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

by Suzan Tisdale

  “Aye, I do,” he said.

  “And if I am unable to give ye any?”

  He answered as honestly as he could. “I want children. Preferably with ye, Mairghread. But if we can no’ conceive them together, I am no’ against adopting.”

  She spun around to face him, her face contorted, twisted in confusion. “Ye would do that?”

  “Aye,” he said. “I would. There be many poor children in this world in need of a good home.”

  “But they would no’ be yers by blood,” she pointed out the obvious.

  Brogan smiled warmly. “Does blood matter when a child is in need? I would love them just the same.”

  She twisted her lip for a moment, pondering his answer. “Ye are an odd man, Brogan Mackintosh.”

  Chuckling, he said, “Aye, so I have been told.”

  For the next hour or so, they spoke of many things. None of them of any importance. Brogan found that when she was talking, she was not thinking about the tremor in her hands or the stomach he knew must be twisting in knots.

  “How do ye ken so much about these takeaways ye mentioned?” she asked as she plopped down on the edge of the bed.

  “Because I have suffered through them.”

  As her eyes flew open, she exclaimed, “Ye jest!”

  His lips curved into a warm smile. “Nay, lass, I do no’ jest.”

  She gave her head a good shake in disbelief. “Ye? The honorable and pious Brogan Mackintosh?”

  He doubted she meant it as an insult. “Aye, me. The honorable and pious Brogan Mackintosh,” he replied with a wide wave of his hands and a bow.

  “Do tell,” she challenged as she rested an elbow on her knee, her chin planted against her fisted hand. Settling in as if she were awaiting a bard’s tale, she eagerly awaited for more.

  “’Tis a simple tale, truly,” he began as he retook his seat. “Within an hour of losing me Anna, I picked up the nearest bottle of wine. When that was done and did not give me the calm I desired, I picked up a bottle of whisky. I did no’ stop drinking for a year after.”

  Puzzled, she said, “Ye truly do no’ jest.”

  He gave her a shrug of his shoulders, as if to say she could believe him or not, it didn’t matter.

  “That is why ye drink the bairn cider,” she said as clarity began to dawn.

  “Aye, lass, that be why.”

  Suddenly, she became aware of the totality of her current situation. “Will I never be able to have a glass of wine again?” she asked, appalled at the notion.

  “Nay, lass, ye will no’.”

  His matter-of-fact attitude brought her to her feet. “But I do no’ like cider!” she exclaimed.

  He bit his cheek to keep from laughing aloud. “Then drink milk,” he told her. “Or a tisane.”

  Mairghread began to pace about the room. “I like milk as much as I like cider,” she declared.

  Brogan could see she was beginning to fade rapidly into the first stages of the takeaways. Unwilling to distress her further, he stayed rooted on the stool and watched.

  “Cider! Milk!” she scoffed. As she paced about the room, she twisted the hem of one sleeve betwixt her fingers. “I am no’ a bairn,” she told him. “I do no’ see why I can no’ have at least one glass of wine with me meals.”

  “Because one will always lead to two. Which in turn will lead to another and another, until ye are once again quite drunk. It defeats the purpose of what we be doin’ here.”

  A low growl built deep in her belly. “Why does me skin itch?” she demanded, but did not wait for his answer. “It feels like I have been rollin’ around in itch weed.”

  “I do no’ ken why,” he told her. “All I ken is that when ye take the drink away, it does odd things to yer body as well as yer mind. ’Tis as if the drink be fightin’ ye from within, tellin’ yer body ye need it to live.”

  “How long do these takeaways last?” she asked, growing more exasperated with each passing moment.

  Brogan stood up and began to brace himself for the tirade he was certain was building up within her. “Lass, do ye remember that I told ye I would always be honest with ye?”

  “Yes!” she exclaimed. Pacing frenetically around the room, she did not stop to answer.

  “The takeaways can last as much as a fortnight.”

  She waved a dismissive hand and continued her tour around the room. “A fortnight?” she said disdainfully. “Bah! I swear ye only tell me things to see my distress!”

