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

by Suzan Tisdale

  “Gertie and Tilda came to me this morn,” he told her. “They be concerned over ye. They tell me ye be no’ sleepin’ well at night.”

  She mumbled something about them being traitors and was nothing sacred anymore?

  Brogan laughed heartily. “Lass, we be all concerned fer ye.”

  He caught her rolling her eyes out of the corner of his own.

  “Be there a reason ye find sleep difficult?” he asked.

  She took in a deep breath before answering. “It be many things,” she said.

  “Such as?”

  Another roll of her eyes. Clearly, she did not want to discuss it with him. But he felt ’twas important to her full recovery that she learn to discuss things with him. Even the unpleasant ones.

  “I have no’ gone to sleep without the aid of drink in three long years.”

  That made sense. He, too, had suffered for weeks after, being unable to sleep well. He was about to offer her some encouragement, to tell her that this too, would pass, when she went on to say more.

  “And I have bad dreams.”

  “What kind of bad dreams?” Was she perchance beginning to regain some of her memories through dreams?

  “Dreams that make no’ a lick of sense,” she told him.

  They arrived at the main stairs leading up into the keep. “Dreams with lions tryin’ to eat me feet. Dreams of men in masks comin’ into me room and just standin’ there, lookin’ at me without sayin’ a word. Dreams where I be drowning’.”

  Peculiar, aye, but did they truly mean anything? He opened the large, heavy door and guided her through, placing his hand on the small of her back.

  “Like I said, dreams that make no’ a lick of sense.”

  “Aye, they be odd,” he agreed.

  “Gertie and Tilda be convinced there be a hidden meanin’ in them,” she laughed, though not heartily.

  “Some people do believe such,” he told her. “Me step-mum, she believes that dreams are messages from long dead relatives, tryin’ to warn us of either impending doom, or a comin’ blessin’. Me da, of course, thinks she be daft.”

  “Whatever they may or may no’ mean,” she said as they made their way to the stairs, “they be keepin’ me up at night.”

  As they ascended the stairs, Brogan said, “Mairghread, ye can come to me, day or night, ye ken that, aye?”

  She cast him a furtive glance. “There be no sense in both of us bein’ up all night.”

  He paused briefly on the stairs. “Mairghread, I be yer husband. I be here to help ye. I care no’ the time of day or night. ’Tis me duty to help ye through these times, just as I ken ye would do the same fer me, would ye no’?”

  Aye, she very well would help him, should ever he need it. Though, in truth, she doubted he would ever truly need her help with anything. Of all the men she had known in her life, he was the one who seemed to have a grasp on every situation. “Aye, I would,” she told him.

  He smiled then, a warm, kind smile she found she was growing to like. But that lead to immense feelings of guilt. How could she like this man, admire him, think him a good friend, and keep her promise to James?

  They continued on and were soon entering her bedchamber. Someone had already seen to lighting candles and a fire. The room was bathed in warm shades of gold.

  Brogan crossed to the door that led to his chamber, paused, and turned to face her. “If ye need me, I be right next door.”

  She nodded her head and thanked him for his kindness. A moment later, he was closing his door behind him. For a long while, she stared blankly at the closed door, wondering how her life had come to be changed so drastically in such a short time.

  Of course, three years ago, it had changed, in what seemed like the blink of an eye now. One moment, she was a happily married woman, with a brand new bairn and looking forward to having at least a dozen more. The next moment, she was waking up, suffering from her own knife wounds, and being told it was all gone. Her husband, her babe, her entire future. Just. Like. That.

  She had shed many tears since that awful day. Even more of late. Tears of frustration, anger, bitterness, and anguish.

  This night, she shed them for new reasons. A sense of longing, of missing James and her babe. What would Connell have been like? Would he have been a serious child or precocious? He would have inherited everything one day. He would have married, made her a grandminny …

  Wiping away the quiet tears, she cursed. The tears made her feel weak, as if she was not strong enough to get through just one more day without them. Slowly, as if her limbs were made of lead, she unlaced her dress, stepped out of it, and into a warm night rail. Grabbing her robe, she slipped her arms into the sleeves, tied the belt around her waist, and went to her window.

