The Warrior Laird (7 page)

Baird climbed to his room to dress properly for a day that was likely to get worse before it got any better. This was not at all what he had in mind when he considered ridding Lord Aucharnie of his troublesome daughter.

 

Chapter 7

D
ugan heard the English lieutenant order the innkeeper to search the inn and to send someone to the fort for his men. The old woman seemed to think the lass would return home. Considering the site where she'd nearly met her demise at the business end of the ram's horns, her home must be south.

Perfect. Dugan hoped the bald-pated lieutenant took his men away south to search for her. If she knew anything about the map and the gold, she would have set out in a northerly direction, on a path toward his treasure in the highlands.

“Laird MacMillan,” the innkeeper called to him just as he was about to ride out.

“What is it, man?” Dugan asked sharply. He was barely able to contain his anger and was eager to be on his way.

“Ye did'na leave coin in me pantry, now, did ye?”

Dugan must have shown a puzzled expression, for the innkeeper went on to explain. “There's food missing, but coins on the shelf in its place.”

“Nay, 'twas not us, though I'd gladly pay you for whatever provisions you can spare.” Dugan knew who'd taken the inn's food. The same woman who'd stolen his map.

“Y
e're out and about early, lass.”

The rasping voice startled Maura, and she realized it had come from an old woman sitting outside a small croft at the edge of the trees, away from the beaten path. A huge wolfhound lay in the grass by her side, but sat up to attention when Maura stopped.

“Come and sit awhile,” the woman said.

Maura hesitated. She'd been walking at a very good pace for at least three hours, but figured she'd covered no more than ten miles. Yet she was weary. She could use a moment's respite.

“Thank you,” she said. “I wouldn't mind a drink of water. But your dog—”

“He will'na harm ye. No' without my say.” She spoke softly to the beast, and it almost seemed . . . No, the huge animal had
not
nodded at the woman's words. “Come inside, then,” she said to Maura.

The bent and wrinkled old woman stood and led the way into the croft, and when she turned to face Maura by the weak light of the peat fire, Maura saw that the irises of her eyes were milky white. The woman was blind.

“Ye're far from home, lass.” The woman went right to a bucket next to a table and ladled some water into an earthen cup. She turned and handed it to Maura.

“How do you know that?” The big dog sat down near the fire, alert, watching her.

“I might be blind, but there's things I can see, lassie.”

Maura took a drink and eyed the woman with a fair degree of caution. “What can you see?”

“I can see that ye've been travelin' awhile and yer feet are tired. Sit and rest.”

“I haven't much time.”

“Aye, but ye're ahead o' them and will be fer a fair piece.”

The woman's words shocked Maura. “Ahead of whom?”

“Them who's after ye.”

Maura sat down in shock. “Wh-what do you know of them?”

The woman touched her forehead. “What's more important is what old Sorcha knows o'
ye
, lass.”

H
is anger unabated, Dugan rode alongside his men and set out to follow his beautiful seductress. Ach, he could not believe the pretty little thief had beguiled him so well.

And here he thought he'd been so noble, ending their intimate encounter that never should have taken place to begin with. He should have spent the time on the veranda talking with her, finding out who she was and why she was traveling with the English soldiers. But Dugan had never felt such a hard, swift attraction to any other woman.

“Dugan, do you really think the daft woman left the inn on her own?” Lachann asked in a deprecating tone.

“She did not leave with the lieutenant,” he replied, his words clipped.

“Do you suppose she had another accomplice?” Bryce asked.

Dugan sorted through his thoughts. “She couldn't have known about the gold and the map. At least, not that they were connected.”

“Except that if
you
heard about the map in Ullapool,” Lachann said, “
she
might have heard the rumor as well.”

“But she wouldn't have had time to enlist a man to help her. Not in the short time she was here.” Or would she?

Dugan spurred his horse and led them onto the northerly bridle path, nearly certain this was the way she would travel. She had the map, and it showed only the highlands.

Dugan still could not grasp how Maura had taken him in. He might have initiated their kiss, but he'd been the one completely seduced. It had been next to impossible to pull away from her, and all night he'd been tortured by dreams of her, of sharing the French king's gold with her. Christ, he was a fool.

He wondered why she'd been traveling in the company of the English soldiers, but he did not stay in town long enough to watch them ride southward to look for her.

“I'm not inclined to show the little thief any mercy, Dugan,” said Lachann.

“Nay, after you saved her bloody life,” said Kieran, “she should have had some respect for your property.”

Aye, 'twas exactly what Dugan thought.

“Her bonny face won't keep me from running her through when we catch up to her,” Lachann said, his face grave.

Dugan's throat went dry at the thought of killing her. He ought not to care, for she'd stolen from him. Damn all, she'd taken the map while he was dreaming of her.

He hoped Maura stayed on the bridle path and did not go wandering into the woods on some uncharted path, for he did not have time to chase about the hills to look for a damned thief. He had to find the gold and get his payment to Argyll before the month's end.

“Which way, Dugan?” Conall asked as they came to a split in the path.

“We'll take the westward path.”

He'd lost all track of time during his restless sleep, so he couldn't estimate how long it had been since she'd left the inn. The fire in her room had burned down to embers, so it was likely she had several hours' lead. He hoped she twisted an ankle and they would soon find her nursing the injury at the side of the path.

“D'ye think she's on horseback, Laird?” Archie asked.

Dugan shook his head. “She wasn't wearing riding clothes when she arrived last night, so she probably came in a carriage.”

“There were so many grooms in the stable, Laird, 'tis unlikely she'd have been able to steal a horse,” Conall remarked.