  He knew there would be many moments like this, where she would be calm one moment, only to scream and rail the next. He chose his words very carefully. “Remember why we be here, Mairghread.”

  She came to an abrupt halt and glowered at him. Though she remained quiet, he was almost certain she was wishing for his immediate and painful death.

  “Do ye think ye could stand to eat a bit?” he asked with a measured tone.

  “Nay,” she told him. “But I would certainly love a sip of wine right now.”

  He knew she was both serious and jesting at once, for he caught a glimmer of something playful in her green eyes. “Would ye settle for a bit of broth and bread?”

  “Be I a prisoner now, only to be served meals fit for criminals?” she asked.

  He let loose the chuckle he had been holding back. “Fer the time bein’. But I have it in good with the gaoler. There be a chance yer sentence can be reduced fer good behavior.”

  Another roll of her eyes, and she turned away from him. “Ye be a daft man, Brogan Mackintosh.”

  “So I have been told.”

  Gertie and Tilda came to see her as soon as Reginald told them what had happened. They came rushing into the room, all a twitter, and worried sick over their lady. “Why did ye no’ come to get us?” Gertie demanded of Brogan. She did not wait for his reply. Instead, she went immediately to Mairghread, who was once again at the window. Wrapping her auld arms around the young woman, she said, “Och, lass! How do ye fare? What do ye need?”

  Mairghread smiled and shook her head. “I am well,” she said. “As fer no’ coming to fetch ye, I told Brogan to allow ye both to rest.”

  “Rest?” Gertie scoffed at the notion. “I be no’ some decrepit auld woman. I work as hard as any of the young ones ye have workin’ in this keep!”

  Mairghread calmed her by giving her a warm embrace. “Wheest, now, Gertie! Ye’ll work yerself into an apoplexy.”

  Gertie pushed away, appalled with her lady. “Ye be no’ too old fer me to pull yer ears, lassie!”

  A delightful laugh filled the room. The sound of it warmed Brogan’s heart.

  “Tilda would no’ allow ye to do that,” Mairghread replied mischievously. “She has always loved me more than ye did.”

  Tears pooled in Gertie’s blue eyes. They were not tears of sorrow nor insult, but of sheer, unadulterated joy. “Lord, it be good to hear ye jest like this,” she said.

  Mairghread quirked a brow playfully. “Who says I be jestin’? ’Tis only the truth I speak. Not once in all her years did Tilda ever pull me ears, or paddle me bottom. I say ’tis because she loves me more.”

  She went to Tilda then, and pulled her into a warm hug. “’Tis true, is it no’?” she whispered.

  When Tilda closed her eyes, an errant tear made its way down her cheek. “Aye, lass, it be true. No matter what Gertie says.”

  Brogan was enjoying this tender moment between the women. His curiosity, however, was piqued. “What, pray tell, could this lovely lass have done to earn a pulled ear or a paddled bottom?”

  “Och!” Gertie exclaimed. She clucked her tongue and shook her head in dismay. “She was forever disobedient! Always sneakin’ off with her brothers when she was supposed to be learnin’ how to be a lady.”

  “Because me brothers enticed me,” Mairghread said. “Catching toads, battling pretend enemies or trying to catch fairies was far more fun than learning to sew or how to sit with me back ramrod straight. Who could blame me?”

  While Gertie
and Tilda stayed with Mairghread, Brogan left long enough to acquire broth and bread. Thankfully, the kitchen staff did not make any inquiries as to why he wanted such a simple meal.

  When he returned, the women were sitting on the bed, with Mairghread in the middle. She was crying and Gertie and Tilda were doing their best to console her.

  “What happened?” he asked, setting the tray on the floor.

  Tilda wiped away a tear. “She be missin’ her mum, m’laird.”

  He remained quiet, allowing the women to tend to her. Once her tears settled, he offered up the meager meal. “Ye will need to keep up yer strength.”

  Without argument, she sat back in the bed and tried to eat. After managing a few bites of bread and broth, she declared she could eat no more.

  “I think I would like to rest now,” she told them.