  Night was falling, the hour growing late. Though she was tired, she knew sleep would not come easily.

  For in the room next to hers was a fine man. A good man. A man she now knew she could trust as a friend and ally. But could she ever be a true wife to him? A wife who would or could join with him? Give him his own bairns?

  Nay, she did not think she could. Just the thought of it made her feel she was betraying James, as well as Connell. To James, she had sworn never to take another husband. To Connell, never to hold another bairn in her arms.

  ’Twas not fair to Brogan. None of this was.

  The man had married her, not knowing of her addiction or of the promises she made at the graves of her husband and son.

  She was not some naive, innocent maid. She had eyes and often caught him staring at her, like a wolf about to devour a rabbit. But always, she pretended she hadn’t noticed, hiding her guilt behind a veil of ignorance.

  There was not a doubt in her mind that he would remain faithful to her all their days. He would not take a mistress, no matter how strong his physical desires and needs might be. Too honorable, he was, to break the vows he made.

  But something odd happened when she thought of him with another woman. Her stomach felt tight and uncomfortable. She recognized it almost immediately. ’Twas jealousy. Sheer, deep jealousy.

  Why would I feel jealous? She asked herself as she stared out at the water. He would certainly be justified in takin’ a mistress, especially if ye can no’ be a true wife to him. Confusion began to reign supreme. Aye, he was her husband, but in name only.

  Nay, she told herself. He was more than just a husband in name only. He has shown ye more kindness, more generosity than he could have been expected to. He has treated ye with naught but a gentle hand. More gentle than ye deserved.

  She had known women from her past who would toy with a man’s heart and ego. They would let on they were interested, would flirt relentlessly, but they would never go that extra measure of actually marrying him. But if another woman caught his fancy, och! Let the screamin’ matches and battles begin!

  I do no’ want to be such a woman as that, she told herself. Brogan deserves more of ye. He deserves far more than ye can give him.

  Oh, she knew she should discuss this with him, in a mature and respectable fashion. But the coward that she was of late would not allow her to broach the subject. If I had just a dram of whisky …

  “Nay!” she whispered harshly. “That would solve nothin’. ’Twould only create more problems, ye fool.”

  Nay, sleep was not going to come easy this night and it wouldn’t be because of bad dreams.

  Sleep did not come easily for Brogan either. Unable to shut his mind off, he tossed and turned for two hours before he finally decided to get out of bed.

  Never one to sleep in anything but his skin, the cool night air did very little to cool his growing desire for his wife. The wood floors felt cool against his bare feet as he padded to the window. He drew open the fur and let out a heavy sigh as he looked out at the rocky cliffs and water. ’Twas a clear night, with the moon shining brightly, though he could not see it from his current vantage point. There were a few little clouds, but nothing that promised rain.

 
He was doing his best to think of something else, anything but his wife. Thus far, he was failing miserably in his attempts.

  Mairghread was a fine woman, he concluded. Not the sharp-tongued harpy of weeks ago. Nay, when sober, she was a decent, intelligent woman. And God’s teeth, was she beautiful!

  What he would not give to feel her skin against his own. To hear her ragged breaths of desire and need. To have his lips pressed against hers, against that soft and tender flesh of her long neck.

  “If ye keep this up, ye’ll need to sleep in the bloody loch!” he cursed himself.

  In his heart, he knew they had a long while to go before she felt she could trust him completely. There were many reasons, he supposed, that made her hold back. Undoubtedly they had everything to do with James.

  The only blessing in knowing Anna was not going to live was the fact that they had time together to discuss the future. His future without her. There was no doubt in his mind that she meant the words she had given him. Do no’ love a dead woman fer too long. I want ye to give yer heart to someone again. I want ye to live, Brogan. And love and have many children.

