The Warrior Laird (14 page)

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

L
ieutenant 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 growled. “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?

No one spoke as he turned and rode to the bridle path.
Why couldn't she have just answered the question? Why all that blather about souls? And Glencoe.

“Mad old bampot,” he muttered.

But, goddamn it, how could the old bat have known his father had been at Glencoe?

D
ugan felt very lucky indeed. He'd brought down a ten-point stag, as well as several good-sized rabbits. 'Twas meat that would surely gain him a warm welcome up at the castle. He and Conall returned to the little grove of trees, carrying the rabbits, and found Maura sitting with Archie under a canopy made with his fur blanket.

Lachann and Bryce were already riding toward them on the path from the castle. And not a moment too soon. The fur canopy was soaked, nearly through, though Maura looked reasonably comfortable and dry underneath it. Archie was sitting with her, but he scrambled to his feet to take the string of rabbits from Conall.

No matter what news Lachann brought, Dugan had already decided he would take Maura to the castle rather than keeping her out in the rain all night. He just didn't know quite how he was going to explain her presence.

Dugan didn't think it would be wise to announce who she was, and knew there'd be no difficulty convincing her of that, for she hadn't wanted to tell him anything of her people, anyway. 'Twas hardly likely she'd tell Caillich.

The earl was not one to involve himself in the affairs of the highland lairds unless he could gain something from it. And Dugan didn't want to give the man any reason to think he might have something to gain by taking Maura from him.

No, 'twas best if he took no notice of her.

Lachann and Bryce rode into the cover of the trees but did not dismount. “The Duke of Argyll is up at the castle,” Lachann said without preamble.

“Clarty bastard,” Bryce muttered.

A shudder of revulsion went through Dugan. But he'd dealt with the wily brute in subsequent years and had no choice but to deal with him again. The question was—what was the duke doing at Caillich Castle?

Did he know of the gold?

“How many men?”

“Only twenty or so.”

Dugan looked at Maura and noticed she'd gone pale at Lachann's words, and he wondered if she had reason to flee the duke. She could not be his daughter, for Argyll had none.

But perhaps they were related in some other way.

“Maura,” he said, “you'll ride with Archie. He's your brother.”

“But Laird, my sisters are—”

“Aye, Arch, I know,” Dugan said. “But you've both got red hair, so they'll believe she is your sister. We're going to call her . . . Maggie . . . while we're at Caillich.”

“Ah,” he said. “I understand, Laird.”

“Conall,” Dugan said, “you and Bryce go and collect the stag and bring it to the castle. We'll ride ahead.”

Archie took down the fur pelt and while he folded it, Dugan took Maura aside. “Is there aught you should tell me about the Duke of Argyll,
Lady
Maura?”

She swallowed—nervously, Dugan thought—then shook her head. “N-no. Well, of course I know who he is, but what more do you suppose I could tell you about him? The man is far above my station.”

Somehow, Dugan did not think that was true. He straightened her hood over her head and thought about having the right to kiss her any time he liked. To take her in his arms and taste those sweet lips whenever he had the urge.

And damn all, he knew he would often have that urge.

He lifted her onto Archie's horse, vowing not to dwell any more on such impossibilities, on fantasies that interfered with his duty to his clan.

He watched as Archie started for the trail to the castle, then mounted his own horse and quickly caught up.

M
aura felt certain Dugan knew she had some connection to the duke. But she had never met Argyll until his visit at Ilay House—dear Lord, had that been only a few days ago? She'd been introduced to Argyll at Ilay House, so he was likely to recognize her if he saw her. He would know her as the thief who'd taken the map.

For who else would have stolen it? She'd hoped that Ilay would not miss it for at least a few days, giving her a chance to get away from Lieutenant Baird at Fort William and escape into the highlands.

A shocking thought hit her. Perhaps Argyll had actually come to the highlands to search for her.

Somehow, she had to stay out of sight.

Caillich's guards allowed them to pass through the gates, and Maura was relieved to see that the outer close was a wee bustling town within the castle walls. There were shops and homes, pens with animals inside, and a very cozy-looking tavern and guesthouse with three floors. Farther on was the Lord's Tower, a massive stone building four stories high, with windows of mullioned glass on each level.

Dugan dismounted at the guesthouse and beckoned Archie to follow. “We'll take rooms here and hope I'll not be invited to stay at the keep.”

Archie nodded and helped Maura down. She shrank into the hood of her cloak and followed the men inside, pleased to be out of the cold rain, and grateful to be out of sight of passersby. She did not care to attract any attention, though she took stock of her surroundings and considered how she was going to get away from the castle. And Dugan MacMillan.

