“Yes,” she replied to the highlander with a slight nod. “The lieutenant and I have a mission.”
Laird MacMillan bowed elegantly. “Then I will leave you in his dubious care.” He looked at Baird as he would at the lowest creature on earth.
Baird started to say something more, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he glared back at MacMillan as the highlander returned to the bar. Then he sat down across from Maura, glowering.
“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” Maura asked, still distracted. She could hardly believe she’d had the nerve to begin a flirtation with the highland laird by dropping her handkerchief. But she did not regret it, not in the least.
“Only that I leave you for half a moment and return to find you in the arms of that filthy red shanks.”
“In the arms—!” Maura closed her mouth rather than dignifying the man’s accusation with a response. Besides, it would not do to become involved in a row with the lieutenant now, not when she wanted him feeling relaxed and complacent enough for her to escape. “You misunderstood, Lieutenant. That’s all,” she managed to say. Soon she would be away from her odious escort and all his men. “What did Corporal Higgins say?”
Baird wiped his brow, and the movement of his hand against his smooth skin grated on Maura. But she ignored it, needing to know what issue had called him away. “There is a question of space for my men here at the inn,” he explained.
Maura frowned with feigned concern. “And . . . did the innkeeper find rooms for them?”
“Only one. For me. My men will stay at the fort tonight,” he replied, and Maura felt relieved. She did not want to trip over a member of her escort as she sneaked out of the inn after dark.
“Oh. That’s very good, then, is it not?”
He gave her a sour look, which she ignored.
“I believe I’ll take a walk through town after I finish here, Lieutenant Baird. Perhaps Bridget will accompany me, or would you rather assign one of your men?”
Dugan could not believe the comely lass was in the company of English soldiers. He should have known a pampered beauty like Lady Maura would be the wife or daughter of some high and mighty lowland lord. Who else would be dressed in such fine cloth? Not that she was the least bit ostentatious. Her cloak was black and her unadorned gown was a dark green that gave her eyes the richness of deep summer.
He’d fallen for her flirtatious ploy. What a bloody neep he was. He should have noticed her military escort, but he and the lads had been in deep discussion about their plans for the morrow. He would have to be more vigilant, especially while they remained in this garrison town. He had no interest in having any sort of confrontation with her escort.
His eyes wandered back to Lady Maura, and even though she was a lady, and in the company of a royalist officer, Dugan could not forget her womanly scent or the dimples that creased her cheeks when she smiled.
He would enjoy doing more than just passing the time of day with her. ’Twas far too easy to imagine the sweet bounty of feminine skin hidden beneath her traveling gown, and how soft it would feel in his hands. He grew hard thinking about grazing her full lower lip with his teeth while he brought the tips of her breasts to hardened peaks. He would—
“Did she invite ye to her room then, Laird?” Archie asked in a low tone.
“Shut your trap, MacLean,” he snapped, far too aware of the heated flesh beneath his plaid. “We need to decide on the direction we’ll take on the morrow.”
Baird sent Higgins with Lady Maura on her walk about town. He did not think he could abide spending any more time than was absolutely necessary with the woman, especially not after seeing her making eyes at the filthy highlander.
Was that not just like her—to find favor with a cursed Jacobite? He spit on the ground as he walked toward the garrison to check in with the commanding officer there.
Maura had been quite clear about her distaste for her chosen bridegroom. Not that Baird blamed her, but she’d received her father’s orders. It was not up to her to question—or defy—the earl. He most certainly was not going to take her back to Glasgow, no matter how desperately or how often she entreated him.
Maura was the most intractable female he’d ever met. He would not bet against her refusing to wed Kildary when she arrived on the church steps for their nuptials. ’Twould be the one way to guarantee that the old baron would have naught to do with her when Aucharnie tried to make reparation.
Baird wondered what kind of pact Aucharnie had made with Kildary. ’Twas likely that a great deal of money was involved. But whose? Did Aucharnie pay a handsome dowry to be rid of his troublesome offspring? Or had Kildary paid the earl a generous bride price for a young, fertile wife?
