The Warrior Laird

by Margo Maguire

  “Maura.” He took hold of both her arms before she could run from him, and held her so that she had no choice but to look up into his eyes. He wanted her still. But he knew better, and he tamped down the arousal that continued to rage within him. “I should not have taken advantage.”

  “Laird Mac—”

  “You are a beautiful lady who deserves a man of means who will take you to wife. Not a rogue who lost his head for a moment here in the moonlight. And so I do apologize, though I will ever regret the experience.”

  Maura closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, the sound of her heartbeats pulsing in her ears. Her little foray down the steps and outside had been for the purpose of seeing if anyone was about, to determine whether it was safe for her to leave yet.

  She hadn’t thought she would see the highland laird again. Or let him kiss her breathless.

  Her body tingled, still. The yearning for more of MacMillan’s touch, more of his masculine power persisted.

  The interlude had done more than take her breath away. It had shown her what else had been absent in all the men Lady Ilay had brought ’round—raw male potency. Dugan MacMillan’s touch had given rise to an excitement that charged through her nether parts like lightning. ’Twas the yearning of a woman for a man’s touch.

  Maura shivered even now when she remembered the slide of his hand down to her hips. The press of his body against hers had felt so intimate and so incredibly arousing, she had lost all sense of reality. She’d forgotten her purpose, failed to ascertain who was up and about.

  Besides Dugan MacMillan.

  But now her reckless moment was over. She had a plan to put into play and it could be delayed no longer. With Bridget tucked away downstairs, Maura had looked closely at Argyll’s map and found no indication of any hidden treasure. There hadn’t even been the expected notations giving the names of villages and lochs. Even worse, the map seemed to be merely a torn portion of a larger document.

  It appeared to be completely useless, but Maura knew that could not possibly be. Not when it had been tucked away in Lord Ilay’s desk.

  She and Rosie could manage for a time with the money she’d been pilfering from Ilay’s desk for months in anticipation of her escape. ’Twas enough to get them away at least to Belfast. Or perhaps even to America, where no one would know them.

  Maura could not waste any time thinking about what they would do then. She knew her money would not last forever, and Rosie was too frail to work. Somehow she would figure a way to support them. Marriage to Baron Kildary was out of the question. And asking her brother Aiden for help was a dodgy proposition at best. He was as likely to confine them in his house and send for their father as he was to give them shelter and listen to reason.

  Her bag was packed and she was more than ready to start on her hike toward Loch Camerochlan. But she could not leave yet, not while the highlanders were still about.

  She looked down at her map again and wondered if Laird MacMillan’s map had anything to do with Argyll’s gold. What if he had the missing piece?

  Maura wrung her hands together. A cache of gold would solve her problems. With only a few handfuls of gold coin, she could take Rosie to America and buy a house somewhere, and their father would never find them.

  But she needed to figure out where to look for the treasure before she began making grandiose plans.

  Dugan took a moment to compose himself.

  It had taken every bit of discipline he possessed to let Lady Maura go, and even now he was as hard as the claymore in his belt.

  He did not know when he’d ever wanted a woman more. She possessed a compelling combination of strength and vulnerability, and he found himself wanting to protect and care for her.

  After he bedded her, of course. Even now, the desire to broach her bedchamber bedeviled him. And yet he knew he could not. She was no strumpet. He’d tasted inexperience as well as passion in her kiss.

  Dugan swore under his breath. He would not seduce an innocent. Besides, there was no time for any sort of dalliance, especially not with a woman who was accompanied by a troop of Sassenach soldiers.

  Aye, the woman was trouble.

  He finally returned to the sitting room to find Lachann studying the map. He glanced up. “What is it?”

  “Naught.” Was his state of arousal so transparent? “One of the guests stepped outside. We . . . spoke for a few minutes, that’s all.”

  Lachann’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Dugan sat down and turned the maps to see them better. He found that the markings were just the same as before. Unhelpful.

  “I don’t know what you can possibly be thinking, Dugan. I don’t see how this bloody puzzle helps us.”

  “The man who gave the scrap of map to Grandfather,” Dugan said quietly, “was a dying Frenchman.”

  “Where? In Perth, I suppose?”

  “Aye,” Dugan said, scrubbing one hand across his face. He suddenly felt exhausted. During the uprising two years before, Dugan had been wounded protecting his grandfather from an Englishman’s blade, and taken it himself. Old Hamish had gotten him home alive, though. “He said the map had been torn asunder so that only allies could band together to find it.”

  “ ’Tis ridiculous when you think of it, Dugan. Why would—”

  “Look here,” said Dugan.

  “Where it’s torn?” Lachann moved the lamp closer.

  “Aye. Do you see it? A different sort of marking.”

  “You think this spot shows where the gold is hidden?” Lachann frowned. “I don’t know. Mayhap.”

  “ ’Tis not the same kind of scratching that marks a loch or a town. It doesn’t look like a mountain, either.”

  Lachann was silent for a moment. “If the Frenchman was right, won’t we need the last pieces of the map?”

  “Look. The mark is right at the juncture of the two sections. We would not have noticed it without having both.”

