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

by Suzan Tisdale

  He knew he would not do any of those things. ’Twas not just his honor that held him back. He had made a promise to Mairghread and to God, a sennight ago. He could not break the oath he made to either of them. In doing so, he would let his Father down, as well as his blood father. A Mackintosh never went back on his word.

  Not even when he was deceived and lied to.

  “God, what do ye want from me?”

  This time, his question did not go unanswered.

  Mairghread.

  He heard her open the door, felt her presence before he even saw her.

  Rolling over, he sat up on one elbow and waited. She stood in the black doorway, the light of his hearth casting her in dark shades of gold. Still wearing the same dress from three days ago. He was unable to determine if she was drunk yet again. Patiently, he waited for her to say or do something.

  “Brogan,” she whispered his name, her voice trembling with dread and fear. At hearing the faint tremble, his heart begged his legs to get up and go to her, to take her into his arms and sooth away the tears he watched fall down her cheeks. But his mind knew better. She must come to him.

  “Mairghread,” he said, nearly choking on the name.

  He took note that she was clinging to the door with one hand as if she were afraid to take that all-important step forward. The woman was proverbially stuck. But was she here to curse at him again? Or to ask for his help?

  For a long while, she stood there, trembling, shaking, uncertain. Brogan too, remained where he was.

  “Did ye speak the truth?” she asked him, breaking the long length of silence.

  Confused, he asked, “When?”

  She swallowed hard, took in a deep breath and finally let go of the door. He watched as she swayed ever so slightly before she spoke. “When ye said ye wished to be me friend. When ye said ye wanted to help me.”

  “Aye,” he replied softly. “I spoke the truth.”

  She swayed again, for a brief moment before falling to her knees. “Please, then, help me,” she cried.

  He was out of the bed and scooping her into his arms in the span of a few heartbeats. She wept without restraint against his bare chest. “I can no’ do it on me own,” she cried. “I do no’ want to hurt anyone else.”

  “Wheest, now lass,” he whispered soothingly against the top of her head. She reeked of stale wine and vomit, but he could smell no wine or whisky on her breath.

  Gently, he sat her on the edge of his bed, but she clung to his shoulders, unable or unwilling to let go. “I do no’ want to hurt anyone else,” she repeated. “The whisky, the wine, they call to me, beggin’ me to drink them. I swear I hear them, Brogan. Please, make them stop!”

  Crouching before her, he gently pulled her hair away from her face. Her porcelain skin was blotchy from crying. Her eyes were glassy and red, and filled with so much fear it made his chest feel tight. “Wheest, lass, I am here.”

  “I tried, I did, Brogan,” she told him. The words came out in a rush, so fast he could barely make them out. “I can no’ go three days without it. I’ve no’ had a drop since last night, and I swear, I feel as though I want to die.” She fell against him, into his arms, once again. He pulled her down to the floor, where they sat by the fire.

  The more she cried and begged for his help, the more constricted his chest felt. Her pain, the anguish, ’twas all almost more than one man could bear. But bear it he would.

  Gone was the harpy with the sharp tongue. In his arms was a woman in need. A woman who had gone through more in the past few years of her life than many would in an entire lifetime. Her losses were significant and she’d born many of them with aplomb and grace, if what Gertie and Tilda said was true.

  But when she lost her husband and babe? The only way to bear the loss was with the aid of strong drink.

  “Wheest, now, lass,” he whispered against her cheek.

  He kept his arms wrapped around her, smoothing away the ache as best he could, with tender caresses and sweet, whispered words. After a long while, the tears began to wane, and she began to hiccup, much like a babe might.

  “Mairghread, I need to ken that ye truly, with all that ye are, want to give up the drink,” he said. His voice was but a whisper, barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

  She pulled away to look him in the eyes. “Aye, I truly do,” she said as she wiped her wet cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I do no’ wish to hurt anyone ever again.”

  ’Twas a good reason, but it could not be the only one. “And?” he asked, encouraging her to speak freely.

