The Warrior Laird

by Margo Maguire

  Sorcha was wrong. There was no one in this vicinity to help her.

  But she feared her clandestine flight from the inn might have angered someone enough to kill her. Baird or the highlander? Or both?

  “I see yer prize. ’Twill will be of no use to ye without an ally, a chiallain.”

  Maura shuddered. “How do you know all this, Sorcha?”

  The woman closed one eye and seemed to look inward with the other. “ ’Tis a gift.”

  From where, Maura could only imagine.

  She shook off the eerie sensations that had been running through her since her arrival at Sorcha’s cottage. She was fatigued, but rationality returned to her.

  Of course she would have allies. “Fellow travelers and crofters will likely point out the right paths for me.” She spoke dismissively, more than ready to take her leave.

  Sorcha rubbed her thumb over Maura’s palm. “Ah, but danger follows ye.”

  Maura pulled her hand away. “What do you mean?”

  “Ye must take care, lass.”

  Maura swallowed as her guilt came back to haunt her. She should never have taken the map, but she could not undo what was done. “Can you not be more specific, Sorcha?”

  The lines between Sorcha’s brows deepened. “I can’na . . .” She tipped her head to one side, as if listening to some unseen speaker. “Ach, nay. It can’na be. He has returned . . . ?”

  “Whoever he is, he will not find me,” Maura countered, shivering at the thought of the highland laird coming after her. She’d felt such power in the man’s arms . . . Would he harm her if he found her? She certainly hoped not, for then she’d have misjudged him completely. Sorcha must mean Lieutenant Baird, for she’d always sensed a bitter malice in him. “I’ll stay ahead of him, and I will most certainly hide when he comes near.”

  But Sorcha’s words left her thoroughly shaken. It would not go well for Baird if he lost her, and Maura believed he was perfectly capable of concocting a tale for her parents . . .

  With unease rising in her chest, she stood and walked out the door of the croft. She’d gone only two steps outside when she turned and faced the woman. “Th-thank you for the water, Sorcha.”

  Chapter 8

  Dugan had been dreaming of Campbells and Duncansons for as long as he could remember. Over and over, he’d heard the report of their rifles and known they’d murdered his father and brother. He’d seen his poor mother turn blue with the cold, unable to run any farther into the mountains . . .

  But Dugan’s nights had never been invaded by a russet-haired beauty who softened his heart as she inflamed his body with lust.

  Last night he’d been dreaming of her, of Maura, and the interlude they’d shared earlier in the evening. Even in sleep, he’d been able to feel her mouth on his, but the dream had taken it even further. Dugan had undressed her as every male instinct had urged him to do as they stood together on the veranda, baring every inch of her soft skin to his touch.

  And in his dream, he had touched her everywhere.

  “Bloody neep.”

  “What?” Lachann asked.

  “Naught.” Just giving himself a well-deserved scolding. “I wonder if she came this far.” They’d caught up to Conall and Kieran, who’d seen no sign of her.

  Clearly, something was seriously wrong with him if he was so susceptible to a pretty face. What ailed him could probably be cured by a wife—a spirited lass, one who possessed a strong backbone and would stand with him at the head of their clan.

  Such a woman must exist, and Dugan intended to find her as soon as he resolved the issue of Argyll’s rent. For he could not bring a wife into that perilous situation, not until he knew the MacMillans would keep their lands.

  “I’d say she must have,” Lachann answered. “Else Kieran or Conall would have seen her.”

  “I should have posted a guard last night,” Dugan said.

  “You cannot blame yourself, brother,” Lachann retorted. “We were all exhausted last night.”

  “Mayhap.” But a MacMillan laird should have risen above his fatigue to take better care of the map. ’Twas what any competent laird would have done.

  They followed the curve of the river and passed a small town to the north. ’Twas still early, and there were only a few hearth fires burning. Dugan was fairly certain Maura had traveled this path, but they didn’t see any sign of her.

