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

by Suzan Tisdale

  “Have ye met this Mairghread?” Brogan asked Charles.

  “Nay,” he admitted.

  “Then ye might want to keep what ye heard to yerself until ye ken the whole of the story,” Brogan warned him.

  Deciding ’twas best to change the topic at hand, Andrew chimed in. “I kent a Mairghread once. She was a bar wench in Inverness. A comely thing she was, too!”

  Ian and Brogan had heard Andrew’s stories so often, they knew them by heart. They turned their attention away from his ribald tale and spoke to one another.

  “So would ye like me to reach out to the Mactavishes about horses?” Brogan asked.

  Ian gave a nod of affirmation. “Aye, I would. Take Rodrick the Bold and Andrew with ye on the morrow.”

  Brogan nodded before taking a pull of his ale.

  As an afterthought, Ian added. “And see what ye can learn about their lack of a chief. I would like to ken if we should think them allies or enemies.”

  * * *

  Less than a sennight later, Brogan, Andrew and Rodrick returned with a dozen large highland ponies. The Mactavish keep was a solid two-day ride from the McLarens. Ian was surprised to see them back so soon, but mightily glad for the horses.

  After putting their new purchases into the corral, the men headed into the large tent. They quenched their thirst on ale and cider and filled their bellies with a good hearty rabbit stew and bread.

  Full of gratitude, Ian let them quench their thirst and fill their bellies before he asked for details of their trip.

  “I got only a glimpse of Mairghread,” Rodrick told him. “A right bonny woman she is, too.”

  Andrew scoffed at Rodrick’s assessment. “I thought she looked quite odd. A wee bit tetched.”

  Brogan rolled his eyes at Andrew. “Ye only say that because of the rumors.”

  They argued back and forth about whether or not Mairghread Mactavish was tetched or beautiful or both. Ian had heard enough. “Lads, can we get to the matter at hand?” he asked, bringing their conversation to a halt. “Should we think them allies or no’?” He directed his question at his brother.

  Brogan took a drink of cider before responding. “In truth? I do no’ rightly ken if we can think them allies. But I do no’ think we need to worry they be our enemies.”

  “That is as clear as mud,” Ian said.

  Brogan smiled. “They be a rather small clan. And no’ well organized. It took them four hours just to decide who we should speak to in the matter of horses. Cainnech Mactavish— he be the uncle to Mairghread — had just left the day before we arrived. Apparently, he did no’ leave clear instructions as to who was in charge, or fer anything else.”

  Ian mulled it over for a moment. “So they be too disorganized to be either a help or a hindrance?”

  Brogan smiled wryly. “Aye. So I do no’ worry over them.” He took another drink of cool cider. “Now, what they lack in organization, they more than make up fer in horseflesh. ’Tis the finest I have ever seen.”

  On that, Andrew and Rodrick could both agree. “Aye. I would no’ mind goin’ back to deal fer a horse of me own,” Rodrick said with a smile. ’Twas the second time since Ian had met the man that he’d seen him smile for any reason. He wasn’t sure if he should be glad or frightened. But ’twas good to know the man had an interest in something.

  18

  On his belly, the night raider looked down from the top of the hill. Smoke rose in swirls and whispers from the tiny huts that dotted the land. Nary a light burned from within them, for all were abed and sound asleep.

  Torches lit the upper wood wall, to give the appearance they possessed more guards than they actually did. Thanks to his own keen intellect as well as the spy that lived among the Mackintoshes and McLarens, he knew every secret Ian Mackintosh had. Some were, by far, more important than others.

  For instance, he knew that someone, more likely than not Frederick Mackintosh, had found the treasure hidden in the auld McLaren keep. ’Twas the only way to explain the influx of capital that allowed the construction of an entirely new keep. While the Mackintoshes were one of the richest and most powerful clans in all of Scotia, not even they possessed the ability to build everything from new and at their current pace.

  He also knew that Ian and many of his men were off hunting for game. That information he had gleaned from his carefully placed spy. ’Twas amazing what one could purchase with just a few pieces of coin. They would be gone for days. They had left behind a decent enough contingent of men to guard what Ian held most precious: his wife.

