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

by Suzan Tisdale

  With her lashes damp, she held back the urge to break down again. ‘Twould do her, nor her babe, no good to allow the intense feeling of dread to drape over her like a heavy blanket.

  “Ian will be well,” Aggie assured her as she grabbed a drying cloth. “As will Frederick.”

  Aggie helped her from the tub. As Rose stood in front of the fire, her eyelids grew heavy. Aggie dried her off and slipped a warm nightdress over her head. “Remember who our husbands are, Rose,” Aggie said as she combed her friend’s hair. “They be Mackintosh men. No more stubborn men were ever born, aye?”

  Rose had to agree. “Aye, they be stubborn.”

  “And if yer Ian be anythin’ at all like me Frederick? No’ even the devil himself could stop either of them from returnin’ to us.”

  In her heart of hearts, Rose knew her friend was right.

  Epilogue

  With Rutger Bowie dead and Leona rescued, Ian Mackintosh, along with his brother, Rowan Graham and the army of men left the Bowie keep that cool, gray afternoon. Once they reached the border between McLaren and Graham lands, Ian’s men, together with Alec, Dougall and Kyth, escorted Leona home.

  Ian, Frederick and Rowan and the remaining army headed east. They had wives to return to. Ian in particular was eager to cross on to Graham lands, to get to his wife.

  ’Twas long after the midnight hour, days later, when they finally entered the Graham keep. With child again, this one due in early autumn, Lady Arline Graham met them in the gathering room. She was just as lovely as the last time Ian had seen her.

  He refused her offer of refreshments. “She be in a room above stairs, the last door on the left,” Arline said with an affectionate smile.

  Ian took the stairs two at a time, all the while his heart pounding against his chest, his palms sweaty, his stomach in knots. All that he wanted was to climb into bed and hold his wife for the next decade or so.

  Rose was fast asleep in a big, comfortable looking bed. A low fire burned in the hearth, the embers crackling and popping softly.

  As quietly and as quickly as he could, he stripped off his clothing, washed up in the basin, and climbed into bed. Rose startled, gasped, and withdrew a sgian dubh from under her pillow. Pressing the point against his chest, she was fully prepared to plunge the blade with all her might.

  “Wheest, wife, ’tis only me,” he whispered raggedly.

  Rose let loose a vexed breath.

  “Ian!” she exclaimed breathlessly.

  “I will have to disarm ye lass, before I can hold ye,” he told her as he cast a glance at the small blade.

  Tossing the blade away, it clanked on the floor, skittered and ended up where, she did not care. Her husband was alive and had returned to her.

  For the next hour, they held on to one another. Between tender kisses, words of love and affection were spoken in low whispers. There was much she wanted to tell Ian about her time as Rutger Bowie’s hostage. But for now, they would take the greatest joy in simply holding each other. In listening to one another’s soft words of love.

  As much as he had wanted to make love to his beautiful wife, he refused to do more than press sweet kisses against her lips. Until he spoke to the healer, he would do nothing to endanger either her life or their babe’s.

  They slept through the morning meal as well as the nooning. Exhaustion and relief taking equal toll on the two of them.

  ’Twas late in the afternoon before they awoke. The sun streamed in through the narrow window as dust danced in its beams. Ian woke first and for a long while he simply stared in awe at his beautiful wife and her large belly. The belly where their child hopefully grew well and strong.

  Rose woke next, stretching languidly beside him. The sight of her, the way she moaned softly as she stretched was enough to make any man mad with lust, but he held back.

  “Good morn,” she said, her smile bright and filled with much joy.

  “Good morn,” he whispered, his voice catching ever so slightly.

  The babe decided then to kick hard against her belly. “Och!” Rose said as her hand flew to her stomach.

  Panic seized him. “What be the matter?” he asked as he sat up in the bed with a jolt.

  “Yer son is kickin’ like a donkey,” she giggled.

  He let loose the breath he’d been holding in a whoosh.

