Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (11 page)

T
he auld McLaren
keep had been deserted for some time now. He knew because he’d been watching from a careful distance and with a wary eye. Today was the day he decided to give it a closer inspection, and he was fully prepared to kill anyone who might cross his path. There was far too much at stake to take any chances.

For weeks, he’d been living in the woods near the glen, watching from a safe distance. As far as he could tell, the last of the McLarens and bloody Mackintoshes had left days ago. They’d loaded one wagon with what appeared to be very meager belongings, the last of the horses, and taken off, heading north.

His stomach grumbled, hungrier than he could ever remember being. The last good meal he’d partaken of was in Edinburgh, two months past. He’d survived the winter — albeit barely — in Edinburgh and had left as soon as the snows had melted, on a horse he had stolen from a drunken lout. Hundreds of miles away now, he felt confident that he needn’t worry about anyone coming after him.

Deciding now was as good a time as any, he left the safety of the wood.

The gates stood wide open, another sure sign no one was about. Cautiously he crept through the gates and into the courtyard. An eerie quiet had befallen the place. He very nearly came to shitting himself when he neared the burned out keep and a tiny bird who had decided to take up residence in the eaves, flapped it’s wings. With a start and a pounding heart, he cursed up at the ugly bird who began to chirp it’s warning. “Ye will no’ be laughin’ when I eat ye fer me supper,” he cursed. The bird stared at him, chirped a few times before settling back to building his nest.

Nary a soul remained, save for the rats that had taken up residence in nearly every spot imaginable. From the abandoned granary to the stables and burned out shell of the keep, the blasted things were everywhere. Just what they were dining on, he couldn’t rightly say. He himself had been hard pressed to find little more than grouse and the occasional rabbit to eat.

With due diligence, he made his way inside the keep. The roof had collapsed some time ago; the beams lay scattered across the stone floor of the gathering room. One heavy, blackened beam lay across the staircase, barring any entry to the floors above. The air was dank, musty, and smelled of decaying wood.

Stepping through puddles of water, undoubtedly left by the last rain, he headed to Mermadak’s private room. The door was ajar and groaned in protest when he pushed it open. It scraped against the hard stone floor and stopped, allowing just enough room for him to squeeze through.

The moment he pushed through, an eerie sense of foreboding settled in, making the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. Where the rest of the keep had fallen into decay and rot, this room seemed almost untouched. A thick layer of dust covered every surface, and a creeping vine had sprouted up through the floor near Mermadak’s desk. Other than that, one wouldn’t be able to surmise the condition of the rest of the keep based on this one room alone.

There was a door on the opposite side of the room that was also ajar. A strong breeze came in from seemingly nowhere and began to stir up bits of dust and debris. For an instant, he could have sworn he heard someone whisper something incoherent, and it sent a chill up and down his spine. A forewarning from the world beyond, mayhap? Mermadak reaching from the pits of hell to warn him to leave this place at once?

Nay. He’d not leave, not now. There was too much at stake to run away now. ’Twas just his mind playing tricks on him. But just to be certain, he unsheathed his dirk.

Taking a steadying breath, he made his way to the large desk. Using the tip of the dirk, he began to pick through the parchments, afraid for some unknown reason, to allow his hands to touch them. Nothing in them seemed of any significance to the matter at hand. He was here to find the fortune Mermadak had hidden away.

How many hours had he spent in this room? Countless hours to be certain. He’d been one of Mermadak’s messengers, one of only two men the laird trusted. It had been he who had collected much of the silver and gold from those men the McLaren had blackmailed. It had been he who had broken a leg or two when a victim developed a backbone and threatened to stop paying. Together, the three of them had collected vast amounts of money. How much, he was not sure, but he knew he alone had collected hundreds if not thousands of groats, merks, and sillars over the years.

It was hidden in this room. He
knew
it as well as he knew his own name. But where? That was one thing Mermadak made certain of: none would know where the money was kept. He might have trusted him enough to do his dirty work, but he’d never trust him with the location of their spoils.

He scoured the shelves, the walls, and even the floor, looking for any sign of a hidden compartment. For an hour, he was on his hands and knees, clawing at things that looked as though they should move but didn’t. The longer he searched the angrier he became. It was here, he knew it, could feel it to his very marrow.

Soaked in sweat, despite the cool breeze that continued to linger, he finally stood. Panting with anger and frustration, he scanned the room, cursing all the world for the lot he’d been dealt.

Then he saw it.

The mantle.

I
t had been a long
, difficult journey. Weeks of traveling halfway across Scotland had not been easy — facing mountains, rivers, and all manner of terrain and weather. The most terrifying part of their journey was when they had to pass through the southern tip of Cameron lands. The Mackintoshes and Camerons had been feuding for decades. They would most assuredly have been slaughtered had any of the Camerons discovered they were passing through, no matter if it had been for less than half an hour.