  ’Twas all for naught, for his own party of warriors outnumbered them three to one.

  Quietly, he slid back the way he’d come. Amongst the thirty men, mounted and on foot, stood his own gray speckled steed. Without a word to the others, he grabbed the reins and swung himself into the saddle. They’d gone over their plan until ’twas burned into their minds. Their mission was simple — kidnap Rose Mackintosh.

  The execution of that simple mission would not be nearly as easy. He might be as arrogant as the day was long, but that did not mean he was a stupid man. The Mackintoshes were some of the best-trained warriors in all of Scotland, if not the world. His men, vicious and ruthless beasts every one of them, may not have been as well trained. But on this night, they possessed something the Mackintoshes didn’t: greed and the blood of generations of greedy, ruthless bastards that ran through their veins. And a spy within who would soon open the gates to the McLaren keep.

  * * *

  Rose was fast asleep, dreaming pleasantly about her husband and the babe she carried. The dream was much the same from night to night. She and Ian were cooing over their babe, remarking over how beautiful a bairn he or she was. Betimes she dreamt she’d birthed a boy, others, ’twas a girl child. While the sex of the babe may have changed from night to night, the underlying tone of the dream was always the same: peace and contentment.

  Della Mackintosh slept on a pallet next to her bed this night. The woman had insisted she did not wish to be sleeping alone whilst her husband was with Ian and the others. Rose knew ’twas mostly a falsehood, for she had three sons to care for. More likely than not, ’twas Ian’s idea, for he worried over his wife being alone for even the shortest amount of time.

  Either way, Rose did find some comfort in knowing Della was there should any emergency arise. Knowing Ian would be home in a matter of a few short days did nothing to stop her from missing him.

  Whether ’twas her memory of the time Frederick had gone hunting and subsequently been kidnapped by Eduard Bowie or her ever-changing emotions brought on by being with child, tonight’s dream suddenly turned dark. Ominous, misshapen shadows were pulling at her with black fingers. They screamed and screeched like banshees, turning her blood to ice. In the next moment, Della was standing in the doorway to Rose’s hut, covered in blood and screaming for her to run. But she felt paralyzed, unable to blink, let alone will her body to move.

  Terrified, Rose shot upright in her bed, out of breath and covered with sweat.

  It only took a frantic heartbeat to realize ’twas not a dream.

  * * *

  Della was on her feet, a sgian dubh in one hand and a stool in the other, fending off the dark stranger who stood just inside the doorway. “Rose!” she shouted. “Run!”

  Seven months ago, ’twould have taken little time or effort for Rose to jump from the bed and help fend off the attacker. Heavy now with child, she could not move as fast as she needed to. The instinct to stand and fight fought hard against the battle to save her babe.

  Outside, she could hear the sounds of battle, of metal clanging against metal, horses screaming, people shouting, and the loud peal of the warning bell calling all to arms.

  Scurrying to her feet, she stood in stunned horror as the tall, dark figure lifted his sword in both hands and swung out in a wide arc.

  In the small confines of Rose’s home, there was nowhere to go nor any time to move out of the way. His sword sliced across De
lla’s side, sending her to her knees. The stool fell from her hand and rolled away, the sgian dubh fell to the stone floor with a soft clink. A frantic heartbeat later, Della McLaren fell into a bloody heap on Rose’s floor.

  Rose let loose a blood-curdling scream. There was no time to ponder who this man was, nor what his intentions might be. Trapped, terrified for her unborn child, sickened that he had just killed one of her dearest friends, Rose backed away. Two steps later, she was pinned against the wall and he was hovering over her.

  “Rose!” A shout came from the doorway. ’Twas Andrew the Red, sword drawn in one hand, his other holding a shield.

  The stranger spun around just as Andrew lunged forward. Rose jumped out of the way and fell sideways onto her bed. Fear, panic and sheer terror enveloped her. Run! Run! Run! ’Twas the only thing she could think to do.

