Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (12 page)

Being referred to as
The McLaren
was not appealing to Ian in the least. It simply did not feel right or proper and he doubted he would ever find any enjoyment in it. “Call me Ian,” he told the boy as he slid from his horse.

“I be Robby,” the lad informed him as he took the reins.

Ian stretched a bit before helping Rose down from her mount. “This be yer mistress, Rose Mackintosh,” he said by way of introduction.

Robby offered her a bow before taking the reins. “’Tis me great honor to meet ye, mistress.”

A dark flush came to her cheeks. She was no more used to being referred to as mistress than Ian was as The McLaren. “Ye may call me Rose.”

The boy’s eyes opened wide in amazement before he looked to Ian for approval. Ian gave a slow shake of his head. “Ye shall always refer to her as mistress.”

Before Rose could voice her protest, Ian pulled her into his arms and kissed the tip of her nose. “Before ye argue again over this, ’tis a sign of respect. Ye be the mistress of the keep, such as it is in its current state.” He smiled fondly before kissing her lips. “And even if ye insist, ’twill be me order they listen to and no’ yer request.”

They’d discussed it before, this insistence of his that she be referred to as mistress. It felt just as awkward now as it did in the beginning. “It still does no’ feel right or proper, Ian.”

Though he could well understand her reluctance, he could not acquiesce. “Ye be me wife. I be the interim chief, fer at least the next ten years or so. Ye be the mistress of this keep, Rose Mackintosh. If everyone be referrin’ to ye as Rose, they’ll no’ be respectin’ ye as ye deserve.”

She quirked a brow at that last part. “But ’tis perfectly acceptable fer ye to be called
Ian
instead of
The McLaren
?”

He shuddered, aghast. “’Tis no’ the same.”

“How be it no’ the same?”

He smiled devilishly. “Because I
detest
the title. The men will respect me because I shall demand it, no’ because of me title.”

Just how that was any different from her own argument, she could not begin to guess. Men were a most confusing lot.

Deciding the topic closed permanently, Ian slipped his hand into hers. “Now let us go see Ingerame Macdowall.”

* * *

“
L
eona
!” Ingerame Macdowall shouted above the loud din of tools scraping against a newly felled tree. “Leona!”

He had been shouting for his daughter for what seemed like hours. He was busy carving out large pegs to be used later, his voice booming and echoing through the clearing. “Confound it, Leona! Where the bloody hell are ye?” Raising his head up from his project, he found himself staring directly into the eyes of Ian Mackintosh.

Charles made the introductions. “Ingerame Macdowall, this be Ian Mackintosh, our new chief and laird. And this be our mistress, Rose.”

“Ingerame,” Ian said, looking displeased with all the shouting.

“Ian,” he replied as he stood up and wiped his hands on his heavy apron. “Fergive me shoutin’,” he said. “I’ve been lookin’ fer me daughter fer hours now.”

Ian didn’t think bellowing and shouting was the same as looking, but he’d remain mute on the matter for now. “How old be yer daughter?” he asked, hoping she wasn’t a little girl lost.

“Bah! She be an auld maid, ye ken. Nearin’ two and twenty!” He shook his head as if he were ashamed of that fact. “She’ll never marry, that one. I could no’ give her away.”

Instantly, Rose found she did not like the man, for he was speaking so unkindly about his own flesh and blood. His assertion begged the question
why.
But before she could ask it, he was rambling on about his unmarriable daughter.

“Me wife— God rest her soul — could only give me but one child. Betimes I think I’d have preferred she had no’ given me any. Some think the lass be tetched, but I ken the truth. She be a witch as sure as I be standin’ here. But what is a father to do?”

“A
father
could be a bit more kind and encouragin’,” Rose told him sternly. “A
father
would no’ speak so unkindly of his only child.”

If she thought to put the man in his place, or hoped for any sign of shame or regret, Rose was sadly mistaken. Ingerame Macdowall did not so much as bat an eye. He was wholly unapologetic. “Ye’ll think differently once ye meet her.”

Ian was growing impatient. “Would ye like us to help ye find yer daughter so we might talk without distraction?”

Ingerame waved his hands in the air. “Nay, now is as good a time as any. Knowin’ Leona, she’d be halfway to France and no’ even realize it.” He dropped his chisel and hammer on a tree stump he used as a work-space and once again wiped his dirty hands on his apron. “We only arrived three weeks ago, but we’ve made good progress.”

Rose had no desire to remain in the man’s presence a moment longer than necessary. She took the opportunity to leave. “If ye’ll excuse me, I’d like to see to settin’ up our camp.” In truth, she hoped to find this mysterious Leona and see for herself why Ingerame thought so poorly of her.

R
utger Bowie had never been
one to hold any delusions of grandeur when it came to his clan. They were a ruthless lot of marauders, ne’er-do-wells, bandits, and thieves. He sat at the high table in the gathering room, looking out at the clan of misfits with a good measure of pride. Tonight, they feasted like kings only because four of his men had the wherewithal to raid a neighboring clan and divest said clan of a few head of their precious cattle.

