He made sense, which was something that did not happen much of late. He spoke nothing but the truth. She was the rightful heir, and the rightful chief. For too long, she had listened to her uncle, allowing him to lead, to make decisions concerning her future. She’d done so happily, for it allowed her to be alone with her misery, her grief, and her wine.
“Though I will tell ye true, I will be sorely disappointed if ye decide to marry another,” he said with a warm, thoughtful smile.
There was not a doubt in her mind that he spoke truthfully and from his heart. It made her decision all the easier.
“I will marry ye, Brogan Mackintosh,” she told him. But before she could add the conditions to her agreement, two distinct voices spoke up from the shadows behind Brogan.
“Thank the Lord!”
’Twas Gertie and Tilda.
Chapter Three
Much to Gertie and Tilda’s relief and happiness, the banns were posted first thing the morning after Mairghread accepted Brogan’s proposal.
For two weeks, they fluttered around the Mactavish keep, planning and preparing for the wedding, with as much determination, seriousness and fervor as a Scotsman preparing for war against the English.
To Mairghread’s relief and delight, they left her alone almost the moment they returned from Mackintosh lands. She cared not for wedding plans. Did not give a whit about what she would wear, or what foods would be served at the wedding feast. Nay, she only cared about getting back to her room where she could drink copious amounts of wine and try to forget she had ever agreed to marry Brogan Mackintosh.
Guilt assaulted her.
She was marrying again.
At the funerals of her husband, James, and son, Connell, she had made them each a promise. To James, she declared never to marry again for he was the one true-love of her life. To Connell, her sweet babe who was only three weeks old when he was murdered, she had promised never to hold another bairn in her arms until she could be reunited with them in heaven.
What must they think of her now?
Did they think her a liar? A betrayer? A fool?
Och, how they must hate her! Hate her for breaking the solemn vows made that day.
More likely than not, however, they already hated her, if what her uncle said about her was true. If what he hinted at about the night her husband and babe were murdered was true.
Aye, if he spoke the truth — and she had few reasons to believe he did not — then, aye, the two people she loved most in the world, already hated her with unwavering vehemence.
Leaving Gertie and Tilda to their work, she hid in her room for days, as she attempted to drink away her fears, her worries, and her guilt.
She drank away all the pain, all the burning questions of what really happened that night. Or at least she made a gallant attempt.
Nay, no matter how much wine or whisky she consumed, the questions were always there, at the back of her mind. Does Uncle speak the truth? If so, how could I have done such a thing?
The night before her wedding, Gertie came to see her.
“Och!” she declared the moment she stepped into Mairghread’s room. Clothes were strewn about the room. Trenchers of uneaten food were scattered here and there along with empty flagons and cups. The scent of stale food, sweat, vomit and urine filled the small space and assaulted Gertie’s senses. She immediately went to the windows and pulled open the furs to let fresh air in.
Tears welled in the auld woman’s blue eyes when she found Mairghread, huddled in a dark corner, holding a half-empty flagon.
“M’lady,” she cried as she went to her and sat on the floor in front of her. Her bones creaked and protested the action, but she thought nothing of it. Her lady needed her. “M’lady,” she said again as she placed a warm hand on Mairghread’s cheek.
Mairghread pushed her hand away and mumbled drunkenly. “Go away.”
Gertie forced a smile. “Nay, m’lady, I will no’. Ye need me.”
“I do no’ need any one,” Mairghread protested weakly. Her words were slurred, her nose red from crying.
“’Tis an auld dance we do, aye?” Gertie said. “Ye get into yer cups, declare ye need no’ a soul in this world, and I argue ye do, and in the end, I win. What say we try a new dance, aye, and just skip the protestin’ and arguin’.”
Mairghread pushed her hands away again, though without much force. She was too far into her cups to do much damage. “I do no’ want to dance, ye foolish auld biddy!”
