Ian snorted derisively. “That is if the Bowie cooperates.”
Knowing what he did of the Bowie’s former laird, of the sick and demented pleasure he took in torturing people, Ian could only pray their new laird was not thusly inclined.
* * *
The following morning, while the messengers prepared to leave, Ian went to the tent where the injured were recovering. He found Leona tending to Rodrick. Seeing her offering such tender care to their traitor was enough to make his blood boil.
“Why do ye tend to him?” he asked her as he stood over the sickly Rodrick. She was wiping the man’s brow with a cool cloth.
“Why do ye believe he be a traitor?” she asked without taking her eyes away from the sleeping man.
Ian glowered at her. “There be no other explanation fer how the gate was opened,” Ian replied.
Looking up at him from her seat, she studied him closely for a moment. “Are ye certain Rodrick be the one who left it open?”
Ian glowered at her. “Do ye doubt me judgment?”
“Nay, m’laird,” she answered softly. “But in truth, I would like to hear from the man’s own lips before I judge and convict him.”
“Can ye tell me any other way it happened?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“I have no answer fer that at all, m’laird. I wish I did.”
Ian was just about to respond when Brogan rushed into the tent. “Ian!” he called out. “Come quick! We have word of Rose.”
* * *
Racing from the tent, Ian followed his brother to the armory. Inside the newly repaired stone building, stood a group of men huddled around a long table. Something had their full attention.
Making his way through, Ian stopped dead in his tracks. There upon the table was an arrow, a parchment, and a blood-stained piece of linen.
“Gunter and Able were mannin’ the walls when a man on horse appeared,” Brogan explained. “He called out that he had a message fer our laird, then knocked an arrow. It landed on our gate, and these things were attached.”
Numb and mute, all Ian could do was stare at the objects.
“We did no’ read the parchment,” Brogan said as he picked up the scroll and tried handing it to his brother. Realizing he could not tear his eyes away from the bloody cloth, Brogan broke the seal and began to read it.
“’Tis from Rutger Bowie,” he said, pausing to read silently what the rest of the missive said.
“She is alive,” Brogan said breathlessly, with much relief.
Ian closed his eyes, wanting with all his heart to believe ’twas the truth. A dull ache had formed in his skull days ago. There was no amount of sleep, no special herb, no amount of ale that would diminish it. The only cure for it would be to get his wife back.
“This can no’ be,” Brogan said. He’d read and re-read the demands three times.
“What is it?” Charles McFarland asked from his position behind Brogan.
Brogan looked up from the parchment. “Ian, ye need to read his demands.”
Shaking away images of his possibly dead wife, he finally took the parchment in hand. When he finished, he slowly raised his head to look at his brother. Though they looked nothing alike, their expressions were mirror images of one another: sheer fury.
“He wants thirty-thousand groats fer Rose’s return,” Brogan said.
“We do no’ have thirty-thousand groats,” Ian replied.
“He wants it in seven days time.”
“We do no’ have seven days.”
Brogan swallowed hard. “I’ve already sent word to our father.”
“He does no’ have that kind of coin either.”
“And to Frederick.”
Ian raised one angry brow. “Neither does Frederick. And neither of them can get here in time.”
Not ready to give up hope just yet, Brogan looked from his brother to the men. “I need ten men mounted and ready to leave within the hour. Pack enough supplies fer a sennight.”
“Where are we goin’?” someone from the back of the room asked.
“To have a wee chat with Rutger Bowie,” Brogan answered over the growing din of conversation. Turning back to his brother, he said, “I will no’ give up hope that she is alive and well, as his missive states. I will also no’ give up hope that we can get her back.”
* * *
“Ye be too furious, Ian. Ye’ll serve none of us, includin’ Rose, by goin’ along,” Brogan said firmly.
The courtyard was a flurry of activity. Food and supplies were packed and the horses readied. A young lad held the reins to Brogan’s gray speckled gelding, while he adjusted the straps to the saddle and tried to get his brother to see reason.
