Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (20 page)

“His clothes are still soaked through. It did no’ rain until after the midnight hour last night, and stopped well before dawn,” Ian spoke to the crowd who had begun to form. “Does anyone ken why Eggar was at the quarry so late?”

No one answered his question. Each of them looked just as confused as Ian felt.

He did not enjoy where his thoughts led him. There had been much animosity of late betwixt Eggar and Ingerame. Had it gotten to the point that one would kill the other?

Ian knew Ingerame was not above hitting his own daughter, black eyes be-damned. Mayhap, just mayhap the man was angry enough or mad enough to take Eggar’s life.

* * *

A
ll work
and training was brought to a halt while Ian and Brogan began to question the members of the clan. Without fanfare, Ian sent someone to find Ingerame posthaste.

They had just finished interrogating a third clansmen, when Ingerame came rushing into the tent. His face was ashen, his jaw slack. Ian took one look at the man and knew ’twas not born of fear, but of great despair.

“Be it true, m’laird?” he asked breathlessly. “Be he really dead?”

So genuine was the man’s anguish that Ian was hard pressed to remain suspicious of him. No one was that good at portraying an innocent man.

“Aye, Ingerame, it be true,” Ian said as he left his chair.

“They said he was at the quarry long after midnight.” Ingerame repeated what he’d been told. “What the bloody hell was he doin’ out there? Alone?”

“I wish I kent the answer to that question,” Ian replied.

Only three days ago, Ingerame and Eggar had been at odds once again, over something Ian could not recall at this moment. The way the two men got on, one would have sworn they were life-long enemies. It begged the question. “Ye and he were always arguin’ with one another. Yet ye stand here lookin’ like a man who just lost his dearest friend.”

Ingerame swallowed back what Ian assumed were tears. “Aye, we quarreled all the time, m’laird, but that does no’ mean I did no’ consider him a friend. He was a good man.”

Had he not witnessed the man’s grief with his own eyes, had not heard with his own ears the tremor in his voice, Ian would never have believed it. Ingerame Macdowall possessed a heart after all.

Ian offered his condolences and a gentle hand on the man’s back. Ingerame left the tent to be alone with his grief.

“Well that quells me suspicion that Ingerame was involved,” Brogan admitted.

Andrew the Red had to agree as well. “If I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes, I would never have believed it.”

Ian nodded in agreement. “I can no’ believe Eggar would go to the quarry in the middle of the night.”

“Nay,” Andrew said. “We did find a cold torch lyin’ at his feet. Do ye suppose the rain was heavy near the quarry?”

Brogan thought on that for a long moment. “I’ll no’ say ’tis impossible, but I will say ’tis highly unlikely.”

Ian had to agree. “I can no’ help but feel someone kens somethin’ about how Eggar Wardwin came to be dead at the bottom of the quarry. ’Tis no’ too great a fall. Seven? Eight feet?

“I myself have slipped once or twice when the rope was wet. Fell halfway down it just a few days ago. I landed on me backside.”

Ian pondered that for a moment. “What if he was pushed, with great force?”

“That might do it, but ‘twould be like fallin’ off a horse. About the same distance, would ye no’ agree?” Brogan interjected.

“The earth at the bottom of the quarry is covered in dirt and mud from all the rain,” Ian offered. “We often have to scoop out buckets of mud before we can get to the rock underneath.”

The three men stared at one another for a long while. In the end, they had more questions than answers.

’
T
was nearing Christmas tide
, the land blanketed in heavy white snow that glistened and twinkled in the sunlight by day, and at night, as far as the eye could see ’twere magnificent colors ranging from indigo to silver. The trees popped and cracked, their branches and limbs weighed down from yet another heavy snowfall.

The little cottage Ian had built for his wife was warm and cozy. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, furs were stretched taught over the tiny windows. Everything was as it should be, save for Rose.

A week ago, she had grown quite ill. No matter what she tried, her stomach would not settle. She could keep nothing down, not even the tiniest morsels of bread. She threw up morning, noon, and night. Dark circles had formed around her sunken eyes, her skin was pale and often damp.

Ian grew more and more concerned as the days passed. On the morning of the sixth day of her ailment, he dressed quickly, throwing on a thick fur and declared, “I am fetchin’ the healer.” He would brook no argument even if she had the energy to give him one.

He stepped out into the cold, winter air. The sun was just coming up, the sky painted in brilliant shades of red, orange and lavender. Nary a soul was out, and who could blame them. On a morn like this, a man should be abed, under warm furs, and if he was lucky, under a warm wife.

