The Bowie Bride
Book Two of The Mackintoshes and McLarens
Suzan Tisdale
Targe & Thistle, Inc.
Cover art by: Wicked Smart Designs
Copyright 2017 by Suzan Tisdale
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblence to persons alive or dead, events, or locales is completely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-943244-21-8
Contents
Also by Suzan Tisdale
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek at Brogan’s Promise
35. Brogan’s Promise Chapter One
Also by Suzan Tisdale
About the Author
Follow Suzan on Book Bub
Also by Suzan Tisdale
The Clan MacDougall Series
Laiden’s Daughter
Findley’s Lass
Wee William’s Woman
McKenna’s Honor
The Clan Graham Series
Rowan’s Lady
Frederick’s Queen
The Mackintoshes and McLarens Series
Ian’s Rose
The Bowie Bride - April 18, 2017
Brogan’s Promise - June 27, 2017
The Clan McDunnah Series
A Murmor of Providence
A Whisper of Fate
A Breath of Promise
Moirra’s Heart Series
Stealing Moirra’s Heart
Saving Moirra’s Heart
Stand Alone Novels
Isle of the Blessed
Forever Her Champion
The Edge of Forever
The Brides of the Clan MacDougall
(A Sweet Series)
Aishlinn
Maggy (arriving 2017)
Nora (arriving 2017)
Coming Soon:
The MacAllens and Randalls
For Barb Batlan-Massabrook, for your unfaltering belief in indie authors, your never-ending support, and for simply being one hell of a great lady! Also, thank you for helping with the pretty, yet difficult, Gaelic.
For Anne Alba. I love you more.
For the SSA: You know who you are. Thanks for helping pick out names for characters, and for your love and encouragement.
For Virgina Smith and Sheryl Koffman: I am YOUR biggest fan.
Acknowledgments
There are a few people I need to acknowledge for their never-ending encouragement and support.
Lynda Cox, and the other readers who provided pictures and information, I thank you for helping with the bandogge!
Kathryn Le Veque & Tanya Anne Crosby, I thank you for being my inner circle.
GP Ching, Tara Cromer, and Laurie Larsen: I’m glad you’re my tribe.
Prologue
Alec Bowie has decided to marry.
’Twas all the idiot Dougall’s idea. ‘Marry someone from Ian Mackintosh’s clan,” he said. ‘’Twould unite us in peace,” he said.
If I did no’ ken any better, I’d swear Alec was no’ a true Bowie. Peace. ’Tis all he talks about. ’Tis what he be speakin’ of today.
“Lay down yer weapons and pick up the plow,” he tells us. Standin’ atop the wall, lookin’ down at us as if we were the idiots. “Let us become a prosperous clan through farmin’, through weavin’ and whisky makin’. Let us leave the old ways behind. Let us leave a legacy to our children that does no’ include reivin’, stealin’, or killin’. Let us be more than we are. Let us become a clan that people do no’ fear because we might take their purses or stab them in the back—but fear us as warriors, as a fightin’ force to be reckoned with. But only in times of war. Let them ken us as allies, no’ thieves.
“I realize peace is no’ as excitin’ as warrin’ or reivin’. But excitement can be found in the simple knowledge that ye do no’ have to be lookin’ over yer shoulder fer people seekin’ revenge. There can be excitement in layin’ down yer head at night, knowin’ ye put in an honest day’s work. In knowin’ ye’re buildin’ somethin’ bigger, somethin’ better than any of us has ever known before. In knowin’ ye be leavin’ yer children a better life.”
Peace. Bah! The Bowies ken nothing of peace, and why should we? Have we no’ survived for more than a century as we are? I see how the men, no’ all, but most, look up to him. They believe all that he says. They believe peace be a better road than the life we’ve been livin’.
What fools they are! I expected more from Alec than this. How can he allow Dougall to lead him down this treacherous path?
To hell with peace, I say. To hell with it.
Chances are that no one in their right minds will agree to a marriage betwixt our clans. I can only hope that the people of the Mackintosh and McLaren clan will see the folly of this offer and refuse it.
Alec can no’ marry. I have plans for him.
I am no’ worried though. If there be a woman amongst Ian Mackintosh’s clan foolish enough to marry Alec, she will no’ live long enough to regret her decision. I’ll see to it.
I’ll kill Alec’s bride.
Chapter 1
Peace was tenuous at best.
Alec Bowie was loathe to admit it. Of course, he was loathe to admit many things of late.
