The Warrior Laird

by Margo Maguire

  “Good evening, Laird,” she said. “Thank you for inviting me to join you.” She gave a cursory glance in Dugan’s direction and murmured, “Laird MacMillan,” as though he was not the man whose cock had made her whimper with pleasure all through the night.

  MacDonnall called for the meal to be served, then took Maura’s hand and led her to the table. He seated her, then sat down beside her, clearly as pleased as a pig in clover to be the recipient of her brilliant smile.

  “Dugan tells me you are a kinswoman,” he said.

  “Well no, not exactly—”

  “Maura came from Fort William,” Dugan interjected. Damn all, he did not need everyone in the highlands to know he was escorting a Duncanson through their territories. MacDonnall was liable to toss them out onto their arses if he knew.

  “Ah. Clan Cameron. Or clan—”

  “Close enough,” Dugan quipped as he tossed back the rest of his whiskey.

  Fortunately, MacDonnall found it far more entertaining to blather all about his own exploits rather than question Maura or Dugan about their travels. Dugan did not care to lie to his old friend about Maura and the ransom. He especially did not want to discuss the possibility of gold hidden somewhere in the highlands. But the man’s overly engaging manner with Maura grated on his nerves.

  And if MacDonnall did not raise his eyes from the abundance of bonny flesh displayed above Maura’s neckline, Dugan was going to be compelled to put his fist down his old friend’s throat.

  Dugan sat back in his chair and forced himself to be calm. Maura could spend a festive evening in the relative safety of MacDonnall’s hall, wearing the clothing of his dead wife, for she would be back in the saddle on the morrow. Leading Dugan to the treasure that was going to get him out from under Argyll’s—aye, her cousin’s—thumb.

  Angus poured yet another glass of wine for Maura and she laughed at one of his inane jests. “Ah, Laird MacDonnall! You are so very clever.”

  Dugan felt himself frowning fiercely, for he’d never enjoyed watching a man make an arse of himself for a woman. He stood up. “ ’Tis time Maura retired. We’ll take our leave at dawn on the morrow, MacDonnall.”

  “Aw, ’tis early yet, Dugan,” MacDonnall said while keeping his eyes trained on Maura. “And I’d hoped to convince ye t’ stay another day. Or two.”

  “ ’Tis not possible. Regrettably,” Dugan added between clenched teeth. He extended his hand to Maura. “I’ll escort you to your chamber.”

  She rose—without taking his hand—and turned to MacDonnall, who stood at the same time. “Thank you for a splendid evening, Laird. Will I see you in the morn?”

  “Ye may count on it, dear lady.” MacDonnall took her hand and planted a solid kiss upon it.

  It felt to Dugan as though he needed to haul her away from MacDonnall. Against her will. He had no idea what the man’s appeal could possibly be.

  He took a candle and lit their way up the staircase.

  “Which room?”

  “Up again, one more flight,” she replied.

  They walked in silence down a narrow passageway to yet another staircase. Dugan followed her up the next set of stairs, and when they reached the top, he saw that the staircase ended at the door to a large solar. The water from Maura’s bath had been cleared away and the empty tub stood just behind a screen next to the fireplace.

  The bed was large and inviting, but Dugan had no intention of making use of it. He’d made that mistake once, and was not going to repeat it.

  Much as he might want to do so.

  “I don’t understand your sour mood, Laird. What has gotten you into such a temper?” Maura asked. She walked into the solar and sat down at the dressing table. “I thought you would enjoy an evening with your old friend.”

  “You mean the man who is looking to marry himself another wife?”

  “Oh? Is he?”

  She began to remove the gems from her hair. “I found him charming.”

  “As charming as a hedgehog.” Dugan watched intently as she slipped her delicate fingers into her fiery curls and drew out the pins that held the pearls.

  “Oh, not at all. He has a way with words, and seems to understand how to truly appreciate a woman.”

  “Aye, by looking down her bodice!”

