Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (34 page)

Ian gave a slow shake of his head. “Ye’ll be goin’ nowhere this night, Bowie.”

“Me brother said ye agreed to a peace accord,” Rutger stammered as he tried to get the bridle on the uncooperative horse’s head with one hand. “Are ye goin’ back on yer word?”

Another slow shake and a few steps forward. “Nay, I be keepin’ me word. Ye have to the count of three to make up yer mind, Bowie. Peace or death.”

Fed up with the bridle, Bowie tossed it against the stable wall. The horse whinnied and stomped his foot. Rutger took a startled step backward, away from Ian. “I’ll no’ go down without a fight, McLaren.”

With his sword pointed at Ian and a crazed look in his eyes, Rutger knew he was trapped. He tried retreating, but soon found himself trapped behind the horse.

Without a word, he growled and lunged at Ian, who was able to shove him away before the sword could do any harm. Thus, the battle between two enraged and obstinate men began.

Haphazardly, Rutger lashed out, his sword slicing through the air. On one downward motion, it landed hard on the dirt floor.

Ian met each of the blows by either blocking them or taking steps backward. To and fro, back and forth, most of Rutger’s thrusts and jabs hit inoffensive air.

They ended up circling back, fighting betwixt the wall and the nervous steed. The black stallion pawed at the hard earth, screaming loudly at the combat taking place so close to him. He reared back, breaking one of the cross ties, just as Ian and Rutger made their way around him.

“I’ll see ye burn in hell before ye leave this night,” Ian declared, his voice determined, his jaw set.

“Then we’ll both burn in hell, ye bloody bastard!” Rutger ground out as he lunged forward.

Ian pushed him back and away while thrusting his sword into the man’s belly. Rutger landed against the horse, which screamed again and reared frantically. Before Ian knew what was happening, the horse kicked and pawed at Rutger, sending him to the earth beneath its hooves.

The chief’s scream could not be heard over the violent sounds of the horse’s cries, or as his hoofs trampled Rutger Bowie to death.

A
lec had managed
to hold off several of his brother’s guards, but not unfazed or uninjured. One of them managed to slice through his left forearm, tearing the skin to the bone. Hot, searing pain shot from his fingertips to his ears. Blood raced down his arm and off his fingertips.

Just as two men were coming toward him, Frederick Mackintosh and his men burst into the gathering room. The sound of wood splintering and men shouting drew their attention away from Alec.

He took the opportunity to slip out and make his way to the bowels of the keep. As he stumbled through the dark hallways, he ripped the bottom of his tunic with his teeth, tearing off a strip. Holding one end with his teeth, he tied the linen around his forearm as taut as possible to staunch the bleeding.

All the while, his heart pounded in his chest and he prayed that Rutger had not given the order to kill Leona.

Dizzy with dread and pain, he shook the images from his mind as he pulled open the heavy iron door that led to the dungeon. Removing one of the torches from the wall, he carefully made his way down the stone stairs. The large room was empty, save for tables and implements of torture left over from Eduard Bowie’s rule.

The first three cells were empty, save for rotten rushes and the carcasses of rats. Holding the torch high, he almost missed her. She was lying on her side in the far corner of the cell, curled into a tight ball.

Searching feverishly for the key, he called to her. “Leona. Leona, I be here, lass.”

She did not move so much as a muscle.

Cursing under his breath, overwrought with worry, he eventually found the key lying on a small table. Quickly, he returned to her cell, sheathed his sword and unlocked the iron door.

Shoving the torch into a wall sconce, he knelt beside her. “Leona.” He called out to her in a harsh whisper as he lifted her head up, showing great care. Pressing his fingertips against her throat, he let out a relieved breath when he felt her pulse. ’Twas slow, but ’twas a pulse.

Pushing the hair away from her face, he gasped when he saw how badly she had been beaten. One eye was completely swollen shut, her lips cut in three places. Blood had dried and caked on her chin and her neck.

“Leona, lass,” he said in a hushed, nearly reverent tone.

Her eyes fluttered, but she was only able to open one. ’Twas the dark green eye that stared back at him. “Alec,” she whispered, her voice scratchy and low. “Ye came back fer me.”

