Instead, there had been a parliamentary investigation into the events at Glencoe on the morning of February 13, 1692. Blame had been laid at Lord Stair’s feet, but the earl had received no punishment. King William had been exonerated, of course, and the Earl of Breadalbane had spent a measly few days imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle for speaking with the highland lairds—men considered to be Jacobite rebels—before the fatal events took place at Glencoe.
In Dugan’s eyes, justice had never been done.
He carried his shovel to Murray’s shed and searched the building for more tools they could use when they reached the site only Maura knew. He dearly hoped she was not lying.
“Laird,” said Conall, “there is a small wagon back here.”
They were going to need something in which to carry the gold, if they ever found it. “Leave it there, Conall. We’ll take it with us when we leave in the morning.”
Lachann came into the shed and took note of the tools. He put his hands on his hips. “Do you really think we’ll need any of this, Dugan?”
Dugan shook his head. “I don’t know, Lachann. What I do know is that something struck Maura last night as she was looking at the map.”
“Aye. The realization that this wee journey of ours is the only way to keep us from taking her to Braemore to be ransomed by Kildary.”
“I don’t think so. There was something about the map. Something she saw that the rest of us have missed. I’m sure of it.”
Lachann cocked one leg, and his posture, with his hands on his hips, clearly spoke of his annoyance. “I hope you’re right, Dugan.”
Aye, Dugan hoped he was, too.
He left the shed and went to the back of the house where he’d left Maura, and found her sitting near the fence, milking one of the cows.
“I would not have thought you knew how to do such a menial task, Lady Maura.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “There is much you do not know about me, Laird MacMillan.”
Dugan knew all he needed to know. She was a Duncanson and he had never forgotten their treachery.
“My father cast me out when he learned I’d saved Rosie. I was but fifteen then.”
Dugan made no reply, but he found it incomprehensible. First, to give orders for his own bairn to be taken away to die. And then to punish the daughter who’d saved her.
Ah, but the old bastard was a Duncanson.
“Deirdre Elliott and her husband, Gordon, took me into their house, where I spent most of my time until I was eighteen. I learned quite happily to do all manner of chores while I was Deirdre’s daughter.”
Dugan detected a tinge of sorrow in her tone, but it vanished when she stood up with the bucket of milk in hand. She walked past him and went into Murray’s house.
He unhitched Glencoe from the fence and took down his and Maura’s traveling bags before turning the horse loose in the enclosure. He took the bags into the house and reached into his own for the maps.
Laying them out on the table, Dugan half watched Maura remove her cloak and tie a plain canvas apron ’round her waist.
Such a simple, homey act had the power to arouse him. Her hair was in disarray, and Dugan could almost feel the silk of it sliding through his fingers. Her pretty lips teased him and her apron hugged the curves he’d so enjoyed the night before.
But he steeled his heart against any softening of feelings toward her.
Was Lachann right? Did Maura actually know where the gold was hidden or was this just a clever ruse to get him to take her to Loch Camerochlan? Mayhap he ought to send her to Braemore now and hasten to Loch Monar before Argyll could get there. It was the logical thing to do.
And yet Dugan did not believe she was lying about the clue. He might be a deluded fool, but he doubted it. He’d learned long ago to trust his instincts.
He considered Maura’s betrothal to Kildary. It seemed that Maura’s father had had no use for her until now. Which indicated to Dugan that her marriage to Kildary must be of significant value to him. He’d already figured Maura had no dowry, so ’twas likely her father was in need of the funds Kildary would pay for the privilege of taking Maura to wife.
Perhaps ’twas better to thwart the marriage, rather than fulfill Lord Aucharnie’s wishes. ’Twas not the bloody revenge Dugan would have preferred, but it would give him some satisfaction, knowing he’d caused difficulties for the Duncanson lord.
He watched as Maura knelt before the grate and built a fire in silence, shutting him out.
