Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (19 page)

* * *

B
y the time
Ian and Brogan finished
talking
with Ingerame Macdowall, the man was sporting a black eye and bloodied lip.

“And if ye ever think to make yer daughter confess on yer behalf,” Ian said as he shoved Ingerame onto the chair, “I shall make yer punishment a public one.”

“And if ye think to take yer anger fer us out on yer daughter, ye may no’ live to regret it,” Brogan added as he pulled the man from the chair.

“This will remain betwixt us, Ingerame,” Ian said, as he shoved the man toward the opening in the tent. “But never ferget our warnin’ to ye.”

With that, he shoved Ingerame Macdowall out of the tent and into the cool evening air.

The two brothers stood at the entrance, watching the foul man scurry away.

“Do ye think we went too far, brother?” Brogan asked, planting his hands on his hips.

Ian pondered the question for only a brief moment. “Nay,” he replied. “I fear we may no’ have gone far enough.”

* * *

W
hen Ian told
his wife all that had transpired with Leona and Ingerame, ’twas all he could do to keep her from going after the man with a skillet.

“How dare he?” she fumed as she paced the small confines of their newly built hut.

“Some men do no’ look at their wives and daughters with the same fondness I look upon ye.” He said as he kissed the base of her neck. “They look at them as nothin’ more than chattel.”

“Do ye think he will be foolish enough to hurt her again?” Too angry to pay attention to the tender ministrations he was showing her neck, she stood looking out the small window toward Leona’s hut.

Ian decided to take another route to wooing his wife into their bed. Tenderly, he rubbed a palm across her stomach, making a slow northerly progression toward the breasts he took such delight in. “Nay,” he murmured against her neck. “Brogan and I made certain he understood clearly what the consequences of that action might be.”

“I detest that man,” she said with a huff.

“I am beginnin’ to despise him even more,” Ian said as he spun her around to face him. “Fer he’s got me beautiful wife’s full attention at the moment. Attention I very much desire to have all to meself fer the next hour or so.”

“Ye are insatiable,” she said with a beguiling smile. “I find I like that about ye.”

One hour turned into nearly two as he made slow, languid yet passionate love to his wife. His wife surprised him mid-way through with something Ian was certain only Inverness whore’s knew how to do with their mouths. Certainly not good, decent wives. Nay, he complained not once during nor after. Instead he relished her tender, seductive ministrations to his staff. Still, when they lay panting for breath afterward, sweat glistening on his brow, he felt the urge to ask how she had come up with the idea.

“We women talk about more than bairns and meals, Ian,” she giggled against his chest.

He was not so certain that was a good idea or bad, but kept the thought to himself.

“Did ye no’ like it?” she asked sleepily.

He chuckled as he pulled her closer. “If I
liked
it any better, me eyes would have bulged from me sockets.”

A soft laugh, bordering on pride, formed in her throat. “Then I did it correctly.”

Correctly? She did it with such finesse and expertise, one would have thought she’d spent years honing the craft.

They fell asleep, replete and content in each other’s arms, and did not wake until long after dawn.

T
he following sennight
passed without incident. According to Rose, Leona seemed far happier, her spirits lifted immeasurably. Though she still insisted ’twas her own fault for misplacing the plans. The story about how she got the black-eye varied, depending on who she told the story to. Very few people, however, had asked what happened. Most of the clan still treated her with indifference. However Ronna and Angrabraid, their auld healer, grew more and more fond of the young woman.

Now that those with families, and the widowed and unmarried women, had huts to call their very own, the mood across the clan seemed even lighter. With the completion of these temporary homes, Ian could focus more on building the tower and training with his men.

Because he could not be two places at once, the training of the men fell primarily to Brogan and Andrew the Red. Diligently, the two men spent the morning hours in an empty field next to the keep, training with the Mackintoshes, whilst also trying to teach the McLaren men.

Ian also felt it necessary to train the numerous laborers. That was when things grew more difficult, slowly chipping away at the calm, brotherly atmosphere of the clan.

They were standing in the courtyard on this misty morn. While women went about their daily chores and cleaned up after the morning meal, Andrew the Red faced off against eight of the laborers. One in particular was a thorn in his arse.

“Ye pay me to be a laborer, no’ a warrior.” ’Twas Robert Macelvy who first voiced his displeasure.

Andrew rolled his eyes and ran a hand across his chin. “Aye, Ian pays ye fer that, and pays ye quite well,” he said. “But ye also need to learn to defend the keep.”

The slender man with dark hair and even darker eyes, gave a slow shake of his head. “’Tis no’ me job to defend the keep.” The others standing behind him nodded their heads in agreement.