  She laughed, and the sole freckle near her eye crinkled. The urge to kiss it was nearly insurmountable. But he managed. He stood against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Why he did not just remove himself from her chamber and find his own bed . . .

  “Hardly, Dugan,” she said. “He was a complete gentleman, and I am half tempted to—”

  “You have other plans, Lady Maura.”

  “They are not my plans, Laird.” She looked at his reflection in the glass, scowling. “I have not had any say over my own actions in more than two years.”

  He would not feel guilty for it. “You’ll not be staying here with MacDonnall.”

  “Of course not,” she said with a catch in her voice. “I am your prisoner, Laird.”

  Dugan felt the whisper of a curse pass his lips. “Maura, you—”

  “What? I am not your prisoner?” she taunted. “That is lovely to know, Dugan. Mayhap I will just—”

  “You will continue to travel with us on the morrow. Just as we planned.”

  “We?”

  Dugan said naught.

  “Never mind,” she said as she stood and came to him. “Help me with these. I don’t wish to call the maids.”

  She presented her back to him as though she’d not just accused him of holding her against her will.

  Aye, he was. And he was not ashamed of it. A laird did what was necessary to protect his clan. They both understood his duty.

  “I don’t know what MacDougall’s wife would have wanted with such an elaborate gown,” he groused. “We’ve no need of these ornate—”

  “Hush, Dugan,” she chided. “You are only being disagreeable.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  He finished with the fastenings and turned her ’round to face him, keeping hold of her arms. “Why would I want to be disagreeable with one of my oldest friends?”

  “Mayhap you can tell me, Dugan,” she said. The gown gaped in front, giving him an enticing view—or would have if he bothered to lower his eyes. Which he would not. He was a well-trained warrior with far more discipline than he’d displayed the previous night.

  But her cheeks were flushed an enthralling pink and her eyes sparkled with green fire. He trapped her hands behind her back and lowered his mouth to hers.

  Maura was drowning. Dugan’s sensual onslaught was all-consuming and overpowering. He was taking her to that place where she could not think, where she could not even reason. All she could do was feel—his mouth, his tongue, his hard body against hers.

  He released her hands and she felt her gown slip off her shoulders and down to her feet. Without breaking their kiss, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. Laying her down, he came over her, nipping her neck with his teeth while his hands freed her breasts from her shift.

  He bent over her and sucked the tips of her breasts into his mouth, the exquisite sensation shooting right to her womb. Maura reached for him and laced her fingers through his hair as he pleasured her.

  “You will never share a bed with MacDonnall.”

  His words shocked Maura back to reality. Her emotions threatened to choke her. She did not want to share a bed with the MacDonnall or any other man. She only wanted Dugan MacMillan, and he was a blockheaded fool if he did not realize it.

  “Do you think not, MacMillan?” She rolled out from under him and straddled him when he lay flat on his back.

  “He is not for you, Maura.”

  She balanced herself on both hands resting upon his chest. He drew her down for his kiss.

  “I suppose only you are,” she retorted, blinking back tears.

  “You know I am,” he said. He took her mouth, and as he battled with her tongue, slid his hand und
er her shift and touched her intimately.

  Maura broke the kiss as she blinked away tears. “Oh yes. You and Baron Kildary!”

  Dugan froze. He was nearly mindless with the need to sink into Maura’s tantalizing body, but her words chilled him to the bone. He lay perfectly still for a moment, then extricated himself from her bed, from her body.

  He strode to the door and pulled it open, but not before noticing that she’d rolled to her side and faced away from him. Her shoulders trembled, and Dugan knew she wept.

  “Shite,” he muttered as he left the solar and closed the door behind him.

  Why did it have to be her? Why was Maura Duncanson the one who stirred his blood in a way no other woman had ever done? Why did she have to be a Duncanson?

  Chapter 27

  Corporal Higgins brought Baird’s horse to him, saddled and ready to go. Then he stood and faced him squarely. “Lieutenant Baird, sir?”

  “What is it, Corporal?”

  “Sir, the men and I . . . We believe ’twould be best for us to return to Aucharnie for more men.”

