Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (24 page)

“Time?” Ian ground out. “Time is no’ a luxury me wife possesses at the moment. Might I remind ye she is heavy with child? A child we thought we’d never be blessed with?”

“Ye need no’ remind me,” Brogan answered. “’Tis one more reason ye should no’ go. We have never met this man. We do no’ ken if he is simply a man motivated by greed or somethin’ more.” He regretted the last part as soon as it left his lips.

Fury blazed brightly in Ian’s eyes. “Like his predecessor?” he asked, referring to Eduard Bowie.

“Aye, like his predecessor,” Brogan answered ashamedly. “But I make ye this promise. If he will no’ allow me to see Rose with me own eyes, I will drag the bloody bastard back here and allow ye to do to him what ye will.”

Aside from having his wife back in his arms, killing Rutger Bowie was the only thing that kept him moving forward.

* * *

I
an had not slept
in days; his worry and grief over the raid and Rose’s kidnapping plagued him. His best friend since childhood, Andrew the Red, had died protecting her.

No matter where he turned, where he looked, there was a reminder of that God-forsaken night. Huts with charred walls and no roofs, the cloying scent of blood that he swore still permeated the air. The sorrowful and forlorn faces of those left behind.

If he did not gain some semblance of control over his emotions, madness would most assuredly set in. To keep his sanity, he dedicated himself to directing the men and women in repairing the huts and the others parts of the keep that had been destroyed in the raid. The hard work distracted him a little; it was good to be working, to be doing something constructive. The clanspeople appreciated it as well. It showed them he had not given up on the future; he was still their leader, even in the worst of times.

At the end of each day, when he finally allowed himself the time to rest, ’twas to no avail. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his beautiful wife’s face. And on those rare occasions when he managed to sleep, his dreams haunted him. In them, Rose was afraid, calling out his name, pleading with unknown enemies for mercy — never for herself, but always for her babe.

Visions haunted him of Rose being trapped in some hell-hole of a dungeon, or imprisoned in a tower, of her being tortured, set afire, hanged. No matter the dream, the outcome was the same; she and their babe would die.

Guilt was the heavy cross he bore. Guilt because he had not been there that fateful night. He had let his wife and babe down. He had let the clan down. Even Frederick and Aggie who had entrusted this most important project to him. He was no chief. He was an utter failure.

Fury was the one thing that kept him taking one breath after another, kept his heart beating, kept him upright and moving throughout the day.

Revenge was his motivation to push his men harder than he’d ever pushed before. If they were not rebuilding the lost huts, they were training for a battle that would most assuredly come. Though he did not know the day nor hour of that future battle, in his heart, he knew ’twas inevitable. Even if Rose and their babe survived and he somehow managed to gain their freedom, he would exact his revenge on Rutger Bowie. Even if it killed him.

A
lec Bowie
badly wanted peace for his clan. But with his older brother Rutger as its chief, peace would be a long time coming.

They sat across from one another in ornately carved, padded chairs in front of the hearth in Rutger’s study. ’Twas long after the midnight hour and most of the inhabitants were abed, save for a few men still drinking ale in the gathering room. Occasionally, Alec could hear laughter floating down the hallway.

So ’twas just he and his brother now, sipping fine whisky and enjoying the warmth of the fire. He knew he must tread softly when broaching nearly any topic with his brother. Rutger was by far the most impatient man he’d ever known.

“How fares our hostage?” Rutger asked with an air of indifference.

Alec took a slow sip of
uisage beatha
before answering. “As well as we could expect under the circumstances.”

“I am told ye went against me orders to have her put in the dungeon.”

“Aye, I did defy yer order,” Alec answered coolly. “I felt it best we keep her and her babe alive, else we’ll never see one sillar from Ian Mackintosh.”
Or if we want to get out of this mess ye’ve created with our skulls still attached to our bodies and our hearts still beatin.

Rutger drew his gaze away from the fire to study his brother. “We outnumber the McLarens ten to one,” he reminded him. “They’ll no’ attack. He’ll pay. And gladly to have his pretty wife back.”

Alec knew ’twas more like five to one, but he’d felt it best not to be irksome. He had to remain on Rutger’s good side in order to keep Rose Mackintosh alive.

“Ye still feel this was a mistake? Our takin’ the McLaren’s wife?” Downing the rest of his whisky, he set the empty cup on the table beside his chair.

“Nay.” ’Twas an outright lie. One he prayed his brother was too drunk or too arrogant to see through.

“But ye still want peace?” Rugter asked.

