She threw her head back and laughed until she was breathless. “I will no’ bed ye,” she said cooly. “No’ now, no’ ever. So ye might want to reconsider whores or willin’ wenches.”
“In truth, I do no’ wish to bed ye.”
He stated it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that it caught her off balance. “Ye lie.”
He gave a slow shake of his head. “Nay, lass, I do no’ lie.”
Mairghread snorted derisively. “Then it be the company of men ye prefer?” she asked with a raised brow.
Brogan took in a deep, steadying breath, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned over, ever so slightly, so that he could look directly into her eyes. “Ye are intentionally tryin’ to bait me. Ye are also changin’ the subject.”
Glowering at him, she said, “I wish ye to leave.”
Another slow shake of his head. “Ye are a drunk, Mairghread. A mean-spirited drunk to boot. But hear me and hear me now. I be no’ leavin’ ye. I will no’ give up on ye. I be yer husband. I want also to be yer friend.”
She pursed her lips with a look of disbelief.
From the table by her door, he retrieved a flagon of whisky and tossed it to her. She caught it with both hands, and held it to her chest. Confused, she looked at him but said nothing.
“I be told ye can no’ go more than three days without drink,” he said. “At this point, I doubt that ye can go more than three hours without it.” He kept his expression cool and calm, which belied what he truly felt inside. “I be leavin’ ye alone with that,” he inclined his head toward the flagon in her hands. “Fer ye seem to love it more than ye love those people around ye.” He stepped toward the door that lead to his room. With one hand on the lever, he said, “While ye drink, I want ye to think about Gertie’s black eye and swollen lip. I want ye to think about the scratches ye left on Reginald and Tilda. I want ye to think about all of the people ye have hurt because ye can no’ set the drink down.” He opened the door, but remained where he stood for a long moment. “Ye have a decision to make, Mairghread. Ye either put the drink down for good, or ye continue to live yer life being mean and ugly and vicious. Ye stop yer drinkin’ and start livin’ yer life to do good in the world, or ye kill yerself slowly. The choice is yers. I will be here to help ye if ye wish, because I do want to be yer friend. But I will no’ stand by and watch ye die.”
And with that, he left her alone to think on his words.
Mairghread stood for a long while, staring at the closed door. Her mind was a jumbled mess of nonsense as it battled with her traitorous heart.
She played his words over and over in her mind. The choice is yers. I will be here to help ye if ye wish, because I do want to be yer friend.
My friend? She mused disgustedly. A friend does not call ye a drunk. A friend does not say such vile things right to yer face!
Bah! He does no’ wish to be me friend. He only wants me land. The title of chief. If he knew the real me, he would no’ be so eager to help.
My friend. Nay, he is no’ me friend. Friends do no’ treat ye like he has. Friends are no’ judgmental. A friend, a true friend, leaves ye be. A friend —
Then it hit her, like a kick to her stomach.
I have done the same.
Her head swam with the realization. Tears of guilt filled her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. Slowly, she made her way to her bed and sat down.
“I have accused him of the exact same things I have done,” she whispered to the cold, chilly air. Her chest felt tight, as if someone were pressing down on it with the weight of a heavy boot. Her stomach roiled and churned as her hands trembled.
One tear fell after another, soaking her chin and neck until she felt weak and tired. She looked at the flagon in her hands. ’Twas filled with the warm, amber liquid that had been her constant companion for more than three years.
Uisge-beatha. Water of Life.
It had been her life force for more than three years. The one and only thing that made her want to get out of bed each day. The one thing she could count on when the nights were cold, bleak and dark. Neither the wine nor the whisky had ever let her down.
She kept the flagon pressed against her chest, clinging to it, fearful of letting it go. After much time had passed, she began to hear a soft, gentle voice in the back of her mind. Drink me, it said. I can help ye more than they can.
Mayhap they were all right. Mayhap she had lost her mind, or was dangerously close to losing it.
