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

by Suzan Tisdale

  There was no mistaking which lady he was speaking to. The poor young man was staring intently at Mairghread with a wide, hopeful smile. Who could blame him? She was a stunning woman, with all that dark red hair and bright emerald green eyes. ’Twas the face of an angel, Rose believed.

  Mairghread looked a bit surprised at his offer. But before she could accept or decline the young man, a deep voice broke through the silence.

  “She has already promised this dance to me.”

  ’Twas Brogan.

  Brogan was much like the other Mackintosh men. Once his mind was made up on a thing, it usually took an act of divine intervention to get him to change it.

  Refusing to even acknowledge Rose, Brogan came around the table, took Mairghread’s hand in his, and escorted her out of the tent. Dumbfounded, Rose supposed, the poor woman did not even protest. She went willingly.

  Rose, Arline, and Leona sat in stunned silence as they watched the two people leave.

  Leona giggled softly. “It looks as though Brogan has made a decision.”

  “’Tis about time,” Arline responded.

  Rose remained silent, relieved and thankful he had finally come around.

  “Are all Mackintosh men as stubborn as Brogan?” Arline asked.

  Her question elicited another giggle from Leona. “I fear it be at trait all good men possess.”

  Rose sighed once again. “Unfortunately, Leona be right,” she said as she watched Alec Bowie leave his group of men and head toward their table. “I have yet to meet a Mackintosh man who does no’ suffer from the affliction.”

  The love shining in Alec Bowie’s eyes when he looked at his wife was unmistakable. “Ladies,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. “The hour grows late,” he said to his wife. “Ye need yer rest.”

  Leona’s eyes filled with warmth as she gazed at her husband. “Ye worry too much,” she told him.

  “I am only doing what our healer recommends,” he reminded her. “In yer condition, ye are to rest as much as possible.”

  Rose recognized the looks exchanged between them. She and Ian had oft looked at one another the same way. It made her heart happy to know that Leona and Alec had finally realized how much they loved one another. Though it certainly had taken long enough for them to come to that realization.

  If her assumption was correct, there would be little ‘resting’ going on this night betwixt the couple.

  “I have four months before our babe arrives,” Leona pointed out to her husband. “And I am enjoying the company of me friends.”

  Rose was quite proud of Leona. Per the advice she had given her months ago, no longer would she acquiesce easily. If Alec wanted something, he’d have to earn it.

  “Aye, I see that,” he said, raising a brow and offering Leona his most mischievous smile. “Mayhap it be I who needs the rest.”

  Aye, Rose was right. There would be little ‘resting’ this night. Alec had the look of a wolf about to devour a roe deer.

  Leona rolled her eyes and smiled warmly at him. “And ye can no’ rest without me?”

  Alec placed a palm across his heart. “I could,” he said with a bright grin. “But ’tis always more restful if ye are there.”

  A soft blush crept up Leona’s neck. A heartbeat later, she was scooting away from the table and being led away by the aforementioned man-wolf.

  “I think they love each other verra much,” Arline said.

  “Aye, they do.”

  Arline took a sip of wine and smiled. “Mayhap Brogan and Mairghread will be as happy as we someday?”

  Rose, knowing Mairghread’s secret as she did, could only pray her friend was right.

  Though the hour was late, the sun was just now making its evening descent. At this time of year, the days were growing longer, and thankfully, warmer.

  Brogan led Mairghread away from the noisy tent. Neither of them uttered a word as they crossed the yard, winding their way through tents and tables.

  “I thought ye wished to dance,” Mairghread said playfully as they made their way toward the outer wall.

  Brogan grunted his reply. His mind was filled with a hundred questions and a hundred things he wanted to say. But in such close proximity to the beautiful woman, and with her hand still in his, he found he couldn’t utter a word.

  “I ken what Gertie and Tilda did,” she told him. “Ye need no’ be so kind, Brogan. Though I ken they mean well, ye should mayhap no’ believe everythin’ they say.”

  Brogan paused and turned to face her. God’s bones, she was beautiful. And her voice? It felt like silk against his ears. He imagined he could never grow tired of listening to her speak. “What do ye mean?” he asked.