Oh, they did not possess the refinement or grace of kings, as evidenced by the way they shoveled food into their greasy mouths whilst telling one bawdy tale after another. Ruthless and disgusting as they may be, they were his people.

The Bowies would never be heralded as great inventors, harbingers of peace, or in any other positive light. Nay, if they were to be remembered at all, ’twould only be in stories meant to scare small children. The proof lay in the legacies of their former chiefs.

And none were as insane or ruthless as Eduard Bowie.

That name alone was enough to make Rutger shudder. To say Eduard ruled with an iron fist would have been a tremendous understatement of fact. ’Twas more than that he ruled heartlessly and without mercy. Eduard Bowie was the stuff nightmares were made of. The man took what he wanted when he wanted, no matter who might be the rightful owner. People in general had been terrified of the man. And his clansmen? They hated him passionately. However, they knew that a revolt of any kind would be met with brutal death. He had possessed too many loyal men who would do his bidding, no matter how disgraceful or cruel that bidding might be.

Silently, Rutger raised his cup of
usaige beatha
to the woman who had taken Eduard’s life. As far as he was concerned, that wee lass had more courage in her little toe than all of Eduard’s men combined. Though it
had
been a horrible way for any man to die — a grappling hook to his neck— ’twas no less than the bloody son of a whore deserved.

He’d oft thought of sending Aggie Mackintosh a letter of thanks for killing Eduard. Were it not for her, he would have lived a verra long time and Rutger would be nothing more than another member of the clan simply praying for their chief’s death.

B
efore the afternoon was out
, tents had been erected, wagons unpacked, goods stored, and camp set up. It amazed Rose no end how everyone came together to do more than their fair share of hard work. The air around them sizzled with excitement and anticipation.

Fires for cooking were started, tables set up for food preparation, and much ale was poured and drunk.

From atop the hill, Ian stood in the early evening light, looking down at his new clan. An overwhelming sense of pride enveloped him as he watched his people happily working together.

His
people.

’Twas odd for him to think of himself as the chief of any clan. Odder still, this one in particular. He did not worry about the Mackintosh men, for they were a fierce and loyal lot, not afraid of hard work or a challenge. Nor did he worry about those Frederick had hired to build the keep, for they were being paid well for their work. Neither did he worry about his beautiful wife. Rose was strong, and betimes just as stubborn as he. There was not a doubt in his mind that she would have no trouble being the mistress of the keep.

Nay, he worried about the McLarens and them alone.

Never had he met a sorrier, more hapless and lazy lot of individuals. ’Twas the men’s attitudes that bothered him most. He’d seen their lethargy and idleness first hand and on countless occasions. Not one was ever bothered by sitting back and watching women — his Rose and Aggie in particular — doing the work of ten men. Where was their pride? Their honor? He would have to lose both arms and legs before he’d let a woman work as hard as those two women had in the past.

He could name only a few of them, for he hadn’t bothered to learn their names. Even though they’d just spent the last three weeks travelling together, he was certain that once the hard work began, they’d leave without so much as a by-your-leave.

There were, by his count, only forty-three McLarens. Of that number, more than half were women. He was certain that if they all left on the morrow, none of them would be missed. He reckoned they could be replaced with only five good men and still get the same amount of work done.

Nightfall was fast approaching when he caught sight of his brother Brogan walking up the hill towards him. Though they were not as close as he and Frederick, they were still brothers and allies. He admired Brogan’s ability to look at a problem from more than one angle; he was also quite intelligent. Knowing he was still grieving over the loss of his wife, Ian had been careful not to talk too much about Rose. If their roles were reversed and Ian were the grieving widower, he would not want to be constantly bombarded by someone else’s happy marriage.

“Ian,” Brogan said as he crested the hill. “’Tis a good, warm night, aye?”

“That it is,” Ian said as he slapped him on the back affectionately. Brogan winced ever so slightly, then began pulling at his tunic to help cool his skin.

“It be no’
that
warm,” Ian remarked sarcastically.

“Do ye think me weak?” Brogan asked. “I worked all afternoon with me tunic off and now I suffer the affects of the sun.”

Ian grimaced, knowing full well how badly skin burned by the sun could hurt.

“I fear I be no’ used to all this sunshine,” Brogan said. “It rarely shone back home, aye?”

Ian chucked. “Aye, that be true. I imagine it will take us some time to get used to. Ye should seek out Rose. She will have somethin’ to help ease yer pain and soothe that burnin’ back.”

Brogan shrugged as if it were nothing more than a nuisance, even if his back burned as hot as the cooking fires below the hill.

Sensing his brother’s reluctance to admit to any kind of injury, Ian rolled his eyes. “’Twill no’ injure yer reputation as a whoreson to get a balm fer yer back, ye stubborn eejit.”

Brogan ignored him and changed the subject. “Would ye like me to call everyone together so ye might talk to them about yer plans and what ye expect from them?”

“Aye,” Ian agreed with a nod. “We shall sup together and afterward I will address them.”

Feeling somewhat devilish, Brogan said, “Ye’ll make a fine McLaren.”

Ian glowered at what he considered an insult. “Ye’re either verra brave or a foolish bastard. Either way, I’ll kick yer arse up over yer shoulders if ye ever refer to me as the McLaren again.”