The voice grew louder. Drink me. I be the only one who can help ye.
She hugged it tighter, harder, hoping the voice would grow silent. She did not wish to listen to it, at least not for a little while. There were too many other things to think about. Such as her clan, her people. Gertie and Tilda and Reginald.
Either she was sober enough or not drunk enough yet, it mattered not. The truth hung in the air like a dark, heavy cloud. She had hurt them. She had hurt them all more times than her foggy mind could count.
And all for her love — nay, ‘twasn’t love. ’Twas feral need. She’d hurt them all because of her desperate need of the drink.
But the drink had been there for her when no one else was. Or at least she had once believed. Now? Now she was consumed with doubt and guilt.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she leaned over and set the flagon on the floor under her window. “I can go more than three days, without it. I do no’ need it all of the time,” she said with a good deal of determination. “I will show them, I will show Brogan that he be wrong.”
Mairghread sat alone with her thoughts until the candles went out and the hearth grew cold. Twice she got up to move the flagon farther away, so that she wouldn’t hear it whispering to her, tempting her to take just one wee drink. Just enough to make her hands quit shaking. Just enough to clear her head.
At some point she fell asleep, curled into a ball in the middle of her bed. Her dreams haunted her all the night through. In one, ’twas as if the flagon had its own beating heart. Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump it beat over and over, growing louder and louder. Its voice was deep and soothing. I be yer friend, Mairghread. A drink or two will no’ hurt. Drink me. Ye will feel better. ’Twill ease the ache in yer heart.
Several times throughout the night, she awoke soaked in sweat, fighting for air. By the time morning dawned, she felt worse than the day before.
Her hands still trembled, her stomach began to hurt. And the voice grew louder and louder.
Brogan had left her alone with the hope that she would think about what he had told her. The decision was now hers and hers alone. He had done all he could to help her see what she had done and what she was continuing to do. Not only to the people around her, but to herself.
There was no enjoyment in the evening meal. He barely ate at all and ignored the attempts his men made at small talk. His mind was above stairs, on Mairghread.
Thus far, he had only caught brief glimpses of the woman that Gertie and Tilda swore still existed. Tiny moments when she was almost kind. Almost sweet.
Aye, she might be bonny to look upon, but that was where her beauty ended. On the outside.
Finally, he could take no more of simply sitting and pretending all was right in his world. It felt as though the walls were closing in around him. At times like these, he knew where he must go. Pushing himself away from the table, he left without so much as a backward glance.
The sun was just beginning to set when he stepped out of the keep and into the courtyard. To the east, the sky was still a vivid blue, with just a sprinkling of fluffy white clouds. But to the west, the sun cast everything in vivid shades of orange and red.
He made his way around the keep to the tiny kirk. In his mind, he could hear his father’s words. There be times to act, times to pray, and times ye need to do both. Brogan had done a lot of praying these past few weeks. But always when he was alone in his room. Visiting the kirk was long overdue.
He stepped inside, for the first time since his wedding day. At t
his hour of the day, the space was empty but still lit well enough from the sun that he could make his way to the altar. He found a bit of flint and lit one tiny candle before kneeling to pray.
“How could I have been so wrong, Father?” he asked God as he hung his head and clasped his hands together. “Did I let her outer beauty sway me?” Aye, there was no denying that truth. He’d been so caught up in her auburn hair, her green eyes, and the luscious curves of her body, that he had not taken the time to look deeper.
“I ken ye have sent me here for a purpose, Father. I be doin’ me best to help the people of this clan. I be doin’ me best, as well, to help Mairghread give up the drink. But I fear failin’ at either.”
How long would it take before her people began to look at him as a leader? As someone they could trust? And how long would it take before Mairghread would look at him with anything but hate-filled eyes?
Four days ago, he had arrived here with a light heart filled with hope for his future. Foolishly, he had believed the Mactavish people would welcome him with open arms and accept him almost immediately. The people were beginning to come around. But his wife?
