The Warrior Laird by Margo Maguire Page B

clan.
    Dugan swallowed his ale in one long gulp. He could not think of his parents and Gordon now, not when the risk of eviction was very real and more menacing than any disaster the MacMillans had faced in the past twenty-five years.
    He had to decide what to do about finding the French gold. If they could not decipher some marking or clue on the two parts of the map in his possession, he was unsure what to do next. Travel up to the western isles and rouse the MacDonalds in his cause?
    The thought of war repulsed him. He’d battled for Prince James during the uprising two years before, and been sorely wounded in the process. Dugan had healed, but the MacDonald septs had lost too many men in ’15, and Dugan knew the western clans were still licking their wounds.
    He’d already ruled out a cattle raid, for ’twould yield too little profit, and besides, he did not care to rouse any of the clans against him. If the maps were no good, he might not be able to avoid war, and he would need every highland clan to stand with him.
    He looked ’round the crowded taproom. He had not been able to secure even one room for himself and his men to share, but the innkeeper had given them leave to sleep in the large sitting room on the opposite side of the stairs. They’d been sleeping out of doors during their travels away from Braemore, and were grateful to be out of the cold for the one night, with a tidy peat fire to warm them. They were to take over the room after all the guests had retired, and planned to be away at dawn.
    But it meant they couldn’t really examine their two sections of the map again until everyone—even the servants—had retired and the inn was quiet. By then, Dugan was sure Bryce and Conall would be stretched out in a couple of chairs with their mouths hanging open and snoring to raise the dead.
    Dugan was weary as well, but thoughts of the lass who’d left the inn a while ago . . .
    No, ’twould be thoughts of the map that kept him awake. He had to have missed the marking that showed the location of the gold. Perhaps he ought to leave it to Lachann to figure it out, for his brother was the canny one. Dugan’s strength was in defense and decisiveness, the main reasons his grandfather had chosen Dugan to succeed him as laird.
    â€™Twas unfortunate that he’d not been decisive when it came time to marry. If he had wed sooner, mayhap he would not find his thoughts quite so tangled up with the beautiful Lady Maura. Auld Hamish MacMillan had been after Dugan to woo and wed Artis MacLean several years ago. But back then Dugan had not felt ready to take a wife. He was fully occupied with training his men and seeing to the fortifications at Braemore. And then the old man had died and Dugan’s responsibilities to the clan had piled up even more, one after the other.
    Artis was a comely lass, and had shown some shy interest in him. Mayhap Dugan had been a dolt to let her slip through his fingers, but she’d been painfully quiet and far too timid for him. No, he did not want a shrew, either, but a wife he did not have to fear would faint away if he raised his voice.
    Someone more like Lady Maura, who had set Lieutenant Baird in his place firmly and without hesitation. And ’twould be no hardship to take her to his bed every night.
    Dugan took note when the red-haired lady returned to the inn with her soldier escort. She did not seem pleased with his company, and it occurred to Dugan that she might be a prisoner of sorts.
    He discarded the notion as soon as it entered his brain. The woman could not possibly be a prisoner, else she would not have been allowed to walk alone near the waterfall that afternoon. One of the soldiers would have accompanied her.
    No, she traveled with them willingly.
    Dugan tamped down his disappointment when the twitchy, bald lieutenant came to escort Lady Maura to a chamber at the top of the stairs. ’Twas the last he would see