  Mairghread rolled her eyes. “I ken what they be up to and I ken ye do as well. They wish fer ye and me to marry.”

  Blunt and to the point, Brogan thought. ’Twas an admirable trait. “Me sister-by-law is of the same mindset.”

  Mairghread nodded as she smiled up at him. “Aye, so I have been told.”

  “They tell me ye are to marry Claude Courtemanche,” Brogan said as he found himself staring longingly at her hair. Strands had come loose from her braid, and were now dancing about her face in the evening breeze. It took all his willpower not to reach out and gently tuck it behind her ears. His fingers fair itched with desire to do just that. How long had it been since he had been so immediately and intensely attracted to a woman?

  “Och!” she said with a smile. “For reasons I can no’ begin to understand, they have an unnatural fear of the man. And we have yet to meet him.”

  Brogan studied her closely for a long moment. “Ye truly do no’ ken the man, do ye?” ’Twas more a statement than a question.

  “Nay,” she replied. “But I can no’ believe he be as bad as Gertie and Tilda claim.”

  Brogan shook his head. “I fear he be worse than even they ken.”

  Mairghread furrowed her brow. “Certainly ye do no’ believe what those two have told ye?” she asked incredulously.

  “Nay,” he replied. “I do no’ need two auld women to tell me about Courtemanche. I ken the man well.”

  His tone made her relief short-lived. She had only caught a fleeting glimpse of Courtemanche last year when he had visited their keep. Though she had seen him from a distance, and through wine-hazed eyes, she had seen enough to nearly make her ill. Much older than she, he was, and with greasy, slick, dark hair and scrawny legs that seemed to be strained and bowed with carrying the excess weight of his gut.

  But Brogan? Brogan looked nothing at all like the Frenchman. Nay, Brogan was tall, and well-muscled. His stomach was flat, not bloated from gluttony like Courtemanche’s. His ginger-colored hair hung well past his broad shoulders. With bright green eyes and full lips, he was a very handsome man. But ’twas his eyes and the deep timbre of his voice that made her unable to think clearly. He reminded her neither of Courtemanche or her deceased husband, which was either a blessing or a curse; she could not be certain at the moment.

  ’Twas impossible to think while looking at him. ’Twas also impossible to think without aid of drink.

  “The man is even worse than what Gertie and Tilda believe. I have met the man on more than one occasion. The stories ye hear, be true, lass.”

  She paled visibly.

  “He did in fact kill his last wife, and aye, fer givin’ him a daughter instead of a son. Though none in France are prepared to try to prove it before their king.” In any other circumstance, he might not have been so direct. But Mairghread’s life was literally on the line.

  A moment later, she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “Nay,” she said. “I can no’ believe me uncle would ask me to marry anyone who was no’ kind and generous.”

  “I fear I do no’ ken yer uncle. But I do ken Courtemanche. He is as cruel as he is arrogant. The man is no’ above anythin’ to get what he wants. Whether that be power or money.” The truth made Brogan ill. “And if ye do marry him, think ye he will stay i
n Scotland?” He paused, allowing time for that prospect to sink in. “Nay, lass, ye will no’ . He will want to return to France where he has his king’s ear and backing. There, he can do whatever he bloody well pleases. Ye would no’ be safe.”

  With a slight shake of her head, she removed her hand from his and turned away. “Me uncle is a good man,” she whispered. She was quiet for a long while, undoubtedly trying to make some sense of what Brogan was saying. “Nay,” she said before turning back to him. “Me uncle would no’ marry me off to such a man.”

  Brogan cocked his head to one side. “Mayhap yer uncle does no’ ken the kind of man Courtemanche be,” he suggested. Although he didn’t believe it likely. According to Gertie and Tilda, Aymer Mactavish had met with Courtemanche at least twice in the past year. They had met in Edinburgh just a few months ago. It took only one encounter with the man for Brogan to understand Courtemanche was not someone you wanted as friend or foe. Either her uncle was a fool of the highest kind, or, he did not care. At the moment, he wasn’t sure which thought upset him more.