Lachann nodded in agreement. “But even on foot, she could have walked a good ten miles in the last few hours.”

Or more, Dugan feared, in spite of her clothing. She was young and fit, and even wearing a dress, she should be able to cover two or three miles every hour.

They were wasting precious time. The lass had a good lead on them, no matter what her mode of transportation, and plenty of good places to hide. They would need to keep all their wits about them if they were to find her.

And Dugan fully intended to find her.

S
orcha sat down across from Maura and reached for her hand. Maura hesitated.

“Ye're no' afeart, are ye?”

“Of course not.” Maura placed her hand in the woman's dry palm. She would humor the old crone; after all, the woman had provided her some respite from the path as well as a cool drink when she needed it.

Sorcha smiled when Maura's hand slid into hers.

“What?”

“Well, if naught else, ye've a good heart,
a chiallain
.”

Maura frowned. “What do you mean—if naught else?”

The crone tipped her head and gazed at her with those eerie blind eyes. “Ye need to use yer own good sense, lass. And there'll be times when ye need t' listen t' yer heart.”

“I am. Well, I'm trying to.” For two long years, her heart had been telling her to go to Rosie, and her good sense had given her the means to do it.

The old crone's eyes remained unfocused, but Maura somehow felt their unseeing gaze. “Ach, lass. I fear 'tis only the dust in the fields and on the wind that'll give ye what ye seek.”

Dust and wind? The woman spoke nonsense. Maura was going to put the pieces of the map together in order to find her way. She started to pull her hand away, but Sorcha tightened her grip.

“Ye carry most all that ye need, lass.”

Maura eyed the woman with suspicion. First, nonsense, and now . . . she wondered if Sorcha intended for her to divulge what was in her belongings . . . including her money. She used her aforementioned good sense. “Most?”

“Aye.” Sorcha frowned and gave a quick shake of her head. “But yer wee prize will'na divulge its secrets, no' even to the Glencoe lad. No' unless . . .”

“Who is the Glencoe lad?” Her words made no sense to Maura, but Sorcha sat back and pressed one trembling hand to her breast.

“Ach, 'twas many a year ago. He's a great fierce warrior now.”

“I do not know whom you speak of.” She'd heard of terrible events happening at Glencoe, and her own family had played no small part in it. But that was years ago, before Maura was born.

Sorcha nodded absently, as though recollecting something so distant it was difficult to remember.

The crackle of the fire startled Maura. “What about a prize? M-my prize?” Did the woman refer to the maps? Maura sincerely hoped the map she'd taken from Dugan MacMillan would divulge its secrets when joined with Argyll's map.

At least the woman had not made mention of the theft. Maura still felt shame and embarrassment for taking what belonged to Laird MacMillan. But she'd had no choice. She—

“ 'Twill no' show you the path t' Loch Camerochlan, my lady.”

Maura's brain froze inside her skull.

She'd told no one of her plan to go to Loch Camerochlan. “What do . . . How do you know—” She shook her head. It had to be some kind of weird luck. Or perhaps when Maura had first encountered the woman she'd spoken her destination aloud. She was so weary 'twas possible she'd said it without meaning to.

But she did not think so.

Maura shivered and thought of all the wintry nights spent in the Elliott croft with Deirdre's old mother telling tales of ghosts, witches, and faeries. Maura did not believe in such things . . . much. On the contrary, she'd found that real, mortal beings were most dangerous—men like her father, who would cast out an innocent bairn to die because she was sickly.

But Maura did not know what to think now, when she was faced with the specter of a real witch. She found herself glancing 'round the small croft, looking for obvious signs of witchcraft.

She let out the breath she was holding. There was naught but the dog. “Why do you say I will not go to Loch Camerochlan?”

“I did'na say that,” Sorcha retorted.

“Will you explain yourself?”

Sorcha rocked back into her chair and began to hum, and Maura decided the old woman was full of so much nonsense. She knew naught.

And yet a small part of Maura recognized that there could be otherworldly elements at work in the world. How else had Rosie survived past her birth than because of the extraordinary care taken by the Elliotts to keep her away from the powers that could harm her? Deirdre had kept Rosie from exposure to harmful moonlight when she was a wee bairn. And she'd been careful never to put a stitch of clothing on the child until she passed it through the smoke of their peat fire, to be sure no witches would ever hold sway over her.

A chill crawled up Maura's spine and she wondered if anyone had ever passed
her
clothes through the smoke of a fire. Likely not, for here she was, in company of a wizened old witch, and listening to her cryptic speech.

“There's them that would help ye, lassie,” Sorcha whispered, leaning forward to take Maura's hand again, “if they do'na kill ye first.”

Maura held perfectly still, tempted to discount Sorcha's words. The only help or encouragement she'd received since defying her father and saving Rosie from certain death had been from the Elliotts. Maura had spent nearly all her time at their small croft after that, taking care of her infant sister whenever Deirdre was not feeding her. Maura had been the one to raise her sister, following Deirdre's example with her own children.

Her parents had seen Rosie only a few times in the eleven years since her birth, and only by accident. The earl and countess Aucharnie were ashamed of their youngest offspring, and they did not like Maura much better. Fortunately, Deirdre Elliott had provided the motherly warmth and affection Maura and her sister had lacked from their own mother.

Sorcha was wrong. There was no one in this vicinity to help her.

But she feared her clandestine flight from the inn might have angered someone enough to kill her. Baird or the highlander? Or both?

“I see yer prize. 'Twill will be of no use to ye without an ally,
a chiallain
.”