The Warrior Laird (25 page)

Her extra plaid flew off her shoulders and onto the wet ground somewhere behind him. Dugan kept both eyes on her as she crawled slowly toward the bench and grabbed it. If he'd thought her audacious before, he did not know a word to describe this. Dauntless? Foolhardy? Incredible?

She showed more courage than most men he knew.

“Almost there, Maura!” He had very little time before the wagon pitched over the edge.

The wagon careened wildly, tossing Maura to the side. Dugan did not have to hear the thump to know she'd bumped her head. And this time, she did not get up right away.

His heart was in his throat, but he would not falter. He gained on her, mayhap because her horse was tiring. Dugan did not care what the reason—all that mattered was that he catch her in time.

In spite of her injury, she inched her way forward to make a grab for the traces. They bounced out of reach and she pitched forward when the wagon flew over a dip in the ground.

Dugan came up beside the wagon. Keeping one eye on the edge of the cliff that loomed much too close for comfort, he rode up beside her.

“Hold on, Maura!” he shouted.

Dugan matched his horse's pace to that of Maura's. Keeping steady, he reached over for the harness and the traces that were dragging from it. Glencoe pulled away, reluctant to get too close, but Dugan forced him over.

At last, he managed to get hold of the harness. He gave it a steady, firm pull as he reached for the traces, finally slowing the horse and gradually bringing it to a halt.

They stopped no more than twenty feet from the edge of the cliff. Dugan turned the animal and wagon 'round to face the opposite direction and saw Lachann, Conall, and Archie racing toward him. They slowed when they saw he had matters in hand, but Dugan quickly jumped down from his horse and went to the wagon.

Maura was crouched in the wagon bed, still holding onto the seat in front of her. Her face was devoid of color and the pulse in her neck beat rapidly. A small trickle of blood trailed down her forehead from her scalp.

Dugan climbed in and dabbed the blood away, pulling her into his arms. “
Gesu
, Maura. You could have been killed!”

She said naught, likely because she was trembling too hard to speak.

“Laird? Is she . . . ?” Conall asked, coming up beside them.

Dugan released her just enough to look at her head. “Let me see how bad it is.”

'Twas a small cut, likely caused by the edge of the bench when she was thrust into it, but he knew that small injuries like this one could cause large problems.

“You're riding with me from here on.”

M
aura did not think she'd ever been so frightened in her life. She'd done many impulsive—and mayhap even a few foolhardy things—but hanging on to a runaway wagon was the worst yet. Not that her predicament had been her own fault. She did not know what she could have done differently. She'd lost control the second the adder had slithered in front of the horse.

“D'ye know what scairt yer horse, Maura?” Archie asked.

“A snake,” she replied. “An adder.”

Maura took a deep, unsteady breath. She had seen naught after that, naught but the sky when she fell to the floor of the wagon. And then Dugan, with his plaid whipping about his knees and his hair flying wildly behind him as he raced ahead to get her horse under control. It was only because of Dugan that she still lived.

“Ye did well, Maura,” Lachann said, his first kind words to her, ever, “not to panic . . .”

Oh, but she
had
panicked. She'd been so frantic to get some kind of control, to do something—
anything
to keep from careening over the edge of the cliff just ahead—she hadn't even noticed when she bumped her head.

She shuddered once again at the thought of how this episode might have ended. With her at the bottom of the cliff, and Rosie with no one to take care of her.

Dugan helped her down from the wagon, but she was too dizzy to stand. She staggered, and Dugan pulled her into his arms to steady her. She could feel his heart thudding rapidly against his chest. So he'd been frightened, too.

Ah. Because if she'd gone over the cliff, the clues would have died with her.

“Lachann,” Dugan said, “ride ahead and make sure we stay clear of Loch Monar.”

“Aye, Dugan.”

“Archie, tie your horse to the wagon. I want you to drive it until we stop tonight. Conall, you go with Lachann.”

Dugan's men did as he bade them.

Maura grasped Dugan's sleeve. “If I'd gone over . . . There would be no one to see to Rosie.” The thought of leaving Rosie forever on her own shook Maura almost as much as the accident. How could her sister possibly survive? How had she managed until now?

