“Have ye ever slept upon the ground before, lass?” Lachann asked her.
She gave a slight shake of her head while Lachann shot a glance in Dugan’s direction.
“Where did you think you’d sleep before . . . when you were on your own?” Lachann queried.
“I . . . I thought I’d come across some cottages. That p-perhaps their owners would allow me to stay . . . for payment, of course.”
“Oh aye. There are crofters all over the highlands,” Archie said. “And highlanders are—”
“Archie, go and see to the horses,” Dugan commanded. He did not want anyone giving Maura additional information about the highlands. God knew she would use it to make her way to Loch Camerochlan and thwart his plan to collect the ransom.
“What, why? The horses are all right,” the young man retorted.
“I want them strung together for the night.”
“Aye, Laird.”
Tethering the horses together was enough to put everyone on notice that the lass was not to be trusted. Dugan didn’t think she would attempt to steal a horse, but he knew she could be rash and impulsive. He didn’t want to risk her riding off a cliff during the night.
Full dark came quickly after dusk in the mountains. They ate their modest feast by the flickering light of the fire and Maura kept silent as she ate her share. After the meal, Dugan spread out a thick fur pelt on the ground. “You’ll sleep here,” he said to her.
She did not move. “Where will you be?”
“Right here next to you.” And he was fairly certain he wasn’t going to get any sleep at all.
Chapter 15
“You cannot be serious.”
Dugan’s men slipped away to make their own beds as it was clear they sensed a confrontation coming. As well they should.
He echoed her earlier words, his tone mocking her slightly. “Oh aye. Dead serious.”
She stood and crossed her arms over her chest. “I cannot sleep with you, Laird MacMillan!”
“ ’Tis all I’ve asked you to do, Maura. Sleep.”
She felt her face heat. “ ’Tis all I would do, Laird.” Which was not strictly true. It seemed his slightest touch had the power to overwhelm her better senses.
“Aye, then. Make yourself ready.”
“What do you mean?”
“Turn ’round and take a wee hike into the bushes before we bed down,” he said.
Maura’s teeth clenched of their own volition. “I am not a child.”
“Good. Then you’ll know ’tis a very bad idea to attempt to leave camp during the night.”
“Of course I would not leave. I am not a fool.”
Of course Maura had been trying to figure a way to do just that, but she’d come to the conclusion that tomorrow night would be better. Her ankle would be in better condition then and ’twas likely she would get another look at the map before she left.
She might even figure out how to connect Sorcha’s riddle with the symbols on the map. ’Twould not be amiss to find a cache of gold on her way to Rosie.
When she returned to the camp, Dugan was nowhere to be seen. Maura took it as a good sign that he’d decided against making her sleep with him. Mayhap she had as much effect on him as he had on her.
The fire had burned low and did not throw off much heat. But she lay down upon the fur and covered herself with her cloak. She’d guessed there might be nights when she’d have to sleep on the ground, but had not actually thought about the reality of doing so. She did not have a heavy plaid as the men did, though she believed her cloak would be adequate.
“You’ll be warm enough here, Maura.”
Dugan’s voice startled her, and when he lay down beside her and pulled her into his embrace, she lay as straight and brittle as a pane of glass. She thought she might even break.
“Relax, Maura. I’m willing to share my heat.”
“Y-your what?”
“I’m warm, you are not. Come close and you’ll be comfortable through the night.”
“Comfortable?”
“I don’t suppose a lass like you ever had to share a bed with anyone. Who is your family, Maura?”
“No one. No one of note.” She would not have him contacting her father if his ransom attempt with Kildary failed. She turned to her side, facing away from him, but he curved his body around hers. He was not going to wheedle that information from her just because he was big and warm.
She nearly melted with the glorious heat of him. Her body reacted to everything about his, from the way he embraced her so carefully to the scent of his skin. Maura felt a thickening and hardening behind her and knew he was becoming as aroused as she.
