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

by Suzan Tisdale

  He stood for a long moment, looking from one man to the next. A sense of pride blended with disbelief came over him. Had he not witnessed it with his own eyes, he would never have believed a McLaren would or could work as hard as these men obviously were.

  A familiar voice called out from behind him. “Ye never believed a McLaren man kent what hard work was, did ye?”

  Ian spun around to see Eggar Wardwin standing but a few feet away.

  “Eggar?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise at seeing the man. A tall, lean man with brown hair and hazel eyes, Eggar Wardwin had had the unfortunate experience of once being married to the infamous Claire. The woman who had nearly killed Aggie. Eggar had stayed behind last spring with a handful of other McLarens.

  “M’laird,” he said with a slight inclination of his head.

  Ian studied him closely for a moment before extending his hand in greeting.

  Eggar was relieved at the offering and gladly accepted. “I pray it be all right that I am here.”

  “’Tis mighty glad I am to have ye here,” Ian admitted. “How fare ye?”

  With a quick shrug, Eggar said, “Well enough, I reckon.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. “I heard about Claire and what she did.”

  Ian’s jaw ticked at the memory. Claire had poisoned Aggie, nearly killed her. It had forced her into early labor. A birthing that went on for hours, with Aggie unaware of what was happening to her. Ian had witnessed only part of that long, ugly night and was glad he’d never have to witness his own wife in such agony or despair.

  “What Claire did does no’ reflect upon ye, Eggar. None will hold her actions against ye.”

  He was relieved to hear it, though his smile did not quite reach his eyes. “I thank ye, m’laird.”

  The McLaren men respected Eggar. Mayhap he could use the man to help bring the Mackintoshes closer to the McLarens.

  “We arrived a few weeks ago,” Eggar explained. “We were out huntin’ and noticed strange men fellin’ trees. Rodrick nearly ran us through. Tried to run us off our own land.”

  That information made Ian feel better about keeping Rodrick on sentry duty. The man took his duties quite seriously.

  “But once we explained who we were — and that took a good long while — he took us to Ingerame. The next day, we packed up what little we had and came here. Have no’ left since.”

  “How many came with ye?” Ian asked.

  “Nine.”

  The image of Rodrick the Bold holding nine men at sword point amused him. There had not been too many opportunities as yet for him to interact with Rodrick. Though Charles McFarland did not much care for the man, the more Ian learned of him, the more impressed he became.

  “I should like to meet with them. So much has happened these past months, I fear I do no’ remember who stayed and who went with us,” Ian said. He was growing more ashamed of himself for not remembering most of the names of the McLarens who had ventured east with them last spring. Seeing how hard these men were working intensified that feeling.

  “Would ye like to meet with them now?” Eggar asked.

  “Aye, I would.”

  Eggar let out a shrill whistle betwixt his teeth. Moments later the McLaren men came running.

  For the next hour, Ian took the time to learn each of their names and to get to know them a bit better. When he was finished, he thanked them for their fealty to Clan McLaren.

  “When we heard ye were now our laird and chief, we could no’ have been more happy,” Milton McLaren said with a proud gleam in his eyes. He was at least fifty, with skinny arms and legs affixed to a rather large belly. His light brown hair was streaked with gray and one of his front teeth was missing. “’Tis we who should be thankin’ ye, m’laird, fer givin’ us our clan back.”

  Ian was about to express his gratitude to them, when Milton went on to say, “We reckon ye’ll be the best McLaren we’ve had in a good long while.”

  “To the McLaren!” One of the men shouted.

  Ian blanched inwardly. “Please, call me Ian.”

  * * *

  Thus far, the weather had cooperated quite nicely. ’Twas a sunny summer morning within a month of their arrival when construction began on the foundation to the tower. Large stones had been quarried and carried in on the wagons, massive holes dug for the foundation, and pulleys erected to help offload those stones.

  The tower would be a square structure, three stories tall, with arrow slits and small rectangular windows. Ian and Ingerame were hopeful they could erect the tower before winter arrived.

