She clung to him, unable yet to let go. Ten of Rowan’s best men and a few of Frederick’s were mounted and waiting patiently as the couple said their goodbyes.
“I swear to ye, Ian Mackintosh, if ye do no’ come back to me, I’ll never fergive ye,” she murmured against his chest.
“I will come back,” he said, squeezing her more tightly.
“If ye do no’, I will marry a man far richer, far braver, and far more handsome than ye, just to torment ye.”
While meant in jest, her threat was enough to raise his ire. “Ye would no’ dare.”
“I would,” she said before looking up into his eyes. Hers were damp with unshed tears and ’twas enough to take his breath away.
Wanting desperately to keep the mood between them as light as possible, he said, “Impossible. There be no man braver, nor more handsome than I.”
“Ye fergot about ‘richer’,” she politely reminded him.
“What are riches without love to share them with?”
They both knew her threat was a lie. But for now, they would pretend it was as real as the sunset or the beating of their hearts.
“No matter what happens, Rose, remember, none has ever loved ye as fiercely, as deeply, nor as passionately as I.”
Choking back a sob, Rose took a deep breath before kissing her husband goodbye. Gently, with great care, he lifted her onto Aric Graham’s steed, setting her on his lap.
“I shall guard her as if she were me own, Ian,” the dark-haired man promised.
Without another word, Ian Mackintosh watched as the horses turned and headed away. He stood for a long while, watching them ride to the east, until they turned into tiny black dots on the horizon.
* * *
Together with Frederick, Rowan, and Alec, they went over their plans one last time. Ian and his newly obtained army would camp where they were for the night. But if Alec did not return before noonin’ time on the morrow, they would attack the Bowie keep without waiting for him or Leona. If they didn’t return ‘twould mean only one thing: they were both dead.
Just as Ian was about to give the order to mount, a sentry called out. “Rider approachin’!”
Ian and Alec mounted immediately to stand with the sentry. Whoever ’twas that rode toward them was riding like the hounds of hell were chasing him.
“Alec!” a young lad called. “Uncle Alec!”
Ian watched as Alec’s face contorted into confusion and worry.
“Shite,” Alec ground out under his breath. Kicking the flanks of his horse, he rode out to meet his nephew.
“Will!” he shouted. “Slow the bloody hell down!”
Stunned, the lad pulled on the gelding’s mane and very nearly crashed into Alec’s mount. Alec soon realized there were no reins with which to settle the horse or gain control. Quickly, he grabbed his nephew by the waist and pulled him onto his own horse.
“What the bloody hell are ye doin’ here?” he asked gruffly, although he was certain he already knew the answer.
Out of breath, the boy could only shake his head and say, “Thirsty!”
Letting loose an exasperated sigh, Alec took the boy back to their camp while Ian followed. Once they were off the horse, Alec sat the boy on a felled log and called out for ale.
Placing his palms on Will’s shoulders, he began looking for injuries. Someone handed the boy a mug of ale while Alec questioned him. “What happened? How are ye here? Where be yer da?”
Soon they were surrounded by curious men. Will drank down the ale, willing his nerves to settle as he fought hard to catch his breath.
“I have a message,” he stammered out as he gasped for air. “From da.”
Alec waited as patiently as he was able for his nephew to speak. The others with him were not thusly inclined.
“Who is this boy?” Rowan Graham asked.
“Me god-nephew, Will Bowie,” Alec answered over his shoulder.
Kyth, Gylys, and Davy came to join the crowd of men. At seeing Will, they pushed their way through. “What in the hell?” Gylys muttered.
“Good eve, Uncle Gylys,” Will said before finishing the last of the ale.
“Will,” Alec said as he took the empty mug away. “What is yer da’s message?”
In wide-eyed awe at all the attention being shown to him at that moment, the lad stiffened his spine and pulled back his shoulders. “Da says to tell ye that Rutger kens about Rose bein’ gone and Lenora takin’ her place.”
“I think ye mean Leona,” Alec corrected him.