With a nonchalant shrug, Alec said, “I no longer ken if peace is possible or just a dream of a naive young man.”
But one can always hope.

Rutger laughed loudly. “Och, brother o’ mine! I’ll have peace. Peace of mind and freedom from worry once Ian Mackintosh pays the ransom fer his wife!” He slapped a hand on his knee, delighted with his own jest.

Alec offered him a smile, downed the rest of his whisky and pulled himself to his feet. “While ye dream of peace of mind, I shall go seek me peace elsewhere,” he jested.

Rutger laughed again. “Anyone I ken?”

“I have several to choose from. Mayhap I shall choose more than one this night?”

“Of course ye will,” Rutger said with just a hint of jealousy. Alec was by far the more handsome of the two brothers. There was always a young lass all too willing to share his younger brother’s bed. “But do me a favor and leave Patrice be.”

Quirking a curious brow, Alec asked, “Ye have yer heart set on her then?”

“I might. Then again, I might no’.”

’Twas as close an admission of admiration for any woman Alec had ever heard from his brother. “Verra well, I shall leave Patrice to ye.”

With a bow, he left his brother alone in the empty room. The last thing on his mind was bedding anyone, no matter how pretty or amiable. Nay, his mind was solely focused on how he could keep Rose Mackintosh alive and his brother’s head attached to its shoulders.

T
he snow had begun
to melt days ago, leaving the ground a muddy mess. By the time they reached the Bowie keep, Brogan and his men were covered from head to toe in muck. He was cold, soaked to the bone, and furious.

Rutger Bowie had kept them waiting outside the gates for hours, until the sun had set and the sky grew dark, filled with more promise of rain. In war, some of the hardest fought battles were those of the mind and heart. Rutger was making them wait on purpose, as was oft done in times of battle or negotiation. He and his men built a small fire and ate in silence as they waited for word from within.

’Twas as formidable a keep as any, Brogan supposed. Three stories tall, surrounded by a moat, four towers on each corner. Large fires burned in braziers all along the upper wall. Dozens of men stood at the ready, as if an attack were imminent. ’Twas meant to instill fear into the heart of any man who even thought of such a folly. But as Brogan knew, no keep, no castle, was completely safe or fortified.

By the time the order to lower the drawbridge was given, Brogan was fighting mad. Tamping down his ire and setting his anger aside, he gave the order to proceed. He’d take half his men inside the keep with him. The others would remain a safe distance away in case Rutger decided to do something foolish, such as ignore the white banner of peace they carried.

Slowly, they crossed over the drawbridge, the sounds of clopping hooves against the wood echoing into the quiet night. The courtyard was lit with torches and more large fires. The moment he entered the large, cobblestone yard, men began spilling out like roaches. They were not here to attack, but to guard them.

Men took their horses in hand, stopping them just shy of another small wall that surrounded the fortress. They dismounted in silence, surreptitiously scanning the space. Each taking mental notes of the number of men, the size of the walls, dark spaces where light from torches did not touch.

Through a large gate in the smaller wall, they entered another courtyard. Silently, they were led up the stone steps and into the keep.

What fate awaited them inside, none of them knew. Brogan only cared about two things: setting eyes on Rose and meeting Rutger Bowie.

* * *

B
rogan sat at a long table
, across from the Bowie. He was unimpressed. Average in height and looks, with a well-fed belly, he was dressed regally, in a heavily brocaded jerkin over a fine silk tunic. Gold rings with ruby and emerald insets covered nearly all his fingers. A diamond encrusted pin held his plaid in place and thick chains of gold hung from his neck.

Before them lay a feast. Duck, pheasant, venison, sweetmeats, roasted vegetables, and countless flagons of wine.

At each entrance to the room, men stood in the shadows. Brogan could not make out any of their faces, but had no doubt they were there to protect their laird. He counted nine in all.

’Twas no wonder he’d kidnapped Rose. The fool spent lavishly on a lifestyle he could ill afford.

“Eat up!” Rugter said joyfully as he poured himself a cup of red wine. “’Tis no’ often we receive guests such as ye.”

A servant girl appeared beside Brogan, a heavy platter of venison in her hands. Brogan waved away the offering. “Had I kent we were feastin’ this night, I would no’ have eaten with me men. But thank ye, laird.”

Indifferent, Rutger piled his own trencher with various foods and set about eating. “So to what do we owe the honor of yer visit?” he asked with a mouthful of venison.

“I think ye ken why I be here,” Brogan replied before taking a sip of ale.

“The McLaren’s wife,” Bowie said before plopping a large fig into his mouth. “I can assure ye, she fares well. She be in one of me finest rooms above stairs.”

