Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens

by Suzan Tisdale

  He blew out a heavy breath and went back into the cottage. Rose was still sitting in the chair, still nursing her babe. ’Twas in that moment he realized this was what he wanted. A home, a wife, and bairns. The realization left him breathless and feeling as though he’d just been kicked by a horse.

  “Is Mairghread for or against this union?” he asked, grinding his teeth together.

  Rose looked at him for a long moment. He could not help but wonder what nefarious deed she was plotting now.

  After a long moment, she blew out a breath and said, “I do no’ ken.”

  He believed her, but felt there was something more she wasn’t telling him. He did not have to wait long to find out what that ‘something more’ was.

  “Mayhap ye should no’ come to the evenin’ meal,” she said, her voice soft and low, as if she’d suddenly grown quite weary. There was something in her eyes that he could not quite describe. Mayhap she was tired of arguing with him.

  “And why no’?” he asked, his own anger beginning to fade.

  She let out another breath before answering. “We have invited Mairghread here to sup with us. Rowan and Arline Graham and Alec and Leona Bowie will be here as well.”

  Brogan’s gut tightened. “When were ye plannin’ on tellin’ me?”

  Rose shrugged one shoulder and ignored his question. “We — Arline and Leona and me — are going to do our best to talk her out of marryin’ the frenchman.”

  He scoffed at the word frenchman. “Pray, tell me, Rose, who be this frenchman?”

  “Claude Courtemanche.”

  Claude Courtemanche? Nay, that can no’ be. His eyes widened in horrified surprise as his heart seized. “The Frenchman,” he muttered.

  Pierre Claude Courtemanche was the Frenchman. The Frenchman Gertie and Tilda had spoken of a sennight ago, when they’d first approached Brogan with their plea. Had he known then to whom they referred … aye, Brogan knew the man, knew him all too well. And he had no liking for the pompous, arrogant bastard.

  The first time he had met the man had been more than ten years ago. Brogan had gone to Edinburgh with his father. They were there to welcome his eldest brother, Michael, home from Italy where he had been studying for the prior three years.

  After greeting Michael, they decided to head to the nearest inn, where they would eat a good meal and consume vast amounts of ale. ’Twas at that inn where Brogan met Courtemanche for the first time.

  Courtemanche had been nothing short of a whoreson. Ordering the barmaids around as if they were his personal slaves, making disparaging remarks about them, as well as Scotland as a whole.

  At one point, he had pulled a young barmaid onto his lap and began to fondle her openly. She resisted vehemently, pleaded with tear-filled eyes for him to let her be — which apparently angered him. He ripped open the bodice of her dress, exposing her breasts to the all the guests in the inn and laughed.

  Brogan’s father reached them first, with Michael and Brogan right behind him. John pulled the young woman out harm’s way, handing her off to Michael.

  “Frenchman,” John growled as he pulled the man to his feet. “I do no’ ken how ye treat yer barmaids in France, but here, we show them a bit of kindness.”

  Courtemanche scoffed and smirked. “Get your filthy Scottish hands off me,” he demanded. “I am Claude Pierre Courtemanche and I am under the protection of your king.”

  John truly did not care who he was or whose protection he was under. “Under the king’s protection or God’s, I do no’ care. I suggest ye leave now, while ye still can.”

  Michael chimed in then. “And apologize to the lass fer treatin’ her so poorly.”

  Courtemanche smirked and looked directly at Michael. “I think not,” he replied drolly before turning back to John. “And if you do not remove your hands from me, I shall tell your king. You will be arrested at once and hanged.”

  “I do no’ take kindly to empty threats,” John told him. “Especially from someone such as ye.”

  “Think you it is an empty threat?” Courtemanche challenged. “Above stairs is the king’s chamberlain, Donald MacGregor. He probably has his cock buried in one of your Scottish whores as we speak.”

  John, typically a man of patience, turned purple with rage. “I will give ye one last chance to apologize to the lass and leave of your own accord,” John told him.

  Another sneer from the Frenchman nearly sent John over the edge. Before he could throw the first punch, Courtemanche had removed a dirk from his belt. He might have thought he was catching John unawares, but this was not John’s first fight. Nor would it be his last.