Years ago, those words would have hurt. But Gertie had been playing this game with her lady for far too long. She had to believe that somewhere, under the drunken stupor, a little bit of who Mairghread used to be, still existed. ’Twas the only hope she had to cling to. Without that little thread of hope, there was no purpose, no reason to go on.
“Wheest, now,” Gertie said, her tone soothing and filled with tenderness. She took the flagon away and set it on the floor. “The morrow is a big day, fer ye. Ye need to be sober fer it.”
Slowly, Mairghread opened her eyes to look at Gertie. “The morrow?” she asked.
“Aye, Brogan arrives on the morrow. And the day after, ye shall marry him,” she replied.
Mairghread moaned, closed her eyes, and hung her head. “Nay, I can no’ do it.”
Gertie quirked a brow. With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself to her feet. “Aye, ye can, and ye will,” she said. “I shall go and fetch Tilda now. We’ll get ye to bed and on the morrow, ye shall feel much better.”
Even in her state of profound inebriation, Mairghread knew ’twas a lie. She’d never feel better.
Brogan sat atop his mount and looked out at the Mactavish lands and keep. ’Twas as beautiful a place as ever he’d seen, ranking it almost as beautiful as the keep he grew up in. He and his men stood atop a large hill and looked down at the sight before them. Overhead, large white clouds cast some of the land in shadow, whilst the sun shone brightly on others.
Made of dark gray stone, the structure stood three stories tall. Not as big as his father’s keep, nor was it as imposing, but it was still quite remarkable. Brilliant green grass spread almost as far as the eye could see. ’Twas dotted with numerous cottages, too many to count. Little streams of smoke billowed from their chimneys. All manner of wild flowers grew amongst the tall grass that bent and swayed in the breeze. Not far away was a small loch that sparkled like glass against the sun.
The keep itself sat high and proud on jagged cliffs. Surrounding it were low built structures, one unmistakably the stables, along with other buildings of varying sizes.
But just beyond the keep, was the ocean. Large, foamy waves crashed against the craggy shores. The air smelled of grass, horses, and sea. For some reason, he found it calming and peaceful.
What concerned him however, was the outer wall that enclosed the keep. So low it was, he knew he could climb over it with no effort at all. His horse would have been able to jump it without protest or worry as to its safety. ’Twas no wonder the keep had been attacked with such ease three years ago. There were no defenses against it.
There were no guard towers either. Even the expensive and coveted Mactavish horses were allowed to roam free and unhindered.
It was all just as it had been the last time he was here, a year ago. Nothing had changed. Brogan was left to wonder why the keep hadn’t been attacked more often.
“Where be the guards?” That particular question came from Comnall Mackintosh. A young man with dark hair and blue eyes, eager to experience a new adventure in his life. He’d eagerly volunteered to join Brogan and a handful of other men to come to the Mactavish keep.
“That be a verra good question,” Brogan replied. His jaw ticked. How could her uncle allow the keep to be so exposed after what happened to Mairghread’s husband and son? Could the man truly be that inept? It would be months before he’d be able to ask Aymer Mactavish in person. At the moment, he wished it would be years before the meeting.
“Let’s pray they be well
trained men,” Henry Mackintosh added from Brogan’s left. Henry was three years older than Brogan, and he very much resembled Ian, for his mother and Ian’s had been sisters. He had the same blonde hair, blue eyes, and handsome features. Though he never lived the kind of debauched life Ian had before he’d met and fallen in love with Rose. Nay, Henry was much like himself; an honorable man.
Brogan was ashamed to admit the truth. “Ye can pray all ye want, Henry, but ’twill do ye no good. The McLaren men are better trained than the Mactavish men.”
Henry shuddered at the thought. He’d only joined the Mackintosh and McLaren clan a few months ago. The comparison of McLaren to Mactavish was disheartening. Ian had been working with the McLaren men for over a year. While they had heart, and were filled with determination, those things together did not necessarily make for good warriors.
“Do ye think they be trainable?” Comnall asked with a raised brow.
