Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens

by Suzan Tisdale

  Ian considered that for a moment. “Chances are better that Charles came upon him from behind. I can no’ see him woundin’, let alone killin’ Rodrick otherwise.”

  “Has Rodrick awakened yet?” Brogan asked.

  “Nay, but his fevers finally broke this morn,” Ian informed him. “Angrabraid is hopeful he will recover.”

  Brogan was relieved to hear it. “But who could the other traitor be?”

  “I do no’ ken. I would guess it to be someone who comes and goes unnoticed. Someone we’d least expect.” A thought formed in the back of his mind then. “Someone who disappears fer days at a time. Someone who is able to get in and out of the keep without suspicion.” He did no’ like where his mind was taking him, but take him there it did.

  Brogan studied him closely for a moment, trying to ascertain who Ian suspected. “Who?” he asked in a low tone.

  “Bloody hell!” Ian ground out. Jumping to his feet, he slammed his cup onto his desk and stormed out of the tent.

  Brogan was fast on his heels.

  * * *

  Ian stormed into the large tent. He found her just where he knew he would, hovering over Rodrick the Bold. In the dim light of the tent, her resemblance to Rose was quite remarkable. His wife had considered this woman a friend, which made the betrayal all the harder to swallow.

  Seething with fury, he crossed the tent in a few short strides. Her eyes grew wide with puzzlement as he approached. “M’laird?”

  Grabbing an arm, he pulled her to her feet. “With me. Now.”

  Brogan watched in stunned horror as Ian pulled the confused and terrified Leona Macdowall outside. “Ian!” he called out after his brother. “What are ye doin’?”

  Ian did not utter a single word. He all but dragged Leona across the yard and into the armory. “Out!” he barked a command. “Everyone out!”

  Men scrambled to get out of their laird’s way as he shoved Leona into a chair. The angry tick in his jaw returned with a vengeance as he paced back and forth. ’Twas all he could do to keep from wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing the life right out of her.

  Under normal circumstances he might not have been so bloody furious. But these were far from normal times. Brogan entered the armory, awash in uncertainty. Was Leona the other betrayer? Was she truly one of Donnel’s spies? He found it exceedingly unlikely. Still, he would never have thought Charles a traitor either. Keeping his thoughts and opinions to himself, he stood back a ways and watched his brother and the accused carefully.

  Rubbing the arm he’d used to yank her halfway across the keep, Leona sat perplexed and afraid. “M’laird, why are ye so angry? What have I done to upset ye so?”

  Ian came to a dead stop and spun around. He fought for the right words. “How be yer friends, Rutger and Donnel?”

  The brothers watched as confusion settled over her face. “Who?”

  “Rutger Bowie and Donnel McLaren,” Ian said through gritted teeth. “The men who hired ye to spy on me clan. The men who paid ye to open the gates of the keep the night of the raid.”

  She sat in abject horror, appalled he would think her capable of such an act. “I be no traitor,” she exclaimed. “I do no’ ken who those men are nor why ye’d even think such a thing of me!”

  Ian leaned in, his face just inches away from hers. Staring into her eyes, he said, “Ye be verra good at portrayin’ an innocent lass.”

  Her lips drew into a hard line, her nostrils flared, her eyes blazed with anger. “I do no’ ken where ye have gained such a foolish notion. Rose is me friend. I would never betray her in such a manner. Who has told ye these lies about me?”

  Standing to his full height, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Brogan has learned of two traitors amongst us. Charles McFarland is one of them.”

  Her eyes grew wide with stunned surprise. “Charles? A traitor?” She gave a slight shake of her head in the hope that the entire conversation would somehow begin to make sense.

  “Aye, Charles is a traitor. Brogan saw him with his own eyes just two days past at the Bowie keep. We now ken that Rodrick was no’ the traitor.”

  “I— ” she was at a loss for words. “Is Charles the one who accuses me? If so, he is a liar!”

  Ian gave a slow shake of his head. “Nay, Charles does no’ accuse ye. I do.”

  She jumped to her feet, her hands drawn into tight fists. “On what grounds?” she demanded.

