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

by Suzan Tisdale

Though most of the McLaren men were aulder, there were one or two closer to Ian’s own age. They trained just as hard and with as much dedication as the Mackintosh men, even if their skills were not nearly as good.

  Rains came and went and came back again. In the space of any given day, it could be bright and sunny, then moments later, everyone would be soaked by a deluge. Such was the weather in October in these western Highlands.

  On this cool yet sunny morning, a sennight before Samhuinn, Ian was training in the yard with the McLarens. More specifically with a lad of fifteen named Robby McLaren. Though he was young and inexperienced, Ian had to give him credit for his determination.

  “Nay, lad!” Ian exclaimed. “Ye keep lettin’ yer shield down!”

  Sweat poured into the lad’s dark blue eyes. Using his sword hand, he wiped it away. Dark brown ringlets were plastered to his forehead, his tunic sticking to his skinny torso. Listening intently, he lifted his shield up as he’d been instructed repeatedly over the past weeks.

  Ian thrust his sword forward, tapping the center of the shield. “Never let yer guard down, else ye’ll never get to bed yer first woman,” he teased.

  Robby took the taunt for what it was: simply a means to catch him off balance, to infuriate him to the point he’d do something reckless. He’d learned that lesson the hard way just a sennight ago. It took his arse three days before it quit throbbing from where the tip of Ian’s sword had landed.

  Once again, Ian thrust his sword forward, this time with such force against the shield, it made his own teeth rattle. Robby landed on his arse with a thud.

  Scrambling back to his feet, he tried to return the favor, but his sword glanced off Ian’s shield, barely touching it.

  So intent was his focus on Ian, he was not paying any attention to the man behind him. Andrew the Red took the tip of his sword and thwacked his arse.

  “Bloody hell!” Robby cried out, spinning around to see who the culprit was.

  Andrew the Red burst into riotous laughter. Throwing his head back, consumed by his own cleverness, he did not see the blow coming. Robby thrust his own wooden sword against Andrew’s stomach. But before he could let out a cheer of victory, Ian kicked his feet out from under him.

  “Well played, laddie,” Ian said with a proud smile. “But ye fergot yer back once again.”

  Andrew was appalled, and also a bit proud of the boy.

  Ian hauled the red-faced lad to his feet. “Let us try again,” he said as he righted the boy’s tunic and gave him an affectionate pat on the cheek.

  “Ye do no’ have to treat me like a bairn,” Robby ground out as he planted his left leg firmly behind his right, taking the appropriate stance.

  Ian smiled deviously. “I treat ye no different than I would one of me own brothers,” he said. “One of me younger brothers.”

  Fiercely, the lad scowled at Ian. Swiping more sweat from his brow, he noticed Ian had barely broken a sweat. And neither was he out of breath. He wanted to be that kind of warrior someday. One who could train for hours without his arms and legs feeling as weak as warm butter.

  Just then, Rose appeared on the small mound. With his back to her, Ian didn’t know she was there until she called out his name. “Ian! Come quick!”

  So surprised he was to hear his wife call out, Ian spun, giving his back to Robby. Before he could form his next thought, young Robby McLaren kicked his laird’s feet out from under him. Ian landed on his back, the air knocked clean from his lungs. Robby was over him in a heartbeat, with his wooden sword pressed against his throat.

  “Be that how it is done, m’laird?” he asked cheekily.

  Ian gave a quick nod. “Almost, laddie, almost.”

  As the boy’s expression turned to confusion, Ian kicked against his arse once, with enough force to send the boy flying.

  “Ian!” Rose was screaming and she sounded very distressed. “Please, come quick!”

  “Andrew,” Ian said with a smirk, “will ye teach young Robby here that last move? After he pulls his ballocks out of his arse.”

  The nearer he drew to Rose the more his gut told him something was horribly wrong. Her face was contorted and he could see that she had been crying. Hurriedly, she rushed into his arms. “Och, Ian!” she cried as she hugged him close.

  “What be the matter?” he asked. She would never have interrupted the training session were it not important.

  “’Tis Eggar,” she said between sobs. “They found him in the pit at the quarry.” She turned her face up, her eyes red from crying. After taking a deep breath, she blurted out the rest. “He be dead.”