* * *

R
ose was very
proud of the fine meal she and the other women had prepared for their first night. Everyone had their choice of roasted duck, venison, or fish, along with savory vegetables, fruits, and sweet cakes. Copious amounts of ale and wine were poured and everyone — save for Rodrick the Bold — seemed in fine spirits. Rodrick sat alone on a log, away from the rest of the clan, watching everyone with either a scrutinizing gaze or a scowl; she didn’t know him well enough to ascertain which it was.

There were not enough tables and benches for everyone to sit around, so many took seats upon the ground, or on felled logs. Fires roared and crackled whilst a few men took out lutes and drums to play lively tunes.

Rose knew each of the McLaren women, and had built fast friendships with those Mackintosh women who had followed their husbands to these new lands. Most of the carpenters and laborers were single. Only a few had brought their wives with them. Rose made a point of seeking each of the women out to welcome them to the clan. She was also eager to meet Leona Macdowall.

Ian was also quite proud of what his wife and the clanswomen had been able to accomplish in such a short amount of time. Seated at a table, surrounded by his men, his attention was more on his beautiful wife than whatever the men were discussing. He watched as she stood talking with a small group of women. What they were saying, he could not hear. Occasionally, that brilliant smile he’d grown more than fond of, broke over her face. Instantly, his desire flared and he wanted only to seek out their tent and love her all the night long. Though he had explored nearly every square inch of her luscious body, he imagined he’d never grow tired of daily discoveries.

’Twas Andrew the Red’s voice in his ear that broke through his thoughts. “Are ye ready to speak to yer people?” he asked, his speech slightly slurred from too much ale.

Inwardly, Ian sighed, then gave a curt nod. Frederick and Brogan were always far better with words, and he hoped he wouldn’t muddle things. It had been Frederick who had addressed them weeks ago, back on Mackintosh lands. It had been Frederick who told them of their plans, of what they hoped to accomplish in the months and years to come. Nightly, Ian prayed these people would continue to follow him, that he could lead as well as his brother.

“Stand on the table so they can hear ye,” Andrew suggested as he stood to allow Ian more room to leave the bench.

Swinging his long legs around, Ian stood tall and stretched for a moment before climbing onto the table. As he stood in the center, Andrew let out a loud whistle to draw everyone’s attention. “Yer chief wishes to speak to ye!” he shouted over the din of conversation.

Ian grimaced slightly at Andrew’s bold behavior. He knew he was only trying to help, but perhaps he needn’t help quite so much. The people soon grew quiet. Taking a deep breath, he addressed his people for the first time as their chief.

“I wish to first thank me wife and the fine women who prepared a feast fit fer a king,” he began. The crowd clapped and cheered and tankards were pounded against the tops of tables. Looking directly at his smiling wife, he held out his hands for her to join him. Brogan and Andrew assisted her up to stand next to Ian. Taking her hand in his, he said, “My wife, yer mistress, Rose Mackintosh of Clan McLaren.” Another cheer erupted through the crowd who had drawn closer in order to hear their chief speak. Ian noticed a few of the single men were smiling a little too fondly toward his wife, but he ignored them. It made sense for men to stare, for she was quite beautiful to look upon. But if any of them were to so much as step one toe out of place, he’d have no problem beating them senseless.

“We have travelled a long while, over rough terrain, through rivers and over mountains, to reach this most beautiful of places,” he began. “Just as our journey here was no’ easy, neither will it be an easy task rebuildin’ Clan McLaren to its former glory. But with hard work and our determination and strong will, together, we will prevail, no matter what obstacles may come our way.” The McLarens cheered more loudly than the others. He eyed his Mackintosh brethren for a long moment. Clearly, they were not as excited as he or the others.

“I must admit that I do no’ ken much about the history of Clan McLaren. I do know that fer a very long time, ’twas run by a ruthless man known as Mermadak. The McLarens who stand with ye today, ken all too well what kind of man he was. To ye, I promise that as long as I live, ye’ll never endure again that which ye endured at his hand.” The McLarens broke out into another cheer, even louder than the first. “To the Mackintoshes,” he began, raising his hands once again for quiet. “I ken ’twas no’ easy fer ye to leave our homelands to come here, to help rebuild a clan who until recently, ye’d never known. To each of ye, ye have me undyin’ gratitude and thanks, as well as Frederick’s and his Aggie’s.”

The Mackintoshes burst into a roaring cheer, waving hands and swords in the air. “Fer Aggie!” they shouted. “Fer Aggie!”

Ian looked to Rose, who was smiling as proudly as if the cheers were meant for her. When he looked out again, with the Mackintoshes and McLarens now cheering
‘fer Aggie’
in unison, he knew these people were not here for him, but for his sister-by-law. ’Twas a slight wound to his pride, but he’d rather have them here for Aggie than not here at all.

As the crowd began to quiet, someone shouted, “Ian! We will follow ye anywhere! Our new chief! The new McLaren!”

Grimacing inward, he painted a smile on his face. Would he ever get used to being referred to as the McLaren? He prayed to God he did not.