Will gave a curt nod. “Leona,” he repeated the name. “He says to let ye ken that he — Rutger no’ da — beat the poor woman then tossed her into the dungeon. He also says to tell ye that Rutger has sounded the alarm fer war. They will soon be headin’ this way.”
Ian let loose the breath he’d been holding. “Bloody hell.”
31
This new turn of events changed Ian’s plans significantly. While he had been prepared to wait for the break of day before attacking the keep, they had to push their plans up by several hours.
There was no moon overhead this night, but the stars twinkled and shone brightly. Ian was thankful for the cover of darkness, for he and his army could approach the Bowie keep unseen. Unease filled his gut as he and his men waited deep within the forest, some two hundred yards from the fortress. If Alec could not gain entry, or worse yet did and was killed by his own brother, there was a distinct possibility that Leona would die this night as well.
Dawn would soon be upon them, another factor he did not relish. Hopefully, Alec was able to get word to those people sleeping soundly in their cottages, to remain hidden and indoors until this was all over.
Alec had all but begged on behalf of those folks, doing his best to reassure Ian that none of them would sound any alarms. They were just as beleaguered as his own men by the way Rutger ran his keep. Ian could only pray the man was correct in his assumption. Fear oft made people do the strangest things.
* * *
“Who goes there?” A voice cried out from the upper wall, breaking the stillness of the late hour.
“It be me, Alec Bowie,” Alec replied in a loud voice.
There was much commotion and scrambling overhead. Alec knew at least one of the men manning the wall had been sent inside to give word to his brother that he had returned.
With much aplomb, he waited patiently for the order to lower the drawbridge. A great deal of time passed before the sound of creaking gears kicked in, signifying he was being granted entry.
‘Twasn’t so much that they let him in which surprised him, but the fact that he was not immediately put into chains made him wonder. What was his brother up to?
What the men manning the wall did not see was that Dougall Bowie slipped in beside Alec when he crossed over the bridge. Dougall slipped into the shadows to observe. At the first sign of any trouble, he would sound the alarm, and the McLarens, Mackintoshes and Grahams would storm the keep. Alec prayed it would not come to that.
In short order, he entered the gathering room without incident, without having a dirk carefully placed into his back, and without being thrown into chains. Odd though it was that he would be allowed to walk about freely, he knew ’twas simply a game his brother played. Some feeble attempt to make him feel at ease and get him to let his guard down.
The gathering room was dimly lit, only a few torches flickering here and there, a few candles, and a low burning fire in the hearth. Alec knew all too well that his brother liked to keep his men hidden in the shadows, to be called upon with a simple gesture or glance.
His brother, sitting in his ornately carved chair at the high table, soon came into view. In an instant, Alec knew the man had not slept. Dark circles had formed around his eyes, his hair was disheveled and unkempt. Still, Rutger sat with a finger against his temple, affecting an air of nonchalance.
“So the prodigal brother returns,” the Bowie said with a wave of his hand, directing Alec to stand before him.
“I was no’ gone that long,” Alec replied drolly.
Rutger smiled down at him, all smug and haughty. The power that came with being laird had gone to the man’s head. Alec could only hope and pray he would be able to get through that thick skull of his.
“I take it Rose Mackintosh is now in the safe and lovin’ arms of her husband?” Rutger asked dispassionately as he poured himself a cup of wine.
Alec’s life depended on how carefully he responded. Apparently, he thought about it too long for his brother’s liking. “Oh, do no’ be coy,” Rutger said through a veil of false calm. “I ken ’twas ye who helped her escape.”
“Do ye ken why I did it?”
“Aye, I do. Ye did it fer peace.”
Alec knew his brother must be itching to pound the life out of him. It must be taking great effort to remain so phlegmatic. A calm Rutger was as dangerous as an outraged one.
“The time fer warrin’, fer thievin’, needs to end. We must learn to—”
Rutger stopped the speech by slamming his mug of wine down hard onto the table. Shooting to his feet, spittle forming on his chin, he looked every bit the madman their former laird had been. “Since when did ye become chief of this clan?” he bellowed.