  An overwhelming sadness fell over him. Eggar was one of the very few, if not the only, McLaren he had learned to trust when he had first arrived with his brother at the auld McLaren keep. Eggar Wardwin was a good, hard-working man.

  His distraught wife cried against his chest as she told him what she knew. “I do no’ ken how it happened, Ian. But they be bringin’ him back now on a litter.”

  He squeezed his wife gently and kissed the top of her head. “I be so sorry, Rose. Let us go now and see what we can learn.”

  * * *

  They rushed back to the camp just as two McLaren men were bringing Eggar. With great care, they placed the litter on the long table; their crestfallen expressions were enough to bring tears to even the most hardened man.

  Sniffing back a tear, Albert McLaren stepped away from the table. “His neck be broken, m’laird,” he said in a low, hushed tone. “It looks as though he tripped and fell in.”

  Ian scanned the crowd for a brief moment before giving a quick examination of Eggar’s cold, lifeless body. His clothing was soaked clear to his skin. It hadn’t rained since last night, not long after the midnight hour. He must have gone back to the quarry sometime after the evening meal the night before.

  What in the bloody hell was he doing at the quarry at that late hour? Suspicion began to form in his mind. Eggar was neither a drunkard nor a fool. Something had to have drawn him to the quarry at such an hour.

  “His clothes are still soaked through. It did no’ rain until after the midnight hour last night, and stopped well before dawn,” Ian spoke to the crowd who had begun to form. “Does anyone ken why Eggar was at the quarry so late?”

  No one answered his question. Each of them looked just as confused as Ian felt.

  He did not enjoy where his thoughts led him. There had been much animosity of late betwixt Eggar and Ingerame. Had it gotten to the point that one would kill the other?

  Ian knew Ingerame was not above hitting his own daughter, black eyes be-damned. Mayhap, just mayhap the man was angry enough or mad enough to take Eggar’s life.

  * * *

  All work and training was brought to a halt while Ian and Brogan began to question the members of the clan. Without fanfare, Ian sent someone to find Ingerame posthaste.

  They had just finished interrogating a third clansmen, when Ingerame came rushing into the tent. His face was ashen, his jaw slack. Ian took one look at the man and knew ’twas not born of fear, but of great despair.

  “Be it true, m’laird?” he asked breathlessly. “Be he really dead?”

  So genuine was the man’s anguish that Ian was hard pressed to remain suspicious of him. No one was that good at portraying an innocent man.

  “Aye, Ingerame, it be true,” Ian said as he left his chair.

  “They said he was at the quarry long after midnight.” Ingerame repeated what he’d been told. “What the bloody hell was he doin’ out there? Alone?”

  “I wish I kent the answer to that question,” Ian replied.

  Only three days ago, Ingerame and Eggar had been at odds once again, over something Ian could not recall at this moment. The way the two men got on, one would have sworn they were life-long enemies. It begged the question. “Ye and he were always arguin’ with one another. Yet ye stand here lookin’ like a man who just lost his dearest friend.”

  Ingerame swallowed back what Ian assumed were t
ears. “Aye, we quarreled all the time, m’laird, but that does no’ mean I did no’ consider him a friend. He was a good man.”

  Had he not witnessed the man’s grief with his own eyes, had not heard with his own ears the tremor in his voice, Ian would never have believed it. Ingerame Macdowall possessed a heart after all.

  Ian offered his condolences and a gentle hand on the man’s back. Ingerame left the tent to be alone with his grief.

  “Well that quells me suspicion that Ingerame was involved,” Brogan admitted.

  Andrew the Red had to agree as well. “If I hadn’t seen it with me own eyes, I would never have believed it.”

  Ian nodded in agreement. “I can no’ believe Eggar would go to the quarry in the middle of the night.”

  “Nay,” Andrew said. “We did find a cold torch lyin’ at his feet. Do ye suppose the rain was heavy near the quarry?”

  Brogan thought on that for a long moment. “I’ll no’ say ’tis impossible, but I will say ’tis highly unlikely.”