  Forcefully, he pushed her back into the chair. “There be no one else among us who disappears fer days at a time, who leaves without so much as a word to anyone on where she is goin’,” he said. “Ye disappear and reappear repeatedly.”

  Dumbfounded, she shook her head slowly. “On that fact and that fact alone ye accuse me?”

  “Nay,” he said. “Ye were the only one who felt certain Rodrick was no’ our traitor. Why is that?”

  Her shoulders fell ever so slightly. Pulling her gaze away from Ian, she looked instead at the floor.

  “I ask ye again why ye felt so certain Rodrick was no’ our traitor.”

  Silence stretched on for a long while before she answered. Finally, she looked up at him with damp eyes. “He was too nice a person to be a traitor or a spy.”

  ’Twas Ian’s turn to look stunned. “Ye think Rodrick the Bold nice?” ‘Twould have been the last description Ian would have used when speaking of Rodrick. He was a hard, unyielding man.

  “Aye, I do.”

  “I find that verra difficult to believe,” he challenged her.

  “Of all the people here, he be the only one besides Rose who did no’ think me a witch or bedeviled. He never called me Leona Two-Eyes, or Leona the Witch, or that bedeviled Leona Macdowall. He was nice to me when no one else was.”

  The pain and hurt was plainly evidenced in her tear-filled eyes, the humiliation painted on her face and in her tone. Ian had wounded her deeply.

  “Ye would no’ understand that, m’laird, fer none have ever looked down upon ye before. Ye do no’ ken what it be like to go the whole of yer life with people whisperin’ harsh words behind yer back or to yer face.” She wiped away her tears on the sleeve of her wool dress.

  Guilt began to settle in. Either she was a very good actress or she was completely innocent. “Where do ye go when ye disappear?” he asked. This time, there was far less venom in his tone.

  “’Tis personal and private,” she replied.

  “Lass, under our current circumstance, there be nothin’ personal or private left. I must know.”

  Sniffling and wiping away more tears, she took in a deep, cleansing breath. “People are no’ always nice to me. So I walk. Sometimes I walk fer miles, until I find a peaceful place. Then I sit and think.”

  Ian quirked a curious brow. “Sit and think?”

  “Aye. Among other things,” she answered reluctantly.

  “Such as?”

  Realizing he would not relent, she let out a sigh of resignation. “I write sonnets and such.”

  Ian cast a confused glance at his brother. Brogan shrugged as if to say it made no sense to him either. Turning back to Leona, Ian asked, “Sonnets?”

  “Aye, sonnets and poems and such. I write me feelin’s down in a journal I have.”

  Ian noticed she placed a protective hand on the large pouch draped over the belt of her dress. “Be yer journal in yer pouch?”

  She answered with a nod.

  “May I see it?”

  “Nay, m’laird. It be me private thoughts and such. I would prefer no’ to share them with anyone.”

  As much as he was beginning to doubt his previous suspicions, he needed to know, without a doubt, that she spoke nothing but the truth. “Lass, I swear to ye that I’ll no’ share yer journal with anyone. I need to see it.”

  With a great deal of hesitation and humiliation, she slowly untied the pouch. Reaching inside, she withdrew a small, leather-bound book and held it to her chest. “Ye promise ye’ll no’ tell anyone?”

  “I do so promise
, lass.”

  Reluctantly, she handed her journal over to him. Carefully, Ian opened it and began to thumb through. In tiny, delicate handwriting were poems and sonnets and journal entries, just as she had said. One entry caught his attention only because of a recognizable name. ’Twas dated four weeks ago.

  I can add one more person to the short list of people who are nice to me. Brogan Mackintosh. He spotted me carrying a heavy bundle of firewood across the yard today and insisted on helping me. I be certain ’twas just a simple, friendly gesture on his part, but it meant the world to me. ’Tis not often anyone goes out of their way to be kind. On those rare occasions, I am often wary of such kind acts, for they are so very rare. me first inclination is to think ‘are they being nice only to gain me trust for nefarious reasons.’ It has happened to me in the past, where a person only pretended to be kind as some cruel jest, to make me look a fool later.

  But I do no’ think Brogan would behave in such a manner.