  A few months ago, that seemed an impossible request to fulfill.

  But as for Mairghread and James? Nay, they had not had the time to say their goodbyes. There was no time for James to tell her words such as the one’s his Anna had given him.

  Though he had not met the man, he was certain James would have done just that. Given Mairghread permission to move on with her life. To love again. To live again. They had both been too young then to think of such things.

  Running a hand through his hair, he shook his head and went to stand by the fire. Raking the coals with the iron just to have something to do with his hands.

  What must I do to show her she can trust me? Not just with her sobriety, or her clan, but with her heart as well?

  He had no answer other than to continue to do what he had been doing all along. But what if that was not enough?

  He grabbed a blanket from the bed and draped it over the chair before sitting down. With his head in his hands, he began to feel even more lost and alone.

  When in doubt, pray, he heard his father’s voice as clear as if he were sitting in the room with him.

  He’d been doing much praying of late. For Mairghread’s health, her recovery, her continued sobriety. He had also prayed for the quick building of the wall, for Reginald’s safe and quick return.

  Brogan knew his prayers were not going unanswered. Aye, to the contrary. God had helped Mairghread decide to give up the bottle. He had also helped Brogan get her through those difficult and trying days. And aye, He had even seen to it that their new wall was being built.

  Aye, He had answered every one of his prayers most generously.

  He began to wonder if he weren’t asking for too much.

  Brogan had just settled himself back into bed when he believed he heard Mairghread crying from the next room. He grabbed his plaid, wrapped it around his waist quickly. With his ear to the door, he strained to listen. Aye, she was crying.

  Cautiously, he opened the door and peered inside. He found her in her bed, lying on her back. He knew at once she was having another bad dream.

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Mairghread.” He spoke her name softly in hopes of not startling her too much. “Mairghread, ye be havin’ a bad dream.”

  She sat up so suddenly that it startled him. With still sleeping eyes, she looked at him for a moment, before falling back into the bed with a sigh. Moments later, her breathing became steady and deep and he knew she had fallen back to sleep.

  Pulling the covers up over her shoulders, he patted her side, and went back to bed. This time, he left his door open, just in case she would need him again.

  Less than an hour later, he heard her crying again.

  He went to her once more, again patting her shoulder and speaking her name. Not long after, she began whimpering once again. Finally, he decided to get dressed and sat in a chair by her bed, where he dozed off and on. He woke at dawn to the sound of birds twittering near her window.

  Deciding there was no sense in trying to sleep anymore, he carefully pulled the covers up once again and left her alone. Besides, Gertie and Tilda would be arriving soon.

  He paused at her door and took one last look at her. He hoped that someday soon she would be able to sleep soundly, uninterrupted by disturbing dreams.

  He stopped by the kitchens to get some bannocks and sausages, which he ate on his way to the forest. He’d just finished the last bite of his bannocks when he arrived at the entrance. At least a dozen men were already there, including Henry. This morn, they were each working to debark the trees they had cut down the afternoon before.

  “Good morn!” Henry called out when he saw Brogan heading down the path of logs.

  Brogan returned his greeting as he looked out at the logs. “’Tis good progress, aye?” he asked. He wasn’t offering them reassurance; he was looking for it.

  “I’d feel a damned sight better if Reginald would get back here with reinforcements,” Henry grumbled.

  Brogan felt much the same way. He looked around at the Mactavish men. They all looked as tired and worn as he was beginning to feel.

  “Mayhap, we should give these men a day or two of rest,” Brogan began.

  Henry sported the look of a man who thought him completely insane. Leaning in and speaking in a hushed and frustrated tone, he said, “Then ye might as well just abandon the keep and give it over to the horse thieves.”

  Brogan quirked an irritated brow. Was Henry beginning to believe in his own lie? “Give these men a few days rest by having them trade places with those who are tending to fields and animals.”