“I should like to see fer meself how she fares.”

Wiping greasy hands on the tablecloth, Rutger eyed him suspiciously for a long moment. “Ye do no’ trust me?”

“Ye seem an intelligent man, Bowie. I doubt ye’d do anythin’ to harm me sister-by-law. After all, she be worth a fair amount of gold, aye?”

Rutger laughed boldly, probably more than was necessary. “Callum!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Bring down the wench.”

A young man, tall and slender of build, with dark hair, did his master’s bidding. He bounded up the stairs and disappeared down a dark corridor.

“Have ye brought the ransom with ye?” Rutger asked, his tone hopeful.

Brogan gave a slow shake of his head. “We do no’ have that kind of coin.”

Anger flashed briefly behind the Bowie’s eyes. “Then why are ye here?”

“To negotiate. It would take ten lifetimes fer us to obtain the vast amount ye be askin’ fer. We are hopin’ ye’d settle fer less.”

Rutger leaned back in his chair, suspicion filling his eyes. “Less?” he asked. “How much
less
?”

“We be a verra poor clan,” Brogan began. “I fear we can only gather two-hundred and thirty-seven groats.”

Rutger was silent for a long while before bursting forth into a fit of laughter. “Ye had me believin’ ye fer a moment, Mackintosh!” Greedily, he drank from his cup of wine before plunking it down on the table. “I ken ye have far, far more than that.”

Movement from the staircase caught Brogan’s eye. Rose was gradually descending the stairs with one hand on the young lad’s arm. Slowly, he stood, quietly masking the relief at seeing her. As far as he could tell, she appeared uninjured. And from her angry expression, she was faring quite well.

Dressed in a fine wine colored gown, her blond locks coiled around her head, she looked as regal and ladylike as ever he’d seen her. “Rose,” he said as she approached.

“Brogan,” she replied through clenched teeth. Turning to glower at Rutger, she said, “I hope ye are here to tell this son of a whore where he can put his ransom demands.”

Aye, she was doing verra well.

“Blast it woman!” Rutger shouted. “I told ye to keep yer mouth shut!”

“And I told ye, ye could burn in hell, Bowie!” she shouted back.

Ignoring her, Rutger turned back to speak to Brogan. “I be nearly tempted to pay yer brother to take her back!”

Brogan could not resist a chuckle as he stepped around the table to embrace his sister-by-law. “How do ye fare?”

“How do ye think I fare?” she asked. He could see the relief in her eyes, could feel it in her embrace. “How fares Ian?”

Holding her at arms length, “He be well,” he answered. “He misses ye. How fares the babe?”

Rose placed a hand on her belly and smiled. “Kickin’ me day and night, he is.”

“Enough!” Rutger bellowed as he shot to his feet. “I fear this display of family adoration is enough to make me lose me supper.”

Brogan took Rose’s hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. With great tenderness, he helped her into a chair next to his.

“Now, let us sit and discuss the thirty-thousand groats ye’re goin’ to pay me fer the wench’s safe return.”

Rose rolled her eyes. “I’ve told ye and I’ve told ye and I’ve told ye, we do no’ have that kind of coin!”

“And I’ve told ye and told ye and told ye that I do no’ believe ye!” Rutger shot back.

“Careful with yer tongue, m’laird, else I set a curse upon ye so vile, so horrible, that ’twill make yer ballocks shrivel up and turn to dust,” Rose seethed.

From the pained expression on Rutger Bowie’s face, he believed every word she said.

Brogan leaned forward in his chair. “I would advise ye, m’laird, to quit shoutin’ at me sister-by-law.” His tone dripped with warning.

Waving Brogan’s veiled threat away, Rutger poured another cup of wine and took a long swig. “The ransom is thirty-thousand groats. No’ one siller less. And Ian will pay it unless he wants to see his witch of a wife burned at the stake.”

“Ye’re mad,” Rose said, throwing her hands in the air. “Completely mad. And ye’ll no’ kill me. I be the only one who can lift the curse I’ve set upon ye.”

Brogan was taken aback by what Rose was saying. She was the furthest thing from a witch as Rutger was from a priest. Still, he had to give her silent praise for thinking up such a ploy.

“Might I remind ye that it be by me good grace alone that ye be no’ locked in the dungeon at this verra moment?”

Rose leaned forward. “’Twas by yer brother’s good grace, no’ yers.”

His nostrils flared, his eyes turned to slits. “Were I no’ assured of me reward, lass, I’d hang ye.”