  Lachann sighed and tapped his finger on the strange mark. “But it might mean naught.”

  Dugan’s vision blurred with fatigue. He did not want to argue with Lachann, nor did he care to ponder the maps or the possibility of gold, or the bloody Duke of Argyll any longer. He had to get some sleep, for they would ride long and hard on the morrow. “Aye. You’re right.”

  ’Twas past midnight, and Maura assumed everyone in the inn must be asleep by now. Even the highlanders.

  She dressed warmly and put on her good walking shoes, then picked up her traveling bag and exited her room. It was dark in the stairway, but she made her way down to the main floor of the inn just as she’d done before. This time, there was naught but moonlight coming in through the windows.

  She wondered how long it had been since she’d left Laird MacMillan. Well over an hour, she was sure.

  And yet the impossible yearning Dugan had engendered with his kiss had not dissipated. If only Rosie’s well-being was not at stake, Maura might—

  She quickly came to her senses. Even if she had not been on her way to find Rosie, she could not possibly entertain any romantic notions about the highlander. Maura knew nothing about him, other than the deep rumble of his voice and the way his touch made her feel. But he might be a Jacobite rebel, or one of the road bandits Lieutenant Baird warned about as they traveled to Fort William.

  He was certainly a rascal.

  But the most impressive rascal she’d ever encountered, boldly kissing her on the veranda where anyone might have come upon them.

  Maura crept toward the back kitchen, but stopped suddenly when she heard the sound of snoring to her left.

  She held her breath, afraid Lieutenant Baird had decided to post a guard after all. He had not hidden his dislike of the highlanders, no doubt believing they posed some threat.

  Keeping her feet where they were, she leaned forward to peer into the sitting room and heard it again. A soft snore. The fire had burned low, but she could see that the only occupants of the room were the highlanders, all wrapped in their pla
ids and lying on whatever surface was handy—chairs, settees, floor. All were sound asleep, even Dugan. Now she understood how he had seen her when she’d come down earlier.

  She wondered why these men had come to Fort William. Surely, they did not enjoy the presence of the king’s troops. Clearly, they were en route somewhere.

  She clutched her traveling bag tightly in her hand and held her breath, wondering . . . It seemed impossible that the other piece of her map would be in the highlanders’ possession—that it was not merely hidden somewhere in Lord Ilay’s study and she’d just missed it during her midnight foray. And yet . . .

  Her mind raced as she took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the faint light cast by the glowing embers in the fireplace. Laird MacMillan lay on the floor, wrapped in his tartan, his pack right beside him. She told herself that if she did not look now, she would never know.

  She took a deep breath and crept silently to the spot.

  MacMillan shifted in his sleep, startling her.

  She held her breath and considered what to do. Did she dare untie the laces and look inside his pack? She could take just a wee peek at the map his companion had spoken of, and if it was not like hers, she would tie up the pack and leave.

  But if it looked to be the other part of the document she’d taken from Argyll—

  Dugan took a long, deep breath, and Maura heard him mutter something low. Her name?

  No, of course she’d only imagined it, mayhap wishing it was true. For his embrace had shown her how a man’s touch could soothe and excite, all at once. Even in her dreams, she hadn’t imagined that a kiss could make her blood sizzle and her knees weak.

  Of course, she’d never encountered a man like Dugan MacMillan.

  The sound of a deep snore to Maura’s left startled her and she realized she tarried too long. If she was going to satisfy her curiosity, she had to do it now, and do it quickly. She opened Dugan’s pack and slid her hand inside. In complete silence, she watched his handsome face for any sign of awakening as she felt for a document. She quickly came upon a rolled piece of parchment at the bottom of the pack.

  Drawing it out carefully, Maura did not unroll it, but held it up to the light of the fire. Her heart pounded with excitement when she realized ’twas exactly like Argyll’s—tattered, with markings for lochs and mountains, but little else. Maura had no doubt its ragged edge would fit perfectly against the edge of the map in her possession.

  An ominous creak sounded above her, and she knew she had to move.

  Chapter 6

  Maura pulled up her hood as she slipped unseen into the street. Moving quickly, she headed toward the loch and found the narrow road that bordered it. Walking north, she intended to continue until the road disappeared into the woodlands north of town. She would not lose her way if she kept to the water’s edge and followed it west in the direction of the highlands.

  She avoided thinking about her theft of the highlander’s map and concentrated on getting away from Fort William, as far and as quickly as possible. She knew it had been wrong to take the map, but perhaps her guilt could be ameliorated by the good use she would put it to. Surely, saving her helpless sister was a justifiable reason for her thievery.

  It was not the first impulsive act of her life and Maura doubted it would be her last. Her quick actions were never mindless, but always based on some innate instinct. Sometimes her deeds landed her in serious trouble, but she never regretted them—especially her rash behavior on the day Rosie was born.

  Maura had been hiding in the room where her mother labored loudly and painfully with her twelfth child. From what Maura could tell, the bairn had come early, and the birth had not gone well. Rosie had been born far too tiny, her color a sickly gray. The poor bairn did not cry, and she hardly moved in the well-used crib in which the midwife had placed her. But Maura had loved her on first sight, her wee rosebud lips and perfect little fingers and toes.

