Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (18 page)

“Let us feast this night,” Ian declared as he looked over the numerous deer, pheasants, and even a few geese. “Let us celebrate this good bounty.”

Rose and the womenfolk agreed a feast was in order. “And tomorrow, can we take a day of rest?” she asked her husband.

“Aye!” he agreed cheerfully. “Tonight we feast, and on the morrow, we shall rest.”

And feast they did, like kings. Roast pheasant, goose and venison were plentiful. Breads, cheeses, fresh fruits, and roasted vegetables. Sweetmeats and sweet cakes, and enough ale to drown a whale.

Stories were told, songs of glory were sung, and more ale, wine and whisky consumed. Rose was feeling quite happy and gay, having consumed her fair share of wine. Ian was looking at her with drunk eyes full of desire for most of the night. More than once, he pulled her onto his lap and kissed her soundly, more passionately and shamelessly than was proper.

Long after the midnight hour, she leaned in to whisper an offer he found he could not refuse. “Take me to our bed now, Ian, fer I fear I can no’ go much longer without havin’ yer naked skin against mine.”

* * *

W
attle and daub
huts had sprung up all around the keep. They were by no means spectacular in appearance or amenities, but no one cared much. With solid walls and thatched roofs above and around them, ’twas a merciful blessing to be out of all the mud and muck and rain.

Men, women, and even children worked side by side to help build the homes. ’Twas hard work, but no one complained. While the women wove branches together for the wattle, the children worked on making the daub in pits of mud and limestone. The men framed out each hut, carefully assembling the walls, fireplaces, and roofs.

’Twas during the construction of these homes that Ian came to know Charles McFarland and Rodrick the Bold. He pulled the two men away from their duties as sentries to help with the construction.

While Charles was amenable to the change, Rodrick was less so. “I be a warrior,” he told Ian, “no’ a laborer.”

“But both are equally important here, Rodrick,” Ian explained. They were in the forest gathering more slender branches for the wattle.

“Bah!” Rodrick groused. “Ye may think that now, but ye’ll be singin’ a far different tune when the Bowies attack.”

Ian wound a length of twine around a large bundle of branches. “Ye speak as if ye ken an attack is inevitable.”

“Where the Bowies be concerned, an attack is always inevitable.”

Ian gave his complaint careful consideration. During his time at the auld McLaren keep, the Bowies had only attacked once, and that was at the behest of Mermadak. “Mayhap they be no’ aware we are even here,” Ian offered.

Rodrick’s expression said enough. He thought his current laird insane or the most unintelligent man he’d ever encountered. “The Bowies ken,” he argued. “Trust me. They ken well we are here.”

“And how can ye be so certain?” Ian asked as he tied off the last length of twine. Aye, he was very interested in finding out what this man did or or didn’t know.

“’Tis me job to ken these things,” Rodrick told him. “I ken I be neither a Mackintosh nor a McLaren. I may have come here with Ingerame …” his words trailed off as his cheeks turned bright red.

“And?” Ian asked as he hoisted the bundle up and placed it on the back of a wagon.

Reluctantly, Rodrick explained himself. “Fer reasons I canno’ begin to comprehend, I like ye, Mackintosh. I like the other people here as well. I am a warrior and I feel it be me duty to help protect the lot of ye.”

Ian appreciated his honesty and how hard it had been for him to speak the truth. “Verra well,” he said as he began to bundle more branches together. “Go seek out Brogan and tell him I said we are to use ye on patrols.” Truth be told, Ian would rather have the man on patrol than grumbling beside him all the day long.

The man sighed in relief and then did something remarkable. He smiled.

Ian found it unsettling. He was used to the man’s glower.

Without so much as a thank you, Rodrick spun around and left.

R
utger Bowie was faced
with a dilemma. The coffers were growing empty and the larder bare. The coin he had inherited after his cousin Eduard was killed had not lasted nearly as long as he would have hoped. His brother, Collum, had warned him months ago they’d not be able to continue with the nightly feasts or the endless number of women he’d taken to his bed, without a means to replenish the reserves.

Oh, how he hated his younger brother’s sensibilities.

