The Warrior Laird (15 page)

“Ah. So now you are on your way back to Braemore. How do your lands fare?” Argyll asked, smiling as though he enjoyed a private jest.

Dugan looked into the man's flat, dark eyes and wondered how the old maggot could live with himself. He was richer than the Hanoverian king of England, but was angling for even more wealth. Argyll didn't need any part of the MacMillan lands, and yet he would toss Dugan's entire clan into the sea without a second thought.

“It seems our lands are far more valuable than we ever knew.”

“Of course they are, old man,” Argyll said. “The price of land is always rising these days. He turned to the others and weighed his words carefully before speaking. “I understand there is good land lying fallow near some of the lochs. What have you heard of Loch Monar? Still unoccupied?”

Dugan's blood went cold.

Had Argyll reached the same conclusion Dugan had? That the French gold was hidden at Loch Monar? Was he fishing for information while avoiding showing his own hand?

“No one goes up that way these days,” Laird MacLeod said. “At least, not to my knowledge.”

“And Loch Nan Eun?” Argyll asked. “There is a settlement nearby, is there not?”

Dugan's thoughts scattered madly.
What of Loch Nan Eun?
Did Argyll have information about that location as well as Loch Monar? Was Dugan about to waste precious time searching for the gold in the wrong place?

They were called to their seats at the table and Dugan began to put a number of facts together, not the least of which was the possibility that the green spot he'd seen on the map meant naught. 'Twas more likely a discoloration rather than any indication of the treasure's location.

Yet Argyll suspected something about Loch Monar, else he would not have spoken of it.

Dugan engaged in conversation with the other lairds while they all avoided potentially explosive discussions about rents and enclosures. Word had spread of the outrageous rent demanded of Dugan, and no one wanted to mention it. They were all waiting to see how he was going to pay it.

Or what would happen to the MacMillan clan when he was unable to raise the money.

Dugan had expected the duke to retire shortly after the meal, but he stayed on, drinking whiskey and monopolizing the conversation with talk about Whigs and Tories and legislation that meant naught to anyone in the highlands. 'Twas almost as though Argyll could not bear the possibility that the others might make untoward remarks about him if he left them alone to speak of him.

The auld bastard was right.

Laird MacLeod was first to take his leave.

Dugan was next. He'd learned all he was going to from Argyll, and that was bad enough. The duke would soon be searching for the gold at either Loch Monar or Loch Nan Eun.

Damn all, would everyone in the highlands soon be searching for the treasure? Dugan left the Tower, swearing viciously under his breath as he made his way back to the guesthouse.

They would need to make an early start on the morrow in order to stay ahead of Argyll, for Dugan assumed the man would begin his search at Loch Monar. He assumed the duke's reference to Loch Nan Eun was just a distraction.

The rain had let up, and Dugan hoped it would stay dry for their next few days' travel. The terrain they needed to cover was difficult and would be much easier without rain.

He was halfway to the guesthouse when he saw a lone figure slip away from the building as it kept to the shadows and rounded the corner toward the back. Judging by the length of the hooded cloak, 'twas a woman. One who was very familiar, indeed.

 

Chapter 17

L
ieutenant Baird stood on a high promontory and tried to focus his eyes to search the terrain below. 'Twas nearly dark and he had no choice but to make camp where they stood. After leaving the old crone's cottage, they had picked up a trail that might have been Maura's. But then lost it in the rough terrain west of the old witch's croft.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and willed away the sharp pain in his forehead.

“Have ye the headache, Lieutenant?” Higgins asked.

“No,” Baird snapped.

“Ah. 'Tis just that it's seemed to have bothered you all day.”

Goddamn it,
aye
. For hours, he'd tried but could not get the old crone's words to leave his memory. His head pounded with every iteration.
Glencoe. Glencoe. Glencoe.

God almighty! 'Twas impossible to think when that damned place name kept swirling 'round in his head.

Shite
. What in hell did the woman know about anything? The old prune was naught but an ignorant peasant living in a filthy hovel with that ugly bear of a dog. She knew naught of politics or military responsibility. Those damned highlanders at Glencoe had needed to be taught a lesson. His father had said so, had drummed it into him, in fact.

Do your duty, lad. Obedience is all that matters.

Alastair sniffed. In spite of the parliamentary investigation into the events at Glencoe, John Baird had been richly rewarded by King William for carrying out Major Duncanson's orders.
That
was a clear demonstration of his father's worth.

And Lord Aucharnie would reward Alastair when he brought the bruised and broken corpse of his defiant daughter to him.

