Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (13 page)

T
wo days passed
before Rose had the opportunity to meet the elusive Leona Macdowall. She was not at all what Rose had expected.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman, with long, wavy blonde hair. Why her father believed she was unmarriageable, Rose could not understand. Only slightly taller than Rose, she possessed a far more buxom figure, and a very sweet, nearly melodic voice. The only thing Rose found unusual about the young woman’s appearance was the fact that one eye was a dark green and the other a pale blue. Could that be the reason?

Highlander men, by nature, were superstitious. Mayhap they thought her different colored eyes were a sign of the devil or a bewitchment. ’Twas wholly ludicrous, by Rose’s way of thinking. She found Leona Macdowall soft-spoken and good natured, even if she were easily distracted.

“I shall be happy to assist ye in any way I can, m’lady,” Leona said as they stood near one of the cooking fires.

“I shall be glad fer it, Leona,” Rose said with a smile. “I look forward to gettin’ to know ye better.”

Leona simply returned the smile, gave a slight curtsey and walked away, leaving Rose perplexed. Had she not just expressed the desire to get to know her better? The young woman had left before Rose could ask even the simplest question.

In the few short days that followed, the new Clan McLaren had settled into a routine. With the influx of extra men, they began erecting the wooden wall. Though ’twas not meant to be a permanent structure ’twas built as soundly as if it were. While teams of men felled the massive trees, other teams worked to remove limbs and branches before scraping the bark away. The top of each beam was cut to a fine, sharp point.

While those men made the beams, another team worked to dig the holes in which those heavy beams would be set. And less than a mile away, men were busy quarrying stone.

’Twas dirty, back-breaking work, but none complained, at least not in excess.

The women were just as busy ensuring the men were well fed and had clean clothes, as well as tending to the occasional cut hand or broken finger.

Ian was as proud as any man could be, though he did his best to maintain a serious facade. Rose knew he worried that if he seemed more the men’s joyful friend, he’d seem less their fearless leader and chief. Only at night, when they were alone in their tent, would he let his guard down.

“The McLaren men be workin’ just as hard as the Mackintosh,” he told her. They’d been there a week now and much had been accomplished.

“Why do ye find that so hard to believe?” Rose asked him. He was sitting on a stool whilst she struggled to remove his dirty boots.

He looked at her with a good measure of disbelief. “Ye’ve met the McLaren men, have ye no’?” he asked sarcastically.

She tugged the first boot free and set it next to the entrance of their tent. “Aye, I have. Apparently it be ye who has no’.”

“I be referrin’ to the same McLaren men who stood by and let ye and Aggie do the work of ten men,” he said, referring to how things had been when they had first met more than a year prior.

Freeing the other boot, she set it next to its partner before standing to her full height. “Nay, ye be referrin’ to the cowards that followed Mermadak. Most of them be dead now, thanks to Rowan Graham — may the man be someday sainted fer comin’ to us in our hour of need.”

It had been Frederick’s long-time friend and ally, Rowan Graham, and his men, who had wrested the old McLaren keep from the Bowie. Mermadak had convinced Eduard to kidnap and kill his only son-by-law, Frederick. In return, he gave Eduard the keep and all the McLaren lands. Eduard’s plans failed — and failed miserably, for Aggie McLaren-Mackintosh killed the bloody bastard with her own hands. Rowan Graham had come to their rescue by seizing the McLaren keep and taking it back from the Bowie.

Ian continued to look at his wife with an expression that questioned her soundness of mind.

Rose rolled her eyes as she rested her hands on her hips. “Do no’ look at me that way,” she admonished. “I’ve no’ lost me mind.”

Ian quirked a brow.

“The men that be here now? They were at one time good and hardworkin’ men. But after all those years of livin’ under Mermadak’s rule, they lost hope. They gave up, ye see. Would
ye
have worked from sun-up to sunset fer him?” She already knew the answer. Ian had grown up inside the powerful yet loving arms of a very strong clan. “Nay, ye would no’. The men that be here workin’ alongside ye now? I grew up knowin’ these men. I remember how things used to be. So do they. They have ye to thank fer givin’ us hope fer a much better future, Ian. As do I.”

Ian hoped that his wife spoke the truth.

* * *

I
t did not take
long to realize Rose was correct in regards to the McLaren men. The following morn, Ian woke just after sunrise. After making love to his wife slowly and with much passion, he dressed quickly, grabbed a bannock from their small table, and left her to sleep in the tent.

’Twas a brilliant morn, with the sun casting shades of bright golds and yellows across the land. Until he met Rose, married her, and moved to this place, he’d never been one to enjoy early mornings. Nay, he much preferred to drink and carouse all through the night and to sleep the mornings away.

But now, everything was different. He was the chief of this hardscrabble clan. He was now a man who possessed dreams and goals which he intended to work very hard to make them come to fruition. Save for a few women who were readying fires in order to prepare the morning meal, he saw no one else as he made his way across the clearing.

As soon as he walked into the forest he caught sight of men already fast at work. And every one of the dozen men were McLarens.

From the looks of things, they’d been at it for some time. Two men to a timber, six in all, were scraping bark from the massive logs. The other men were scooping the remnants into wooden wheelbarrows and carrying them off to add to the large, growing pile near the entrance. Covered in sweat — a few of the older men looked as though they might keel over from the exertion — out of breath and hard at work.