Just when he had begun to believe they might have to do something
sensible
, such as learn to become farmers or whisky makers or some other too-boring-to-think-about way of making a living, a man appeared at their gates.

A McLaren man.

A man with a story that at first seemed so utterly outrageous as to border on the insane. But there was
something
about the man, in the way he told the story with such hatred and vehemence toward Aggie and Frederick Mackintosh, that it left him to wonder. According to this fellow, Mermadak McLaren had swindled dozens upon dozens of his fellow Scotsmen, as well as Englishmen and Frenchmen. Over the years, he had somehow managed to accumulate a vast fortune. If what the McLaren man said was true, it amounted to at least fifty-thousand groats.

Fifty-thousand groats.

He and his clan could live like kings for generations on that kind of coin.

Thus, an idea began to form in his mind. A way out of his current state of poverty and distress.

O
ctober arrived peacefully enough
, weather wise. The days were growing shorter, but oh those days were brilliantly beautiful. Bright, crisp mornings that put a spring in a man’s step. Tips of blazingly green leaves were just beginning to turn, bringing forth the promise of a dazzling autumn.

More huts were springing up, filling the future courtyard almost to the brim. It had been Eggar Wardwin who had suggested a more organized plan of lining the little huts up in straight rows so it would be easier to make one’s way from one point to another. Ian agreed. Ingerame Macdowall, however, was against it. Ian suspected ’twas only because Eggar had thought of it first.

The two men did not get along well, not well at all. Ian soon learned that Eggar was in fact, the better of the two men. Eggar did his level best to avoid Ingerame whenever he could.

On this particular bright, sunny morn, Ian found the two men standing at the base of the tower. Neither of them looked happy.

“All I be sayin’ is that ‘twould make more sense to build the foundation fer the second tower
now
instead of waitin’,” Eggar said, his consternation showing in his pinched face.

“And I be sayin’ ye are no’ the lead carpenter. Ye have no experience in matters such as these.”

Eggar closed his eyes and Ian wondered if he weren’t silently counting to one hundred or plotting Ingerame’s demise.

“At least I be smart enough to ken ye do no’ put the latrine next to the granary!” Eggar’s temper flared, born of frustration with Ingerame’s constant reminder of just who was in charge.

Ingerame’s face burned bright red. “That was no’ me mistake! The men did no’ build it where I told them to!”

Before they came to blows, Ian stepped in betwixt them. “Lads, it be far too beautiful a mornin’ to be fightin’. Now tell me, what be the matter.”

They both began to explain at once. Ian held up his hands to stop them. “Ingerame, ye first.”

Looking as pleased as a peacock strutting for a peahen, Ingerame pulled his shoulders back. “Eggar gave an order to the men without first speakin’ to me.”

“And what order was that?” Ian asked. He noticed a slight throb began to form in his temple. Being laird was not always easy.

“To start buildin’ the foundation fer a second tower. We never discussed a second tower, Ian. There beno plans fer a second tower.”

Eggar was unabashed as he planted his feet wide and crossed his arms over his chest. He gave Ian a look that asked,
should ye tell him or shall I?

Taking a fortifying breath, Ian replied. “There are no’ only plans fer a second tower, but a third and fourth as well. I gave those plans to ye upon me arrival.”

Ingerame’s face turned an impossible shade of deep red. Anger flared in his eyes. “I can assure ye, there was nothin’ on those plans about additional towers.”

“And I can assure ye that there is,” Ian ground out.

Ingerame began to argue again, but Ian stopped him with a raised palm. “To the tent,” he ordered. Spinning on his heels, he headed toward his work tent. He had had it erected weeks ago, as a place where he could work without disturbing his wife. It sat at the far edge of the yard, in a quiet corner next to the forest.

The two men followed him inside. Ingerame was mad enough to bite his hammer in half, while Eggar looked victorious. But unlike his lead carpenter, Eggar kept his thoughts on the matter to himself.

Ian went around the table and looked down at the plans spread across it. Small rocks had been placed in each corner to keep the scroll flat.

“There,” Ian said, tapping the plans with his index finger.

