The Warrior Laird

 

Dedication

As always, this book is dedicated to my gang—Mike, Julia, Joe, and Michael. You guys are the best!

Contents

 

Prologue

Glencoe, Scotland. February 13, 1692.

I
t was nearly dawn, not quite time for six-year-old Dugan MacIain to crawl out of the bed he shared with his brothers. But he was awakened by his mother's urgent whisper to his father.

“Gavin, something is wrong. 'Tis just as old Sorcha said—the eerie quiet on a winter's morn.”

The hair at the back of Dugan's neck prickled. The village seer and her strange utterings never failed to frighten him, though neither he nor anyone else understood them. He heard the steady breathing of his brothers, Gordon, Robert, and Lachann. He knew his infant sister, Alexandra, must still be asleep between his parents in the bed they shared, else she would be squalling and demanding to be fed.

An ominous stillness came over the croft, and Dugan sensed something in the air, though he knew not what. His father slipped soundlessly out of bed and started to pull on his clothes.

Dugan crawled over seven-year-old Gordon and crept across the one-room croft to his father.

“Da?” he whispered. “What is it?”

“Dugan, lad,” he murmured. “Wake Gordon, and the two of you get yerselves and yer brothers dressed. I do'na know what it is, but yer ma is never wrong . . . I want ye ready in case . . .”

Their family slept alone in the house, unlike most of the other members of the MacIain clan. Laird Argyll's soldiers were billeted with nearly all the other families. To Dugan's young mind, they'd been staying at Glencoe for a very long time, eating Glencoe food, drinking Glencoe ale, and sleeping in homes that were already crowded.

The soldiers wandered at will among the crofts and in the glen, their coats as red as blood, their boots shining like the black obsidian handle of his father's small dagger, the
sgian dubh
.

Dugan had heard his father mutter disparagingly of the Sassenachs in their midst. His hatred and resentment of the men who would destroy their highland ways was clear to anyone who heard him, but he was as powerless as the laird to do anything about it.

Dugan woke Gordon and whispered their father's instructions. “What, Dugan?” Gordon asked, rubbing his eyes. “What is amiss?”

Dugan shook his head as he roused his younger brothers and admonished them to be silent. “Da says 'tis a game,” he whispered to them. “The quietest one will win a prize.”

Excitement flared in Robert's eyes, but two-year-old Lachann frowned, his expression wary. He was far cannier than any wee lad his age ought to be. His ma said he had auld eyes. “Da?”

Gavin came to his youngest son and lifted him into his arms. “Be a good lad now, Lachann, and do as yer brother says.” He gave him a quick kiss on his forehead before setting him on his feet.

Wee Alexandra gave out one short cry, and Dugan's mother put her quickly to her breast to quiet her.

“Make haste, Dugan,” his father whispered. He slid his sword into his belt and turned to his wife, leaning down to plant a quick kiss on her mouth and then the top of Alexandra's wee downy head. The infant was a mere eight months old, and even Dugan could see that his mother was rounding again with yet another bairn.

Gavin started for the door of the croft. “Stay here and stay quiet. I'll be back as soon as I know what's afoot.”

Dugan's mother kept Alexandra in her arms as she slipped awkwardly from the bed and pulled a heavy woolen shawl about her shoulders. “Dugan, take yer sister.”

Dugan did as he was told and bounced Alexandra in his arms while his mother dressed Lachann. She wrapped each of her sons in their thick woolen plaids, and let out a startled cry when the first gunshot sounded. She gathered Lachann into her arms and stood trembling as Gordon ran to the door and darted out, screaming “Da!” as the second shot rang out.

Dugan put Alexandra on the bed and followed right behind his brother. He saw Sassenach soldiers crouched everywhere, their rifles at their shoulders, shooting at will. Some of the crofts were on fire, and people were running out of them, crying out and clutching their meager blankets 'round their nightclothes.

One of the Sassenach soldiers strode out of Laird Glencoe's croft, reloading his rifle. Dugan's father drew his sword, but yet another shot sounded and Gavin MacIain fell.

A jolt of pure horror burst through Dugan, and he stood frozen in place, watching as his father's blood stained the snow on the ground. His stomach roiled and he turned away just as Gordon made a mad dash toward their father.

“No!” Dugan screamed for Gordon to stop, but his brother did not listen, running directly into the line of fire.

“Dugan!” his mother cried out, jerking him back into the house so he could not see. She clutched at the doorjamb as shots rang out. Her face drained of color and Dugan knew the worst had happened.

