The Warrior Laird

by Margo Maguire

  The barn. Her face heated and she did not know quite what to say. The intimacies they’d shared were meant for a husband and wife—and she and Dugan were anything but.

  “ ’Tis not much—”

  “Aye, ’tis a grand feast. And unexpected,” Dugan whispered. “You need not serve us, Maura.”

  On the contrary, Maura felt there was a great deal she ought to do for his clan to make amends for the actions of her own.

  Dugan had made her no promises. He’d seduced her so easily, her own wantonness made her feel ashamed. Yet she could not help but want what he’d said just before she’d left him—to lie with him all through the night.

  For their time together was limited.

  Maura sat down across from Dugan, but before she could pick up her spoon, he laid his hand over hers. “You are beautiful, lass.”

  She shivered with pleasure. “There’s no need to flatter me, Dugan,” she whispered.

  “ ’Tis not flattery when it’s the truth.”

  Maura’s breath caught in her throat. His eyes were so blue in the flickering light of the candle. And sincere. ’Twould be so easy to fall in love with the man, but even after all they’d shared, she still could not trust that he wouldn’t give her over to Kildary. How could he make that promise when the welfare of his clan might depend upon the ransom?

  The only thing Maura could do was follow the course she’d set the previous night when she discovered the French words waxed into the backs of the maps. Take him to Loch Aveboyne. And if there was no gold to be found . . .

  Maura prayed that she could figure out the missing clue and the treasure would be there.

  They ate in silence, and when they were through, Maura stacked the plates and bowls on one end of the table. She began to gather the forks and spoons, but Dugan lifted her into his arms. “Bring the lamp,” he whispered, moving quietly so as not to awaken the others. “I want to see you when I make love to you this time.”

  It was still dark when Dugan left Maura sleeping in Kennan Murray’s modest bedchamber. His mood was somber in spite of the satisfaction he’d experienced during the night, whether he was inside her or just lying next to her. Holding her naked body close to his was a sensation as near to heaven as he could imagine.

  He’d been so occupied with her lush body and the delights he’d experienced through the night that he’d forgotten his true purpose in seducing her. Dugan had learned naught about their destination or the clues she’d discovered.

  He jabbed his fingers through his hair. Plans be damned, he wanted her in his bed. He wanted to feel her silky hair trailing across his chest as she pressed kisses to his most sensitive places.

  He groaned at the memory of her sensual caresses. He could not imagine tiring of the soft sounds she made when he pulsed inside her and brought her to her peak.

  Gesu. Dugan forced his attention to what he must do.

  He pulled his hair back into its queue and lit a candle at the table. Lachann, Conall, and Archie were still sleeping soundly when he retrieved Murray’s framed map from beneath the chest near the bedroom. He opened up his traveling pack and took out the old maps again, laying them on the table alongside Murray’s framed map.

  Dugan figured out the location of Murray’s cottage on the man’s map and determined that they were about two days’ ride from Loch Monar. ’Twas likely the Duke of Argyll was already headed there, and making good time. Dugan wanted to stay as far away from the duke and his men as possible. He did not want their paths to cross at all.

  Of course it had occurred to him that Maura might be lying. ’Twas a constant worry. How could she admit that Loch Monar was the location of the treasure? Such an admission would ruin her ploy of having to lead him personally to yet a different secret location.

  But he did not sense a lie in her. Her expressions were wholly transparent, as much as she attempted to keep her feelings hidden. She’d seen something on those pieces of map—and she knew better than to tell him what it was.

  Dugan sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. He did not want to give her to Kildary. ’Twas more than the idea of spoiling her father’s plans.

  He hated the thought of abandoning her to the old baron. Hated knowing that soon, whether or not they found the treasure, they would part ways.

  He despised the thought of leaving her to fend for herself, as it seemed she’d had to do for all of her life.

  Dugan removed Murray’s map from its frame and rolled it up, then put it and the others into his pack. He might not know what to do about Maura, but at least he had an accurate map to show him where they were.

