It was hidden in this room. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. But where? That was one thing Mermadak made certain of: none would know where the money was kept. He might have trusted him enough to do his dirty work, but he’d never trust him with the location of their spoils.
He scoured the shelves, the walls, and even the floor, looking for any sign of a hidden compartment. For an hour, he was on his hands and knees, clawing at things that looked as though they should move but didn’t. The longer he searched the angrier he became. It was here, he knew it, could feel it to his very marrow.
Soaked in sweat, despite the cool breeze that continued to linger, he finally stood. Panting with anger and frustration, he scanned the room, cursing all the world for the lot he’d been dealt.
Then he saw it.
The mantle.
7
It had been a long, difficult journey. Weeks of traveling halfway across Scotland had not been easy — facing mountains, rivers, and all manner of terrain and weather. The most terrifying part of their journey was when they had to pass through the southern tip of Cameron lands. The Mackintoshes and Camerons had been feuding for decades. They would most assuredly have been slaughtered had any of the Camerons discovered they were passing through, no matter if it had been for less than half an hour.
They pushed forward during the day, as fast as they were able, considering their large numbers and the heavy wagons, the cattle, pigs, and other animals. Many of Ian’s followers were on foot, which slowed their progression even further.
Whenever Ian was off tending to one problem or another, Andrew the Red and Brogan would fall in to ride on either side of Rose. At first, she did not like being singled out, but she was now the wife of a clan chief. Certain precautions had to be made to insure her safety at all times.
She’d grown fond of Brogan, simply because he rarely spoke. When he did, ’twas always to say something kind and thoughtful.
Andrew the Red however, was an altogether different story. He talked incessantly, to the point of giving her an ache in her head. He seemed to have either an opinion or story on nearly every topic, from how to cut stone properly to how to brew the best ale. He was a tremendous pain in her arse. Ian seemed either not to notice or to care. Andrew was his friend and that ’twas all that mattered.
At night, Ian and Rose slept in a small but comfortable tent. Many times they fell into the soft pallets far too exhausted to move, let alone make love. However, come morning, well rested after a good night’s sleep, she would wake to her husband nuzzling her neck or caressing her breast. ’Twas a wonderful way to wake each morn, being loved quite thoroughly. Ian was attentive and generous in that way. Though there were times when she wished he would spill his seed inside of her. But he had made a promise to do everything they could to avoid getting her with child. So far, it seemed to be working. Their lovemaking would leave her in a most happy mood for the remainder of the day.
And Ian hadn’t lied when he had told Rose she would know the plans by heart and be sick of hearing about them before they arrived. She imagined she could recite it all in her sleep.
Today was no exception. Brogan estimated they were less than an hour from their destination. “Soon, sister, we shall come upon a large hill,” he began with a level of excitement she’d never witnessed in him before.
“And just over that large hill will be the spot where we shall build the new keep,” she finished for him.
Brogan smiled thoughtfully and nodded. “Have ye given any thought to what ye’d like the keep to look like?”
’Twas the most he’d spoken to her in weeks and it took her aback. “What I would like it to look like?” she asked. “Ian has already drawn up the plans.”
“True, but a man never thinks of the things that make a home a home,” Brogan pointed out. “He thinks of the number of logs, pegs, and shingles. He thinks of stone and mortar and the like.”
Rose was not quite certain what he was asking and since she’d never heard him string together so many words, she remained quiet and listened.
“But a woman? A woman thinks of the seemingly little things that are just as important as how soundly it is built. Tapestries on the walls, flowers in the gardens, how the furniture should be arranged …” His voice trailed off, his eyes on something only he could see.
Remembering that Brogan had lost his wife three years ago to the wasting disease, Rose understood then, what he meant. And the far away look in his eyes? He was thinking of his wife.
After some time, he gave his head a hard shake and turned his attention back to Rose. “A woman, she is what makes a house a home. ’Tis no’ the timber and stone, but her heart and what she puts into it. Without it, ’tis nothin’ more than four empty walls.”
