“Ye think he’ll live?” Charles asked.
“I certainly hope so,” Brogan answered.
Charles swallowed hard. Brogan sensed there was something the young man wanted to say but was afraid to say it. “Charles. If there is somethin’ ye need to tell me, I suggest ye no’ beat around the bush about it.”
Looking away and back to Brogan, he said, “He was no’ there when I awoke. He was already outside. Why did he no’ wake me to help fight?”
An overpowering sense of dread draped over Brogan’s heart. Was Rodrick their traitor? His first inclination was to think Nay, that be impossible. But if life had taught him anything, ’twas that people were not always as they appeared to be. Spies and traitors walked among the unsuspecting on a daily basis.
Fer yer sake, Rodrick, I hope ye do no’ survive yer injuries. Fer if ye do, Ian and I will tear ye limb from limb.
* * *
Leaving Brogan in charge of the keep and taking care of the dead and injured, Ian set off with ten men in search of Rose.
There was no priest in attendance to either offer last rites or speak over the dead. The task fell on Brogan. For two solid days, he worked along side his clansmen to help bury the dead and tend to the injured, while Ian searched for Rose. When the final count was tallied, seven men and two women had lost their lives. Countless others had been wounded, some far more seriously than others.
While a team of men worked to bury the dead, other teams set about repairing the damage. From sunup to sunset, they worked harder than they ever had. Brogan decided ’twas best to repair the armory first. Its walls had withstood the attack quite well. The only real damage had been done to the thatched roof and a few of its beams.
He was unable to glean anything useful from the survivors. They all said the same thing; it all happened so fast that no one had time to respond.
The guards who had been posted along the walls had seemingly been killed before they could call out any warning. All six had had their throats cut, either from the enemies without or the one within.
Rodrick was the only logical suspect. Brogan doubted anyone else would have possessed the ability and stealth to kill six men in such a manner.
On the morning of the third day, Leona, Ingerame and the healer appeared at the gates. Leona and Angrabraid looked mad enough to kill. Ingerame, however, looked positively ashamed.
“Where have ye been?” Brogan demanded as he met the three at the gate.
Leona and Angrabraid cast hate-filled looks toward Ingerame. ’Twas the auld healer who answered the question. “Hidin’ in the quarry. Like cowards.”
Releasing a frustrated sigh, Brogan had the distinct feeling he was not going to like anything else she or the quiet young woman had to say.
“And how did ye come to be in the quarry?”
Angrabraid glowered at Ingerame. “When the raid came, this one,” she nodded toward Leona’s father, “was the first to flee.” She tugged at a rope, jerking Ingerame in the process.
’Twas then Brogan noticed the man’s wrists were bound and tied to a length of rope, the end of it in the auld woman’s hands.
“I cannot always sleep at night, so I walk. Leona often walks with me. We were no’ far from the wall when we heard horses. They were movin’ far too quiet-like, ye ken? We — Leona and I — we felt somethin’ was wrong. We hurried as best we could, when we saw the fires and heard the commotion.”
“The gate was standin’ open,” Leona added. “While everyone inside was fightin’, me father was fleein’.”
“Like the rat he is,” Angrabraid offered.
A dull ache began to form in Brogan’s skull.
“Do no’ listen to them!” Ingerame seethed. “I was no’ fleein’, I was goin’ fer help.”
“Then why, pray tell, were ye headin’ north, when ye kent the men were huntin’ to the west? And why, pray tell, did ye hie off to the quarry and hide like a coward?” Angrabraid demanded in accusation.
“I told ye I was waitin’ until the raiders left. ’Twas the only safe place to hide!”
Angrabraid gave a good yank on the rope. For an auld woman, she was strong enough to pull the man to his knees. “Bah! Then why have ye held me and yer own flesh and blood at sword point fer nearly three days, refusin’ to allow us to leave the cave?”
“’Twas fer yer own safety!” he shouted before pulling himself back to his feet. “Brogan, I be no’ a warrior. I be a carpenter! I could no’ fight against all those men!”