  “Oh,” Henry said, only slightly embarrassed.

  “Tending animals is work, but no’ the back-breakin’ work we have before us.”

  Suddenly, Henry had come up with an idea on how to motivate the Mactavish people to work even harder. “What we need,” he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, “is a raid.”

  Brogan thought it the most insane thing he’d heard of late and told him so.

  “No’ a real raid,” Henry said as his eyes began to fill up with excitement. “Just the rumor of a raid.”

  Brogan let out a heavy sigh. “No. We will no’ terrify these people with further lies.”

  “But if they think more attacks are imminent,” Henry argued, “it might be the thing we need to get more men out of their fields and here, where they be needed.”

  “No.”

  Although Henry had finally agreed to let the matter rest, Brogan had a sneaking suspicion that he would bring it up again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mairghread had wakened long after dawn, though she did not feel at all well-rested. Slowly, she made her way out of her bed, tended to her morning ablutions and waited for Gertie and Tilda. Typically, they were there bright and early each morn, to sit with her after Brogan left.

  She estimated an hour passed and still there was no sign of them. Worry began to take hold of her heart.

  When enough time passed that she believed something had happened to one or both of them, she decided to get dressed and see for herself. She had just pulled open her clothes cupboard when there came a knock at her door.

  In a rush, she pulled it open, glad they were finally there.

  ’Twas Evelyn standing on the other side of the door, holding a tray with her morning meal.

  “Where be Gertie and Tilda?” she asked with confusion.

  Evelyn blinked her surprise and bobbed a curtsy. “Gertie be no’ well,” she told her. “Tilda be with her.”

  “No’ well?” Mairghread asked, sounding almost as exasperated as she felt. Gertie was of an age where ‘not well’ could mean anything from being tired to near death’s door. Dread and worry began to take over her good sense.

  “Aye, m’lady, no’ well. Tilda asked me to sit with ye this day.” The poor girl loo
ked frightened, the tray in her hand beginning to rattle from her shaking fingers.

  Mairghread took the tray from her and placed it on her table. “I be sorry fer yellin’, Evelyn. ’Tis only me worry over Gertie that makes me behave poorly.”

  Evelyn remained rooted in place, uncertain what she should do or say.

  “Come in,” Mairghread told her. “And tell me what ails Gertie.” She tried to remain patient and to look calm.

  “I do no’ ken, m’lady. Me mum be the closest thing to a healer we have, but she be busy with her midwifin’ duties this morn. We do no’ ken when she will be able to tend to Gertie.”

  With Hargatha still locked away below stairs, the clan was without a healer other than Martha. Of course, Hargatha had never been much of a healer to begin with. More like an instrument of fear and death.

  Gertie had always been there for her; now it was Mairghread’s turn to be there for Gertie.

  Mairghread did not ask for permission to enter Gertie and Tilda’s bedchamber. Like a strong breeze coming in off the bay, she opened the door and all but flew inside.

  Gertie was in her bed, with the covers pulled up to her chin. Tilda was sitting beside her, holding her hand.

  “Gertie!” she said breathlessly when she saw her lying there, so helpless and sickly looking.

  Tilda stood and faced her. “Och! M’lady!”

  Gertie coughed, a faint, weak cough.

  Mairghread took the chair Tilda had just left. “Gertie, what be the matter?”

  Another faint, weak cough. “M’lady? Be that ye come to see me?” Her voice was naught but a whisper. The kind of tired, barely audible whisper that made one’s heart seize.

  “I be here,” Mairghread told her as she took her hand. It felt cool to the touch, but not clammy. That had to be a good sign, hadn’t it?

  Gertie smiled, albeit weakly. “A sight fer sore eyes, I says.”

  “What be wrong with ye? Do ye hurt anywhere?” Mairghread asked as she placed the back of her hand on the auld woman’s wrinkled brow. “Ye do no’ feel feverish.”