  Seeing her husband’s worry then relief made her giggle again. “Do no’ fash yerself, Ian,” she said as she took his hand and laid it across her stomach. His brow knitted for a long moment, until the babe kicked again.

  ’Twas by far one of the most wondrous sensations he’d ever experienced. Pride, joy, and adoration formed into one large lump in his throat.

  “He does that when he is hungry,” Rose explained. “Or when he simply wants to remind me that he is still there.”

  Ian quirked a hopeful brow. “Ye think it be a boy?” he asked.

  Rose shrugged her shoulders and smiled. “We’ll ken in May, aye?”

  May. It seemed a lifetime away. Worry settled in around his heart again. What if she did not survive the birthing? What if something happened between now and then? What if another foolish clan chief decided to kidnap his wife again?

  Rose let out a heavy sigh. “Ian, ye can no’ spend all yer days worryin’ about what might happen.”

  The crease in his brow knitted tighter. His wife had always had the uncanny ability to know exactly what he was thinking.

  “If ye do, ye’ll no’ experience any of the joy this time in our life brings us,” she said, caressing his cheek with much tenderness.

  Her touch was balm to his often times tortured mind. It amazed him how she could both calm his nerves and unsettle him all with the same simple touch.

  “Do ye ken how much I love ye, Rose?” he asked, taking her hand and pressing a cheek to her palm.

  “I may have fergotten,” she said cheekily. “Why do ye no’ show me.”

  He knew that look. The come hither and love me look. “Not until the healer gives us permission.” It took every speck of courage and strength he owned to utter those words.

  Seductively, she batted her eyelashes at him. “I already spoke to Lady Arline’s healer and midwife. Our babe is well and so am I.”

  “Ye tell me true?” he asked, his voice doubtful and hopeful all at once.

  “Of course I tell ye true!” she exclaimed with a roll of her eyes. “I would do nothin’ to bring any harm to our babe, Ian.”

  “I do no’ want to hurt either of ye,” he admitted.

  A warm smile formed on her lips. “It has been months since last we joined. I think ye should worry I will hurt ye.”

  Thus the gauntlet was thrown, the challenge made. A challenge he was all too willing to accept.

  Prologue to The Bowie Bride

  May, 1357, The McLaren Keep

  Peace was tenuous at best.

  Alec Bowie was loathe to admit it. Of course, he was loathe to admit many things of late.

  Two months had passed since his brother had been killed. It had been a painful, horrible death. Had Ian Mackintosh’s piercing blade not been enough for Rutger to succumb to, then the horse that trampled him into the earth finished the job. Even though his brother was mad with greed for gold and power, Alec still missed him. Besides the endless lines of cousins, Rutger was the last living kin he had. Now he was dead. Laid to rest in the family plot without much pomp or circumstance, near the loch. In death, as it had been in life, Rutger was placed between his parents. While their parents loved their sons without question, they often used them as weapons against the other. They were probably all three burning in hell. Alec couldn’t be certain of course.

  He had begged his brother on numerous occasions to take the opportunity to bring peace to their clan. To change the tide and bring the outside world in. But Rutger refused.

  Too entrenched in the past, too afraid to take chances, too greedy and obstinate, it had been left up to Alec to give the clan what they needed most: a futur
e.

  A far different future.

  A life without thieving, without terrorizing neighboring clans, a life without crime or prices on their heads.

  And now he was their chief.

  He’d never held any designs on being chief of any clan, let alone this rag-tag one filled with criminals, horse thieves, and ne’er-do-wells. How the bloody hell was he supposed to turn these people into farmers? Weavers? Whisky makers?

  Mayhap ’twas folly. Mayhap ‘twould all be for naught. But he had to — at the very least — try.

  And that was what he was doing this day. Trying.

  Trying to find a wife while trying not to wring his cousin Dougall’s neck.

  The man was mad. Daft. Delusional.

  But he had a point. One more thing Alec was loathe to admit.

