Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (25 page)

Undeterred, Donnel took a long pull of wine. “Would it surprise ye to learn I have a spy amongst yer people?”

“Nay,” Brogan answered with a shrug of indifference. “We ken all about yer spy. He was grievously wounded the night the Bowie’s attacked. He still has no’ awakened, and might never wake.”

Donnel threw his head back and laughed. “Och! Ye think Rodrick the Bold be me spy?”

The question sent a chill down Brogan’s spine. How did he know he was referring to Rodrick? And if Rodrick was not the spy, then who was?

His question was answered a moment later when Charles McFarland stepped from the shadows.

* * *

B
rogan was
able to hide his contempt, anger and surprise far better than Rose. She gasped as her hands went to her mouth in horror.

“Nay!” she whispered. “No’ ye, Charles.” She was far too stunned to utter much more.

Donnel and Rutger laughed boisterously at their astonishment. But the expression on Charles’s face? ’Twas not the look of a man proud of his actions. Nay, he looked positively ashamed.

“’Tis amazin’,” Donnel said as the laughter subsided. “The loyalty one can buy with a few pieces of gold.”

Brogan shot an angry glare at Donnel. “That be the funny thing about Charles’s kind of loyalty. It can be bought again and again.”

Charles’s face burned a deep red and he could not maintain eye contact with either Rose or Brogan. Donnel and Rutger either did not understand or they chose to ignore Brogan’s words of wisdom.

“And his isn’t the only loyalty we own,” Rutger said. “Ye have more than one traitor amongst ye, Mackintosh.”

More than one? There would be time to sort that out later. For now, he must do everything he could to insure Rose’s safety.

“Be that as it may,” Brogan said cautiously. “There is much we need to discuss.”

“Indeed we do!” Rutger exclaimed happily. Raising his cup to Donnel, he said, “To ransoms!”

* * *

A
fter saying goodbye to Brogan
, Rose returned to her room. With a heavy heart, she removed her dress and slipped back into her own chemise. She wanted nothing Rutger Bowie had to offer, least of all dresses.

Wadding the ensemble up, she tossed it into the hallway and slammed the door shut. She’d only worn the dress because she wanted to show her brother-by-law that she was faring far better than she in truth was.

The room was well appointed but frigidly cold, no matter how high she stoked the fire. She supposed ’twas more her current condition and circumstance that kept her bone-cold all the day long. Grabbing the iron, she poked at the fire, bringing it to high flames before tossing another small log onto it.

With a sigh of resignation, she crawled back into the bed and pulled the heavy blankets up to her chin.

Her thoughts were never far from Ian. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was miserable with worry. Hopefully, Brogan would report back to him that she was hale and hearty, filled with piss and vinegar, and holding her own against Rutger Bowie. ’Twas all a lie of course, but no one need know that but her.

What she would not give at the moment to be back in the waddle and daub hut, in her own bed, with Ian sleeping beside her. His strong, warm arms wrapped around her in a protective embrace. His hot breath caressing her skin. Or watching him as he pressed a kiss to her growing belly and hearing him speak to their unborn babe.

Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping onto her pillow. She imagined she had cried an ocean of tears since that awful, dark ugly night of the attack. She reckoned she’d not stop crying until this ordeal was over.

Daily, continually, and fervently, she prayed she would live long enough to give birth to their child. After that, she cared not what happened to her, as long as her babe was healthy. She also prayed her stubborn husband would not do anything foolish that would keep him from watching their babe grow and thrive and live a good long life.

She supposed it odd that she did not pray for a means of escape or rescue. All she wanted was her wee babe to live, as well as her husband. There was nothing more she could ask God for. ’Twas all she wanted.

* * *

B
rogan
and his men returned to the McLaren keep as quickly as they could. They made the normally three-day ride in two.

He returned to a brother on the verge of madness.

’Twas just before the evening meal when he entered his brother’s tent. A bed sat in one corner, an empty brazier in the center. A long table filled with scrolls and maps took up the entire eastern wall of the small tent.

He took note of the dark circles that had formed under Ian’s eyes. The man had not slept in days.

Hope alight in his dark blue eyes, Ian jumped to his feet when he saw Brogan. “Well?” he asked as he made his way around the table. “Do ye have her?”

Brogan let loose a heavy sigh. “Nay brother, I do no’.”

Ian’s shoulders fell along with the hopeful expression.

Searching the room for a stool, Brogan found one under a pile of dirty clothes. Grabbing one of the legs, he righted it, kicked clear a space with the toe of his boot, and sat down.

“Ye’ll want to sit when I tell what I have learned.”

Ian retrieved the chair from behind his desk and sat in front of his brother.

“I saw Rose and she is well.”

Ian’s spirits lifted with the news. His eyes filled with hope as well as relief. He ran a hand through his dirty hair and let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God!”

“She was as mad as a swarm of hornets,” Brogan said with a smile. “I think Rutger Bowie is a wee bit afraid of her.”

Ian attempted to shake the confusion from his mind. “Afraid of her? She be a slip of a woman. Defenseless and unarmed and with child.”

