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

by Suzan Tisdale

  She readily agreed to meeting them as lady instead of chief. “The hour be late,” she said. “And I be tired.”

  He, too, was exhausted. He’d had too many sleepless nights of late.

  He heard the hesitation in what she said next. “It be an awfully cold night.”

  “Aye, ’tis that,” Brogan said.

  She shuffled her weight from one foot to the next. Brogan, sensing there was something she wished to say but mayhap did not know where to begin, offered, “Be there somethin’ else ye want to discuss?”

  “If ye would no’ mind,” she began. “I mean, well, it be an awfully cold night and the storm still rages.”

  It took no keen intellect to reason out what she was trying so hard to get at. “Would ye like me to sleep in here again?”

  Looking to her feet, she replied in a low, soft tone. “I do no’ like bein’ alone.”

  He could not resist the urge to chuckle. “Lass,” he said as he took a step closer. “Ye never need be ashamed to ask anythin’ of me. We be married, after all.”

  Her skin turned a deep shade of red, beginning at her neck and flaming upward. He knew she was fighting an inner battle with herself. It would take some time before she was ready to be a wife to him in every sense of the word. He’d not push nor demand anything of her. For now, he was just happy she had given up the drink and was beginning to confide in him.

  “I will step into me chamber while ye ready yerself fer bed.”

  At some time before dawn, the storms that had battered against the lands most of yesterday and last night, finally blew away. Morning dawned bright, with birds chirping at their window.

  But ’twas not the birds that woke him. ’Twas Mairghread’s arm she had flung over his chest and the leg across his, that had done the trick. Still in a deep sleep, her head was nestled against his shoulder.

  God’s teeth, ’twas a glorious feeling!

  But what he would not give to roll over and bury himself deep within her. To feel her naked skin against his own, to bury his face into her beautiful auburn locks. To breathe in her scent, her essence.

  Tempted as he was — and he was mightily tempted — he took in a deep breath and carefully rolled away, sitting on the edge of the bed. There would be no more sleeping now, for he was fully awake in all respects.

  Quietly, he padded barefoot into his own chamber. After washing up and dressing, he left to begin his day.

  He was breaking his fast on bannocks and sausages when Liam and Henry appeared. Bidding him good morn, Henry sat beside him whilst Liam took the seat across.

  “’Twill be a muddy mess workin’ in the forest this morn, aye?” Henry said as he chewed on a bite of sausage.

  Brogan yawned as he nodded his agreement.

  “Any word from Reginald?” Liam asked.

  Brogan could not remember how many days the man had been gone. “Nay,” he replied.

  “’Twill no’ matter if he brings a thousand men back with him. The progress will be slow if the rain does no’ cease.”

  Liam quirked a brow. “It has ceased,” he pointed out.

  Henry rolled his eyes. “I can see that,” he said through gritted teeth. “I be no’ a simpleton. The rain needs to stay away for a time.”

  Liam chuckled. “No rain in Scotland?” he asked dubiously.

  Brogan’s head was beginning to ache. “Lads,” he said, bringing their argument to a halt. “Rain or no’, we must finish this wall as soon as possible. Preferably before Aymer returns.”

  Pensively, Henry glanced at Liam before turning to look at Brogan. “Wall or no’, if we do no’ have well-trained warriors in place before his arrival, I hate to think what will happen.”

  Brogan had been giving a good deal of thought to that as well. “I do no’ think he’ll be bringing a thousand warriors with him,” he said pointedly. “From what I am told, he left with only twenty men.”

  “But how many will Courtemanche travel with?” Liam asked.

  “I have only met the Frenchman twice,” Brogan said. “He usually travels with at least one hundred men.”

  Liam whistled and Henry looked worried. “But do no’ worry lads. Most of them are servants. The man travels with his bed, linens, and various furniture. Each night, they must set up his grand and spacious tent, serve him a feast fit fer kings, and prepare him a hot bath.”

  “Ye jest,” Henry said with a good measure of disbelief.