  In order to bring ever-lasting peace to his clan, alliances must be made, friendships nurtured and cultivated, much like the seeds of barley he had planted a sennight after his brother’s death.

  So here he sat in Ian Mackintosh’s tent, looking out at the McLaren and Mackintosh people. The tent, while quite large, was filled to bursting with curious people.

  His fingers rested gingerly on a dirk he had hidden at his waist. Generations of murderous men and thieves ran through his blood. ’Twas hard to let one’s guard down when one was used to an entirely different way of interacting with people.

  Dougall and Kyth sat on his left, Ian to his right, and Brogan next to him. The long table faced out at the crowd and he had an odd sensation that left him feeling as though he were some mysterious creature on display.

  Ian leaned in and whispered, “Are ye certain ye wish to do this?” for what seemed the hundredth time.

  Alec gave a curt nod, which belied what he was truly thinking. Bloody hell, no! I do no’ wish to do this, but I must.

  With a sigh of resignation, Ian said, “Verra well, let us get started. But we must hurry, I do no’ wish to leave Rose fer long.”

  Rose Mackintosh. Alec liked that woman verra much. Strong, blunt, and quite pretty. She was a week past when she should have delivered Ian’s babe into the world.

  Babes and wives. They would be the downfall of human civilization. Eventually.

  While Ian fawned all over his lovely wife, worried and fretted over the life of their babe, Alec felt confident that he would never suffer such indignities. He was not here to find a love match. Nay, he simply needed to marry a McLaren lass in order to ensure peace betwixt their clans. That was why he was so bloody angry with Dougall. This had all been his idea — the bastard.

  But again, he had to admit there was wisdom in the plan. No matter how ugly or deplorable the idea of marriage was to Alec Bowie, he had to find a wife. Hopefully, she’d be a quiet, biddable lass, who would understand the importance of peace.

  She must also understand, unequivocally, that he had no wish, need, or desire for a happy home life. Nay, theirs was more a matter of business than a matter of the heart, and that was how he intended for it to remain for all the rest of his days.

  That was if he could find someone brave enough amongst this crowd. With his luck — and he knew ’twas God-awful luck he possessed — he’d be married off to some mousey wench with missing teeth and moles scattered across her face. He shuddered at the thought. But again, he was not here to find a love match. Just a woman willing to marry him, bed him until she got with child, then leave him the bloody hell alone.

  Outside, ’twas a clear, bright afternoon. A stark contrast to how Alec was feeling to his very core. Doomed. They might as well have been taking him to the gallows, such was his inevitable fate. For marriage was like that; you lost your freedom and your mind. That was if you weren’t careful and diligent.

  Ian stood then, raising his hands to hush the murmurs of the crowd. When silence fell, he spoke. “I have called ye here today to discuss the matter of peace betwixt our clan and the Bowies.”

  Riotous laughter broke out amongst Ian’s people. It set Alec’s nerves on edge. This was not going to go well, not well at all. More images of a mole-covered wench flashed before his eyes. With his awful luck, she’d most likely be missing a limb as well.

  A loud voice rang out above the laughter. “What do the Bowie’s ken of peace?”

  Another cried, “Ye can no’ trust a Bowie as far as ye can pick one up!”

  “Aye! All they ken is stealin’ and reivin’.”

  Ian raised his hands once again and called for quiet. “I ken we be unused to the idea of a peaceful Clan Bowie,” he began. “But they have a new laird. A laird who risked his own life to save Rose’s.”

  That point hit home. Heads nodded as people murmured in agreement. ’Twas his only saving grace, that. Saving Rose Mackintosh’s life. Rescuing her and bringing her back to her people. Of course, he couldn’t have done that without help from the lass named Leona.

  Upon thinking of her, he searched the crowd surreptitiously, but saw no sign of her. Earlier that morn he had asked Ian how the lass faired. But they’d been interrupted and Ian had not been able to answer.