  Soon they passed a crooked little croft situated a few yards into the woods, but no one was about, except for a huge dog that sat in front of its door. The giant hound watched as they passed, but made no sound to alert its master of their passing, as though it understood they were no threat.

  They might be no threat to the crofter, but the redhead was going to suffer severe consequences when they found her.

  “Do ye think she knows about the gold, Laird?” Archie asked.

  “Without question. One of you idiots mentioned gold in the taproom last night,” Lachann responded hotly. “What else was she to think when she saw the map?”

  ’Twas difficult for Dugan to grasp the notion of Lady Maura leaving the town alone on a search for gold that she’d heard about only in passing, with a map that had not yet yielded any clues. Women did not travel alone. They did not take to the hills on foot without wagons full of supplies, without armed men to protect them.

  And they certainly did not tryst with strange men on the verandas of inns.

  Clearly, Dugan had misapprehended the woman from the moment he’d set eyes upon her. And now he was paying the price.

  They’d traveled a full league past the croft when Dugan signaled for his men to split up. Even though riding through the woods would slow them down, they would cover more territory, and it was possible she’d abandoned the path in order to walk under cover of the trees.

  “We’ll ride parallel. I’ll keep to the road. Lachann, go into the woods where I can hear you if you call out. Archie, ride past Lachann, but stay within earshot. The rest of you do the same.”

  He hoped they didn’t have to go too far before one of them stumbled upon the thieving wench.

  During her journey from Glasgow, Maura had never, ever spoken of Rosie to anyone, for fear that someone would guess the goal she’d harbored these past two years.

  She’d done all she could to cause Bridget and Baird to believe she would take a southerly path. By the time they realized their mistake, she would be so far into the highlands they would never find her.

  The same was not true of the MacMillan laird. If he figured out who had stolen his map, he would be on her trail so fast she would not have time to hide. Maura did not think Dugan MacMillan would kill her, but it was imperative that she evade him. She hoped he and his men did not awaken too soon.

  She regretted that the highland laird’s amazing kisses could mean naught to her. They’d touched something deep inside her, awakening feelings she’d long kept buried. ’Twas more than just desire for a man’s touch.

  Of course she wanted a man who cared for her, one who would protect her and give her a home and children of her own. Someone who would accept Rosie into his life, without having to be asked.

  But until Maura rescued her sister from Loch Camerochlan, she could not think of husbands or children of her own. And if she did not move along far more quickly, she was going to be caught by the highland laird and then . . . who knew what he would do?

  The faint light of morning dawned, and Maura realized she needed to get off the narrow bridle path that skirted alongside the loch. For that was the route Laird MacMillan would take, and she would be too easily seen.

  She veered into the woods, where she knew she would not be able to keep up the same quick pace, for the ground was uneven and strewn with broken timber and clumps of foliage. Twice she tripped and nearly fell to her knees before she decided ’twas time to rest.

  Maura soon came upon a fallen log where she brushed off the loose bark and made it an acceptable seat. Once she was off her feet, she untied the skin of water f
rom the handle of her bag, then reached inside and took out the cheese she’d taken from the inn.

  She was anxious to see what she could learn from the map, so she took both pieces out, and quickly realized there was a third portion, rolled inside the map she’d taken from Laird MacMillan. With her heart thundering with excitement, she pieced them together in the grass.

  The three sections were definitely part of a whole, and Maura could tell there was still at least one portion missing. Without any printed words on the document, she found it nearly impossible to tell what she was looking at. But then she noticed a symbol near the bottom of one of the pieces she’d taken from Dugan’s pack that indicated a fortified building. Fort William, perhaps? Or Inverary Castle?

  It had to be one or the other. She traced the blue ink that represented the loch to the west of the fort, and another one that flared out north. Loch Eil, she hoped.