  Brogan chuckled. He had witnessed that particular show of insanity a few years ago. “Nay, I do no’ jest. The man be a spoiled eejit. He could no’ more sleep on the cold, hard ground at night, than Edward of England would stay the bloody hell out of Scotland.”

  “Then ye believe we do no’ have to worry?” Liam asked.

  “Oh, we need to worry lads. Fer with men like Courtemanche and Aymer Mactavish, ye never ken what they will do. Unlike our weather, they be unpredictable fools.” And that was the most dangerous kind of fool.

  Fergus came to join them at the table. “Good morn, to ye, m’laird,” he said.

  “Sit,” Brogan told him with a nod toward the space next to Liam. “And call me Brogan.”

  The man paused briefly before sitting. “I can no’ do that.”

  “Aye, ye can and ye will. I be no’ laird nor chief nor bloody nobleman.” He detested pretense. “Liam, Henry, this be Fergus. He had been workin’ in the kitchens until late last night. I have asked him to come work on the wall with us.”

  The two men scrutinized Fergus for a moment. “The kitchens?” Henry asked a bit skeptically.

  “Aye, the kitchens,” Fergus replied gruffly. “Thanks to that auld witch Hargatha. Broke me arm, ye see, a year ago. Breaking a horse to saddle and the bugger throwed me off. Broke me arm in two places.”

  Each man listened intently to his story.

  “I had auld Seamus set the bones, fer Hargatha would have insisted on amputation, ye ken. Right angry, she was. Went to Aymer, she did. Told him I was no’ fit fer anythin’ but kitchen work now. Said I was a broken man, she did.”

  “So they set ye to work in the kitchens?” Liam asked, a bit appalled at the idea.

  “Aye, they did. But thanks to our lai — Brogan, I can get out of there and work on the wall.”

  “We will be glad to have yer help,” Henry said. “I hope ye do no’ mind playin’ in the mud, because that’s what we’ll be doin’.”

  “I have no aversion to mud,” he replied with a smile and a wink. “Played in it all the time as a lad.”

  Henry grunted and Liam rolled his eyes, while Brogan ate his meal quietly.

  “I heard a few men were asked to leave the keep before dawn,” Liam said, casting a glance at Henry.

  “Aye,” Brogan replied.

  “Good riddance,” Fergus said as he tore off a bite of sausage with his teeth. “A lazy lot, they is, and loyal to Aymer they be.”

  Henry and Liam looked to Brogan for further explanation.

  “Fergus be right,” Brogan told them.

  “I says we round up all who remain loyal to Aymer, and banish them,” Fergus said with a mouthful of food.

  “I take it ye do no’ care fer the man?” Liam asked.

  Brogan already knew the answer to that question.

  “I do no’ trust the man as far as I can pick him up and throw him,” Fergus said. ’Twas evident he cared not who might hear him speaking so despairingly against Aymer. “I was loyal to Gavin, our lady’s da, may he rest in peace.”

  “What of yer lady, Mairghread?” Henry asked. “Be ye loyal to her?”

  Fergus glowered at him. “I will allow ye that insult only because ye do no’ ken any better. Ye’re damned right I be loyal to her.” He took a pull of ale before going on. “Never a sweeter, more kind lass ye ever did meet. But that was before her troubles. Before her uncle did what he did.”

  All three men raised brows, questioning the full meaning behind that last statement. “Before he did what?” Brogan asked.

  �
��Turned her into a drunk, he did. Convinced her she had killed her own husband and bairn, he did. All the while he kent it was raiders that done it.”

  Brogan was still not convinced there had been any raiders that night, but he kept that opinion to himself. “Why do ye think he did that? Convinced Mairghread she had done it?”

  Fergus rested his elbows on the table and leaned over. Lowering his voice, he said, “Because he wants to be chief. He kent what a kind-hearted lass she was. He kent ‘twould destroy her. And it almost did.” Leaning back, he smiled at Brogan. “Most of us ken ’twas yer doin’, Brogan, gettin’ our lady to finally give up the drink.”

  Brogan grunted dismissively. “’Twas Mairghread who did that. I only helped.”