“And what do ye intend to do should we ever fall under attack?”

He answered with a shrug. “Surrender, I reckon.”

Andrew’s eyes grew so wide and round he looked as though he were on the verge of an apoplexy. “Surrender?” he asked, exasperatedly. “Have ye no ballocks man? No pride?” The thought of surrender to anyone was appalling.

“Better to surrender and live another day, than to die,” Robert answered calmly. His cohorts readily agreed with more nods and a few murmured ‘ayes’.

Someone had sent word to Ian that some of the laborers were refusing to train. Angry that he was once again pulled from the quarry, he thundered into the keep and toward the object of his ire.

“Andrew,” he called out loudly as he approached. “Please tell me the rumors that there be cowards amongst us are false.”

Seeing their laird in such a state of fury caused every one of the objectors to take tentative steps back.

“Aye, they be true, Ian,” Andrew said, his voice filled with disgust.

Ian faced the cowards head-on, while speaking over his shoulder to Andrew. “Who be the one objectin’ most?”

“That one,” Andrew said with a nod toward the man. “Robert Macelvey.”

Not wanting to appear any more the coward than he already did, the man lifted his chin and stepped forward. “Ye pay us to build yer keep, no’ to guard it.”

Bracing his feet apart, Ian crossed his arms over his chest and leaned ever so slightly toward the man. He towered over him and used that to his advantage. “Do ye no’ also
live
amongst us?” he asked. “Do ye no’ partake of our food? Our ale and wine? Does our healer no’ tend to yer wounds? Do the rest of us no’ work alongside ye, day after day?”

Flummoxed, the man gave a rapid nod of his head.

“And do I ask ye to pay fer any of those things?”

The man paled visibly.

“Yet ye refuse to train with the others?” Ian asked, rhetorically of course. “Verra well then, ye shall no’ train with us. But ye can pack yer things now and leave. I will allow ye to live
outside
the protection of our walls. Ye will pay fer every meal, every cup of ale, every time ye see the healer.” Done arguing, he turned to leave.

“Ye can no’ do that!” Robert argued.

Ian had his sword drawn before he turned around completely. Using his fist, he hit the coward in the center of his chest and sent him flying hard to the ground. One heartbeat later, he stood over the man, one foot on his chest, pinning him to the damp earth. The tip of his sword stopped just a hair’s breadth away from his jugular. “Think ye now that I can no’?”

The man gulped for air as he clawed at Ian’s booted foot.

Ian looked up to the rest of the men. “If we were by chance attacked, do ye think the men attackin’ will take the time to sort out coward from warrior?” he asked them in a demanding, firm tone. “Do ye think they will stop to ask ye anythin’ before they gut ye?”

The small group of men looked as stunned as they did terrified. None was brave enough to answer his questions.

“I be no’ askin’ ye any more than I ask any other man amongst us,” Ian said. “We all work hard every day. Besides the lot of ye, no’ one man has refused to train. Men far aulder than
ye
are out on that trainin’ field right now. They may no’ be the fastest, they may no’ be the best or the strongest. But I’d put the lot of them against any of ye any day of the week.” He stopped long enough to draw a breath. “All of ye will be out of me camp within the hour. If ye wish to work, then ye
will
train. If ye refuse to train, ye can find yer own bloody way back to Inverness or whatever rock ye crawled out from under.”

With much force and a look of utter disdain, he pressed his foot more firmly against Robert Macelvey’s chest before turning away. “Andrew, make sure they are packed and out of here within the hour.”

Andrew nodded quite happily. “’Twill be me pleasure, Ian.”

* * *

A
mazingly enough
, six of the nine protestors opted to stay with the clan. Robert Macelvey and two others were the only ones to pack their bags that day and leave. The remaining men decided ’twas safer
inside
the keep than without, and although ’twas reluctantly, they did begin their training.

Though most of the McLaren men were aulder, there were one or two closer to Ian’s own age. They trained just as hard and with as much dedication as the Mackintosh men, even if their skills were not nearly as good.

Rains came and went and came back again. In the space of any given day, it could be bright and sunny, then moments later, everyone would be soaked by a deluge. Such was the weather in October in these western Highlands.

On this cool yet sunny morning, a sennight before
Samhuinn,
Ian was training in the yard with the McLarens. More specifically with a lad of fifteen named Robby McLaren. Though he was young and inexperienced, Ian had to give him credit for his determination.

“Nay, lad!” Ian exclaimed. “Ye keep lettin’ yer shield down!”