  “Laird?” Conall asked as he rose from his place on the floor near the fire.

  “Aye, Conall. Good morn.” Though Dugan thought ’twas anything but good. His irresponsibility during the previous night grated on him. He’d shown less discipline than a rutting youth, binding himself to Maura when those bonds would soon be severed.

  Conall pinched his eyes closed and rubbed his head, swaying slightly.

  “You look as though you took one dram too many,” Dugan remarked.

  “More like five, but ’twas a fine baurley-bree, Dugan,” he said, his words slightly slurred. “Sorry we did’na leave any for you.”

  “You’d have been a sight better off if you had,” Dugan replied, though he was glad they’d all been so inebriated they had not taken note of his activities last night with Maura. He did not need a discussion on the wisdom of his actions at the moment, not when he was questioning them himself.

  Lachann sat up next, rubbing his head. “What’s all the shouting for?”

  Dugan closed his pack and allowed Lachann’s eyes to adjust. ’Twas going to be a long day, by the looks of them.

  The sun’s rays streamed into the eastern windows as Dugan crossed the room to sit down at Murray’s desk. He took pen and paper from a drawer and uncapped the ink bottle.

  “What’re you doing, Dugan?” Conall asked, lying back down.

  “Writing a note to whoever finds this cottage empty and wonders what happened to Murray. ’Tis only right.”

  Dugan dipped the quill into the ink and wrote a simple paragraph about the man’s demise for anyone who came along looking for him. He wrote the date and mentioned where they had buried the man. Then he signed it.

  He looked over at his men. “We leave as soon as you can haul your sorry arses up off the floor.”

  Maura managed to escape the cottage without exchanging a word with Dugan’s men, and went down to the pond to bathe. The water was brisk and it washed away the sweet warmth of Dugan’s body.

  And yet she knew he was anything but sweet. Oh, he’d taken care with her, being certain not to cause her any discomfort. He’d brought her pleasure time and again as they twined themselves so intimately under the blankets in Kennan Murray’s bed. But they both knew his mission had not changed. This would soon end. Even now, Baron Kildary might be making his way across the highlands to Braemore.

  She swallowed a laugh of despair at the thought that their paths could easily cross while they journeyed toward Loch Aveboyne. Cromarty was east, Braemore to the west, and the path she and Dugan followed was directly in the middle. Oh God.

  Maura could not bring herself to think about it. Not now.

  She sat down on an old stump and pulled on her stockings and shoes, then her gown. Naught had gone as she’d planned since the night she escaped her escort at Fort William. Maura did not know if she would be able to find the French treasure, nor had she made any progress in getting away to Loch Camerochlan. Perhaps worst of all . . . she had given her innocence and most of her heart to a man who would send her to Cromarty in exchange for three thousand pounds.

  At least she was not cheap.

  She bent at the waist and laid her head down on her lap.

  She’d been so damned foolish to give away her heart to a man who would never share his own—at least, not with her. She was still merely a pawn in the contest between Dugan and Argy
ll.

  As alone as she’d ever been.

  Maura wiped her tears on her skirts and took a long, shaky breath before returning to the cottage. The deep connection she’d felt with Dugan was illusory, and she needed to remember that.

  Dugan’s men were out saddling the horses when she got back, and the three looked as rough as Maura felt. Dugan came out of the barn leading the horse-drawn wagon. When he looked up and saw her, his gaze was indifferent, leaving a hollow sensation in the center of her chest.

  And she’d thought she’d prepared herself.

  “Do you ride, Maura?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath. “Some.”

  “Good. ’Twill be better. Archie . . .”

  “Aye, Laird.”

  “You’ll drive the cart and Maura will ride your horse.”

  Dugan took Maura’s arm. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “I’ll just get my bag—”

  “I already put it in the wagon.”

  “Oh, then . . . Yes. I’m ready.”

  He lifted her onto the horse and Maura attempted to settle herself in the saddle, though it did not come naturally to her. ’Twas a man’s saddle.

  And she was . . . tender.

  “Can you do it, Maura?”