Two months had passed since his brother had been killed. It had been a painful, horrible death. Had Ian Mackintosh’s piercing blade not been enough for Rutger, then the horse that trampled him into the earth had finished the job. Even though his brother had been mad with greed for gold and power, Alec still missed him. Besides their endless lines of cousins, Rutger was the last living kin he had.
Now he was dead. Laid to rest in the family plot without much ceremony, near the loch not far from the Bowie keep. In death, as it had been in life, Rutger was placed between his parents. While their parents loved their sons without question, they often used them as weapons against the other. Parents and son were probably all three burning in hell. Alec couldn’t be certain, of course.
He had begged his brother on numerous occasions to take the opportunity to bring peace to their clan. To change the tide and bring the outside world in. But Rutger refused.
Too entrenched in the past, too afraid to take chances, too greedy and obstinate, he had left it up to Alec to give the clan what they needed most: a future.
A far different future.
&nb
sp; A life without thieving, without terrorizing neighboring clans, a life without crime or prices on their heads.
And now he was their chief.
He’d never held any designs on the chiefdom of any clan, let alone this rag-tag one filled with criminals, horse thieves, and ne’er-do-wells. How the bloody hell was he supposed to turn these people into farmers? Weavers? Whisky-makers?
Mayhap ’twas folly. Mayhap ’twould all be for naught. But he had to — at the very least — try.
And that was what he was doing this day. Trying.
Trying to find a wife while trying not to wring his cousin Dougall’s neck.
The man was mad. Daft. Delusional.
But he had a point. One more thing Alec was loathe to admit.
In order to bring ever-lasting peace to his clan, alliances must be made, friendships nurtured and cultivated, much like the seeds of barley he had planted a sennight after his brother’s death.
So here he sat in Ian Mackintosh’s tent, looking out at the McLaren and Mackintosh people. The tent, while quite large, was filled to bursting with curious people.
His fingers rested gingerly on a dirk he had hidden at his waist. The blood of generations of murderous men and thieves ran through his veins. ’Twas hard to let one’s guard down when one was used to an entirely different way of interacting with people.
To his left were his men, Dougall and Kyth Bowie. Tall, strong men, with the same dark hair and eyes as he. Ruthless they were, when the need arose.
To his right sat Ian Mackintosh, laird and chief of clan McLaren. Ian was one of those handsome men, with blonde hair and blue eyes and enough self-confidence for fifty men, that women swooned over. He admired Ian a great deal. Not only did he possess an inordinate sense of honor, of justice, of right versus wrong; he was one of the few people Alec could call friend. Hell, he was the only person outside his clan he could refer to as such.
Next to Ian sat his brothers, Brogan and Frederick Mackintosh. Ginger-haired men whose skills on the battlefield were legendary. And for good reason. Either of them could kill a man with their bare hands, or so their enemies claimed. At the far end of the table sat a man he’d met just this morning, but had heard much about. Roderick the Bold. Roderick was neither a McLaren nor a Mackintosh by blood, but he considered himself a member of their clan all the same. Alec was as yet uncertain what to make of the odd fellow, but decided ’twould be best to watch his back whenever the man was near.
The long table faced out toward the crowd. He had the odd sensation that left him feeling as though he were some mysterious creature on display. He supposed, mayhap, ’twas because people were not used to seeing a Bowie unless he was trying to steal their purse or cattle, raid their lands, or behave in some other immoral manner.
Ian leaned in and whispered, “Are ye certain ye wish to do this?” for what seemed the hundredth time.
Alec gave a curt nod, which belied what he was truly thinking. Bloody hell, no! I do no’ wish to do this, but I must.
With a sigh of resignation, Ian said, “Verra well, let us get started. But we must hurry, I do no’ wish to leave Rose fer long.”
Rose Mackintosh. Alec liked that woman verra much. Strong, blunt, and quite pretty. She was a week past when she should have delivered Ian’s babe into the world.
Babes and wives. They would be the downfall of human civilization. Eventually.
While Ian fawned all over his lovely wife, worried and fretted over the life of their babe, Alec felt confident that he would never suffer such indignities. He was not here to find a love match. Nay, he simply needed to marry a McLaren lass in order to ensure peace betwixt their clans. That was why he was so bloody angry with Dougall. This had all been his idea — the bastard.
But again, Alec had to admit there was wisdom in the plan. No matter how ugly or deplorable the idea of marriage was to Alec Bowie, he had to find a wife. Hopefully, she’d be a quiet, biddable lass, who would understand the importance of peace.
She must also understand, unequivocally, that he had no wish, need, or desire for a happy home life. Nay, theirs was a matter of business not a matter of the heart, and that was how he intended for it to remain for all the rest of his days.