Day by day, his hopes of having that happy hearth and home, of bairns and a loving wife, were diminishing. Mayhap God did not want him to have those things. Mayhap, he was as cursed as he felt.
“If not this, God, then what? What is yer purpose fer me? What is it ye want from me?”
Silence filled the tiny kirk. Oh, what he would not give to speak to his father, John, right now. He would have just the right words to sooth his aching heart.
For a long while, he remained quiet and still, with the fervent hope that God would somehow answer him. The silence yawned and stretched over the kirk.
After some time, he began to think back to the time in his life when he too was so drunk he could not see straight. ’Twas indeed a dark and ugly time. Half of it, he could not remember. The other half he wished he couldn’t.
He could remember with vivid clarity that moment in his life that made him want to put the drink down. Aye, his father had been after him for months to stop drinking. But Brogan had obstinately refused to listen. Leave me the bloody hell alone! He had shouted more times than he could count. But his father, who was even more stubborn and obstinate than Brogan, had refused to leave him the bloody hell alone.
But that had not been his turning point. His father’s determination to pull his son out of the abyss of drunkenness had helped after he had made the decision. But it hadn’t been his deciding factor.
It happened on a bright summer afternoon, when he was supposed to have been watching his seven-year-old nephew. Little Connor had been begging him for weeks to take him fishing. The boy’s father — Brogan’s older brother, Daniel — had been off in Inverness to buy supplies for their keep. After much begging and pleading from Connor, Brogan finally gave in and agreed.
He’d been half drunk when they left the keep to head to the loch. Never did he leave his room without a flagon or two of whisky. That day was no exception.
They sat on the bank of the loch, with little Connor chattering on about nearly every topic under the sun. Brogan did not even pretend to listen or feign interest. Nay, he was too busy drinking.
Hours passed by, with little Connor talking incessantly, and Brogan drinking. When he woke the next morn, on the bank of that loch, he was surrounded by his father, his mother, and a very angry sister-by-law, Connor’s mother, Elsbeth.
His mind was still foggy, the whisky not quite out of his system, he looked up at them through bleary eyes. “What do ye want?” he asked, his tongue feeling thick and dry.
“Yer head on a pike fer a start,” Elsbeth said.
He waved a dismissive hand toward her and rolled over to go back to sleep. He cared not he was sleeping on large pebbles, or that the water was lapping at his feet. “Leave me the bloody hell alone,” he slurred.
A moment later, Elsbeth kicked him in the arse, then the gut. Blind fury welled up as he rolled over, holding his aching stomach with one hand, his other on the hilt of his dirk. “What the bloody hell was that fer?” he yelled as he stared up at the three people.
“Connor, come here please,” John tossed over his shoulder as he continued to stare at Brogan with a murderous glower.
A few moments passed by before Connor came to stand next to his grandfather. He clung to John’s leg for dear life, as he looked at Brogan with fearful eyes. One of which was black and blue and nearly swollen shut. There was also a cut along his bottom lip.
“What happened to him?” Brogan asked, looking his father in the eye for the first time in a very long while.
“Ye is what happened to him,” John ground out through a clenched jaw.
“Me?” Brogan asked, unwilling to believe he had harmed the boy. “Yer daft.”
“Leave us, now,” John said. ’Twas the coldness in his tone that, if Brogan had been standing, would have sent him to his knees.
Elsbeth and Eleanor quickly lead Connor away, whispering words Brogan could not quite make out.
John waited until they were well away before he laid into his son. It had happened so quickly that Brogan, in his current state, had no time to respond or react. John had grabbed him by the front of his tunic, with big, meaty hands, and hauled him to his feet. “Ye can no’ even remember!” he growled at him. “Ye beat that boy until he was black and blue and ye can no’ even remember it!”
“Me?” Brogan tried to argue. “I would never hurt him! He is just a boy!”