Suddenly, she felt sad for him. ’Twas quite evident that he missed his wife a great deal.
“I lost me first husband,” she told him. “Though ’twas no’ some great marriage filled with romance and wonder, I still loved him.” For a tiny moment, she tried to imagine her life without Ian, but the thought made her ill at heart.
Brogan smiled wanly. “Alaina was a beautiful woman and I loved her verra much. I have no desire to take another wife or to love again.”
“I would feel the same were I to lose Ian,” she said.
* * *
Ian raced toward his wife and brother, excited and relieved; he was grinning from ear to ear. “We be almost there!” he shouted as he approached, pulling rein quickly, angling his horse in between Andrew the Red and Rose. “It be just beyond that hill,” he informed them.
His smile as well as his excitement was contagious.
“Be it as beautiful as they told us?” Rose asked.
Ian leaned across his saddle and kissed her soundly. It left her breathless and wanting more. “Aye, lass. Next to ye, it be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
When he spoke thus, with such sincerity and adoration, it brought forth a delightful tickling sensation in the pit of her stomach. Oh, how she adored this man, loved him with all that she was. She could not help but blush and smile all at once.
“Andrew, spread the word to the rest,” Ian directed before turning to face his wife. “Rose and Brogan, shall we go up together?”
Returning his smile and just as excited as he to see what lay just beyond that rise, the three of them raced to the top of the hill. What lay ahead stole Rose’s breath away.
It seemed to go on for as far as the eye could see. At the bottom of the hill on rich flat land, lay lush, green grass that stretched on forever. Flowers of every imaginable color dotted the land. Beyond the flat, wide-open glen, lay the largest forest she’d ever set eyes on. Running perpendicular between the grass and the base of the hill, was a wide bubbling stream; she could see neither where it began nor ended.
“Who are they?” Rose asked when she spied a rather small encampment at the edge of the woods. She could see some ten men there, as well as a few tents nearby.
“Those be the carpenters Frederick sent ahead of us,” Ian explained. “It looks as though they’ve already begun work.”
Below them, men had begun to clear out part of the forest. Massive logs were stacked as high as a man’s head, already cleaned and scraped and ready for use.
Moments later, two men on horseback came bounding across the hill from the north.
“Good day to ye!” Ian called out as he slowly pulled his horse away from Brogan and Rose.
Either out of instinct or habit, Brogan rested a palm on the hilt of his sword. “Get behind me, Rose,” he whispered.
Though she didn’t think it necessary, she did as he said, and led her horse to stand behind him. “Are ye no’ bein’ a wee bit over-protective?” she asked. “Clearly they be with the men below.”
Brogan ignored her. Giving a quick scan of their surroundings, he kept a close eye on the two men. Moments later, Andrew appeared with three other mounted men who all drew in to protect Rose.
In sil
ence, and on full alert, they watched as Ian met the strangers.
* * *
After casting a quick glance to see that his wife was well protected, Ian turned to watch the men approach. One appeared young, mayhap twenty years old. He was slender with long blonde hair. The other was an aulder brown-haired man with a scowl as mean-looking as a rabid dog. Both had swords drawn and at the ready. They slowed their pace as they drew nearer to him.
“Identify yerself,” the blonde man said as he pulled his horse to a stop some ten paces from Ian. They stood facing one another on the crest of the hill. The warm breeze picked up, billowing tunics and hair.
“I be Ian Mackintosh, newly appointed chief of Clan McLaren,” he answered in a firm voice. “And who might ye be?”
While the blonde man’s shoulders relaxed in relief, the brown-haired fellow remained stern-faced. “We were expectin’ ye days ago,” the blonde said. “I be Charles MacFarland and this be Rodrick the Bold. We be yer sentries.”
“We were delayed a bit by rain. I did no’ want to risk our wagons bein’ stuck or damaged,” Ian explained as he kept a close eye on the man named Rodrick. There was something about the man, his scowl or his countenance, that did not sit well with him.