“She is me wife, Brogan,” Ian argued. “I should be the one to kill Rutger Bowie.” He glared at the back of his brother’s head. “And might I also remind ye that I be chief of this clan, no’ ye?”
“And that is why ye should no’ go. I have no intention to kill the man,” he said, giving one hard tug on the leather strap. “But I can promise ye that when the time comes to take his life, I will leave the blood lettin’ to ye. Fer now, we must try to convince him to agree to different terms.”
Ian had no interest in terms. All he wanted was to get his wife back and kill Rugter for taking her. Sick with worry over her safety, as well as the babe she carried, he knew he was not thinking with the clearest of minds. “I will look a coward to everyone if I stay behind and hide.”
Brogan spun around to face him. “Ye? A coward? Nay, none could ever say that about ye. If ye’ll set yer anger aside, ye’ll see this makes more sense. I shall ask fer a meetin’ with the Bowie, no’ only to gauge the man’s character, but to gain knowledge of his men and the inside of his keep. And, ’twill give us time.”
“Time?” Ian ground out. “Time is no’ a luxury me wife possesses at the moment. Might I remind ye she is heavy with child? A child we thought we’d never be blessed with?”
“Ye need no’ remind me,” Brogan answered. “’Tis one more reason ye should no’ go. We have never met this man. We do no’ ken if he is simply a man motivated by greed or somethin’ more.” He regretted the last part as soon as it left his lips.
Fury blazed brightly in Ian’s eyes. “Like his predecessor?” he asked, referring to Eduard Bowie.
“Aye, like his predecessor,” Brogan answered ashamedly. “But I make ye this promise. If he will no’ allow me to see Rose with me own eyes, I will drag the bloody bastard back here and allow ye to do to him what ye will.”
Aside from having his wife back in his arms, killing Rutger Bowie was the only thing that kept him moving forward.
* * *
Ian had not slept in days; his worry and grief over the raid and Rose’s kidnapping plagued him. His best friend since childhood, Andrew the Red, had died protecting her.
No matter where he turned, where he looked, there was a reminder of that God-forsaken night. Huts with charred walls and no roofs, the cloying scent of blood that he swore still permeated the air. The sorrowful and forlorn faces of those left behind.
If he did not gain some semblance of control over his emotions, madness would most assuredly set in. To keep his sanity, he dedicated himself to directing the men and women in repairing the huts and the others parts of the keep that had been destroyed in the raid. The hard work distracted him a little; it was good to be working, to be doing something constructive. The clanspeople appreciated it as well. It showed them he had not given up on the future; he was still their leader, even in the worst of times.
At the end of each day, when he finally allowed himself the time to rest, ’twas to no avail. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw his beautiful wife’s face. And on those rare occasions when he managed to sleep, his dreams haunted him. In them, Rose was afraid, calling out his name, pleading with unknown enemies for mercy — never for herself, but always for her babe.
Visions haunted him of Rose being trapped in some hell-hole of a dungeon, or imprisone
d in a tower, of her being tortured, set afire, hanged. No matter the dream, the outcome was the same; she and their babe would die.
Guilt was the heavy cross he bore. Guilt because he had not been there that fateful night. He had let his wife and babe down. He had let the clan down. Even Frederick and Aggie who had entrusted this most important project to him. He was no chief. He was an utter failure.
Fury was the one thing that kept him taking one breath after another, kept his heart beating, kept him upright and moving throughout the day.
Revenge was his motivation to push his men harder than he’d ever pushed before. If they were not rebuilding the lost huts, they were training for a battle that would most assuredly come. Though he did not know the day nor hour of that future battle, in his heart, he knew ’twas inevitable. Even if Rose and their babe survived and he somehow managed to gain their freedom, he would exact his revenge on Rutger Bowie. Even if it killed him.
22
Alec Bowie badly wanted peace for his clan. But with his older brother Rutger as its chief, peace would be a long time coming.
They sat across from one another in ornately carved, padded chairs in front of the hearth in Rutger’s study. ’Twas long after the midnight hour and most of the inhabitants were abed, save for a few men still drinking ale in the gathering room. Occasionally, Alec could hear laughter floating down the hallway.