Furious did not begin to describe John’s current mood. His blue eyes turned so dark, they were nearly black. “Ye would no’, would ye? Then why did that wee lad come screamin’ into the keep last eve, covered in blood, terrified and cryin’? Why would he say ye — an uncle he loves and admires — beat him near senseless? Have ye another explanation?” He tried shaking the answer out of Brogan.
He tried searching his mind for some memory. Anything that would explain how the boy was injured. His stomach rolled and lurched when he realized Connor would not have lied about such a thing.
“I have begged ye and begged ye to put the drink down, to step away from it. But ye will no’ listen to reason or my good counsel.”
Brogan tried stammering out an apology. “I — I do no’ ken what happened!”
’Twas then, in that moment, that his father could take no more.
’Twas the first beating his father had ever given him, and he was eight and twenty. Afterward — though the beating had very little to do with his actual decision — he vowed never to touch a drop of strong drink.
Although John was sickened by his son’s actions, he did not shun him or turn him away. Instead, he helped. For two weeks, John never left his side, so determined was he to help his son get through what he called the takeaways. “Yer body is upset with ye, fer takin’ away that one thing it believes it needs as much as air,” he explained one afternoon. Brogan was naked, curled into a ball, shaking violently. “Ye have been givin’ yer body excessive amounts of drink for a year now. It got used to it. This is what happens when ye take it away.”
It was weeks before he felt right again. Even longer before he began to feel more like his old self; the man he was before he lost his wife. ‘Twas one of the most difficult things he’d ever gone through. He was not sure yet if his wife could survive something similar. He could only pray that she would soon make the decision to give up the drink. If she didn’t, he doubted she would live another year.
Earlier that morn, Brogan had moved his things — what few there were of them — out of Mairghread’s bedchamber. He took the room connected to hers. ’Twas a nicely appointed space, with a big bed that sat near the fireplace. Placed under the two fur-covered windows was a small table and chair he could use as a workspace.
’Twas long after the midnight hour as he lay in bed, wide-awake, staring up at the ceiling. It had been hours since last he’d seen Mairghread. He strained his ears to listen for any sounds coming
from her room. But other than a few, occasional muffled sounds, she had remained quiet.
As much as he wanted to go to her, to check to see that she was all right, to see that she had eaten the meals sent to her room, he knew he couldn’t. She had to come to him. If there was any hope of her ever giving up the drink, the decision had to be hers and hers alone. No one could make the choice for her.
In addition to his worries for his new bride, he worried over the fortification of the keep. On the morrow, he would rise, dress, and return to the quarry. He would spend the day digging into the earth, looking for stones. Stones that would eventually be used to build a wall. A much-needed wall to keep the inhabitants of the keep as well as the clan safe from invaders.
But he would take no enjoyment or satisfaction in his work. At least, not as he had done when he worked side by side with Ian for more than a year. Back then, he had not possessed a wife to come home to at the end of each day. Still, he had taken great pride in his work, because he was helping his brother.
Now, everything was different. He did have a wife, but not the one he had imagined. Not the kind of wife he would look forward to coming back to at the end of the day. Not a wife who would welcome him home with loving arms. Not a wife like Anna had been.
Anna. Just thinking of her now made his chest feel tight, constricted. Oh, the things they could have done, the life they could have built had she lived. He certainly would not be where he was today, this very moment, had she lived.
She had suffered for weeks with the wasting disease. The healer had warned him that it could take months upon months before she finally succumbed to the dreaded illness. In the end, it hadn’t taken that long. Too long for her suffering, but a life cut too short.
“I promised ye, Anna, that I would marry again,” he whispered into the darkness. “Now look at me. I am certainly no happier for it.” He had married yet another woman who was dying. But her death was coming at her own hands, by her own choices and deeds. ’Twas not like the wasting disease Anna had died from. Nay, this slow, ugly death was being wrought because of drink.
Brogan's Promise: Book Three of The Mackintoshes and McLarens Page 13
