Ian's Rose: Book One of The Mackintoshes and McLarens (26 page)

“Bloody hell!” Ian ground out. Jumping to his feet, he slammed his cup onto his desk and stormed out of the tent.

Brogan was fast on his heels.

* * *

I
an stormed
into the large tent. He found her just where he knew he would, hovering over Rodrick the Bold. In the dim light of the tent, her resemblance to Rose was quite remarkable. His wife had considered this woman a friend, which made the betrayal all the harder to swallow.

Seething with fury, he crossed the tent in a few short strides. Her eyes grew wide with puzzlement as he approached. “M’laird?”

Grabbing an arm, he pulled her to her feet. “With me.
Now.
”

Brogan watched in stunned horror as Ian pulled the confused and terrified Leona Macdowall outside. “Ian!” he called out after his brother. “What are ye doin’?”

Ian did not utter a single word. He all but dragged Leona across the yard and into the armory. “Out!” he barked a command. “Everyone out!”

Men scrambled to get out of their laird’s way as he shoved Leona into a chair. The angry tick in his jaw returned with a vengeance as he paced back and forth. ’Twas all he could do to keep from wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing the life right out of her.

Under normal circumstances he might not have been so bloody furious. But these were far from normal times. Brogan entered the armory, awash in uncertainty. Was Leona the other betrayer? Was she truly one of Donnel’s spies? He found it exceedingly unlikely. Still, he would never have thought Charles a traitor either. Keeping his thoughts and opinions to himself, he stood back a ways and watched his brother and the accused carefully.

Rubbing the arm he’d used to yank her halfway across the keep, Leona sat perplexed and afraid. “M’laird, why are ye so angry? What have I done to upset ye so?”

Ian came to a dead stop and spun around. He fought for the right words. “How be yer friends, Rutger and Donnel?”

The brothers watched as confusion settled over her face. “Who?”

“Rutger Bowie and Donnel McLaren,” Ian said through gritted teeth. “The men who hired ye to spy on me clan. The men who paid ye to open the gates of the keep the night of the raid.”

She sat in abject horror, appalled he would think her capable of such an act. “I be no traitor,” she exclaimed. “I do no’ ken who those men are nor why ye’d even think such a thing of me!”

Ian leaned in, his face just inches away from hers. Staring into her eyes, he said, “Ye be verra good at portrayin’ an innocent lass.”

Her lips drew into a hard line, her nostrils flared, her eyes blazed with anger. “I do no’ ken where ye have gained such a foolish notion. Rose is me friend. I would never betray her in such a manner. Who has told ye these lies about me?”

Standing to his full height, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Brogan has learned of two traitors amongst us. Charles McFarland is one of them.”

Her eyes grew wide with stunned surprise. “Charles? A traitor?” She gave a slight shake of her head in the hope that the entire conversation would somehow begin to make sense.

“Aye, Charles is a traitor. Brogan saw him with his own eyes just two days past at the Bowie keep. We now ken that Rodrick was no’ the traitor.”

“I— ” she was at a loss for words. “Is Charles the one who accuses me? If so, he is a liar!”

Ian gave a slow shake of his head. “Nay, Charles does no’ accuse ye. I do.”

She jumped to her feet, her hands drawn into tight fists. “On what grounds?” she demanded.

Forcefully, he pushed her back into the chair. “There be no one else among us who disappears fer days at a time, who leaves without so much as a word to anyone on where she is goin’,” he said. “Ye disappear and reappear repeatedly.”

Dumbfounded, she shook her head slowly. “On that fact and that fact alone ye accuse me?”

“Nay,” he said. “Ye were the only one who felt certain Rodrick was no’ our traitor. Why is that?”

Her shoulders fell ever so slightly. Pulling her gaze away from Ian, she looked instead at the floor.

“I ask ye again why ye felt so certain Rodrick was no’ our traitor.”

Silence stretched on for a long while before she answered. Finally, she looked up at him with damp eyes. “He was too nice a person to be a traitor or a spy.”

’Twas Ian’s turn to look stunned. “Ye think Rodrick the Bold
nice
?” ‘Twould have been the last description Ian would have used when speaking of Rodrick. He was a hard, unyielding man.

“Aye, I do.”

“I find that verra difficult to believe,” he challenged her.

“Of all the people here, he be the only one besides Rose who did no’ think me a witch or bedeviled. He never called me Leona Two-Eyes, or Leona the Witch, or that bedeviled Leona Macdowall. He was nice to me when no one else was.”

The pain and hurt was plainly evidenced in her tear-filled eyes, the humiliation painted on her face and in her tone. Ian had wounded her deeply.

“Ye would no’ understand that, m’laird, fer none have ever looked down upon ye before. Ye do no’ ken what it be like to go the whole of yer life with people whisperin’ harsh words behind yer back or to yer face.” She wiped away her tears on the sleeve of her wool dress.

Guilt began to settle in. Either she was a very good actress or she was completely innocent. “Where do ye go when ye disappear?” he asked. This time, there was far less venom in his tone.

“’Tis personal and private,” she replied.

“Lass, under our current circumstance, there be nothin’ personal or private left. I must know.”

Sniffling and wiping away more tears, she took in a deep, cleansing breath. “People are no’ always nice to me. So I walk. Sometimes I walk fer miles, until I find a peaceful place. Then I sit and think.”

Ian quirked a curious brow. “Sit and think?”

“Aye. Among other things,” she answered reluctantly.

“Such as?”

Realizing he would not relent, she let out a sigh of resignation. “I write sonnets and such.”