“Because ye be a coward,” Angrabraid said.
“Enough!” Brogan shouted. Taking a deep breath, he eyed the trio closely for a moment. “When ye two left the keep, did ye by chance ferget to close the gate behind ye?”
Confused, the two women looked at one another before answering. “Of course no’,” Leona answered. “The men on the wall opened it fer us and closed it when we left.”
“When ye returned, was the gate open or closed?”
“’Twas open,” Leona said, uncertain why ’twas so important. “That is how me father escaped. Through the open gate.”
Brogan glared at the man standing before him. Could it be that Ingerame had left the gate open to allow murderers in? “Pray tell me, Ingerame, was it ye that opened the gate?” He did not want to believe his friend and fellow warrior, Rodrick the Bold, was a traitor. He’d been battling with his conscious for days now. He would much rather believe ’twas Ingerame who had betrayed them.
The man’s brow furrowed into a line of confusion. “Nay. The gate was already open when I heard the warning bells go off.”
As much as he disliked Ingerame Macdowall, Brogan could not believe the man was their spy and traitor. Nay, the fool was too much of a coward. So he was back to where he began, left to believe ’twas Rodrick the Bold who had betrayed them.
20
Rose had never been so terrified. Not even when they had stolen into the Bowie keep more than a year ago to rescue Frederick from the now dead Bowie laird, Eduard.
They had ridden nonstop all the night long. Her heart ached with fear and longing for her home and husband. Every muscle seemed to burn with a blend of exhaustion and worry.
With the repugnant man having such a tight hold on her, ’twas next to impossible to place a hand on her belly. Her babe had grown awfully quiet. He did not kick or turn as he had been doing so often of late. Dread set in as she worried she might lose her babe.
At dawn, they paused only long enough to relieve their bladders. “I need a moment of privacy,” she told her captor.
“If ye think I will be givin’ ye the chance to escape, ye’re sadly mistaken,” he told her gruffly.
If she had not been with child, she might have been tempted to hold her bladder. Instead, she found a tree, turned her back to him, and relieved herself. All the while he watched. ’Twas as humiliating a moment as she could ever remember experiencing.
They soon mounted and were off again. With each step away from her home, from her husband, her heart filled with despair. How long would it take before Ian learned about the raid? How many of her clansmen had died? How had these men gained entry into the keep?
A hundred unanswered questions that she could only pray she lived long enough to ask Ian. Lord, did she pity the man behind this raid. Once Ian found out, he would not rest a moment until he had her back and avenged the deaths of their people.
That thought quelled some of her trepidation. While it could be said Rose Mackintosh was the least vengeful person on God’s earth, the only thing that kept her from breaking down into a heap of sobs was knowing Ian would come for her.
She began to imagine the ways in which he would procure her inevitable rescue. ’Twas doubtful he’d sneak in and whisk her away in secret. Nay, knowing her husband as she did, a full out attack was a more likely scenario.
She thought about asking her captor who he was, thought to demand an explanation and to know where they were going. But he was such a foul man, both in odor and countena
nce, she doubted she’d gain any reasonable or truthful answer.
More hours passed by before they stopped again. Her back ached, every muscle in her body felt afire. She was unaccustomed to such harsh treatment, to riding so hard or so long. When they stopped, her captor swung down from the mount first, then pulled her down without a care to her person or her babe.
Sharp needles of pain stung at her tired feet. She had to cling to the horse for balance lest she fall to the ground. Leaning her head against the saddle and gripping the stirrup, she prayed for strength. God, please send Ian to me soon. Please protect me babe.
As she prayed quietly, she heard a commotion build.
“Who goes there?” a booming voice shouted into the night air.
“Haud yer wheest, ye eejit!” came the reply. “It be me, Alec, brother to yer laird, Rutger Bowie.”
Well, that answered one of her questions.
The Bowies.
Clinging to the stirrup with both hands, Rose began to pray more urgently. The Bowies were a ruthless lot of savages. While Eduard might very well be long dead, who knew what kind of man now stood as their chief? Was it possible this Rutger Bowie was even more ruthless, more evil than his predecessor? She began to pray she would never learn the answer.
