Chapter 22
Chapter 22
As they rode toward the cottage, Dugan knew he could rely on highlanders to offer their hospitality. He intended to take it. While Maura spent the night inside with the occupants, he would have a chance to put some much needed distance between them. Mayhap he would even leave her there.
He did not relish the thought of telling Lachann who Maura was. His brother did not trust her as it was. Once he knew she was a Duncanson ... Dugan was not sure how he would react. With violence, perhaps.
In spite of the damage her clan had done to his family, Dugan’s jaw clenched tightly at the thought of Maura coming to harm. She was as delicate as she was fierce...
Clearly, ’twas better to keep her name to himself, at least until he uncovered the clue she’d seen on the map.
Dugan thought about the ways he could coerce her into telling him what she’d seen and where. But all he could think of was taking her to his bed and kissing her into submission.
Gesu, what could he possibly be thinking? She was a Duncanson.
He rode ahead of the men and dismounted at the front of the cottage, leaving Maura in the saddle. Why had no one come out to see who had arrived? ’Twas unusual at the least.
He approached the cottage with Lachann at his side while the others remained on horseback, waiting.
Lachann knocked, but there was no stirring inside the house.
“Dugan,” Maura called out, “the chickens are all loose.”
Aye, he’d noticed.
“And the cows ... look. They’ve come up to the fence to be let in. They need milking.”
Dugan drew his sword and nodded to Lachann. “Open it.”
Lachann pushed the door open and waited. No one appeared, but the smell of death surrounded them. Dugan stepped inside, covering his mouth and nose with his arm, and found a dead man sitting in a chair near the cold hearth. He was gray-bearded, and it looked as though he’d died in his sleep.
“Have the lads look for something to wrap him in,” Dugan said. “Then they can come in and carry the poor blighter out.”
Lachann turned to do his brother’s bidding while Dugan remained in the cottage, looking for some indication of who the dead man was. He was prosperous, judging by the outbuildings and the furnishings in the house. The main room was large, with a sitting and cooking area as well as a separate bedroom with its own fireplace.
The man would be missed eventually, and Dugan did not want to encounter anyone who might question what the MacMillan laird was doing there in a dead man’s house, so far south of his own territory. The fewer people who suspected any truth to the rumor of gold, the better.
The man had not been dead long. Dugan guessed he’d died either last night before retiring to bed, or sometime that morn, after rising.
He noticed some documents on a desk as he opened the windows to cleanse the air inside the cottage. Glancing through them quickly, he concluded that the dead man was Kennan Murray. On further exploration, Dugan found no indication that the man had family. There were no letters, no records of any wife or children. The only framed pictures were a map of the highlands, and a holy portrait of the Lord God.
As his men came into the house, Dugan went back to his horse and reached up for Maura, not sure what he was going to do with her. “The owner is dead.”
A look of true sadness came over her. “Oh no.”
“Probably happened last night or this morn.”
Her body felt supple against his, but he ignored the jolt of sensation that surged through him at her touch. ’Twas not what he needed right now. Or ever, with this woman.
The only thing that mattered was finding a way to coerce the clue from the map out of her, or figuring out the clue himself. If she had found it, he could, too.
“He died all alone?”
A muscle in his jaw tensed. “Aye. There was no sign of anyone else belonging to the household.”
“What are you going to do? With the dead man, I mean?”
“Bury him,” Dugan replied.
“Without a service?”
“We can say a few words. We don’t have time for anything more.”
Leading his horse, he took Maura ’round to the opposite side of the door, for there was no need for her to see the dead man when his men carried him out. Not that he should care about her tender sensibilities. She was kin to some of the most bloodthirsty Scots he could imagine. He ought to allow her to witness the gruesome reality of death.
But he told her to wait there, in spite of himself.
Maura seized her chance. As soon as she was alone, she took Dugan’s bag down from his saddle, and when she pulled it open, found the three quarters of the map wrapped in an oilcloth. She glanced up to be sure Dugan was not coming ’round to get her. But it seemed the men were otherwise occupied, so she worked quickly, pulling the documents from their protective wrap. She unrolled the first one and looked at its back.
Sous le gros rocher— The word starting with ro was illegible, so she took a handful of dirt and rubbed it against the etching. It still did not become clear. Sous le gros rocher ro— was all she could see.
It meant “under some kind of large rock,” but what was the descriptive word? Surely there were going to be many rocks at the loch. ’Twould take forever to search under every one.
Maura felt a twinge of despair. She had to find the treasure for Dugan—and for herself. Mayhap there were more clues.
