Cranston to snap something back. Instead, he just says “I…” and trails off, his cheeks coloring.

“This is unconscionable,” Sinclair says, his face hard with anger. “I am so sorry, Fiona. Your groom really must do something about this. If he does not, I will.”

“You’re the one who recommended hiring—” Cranston begins. Then he spots someone out in the field. “Müller! Over here! Now!”