Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (27 page)

“I was just about asleep again, when I heard a ‘thump’. Ye ken that sound as well as I,” he told him.

“The sound of a dead man fallin’ to the ground,” Ian replied with a nod of understanding.

“Aye.
That
sound,” Rodrick told him. “I immediately threw on me trews, grabbed me sword, and went outside. ’Twas verra late, ye ken. Verra dark, with only a wanin’ moon. But even in the darkness, I could see the men on the wall were missin’. Then I heard the sound of the gate openin’, verra slow like. I could hear horses on the other side.” His anger began to return. With his lips pressed into a hard line, his forehead drawn into a hard knot, he went on to recount what had happened that night.

“I was just about to shout out fer help, when I was hit from behind. As I spun around, I felt the sword pierce me gut and I fell to me knees. Bloody hell it hurt!” He drew his hands into fists and slammed them hard onto the bed. “’Twas then I saw Charles McFarland standin’ over me. I tried to get up to kill him, but he stepped away before me sword could hit him. I fell face first into the dirt, unable to move. Someone hit the back of me head again, but I do no’ ken who. All I could do was lay there and watch as the bastards came through the gate before I passed out.”

Ian could sense the guilt Rodrick felt. “Ye were one against dozens, Rodrick.”

“Had he no’ gutted me,” he argued, “we could have saved more lives.” As he tried to adjust himself in the bed, a bolt of pain shot through his side. He winced and immediately, Leona was at his side.

“Angrabraid left somethin’ in case yer pain is too much to bear,” she said as she began pouring a powdery substance into a cup of water.

“Bah!” Rodrick groused. “I do no’ need nor do I want any of
that
.”

Exasperated, Leona set the concoction on the table and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, what
do
ye want?”

“Besides Charles McFarland’s head on a pike sittin’ next to Rutger Bowie’s?” he lashed out.

Leona’s expression changed rapidly, looking slightly hurt at his outburst.

Ian did his best to lift her spirits. “Have ye ever been around a Highlander recoverin’ from a battle wound before, lass?” he asked.

Leona gave a slight shake of her head. “Nay, m’laird.”

“He will grumble and grouse and complain he does no’ need a lick of help. He will sometimes lash out at those he cares about who are only tryin’ to help him. But once he begins to feel better, his mood will change.”

Rodrick grunted. “There be nothin’ wrong with me mood that a little blood-lettin’ and revenge will no’ cure.”

Ian leaned in to whisper into the man’s ear. “Be kind to Leona. She has rarely left yer side, has tended to yer wounds, fretted when ye were feverish.”

Duly chastised and more than a bit embarrassed, Rodrick shrugged.

“Be kind to her or I’ll gut ye again and leave ye to rot.”

T
he only experience
Alec Bowie had with women was through those he purchased to slake his lust. Growing up, he had spent very little time with his mother. The relationship she and his father shared had been tumultuous at best. They fought more than the Scots did with the English. He’d been primarily raised by his father, while seeing his mother only a few times a year.

As a very young boy, he had missed her a great deal. But as time went on, he found himself missing her less and less. Still, he did love her, as much as any boy could, he supposed.

Then she up and died on him when he was twelve years old and fostering with the MacGregor clan. The last time he’d seen her, he was all but nine, when she tearfully bid him goodbye the day he left for his new home with his foster family.

As a lad, he’d been far more interested in warring than in whoring. He believed his mother’s death had very little affect on him. Still believed it to this day. He’d been surrounded by good people, had learned a great deal about battles and wars, had honed his skills with all manner of weapons, and had also learned about history and science.

At the age of fourteen, his father sent him to an Italian monastery in order to finish his education. His interest in women blossomed when he entered his first whorehouse in Rome when he was seventeen.

Were he a more intelligent and less self-indulgent man, he might have thought to pay more attention to the women who had entered his life over the years. He might have thought to glean a little insight into the tender feelings of women in general.

Such knowledge would certainly have been quite useful. Especially on this rainy afternoon, a day after Brogan Mackintosh’s visit, when he stopped to check on his brother’s hostage.

The young woman was a crying, sobbing mess. He could not recollect ever seeing a woman in such a state before, save for the times his mother and father fought.

He’d dared ask the poor creature what was wrong.

“What do ye think is wrong?” she cried into a square of linen.

He had no idea how to safely respond.

She had a long list of what ailed her and she saw no problem sharing her woes with him.

