Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (5 page)

“Good morn to ye, husband.”

Nay, he could not have heard her correctly.
That is no’ Rose and she did
no’
just call me husband!

He felt a knee sink into the bed, then a warm hand lifting his head. “Aggie brought this to ye earlier,” she explained. “’Twill help ye feel better.”

He was suddenly struck with such fear and trepidation, he could not respond. She poured the liquid into his mouth. It tasted awful, but at least it helped to soothe his parched mouth and tongue.

Rose giggled sweetly. “Will ye look at us? Married less than a day and already I be nursin’ ye back to health.”

Husband? Married? Nay!

He must have spoken his thoughts aloud, for she giggled again. “Aye, ye are me husband and I be yer wife,” she told him. “Do ye no’ remember?”

Oh, would that he could! He prayed fervently for some tiny sliver of a memory that would prove she was jesting, but his mind was as blank and dark as a cave at midnight. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to find the courage to open his eyes. Convinced that when he did, Rose would be laughing at him and would admit the truth: that she was simply jesting as some demented way of getting even with him for going back on his word.

But when he opened his eyes, he did not find any such expression to either ally his fears or prove he was correct.

Nay, there was no jest, no humor in her eyes. Instead, those big blue eyes of hers were filled with adoration and happiness.

Fear overtook him. He sat up so quickly that his head spun and he nearly retched. He did not let that stop him from scurrying from his bed. “This be a mistake,” he declared. He was having a rather difficult time forming any kind of coherent thought, let alone the ability to put voice to what he was feeling.

The adoration he’d seen only a moment ago, turned instantly to hurt. “A mistake?” she asked.

Giving his head a rapid nod — a movement he instantly regretted — he said, “Aye! A mistake!”

She stared at him in dismay. “’Twas yer own idea, Ian. Do ye no’ remember?”

He thrust his hands onto his hips only to realize he was standing before her completely naked. Immediately he began searching for his clothes. “Nay, I most certainly do no’ remember!”

“I do no’ ken why ye’re shoutin’ at me,” Rose said. “’Twas
ye
that insisted — nay,
demanded —
we be married. Ye said ye regretted yer decision to break our troth and could no’ live the rest of yer life without me.”

He gave up searching for his trews. He needed to get out of his chamber as quickly as possible. He found his plaid lying on the floor on the other side of his bed. “I was drunk,” he told her. “I was in no condition to marry anyone!”

She quirked one delicate eyebrow. “Ye regret marryin’ me then?”

Were he not so flummoxed, so stupefied, and so hung over, he might have been able to have a more intelligent conversation on the matter. “Aye, I regret it!”

Without his boots or so much as a by-your-leave or a backward glance, he quit the room in such a hurry, one would have thought his arse had just caught fire.

* * *

S
ilently fuming
, she watched him leave. For a long moment, she sat on the edge of the bed, holding on to tears she was determined not to shed. One moment she felt as though her heart had been cleaved in twain; the next, she was mad enough to tear the door from its hinges. Ian had been confusing and confounding her for weeks now. And for the life of her she could not figure out why. Last night, he had sworn on his mother’s grave that he cared not if she ever bore him a child, he loved her either way. If that was not what was holding him back, then what was?

At the very least she felt he owed her an explanation. Something more than
ye deserve better than me.

They had shared so many things, when they’d been at the McLaren keep. After Mermadak had set the keep ablaze, she had willingly stayed behind with Ian, to help tend to those who had been too injured from the fire, or too sick to travel to Mackintosh lands. Together, they had worked hard to feed those people, kept them warm through that brutal winter by living in the old granary.

But the moment they had set foot on Mackintosh land weeks ago, everything between them began to change. Gone was the camaraderie, the stolen kisses, the playful jesting and friendship they had forged. Ian no longer sought her out to share their meals together or inquired how she fared.

Then he’d come to her a week ago and said he was breaking the promise he had made to her that winter. He no longer wished to marry her.

Just like that, her hopes and dreams of building a life with him were shattered. Gone in the blink of an eye and without an explanation. At least not one that made any sense.

She’d had her fill of his brooding, his silence, and his poor attitude. “I refuse to shed another tear over this man,” she blurted out.

Quickly, she jumped to her feet, grabbed her gown from the floor and slipped into it. “Ye only
thought
ye regretted yer words last night, Ian Mackintosh. But ye’ve yet to feel
true
regret. Ye do no’ yet ken the meanin’ of the word.”

* * *

H
is only focus
was to get to the loch. Hopefully, if there was a good, kind God, He’d see His way to helping him drown.

The moment his bare feet sank in the mud He regretted not grabbing his boots on his mad dash out of his room. Figuring it didn’t matter, he ignored the cold muck between his toes and continued his fast forward progress toward the loch. He also ignored the curious stares of his clansmen as well as the questions they tossed his way.

