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

by Suzan Tisdale

  “We would have sent ye a tray,” Lowrens told him.

  “We did no’ want anyone to have to brave this foul weather,” Brogan said. In truth, Mairghread was more worried than he.

  “Verra well,” he replied. “I will have ye a tray in no time.”

  While he waited at Lowrens’ worktable, the rest of the servants had returned to their meal. They were speaking in low, hushed tones. Just what was being said, he could not hear. But the man with the light brown hair muttered, it was causing a bit of a commotion. Two chairs down was a man who looked to be about Brogan’s age. His full beard was a few shades lighter than the dark brown mop that covered his head. But even through all the hair and whiskers, Brogan could see he was not the least bit impressed. Wiry whiskers danced lightly as he worked his jaw back and forth. Clutching his eating knife, his knuckles were turning white.

  ’Twas apparent the older man telling his story was oblivious to the rest of the people near him. For had he seen the way the bearded man was behaving, he would have shut his mouth by now.

  Before Brogan could intervene, the bearded man slammed his meaty fists on the table. A moment later, he was on his feet, scooting the seating bench back, taking the other occupants with it. Startled, they nearly toppled over backward. Soon, they were scurrying off their seats.

  “Yer laird be standin’ right there, Phillip Mactavish!” the bearded man exclaimed gruffly. “Mayhap ye’d like to give him yer opinions of his wife, yer lady and mistress?”

  The man named Phillip looked up with wide eyes and mouth agape. “Sit down, Fergus!” he seethed in a whisper. “Have ye gone daft?”

  Fergus slammed his fist against the table once again. “Ye are naught but a cruel gossip, Phillip. Again, I ask ye if ye’d like to share yer opinion of our lady with her husband?”

  Brogan stepped forward, curious as well as angry. Though he had not a clue as to what had been said, it must have been quite foul.

  Phillip looked up from his seat, worry and fear etched on his face. “’Twas naught but a jest,” he stammered.

  With a raised brow, he waited for a further explanation. “Pray tell me, what was the jest?” he asked, the challenge in his tone evident.

  “I,” he started, stopped, and tried again. “Please, m’laird, ’tis naught I wish to repeat to ye.”

  Brogan took another step forward. “’Tis a jest ye have no problem with tellin’ everyone here, but naught one ye’d wish to repeat to me?” he asked for clarification sake.

  Looking across the table to Fergus, Brogan asked, “Would ye like to repeat it fer him?”

  Fergus cast an angry glance at Phillip. “He said he wonders how our lady is able to please ye in bed when her hands be too full of flagons of whisky.”

  At once, Brogan lifted Phillip out of his seat and threw him against the wall. Pinning him in place with his forearm pressed against his throat, he seethed furiously. “If ever again I hear of ye makin’ such disparagin’ remarks about me wife, who is also yer lady, I will kill ye. Do. Ye. Understand?”

  Phillip fair shook with fear, his eyes bulging in their sockets. Sweat broke out across his red face. Unable to speak, he could only nod his head violently.

  Brogan counted to five before releasing him. Bent over, Phillip took in great gobs of air as spit dripped from his lips.

  Speaking over his shoulder to Lowrens, Brogan said, “This man is no’ allowed to work in the kitchens again. He may find work elsewhere.”

  Turning, he looked at the stunned faces of the rest of the servants. “Anyone who spreads such vile and disgustin’ jests about yer lady will be immediately banished from the keep. If such talk continues, ye will be banished from the clan.”

  Although there should not have been a doubt in anyone’s mind he meant what he said, two men, about the same age as Phillip stepped forward. “Ye can no’ banish anyone,” the shorter of the two men said. “Aymer be our chief. Only he can do such.”

  The taller man with light brown hair and pock-marked face nodded his agreement.

  “Aymer Mactavish be no’ the chief here,” Brogan said through gritted teeth. “Yer lady, Mairghread, is.” He could feel his face growing hot with unmitigated anger.

  The shorter man scoffed openly, derisively. Pulling his shoulders back and puffing his chest out like a peacock in rut, he said, “I’ll no’ put me faith in a drunkard.”

  Brogan and Fergus lunged at the man at the same time.