Ian cast a confused glance at his brother. Brogan shrugged as if to say it made no sense to him either. Turning back to Leona, Ian asked, “Sonnets?”

“Aye, sonnets and poems and such. I write me feelin’s down in a journal I have.”

Ian noticed she placed a protective hand on the large pouch draped over the belt of her dress. “Be yer journal in yer pouch?”

She answered with a nod.

“May I see it?”

“Nay, m’laird. It be me private thoughts and such. I would prefer no’ to share them with anyone.”

As much as he was beginning to doubt his previous suspicions, he needed to know, without a doubt, that she spoke nothing but the truth. “Lass, I swear to ye that I’ll no’ share yer journal with anyone. I need to see it.”

With a great deal of hesitation and humiliation, she slowly untied the pouch. Reaching inside, she withdrew a small, leather-bound book and held it to her chest. “Ye promise ye’ll no’ tell anyone?”

“I do so promise, lass.”

Reluctantly, she handed her journal over to him. Carefully, Ian opened it and began to thumb through. In tiny, delicate handwriting were poems and sonnets and journal entries, just as she had said. One entry caught his attention only because of a recognizable name. ’Twas dated four weeks ago.

I can add one more person to the short list of people who are nice to me. Brogan Mackintosh. He spotted me carrying a heavy bundle of firewood across the yard today and insisted on helping me. I be certain ’twas just a simple, friendly gesture on his part, but it meant the world to me. ’Tis not often anyone goes out of their way to be kind. On those rare occasions, I am often wary of such kind acts, for they are so very rare. me first inclination is to think ‘are they being nice only to gain me trust for nefarious reasons.’ It has happened to me in the past, where a person only pretended to be kind as some cruel jest, to make me look a fool later.

But I do no’ think Brogan would behave in such a manner.

Ian immediately felt sorry for the young woman. And more than just a little guilty for accusing her and then forcing her to share something so personal. Slowly, he closed the book and handed it back to her.

“Leona, I have no words at the moment to express how sorry I am.”

With an indifferent shrug, she returned her journal to her pouch. “Ye are wrought with worry over Rose, m’laird. There be traitors among us and ye would no’ be a good laird or chief if ye did no’ try to find out who the traitor be.”

He could not understand how she was able to forgive him so easily. “I believe me wife has a verra good friend in ye, Leona.”

“’Tis I who have a good friend in her. She is me only friend.”

That knowledge made him feel a good deal of compassion toward her. What a hard life she must have lived thus far. He had heard the names people called her but had never stepped in to intervene on her behalf. Why? He had no good reason, but he knew ’twas a shameful way to treat another person. Especially when his wife held her in such high esteem.

“Leona, in the future, if ye feel the need to
walk,
please, tell me or Brogan, so we will no’ worry over yer safety.”

She eyed him suspiciously for a long moment. “Why should ye care about me safety? No one else does.”

“That, lass, is no longer the case. I can assure ye that I do care. And once we get Rose back, there will be changes taking place around here. Many changes.”

She was afraid to ask him what he meant.

* * *

R
odrick the Bold
woke late the following day. And he was angry enough to bite his own sword in half.

Leona offered him her warmest smile. “’Tis good to see ye back amongst the livin’.”

When he struggled to sit up in the bed, Leona pushed him back down. “Ye be no’ ready just yet to leave yer bed, Rodrick.”

“We were under attack,” he muttered. “We need to get word to Ian.”

“The attack is over, Ian has returned, and ye need to lie back down,” Leona told him.

Rubbing his eyes with his palms, he kicked at the covers. “I need to speak to Ian at once,” he demanded.

Leona rolled her eyes at him and sighed. “Verra well. If I fetch Ian fer ye, will ye promise to stay abed until Angrabraid gives ye permission to leave it?”

Angrily he said, “I do no’ need that auld woman’s permission to do anythin’! I be a grown man fer the sake of Christ and I
have
to speak to Ian at once!”

“Ye be lucky Angrabraid is no’ in this tent right now, or she’d box yer ears. Lie. Down!”

Weak from his injuries and days abed, he gave up and fell back against the pillow.

“Thank ye,” Leona said. “Now, I shall fetch Ian fer ye.” With a warm smile, she left the tent and returned a short time later with Ian.

“Thank God, ye’ve returned!” Rodrick exclaimed. “Charles, he be a traitor!”

Ian quirked a brow. “Tell me somethin’ I do no’ ken.”

Puzzled, Rodrick stared up at him in disbelief.

“Ye’ve been asleep fer more than three weeks, Rodrick. Ye’re verra lucky to be alive.”

“No thanks to that son of a whore, Charles McFarland!”

Ian nodded his agreement as he pulled up a chair. For the next hour, he relayed everything he knew to Rodrick, who gratefully listened intently and quietly until he was finished.

“Now, ye tell me, what do ye remember the night of the raid?” Ian asked.

Rodrick sighed before answering. “I was just about asleep when I heard Charles creep from his bed. At first, I thought he was just sneakin’ out to meet that widow woman, Bealraigh.”

Ian hadn’t been privy to that bit of information. “Bealraigh McLaren?” he asked.

“Aye. He’d been seein’ her fer a few weeks, stealin’ over to her hut whenever he could.” He was growing tired again and was fighting to remain awake. Sensing his distress, Leona offered him a drink, lifting his head while he sipped from the cup. “Thank ye, lass.”

She smiled at him and returned to the stool not far from his bed. Ian was beginning to wonder if the lass did not have feelings for the man, so attentive she was in her care for him.

“I did no’ ken about Bealraigh,” Ian admitted. He was not sure if she was among the living or dead and made a mental note to ask Brogan later. “What happened after he left?”