Of course, Lord Aucharnie had not shared any information with him. But he hoped his success in this mission would prompt Lord Aucharnie finally to recommend his promotion. He deserved a captaincy, by God. Everyone knew it.
His posting at Aucharnie Castle was supposed to have been a boon to his career. His father, General John Baird, had promised as much when he’d recommended Alastair for transfer to Aucharnie from a tiny outpost west of Aberdeen. The general had told him to bide his time, and when Alastair was ready, he would be transferred.
But Aucharnie was hardly any better than the outpost.
“ ’Tis Ramsay who is in Lord Aucharnie’s confidence,” Baird muttered as though his father could hear.
Early in his tenure at Aucharnie, he’d taken matters into his own hands and set his sights upon the earl’s daughter. For surely the son-in-law of an earl would possess significant prestige and authority. ’Twas the perfect way to bypass Ramsay’s influence.
Alastair’s ears burned at the memory of Maura’s humiliating rejection. She’d toyed with him for months, leading him on until he’d been in a fever to possess her. The lass wandered about the estate at all hours with no escort but her stunted cripple of a sister. ’Twas only right that he rein her in and rid her of the wee red-thatched troll that was so attached to her.
But the bitch had spurned him at the last while two of his subordinates looked on. Her behavior toward him was utterly unforgivable, and Baird had every intention of seeing that the earl’s daughter got what she deserved—marriage to the old lecher in Cromarty. Either that . . . or perhaps ’twould be more satisfactory if she met with a convenient “accident” if she defied him again.
They had at least two more days on the road before they reached Cromarty, and Baird was not familiar with the territory ahead of them. According to his map, there would be no inn where they could spend the intervening night. They would have to sleep in some cold, dank crofter’s cottage if he found one along the way.
The more he thought of it, an accident was far more appealing than having to complete the rest of his journey to Cromarty with the higher-than-mighty Maura and her crotchety old companion. Next time Maura decided to take a walk among the craggy cliffs of the highlands, he intended to give his permission. Gladly.
Then he would follow her and show her the error of her ways—while he took his pleasure of her sinfully enticing body—and then discard her like the proud piece of rubbish she was.
Chapter 5
Taking his ale in the shadow of a British fort chafed at Dugan. The town was crawling with lowlanders, as well as Campbells who were loyal to the English king and responsible for the slaughter of his family.
Dugan would never forget what had happened at Glencoe all those years ago. Murder under trust was the most heinous of crimes, and Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon had been hideously guilty of it.
He tamped down the bile that always came to his throat when he thought of his family’s horrible fate. He knew who was responsible, from Major Robert Duncanson, who had ordered Campbell to put everyone under seventy to the sword, to the Duke of Argyll, whose men had shot down his father and Gordon in cold blood. A child! They’d murdered a mere child because of the fecking king’s wish to make an example of a highland clan.
&n
bsp; Dugan swallowed his ale in one long gulp. He could not think of his parents and Gordon now, not when the risk of eviction was very real and more menacing than any disaster the MacMillans had faced in the past twenty-five years.
He had to decide what to do about finding the French gold. If they could not decipher some marking or clue on the two parts of the map in his possession, he was unsure what to do next. Travel up to the western isles and rouse the MacDonalds in his cause?
The thought of war repulsed him. He’d battled for Prince James during the uprising two years before, and been sorely wounded in the process. Dugan had healed, but the MacDonald septs had lost too many men in ’15, and Dugan knew the western clans were still licking their wounds.
He’d already ruled out a cattle raid, for ’twould yield too little profit, and besides, he did not care to rouse any of the clans against him. If the maps were no good, he might not be able to avoid war, and he would need every highland clan to stand with him.
He looked ’round the crowded taproom. He had not been able to secure even one room for himself and his men to share, but the innkeeper had given them leave to sleep in the large sitting room on the opposite side of the stairs. They’d been sleeping out of doors during their travels away from Braemore, and were grateful to be out of the cold for the one night, with a tidy peat fire to warm them. They were to take over the room after all the guests had retired, and planned to be away at dawn.