“
Gesu
, Maura. You think of your sister now? When you nearly lost your own life?”

Tears gathered in her eyes. “She needs me.”

Dugan shook his head. “You can barely stand.”

He gave Maura a boost onto his horse, then mounted behind her. He took a moment to adjust her between his thighs and then they were off.

“Loch Monar should be a few miles past that ridge,” Dugan said, pointing to the right.

Maura did not care where it was, or Loch Aveboyne, either. Not while she was still trembling and fighting nausea. Her head was pounding and her dizziness did not abate. Her only comfort at the moment was the hard warm wall of Dugan's chest at her back and his strong arms 'round her.

They stayed well west of the ridge, and 'twas a relief that they saw no sign of Argyll or any of the duke's men. He would recognize her, and of course he must have deduced it was she who had taken his map.

Maura's heart was torn. Dugan had saved her life. He'd said he would take her to Loch Camerochlan. She ought to show him the clues she'd found on the backs of the maps.

But she was so very tired and her thoughts were muddled. She wished she could lie down.

“Only a short while longer, Maura.”

“Mmm.” She closed her eyes and let Dugan's heat and strength envelop her.

“Do not go to sleep, Maura.”

“But I'm so tired.”

“Lass, 'tis the bump on your head making you tired. You must stay awake.”

 

Chapter 30

“B
ut I—”

“Talk to me about Rosie,” Dugan said, but his voice sounded very far away. “Tell me what you remember when you think of your sister.”

“Her pretty eyes,” Maura said. “They're green, but so very sparkly. And she always smiles when she sees me.”

Dugan could not imagine prettier eyes than Maura's, or a more beautiful smile. She snuggled deeper within Dugan's arms and he felt her drifting off again.

“What else?” he asked. He needed to keep her awake so that she did not slip away from him. He could not imagine losing her now, not when he'd just come so very close to it.

“Wee Rosie keeps Deirdre's bairns amused so that Deirdre can do her chores. Dugan, what if something . . . wh-what if something happened to Rosie, too?”

“Do not borrow trouble, lass,” he said. “We'll get to her. Soon.”

“Why? You hate Duncansons. Why would you help us?”

“Because I find that not all Duncansons are the same.”

“No?”

“You would never blindly obey orders, would you?” he asked.

“Umm. I have enough trouble with orders I can see.”

He chuckled against her back. “Who is Deirdre? Another sister?”

“Ach, no. My other sisters are so very grand they will have naught to do with Rosie. Or me.”

“How many of them are there?”

“Six. All older, and each one more beautiful than the next.”

'Twas impossible to believe any of them could possibly be lovelier than Maura.

“And four brothers.”

“There are twelve of you?”

“Mmm.”

Dugan bristled at the idea of brothers who did not take care of their sisters. He would no sooner leave Alexandra to fend for herself than he would leave a newborn bairn to die. “Your brothers do not stand up to your fath—”

She laughed, then groaned and put her hand to her head. “My siblings are good, obedient sons and daughters of the Earl of Aucharnie. They do as they are told. They've all made good marriages. My father takes pride in them.”

“Your father is a fool.”

“You know 'tis my father who is keen for me to wed Kildary.”

“Aye. I know.”

“Dugan . . .”

“Hmm.”

“Will you really take me to Loch Camerochlan?”

“I said I would.”

A
lastair Baird rode over a high pass and came to a crag that towered above a long, sparkling loch and noticed some movement down near the shore. He stopped to watch for a few minutes, but . . .

He rubbed his eyes. Were they playing tricks on him again?

He shuddered almost uncontrollably. Would this damnable wet never cease? He'd thought the weather would work in his favor, but all it had done was make him cold and miserable.

He'd assumed Maura would head due north toward the place her sibling had been taken. But now he wasn't so sure that was where Maura would go.

He looked to the loch below, but all the activity was too far away to see exactly what was going on. He saw no colorful plaids, so they would not be highlanders. Their scarlet coats indicated they must be His Majesty's troops.