For a long while, the men spoke in hushed yet angry tones, as if they did not want her to hear what their plans for her were. An overwhelming sense of trepidation fell over her. If Rutger was anything at all like Eduard, she was as good as dead.
* * *
“Pardon me, m’lady,” came a voice from behind her. Willing herself not to show the deep fear coursing through her veins, she pulled her shoulders back and turned to face him.
He was not at all what she expected. Tall, with dark hair that fell just past his shoulders, big brown eyes, and a warm smile, he looked every bit a gentleman. But Rose was no fool. She knew looks could be deceiving.
“I will apologize to ye fer the men’s harsh treatment of ye,” he said with a formal bow. When he stood, he looked to the man who she’d been riding with since late last night. “I can assure ye that Horace will no’ get the opportunity again to act like such an arse.”
Horace. She burned his name into her memory. If given the chance, she would kill the man with her own hands.
Horace didn’t look at all remorseful for his mistreatment. Instead, he simply rolled his eyes at Alec and walked away.
“How do ye fare, lass?” Alec asked in a low tone.
Was the man serious? “How do I fare?” she asked. “How do ye think I fare? Ye attacked our keep in the middle of the night. Ye killed I don’t know how many innocent people. Ye burned our homes. And ye kidnapped me!”
Even in the pale evening light, she could see something akin to guilt flash behind his dark eyes. And for the briefest moment, she thought he resembled a child who’d just been chastised by his mother. But ’twas gone in a flash.
In one long stride, he towered over her, the guilt replaced with anger. “Ye will be comin’ with me,” he said as he grabbed her arm and pulled her away forcefully.
“She rides with me now!” he shouted to the men standing in his path.
Good lord, was he serious? “Wait!” she pleaded with him as she tried to keep her footing.
Her pleas to stop fell on deaf ears.
Moments later, he was tossing her into a saddle and pulling himself up behind her. Tears welled in her eyes, and damnation, she could not stop the flow. He kicked the flanks of his mount, let out a shrill whistle, and soon they were off.
They had ridden a good distance before he leaned in and whispered in her ear. “M’lady, I ken ye be with child and verra upset at yer circumstances. I do apologize for our hasty retreat, but I had no other choice.”
The cold night air stung at her cheeks as they trod through fresh, wet snow. “Ye had no choice?” she asked sarcastically. “Ye could have chosen no’ to attack us. Ye could have chosen no’ to steal me away from hearth and home in the middle of the night. Ye could have chosen no’ to kill me people.”
She could feel him grow tense. “M’lady, none of those actions were me choice. Had me foolish brother listened to me, ye’d be in yer own bed right now, dreamin’ peacefully.”
Confusion set in as she wondered if she could believe a word he said.
“I want peace fer our clans. Me brother wants war and gold. The two yearnings oft collide. And since me brother be chief, what I want doesn’t matter at all.”
Was that really sincerity she heard in his tone? Or was this nothing more than a ploy to gain her acceptance and cooperation? Swiping at her cheeks, she remained silent.
“I foolishly believed I had talked me brother out of this ridiculous raid. I learned too late what his plans were. I have come to insure that ye arrive at our keep unharmed and remain that way durin; yer stay.”
Openly scoffing at his choice of words, she said, “My stay? Ye make it sound as if I be on a holiday visit with family.”
“I ken ye might no’ believe me, but I swear to ye that I mean ye no harm. I will do everythin’ within me power to keep ye safe.”
“Why should I believe ye?”
“Because I am no’ me brother. Unlike him, I do possess some honor and even a heart. But if ye ever tell a livin’ soul I said so, I shall deny it.”
21
Days passed before Ian and the men returned. It only took a glimpse of his brother for Brogan to know he was a broken man. Ian was covered with sweat and mud, his boots snow-encrusted. Dark circles had formed under his eyes. Brogan doubted the man had slept much at all, and who could blame him? His entire world had been taken from him, by faceless, nameless men.