  Mairghread’s brow furrowed. “Is that no’ enough? I have behaved horribly to everyone left who cares about me. I wish no’ to hurt them anymore.”

  “I be glad to hear that,” he told her as he caressed her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “If I am to help ye, I must ken why it is ye drink and why it is ye wish to stop.”

  She swallowed hard, searching his eyes for what he could only assume was any hint of dishonesty on his part.

  “Do ye drink to help ease the pain of losin’ yer husband and son?” he asked.

  Mairghread gave a slow shake of her head. “Nay,” she said. “That was why I started drinkin’, but no’ why I continued.”

  “Do ye drink to ferget?” he asked.

  She took in a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly. “Nay, Brogan. I drink to remember.”

  From Brogan’s furrowed brow and perplexed expression, he did not quite understand what she meant.

  It took several deep breaths before she could explain. “I can no’ remember anything of that night, or even the day. No matter how hard I try, ’tis naught but a piece of blackness in my memory. But sometimes, when I be well into me cups, I think I see blurry images. Little pieces that I can no’ quite make out. ’Tis like bein’ in a foggy dream, where ye see somethin’, somethin’ ye swear ye could touch if ye could just reach a bit further with yer fingers. But no matter how fast ye run to get to it, it keeps movin’ away.”

  Brogan did not need much time to consider what she was saying. “I think, were I in yer shoes, I would have done the same thing. It must be maddenin’, to not be able to remember.” He rubbed a palm against his stubbled jaw and was quiet for a time. “Lass, what will it do to ye if ye can never remember that night?”

  She had lived without any clear or concise memory for such a long while now. But she had never stopped to ask herself that what if question. Tears pooled in her eyes again, but she remained mute, afraid to answer that question either to herself or to him.

  Brogan touched the tip of her chin with his index finger. “Lass, if I am to help ye, ye must always be honest with me. Even if ye think yer answer will distress me.”

  A slight shake of her head expressed her true disbelief in his promise. She was not foolish enough to believe she could speak her mind, freely or openly.

  “Lass, I imagine it be difficult fer ye to believe me, fer we are, in a sense, strangers. I promise that I will always be honest with ye, no matter the time or circumstance. I ken no’ any other way to be.”

  She searched the depths of his bright green eyes for any hint of disingenuousness. Bright green, with little flecks of black stared back at her. They reminded her of a glen after the rain, when the grass was at its brightest, the trees and rocks nearly black. For reasons she could not begin to fathom, she felt at peace. A calmness settled in around her. ’Twas something she had not felt in many a year and it frightened her. How was it possible to find that sense of peace and calm that had eluded her for three years in the eyes of a man she barely knew?

  “If ye will treat me with the same respect, Mairghread, I ken I can help ye.”

  Mayhap she had been so deep in the bottle for such a long time that she was willing to listen to anyone who could help her. Or, mayhap, God had truly put Brogan in her life to help her. Either way, she was willing to listen.

  Swallowing hard again, to fight back tears and keep the threatening bile down, she said, �
��I no longer wish to die.”

  Those were the words he needed to hear. “If ye truly wish to live, then aye, I can help ye. But ye must be willin’ to put up the good fight.”

  Scrunching her brow, she said, “The good fight? I thought I was supposed to give up fightin’ against the world.”

  Brogan chuckled at her sincerity. “Aye, ye can keep fightin’ the world, when ye need to. But now, ye must learn to fight the drink.”

  “I admit I be afraid, Brogan.”

  “I ken, lass. I warn ye, ’twill no’ be an easy road ahead of ye.”

  Too weak, tired and ashamed, she could not lie to his face and tell him she was fully prepared for such a fight. The thought frightened her to her marrow.

  “I will be with ye every step of the way,” he told her. “I will no’ leave ye, lass.”

  Looking into his eyes, she found that sense of peace and comfort once again. And she believed in Brogan’s Promise.

  Brogan left her alone in his bedchamber only long enough to wake Reginald. His room was down the hall from Gertie and Tilda. Brogan decided to allow the auld women to sleep. Chances were good that he would need them more as the days went on.