“You have a sire who would see his own bairn put out to die.” His breath was warm in her ear, and it burned through to the tips of her breasts and her nether parts.
Somehow, she managed to speak, but her voice was just a whisper. “Which is why I must go to Loch Camerochlan for her. Rosie needs me.”
“But I need you, Maura.”
A shudder went through her at the intensity of his statement. Oh Lord, Maura needed him, too.
She started to turn in his arms, but he tightened his hold on her waist and held her still. “The ransom Kildary will pay is essential to the well-being of my clan. Because I cannot count on finding any French treasure.”
Maura’s breath caught and she castigated herself for her foolish yearnings. She and Dugan MacMillan were no more suited than a sheep and a wolf. “ ’Tis entirely unfair, Dugan. I am not a pawn to be used whenever it suits.”
“I am sorry it must be this way, Maura.” And he was. He would like nothing more than to take her to Braemore Keep and . . . well, ’twas best not to think of what he’d like to do once he took her home. Especially when he knew how well she fit against him, and how fervently she would return his kisses.
“No, you’re not. You’re glad you have an alternative to having to search for the treasure.”
Her body shuddered against him and he realized it was a quiet sob. He’d made her cry.
He gathered her close and let her weep against him until she fell asleep. And then he spent the rest of the night dozing fitfully, wondering if there wasn’t some other way to achieve what he needed to do.
He did not like the thought of giving her to Kildary. He despised it. She was so young and vibrant, it seemed a sin to sentence her to a life with an ancient husband of questionable reputation who had already used up two wives before her. Dugan’s stomach roiled at the thought of Kildary kissing Maura’s delectable mouth, of taking her to his bed.
Gesu. She would bear the old man’s child.
Dugan’s head throbbed as he struggled to think of some alternative. He reminded himself of the harsh truth—that he might never find the French king’s gold, even with most of the map in his possession. That small green marking might mean naught, and then he would have nothing. No chance of paying Argyll the rent he demanded.
Hell, the map’s previous owner might now be at the site, digging up the landscape looking for the treasure himself.
He dozed awhile, and when morning came, he held Maura’s delectable body against his own until she awoke. She seemed to realize with some disdain where she was, quickly extricating herself from his arms and stumbling away into the brush nearby.
They wasted no time at camp, eating what was left of the previous night’s food and resuming their trek up into the highlands. Maura and Dugan rode together as before, though Maura kept her silence all day until they reached the walls of Caillich Castle.
He wondered who her family was, and why she would not tell him. Clearly, she was the daughter of a lowland lord who wanted an alliance with Baron Kildary. Dugan didn’t know many of the lowland families, except by reputation and the fact that a good number were allied with clan Campbell.
Hence the slaughter at Glencoe. ’Twas a Duncanson who’d ordered the attack on his clan and a Campbell who’d carried it out. The soldiers had killed women and children—innoc
ents.
There’d been days when Dugan was a much younger man that he’d thought of going raiding and slaughtering as many Campbells and Duncansons as he could find. He’d wanted to destroy their crops and scatter their animals. But, in his wisdom, his grandfather had forbidden it, warning Dugan of the repercussions such an act could cause for clan MacMillan.
Dugan would not risk the safety of his people.
But lately, it did not escape him that as a wealthy laird, he would have the power and wherewithal to avenge the deaths at Glencoe. No one would be able to touch a highland laird who actually owned his own lands.
The thought of it caused a flutter of hope, but Dugan quickly squelched it. He was far from being a wealthy laird. His clan was beginning to return to prosperity after the last uprising, and Dugan felt some satisfaction in that.
’Twas late afternoon when they arrived at Caillich Castle. The stronghold was situated on a high hill some distance from where Dugan stopped and dismounted. He could see that the huge fortress intrigued Maura, but she did not ask him anything about it. She was intent upon maintaining her silence, but for a few necessary words.
“Do you know the Earl of Caillich, Maura?”