“I have no desire to be chief, ye ken that as well as anyone,” Alec argued. ’Twas the God’s honest truth.
“So ye say. But I fear I no longer believe ye.” Rutger left the high table and stepped down from the dais. Standing but a few steps from his brother, he let loose a tirade. “We could have lived like kings! We could have owned a vast fortune. We could have instilled fear into the hearts of every man, woman, and child from here to France and back!”
Mayhap for the first time in his life, Alec was getting a true glimpse into his brother’s heart. ’Twas more than simple greed that motivated him, more than a simple lust for power.
Each brother studied the other for a long while. ’Twas Rutger who finally broke the silence. “At dawn, me men and I will be heading to McLaren lands. We will kill any man who stands in the way of me having that blasted fortune. I imagine Ian’s brother and father would pay handsomely fer his safe return, mayhap double fer Rose’s life and that of her unborn babe.”
“’Tis madness.” Alec swallowed hard, fighting back the urge to bellow and thunder his thoughts on the matter.
“Nay, brother, ’twas madness fer ye to return that which belonged to me, to mine sworn enemy.”
Alec scoffed openly. “Since when is Ian Mackintosh or the McLarens yer sworn enemies?”
“Since the moment ye took Rose back to them. I shall have ye ken I hold ye in the same regard now.”
The tone he used sent a frisson of fear tracing up and down Alec’s spine. Believing his brother was ready to do battle, he withdrew his sword. “Rutger, ye be me brother, me blood, me laird.”
Fury flashed in Rutger’s eyes. “A pity ye fergot that when ye climbed into bed with the McLarens.”
Alec heard the soft scrape of boots against the floor behind him. He spun, ready to fend off his attackers. There were only two.
Never had he witnessed such evil in a man’s eyes, as he did in Donnel McLaren’s. The lad beside him, Charles McFarland, looked as confident as a newly born kitten.
“’Tis because of ye that we are forced to war against the McLarens,” Rutger called out from behind. Alec moved ever so slowly to his left in order to keep an eye on his brother. Donnel and Charles followed him, never taking their eyes from him. He had to keep his eyes on these two men, his brother, and anyone else who might be lurking in the shadows.
Without looking away from Donnel or Charles, he spoke to Rutger. “There still be time to stop this. The McLarens have agreed to a peace accord. They’ll even allow ye to live.”
From his position on the dais, Rutger laughed maniacally. “Aye, there be time to stop ye from dyin’, Alec. Admit yer treachery and accept yer fate. I might let ye live out the rest of yer days below stairs, with the whore ye brought with ye.”
“Ye have cost me a fortune,” Donnel ground out. “If I can no’ have it in coin, I will only accept repayment by havin’ yer head on a pike.”
Alec made the first move. He feigned left, drawing Donnel forward. Their swords clanged together. Donnel pushed off with a grunt, stumbling only once before regaining his feet. Charles jumped backwards and watched as the two men fought.
Sword against sword, lunges, thrusts, they fought one another. In a tight circle one moment, a wide arc the next.
It had been a good number of years since Alec had actually fought anyone. Still, he had practiced daily to hone his skills with the blade. Donnel, overweight and out of shape, was no match for Alec’s youth or experience.
Donnel lunged forward, his sword slicing through Alec’s tunic. Alec used the moment to bring his sword down hard on the back of the man’s skull. Stunned, growing tired, Donnel stumbled and fell to his knees.
Alec charged forward, just as Donnel was bringing his sword up to plunge it into the younger man’s gut. Alec spun sideways, the sword barely missing it’s intended mark. Before Donnel could make another attempt, Alec spun once again, and rammed the blade of his sword into the man’s back.
A look of stunned horror exploded on Donnel’s face. Alec withdrew his blade and watched as Donnel McLaren fell forward onto the cold stone floor.
He had just turned his attention toward Charles McFarland when the sound of Dougall’s horn blared through the stillness of the morning.