  But locating her own position did naught to help her identify Loch Camerochlan. Maura had made a point of studying a real map of Scotland at Lord Ilay’s house in Glasgow, so she knew Rosie had been taken far into the northwest. But there were numerous small blue marks on the sections of map before her that indicated rivers and lochs. The only way she was going to be able to locate Camerochlan was by continuing to travel northwest and asking for directions from the people she met on her way.

  If only ’twould be so easy to find the French king’s gold, for there was no grand X marking any spot on the map. But Maura had time. ’Twas going to take more than a few days to make her way up to Loch Camerochlan—mayhap she would figure out the key to the map during her travels.

  Maura put the pieces of the map away. Her only interest in the treasure was for Rosie’s sake. If she could whisk her sister away from Tilda Crane and get them far from Scotland, her father would hold no sway over them. ’Twould be so much easier to accomplish if she had more money than the sum she carried with her.

  She thought of Sorcha, but discounted her warning. The highlander wouldn’t kill her for taking his map. He would merely take it back.

  Wouldn’t he?

  She knew she should not assume so. He wore his claymore in his belt as though he would not hesitate to use it. And there was that dirk in his stocking . . .

  Still, Maura could not forget the interlude on the veranda of the inn. His touch had been potent, not painful. He’d been considerate, building his seduction slowly, and Maura had done naught to stop him. She’d craved more than just his kiss. Her breasts had tingled and ached for his touch, and when she felt his intense arousal against her belly, Maura had lost all sense of decency.

  But he had not. He’d pulled away.

  Maura supposed a highland warrior might allow himself to enjoy a few moments’ passion, especially when freely offered, but he would never ally himself with the daughter of a lowland lord. Nor would that lowland lord allow his daughter to be courted by such a man.

  Maura shivered and rubbed her arms to warm them. She opened her eyes to the brightening sky and caught the sight of three unsavory men coming toward her from the deep woods, all of them on foot.

  She stood abruptly, her heart pounding.

  All three men were large and dirty, their expressions menacing. Maura did not know what to do. She was entirely alone, with no weapon, no way to defend herself.

  “What have we here, lads?” the first one called out.

  “A wee pigeon, ripe for the pluckin’,” another one said with a wicked grin.

  Maura realized she was going to die there, and die horribly.

  Chapter 9

  Maura grabbed her bag and made a run for it. She ran as fast as she could, cursing the twisting of her skirts about her legs. They slowed her immeasurably, and if she could have torn them off to get away from the filthy brigands, she’d have done it.

  She began to pray for her salvation when she turned back for a quick glance and saw them gaining on her. But the rumble of galloping hooves was coming toward her through the dense woods, distracting her. She tripped and nearly fell, but suddenly Laird MacMillan was there, jumping from his horse and catching her in his arms.

  He quickly shoved her behind him as he drew out his massive claymore from his sword belt.

  “You’d be wise to stop where you are, lads.” His voice sounded like steel.

  The outlaws laughed. Maura gaped at the men, her terror in her throat. Her knees wobbled so badly she was afraid they would not support her. She tried to step back, away from Laird MacMillan, but quickly realized she was holding on to the back of his tartan. She was using him as a shield, the very man who’d come to take back the property she’d stolen from him.

  He was poised to fight. His knees bent, arms spread wide, his plaid swaying against his legs as though naught was amiss. As though he was about to spar for his own amusement.

  “You do not want to test me,” he said. Maura let go of his tartan and watched in horror as the men surrounded them. Did he not understand what a dire predicament this was?

  “Nay?” asked the tallest of the men, lunging at Dugan with his sword.

  Dugan leaped away to one side, pulling Maura with him. Her ankle shrieked in pain when she took a step. “Stand away, Maura,” he commanded.

  But there was nowhere to go. Their attackers seemed to come from every direction all at once, two with long swords, the other from behind, wielding a short dirk.

  But MacMillan turned and dodged quickly and effectively, parrying every thrust and jab. The clang of steel echoed in the woods, as did the taunts of his attackers. Maura ducked and tried to stay out of MacMillan’s way and out of the reach of the men who’d come upon her.

