“I have four older brothers,” Neyll replied. “I had to learn to take care of meself at a young age.”
Brogan was beginning to like the lad. “What are yer duties here?” he asked.
“I work in the stables,” he replied. “I also raise cattle with me da.”
While noble pursuits, Brogan thought the young man might prove more useful elsewhere. “Would ye object to patrollin’ the borders?” he asked. “Ye certainly ken how to take care of yerself.”
“I can at that, m’laird,” Neyll said. Although he did not look nearly as murderous as he had a few moments ago, Brogan knew he was still quite upset. “And I can assure ye, Comnall will not be a bother to ye or yers again.” He turned to look at Comnall. “Is that right? Can I give this young man that promise?”
Looking sheepishly and duly chastised, Comnall replied with only a quick nod and a murmured ‘aye’.
“Good,” Brogan said. “’Tis settled then. But fer future reference, when issues such as these arise, please seek me out so that I can offer ye good counsel and mete out punishments where necessary.” ’Twas a message meant for all of the Mactavish people and one he hoped they would have the good sense to heed.
Although he had been gone less than a half an hour, when he returned to the gathering room, he discovered his wife was nearly as drunk as she had been the night before. He returned to his seat and now cold meal. Mairghread did not even acknowledge his return. She sat, staring out across the room as she drank.
Worry began to settle deep into his gut. Was she so disgusted with the thought of sharing her bed with him, that she could not do it without being drunk? Was she regretting her decision to marry him?
He looked down at his trencher, his appetite now gone. There were many things he wanted to discuss with his new bride. But from her expression and demeanor, now mayhap, was not the best time. Chancing a quick glance, he could see the flush in her cheeks and glassy eyes, a sure sign she was well on her way to being sotted drunk.
“On the morrow, I should like to discuss a few things with ye,” he said as he took a drink of cider.
“Such as?” she asked.
He took note of the slight slur in her speech and it angered him. It had been a long, worrisome day. What with learning what he had regarding Aymer and the lack of walls, weapons and other common defenses, and then the brawl between Comnall and Neyll, his patience was as thin as a spider’s web. And now, with his wife well into her cups, he doubted he could have any sort of adult conversation with her pertaining to anything of import. “On the morrow, when ye are sober, would be best.”
She threw her head back and laughed. ’Twas not the same, sweet laughter he had heard earlier. Nay, ’twas filled with something dark and quite ugly. Malice blended with disgust. “If ye think I will be sober on the morrow, ye are sadly mistaken.”
He felt his skin burn hot with rage and had to take in a deep breath to keep it in check. “Do ye need the aid of strong drink in order to bed me?” He regretted the question the moment he heard himself ask it.
Mairghread leaned over, ever so slightly. “Aye, I do.”
’Twas not only what she said, but how she had said it that sent him over the edge. He slammed his mug down so hard, it shook the entire table. Mairghread’s eyes grew wide with a blend of fear and astonishment as he grabbed the cup of wine from her hand and slammed it down next to his.
In one fell swoop, he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, rump up. He stormed through the now stunned-silent guests and headed for the stairs.
“Put me down!” she cried out as she kicked her feet.
Brogan said not a word as he thundered down the corridor to their chamber. “Ye bloody son of a whore!” Mairghread screamed as she hit his back with her fists.
He kicked open their bedchamber door. It banged against the wall with such force he thought he might have broken it. Inside, he crossed the floor in a few quick strides and tossed her onto the bed.
She landed on her back with an oomph.
Towering over her, he stood with his hands on his hips and glowered. “Why did ye agree to marry me?” he demanded. “If the thought of beddin’ me drives ye to drink?”
Before she could answer, Gertie and Tilda were in the room. “M’laird!” Gertie cried out. “Please, do no’ harm her!”
Brogan spun on his heels and glared at the two women. “I have never, in my life, harmed a woman! Out! Now!” His voice echoed off the walls. Hesitantly, each woman tried to look around the wall of muscle blocking their way.
“Out!” Pointing to the door, he ordered them once again to leave. “I said out.”
From the bed, Mairghread called out, “If ye find me dead on the morrow, ye ken ’twas him!”
Never in his life had he been tempted to hit a woman. Nay, he did not wish to hit her so much as to throw her over his knee and…
He was done. If he did not leave now, he might very well do or say something he would regret for the rest of his life.
Raking a hand through his hair, he took one last look at Mairghread. Aye, she was drunk and frightened and God only knew what else, for he certainly didn’t. Neither, at the moment, did he care.
“Tend to yer lady,” he grumbled at Gertie and Tilda before he stormed out of the room.
The cool night air did nothing to tamp down the flaming hot anger coursing through his veins. He had stomped out of the keep, down the stairs, and into the courtyard. Henry had tried to stop him, to inquire as to what was wrong, but one savage glare from Brogan made him back away.
Now he found himself crossing the old wall and heading toward the cliffs.
He stood there, just at the edge, staring out at the moonlit sea, wishing for all the world he was anywhere but here.
Why did she agree to marry me? He wondered. If the thought of joinin’ with me is so deplorable she must drink to do it?