She shook her head, then added a hesitant “No.”
There was something she wasn’t telling him, but he decided to let it go. He had no intention of forcing it out of her. They stopped in a small grove of trees, small enough that no army could ever hide there and surprise the castle. But there was a lot of low brush outside the cover of the trees, and Dugan knew it would be rife with game. ’Twas always good to arrive as a guest bearing gifts.
“Lachann, you and Bryce ride up to the castle and speak to the earl,” Dugan said. “You know what to do.”
“Aye, Dugan,” Lachann replied. “You’ll wait here for us in the copse?”
Dugan nodded. ’Twas only prudent to send a scout into what might be unfriendly territory. One never knew what side Caillich was on. The earl had not supported the highland uprising two years before, but neither had he aided that maggot Argyll in his effort to suppress those who fought for the restoration of King James.
It began to rain as Lachann and Bryce rode off toward the castle. Dugan helped Maura down from his horse, hoping his brother would find a friendly situation at the castle. Years ago, Caillich had condemned the actions of the Campbells at Glencoe, and the earl had been instrumental in bringing an official inquiry of the massacre to Parliament.
Dugan had always respected him for that.
He also knew there was a decent lodging house inside the walls, where he hoped to secure a room for Maura. The rain was going to continue long and hard, and he did not want her to have to try and endure it. He told himself ’twas because he could not afford for her to become ill.
And yet . . . he knew there was more to his desire to keep her safely sheltered.
He took down his bow and quiver of arrows and spoke to Archie. “Make a shelter for Lady Maura and stay with her until Conall and I return.”
Archie replied with a nod.
“See that she comes to no harm.”
“Aye, Laird,” Archie replied with a grin.
Dugan started for the thick brush but had not gone far before he heard Maura mutter a few quiet words. “Harm, my arse.”
The mist had become more than a drizzle and Maura knew that if it kept up, her cloak would not keep her dry. She shivered and hoped Lachann returned quickly with word that they were welcome to go into the castle. She doubted the earl would remember her, even though they’d met only two years before, soon after her arrival at Ilay House. She hoped to avoid him altogether.
Archie unrolled the large fur she’d slept on with Dugan the night before, and propped it up in the lowest branches of a tree. “Sit under here, Lady Maura. ’Twill keep ye dry. Uh, mostly dry.”
“Shouldn’t we build a fire?”
“Ach, no. ’Twould be seen from the castle. We do’na wish to make our presence known. Not yet.”
His words sent a wave of disappointment through Maura. Thinking of the fire they could not build brought tears to her eyes, but she was stronger than that. A wee spot of discomfort amounted to naught in the grand scheme of things. She was making her way toward Rosie, and she could tolerate a bit of hardship in order to do so. Her journey thus far had, in fact, been easier than she’d originally imagined. And she’d gone much farther than she would have managed on foot.
She sat down on a folded length of plaid and snuggled deeply into her cloak. “Aren’t you going to sit with me, Archie?”
He looked around as though there might be someone who would answer for him. “Well, I, er . . .”
“Don’t be foolish, Archie. There is plenty of room beneath the fur. There’s no sense in getting soaked while we wait.”
Archie seemed reluctant, but he did crawl in to sit cross-legged beside her. He did not emit even half the warmth that Dugan had done the night before.
Maura did not care to think of last night, of sleeping curled into Dugan’s body with his thickly muscled arm ’round her. She’d been mortified upon awakening to find one of her knees wedged between his thighs and her face pressed against his chest.
He’d been awake for Lord knew how long, waiting for her to awaken so as not to disturb her sleep. She blushed even now, thinking of the intimacy of it. And his consideration of her comfort.
And yet he was still going to ransom her and turn her over to Baron Kildary. It infuriated her.
And it hurt.