“I am a prisoner here, by yer brother’s hand. me belly grows bigger each day as me time draws nearer, and I be no closer to getting home as I was yesterday or the day before. I be tired and lonely and missing me husband. Yer brother is an arrogant, witless fool!”

Silently he agreed with her.

“And
ye!
Ye pretend to care fer me safety and comfort, but all the while ye conspire with yer brother to keep me here! There is no way me husband can come up with the ransom in time to meet yer brother’s demands. I am sure to die here. Alone and bereft, and fer what purpose? Greed!”

There was no way for her to know his own secrets, his plans to help procure her release. He certainly could not share those plans with her. Only three other men knew them. If Rutger so much as heard the tiniest whisper of what Alec wanted to do, they’d all be dead. ’Twas for her own safety that he not divulge anything to her. At least not yet.

“M’lady, I understand yer anguish,” he began as he stepped forward. In a low hushed tone, he said, “I will do everythin’ within me power to see that no harm comes to ye or yer babe.” ’Twas the same promise he had made to her the night he’d taken her away from his brother’s men and into his own charge.

“How?” she asked as more desperate tears streamed down her cheeks.

Leaning in to whisper in a low, hushed tone, he said, “Trust me.”

She searched his eyes for some inkling, some sign that she should indeed trust him.

Alec knew ’twas a delicate line he now walked, wanting to keep this poor woman from going mad, and at the same time, keeping his plans safely guarded. A long moment passed between them before she collapsed into his arms.

Between sobs, she cried, “I want to go home.
Now.
I want to kill yer brother and Donnel McLaren with me bare hands. I want to run a dirk through each of the hearts of the men who destroyed me home and killed me people.”

Stunned, he stood with her head pressed against his chest, and knew not what he should do or say. He tensed, his arms hanging at his sides, feeling more than just a bit befuddled. Slowly, some instinct he hadn’t realized he possessed until then made him draw his arms around her in comfort. “Wheest now, lass. Ye’ll be home before ye ken it.”

Pulling away ever so slightly, she once again searched his eyes. “I do no’ ken why, but I believe ye.”

A warm smile crossed his face. “I be glad to hear it.”

“But I swear to ye, if I learn ye played me false, Alec Bowie, I shall kill ye with me bare hands.”

Somehow, he did not doubt a word she said.

* * *

S
o
as not to draw attention to himself, Alec enlisted the help of three men he trusted beyond all others to visit Rose Mackintosh each day: Keyth, Gylys, and Dougal Bowie. Related distantly to one another, their families had been a part of the Bowie clan for five generations.

The meetings were held in secret, sometimes after the midnight hour. Since Alec’s room was three doors down from hers, it was an easy enough feat to visit Rose.

However, he knew his brother had spies in every dark and shadowy corner of the keep and beyond. On guard at all times, he could not take too many chances of being seen entering or leaving her room.

Ten days had passed since Brogan Mackintosh visited. Ten very long days in which these four men did their best to make their captive feel better and to gain her trust. Without it, anything they might attempt in the future would most assuredly fail.

’Twas Alec’s turn to visit with Rose. ’Twas long after the midnight hour, that time of night when the sky was at its darkest. Tonight, without any moon, and heavy rain clouds overhead, the hallways seemed even darker, far more ominous and mysterious.

When he entered Rose’s room, he expected she would be fast asleep. Prepared only to make a cursory inspection and leave quickly, he instead found her at the only window in her room. Wrapped in a blanket she stood staring out at something only she could see.

She cast him a furtive glance over her shoulder before turning back to the blackness without. According to Gylys, she had seemed in good spirits earlier that morn. But now? Something bleak and untoward seemed to hang in the air.

“M’lady,” he said as he slowly shut the door behind him. “Are ye well?” By now he had learned even the most innocuous seeming inquiries into her well-being brought forth a litany of either woes or curses. This night, however, he was met with neither.

“I have been havin’ pains off and on all day,” she informed him bleakly. “’Tis far too early to be experiencin’ them.”

Although he’d never been around an expectant woman, he was at least knowledgable enough to know this was cause for concern.

“I shall fetch a midwife to ye at once,” he said.

“Do no’ bother,” she told him. “’Twill no’ do any good.”

Puzzled, he stepped forward in order to see her more clearly. “What do ye mean?”

One lonesome tear trailed down her cheek. “’Tis a miracle that I am as far along as I am. I was never able to carry beyond me third month. This time, ’twas different. Better. A stronger babe I carried.” Wiping her cheeks on the blanket, she gave a shrug of indifference. “But I fear all the stress and worry of bein’ here, of bein’ so far from home…” She paused to take a steadying breath. “I be losin’ me babe.”