But every single one of them bore a proud, beaming smile.

Ian was struck at once with the realization that these men were much like him. They too had dreams and goals.

As he approached, the men all looked up from their work to offer him a quick nod or a warm greeting. “Good morn to ye, m’laird,” one of the older men called out as he steered his full wheelbarrow toward the pile of branches and bark.

Feeling a bit ashamed for not remembering the man’s name, Ian returned his greeting, patted the man on the back. “Fast at work already, I see.”

“Aye m’laird. Ye never ken how long the weather will hold, aye?” the gray-headed man said with a smile as he went on his way.

The mood amongst these men seemed light and merry. Cheerful laughter echoed from farther inside the dense forest. Try as he might, he could not find a Mackintosh man among those already up and at work.

He stood for a long moment, looking from one man to the next. A sense of pride blended with disbelief came over him. Had he not witnessed it with his own eyes, he would never have believed a McLaren would or could work as hard as these men obviously were.

A familiar voice called out from behind him. “Ye never believed a McLaren man kent what hard work was, did ye?”

Ian spun around to see Eggar Wardwin standing but a few feet away.

“Eggar?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise at seeing the man. A tall, lean man with brown hair and hazel eyes, Eggar Wardwin had had the unfortunate experience of once being married to the infamous Claire. The woman who had nearly killed Aggie. Eggar had stayed behind last spring with a handful of other McLarens.

“M’laird,” he said with a slight inclination of his head.

Ian studied him closely for a moment before extending his hand in greeting.

Eggar was relieved at the offering and gladly accepted. “I pray it be all right that I am here.”

“’Tis mighty glad I am to have ye here,” Ian admitted. “How fare ye?”

With a quick shrug, Eggar said, “Well enough, I reckon.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. “I heard about Claire and what she did.”

Ian’s jaw ticked at the memory. Claire had poisoned Aggie, nearly killed her. It had forced her into early labor. A birthing that went on for hours, with Aggie unaware of what was happening to her. Ian had witnessed only part of that long, ugly night and was glad he’d never have to witness his own wife in such agony or despair.

“What Claire did does no’ reflect upon ye, Eggar. None will hold her actions against ye.”

He was relieved to hear it, though his smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I thank ye, m’laird.”

The McLaren men respected Eggar. Mayhap he could use the man to help bring the Mackintoshes closer to the McLarens.

“We arrived a few weeks ago,” Eggar explained. “We were out huntin’ and noticed strange men fellin’ trees. Rodrick nearly ran us through. Tried to run us off our own land.”

That information made Ian feel better about keeping Rodrick on sentry duty. The man took his duties quite seriously.

“But once we explained who we were — and that took a good long while — he took us to Ingerame. The next day, we packed up what little we had and came here. Have no’ left since.”

“How many came with ye?” Ian asked.

“Nine.”

The image of Rodrick the Bold holding nine men at sword point amused him. There had not been too many opportunities as yet for him to interact with Rodrick. Though Charles McFarland did not much care for the man, the more Ian learned of him, the more impressed he became.

“I should like to meet with them. So much has happened these past months, I fear I do no’ remember who stayed and who went with us,” Ian said. He was growing more ashamed of himself for not remembering most of the names of the McLarens who had ventured east with them last spring. Seeing how hard these men were working intensified that feeling.

“Would ye like to meet with them now?” Eggar asked.

“Aye, I would.”

Eggar let out a shrill whistle betwixt his teeth. Moments later the McLaren men came running.

For the next hour, Ian took the time to learn each of their names and to get to know them a bit better. When he was finished, he thanked them for their fealty to Clan McLaren.

“When we heard ye were now our laird and chief, we could no’ have been more happy,” Milton McLaren said with a proud gleam in his eyes. He was at least fifty, with skinny arms and legs affixed to a rather large belly. His light brown hair was streaked with gray and one of his front teeth was missing. “’Tis we who should be thankin’ ye, m’laird, fer givin’ us our clan back.”

Ian was about to express his gratitude to them, when Milton went on to say, “We reckon ye’ll be the best McLaren we’ve had in a good long while.”

“To the McLaren!” One of the men shouted.

Ian blanched inwardly. “Please, call me Ian.”

* * *

T
hus far
, the weather had cooperated quite nicely. ’Twas a sunny summer morning within a month of their arrival when construction began on the foundation to the tower. Large stones had been quarried and carried in on the wagons, massive holes dug for the foundation, and pulleys erected to help offload those stones.

The tower would be a square structure, three stories tall, with arrow slits and small rectangular windows. Ian and Ingerame were hopeful they could erect the tower before winter arrived.

With the good weather and good attitudes of all, everything was running as smoothly as Ian could ever have hoped for. Though he was nowhere near as pious as his older brothers, he could not help but feel that God agreed with their plans. The good weather, the ease with which everything was moving along, was proof enough of His acceptance and blessing.

He should have known better.

The first rift in their little bit of paradise came when the weather decided to take a turn from God-blessed to God-forsaken. Rain came down in torrential sheets as the wind whipped and tore at anyone or anything in its path. People took shelter in their tents, huddled together and soaked to the bone.