But it meant they couldn’t really examine their two sections of the map again until everyone—even the servants—had retired and the inn was quiet. By then, Dugan was sure Bryce and Conall would be stretched out in a couple of chairs with their mouths hanging open and snoring to raise the dead.
Dugan was weary as well, but thoughts of the lass who’d left the inn a while ago . . .
No, ’twould be thoughts of the map that kept him awake. He had to have missed the marking that showed the location of the gold. Perhaps he ought to leave it to Lachann to figure it out, for his brother was the canny one. Dugan’s strength was in defense and decisiveness, the main reasons his grandfather had chosen Dugan to succeed him as laird.
’Twas unfortunate that he’d not been decisive when it came time to marry. If he had wed sooner, mayhap he would not find his thoughts quite so tangled up with the beautiful Lady Maura. Auld Hamish MacMillan had been after Dugan to woo and wed Artis MacLean several years ago. But back then Dugan had not felt ready to take a wife. He was fully occupied with training his men and seeing to the fortifications at Braemore. And then the old man had died and Dugan’s responsibilities to the clan had piled up even more, one after the other.
Artis was a comely lass, and had shown some shy interest in him. Mayhap Dugan had been a dolt to let her slip through his fingers, but she’d been painfully quiet and far too timid for him. No, he did not want a shrew, either, but a wife he did not have to fear would faint away if he raised his voice.
Someone more like Lady Maura, who had set Lieutenant Baird in his place firmly and without hesitation. And ’twould be no hardship to take her to his bed every night.
Dugan took note when the red-haired lady returned to the inn with her soldier escort. She did not seem pleased with his company, and it occurred to Dugan that she might be a prisoner of sorts.
He discarded the notion as soon as it entered his brain. The woman could not possibly be a prisoner, else she would not have been allowed to walk alone near the waterfall that afternoon. One of the soldiers would have accompanied her.
No, she traveled with them willingly.
Dugan tamped down his disappointment when the twitchy, bald lieutenant came to escort Lady Maura to a chamber at the top of the stairs. ’Twas the last he would see of her, for he intended to leave at first light.
He kept his eyes on her as the soldier opened her door and stood aside. Instead of entering the room, Maura turned to look down the stairs, catching Dugan’s gaze. Her eyes were wildly alluring in spite of her connection to the royalist soldiers.
Dugan decided he would not hold her allegiance against her if she happened to favor him with a smile.
Her cheeks flushed bright with color, and then she did flash him a brilliant smile before ducking into the room. Her escort closed the door behind her and took his own leave.
What Dugan would not give to follow her, to join her in that room, where he would loosen her hair from its coils and let the bonny, silken mass stream down her back. A few kisses and he would begin to undress her, uncovering pale, smooth skin inch by inch . . .
“Ach,” he muttered. Until he settled his outrageous debt to Argyll, there would be no room in his life for distractions. He put Lady Maura from his mind, finished his ale, and looked at his men. He knew they were tired. Even Dugan felt the burn of fatigue behind his eyes. They’d been riding for days, away from the familiarity and comforts of home, and the result of their travels so far was dubious at best.
“I still think we ought to go raiding,” Lachann remarked, breaking into Dugan’s thoughts. “Clan Chattan is not far away and ’tis said they have hundreds of cattle. Mayhap even thousands. We could drive them south and then sell them in the lowlands.”
“Lachann, not even a thousand head of cattle would cover Argyll’s demands,” Dugan said bluntly.
“But the map isn’t—”
“We don’t yet know what it is or is not,” Dugan said. “We’ll look at it again later, when all is quiet. And then mayhap one of us will see the clue we need.”
Archie stepped back from the bar. “My eyes are burnin’, Laird. Can it wait until the morn?”
“Aye, mine as well,” Kieran said with a yawn. “I’m not sure I’m up to any map readin’ tonight.”
