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

by Suzan Tisdale

  Mairghread stirred and opened her eyes. “Who be here?” she asked groggily.

  “Just Henry. He brought ye more warm broth and bread.”

  The thought of eating was displeasing to her. She scrunched her face and waved the tray away. “Nay, please. I do no’ wish to think of food.”

  Once again, she was breaking into another sweat. Tossing the covers aside, she asked him to please remove the fur to let in fresh air.

  He imagined this cycle of hot and cold would run its course in a few days. Dutifully, he set the tray on the edge of the bed and went to the window. “’Tis a chilly night,” he remarked over his shoulder as he drew the fur away. “But at least the rain has stopped. Ye can see the moon this night.”

  From behind him, he heard the crash of the tray. He spun around to see Mairghread scurrying up the bed, pressing herself against the wall as if she were going to climb up it. “Get them away!” she screamed. “Get them away!”

  “Mairghread!” he called out her name as he tried to pull her down from the wall. “Mairghread, what be the matter?”

  “Can ye no see them? My God! There be worms in the soup!”

  He followed her line of vision, but saw no worms. “I see nothin’, lass,” he told her. “Come down now, let me help ye.”

  She shook her head violently as she stared at the foot of the bed. Sheer horror was painted on her face and he saw it, deep in her eyes. “Nay! Get them out! Please!”

  “But Mairghread, there be nothin’ there, lass,” he tried pleading with her, but to no avail.

  Screaming with such terror that it made his heart pound in his chest. Believing worms were now climbing up her dress, she started to frantically wipe them away. “Nay! Nay! Nay!” she shouted over and over again. Begging and pleading with him to remove the worms that only she could see. “They be on me! Get them off me!”

  Henry and Charles came rushing into the room, wide-eyed and uncertain. Brogan explained what was happening as best and as quickly as he could. Then he did the only thing he could think of. “It be all right, lass,” he told her as he began to scoop away the imaginary worms. “See? Henry and I be gettin’ rid of them. Ye see, lass?”

  Immediately, Henry picked up on what Brogan was trying to do. “Aye, m’lady,” he said as he too pretended to scoop up the worms. He offered her his most sincere smile, though he wasn’t even certain she saw him. “We will get them all out fer ye in no time.”

  “Grab a bucket,” Brogan told Charles who had been standing by the door, looking lost and perplexed. He actually looked about the room for the bucket. Smacking his hand to his forehead, he rolled his eyes at his own ignorance. “I have the bucket,” he told Brogan as he handed him the invisible, nonexistent bucket.

  It took them nearly a quarter of an hour to convince her they had in fact gotten every last worm. Charles even went so far as to dump the bucket out the window on three separate occasions. All the while, Mairghread cried and pleaded and pointed out the worms they had missed.

  Once she was finally convinced all of the worms had been removed, she slid down the wall into a heap of tears and sobs. Brogan knelt on the bed beside her, holding her close to his chest while she wept. He whispered soothing words against her hair and caressed her back.

  “Please, Charles, fetch me warm water and more washing cloths,” Brogan directed in low, hushed tones.

  The young man looked positively relieved for the chance to leave the room.

  Henry remained behind, looking harried and confused. Looking at Brogan, he raised a brow as if to ask what just happened. Brogan had no answer.

  Try as he might, he could not remember suffering with hallucinations during his bouts of the takeaways. Never in his life did he miss his father as much as he did right now.

  With little else to do, Henry began to clean up the tray that had crashed to the floor earlier. All the while, he shook his head, unable to put into words what he was thinking. He set the tray in the hallway and returned to offer Brogan moral support, for there was naught else he could do.

  Charles soon returned with water and fresh linens. Henry grabbed the little stool and placed it next to Brogan. Charles set the basin on the stool, dipped a cloth in, and rung it out before handing it off to Brogan.

  As carefully as a mum tending a child, Brogan wiped away Mairghread’s tears. “Wheest, now, lass,” he consoled. “All be well now, aye?”

  She sniffed and gave a slight nod, but otherwise remained silent. Trembling in his arms, she clung to him.