“I take it then ye’ve never met yer wife?”

Ian could not help smiling, just a little bit. He should have known his wife would not take lightly to being kidnapped.

“Ian, yer wife may be a wee woman. But I do no’ fear fer her safety as much as before. She is well, yer babe is well, and she is drivin’ Rutger Bowie to madness.”

“I sometimes ferget just how strong me wife is,” Ian admitted. “’Tis only me worry over her safety and that of our child that makes me half-mad.”

Brogan chuckled. “I fear I would feel much the same way,” he admitted. “Somehow, she has managed to convince Rutger Bowie that she is a witch and has cast a spell upon him. He takes her verbal insults, her fury out of sheer fear she speaks the truth. Ye should be verra proud of yer wife.”

The realization that Rose was well began to settle in. And hearing she was making Rutger Bowie’s life a living hell made him laugh. “I should have kent it,” Ian said as he rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. “Rose is no’ a woman to lie down weakly. Nay, she would fight tooth and nail to keep herself and our babe safe.”

Seeing his brother so relieved and nearly happy, Brogan kept his worries to himself. Hopefully, Rose would not push Rutger too hard or too far.

“There is more,” Brogan said. “Much more that ye need to ken.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Ian searched his desk for a flagon of ale. “What else have ye learned?” he asked. Finding two semi-clean cups, he asked, “Would ye like some ale?”

Brogan shook his head. “Nay, I have cider,” he said, pulling a flagon from his belt.

“I apologize fer me momentary lapse of memory,” Ian said. Brogan had given up drink a year ago, after falling into the abyss of drunkenness for two solid years after his wife’s death. Ian knew not all the details, only that it had been a long and difficult journey.

“Yer old friend, Donnel McLaren, is alive and well.”

Ian grimaced at hearing that old and familiar name.

“He kens all about the treasure, Ian. Apparently he helped amass it.” Brogan explained in detail his meeting with the Bowie and his new friend, Donnel McLaren. When he finished, he said, “I fear we can no longer make the Bowie believe we are penniless.”

The thought sickened Ian. The treasure was rightfully Aggie’s, not his. He could no more ask her to hand over thirty-thousand groats than he could ask a horse to give birth to a cow. “I can no’ ask Aggie fer the ransom,” he said.

“I ken that. Which is why I told Rutger most of the money has already been spent. I was able to barter him down to ten-thousand groats.”

Ian scoffed. “We do no’ have five hundred groats to all our names,” Ian reminded him. “Why in the bloody hell did ye promise ten-thousand?” Once again he was overcome by anger. Had his brother lost his mind?

“To buy us time. I explained how most of the coin had been spent. I also explained the rest of it was on Mackintosh lands. I gained us four more weeks, Ian. Our father and his warriors should be here by then.”

“Ye plan to attack?” Ian asked, appalled at the idea. “We can no’ risk Rose’s life! I will no’ do it until she’s safe! There has to be another way.”

“Well, if ye think of another way, let me ken, because I have been unable to come up with anythin’.”

Ian sat deflated. One moment Brogan filled him with hope, only to tear it to shreds the next.

“I ken how ye be hurtin’, Ian. Mayhap between now and then we can come up with a plan to get yer wife back.”

Ian looked somewhat hopeful. He had been too dazed to make plans since he’d returned to McLaren lands. It was time to start thinking like a leader again. “Did ye learn anythin’ else?”

“Rodrick the Bold is no’ our traitor,” Brogan said as he sipped on cider.

Ian paused, taken aback by that bit of news. “Are ye certain?”

“Aye, I am,” Brogan responded. “He be no’ one of the traitors, of that, I am certain.”

“Traitors?” Ian asked. ’Twas bad enough to think there was one traitor amongst them.

“Aye, there be two.” He took another sip of cider. “Charles McFarland is our first.”

Ian’s eyes bulged in their sockets. “Nay!” The idea was preposterous.

“I saw him with me own eyes,” Brogan told him, the anger still raw and real. “At the Bowie keep.”

Ian could have fallen over with the slightest breeze. “He lied to us. Lied about Rodrick no’ bein’ there when he woke to the alarms that night.”

“They found Rodrick between the armory and the wall. Mayhap Rodrick tried to stop Charles and Charles tried to kill him?”

Ian considered that for a moment. “Chances are better that Charles came upon him from behind. I can no’ see him woundin’, let alone killin’ Rodrick otherwise.”

“Has Rodrick awakened yet?” Brogan asked.

“Nay, but his fevers finally broke this morn,” Ian informed him. “Angrabraid is hopeful he will recover.”

Brogan was relieved to hear it. “But who could the other traitor be?”

“I do no’ ken. I would guess it to be someone who comes and goes unnoticed. Someone we’d least expect.” A thought formed in the back of his mind then. “Someone who disappears fer days at a time. Someone who is able to get in and out of the keep without suspicion.” He did no’ like where his mind was taking him, but take him there it did.

Brogan studied him closely for a moment, trying to ascertain who Ian suspected. “Who?” he asked in a low tone.