She rolled up the first document and carefully put it back into Dugan’s bag. Taking the second piece, she opened it and looked for wax etchings on its back. She found à la rive—
“At the shore—” she muttered. It had to mean the shore of Loch Aveboyne, the clue she’d seen the night before.
Maura quickly determined that there were no other words on that section of parchment, so she hurried to replace it under the oil cloth in Dugan’s bag, then checked the third piece. The only word on this section was Ouest.
Clearly, all four sections were meant to come together in order to show the way to the treasure. Maura closed Dugan’s bag and swung it up onto Glencoe’s back while she mentally arranged the clues until she had something that made sense.
Sous le gros rocher ro—and à la rive ouest du Lac Aveboyne.
She felt a mad sense of elation. Surely the missing section bore the words L’orest, or some other indication of what the rest of the clues were about.
Except for the beginning clue, Maura had all but one word, and she hoped that with a bit more thought, she could figure out what ro meant. “The gold is under a large rock of some sort,” she said quietly to herself, “at the west shore of Loch Aveboyne.”
This was how she was going to ameliorate the wrongs Maura’s family had done to Dugan’s. She would lead him directly to the treasure, and he would become a wealthy laird, beholden to no one, not even the Duke of Argyll.
And he would let her go to Loch Camerochlan for Rosie. On her own.
Maura suddenly felt shaky—all at once ecstatic but miserable. Within a day or two, she would hand over to Dugan exactly what he needed, then he would have no further use for her. From the first moment he’d seen her at the waterfall, she had been more trouble than he wanted. Certainly more than he needed.
And now that he knew who she was, Maura was certain he could not wait to be rid of her. The attraction between them ... their kisses and all that had occurred in her bedchamber at Caillich meant naught. It couldn’t—not to the likes of them.
She tied the horse to a fence post and returned to the front of the cottage where the men were carrying out the body, wrapped in canvas. Maura felt a deep sadness as she watched, pity for the poor man who had been alone at the end. She wondered if he’d had a wife or any children—and where they might be now.
She crossed her arms over her chest to ward off a sudden chill and her own pervasive sense of isolation. Soon, ’twould be just her and Rosie. There would be no one else—no one like Deirdre Elliott or Dugan MacMillan. No one to help her. No one to love her.
Only Rosie.
She walked away abruptly, fighting the horrible emptiness that threatened to swallow her whole. She had not thought past saving her sister, had not considered the life she would lead after she found Rosie and took her away.
Until now, Maura had believed Rosie’s uncomplicated affections would be enough. But the life she would embark upon once she reached Loch Camerochlan rang hollow. She’d felt the highlander’s touch and knew the intensity of desire. For him. She’d learned the shape of his jaw and the rough rasp of his whiskers against her face and between her legs.
A wave of pure longing skittered down her spine. The man she would choose for herself was not about to feel the least fondness for anyone belonging to the Campbell clan. Maura’s father and cousins were bad enough.
She wondered if Dugan had yet made the connection between her family and Argyll’s.
Dugan kept his mind on his task as they buried Kennan Murray. He did not want to think about all the foolish notions he’d entertained about Maura before discovering her identity.
He could not comprehend how it was possible that his blood had not recognized her for the enemy that she was.
Everyone in the highlands knew the connection between the Campbells and Duncansons. As soon as he’d heard Maura’s father’s name, he’d known exactly who her kin was.
Dugan remembered Captain Campbell, an uncle on Lady Aucharnie’s side, as clearly as if he’d stood before him only yesterday. How could Dugan forget seeing the man laughing and drinking at his father’s table? He’d held Dugan’s infant sister, Alexandra, on his lap and chucked the bairn under her chin, making her giggle in that sweet way she’d always had. Campbell had spent time in every croft at Glencoe. And then he’d given the order to put everyone under the age of seventy to the sword. The brutal order that had come from Robert Duncanson.
His stomach roiled.
The killings at Glencoe had been a plot hatched by a number of powerful lowland lairds—the Earl of Breadalbane, the Earl of Stair. Even the English king himself had sanctioned the massacre. ’Twas possible Maura’s father had been in on the scheme to strike at the highlanders, but his involvement had not been exposed. These men acted in order to curry the favor of their king as well as to destroy the clan system of the highlands.
Instead, there had been a parliamentary investigation into the events at Glencoe on the morning of February 13, 1692. Blame had been laid at Lord Stair’s feet, but the earl had received no punishment. King William had been exonerated, of course, and the Earl of Breadalbane had spent a measly few days imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle for speaking with the highland lairds—men considered to be Jacobite rebels—before the fatal events took place at Glencoe.
