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

by Suzan Tisdale

“The day they buried James and wee Connell,” Tilda answered.

  “’Twas the saddest time in our lives,” Gertie added. “We lost more than James and Connell that day, M’laird.”

  “We also lost our lady,” Tilda said.

  Brogan understood all too well the depths of their pain. They loved Mairghread as much as if she were their very own daughter. When Mairghread hurt, they hurt.

  “What exactly happened the night of the raid?” he asked.

  The two women grew eerily silent.

  “I can no’ help Mairghread if I do no’ ken the reasons behind her drinkin’.”

  “Is it no’ enough that she lost them?” Gertie asked, tears welling up in her blue eyes.

  He knew, from personal experience, that if one did not face the cold hard truth, if ye kept it hidden, deeply buried, it would eat at ye until there was nothing left of yer soul. “Nay, I need the truth of it. What happened that night?”

  Gertie wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “In truth, we do no’ rightly ken, m’laird. We were attacked, and to this verra day, we ken no’ by who.”

  Brogan found that a peculiar bit of information. “Ye do no’ ken who?”

  The two women shook their heads, looking beleaguered and sorrowful.

  “How many were there?” he asked.

  Gertie shrugged her shoulders. “Some say only five, others say twenty or more. No one kens fer certain.”

  “And James and Connell were killed as well?” he asked, hoping to encourage them to give him more information.

  “Aye, they were killed as well. Attacked, they were, in their bedchamber,” Tilda said in a low voice.

  “How many others lost their lives?” Brogan asked.

  “Two guards,” Gertie told him. “And we almost lost Mairghread as well.”

  That bit of news astonished him. Of course, he and his wife had not necessarily had the time to discuss such things. “What happened? To them and to her?”

  “James’s throat was cut. And wee Connell,” she choked back a sob, unable to get the words out.

  “Connell, he was only three weeks old, ye ken, just an innocent babe!” Tilda said. The look of sheer hatred in her eyes at the man or men responsible was quite evident. “They cut his throat too!”

  The women wept at the memory of the awful night, of the loss of an innocent babe. “He was such a good babe,” Tilda said. “Such a sweet babe.”

  ’Twas no wonder Mairghread drank. ’Twas difficult to imagine losing one’s child in such a manner. “And Mairghread?”

  The two women looked at one another before Gertie replied. “She was stabbed many, many times. We almost lost her. If we had no’ found her when we did, she would have died as well.”

  “Ye found her?” He directed his question to both women.

  “Her uncle and I did,” Gertie said. “I heard her screamin’. I do no’ think I have ever run so fast in all me days.”

  He was stunned into muteness for a long while. ’Twas difficult for the women to talk about that night. For some reason, he felt there was more to this story than they were willing to admit. But what, he could not begin to guess. Looking at them, he could see they were tired and worn from the telling.

  “Our lady,” Tilda began as she wiped away another tear. “She has no memory of that night, or even of the day.”

  “Aye,” Gertie said. “I think ’tis too much fer her to bear, ye ken. She has blocked that night out, to save her mind from madness.”

  Brogan found no fault in her reasoning. He knew men who had suffered on the field of battle and for years, could not recount a moment of what had happened to them. It was perfectly reasonable to assume Mairghread had done the same.

  Now, it all made perfectly good sense. She drank to ease her pain and suffering.

  “She was no’ always like this,” Gertie told him. “She was such a sweet, kind lass. I swear, this I tell ye true.”

  “Aye, ’tis true. She always put the needs of her clan before her own,” Tilda added.

  “Her mother, her father, they cherished each of their children, and Mairghread was no different,” Gertie said through sniffles. “When Connell was born, ye never saw a woman so blissfully happy.”

  “Aye, she did no’ stop smiling from the time he was born until—” Tilda stopped herself, pressed her fingertips to her lips, and began to cry again.

  “I swear, m’laird, if ever I get me hands on the man who did this to her, to us, I will kill him, I will,” Gertie said. There was such a resoluteness to her tone that he did not doubt for a moment she spoke the truth.

  They sat in silence for a long while. Brogan felt empty and at a loss on what he should do next.