Truly, Maura understood loyalty and duty. She just wished Dugan did not insist upon using her. He had most of the treasure map! They could search for the gold together and when they found it, he would not have to ransom her. She would be free to go to Loch Camerochlan and take Rosie away before anyone was able to get word to her father. She and Rosie could be on a ship to Ireland so quickly Lord Aucharnie would never find them.
“I’m surprised the laird allows you to ride Glencoe with him. He’s never before allowed anyone to ride his horse.”
“His horse is named Glencoe?”
“Aye. For his home.”
Maura digested that information. Everyone knew of the horrific events that had occurred in the highland village of Glencoe, and she knew that many innocent people had been slain by troops led by Robert Campbell—her mother’s uncle. Worse, Campbell’s orders had come from Major Duncanson, her father’s younger brother.
A shudder went through her. “Was Laird MacMillan there? At the m-massacre?”
“Ach, aye. His father and brother were murdered by the redcoats, and his ma died in the mountains, tryin’ to escape. Murder under trust, they call it.”
Maura felt ill. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself under her cloak. Dear God, Dugan was the Glencoe lad Sorcha had spoken of. He must be. What had the old woman said about him?
Maura wracked her brain to remember, even as she swallowed back her revulsion at Archie’s words. “How did Dugan come to be laird of the MacMillans?” she asked.
“Ah, weel, his ma’s father was Laird MacMillan before him. Dugan and his brothers and sister, who was a wee bairn then, came to their granpa’s holding at Braemore after the slaughter.”
Maura tried but could not imagine the horror of the events that day at Glencoe. It had happened many years ago, so Dugan would have been a small boy at the time. ’Twas no wonder he’d bristled when Lieutenant Baird had spoken derisively to him at the Fort William inn.
And no wonder at all that he could coldly send the daughter of a lowland lord to wed yet another despicable lowland nobleman. So many of them had been involved in the Glencoe affair . . . Maura realized her predicament must provide Dugan some well-justified satisfaction.
Chapter 16
Lieutenant Baird cocked his pistol and held it to the old blind woman’s head. “Was she here?” he demanded.
“I smell the rot o’ death on ye,” the old hag muttered.
“That would be you, old woman,” Baird gro
wled. “I’ll blow your brains all the way to Ben Nevis if you do not tell me.”
She had to have noticed Maura passing by. The damned dog would have barked up the same ruckus it had done when Baird and his men had come past the croft.
“Christ, woman. Just tell me what you know and I’ll leave you be.”
“Ye are as empty in soul as the mon ye seek to please. Ye’ll no’ find any favor there.”
Baird swallowed. Sweat gathered between his shoulder blades and ran down the center of his back. “You know naught of it, hag.”
“Ye are a twisted, self-seeking fool wi’ no—”
“Last night! Was she here?” he demanded.
The old woman sniffed at his sleeve, like a dog seeking its next meal. “The blood of a Glencoe murderer runs through yer veins, ye damned Sassena—”
Baird fired.
The woman fell to the ground and he stepped away. He felt clammy and cold all over, and yet a certain satisfaction infused him. Aye, his father had been a young officer at Glencoe, and he’d carried out his orders perfectly. Not all the soldiers had. General Baird once spoke of the fainthearted fools who’d fired into the air rather than follow Captain Campbell’s orders. Craven cowards, John Baird had called them.
Alastair looked at his pistol, then shoved it back into its holster and marched to the door. The biddy was a bloody fool. All she’d had to do was answer the question—and keep her daft remarks to herself—and she would still be alive.
The rot of death is on ye . . .
The voice gave Alastair a start. He glanced down at the body and swallowed hard. She was dead, all right.
He wiped his damp hands on his trousers, then straightened his coat and pulled open the door.
His men were on horseback, sitting in silence, waiting for him. Baird didn’t bother looking at any of them, but went directly to his horse and mounted. He hoped they were not as lily-livered as some of his father’s compatriots at Glencoe.
He cleared his throat. “Aye. She came this way.”
She must have, else the woman would have denied it. Wouldn’t she?
The Warrior Laird Page 13