  “Ye can’na keep this up, ye wee bloody bastard!” one of them shouted.

  But yes, it seemed that Dugan MacMillan, who was not wee in any way, could keep it up indefinitely. And he would have, but one of the swordsmen came for her. Maura turned to run, but her injured ankle prevented it. She lost her footing and fell to the ground.

  MacMillan spun quickly and speared her assailant before Maura could look away.

  Screams of rage came from the two who remained and they charged MacMillan, clearly intending to slaughter him for killing their accomplice.

  He dealt with each one, seemingly all at once. And yet Maura knew it could not be possible. No one was that fast or that capable a swordsman. But when all was quiet in the woods, the three robbers lay in the grass all ’round them.

  The only man standing was Dugan MacMillan, and he was coming toward her with his claymore in hand, his steely blue gaze upon her.

  She swallowed hard. “Please . . .”

  “Please what, Lady Maura? Please do not take back what you stole from me?” His voice was harsh, and for the first time, she actually feared him. He seemed exactly the kind of barbarian warrior she’d been warned of—a man who was frighteningly capable of using that sword in his hand.

  Maura tried to scramble away from him, but he grabbed her ankle and pulled her to him through the grass. It was humiliating to be caught this way, with her skirts sliding up past her knees. But at least he held his claymore down at his side. He was not going to kill her.

  Yet.

  “ ’Twas only a map, Laird MacMillan,” she said, despising the wobble in her voice. “And I . . .”

  “You what?”

  His plaid reached only to his knees, and from her position on the ground, Maura could not help but notice the powerful muscles and sinews of his legs. Her eyes drifted up to his broad chest when he crossed his arms over it, then to his unshaven jaw. He truly was a barbarian.

  She had to get away from him.

  “I n-need to find my way into the h-highlands.” She knew it sounded lame, but she didn’t think he would appreciate any reason she might give him for taking his map.

  His expression darkened and she recoiled at the sound of his low growl. She felt the blood leave her head as he raised his huge sword. Mayhap now he would kill her.

  Dugan sheathed his sword in his belt.
The woman made no sense, but she was as beguiling as ever.

  “Your man Baird is not taking you into the highlands?” He wanted to throttle her. But he was not in the habit of committing violence against women, even one who’d wronged him.

  Lady Maura shoved down her skirts, depriving him of the sight of her delectable legs. “Lieutenant Baird is not my man,” she shot back at him.

  “No? Then where was he taking you?”

  She looked away, unwilling to answer.

  “Back to a husband, I suppose,” Dugan said, feeling some disgust at his part in cuckolding her husband. “Let me guess—he is an unaccountable brute and you decided to flee him.” He should have thought of that before. But last night, he did not know she was wholly lacking in scruples.

  “No!” she retorted angrily. She leaned forward and rubbed her injured ankle through her boot. “Well, not exactly. Not that it’s any of your concern, Lieutenant Baird was taking me to Cromarty to be married.”

  Dugan let out a low, bitter chuckle. “A bridegroom awaits you? ’Tis almost as bad as a husband. What do you suppose he would say about what took place on the veranda at the inn last night?”

  She rose to her feet, but faltered, her ankle quite obviously injured.

  Dugan did naught to assist her, but turned and gave out a loud whistle in the direction of the woods, where his men continued to search for her. Lachann would give out a whistle toward the next man who was searching, and so on, until each of the men had heard the signal and returned.

  “I had no intention of going to Cromarty, Laird MacMillan.” She went for her traveling bag, but Dugan reached it first.

  “No, I can see that. You planned to run away, alone, into the highlands.” Daft woman.

  He grabbed her bag and when he opened it, saw his maps lying inside. Looking askance at Maura, he took out the parchments, quickly realizing there was yet another beneath it.

  He let out a quiet, low whistle of surprise. “What have you here?”