  With the flick of his wrist, John had disarmed the Frenchman and landed a hard blow to the arrogant man’s face. Blood began to spurt from his nose, which anyone with a lick of sense could see was broken.

  “You son of a whore!” Courtemanche had screamed as he writhed in pain on the floor.. “I will have ye hanged for this!”

  Aye, he had been in Scotland as guest of the king. But what Courtemanche could not have known was that John was also quite close to David. And Donald MacGregor was a distant cousin.

  Someone had summoned Donald MacGregor when the man had first attacked the barmaid. He had come racing down the stairs and into the main room. He took one look at Courtemanche, rolled his eyes and then turned to John. “Cousin,” he said with a slight inclination of his head.

  “Cousin,” John returned his greeting.

  “What did he do?”

  “Attacked the barmaid,” John said before returning to his seat.

  “He attacked me!” Courtemanche cursed as he struggled to his feet. As he held his hand to his face, blood continued to spurt. Only one person came to his aid and he had been Courtemanche’s own man.

  “He broke my nose!” He growled. “I want him hanged!”

  Donald laughed, shook his head and took a seat across from John. “Who here would like to stand as witness for the Frenchman?” he asked in a loud voice.

  The room was deathly silent.

  “And who here would like to stand as witness for John Mackintosh?”

  Everyone in the room began to line up behind and around John.

  Brogan was pulled back to the here and now by his nephew’s loud burp.

  “Ye jest,” he said, disbelievingly.

  Rose shook her head. “Nay, Brogan, on this I do no’ jest. ’Tis true. Mairghread’s uncle left a few days ago, for France. He plans to return in a few short months, with Courtemanche. And Mairghread will be forced to marry him.”

  A hundred questions raced in his mind. “Certainly, she does no’ wish to marry him.”

  “I do no’ think she understands the seriousness of it,” Rose said with a sigh of resignation. “Gertie and Tilda have begged her to seek out someone else to marry. But she thinks the old women exaggerate about Courtemanche’s reputation. Simply put, she does not know the man. And for whatever reason, she seems to hold her uncle in high regard. The woman does not believe he would ever try to match her with someone as awful as we ken him to be.”

  Brogan shook his head once again, as if doing so would bring more clarity to the conversation at hand. “But he is a bloody bastard,” Brogan said.

  “Aye, on that, ye and I can agree. ’Tis one of the reasons I invited Mairghread here this night. Ian and I were goin’ to talk to her, to try to get her to see reason.”

  He quirked a doubtful brow. “And try to convince her she should marry me.”

  “Nay, Brogan. To try to convince her she should marry anyone else but Courtemanche,” Rose said as she glanced down at her now sleeping babe. “If you had no’ agreed, I would have suggested Rodrick, or one of our other men. All ’twould take is one look at the beautiful woman to get them to agree.”

  Rodrick? He mused. The thought of Rodrick the Bold being married to such a beautiful woman as Mairghread was nearly laughable. Nearly.

  “Then why did ye even ask me?”

  “Because I thought the two of
ye better suited to one another. Because I worry over ye bein’ alone all the rest of yer days,” she replied.

  He realized then, that Rose’s intentions were genuinely born out of the kind regard she had for him. Although her tactics left much to be desired, he could no longer fault her for her intentions.

  Chapter Two

  ’Twas at times like these when Brogan wished he had not given up drinking. What he would not give to have just a dram.

  There was much on his mind at the moment. He cursed himself for wanting to drink and shook away the urge. “’Twill solve nothin’,” he mumbled under his breath as he crossed the courtyard heading for the armory.

  “Och! Me wife has finally made ye addlepated.” ’Twas Ian’s voice coming from behind him. “She has ye talkin’ to yerself now.”

  Brogan spun to face his younger brother. “I do no’ ken how ye do it, Ian,” he told him as he hung his head low. “She be enough to make a man want to drink, or strangle her. Or both.”

  Ian raised a brow. “Need I remind ye she be me wife?” ’Twas a rhetorical question, to be certain. But ’twas Ian’s way of reminding him to show the woman some respect.