  No matter. The lass was far too intelligent to settle on the likes of him.

  Ian speaking to his people pulled Alec back to the here and now. “I want peace with the Bowie’s as much as they want it with us. I have spent time gettin’ to know Alec Bowie and a few of his men.” He cast a glance at Dougall and Kyth before turning back to the crowd. “I find them to be honest and genuine in their pursuits.”

  More murmurs from the crowd as they all stared at the three Bowies with curious and doubtful eyes.

  “After a long mornin’ of discussin’ just how this peace can be ever-lastin’ and ensured, we have come to the conclusion that a marriage is the best approach.”

  Stunned and uncertain silence filled the air. ’Twas as if the world froze in that instant.

  Ian took a breath before going on. “This marriage would need to be betwixt Alec Bowie and a lass with McLaren blood.” He let the words sink into the minds of his people for a moment. “The only true lass who qualifies is me niece, Ada Mackintosh. But since she be only a year old, that will no’ work. So,” he took another deep breath and rested his palms on the table, “we will be willin’ to accept any lass from our clan, no matter her bloodline. Any lass of marriageable age.”

  The deafening silence stretched on and on.

  Alec looked out at the crowd of slack-jawed, stunned individuals. Their expressions said it all: not only was the Bowie mad, but their laird was as well.

  Before Ian could speak again, someone in the far back of the tent stood up.

  “I will do it.”

  He could not see her face clearly, for she was in shadow. But he felt quite certain he recognized her soft voice.

  “I will marry the Bowie.”

  Bloody hell, ’twas Leona Macdowall.

  About the Author

  USA Today Bestselling Author, storyteller and cheeky wench, SUZAN TISDALE lives in the Midwest with her verra handsome carpenter husband and the youngest of their four children. Her pets consist of dust bunnies and a dozen poodle-sized groundhogs – all of which run as free and unrestrained as the voices in her head.

  You can visit Suzan at her website: www.suzantisdale.com

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  Also by Suzan Tisdale

  The Clan MacDougall Series

  Laiden’s Daughter

  Findley’s Lass

  Wee William’s Woman

  McKenna’s Honor

  The Clan Graham Series

  Rowan’s Lady

  Frederick’s Queen

  The Clan McDunnah Series

  A Murmor of Providence

  A Whisper of Fate

  A Breath of Promise

  The Mackintoshes and McLarens Series
r />   Ian’s Rose

  The Bowie’s Bride - 2016

  Brogan’s Promise - 2017

  Moirra’s Heart Series

  Stealing Moirra’s Heart

  Saving Moirra’s Heart

  Isle of the Blessed

  For HM Ward’s The Arrangement Series

  The King’s Courtesan

  The Brides of the Clan MacDougall

  (A Sweet Series)

  Aishlinn

  Maggy (arriving 2017)

  Nora (arriving 2017)

  Coming Soon:

  The Thief’s Daughter

  Prologue

  March 1356, The McLaren Keep in the Highlands

  There is a special place in hell for men like Mermadak McLaren.

  Those who had suffered at his hand for too many years to count, celebrated openly and joyfully at the news of his death. Many believed whoever ’twas that took the auld son-of-a-whore’s life should be sainted, made king, or at the very least given his weight in gold as a blessedly deserved reward.

  ’Twould be no lie to say none would miss him.

  As for the whereabouts of Donnel McLaren, the man who had helped the former laird steal, lie, and cheat Clan McLaren to near utter ruin, ’twas anyone’s guess. Hopefully, he was burning in hell right next to the McLaren. There weren’t many who were as vile, cruel, or evil as the two of them. Those few clansmen who remained were content for now to believe evil would never touch them again, or at least not for a very long while.

  The McLarens had suffered through a cold, bleak, and harsh winter, living in the old granary, making plans for the future and dreaming of spring. The one thing that kept them going, even at those times when it felt God had forsaken them, was knowing Mermadak McLaren could never hurt them again.