Sweat poured into the lad’s dark blue eyes. Using his sword hand, he wiped it away. Dark brown ringlets were plastered to his forehead, his tunic sticking to his skinny torso. Listening intently, he lifted his shield up as he’d been instructed repeatedly over the past weeks.

Ian thrust his sword forward, tapping the center of the shield. “Never let yer guard down, else ye’ll never get to bed yer first woman,” he teased.

Robby took the taunt for what it was: simply a means to catch him off balance, to infuriate him to the point he’d do something reckless. He’d learned that lesson the hard way just a sennight ago. It took his arse three days before it quit throbbing from where the tip of Ian’s sword had landed.

Once again, Ian thrust his sword forward, this time with such force against the shield, it made his own teeth rattle. Robby landed on his arse with a thud.

Scrambling back to his feet, he tried to return the favor, but his sword glanced off Ian’s shield, barely touching it.

So intent was his focus on Ian, he was not paying any attention to the man behind him. Andrew the Red took the tip of his sword and thwacked his arse.

“Bloody hell!” Robby cried out, spinning around to see who the culprit was.

Andrew the Red burst into riotous laughter. Throwing his head back, consumed by his own cleverness, he did not see the blow coming. Robby thrust his own wooden sword against Andrew’s stomach. But before he could let out a cheer of victory, Ian kicked his feet out from under him.

“Well played, laddie,” Ian said with a proud smile. “But ye fergot yer back once again.”

Andrew was appalled, and also a bit proud of the boy.

Ian hauled the red-faced lad to his feet. “Let us try again,” he said as he righted the boy’s tunic and gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek.

“Ye do no’ have to treat me like a bairn,” Robby ground out as he planted his left leg firmly behind his right, taking the appropriate stance.

Ian smiled deviously. “I treat ye no different than I would one of me own brothers,” he said. “One of me
younger
brothers.”

Fiercely, the lad scowled at Ian. Swiping more sweat from his brow, he noticed Ian had barely broken a sweat. And neither was he out of breath. He wanted to be
that
kind of warrior someday. One who could train for hours without his arms and legs feeling as weak as warm butter.

Just then, Rose appeared on the small mound. With his back to her, Ian didn’t know she was there until she called out his name. “Ian! Come quick!”

So surprised he was to hear his wife call out, Ian spun, giving his back to Robby. Before he could form his next thought, young Robby McLaren kicked his laird’s feet out from under him. Ian landed on his back, the air knocked clean from his lungs. Robby was over him in a heartbeat, with his wooden sword pressed against his throat.

“Be
that
how it is done, m’laird?” he asked cheekily.

Ian gave a quick nod. “Almost, laddie, almost.”

As the boy’s expression turned to confusion, Ian kicked against his arse once, with enough force to send the boy flying.

“Ian!” Rose was screaming and she sounded very distressed. “Please, come quick!”

“Andrew,” Ian said with a smirk, “will ye teach young Robby here that last move? After he pulls his ballocks out of his arse.”

The nearer he drew to Rose the more his gut told him something was horribly wrong. Her face was contorted and he could see that she had been crying. Hurriedly, she rushed into his arms. “Och, Ian!” she cried as she hugged him close.

“What be the matter?” he asked. She would never have interrupted the training session were it not important.

“’Tis Eggar,” she said between sobs. “They found him in the pit at the quarry.” She turned her face up, her eyes red from crying. After taking a deep breath, she blurted out the rest. “He be dead.”

An overwhelming sadness fell over him. Eggar was one of the very few, if not the only, McLaren he had learned to trust when he had first arrived with his brother at the auld McLaren keep. Eggar Wardwin was a good, hard-working man.

His distraught wife cried against his chest as she told him what she knew. “I do no’ ken how it happened, Ian. But they be bringin’ him back now on a litter.”

He squeezed his wife gently and kissed the top of her head. “I be so sorry, Rose. Let us go now and see what we can learn.”

* * *

T
hey rushed back
to the camp just as two McLaren men were bringing Eggar. With great care, they placed the litter on the long table; their crestfallen expressions were enough to bring tears to even the most hardened man.

Sniffing back a tear, Albert McLaren stepped away from the table. “His neck be broken, m’laird,” he said in a low, hushed tone. “It looks as though he tripped and fell in.”

Ian scanned the crowd for a brief moment before giving a quick examination of Eggar’s cold, lifeless body. His clothing was soaked clear to his skin. It hadn’t rained since last night, not long after the midnight hour. He must have gone back to the quarry sometime after the evening meal the night before.

What in the bloody hell was he doing at the quarry at that late hour?
Suspicion began to form in his mind. Eggar was neither a drunkard nor a fool. Something had to have drawn him to the quarry at such an hour.