None of it made a damn bit of sense. She was not the sweet, pretty woman he remembered from their first meeting. And what about that night, back at his brother’s keep, when he’d first proposed?
What had happened in these past two weeks to change her?
Was it remorse? Had she changed her mind? Was she so filled with regret at her decision?
If that be it, why did she no’ come to me?
Was it fear of him that kept her from speaking to him? Was she afraid of what he might say or do if she came to him?
He hated losing his temper with her. Hell, he hated losing his temper, period. But a man can only take so much.
“If she is in fact afraid of ye, how ye just behaved toward her did neither of ye any good,” he said shamefully. Looking heavenward, he prayed. “God, help me to help Mairghread see that I be no’ a monster. That I be a good man. A man she can trust.” He puffed out his cheeks and let the air out slowly. “And please, help me control this Mackintosh temper.”
Brogan stood at the cliff’s edge for an hour. The wind had picked up, bringing with it the salty sea spray. Prayer had helped calm his fury, helped ease his worries away. With the firm belief that God had put Mairghread in his life for a reason, he finally let go of his anger and dread.
Holding his head high, he went back into the keep. A few maids were still about, cleaning up the last of the evening meal. They stopped at once, looking up at him as if he was a great beast sent from the bowels of hell to wreak havoc on them and the lady they all loved so dearly.
If his father, John Mackintosh, had taught him anything, it was to own up to one’s mistakes. He paused at the stairs and offered them his most sincere smile and apologies. “I be terribly sorry fer losin’ me temper earlier,” he told them. “I did no’ mean to shame yer lady, myself, or ye.”
Three sets of stupefied eyes stared back at him. The maids each bobbed a curtsy before he left them to do their work and headed up the stairs.
Their bedchamber was quiet and still, save for the soft crackle of the low burning fire in the hearth. He could just make out Mairghread’s slee
ping form in the bed. Quietly, he made his way across the room and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Mairghread,” he whispered her name. She moved not at all, so sound asleep was she.
“I came to apologize fer losin’ me temper, lass. ’Tis no’ like me to behave so poorly. Especially toward a woman.”
She did not so much as stir at the sound of his voice. Or the gentle nudge he gave her shoulder. Undoubtedly, she was in a deep sleep from all the wine she had consumed earlier.
On the morrow, he told himself. On the morrow, we shall have it all out and begin anew.
Mairghread feigned sleep, so as to avoid any kind of communication with Brogan. She was not nearly as drunk as she wanted to be. Let him think what he wants, she told herself when he gently nudged her shoulder. I care no’.
Finally, mercifully, he sighed once, covered her with the fur then left the room. She lay as still as fawn in springtime long after he left, afraid he would come back. She did not want to see him, let alone speak to him.
I do no’ care what he thinks of me.
But she did care. Cared far more than she wanted to admit to herself. Guilty tears built behind her closed eyes.
Although he’d been here but two days, he’d apparently earned the admiration of nearly everyone within the keep. Even Reginald seemed to admire him.
Nay, she was not nearly as drunk as she wished to be. Chancing a peek from under the covers, she made sure the room was empty before slipping from the bed. In the dark, she made her way to the cupboard and withdrew a bottle of whisky. After years of consuming the amber liquid, it no longer burned going down. It calmed her, made her feel warm and safe.
In nothing but a light chemise, she stood alone in the dark and drank. Something she had done innumerable times before. Barefooted, she padded to the window and pulled the fur open. Stars dotted the indigo sky above and a cool breeze flittered in through the open window.
Nearly every night these past three plus years, she stood at this window and thought of her husband and son. God, how she missed them. Not even the whisky could dull that ache in her heart, no matter how many times she tried.
“I be sorry James,” she whispered into the night. “I should never have married him. I broke me oath to ye and to our babe.”
If she were ever sober enough to be honest with herself, she might admit that was what truly ate at her soul. She had survived and they hadn’t. She was moving on with her life.
Why did I live? Why did God take them from me?
Just as every other night she’d asked those questions, she found no answer whispered back from the stillness nor from the bottle.
Chapter Seven
Brogan’s hope at starting anew with his wife the following day was delayed. He had slept in an unoccupied room down the hall from hers. A fitful, restless night.
’Twas just before dawn before sleep finally claimed him. Not long after, he heard someone enter the room. Instinctively, he reached for the dirk he kept under his pillow and held his breath.
“Did ye ferget about the wall?”
’Twas Reginald standing at the foot of the bed.
Shite. Grumbling — though relieved ’twas no’ anyone here to do him any harm — he sat up in the bed. “Be it that time already?” he groused.
“Aye,” Reginald said with a nod and amused smile. “It be that time.”
Brogan swung his legs over the edge of the bed, raked a hand through his hair, and took in a deep breath. The last thing he wanted to do was go work in a quarry all day. There were things he needed to discuss with Mairghread, things he needed to say. Most likely, she would sleep half the day.
“Verra well,” he said as he got to his feet. “I will meet ye below stairs in a few moments.”
Reginald gave a quick nod before quitting the room.