“Ma!” he screamed.

His mother crumpled to the floor in a dead faint. His wee brothers were crying, and Dugan smelled smoke–not the usual kind from the fireplace, and not from outside. He looked up, and his terror increased tenfold.

Dugan dropped to his knees and started shaking his mother's shoulders. “Ma! The thatching is on fire!”

They had to get out, but even young Dugan knew they could not escape through the door. He could still hear gunfire, and was afraid they would be killed if they went that way, just like the others.

“Ma!” he cried, weeping like a wee bairn. “We've got to get out!”

He felt doom in his bones. They were going to burn, or be shot. Surely they had no chance at all unless his mother came awake and took them . . . somehow got them away.

He ran to the largest window and shoved a chair beneath it. Climbing up, he pushed the shutters open and looked outside. No one was there. 'Twas safe. He could climb out. He could run far away from the soldiers, from the death and destruction in the village.

But he could not leave his brothers, could not leave his ma and Alexandra to burn.

He climbed down from the chair, hastened past his crying brothers to the cistern, and filled a ladle with water. He carried it carefully back to his mother, and though he knew what he was about to do was cruel, there was no time to waste. He tossed the water on her face and she sat up quickly, sputtering.

The room was filling with smoke, and there was even more gunfire than before. “Ma! The roof is afire! We must get out!”

She grabbed him and pulled him close, then took a deep, shuddering breath. “Aye. Come!”

Her tears did not abate, but she managed to pick up Alexandra and put the bairn in Dugan's arms. “Hand her to me after I've climbed out, lad. Then help Lachann and Robert onto the chair and out the window.”

“Aye, Ma.”

He got Lachann out first, then Robert. By the time Dugan made the climb through the window, there was no air left in the croft to breathe.

The sun was just barely up, and Dugan tried in vain to shut out the sound of screams as what remained of his family kept to the shadows and headed for the hills that ringed the glen.

 

Chapter 1

Braemore Keep, the Scottish Highlands.

Late March 1717.

“E
vict us?” Dugan MacMillan drew his claymore from his belt and placed the tip at the throat of Argyll's lackey, Major Donal Ferguson. “You can take the duke's order right back to him and shove it up his arse!” he growled.

It had already been a long, hard winter, and now this. What more could the whoreson Campbells do to him, do to the MacMillan sept?

Ferguson broke a sweat, even though he had to know Dugan could not risk killing one of the duke's agents, not without bringing down the wrath of Argyll himself.

“You do not want to do this, MacMillan,” the man said, boldly pushing the blade aside.

Ach, aye, he did. Dugan would have liked nothing more than to run the bastard through. But he had become laird of this clan upon the death of his beloved grandfather, the man who'd taken in him and his brothers and sister and raised them after the massacre at Glencoe. He had to think of the good of his clan. “Argyll cannot evict us from our own lands.”

“Aye, he can,” said the Scot who was no better than a traitor in Dugan's eyes. He was a Sassenach soldier, no different from those who'd slaughtered his father and Gordon. The same as the ones who'd forced so many MacIains into the mountains to die in the raw winter weather, including his mother and her unborn bairn. And he'd come with a full contingent of Argyll's men. If Dugan committed the slightest act of aggression, he had no doubt the soldiers would retaliate savagely. “The Duke of Argyll owns this land,” Ferguson said with a smirk, “and he has decided to use it. For his own purposes.”

Dugan was well armed and well trained, and he'd seen to it that his men were, too. They drilled and engaged in mock battles until their hands were blistered and their bodies bruised. But Dugan would not risk a battle here, where Argyll's men could quickly scatter and slay unsuspecting members of his clan.

He now knew the soldiers at Glencoe had been members of Argyll's regiment, and had followed orders from the Master of Stair—and other powerful noblemen who'd decided to make an example of Laird Glencoe to the rest of the highlands. Comply or die.

Dugan wanted the duke's soldiers gone before an incident like the horror he'd experienced at his childhood home could take place once again.

He stood with his legs planted solidly on the timber floor of his grandfather's massive stone keep and slid his sword back into his belt. He folded his brawny arms across his chest. “Get out, Ferguson,” he said, his tone low and lethal. “Leave Braemore now and take your men with you.”

“Not until I've finished delivering my message, Laird MacMillan,” Ferguson said smugly.

“You've said your piece, now go before I toss you out on your arse.”