Brogan shrugged his shoulders. “That might be where Henry could put his prayers to better use.”
Only one person stopped to speak to Brogan and his men as they made their way through the opening in the wall. Brogan estimated him to be around fifty, his light brown hair just beginning to turn gray at his temples. He recognized him from the night he’d proposed to Mairghread. “Ye be the Mackintosh?” the man asked as he stepped in front of Brogan’s horse, forcing him to stop abruptly. Brogan didn’t appreciate the man’s actions nor his tone of voice.
The man’s face held a most serious expression. His tone left no doubt Brogan was not much welcomed here.
“Aye, I am. Who be ye?” he asked as he dismounted. His men followed suit.
Thus far, no one approached to take their horses to the stables. He took a quick glance around the courtyard. There were other people milling about, pretending not to be interested in the new arrivals, but thus far, they were leaving them alone. ’Twas odd, but then, so were most of the Mactavishes he had met.
“I be Reginald Mactavish, the steward of this keep,” he said with a cold tone. Grim lines formed around his mouth.
Though they had not been officially introduced, either the last time he was here or two weeks ago back at his brother’s home, he behaved almost as if they were auld enemies. His cold attitude made little sense, for Brogan could think of nothing he had done to earn it. If his instinct was correct, his demeanor was born out of the fact that Brogan was here to marry Mairghread. That had to have brought forth a good deal of uncertainty for her people. They did not know him.
Realizing no one was coming to take their horses, Brogan asked, “Where be the stables? We would like to tend to our horses.”
That simple statement seemed to change the man’s attitude, albeit slightly. “This way,” he said as he turned around and led them in a westerly direction, to the rear of the keep.
The stable was in better condition than some keeps Brogan had seen over the years. Two tall, wide doors stood open, to allow fresh air inside. Before they could enter, an aulder man, with shockingly white hair and a slight hunch in his back, hurried out to meet them. His eyes grew wide when he looked up at Brogan, then to his men.
“This be Seamus Mactavish, our stable master,” Reginald said with a nod toward the auld man.
“This be them?” Seamus asked, with a good deal of surprise laced into his craggy voice. He kept his fearful eyes glued to Brogan and his men. As if he half expected to be gutted where he stood. Brogan thought his behavior most odd.
“Aye,” Reginald said, as if he were ashamed to admit it. “This be them.”
“What?” Seamus said in a raised voice.
Reginald rolled his eyes before raising his own. “I said, Aye! This be them!”
The auld man nodded his head violently. His white hair flapping in the breeze as he mumbled something about demons.
Henry and Comnall cast curious looks at one another before turning their attention back to the stable master. Henry wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d heard the auld man mumble something about demons again before he found the wherewithal to speak once more.
“I be Seamus,” he all but shouted. “I be the stable master.”
Brogan and his men were a bit startled by the man’s loud voice.
“Ye must be the Mackintosh men I heard about,” he shouted once more.
Brogan bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Heard? He doubted the man could hear a horde of angry Highlanders if they were right behind him.
“Aye, I be Brogan,” he said, raising his voice so that the auld man could hear him.
“What?” Seamus shouted as he turned his head and leaned forward offering him his right ear.
Brogan rolled his eyes. “I said I be Brogan Mackintosh!” he shouted his reply.
The auld man pulled back with a perturbed expression. “Ye need no’ shout! I gave ye me good ear!”
Henry and Comnall chuckled.
Brogan found no humor in it.
“Do ye wish to bed down yer own?” Seamus asked with a most eager tone.
Brogan saw no point in trying to answer. He simply nodded his head.
Seamus looked up at Reginald. “That says a lot about a man’s character,” he said looking quite pleased. “If I have told ye once, I have told ye a hundred times. Any man who takes care of his own mount is a good man. And look at their horses,” he said as he inclined his head in the direction of their mounts. “Nary a mark on any of them! Ye can see they do no’ beat them and they do no’ look worn. Which is also another sign of a man’s character.”