  Brogan reached him first. The table was in Fergus’s way, so he climbed over it.

  No one came to the peacock’s defense. Not even his tall friend who had stood beside him moments ago.

  Pulling back his right arm, Brogan plunged his fist into the man’s jaw. He fell backward, tripping over a small stool, and landed flat on his back. A moment later, Brogan had him pinned to the floor, on his back, his tunic clutched in his hands. “In case ye had no’ guessed, that was the wrong thing to say,” he spoke through clenched teeth.

  Purple with rage, his eyes naught but slits, he was as angry at this man as he had been at Hargatha. “If ye can no’ give yer fealty to Mairghread, ye can leave.”

  Shoving the man down harder, he got to his feet. So angry was he, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

  Fergus, just a few inches taller than Brogan, bent over and hauled the man to his feet. Disgusted, he held on to the man’s shirt. “What would ye have me do with this, m’laird?” he asked with a good measure of disgust.

  Turning to look at the rest of the people around them, Brogan said, “Anyone who can no’ give their fealty to yer lady, Mairghread Mactavish, fer any reason, will leave now. Pack yer things and go. We will start with him,” he said as he inclined his head toward the man Fergus was holding.

  He would not give in to any pleas for mercy. Assuming these men were loyal to Aymer, ’twas too dangerous to keep them here. And if they were simply ignorant fools who could not hold their tongues? He cared not.

  Wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his tunic, he went to Lowrens. “Thank ye for the meal.” Taking the tray from the table, he looked back once. “Fergus, I would like to meet with ye after I sup with me wife. Would ye have time?”

  “Aye, m’laird, I would.”

  Brogan gave him a quick nod and quit the kitchen.

  All the way back to Mairghread’s chamber, Brogan debated on what, if anything, he should tell his wife. He did not want to lie to her and he certainly had no desire to keep anything from her.

  He could not blame her people for having a lack of faith in her. They had watched as she nearly drank herself into an early grave. But, damn it! She was the lady of their keep. She was their chief.

  It was going to take a long while before she earned their trust again. A long while, and a very long road. All he could do was show his unyielding support for her. Especially when it came to idiots like those he’d just encountered in the kitchens.

  Pushing the door to Mairghread’s chamber open with his toe, he went inside and set the tray on the table.

  “I hope it be warm,” Mairghread said as she rubbed her hands together. “Aside from settin’ the keep on fire, I do no’ ken what else to do to keep out the chill.”

  “It was warm when I left the kitchens,” he said. “But it be a long, wet and windy walk this night.”

  Shivering, she pulled her gray woolen shawl more tightly around her shoulders and sat next to the fire. Brogan placed a bowl of warm rabbit stew on the table, along with a small loaf of brown, crusty bread. Once he saw she was settled, he got his own stew and bread and sat across from her.

  As she was lifting the stew to her lips, a clap of thunder rang out, rattling anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor. Mairghread nearly jumped out of her skin. “Lord, will this storm ever cease?”

  The wind battled against the furs that covered the window, puffing them out like sails on a ship.

  “Ye do no’ like storms?” he asked as he tore off a hunk of bread.

  “Storms? Nay, st
orms do no’ bother me. But the hellish beast currently tryin’ to gain access to our keep? That, I do no’ like.”

  Brogan chuckled, dipped his bread into the stew before popping it into his mouth.

  “Lowrens makes a right good rabbit stew, aye?” she asked.

  “I have yet to eat anything that was no’ good,” Brogan said.

  Remembering the cider, he got up, grabbed the pitcher and two mugs and returned to the table. Mairghread’s nose curled up. “Will I ever get used to the cider?” she asked as he handed her a cup. “’Tis the truth I have to choke it down.”

  She was the first person he’d ever known who did not like cider. “Mayhap on the morrow I can ask Lowrens if there be somethin’ else he can offer ye.”

  “Thank ye,” she said as she lifted her mug. “Speaking of the morrow, I doubt ye will get much work done on the wall.”

  He glanced at the furs fluttering against the howling wind. “I would wager ye be right.”

  “I pray there will be no more delays,” she told him. “I want the wall finished before me uncle returns.”