  “Do ye think ye can help her?” Tilda asked.

  “Help her?”

  “Stop her drinkin’,” she replied hopefully.

  God, if it were only that easy, he mused.

  ’Twas long after noon time before Mairghread woke, groggy and with such a pain in her head she thought ’twould surely be her death. “Och,” she groused as she slowly reached up to rub her temple, afraid just yet of opening her eyes.

  For some odd reason, her neck ached, and she felt oddly cold. Something did not quite feel right. Slowly, she opened her eyes, and instantly regretted doing so. Sunshine was streaming in through the open windows, burning her orbs. Quickly, she shut her lids tightly.

  It took every ounce of energy she had to roll over. ’Twas then she realized her head had been dangling over the bed. What on earth? Though she only thought the question, it seemed to echo loudly in her mind, clanging like the smithy’s hammer against an anvil.

  She took in slow, deep breaths, hoping to calm her stomach. It roiled and churned. Before she could stop it, she was forced to roll over again, to vomit. It came in great, harsh waves, burning her throat. She retched until she had nothing left.

  Sweaty, her dress clung to her skin uncomfortably so, but she didn’t have the strength to remove it. She wiped her face on the sleeve and rolled to her back. Lying as still as a mouse, she waited for her stomach to settle.

  How much time passed, she couldn’t have said. Though she was certain she was alone in her chamber, the silence was deafening, maddening. Where be Gertie? Tilda? She wondered. Not a morn had passed that they were not here in her chamber, the moment she awakened. ’Twas as if they had some sort of special power to know when she needed them most.

  When she was quite certain she’d not wretch again, she rubbed her lids gently with her fingertips. Groaning slightly, she lifted herself on her elbows and took the chance once again to open her eyes.

  Brogan was sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. “Good morn,” he said.

  Shame crept up her skin in a dark shade of red. She could feel it, deep in her bones.

  “Where,” her tongue and throat were as dry as wool. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Where be Gertie?”

  “Resting,” he replied.

  “Resting?” she asked. Worry grabbed at her heart. “What happened? Is she ill?”

  For the first time since he married her, he saw genuine concern in her eyes, heard it in her voice. The auld women had no’ lied, he realized. But was there enough of the auld Mairghread left in her to change? To want to change? “Ye do no’ remember last eve?” he asked.

  Leaning back against the pillow, she fought hard to find a memory of the night before. But there was nothing. “Nay, I do no’,” she said as she opened her eyes and slowly sat up. “Is she ill?” she asked once again. “Has the healer been called?”

  He had to admit he was glad to see the genuine concern in her eyes. He did not relish for a moment telling her what he must. “She be no’ ill, Mairghread. But, aye, the healer was called, to tend to her wounds.”

  “Wounds?” she asked, sounding quite worried. “Did she fall?”

  Brogan shook his head slowly. “Lass, ye were quite into yer cups last eve. Ye became quite angry when we suggested ’twas time to put down yer whi
sky and go to bed.”

  From her confused expression, she hadn’t a clear memory of the night before. Nor was she anticipating what he was about to tell her. “Ye hit her with yer cup of whisky. It shattered against her face and she required stitches. She has a black eye, but she will live.”

  Wide, shocked eyes stared at him from across the bed. “Nay!” she cried out. “I would never hurt Gertie!”

  “I ken ye would no’ do it if ye were sober, Mairghread,” he told her, keeping his tone even. “But aye, ye did hurt her last eve.”

  Swallowing back tears, she shook her head as she buried it in her hands. “Nay, ye lie! I—”

  Brogan stood then, and came to sit beside her on the bed. “Mairghread, I would no’ lie about such a thing.”

  Unable to look at him just yet, she kept her face buried in her palms. “Nay, nay, nay,” she murmured.

  His memory took him back to the day he had learned he had hurt his nephew. Lord, how guilty he felt when he’d learned the truth. ’Twas the first time in his life that his father had ever laid a hand on him in anger. His was black and blue for a week after. But he had sworn that day, never to touch a drop of anything stronger than soft cider. Thus far, though he had been tempted on more than one occasion to drink, he had kept his promise.