Aucharnie Castle was not as large or imposing as Caillich, though there were walls surrounding her father's large bailey and barracks for his soldiers. The walls and their cannons were manned by soldiers, and no one could get past them.

Maura assumed the same was true here.

Dugan spoke to the innkeeper and arranged for some rooms while Maura warmed herself by the fire. A moment later, he picked up her bag and his own, and followed the man up the stairs to a short corridor lined with closed doors. He opened the first one and Dugan gestured for Maura to go inside. He placed her bag on the floor near the bed, and followed the innkeeper back out.

Maura was alone for only a moment before Dugan and Archie returned to the room. “Get the fire going, Arch,” he said, then dropped his own pack on the floor. The one containing the maps. He took a few items from it, and went for the door.

“Stay here, both of you.”

Maura bristled at the tone of his order.

“You are responsible here, Archie. Stay with
your sister
until I return.”

“Aye, Dugan.”

He turned to leave, but stopped to speak sharply to Maura. “And stay out of my pack.”

Dugan left. Maura waited for the room to warm, then removed her cloak and spread it out by the fire to dry. She opened her bag and took out her spare clothes and did the same with them.

“Where do you suppose Dugan went?” she asked Archie.

“To pay his respects to Lord Caillich.”

“Have you been here before?”

“Oh aye.” Archie sat down on the chair by the fire and leaned back in a pose of utter relaxation. “Dugan always stays in the Tower with the earl and his family. The rest of us stay here. The landlord, old Roy MacCallum, knows us well.”

Maura smiled. She decided it was not going to be too difficult to get away from Archie during the night. She sat down near him to wait.

D
ugan left Maura with Archie and went to the nearby room his men would share. He needed to make himself presentable before meeting Caillich and possibly Argyll.

He wondered why the duke had come so far away from his own territory. Aye, the man owned land in the highlands, but rarely did he travel to them himself. Dugan had not heard of any uprisings taking place in the highlands, and Lachann said the duke had brought a limited number of men with him.

Mayhap he had an issue he needed to negotiate with Caillich. The earl was notorious for taking no sides, but there might be a sensitive parliamentary vote coming up. Argyll might need Caillich as an ally.

There was water in the pitcher on the washstand, so Dugan pulled off his shirt and washed, then shaved with the razor and soap he'd taken from his pack. He combed his hair and tied it back, then dressed in his clean shirt and wrapped himself into his plaid. After brushing the mud from his sporran and boots, he felt satisfied that he no longer looked the part of the barbarian highlander.

He went down to the main floor of the guesthouse and passed the time with Roy MacCallum, ordering a meal for his men before making his way up to Caillich's Tower on foot.

Caillich had always been cordial to the highland lairds, probably because he considered himself to be one of them, but only to a certain extent. Dugan wondered how he would be received by Argyll. Of course old maggot knew he'd raised the rent on MacMillan lands to an exorbitant rate—it only remained to be seen whether the man would mention it.

Dugan moved past guards wearing the Caillich tartan, and entered the earl's great hall, where he found a festive atmosphere. The chandeliers and wall sconces glittered with candlelight. A small troupe of fiddlers and pipers played quietly at one end of the hall while servants were busy placing trays of food and decanters of wine on the table.

Lairds MacLeod and MacRae stood talking together near the massive fireplace with Argyll and Caillich. Lady Caillich was notably absent, and Dugan wondered if it meant the earl expected some tense conversation between the lairds and Argyll. 'Twas likely true.

Dugan wore a neutral expression as he greeted the men, giving deference to none of them. He was damned if he would bow to the bastard who intended to drive his clan—his family—from their lands.

“Laird MacMillan, I understand your men brought me a stag,” Caillich said.

“Aye.”

“Many thanks, then. Lady Caillich is quite partial to venison. She will be doubly pleased to hear of your gift.”

“What brings you down this way, Laird MacMillan?” Argyll asked pointedly. “You are far from your . . . er,
my
. . . lands.”

Dugan's hands itched to draw his claymore and end it right here. “Business, Duke.”

“A financial transaction, mayhap?”

“No. We traveled south to collect one of my clanswomen from Loch Nevis.”

Argyll raised a brow. “Taken in a raid, then?”

“No, Duke.” Dugan smiled slightly. “Visiting our kin.”

Argyll liked nothing better than to depict highland clansmen as savages, doing naught but stealing from one another and engaging in bloody feuds. And yet it was clear Argyll had no regrets that his own regiment had carried out the slaughter of innocent women and children at Glencoe. Dugan was not about to play into the bloody duke's portrayal of a barbaric clansman.