  On that, they were like-minded. Before he could offer his own opinion on the matter, she said, “I want to be the one who boots his arse through the gate.”

  He nearly choked to death on his cider.

  Mairghread turned her lips inward to quash her laughter. When he stopped choking, she asked, “Ye behave as though ye’ve never heard a woman use colorful words before,” she said with a sly smile.

  Once he got his coughing under control, he said, “Usually, when a woman is cursin’ around me, she be cursin’ me to the devil.”

  Raising a brow, she asked, “Does that happen often?”

  “Unfortunately, aye, it does. Believe it or no’, no’ all women find me as charmin’ as ye do.”

  “Think ye I find ye charmin’?” she said, feigning an air of nonchalance.

  “Of course ye do,” he said. “Why else would ye have married me? It certainly was no’ fer me coin or me good looks.”

  She sat up taller. “What do ye mean? Ye be a right handsome fellow.” She sounded quite serious.

  “Ye find me handsome and charmin’?” he asked playfully, waggling his eyebrows and puffing out his chest.

  “Handsome? Aye. Charmin’? That remains to be seen.”

  After they finished their meal, Mairghread cleared the table. Brogan added more wood to the fire and returned to his seat.

  Mairghread grabbed a blanket from the end of her bed and sat down, draping it across her lap. “I hope Reginald be somewhere warm and safe this night,” she said as she looked into the fire.

  “Let us also pray he has found recruitments,” Brogan added.

  She nodded slightly as she chewed on her bottom lip.

  “Mairghread, there be more things we need to discuss.”

  “Such as?” she asked, her eyes temporarily frozen on the flames that danced in the hearth. The heat, the sound of crackles and pops was making her sleepy.

  He took in a deep, cleansing breath and let it out slowly. “I think it be time ye made an announcement to the clan, about ye becomin’ chief.”

  Slowly, she pulled her eyes away from the fire to look at him. “I have no’ made a decision yet, Brogan.”

  “Certainly ye can no’ be thinkin’ of makin’ yer uncle chief,” he asked with a good deal of incredulity.

  “The only way Aymer Mactavish becomes chief of this clan is over me dead body,” she told him.

  “Then what decision is it ye need to make?” As far as he knew, there was only one choice, and that was for Mairghread to take the helm. ’Twas her right and duty as heir.

  “I want ye to be chief,” she told him matter-of-factly.

  Aye, wives were betimes confusing and frustrating creatures. “I have no claim to it, Mairghread. Yer da wanted ye to be chief. Why do ye resist it?” Truly, he was baffled. “Few women are ever given the opportunity that sits before ye.”

  “Ye think I should do this for all of womankind then?” she asked as she drummed her fingers on the table.

  “In truth? Aye, I do. But there be other reasons as well.”

  “Pray, tell me what those reasons be,” she said sarcastically as she rested her chin in her palm.

  “Because ’tis yer birthright. A right many women are never given. Because this,” he extended his arms wide, “all be yers.”

  “That’s it?” she asked. “Because it be me birthright?” Shaking her head in disbelief, she let out a long breath. “Birthright alone does no’ a good chief make.”

  “I was no’ finished,” he told her firmly. After she gave him a nod, he went on. “Ye should be chief because I have witnessed with me own eyes how deeply ye care fer yer people. Ye worry over the servants walkin’ in the rain with our meal, so ye send me. Ye worried over and tended to Gertie and Tilda, as well as the others, when ye believed them ill. I am beginnin’ to see a strength in ye that I have no’ seen in another. It comes from here,” he pointed to his heart. “Ye be a right smart woman, Mairghread Mactavish. Ye will make a fine chief.”

  His words, spoken from the heart, warmed her. With all her heart, she knew he meant everything he had said. She also knew, unequivocally, that he was not simply saying them because of what might be in it for him.

  “Ye truly would no’ mind bein’ the husband to a woman who was chief of their clan?” She knew the answer, but wanted to hear it in his own words. “I can no’ think of many men who would be willin’ to step aside while their wife ruled.” In fact, she could bring to mind not a one. Many men, she supposed, might feel their masculinity would be questioned. But not Brogan.