That was if he could find someone brave enough amongst this crowd. With his luck — and he knew ’twas God-awful luck he possessed — he’d be married off to some mousey wench with missing teeth and moles scattered across her face. He shuddered at the thought. But again, he was not here to find a love match. Just a woman willing to wed him, bed him until she got with child, then leave him the bloody hell alone.
Outside, ’twas a clear, bright afternoon. A stark contrast to how Alec was feeling to his very core: doomed. They might as well have been taking him to the gallows, such was his inevitable fate. For marriage was like that; you lost your freedom and your mind. That was if you weren’t careful and diligent.
Ian stood then, raising his hands to hush the murmurs of the crowd. When silence fell, he spoke. “I have called ye here today to discuss the matter of peace betwixt our clan and the Bowies.”
Riotous laughter broke out amongst Ian’s people. It set Alec’s nerves on edge. This was not going to go well, not well at all. More images of a mole-covered wench flashed before his eyes. With his awful luck, she’d most likely be missing a limb as well.
A loud voice rang out above the laughter. “What do the Bowies ken of peace?”
Another cried, “Ye can no’ trust a Bowie as far as ye can pick one up!”
“Aye! All they ken is stealin’ and reivin’.”
Ian raised his hands once again and called for quiet. “I ken we be unused to the idea of a peaceful Clan Bowie,” he began. “But they have a new laird. A laird who risked his own life to save Rose’s.”
That point hit home. Heads nodded as people murmured in agreement. ’Twas Alec’s only saving grace, that; saving Rose Mackintosh’s life. Rescuing her and bringing her back to her people. Of course, he couldn’t have done that without help from the lass named Leona.
Upon thinking of her, he searched the crowd surreptitiously, but saw no sign of her. Earlier that morn he had asked Ian how the lass faired. But they’d been interrupted and Ian had not been able to answer.
No matter. The lass was far too intelligent, far too beautiful, to settle on the likes of him.
Ian speaking to his people pulled Alec back to the here and now. “I want peace with the Bowies as much as they want it with us. I have spent time gettin’ to know Alec Bowie and a few of his men.” He cast a glance at Dougall and Kyth before turning back to the crowd. “I find them to be honest and genuine in their pursuits.”
More murmurs from the crowd as they all stared at the three Bowies with curious and doubtful eyes.
“After a long mornin’ of discussin’ just how this peace can be ever-lastin’ and ensured, we have come to the conclusion that a marriage is the best approach.”
Stunned and uncertain silence filled the air. ’Twas as if the world froze in that instant.
Ian took a breath before going on. “This marriage would need to be betwixt Alec Bowie and a lass with McLaren blood.” He let the words sink into the minds of his people for a moment. “The only true lass who qualifies is me niece, Ada Mackintosh. But since she be only a year old, that will no’ work. So,” he took another deep breath and rested his palms on the table, “we will be willin’ to accept any lass from our clan, no matter her bloodline. Any lass of marriageable age.”
The deafening silence stretched on and on.
Alec looked out at the crowd of slack-jawed, stunned individuals. Their expressions said it all: not only was the Bowie mad, but their laird was as well.
Before Ian could speak again, someone in the far back of the tent stood up.
“I will do it.”
He could not see her face clearly, for she was in shadow. But he felt quite certain he recognized her soft, sweet voice.
“I will marry the Bowie.”
Bloo
dy hell, ’twas Leona Macdowall.
“Fer the sake of Christ, Leona! Sit down!” Ingerame Macdowall yanked hard on his daughter’s arm, pulling her back onto the wood bench.
A loud, collective gasp broke through the crowd after she volunteered to marry the Bowie. Yanking her arm from her father’s grasp, she stood again and stepped away from him. This time, her voice was louder, more resolute. “I said I will marry the Bowie.”
One moment they were gasping in stunned surprise, the next, they were all laughing at her. Not a one of them made any attempt to cover their feelings on the matter. Used to the taunts and ridicule, she ignored them. Or at least tried to.
“Bah!” A man’s voice laughed loudly. “Leona Odd-Eyes, marryin’ the Bowie!”
“’Tis no less than he deserves!” came another voice.
“Or she!”
Doing her best to ignore them, she scampered away from her father before he could pull her back again. Out of the shadows and into the light, she looked directly at Alec Bowie.
’Twas an odd expression his face held. She couldn’t tell if he was shocked or horrified. ’Twas probably a blend of each.
Ingerame shot to his feet. “Fer the sake of Christ, Leona!”
The Bowie Bride: Book Two of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 1