Hesitantly, Ingerame stepped forward. He studied the plans closely, all the while his countenance changing. He went from being bloody angry to being furious. “I was no’ given these plans,” he said as he stepped away. “’Tis no’ me fault no one saw fit to give them to me.”

Ian stood to his full height. “Are ye callin’ me a liar?”

Ingerame balked at the accusation. “N-nay,” he stammered. “I am merely sayin’ I do no’ have these plans. I have the plans Frederick gave me in Inverness.”

Ian rolled his eyes and gave a frustrated shake of his noggin. His lead carpenter had been building off plans that were ages old. ’Twas no wonder he’d ordered the latrines built next to the granary. “Upon me arrival, I gave ye new plans.” Ian’s level of frustration was growing by leaps and bounds. “We talked about those new plans fer hours. I showed them to ye. I gave ye yer own copy.”

Try as he might, Ingerame could not come up with a logical sounding response. “I must have misplaced those,” he said rather sheepishly.

’Twas all Ian could do no’ to wrap his hands around the man’s neck.

“Then I suggest ye find them,” he said through gritted teeth. “Before we build the kitchens next to the latrine, or plant the gardens on the top of the north tower.”

Without apology, Ingerame simply inclined his head toward his laird and fled the tent as if his arse was on fire.

Eggar and Ian watched his hasty retreat. When the flap of the tent closed, Eggar turned to face his laird. “I thought somethin’ was amiss,” he said. “But every time I tried to get a look at the plans he was usin’, he bit me head off. I did no’ think ’twas me place to say anythin’. I be sorry, Ian.”

Raking a hand through his blond hair, Ian sat down in his chair in exasperation. “I do no’ ken
why me
brother hired him. Truly, I do no’.”

“To hear Ingerame tell it, he was the best bloody carpenter in all of Scotia, if no’ the world.”

Ian was beginning to wonder if the reputation Frederick had heard of was from people who had actually used the man or from the man himself. He also wondered if that was why it had been so easy for him to hire such a talented, well-known carpenter so easily. Keeping those thoughts to himself, he offered Eggar a whisky.

Waggling his eyebrows happily, Eggar licked his lips before taking the chair across from Ian. “I admit, I be a bit parched, even though it be early in the morn.”

Ian laughed raucously as he poured the amber liquid into two mugs. “The man does drive me to drink at times,” he admitted as he offered a mug to Eggar. “I feel sorry fer his daughter.”

“Leona?” Eggar asked before taking a gulp.

“Aye, Leona.”

“She be an odd one, that lass,” Eggar said. “A hard one to get to ken.”

“My wife adores her, but detests her father.”

Eggar waggled his brows again and lifted his mug. “I’ll drink to that!”

* * *

T
he following afternoon
, Leona appeared at the quarry, seeking out Ian. He’d been down in the pits with five of his men, chipping away at rocks. They had stripped down to their trews, sweat pouring down their backs and into their eyes. Because of Ingerame’s
misplacement
of plans, Ian had to double the work in the quarry in order to make up for lost time.

’Twas Andrew the Red who came to tell him Leona was there. “Ian,” Andrew called down. “Leona Macdowall is here. I think ye should see her. She seems verra upset.”

Perturbed with the interruption, Ian splashed water from a bucket across his face and arms, thrust his sleeves into his tunic, all the while cursing under his breath.

“Keep at it,” he told his brother Brogan. “Hopefully this will no’ take long.

Brogan grunted in understanding as he hammered away at the hefty chisel Eggar was holding against a large piece of rock.

Ian shot up the rope ladder and into the warm afternoon sun.
It had better be a matter of life and death
, he cursed to himself as he crossed the open space and into his tent.

“What do ye want?” He hadn’t intended on sounding so infuriated. But as soon as she spun around to face him, guilt assaulted his senses.

She stood near the table, looking for all the world like a very lost and embarrassed young woman. Around her left eye was the makings of a horrible bruise.

“What happened to yer eye?” he asked as he approached.

Startled by his change in tone and demeanor, she took a step back and away. “I-I tripped over me own two feet and landed on a felled log, m’laird.”