It had been a back-breaking day. Most of it, Brogan had spent in the quarry, with an axe, chipping away at earth and stone. At first, it felt good to strike hardened steel against stone to help get rid of some of his anger.
He, along with a group of five men, worked at chiseling away the needed stones. Another group was in charge of hauling them via wagon and rope, to a section of land less than a hundred yards away. There, another group of men would work at carving the stones to the appropriate size to be used for the much needed wall.
He reckoned in a few days’ time they could begin taking the stones to the keep. For now, ’twas all about gathering and chipping. Gathering and chipping.
’Twas much harder work here than what he had done back at his brother’s keep. Aye, they had a good deal of men to help the process, but the earth here was harder and far less forgiving than his brother’s lands.
His company also was different. Comnall was still in a foul mood because Brogan had sided with the Mactavish lad the night before, which made any hope at a congenial conversation futile. After a while, Brogan had had enough of Comnall’s insolent behavior and sent him out of the pit to work above.
The man who took Comnall’s place, though in a far better mood and spirit, was not the talkative kind. Mayhap his silence was born out of the fact that he didn’t know Brogan at all.
At noon time a group of women had come bearing a meal, for which all the men were mightily grateful. Brogan climbed out of the pit, took a trencher from one of the women, and went to sit away from the group.
The men ate as they rested in the warm afternoon sunshine. ’Twas a bright, beautiful day, one Brogan felt he should be enjoying more than he was. But envy — an emotion he rarely struggled with — began to cloud his heart.
Most of the women who had brought the nooning meal were wives of the men working here. On blankets spread out on the cool grass, they ate and laughed together, these couples. Many of those men stole kisses from their wives. Even the older men.
They were at ease with one another. Comfortable in their marriages, with their spouses, and their lives. Would he ever have ease and comfort with his own wife? And why the bloody hell had she gotten drunk again last eve?
He envied them, these people. He envied the simple life they lived. He wanted what they had. Mayhap, in time, Mairghread would look upon him with the same sweet smile as these women looked upon their husbands. But as thing stood now, that day was a long way off.
Brogan and the men had worked from dawn to dusk. By the end of the day, there was nary a man not covered in sweat and grime, and aye, even a bit of blood.
Tired from the long, arduous day, they rode back to the keep in the backs of wagons. The Mactavish men, friends one and all, ignored Brogan and his men for the most part. Besides, he was too tired to make small talk. And his mind was on only one person; his new bride.
Some of the men joined them at the loch to bathe, while others went home to their wives. Undoubtedly, a hot bath and hearty meal were waiting for them there.
What, he wondered, was waiting for him at the keep? Undoubtedly, Mairghread was still sorely angry with him for how he had treated her the night before. He could not rightly blame her. He had behaved poorly. Aye, he knew she had intentionally badgered him into losing his temper. But what had been her purpose? Was she intentionally trying to make him look like a beast? Like a low-born man without an ounce of pride or honor in his body?
Diving into the cold loch did nothing to ease his worries.
Why? He asked himself the same question a hundred times today. Why did she provoke him? Why did she look at him with such profound disgust and sorrow?
He had more questions than answers. And the only one who could give him those answers was his wife.
Brogan was once again late to the evening meal. Mairghread was already at the table on the dais. From his vantage point at the bottom of the stairs, she looked regal and elegant in a dark green gown made of soft silk. His fingers all but itched with desire. Desire to whisk her above stairs, to their chamber, where he would first apologize for his behavior from the previous night. Then he would slowly divest her of the aforementioned dress and
spend the rest of the night showing her that she could trust him, with her body and her heart. One look at her and his anger subsided, replaced with a need so acute and intense, ’twas nearly frightening.
But he refused to play the fool this night. Nay, he would be every bit the gentleman she needed. He would apologize, take his time to explain his reasons for his poor behavior, then he would bloody well demand an explanation for hers. And he would not give up until he had it.
Standing on the stairs, he quietly watched his new bride as she downed one glass of wine before immediately pouring another.
Something began to niggle at the back of his mind. His imagination was taking him to a place he did not wish to visit. A dark, ugly place, filled with memories of the time in his own life when he was nothing but a drunken, empty shell of a man.
He glanced about at the people assembled to sup. Not a one paid Mairghread any mind or notice. They were all too busy eating and chatting amongst themselves.
The serving maid, the same young lass from the night before, stood cautiously in the corner of the dais, far away from Mairghread. But her eyes were glued to the woman. Worried eyes.
Mairghread gulped down the freshly poured wine. As soon as that cup was empty, she poured herself another. The maid immediately grabbed another flagon from the sideboard to replace the empty.
’Twas all done with such ease to signify this was habit.
He thought back to the wedding feast. He had assumed she had simply been enjoying the festivities and, as many a bride had done before, had drunk too much.
And last night. She had been drinking long before he had arrived to sup with her. He knew that now, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
He scanned the room for Gertie and Tilda and found them. They sat at a table just in front of the dais. Each of them was watching their lady with as much worry as the serving maid. ’Twas as if they were waiting for something to happen.
He knew this dance. Knew it backwards and forwards. ’Twas as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He could have danced it in his sleep.
Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 10