The snow crunched under his heavy boots as he fought his way across the yard and toward the healer’s hut. Though she was an aulder woman of indiscernible age, she was his only option. If he had to carry her back to his hut so she could tend to his wife, he would.

Reaching Angrabraid MacConnell’s door, he pounded loudly, not caring if he disturbed her slumber. The door opened almost at once. “I be auld, no’ deaf!” she shouted. Gray hair, braided and twisted around her head like a silver crown framed her weathered and worn skin, which resembled an auld piece of tanned leather. For a long moment she eyed him scrupulously with a pair of pale blue eyes. “Well? What do ye want? Or are ye just fond of poundin’ on an auld woman’s door at ungodly hours?”

“’Tis Rose,” he managed to say. “She be quite ill. Can no’ keep anythin’ down.”

“Fer how long now?” she asked with one quirked brow and a squinting eye.

“Six days,” he answered. “Her skin be clammy. She throws up all day and night now. Can no’ even keep down a tiny bit of bread.”

With a nod of her head, she bade him wait. “I will get me bag,” she said before closing the door.

As patiently as a man of his stubbornness and current distress could manage, he waited. And he waited. And he waited.

Had she forgotten he was here? Had she fallen or taken suddenly ill?

Just as he was about to raise his hand to pound on the door yet again, it flew open. With a walking stick in one hand and a large pouch slung over her shoulder, she stared at his upraised arm and massive fist. “Bah! Ye plan to beat me fer no’ hurryin’ as fast as ye like?”

Ian was unable to find an appropriate response. Desperate to have his wife well again, he changed the subject. “Can ye make it through the snow?”

Tapping her stick once, she said, “I be auld, no’ dead!”

Ian sent a silent prayer for patience up to the heavens. Left to hope her bedside manner was kinder to his wife than it had been to him, he followed her through the snow.

* * *

W
hile Ian paced
like a caged animal just outside the door to the cottage, he was left alone with his fearful mind and heart. The healer had threatened to beat him senseless if he didn’t leave her and his wife alone. Reluctantly, and at Rose’s request, he had excused himself to wait out of doors.

Before long, he had beaten down the snow, wearing a path as wide as their little home. Ian Mackintosh was as pious as an Edinburgh whore, but he was not above tossing a prayer God’s way every now and again. Today, he was in full-blown negotiations with Him. Making every bargain he could think of in the hope his wife would be well again.

I can no’ lose her,
he thought as he trampled down more of the snow.
I can no’ live without her.

With his mind and heart otherwise engaged, he had not heard Brogan approach.

His brother stood only a few feet away, observing Ian’s agitated state. From the worrisome manner in which his younger brother paced, with his head down, hands clasped behind his back, he knew ’twas no time for playful jests. “Ian, what be the matter?”

When Ian glanced up, Brogan’s stomach tightened. He recognized that look of fear and dread.

“’Tis Rose,” Ian said, his voice cracking. “She is quite ill. Can no’ keep even the tiniest morsel of food down.” He went on to explain how she had been ill off and on for more than a fortnight. “It has only grown worse this past sennight.”

There was no way for Brogan to mask his crestfallen expression.

“What?” Ian ground out.

“Nothin’.”

He lied and Ian knew he lied. Ian studied him closely, taking note that his brother could not look him in the eye. The longer they stood in the cold morning air, the heavier his heart felt. “Is this how it began with yer wife? With the wastin’ disease?” Ian asked, terrified to hear his answer. Brogan’s lovely young wife had died from that horrible disease more than three years ago. He still had not recovered from his loss.

“It could be anythin’ that ails her,” Brogan offered. “She could have eaten somethin’ that did no’ agree with her.”

Ian could appreciate his brother’s attempt to offer the smallest glimmer of hope, but it did nothing to ease the deep ache and worry over Rose. Guilt tugged at his heart.

“I should never have brought her here,” he whispered. “’Tis too rough and hard a life fer someone as wee as Rose.”

A weak smile came to Brogan’s lips. “She be much stronger than ye’re givin’ her credit fer.”

Ian ignored him and went back to his pacing.

“Do no’ bury her yet, Ian,” Brogan said. “Ye have no idea what be the matter with her. Hold on to yer sanity and yer patience until ye hear from the healer.”

* * *

“
T
hat can no’ be
,” Rose whispered in stunned disbelief. “’Tis impossible.”

Angrabraid clucked her tongue as she wiped a cool cloth across Rose’s forehead. “Impossible? Ye be married, ain’t ye?”