He didn’t believe that for one bloody moment. He decided, for the moment at least, to allow her this one tiny lie.

From where he stood, he could see her tremble. Twisting her fingers, she gazed at the floor. “I came to apologize, m’laird,” she all but whispered. “And to take whatever punishment ye seek to give me.”

He raised a curious brow. “Apologize fer what, lass?”

“’Tis me fault da was workin’ off the wrong plans.”

There was something in her tone that made her words sound forced. “Yer fault?”

She nodded her head rapidly as she swiped away a tear. “’Tis me job, ye see, to help him with his papers. I-I must have misplaced the new plans ye had given him.”

He knew ’twas another bald-faced lie and it angered him no end. Not with her, but with her father. The man was forcing her to take the blame for his own stupidity.

“Da says ye’ll be right angry with me. I will no’ beg ye fer mercy.” Her voice was but a mere whisper.

Brogan entered the tent then. “Ian, Andrew told me what was—” He stopped short when Leona looked up at him. “What happened to ye?” he asked.

“I tripped over me own two feet and landed against a table.”

Odd, Ian thought. A moment ago ’twas a felled log. “She has come to confess that ’twas she who misplaced the plans I gave to Ingerame when I arrived.”

Brogan cast him a wary glance. He didn’t believe her lie anymore than Ian did.

“And to take me punishment fer it,” she added, fixing her gaze on the floor once again. “I ken it caused ye a great deal of trouble.”

Ian’s fury increased tenfold, but he kept it well hidden. “What punishment do ye think we should mete out fer such a mistake?” he asked her.

Without flinching, she looked up at the two of them. “A beatin’ I reckon. ’Tis what the last laird did.”

The tick in Ian’s jaw returned with a vengeance. “The last laird?”

“Aye,” she replied. “I did this once before, a few years back.”

Another wary exchange betwixt brothers. “I see,” Ian said, taking a step toward her. “Do ye think ye have learned yer lesson about misplacin’ important documents? Or do ye think this will happen again?”

Her brow drew into a thin line. “I do no’ ken, m’laird. I tend to be a bit scatter-minded at times.”

Ian thought on that for a time before responding. “Well, in the future, if ye misplace somethin’, come to me at once, lass, and we’ll help ye find it.”

The line in her forehead grew tighter. “I will, m’laird,” she said with a hint of confusion.

“Verra well then, ye may leave. I ken me wife will be glad to see ye this day.”

“But me punishment,” she said. “Would ye no’ like to beat me now?”

Brogan grunted in disgust.

“Nay, I think no’,” Ian answered.

Before he could go on, she stepped forward, her shoulders back and chin up. “M’laird, I would prefer the beatin’ now, if ye do no’ mind. I ken what I did was somethin’ terrible, but I’d rather no’ take me beatin’ in front of the entire clan.”

He knew ’twas common practice among some clans to make such public displays of punishment as the one she spoke of. ’Twas meant to set an example to everyone. He deplored such displays.

“Lass, I’ll no’ be beatin’ ye now, nor will I be beatin’ ye later, and neither will I be beatin’ ye in front of the clan.”

Suspicion set into her eyes.

“I can tell ye be awfully sorry fer what happened. I think ye’ve suffered enough.”

It took a moment for understanding to set in, but there was no sign of relief. “M’laird, I hate to ask ye, but could
ye
please tell me da yer decision?” she asked with a good deal of trepidation. “I fear he might no’ believe me.”

Ian offered the warmest smile he could under the circumstances. “Aye, I shall have a verra long talk with yer da.”

’Twas only then that her shoulders sagged in relief as she let out the breath she’d been holding. “I thank ye, m’laird, I kindly do!”

“Be gone with ye now,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Go see me wife. I be certain she would be glad for yer help in preparin’ the evenin’ meal.”

Leona returned his smile with one of her own, bobbed a curtsey to him, then to Brogan, before she fled the tent.

Once she was gone, Ian looked at his brother. “I am beginnin’ to despise Ingerame Macdowall.”

Brogan grunted in agreement. “I would like to be present when ye
talk
to him about his
daughter’s
transgression.”