  “I think it be safe fer ye to leave us now,” Brogan told his men.

  Neither of them dawdled a moment longer than necessary. Once the door closed behind them, Brogan returned to his ministrations. Rubbing his hands against her back, her arms, he whispered repeatedly that all was well.

  Mairghread hiccuped once, then again. “There were no worms, were there?” she asked him, sounding ashamed and humiliated.

  “Nay, lass, there were no worms.”

  The remainder of the night was no better. Between bouts of shivering cold and sweating profusely, she suffered with dry heaves. Often confused, there were several times she forgot where she was and worse yet, who Brogan was.

  By dawn, she could stand no more and Brogan was exhausted. But he continued to fight for her.

  “Please, I beg ye, just give me one drink,” she pleaded as she clung to Brogan’s tunic with white-knuckles. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, and now her skin held a gray, deathly pallor. She was beginning to remind him of his Anna, in the days before the wasting disease had taken her. Gaunt, pale, gray, with dull, near lifeless eyes.

  But there had been no hope for Anna. There was naught to be done by the time the healer made her diagnosis. But Mairghread? There was hope there, no matter if she could not see it at the moment.

  Brogan remained firm in his resolve not to allow her to fall back into the abyss of drunkenness again. “Nay lass,” he whispered. “Ye ken ye can no’ do that.”

  “Just one,” she continued to plead. “Just one tiny little drink. I need it Brogan, as much as I need air!”

  Prying her hands from his tunic, he held them tightly betwixt his own. “Ye need to live more than ye need to drink,” he told her. “Remember that, Mairghread. This will all be over soon, I promise ye.”

  “Nay,” she argued, choking back tears. “I will die, Brogan, I can feel it!”

  “’Tis the alcohol talkin’, Mairghread. Ye will no’ die,” he said with a firm, yet kind voice.

  With much force, she pushed away from him and began to pace about the room. “I can no’ stand this!” she said as she pulled at her own hair. “I be goin’ mad, I tell ye!”

  He went to her immediately, and pulled her in closely. She fought against him, pounding her fists against his chest, cursing him to the devil. “I hate ye, Brogan Mackintosh! I hate ye with all that I am.”

  After a long while, she quit struggling and all but collapsed in his arms. “Do no’ let me die, Brogan, please,” she said as she wept into his tunic.

  “Wheest, now,” he replied softly. “I will no’ let ye die, I swear it.”

  “Ye swear it?”

  He placed a tender kiss on the top of her head. “Aye, lass, I promise.”

  When she was finally calm enough to let go of, Brogan tucked her into the bed. Drawing the blankets up around her chin, he stepped away, to the window. Looking out at the ocean, he began to pray.

  Lord, I know no’ what else to do. I have no trainin’ in these matters, only my own personal experience. She seems to be sufferin’ far worse than I did when I went off the drink. I can no’ remember sufferin’ through hallucinations as she has. Please, guide me, help me to do what is right for this woman.

  As the hours wore on, he became more and more concerned for her wellbeing. He was also beginning to wish he had taken her from this keep, back to his father’s home, where John could have helped him through all this. He could have helped Mairghread.

  ’Tis al
ways easier to look back at a time than it is to live through it, he mused as he turned to look at his wife. Although the bed was small, it looked to be swallowing her whole at the moment. On her back, with her eyes closed, her breathing was ragged and fast. Once again, she was soaked with sweat, and mumbling incoherently.

  Plagued with self-doubt now, he began to pace about the room himself. Be I doin’ this the right way? He asked himself. Mayhap we should have weaned her off the drink, slowly, over a few weeks, instead of takin’ it all away at once. He stopped and leaned his back against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes.

  Thinking back to his own experience with coming off the drink, he could almost hear his father’s voice. “We can do this one of two ways, lad. We can take ye off the drink now, or we can take ye off the drink now.” The halfhearted jest was filled with truth. “There be only way way to do this,” John had said. “And the best way is the fastest way to get yer life back.”

  Brogan had suffered with unsteady hands for more than a week. And aye, he had also thrown up more times than he could count. There were also times when he swore his stomach was trying to climb its way out of his body, through his bowels.