“The duke commissioned me to inform you that he will accept three thousand pounds, and no less, for these lands—”

Dugan muttered an oath of fury as he charged Ferguson, taking hold of the bastard by the throat and shoving him up against the cold stone wall of the great hall. He was angry enough to squeeze the life out of him. But killing Ferguson would only ignite something beyond his control.

“Your damned duke knows exactly what the MacMillan finances are, Ferguson,” he said through gritted teeth. “Go back and tell him—” He abruptly released Ferguson, who swallowed thickly and rubbed his throat.

Good Christ
. Dugan had to keep his wits in dealing with Argyll's lackey. This was no way to ensure his clan's safety, though he experienced a moment's satisfaction when he saw the fear in Ferguson's eyes. For just a moment, the man had thought Dugan would kill him with one hand.

Dugan didn't know how he would come up with the money Argyll demanded. A cattle raid would not net them enough funds, and there was no clan rich enough to borrow from. There was naught . . .

Ah
, he thought,
but there might be
. 'Twas a gamble, but perhaps . . . “Tell Argyll we'll have an answer for him at month's end.”

“There's no answer to give, MacMillan.” Ferguson slinked away. “You'll pay the duke his money . . . or be gone by May Day.”

“Ach, aye, and where will we go?” Dugan demanded.

Ferguson shrugged as though the fate of more than five hundred MacMillans was of no consequence.

Well, the MacMillan clan mattered to Dugan. He clenched his fists at his sides but remained standing in place, his mind racing as he glowered at the duke's minion. Three thousand pounds was an astronomical sum. 'Twas outrageous.

He and his three siblings had come to Braemore—to their mother's clan—twenty-five years before. His grandfather, the MacMillan laird, had taken them to his heart and raised them, each one, to be leaders of the MacMillans. Dugan had been laird since his grandfather's death a year ago. He could not fail his people now.

As soon as Ferguson said his piece, the man fled the ancient MacMillan hall with as much dignity as he could muster. Dugan barely heard the opening and closing of the thick oak door of the keep, not when all he could think of was riding to the Duke of Argyll's house at Inverness and cleaving the bastard in two. It might even be worth attending his own hanging to do it.

But he was no fool and had no intention of committing suicide. Ending his own life would accomplish naught, though the satisfaction of watching the bastard take his last breath might be well worth it. He had to come up with some way of raising the money Argyll demanded.

He clasped his hands behind his back and had paced only a few steps before his brother Lachann stormed into the keep. “They've gone, Dugan.”

Dugan braced his hands against the mantel and gazed into the peat fire. He did not need to look at his brother, for the younger man was nearly a mirror image of himself. Dark-haired and square-jawed, they were both of a size. Imposing to most, though their middle brother, Robert, towered over them.

Unfortunately, neither Dugan's size nor the heft of his claymore had meant aught to Ferguson. The bastard would have the power of the law—if not the truth—on his side.

The MacMillans were merely tenants on their lands, subject to the whims of Argyll, the man whose father had sanctioned the slaughter of the MacIains at Glencoe. An investigation of the event had gone all the way to the English Parliament, and 'twas a bitter draught to swallow, knowing that none of the actual perpetrators—Captain Campbell and Major Duncanson—had ever been seriously accused or punished. Their actions had been endorsed by the English crown itself.

In Dugan's estimation, the current Duke of Argyll was no better than his sire, nor were any of his Campbell relations.

“What did the bloody bastard want?” Lachann asked. He was restless, as usual, his body taut with pent-up energy.

“Argyll intends to evict us unless we can pay him an exorbitant rent by month's end.” He looked up starkly at his brother.

Lachann frowned fiercely, his blue eyes darkening. “How much?”

“Three thousand pounds.”

Lachann drew his claymore and started for the door.

“Hold, Lachann.”

“And let that slimy bawbag ride unchallenged through our lands?”

“I will not give reason for another massacre, Lachann. We will figure a way out of this.”

“Oh, and how do you propose to do that?” his brother demanded. “Because there's so much free land to be had hereabouts?”

“You know there's no free land.”

“Aye. Everyone knows it—especially Argyll. Killing the duke and his lackeys would go a long way to easing the grief they cause us.” He slid his sword back into his belt and took a seat in a chair by the fire. “What'll we do? I say we rouse the clans and attack Argyll where he sleeps.”