Rutger withdrew his own sword at that sound. The blade scraped against the sheath menacingly. “What the bloody hell was that?” he bellowed, the sound of his voice booming off the walls, echoing down the hallways of the keep.
“That, brother, would be the call to arms,” Alec said, keeping a wary eye on Charles.
“I gave no such order!” Rutger ground out. “Who is calling out me men?”
With his sword pointed at Charles, Alec chanced a glance at his brother.
“It be no’ yer men he is callin’,” Alec told him. “But a call fer the McLarens, Mackintoshes and Grahams to storm the keep.”
Rutger’s eyes grew wide, as wide as trenchers, as his mouth opened then closed again. “Ye traitorous bastard!” he spat out furiously. In his next breath, he called out for his guards. They swarmed into the room.
* * *
Right before sounding the alarm, Dougall disarmed the young man in charge of the drawbridge, knocking him unconscious. While the bridge was still lowering, he blew into the horn. ’Twas a booming yet plaintive wail that rang through the quiet hour.
As soon as Ian and his men heard the call, they kicked their horses into full runs and headed toward the keep. None of the inhabitants of the cottages came to investigate, thus allowing Ian and his men to run around the small village unimpeded.
They thundered across the drawbridge, shaking the timbers in their wake. Dougall met them at the first gate, swinging it open wide to allow their entry into the main keep. He then led them through the small courtyard, with Ian and Frederick in fast pursuit, and at least two hundred men following close behind.
Dismounting, they were immediately set upon by a hoard of Bowie warriors.
Metal crashed against metal, horses screeched and cried out in the melee that ensued. Ian felled two men, then a third, while he tried to make his way inside the keep.
Quickly scanning the wide-open space for his next victim, he caught site of someone running across the yard and toward the stables. Although he’d never met nor seen Rutger Bowie, he recognized the man’s crimson silk tunic as well as the heavy gold chains that glinted in the torchlight. From Brogan’s description, Ian knew at once the man must be Rutger Bowie.
Seeing that his brother and men had the matter of the courtyard well in hand, Ian raced away and headed toward the stables.
With his senses on high alert, his heart pounding in his chest, he stopped at the entrance to the long building. From within he could hear a man barking out orders
.
“Saddle me horse at once!”
Carefully, Ian poked his head through the open doorway long enough to glance at the interior. Pulling back, he counted to ten rapidly, a trick he oft used to steady his nerves during battle.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped inside, his bloody sword at the ready. There, in the middle of the long row, was Rutger Bowie. The man was enraged, cursing at the boy who was working hard to saddle his mount.
“I take it ye be Rutger Bowie,” Ian said as he approached the object of his consternation and fury.
Rutger spun at the sound of his voice, his face purple with rage. “
“I be Ian Mackintosh, chief and laird of Clan McLaren,” he said as a means of introduction.
Rutger withdrew his sword clumsily. The lad scurried away, taking refuge inside the open stall.
“Out of me way, Mackintosh,” Rutger said as he held out his sword with one hand while reaching for the bridle and reins that hung on the wall with the other.
Ian gave a slow shake of his head. “Ye’ll be goin’ nowhere this night, Bowie.”
“Me brother said ye agreed to a peace accord,” Rutger stammered as he tried to get the bridle on the uncooperative horse’s head with one hand. “Are ye goin’ back on yer word?”
Another slow shake and a few steps forward. “Nay, I be keepin’ me word. Ye have to the count of three to make up yer mind, Bowie. Peace or death.”
Fed up with the bridle, Bowie tossed it against the stable wall. The horse whinnied and stomped his foot. Rutger took a startled step backward, away from Ian. “I’ll no’ go down without a fight, McLaren.”
With his sword pointed at Ian and a crazed look in his eyes, Rutger knew he was trapped. He tried retreating, but soon found himself trapped behind the horse.
Without a word, he growled and lunged at Ian, who was able to shove him away before the sword could do any harm. Thus, the battle between two enraged and obstinate men began.
Haphazardly, Rutger lashed out, his sword slicing through the air. On one downward motion, it landed hard on the dirt floor.
Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 27