  Ian immediately felt sorry for the young woman. And more than just a little guilty for accusing her and then forcing her to share something so personal. Slowly, he closed the book and handed it back to her.

  “Leona, I have no words at the moment to express how sorry I am.”

  With an indifferent shrug, she returned her journal to her pouch. “Ye are wrought with worry over Rose, m’laird. There be traitors among us and ye would no’ be a good laird or chief if ye did no’ try to find out who the traitor be.”

  He could not understand how she was able to forgive him so easily. “I believe me wife has a verra good friend in ye, Leona.”

  “’Tis I who have a good friend in her. She is me only friend.”

  That knowledge made him feel a good deal of compassion toward her. What a hard life she must have lived thus far. He had heard the names people called her but had never stepped in to intervene on her behalf. Why? He had no good reason, but he knew ’twas a shameful way to treat another person. Especially when his wife held her in such high esteem.

  “Leona, in the future, if ye feel the need to walk, please, tell me or Brogan, so we will no’ worry over yer safety.”

  She eyed him suspiciously for a long moment. “Why should ye care about me safety? No one else does.”

  “That, lass, is no longer the case. I can assure ye that I do care. And once we get Rose back, there will be changes taking place around here. Many changes.”

  She was afraid to ask him what he meant.

  * * *

  Rodrick the Bold woke late the following day. And he was angry enough to bite his own sword in half.

  Leona offered him her warmest smile. “’Tis good to see ye back amongst the livin’.”

  When he struggled to sit up in the bed, Leona pushed him back down. “Ye be no’ ready just yet to leave yer bed, Rodrick.”

  “We were under attack,” he muttered. “We need to get word to Ian.”

  “The attack is over, Ian has returned, and ye need to lie back down,” Leona told him.

  Rubbing his eyes with his palms, he kicked at the covers. “I need to speak to Ian at once,” he demanded.

  Leona rolled her eyes at him and sighed. “Verra well. If I fetch Ian fer ye, will ye promise to stay abed until Angrabraid gives ye permission to leave it?”

  Angrily he said, “I do no’ need that auld woman’s permission to do anythin’! I be a grown man fer the sake of Christ and I have to speak to Ian at once!”

  “Ye be lucky Angrabraid is no’ in this tent right now, or she’d box yer ears. Lie. Down!”

  Weak from his injuries and days abed, he gave up and fell back against the pillow.

  “Thank ye,” Leona said. “Now, I shall fetch Ian fer ye.” With a warm smile, she left the tent and returned a short time later with Ian.

  “Thank God, ye’ve returned!” Rodrick exclaimed. “Charles, he be a traitor!”

  Ian quirked a brow. “Tell me somethin’ I do no’ ken.”

  Puzzled, Rodrick stared up at him in disbelief.

  “Ye’ve been asleep fer more than three weeks, Rodrick. Ye’re verra lucky to be alive.”

  “No thanks to that son of a whore, Charles McFarland!”

  Ian nodded his agreement as he pulled up a chair. For the next hour, he relayed everything he knew to Rodrick, who gratefully listened intently and quietly until he was finished.

  “Now, ye tell me, what do ye remember the night of the raid?” Ian asked.

  Rodrick sighed before answering. “I was just about asleep when I heard Charles creep from his bed. At first, I thought he was just sneakin’ out to meet that widow woman, Bealraigh.”

  Ian hadn’t been privy to that bit of information. “Bealraigh McLaren?” he asked.

  “Aye. He’d been seein’ her fer a few weeks, stealin’ over to her hut whenever he could.” He was growing tired again and was fighting to remain awake. Sensing his distress, Leona offered him a drink, lifting his head while he sipped from the cup. “Thank ye, lass.”

  She smiled at him and returned to the stool not far from his bed. Ian was beginning to wonder if the lass did not have feelings for the man, so attentive she was in her care for him.

  “I did no’ ken about Bealraigh,” Ian admitted. He was not sure if she was among the living or dead and made a mental note to ask Brogan later. “What happened after he left?”

  “I was just about asleep again, when I heard a ‘thump’. Ye ken that sound as well as I,” he told him.