Charles gave a nod of understanding. “Well, I fer one be glad ye’re here. As ye can see, we’ve been workin’ hard to clear out the forest as Frederick directed,” he said with a nod toward the glen below. “We also have twenty men workin’ in the quarry. We’ve a wee bit more to clear before they bring the stones in. Fer now, they be stockpilin’ them.”
The moment Aggie had agreed to rebuild her clan, Frederick had set to work finding the best carpenters and laborers. From as far away as Inverness, he had found many men willing to come to this part of the country. Ian knew that over the next weeks and months, more men would be arriving. He was grateful for his brother’s foresight.
“We have brought some one-hundred and twenty-five men with us,” Ian told him. “I reckon things will move along quickly now.”
Charles smiled, showing a slight gap between his otherwise straight teeth. “I reckon ye be right,” he said. “Come, I’ll take ye to meet Ingerame.”
Ian recognized the name at once. Ingerame Macdowall was the man Frederick had hired as their main carpenter. Ian had not yet met the man. But from what Frederick had told him, he was a good man that could be trusted. “Let me see to me wife while ye let Ingerame ken we be here.”
’Twas then that Rodrick the Bold decided to finally speak. His voice was as deep as his scowl was fierce. “I will let him ken ye’re here,” he said as he started to pull away.
Ian was not about to let the man dictate anything to him. “Nay, Rodrick,” he said. “I should like ye to continue with yer duties as sentry.” He gave him no time to respond or argue. “Charles, ye go and let Ingerame ken we’ve arrived.”
Apparently Rodrick was not used to either receiving nor taking orders. Scowling, he took in a deep breath through flared nostrils, staring long and hard at Ian. A lengthy moment passed with Rodrick and Ian staring one another down. Rodrick blinked first. Pulling hard on the reins, he turned his horse around and raced away, along the ridgeline of the hill.
Charles and Ian watched as he rode away. “He be a hard man, that one,” Charles said. “He likes to think he be smarter than everyone else and thinks of himself as the man in charge.”
“And what do ye think of him?” Ian asked.
Charles chuckled before answering. “Well, he has some good ideas on occasion.”
Ian sensed there was more the young man wanted to say. “And?”
“He can be fiercely loyal once ye get to know him.” And that was as far as he was willing to go.
* * *
Once Ian had given the order for the wagons to be brought over the hill, he and his wife rode into the encampment. A gangly young lad of no more than four and ten came running up to greet them. “Ye be the McLaren?” he asked, bright blue eyes staring up in awe.
Being referred to as The McLaren was not appealing to Ian in the least. It simply did not feel right or proper and he doubted he would ever find any enjoyment in it. “Call me Ian,” he told the boy as he slid from his horse.
“I be Robby,” the lad informed him as he took the reins.
Ian stretched a bit before helping Rose down from her mount. “This be yer mistress, Rose Mackintosh,” he said by way of introduction.
Robby offered her a bow before taking the reins. “’Tis me great honor to meet ye, mistress.”
A dark flush came to her cheeks. She was no more used to being referred to as mistress than Ian was as The McLaren. “Ye may call me Rose.”
The boy’s eyes opened wide in amazement before he looked to Ian for approval. Ian gave a slow shake of his head. “Ye shall always refer to her as mistress.”
Before Rose could voice her protest, Ian pulled her into his arms and kissed the tip of her nose. “Before ye argue again over this, ’tis a sign of respect. Ye be the mistress of the keep, such as it is in its current state.” He smiled fondly before kissing her lips. “And even if ye insist, ’twill be me order they listen to and no’ yer request.”
They’d discussed it before, this insistence of his that she be referred to as mistress. It felt just as awkward now as it did in the beginning. “It still does no’ feel right or proper, Ian.”
Though he could well understand her reluctance, he could not acquiesce. “Ye be me wife. I be the interim chief, fer at least the next ten years or so. Ye be the mistress of this keep, Rose Mackintosh. If everyone be referrin’ to ye as Rose, they’ll no’ be respectin’ ye as ye deserve.”