“I’ve decided ’twould serve my purpose to spoil your father’s wishes and prevent your marriage to Kildary.”
“What?” She rested back on her heels as she turned to look at him, her green eyes narrowing. “I do not understand.”
“Your father needs Kildary’s funds and possibly an alliance with the baron,” he said. “If I keep you from Kildary . . .” He shrugged. “Mayhap Lord Aucharnie will not be able to pay his rents.”
Maura frowned in disbelief. And mayhap a fair dose of mistrust. “He pays no rents, Dugan. He is the earl.”
“Ah, but there was a reason he bartered you to Kildary. Money. He needs it, and the baron has it.”
“What about your rents, Dugan? Wh-what if we don’t find the treasure?”
Aye, that was the rub. If they didn’t find the gold where Maura led them, could Dugan afford the satisfaction of blocking her father’s goals by keeping Maura from Kildary?
No. The welfare of his clan had to come first.
“Was it only two days ago that you were so certain I’d find the gold?” he taunted. “Show me the clue and I’ll set you free.”
“Perhaps I would. If I could trust you, Laird MacMillan.”
Chapter 23
Maura grabbed a basket and stalked out of the cottage, leaving Dugan to his maps. Let him try to figure out what she already knew. She had no intention of showing him the words she’d deciphered in the dust on the backs of those documents.
She did not care what he’d said about thwarting her father. He was lying. Of course he would send her with one of the men—his ill-tempered brother, no doubt—to Braemore if he discovered the clues that would lead him to the gold.
She was so angry, she could barely think.
Clue or no clue, there was no guarantee that he was going to find any treasure at Loch Aveboyne. He would be foolish not to utilize both options available to him—the ransom and the gold—and they both knew it.
She shooed the chickens back into their hutch and followed the birds inside. She found nests with fresh eggs and filled her basket with them, then headed toward a nearby pond to see if there were any mushrooms or wild tubers she could add to their supper.
As she’d told Dugan from the very beginning, Baron Kildary could easily ignore his ransom demand. ’Twould be no trouble for the old man to barter with yet another heartless father for the hand of some other unlucky young daughter. One fertile womb would serve as well as any other.
Maura placed her hand against her abdomen when she thought of Baron Kildary’s seed growing there. She shuddered with revulsion at the thought of him planting it.
That certainly was not going to happen. No matter how events played out, she was never going to allow the old satyr to touch her. She was tired of being played like a pawn in a game of chess, and upset that Dugan would even consider turning her over to the old baron. After the intimacies they’d shared, she would have thought . . .
She raised her chin and bit her lips to keep them from trembling. Clearly, she’d been a naïve fool to think his lovemaking meant anything beyond a mere moment’s pleasure.
A terrible chill came over her, and she found herself wishing for the impossible—that someone would trust her, believe in her, care for her. She felt impossibly alone.
And hurt.
She was not responsible for the actions of her kin twenty-some years ago. She did not like them any more than Dugan did, but that did not seem to matter. No, he would never forgive her for being a m
ember of clan Campbell, and a hated Duncanson, besides.
Maura sniffed back the hollow feeling that had settled in her chest and focused on her anger.
Did she actually need Dugan MacMillan to take her to Loch Aveboyne? She had studied the torn map carefully, and taken a good look at the detailed map hanging on Murray’s wall, besides. She knew what direction to take to get to Loch Monar. If she could manage to get there alone, she believed ’twas only ten or fifteen miles farther north to Loch Aveboyne. And when—if—she found the gold, she could go on to Loch Camerochlan for Rosie.
The only question was whether she dared attempt to get away from Dugan again.
Maura’s mind raced. She interrupted her mushroom picking and looked back at the cottage and the small outbuildings near it. There was a wheeled cart stored behind the shed, and a horse that was likely accustomed to pulling it. She might be able to slip away on horseback during the night, when everyone was asleep. She was not the most experienced rider, but she could probably go ten or more miles before Dugan knew she was gone.