They pushed forward during the day, as fast as they were able, considering their large numbers and the heavy wagons, the cattle, pigs, and other animals. Many of Ian’s followers were on foot, which slowed their progression even further.

Whenever Ian was off tending to one problem or another, Andrew the Red and Brogan would fall in to ride on either side of Rose. At first, she did not like being singled out, but she was now the wife of a clan chief. Certain precautions had to be made to insure her safety at all times.

She’d grown fond of Brogan, simply because he rarely spoke. When he did, ’twas always to say something kind and thoughtful.

Andrew the Red however, was an altogether different story. He talked incessantly, to the point of giving her an ache in her head. He seemed to have either an opinion or story on nearly every topic, from how to cut stone properly to how to brew the best ale. He was a tremendous pain in her arse. Ian seemed either not to notice or to care. Andrew was his friend and that ’twas all that mattered.

At night, Ian and Rose slept in a small but comfortable tent. Many times they fell into the soft pallets far too exhausted to move, let alone make love. However, come morning, well rested after a good night’s sleep, she would wake to her husband nuzzling her neck or caressing her breast. ’Twas a wonderful way to wake each morn, being loved quite thoroughly. Ian was attentive and generous in that way. Though there were times when she wished he would spill his seed inside of her. But he had made a promise to do everything they could to avoid getting her with child. So far, it seemed to be working. Their lovemaking would leave her in a most happy mood for the remainder of the day.

And Ian hadn’t lied when he had told Rose she would know the plans by heart and be sick of hearing about them before they arrived. She imagined she could recite it all in her sleep.

Today was no exception. Brogan estimated they were less than an hour from their destination. “Soon, sister, we shall come upon a large hill,” he began with a level of excitement she’d never witnessed in him before.

“And just over that large hill will be the spot where we shall build the new keep,” she finished for him.

Brogan smiled thoughtfully and nodded. “Have ye given any thought to what ye’d like the keep to look like?”

’Twas the most he’d spoken to her in weeks and it took her aback. “What
I
would like it to look like?” she asked. “Ian has already drawn up the plans.”

“True, but a man never thinks of the things that make a home a home,” Brogan pointed out. “He thinks of the number of logs, pegs, and shingles. He thinks of stone and mortar and the like.”

Rose was not quite certain what he was asking and since she’d never heard him string together so many words, she remained quiet and listened.

“But a woman? A woman thinks of the seemingly little things that are just as important as how soundly it is built. Tapestries on the walls, flowers in the gardens, how the furniture should be arranged …” His voice trailed off, his eyes on something only he could see.

Remembering that Brogan had lost his wife three years ago to the wasting disease, Rose understood then, what he meant. And the far away look in his eyes? He was thinking of his wife.

After some time, he gave his head a hard shake and turned his attention back to Rose. “A woman, she is what makes a house a home. ’Tis no’ the timber and stone, but her heart and what she puts into it. Without it, ’tis nothin’ more than four empty walls.”

Suddenly, she felt sad for him. ’Twas quite evident that he missed his wife a great deal.

“I lost me first husband,” she told him. “Though ’twas no’ some great marriage filled with romance and wonder, I still loved him.” For a tiny moment, she tried to imagine her life without Ian, but the thought made her ill at heart.

Brogan smiled wanly. “Alaina was a beautiful woman and I loved her verra much. I have no desire to take another wife or to love again.”

“I would feel the same were I to lose Ian,” she said.

* * *

I
an raced
toward his wife and brother, excited and relieved; he was grinning from ear to ear. “We be almost there!” he shouted as he approached, pulling rein quickly, angling his horse in between Andrew the Red and Rose. “It be just beyond that hill,” he informed them.

His smile as well as his excitement was contagious.

“Be it as beautiful as they told us?” Rose asked.

Ian leaned across his saddle and kissed her soundly. It left her breathless and wanting more. “Aye, lass. Next to ye, it be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

When he spoke thus, with such sincerity and adoration, it brought forth a delightful tickling sensation in the pit of her stomach. Oh, how she adored this man, loved him with all that she was. She could not help but blush and smile all at once.

“Andrew, spread the word to the rest,” Ian directed before turning to face his wife. “Rose and Brogan, shall we go up together?”

Returning his smile and just as excited as he to see what lay just beyond that rise, the three of them raced to the top of the hill. What lay ahead stole Rose’s breath away.

It seemed to go on for as far as the eye could see. At the bottom of the hill on rich flat land, lay lush, green grass that stretched on forever. Flowers of every imaginable color dotted the land. Beyond the flat, wide-open glen, lay the largest forest she’d ever set eyes on. Running perpendicular between the grass and the base of the hill, was a wide bubbling stream; she could see neither where it began nor ended.