  Gertie and Tilda fussed over her, tucking her into the bed as they had done when she was younger. She was far too tired to argue and was asleep before they bid Brogan goodbye.

  Mairghread’s moods began to ebb and flow rapidly as the morning wore on. One minute she was as calm as could be, the next, she would begin the frantic pacing.

  “I swear me skin be on fire!” She cursed aloud and loosened the ties on her gown. “Lord, do ye have to keep it so hot in here?” Standing at the window, she fanned her face with her fingers.

  “Mayhap, when ye’re better, ye could show me where ye used to fish,” Brogan suggested.

  She let loose a long, heavy breath. “I wish I could jump in the ocean right now,” she said.

  “I imagine it would be right warm this time of year,” Brogan jested.

  Mairghread chose to ignore him. “I do no’ feel well,” she finally admitted. “I feel like I swallowed a bucket of eels.”

  The image made his own stomach churn. “I could ask the healer for something to help settle it,” he offered.

  “Bah!” she scoffed. “I will have to assume by your statement that ye have no’ yet met our fine healer.” Wrapping her arms around her waist, she shivered. “She believes sufferin’ is God’s punishment for misdeeds and sins.”

  He thought that a rather odd way of thinking for a healer and told her so.

  “She is an auld biddy. Prone to gossip and rumors. I’d rather no’ ask her fer anythin’.”

  Uncertain if she was serious or exaggerating due to her current state of ill health, he remained silent. To keep busy, he put the tray in the hallway. His men would be taking shifts in guarding the door, per the request he made earlier.

  “Besides, we would have to walk a mile or so before we could get to a place safe enough to climb down, the walk back again, over rough terrain, just to get to the beach.”

  “Is that how ye did it as a child?” he asked.

  With a shake of her head, she said, “Nay. There be steps, right over there,” she said as she pointed out the window. “No’ far from here. But when Uncle ordered the removal of the wall, he had the men throw the stones over that ledge. They now block the stairs my great-great-great grandfather had carved into the side of the cliff.”

  Brogan took note of the sorrow in her tone. So she was aware of the destruction of the wall. Mayhap she did not love her uncle as much as she wanted everyone to believe. Mayhap, she only loved him because he was all the family she had left in the world.

  “Lord! James was so angry when he found out!” That memory made her shiver. “We had gone to Edinburgh fer a honeymoon of sorts. When we returned three months later, the wall had been torn down. Och! James was fit to be tied.”

  “I take it James did no’ agree with yer uncle on this?” Brogan asked for clarification sake.

  “Of course not!” she decried. “James was livid. He and uncle fought for weeks over it. James ordered the wall rebuilt. He had the men rig up a system so they could bring those ancient stones back up.”

  Brogan knew next to nothing about her first husband. But he was beginning to sound like an intelligent man.

  “The process was taking forever,” Mairghread said. “James was no’ happy. But it made sense to retrieve as many of the stones as they could, instead of quarrying for new.”

  Brogan humphed and nodded his agreement. I wish I had been so lucky. “Has anyone told ye that I have ordered the wall rebuilt?”

  She turned to face him, with a most quizzical expression. “Ye have?”

  “Aye,” he told her. “We began to quarry a few days ago. Reginald helped me locate a spot about a mile from here.”

  “I have been wantin’ to do that for more than three years,” she told him with a relieved smile. “I thank ye.”

  He supposed her gratitude should not mean as much to him as it did, but he found he was grateful for it. “’Twas the right thing to do.”

  “Still, I am thankful to ye,” she replied, her smile fading as was the color of her skin. “Brogan, I do no’ feel well,” she said as she reached out to keep from keeling over.

  In two quick strides, he was there, catching her before she fell. With gentle care, he helped her to the bed. “Take in deep breaths,” he encouraged her. “’Twill pass soon.”

  “I feel awfully cold now,” she told him as she began to shake. “Please, pull the fur.”

  He did as she asked, before pulling a blanket around her shoulders. The shaking continued to get worse and soon, her teeth were chattering.

