The Warrior Laird Read Free

him.”
    Dugan’s words seemed to shudder through his brother. As young as Lachann was when they’d fled Glencoe, Dugan knew he remembered. How could he—or any of them—forget? Only Alexandra was unaffected by the horrific memories of the morn when their family had been slaughtered, for she’d been too young to understand.
    None of them would ever want to bring misfortune to their mother’s people—to the clan that had taken them in as orphans and treated them as their own.
    This was trouble Dugan did not need. Their cattle herds were just beginning to grow after severe losses during the uprising two years before. He’d spent years training an army of men to protect the livestock—and the clan—from raiders. After his grandfather’s death, Dugan had seen to the expansion of their arable lands, which were ready for planting and should show a sizable yield at the end of summer.
    He was damned if he’d allow his kin to be put off the lands they’d farmed for generations.
    â€œWe could send a party out to Skye,” Lachann said, swallowing thickly, “and see if the MacDonalds will take in our clan.”
    Dugan shook his head and resumed his pacing as his mind raced. “They’ve no land to spare. Remember when we traveled to Sligachan for Fiona MacDonald’s wedding?”
    Of course Lachann did. He’d hoped to wed Fiona himself, but she’d chosen Cullen Macauley instead. Dugan believed Lachann had consumed more whiskey than any other guest at that wedding. And his brother was not about to trust another comely face any time soon.
    â€œMayhap,” Lachann said. “But they’re kin, after all. And when all this is sorted, we can—”
    â€œNo, Lachann. Moving in on the MacDonalds’ lands is not the answer. Not even temporarily.”
    â€œWell then, what is?” His frustration was palpable, but far less than Robert’s would have been. ’Twas fortunate their hotheaded brother was away. “We’re not likely to find anyone to loan us three thousand pounds. We’d be hard-pressed to find someone who could lend more than a few shillings.”
    â€œWe have another option.” The highlands had risen up against English rule two years before with the backing and assistance of the French king, who’d sent soldiers as well as funds. ’Twas said they’d hidden a cache of gold somewhere in the highlands.
    â€œOh aye?” Sarcasm infused his words.
    Dugan considered his words carefully. “You remember the map Grandfather gave me before he died?”
    â€œAye—a worthless scrap of a map,” Lachann retorted.
    Dugan shook his head.
    â€œMayhap ’twas a useless scrap of parchment a year ago. But I heard some talk when I was up at Ullapool last month . . .”
    â€œWhat kind of talk?” Lachann frowned as fiercely as he’d done as a mere bairn. His skepticism was as healthy as ever. Dugan was not about to tell him he’d heard it from a Campbell.
    â€œIt seems there’s a man in possession of another piece of the map.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œDown east of Fort William—in Kinlochleven.”
    â€œAch, well then. That settles it!” Lachann scoffed. “We find the man, and when we look at his piece of the map, we’ll surely know where our bonny King James’s loyal Frenchmen hid their stash of gold. Especially if the damned thing is as well marked as Grandfather’s.”
    Dugan narrowed his eyes. Lachann’s cynicism could be worse than irritating. True enough, the map showed no place names, and only drawings of lochs and mountains, but Dugan knew there was a way to interpret it. Why else would the French have made the map? “Grandfather was sure it could be read. But only if he found the key to it.”
    And the former laird, Hamish MacMillan, was no fool.
    â€œGrandfather was riddled with sickness when he died,