As dusk came over the glen, Maura looked at the terrain to the north and tried to imagine covering any territory at all in the dark. How could she be sure the animal would not carry her off a cliff that neither of them could see? She would have to make sure she did not veer off course, and then hide from Dugan when he and the others came after her, for he would certainly pursue her when he discovered her missing.
She sighed. Perhaps ’twas not the best plan.
She returned to her mushrooms, deciding she would have to think of another.
Dugan admitted that Maura had good reason not to trust him. First he’d planned to ransom her, now he said he would not. He’d bullied her and made love to her—what was she to think?
What was he to think?
He paced the floor of Kennan Murray’s cottage, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked. The woman had stolen from him and lied to him. What man in his right mind would trust her to take him to the gold?
None.
And yet everything about her attracted him—her graceful movements, her beautiful mouth, the lusty way she kissed him . . .
He gave out a low groan as he looked out the window and watched her emerge from the chicken coop with her basket laden with eggs. Aye, she was resourceful, and she seemed so certain she knew the location of the gold. ’Twas beyond frustrating that he could not see the clue.
But at least he had figured out a plan for getting the information from her.
He was rolling up the maps and putting them away when she returned to the cottage. She did not speak to him, but went to a cupboard and began pulling out bowls and dishes. He watched with interest as she took a skillet from its hook, put some onions and mushrooms into it, and placed it on the fire.
Dugan had to force his attention away from her capable ministrations, but soon he was drawn to the aroma of the food. And the sound of her low humming.
Gesu, he could not possibly still want her, knowing who she was.
To distract himself, he went to a large wooden chest and opened its doors. Inside, he found Murray’s spare clothes. Two extra lengths of plaid and a pair of trews. Also a jacket and three shirts. There did not seem to be any clothes but those belonging to Murray himself, confirming Dugan’s thought that the man had lived alone.
He did not know how far they were from any neighboring cottages, but he did not think there was a village nearby. He now realized ’twas unlikely anyone would take note of Murray’s absence for several days, mayhap weeks.
Maura’s low humming hindered his thought process, and he found himself watching her as she peeled and chopped some potatoes she’d found in the larder, then put them with some grease into a second pan over the fire. She barely watched what she was doing, for her attention was entirely engaged by the map hanging on the wall over the cupboard.
“What are you doing?” He lunged for the framed map and pulled it from the wall. Bloody hell, had she taken a good look at it before? The last thing he needed was for her to become familiar with an accurate map. There was no telling what she would do.
She furrowed her brow and scooped the rest of the potatoes into the pan. Working as efficiently as any highland wife, she scooted ’round him and pulled a wooden stool to a high shelf and climbed onto it. Clearly annoyed with him.
’Twas a precarious perch, and Dugan did not trust the stool. Gesu, he did not trust anything anymore. He turned ’round to her and offered his hand. “I’ll reach it for you. What do you need?”
“Enough plates or bowls for all of us,” she said before taking his hand and stepping down.
Mayhap he ought to put his plan into action now, and take her into his arms. It seemed a natural progression from holding her hand to embracing her, to kissing those lips that so tempted him and teasing her secrets out of her.
But her demeanor was anything but inviting. She was distant and grim and she extricated her hand from his as soon as her feet touched the floor.
He felt far more disappointed than he ought, and he reminded himself just who this woman was. The only liaison that was possible between them was the one he intended to indulge in later, only to get her to reveal the clue she’d discovered on the map. Nothing more.
She took the plates from him and set them on the table, then collected enough spoons, forks, and chairs for them all.
“So . . . you are afraid to let me see Murray’s map?” she asked, her tone full of irritation.
“I do not trust you to refrain from haring off on a wild chase to find the gold on your own.” Dugan reached up to the top shelf and took down a full bottle of good Scotch whiskey. He had a feeling he was going to need a stiff drink before the night was over.
