Free The Warrior Laird by Margo Maguire

years before, Dugan had been wounded protecting his grandfather from an Englishman’s blade, and taken it himself. Old Hamish had gotten him home alive, though. “He said the map had been torn asunder so that only allies could band together to find it.”
    â€œ ’Tis ridiculous when you think of it, Dugan. Why would—”
    â€œLook here,” said Dugan.
    â€œWhere it’s torn?” Lachann moved the lamp closer.
    â€œAye. Do you see it? A different sort of marking.”
    â€œYou think this spot shows where the gold is hidden?” Lachann frowned. “I don’t know. Mayhap.”
    â€œ ’Tis not the same kind of scratching that marks a loch or a town. It doesn’t look like a mountain, either.”
    Lachann was silent for a moment. “If the Frenchman was right, won’t we need the last pieces of the map?”
    â€œLook. The mark is right at the juncture of the two sections. We would not have noticed it without having both.”
    Lachann sighed and tapped his finger on the strange mark. “But it might mean naught.”
    Dugan’s vision blurred with fatigue. He did not want to argue with Lachann, nor did he care to ponder the maps or the possibility of gold, or the bloody Duke of Argyll any longer. He had to get some sleep, for they would ride long and hard on the morrow. “Aye. You’re right.”
    â€™T was past midnight, and Maura assumed everyone in the inn must be asleep by now. Even the highlanders.
    She dressed warmly and put on her good walking shoes, then picked up her traveling bag and exited her room. It was dark in the stairway, but she made her way down to the main floor of the inn just as she’d done before. This time, there was naught but moonlight coming in through the windows.
    She wondered how long it had been since she’d left Laird MacMillan. Well over an hour, she was sure.
    And yet the impossible yearning Dugan had engendered with his kiss had not dissipated. If only Rosie’s well-being was not at stake, Maura might—
    She quickly came to her senses. Even if she had not been on her way to find Rosie, she could not possibly entertain any romantic notions about the highlander. Maura knew nothing about him, other than the deep rumble of his voice and the way his touch made her feel. But he might be a Jacobite rebel, or one of the road bandits Lieutenant Baird warned about as they traveled to Fort William.
    He was certainly a rascal.
    But the most impressive rascal she’d ever encountered, boldly kissing her on the veranda where anyone might have come upon them.
    Maura crept toward the back kitchen, but stopped suddenly when she heard the sound of snoring to her left.
    She held her breath, afraid Lieutenant Baird had decided to post a guard after all. He had not hidden his dislike of the highlanders, no doubt believing they posed some threat.
    Keeping her feet where they were, she leaned forward to peer into the sitting room and heard it again. A soft snore. The fire had burned low, but she could see that the only occupants of the room were the highlanders, all wrapped in their plaids and lying on whatever surface was handy—chairs, settees, floor. All were sound asleep, even Dugan. Now she understood how he had seen her when she’d come down earlier.
    She wondered why these men had come to Fort William. Surely, they did not enjoy the presence of the king’s troops. Clearly, they were en route somewhere.
    She clutched her traveling bag tightly in her hand and held her breath, wondering . . . It seemed impossible that the other piece of her map would be in the highlanders’ possession—that it was not merely hidden somewhere in Lord Ilay’s study and she’d just missed it during her midnight foray. And yet . . .
    Her mind raced as she took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the faint light cast by the glowing embers in the fireplace. Laird MacMillan lay on the