  There were even a few moments where he had forgotten what day of the week it was. But not once had he hallucinated nor had he forgotten who his father was.

  Mayhap the forgetfulness was born out of the fact that he and Mairghread truly did not know one another well at all. It was also possible that her addiction was worse than his had ever thought to be.

  His quiet reverie was broken by a soft rap at the door. Crossing the room quickly and quietly, he opened the door a crack to find Reginald. Casting a quick glance to Mairghread, he saw she was sleeping, albeit fitfully. Not wishing to wake her, he stepped into the hallway.

  “How does she fare this day?” Reginald asked, concern etched in the hard lines of his face.

  “’Twas a rough night,” Brogan said. He debated on how much he should tell him. Not because he did not trust him. Nay, he simply did not want to bring any undue stress to him. “She be restin’ now,” he told him. “Hot one minute, cold the next. I be certain she will be well in just a few more days.”

  His relief was palpable. “We are all verra worried about her,” Reginald said as he rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “Rumors are already beginnin’ to get around, that she is no’ well. Some say she has finally lost her mind, while others say ye are holdin’ her prisoner her.”

  “And what have ye said?”

  “I told them the next person I found spreadin’ rumors about our lady would be drawn and quartered then tossed into the sea.”

  Brogan could not resist smiling. “I be certain yer lady appreciates your dedication and loyalty. Rumors will run amok until they see her with their own eyes.”

  Reginald raised one bushy brow. “I will be honest with ye, Brogan. I do no’ like this, no’ at all.”

  “Ye can no’ stop people from gossipin’,” Brogan told him. “They will believe what they wish until proven wrong.”

  He let out a deep breath. Changing the subject, he said, “We be makin’ good progress in the quarry. Mayhap by the end of the day we can start bringin’ the new stones in by wagon.”

  That was in fact good news. With Reginald and Henry leading the charge on the wall, Brogan could take care of his wife without worrying over other matters.

  Chapter Twelve

  The day ended almost as it had begun, with Mairghread begging and pleading with him to allow her just one drink. As he had done every other time she had asked, he calmly and firmly refused.

  He did his best to keep her mind off the drink, but at this stage, ’twas impossible. “Tell me about yer brothers,” he suggested on more than one occasion.

  “Bah!” she cried, as she paced frantically about the small room. “They all be dead! What more do ye need to ken?” Angry and frustrated, she cursed him to the devil and refused to talk about them.

  Twilight was just settling in around them, when her frantic pacing and pleas grew worse. Her anger turned to desperation. In a rush, she came to him and fell on her knees. Grabbing his legs, with tears filling her eyes, she pleaded with him. “Just one, Brogan! Just one drink and I swear I’ll no’ ask ye fer another ever again!”

  “Up with ye now, lass,” he said as he tried to pull her to her feet.

  She refused, still clinging to his legs, choking on tears, her pride was now gone. “I will do anythin’ ye ask. Anythin’ at all. Just give me one drink!”

  “Mairghread, please, stop this,” he told her, his own frustration building. If she could see herself in this moment, he knew her shame would be unbearable.

  “Is it me ye want?” she asked, her desperation building. “Ye can have me, Brogan. Right now.” Crawling to the bed, she climbed on it, and lay on her back. “See? Ye can have me now. I’ll no’ gainsay ye, I’ll no’ complain,” she told him, her voice shaking, pleading. She was pulling up her skirts with shaking fingers when he stopped her.

  Holding her hands in his, he pulled her up to sit. “Mairghread, please, listen to me.” He had to raise his voice in order to get through to her clouded mind. “Ye need to live, remember?”

  “Nay, I need the drink! Please, I beg of ye, do no’ make me suffer like this!” The tears were falling again, coming in great waves, racking her shoulders.

  My God, he thought to himself. Did me father go through this with me?

  Firming up his resolve, he took her face in his hands and forced her to look into his eyes. “Mairghread, ye are better than this, better than the drink. Remember, ye need to live more than ye need to drink.”

  “Nay!” she argued, her voice growing hoarse.