  Mairghread thought on that for a long moment. “If what ye say about Courtemanche be true, then I have to believe me uncle does no’ ken him well. ’Tis the only thing that makes sense.” It only made sense that he did not know Courtemanche well at all. That fact was disheartening. Lord, how she wanted a dram of whisky. But she had made a promise to Gertie that she would not drink this night. She was now regretting that promise. Her fingers were starting to tremble with need of it.

  Brogan kept his thoughts on her uncle to himself. ’Twas apparent she held the man in high regard. “Has the betrothal been set then?” he asked.

  Finally, she looked into his eyes. “Aye,” she whispered. “Me uncle took the dowry with him.”

  Her emerald eyes fairly sparkled in the late evening light. “The bans? Have they been read?”

  She shook her head slightly and swallowed hard. “Nay, they have no’.”

  Brogan smiled warmly at her. “Then there still be hope.”

  Mairghread looked into his eyes, certain she would find a hint of deception or treachery. Instead, she found something she had not felt nor seen in over three years: warmth and a sense of safety. She was too confused and taken aback to question the why of it.

  She needed a drink or two. Her nerves were beginning to fray at the edges, the desire for wine or whisky growing stronger as the moments passed. Oh, why had she promised Gertie not to drink? Mayhap if she had a dram or two, his bright, warm eyes would not be having the effect on her person that they were now.

  “Hope?” she dared ask aloud.

  His smile was filled with warmth and aye, just a hint of something mischievous. “Aye,” he replied. “Hope.”

  His voice was deep, smooth and rich, like good whisky, and had almost the same effect on her person. “Hope fer what?” she asked with a raised brow. The tremble in her fingers increased and her stomach felt strange, as if she’d just swallowed a sparrow and it was now trying to take flight.

  “Hope to get ye out of yer betrothal with Courtemanche,” he replied.

  His words shook her out of her daze. “But me uncle is on his way to France as we speak. He has me dowry with him. I —”

  Brogan cocked his head to one side. “So ye still wish to marry Courtemanche?”

  She thought on the question for a moment. “Nay, I do no’,” she replied. “But I can no’ back out now. Nay, I must wait until my uncle returns and explain to him the error in his judgment.”

  “And what will ye do if yer uncle does no’ believe ye? What if he still insists ye marry the Frenchman?”

  There hadn’t been much time in the last few moments to give much thought to the possibility. The fluttering sensation left in the blink of an eye. Now her stomach, her heart, were filled with nothing but dread. She loved her uncle, she truly did. But he did not always take her wishes, her concerns, into consideration. “I do no’ ken.” But she did. She knew, without a doubt, that she did not have the mental strength nor heart to go against him. He was the only living relative she had now, and for that reason alone, she felt she owed him and his ideas a good measure of respect.

  A long length of silence stretched between them as Mairghread began to worry and her imagination ran amok. What if her uncle did insist she still marry Courtemanche? What if everything everyone told her about the man was true? What if she agreed to her uncle’s wishes and married him? In her heart of hearts, she knew Brogan was telling her nothing but the cold hard truth. Courtemanche was a dangerous man and she would be forced to leave her home. Why had her uncle not given this more thought?

  Dread turned to fear then, when she thought of her future and the future of her people. God, how she wanted a flagon of wine, or better yet, whisky. She could not think clearly without it.

  Brogan’s voice broke through the quiet and still night. ’Twas naught but a whisper, really, but she heard it with clarity. She felt the sincerity in his voice right down to her toes.

  “Marry me.”

  There were many reasons why he made the proposal. The main reason being he sincerely cared for this woman’s safety and her future. Would he have cared as much were she not as beautiful or graceful? He wondered. The sense of duty, the need to protect those less fortunate souls, ran deep in his Mackintosh blood. Duty and honor had been instilled in him by his father since birth. Nay, ’twas only a blessing she was beautiful.

  “Marry ye?” she asked breathlessly as she took a step away from him. Not for a moment had she thought he would agree with Gertie and Tilda’s idea of a marriage between them. Up until this point, she thought his only purpose was to talk her out of a marriage to Courtemanche, not into one with him.