  Heat flooded her face and she knew she’d turned as red as a tomato. He was asking if she could manage to ride after giving him her virginity. After making love with him over and over during the night.

  “Of course.” She was not going to admit to any frailty. How could she when his manner was so distant? “I’m ready.”

  Chapter 26

  When they arrived at Angus MacDonnall’s holding some miles south of Loch Mullardoch, Dugan doubted Maura could have ridden any farther. She seemed to be in significant discomfort, but there was naught he could do for her.

  Other than staying away from her last night, and ’twas too late for that. He chastised himself yet again for his actions. He’d known better, and yet . . .

  Laird MacDonnall came out of his keep, a stone tower that was half the size of Dugan’s home, and greeted him. They were old friends, having trained together many years before in the western isles with the MacDonalds. Dugan dismounted and they clasped hands. “MacMillan, what brings ye to m’ lands? I hav’na laid eyes on ye fer a good two years! No’ since Perth. Are ye healed, then?”

  “Aye, Angus. Hale and healthy.”

  “Aye, I can see that.”

  “We are just passing through. And begging for a spare bed if you have one.” Dugan glanced toward Maura, who was visibly wilting.

  “Aye, of course.” He slapped Dugan’s back. “So, ye’ve taken a wife, have ye?”

  “No, MacDonnall.” His throat suddenly closed up, too dry to swallow. “No wife. This is . . . a kinswoman in need of a good night’s rest.”

  “Unmarried, is she?”

  “Aye,” Dugan replied hesitantly.

  “Rhona!” MacDonnall shouted. “Edeen!”

  The two serving women hurried out of the keep to answer their laird’s summons.

  “Take the young lady inside and heat water for a bath,” MacDonnall ordered the servants. “And tell Catriona we’ll feast tonight.”

  The men dismounted as Dugan lifted Maura down. “Go with MacDonnall’s servants,” he said quietly. “They’ll see you’re taken care of.”

  As brash as she usually was, Maura was quiet and withdrawn now, and Dugan felt a pang of guilt. He quickly dismissed it as he turned her over to the MacDonnall servants. He and Maura had acted upon a mutual attraction. Mayhap he ought to have exercised better discipline, but what was done . . . was done.

  MacDonnall put a brotherly arm about Dugan’s shoulders as Maura disappeared into the keep, her step considerably slower than was usual for her. “Ye’ll sup here with me this eve,” MacDonnall said, “and ye’ll rest easy among the MacDonnalls tonight, Dugan.”

  Dugan could see that the idea of a night with the MacDonnalls suited his men well, for there were several young maids from the cottages nearby who’d come close to get a look at the newcomers. One in particular had her eye on his brother, and she was plain enough that Lachann wouldn’t suspect treachery in her every move. He wished him good luck with the lass.

  Dugan collected his traveling pack and went inside with Angus. He’d been there only once before, and the place looked different. Not as clean or orderly. “You’re keeping dogs inside now?”

  “Ach, aye. After Meg died, I . . .” He shrugged.

  “My sympathies, Angus,” Dugan said. “I did not know you’d lost your wife.”

  MacDonnall nodded. “Aye, ’twas soon after I saw ye last. She was taken by a fever. But I find m’self in the mood for a new wife, of late.”

  Maura sank into a tub of hot water and said a prayer of thanks. Her muscles were tired and her nether parts were more than a wee bit sore. She hoped never to have to ride horseback again.

  Except she knew the morrow would bring more of the same. She hoped it would take only one more day to reach Loch Aveboyne, but knew that highland distances as depicted on a map could be deceptive. It might take longer.

  She would not dwell upon that possibility now, not while she could bask in the hot comfort of the bath. She would not even think about Dugan and his indifference toward her all day or the hint of concern she’d sensed from him when he lifted her down from her mount. Chivalry was in his blood—likely toward any female in distress.

  Hadn’t he felled the ram at the waterfall before he’d even met her?

  Maura sighed and sank down deeper into the water. She just wanted—needed—to get this journey over and done so that she could make her way to the loch where Tilda Crane was keeping Rosie.