  Ian had to agree. “I can no’ help but feel someone kens somethin’ about how Eggar Wardwin came to be dead at the bottom of the quarry. ’Tis no’ too great a fall. Seven? Eight feet?

  “I myself have slipped once or twice when the rope was wet. Fell halfway down it just a few days ago. I landed on me backside.”

  Ian pondered that for a moment. “What if he was pushed, with great force?”

  “That might do it, but ‘twould be like fallin’ off a horse. About the same distance, would ye no’ agree?” Brogan interjected.

  “The earth at the bottom of the quarry is covered in dirt and mud from all the rain,” Ian offered. “We often have to scoop out buckets of mud before we can get to the rock underneath.”

  The three men stared at one another for a long while. In the end, they had more questions than answers.

  16

  ’Twas nearing Christmas tide, the land blanketed in heavy white snow that glistened and twinkled in the sunlight by day, and at night, as far as the eye could see ’twere magnificent colors ranging from indigo to silver. The trees popped and cracked, their branches and limbs weighed down from yet another heavy snowfall.

  The little cottage Ian had built for his wife was warm and cozy. A fire burned brightly in the hearth, furs were stretched taught over the tiny windows. Everything was as it should be, save for Rose.

  A week ago, she had grown quite ill. No matter what she tried, her stomach would not settle. She could keep nothing down, not even the tiniest morsels of bread. She threw up morning, noon, and night. Dark circles had formed around her sunken eyes, her skin was pale and often damp.

  Ian grew more and more concerned as the days passed. On the morning of the sixth day of her ailment, he dressed quickly, throwing on a thick fur and declared, “I am fetchin’ the healer.” He would brook no argument even if she had the energy to give him one.

  He stepped out into the cold, winter air. The sun was just coming up, the sky painted in brilliant shades of red, orange and lavender. Nary a soul was out, and who could blame them. On a morn like this, a man should be abed, under warm furs, and if he was lucky, under a warm wife.

  The snow crunched under his heavy boots as he fought his way across the yard and toward the healer’s hut. Though she was an aulder woman of indiscernible age, she was his only option. If he had to carry her back to his hut so she could tend to his wife, he would.

  Reaching Angrabraid MacConnell’s door, he pounded loudly, not caring if he disturbed her slumber. The door opened almost at once. “I be auld, no’ deaf!” she shouted. Gray hair, braided and twisted around her head like a silver crown framed her weathered and worn skin, which resembled an auld piece of tanned leather. For a long moment she eyed him scrupulously with a pair of pale blue eyes. “Well? What do ye want? Or are ye just fond of poundin’ on an auld woman’s door at ungodly hours?”

  “’Tis Rose,” he managed to say. “She be quite ill. Can no’ keep anythin’ down.”

  “Fer how long now?” she asked with one quirked brow and a squinting eye.

  “Six days,” he answered. “Her skin be clammy. She throws up all day and night now. Can no’ even keep down a tiny bit of bread.”

  With a nod of her head, she bade him wait. “I will get me bag,” she said before closing the door.

  As patiently as a man of his stubbornness and current distress could manage, he waited. And he waited. And he waited.

  Had she forgotten he was here? Had she fallen or taken suddenly ill?

  Just as he was about to raise his hand to pound on the door yet again, it flew open. With a walking stick in one hand and a large pouch slung over her shoulder, she stared at his upraised arm and massive fist. “Bah! Ye plan to beat me fer no’ hurryin’ as fast as ye like?”

  Ian was unable to find an appropriate response. Desperate to have his wife well again, he changed the subject. “Can ye make it through the snow?”

  Tapping her stick once, she said, “I be auld, no’ dead!”

  Ian sent a silent prayer for patience up to the heavens. Left to hope her bedside manner was kinder to his wife than it had been to him, he followed her through the snow.

  * * *

  While Ian paced like a caged animal just outside the door to the cottage, he was left alone with his fearful mind and heart. The healer had threatened to beat him senseless if he didn’t leave her and his wife alone. Reluctantly, and at Rose’s request, he had excused himself to wait out of doors.