At once, he felt as though he’d been kicked in the gut by an angry mule. Anger crept in and ’twas all he could do not to seek out his brother and slice his throat. If this babe died, and worse yet if Rose did not survive, he knew beyond any doubt that the vengeance Ian Mackintosh would seek out would mean the end of his clan. There would not be a Bowie standing once he was done.

It might not happen immediately, but it would happen. Ian would call on his vast number of allies as well as his family, and in a matter of weeks, he would unleash a hell unlike anything the Bowie’s had ever seen.

“I will no’ allow ye to lose this babe, m’lady,” he told her.

Without a clear idea of how exactly he could keep that promise, he left the room as swiftly and quietly as he had entered. Immediately, he went in search of the only three men he knew he could count on.

H
is brother hadn’t been
home from the Bowie keep a full fortnight when another messenger arrived. As had been done the last time, the message was left via an arrow to the gate.

Just when he’d begun to feel better about his wife being held captive, just when he was able to sleep at night when he’d let the satisfaction of work well- done satisfy at least his basic needs, his world was once again turned upside down.

Ian stood now at the table in the armory, surrounded by his brother and men, and read Rutger Bowie’s missive a third time.

Ian refused to believe it, even for a moment.
I would ken it in me own heart if she were dead.

Brogan took the missive from his hands and read it. Horrified, he looked at his brother. He half expected him to fall apart, to fall to his knees with grief. Instead, Ian looked mad enough to bite his sword in half.

He waited in silence, closely watching to see what Ian would do or say next.

Deafening silence filled the space and seemed to stretch on interminably. Finally, Ian took in a deep breath and faced his brother.

“I refuse to believe me wife is dead,” he told his brother.

“Ye do no’ believe what the missive says?” Brogan asked.

Ian gritted his teeth. “Nay, I do no’. This is nothin’ more than his way of tryin’ to make me mad with grief, to do somethin’ stupid. But I do believe we do no’ have much time before he kills her.”

Brogan had to agree that ‘twas a strong possibility and he could only pray his brother was right.

“Brogan, I need messengers sent to the Mactavishes, the MacDougalls, the Grahams, and McDunnah. I need as many fightin’ men as they can spare and I need them quickly.”

The one thing Brogan had hoped to avoid was a battle against the Bowies. There would be no stopping it now, and he could not blame his brother for the call to arms. Knowing now was not the time to argue, he asked, “Have ye a plan?”

Ian looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “We will lay siege to the Bowie keep.”

“And yer wife? What of her?”

“I fear we no longer have the luxury of waitin’ fer the right time to perfect a rescue. If we do no’ act now, ‘twill be too late.”

Brogan’s meeting with the Bowie had been brief. Still, he was able to gain some sense of what kind of man they were dealing with. As much as he was loathe to admit it, his brother was probably right. The Bowie was a most dangerous man, for he was motivated entirely by greed.

With a nod, Brogan stepped away from the table and gathered what was left of their men.

* * *

A
s soon as
the messengers left, Ian went to his tent. The fury he’d been tamping down for days finally erupted. A low, deep growl grew from deep within, building until he could no longer suppress it. Grabbing the table he used as his desk, he upended it, scattering the contents hither and yon.

He tossed chairs and stools against the fabric walls, picked up his bed and heaved it with all his might. It landed upside down on top of the table. The trunks that were stacked neatly near the bed, he kicked and clawed at before heaving them as well. The contents spilled out and tumbled to the floor.

Covered in sweat, his chest heaving more from heartbreak than exertion, he scanned the room for something else to destroy. ’Twas then he caught sight of something lying on the floor.

’Twas a wee bonnet that rested atop one of the sleeping gowns Rose had made for their babe. In nearly sent him to his knees.

Rose was his life, his soul, his heart. He would stop at nothing until he had her and their babe back.

The decision to lay siege to the keep was one of the most difficult decisions he had ever made. Rutger’s missive was nothing more than a lie. He was as certain of that as he was the sun would rise on the morrow.

He was also certain Rutger Bowie was delusional. Much like his predecessor, he enjoyed toying with a person’s mind and emotions. The kidnapping, the threats, the letter were all nothing more than a game. Oh, he had no doubt the man was motivated by greed. But there was much more at play here than avarice. Much more.