  Bleary eyed, Reginald opened the door to his chamber. As soon as he saw Brogan standing in the dimly lit corridor, his expression changed immediately to concern. “What be the matter?” he asked.

  “All is well,” Brogan replied. “Mairghread has come to me. She wants to give up the drink.”

  The man’s shoulders sagged with relief as he let out the breath he’d been holding. “What can I do to help?” he asked as he let Brogan into the room.

  Brogan explained what he would need. “A small room. One where the rest of the keep can no’ hear her.”

  Reginald lifted one brow. “Why would ye need to keep her away from others?” he asked dubiously.

  “’Tis fer her own good,” Brogan replied. “The next few days will no’ be easy fer her. I want to keep the waggin’ tongues from causin’ her any undo harm. They will no’ understand what is happenin’, but it will no’ keep them from talkin’ about it.”

  Reginald nodded his approval. “Lord kens there be enough gossips about the place as it is,” he said as he ran a hand through his hair. “I would do nothin’ to bring our lady any distress.”

  “I fear the next several days will be nothin’ but difficult for Mairghread. I need yer help, Reginald.”

  “Anythin’ at all, Brogan, ye ken that,” he said as he pulled a tunic from the end of his bed and began to dress.

  Brogan knew the man meant well. However, he was uncertain he understood the seriousness of what was being asked of him. “Have ye ever helped someone give up the drink before?”

  Reginald paused in pushing his foot through the leg of his trews. “Nay,” he said, sounding offended by the question. “But there is naught I would not do fer our lady.”

  “I do no’ doubt yer sincerity,” Brogan told him. “But these next few days will be difficult enough to test even the strongest man’s mettle.”

  Angrily, Reginald continued to dress. Grim lines formed around his mouth and Brogan knew the man was biting his tongue.

  “Reginald, I can no’ do this alone. I do no’ doubt yer love fer Mairghread. But there will be times over these next days where ye might be tempted to give in to her, only to ease her pain and sufferin’. And believe me, she will be in a good deal of pain.”

  “Good lord!” Reginald exclaimed. “What do ye plan on doin’ to her? I’ll no’ allow ye to hurt her.”

  Brogan held up his palms and shook his head. “I will no’ be doin’ anything but takin’ the drink from her, Reginald. When a body has drunk as often and as long as Mairghread, the takeaways can be horrific.”

  “The takeaways?” he asked perplexedly.

  “Aye,” Brogan said. “’Tis a phrase me father coined, to describe what happens to a person when ye take the drink away. They will cry, shake, lash out, and cry again. The tremors are enough to bring down a stone wall. She might vomit, more than once. She will become a person ye do no’ recognize. But I swear to ye, those takeaways will no’ last. ’Tis just her body demanding to have what it wants. And what it wants is the strong drink.”

  “But that be what is killin’ her slowly,” Reginald replied.

  “Aye. But there will be a time or two where she will swear she be dyin’. But I can assure ye, she is no’.”

  Reginald thought on it for some time. “I will do what I must, in order to help her.”

  Brogan could only pray the man would be able to hold fast and keep his word.

  Chapter Eleven

  On the northeastern side of the keep, a room was prepared for Mairghread. ’Twas a small space carved out of the attics on the fourth floor, with low ceilings, arrow slits, and only one small window that faced the ocean.

  Reginald procured a small bed and set it up on the wall nearest the door. A brazier was brought in and placed in the center of the room. A few other essentials, such as a chamber pot, a short stool, as well as linens, and the space was complete. Before the rest of the keep had begun to stir to start their day, Brogan took Mairghread to her new, but temporary chamber.

  With her hand in his, he led her into the room. Confusion and trepidation flashed behind her eyes.

  “Do no’ fash yerself,” Brogan said with an encouraging smile. “’Tis only temporary.”

  She ran a hand across the edge of the bed. “What happens here?” she asked with a slight tremor in her voice. “Why are ye lockin’ me away?”