  “Either way, we all be right grateful to ye. The entire keep is talkin’ about it. She has apologized, ye ken, to those she hurt. Takes a right strong woman to do that. I do no’ think I ken a man alive who would do what she has, goin’ around, apologizin’.”

  Brogan knew she had been trying to set to rights what she had done while drunk. When he had given up the drink, it had been his father who insisted he apologize to all the people he hurt. He was growing more proud of his wife with each passing day.

  Aye, his wife was a remarkable woman.

  In mud up to their knees, the men worked as best as they could under the conditions. ’Twas filthy, back-breaking work, which was made even worse by the exceedingly wet trees. When a man took an axe to one, water that still clung to branches and leaves would splatter them. By noontime, there was not a dry or clean man to be seen.

  There were several mishaps, with axes slipping off the wet bark and men falling down in the mud. Before the end of the day, Seamus had to set the bones on two men who had broken fingers from falling, stitches in the head of another when he got too close to a falling branch.

  Aye, they were in desperate need of a healer. Brogan approached Liam about asking his brother Lachlan if he would be interested in coming here to act as healer.

  “I will send a messenger to him this afternoon,” Liam said. “But I doubt ye’ll be able to pull him away from Clan MacFindlay. In his last letter to me, he seemed quite happy.”

  “Then ask fer a recommendation,” Brogan said, a bit more gruffly than he intended. He was beyond exhausted. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in an age. When he was not working, he was doing everything he could to foster a better relationship with his wife.

  “Aye, Brogan, I will,” Liam said as he tried wiping the mud from his hands. ’Twas no use, for his shirt was caked with it.

  “Be Fergus doin’ a good job?” Brogan asked as he was scraping bark from a large log. Liam was working on a log next to him.

  “I think so,” Liam replied. “The man be as strong as an ox. Of course, this be his first day workin’ with us. We shall see how he fairs after a sennight.”

  “I hope Reginald returns soon,” he said. His axe caught on a stubborn piece where a limb had been removed. Grunting, he did his best to remove it. “Bloody hell,” he cursed.

  Sweat dripped off the tip of his nose. It took several attempts, but he was finally able to get rid of the knot and resume his scraping. Steam rose from his back, a combination of body heat against a soaked tunic and the sun beating down on him. Frustrated, he removed his tunic and hung it over a pile of logs to dry.

  No matter how tired he was, he would not be deterred. There was too much to be done and complaining would solve nothing. Though he was mighty glad to see a wagon come up the path. In the back were several women with the nooning meal.

  One of those women happened to be his wife.

  Mairghread had been the one to procure a wagon for the women to bring the meal to the men. ’Twas far too muddy and slippery for them to try walking from the keep to the forest, especially when they were carrying baskets of food and flagons of drink. “’Twill do them no good if we drop the food in the mud,” she had told the women.

  One of them remarked, “Me Charles will no’ mind. I swear the man would eat anything I set before him. Covered in mud or no’.”

  The other women agreed with giggles and nods, for they’d seen the man eat.

  With Seamus’ help, a team of fine horses was hitched to a wagon. Seamus even went so far as to volunteer to drive.

  Mairghread was looking forward to seeing Brogan, a sensation she was doing her best to understand and become accustomed to. When she had first married him, she had been beset with a good deal of guilt. Guilt over believing she had killed her husband and babe. And guilt for thinking Brogan a good man.

  But so many things had changed of late. She now knew she hadn’t killed them. The moment she realized that, she felt the weight of the world being lifted off her shoulders.

  Anger and guilt had been as close a companion to her heart as whisky and wine. None of those things had been far from her grasp. She’d been consumed with those four things for years.

  Until Brogan Mackintosh walked into her life.

  He had set her on the path to sobriety, had proven her innocence in the murders of her husband and son, and now, he was working from dawn to dusk to protect her keep and its people.

  Peace of mind and heart, safety, and sobriety. These were all new feelings that betimes caught her unawares in their intensity. Brogan was an intriguing man, a good and kind man.

  Her thoughts slipped away when she saw him, there, in the clearing, using an axe to scrape wood from a log. Sweat glistened on his back, and with the sun beating down, his skin seemed to glow. Muscles rippled in his arms and stomach from each swing of the axe. Leather trews clung to thighs — strong, muscular thighs.