Brogan thought he might lose his hearing if he stayed here much longer, but the man’s compliment did warm his heart.
Seamus looked to Brogan once again. He eyed him up and down for a moment. “If ye do no’ beat yer horse, can I also assume ye do no’ beat yer women?”
From behind him, Brogan heard the unsheathing of eight swords, each of his men fully prepared to defend such an insult. Brogan stayed them with a raised arm.
“Of course we do no’ beat our women,” he said in a raised voice. “Neither do we beat our children.” To which he quickly added, “Or dogs, or anything else fer that matter.”
’Twas evident the auld man not only heard Brogan’s words, but felt the conviction in his tone. Seamus gave him a smile that showed missing teeth. “Ye will do, lad,” he said. “Ye will do.”
The day she had been dreading for two weeks was finally here, with the arrival of Brogan Mackintosh. Tilda and Gertie had come racing into Mairghread’s bedchamber to let her know he had arrived along with eight of his men. Dread and worry settled into her heart.
Gertie, having known Mairghread longer than any other living soul, took one look at her lady’s frown and shook her head. “Now, do no’ be gettin’ yerself down. Brogan be a good man. Far better than that Frenchman yer uncle was goin’ to marry ye off to.”
Tilda agreed, her smile bright and warm. “’Tis true, m’lady. He be below stairs now. He did no’ growl at us when he saw us.”
It had been a delightful change since last the two auld women had seen him. “He even smiled at us,” Gertie added, with her own happy grin and nod.
Mairghread cared not at the moment what Brogan had or hadn’t done. “Be gone with the both of ye,” she said as she pulled a flagon of wine from the table next to her fireplace.
Gertie stepped forward and took the flagon away. “Now, lassie, I’ll no’ have ye goin’ below stairs to meet yer betrothed in a state of drunkenness.” She handed the flagon off to Tilda, who held it against her chest.
Mairghread rolled her eyes, went to the cupboard in the corner of her room. ’Twas where she stored her clothing, shoes, and such. “I am a woman full-grown, Gertie. I would thank ye kindly to quit treatin’ me as if I was still a bairn.” She pulled the door open and began to rummage inside.
Gertie was rocking back and forth on her heels, something she did without realization, whenever she was up to something.
Mairghread pulled her head out of the cupbo
ard and glared at Gertie. “What did ye do with them?” she asked, referring of course, to the flagons of wine and whisky she kept stored inside next to her shoes.
Raising her chin, Gertie glowered back. “I hid them,” she said proudly.
“Why must ye be so bothersome?” Mairghread asked as she slammed the door shut.
“Because I love ye, lass, as if ye were me very own.”
Mairghread glared at her. “That used to work on me when I was a child, Gertie. ’Twill no’ work now.”
Gertie shrugged her shoulders indifferently. “I speak nothin’ but the truth. ’Tis because I love ye that I do no’ wish ye to make a fool of yerself this day or on the morrow.”
“Bah!” Mairghread shouted, drawing her hands into tight fists. “I get tired of hearin’ about yer love fer me. Ye only love makin’ me life miserable.”
Tilda, wanting very much to stop them from coming to blows, stepped in between them. “M’lady, Gertie truly does have only yer best interests in heart. She — like the rest of us — only wants to see ye happy.”
Mairghread cast her a near murderous glare that sent her all but running to the door. “Ye need no’ worry about me makin’ a fool of meself,” she told them. “Fer I do no’ plan on marryin’ Brogan.”
The two women would not have been more surprised had their lady sprouted a tail and wings. “But ye must marry him!” Gertie cried.
“The banns have been posted!” Tilda added.
“And the feast has been prepared!” Gertie said.
Mairghread rubbed her forehead with her fingers. “I do no’ care about banns or feasts or anythin’ else. I will no’ marry Brogan, or anyone else fer that matter. Now be gone with the both of ye!”
Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 5
