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

by Suzan Tisdale

  Try as he might, Ingerame could not come up with a logical sounding response. “I must have misplaced those,” he said rather sheepishly.

  ’Twas all Ian could do no’ to wrap his hands around the man’s neck.

  “Then I suggest ye find them,” he said through gritted teeth. “Before we build the kitchens next to the latrine, or plant the gardens on the top of the north tower.”

  Without apology, Ingerame simply inclined his head toward his laird and fled the tent as if his arse was on fire.

  Eggar and Ian watched his hasty retreat. When the flap of the tent closed, Eggar turned to face his laird. “I thought somethin’ was amiss,” he said. “But every time I tried to get a look at the plans he was usin’, he bit me head off. I did no’ think ’twas me place to say anythin’. I be sorry, Ian.”

  Raking a hand through his blond hair, Ian sat down in his chair in exasperation. “I do no’ ken why me brother hired him. Truly, I do no’.”

  “To hear Ingerame tell it, he was the best bloody carpenter in all of Scotia, if no’ the world.”

  Ian was beginning to wonder if the reputation Frederick had heard of was from people who had actually used the man or from the man himself. He also wondered if that was why it had been so easy for him to hire such a talented, well-known carpenter so easily. Keeping those thoughts to himself, he offered Eggar a whisky.

  Waggling his eyebrows happily, Eggar licked his lips before taking the chair across from Ian. “I admit, I be a bit parched, even though it be early in the morn.”

  Ian laughed raucously as he poured the amber liquid into two mugs. “The man does drive me to drink at times,” he admitted as he offered a mug to Eggar. “I feel sorry fer his daughter.”

  “Leona?” Eggar asked before taking a gulp.

  “Aye, Leona.”

  “She be an odd one, that lass,” Eggar said. “A hard one to get to ken.”

  “My wife adores her, but detests her father.”

  Eggar waggled his brows again and lifted his mug. “I’ll drink to that!”

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Leona appeared at the quarry, seeking out Ian. He’d been down in the pits with five of his men, chipping away at rocks. They had stripped down to their trews, sweat pouring down their backs and into their eyes. Because of Ingerame’s misplacement of plans, Ian had to double the work in the quarry in order to make up for lost time.

  ’Twas Andrew the Red who came to tell him Leona was there. “Ian,” Andrew called down. “Leona Macdowall is here. I think ye should see her. She seems verra upset.”

  Perturbed with the interruption, Ian splashed water from a bucket across his face and arms, thrust his sleeves into his tunic, all the while cursing under his breath.

  “Keep at it,” he told his brother Brogan. “Hopefully this will no’ take long.

  Brogan grunted in understanding as he hammered away at the hefty chisel Eggar was holding against a large piece of rock.

  Ian shot up the rope ladder and into the warm afternoon sun. It had better be a matter of life and death, he cursed to himself as he crossed the open space and into his tent.

  “What do ye want?” He hadn’t intended on sounding so infuriated. But as soon as she spun around to face him, guilt assaulted his senses.

  She stood near the table, looking for all the world like a very lost and embarrassed young woman. Around her left eye was the makings of a horrible bruise.

  “What happened to yer eye?” he asked as he approached.

  Startled by his change in tone and demeanor, she took a step back and away. “I-I tripped over me own two feet and landed on a felled log, m’laird.”

  He didn’t believe that for one bloody moment. He decided, for the moment at least, to allow her this one tiny lie.

  From where he stood, he could see her tremble. Twisting her fingers, she gazed at the floor. “I came to apologize, m’laird,” she all but whispered. “And to take whatever punishment ye seek to give me.”

  He raised a curious brow. “Apologize fer what, lass?”

  “’Tis me fault da was workin’ off the wrong plans.”

  There was something in her tone that made her words sound forced. “Yer fault?”

  She nodded her head rapidly as she swiped away a tear. “’Tis me job, ye see, to help him with his papers. I-I must have misplaced the new plans ye had given him.”