  “Aye, ye do. Say it with me lass, say it a thousand times until ye believe it. I need to live more than I need to drink.”

  She swallowed hard and shook her head. “Nay, I can no’ do it.”

  “Yes. Ye. Can.” He was not going to give up, not on her, not on her recovery. “Say it. I need to live more than I need to drink.”

  She tried, she truly did, but she stammered numerous times. Brogan, however, refused to give up.

  Just as she was finding the strength to say it, a loud knock came at the door. Mairghread went limp in his arms.

  “Send them away,” Mairghread told him. “I do no’ wish anyone to see me like this. Please,” she wiped her tears on the sleeve of her dress.

  “Verra well, lass,” he said as the knocking continued.

  His stomach tightened with dread, for he had given orders not to be disturbed unless there was an emergency.

  Mairghread climbed to the head of the bed and took in deep breaths. Terror and shame shone in her eyes. Lord above, it was killing him to see her like this. So afraid and ashamed, it nearly made his heart stop beating.

  Before he could get to the door, it opened. In walked an auld, squat woman, with white hair and eyes so dark they looked nearly as black as her dress. Wrinkles lined her face, drooping around her eyes and mouth.

  Mairghread could not see who it was, for the door blocked her vision. Brogan stepped forward so that the woman could not process further into the room.

  “Who are ye?” Brogan asked.

  “Hargatha,” the woman replied. “I be the healer of this clan.” Haughty and arrogant, she said it as though her place as healer equaled that of the king.

  Brogan heard Mairghread gulp first, then saw her scurry from her bed to hide in the corner.

  “Hargatha,” he said with a curt nod. “I be Brogan Mackintosh—”

  The auld woman cut off his introduction with a humph. “I ken who ye be. And ye are no’ who I came to see. Where be Mairghread?”

  “Mairghread is restin’,” he told her. Never one to lie, he made an exception to this rule out of respect for his wife. That, and the fact that his gut was tightening with warning.

  “Bah!” she humphed indignantly. “Let me pass.”

  He refused to budge. “Nay, we have everythin�
� under control, Hargatha. We will call ye should we need ye.”

  Mairghread’s whimpers grew louder. A quick glance told him much. She was terrified, pressed into the corner, eyes wide as she shook her head, silently pleading with him. He cared not if her reaction to the woman was justified or not. His primary duty as her husband was to protect her. Even from hard, cold women like Hargatha.

  Apparently, she was unaccustomed to not getting her way. “I be the healer here. I have heard she is near death. Why is it ye block me way? What are ye tryin’ to hide?”

  “Hargatha, I will remind ye that I be Mairghread’s husband. I shall decide what is best fer her. And if ye dare insult me again, I shall have ye banned from the keep. Do ye understand?”

  She did not so much as flinch at his threat. “The rumors be true then, aye?” she asked with slitted, spiteful eyes.

  Mairghread could take no more. “Get out ye auld biddy!” she screamed from the dark corner. “I do no’ want ye here!”

  Hargatha tried to get past Brogan. Stepping left, then right, he blocked her each time.

  “I said get out!” Mairghread screamed again. Leaving the corner, she came to stand behind Brogan. “Ye are a mean, hateful woman! Ye be no’ here to help. Ye only want to say ye saw me with yer own eyes so that ye can continue to spread yer vicious rumors!”

  Hargatha peered around Brogan. “Just as I thought!” she said. “Ye do no’ need a healer, ye need a priest, for ’tis certain ye be possessed with demons!”

  All of his patience evaporated in the blink of an eye. “Stop!” he shouted at Hargatha. “Henry! Comnall!” he shouted over her and into the hallway.

  “Ye will leave here at once, Hargatha, or I shall have me men remove ye.” His tone was firm, unforgiving, and harsh. “Ye will no’ return unless I personally summon ye. Do I make meself clear?”

  “Bah! She needs those demons purged, I tell ye!”

  Mairghread screamed and lunged at the auld woman. Brogan caught her about the waist before she could do any serious harm to Hargatha.

  “Demon!” Hargatha shouted. “This be a possession if ever I saw one!”