“Aye, lass, I promised ye I would.”

* * *

I
an could not find
it in his heart to feel any remorse for how Rutger Bowie had died. Although he would have preferred to disembowel the man, tie him to a stake and watch the ants devour him over the course of several days, at least he was dead. He could no longer harm anyone, least of all his Rose or their child.

Most of the fighting had ceased when Ian left the stables and went inside the castle. Inside, those cold, dark gray walls were many Bowie men, most but not all of them dead.

Ian scanned the space, looking for signs of Donnel McLaren and Charles McFarland. He found Donnel dead, hidden under the bodies of two other slain Bowie warriors. ‘Twas another slow and painful death he’d not get to witness.

Seamus sought him out to let him know there were prisoners, and one of them was Charles McFarland. They were being held in the rear yard, between the castle and the kitchens. Ian wasted no time in seeking the traitor out. Mayhap, just mayhap, he’d get to punish at least one of the men responsible for his wife’s kidnapping and the subsequent war.

Charles was sprawled on the ground. It took only a cursory glance of the young man to realize he was not long for this world. His skin was ashen, for he’d lost a good deal of blood from a large gash on his head and the gaping wound left by someone’s sword that tore across his stomach and chest. Ian made a mental note to reward the man responsible for gutting Charles later.

“Ian,” Charles called to him weakly.

Ian crouched low curiously.

“Ian, I be sorry. ’Twas no’ supposed to happen like this.”

Ian raised a brow. If the man thought he’d get absolution from Ian Mackintosh, he was sadly mistaken.

“
T
hey said
they only wanted to steal a few head of cattle. I did no’ ken about their plans to take Rose, I swear to ye, I did no’ ken.” He coughed, winced, and forced himself to continue. “By the time I knew, ’twas too late.”

“And ye did no’ think to come to me?” Ian asked. “To tell me who had her? Ye did nothin’ to help aid in her escape.”

“He would have killed me,” Charles said, his voice raspy, the pain intensifying. “But I suppose it does no’ matter now.”

The man’s skin was turning ashen. Ian knew he’d be dead soon. A long burning question loomed. “Who be the other traitor?” Ian asked.

Sweat formed on Charles’s brow. “There be no other. ‘Twas Rutger’s way of playin’ with yer mind, leavin’ ye to trust no one.”

Ian let out a quick breath though he shouldn’t have been surprised. The Bowie chief was as much a liar as he was a thief.

With little time left, there were other matters to discuss. “Ye nearly killed Rodrick. He was yer friend.”

He shook his head. “Aye, I did, and fer that, I will go to me death feelin’ no remorse. Neither do I feel remorse fer takin’ Eggar Wardwin’s life. They had discovered the truth, ye see. I did it to protect meself and me sister.”

’Twas as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Charles had killed Eggar? Fury burned in his gut, but there were still many unanswered questions. “Yer sister?” Ian asked. ’Twas the first time he’d ever mentioned a sister.

“Aye, her name be Muriel. Rutger and Donnel, they said they were holdin’ her here, as prisoner.” He coughed again, this time spitting up blood. “But I found out only days ago, she is no’ here but on Skye, with Rose and Leona’s aunt.”

Rose and Leona’s aunt? As far as Ian knew, his wife had no living relatives. “Rose has no aunt,” Ian told him.

“Aye, she does. Rose’s mum and Leona’s were cousins, ye ken,” he closed his eyes, his breathing becoming more labored as the moments passed by. “Leona’s da? He be a cousin to Donnel. That is how I ken.”

So his wife and Leona were cousins? That would explain the eerie similarities in their appearance. “But why does Rose’s aunt have yer sister?”

“The aunt, her name be Kathryn MacCabe, she be Donnel’s sister, the woman who has me Muriel. He lied and told her,” he stopped talking, wracked by coughing he could not stop. “’Twas all fer lies,” he said through deep gasps for air.

As he watched Charles McFarland take his last breath, Ian could derive no pleasure in it. If what the man said was true, he had lied to protect his sister. For that, the laird could not blame him. Still, he should have come to Ian and explained everything to him. He would have done whatever he could to help the young man. Instead, he chose another route and put his trust in the hands of madmen. ’Twas his own fault he was dead.