  “No.” Goddamn it, Alastair had no interest in dealing with a mutiny, not after the hideous night he’d spent.

  That damned dead witch had found him in the barracks and touched him again and again, laying her icy fingers upon him and keeping him from being able to find any decent rest during the night.

  The witch had finally left him, but then the other voice came . . . the hateful voice. The berating voice that whispered contradictory, despicable words in Alastair’s ears, calculated, he was sure, to make him doubt himself and his mission.

  Now his head pounded again. He would prove them wrong—his father, Aucharnie, Ramsay . . . and even Higgins, wrong. He could find Maura Duncanson, no matter what they might believe.

  Baird sneered with derision. “I am not about to go back to Aucharnie and Ramsay and tell them I lost the little wench.”

  “Lieutenant, you seem . . . unwell these past couple of days. Mayhap—”

  “I am perfectly fine!” Baird snapped. When he found himself picking at his eyebrow, he slapped his hand down to his side. “Never better.”

  As soon as he finished off little Maura Duncanson, the old hag that refused to leave him alone would also be vanquished. And his father would cease his prattling. For—oh yes—he knew ’twas General Baird who’d come to torment him during the night. The old man just could not—

  “But, sir—”

  “This conversation is over, Corporal Higgins.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir . . . it is not.” Higgins was eyeing him strangely. Warily. “The men and I seriously think you ought to consider returning to Aucharnie for assistance.”

  Baird felt his control slipping, but he stood fast. He could not let his father see him lose command. He felt a burning in his throat and a twitch in his eye. No one defied him! No one!

  “This is insubordination, Higgins.” He started to draw his sword, but Higgins moved quickly and disarmed him.

  “Lieutenant, I have no wish to defy you,” he said. “But we have made no progress in finding any trail whatsoever for Lady Maura. We cannot even be sure she travels this way.”

  “That MacCallum bastard certainly saw her.”

  “No, sir, he did not.”

  “He said he—” Baird brushed away those damned cold fingers once again and tried to remember whether ’twas MacCallum who had said Maura was here . . . or whether it had been the hag’s words, meant to confuse him. “Can you not see—”

  “Lieutenant, all will be well if we return to Aucharnie,” Higgins said, his tone infuriatingly deferential. But Alastair knew he was not sincere. Not in the least. “We can muster more men and—”

  “You can stuff that pitiful tone, Higgins. ’Twill garner you no favor.”

  “Sir, I am not trying to garner favor. I would just like to go back and get some help. ’Tis a wide territory, and the earl’s daughter could be anywhere . . .”

  Baird was finished listening. He mounted his horse and reached down for his sword. Higgins handed it to him, and Baird had to fight a fierce urge to cut the insolent man down. “You and the others are hereby ordered to return to Aucharnie for more men. I will remain here in this vicinity—because I am quite certain the wench is here—and will meet you upon your return.”

  “But sir—”

  “You have your orders.”

  “Sir . . .”

  “What? Do you want them in writing?” Baird mocked.

  Higgins gave a quick nod. “Aye. I would appreciate that, sir.”

  Dugan spent the night in MacDonnall’s hall, but did not get much sleep. How could he, when his mind was full of Maura Duncanson and his body taut with need of her?

  How could the fates have brought her to him and taken her away all at once?

  At least his men would be well rested and ready for the morrow’s travels, for it seemed they’d found sufficient amusements—and beds—in the village near the keep.

  He was glad at least they had found some comfort.

  He took the staircase past Maura’s solar to the roof of the keep and leaned against the battlements as the sun made its way through the murky eastern sky. Their journey that day was going to be a wet one, but if they kept a good pace, they would reach Loch Monar well before dark.

  Dugan wondered if Argyll had already reached the loch—his mistaken destination. Even if he left Caillich Castle after Dugan had gone, he figured the duke would likely reach Monar before nightfall. Dugan’s group had stopped early the night before last, when they’d stayed at Murray’s, while Argyll was likely to have ridden longer and harder.