  Brogan remained quiet as he raked a hand through his hair.

  Ian smiled, a broad, knowing smile. “I defy ye to find a woman with a bigger heart.”

  Brogan gave a long, slow shake of his head. “Aye, she has heart all right. But her interferin’ ways? Has she told ye of her devious plot to marry me off?”

  “Aye, she has,” Ian said as he slapped a hand on Brogan’s back and began to walk with him.

  “For the sake of Christ! Why did ye no’ stop her!”

  Ian threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Be we talkin’ about the same woman?” he said playfully. “Me wife? Rose? The most stubborn women God ever set on this earth?”

  Brogan puffed out his cheeks and expelled his breath in a rush. “I thought we were brothers?” he asked. “We are supposed to look out for one another. I have saved yer life more than once.”

  “And I, yers,” Ian said. “Brother, no matter how frustratin’ she can be at times, she always means well. She loves ye like a brother. And she wants only fer ye to be happy.”

  “I can be happy and no’ be married,” Brogan pointed out.

  “True,” Ian agreed. “But there be a difference between bein’ happy and bein’ blissfully happy. I tell ye true, I never thought to be married or to be a father of any legitimate bairns.” He laughed at his own jest. “But Rose has changed me. She has made me a better, stronger man. And bein’ a father?” A proud, warm smile lit up his eyes. “There be nothin’ to make a man more proud. Nothin’ more to make him feel as though he has a purpose in life.”

  A hearth and home, a wife, bairns. Those were things Brogan had, at one time, wanted more than anything. He wanted that life with Anna. But God had taken her far too soon. “I almost had that with Anna,” he told him.

  Ian turned quite serious then. “I ken, brother, I ken.”

  “Do ye think a man can have more than one chance at love in his lifetime?”

  Ian quirked a brow. “I do no’ ken. Mayhap we should ask our father?”

  Brogan felt seven kinds a fool then. Their father, John, had lost two wives. Brogan’s mother as well as Ian’s. He was now married for a third time, to a lovely woman named Elsbeth.

  Brogan felt his face grow warm from embarrassment. Not once, in all these years since losing Anna had he ever thought to look to his father as an example of what a man could have.

  “Did Rose tell ye of Courtemanche?” Ian asked.

  Anger bubbled up, deep in his belly. “Aye, she has.” ’Twas not jealously he felt at the thought of Mairghread marrying the Frenchman. ’Twas abject anger. He knew all too well what the man was capable of.

  “Poor Courtemanche,” Ian said, feigning sympathy. “His nose never did set right.” He was, of course, referring to the time their father had broken the man’s nose.

  Brogan laughed along with him. He rubbed his jaw, the memory of the one time in his life he felt the full weight of their father’s fist. “Lord, above, our father can hit!”

  Ian chuckled. “Aye, and I can tell ye, Frederick hits just as hard.”

  Brogan laughed, remembering how Frederick had quite literally beat sense in Ian’s stubborn head when he had broken off his engagement to Rose.

  “I still have nightmares,” Ian admitted. “Of me makin’ our older brother angry and him beating the bloody hell out of me again.”

  “If he hits like Da, I can no’ blame ye,” Brogan said.

  Now the two men stood between the wooden wall and the stone wall that was still a work in progress. Stretching before them was the Mackintosh and McLaren Keep. Tiny huts, tents of varying sizes, and the newly finished tower filled up most of the space. Much progress had been made in the past year and a half, but there was still much to be done.

  ’Twas Ian who finally broke the silence. “I think marryin’ Mairghread Mactavish is a good decision, Brogan. Rose loves ye. She’d no’ play ye false or suggest a woman not well-suited to ye.”

  Brogan let out a heavy sigh. “I ken she would no’ do such a thing on purpose,” he replied. “But she does no’ ken this woman well.”

  “Look at Frederick and Aggie,” Ian said. “They knew each other no’ at all when they wed. And look at them now. They have two children, and another on the way. They be verra much in love.”