  He could not be certain if it was fear or simply surprise that had garnered her reaction. “Aye, marry me, Mairghread.”

  “But why?” Her brow was furrowed, her eyes filled with more than just a hint of trepidation. “I do no’ even ken ye.”

  He smiled thoughtfully. “I dare say ye ken me better than ye do the Frenchman, Courtemanche.”

  ’Twas nothing short of the truth.

  “Mairghread?” Brogan spoke her name softly, with much warmth. “I ken we do no’ ken each other well. But I can promise ye, I am nothin’ like Courtemanche.”

  She knew that already. So different in appearance were the two men, it took no great intellect to know they were as opposite as day and night. Whether ’twas instinct or lack of drink, she knew, deep down in her heart, that Courtemanche would end up hurting her, in more ways than a body could count. But Brogan? Nay, he would not hurt her, leastways not in the same manner as Courtemanche could or would.

  “I would never hurt ye, Mairghread. I would rather have me arms cut off than bring harm to another living soul.”

  She snorted and shook her head. “But ye be a warrior. I have heard the stories told of the Mackintosh men and how ruthless ye all be.”

  Brogan chuckled softly. “That be on the field of battle, lass,” he told her. “We are only ruthless on the field of battle.”

  The men of her clan were not warriors. They raised horses, fine, grand horses. People travelled far and wide to purchase the fine beasts. Mairghread was unaccustomed to living with warriors or men of that ilk. ’Twas why the attack on their keep had come so easily three years ago. They hadn’t been outnumbered that night, nay, just the opposite. Whoever had attacked had been well-trained and just as ruthless. If only she could remember more of that night.

  “Off the field of battle, we protect our own. We revere our women and love our children beyond measure. Ye can ask Rose if ye do no’ believe me.”

  There was no need to ask Rose. Mairghread had witnessed the love between her and Ian. The way they looked at one another with such love and fondness. A woman could not look at a man the way Rose looked at Ian, or the way Leona looked at Alec, or Arline at Rowan, if they did not love their husbands. And a woman could not love a man in such a manner as that if those men were ruthless, cruel
men.

  “Will ye at least think on it?” Brogan asked.

  Again, his voice felt as smooth as silk, warm, and with such tenderness and concern. It nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  What was there to think on? She had very little choice at the moment. Marry a man who, if what she was told was true, was as vile as he was cruel, or marry the man standing behind her. A man who, she was quite certain, would be kind. A man who she believed would never hurt her. If she did not marry Brogan before her uncle returned, she would be married to Courtemanche. Her life, she was certain, would end at the altar.

  The decision was simple enough to make in her mind. But in her heart?

  “I fear goin’ against me uncle,” she admitted.

  The night grew darker, the air cooler, but that was not why she shivered.

  “I do no’ ken the ways of yer clan, lass. But Gertie and Tilda tell me that ye are to inherit all that yer father left ye, aye?”

  Was that why he had offered? To get his hands on what she might inherit? Angry, nay furious, she spun around to face him once again. But before she could scream her displeasure with him, he spoke.

  “If ye are the rightful heir, then, does that no’ make ye chief of yer clan?” he asked. “Can ye no’ decide yer own future? Why must ye listen to yer uncle? Or does yer clan no’ allow women to lead and rule?”

  His questions stunned her anger away. Aye, ’twas true. She was, by default, the chief of her clan. However, she had never taken up the position. Instead, she had willingly handed those responsibilities off to her uncle. She had been too grief-stricken to lead. And if she were honest with herself, she’d been too drunk to care. But according to her father’s will, she must be married and with child before she reached the age of five and twenty. But she could act as chief, at least for now.

  “What are ye sayin’?” she asked, still uncertain as to where he was heading.

  “If ye are the rightful heir, then ye are the rightful chief. If yer clan has no rules against a woman bein’ chief, then ye should be chief. And make the decision regardin’ who ye marry, without worryin’ ye’d be goin’ against yer uncle.” Gently, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Ye do no’ have to marry me, Mairghread. Ye can marry whomever ye wish. I be just askin’ that ye no’ marry Courtemanche.”