  He knew ’twas another bald-faced lie and it angered him no end. Not with her, but with her father. The man was forcing her to take the blame for his own stupidity.

  “Da says ye’ll be right angry with me. I will no’ beg ye fer mercy.” Her voice was but a mere whisper.

  Brogan entered the tent then. “Ian, Andrew told me what was—” He stopped short when Leona looked up at him. “What happened to ye?” he asked.

  “I tripped over me own two feet and landed against a table.”

  Odd, Ian thought. A moment ago ’twas a felled log. “She has come to confess that ’twas she who misplaced the plans I gave to Ingerame when I arrived.”

  Brogan cast him a wary glance. He didn’t believe her lie anymore than Ian did.

  “And to take me punishment fer it,” she added, fixing her gaze on the floor once again. “I ken it caused ye a great deal of trouble.”

  Ian’s fury increased tenfold, but he kept it well hidden. “What punishment do ye think we should mete out fer such a mistake?” he asked her.

  Without flinching, she looked up at the two of them. “A beatin’ I reckon. ’Tis what the last laird did.”

  The tick in Ian’s jaw returned with a vengeance. “The last laird?”

  “Aye,” she replied. “I did this once before, a few years back.”

  Another wary exchange betwixt brothers. “I see,” Ian said, taking a step toward her. “Do ye think ye have learned yer lesson about misplacin’ important documents? Or do ye think this will happen again?”

  Her brow drew into a thin line. “I do no’ ken, m’laird. I tend to be a bit scatter-minded at times.”

  Ian thought on that for a time before responding. “Well, in the future, if ye misplace somethin’, come to me at once, lass, and we’ll help ye find it.”

  The line in her forehead grew tighter. “I will, m’laird,” she said with a hint of confusion.

  “Verra well then, ye may leave. I ken me wife will be glad to see ye this day.”

  “But me punishment,” she said. “Would ye no’ like to beat me now?”

  Brogan grunted in disgust.

  “Nay, I think no’,” Ian answered.

  Before he could go on, she stepped forward, her shoulders back and chin up. “M’laird, I would prefer the beatin’ now, if ye do no’ mind. I ken what I did was somethin’ terrible, but I’d rather no’ take me beatin’ in front of the entire clan.”

  He knew ’twas common practice among some clans to make such public displays of punishment as the one she spoke of. ’Twas meant to set an example to everyone. He deplored such displays.

  “Lass, I’ll no’ be beatin’ ye now, nor will I be beatin’ ye later, and neither will I be beatin’ ye in front of the clan.”

  Suspicion set into her eyes.

  “I can tell ye be awfully sorry fer what happened. I think ye’ve suffered enough.”

  It took a moment for understanding to set in, but there was no sign of relief. “M’laird, I hate to ask ye, but could ye please tell me da yer decision?” she asked with a good deal of trepidation. “I fear he might no’ believe me.”

  Ian offered the warmest smile he could under the circumstances. “Aye, I shall have a verra long talk with yer da.”

  ’Twas only then that her shoulders sagged in relief as she let out the breath she’d been holding. “I thank ye, m’laird, I kindly do!”

  “Be gone with ye now,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Go see me wife. I be certain she would be glad for yer help in preparin’ the evenin’ meal.”

  Leona returned his smile with one of her own, bobbed a cur
tsey to him, then to Brogan, before she fled the tent.

  Once she was gone, Ian looked at his brother. “I am beginnin’ to despise Ingerame Macdowall.”

  Brogan grunted in agreement. “I would like to be present when ye talk to him about his daughter’s transgression.”

  * * *

  By the time Ian and Brogan finished talking with Ingerame Macdowall, the man was sporting a black eye and bloodied lip.

  “And if ye ever think to make yer daughter confess on yer behalf,” Ian said as he shoved Ingerame onto the chair, “I shall make yer punishment a public one.”

  “And if ye think to take yer anger fer us out on yer daughter, ye may no’ live to regret it,” Brogan added as he pulled the man from the chair.

  “This will remain betwixt us, Ingerame,” Ian said, as he shoved the man toward the opening in the tent. “But never ferget our warnin’ to ye.”