As for Rose and Leona? He could well imagine the beaming smiles they would have when they learned they were in fact cousins.

As for Ingerame? Why did he not mention he and Donnel were cousins when they first learned he was involved with all of this? Was it fear or was he also a traitor?

As fer Muriel McFarland? Until moments ago, he’d never heard of the woman. Or she could have been a young maid or a bairn for all he knew. He doubted he would ever know, for that information died with Charles. He could only hope, for Muriel’s sake, that Donnel’s sister was kinder than her brother had ever been.

He stood to his full height and looked about the yard. The two people he did not see were Alec Bowie and Leona.

Leaving the yard, he made his way back into the keep to search for them. Just as he passed into the gathering room, Alec appeared from one of the dark hallways. He had Leona in his arms.

* * *

H
ealers were called
from both the Bowie clan as well as those Frederick and Rowan had brought with them.

Alec refused to leave Leona’s side. “She be me responsibility,” he yelled at Ian. “Tend to her first.”

“If she dies, me wife will never fergive me,” Ian told his brother as they both ignored Alec Bowie’s protests.

Leona was laid out on the table in the gathering room. Someone had covered her with a blanket while someone else banked the fire. One of Rowan’s men was tending to her injuries.

“Alec, if ye do no’ sit down, I shall have ye tied to the chandelier!” ’Twas his own healer, a handsome woman Ian estimated to be in her early thirties.

Ian looked up and glowered at Alec. “Fer the sake of Christ, man, sit down! Ye’ll do no one any good if ye die. Yer clan needs ye now more than ever.”

“But it be me fault Leona was beaten,” Alec argued.

“Och, it is, is it?” Ian asked. “Did ye beat her?”

“Of course I did no’ beat her!”

“Then it be no’ yer fault. Now sit down!” he barked.

Like a chastised child, Alec sat and allowed his healer to tend to the gaping wound in his forearm.

“If ye’re lucky, ye’ll live. If ye’re smart and follow me orders, ye’ll get to keep yer arm,” she told him as she began washing the blood away.

Rowan’s healer, Marcus Graham, finished his cursory examination of Leona. “Please tell me the man who beat her is dead?” he asked as he looked up at Ian and Frederick.

“Aye,” Ian answered. “He is.”

“Good,” he said before returning to Leona’s face. Dipping a cloth in the basin of water, he began washing the blood from her face and neck. She moaned something incoherent and batted his hand away.

“I believe she will live,” he said. “But she will need plenty of rest. I do no’ find any broken bones, thank the gods.”

“Can she travel?” Ian asked.

“Aye, she can. But I’d let her rest here fer a day or two.”

Rowan appeared by their sides to let Ian know all the surviving Bowies were accounted for and being held in the armory. “Do ye wish to take Leona to me keep?” he asked Ian.

Rowan’s keep was a damned sight better than his own. At least there, Leona could get the rest she needed. And she could be reunited with Rose. “Aye, I think that would be best. But I do no’ like the idea of leavin’ her here alone.”

Alec spoke up then. His face pale, his expression odd. “I’ll take her to Rowan’s,” he said.

Ian, Frederick and Rowan cast curious glances among themselves.

“I do no’ think ye’re in any condition to travel,” Frederick pointed out, with a nod toward the man’s injured arm.

“This?” Alec scoffed. “’Tis but a scratch.”

Ian doubted there was anything save death that would get Alec to change his mind. “Verra well,” he said. “But I will be leavin’ ten of me best men here to watch over her.” What he didn’t say was,
and to watch over ye.

Alec looked relieved. His healer looked bemused as she muttered something that sounded like
daft men
under her breath.

* * *

L
ate that afternoon
, Ian, Frederick, Rowan and their men crossed back over the drawbridge of the Bowie keep. In a few days, Ian would be back with his wife. He looked forward to telling her Rutger, Donnel and Charles were all dead. Never again would the bastards cast shadows on this earth. And never again would they bring harm to her.