  “The sound of a dead man fallin’ to the ground,” Ian replied with a nod of understanding.

  “Aye. That sound,” Rodrick told him. “I immediately threw on me trews, grabbed me sword, and went outside. ’Twas verra late, ye ken. Verra dark, with only a wanin’ moon. But even in the darkness, I could see the men on the wall were missin’. Then I heard the sound of the gate openin’, verra slow like. I could hear horses on the other side.” His anger began to return. With his lips pressed into a hard line, his forehead drawn into a hard knot, he went on to recount what had happened that night.

  “I was just about to shout out fer help, when I was hit from behind. As I spun around, I felt the sword pierce me gut and I fell to me knees. Bloody hell it hurt!” He drew his hands into fists and slammed them hard onto the bed. “’Twas then I saw Charles McFarland standin’ over me. I tried to get up to kill him, but he stepped away before me sword could hit him. I fell face first into the dirt, unable to move. Someone hit the back of me head again, but I do no’ ken who. All I could do was lay there and watch as the bastards came through the gate before I passed out.”

  Ian could sense the guilt Rodrick felt. “Ye were one against dozens, Rodrick.”

  “Had he no’ gutted me,” he argued, “we could have saved more lives.” As he tried to adjust himself in the bed, a bolt of pain shot through his side. He winced and immediately, Leona was at his side.

  “Angrabraid left somethin’ in case yer pain is too much to bear,” she said as she began pouring a powdery substance into a cup of water.

  “Bah!” Rodrick groused. “I do no’ need nor do I want any of that.”

  Exasperated, Leona set the concoction on the table and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, what do ye want?”

  “Besides Charles McFarland’s head on a pike sittin’ next to Rutger Bowie’s?” he lashed out.

  Leona’s expression changed rapidly, looking slightly hurt at his outburst.

  Ian did his best to lift her spirits. “Have ye ever been around a Highlander recoverin’ from a battle wound before, lass?” he asked.

  Leona gave a slight shake of her head. “Nay, m’laird.”

  “He will grumble and grouse and complain he does no’ need a lick of help. He will sometimes lash out at those he cares about who are only tryin’ to help him. But once he begins to feel better, his mood will change.”

  Rodrick grunted. “There be nothin’ wrong with me mood that a little blood-lettin’ and revenge will no’ cure.”

  Ian leaned in to whisper in
to the man’s ear. “Be kind to Leona. She has rarely left yer side, has tended to yer wounds, fretted when ye were feverish.”

  Duly chastised and more than a bit embarrassed, Rodrick shrugged.

  “Be kind to her or I’ll gut ye again and leave ye to rot.”

  24

  The only experience Alec Bowie had with women was through those he purchased to slake his lust. Growing up, he had spent very little time with his mother. The relationship she and his father shared had been tumultuous at best. They fought more than the Scots did with the English. He’d been primarily raised by his father, while seeing his mother only a few times a year.

  As a very young boy, he had missed her a great deal. But as time went on, he found himself missing her less and less. Still, he did love her, as much as any boy could, he supposed.

  Then she up and died on him when he was twelve years old and fostering with the MacGregor clan. The last time he’d seen her, he was all but nine, when she tearfully bid him goodbye the day he left for his new home with his foster family.

  As a lad, he’d been far more interested in warring than in whoring. He believed his mother’s death had very little affect on him. Still believed it to this day. He’d been surrounded by good people, had learned a great deal about battles and wars, had honed his skills with all manner of weapons, and had also learned about history and science.

  At the age of fourteen, his father sent him to an Italian monastery in order to finish his education. His interest in women blossomed when he entered his first whorehouse in Rome when he was seventeen.

  Were he a more intelligent and less self-indulgent man, he might have thought to pay more attention to the women who had entered his life over the years. He might have thought to glean a little insight into the tender feelings of women in general.

  Such knowledge would certainly have been quite useful. Especially on this rainy afternoon, a day after Brogan Mackintosh’s visit, when he stopped to check on his brother’s hostage.

  The young woman was a crying, sobbing mess. He could not recollect ever seeing a woman in such a state before, save for the times his mother and father fought.