In Dugan’s eyes, justice had never been done.
He carried his shovel to Murray’s shed and searched the building for more tools they could use when they reached the site only Maura knew. He dearly hoped she was not lying.
“Laird,” said Conall, “there is a small wagon back here.”
They were going to need something in which to carry the gold, if they ever found it. “Leave it there, Conall. We’ll take it with us when we leave in the morning.”
Lachann came into the shed and took note of the tools. He put his hands on his hips. “Do you really think we’ll need any of this, Dugan?”
Dugan shook his head. “I don’t know, Lachann. What I do know is that something struck Maura last night as she was looking at the map.”
“Aye. The realization that this wee journey of ours is the only way to keep us from taking her to Braemore to be ransomed by Kildary.”
“I don’t think so. There was something about the map. Something she saw that the rest of us have missed. I’m sure of it.”
Lachann cocked one leg, and his posture, with his hands on his hips, clearly spoke of his annoyance. “I hope you’re right, Dugan.”
Aye, Dugan hoped he was, too.
He left the shed and went to the back of the house where he’d left Maura, and found her sitting near the fence, milking one of the cows.
“I would not have thought you knew how to do such a menial task, Lady Maura.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “There is much you do not know about me, Laird MacMillan.”
Dugan knew all he needed to know. She was a Duncanson and he had never forgotten their treachery.
“My father cast me out when he learned I’d saved Rosie. I was but fifteen then.”
Dugan made no reply, but he found it incomprehensible. First, to give orders for his own bairn to be taken away to die. And then to punish the daughter who’d saved her.
Ah, but the old bastard was a Duncanson.
“Deirdre Elliott and her husband, Gordon, took me into their house, where I spent most of my time until I was eighteen. I learned quite happily to do all manner of chores while I was Deirdre’s daughter.”
Dugan detected a tinge of sorrow in her tone, but it vanished when she stood up with the bucket of milk in hand. She walked past him and went into Murray’s house.
He unhitched Glencoe from the fence and took down his and Maura’s traveling bags before turning the horse loose in the enclosure. He took the bags into the house and reached into his own for the maps.
Laying them out on the table, Dugan half watched Maura remove her cloak and tie a plain canvas apron ’round her waist.
Such a simple, homey act had the power to arouse him. Her hair was in disarray, and Dugan could almost feel the silk of it sliding through his fingers. Her pretty lips teased him and her apron hugged the curves he’d so enjoyed the night before.
But he steeled his heart against any softening of feelings toward her.
Was Lachann right? Did Maura actually know where the gold was hidden or was this just a clever ruse to get him to take her to Loch Camerochlan? Mayhap he ought to send her to Braemore now and hasten to Loch Monar before Argyll could get there. It was the logical thing to do.
And yet Dugan did not believe she was lying about the clue. He might be a deluded fool, but he doubted it. He’d learned long ago to trust his instincts.
He considered Maura’s betrothal to Kildary. It seemed that Maura’s father had had no use for her until now. Which indicated to Dugan that her marriage to Kildary must be of significant value to him. He’d already figured Maura had no dowry, so ’twas likely her father was in need of the funds Kildary would pay for the privilege of taking Maura to wife.
Perhaps ’twas better to thwart the marriage, rather than fulfill Lord Aucharnie’s wishes. ’Twas not the bloody revenge Dugan would have preferred, but it would give him some satisfaction, knowing he’d caused difficulties for the Duncanson lord.
He watched as Maura knelt before the grate and built a fire in silence, shutting him out.
“I’ve decided ’twould serve my purpose to spoil your father’s wishes and prevent your marriage to Kildary.”
“What?” She rested back on her heels as she turned to look at him, her green eyes narrowing. “I do not understand.”
“Your father needs Kildary’s funds and possibly an alliance with the baron,” he said. “If I keep you from Kildary ...” He shrugged. “Mayhap Lord Aucharnie will not be able to pay his rents.”
Maura frowned in disbelief. And mayhap a fair dose of mistrust. “He pays no rents, Dugan. He is the earl.”
“Ah, but there was a reason he bartered you to Kildary. Money. He needs it, and the baron has it.”
“What about your rents, Dugan? Wh-what if we don’t find the treasure?”
Aye, that was the rub. If they didn’t find the gold where Maura led them, could Dugan afford the satisfaction of blocking her father’s goals by keeping Maura from Kildary?
No. The welfare of his clan had to come first.
“Was it only two days ago that you were so certain I’d find the gold?” he taunted. “Show me the clue and I’ll set you free.”
“Perhaps I would. If I could trust you, Laird MacMillan.”