  With the good weather and good attitudes of all, everything was running as smoothly as Ian could ever have hoped for. Though he was nowhere near as pious as his older brothers, he could not help but feel that God agreed with their plans. The good weather, the ease with which everything was moving along, was proof enough of His acceptance and blessing.

  He should have known better.

  The first rift in their little bit of paradise came when the weather decided to take a turn from God-blessed to God-forsaken. Rain came down in torrential sheets as the wind whipped and tore at anyone or anything in its path. People took shelter in their tents, huddled together and soaked to the bone.

  Ian and Rose took refuge in their own little tent that sat slightly apart from the others. With nothing better to do, and a sexual appetite that shamed even the ancient gods of old, Ian set about wooing his wife. ’Twas the only ray of proverbial sunshine in the otherwise dark, stormy afternoon.

  “Have I ever told ye how fond I am of yer breasts?” he asked as he slipped a hand through the open bodice of her dress.

  “Once or twice,” she giggled.

  Brushing the pad of his thumb over a taught peak, he whispered against the soft skin of her cheek. “Then I have been remiss in me duties as yer husband.” He pressed his lips tenderly against her skin. “Be there anyway I can make it up to ye?”

  She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, thoroughly enjoying the way his warm hands felt as they caressed her breasts, the way his lips brushed against her neck. “Oh, I am sure together we can think of somethin’,” she cooed.

  He had just scooped her into his arms to lay her on their bed, when a voice sounded outside their tent. “R-Rose? Are ye th-there?”

  Ian was about to tell whoever it was to go away. Rose silenced him with a look of concern and a finger to his lips. “That be Leona,” she said.

  Reluctantly, he set his wife on her feet and went to open the flap of their tent. He had yet to meet Leona Macdowall. Before he could demand to know what the bloody hell she was doing out in this weather, he was taken aback by her appearance. There stood a young woman who Ian thought the spitting image of his wife. Save for her odd colored eyes and very ample bosom. “Och! M’laird, I did no’ ken ye were here.”

  Before she could leave, Rose was pulling her inside. “Come in out of the rain!”

  Leona quickly stepped through into the warmth of the tent. Shivering from head to toe, she looked as though she’d just fallen into a loch.

  Rose took the wet shawl from Leona’s shoulders and draped it over the stool next to the brazier. Ian grabbed a warm fur from the bed and offered it to her. Through chattering teeth, she apologized. “I-it b-be r-rainin’ t-t-too hard to g-get t-t-to me own t-t-tent.”

  “We need to get ye out of those wet clothes or ye’ll catch yer death fer certain,” Rose exclaimed as she handed the fur to her husband. “Turn around, Ian.”

  Seeing that his wife was in complete control of the situation, he did as she bid, stepping to the opposite side of the tent. “It has been rainin’ fer some time, Leona.” He spoke to the tent wall. “Where have ye been?”

  “P-pickin’ f-flowers,” she replied.

  “Flowers, ye say?” Was she not a wee bit old to be off picking flowers when there was so much work to be done? He could hear the sound of wet clothes hitting the floor and much shuffling of feet.

  “Aye,” she answer
ed.

  “Do ye no’ have more important things to do, lass? Is there no’ enough work to be had by all?”

  Silence filled the small space. It seemed to stretch on forever. “Well, lass?”

  ’Twas his wife who answered, and she did not sound at all pleased. “She was pickin’ flowers fer our healer,” Rose explained. “Our healer be too auld to be walkin’ around the countryside. Leona volunteered to help.”

  She left him feeling quite the cad and Ian was glad his back was to them so they could not see his face burn red with embarrassment. “I apologize to ye, Leona,” he stammered.

  “This dress should work fer ye, at least long enough until yers gets dry. I reckon the rain will lighten up soon enough,” Rose said hopefully.

  Ian could hear the dress being pulled over Leona’s head. A moment later, Rose said, “Oh dear.”