  While Andrew and the stranger fought, Rose scurried across the bed and raced for the door.

  Outside, chaos reigned supreme. Everywhere she turned, fires roared from the rooftops of huts, the flames stabbing at the cold winter’s night. Men on horseback charged through the yard, slicing through anyone or anything in their paths. On the ground, men fought one on one, women holding bairns in their arms or pulling weans behind them, ran, trying to find a safe place to hide. But there was none.

  There was no place to take refuge. No sturdy building in which to seek shelter from the slaughter playing out before her eyes. Rose could barely hear the din of battle over the blood coursing through her veins as her heart pounded rapidly against her breast.

  Picking up her skirts, she ran as fast as she could, uncertain where she should go. The only thing that came to mind was to seek the cover of darkness within the forest.

  She hadn’t taken more than a few steps when she felt an arm wrap around her waist. A frantic moment later, she was lifted off her feet.

  “I have her!” the voice called out. “I have Rose Mackintosh!”

  Kicking, screaming, she clawed at his arms, struggling with all her might to be free. But ’twas all for naught. Moments later, she was being hoisted upward and onto a horse. Two arms wound their way around her waist, holding her tightly.

  “Our laird wants ye alive, lass,” the man shouted as she struggled against his tight hold. “But truth be told, I do no’ care one way or the other. Resist me and ye will die this night.”

  Fighting was pointless; in her heart she knew it. She had two choices. She could fight to her own death or she could do whatever she could to save her babe.

  The motherly instinct to protect her babe took hold. She would not fight. Instead, she would do whatever she must in order to keep her babe safe.

  19

  Upon hearing the news about the raid where he and the other hunters were camped, Ian Mackintosh felt sick to his stomach with worry and regret. One of his closest friends since childhood, Andrew the Red, was dead, as were dozens of the men he’d left behind to guard the keep.

  ’Twas an odd blend of trepidation and sorrow that draped over his heart as Della Mackintosh’s youngest son stood before him. Imparting the facts as best as he could, considering he was only eleven summers old, the boy fought gallantly to hold back his tears and personal anguish. Ian held his temper in check, along with his breath, while the lad frantically relayed the story.

  When Ian learned his wife had been kidnapped, he experienced a level of fury and heartache unlike anything he’d ever felt before. ’Twas far worse than the worry he’d experienced when he thought he’d lost her to the fire. Worse yet than when she’d gone back to the auld keep months ago. And worse even still than when he’d convinced himself she was dying from the wasting disease.

  Nay, those were all nothing more than the wild imaginings of a man fraught with worry.

  This? This was real. There was no uncertainty as to what had happened. She’d been taken.

  “I was hidin’ under a wagon, m’laird,” the boy sniffled. “I heard a man shout “I have Rose Mackintosh!” Then he tossed her to a man on horseback. As soon as they had our lady, they left as quickly as they’d come. We had no warnin’, m’laird. They killed so many people.” His voice cracked. “Includin’ me mum.”

  Tears streamed down the lad’s dirty face. “They killed me mum, m’laird, while I hid under a wagon like a coward,” he cried as he broke down into sobs.

  ’Twas Brogan who pulled the lad in and held onto him whilst he wept. “Wheest, lad,” he whispered. “Ye did the right thing. Yer mum would agree. She’d want naught any harm to come to ye.”

  While Brogan did his best to comfort the boy, Ian stood in stunned silence while his fury built. The men he’d brought with him on the hunt had encircled him and waited. Many of them were husbands who had left their wives behind. Their expressions held a blend of outrage and grief. Either too shocked to ask or too afraid to know the answers, none asked after their own. Mayhap they already knew the answers but were not quite ready to hear the truth.

  Ian looked at each of these brave men. Men who had sworn their fealty to him. Men — Mackintoshes and McLarens, as well as a few of the laborers — who looked up to him, who worked side by side with him every day. A few looked at him with tear-filled eyes. But each and every man looked him straight in the eye, as if to say, what now?

  “M’laird,” Thomas McLaren said, taking a step forward. “I’d like yer permission to leave as soon as possible. I have a wife and two weans at home.”

