The Warrior Laird by Margo Maguire Page A

laird’s amazing kisses could mean naught to her. They’d touched something deep inside her, awakening feelings she’d long kept buried. ’Twas more than just desire for a man’s touch.
    Of course she wanted a man who cared for her, one who would protect her and give her a home and children of her own. Someone who would accept Rosie into his life, without having to be asked.
    But until Maura rescued her sister from Loch Camerochlan, she could not think of husbands or children of her own. And if she did not move along far more quickly, she was going to be caught by the highland laird and then . . . who knew what he would do?
    The faint light of morning dawned, and Maura realized she needed to get off the narrow bridle path that skirted alongside the loch. For that was the route Laird MacMillan would take, and she would be too easily seen.
    She veered into the woods, where she knew she would not be able to keep up the same quick pace, for the ground was uneven and strewn with broken timber and clumps of foliage. Twice she tripped and nearly fell to her knees before she decided ’twas time to rest.
    Maura soon came upon a fallen log where she brushed off the loose bark and made it an acceptable seat. Once she was off her feet, she untied the skin of water from the handle of her bag, then reached inside and took out the cheese she’d taken from the inn.
    She was anxious to see what she could learn from the map, so she took both pieces out, and quickly realized there was a third portion, rolled inside the map she’d taken from Laird MacMillan. With her heart thundering with excitement, she pieced them together in the grass.
    The three sections were definitely part of a whole, and Maura could tell there was still at least one portion missing. Without any printed words on the document, she found it nearly impossible to tell what she was looking at. But then she noticed a symbol near the bottom of one of the pieces she’d taken from Dugan’s pack that indicated a fortified building. Fort William, perhaps? Or Inverary Castle?
    It had to be one or the other. She traced the blue ink that represented the loch to the west of the fort, and another one that flared out north. Loch Eil, she hoped.
    But locating her own position did naught to help her identify Loch Camerochlan. Maura had made a point of studying a real map of Scotland at Lord Ilay’s house in Glasgow, so she knew Rosie had been taken far into the northwest. But there were numerous small blue marks on the sections of map before her that indicated rivers and lochs. The only way she was going to be able to locate Camerochlan was by continuing to travel northwest and asking for directions from the people she met on her way.
    If only ’twould be so easy to find the French king’s gold, for there was no grand X marking any spot on the map. But Maura had time. ’Twas going to take more than a few days to make her way up to Loch Camerochlan—mayhap she would figure out the key to the map during her travels.
    Maura put the pieces of the map away. Her only interest in the treasure was for Rosie’s sake. If she could whisk her sister away from Tilda Crane and get them far from Scotland, her father would hold no sway over them. ’Twould be so much easier to accomplish if she had more money than the sum she carried with her.
    She thought of Sorcha, but discounted her warning. The highlander wouldn’t kill her for taking his map. He would merely take it back.
    Wouldn’t he?
    She knew she should not assume so. He wore his claymore in his belt as though he would not hesitate to use it. And there was that dirk in his stocking . . .
    Still, Maura could not forget the interlude on the veranda of the inn. His touch had been potent, not painful. He’d been considerate, building his seduction slowly, and Maura had done naught to stop him. She’d craved more than just his kiss. Her breasts had tingled