  Before long, he had beaten down the snow, wearing a path as wide as their little home. Ian Mackintosh was as pious as an Edinburgh whore, but he was not above tossing a prayer God’s way every now and again. Today, he was in full-blown negotiations with Him. Making every bargain he could think of in the hope his wife would be well again.

  I can no’ lose her, he thought as he trampled down more of the snow. I can no’ live without her.

  With his mind and heart otherwise engaged, he had not heard Brogan approach.

  His brother stood only a few feet away, observing Ian’s agitated state. From the worrisome manner in which his younger brother paced, with his head down, hands clasped behind his back, he knew ’twas no time for playful jests. “Ian, what be the matter?”

  When Ian glanced up, Brogan’s stomach tightened. He recognized that look of fear and dread.

  “’Tis Rose,” Ian said, his voice cracking. “She is quite ill. Can no’ keep even the tiniest morsel of food down.” He went on to explain how she had been ill off and on for more than a fortnight. “It has only grown worse this past sennight.”

  There was no way for Brogan to mask his crestfallen expression.

  “What?” Ian ground out.

  “Nothin’.”

  He lied and Ian knew he lied. Ian studied him closely, taking note that his brother could not look him in the eye. The longer they stood in the cold morning air, the heavier his heart felt. “Is this how it began with yer wife? With the wastin’ disease?” Ian asked, terrified to hear his answer. Brogan’s lovely young wife had died from that horrible disease more than three years ago. He still had not recovered from his loss.

  “It could be anythin’ that ails her,” Brogan offered. “She could have eaten somethin’ that did no’ agree with her.”

  Ian could appreciate his brother’s attempt to offer the smallest glimmer of hope, but it did nothing to ease the deep ache and worry over Rose. Guilt tugged at his heart.

  “I should never have brought her here,” he whispered. “’Tis too rough and hard a life fer someone as wee as Rose.”

  A weak smile came to Brogan’s lips. “She be much stronger than ye’re givin’ her credit fer.”

  Ian ignored him and went back to his pacing.

  “Do no’ bury her yet, Ian,” Brogan said. “Ye have no idea what be the matter with her. Hold on to yer sanity and yer patience until ye hear from the healer.”

  * * *

  “That can no’ be,” Rose whispered in stunned disbelief. “’T
is impossible.”

  Angrabraid clucked her tongue as she wiped a cool cloth across Rose’s forehead. “Impossible? Ye be married, ain’t ye?”

  Rose could barely nod in affirmation.

  “Be it a marriage in name only then?”

  A slow shake of her head was the only answer Rose could manage.

  Chuckling, the auld woman patted her hand. “I imagine if I were as bonny and young as ye, and had me a fine, braw husband like Ian, I’d be liftin’ me skirts as easily as an Inverness bar wench would fer a groat!”

  Rose found no humor in her jest. A heavy sense of despair draped over her heart. “But we were takin’ precautions,” she murmured.

  Angrabraid threw back her head and laughed. “The only precaution to no’ gettin’ with child is to stay as far away from a man as ye can, lass. Especially a man like yers.”

  Removing the cloth from Rose’s forehead, she dipped it into the bowl of cool water. “When was the last time ye bled?”

  In truth, she had no earthly idea. “I have never been regular in that regard,” Rose answered. “Sometimes I go two or three months, only bleed a day or two. Then other times, it lasts fer two weeks.”

  Squeezing out the excess water, Angrabraid drew the cool cloth over Rose’s arms and neck. “’Tis more common an occurrence than most think.”

  Too weak and ill to hold them back, Rose let the tears stream down her cheeks. This can no’ be.

  “Lass, why is this no’ good news fer ye? Do ye no’ want children?” The healer’s smile had faded, replaced with a genuine look of concern.

  Taking in a slow, deep breath, she swiped away at her tears. “I was married before. I could no’ carry past me third month.” I can no’ bear the thought of losin’ another child.

  As comforting as a kind grandmother, Angrabraid gave her hands another gentle pat. “Wheest, lass. I ken many a woman who lost more than one babe before one finally took. Who kens why one babe survives and another does no’?”

  “I could no’ bear it, Angrabraid, to lose Ian’s babe.” She admitted aloud her deepest worry.