  She hoped they would find the treasure, and quickly. That was the only way Dugan would ever free her to go search for Rosie and take her away.

  Maura felt a pang in the pit of her stomach at the thought of leaving him. Though their night of intimacy had seemed to have little effect upon him, to Maura it had been profound.

  And yet she had always known that the only future she would have was the one she created for herself. Somehow, she and Rosie had managed to get on without any nurture or support from their parents and siblings. ’Twas only because of the kindness of the Elliotts that they’d endured.

  Maura had no choice but to endure again.

  It was not going to be easy once she reached Camerochlan and Rosie, but she’d never believed it would be. She recognized that she was as alone now as she’d been the day she met Dugan, when he’d killed the ram for her. She knew she could not meekly submit to his plans for her.

  A vague idea began to take shape in her mind. What if she led them past Loch Aveboyne—locating it for her own benefit—but then slipped away from Dugan and returned to the loch to search for the gold herself?

  Ach, ’twas impossible.

  She had already attempted to get away, and had not been successful. And there was the matter of what she would do with the gold. If there was a significant amount of it, she would need something in which to carry it. A wagon. Drawn by a horse.

  One of the maids came into the room. “I’ve brought ye some soap and a gown for the evening.”

  “Thank you—Rhona, is it?”

  “Aye, ma’am.” The girl went to the fireplace and added a brick of peat to the fire.

  “Laird MacDonnall requested that ye be made ready to sup with him . . . at his right hand, ma’am.”

  Maura opened her eyes. She wondered if it meant the laird had decided to show her special favor. And whether she might be able to use the man’s partiality in order to escape.

  Because the fact remained . . . She was unlikely to be able to escape Dugan, and if there was no gold at Aveboyne, he was surely not going to allow her to leave him and give up the ransom from Kildary.

  The MacDonnall had brought in musicians to entertain them during the meal. He’d had the old rushes swept out of the great hall and new ones, fragrant ones, laid. The dogs h
ad been chased out, and the savory scent of roasting fowl was in the air. Even the laird himself wore a clean shirt and plaid, with an ornamental doeskin sporran about his waist. He’d combed his hair and pulled it into a neat queue at his nape.

  Now that Dugan took note, MacDonnall was not half bad-looking. He was only a year or so older than Dugan, and though a wee bit shorter than the MacMillan brothers, MacDonnall was no weakling. Dugan knew he was an apt archer and an even better swordsman. The man had the means to care for and protect his clan. And the good luck not to be obliged in any way to the Duke of Argyll.

  “Take a draught o’ my best whiskey, Dugan, while we wait.”

  “Wait?”

  “Fer the lady. I’ve invited yer kinswoman to sup with us.”

  MacDonnall poured some of the clear amber liquid into a delicate glass and handed it to Dugan, who had the distinct feeling he ought not to drink it and cloud his thoughts.

  As he had done the night before.

  MacDonnall turned toward the curved stone stairs as Maura descended. “Ach, look at ’er,” he said. “She will do nicely.”

  Dugan frowned at MacDonnall, then turned toward the stairs. God’s eyes, but she was beautiful.

  “I had the lasses take whatever they needed from Meg’s belongings since she’s had no need of ’em these past two years.”

  Maura’s hair had been arranged artfully, and some white stones—pearls?—were strewn about her curls and dangling from her ears. The brocade and lace gown was one Dugan had not seen before, so it must have belonged to MacDonnall’s late wife. The thing suited Maura to perfection.

  ’Twas the blue of a darkening sky, with a low bodice that displayed the assets he’d so enjoyed the night before. The gown fitted tightly to the waist, then flared out, draping her legs modestly, and yet so seductively Dugan had to fight the arousal that hit him like a punch to his gut.

  Worse was the glorious smile she bestowed on MacDonnall.

  “My bonny lady!” Angus approached her and took her hand, bowing over it in a manner Dugan knew was far more formal than he ever would have done had he known she was a Duncanson.