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

once. Ingerame Macdowall was the man Frederick had hired as their main carpenter. Ian had not yet met the man. But from what Frederick had told him, he was a good man that could be trusted. “Let me see to me wife while ye let Ingerame ken we be here.”
    ’Twas then that Rodrick the Bold decided to finally speak. His voice was as deep as his scowl was fierce. “I will let him ken ye’re here,” he said as he started to pull away.
    Ian was not about to let the man dictate anything to him. “Nay, Rodrick,” he said. “I should like ye to continue with yer duties as sentry.” He gave him no time to respond or argue. “Charles, ye go and let Ingerame ken we’ve arrived.”
    Apparently Rodrick was not used to either receiving nor taking orders. Scowling, he took in a deep breath through flared nostrils, staring long and hard at Ian. A lengthy moment passed with Rodrick and Ian staring one another down. Rodrick blinked first. Pulling hard on the reins, he turned his horse around and raced away, along the ridgeline of the hill.
    Charles and Ian watched as he rode away. “He be a hard man, that one,” Charles said. “He likes to think he be smarter than everyone else and thinks of himself as the man in charge.”
    “And what do ye think of him?” Ian asked.
    Charles chuckled before answering. “Well, he has some good ideas on occasion.”
    Ian sensed there was more the young man wanted to say. “And?”
    “He can be fiercely loyal once ye get to know him.” And that was as far as he was willing to go.

    * * *
    O nce Ian had given the order for the wagons to be brought over the hill, he and his wife rode into the encampment. A gangly young lad of no more than four and ten came running up to greet them. “Ye be the McLaren?” he asked, bright blue eyes staring up in awe.
    Being referred to as The McLaren was not appealing to Ian in the least. It simply did not feel right or proper and he doubted he would ever find any enjoyment in it. “Call me Ian,” he told the boy as he slid from his horse.
    “I be Robby,” the lad informed him as he took the reins.
    Ian stretched a bit before helping Rose down from her mount. “This be yer mistress, Rose Mackintosh,” he said by way of introduction.
    Robby offered her a bow before taking the reins. “’Tis me great honor to meet ye, mistress.”
    A dark flush came to her cheeks. She was no more used to being referred to as mistress than Ian was as The McLaren. “Ye may call me Rose.”
    The boy’s eyes opened wide in amazement before he looked to Ian for approval. Ian gave a slow shake of his head. “Ye shall always refer to her as mistress.”
    Before Rose could voice her protest, Ian pulled her into his arms and kissed the tip of her nose. “Before ye argue again over this, ’tis a sign of respect. Ye be the mistress of the keep, such as it is in its current state.” He smiled fondly before kissing her lips. “And even if ye insist, ’twill be me order they listen to and no’ yer request.”
    They’d discussed it before, this insistence of his that she be referred to as mistress. It felt just as awkward now as it did in the beginning. “It still does no’ feel right or proper, Ian.”
    Though he could well understand her reluctance, he could not acquiesce. “Ye be me wife. I be the interim chief, fer at least the next ten years or so. Ye be the mistress of this keep, Rose Mackintosh. If everyone be referrin’ to ye as Rose, they’ll no’ be respectin’ ye as ye deserve.”
    She quirked a brow at that last part. “But ’tis perfectly acceptable fer ye to be called Ian instead of The McLaren ?”
    He shuddered, aghast. “’Tis no’ the same.”
    “How be it no’ the same?”
    He smiled devilishly. “Because I detest the title. The men will respect me because I shall demand it, no’ because of me title.”
    Just how that was any different from her own argument, she could not begin to guess. Men were a most confusing lot.
    Deciding the topic