He watched the scene below for a few minutes and decided it was real. There were no witches or wraiths screeching at him now. His father's disapproving words were nowhere near.

If he had more time, he would ride down to determine exactly what was going on down there. But he had his mission, and it did not include investigating the activities of any other battalion.

It was far more important to prove wrong his father's disparaging words and capture Maura Duncanson.

He had made good time on his ride northward, and it was only when it became nearly dark that he realized he was hungry. He had neglected to bring any provisions but for some dried meat when he'd ridden away from Higgins and the others. Fortunately, he did have his pistol and could do some hunting.

Do not count upon it, Alastair. You're a poor shot. Always were.

“Stop berating me, Father!” he shouted angrily. “I could have shot those peasants at Glencoe as well as you!”

A deep, scolding chuckle arose from the shadows that lurked in the gloaming just out of sight. Alastair shuddered.

He took out his pistol and loaded it, ready to shoot the man who so taunted him.

You should not have sent your men back without you. How will you survive out here alone?

“Are you there?” Baird demanded. He looked 'round but saw no one. “F-Father . . . ?”

That laugh again. Alastair covered his ears, but still he could not shut out the voice.

You are weak-minded, boy.

“No!”

You could not get one puny female to Cromarty without mishap.

“You do not know her, Father! She is a bane to all who know her!”

You are the bane, Alastair.

“No! Enough! I won't listen to you. Or to that dead hag, either!”

See how far you can go alone, boy.

“I can do it! I've done everything I was ordered to do!” Baird shouted. “I went to that pit where you sent me—Aucharnie Castle. Six years, Father! I've been at Aucharnie six years without promotion. The earl barely acknowledges me! And Ramsay—”

Baird paused to think. “Is that what you expected when you sent me up there? To be ignored? To be out of your way?”

Alastair slid off his horse. There was no reply to his questions, and he stood still for a moment listening to the silence. It should have been a blessed lack of sound, for the auld witch had been tormenting him for days. And his father—

He gave a brief shake of his head. What in hell was he doing, shouting to the hills? He must be mad.

Dread filled him. He was completely alone now, in the wild highlands with very few provisions. He had no map, and wasn't quite sure where Maura Duncanson's sister had been taken. How could he even ask for directions if he did not know exactly where he was going? How was he going to—

He heard voices again, along with the sound of horses and bridles jingling in the mist.

He dropped his pistol to the ground and bent at the waist, covering his head with his hands. 'Twas altogether too much—the phantom voices, that damned wraith, his father—

“You there!”

Baird looked up. Then he straightened up and saluted the captain who glared down at him. The man rode at the head of a long file of uniformed men. A grizzled old nobleman in thick furs wearing a trim white beard sat mounted beside him. “Yes, sir! Lieutenant Alastair Baird at your service, sir.”

“What are you doing here, Lieutenant?” the captain asked. “Where are your men?”

Baird felt at a sudden loss. Naught had gone right since Fort William, and now this. Suddenly, his plans to beat Maura to the place where her sister was being held seemed ill-conceived. “Sir, my . . . my mission is my own concern.”

“Baron?” the captain asked, glancing to the old man beside him. “What are your orders, my lord?”

Baird quickly bent over and picked up his pistol. He gathered his horse's reins in hand.

The baron looked eerily like Baird's father, with his pointed white beard and dark, judgmental eyes. In a few more years, the general's beard would be completely white and he would look exactly like him.

It had been six years since Alastair had seen his father. That was just before the general had ordered his son to repair to that useless holding at Aucharnie.

To be rid of you!

God, no. Not the voice again. Alastair blinked his eyes and tried to make sense of all this. But 'twas all too confusing.

Only because you're an oddity, Alastair.

“What's wrong with you, man?” the captain demanded.

Alastair tightened his grip on the pistol. He ought to shoot him now.
Shoot the bastard between his eyes!

The white-bearded baron spoke. “Do you know Laird MacMillan?” he demanded.

Alastair frowned. His hand shook. “Mac-MacMillan?”