  “But I be no’ steppin’ aside,” he reminded her. “I married ye already knowin’ ye were or would soon be chief.”

  She felt her eyes grow damp and cursed herself. She thought of James then. Would he still have married her if she had told him she wanted to lead their clan? If she were completely honest with herself, the answer was no. James was a good, generous man. But if she had not told him before he had even officially proposed that she wanted to lead as chief someday, well, that proposal likely would never have happened.

  Self-doubt began to rear its ugly head, roaring in her ear that she would make a miserable leader. Too soft in her heart, too kind, and far too forgiving. And God forbid if they ever had to go into battle! She had no idea how to train men to fight. Isn’t that what all chiefs did?

  “Brogan, I truly do appreciate your confidence in me,” she told him. “But I fear I would no’ make a good chief. I know nothin’ of warrin’ or negotiations in times of peace.”

  Pushing himself to his feet, he came around to stand behind her. He placed a warm palm on her shoulder. “Ye would no’ be doin’ it all alone, Mairghread. I would be right beside ye.”

  ’Twas the same thing he had told her when she had made the decision to give up the drink. To her very bones, she could feel the sincerity in his words. It felt as warm and sweet as a lover’s embrace.

  Before they could discuss the matter further, a light knock came at their door. Who on earth could it be at this hour of night?

  She followed Brogan as he went to answer. She was rather perplexed to see Fergus standing on the other side. Water poured off his woolen cowl and cloak, leaving puddles on the floor under his feet. Her stomach lurched for the man had never appeared at her door before. “Fergus?” she asked as she stepped around her husband. “What be the matter?”

  Giving her a slight bow at the waist, he said, “Did no’ Brogan tell ye?”

  She gave Brogan a curious glance. He simply smiled and said, “I met Fergus earlier this night. I asked him to stop by so we might discuss a few things.”

  “Ye be discussin’ kitchen matters at this late hour?” ’Twas odd, to say the least.

  “Nay, m’lady wife, no’ kitchen matters,” Brogan told her. “I would like to discuss the possibility of Fergus workin’ with us on the wall. And when that be complete, mayhap he would be interested
in helpin’ us to train the men in defense.” He looked to Fergus for his approval.

  “’Tis the truth I do no’ like workin’ in the kitchens, m’lady,” he said.

  Mairghread could not rightly blame him. “I remember now,” she said. “’Twas by Hargatha’s order last year, when ye injured yer arm.”

  Brogan asked for an explanation.

  “Ye see, I am used to workin’ with horses,” Fergus explained. “I was breakin’ one to ride and had a right nasty fall. Broke me arm in two places. Seamus, he set the bones. Afterward, Hargatha told the lai—” he quickly righted his mistake. “She told Aymer I could no’ work with the horses anymore and to put me to work in the kitchens.”

  “And he listened?” Brogan asked, astonished as well as confused.

  “Aye, that he did, m’laird,” he replied.

  Brogan looked to Mairghread for more answers. “Why on earth would Hargatha suggest such a thing?”

  “The better question is why me uncle listened.”

  “That might be an answer we never have,” Brogan told her. Hargatha wasn’t exactly eager to share any information with anyone. She was especially angry with him, for it had been by his order she be locked away.

  “I be certain Lowrens will no’ mind,” Mairghread told Fergus. “I hope he does no’ have too much trouble replacin’ ye.”

  “I be certain ’twill no’ be a problem,” Brogan assured her, hoping to stop Fergus from making any mention of what had taken place earlier in the night.

  He and Fergus made plans to meet in the gathering room on the morrow. After bidding them good night, Brogan shut the door and turned to look at Mairghread.

  “Mayhap, on the morrow we could meet with a few of the men. I think ‘twould be good fer ye to start daily meetin’s with them.”

  “Can I no’ leave ye in charge of the wall?” she asked, as she tried to suppress a yawn.

  “Aye, ye can,” he said. “But it might mean more comin’ from ye. No’ necessarily as chief, but as lady of the keep.” He had no desire, especially at this late hour, of trying to convince her to make an official announcement, surmising it would be best for her to step into the role gradually. But not too gradually for there was much to be done.