  The tactics his father had used on him would not work on Mairghread. He couldn’t very well beat the living daylights out of her. But he could talk to her, from his heart.

  “Mairghread,” he said as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

  She shrugged it away. “Nay, please go. I wish to see no one right now.”

  “Mairghread, ye be no’ the first person to have an addiction—”

  She lifted her head so quickly, he was surprised her neck did not snap. “Addiction?” she asked, her brow knotted. “Ye think I have an addiction?” The disgust she held for him was plainly evidenced through angry eyes. “I have no addiction! Go! Leave me be!”

  With a sigh of resignation, he stood to his full height. “Do ye see these?” he asked as he pointed to the bottles on the table. “These all belong to ye. Five bottles of wine. Four of whisky. All hidden about yer room. Ye can no’ deny it any longer, Mairghread. Ye are addicted to the drink.”

  Fire burned behind her eyes. Fire, hatred and denial. “Leave me!” she shouted as she grabbed a pillow and flung it at him. It landed on the floor at his feet.

  “Ye can deny it all ye wish, but the truth remains. Ye are addicted. Ye drink until ye black out. Ye hurt the people around ye. No’ just with yer words, but with yer deeds and actions.”

  “To the devil with ye Brogan Mackintosh!” She was seething with anger. Her face was purple with rage, her chest heaving up and down.

  There was only one way to get her to see the truth; let her see it with her own eyes.

  Brogan returned to Mairghread’s bedchamber an hour later. With him, he had Reginald, Gertie, and Tilda. In order for her to understand what her drinking was doing to herself and those around her, he needed to show her. She had to see it with her own eyes.

  Neither Gertie nor Tilda wanted to do what he asked of them. The women simply did not wish to bring Mairghread an ounce of pain. They felt she’d already suffered enough with losing her husband and babe. It took a good deal of convincing on his part to get them to see how important this was to Mairghread’s potential recovery.

  As for Reginald, he would rather die than bring a moment of upset to Mairghread. However, he understood ’twas for her own well-being. Her life depended on it.

  They were in Mairghread’s bedchamber now, pleading with her to see reason.

  “I could no’ have done what ye said,” Mairghread argued as she sat on the edge of her bed.

  Forlorn and sorrowful, Gertie took a step forward. “Lass, I ken ye would ne’er do such a thing on purpose, least while not sober. But aye, we tell ye the truth.”

  “Ye became quite angry last eve,” Tilda added. “We ken ’twas the whisky and no’ ye.”

  Tears crept into Mairghread’s eyes. Unable to look at them, she turned away.

  “Lass, we want to help ye,” Reginald said from his spot by the window.

  “Help me?” she asked, wholly confused.

  “Aye, help ye stop drinkin’,” he said.

  “Bah!” she exclaimed as she once again turned away from them. “I do no’ need help to stop. I do no’ need to stop. Ye are all makin’ more out of my occasional glass of wine—”

  Brogan stepped forward then. “Occasional glass of wine?” he asked cynically. “Ye can no’ be serious.”

  She refused to look at him.

  “Mairghread, yer drinkin’ is more serious than an occasional glass of wine. Ye are not only hurtin’ those people around ye, yer killin’ yerself. Be that what ye want? To die a bitter, sad, lonely woman far too young?”

  Anger, as good and dear a friend as the whisky, enveloped her. She picked up the candlestick hear her bed and flung it at him. “To the devil with ye Brogan Mackintosh! To the devil!”

  Chapter Nine

  Mairghread did not know how to not drink anymore. She didn’t think she could continue to breathe without the aid of strong drink. Would her heart even beat anymore without it? She refused to admit such aloud to these people.

  The people who loved her most in this world — Gertie, Tilda, and Reginald — surrounded her now, looking at her with pity-filled, sorrowful eyes. Pleading, begging her to set down the strong drink, to walk away from it.

  But they didn’t understand. Not one of them. How could they? They hadn’t lost everything they loved. None of their spouses or babes had been murdered in the dead of night. They hadn’t killed them as she probably had done because she had lost her mind one night. It hadn’t been their own hands that held the knife and sliced through throats, only then to turn the knife on themselves in a wave of guilt and regret.