She quirked a brow at that last part. “But ’tis perfectly acceptable fer ye to be called Ian instead of The McLaren?”
He shuddered, aghast. “’Tis no’ the same.”
“How be it no’ the same?”
He smiled devilishly. “Because I detest the title. The men will respect me because I shall demand it, no’ because of me title.”
Just how that was any different from her own argument, she could not begin to guess. Men were a most confusing lot.
Deciding the topic closed permanently, Ian slipped his hand into hers. “Now let us go see Ingerame Macdowall.”
* * *
“Leona!” Ingerame Macdowall shouted above the loud din of tools scraping against a newly felled tree. “Leona!”
He had been shouting for his daughter for what seemed like hours. He was busy carving out large pegs to be used later, his voice booming and echoing through the clearing. “Confound it, Leona! Where the bloody hell are ye?” Raising his head up from his project, he found himself staring directly into the eyes of Ian Mackintosh.
Charles made the introductions. “Ingerame Macdowall, this be Ian Mackintosh, our new chief and laird. And this be our mistress, Rose.”
“Ingerame,” Ian said, looking displeased with all the shouting.
“Ian,” he replied as he stood up and wiped his hands on his heavy apron. “Fergive me shoutin’,” he said. “I’ve been lookin’ fer me daughter fer hours now.”
Ian didn’t think bellowing and shouting was the same as looking, but he’d remain mute on the matter for now. “How old be yer daughter?” he asked, hoping she wasn’t a little girl lost.
“Bah! She be an auld maid, ye ken. Nearin’ two and twenty!” He shook his head as if he were ashamed of that fact. “She’ll never marry, that one. I could no’ give her away.”
Instantly, Rose found she did not like the man, for he was speaking so unkindly about his own flesh and blood. His assertion begged the question why. But before she could ask it, he was rambling on about his unmarriable daughter.
“Me wife— God rest her soul — could only give me but one child. Betimes I think I’d have preferred she had no’ given me any. Some think the lass be tetched, but I ken the truth. She be a witch as sure as I be standin’ here. But what is a father to do?”
“A father could be a bit more kind
and encouragin’,” Rose told him sternly. “A father would no’ speak so unkindly of his only child.”
If she thought to put the man in his place, or hoped for any sign of shame or regret, Rose was sadly mistaken. Ingerame Macdowall did not so much as bat an eye. He was wholly unapologetic. “Ye’ll think differently once ye meet her.”
Ian was growing impatient. “Would ye like us to help ye find yer daughter so we might talk without distraction?”
Ingerame waved his hands in the air. “Nay, now is as good a time as any. Knowin’ Leona, she’d be halfway to France and no’ even realize it.” He dropped his chisel and hammer on a tree stump he used as a work-space and once again wiped his dirty hands on his apron. “We only arrived three weeks ago, but we’ve made good progress.”
Rose had no desire to remain in the man’s presence a moment longer than necessary. She took the opportunity to leave. “If ye’ll excuse me, I’d like to see to settin’ up our camp.” In truth, she hoped to find this mysterious Leona and see for herself why Ingerame thought so poorly of her.
8
Rutger Bowie had never been one to hold any delusions of grandeur when it came to his clan. They were a ruthless lot of marauders, ne’er-do-wells, bandits, and thieves. He sat at the high table in the gathering room, looking out at the clan of misfits with a good measure of pride. Tonight, they feasted like kings only because four of his men had the wherewithal to raid a neighboring clan and divest said clan of a few head of their precious cattle.
Oh, they did not possess the refinement or grace of kings, as evidenced by the way they shoveled food into their greasy mouths whilst telling one bawdy tale after another. Ruthless and disgusting as they may be, they were his people.
The Bowies would never be heralded as great inventors, harbingers of peace, or in any other positive light. Nay, if they were to be remembered at all, ’twould only be in stories meant to scare small children. The proof lay in the legacies of their former chiefs.
Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 8