Rutger might believe he had the upper hand simply because he was in possession of the one thing Ian loved and valued above all else. To a certain extent, that was true.

But Ian had one thing Rutger didn’t. Ian had allies.

Alone, the Mackintoshes were a mighty force. But add the Grahams and McDunnahs to their forces? They would be unstoppable.

Ian knew the Bowie’s had no allies, at least not any who might be mad or stupid enough to go up against his.

Rutger would not harm Rose. He needed her alive. He needed the babe alive as well. The man might be mad, but Ian doubted he was mad enough to harm Rose. If he did, there was no way on God’s earth Ian would give him a groat.

Ian had been too beset with worry half the time to get a true grasp on the situation. After he read the missive, he knew he had to stop worrying and start thinking. He needed to think like a Mackintosh. Like a laird and chief.

Rutger Bowie may have had the upper hand, but now? Oh, the tides of fortune were about to turn for the Bowie. And they’d turn now to Ian’s favor.

* * *

T
he following two
days were spent in preparation of battle. From dawn to dusk, he and his men trained hard and without restraint. The McLarens, the carpenters and laborers, all trained together, side by side with the Mackintosh men. They were just as determined as he to get their mistress back.

Weeks ago, when the Bowie’s first attacked, it set the clan in turmoil. But now? Now that he had announced the attack on the Bowie keep, made his promise to get his wife back, his people had a mission. A purpose. And it was far bigger than simply building the McLaren keep. Along with it was the strong desire to return the McLaren clan to its former glory.

Generations ago, the McLarens were as strong a fighting force as any. They possessed hundreds of warriors. Warriors who protected their lands, their people, with a fierceness that resembled the Mackintoshes.

It took one man, Mermadak McLaren, to run it all into the ground. One man who all but destroyed it through greed and malice.

The warriors had left in droves. Unable and unwilling to be led by such a cold, brutal man. Their numbers dwindled to the point there was nothing left but old men and women, widows, and a handful of children.

For months, Ian fought an inner battle, disgusted with the thought of being
The
McLaren. He was a Mackintosh for the sake of Christ. Not some lowly, lazy, McLaren.

But now? At seeing these McLaren men and women in a new light, he could no longer call them lowly or lazy. They were anything but that.

While they might not have the same skills as the Mackintoshes, they did possess the same heart and determination.

Rose had been right when she said her people only needed a strong leader, a good example, a good man to look up to. Someone who would lead by example. Someone who could deliver them out of the depths of poverty given to them by their last laird.

One man.

One man who would lead them out of the darkness and poverty and into the light. Into a much brighter future. One man who would look upon them with pride. One man who could show them the way.

Ian Mackintosh was that man.

* * *

T
hree days
after receiving the missive, Ian was awakened by the sound of his brother’s voice.

“What the bloody hell?” Ian growled. Last night was the first time in weeks where he actually slept, succumbing to exhaustion.

“We have a visitor,” Brogan told him.

“Unless it be our father and a thousand battle-ready warriors, I do no’ care.” He grumbled into his pillow.

“Trust me when I say ye will want to meet this visitor.”

Visitors were the last thing on his mind. He needed to sleep or he would be of no use to anyone.

“He be from the Bowies.”

* * *

A
s he washed
his face with cold water from the basin, Ian barraged his brother with questions. “Another arrow in the gate?”

Brogan handed him a drying cloth. “Nay, no arrow. This time, they came to the gate and asked to see ye.”

Rubbing his face dry, he tossed the cloth on the back of his chair and began digging through the pile of clothes strewn on the floor. He knew Rose would be appalled by the current state of this space, but he knew she’d rather he be too busy planning her escape than keeping his makeshift home neat and tidy. “How many?” he asked as he gave a careful sniff to a tunic he found.

“Only one.”

Deciding the tunic was not overly offensive in smell, he tugged it on. “One? What has he said?”

“Nothin’ thus far. He refuses to speak to anyone but ye,” Brogan replied as he handed Ian his boots.

“He be rather brave, aye?” Ian asked as he pulled the boots on.

Brogan chuckled. “Tell me that again
after
ye see him.”

Grabbing his sword and belt, Ian led the way outside. A heavy mist hung in the air. The yard was dotted with puddles left over from last night’s rain. The cool morning air did nothing to cool the anger building within Ian’s gut. He strapped on his belt as they crossed the yard and headed toward the armory. “Do ye suppose the Bowie has learned we have sent word to our allies?”