  “I really do no’ feel well,” she told him again.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. Soon, she was shaking violently, her teeth chattering, and her skin growing paler. “Wheest, now, lass,” he whispered. “Try to take in slow breaths.”

  He was simply doing what his father had done for him. Offering words of encouragement and whatever comfort he could. But seeing her in such distress made his stomach seize.

  When she continued to get worse, he began to worry. For the life of him, he could not remember how long he himself had gone through this particular stage of takeaways.

  Not wishing to leave her alone to gather more blankets, he continued to hold her as closely as he could. Rubbing her arms and back through the blanket, he hoped it would help warm her and soothe her at the same time.

  “I am goin’ to be ill,” she said through chattering teeth.

  Quickly, he grabbed the chamber pot and held it while she threw up the bread and broth from earlier. When he realized he had not thought to get a pitcher of water and washing cloths, he could have kicked himself.

  Once she finished, he removed his tunic and gave it to her. Sweat covered her face and neck. The tremors began to subside, but not enough.

  “I hate throwin’ up,” she told him as she wiped her face on his tunic. “I would rather ye stripped me naked, took me to the courtyard and beat the bloody hell out of me.”

  He was growing to like her sense of humor and could not hold back his laughter. “I feel much the same way,” he said.

  Before nightfall, she had thrown up three more times, and was now suffering with dry heaves. One minute she was hot, the next, shivering violently.

  Gertie and Tilda had come to see her again after the noonin’ and evenin’ meals. Brogan watched as their hearts broke before his eyes. They felt helpless and were beginning to wane in their trust of him.

  Gertie pulled him aside for a moment, and with much seriousness, asked, “Are ye sure ye can no’ give her just a wee sip? To help her no’ shake so?”

  He knew she meant well, that her question came from her heart. “Gertie, I ken ye have never watched someone go through such a thing. I wish I could take all her sufferin’ away. But if we give her so much as a drop of wine, we will have to start all over again.”

  Gertie glanced at the object of her distress. She was lying with her head in Tilda’s lap. “I hate to see her suffer so.”

  “I ken ye love her. No one will ever be able to say otherwise. I ken I be a stranger to all of ye. I be askin’ much of ye to put yer faith in me.”

  She scrutinized him for a long moment. �
��I do no’ ken why, m’laird, but aye, I do have faith in ye.”

  “Ye must also have faith in Mairghread,” he told her.

  Gertie drew in her bottom lip and turned her attention back to Mairghread. “She tried, twice before, to give it up. But she simply could no’ do it. But I do no’ remember her bein’ this ill then.”

  “Be it possible she did no’ give it up entirely?” he asked.

  “Aye, that be possible,” Gertie admitted honestly. “All I ken was she was no’ fallin’ down drunk back then.”

  They both looked at Mairghread. For now, she was resting peacefully, but Brogan knew ‘twould be short-lived. If his own experience was anything to measure by, the worst was yet to come.

  And the worst did come.

  ’Twas long after the midnight hour. Henry had come to the door with a tray of warm broth and bread. Although Brogan was quite certain she would not be able to keep it down, she did need to try at least to keep up her strength. “How fares she?” he whispered from the dark corridor.

  “Resting,” Brogan answered. “But fitfully.” He took the tray and thanked him. “How did it go in the quarry this day?”

  Henry scratched the back of his head and yawned. “One of the Mactavish men broke three fingers. He had been chipping away at a stubborn piece of rock when it finally gave way. Smashed his fingers. The healer be wantin’ to cut them off, but his wife refused. So we have to wait and see.”

  “Good, God! How bad did he smash them?”

  “Near as I can tell, ’tweren’t too bad. But that healer, she says they must be cut off before gangrene sets in. I never kent a man to get gangrene from a broken finger.”

  “Neither have I,” Brogan replied. “I’ve seen many a broken finger in me time and never has a healer suggested amputation.” To his way of thinking ‘twasn’t treatment she was suggested, but mutilation.

  “Me and Charles will be standin’ guard here in the hallway. Just give a shout if ye need anythin’.”

  He thanked him once again and quietly closed the door.