“Who are they?” Rose asked when she spied a rather small encampment at the edge of the woods. She could see some ten men there, as well as a few tents nearby.

“Those be the carpenters Frederick sent ahead of us,” Ian explained. “It looks as though they’ve already begun work.”

Below them, men had begun to clear out part of the forest. Massive logs were stacked as high as a man’s head, already cleaned and scraped and ready for use.

Moments later, two men on horseback came bounding across the hill from the north.

“Good day to ye!” Ian called out as he slowly pulled his horse away from Brogan and Rose.

Either out of instinct or habit, Brogan rested a palm on the hilt of his sword. “Get behind me, Rose,” he whispered.

Though she didn’t think it necessary, she did as he said, and led her horse to stand behind him. “Are ye no’ bein’ a wee bit over-protective?” she asked. “Clearly they be with the men below.”

Brogan ignored her. Giving a quick scan of their surroundings, he kept a close eye on the two men. Moments later, Andrew appeared with three other mounted men who all drew in to protect Rose.

In silence, and on full alert, they watched as Ian met the strangers.

* * *

A
fter casting
a quick glance to see that his wife was well protected, Ian turned to watch the men approach. One appeared young, mayhap twenty years old. He was slender with long blonde hair. The other was an aulder brown-haired man with a scowl as mean-looking as a rabid dog. Both had swords drawn and at the ready. They slowed their pace as they drew nearer to him.

“Identify yerself,” the blonde man said as he pulled his horse to a stop some ten paces from Ian. They stood facing one another on the crest of the hill. The warm breeze picked up, billowing tunics and hair.

“I be Ian Mackintosh, newly appointed chief of Clan McLaren,” he answered in a firm voice. “And who might ye be?”

While the blonde man’s shoulders relaxed in relief, the brown-haired fellow remained stern-faced. “We were expectin’ ye days ago,” the blonde said. “I be Charles MacFarland and this be Rodrick the Bold. We be yer sentries.”

“We were delayed a bit by rain. I did no’ want to risk our wagons bein’ stuck or damaged,” Ian explained as he kept a close eye on the man named Rodrick. There was something about the man, his scowl or his countenance, that did not sit well with him.

Charles gave a nod of understanding. “Well, I fer one be glad ye’re here. As ye can see, we’ve been workin’ hard to clear out the forest as Frederick directed,” he said with a nod toward the glen below. “We also have twenty men workin’ in the quarry. We’ve a wee bit more to clear before they bring the stones in. Fer now, they be stockpilin’ them.”

The moment Aggie had agreed to rebuild her clan, Frederick had set to work finding the best carpenters and laborers. From as far away as Inverness, he had found many men willing to come to this part of the country. Ian knew that over the next weeks and months, more men would be arriving. He was grateful for his brother’s foresight.

“We have brought some one-hundred and twenty-five men with us,” Ian told him. “I reckon things will move along quickly now.”

Charles smiled, showing a slight gap between his otherwise straight teeth. “I reckon ye be right,” he said. “Come, I’ll take ye to meet Ingerame.”

Ian recognized the name at once. Ingerame Macdowall was the man Frederick had hired as their main carpenter. Ian had not yet met the man. But from what Frederick had told him, he was a good man that could be trusted. “Let me see to me wife while ye let Ingerame ken we be here.”

’Twas then that Rodrick the Bold decided to finally speak. His voice was as deep as his scowl was fierce. “I will let him ken ye’re here,” he said as he started to pull away.

Ian was not about to let the man dictate anything to him. “Nay, Rodrick,” he said. “I should like ye to continue with yer duties as sentry.” He gave him no time to respond or argue. “Charles, ye go and let Ingerame ken we’ve arrived.”

Apparently Rodrick was not used to either receiving nor taking orders. Scowling, he took in a deep breath through flared nostrils, staring long and hard at Ian. A lengthy moment passed with Rodrick and Ian staring one another down. Rodrick blinked first. Pulling hard on the reins, he turned his horse around and raced away, along the ridgeline of the hill.

Charles and Ian watched as he rode away. “He be a hard man, that one,” Charles said. “He likes to think he be smarter than everyone else and thinks of himself as the man in charge.”

“And what do
ye
think of him?” Ian asked.

Charles chuckled before answering. “Well, he has some good ideas on occasion.”

Ian sensed there was more the young man wanted to say. “And?”

“He can be fiercely loyal once ye get to know him.” And that was as far as he was willing to go.

* * *

O
nce Ian had given
the order for the wagons to be brought over the hill, he and his wife rode into the encampment. A gangly young lad of no more than four and ten came running up to greet them. “Ye be the McLaren?” he asked, bright blue eyes staring up in awe.