  Nay, they could not understand.

  “Lass,” Gertie said as tears clung to her lashes. “’Tis only because we love ye that we are here. If we did no’ care, we would leave ye to rot.”

  Bile rose in her throat, burning and painful. “Ye do no’ understand,” she whispered as her heart seized, wishing it could stop beating.

  “Then make us understand,” Gertie replied as she swiped away a tear.

  Mairghread shook her head violently. She would rather die than admit to Gertie —or anyone else— why she drank, why she was filled with such self-loathing.

  Brogan left his spot by the hearth, made his way between Tilda and Reginald. “Leave us,” he said in a low, firm tone.

  She found no malice, no fury or disgust in his tone. Neither did she find it in his eyes when she searched them. Unable to name what she did see, she took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She fought back the urge to rail against him, to lash out and scream, to tell him to leave her the bloody hell alone. But she didn’t possess the strength anymore.

  Without a word, they left her alone with Brogan.

  As the door softly clicked closed behind them, Mairghread finally managed the strength to turn away from him. She couldn’t look into his eyes anymore. ’Twas like looking into a mirror and she despised her own reflection.

  “I ken how ye hurt, Mairghread,” Brogan began. “The day I lost me wife, Anna, I picked up the nearest flagon of ale. When that was gone, I turned to whisky. ’Twas the only way to dull the pain in me heart. I did no’ stop drinkin’ for more than a year after.”

  Pain blended with anger and it came rushing out, turning her tongue as sharp as a razor. “Ye lost yer wife to a sickness. She was no’ murdered!” She spun around so fast it made her dizzy. All she wanted was her whisky. Not him with his self-righteousness, the I feel yer pain look in his eyes. “Ye can no’ ever understand it! Ye were given time to say goodbye! Ye were allowed to tell her all that was in yer heart. I did no’ have that luxury!”

  Unfazed by her outburst, he stood his ground. “So my pain was no’ as great as yers?”

  “N
ay! ’Twas no’ as great as mine you ignoble fool!” she spat out. “I never want to hear ye say such again. I want ye gone from me. Gone from me life. I do no’ need ye to look at me with pity in yer eyes. I do no’ need ye to tell me ye understand fer ye surely never could! I do no’ need ye turning Gertie and Tilda and Reginald against me.”

  He did not so much as bat an eye. “They love ye. They care. They see ye slowly dyin’, bit by bit each day. They do no’ want to lose ye, Mairghread. No’ like this.”

  “Everything was fine until ye came here!” Her throat was beginning to ache from shouting and crying but she continued her onslaught. “But ye sail in here like ye own the place, like ye own me. Ye’ll never own me, Brogan Mackintosh. I’ll never be yer wife. I hate ye and the earth on which ye walk. Ye’re a fool to think otherwise. Yer an eejit. A coward!” She pulled in a deep breath. “Ye say ye care. Ye say ye want to help. But all ye care about is me land and bein’ chief of me clan. And ye can no’ have either unless ye get me with child. And that will never happen! I’d rather hang than bed such a pious, foolish, ignorant, ugly man as ye.”

  Brogan knew her words were born out of her addiction. They weren’t the true words of her heart. ’Twas the whisky speaking on her behalf. It didn’t want to be set aside and forgotten.

  “Ye may hate me all ye wish, lass. Ye may despise me and wish me dead. I do no’ care.”

  “Then why do ye no’ leave me?” she demanded.

  He took note of her trembling hands, her quivering lip, and the paleness of her skin. “Because I do care.”

  “Bah!” she said, throwing her hands in the air. “Ye do no’ even ken me!”

  “Ye’re right. I do no’ ken ye fer ye have been drunk since the day we married.”

  Brogan watched as she swallowed hard. He knew she was searching for more spiteful, hate-filled words to launch like arrows, hoping to wound him.

  “Then why do ye remain here?” she asked. “Are ye so desperate to have a wife? Can ye no’ even pay fer a whore? Or does that go against yer high moral standards?”

  He offered her an indifferent shrug. “I do no’ bed women I am no’ married to.”