His sister-by-law was either too brave or too angry for her own good. Brogan stayed her next verbal assault by placing a hand on hers. Silently, he pleaded with her not to anger her captor any more than she already had.

To Rutger, he said, “M’laird, I do no’ ken where ye have come up with the notion that the McLarens and Mackintoshes possess such a vast amount of gold or coin.”

Quirking one brow, Rutger Bowie smiled at each of them. ’Twas the most menacing smile Brogan had ever witnessed. He waved his hand toward someone standing behind Brogan and Rose. “Ye have no idea?” he asked. “Mayhap me good friend here can explain it to ye.”

A figure came around the table to stand next to Rutger. Brogan hadn’t the slightest idea who the man was. But from Rose’s astonished expression, she did.

“Ye!” she shouted as she jumped to her feet. Searching the table, she found a knife and grabbed it. Pointing it at the man, she seethed. “Frederick and Ian should have killed ye when they had the chance!”

Brogan stood and twisted the knife from her grasp. “Rose,” he pleaded. “What has come over ye?” Whoever this man was, he had the feeling Rose knew him all too well. Standing beside the Bowie, the man appeared to be unbothered by Rose’s outburst. He was dressed almost as regally as the Bowie, sans the expensive rings. There was something about the way he smiled at Rose that was more than off-putting. ’Twas downright sinister.

“I take it ye have no’ yet been introduced to me friend,” Rutger said. “Allow me to introduce ye to Donnel McLaren, former second in command to Mermadak McLaren. Donnel, this be Brogan Mackintosh, older brother to Ian.”

Brogan knew the name from the many stories Ian and Rose had shared with him these past months. They had been under the misguided notion the man was dead.

“What stories has he been fillin’ yer head with?” Rose asked Rutger. “I can assure ye this man can no’ be trusted. He was just as vile as our former laird. Just as mean, just as vicious. And every bit the liar Mermadak was.”

“Ye wound me, lass,” Donnel said as he took a seat next to Rutger. “Ye wound me deeply.”

“Bah!” she spat at him. “Ye canna wound someone without a heart.”

Brogan was witnessing a side of his sister-by-law that he’d never seen before. Fury, contempt, unadulterated hatred. If she did not rein her temper in, she could very well get herself killed, and he in the process.

“Rose,” Brogan said as he helped her back into her seat. “I do no’ think all this anger ye be feelin’ is good fer yer babe.”

She shot him a look that said she thought him insane. “Neither is bein’ torn away from me family. And neither is bein’ in the presence of a liar and traitor. But here I am, me brother-by-law. What would ye have me do? Sing like a lark about the joys of bein’ a captive?”

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “If ye do no’ control yerself, ye will get us all killed. I warn ye lass, do no’ poke these madmen. Do no’ tempt them into cuttin’ yer throat. Or mine.”

Understanding of sorts began to settle in. Her shoulders relaxed as tears threatened to spill from her eyes. With some of the fight gone out of her, she placed her hands in her lap and gazed at them.

“M’laird, I do no’ ken the man beside ye. But I have heard many a tale about him. I do no’ ken what he has told ye, but I can assure ye, ’twas probably as far from the truth as ye can get.”

The Bowie cast a sideways glance at Donnel, who sat unflinching, piling a trencher with food. He stuffed a huge chunk of goose into his mouth and chewed slowly.

“Would it surprise ye to ken, Mackintosh, that I ken all about Mermadak’s treasure?”

Brogan remained silent with his elbow on the table, his index finger resting on his temple.

“Would it also surprise ye to ken that
I
was one of only three other men who kent about it? The other two are dead, now. And I wish to collect me reward for all me hard work and years of dedication to Mermadak.”

Rose refused to look up at the man. Brogan and the Bowie remained silent as Donnel stuffed his mouth and spoke. “’Twas
I
who collected all the gold, silver, and coin from the countless men he blackmailed over the years. I ken how much he had accumulated. I ken he hid it in his office. I ken he hid it in the mantle.”

Brogan knew all about Ian and Rose finding the treasure in the mantle. ’Twas what they had been using to rebuild the keep and clan. Outwardly, he might have appeared unimpressed, but his insides were turning into knots.

“I also happen to ken ’twas Rose and Ian who stumbled upon it by accident. They took what by rights belonged to me and I want it back.”

Bloody hell!
This was not going as he had planned or even hoped. A dozen questions burned and begged to be asked, but now was not the time. “I do no’ ken from where ye gained yer information,” Brogan said as he leaned back in his chair. “But it be wrong.”