Alastair knew the earl wanted to be rid of her. He'd made that perfectly clear by his actions—or rather, his
in
action—toward her. For what father who cared about his daughter would allow her to wander over hills and dales without a proper escort? None. What father would sell her to an old reprobate like Baron Kildary? None. The man was reputed to have done away with his previous two wives, and now that his only son was dead, he needed an heir.

Baird winced when a particularly sharp pain pierced his skull, just above his eye. Damn it! Had the old crone bewitched him? He shuddered at the thought. “We'll camp here tonight and proceed on her trail at dawn,” he said to Higgins.

“Begging your pardon, sir . . .” said Higgins. “What trail?”

“Maura Duncanson's trail, you idiot!”

“But Lieutenant—”

“Enough!” Baird bellowed, but his shouting only made the headache worse. “Make camp down in the clearing. Keep the fire small.”

“Aye, sir.”

M
aura would never have believed how quickly Archie could fall asleep, but after they ate the meal Dugan had ordered, the young man had made himself comfortable in the chair in her room and was soon snoring.

She took it as a sign.

That, and the fact that she had seen from her window a cistern gate in the castle's curtain wall. There was every chance she could push it open and slip away from Caillich before Dugan even knew she was gone. With luck, he would be staying the night in the luxurious Lord's Tower and wouldn't note her absence until the morrow, when she would be miles away.

Perhaps this time she would actually get away.

She packed her now dry belongings into her bag, and put on her cloak. She went to the door, but stood still for a moment, considering what she was about to do.

Dugan would be furious.

But he gave her no choice. He'd made it clear he intended to trade her to Kildary for the ransom money, and she could not allow that to occur. She thought of Sorcha's words and knew that leaving now was the most sensible thing to do. She had to get to Rosie, and Dugan MacMillan was her primary obstacle.

Maura quietly pulled open the door. No one was about, so she made her way down the steps and out a back door of the guesthouse. No one saw her.

All was quiet outside, the only light coming from the torches at the Tower's door. Maura moved rapidly through the courtyard and nearly made it to the wall.

She let out a little cry of alarm when a man stepped into her path and grabbed her arms, causing her to drop her bag.

“I should have known you would find a way to—”

“Let go of me! I'll scream!”

She opened her mouth to do just that when he yanked her into his arms and tossed her over his shoulder, forcing the breath right out of her lungs. She could barely breathe, much less scream for help.

But she kicked. She pummeled him with her feet and her fists. “Enough, Maura!” he rasped, his anger palpable.

But she did not relent and fought him with all her might, all the way back to the guesthouse. Her efforts did not slow him in the least. He entered the guesthouse and carried her up the stairs to the room where she'd left Archie.

The young man woke up with a start as they came inside, and Dugan tossed her unceremoniously onto the bed. “Laird?” he asked, standing abruptly.

“Collect your pack and take it down to the stable,” Dugan said to Archie, his tone furious. “You'll spend the rest of the night with the damned horses.”

“What—?”

“Do as I say. Now.”

Maura had never seen Dugan so angry, especially not with young Archie, who was obviously a favorite of all the men. She pushed herself off the bed and came to her feet, as outraged as he. She put her hands upon her hips.

“You cannot sell me to Kildary!”

“Aye. I can and I will. And you will stop trying to run away from me.”

“Oh no, I will no—”

“Take off your shoes.”

“My—!”

“Get them off now, or I'll take them from you. The hard way.” He looked so very different with his face shaved and his hair neatly tied. His shirt was clean, too.

But any positive effect was lost upon her when he crossed his arms over his burly chest and glared at her.

“I will not.”

He started for her then, and Maura was dismayed to find herself backing away. “All right!” She sat down on the chair and removed her shoes.

Dugan reached down and picked them up. “Now your cloak.”

She stood and unfastened it grudgingly and handed it to him.

“Take off the rest of your clothes and put them in your bag,” he said. “I'll wait outside.”

“I will
not
!”

“As I said before, we can do this the hard way.”

“You wouldn't dare!”

“Would you care to try me, lass?”

Maura did not care for the cocky gleam in his eyes, but she especially did not like the sensual tingle that crept up her spine at the thought of him undressing her.

Seeing no choice but to do as he demanded, she glowered at him as she unfastened the first set of ties at her throat. When she moved her fingers down to the second—the one that lay between her breasts—he gave a quick nod of approval and left the room.

T
he evening had been bad enough, spending time in Argyll's company. The night was going to be sheer hell. The image of Maura's delicate hands working the ties to her bodice was nearly his undoing. He'd wanted to do the unfastening himself, and feast on the bonny feminine flesh underneath.