  He was not about to ask what the problem might be or if he could offer any assistance. The moment he heard Rose declare the dress would work, he knew it wouldn’t. Although Leona appeared to be about the same height and build as his wife, there was a distinct difference between the women. More specifically, two. And though he was passionately in love with his wife’s breasts, and hadn’t been tempted in the least by another woman since he’d met her, he was not blind. He knew the dress would be far too small to accommodate the ample bosom of Leona Macdowall. For the life of him, he could not understand why any man had yet to offer for the young woman’s hand.

  More scuffling and shuffling came from behind him as he began to rock back and forth on his heels. “That be much better,” Rose declared before giving her husband permission to turn around.

  Rose had pulled one of his tunics over the dress, no doubt to cover up what his wee wife’s dress could not. Grabbing the fur once again, Rose wrapped it around Leona’s shoulders and sat her next to the brazier. “Are ye hungry?” Rose asked.

  Leona gave a slight shake of her head. “Nay, but th-thank y-ye.”

  Pouring a generous amount of wine into a wooden cup, Rose handed it to the semi-frozen young woman. “Drink this. ’Twill help warm ye up a bit.”

  Leona took the offered cup and sipped slowly at its contents. “’Tis v-verra good,” she murmured.

  Rose pulled the other stool away from the wall and sat across from Leona. For a long moment, she studied the young woman closely. “Did ye manage to get the flowers Angrabaid needed?”

  She nodded in affirmation. “I left them in the c-cave. I d-did no’ want them to g-get damaged by the r-rain.”

  Both Rose and Ian looked at her with furrowed brows. “What cave?” Ian asked.

  “Near the quarry,” she told him.

  Ian shook his head, hoping he could shake some sense of what she’d just said into his head. “If ye were in the cave, lass, why didn’t ye stay in the cave?”

  A deep blush came to her cheeks. “’Twas otherwise occupied,” she said.

  Ian and Rose cast curious glances at one another. “Occupied? Were they strangers? People we need to worry over?”

  She was hesitant to answer. “N-nay.”

  ’Twas like pulling teeth to get to the bottom of things with this young woman. “If they were no’ strangers, then why did ye no’ stay?” Ian pushed forward.

  Leona looked first to Rose, then to Ian, and back to Rose as if she were trying to ascertain something. Mayhap she did not trust them.

  Finally, after a few more sips of wine, she answered. “They be the men workin’ in the quarry. If me da found out I had spent any time at all in a cave, alone with men, no matter the reason, well, he would have no’ liked that at all.”

  So she would rather risk life and limb, battle a horrendous storm, rather than wait that storm out in a cave filled with men.

  While his wife nodded and looked as though it all made perfectly good sense to her, Ian was left dumbfounded. Aye, Leona Macdowall was an odd creature indeed.

  * * *

  It rained for three solid days, non-stop. Everything and everyone was soaked through. Mud and rain had begun to seep into the tents, and the pit for the foundation of the keep was filled to the brim with muddy rainwater. No one gathered at night to sup together, for the rain kept them in. After he had seen Leona safely to her own tent, Ian and Rose locked themselves away from the rest of the world. They made love as frequently as either wanted — or later as either was able.

  While he’d once dreamed of being hidden away with Rose, enjoying her company and her loving, by dawn on the fourth day, he was ready to go mad. Not from boredom, for he’d never grow bored of his wife. Nay he worried about losing all the progress they had made over the past weeks. He also worried about their food stores and running out of fresh meat.

  “I have had about enough of this rain and mud,” Rose declared as she lifted another rain-soaked fur from the floor. “’Tis seepin’ in and soakin’ everythin’, includin’ me fine spirits.” She gave the fur a good shake and hung it on the line Ian had strung up for her days before. The line sagged with the weight of countless furs and blankets. “Mayhap when the rain lets up, ye could ask the men to make us planks to use as flooring?”

  He had more important things on his mind than wet floors. Only half listening, he looked at the parchment before him for the thousandth time in the past three days. Rose took his grunt to mean he’d heard her and agreed.