  With that, he shoved Ingerame Macdowall out of the tent and into the cool evening air.

  The two brothers stood at the entrance, watching the foul man scurry away.

  “Do ye think we went too far, brother?” Brogan asked, planting his hands on his hips.

  Ian pondered the question for only a brief moment. “Nay,” he replied. “I fear we may no’ have gone far enough.”

  * * *

  When Ian told his wife all that had transpired with Leona and Ingerame, ’twas all he could do to keep her from going after the man with a skillet.

  “How dare he?” she fumed as she paced the small confines of their newly built hut.

  “Some men do no’ look at their wives and daughters with the same fondness I look upon ye.” He said as he kissed the base of her neck. “They look at them as nothin’ more than chattel.”

  “Do ye think he will be foolish enough to hurt her again?” Too angry to pay attention to the tender ministrations he was showing her neck, she stood looking out the small window toward Leona’s hut.

  Ian decided to take another route to wooing his wife into their bed. Tenderly, he rubbed a palm across her stomach, making a slow northerly progression toward the breasts he took such delight in. “Nay,” he murmured against her neck. “Brogan and I made certain he understood clearly what the consequences of that action might be.”

  “I detest that man,” she said with a huff.

  “I am beginnin’ to despise him even more,” Ian said as he spun her around to face him. “Fer he’s got me beautiful wife’s full attention at the moment. Attention I very much desire to have all to meself fer the next hour or so.”

  “Ye are insatiable,” she said with a beguiling smile. “I find I like that about ye.”

  One hour turned into nearly two as he made slow, languid yet passionate love to his wife. His wife surprised him mid-way through with something Ian was certain only Inverness whore’s knew how to do with their mouths. Certainly not good, decent wives. Nay, he complained not once during nor after. Instead he relished her tender, seductive ministrations to his staff. Still, when they lay panting for breath afterward, sweat glistening on his brow, he felt the urge to ask how she had come up with the idea.

  “We women talk about more than bairns and meals, Ian,” she giggled against his chest.

  He was not so certain that was a good idea or bad, but kept the thought to himself.

  “Did ye no’ like it?” she asked sleepily.

  He chuckled as he pulled her closer. “If I liked it any better, me eyes would have bulged from me sockets.”

  A soft laugh, bordering on pride, formed in her throat. “Then I did it correctly.”

  Correctly? She did it with such finesse and expertise, one would have thought she’d spent years honing the craft.

  They fell asleep, replete and content in each other’s arms, and did not wake until long after dawn.

  15

  The following sennight passed without incident. According to Rose, Leona seemed far happier, her spirits lifted immeasurably. Though she still insisted ’twas her own fault for misplacing the plans. The story about how she got the black-eye varied, depending on who she told the story to. Very few people, however, had asked what happened. Most of the clan still treated her with indifference. However Ronna and Angrabraid, their auld healer, grew more and more fond of the young woman.

  Now that those with families, and the widowed and unmarried women, had huts to call their very own, the mood across the clan seemed even lighter. With the completion of these temporary homes, Ian could focus more on building the tower and training with his men.

  Because he could not be two places at once, the training of the men fell primarily to Brogan and Andrew the Red. Diligently, the two men spent the morning hours in an empty field next to the keep, training with the Mackintoshes, whilst also trying to teach the McLaren men.

  Ian also felt it necessary to train the numerous laborers. That was when things grew more difficult, slowly chipping away at the calm, brotherly atmosphere of the clan.

  They were standing in the courtyard on this misty morn. While women went about their daily chores and cleaned up after the morning meal, Andrew the Red faced off against eight of the laborers. One in particular was a thorn in his arse.

  “Ye pay me to be a laborer, no’ a warrior.” ’Twas Robert Macelvy who first voiced his displeasure.

  Andrew rolled his eyes and ran a hand across his chin. “Aye, Ian pays ye fer that, and pays ye quite well,” he said. “But ye also need to learn to defend the keep.”