Now that he was about to have her naked, he recognized he was the only one he trusted to guard her. Not that any of his men would fall asleep as Archie had done, but he didn't much care for the idea of Maura lying in that bed unclothed, with any of the others in the room with her.

He was the only man she would sleep with.

Dugan clenched his fists at his sides at such a ridiculous notion. What his hardening cock wanted and what he needed to do were two entirely different things. He was damned if he'd let his three thousand pounds flit away into the mist. His clan deserved better, by God.

He leaned his back against the wall and forced his attention on what he
must
do. Ransoming Maura went against every principle he believed in—except for the primary one. To ensure the safety and security of his clan. He despised the thought of turning Maura over to Kildary, but what choice did he have?

If Dugan went off to hunt for the gold, could he trust that his guards would keep Maura contained at Braemore until Kildary's representative came with the ransom money? She was far too resourceful and determined to sit idly, awaiting her fate. Unless Dugan ordered her to be locked in a room for the duration, she would surely figure a way to escape the keep.

He bolstered his resolve by picturing his people—his wee nephews—being driven away from their homes by Argyll's red-coated soldiers. The parallel between this situation and his forced exodus from Glencoe resonated painfully in his heart. Ach, aye. He would do what he must. Maura was a far surer means to the money he needed than any feckless map.

He pushed off the wall and went back into her chamber.

He could not be too hard on Archie, for 'twas not the lad's fault. Dugan should have tied the woman to the bed before leaving for the Tower.

He found her lying on her side in the bed with the blankets pulled up to her chin. Dugan looked 'round the room and saw that there were no clothes lying about. Another glance told him that she'd put her plain green traveling gown in the bag. Her shoes were on the floor beside it.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

Damned if he knew. He picked up the bag and shoes and went to the room where his men were just settling down for the night.

“Dugan . . . you're back?” Conall said, startled to see him. He looked at Maura's clothes and blushed to the roots of his hair, obviously aware that she must now be completely undressed.

“Are you not staying at the Tower tonight?” Lachann asked.

He put Maura's bag on the floor as far from the door as possible. “I've no interest in spending the night under the same roof with the Duke of Argyll.”

The men muttered their agreement, but everyone went silent when he stepped back out of the room. “Well, where—”

“To guard my prisoner. She got past Archie and I don't trust her to stay where I put her.”

Dugan ignored their raised eyebrows and went back to Maura's room and prepared to spend the night in the chair.

M
aura had kept her shift on, but she might as well be naked for all that meager garment covered. When Dugan left the room, she lay still for a moment, stunned by the way he had outmaneuvered her. Then she jumped out of bed and was just about to lock the door when the infuriating man returned.

Maura gave out a little squeal of alarm when he came in, and flew back to the bed and pulled the blankets around her. “What are you doing here? I thought you—”

“Settle down, Lady Maura.”

“I will not!” she retorted, her anger palpable. When she would have liked to pace the room, modesty forced her to retreat to the bed, covered by blankets. 'Twas intolerable. “What do you mean, coming back in here when I am un . . . when I am in b-bed?” Last night was bad enough, lying together fully clothed. This was a different matter altogether.

But what was she to do? Scold him? That was such a pathetic notion, she would think it comical if she wasn't so furious.

“It is entirely inappropriate for you to stay here with me.” She held the blanket to her chest. “I will not allow it.”

“If I trusted you not to wander the inn to find some hapless woman's clothes to steal,” he replied, picking up his bag and removing the maps, “I might be persuaded to leave you alone.”

“Ooo!” She flounced down onto her back, fuming. She hadn't even thought about finding another woman's clothes to steal. “You cannot stay in here with me!”

“I beg to differ.”

The room was not large, so when Dugan sat down in the chair by the fire and began to examine the maps once again, Maura could see them clearly. She could also see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes and a thin crease of concentration that formed between his brows.

She became acutely aware of her near-nakedness beneath the blankets and Dugan's close proximity. It made her breath feel tight in her chest. It was far too easy to imagine him climbing into bed with her and holding her close as he'd done the night before.

Now they were alone in the warm, snug room, and the memory of the kisses they'd shared burned like a beacon in her brain. It was infuriating that she wanted to experience them again. She should want naught to do with the hateful man.

“Go to sleep, Maura.”

“I am not a child, Dugan,” she snapped. “I will sleep when I am ready. And not a moment before.”

She cringed at her tone, realizing at once that she
did
sound like a child. A petulant one.

She'd been too angry to realize that a far better approach would be to turn the tables on him. She could make him tremendously uncomfortable.