  Brogan was not so naive to believe that arranged marriages ended in love matches. As far as he was concerned, his brother Frederick and his wife Aggie were the exception to the rule.

  “If Frederick had no’ taken that chance, he would never have found the love of his life,” Ian added.

  “I already had one love of me life,” Brogan pointed out. There would or could never be a woman such as she. He felt it to his very marrow.

  Ian chewed the inside of his lower lip before responding. “Aye, Anna was a good woman. But again, I say ye give our father’s life a good long look. ’Tis possible for a man to love more than one good woman in his lifetime.”

  Brogan knew he was making perfectly good sense. Still, he was never one to take extreme chances, at least not without extreme and proper consideration.

  “Besides,” Ian said as he slapped Brogan’s back. “Yer gettin’ on in years. Ye do no’ have much time to think on it.”

  Brogan grunted his disproval. “I be only four and thirty. I be no’ dead yet.”

  “But I fear ye might be before ye make up yer mind to marry again,” Ian said. “Besides, ye would be doin’ an honorable thing by marryin’ her. Ye’d be savin’ her life, fer ye ken what a monster Courtemanche is.”

  Aye, there was that. Courtemanche. The Frenchman. Over the years since that first meeting, they’d all heard the stories told of the vile man. Brogan knew men could change, if they truly wished to. But Courtemanche? If anything, he’d grown worse over the years.

  “He has been accused, once again, of rape,” Ian told him. “Some young lass in Italy last summer.”

  Brogan expelled another heavy breath. He still could not quite grasp the fact that Mairghread’s uncle would broker a marriage between the sweet and beautiful woman and that vile, cruel man.

  “But this time, he chose the wrong young girl,” Ian said. “She was of noble birth. Her father, one of the Italian king’s chamberlains.”

  The thought of Courtemanche finally hanging for his misdeeds lightened Brogan’s heart. But only slightly. There was still a good chance that Mairghread could be married off to the man before the Italian authorities could do anything with him.

  In his heart, he knew what he must do.

  Rose felt that in all it had been a successful eve, save for her stubborn brother-by-law, Brogan. He had not shown up to sup with them, which should not have surprised her. With the meal over, the foodstuffs cleared away, the tent was still filled near to bursting. But nowhere to be seen was Brogan.

  Her husband, Ian, sat
in a corner near the entrance, with Alec Bowie, Rowan Graham, and Reginald Mactavish, the steward of the Clan Mactavish. Just what the men were discussing, she did not know, nor did she care at the moment.

  Rose drummed her fingers against the table as she pretended to not be as perturbed as she truly felt. Blasted, stubborn men! she all but screamed silently. Aye, that stubbornness proved useful on many occasion. However, on this particular occasion, ’twas proving to be as painful as a thorn in one’s foot.

  To her left, sitting between Arline Graham and Leona Bowie, was Mairghread Mactavish. She was such a lovely woman. It was difficult for Rose to believe she had a problem with strong drink. Mayhap Gertie and Tilda had exaggerated a bit, for Rose had not seen her take so much as a sip of wine this night.

  Arline and Leona were well aware of Rose’s plan to stop the Mactavish woman from being married off to Claude Courtemanche. Though none of the three women had known Mairghread before this day, they still felt it was their duty to protect her from such a fate. ’Twas good to have friends like that. Rose could only pray they would be able to talk her out of marrying the man.

  Half tempted to leave the tent and go in search of Brogan, Rose sat with lips pursed and brow furrowed, secretly planning how best to torture him. She’d drag him in here by his nose if she must. With all her heart, she believed Brogan was the best man suited to marrying this poor young woman.

  Just as she was ready to scoot away from the table, a group of men in the opposite corner began to play on their lutes and flutes. ’Twas a lively tune that propelled people to their feet to dance in the center of the tent.

  She heard Mairghread and Leona giggle at something Arline had whispered. Too busy plotting her brother-by-law’s death, Rose did not inquire as to what the women found so funny.

  One of Ian’s men, a young man named Thomas, approached the table and bowed to the women. “Mistress,” he said to Rose before turning his attention to the other women. “M’lady, would ye care to dance with me?”