  Lord Aucharnie had roared his displeasure with his wife, with the midwife, and with the tiny, frail bairn. He had given orders for his child to be left alone to die. His own child.

  Maura had no intention of allowing her father to kill her tiny sister. The midwife had made no objection when Maura had wrapped the bairn in soft wool and taken her from the castle. She’d run through the Aucharnie hills to her refuge from her father’s frequent wrath—the quiet warmth of Deirdre Elliott’s cottage. Deirdre’s own bairn, Janet, was but a few months old, and Maura knew the woman would be able to feed her sister.

  Maura’s father, however, had shown his rage through the use of a stout birch switch to Maura’s backside when he discovered what she’d done. By then, Rosie had reached the age of two years, though she had not thrived like the Elliott children. Lord Aucharnie was disgusted with them both—at Rosie for being so backward, and at Maura for her defiance.

  The two sisters were outcasts within their own family. But at least they had each other.

  Maura walked on. The night was clear and there was sufficient moonlight for her to find her way without falling into the loch. She was a strong hiker, having walked all over the hills and glens ’round Aucharnie, and with an escort after being sent to Glasgow. She’d learned from experience that it was necessary to do her hiking off the beaten path or someone would surely find her.

  She pressed her tidy leather purse against her waist, reassuring herself that she had sufficient money for food and shelter during her travels, and eventually to take Rosie far away from Scotland. Once she was far enough away from Fort William, she was going to see how the highlander’s map fit against Argyll’s, and mayhap she would discover where to look for the treasure.

  Moving along as quickly as possible, Maura soon turned west where she took note of a shadowy village in the distance on her right. She kept her head down, stayed close to the cover of the trees that lined her path, and continued on the north bank of the loch.

  As practiced a hiker as she was, Maura had never before walked out in the middle of the night. The sound of the wind rustling through the trees unnerved her, and she huddled deeper within her cloak as she walked. And while she hoped that daylight would come soon, she wanted to put a good many miles between herself and the fort before Lieutenant Baird awoke and discovered she was gone.

  Thinking of her odious escort, Maura quickened her pace. She would walk as long as her legs would carry her, then find a place to rest while she hid from anyone who might come searching for her.

  Dugan woke from a restless sleep. ’Twas still dark, but his dream . . .

  He sat up abruptly and looked about the room. All his men were still asleep. As he should be.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. He reached down below his knee and found his father’s dagger, his sgian dubh, still secure in his stocking. ’Twas the only thing of value—

  Dugan grabbed his pack and tore open the laces. He reached inside. “Where in hell is the map?”

  “What?” Lachann sat up and scrubbed his hand over his face as Dugan lit the lamps. “The map?”

  The other men awoke as Dugan looked in every corner, then searched under the cushions of each chair of the sitting room.

  It could not be lost.

  “You put it in your pack,” Lachann said. “Did you wake up during the night and look at it?”

  “No,” Dugan growled. He’d spent the entire night dreaming of a certain russet-haired beauty. “Someone took it from my pack.”

  “Laird, are ye saying someone slinked in here like a wee stoat and stole it from under our noses?” Archie asked.

  Aye, that was exactly what must have happened, and the thief might not have gotten far. Dugan started for the door, trying to think who might have heard Archie’s mention of the map and decided to search their belongings for it.

  Anyone in the taproom could have heard Archie before Dugan had quashed his loose talk. But who would have had the audacity to come into the room and dig inside his pack for it?


  Dugan stepped outside and looked all ’round, but saw no one. He realized the thief might still be inside the inn, sleeping contentedly until dawn when he could leave with impunity. Dugan had no authority to call for a search of the inn or any of the guests.

  He returned to the sitting room.

  Lachann stood with his arms folded across his chest. “How could anyone sneak in here with all of us—”

  “We all slept soundly for the first time in a fortnight,” Dugan said. “They might have set fire to the place and none of us would have noticed it until our hair was on fire.”

  “It makes no sense, Dugan. Who knew we had pieces of the French map?”

  Dugan shook his head. He did not know, but he could not just stand there doing naught but scratching his head. He turned to his men. “All of you—get your horses and take to the road. Two of you ride southward, the rest of you head north and see if you can find our thief. If he’s left the inn, he couldn’t have gone far. Lachann, come with me.”

  “What are you going to do, Dugan?”

  “If anyone in this place is up and about,” he said, “that could be our thief.”

  “You’re going to listen at every door?”

  “If need be.” Dugan headed up the stairs and when he reached the top, noted one door that was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and saw that the room was empty.

  “I thought there were no spare rooms to let,” Lachann whispered.

  “Damn all,” Dugan muttered. ’Twas Lady Maura’s room. With his own eyes, he’d seen Baird escort her to it.

  The fire was out, but Dugan could see that the lady had done no more than lie on top of the bedclothes—probably so she would not become too comfortable and sleep through until morning.

  The wench had decided to steal from him last night, when the taste of him was still on her lips.

  “Do you think she left alone, Dugan?” Lachann asked quietly.