  They would get no argument from Ian.

  * * *

  Ian and his men rode through the night to return to the keep. The swathe of destruction left behind by the midnight raid was horrific. The scent of blood, smoke, and death filled the air, stealing the breath away from even the most experienced warrior.

  This was not a raid, but a bloodbath.

  Littered across the yard were countless bodies. Men and women who died for reasons Ian could not quite grasp. Aye, they fought to protect their families, their keep, and as in the case of Della and Andrew the Red, they fought to protect Rose.

  But why?

  Why did they have to die? For what cause? There was none, save for greed. ’Twas for greed and greed alone that these people were dead. Someone had taken his wife to hold her for ransom. ’Twas the only plausible explanation.

  Thankfully, the death toll was not nearly as high as it might have been. His men had done a good job at defending the keep and their people. But one death was too many as far as Ian was concerened. ‘Twas the bloody fires that did the most damage.

  As Ian stood in the middle of it all, he could not help but feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. He hadn’t listened to Rodrick the Bold’s concerns about raids from other clans. Nay, he’d let his foolish pride stand in the way of protecting his people and his wife.

  Brogan approached him, his face alight with anger and fury. “The gate was left open.”

  “What do ye mean?” Ian demanded.

  “I’ve inspected the walls, the gates, and the area around us. There be no damage to the gate, no signs anyone scaled the walls. All the tracks lead straight through our front gate.”

  Irrepressible anger washed over Ian when he realized what Brogan was saying. “Someone let them in.”

  Brogan’s jaw clenched tightly. “Aye.”

  “There is a traitor amongst us.” ’Twas an undeniable statement of fact.

  * * *

  Charles McFarland and Rodrick the Bold had been injured in the attack. Though Rodrick’s injuries were far more serious than Charles’s.

  Brogan and a group of men reassembled the main tent and began to help wounded inside. Two men carried an unconscious Rodrick in and laid him upon a long table. “Where be our healer?” One of the men asked.

  “I do no’ ken,” Charles answered from a stool near the brazier. Brogan thought the man looked more stunned than wounded. A bandage was wrapped around his left arm, a small bit of blood seething through. But ’twas the only outward sign of injury. Brogan knew from personal experience, that
a battle could oft leave a man’s mind more injured than a blade ever could.

  “What happened?” he asked as he stood next to Charles.

  “I do no’ ken. I was asleep in the armory with Rodrick. I woke up to the sounds of battle and the call to arms. I grabbed me sword and ran outside. ’Twas total chaos. Huts were burnin’, people were screamin’…”

  “We need bandages!” one of the men called out. Brogan looked up to find men surrounding Rodrick. “I can no’ stop the bleedin’.”

  One of the surviving women rushed over with an arm full of bandages and set about offering what assistance she could. The men took a few steps away and watched.

  Turning his attention back to Charles, Brogan asked. “Do ye ken who they were?”

  Charles ran a frustrated hand through is hair. “Nay, I do no’. It all happened so fast.”

  Though Charles may have fancied himself a warrior, Brogan was not inclined to agree. Any good warrior would have paid attention, would have listened and looked for any sign of who was attacking. For the moment, he would not fault the man, for he knew he didn’t possess the same level of experience as Brogan himself did.

  “There were no banners waved?” Brogan asked, ever hopeful they could get to the bottom of things. He needed to know who had done this. The why of it didn’t matter at the moment. Only the who.

  “Nay,” Charles said with a grimace. His arm was paining him something terrible. “I saw no banners, heard no names called out. I saw no plaids, nothin’ to tell me who they were.”

  Brogan glanced back toward Rodrick. Though the man was not exactly the friendly sort, Brogan felt he was as good a warrior as his Mackintosh men. Rodrick, should he live, would be able to give him more information than the visibly shaken and terrified Charles.

  ’Twas then that he noticed Charles kept glancing toward Rodrick. Thinking he was worried about his friend, Brogan said, “He’s a strong man. I am certain he’s suffered worse injuries.”