So ’twas just he and his brother now, sipping fine whisky and enjoying the warmth of the fire. He knew he must tread softly when broaching nearly any topic with his brother. Rutger was by far the most impatient man he’d ever known.
“How fares our hostage?” Rutger asked with an air of indifference.
Alec took a slow sip of uisage beatha before answering. “As well as we could expect under the circumstances.”
“I am told ye went against me orders to have her put in the dungeon.”
“Aye, I did defy yer order,” Alec answered coolly. “I felt it best we keep her and her babe alive, else we’ll never see one sillar from Ian Mackintosh.” Or if we want to get out of this mess ye’ve created with our skulls still attached to our bodies and our hearts still beatin.
Rutger drew his gaze away from the fire to study his brother. “We outnumber the McLarens ten to one,” he reminded him. “They’ll no’ attack. He’ll pay. And gladly to have his pretty wife back.”
Alec knew ’twas more like five to one, but he’d felt it best not to be irksome. He had to remain on Rutger’s good side in order to keep Rose Mackintosh alive.
“Ye still feel this was a mistake? Our takin’ the McLaren’s wife?” Downing the rest of his whisky, he set the empty cup on the table beside his chair.
“Nay.” ’Twas an outright lie. One he prayed his brother was too drunk or too arrogant to see through.
“But ye still want peace?” Rugter asked.
With a nonchalant shrug, Alec said, “I no longer ken if peace is possible or just a dream of a naive young man.” But one can always hope.
Rutger laughed loudly. “Och, brother o’ mine! I’ll have peace. Peace of mind and freedom from worry once Ian Mackintosh pays the ransom fer his wife!” He slapped a hand on his knee, delighted with his own jest.
Alec offered him a smile, downed the rest of his whisky and pulled himself to his feet. “While ye dream of peace of mind, I shall go seek me peace elsewhere,” he jested.
Rutger laughed again. “Anyone I ken?”
“I have several to choose from. Mayhap I shall choose more than one this night?”
“Of course ye will,” Rutger said with just a hint of jealousy. Alec was by far the more handsome of the two brothers. There was always a young lass all too willing to share his younger brother’s bed. “But do me a favor and leave Patrice be.”
Quirking a curious brow, Alec asked, “Ye have yer heart set on her then?”
“I might. Then again, I might no’.”
’Twas as close an admission of admiration for any woman Alec had ever heard from his brother. “Verra well, I shall leave Patrice to ye.”
With a bow, he left his brother alone in the empty room. The last thing on his mind was bedding anyone, no matter how pretty or amiable. Nay, his mind was solely focused on how he could keep Rose Mackintosh alive and his brother’s head attached to its shoulders.
23
The snow had begun to melt days ago, leaving the ground a muddy mess. By the time they reached the Bowie keep, Brogan and his men were covered from head to toe in muck. He was cold, soaked to the bone, and furious.
Rutger Bowie had kept them waiting outside the gates for hours, until the sun had set and the sky grew dark, filled with more promise of rain. In war, some of the hardest fought battles were those of the mind and heart. Rutger was making them wait on purpose, as was oft done in times of battle or negotiation. He and his men built a small fire and ate in silence as they waited for word from within.
’Twas as formidable a keep as any, Brogan supposed. Three stories tall, surrounded by a moat, four towers on each corner. Large fires burned in braziers all along the upper wall. Dozens of men stood at the ready, as if an attack were imminent. ’Twas meant to instill fear into the heart of any man who even thought of such a folly. But as Brogan knew, no keep, no castle, was completely safe or fortified.
By the time the order to lower the drawbridge was given, Brogan was fighting mad. Tamping down his ire and setting his anger aside, he gave the order to proceed. He’d take half his men inside the keep with him. The others would remain a safe distance away in case Rutger decided to do something foolish, such as ignore the white banner of peace they carried.