  When sounds of the household stirring became obvious, Dugan started back toward the stairs. But the sight of riders coming toward MacDonnall’s keep from the north caught his attention and gave him pause. He could not make them out, yet he could see that there were more than a dozen men in the company.

  He hastened down the stairs and found MacDonnall standing bleary-eyed in the great hall, having just risen from his bed. “You’ve got company about to arrive.”

  “Wha’?” He straightened and became alert.

  “Rouse your men,” Dugan said. “There are riders—mayhap twenty of them—coming from the north.”

  MacDonnall muttered a curse as he tightened his belt and stepped out of the keep. Dugan heard the alarm sounding as he climbed up to Maura’s solar.

  She sat on the edge of the bed wearing only her shift, looking rumpled and sleepy, and entirely delectable.

  He took her traveling gown from the chair and brought it to her. “Maura, get dressed. There are intruders riding in, and you might need to take shelter somewhere.”

  “Dugan?”

  “Aye, Maura.”

  “If . . .” She looked at him for a moment, then gave a quick shake of her head. “Never mind.”

  Dugan could not take his eyes from her—the steady pulse in her neck, the delicate lines of her collarbones, the fullness of her lips. As danger approached, he could think of naught but keeping her safe.

  The intensity of this protective urge shook him, but there was no time to ponder it now.

  He returned to the great hall and went outside where his brother and the others had gathered along with MacDonnall’s men. All were fully armed and ready for battle.

  MacDonnall started giving orders to his men. “Rory, go with Connor and ride out to the crags and see if you can tell who it is. Niall, I want you and a few others to gather the women and children.” He turned to Dugan. “Laird MacMillan, will ye come with me. The rest of ye, mount yer horses. We prepare for battle until we know who it is and what they want.”

  Dugan signaled to his men to follow MacDonnall’s orders, and returned to the keep with Angus. “Where do you keep the women, Angus?”

  “ ’Tis safest here in my hall.” MacDonnall collected his spyglass, and the two men climbed up to the roof. Angus went directly to the northern end of the battlements and peered through the glass a
t the riders.

  He handed the glass to Dugan. “Have a look.”

  Maura heard the men going up to the roof and grabbed her shawl as she followed them. She reached the top of the keep and stood back to watch as Dugan and the MacDonnall gazed out over the battlements, and wondered if the newcomers posed a threat.

  The wind tousled Dugan’s hair and rippled his deep red plaid about his knees, and Maura’s heart thudded in her chest at the sight of him. He would fight hard and fierce for MacDonnall, just as he would to prevent his clan from being evicted from their own lands.

  She shuddered with the awareness of what that meant for her.

  Dugan leaned against the stone battlement and raised the glass to his eye. “They’re highlanders.”

  “Aye,” MacDonnall replied.

  “At least two dozen of them,” Dugan said. “Wearing . . . Is that the MacKay standard?”

  MacDonnall took the glass from Dugan and looked out again. “I think you’re right. I have no quibble with MacKay.”

  “But we’ll remain battle-ready, in case something untoward is afoot.” Dugan turned to go for the stairs and stopped when he saw her.

  “Good morn to ye, lass,” MacDonnall said, walking past him. “We’ve a wee situation here.”

  “Yes,” Maura said. “I see.”

  She had given Dugan the opportunity to contradict her last night. But he had left her, rather than deny that she belonged to Baron Kildary.

  “Go down to the great hall with the rest of the women,” Dugan said, ushering her to the staircase behind MacDonnall. “The women and children will be gathering there. Stay there and you will be safe.”

  “Who are the MacKays?” she asked.

  “ ’Tis a clan whose lands are well north of here. Up beyond Loch Camerochlan. I do not know why they’d have come so far south.”

  Maura’s heart clenched in her chest. “Camerochlan?” Mayhap they would know something of her sister!

  Dugan took hold of her arm, preventing her from flying down the stairs and out the door of the keep. “Maura. Consider this a dangerous situation until I say otherwise. I know what you are thinking, but you are not to come out of the hall until I give you leave.”