They dismounted just inside the gate, handing their worn and haggard horses off to young stable boys.
Before Brogan could tell the men that a fine stew awaited them inside one of the tents, Ian spoke. “’Twas the Bowies.” A tic had formed in his jaw, his haggard face taught with fury. Rodrick had been right.
“Rodrick tried to warn me an attack from them was no’ a matter of if but when. But I did no’ listen.” He ground his teeth together, his muscles coiled, ready to explode.
“Are ye certain ’twas them?” Brogan asked. Why would Rodrick have warned them about the Bowies only to turn around and allow them entry to raid?
“We followed their trail all the way to Bowie lands,” Ian ground out. “If it be no’ the Bowies, it be someone workin’ with them. Since I ken no’ of any allies they might have, I am left to conclude ’twas them.”
Brogan knew all about the Bowies, their reputations as ruthless savages was nearly legendary. To know his sister-by-law was in their hands made him want to retch. And kill.
It would fall upon upon Brogan to tell his brother and laird all that had transpired in his absence. ’Twas not a task he took lightly. He placed a hand on Ian’s back and guided him toward a small tent he had ordered erected for Ian’s return. “Come, eat and rest while I tell ye all that I ken.”
* * *
Furious, Ian stood over Rodrick the Bold, debating on whether he should kill the man outright or wait to see if he recovered from his injuries. The tick that had formed in his jaw earlier now seemed to be a permanent part of his countenance. Seething, he clenched and unclenched his hands.
“He has no’ awakened since the attack,” Angrabraid explained as she sat on a stool next to the injured man. “He lost a good deal of blood. A fever has set in now, and I fear he might no’ ever wake.”
“Fer his sake, he best pray he does no’,” Ian ground out.
Brogan placed a palm on his brother’s shoulder. “Ian, ye need to rest. Ye’ll be no good to anyone if ye die from exhaustion and lack of food.”
As soon as Brogan began to divulge what he knew about the raid and the possibility a traitor was among them, Ian had stormed out of his tent in search of the wounded Rodrick the Bold.
“I do no’ care about me own comfort,” he said angrily. “No’ while Rose is sufferin’ at
the hands of the Bowies.”
He’d not rest until he had his wife back.
“I understand how ye feel,” Brogan said. “I would feel verra much the same way were I wearin’ yer boots.”
His words did nothing to quash the ache in Ian’s heart.
“Come, let us leave Angrabraid to her work. We have more to discuss.”
Crestfallen yet ready to kill, he followed his brother back to his tent. Once they were back inside, Ian refused the offer of food, for he doubted it would stay down long. Sick with worry, his stomach felt as though he’d swallowed a bucket of dead fish. He did, however, accept the offer of whisky. He needed something to ease his worry.
“So what do we do, Ian?” Brogan asked. “Carpenters and laborers be no match fer the likes of the Bowie.”
“As much as it pains me to admit it, ye’re right. While I would like nothin’ more than to lay siege to the Bowie keep, I can no’ risk any harm comin’ to Rose.” Rose. Even saying her name was enough to make him want to break down. But he had to keep a brave face as well as a level head.
“Do we send a messenger to the Bowie, askin’ him what the bloody hell his intentions are?”
Ian thought long and hard on that idea. “The only explanation fer takin’ her is ransom. Nothin’ else makes much sense.”
’Twas Brogan’s line of thinking as well. “I’ve asked everyone here what they ken of the Bowie clan. They all say the same thing. They be ruthless and above no crime.”
Ian nodded slowly. “As evidenced by the dead bodies the whoresons left behind.”
When Brogan gave him the final death toll, Ian gave a long, slow shake of his head. “Why? Why would they kill innocent people?”
Brogan had no answer. “I do no’ ken, Ian. But what do we do now? Do we send a messenger or wait until they contact us?”
Ian let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I will no’ wait fer them to decide. Send messengers in the morn.”
“If they ride hard, they can be there and back in five days.”
Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 18