She glared at him. “Do you actually think I could find—find anything in the highlands without help?”
Her fiery glance heated his blood and Dugan could barely remember why he despised her. He only saw the woman whose touch made him crave more. Whose mouth drove him to the brink of madness; the touch of whose silky-smooth body made him as hard as the claymore in his belt.
Dugan took down an earthen mug and poured a draught of fine amber whiskey into it. He swallowed it down with a burn that did naught to assuage his hunger for her. “I believe you could do anything you put your mind to, Maura lass.”
“These are not my highlands, as you well know,” she said. Her hair was so inviting, with one bright curl twisting ’round her ear. Dugan remembered the taste of her skin, the feel of her tongue doing battle with his own, the wildly arousing stroke of her hand on his cock. “I would never attempt to traverse these mountains alone.”
“No? Why do I find it so hard to trust you?”
“Because ’tis your nature to mistrust a Duncanson?”
Dugan muttered a quiet curse. He did not want to think about her damned clan. He took another swallow of Murray’s whiskey.
She wrinkled her nose and turned her attention to beating the eggs she’d cracked into a bowl. “You might go and see if your men are ready for supper.”
She spoke to him as she turned her attention to the eggs, without looking at him. ’Twas as though she were fully immersed in the task and could not spare a bit of attention for him.
Dugan left the cottage feeling more than slightly dissatisfied. He was at the very least as annoyed as she was. Mayhap even angry.
She was the Duncanson. ’Twas her clan that had tried to destroy his years before, and not only was it her kin who intended to evict the MacMillans, but Argyll was a rival for the treasure. As though he had any right to Jacobite gold.
Shite. What if Maura was somehow working in tandem with the old bastard? Dugan discarded that idea as soon as it crossed his mind, for he knew ’twas impossible. After all, it must have been Argyll’s map she’d stolen.
But it did not make Dugan feel any better.
Maura made a simple meal just like the kind she’d helped Deirdre create numerous times in the past. It might not be the finest fare f
or a highland laird, but it was tasty and filling. She added the cheese she’d found in Murray’s larder to the vegetables and eggs, then let it finish cooking while she sliced the last of the man’s bread.
She did not understand why Dugan hadn’t told his men who she was. Of course they would despise her as much as he did, and wasn’t that exactly what he wanted? For everyone to know what a despicable clan she belonged to. For his men to understand how thoroughly her kin had ruined his life once before, and how she was going to do it again?
She felt outraged as well as fearful, for she did not know how they would react to the news. Mayhap their hatred for her clan ran even deeper than Dugan’s.
Or they might even turn on Dugan when he told them he was not going to ransom her to Kildary.
“I did not see any ale about the place,” she said to the men as they came in through the door. “But if you are partial to milk, there’s a bucket full. And I believe your laird found some whiskey.”
Dugan came back to the cottage, but Maura ignored him, which was not easy. With every move he made, she was aware of his powerful body. His plaid skimmed his legs at the knees and the folded wool at his shoulder emphasized the braw breadth of him. She’d felt warm and cherished in his brawny arms . . . a feeling that had turned to aching disillusionment.
Ach, she was not one to engage in idle musings, not when there was so much pressing on her mind. She could not let herself be distracted from her true purpose—to find Rosie and take her somewhere where their father would never find them.
She served Archie first, in direct contradiction to the lowly status the laird had given him for falling asleep and failing to keep her confined in the Caillich guesthouse. Then she scooped eggs onto Conall’s plate, and he blushed as he always seemed to do when she came close to him. Next was Lachann, the one who disliked her even more than Dugan did. And he did not even know she was a Duncanson.
“Why do ye not tell the laird where the gold is hidden, Lady Maura?” Archie asked, perhaps to regain favor with Dugan.
“Because if I did so,” Maura replied with ire, “the laird would have one of you gentlemen carry me off to Braemore and sell me to Baron Kildary, Archie.”
The Warrior Laird Page 19