  “I do no’ ken why ye keep lookin’ at those plans,” she said as she threw another piece of wood on the brazier. “Surely ye have them memorized by now.”

  Soon, she realized he was not paying any attention to her. Typically, she would have gone to him, wrapped her arms around his neck and made a suggestion about what to do with the rest of the afternoon. But they had already made love twice that morning. Though she truly enjoyed loving her husband, well, there was only so much loving a woman could do in one day.

  * * *

  Just when they had begun to dry everything out, the rain would return. Rose had grown up here and therefore was accustomed to the fickle weather. But even this amount of rain was highly unusual. No matter what she did to keep the water out of her tent, ’twas to no avail.

  She was not the only one suffering from this problem.

  One afternoon in early August, she and the other women met around the main cooking fire. The rain had let up, but the air was still filled with a seemingly ever-present fine mist. Everywhere they were able, they’d hung up lines to dry clothes, blankets and furs.

  “’Tis because the men are no’ the ones havin’ to dry everythin’ out, or to fight the weather to cook a meal,” Ronna, one of the McLaren women said. “If ’twas them havin’ to struggle with it, they’d find a solution right quick.” Ronna looked tired, older than her years, and not very hopeful that the problem would be resolved any time soon. Her brown hair was twisted into a braid, her brown eyes dull, as if she’d given up hope for more than just having dry floors.

  Della Mackintosh agreed. “’Tis the way of things. Always has been, always will be.” Della was in her late thirties, the mother of four boys, three of whom were old enough to help in the woods with their father.

  “In their defense,” Rose interjected, “they have been very busy at the quarry, in the woods, and workin’ on the tower. All those things are equally as important as what we do.”

  They could not argue that point, but it did nothing to solve the problem at hand. “I have asked Ian once again fer planks fer our tents.”

  “And what does Ian say?” Ronna asked.

  Rose was hesitant to tell them but she had no choice. “He says they will get to it when they get to it. Fer now, we must be patient. The tower is their first priority at the moment.”

  “Bah!” Ronna chortled.

  As they discussed possible solutions, Rose caught sight of two young men she knew. Kerchar McLaren and Rory Mackinlay. They had just walked up to the wagons where they kept the food stores and began removing the bags and barrels, setting them on the ground.

  “What on earth?”
she asked as she made haste to stop them.

  “What are ye doin?” she demanded rather loudly.

  Kerchar looked up as he placed a bag of barley on the ground. “Ian’s orders,” he told her. “We need the extra wagon down at the quarry.”

  Angrily, Rose tried picking up the heavy bag of grain. ’Twas far too heavy. “Ye can no’ just set things upon the ground! ’Tis too damp. ’Twill spoil!”

  The two young men looked perplexed, and neither truly wanted to insult their mistress. But neither did they wish to make Ian wait for the extra wagon. “I be sorry, mistress,” Kerchar said. “Where would ye like us to put them?”

  Rolling her eyes, she was tempted to tell him to give a message to her husband, directing him as to where exactly he could put their food stores. Deciding ’twas neither ladylike nor polite, she instead told them to put the items on the long table near the cooking fire. Eager not to distress their mistress or their chief, they hurried to do as she had asked.

  As the two young lads were hauling items from the wagon to the table, two other men appeared with a team of horses. Giving a polite nod to Rose, they began hooking them up to the wagon. Rose’s band of women were now standing beside her with mouths agape. “What …” Della couldn’t form the question.

  Rose sighed and put her hands on her hips. “Apparently, they need more wagons fer the quarry.”

  “But…” Again, she was too stunned to voice her thoughts. All they could do was stand by and watch as the last of the dry spaces to store food was taken over.

  Rose loved her husband. Truly she did. But this, this was just unacceptable . As they watched the men hitch the team to the wagons, an idea began to form in Rose’s mind. Turning to face the women, she said, “My friends, ’tis time we took matters into our own hands.”

  11

  Rose had been fast asleep when Ian came to bed and he left before she was awake. It had been like this for days now — days of having no time alone with her husband to discuss important matters.