  The slender man with dark hair and even darker eyes, gave a slow shake of his head. “’Tis no’ me job to defend the keep.” The others standing behind him nodded their heads in agreement.

  “And what do ye intend to do should we ever fall under attack?”

  He answered with a shrug. “Surrender, I reckon.”

  Andrew’s eyes grew so wide and round he looked as though he were on the verge of an apoplexy. “Surrender?” he asked, exasperatedly. “Have ye no ballocks man? No pride?” The thought of surrender to anyone was appalling.

  “Better to surrender and live another day, than to die,” Robert answered calmly. His cohorts readily agreed with more nods and a few murmured ‘ayes’.

  Someone had sent word to Ian that some of the laborers were refusing to train. Angry that he was once again pulled from the quarry, he thundered into the keep and toward the object of his ire.

  “Andrew,” he called out loudly as he approached. “Please tell me the rumors that there be cowards amongst us are false.”

  Seeing their laird in such a state of fury caused every one of the objectors to take tentative steps back.

  “Aye, they be true, Ian,” Andrew said, his voice filled with disgust.

  Ian faced the cowards head-on, while speaking over his shoulder to Andrew. “Who be the one objectin’ most?”

  “That one,” Andrew said with a nod toward the man. “Robert Macelvey.”

  Not wanting to appear any more the coward than he already did, the man lifted his chin and stepped forward. “Ye pay us to build yer keep, no’ to guard it.”

  Bracing his feet apart, Ian crossed his arms over his chest and leaned ever so slightly toward the man. He towered over him and used that to his advantage. “Do ye no’ also live amongst us?” he asked. “Do ye no’ partake of our food? Our ale and wine? Does our healer no’ tend to yer wounds? Do the rest of us no’ work alongside ye, day after day?”

  Flummoxed, the man gave a rapid nod of his head.

  “And do I ask ye to pay fer any of those things?”

  The man paled visibly.

  “Yet ye refuse to train with the others?” Ian asked, rhetorically of course. “Verra well then, ye shall no’ train with us. But ye can pack yer things now and leave. I will allow ye to live outside the protection of our walls. Ye will pay fer every meal, every cup of ale, every time ye see the healer.” Done arguing, he turned to leave.

  “Ye can no’ do that!” Robert argued.

  Ian had his sword drawn before he turned around comp
letely. Using his fist, he hit the coward in the center of his chest and sent him flying hard to the ground. One heartbeat later, he stood over the man, one foot on his chest, pinning him to the damp earth. The tip of his sword stopped just a hair’s breadth away from his jugular. “Think ye now that I can no’?”

  The man gulped for air as he clawed at Ian’s booted foot.

  Ian looked up to the rest of the men. “If we were by chance attacked, do ye think the men attackin’ will take the time to sort out coward from warrior?” he asked them in a demanding, firm tone. “Do ye think they will stop to ask ye anythin’ before they gut ye?”

  The small group of men looked as stunned as they did terrified. None was brave enough to answer his questions.

  “I be no’ askin’ ye any more than I ask any other man amongst us,” Ian said. “We all work hard every day. Besides the lot of ye, no’ one man has refused to train. Men far aulder than ye are out on that trainin’ field right now. They may no’ be the fastest, they may no’ be the best or the strongest. But I’d put the lot of them against any of ye any day of the week.” He stopped long enough to draw a breath. “All of ye will be out of me camp within the hour. If ye wish to work, then ye will train. If ye refuse to train, ye can find yer own bloody way back to Inverness or whatever rock ye crawled out from under.”

  With much force and a look of utter disdain, he pressed his foot more firmly against Robert Macelvey’s chest before turning away. “Andrew, make sure they are packed and out of here within the hour.”

  Andrew nodded quite happily. “’Twill be me pleasure, Ian.”

  * * *

  Amazingly enough, six of the nine protestors opted to stay with the clan. Robert Macelvey and two others were the only ones to pack their bags that day and leave. The remaining men decided ’twas safer inside the keep than without, and although ’twas reluctantly, they did begin their training.