Slowly, they crossed over the drawbridge, the sounds of clopping hooves against the wood echoing into the quiet night. The courtyard was lit with torches and more large fires. The moment he entered the large, cobblestone yard, men began spilling out like roaches. They were not here to attack, but to guard them.
Men took their horses in hand, stopping them just shy of another small wall that surrounded the fortress. They dismounted in silence, surreptitiously scanning the space. Each taking mental notes of the number of men, the size of the walls, dark spaces where light from torches did not touch.
Through a large gate in the smaller wall, they entered another courtyard. Silently, they were led up the stone steps and into the keep.
What fate awaited them inside, none of them knew. Brogan only cared about two things: setting eyes on Rose and meeting Rutger Bowie.
* * *
Brogan sat at a long table, across from the Bowie. He was unimpressed. Average in height and looks, with a well-fed belly, he was dressed regally, in a heavily brocaded jerkin over a fine silk tunic. Gold rings with ruby and emerald insets covered nearly all his fingers. A diamond encrusted pin held his plaid in place and thick chains of gold hung from his neck.
Before them lay a feast. Duck, pheasant, venison, sweetmeats, roasted vegetables, and countless flagons of wine.
At each entrance to the room, men stood in the shadows. Brogan could not make out any of their faces, but had no doubt they were there to protect their laird. He counted nine in all.
’Twas no wonder he’d kidnapped Rose. The fool spent lavishly on a lifestyle he could ill afford.
“Eat up!” Rugter said joyfully as he poured himself a cup of red wine. “’Tis no’ often we receive guests such as ye.”
A servant girl appeared beside Brogan, a heavy platter of venison in her hands. Brogan waved away the offering. “Had I kent we were feastin’ this night, I would no’ have eaten with me men. But thank ye, laird.”
Indifferent, Rutger piled his own trencher with various foods and set about eating. “So to what do we owe the honor of yer visit?” he asked with a mouthful of venison.
“I think ye ken why I be here,” Brogan replied before taking a sip of ale.
“The McLaren’s wife,” Bowie said before plopping a large fig into his mouth. “I can assure ye, she fares well. She be in one of me finest rooms above stairs.
”
“I should like to see fer meself how she fares.”
Wiping greasy hands on the tablecloth, Rutger eyed him suspiciously for a long moment. “Ye do no’ trust me?”
“Ye seem an intelligent man, Bowie. I doubt ye’d do anythin’ to harm me sister-by-law. After all, she be worth a fair amount of gold, aye?”
Rutger laughed boldly, probably more than was necessary. “Callum!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Bring down the wench.”
A young man, tall and slender of build, with dark hair, did his master’s bidding. He bounded up the stairs and disappeared down a dark corridor.
“Have ye brought the ransom with ye?” Rutger asked, his tone hopeful.
Brogan gave a slow shake of his head. “We do no’ have that kind of coin.”
Anger flashed briefly behind the Bowie’s eyes. “Then why are ye here?”
“To negotiate. It would take ten lifetimes fer us to obtain the vast amount ye be askin’ fer. We are hopin’ ye’d settle fer less.”
Rutger leaned back in his chair, suspicion filling his eyes. “Less?” he asked. “How much less?”
“We be a verra poor clan,” Brogan began. “I fear we can only gather two-hundred and thirty-seven groats.”
Rutger was silent for a long while before bursting forth into a fit of laughter. “Ye had me believin’ ye fer a moment, Mackintosh!” Greedily, he drank from his cup of wine before plunking it down on the table. “I ken ye have far, far more than that.”
Movement from the staircase caught Brogan’s eye. Rose was gradually descending the stairs with one hand on the young lad’s arm. Slowly, he stood, quietly masking the relief at seeing her. As far as he could tell, she appeared uninjured. And from her angry expression, she was faring quite well.
Dressed in a fine wine colored gown, her blond locks coiled around her head, she looked as regal and ladylike as ever he’d seen her. “Rose,” he said as she approached.
“Brogan,” she replied through clenched teeth. Turning to glower at Rutger, she said, “I hope ye are here to tell this son of a whore where he can put his ransom demands.”
Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 19