  Brogan placed gentle hands on her shoulders. “We have ye here fer yer safety. These next few days will be tryin’ times, Mairghread. The takeaways will be difficult. Yer body must get used to no’ having whisky or other strong drink.”

  Although he was using his most sincere smile and warmest voice, it did not have the affect he desired. Her fear was as palpable as the rain falling against the keep.

  “I shall remain by yer side through it all, lass. I will no’ leave ye.”

  At the moment she didn’t know which frightened her more; him never leaving or being completely alone.

  “I shall be with ye as well, m’lady,” Reginald promised her. “As will Gertie and Tilda. Remember, always, that we are here because of our fondness fer ye. We want only fer ye to get better.”

  Mairghread smiled amiably as she took his hands in hers. “I thank ye, Reginald.”

  His eyes began to grow misty. He made an excuse about needing to tend to something below stairs. “But I shall return to ye soon, I promise.” Moments later, he quit the room, leaving Mairghread alone with Brogan.

  “I fear I do no’ ken what to do now,” she laughed nervously.

  “’Tis naught but a game of patience, now,” Brogan replied.

  Mairghread began to wander about the room, though in truth, there was nothing much to see. Brogan lit a fire in the brazier then pulled up the stool to sit near it. He remained quiet, she supposed, for her benefit and peace of mind.

  She had not taken so much as a small sip of wine for two days. Her hands trembled and her stomach began to roil. Unfastening the bits of leather that kept the fur in place over the window, she tossed it aside to let in much needed fresh air.

  From the high vantage point, she could see the ocean waves rolling in, spraying salty sea air as they crashed against the craggy cliffs. The rain had ceased, but the sky was still a dull, ugly gray. A few white seagulls flew overhead. Mairghread watched as they dove into the water to catch a meal.

  “When I was a little girl,” she began in a soft voice, “we used to fish on the little beach down below.” Oh, how her life had changed over the years. She had been a carefree child once. Always ready for an adventure, afraid of nothing, willing to try anything at least once. Much to her mother’s dismay, her three older brothers had always encouraged her search for excitement.

  “My brother, Walter, drowned in that ocean.” Wistful and sorrowful, she stared at the ocean for the longest
while. “We never found his body. He was only eight years old when we lost him.”

  Brogan had been listening intently from his spot by the brazier. He too, had lost a brother at a young age. He had been nine years old when they lost Harry — all of seven — to the ague. The loss had been nearly unbearable for their father, for he’d already lost their mother.

  “We lost our brother, Harry, to the ague,” he told her. “There be no’ a day that goes by when I do no’ think of him. And that was more than twenty years ago.” Standing to his full height, he tried to catch a glimpse of the ocean beyond where she stood. “I can no’ imagine the pain ye must have suffered at losin’ him as ye did.”

  “I think his death put me mum in her grave, fer she died less than a year later,” she told him, never once taking her eyes off the ocean. A deep sense of melancholy fell over her, weighing down her shoulders.

  “I lost me mum when I was five,” he told her. “I do no’ remember much of her. Me da always told me she was a good woman. Quiet,” he said with a chuckle. “Which is the exact opposite of his current wife, Elsbeth(?)”

  Finally, she tore her eyes away from the window and began to wander around the room again. With her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach, she asked, “How many times has yer da been married?”

  “Four,” Brogan replied. “Betwixt all of them, he had eleven children. Eight still live.”

  With her index finger, Mairghread began to trace the outline of the stones in the wall. “And grandchildren?”

  Brogan chuckled. “Too many to count,” he replied. “But last I heard, there were seventeen.”

  She turned to face him. “And ye? Do ye have children?”

  Why her question pulled at his heart the way it did, he was not entirely certain. “Me wife, Anna, died before she got with child.”

  “I be terribly sorry, Brogan,” she replied with a deep frown.

  They were silent for a long while. Mairghread was the first to look away. “Do ye want more children?” she asked, feigning disinterest in his answer.