  She drew in a breath at the sight of him, her stomach flipping and flopping, and it felt as though her blood was growing warmer, spreading the sensation throughout her body. Even to parts that had lain dormant and frozen for three long years: her heart, and parts further south.

  Suddenly, she was beset with guilt. She had made James a promise to never take another man as husband. Of course, at the time he was dead and she thought she had killed him.

  There was no time to think on the matter further, for the wagon came to a stop. Brogan was smiling at her as he approached. God’s teeth! Did he have to smile so brightly? Did he have to be so bloody handsome and kind and wonderful?

  “Mairghread,” he called to her as he neared the wagon. “’Tis glad I am to see ye.”

  She was not so certain now, that she was glad to see him. Temptation in a pair of leather trews.

  Taking the basket from her hand, Brogan helped her down from the wagon. “I did no’ think to see ye here this day,” he remarked as he took her hand in his.

  “I-I thought…” what had she been thinking? Food. Aye, that was it. Food. “I brought ye a meal.” ’Twas quite difficult to think with him looking so manly, so well-muscled, so…

  “I be famished,” he told her as he tried to steer her away from a large puddle. “I fear there no’ be a place fer ye to stand without bein’ in mud,” he said, looking down at her feet.

  What he did next nearly set her to swooning. With the basket in one arm, he picked her up with the other. With his arm under her rump, he carried her to the nearest log and set her down.

  ’Tis no’ fair! She screamed inwardly. Ye made James a promise. It matters no’ why ye made it, ’twas still a promise.

  “What have ye brought me to feast on?” he asked as he removed the cloth that covered the basket and peered inside.

  Me! Her traitorous heart screamed. Feast on me!

  Warmth spread from her neck to her scalp; she could feel it. ’Twas the muscles betwixt his neck and shoulders that were her undoing. Corded, so well defined, it should have been against God’s laws, as well as man’s.

  “Mmmm, ye brought bread and honey,” Brogan said as he pulled the items from the basket and set them on the log.

  She quit listening after he mmmm’d. Her heart was pounding against her chest and she felt the blood rushing in her ears. Good,
lord, she thought. I do no’ ken from where these thoughts be comin’,, but they be dangerous.

  Brogan was rambling on about something, she had no earthly idea what, for her eyes were transfixed on the dab of honey in the corner of his mouth. Her thoughts turned darned right wicked, obsessed by the desire to reach out and swipe it away with her fingertip. Her fingers fair itched with a need so profound it was paralyzing.

  As she was about to jump to her feet and race away, a great shout broke out amongst the crowd.

  “Reginald! Reginald has returned!”

  Ignoring Brogan’s warning of mud and muck, she slid from the log and raced back toward the keep.

  “Mairghread!” he called out as he ran to catch up with her. “Wait!”

  She did not wish to wait. Waiting meant she would have to look at him, talk to him, whilst her traitorous heart and womanly parts fed her mind with thoughts best left unthought.

  Bigger, stronger, and faster than she, Brogan caught up with her. “Mairghread, ye can take the wagon back to the keep.”

  “But I need to see Reginald,” she lied to him.

  “’Twill be an hour before he be here,” Brogan explained as he brought her to a halt with a tug on her hand.

  She felt her stomach tighten. “An hour?”

  “Aye,” Brogan smiled down at her. “They were just lettin’ us know he is close to home.”

  Feeling every bit a fool, she chastised herself for running away. That is what the old Mairghread would have done. But ye be a woman full grown now, she told herself.

  “I should have refreshments ready for his return,” she said breathlessly. “I imagine they will be hungry.”

  “Aye, I would imagine so,” he agreed. “We will have Seamus take us back in the wagon.”

  We? Stop actin’ like some love-sick lass, she chastised herself. “Verra well. We shall take the wagon.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Mairghread and Brogan went to their respective rooms to change out of their muddy clothes. For a moment, Brogan thought he might have to call Henry or Liam in to help get his trews off. They were stuck to his skin.