“Aye. Laird Dugan MacMillan of Braemore,” the baron said with an ugly sneer. “He has my property, and I've come to get it.”

D
ugan had spent far too much of the day's ride alternating between trying to keep Maura awake, and reliving the moments when she had been at the mercy of the runaway horse and wagon. He had come so damnably close to losing her.

And yet she was not his to lose.

He lowered Maura down to the ground and turned her over to Conall and Archie, for he was in desperate need of some distance. He did not want to think about the siblings who ought to have taken better care of their youngest sisters, or the father who'd abandoned his imperfect youngest and arranged a contemptible marriage for the next.

He didn't want to think about the day he would leave her to fend for herself at Camerochlan.

“We'll camp here,” he said. “Lachann, come with me.”

“Laird?” Conall asked. “ 'Tis early still.”

Dugan looked toward the setting sun. Aye, they might be able to ride a few more miles, but he didn't want to push Maura any more today. Besides, there was something he wanted to do before they went any farther. “Make a shelter for Lady Maura against the rain and try to keep her awake awhile longer. We'll be back soon.”

He turned his horse and went back the way they'd come, with Lachann riding abreast of him. “Where to, Dugan?”

“Back to Loch Monar. I want to see what Argyll is doing.”

“And whether Maura lied to you?”

“She didn't lie,” he growled. She'd mentioned allies . . . Dugan knew
she
was the ally spoken of by the Frenchman who had given his grandfather their piece of the map.

And she was nothing like any Duncanson he could have imagined. He found it difficult to think of her as part of that despicable family, and everything she'd said about them rang true. She was nothing like them.

He pictured her walking through MacDonnall's great hall that morning, walking among the women and children who had gathered there for protection, and knew she'd conducted herself as would the wife of any great highland laird. She'd given appropriate orders and kept the women and children calm in the face of a possible threat. She had not panicked then, or even when Murray's horse had startled and run off.

Dugan recognized he had put her in an untenable position. She had good reason not to trust him. She did not believe he wouldn't give her to Kildary . . . and Dugan had to admit that until a short while ago, he hadn't been sure of it himself.

He decided not to mention his decision even to Lachann, not yet.

They rode to an outcropping that overlooked Loch Monar, then left their horses and walked to the lip of the ledge that towered over the loch. When they saw activity below, they dropped to a crouch and watched.

There were at least two dozen men below, many of them wearing Argyll's regimental red coats. Lachann spoke quietly to Dugan. “If Lady Maura is telling the truth, then the old bastard brought his soldiers to dig around the wrong location.”

“Aye,” Dugan replied.

A regular campaign camp had been set up, with torches illuminating the northwest end of the loch—exactly where Dugan had seen the green marking. A cook fire burned nearby, and the smell of their rations wafted up to them.

“Looks like they plan on digging up every inch of ground at this end of the loch,” Lachann said.

“Aye, but look. They've concentrated their efforts on the spot where I saw the green mark on the map.”

“So they have.”

“And they've found naught,” Dugan said. “Argyll must be working from memory.

“Lady Maura . . .” Lachann frowned in thought.

“Aye?”

“ 'Twas Argyll's part of the map she stole?”

Dugan nodded.

His brother paused for a moment. “Mayhap she's not entirely untrustworthy.”

'Twas a huge admission for Lachann, and Dugan decided not to spoil it by telling him how she came to have access to the duke's map.

They watched as Argyll's men came up empty time and again while digging around the vicinity of the green spot, and Dugan knew he'd been right to trust Maura. She had not lied to him.

“What do you think Argyll will do when he doesn't find the gold?” Lachann asked.

'Twas the same question Maura had asked.

The green marking had not been obvious—most of Dugan's men had not seen it. But Argyll had, and he'd followed it here. What if the clue Maura had seen was equally obscure? Mayhap Argyll had seen that one as well. He would set out for Maura's site as soon as he'd exhausted his possibilities at Loch Monar.

Dugan did not want to mix Maura up in this mess any more than he already had. He needed her to give him the clue, and once they found the treasure, he would personally escort her to Loch Camerochlan.