They spent another hour or so at the bar, waiting for the sitting room to clear out. When they were finally alone, Dugan’s companions wrapped themselves in their plaids and stretched out wherever they found adequate space. Lachann made a trip outside while Dugan took out the maps and spread them out on a low table. He pulled a lamp close, but before sitting down with Lachann, he saw a fetching feminine figure slip down the stairs and out the door.
The inn was shrouded in darkness, so Dugan wasn’t certain who had gone out, but he had a suspicion. ’Twas the bonny Lady Maura, the thoughts of whom he had not been able to eliminate completely from his mind.
He followed her scent and was rewarded when he stepped into the shadowy veranda of the inn.
“You’ve abandoned your escort, Lady Maura?”
She whirled to face him, and in the soft light of the moon, Dugan saw that her expression was troubled. Her distress touched him deeply and he put aside his own difficulties for the moment.
“Are you in trouble, lass?” he asked, recalling the obvious animosity between the lady and her escort. He felt a perverse satisfaction in it.
Lady Maura shook her head. “No,” she said quietly. “I’m . . .”
Dugan came close enough to touch her. The top of her head barely met his shoulder, and he could not resist reaching out to feel the texture of one of her soft curls. “You are what, Lady Maura?”
“I-I am . . .” She turned her gaze upon him, seemingly at a loss for words.
“A woman as lovely as you should have naught to worry about.”
She frowned as she looked up at him, and he could not resist sliding his hand down to cup her jaw. Her cheek was so smooth, he ran his thumb across it as he thought about tasting her. Just one kiss, though ’twould not be nearly enough to satisfy his burgeoning arousal.
She shivered and closed her eyes. “As lovely? As much trouble, you must mean.”
“Are you trouble, Lady Maura?” he asked quietly, tipping his head down toward hers. Aye, she was more enticing than any lass in Braemore Glen—and as unsuitable for him as any lowlander would ever be.
He felt her throat constrict beneath his hand. She was so delicate, he wanted her as he’d wanted no other. She made all his protective instincts come to the fore.
“Aye.
Trouble to all who know me.” He heard her tremulous sigh and knew there was a world of turmoil lurking within her breast.
Dugan had an urge to discover exactly how much trouble she could bring him. And he intended to start with a kiss. He leaned down and touched his mouth to hers. He felt her sharp intake of breath, but then she softened and her body drifted toward his.
Dugan gathered her close, fitting her wondrous curves against him. He sensed her inexperience, but deepened the kiss anyway, as raw desire shot through him.
Some part of him knew there could be naught but a kiss between them, but Dugan could not keep from drawing her tightly against him and ravishing her mouth with his lips, tongue, and teeth. She tasted of sweet highland water and smelled like heather.
He was lost. The desire to do more than just steal the most incredible kiss of his life nearly overpowered him. With a low growl, Dugan continued to plunder her mouth while he fought a savage instinct to carry her away to some private bower and gratify the primitive needs she roused in him.
He slid one hand down to her waist, and she slipped her fingers into the hair at his nape, loosening his queue. He let his hand drop lower, pulling her hips against his, making her quite sure of her effect on him.
She pressed back against him, fitting his hard length to her body in just the right place. Dugan felt glorious and powerful, all at once.
He had to be insane.
He could not do this, not with a highborn lady who was under the protection of a Sassenach guard. Rational sense slammed into him and he broke away, ending the kiss.
She made a small sound he thought must be dismay, but for what, Dugan was not sure. Dismay that the kiss was finished? Dismay that she’d allowed it? The latter, of course. A minor flirtation in the taproom was not an invitation for ravishment.
“Lady Maura—”
“ ’Twas my fault, Dugan MacMillan,” she said with a tinge of anger in her voice, “so please do not apologize.” Besides her anger, she sounded as frustrated as Dugan felt. Lowering her hands from his shoulders, she looked at him with confusion in her eyes. Or perhaps ’twas mistrust.
The Warrior Laird Page 5