Thundering across the courtyard, through the open gate, and down the hill, he finally reached his destination. Thankfully, no one was about. He pulled his plaid away, letting it fall to the grass, and walked straight into the frigid water.
What in the bloody hell have I done?
He cursed inwardly as he dove under the water. He held his breath until his lungs felt close to bursting. With a swift kick, he tore through the water, up and out, gasping for air.
Ye can no’ even drown yerself, ye coward.

The cold water did little to douse the multitude of feelings coursing through his veins or the thoughts crashing around in his mind. Pulling in a big breath, he dove under the water and swam away from the grassy bank. His muscles ached with a vengeance, as did his heart.

He loved Rose. Loved her deeply. Aye, the realization had caught him completely off guard all those months ago. He had tried to fight the new and perplexing feelings, the feelings he didn’t understand at the time. But his resolve to never end up like his father and brothers — completely devoted to and besotted with their wives — gave way to his weak heart.

He broke through the surface once again and floated on his back. Closing his eyes against the bright afternoon sun, he thought back on the last year of his life.

Rose was different from other women he knew. As fierce as a cat-o-mountain and possessing an inner strength that bewildered him, his mind was unable to battle against his heart, and before he comprehended what was happening, he was in love.

He could remember the exact moment he realized he was doomed. ’Twas during the fire at the McLaren keep, when large flames tore through the roof, piercing the night sky like fingers reaching out from the bowels of hell. He’d lost sight of her, of this beautiful woman who somehow managed to perturb him and impress him at the same time.

During that long moment when he thought he’d lost her to the fire, he was quite certain his heart had been torn from his chest. Never in his life had he experienced such fear, such gut-wrenching anguish. Certain he’d lost the one person he loved more than anyone else in this world, the pain nearly brought him to his knees.

One moment he was convinced he’d lost her, so consumed with grief he could not move, but in the next, when he saw her dashing out of the keep, alive and well, the relief and utter joy was just as intense as the grief he’d felt a heartbeat earlier.

’Twas his undoing.

After that tiny moment in time, he’d never been able to deny his love for her.

Weeks later, after he confessed his feelings to her, he had proposed and, much to his relief, she had accepted.

They made plans to marry as soon as they returned to his home, to Mackintosh lands.

But when they returned and he watched Frederick’s agony, his suffering, his worry that he’d lose Aggie as she lay in bed, poisoned, giving birth to a babe far too early, fear began to consume Ian. He could not fathom ever having to watch his Rose suffer as Aggie had. Nay, he did not worry she’d be poisoned. But other things, far less sinister, could take her from him. He could not bear the thought. Could not imagine having to live his life without her.

Aggie and the babe had survived and both were now quite hale and hearty. Little Ada, just as beautiful as her mum, was flourishing and it seemed things were looking up for his brother and new family. ’Twas a miracle that either had lived and Frederick celebrated that fact on a daily basis.

Ian hadn’t wanted to hurt Rose, truly he hadn’t. But ’twas better he break her heart now, than end up disappointing her later.

His heart began to feel heavy again. Taking another deep breath, he rolled over and dove down to the bottom of the loch.
There has to be a way out of this marriage,
he thought before planting his feet on the rocky bottom and shooting back up to the surface.

As he broke through, he caught sight of someone standing on the bank. Wiping the water from his eyes, he was able to see who it was.

Rose.

And she looked mad enough to kill.

* * *

G
od’s teeth
he was handsome!

It had not taken long to discover Ian had gone to the loch. As soon as she stepped into the gathering room, people were all too happy to point her in the right direction. Now she stood staring at him, all braw muscle and power. The sight of his bare bottom was enough to make her want to swoon. Or take a nibble out of each crescent moon shaped buttock that bounced in the water.

His wet blonde locks clung to his neck and shoulders: unparalleled muscular shoulders that looked as though they’d been carved from granite. Hard, sinewy, powerful shoulders, and a chest she wanted very much to feel pressed hard against her own.

Aye, he was a braw warrior, as beautiful as he was stupid.

Pushing away her physical desire, she glared at him. Determined to have both a sensible answer as to why he’d broken the troth, as well as the last word, she called out. “I want to have a word with ye, Ian Mackintosh.”

He looked terrified.
Good,
she thought to herself.
Ye should be.

If she thought he’d swim right up to her and beg forgiveness, she’d have a long wait.

She could well imagine him being stubborn enough to refuse to get out of the water. Stubborn enough to wait until the loch froze over, and then he’d probably still remain.

“Are ye afraid to talk to me?” she asked.

“I be naked,” he shouted back.