Rose could barely nod in affirmation.

“Be it a marriage in name only then?”

A slow shake of her head was the only answer Rose could manage.

Chuckling, the auld woman patted her hand. “I imagine if I were as bonny and young as ye, and had me a fine, braw husband like Ian, I’d be liftin’ me skirts as easily as an Inverness bar wench would fer a groat!”

Rose found no humor in her jest. A heavy sense of despair draped over her heart. “But we were takin’ precautions,” she murmured.

Angrabraid threw back her head and laughed. “The only
precaution
to no’ gettin’ with child is to stay as far away from a man as ye can, lass. Especially a man like yers.”

Removing the cloth from Rose’s forehead, she dipped it into the bowl of cool water. “When was the last time ye bled?”

In truth, she had no earthly idea. “I have never been regular in that regard,” Rose answered. “Sometimes I go two or three months, only bleed a day or two. Then other times, it lasts fer two weeks.”

Squeezing out the excess water, Angrabraid drew the cool cloth over Rose’s arms and neck. “’Tis more common an occurrence than most think.”

Too weak and ill to hold them back, Rose let the tears stream down her cheeks.
This can no’ be.

“Lass, why is this no’ good news fer ye? Do ye no’ want children?” The healer’s smile had faded, replaced with a genuine look of concern.

Taking in a slow, deep breath, she swiped away at her tears. “I was married before. I could no’ carry past me third month.”
I can no’ bear the thought of losin’ another child.

As comforting as a kind grandmother, Angrabraid gave her hands another gentle pat. “Wheest, lass. I ken many a woman who lost more than one babe before one finally took. Who kens why one babe survives and another does no’?”

“I could no’ bear it, Angrabraid, to lose Ian’s babe.” She admitted aloud her deepest worry.

“There be nothin’ to say ye will lose it, lass. Ye must no’ fash yerself over it. Ye need to keep good thoughts in yer head and heart. ’Twill do yer babe more good than worry ever will.”

How was she going to tell Ian? They had taken every measure either of them knew of, to ensure she did not get with child. Together, they had made that most difficult decision. This was one more worry he did not need right now. There was too much important work to be done.

“Please,” Rose pleaded, “do no’ tell Ian.”

From the doorway, she heard her husband’s voice, filled with so much concern and worry it nearly broke her heart in twain. “Do no’ tell Ian
what?
”

Before Rose could stop her, Angrabraid said, “She be carryin’ yer babe.”

* * *

C
arryin’ me babe
?
Nay, he could not have heard the auld woman correctly. “What did ye say?” he asked.

Angrabraid stood, smiling fondly up at him. “She be carryin’ yer babe.”

Had Brogan not been standing behind him and placed a palm on his shoulder, he would have fallen to his knees from the shock.

Nay, this can no’ be,
he cried silently. Only moments ago, he had been fully prepared to hear the healer tell him his wife was dying from the wasting disease or some other horrible illness. Not once did his mind ever allow him to think she might be with child.

A thousand thoughts and worries collided in his mind. When he stepped forward and looked into his wife’s pain-filled eyes, he nearly came undone. Frantically, he searched for the right words, for a way to express to her his utter sorrow.

’Twas his own fault. Every day, like a rutting roebuck, he sought his pleasures with Rose. Morning and night, he loved her. Hell, he’d even forgone his noonin’ meal in exchange for the chance to love her.

Desperately, he wanted to go to her on bended knee and beg her forgiveness. Suddenly, he understood why her first husband had kept away from her. It hadn’t been his age, as Ian had previously thought. Nay, ’twas his love for her. He’d rather suffer a disembowlment than to have his wife suffer even the smallest of anguish.

“I be so sorry, Rose,” he stammered.

“Bah!” Angrabraid said. “Ye both be actin’ as though the world be at an end.”

Anger flared inside his heart. “Ye do no’ understand, auld woman! She can no’ carry a babe to term!”

The auld woman stepped forward, eyes filled with fury. “I do no’ care if ye be the king of Scotia, ye wee fool, ye do no’ call me auld!”

Ian leaned down so he could look her squarely in her auld, yellow eyes. “That be me wife lyin’ abed, her heart breakin’ into a thousand pieces because I got her with child and she can no’ carry past her third month!”

Squinting her eyes, Angrabaid shoved her bony hands onto her hips, undaunted and unafraid of the man standing before her. “That shows how much ye ken, ye troll-eyed eejit! She already be in her fourth month!”