“Lachann, think,” Dugan said, turning to face his brother. “Open warfare must be our last resort. Argyll has more men and more firepower than our clan will ever have. Unless we rouse all the clans to stand with us, he will mow us down, every man, woman, and child. And you know full well there is no magistrate, laird, or judge who will condemn him.”

Dugan's words seemed to shudder through his brother. As young as Lachann was when they'd fled Glencoe, Dugan knew he remembered. How could he—or any of them—forget? Only Alexandra was unaffected by the horrific memories of the morn when their family had been slaughtered, for she'd been too young to understand.

None of them would ever want to bring misfortune to their mother's people—to the clan that had taken them in as orphans and treated them as their own.

This was trouble Dugan did not need. Their cattle herds were just beginning to grow after severe losses during the uprising two years before. He'd spent years training an army of men to protect the livestock—and the clan—from raiders. After his grandfather's death, Dugan had seen to the expansion of their arable lands, which were ready for planting and should show a sizable yield at the end of summer.

He was damned if he'd allow his kin to be put off the lands they'd farmed for generations.

“We could send a party out to Skye,” Lachann said, swallowing thickly, “and see if the MacDonalds will take in our clan.”

Dugan shook his head and resumed his pacing as his mind raced. “They've no land to spare. Remember when we traveled to Sligachan for Fiona MacDonald's wedding?”

Of course Lachann did. He'd hoped to wed Fiona himself, but she'd chosen Cullen Macauley instead. Dugan believed Lachann had consumed more whiskey than any other guest at that wedding. And his brother was not about to trust another comely face any time soon.

“Mayhap,” Lachann said. “But they're kin, after all. And when all this is sorted, we can—”

“No, Lachann. Moving in on the MacDonalds' lands is not the answer. Not even temporarily.”

“Well then, what is?” His frustration was palpable, but far less than Robert's would have been. 'Twas fortunate their hotheaded brother was away. “We're not likely to find anyone to loan us three thousand pounds. We'd be hard-pressed to find someone who could lend more than a few shillings.”

“We have another option.” The highlands had risen up against English rule two years before with the backing and assistance of the French king, who'd sent soldiers as well as funds. 'Twas said they'd hidden a cache of gold somewhere in the highlands.

“Oh aye?” Sarcasm infused his words.

Dugan considered his words carefully. “You remember the map Grandfather gave me before he died?”

“Aye—a worthless scrap of a map,” Lachann retorted.

Dugan shook his head.

“Mayhap 'twas a useless scrap of parchment a year ago. But I heard some talk when I was up at Ullapool last month . . .”

“What kind of talk?” Lachann frowned as fiercely as he'd done as a mere bairn. His skepticism was as healthy as ever. Dugan was not about to tell him he'd heard it from a Campbell.

“It seems there's a man in possession of another piece of the map.”

“Where?”

“Down east of Fort William—in Kinlochleven.”

“Ach, well then. That settles it!” Lachann scoffed. “We find the man, and when we look at his piece of the map, we'll surely know where our bonny King James's loyal Frenchmen hid their stash of gold. Especially if the damned thing is as well marked as Grandfather's.”

Dugan narrowed his eyes. Lachann's cynicism could be worse than irritating. True enough, the map showed no place names, and only drawings of lochs and mountains, but Dugan knew there was a way to interpret it. Why else would the French have made the map? “Grandfather was sure it could be read. But only if he found the key to it.”

And the former laird, Hamish MacMillan, was no fool.

“Grandfather was riddled with sickness when he died, Dugan. How can you put any stock—”

“Even before he became ill, old Hamish believed the gold could be found. The Frenchman who gave it to him said the map had been torn into quarters and if the four pieces were put together, the way to the gold would be clear.”

Lachann rolled his eyes toward the heavy oak beams of the ceiling. “When did he speak to you of this?”

“Two years ago, when I came home wounded in battle during the uprising. He spoke of it often and spent many a night studying the map.”

“If he believed so firmly, why did he not go looking for the other parts of the map—or the gold—himself?”

“Because he only had the one piece of the map. And he could not read any clues from it.”

“Why didn't he ask the bloody Frenchman where the other parts were?”

“Lachann—”

“You believe you can find the rest of the map in Kinlochleven? And decipher the clues?”

Dugan gave a quick nod, though he was not entirely sure of it. All he knew was that he could not think of any other viable possibility for raising the kind of funds Argyll demanded. Three thousand pounds was an astronomical sum, and no cattle raid on earth would garner that much money.